Ascension (War of the Seraphs): Book One

by Dan Bilodeau

  Dal began weaving fire and killing Andals by the score. But he felt his vision blurring, and no matter how much he didn’t want to quit, he would have to rest for a while. Able to fly, he viewed the battlefield at a height from which no arrow could reach him. What he saw was beyond anything he could have imagined. Fires and bodies were everywhere. What remained of the Andal force of 600 from the last assault was in full retreat; Dal counted fewer than 50 of them riding back to their main camp. It appeared that the Ibernians had 100 regular army troopers still capable of fighting, and the Druids had lost only a few of their own.

  Unless the Andals had something else to throw at them, the Ibernians had a chance. But it all depended on how fast Dal could recover his Seraph powers. And he could not let this last wave of Andals attack the Ibernian army or the Druids. They would be too weak and all would surely be lost in the battle. Dal would have to take the fight to the Andals.

  Wulf swung his ax and was rewarded with the crunch he relished hearing, as his blow split an Ibernian’s helmet with the man’s head inside it. He smote the helmet again and again, until it and the head came free of the body. Three-fourths of his army destroyed by a bunch of farmers and Druids. Only one of the damn suits worked, and this supposed Fire Angel had managed to destroy it.

  How could so much have gone wrong? He had not expected so many Druids to escape their lair. And the Weepers had not been their normal selves in this battle. They were fighting well and ferociously, but no better than a regular Andal soldier, as if some force had reduced their potency. It made no sense. Regardless, the Druids were showing obvious fatigue, and soon victory would be his.

  He heard a noise in the sky and looked up to see a speck that was growing larger the longer he watched it. What in Jethru’s name was that? The speck became a man of some sort, but he had wings. Was this the Fire Angel? It landed behind some of Wulf’s troops and began killing them. The moment he removed his flaming sword from one man, he spun around and decapitated another. Twenty Andals then charged him from all angles, but before they could reach him, he took to the sky.

  That’s no Fire Angel, it’s the boy from Quork, the one from the farm who killed the magistrate, thought Wulf. I know just how to handle him. He went to his supply tent.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Pockets of Andals had not retreated but had remained on the battlefield, so Dal went there first. He spotted this situation from the air, and he didn’t want any Ibernian soldiers or Druids killed by Andal stragglers while he was taking the fight to them on the hilltop.

  He’d take off and land in a new group of Andals and lash out with his blade. And if there were no Ibernians nearby, he’d send a fireball.

  Deidre, Pad, and Curran were fighting together with a couple of Druids. Pad was swinging his hammer wildly at a soldier, but he connected, shattering spear, shield, and bone with one blow. Curran was using a sword, intermixing a little magic once in a while, but not so much that he would tire, and carefully engaging one opponent at a time. Both he and Pad had several cuts, but they were little more than scratches. Deidre was almost out of arrows, as she hardly stopped to take aim before firing another arrow. Dal landed near her.

  A group of Andals took notice of him and charged, letting out mindless screams in the process. Dal closed his eyes, focusing on the sounds around him. He could hear the soldiers' gasping breaths. They were almost upon him when he opened his eyes.

  A fiery blade sprang to life in his hand. A soldier thrust wildly at Dal, who easily moved out of the way. Dal ran the man through the back as he stumbled by. Another solider began to attack him, but ran back to wait for two other Andals to join him. The three of them formed a circle around Dal and attacked.

  The flames on Dal’s sword became longer and more intense. He swung it, and in one full circle sliced each man in two. Another soldier attacked Dal, and his fiery blade sheared the man’s sword in half. He followed through with his stroke and cleaved the man in two at the midsection. Another soldier, the last one in the immediate area, lost heart and ran. Dal wove air and propelled his fire blade through the fleeing man.

  The time Dal had spent trying to do the right thing for the Ibernians still on the battlefield had proved to be a grand idea, because the final wave of Andals was still on the hillside. Perhaps they assumed that the existing troops on the ground would be enough to finish off the Ibernians.

