Each, in turn, was cut down like a child.
Even as the last champion fell to the dust, the Steppes generals signalled the archers to attack, the morning sun blocked out, the plain cast into shadow, as the sky filled with innumerable barbed arrows and metal bolts that descended like a cloud of locusts towards the waiting warrior.
Slowly, and with care, the giant stuck his swords, point down in the dirt, before raising his hands to the sky.
The incoming missiles stopped.
They didn’t smash and fall, no, not as if they’d hit an invisible wall suddenly erected in the sky. No; they simply stopped, all momentum arrested – nay, paused – hanging motionless in the bright morning sky.
As the onlookers on both sides watched on in rapt awe, the warrior twisted his fingers, the blood of the Barbarian archers running cold as the arrows and bolts copied the motion, turning slowly, inevitably, till they pointed back the way they’d come.
Shrieks of terror, wailings of doom, filled the back ranks of the Steppes army as missile troops clambered over each other, fighting, clawing, in desperate bid to flee.
The stranger from the North dropped his hands and whatever force had paused the missiles’ momentum disappeared in an instant, the arrows and bolts hurtling down out of the sky as though the episode had never happened, the only difference now their direction of flight.
Over five hundred archers and crossbowmen died in the next few seconds, skewered and slain by their own hand.
With a roar of fury the Savaran reared their steeds, kicking them into a galloping charge that shook the very ground and tore the grass from the earth in great flying clods, swinging their scimitars high above their streaming topknots as they bore down on their foe.
The warrior raised his hands once more, the jet-black yet strangely translucent blades embedded in the earth on either side of him rising, as if by some unseen hand, till they hovered by his sides, blades pointing towards the charging cavalry.
At a whispered word they flew, unerring and nearly invisible, till they collided with the lead warriors, piercing them like spears through fish, and continuing through the rest of the column in an arrow-straight line, rending armour, flesh, bone alike; warriors and horses dismembered and blown apart like dry wood crushed underfoot.
The charge faltered at the carnage, the warriors slowing and circling him, torn between attacking or fleeing before this terrifying sorcery, but it was too late; the fearsome blades returned to his hands, like well-trained hunting-hounds, and the stranger lunged to the attack.
Those Savaran with sense turned their steeds in a vain attempt at escape, but were cut down mercilessly, the strangers’ speed far beyond that of any mere creature of flesh and blood. The twin blades, now hefted in his mighty arms, struck out, left and right, smashing riders from their mounts, tearing limbs from sockets in great sprays of gore, the sickening sound of torn ligaments and cries of pain sending a chill of cold, heavy dread through the stomachs of the waiting infantry.
Finally, after long moments of blurred combat, the warrior strode slowly, patiently from the ring of dead horsemen and their fallen steeds. None had been spared. None had escaped the laughably one-sided slaughter.
He marched at a steady pace, his breathing easy, as though he’d just been out for a morning stroll, the great, black swords reflecting the sunlight as they hung from muscled arms spattered in blood.
He stopped, a hundred paces from the ranks of Clansmen assembled before him, raising his eyes, spying the Barbarian King on the wall. He planted his swords once more and opened his mouth to speak, his voice powerful, deep, sonorous, carrying with ease across the plains to the city-walls, so that the King and all his gathered troops could hear his proclamation.
“Raga!” He spat the name into the air as if he couldn’t bear the foul taste of it in his mouth any longer than necessary. The Barbarian King’s eyes widened in recognition of the voice.
“Come down and face me in single-combat.” He spread his arms to encompass the infantry gathered before him, the front ranks flinching out of reflex response, fully expecting black-tipped death to come racing their way. “Face your fate with honour and your men shall live.”
On any other day, the situation would have seemed absurd; a single man, unarmed but for a pair of swords, holding an entire army of thousands to ransom. But the carnage on the plain behind him spoke otherwise.
As one, the eyes of the army turned to look behind them at the figure that stood on the walls, his cloak and topknot flapping in the breeze, his twin scimitars buckled, as they had been for years, at his hilt.
The silence was palpable as the two stared at each other, the King and the stranger, now revealed to be old nemeses, drawn together for the third time by the fickle winds of fate.
Long moments passed, before, to the relief and surprise of all, the King nodded, his face impassive.
“I agree to your terms. Await me.”
He turned and disappeared behind the wall.
Five minutes passed before, finally, the front gates of the Barbarian City creaked open and the King strode out to meet his challenger, unhurried as he covered the hundred yards, before stopping ten paces from his rival. He looked up, having to crane his neck to meet the eyes of the towering warrior from the North, before nodding and smiling, his confidence ever infuriating.
“So it is you. You’ve changed once again, primitive. You never cease to surprise me.”
“You’ve changed too, slaver. You’ve gotten older. Fatter.”
Raga chuckled.
“This is how you intend to kill me? With insults?”
The giant warrior growled, low and menacing, the ground shaking with the unnatural bass of the sound, several nearby warriors stumbling back in fright.
“No.” He tilted his head slightly, his twin black swords launching high into the air to land point down in the grass a hundred paces behind. “I intend to kill you with my bare hands.”
