by Swanson, Jay
“All mankind, Grandian and Verian alike, shall bow before me. Then I will rend their corpses from their souls.”
Ardin put his hands up reflexively to guard his face as he began to back towards the door, each step carefully planted to keep him from toppling over. The voice was so confident he could barely keep his abject horror in check to hear it.
“I am God, little Ardin. You have chosen to oppose God. In turn, accept my wrath.”
The steady force was replaced with a sudden shockwave that would have cut Ardin to pieces had his guard not already been fully in place. He was thrown from his feet, flying with the metaphysical currents and slamming into the Gates with such force as to knock him senseless. He fell to the ground, his body making the jump on its own and reappearing without his consent.
“I will remake this world! And nothing, NOTHING WILL STAND IN MY WAY!”
The roar of the voice rattled the very foundations of the mountain. Cracks formed around the dais, shooting out in spurts towards the supports and walls that surrounded it.
Ardin's heart raced, every nerve in his body tingling with a potent combination of pain and terror. Focus was fleeting, but he fought for it. He had to escape this place. Now. He scrambled for the door.
“I know who you are, Ardin Vitalis!” The voice echoed and reverberated through the stone as if the mountain itself were shouting down at him.
Even pure sunlight was fighting to keep its hold on the floor before him, as the wrath of the Relequim warped everything in the room. He had to escape.
“And what I do to this mountain will pale in comparison to the fate I have in store for you!” The howls of the Relequim turned to roars of hate as he forced his way from his tomb.
Ardin fought for every yard he gained, bursting through the door like a fly escaping a spider's web. Sweat poured off him as he floundered and fell on the rolling bridge.
“Ardin!” Tristram grabbed Ardin's shoulder, pulling him up by the white-and-gray armor he had barely taken time to account for. “We must flee, NOW!”
The ethereal warrior waited for no consent as he heaved Ardin from the ground and soared into the sky with a burst. Boulders crashed into the bridge as they flew. Cracks formed as the mile of slender granite attempted to absorb the waves of malice that rolled through it.
Ardin's mind swam as it sought equilibrium, his balance disrupted far worse than any bout with the seas could ever cause. Ishtel waited for them in the distance, a hovering specter; he looked passive in his vigil. Then the mountain screamed.
The shearing of granite being forced apart in dozens of directions at once made for the most spectacular and terrifying noise Ardin had ever heard in his life. The sound of continents colliding couldn't have been more intense. The air around him shuddered even as Tristram soared to escape the peaks, and then it went silent. For the briefest of moments, even the rushing wind was nullified in his ears. Ardin looked down.
The nameless mountain broke into thousands of pieces, each one twisting and pulling in on itself until the whole floating peak imploded. But the implosion only lasted a heartbeat before it was thrust out again in a display of power that took Ardin's breath away.
Boulders the size of houses shot past faster than Tristram could fly. The warrior twisted and spun, diving and dodging each chunk of rock that spiraled his way. He pulled up on Ardin, climbing as quickly as he could to avoid the largest ring of debris.
Dust and pebbles enshrouded them for a moment before Ardin realized that a number of the whistling stones were flying right through him, each passing yet leaving him unscathed. I never thought I would be grateful to the Shadow for anything.
But his thoughts were fleeting, and soon they reached Ishtel, who appeared unmoved by the display in the abyss below.
“Continue onwards.” The deep rasp of Ishtel's breathy voice was barely audible to Ardin, whose entire being still churned inside of him. “Take the boy where he is needed. I will stay behind.”
Tristram hesitated briefly, turning to look at the churning cloud of dust below. Black streaks were forming in the haze, a red glow at their edges. Whatever pride in himself or care for his brother flashed in his mind, Ardin never knew. It was gone before it had even fully registered.
“Don't do anything foolish, brother.” And before Ishtel could answer, Tristram tore through the sky with Ardin in tow.
Ishtel had been born into a union few fully understood. The Greater Being of Veria was once a single creature, one so powerful that only the Creator was said to be superior, and only the Greater Being of Grandia could claim to be his peer. But the fall of the Grandian Greater Being into darkness had left him alone in his purpose: the guidance and care of mankind.
It was that purpose that kept him from leaving Veria to fight his nemesis. Even when the Relequim, as he chose to be known, had enslaved those under his care and launched an all-out attack on Verian soil, the Greater Being would not leave his people completely. To do so was to court the dangers that had seduced his counterpart.
The growing interest of the Relequim had been his dabbling in spiritual power, of which neither Being had been given much in the way of intrinsic knowledge. The way the physical world worked was as plain as breathing to both. The metaphysical realm was similarly a simple thing to explore and manipulate. But the spiritual realm was the conduit for souls to unite and for discovery of truth. That was the realm of the Creator, and in its plane, only a select few creatures had even been permitted so far as to exist.
The Demon watched those under him with curiosity. He observed as the outlying clans and tribes created their own deities to worship, and saw how it gave their leaders a power he could not explain. There was something very real and manipulable there, and it was the key to his victory over his enemies. Of this he had become increasingly certain. His efforts to master it grew until he was obsessed.