  Instead, the Ibernians, now with Dal’s help, were finishing off any Andals who might be left behind. Dal was going from place to place on the battlefield, helping where needed, when he heard a metallic sound that was becoming all too familiar.

  An Andal in a suit appeared, leveling the ground beneath a group of Ibernian soldiers. The man in the suit raised his hand, but a dozen Ibernians rushed him from behind. Before the man in the suit could weave anything more, they were on him. Stabbing at him with pikes and spears, they were unable to penetrate the metal suit. The man inside the suit raised his hands, but several of the soldiers rushed him from behind and knocked him over. Dal could hear the man screaming as they pried off his helmet and decapitated him. Only then did the screaming stop.

  The Andal cavalry that had been on the battlefield was all but destroyed. Horses without riders trotted and whinnied across what was now a field of death, trying to escape the gore and chaos. Dal saw a man’s leg still attached to a stirrup. Now was the time to attack the Andals before they could send their final wave.

  Dal met up with Deidre, Pad, Curran, and Liam and told them of his plans to attack the remaining Andal forces before they could swarm the countryside one final time. To a person, they agreed with Dal’s idea. But they would not even consider letting him go by himself. A quick meeting was convened, and Doran said that everyone who could fight would follow Dal up the mountainside.

  And so the final battle unfolded.

  An Andal near Dal screamed as his face was set afire. He gurgled as he clutched his melted skin and slumped to the ground. Lightning rained down on the remaining Andals in the first flank, who were too busy fighting Ibernian troops to notice the carnage that was taking place with their own people. The Druids were avoiding other Ibernians in the fray, something that could be mastered only after years of practice.

  Dal was sending weaves and fireballs in all directions, and the Druids were keeping everything in a constant turmoil. So much so that in the confusion Andals were even accidentally killing other Andals. Taking a few seconds to catch his breath, Dal counted fewer than a dozen Weepers still on horseback. So much for their great prowess. Maybe if he survived he’d someday learn what had happened to them, as Hade would never have exaggerated their skill as fighters, and Dal had once experienced a small group on his own. Something had definitely sapped their strength and motivation.

  Two-thirds of the final Andal wave was dead, and Dal was standing and taking stock of the easiest and least dangerous way of destroying the remaining soldiers, considering even taking prisoners to learn more about Andlar as a means of making certain another occupation was never again attempted. Yes, Ibernia had won.

  Just as he was about to proclaim victory, the ground exploded beneath him. He went sprawling, landing on his side. His breath came in exaggerated gasps. At least one rib was broken, maybe more. There was a warm taste in his mouth. He coughed into his hand and saw blood.

  “So, you’re the one,” Dal heard a hollow voice say. He looked up and saw a man in a suit. Except this suit was unlike the others. It pulsed four colors instead of one. The suit was also much larger than the three others he’d seen up close, and it was more heavily armored, as the chest plate was thicker, as well as the arm and leg protection.

  “You’re the Fire Angel, but I don’t behold a divine savior for Ibernia. I see a farm boy playing at a serious game.”

  He raised a hand, and a giant icicle formed and sped toward Dal. He rolled, and the sharp ice impacted where he had stood a split second earlier. He wove fire next, and a ball of flame came shooting at Dal, who raised his hands instinct
ively and put up a fire shield. Both the ball and his shield dissipated on impact.

  He had just woven two different elements. How was that possible? This Andal suit was in essence a fully functional Druid. It clearly allowed the user to command all the elements at once. If there are more of those things…Dal didn’t have time to finish his thought, as the man began to weave earth. Dal managed to flap his wings and take off, and not a moment too soon. The earth beneath him caved in and chunks of dirt shot up and peppered him. While this served as a minor annoyance, he was exhausted and felt his vision blurring again. But if he gave up now, all would be lost. And everything everyone had died for would be in vain.

  Dal sent a ball of flame down at the man, who blocked it with a water shield. Dal was panting. He coughed up more blood.

  “Tell me, what was it like to watch your brother die?” the man said to Dal. “He must have been a stupid little boy. Almost as stupid as you.”