Raga grinned, victory in his eyes.
“Foolish, primitive. Very foolish!”
Like lightning he drew his scimitars, lunging forwards to strike his adversary.
The giant stood there, bewildered, for the thin, bronze swords would surely snap like dry twigs against his muscled form, but before they could impact, the blades caught light with a strange and eldritch fire that tortured the air; the fire of harnessed spirits.
In a blur, the warrior dove backwards out of the way, the very tips of the curved blades scoring lines of flame across his chest, the skin puckering and withering beneath their unnatural touch. The giant back flipped to a safe distance in a show of agility that belied his mass, landing with a thud on his feet, before rising to his full height, the wounds already healing over as the King charged again, not letting up in his assault.
Arcs of bronze wove a web of flame about the giant as he dodged left, right, ducking, weaving, not letting the fire touch him.
The King danced about, feet moving with a fluid grace through the dusty grass, seeking an opening in his foe’s defences, a smile of supreme confidence on his lips, the knowledge of sure victory in his eyes.
“Your size,” he snarled. “Your power. Whatever changes you go through each time we meet; none of it matters. I will always win.”
Suddenly, the giant warrior stood straight, leaving his defensive crouch, just as the King charged in with a flourishing sweep that brought both blades down in a double killing blow.
The man from the North raised his hands, catching both blades in his palms, halting their descent with a jarring impact, the flames roaring in protest as they sought to burn his flesh.
The King pulled and heaved with all his considerable bulk in an effort to free his swords, before stopping, slowly realising that the big man was smiling.
He had been toying with him.
With a tortured shriek of metal, the giant snapped the swords, the bound spirits fleeing in an explosion of flame and metal shrapnel that blasted the King onto his backside but
peppered harmlessly off the giant who stood, looming, smiling, over his fallen rival, his smoking hands already healing from the magical burns.
“Your confidence always annoyed me, Raga. It is time to show you that it’s misplaced.”
“Misplaced?”
Incredibly, the prone King smiled, then began to laugh, despite the blood that trickled from his lips and the fresh burns that glowed red and angry on his already scarred face.
A twang of cords under tension, like that of a crossbow, only magnified ten-fold. The warrior looked up, to the gate, just in time to see the giant ballista hurl a bolt the length of a man, streaking towards him with impeccable aim and impossible speed. The huge missile, designed for penetrating walls and siege towers, covered the distance in an instant, the shadow passing over the laughing monarch as it raced to end the giant’s life.
The warrior from the North raised an eyebrow as his mind calculated impact speed, the tensile strength of his skin, the density of the metal arrow-head that loomed larger and larger.
A smile appeared across his face.
Worth it.
He took a step forward towards the approaching ballista bolt, the air rippling about him as he moved, stretching his hands out in front and bracing.
Impact.
The warrior disappeared in a cloud of dust as the shockwave from the collision rippled out in a wave that rocked the closest onlookers backwards on their feet.
The dust cleared. Groans of disbelief and terror echoed about the army.
The man still stood, now twenty feet further back, deep gouges in the ground where the missile had forced his braced feet back through the dry earth. The very tip of the missile, the sharp point of metal, protruded from the back of one of the giant’s outstretched hands, the crimson blood dripping to the floor with a pat-pat-pat. But it had gone no further.
With a grunt, he wrenched the missile free with his other hand.
Wielding the thick, six foot arrow like a spear, he loomed over the Barbarian King, who gazed up, finally, in eyes-wide terror at the invincibility of his life-long foe. Of the inevitability of his fate.
“Misplaced.”
He stabbed down, impaling the King to the ground with a stake that as much bludgeoned as it did pierce, the point of it firmly lodged three feet into the hard ground.
And so ended Raga of the Clan Two-Scimitars.
The noise of rippling fabric and the clanking of weapons rippled outward through the army, as the warrior rose to his full height and looked about him.
The Clansmen of the Steppes surrounded him in a vast tide of humanity, each and every man kneeling, head bowed in deference to their new master.
The giant nodded, satisfied, then approached one of the generals, a stocky and grizzled veteran with a plumed horses-mane of a topknot that trailed, streaked with grey, down his shoulders. The man looked up with barely disguised fear as the gargantuan warrior strode towards him.
“You there, rise.”
The general did as he commanded.
“What is your name?”
The man looked flummoxed, taking a moment to regain his composure.
“Bhajeer. It’s Bhajeer, my King.”
The warrior from the North nodded.
“Bhajeer, tell me; where does Raga’s new pet sorcerer live?”
The general’s eyes flicked over to the shattered remnants of the ensorcelled weapons before replying.
“She can usually be found in the Temple of the Ancestors, sire.”
“She…?”
“Yes, my King.”
The towering King looked thoughtful, before turning back to the soldier.
“General, have your men return to barracks. There is no more fighting to be had today.”
The smaller man gestured up to the hilltops at the other end of the plain.
“What do we do about them?”
The King turned, gazing up to the cheering rabble of followers that had trailed him the last weeks.
“Send them home, general.”
“Very good, sire.”