The Greater Being of Veria knew that his greatest call was to the spiritual well-being of his people, yet his attempts to both stand against his enemy and remain with his people would ultimately be counted among the causes of their rebellion.
The Brethren were formed from his metaphysical and physical presence, formed to fight the Demon in his stead. Their personalities and abilities were a rough division of his own. They left Veria to follow the Magi and pit themselves against their single adversary. But being equal to the Demon in wholeness meant inferiority in division. The Brethren had required the help of the most powerful Magi to overcome the Relequim, and the process had nearly cost them all their lives.
Ishtel knew all of this, though much of it had preceded his individual consciousness. He represented the darker side of the Greater Being, the part that not only understood death but welcomed it openly. Silence enshrouded him as much as darkness, not for absence of thought but precisely for its presence. And now he looked down on the release of the monster whose capture had cost so much, at the beginning of a war that he remained uncertain he could win.
The Dark Brother flew slowly downwards, spiraling broadly so as to gain perspective on the Abyss before he came too close. Most of the Dragon's Teeth were now hidden in clouds of ashen granite dust. Black swirls and tendrils worked their way through it all, feeling out the lay of the land before the Demon would make his move. Ensuring he was as alone as he thought he should be.
It would be best for Ishtel to keep his distance, he knew, to avoid giving the Demon his chance to permanently cripple the Brethren by removing a member. But he had to be sure of what was happening, and his curiosity drew him closer as much or more than any necessity.
The dark, exploring tendrils began to withdraw as the dust clouds settled or floated down through the valleys. The one question that burned in Ishtel's mind was where the Relequim would go first. If he could discern that, it would be invaluable information in itself. Images of the mountain erupting returned to him, giving him cause to hesitate. He needed to remove himself from this place rather than draw near it. What have I been thinking?
No sooner had his internal reprimand emerged then a roar came flying up from the Abyss below. The dust swirled in the broad cavity in the Dragon's Teeth. Ishtel pulled back, flying as quickly as he could for the nearest peak. He had barely gotten any farther before a howling, dark blur erupted from the Abyss below, flying through the northernmost peaks at a rate that was difficult to track. The rush of wind that followed sent dust and snow spinning off the slopes. And before he had realized it, the Relequim had gone.
NINE
FLEEING WAS AMONG THE THINGS THAT CID HATED MOST IN THE WORLD. The idea that he must run from something meant that he was vulnerable, less powerful than whatever it was that pursued him. He didn't mind the threat; he simply hated being reminded that he wasn't as strong as he could be. As he should be. More than that, it meant that he was again in a position where he could not protect those he had sworn to.
As the hills to the south drew near and the screams to the north began, he cursed himself under his breath. This was no one's fault but his. He should have seen the betrayal coming. Should have done something to prepare for it in any case. And now he was out of options and barely able to carry his own weight.
The Thranish salve on his wound was working wonders, but he was still wounded. Badly. He needed rest, time to heal. He needed to be the one protected for once, yet he must be the one to protect.
One final time, he told himself gloomily. Once more into the haze, and if I make it through that, I'll have earned my rest.
The brown man never left his side, encouraging him and pressing him onward. The Truan even carried his gear, Cid realized. His pride on the issue died down as quickly as it was piqued. Let him, he thought. I have enough to carry as it is.
To Cid, the world consisted of the ground before his feet. The rest was a blur at best. Every time he shook his head to clear it, the resulting imbalance almost threw him to the ground. He was exhausted, keeping a pace that in any other circumstance would have left him ashamed.
There was no shame here, however. Not now. There was only survival, and down to her bones, survival rarely looked pretty. He coughed and continued on. Less blood came when he coughed, though his throat still burned and iron laced his tongue. He didn't want to know how much he had lost; ignorance may well have been his best friend at this point.
The screams rose again, killing the new friendship far too soon. The Granhal were finally catching up to them. The Greatbow's treachery had served to distract for a while, and may have been enough to save lives, but it was over now. The shepherd was dead; time to fleece the sheep. Cid coughed and didn't look back. He didn't need to know what was happening. He shuddered to think what must have become of the Greatbow and his men.
He had first faced Granhal just north of here. When the Magi had landed to begin their counter assault, the Granhal were one of the first forces they had encountered. It had been demoralizing to say the least. He had only fought them two other times, once to gain entrance to the Valley of Albentine, and again at the defeat of the Relequim.
He had hoped that was the last time. He had prayed as much. A generation later, the Granhal still haunted his dreams, and now the nightmare was real again.
The ground began to shake. The stampeding masses were causing some of that already, but he could feel a new rhythm begin under his feet, one that didn't match the regular footfall of a running crowd so much as the well-spaced impact of heavy feet falling in unison. If he looked back, if he could even see that far with clarity, Cid would see rows of black soldiers advancing in leaps and bounds, rising and falling in unison across the landscape like the waves of some lethal sea.
The thought made him pick up the pace. The refugees were reaching the base of the hills ahead, running up through a narrow draw that would lead them... to where, exactly? He realized that he had no idea what they were now careening towards so carelessly.
