Storm of Prophecy: Book 1, Dark Awakening

by Von Werner, Michael

  He opened his hands and his body shook while he braced his legs against the ground as though lifting something heavy. Lightning bolts and balls of fire shot up and destroyed black arrows. Vincent chopped another one trying to sneak in from the right and then warily checked again to the left. The boulder levitated from the ground, and when his cousin judged it high enough, he made a strained yell while pushing out with his hands.

  The boulder flew, knocking one skeletal cultist off their horse and crushing them on top of the undead mount of a second. A loud whinny was cut short, and its rider’s legs were pinned underneath it. Karl strained himself, causing it to roll and finish the job. The battle’s momentum against the keep’s forces grinded to a halt. Desperate Rygan soldiers regained their courage and fought harder against the undead.

  “Snighne!” A hail from Deralon’s men flew in to help them.

  The hails of black arrows coming in from the enemy intensified and required all of the attention from Master Anthony, Stacy, and others to continuously destroy, which in turn weakened their group’s overall ability to assist men fighting out front. Zombies took advantage. A cultist broke from sending black arrows to unleash green fire at their soldiers out front. Rick’s body quaked, sweat poured from his neck, and with a heavy growl he reached up his hands with shaking, claw-like fingers and swung it down. It crashed short of its target, killing more zombies than Rygan soldiers in a burst of green flames and rent corpses. Men wielding halberds thrust them to keep the ones on fire at bay. Other men with swords or axes hacked with relentless abandon to keep from being washed over by the tide of dead people who were now little more than crazed, ravenous beasts, lunging, grabbing, and biting at every opportunity.

  The cultists broke rank and moved their horses around, trying to avoid giving Karl the chance to capitalize on another well-aimed throw. They sent another ball of green flame at the monstrous plant, and Rick was unable to save it. Vincent was surprised to hear a high-pitched screech of pain when it was blown apart. More zombies poured through after the obstacle had been removed.

  Master Anthony shouted an unusual order. “Karl! Distract them!” Vincent swiped another arrow out of the air.

  Karl didn’t question it, he immediately ripped hundreds of smaller cobbles out of the ground near their horses’ feet and swirled them around along with dirt, pelting the cultists and causing them to move about in disarray. Master Anthony held up a fist and gambled on their weakened concentration. From high in the sky, larger than anything he had used before, an ear-shattering, blindingly bright bolt of intense purple lightning came down like a hammer strike from the gods.

  “Arrrrrrrgh!” Cried haggardly the ones who succeeded in shielding themselves as they held up a skeletal hand in front of their skull. Those who did not were torn apart in a deafening thunder-crack and thrown to the wind. Vincent guessed six or seven had perished.

  The dead on foot around the cultists suffered a similar fate, and those who were not ravaged and blown as smaller pieces were blasted as though their bodies were made of burning paper that flaked and fell apart. Smaller bands of shock, the children of the initial strike, flew off in different directions far from the source and blew apart entire throngs of corpses. The debris that was kicked up from the center of focus flew in a cloud of dust at high speed toward their own forces, causing everyone to close their eyes and cover their faces. Before covering his face, Vincent caught a glimpse of Master Anthony, the only one to not recoil.

  When the air cleared, he immediately saw yet more dead streaming in to make a major push. A constantly flickering stream of fire sparks and lightning bolts flew out over the few soldiers remaining to obliterate the zombies, yet the mass pushed on, making headway despite their grievous losses. Arrows from Deralon’s men flew in, dropping corpses but to no avail. Vincent knew that those out front standing between them and the wizards weren’t going to hold out long enough for others to assist, and started moving around to help them.

  Black arrows appeared, flying down toward them. Many students of the keep diverted their attention from shooting the enemy for an instant to destroy them, yet several soldiers were still hit and turned their swords on their fellows. One of Derlaon’s men was claimed and attacked another near him who was bald except for a horsetail off the back of his head. As he struggled with the corpse, another helped him wrestle with it, allowing him to pull free a mace and savagely bludgeon its head with it until the twitching limbs no longer moved.

  When Vincent ran to join in trying to guard their group of magi from the horde, he had to heat his blade and decapitate several of their own fallen before arriving and swinging viciously and desperately toward the on-comers. Three living soldiers remained on his left and two on his right. He swung like mad, lopping off heads as well as any grasping hands or fingers that got in his blade’s path. He was being forced slowly back. Light from magic occasionally streaked by him, destroying the corpses he couldn’t kill fast enough.

  He saw and heard flashes of light overhead, explosions, arching torrents of flame, and black arrows being destroyed, yet these were a blur in the back of his consciousness, his only focus being to swing faster, swing harder, kill. He kicked one that was a child. No amount of swinging seemed enough. The enemy was intractable, prolific, relentless, and cared nothing for the physical harm he inflicted on their bodies. Only a removal of the head silenced their vicious snarls.

  From behind, he barely heard another sergeant rallying his men. “Beat them back, boys!”

