by Matt Hiebert
The human Thogmasters were gone, either trampled to death or lost in the wilderness. The remaining Thogs were throwing themselves against a foe he could now see, but only with his mundane human eyes. To his godly perceptions, no one was there.
A few hundred armored warriors had pinned the Thogs against a steep canyon wall. The warriors were clad in silver armor so sparkling it reflected like a mirror. They attacked the beasts in teams of three. Some of them wielded lengths of heavy golden chain that moved like living serpents and bound the Thogs into bundles of twenty or thirty.
Once the Thogs were entangled by the chain, a pair of the warriors, armed with swords in each hand, moved in and cut the life stones out of their chests with surgical precision. The exposed orbs fell to the ground or dangled by sinews from their opened torsos. The warriors moved with preternatural speed and Quintel sensed they gained their strength by siphoning Sirian Ru's power from the earth as the minions did.
He noticed the silver clad warriors were all women.
The Lanya had returned.
He remained on the cliff's edge as the brave Abanshi crested a steep hill and saw the strange battle in progress. They halted, fidgeting upon the hilltop, obviously trying to comprehend what their eyes were seeing.
Quintel jumped from the cliff and charged toward the battle. The god fragment left him no choice but to join the fight. It wanted Thog blood.
As he neared the Lanya warriors, their apparent commander, adorned with a winged helmet, called out something and the teams pulled back, allowing him access to the corralled Thogs. When he entered the roaring mob, viscera flew. The hum of his swinging sword vibrated off the canyon walls.
The Thogs disappeared. Loosed stones rolled around the body parts like marbles.
In a few moments, there was silence. All the Thogs were dead. Quintel surveyed the mound of carnage as the Lanya pulled back and fell into formation. A few of the Abanshi pursuers snaked down the mountain trail, demoralized, aware they would contribute nothing to the battle.
Covered from head to foot in drying black ooze, Quintel jumped to the ground and tucked his sword in his belt. He was fascinated by the spiritual invisibility of the Lanya. They had no lifelight, no signs beyond the physical of their existence. He could see them, but his divine perceptions were blind to their presence.
As he approached, their expressions remained grim. Standing at full attention in orderly rows, their eyes did not leave him. The golden chains coiled around their bearers without assistance. The swordswomen nested their blades. He now saw the exquisite craftsmanship and detail of their shining armor. Every inch was engraved with runes and flourish. Their helmets sat low, allowing only glimpses of their features. Their skin was a deep bronze and their eyes sparkled like pools of melted gold. Their leader moved forward from the back of the ranks. Her helm bore soaring metal wings. Even upon the physical plane, her presence bore command.
The woman approached without fear, stopping within an arm's length of him. She was taller than Quintel. He did not need divine insight to tell him she saw everything within his soul. Her eyes roamed his body examining that which mortals could not see.
“You should not be here,” she said with an accent lost to history. “The young god should not be here.”
Quintel felt a very human moment of embarrassment over his own existence. For some reason, he wanted this towering woman to respect him and her words seemed condemning. Had she not seen him slay the Thogs? Did she not know they fought on the same side?
“I was supposed to be a vessel to transport the god Yuul, but only a piece of the god lives within me,” he said. “It gives me the strength to slay Sirian Ru’s monsters. Perhaps, even the god himself.”
She understood and her golden eyes widened.
“No!” she shouted with authority that had obviously never been disputed. “The Living God cannot die.”
Quintel was stunned by the woman’s words. Was she referring to Ru’s immortality? Or was she giving him a command?
“I am an Abanshi warrior fused with the might of a god,” Quintel stated slowly. “My very purpose is to kill Ru.”
“No!” she barked again. This time the Lanya warriors behind her reacted, adjusting their formation, closing in around him. They did not draw their weapons, but still managed to convey a threat.
The Abanshi soldiers were now off to his flank. They could tell something was wrong between the two supernatural parties and Quintel felt their loyalty was with him. Many of them did not know who the Lanya were. The Abanshi captain stepped forward, making his way through the thicket of tall female warriors, who ignored him.
