by Ben Galley
Then, with a solid, resounding boom that made the mountains shake for miles around, they punched their way deeper into the sky. Fire licked at them. Smoke belched from their tails. Dust hissed as it burnt away in the furnace of falling. The grey-green land rose up to greet them in a firm embrace. The world beneath was full of running, panicking shapes, small as any ant. The stars, just for a moment, seemed to clench themselves together. Had anyone dared to face them, in the seconds before they plummeted into the earth, they might have seen a smile in their rocky faces.
One. Two. Three.
They hit the ground in quick ear-splitting succession. They spread themselves wide across the gap between Manesmark and the gates of Krauslung. Much to the horror of hundreds, one ploughed straight into one of the wedding tents, reducing it to a gaping hole of ash. It was like watching boulders being thrown into a millpond. Wave after smoking wave of rock and dirt exploded from the stars’ graves. Soldiers flew aside like broken dolls. Mages screamed their shield spells and prayed for safety as they huddled behind them. The wedding guests simply cowered behind anything that resembled shelter and beat the flames from their clothes. It was carnage, chaos, mayhem.
And that was just the opening act.
Aghast, Farden stared as one of the stars collided with the top of the distant hill. Even from there he could see the chairs and charred bunting flying in all directions, specks of white in a fountain of rock. He was so horrified he barely flinched when the second and third stars crashed behind him. One fell so close it showered him with dirt and pebbles, forcing his face into the ground with its shockwave. Farden winced as a pebble clacked off his skull. There would be a lump later, if there ever was a later.
Without the spell forcing him down, Farden summoned an energy he didn’t know he had and got to his feet. One foot shakily plodded in front of the other. One, then the other, and so forth, until he was striding up the ruined hill as fast he could, wading through a pile of screaming people and fallen soldiers. His sword was lost. All he had was his fists and his armour. He almost laughed at the thought of facing the fallen stars so empty handed. One, then the other, his feet stumbled on towards the Spire.
Somebody grabbed his arm as he marched through the jumbled ranks of bewildered recruits. ‘Farden!’ came a cry. It was Tyrfing. His face was smudged with dirt. The robe he had been wearing had been half-torn away, betraying the Scalussen plate-mail hiding underneath, greener than a springtime emerald. ‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded.
‘Wasting time talking to you,’ came the grunted answer, as Farden shrugged himself away. Tyfing barked a few orders to the men, rallying them into some semblance of order, and darted after him.
‘You shouldn’t be here, not in your state!’
‘Where’s Elessi?’ yelled Farden, as he broke into a stiff jog. ‘And Modren?’
‘Modren is heading towards the Spire as we speak. Elessi is hopefully locked safely inside.’
‘Hopefully?’ Farden grit his teeth to keep from cursing at his uncle. Their feet pounded the torn grass, pushing through anyone that got in their way. The people trapped on the road had no idea which direction to run, so they ran in all of them, like headless fowl. ‘Just remember, you wanted this!’
Tyrfing didn’t have an answer for that.
‘We need to go faster,’ said Farden, wincing as he stumbled on a rock.
‘Hold on to your legs then,’ Tyrfing warned him, as he clamped his hand onto his nephew’s shoulder. To Farden’s utter surprise, his legs began to fly beneath him, just numb bits of meat, flailing at the grass. They moved faster than he had ever imagined a pair of legs could move. Tyrfing’s did the same, and together they sprinted at the pace of sabre-cats up the hill, towards the Spire.
It was a field of fire that welcomed them. Ash had replaced confetti. A gaping, smoke hole had been bored into the hillside, only a few dozen yards from the scaffolding of the Spire. What had been white was now either black, or various shades of dirt. Bitter-tasting air had replaced the sweet smell of wedding bouquets and waiting food. What was left of the feast had been thrown into the dirt.
Modren was there, barking orders as if his throat was possessed. With the help of the scattered Written, he was frantically trying to rally the soldiers together while at the same time getting the people into the Spire or simply out of the way. Tyrfing began to shout his own orders, marshalling a nearby squad of bewildered soldiers. The air was touched with sulphur. It eked from the hole like pus from a wound.