  Those words gave Dal fresh life. He stretched out his hands and wove fire. Tiny orbs of flame, the size of potatoes, streaked toward the man. Again, the man countered with fire and remained unharmed. “SOREN!” Dal screamed as he dived down to meet the man on the ground, where he wove fire, waves of which enflamed everything in a 50-yard circle around him and the man in the incredible suit. Just as the flames subsided, Dal was backhanded by the man with enough force that he was knocked to the ground. He managed to stand, but he had to bend over. He spit up dark red blood, and a lot of it.

  “Pity, really, I expected more of a fight from you.” The man laughed viciously. “Some savior you are. You Ibernians are finished, and all because of you. I’ll rebuild my army, and when I’m done with everything, each and every stream in your country will run red with Ibernian blood.” The man raised his hand and wove air. It hit Dal as if he’d been punched in the heart. He grabbed his chest. It was all over.

  Except…something he said. The word came to Dal: stream. He stood up. The man began to laugh. “Oh, what’s this? Has our hero come to save the day? You couldn’t save your brother, and you can’t save these people. The best you can hope for is a quick death. Be grateful I’m in a giving mood.” The man raised his hand to weave earth.

  “Empty your thoughts,” Hadrian had told him. “Empty them into the stream. There is only you and the stream, nothing else.”

  Dal’s eyes searched for a weakness. The armor seemed fully connected and heavy. How do I penetrate that? Dal looked closely at the side of the suit. There it was! The suit’s front and back were attached on the sides with only chainmail protecting the wearer.

  Dal breathed deep, and time stood still. He emptied himself of emotions, letting them flow into the stream he imagined in his mind. All that was left was Soren. The image of his brother came up, playful and happy. Soren looked at Dal, as if expecting something. “I love you Soren,” Dal said. “But your death wasn’t my fault. I have to let go.”

  Soren’s image smiled at him and waved. “Remember, you’re special,” his voice whispered to Dal as he too faded into the stream.

  The man was still raising his hand when Dal ascended in a flash, the explosion just missing him. I’m never going to get past his defenses, he’s too strong. Unless….Dal raised his hands and calmly wove several strands of fire. He sent them streaking at the man, who raised a water shield.

  “That’s all you’ve got left? I’ve seen this before,” the flames hit the shield and dissolved harmlessly. Dal raised his hands, and the man did the same. The man was weaving air, Dal fire. Dal sent waves of flame toward the man, blocking his vision. Dal wove again and again and again. The man shielded his eyes and didn’t see Dal streaking toward him behind the waves of flame, or as he thrust an ice sword through the water shield and impaled the man in his right side. The man screamed and fell backward.

  “That was for you, Soren,” Dal said. “I love you, brother.”

  Dal was beyond tired, but he forced his eyes to stay open and stared at the sky. All around him, he could hear the sounds of battle: men exploding; the twang of bows being fired: the screams of men as the arrows found their mark. Dal prayed that Deidre and his friends were safe.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been in this state, but it sounded as though the battle was dying down. He should sit up and see what was going on, but he was too tired to move one muscle. He felt at peace and just wanted to sleep. He thought about his family. He was back on his farm in Quork. Soren was there, as were his mother and father. Farming wasn’t so bad after all. Actually, it was pretty nice. He fell asleep.

  Wulf lay gasping. The battle was raging around him, yet all he heard was the chirping of birds. He struggled with the clasps holding his helmet on his head. He strained in pain as he removed it. Upstaged by a boy. Didn’t see him using water until it was too late. Didn't see him slipping up to blindside me. Wulf breathed and fire filled his lungs. He coughed, and blood gurgled forth from his throat. His thoughts were coming in random spurts. Andlar, home, Emperor…must tell him: Fire Angel. Wulf laid his head down in the grass and breathed his last. His eyes remained open though, as if bearing mute witness to what had occurred.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  “Dal! Dal! Wake up!” He could swear someone was calling his name. He opened his eyes. Pad was standing over him, a bloody mess. He had cuts on his face and arms, and soot marred his cheeks. He was a warrior straight out of one of Hade’s stories.

  “You’re alive!” Dal said, then reconsidering, “Either that or we’re both dead.”

