Magnin stood slowly, brushing some snow off his weathered coat. Lauro followed suit, wringing out his makeshift gauntlets. Supplies were at an all time low, and most of the men didn’t have the right gear… but it was the day before the world’s end, and none of it seemed to matter as much anymore.
“Well,” Magnin said, peering around at the sparse undergrowth, “We’re right on the northern edge of the White Marshes, where we’re to have battle. Now, I know the other generals were guessing it’d be mighty hard for us to fight in a bog, correct?”
Lauro nodded. “True. But we figured it’d be hard for the machines, too. Harder, even. It was one of the few advantages we thought we could… oh.”
Magnin nodded sagely. “Well, if he tampers with the weather enough, the Golden One might just be able to freeze the Marshes right over, solid enough for him to roll his war machines across and get at us as easily as we can get at him.”
“Blast, blast, bloody… something. Anything we can do about it?” Lauro paced, looking out over the frozen wasteland. The White Marshes did indeed appear to be freezing over, and at a far quicker rate than should have been possible.
“Maybe, maybe not.” Magnin didn’t sound enthusiastic. The ranger ran a hand through his graying-yellow hair, slicking it back as he always did when nervous. “I expect there isn’t much to do, except attack as soon as possible. It’ll mean death, of course, charging through this mess… but if we bait the Golden Nation into an early battle, they might just send too much weight over, and crack the ice. We can cut them down while they wallow in the bogs.”
Lauro smiled grimly. “Guess they don’t call you ‘Bogley’ for nothing, Magnin?”
The ranger snorted. “Heritage can be a dratted thing, oh my King.”
“Good one.” Lauro was about to remark about how good it was to have someone treat him like a normal person for once… when something across the marsh caught his eye. “What in Vast…? Magnin, look yonder.” He pointed. “Something’s glittering.”
The ranger squinted in the direction the king pointed, then pulled a curious-looking mechanical spyglass from his coat pocket. Putting it to his eye, he turned a knob on the side, focusing in and out…
“Bloody graves of my ancestors,” Magnin cursed. He swept the spyglass in a wide arc, covering the entire horizon. Lauro felt a cold sickness leeching at his gut, growing stronger with every moment the ranger failed to respond.
“What do you see, Bogley? Is it the enemy?”
“Look for yourself.” The grizzled ranger passed Lauro his spyglass, sounding almost… faint. When the king had taken it, Magnin pulled a bottle from his coat- was there no end to its pockets?- and began to drink.
“Don’t,” Lauro said, and, surprisingly, Magnin didn’t. Instead, he tossed the drink onto the ice, letting it shatter.
“You’re right,” he said, and produced a long, thick strip of mountainhorn jerky, which he immediately began to chew with incredible vigor.
At last Lauro put the spyglass to his eye, working the knobs with some difficulty, and managed to focus in on what he’d glimpsed before.
Aura above. The enemy stretched for as far as the eye could see, to the left… to the right… and there were even automatons in the air. That was what had caught his eye… bloody flying machines!
And there were darker dangers, nestled among the ranks. Things that shook the ground when they walked. Things that were large, and hideous, and shaped from the earth itself… demons. More of them than he had ever faced. Here and there, flashes of light… Pit Striders.
So many. Hordes upon hordes. His men, all accounted for, barely topped a thousand. This was… at least fifteen times that. Maybe more. Definitely not less.
Lauro dropped the spyglass from fingers that no longer seemed to work right. He stooped, picked it up, and handed it quickly to Magnin, before the ranger could tell his hands were shaking.
“This is it, then,” he said grimly.
“Yes. This is. It. I think.” Magnin barely seemed to hold it together. “I think it is. Yes. It is.”
Lauro ignored him. I will not fail you, Father. If I cannot lead us to victory, at least I will lead us to glory. He clenched his teeth against the cold, and against his fate.
“Send for Lord Bernarl,” he told the ranger. “I want to speak with him on our plan of attack.”
“And then?”
“Then, Magnin Bogley… we fight the Last War.”
~
Gramling was used to brutal combat, and impossible odds. As such, the crisis did not confuse his mind, or cause him unnecessary fear. Instead, he found himself dangerously serene; calm enough for battle, but ready to tip over the edge into a violent rage, should he have the chance.
Did he want that chance? He was not sure. It was not the time to think about it either. It was the time to fight.
The white light of the Dream Portal faded behind him, and he found himself standing in a rocky hollow in the farthest western reaches of the Golden Nation. Above him was a black, cloud-choked sky of thunderheads, where red lightning flickered and arced every few seconds. It was dark here, with no semblance of day or night; nevertheless, he knew it could not be longer than an hour since Gorgoris’s death.
That meant five hours until the Day of Norne. Until his brother and he would fight a god. Not much time, not at all. At least it wasn’t freezing cold here.
Behind him, Gribly and the seven remaining shamans emerged. He turned, addressing his brother. “What now?”
“This is your territory, more or less.” Gribly grinned ruefully. “I think you should take the lead.”
Thank you, Brother.