“What...” He coughed against the burn in his chest that rose with the words. “Where does this lead?”
“There is a path through these hills.” The brown man was right beside him. “It leads through a cleft higher up that we can block with stone. If that can buy us enough time, the path leads out and into plains beyond that will take us to the sea.”
That won't buy us near enough time. Cid's thoughts remained as grim as their barren surroundings. They'll hunt us down 'n skin the lot of us.
“We'll have to be droppin' some mighty stones in their path then,” was all he said. “Will yours know the way?”
“There are those ahead who can guide the rest, yes.”
The draw was already proving to be a bottleneck for the mass of people pressing into the hills. Their progress slowed substantially, even though they pressed on with determination. It struck Cid as impressive that they weren't trampling each other in the press.
“Just get me to that cleft,” he said as they reached the entrance. “I'll do what I can to buy you some time.”
They slowed to a walking pace, joining the crowds as they pushed forward. The fear among them was electric, running like a current from and through each individual. It amplified Cid's own heightened sense of urgency. Thousands of people streamed up between the hills before their path twisted to the left and led them out of sight. The brown man turned to look the way they had come before putting his hand on Cid's shoulder to turn him.
“I don't think we are going to make it to the cleft.”
Cid turned in place, still taking each breath like he was running a race. The sight before him took what breath he had left and dashed his hopes along with it. The Granhal were barely a mile behind them and closing quickly. The deep, gravelly boom of their war horn could be heard as they opened into a full gallop.
“They're coming.” The brown man sounded resigned. “We can't stand against this.”
Cid's mind raced. “Have ye got any boys with weapons? Any warriors at all?”
The brown man shook his head. “To be truthful, no. We have men that could fight, but of weapons we have none. What we could present to fight, none would put so much as a dent in the skin of the Granhal.”
They'll be here in four minutes. Cid's eyes darted around the steepening hillside and rolling plain that led up to it. Straggling clusters of people were still running towards them, but each one that the Granhal caught was immediately destroyed in a flurry of carnage. The monsters barely even lost the form of their lines. Five minutes at most.
“You do have some good strong lads, though, don't ye?”
“Yes.” The brown man turned to face him. “Most are guiding along the path or helping the weak.”
“We'll need to put 'em to better use. Send 'em higher along the sides of the draw, take whatever high ground they can find.” Cid reached for his gear, the strength returning to his fingers at the touch of his sword. “Have 'em gather stones, as big as they can toss. Set an ambush, because once I'm dead, there ain't nothin' else that's gonna buy you time.”
And with that, he drew the Cleaver and began the downhill trek to his final battle.
What little Cid knew of magic needed to come back to him, immediately. His mind wasn't cooperating, but there was little choice left to him. He had to do something, anything to save these people.
The Granhal slowed, the number of stragglers increasing the closer they got to the hills. Cid could see them hacking and stomping and biting their way through the Truans. It made him shudder in a violent combination of revulsion and rage. These people had been freed from their slavery only to be slaughtered like fleeing rabbits. Their safekeeping was in Cid's charge. He would die to do what he could to fulfill that duty.
He picked his rifle out of his pack, pulling the wrappings from the lock and releasing the slide with a clack. He figured he had three minutes left, maybe a little more. He pulled a cartridge out of his sack, the long brass casings glinting in the sunlight as if glad to see the day. He shoved the square magazine into the bottom of his rifle with another click. He pulled back on the slide, releasing it to shove a ro
und in the chamber.
Hoisting the gun to his good shoulder, his arms remained remarkably steady. He took aim. The Granhal were within his range. As rusty with a gun as he may have become, he could hit them from here. Better to pick a few off from a distance and lighten the load.
He took his time, finding targets not engaged with any refugees and aiming for their broad chests. He adjusted as best as he could for the wind, but he wasn't so sure it would matter any more. The crack that came with the first shot left his ears ringing. Moments later a Granhal spun midair and landed on its face.
“One down,” he said to no one in particular. “Only a few hundred left to go...”
The next round was already in the chamber. He picked another target, aimed, and fired. Another Granhal spun mid-air, catching itself on a knee as it fell. “I guess I can't win 'em all.” He fired again, this time catching it in the back of the head with a spray of dark blood. “But neither can you.”
Cid picked up the pace, finding new targets, shooting, and searching again. Each time a Granhal fell, and each time he felt a growing sense of futility. Ten shots came and went as the magazine ejected itself from the gun with a twang. He grabbed another from his sack. Two minutes tops. It was amazing how quickly time could disappear when it was moving so slowly.
He unloaded ten more rounds, and ten more Granhal went down. They were slowing significantly as they churned through more and more refugees. Cid had hardly realized how many were still out here, his blood boiling at the sight. As if in response to his anger, the salve on his wound tingled afresh. He could feel his chest pressing what was left of the Thranish muck back out of his body. Then the enchantments came back to him, what few he knew. They all came flooding back.
“I can't let you do this alone.” The brown man appeared next to him carrying a long ashen staff. “It wouldn't be right for you to die for my people while I fled.”