“What goes on here?” the captain asked, recognizing the armor-clad women. Quintel realized it was the guard from the Iron Gate who had originally escorted him to the capital. He could feel the man's awe at seeing the Lanya. They had been confined to legend for a century. Now here they stood, living up to their myth. “Women of the Lanya! You have been gone a long time. We are Abanshi! We are your allies! This man wields the strength of a god. I have seen him --”
“Silence!” the leader commanded without turning away from Quintel. Her eyes stayed locked on his. The god within him squirmed beneath her stare. Her sight pierced his heart.
After a moment she stepped back and spoke another command.
“You leave with us,” she said to Quintel. The Lanya again shifted formation as if on order. Quintel looked at the women warriors. They were all beautiful and something behind their eyes made him long to see them as a god. How radiant and full their souls must have been. How carved with shimmering experience. Why were they doing this?
“No,” he said.
The woman uttered a word in a language he did not understand. Two golden chains shot faster than arrows from the troop formation. They captured his arms before he could move.
Impossible, he thought. But the chains held tight.
“I am your friend!” Quintel shouted, and even he heard the human being come out in his voice. He could not move. The Abanshi soldiers drew their weapons and fell back, not knowing exactly what to do. What if they attacked and the Lanya killed them? Quintel felt the god's fear of death rise again. It sickened him. Angered him.
With strength the Lanya did not expect, he jerked against the restraints and the chain bearers flew towards him. With an open hand he slapped them to ground, denting their helmets, stunning them. He snapped the chains from his wrists and legs just as the swordswomen attacked. The leader shouted more indiscernible orders and the entire army converged upon him.
He did not draw his sword. He had no desire to harm these legendary women.
Launching toward the sky like a frightened bird, Quintel put all his power into fleeing. At the apogee of his leap, a dozen chains flew into the air and caught him, jerking him to the ground.
He grabbed the chains and swung the bearers like human morning stars, crashing them into each other. Their armor clanged like bells. He batted them away with as much restraint as he could muster. He grabbed them by their limbs and smashed them into their sisters. He snapped their swords at the hilt. He dodged their magical chains with speed that made him invisible, but always, one would catch him, keeping him pinned within the nucleus of the fight.
In the midst of the chaos, he felt their leader reading his soul. He sensed her prying into his thoughts and feelings, opening him up like a ripe fruit. He felt her find something of use. Breaking away from the attack she moved toward the Abanshi soldiers, who still did not know where they fit within the battle.
What was she doing? As soon as he asked the question, he knew.
The Lanya leader leaped over her troops and landed beside the Abanshi captain. She smiled, not a cruel smile, unsheathed one of her two swords and shoved it into his heart. He died instantly. His lifelight, a beautiful sculpture of experience and wisdom, the light of a warrior, a father, a husband, disappeared.
No! Quintel's entire being screamed. The god in his heart collapsed. He tried to continu
e but stumbled and fell to the ground. The chains were around his legs and arms before he could think, yet they were nothing compared to the sorrow that bound him. A man he knew, who had helped him, believed in him when no one should have, was dead. Gone.
In seconds, Quintel was wrapped in a cocoon of gold links that moved with life, loosening before they snapped from his strength and tightening where he was weakest. He looked like a spider's dinner.
“Run!” he shouted to the Abanshi. The warriors hesitated, confused, angry, full of fight. They didn’t want to defy Quintel, but the Lanya had killed one of their own. At last, one of the ranking officers bellowed the command to withdraw and the bewildered group pulled back up the hillside.
The Lanya's leader turned from the retreating Abanshi and strode passed her warriors to Quintel, the bloody sword still in her grip.
Again her golden eyes locked upon his, penetrating his soul with insight. For a flash, he glimpsed who and what she was. The vision came like a lightning stroke: a thousand years old. Wise, powerful. Then the vision was gone. Had she let him see that?