***
The streets were quiet as the new King walked through his city, though his keen senses told him that he was being watched by fearful citizens that hid behind every door, every window, every backstreet alley.
He turned a corner, entering the Slave Market, his lip turning up into a snarl as hazy half-memories of distant, long-lost faces flickered in front of his mind’s eye. The centre stage was empty today, the bustling crowds absent, lonely silence filling the abandoned arena. He stroked his hand over the wooden post from which the auctioned slaves were tethered.
The Temple of the Ancestors lay just beyond the Market place, the tall, pagoda-like tower piercing the sky above the arena wall and the King strode, two-at-a-time, up the stone steps that led to the entrance.
The smell inside was dry, musty, the smell of stagnancy and mummification, the statues of long-dead Barbarian Kings and Warlords judging him from recessed alcoves in the walls as he strode down the echoing corridor that took him further into the building.
No sound could be heard in this resting place of the honoured dead, save his own heavy footsteps, but his sixth sense picked up the tell-tale emanations of spirit-craft at work from deep within the Temple and he knew he neared his quarry.
He reached a pair of heavy, brass doors, intricately wrought and painted with a fresco depicting a warrior-king of ancient times slaying a great serpent, his spiked armour tearing great gashes in the beast, even as it sought to entwine him in its coils.
He smiled to himself, before pushing the creaking door open and venturing into the chamber beyond.
The air was dimly lit and heavy with the scent of sweet incense.
This room was obviously used for worship, the central point being a raging fire with a stone altar set before it, four columns supporting the low-hanging ceiling, torches hanging in brass brackets from their outward facing sides, casting sinister flickering shadows that could have hidden any vengeful guardian, ready to strike down those who would defile this holy place.
The Steppes-Folk venerated their ancestors, burning offerings and seeking their guidance in times of strife, but the whiff of darker sorcery told him that times had changed, that the defilement had already taken place.
The girl was kneeling before the altar, her sleek form silhouetted in the firelight, the streaming glow rendering see-through the thin material of her airy robe. Before her, on the altar, a still-warm heart of unknown origin, sitting in a pool of its own spilled blood. Of the body, no sign.
“I knew you’d return.” She spoke without even turning to see who it was, her voice cold.
“And I knew that the new sorcerer would have to be you.”
She rose, turning, the bloodied dagger from her sacrifice still clutched in her hand, and, though the years had caused her to blossom into womanhood, he could tell that it was her; the long raven hair, the soft skin, the dazzling blue eyes that glistened with an urgent need to inflict pain on the giant who stood before her.
“Someone had to take over from my father,” Ceceline told him, her words melodious yet menacing, putting him in mind of a savage nymph from so long ago that he could barely remember where or when. “Just,” she added, with a smile, “as someone has to avenge him…”
With a force that belied her slender form, she threw the ceremonial dagger end over end, the sharp point aimed unerringly for his face.
He batted the weapon to one side with the flat of his palm, made to walk towards her, but before he could take a single step the world exploded in a cacophony of roaring noise and searing heat.
He opened his eyes, having screwed them shut in reflex, to see the sorceress standing, mouth open in a cry of rage, her outstretched hands before her emitting a cone of roiling black flame that blistered the stone of the ground, warping the columns behind him till they twisted and bubbled, incinerating the torches and their mountings, leaving nought but charred shadows to indicate their ever existin
g.
But the King simply stood, bearing the brunt of the storm, his garments merely steaming, the unnatural energies no threat to him, even licking him, caressing him, as though familiar with his scent and welcoming him.
He walked forwards, through the continuing torrent of nightmare flame, with no more effort than walking into a stiff autumn breeze, seeing the confusion growing in her eyes. He stopped less than an arm’s length from the sorceress, her outstretched palms touching his bare chest now, the fire raging out sideways like water splashing from a rock.
After long moments, she stopped her attack, the sudden silence deafening, the only noise the low crackling of the pyre behind her and the gentle cracking of superheated stone.
Lowering her hands she looked at him, surveying his awesome form and feeling with her own innate gifts the tremendous power that channelled through him, the same power that she herself served; her blue eyes, no longer full of hate, merely wonder, her thirst for power and knowledge surpassing her hunger for revenge.
“What are you, Stone?” she whispered through longing lips.
“Stone?” The giant sniffed, as though in distaste of the word. “Stone was weak, a slave to the elements. But I am beyond them now.” His green eyes glowed, a luminosity that had nothing to do with the fire the burned behind Ceceline and everything to do with the raging furnace of power that lived within him. “I am… invincible.”
The girl smiled, warm, welcoming, evil.
“That you are. I feel it. My invincible King.” She looped her long, slender arms about his muscled neck and drew in, tantalisingly close, her sweet breath blowing warm and tempting on his lips. “Invictus…” She whispered the name.
He smiled.
During the long years in the Northern Fires, the whispers had wrought changes on him, forcing him closer toward the potential of his extraordinary physiology, teaching him to channel their seemingly unlimited power, till at last it had grown difficult to discern the whispers from his own thoughts, but through it all they had not deigned to give him a new name.
The Fall to Power (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 3