As Tyrfing left him, Farden’s legs returned to their aching selves, and he stumbled forward to stare at the hole. Soldiers were quickly lining up around it, spears and swords glinting in the midday sun. Mages and archers formed second and tertiary lines, nocking arrows to their bows and winding up their finest spells. They would need it for what was about to come.
Farden winced as the heat from the star’s scar seared his skin. The sulphurous smoke caught in his throat, and he quickly backed away. Modren caught sight of him.
‘Farden!’ he yelled over the masses. Farden looked up and caught the Undermage’s gaze as he marched through the ranks. ‘How?’ he shouted, once he was near enough, mouth agape and arms wide. ‘How the fuck did you escape?’
Farden shrugged. ‘Must have been magick,’ he said, and then, ‘is she safe?’
Modren nodded. ‘In the Spire, locked in with the rest.’
Farden looked to the infant Spire, a bristling mass of scaffolding and stout brick. Its lower levels might hold. He hoped it had a cellar. ‘And is it done?’
‘What?’
‘You and her.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what a lovely day it must be for you.’
Modren glared. His mirror-steel armour was covered in dirt and garnished with bits of singed grass. ‘Well you better have some of it left, because your bitch of a daughter has brought some uninvited guests,’ he snapped. There was no trace of humour in his voice. He was doing it for the men. They stared at Farden with narrowed gazes. The word “daughter” rustled through their ranks.
Farden scowled. ‘What…’ he began, but a shiver in the ground interrupted him.
‘You’re about to see,’ muttered Modren, as he dragged Farden away from the hole and back through the ranks. Durnus was there, and Tyrfing, and a handful of Written clad in Scalussen armour. One of them silently handed Farden a sword, nodded, and said no more. There was still work to be done. Talking could wait.
At least they didn’t have to wait long.
If was safe to say that when a black tail snaked out of the smoking pit, every soldier but the bravest took a little step backward. When the clawed hand, brandishing talons curved like yellow scythes, reached up and cracked a rock in half, they took two.
‘Steady now!’ ordered Tyrfing. He glanced behind him, down the hill, and saw movement in the other two craters. He cursed under his breath. Let the men hold, he begged whomever was listening.
There was an almighty roar as the creature sprang from its pit, letting the rocks and earth tumble down behind it. Suddenly there it stood, brazen in the daylight for all to gaze at. And gaze they did, with every fearful eye the Arka had.
It was the face of it that drew the most eyes. A twisted snout and a cluster of orange eyes. An itchy jaw that refused to stop gnawing on the air. Black lips hiding jagged teeth and a throat like a blast furnace. Two notched ears, bitten by gods knew what, and a patch of hair growing between two horns, twisted and furled like a goat’s. No wings, just spines.
Tasting the stares, the daemon postured as though standing for a portrait, letting the ranks take in the rest of its monstrous appearance. He must have nudged twenty feet tall at a slouch. The sunlight seemed to make his grey skin pucker and fester, crystallising until he wore a carapace of rocky armour. Trails of white and yellow smoke leaked from its cracks. His tail swished back and forth behind his knobbly spine like a frayed whip. The smell of him was hard to bear, especially at such a close distance. He s
tank of sulphur and year-old meat, of forest fires and grave-soil. The stench made the nearest men gag and falter.
There were a few moments of dry-mouthed silence between the daemons and the Arka. From the windows and doors of the Spire to the firmly bolted and stuck-fast gate of the city itself, silence reigned like a cold king. The grotesque trio of daemons surveyed their welcome parties with sneers. The soldiers and mages assessed their uninvited guests with wide eyes. Claws clenched. Spears caught the sunlight.
And then they spoke.
‘Kiss the dirt you rose from, insects, and show us your respect!’ the daemons boomed in perfect unison, sharing the same voice between all three. Sulphur leaked from their maws as they raised their heads and hands, like preachers to a congregation.
Tyrfing and Durnus looked at each other. They could feel the tension, the pressure in the air, pushing down on the knees of their armoured men and women, as if the air itself had doubled in weight. Durnus nodded, somehow knowing Tyrfing was looking straight at him, and together they raised their spells. By their side, Modren saw their fire. He clanged his sword against his breastplate. The daemon looked right at him, chest heaving.