“I should kill you now,” she said in her ancient accent, holding the stained tip of her sword against his throat.
Quintel held her gaze and wondered why she didn't follow through with the threat. The god inside him trembled.
Then a mountain fell from the sky.
Ten of the Lanya warriors flew through the air, decapitated. Quintel felt their deaths, but it was a brief whisper, as if he caught only the end of the experience, the last second when they lost control of their souls. Not like the death of the captain. Not like a human life being lost.
Then another row of Lanya died. And another. And another.
The Lanya leader shouted a string of commands and the warrior witches scattered. She narrowed her eyes and said something unintelligible through clinched teeth. The chains fell from his body. She stared at him for a second longer, sending him the message they were not finished. Then she, too, ran.
He stood up to see what was killing the Lanya. But he already knew. The weight of its dark soul left a convex dent in the universe.
Across the canyon stood the Demonthane. Fifteen feet tall. Covered in scales. Fangs like swords. Hands like scythes.
“Your allies were invisible to me, Abomination,” it said to him with a voice that rumbled like freed thunder. “But they have all fled. Your time is over. Come to me and die.”
Chapter 29
Quintel drew his sword. The Lanya had disappeared. The Agara stepped sideways, crushing a Thog skull beneath its clawed foot. When it moved, its scales clinked like chips of thin stone.
“Did you believe you would survive, Abomination?” Grom asked. “Did you believe the god would let you walk upon his world?”
Close, Quintel could see the mechanics of the Agara. He saw its strange power stone and how it differed from the inferior versions that animated the Thogs. He felt fire burn from his stomach to his teeth. The tang of vengeance filled his mouth. This was the monster that killed Siyer. He wanted to make it hurt.
“I believe he has no choice.” Quintel charged. He was a blur. The Demonthane was fast but not fast enough to block his blow. Crossing the distance in a flying leap, Quintel struck with all his strength. The sword dropped exactly where he aimed, between the Agara's neck and shoulder. It kissed the creature's scales and shattered into a dozen shards.
In response, the Demonthane swung one of its bladed hands. Quintel dodged, kicking off the Agara’s torso and throwing himself backwards just as the talon grazed his chest. It cut through his blood-caked shirt but missed his flesh. Grom staggered backwards from the kick, surprised by the strength compacted within the small body of his opponent.
“You will not be as easy to kill as the Vaerian,” the Agara rumbled. “The blinding flame of your spirit only hints at your true power.”
Quintel bounced across the field of scattered Thog parts and found a lost Lanyan sword. Its blade was no more than three fingers wide and bore a slight curve to its length. He grabbed the weapon and ricocheted back toward the Agara. Grom swung as soon as Quintel changed direction to attack, aware of his incredible speed, trying to lead the blow.
The maneuver worked and Quintel crashed into the blunt edge of the Agara's crescent hand. Pain was absent, but the blow stunned him. He felt his strength drop. The Demonthane threw another strike before the first had finished falling. Quintel twisted just in time to dodge the blow. Pulverized stone erupted as the missed swing contacted the earth.
Like a spring, Quintel shot high into the air. The Agara gave one violent thrust from its wings and was on him like a falcon, claws slashing.
Airborne, Quintel struck the monster again. The Lanya sword was crafted of denser metal than the Abanshi weapons, but it broke against the scales just as readily. Falling to the earth with the Agara on top of him, Quintel was disarmed. Not that the difference mattered.
The Agara followed him to the ground wrapping its wings around him so he could not escape. Its claw sliced downward and this time he was trapped. As the sickle fell, Quintel caught the weapon with both hands, not certain he could stop the blow. The titanic might of the Demonthane pressed upon him. It was stronger than he was.
“Die, foul thing,” it hissed through a cage of fangs, pitting all of its might against his grip. Quintel came to Grom's waist and his footing slipped against the stony ground. They grappled in deadlock, barely moving. Their physical strain sloshed into the spiritual realm as both beings tapped into deeper reservoirs of power.