  “No such luck, welcome back to the land of the living.”

  Dal sat up, expecting great pain but finding none. “What--”

  “Easy,” Pad said as he put his hands on Dal’s shoulders to help him balance. “You’ve been healed by Doran, but I’m told there can be side effects. He said you might feel dizzy.” As if to prove Pad’s point, Dal shakily took to his feet and almost fell. He put a hand to his mouth and saw no blood. Thank Dio for that. Dal looked down. His armor was gone, as were his wings.

  “Pad, what the…what happened?”

  “We bloody won, that’s what happened.

  “How?”

  “Thanks to our magic, they couldn’t kill many of the Druids, and Doran and the Brotherhood killed the Andals you didn’t. The Ibernian army took casualties. But the Andals were completely destroyed.”

  “Everyone contributed mightily, with many making the ultimate sacrifice,” Doran said as he walked up. “However, without question, we would not have been victorious if not for the Fire Seraph. You were a terror on the battlefield, my boy, a true testament to Dio’s power.” Doran wiped his eyes. “And here I thought I had seen everything. You truly are the wrath of our God.”

  “I just reacted, that’s all. I couldn’t use any more magic, I was so tired.”

  “You did more than enough, Dalziel. You moved so quickly, you single-handedly destroyed the Andal lines. They spent so many of their men trying to pin you down that it gave us enough time to use our magic. We all owe you a debt, young man. When they write the stories of what happened here today, they will sing of the Seraphs, I promise you.”

  Doran looked from Dal to Pad. “Your friends also fought valiantly.”

  Pad blushed and looked away. Friends. Dal asked, “Deidre? Curran? What happened to them?”

  A look of sadness came over Pad’s face. “Deidre’s fine, but Curran was banged up pretty bad. They’re healing him now.” Dal could hear the pain in Pad’s voice.

  “But we expect a full recovery,” Doran said as he put a hand on Pad’s shoulder. “Relax, my son, he just needs his rest.”

  Dal heard footsteps. He turned just in time to be tackled to the ground. “You scared me. I thought I’d lost you,” a breathless Deidre said as she pulled back after kissing him several times all over his face.

  “Such is the life of a Seraph,” Doran said in a serious tone. “Luan himself was close to death several times, but always survived. So not to worry, my dear, Dalziel seems to be made of the same
cloth.” Doran left and Dal was helped up so he could view the battlefield.

  Bodies were on top of bodies, and they were everywhere. The stench of charred flesh was so strong that Dal threw up.

  “It’s…the smell,” Dal said after Pad asked him if he was all right. Dal walked slowly. The dead soldiers didn’t bother him as much as the body parts lying all over the field. For every intact body, three were mutilated. Many heads were split wide open, giving the appearance of rotten fruit. Those Druids had done their work well, too.

  He stopped when he came to the crest on a rise, as it provided him a panoramic view of the devastation. He was awed by the number of craters and large patches of scorched earth that dotted the landscape. I did this? Dio, what am I? A monster? As usual, nothing answered him back. He still wasn’t sure what it meant to be a Seraph, but he had been the necessary tool during the battle. Doran had been right. In a morbid sort of way, Dal was the Divine Executioner.

  Deidre grabbed his hand. “I never want to be in a battle again.”

  “I don’t think we have a choice," he replied, deep in thought. “This battle was not of our choosing. It found us. When the Andals learn of this, they will form another army. This is only the beginning. It might not happen tomorrow, or next year, or the year after that. But unless we can prevent them somehow, they will return. And stronger than ever.”

  A metallic glint caught his eye as it reflected the sunlight. Curious, he approached and found it was the special suit. The man inside had black hair and a strong jaw, and his dark eyes, which were wide open, showed intense anger as he lay lifeless on the ground. Wulf was his name, Dal recalled. You almost ended me. Almost. But Dal had realized the truth, that Soren’s death was not of his making. The Andals had killed his brother, and now he had paid them back in kind. He had let go of his anger and had gotten the better of the man in the suit. Dal leaned down and closed the man’s eyes.