‘At the ready!’ Modren bellowed, staring straight back. His sergeants and captains carried the order all the way to the gates. A thousand balls of fire sprang into being across the Manesmark hill and below. The grass was whipped into a hissing frenzy. The sound of bowstrings stretching sounded like a forest leaning to one side. Swords and spears bristled from the ranks like spines of a horde of quillhogs.
At the forefront of it all, Farden was stuck staring at the daemon, his exhausted mind still trying to make sense of what his eyes were telling it. He dumbly raised his sword with the others, unsure if he would be a help or a hindrance. All he could think about was Samara, nothing else. How could she bring such a trio of creatures down on the world? Physically, mentally, morally? He had harboured a secret wish for them all to be wrong, but now, the truth ached. It stank, like the very creature in front of him. Farden looked up at the daemon and felt the fear it leaked. The ground beneath the mage’s boots thudded as the creature took a step back, not from fear, but from readiness. Its tail cracked, swishing back and forth.
‘You dare to challenge us?’ the daemons hissed. With metallic screeching, their claws slid further from their fingers, and glinted dully in the sun. Nobody gave them the satisfaction of a reply.
‘And you, cousin?’ grunted the daemon by the Spire. This time his voice was alone, and this time he stared straight at Durnus. The Arkmage could feel the prickly heat of his many eyes on his skin. ‘Yes, I smell your blood. The blood of our race, tainted by theirs. You would stand with these creatures, instead of us?’
Durnus didn’t reply. He barely moved. He knew he had to remain silent. It was answer enough for the daemon.
‘So be it,’ the daemon said, snorting smoke. With a snarl, he unhinged his jaw and screeched at a pitch that would have made a banshee weep. Half the soldiers in the front row clapped their hands to their ears, dropping their weapons. They were swept aside with screams as the daemon took a swipe at them with his hooked claws. Those who wore Tyrfing’s armour held strong, but the others were not so lucky. Blood sprayed the ranks behind.
‘Let fly!’ Tyrfing and Modren bellowed as one. A hundred firebolts surged into the daemon’s face, and he stumbled backwards, clapping his claws to his face. But he wasn’t shielding himself, much to the abhorrent dismay of the mages and soldiers; he was cupping his hands together, and inhaling the fire.
‘Shields!’ yelled Modren, as the daemon puffed out his chest. Fire spewed from his lips. It bubbled and flowed like liquid, wrapping around shields and licking at visors. A dozen fell, while another dozen ran in circles like human torches. The water mages did their best to save them.
‘Ice spells, as you please!’ came the next order, and this the daemon did seem to fear. Shard upon shard of white ice burst from the ranks alongside a volley of arrows and deadly short spears. The daemon had nowhere to go. He turned to catch the volley on his rocky hide, but he whined as they dug deep and caught the flesh underneath.
‘Curse you to the void, you blasphemous creatures!’ he screeched, swiping arrows from his clustered eyes. One had been pierced, and it dribbled fiery blood along his cheek. The monster could bleed after all, and the army saw it. Fear began to melt like a glacier in the sun, and they reformed their ranks.
‘Again! Written, forward!’ Modren bellowed. He held out his hands and threw a barrage of lightning at their grotesque foe. Around him, Written emerged out of the ranks, shimmering with power and polish like diamonds emerging from sifted granite. As they cleared the ranks, they paired up, clasping each other with one hand and firing spell after spell with the other. Ice, lightning, light, fire, force, wind, and sheer will flew at the daemon, wave after wave. Farden found himself marching forward with them, sword raised but useless.
As the daemon took another step back, the Written seized their chance to press forward. It was an onslaught the daemon had never expected, and caught off-guard, he had no retaliation but to screech and to lash out wildly as the magick pressed in on all sides.
Of all the things to slay a daemon, it was a simple wine barrel that did it in the end. It may not have delivered the killing blow, but it helped, nonetheless.
As the daemon stepped back once more, his foot caught the rounded edge of the barrel and he slipped, like a drunkard on a cobble. The creature toppled backwards and the mages surged forward once again. Furnace-mouth wide and bellowing, the daemon crashed headlong into the Spire.