The earth trembled. Lightning crackled around them. Their struggled strained the very fiber that held the world together. A cliff face behind them turned to slag. The ground turned soft beneath their feet. Fissures split the surface of the earth.
The monster was stronger and more experienced, but Quintel had his Abanshi upbringing. His human side remembered a technique Aran had taught him when locked in a similar position with a larger opponent. Without warning, Quintel relented to the Agara's might, falling to his back, pulling the monster over his head using its own mass against it. Off balance, the Agara crashed headlong into a hardened tor, toppling the rocks like a stack of children's blocks.
The Agara somersaulted and came up on its feet, more agile than Quintel had guessed. Turning quickly, it smashed a pillar of stone, spraying projectiles across the landscape towards him. The missiles pounded Quintel's chest and head, but his flesh did not break. He jumped to the top of a butte, above the Agara's reach.
“Your agility only postpones your death,” Grom blared, but Quintel heard frustration in the rumbling voice.
The Agara shot upwards and struck. The blow missed and this time Quintel grabbed the crescent-shaped claw as it passed. He climbed onto the creature’s back and set himself between its beating wings.
Quintel had a plan. Wrapping his arms around the base of the Agara's leathery wing, he arched backwards, applying fathomless pressure against the creature's shoulder.
The Agara shot into the sky, trying to shake him off, and soon they were thousands of feet above the earth, corkscrewing through the sky at fantastic speeds.
Quintel pulled hard. Something snapped beneath the impenetrable scales and the wing tore loose at the shoulder, spraying a fountain of black blood into the sky. The appendage folded and they began to fall.
The Agara screamed. Below them, Quintel saw they had crossed many miles and were plummeting toward Jura. The Agara was going to crash them into the streets.
“Your people will watch you die!” it shouted.
The earth rushed upwards. Quintel kicked against the Agara's head, shooting off at an angle before they struck the ground, trying to deflect the impact. The maneuver did not work. Smashing through the stone roof of a bazaar, he felt his bones shatter and instantly heal. The Agara hit full force, shaking the entire city.
Quintel jumped through the hole he had made in the roof and stood atop the building, trying to spot the Agara's landing point. He had hurt it,
but how badly? He still could not see a way to kill it. Tearing its wings off was not a practical strategy. He could not withstand too many more landings like that one.
A cloud of dust and debris revealed the monster's location. Quintel bound across the stone rooftops to reach the commotion.
As he arrived, the Agara shot from the dust into the sky, fully healed, its wing whole again. The creation's resilience matched his own. Quintel jumped into the air after the being, but fell short and dropped back to the ground.
“You are strong, Abanshi,” the Agara shouted as it circled above him. “But I have the sky.”
“That is only an advantage if you flee, Demonthane,” Quintel answered. “And in this world, you have nowhere to run.”
The Agara was infuriated by Quintel's arrogance.
“I have no intention of running, blasphemous insect!”
Abanshi citizens scattered throughout the streets, terrified of the gigantic winged monster that had fallen from the sky. Quintel wanted them as far away as possible. The Agara had not figured out the power a hostage could have over him, and Quintel did not want to give it the chance.
Tucking its wings, Grom plummeted towards him. Quintel stood still until the last second and then jumped backward to avoid the attack. The Agara was ahead of him. The dive had been a feint.
Just before Quintel shot backwards, the Agara changed direction, anticipating his move. It intercepted the dodge, smashing him into the cobblestone street like a hawk striking a pigeon. Quintel cart-wheeled into a wall at the end of the avenue.
His mind was scattered and he lost control of his power. It took energy to resist such force. The creature had every bit of his might and thousands of years more experience. While its body may be new, its combat skills were ancient.
A storm of arrows showered the Agara as it charged up the wide avenue towards him. A squad of Abanshi archers had converged on the scene. Quintel was not happy to see them. Their arrows bounced off the Agara's hide like stalks of straw.