You’re welcome. It’s true, isn’t it?
Gramling beckoned the new lead shaman forward. In the Kinntongue he asked him if this was the site they needed, just east of the hidden camp where the Faithful had been ferrying their Striders.
The shaman looked around, scouting the area with his eyes, and nodded. Gramling gave him and his fellows instructions, and soon the seven Kinn had peeled off, cloaking themselves with invisibility and vanishing from sight. They would be an advance guard, in case something went wrong. Which Gramling knew it would.
“What’s the plan?” Gribly asked quietly.
“We approach the camp,” Gramling told him. “Together. If we’re to have any chance at this thing, we need to face Sheolus together. It’d be pleasant if he weren’t at the camp at all… but who knows?” Gribly nodded in agreement.
Gramling led the way, stealthily creeping up the side of the gully and between the windswept dunes. There was no point in turning themselves invisible, as the shamans had; Sheolus would already know of their presence, if he were here. Sometimes having so much power is as much curse as blessing, he reflected. But mostly blessing, it was true.
It was a minute or two before the camp came in sight. Gramling had Gribly stand watch at the foot of a tall dune overlooking where he knew the camp of the Faithful to be hidden. Then he climbed to the top, resting with his body lying on the top of the slant so that he could peek over the edge.
There was a hollow, crater-like clearing between several dunes like the one he spied from. To his naked eye, it appeared to be deserted.
Gramling Spirit Strode, blinking rapidly a few times to water his eyes. And through the prism of his power, he saw the camp as it truly was.
Candlestaffs had been planted in the ground all around the clearing, forming a protective circle that helped keep the large illusion in place. They had not been harmed, but further in…
…the place was a wreck. The round, bone-and-hide tents favored by Kinn on the move were burned to a few standing skeletons too dead to even send up smoke. Burned into the ground was a giant, flaming symbol, only viewable because of the height from which he gazed down on it. The symbol for Pit. And piled within it, the bodies… all the bodies…
“Gribly,” Gramling hissed, twisting around and starting to slide down the slope, “We need to get out of…”
>
He landed at the bottom of the dune, voice cut off by Gribly’s warning gesture. His brother’s eyes were wide, and he was shaking his head slowly, mouthing something.
What was it? Gramling opened his mouth to whisper.
Run. Giant. Gribly formed the two words silently… but what’d they mean? Was there a giant behind him? Gramling didn’t dare turn around. Why was Gribly telling him to flee?
Then, with a final gurgle, Gribly’s head dropped back, and a bone-white blade poked through his chest from behind. There was no blood, but the clothes touched by the blade caught fire immediately.
“NO!” Gramling shouted, and at that moment his brother’s words became clear. Run. Giant.
Gramling hurled his candlestaff aside, dropping his fist to the ground in a solid punch. The sand rippled, and when he drew his hand back up the earth leaped up around him, propelling him and armoring him… his Stride Giant.
Gribly fell to his knees. The blade was pulled out of his body, and he disintegrated into a storm of golden sparks that were instantly sucked into the weapon. The air shimmered, and an all-too-familiar figure was revealed. Sheolus.
The Midnight Dagger! Gramling swore inwardly as he formed the Stride Giant around him. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Sheolus had already taken Gribly out of the battle, but without killing him, so he could still be used for whatever nefarious purposes the archdemon had in mind.
Fully formed, Gramling sent a current of Spirit up through his Stride Giant. The massive earth-creation bellowed a war cry in the Golden One’s face, and Gramling clenched his fists inside it, ready for a fight.
“Fear not,” Sheolus snarled, his ugly, golden mask-face contorting as he spoke. “This blade only carries enough power to hold a single spirit. You are safe, for now… but there remains one way to see your brother again!” He cackled madly, and Gramling raised a mighty earthen fist to strike him.
“Meet me atop Goldenmount!” Sheolus sneered, vanishing in a flash of light, a moment before Gramling’s Stride Giant pulverized the place where he’d been standing. A split second later, the air above the nearby dark mountain flashed identically.
Angry tears streamed down Gramling’s face. Aura Above, he’s so powerful here! His brain was only just beginning to register the shock of Gribly’s capture… but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t contemplate. He had to rescue his brother, and free Ashen… and… and…
Just run. Make it to Goldenmount. It’s not far. You can still make it before the Day of Norne begins. Just reach the mountain… then wreck vengeance on that son of a devil and his bloody golden mountain!
Gramling sent another bellowing roar up through the Stride Giant, and began to pump his arms and legs, forcing the living earth to mimic his motions. With a thunderous pounding, he leapt the dune, sped through the sacked camp, and surged forward toward the slopes of Goldenmount.
Chapter Fourteen: Hiberne Cruorz
The Day of Norne dawned, bleak and red, over the White Marshes. Trees dotted several rare rises in the land, but otherwise the terrain had been reduced to an uneven, rolling, frozen wasteland.
~
“On my mark,” King Lauro Vale whispered, making ready to rip Ker’junas free from its bonds on his back. The full force of Vastic Striders was assembled behind him: thirty clerical Spirit Striders, and ninety Sky Striders.