It was then that the Written saw the error of their eagerness. As the daemon tumbled into the weak scaffolding, he lashed out with every limb. Stones flew aside as though they had been hurled by catapults. Men and mages ducked and braced their spells as the huge blocks cart-wheeled through the ranks. With a deep boom, the weakened wall of the Spire gave way, and caved inwards.
‘Elessi!’ bellowed Modren, suddenly sprinting toward the door. He threw up a shield spell as he ran, but he was not quick enough. A shower of bricks rained down on him. Tyrfing’s armour did its work, but the bricks bludgeoned him into the ground. Blood tricked down the mage’s forehead. His legs were pinned. Modren desperately clawed at the dirt. ‘Elessi!’ he yelled again. A hand grabbed his wrist and pulled weakly. Modren looked up to find Farden standing there, eyes clenched, sword fending off the stone chips and dust, heaving with all his feeble might. ‘Come on!’ he was yelling.
Modren pushed himself up so he could see his legs. Half a boulder had pinned him. The armour had barely kept it from crushing him.
‘You aren’t Undermage for nothing!’ Farden was still pulling. Modren slapped his free hand on the grass and the boulder crumbled into pulverised rubble. Farden yanked him onto his feet, but was rewarded by a savage thump in the chest.
‘Get out of my way!’ Modren spat as he ran for the door. Farden ignored him and followed, ducking and weaving as best as his tired legs could. Behind them, there was a massive crash as Durnus threw a spear of ice deep into the daemon’s side. Tyrfing followed it with another.
‘Let me help, you fool!’ Farden shouted, as the Undermage grappled with the door. The huge frame had sagged under the impact of the daemon, and the door was stuck fast. It was like wrestling the root of a mountain.
‘You’ve done enough!’ Modren spread his hands over the door and strained. Farden couldn’t help but join him, even though he felt as useless and as blunt as the bricks that rained down around them. He snarled and began to hack at the door-frame with his sword while Modren pushed with every ounce of his Book. His magick made Farden’s head pound.
Above them, the daemon thrashed and whirled, burying himself deeper and deeper into the Spire with every twitch and every spell that wracked his hide. Over the racket of the dying monster, screams could be heard.
Modren began to attack the door with his fists. Farden was out of breath already, but he dared not stop hackin
g. Even the Undermage’s words were vicious strikes upon the immovable wood. ‘Come! On! You! BASTARD!’ he thundered. Suddenly the door gave way, and the two mages flew into the dusty darkness.
People. Clamouring to get out. They had been blocking the door from behind. They surged out into the sunlight, nearly trampling the fallen mages, and scattered in every direction, screaming and yelling. Modren dragged himself and an elderly woman to her feet and thrust her towards safety. Leaving Farden to marvel at the splinters protruding from bloody holes in his upper arms, Modren ran towards a growing slope of rubble, underneath where the roof was caving in. Farden turned and stared at the horrifying sight: legs and arms and dusty faces straining to free themselves, pinned by wood and stone. Women, children, men, guests and guards, council members and servants, there must have been almost fifty of them in varying stages of burial. Farden fought to his feet and dashed to help. He might have been a cold soul, but he still had a thread of humanity in him. These people were here because of him, after all.
With both hands, he dug into the rubble and hoisted a child free. Next came a woman, then a man with a broken leg, and so on. Modren was furiously digging at the other side with the help of two guards. They were shouting and pointing furiously at something deeper in the pile. Farden abruptly felt as though he had swallowed a brick.
‘Modren?!’
‘Just keep digging!’ came the reply, frantic now. Muffled shouts were coming from somewhere. Farden cast his aches aside and did what Modren told him. He dug and he dug with all his might. The stones flew past his shoulders and like ghosts of dust people slowly crawled and limped from the holes he had made. The deeper he went, the more injured they were. Modren was doing the same, only faster, stronger, and more frenzied.
It was then that the Undermage uncovered two familiar figures, as dusty as could be but incredibly unhurt. They rolled from the rubble, bewildered, oddly silent. Modren grabbed Loki and Verix in each hand and pulled them close to his face. ‘Where is she?’ he cried above the sound of the dying daemon. Loki could do nothing but stare upwards at the rocky hide convulsing above them, sending showers of splinters and stone down upon them.