~
Tramp. Tramp. Tramp. The Golden Nation marched forward, step by step, across the frozen marsh. It was an all-encompassing wave; a tide that would brook no opposition. The sulfurous clouds above them lent strength to their march… it was the atmosphere of their homeland.
~
“Three,” the king said quietly. The Sky Striders grouped together, silently beginning to summon the wind they would need. A lot of it.
~
The marshes were miles in length. Charging across to recklessly engage the enemy was something neither side wanted to risk. Even so, the Kinn commanders began to send uncertain messages back and forth behind the lines. Why had Vastion not showed itself? They should be visible by now, attacking, fortifying their position… or fleeing. But even the most far-sighted Pit Striders could discern nothing.
~
“Two,” he continued. The air seemed to grow chillier as the thirty clerics struggled to keep the gigantic Illusion in place. The Sky Striders summoned more and more wind… he only hoped the approaching enemy would not notice. So far, Automo had acted as if they were only bugs to be crushed, and not thinking, planning enemies. He was counting on that arrogance to hold.
~
As the Golden Nation plodded onward, the war machines in the rear of their formations let loose a deafening volley of fiery thunderballs. The skies ran with bleeding trails of flame as the deadly orbs arced upward, peaked, and fell to the earth right on the edge of the marshes.
~
“One,” Lauro whispered. He made a short motion with his left hand. The eight Wind Clerics raised their candlestaffs, and the flames blazed white-hot. The Illusion shimmered as the wind from the Sky Striders became too powerful for containment.
~
The place where the Vastic army was supposed to be ignited, lighting up in an overlapping series of explosions too numerous to count. Ice cracked, melting even as it hurtled skyward from the force of the blasts. The thick covering of trees splintered like matchwood, shredded, burning up again and again until there was no semblance of life left in them.
But, when the flying automatons of the Golden Nation swooped in to confirm Vastion’s destruction… there were no bodies.
Vastion was gone.
~
Lauro reached up, gripped the Midnight Sword in both hands, and tore it from his back. With a ferocious shout he swung it over his head, stabbing it towards the Golden Army in a last gesture of defiance.
“FOR VASTION!”
The clerics joined in his shout, slamming their candlestaffs to the icy ground. The Illusion shattered, revealing the entirety of the Vastic Remnant crouched not two hundred yards from the left flank of their foe. Striders, soldiers, clerics and all joined in the war-cry, until the shimmering winter air shook with the terrible sound.
“FOR THE AURA!”
They had marched through the night, using the darkness and Spirit Striding to cover their advance. The sheer size of the enemy army had made it possible. Automo, wherever he was, had not anticipated his grand force being flanked by such a puny enemy, much less being outwitted by mere Striders.
“FORWARD!” Lauro shouted, and his army surged ahead as one. He led the charge, Ker’junas held ready at his side. He switched his grip to the right hand, and with his left made a rapid, forceful motion, almost a punch.
Behind him, the Sky Striders sent up an ululating cry, releasing their gathered wind in one enormously combined Stride. A roaring tempest was all about them, and sparks flickered in the air as Vastion charged forward. Then it was gone, rushing ever upward into the sky, a massive blast of storm-breaking power.
And Storm-break, it did. The clouds which had covered the sky for months churned and frothed as the Sky Stride made impact. The darkness that had hung above the free folk for almost a year now began to bulge, tear, and finally break away in shreds, swept into oblivion by the Power of Sky.
The battle cries of the Remnant throbbed in Lauro’s ears. There was no other sound than the sound of battle. There was no other sight than the sight of his enemies. There was no other scent than the scent of blood.
Sunlight, a surreal, angry-golden color, splashed down over the battlefield. Moments before the two armies clashed, the earth shook. Lauro stumbled, but a quick Stride kept him on his feet, and few of his men succumbed. What in… As he and his men closed the last few yards, a furious voice boomed in his head.
YOU’VE DOOMED YOURSELF, BOY!
“Automo! Show yourself, traitor!” Lauro roared, leaping the last few feet. The Kinn soldiers had barely the time to raise their pikes, but he somersaulted high over them, aided by the Power of Sky,
and slammed feet-first into the second rank, calling down a bolt of lightning as he landed.
Crash! The splintering, crackling bolt smashed into the Coalskins, hurling them smoking in all directions. The next moment, the Vastic army crashed into the ill-prepared line, shattering it and driving deep into the main body of the Golden Army. Lauro let himself be swept along by their fury, striking left and right with Ker’junas, sending lightning up the blade to obliterate anyone and anything he touched. The only blood to stain this blade will be that of the Red Aura!
Battle was not a place for thought. There was just reaction, and happenstance. Skill became automatic, but it did not ensure safety. Lauro cut down dozens, with blade and lightning. The other Sky Striders hurled bolts of light and waves of crushing air. The clerics… they healed where there was injury, and did not seem to fight… but none of them seemed to have been harmed, and Lauro was glad of that.
Storm Kings (Song of the Aura, Book Six) Page 12