  They yelled, charging into the fray off to the sides and not close enough to help. A green ball of flame exploded somewhere, killing many. Karl’s boulder leap-frogged into the air just enough to knock off another cultist from their horse and crush them, rolling afterward.

  Head after head fell like grain before a scythe while Vincent ignored the painful gash in his side, his arms burning from the effort. He breathed hard, feeling like the dead were a sea they would all drown in. He swung and swung and fought on desperately, trying to keep his neck above the rising water.

  He was soon pushed up against his fellows. “Get down!” He heard someone yell, not knowing why or to whom.

  “Vincent, get down!” He heard Stacy’s voice scream. With no time to think, he immediately complied with her wishes, diving into a mess of gore.

  A collective gust of wind from atmomancers slammed into the undead all at once, flinging back any that were nearby. Some further away fought against it but were soon carried off. Zombies fell onto other corpses, knocking them over. When the wind stopped, the barrage against them resumed.

  Vincent lifted himself with one hand and used the other to stab his sword through one of the bodies beneath him and into the ground below, using it to steady himself as he slowly stood up. He was momentarily grateful for this reprieve that he knew would be all too short. Having the precious few seconds to think and breathe was almost worse than not. Almost. He now realized his fatigue and dreaded the next onslaught he would have to fend off.

  More soldiers moved up to their group’s sides. He glanced immediately right and saw below helmets two pairs of worried brown eyes amidst soiled, sweaty faces. A worried pair of blue ones stood on his left. Like Vincent, they were covered in blood and were losing hope.

  “We’re going to make it!” Vincent said to them between heavy breaths, raising his voice with more fervor and confidence than he thought he could. “Stand with me!”

  “Yes, sir!” One of them responded.

  “Yes, sir!” Said the other two, one of them nodding his head.

  “Good,” Vincent muttered to himself, taking more breaths. He returned his gaze to the undead masses coming their way who were getting pounded by a continuous volley of Elvin arrows and magic, losing many yet not seeming to fear it whatsoever or lose any speed on their approach. He raised his voice. “No matter what happens,” with his foot on the body, he used a hand to pull free his own bloody sword from the corpse, the red liquid dripping down the blade, “we hold them
back!” In his peripheral view, he saw their hands tighten on their shields, swords, and axe.

  His right hand gripped the hilt while he let the blade rest on the carnage below him. Mentally, he prepared himself for the inevitable but then froze when something gave him pause. His eyes went wide. A frighteningly familiar sound, a thick wafting of air from the sky behind them, suddenly caught his attention.

  He knew its source.

  Chapter XXI

  The black wyvern flew over their heads with a monstrous roar that he remembered all too well. The underside of its black body had gray scales for counter-shading, and the flap of one of its wings had a cut near its base. Numerous scars were left from his sword, an even deeper one lay on its tail. A dent lay on the left of its scaly head where Karl had clouted it. Vincent lowered the blood-stained sword in his right hand and waited, occasionally glancing toward the zombies. It took a right, swooping around the undead army to fly back toward theirs. It roared again in the distance, showing its teeth and tongue. Several of its lower teeth had been cut, and its tongue wasn’t complete either. The beast gave pause to many, who then resumed their attacks more out of a growing desperation than a sense of duty.

  Others were noticing its disfigurement. A man’s astonished voice spoke from behind, remarking about what might have caused such wounds and what a battle it must have been. Vincent turned his head, looking over his cloak behind him, and saw a pair of pyromancers talking uphill of where he stood. The first was a blond man, the other was a beautiful woman in a red dress with long black hair and dark brown eyes. They continued to send fire sparks from their hands into the horde, blasting apart their targets, and both were exhausted, covered in sweat from the constant effort. Vincent turned his head back around to watch the oncoming enemy, particularly his winged nemesis.

  “Aren’t wyvern’s supposed to have forked tongues?” He heard the woman ask.

  While he watched the beast approach, he expected to feel fear, but there was very little of it. What he did feel was an overpowering and peculiar rage begin to boil deeply within him. He couldn’t explain it; it was contrary to his natural instinct. Yet it was there. Even as their defeat and ultimate death seemed imminent, a mad urge to kill the loathsome creature began to grow, begging for satisfaction. While continuing to stare at the object of his hate, he unexpectedly heard his own angered voice answer her question. “It had a forked tongue.”

  “What?” She asked in bewilderment. Vincent didn’t say anything. His eyes remained locked. The woman didn’t press him and resumed adding to the barrage.

  The undead were charging toward them, taking grievous losses as bands of lightning and exploding sparks of fire shot forth from wizards’ hands. Deralon’s men sent hail after hail to take them down, but the rushing mass could not be stopped. Skeletal cultists conjured more of the black arrows, sending them forth, causing wizards to break from their attacks to stop them, which only accelerated the progress of the oncoming horde. There was a heavy thud on the ground as another black robed figure was culled by Karl’s boulder.

  The wyvern flew toward him first in a quick descent, then swooped up, trying to hover. It began to open its mouth, preparing what Vincent knew would be a horrific blast of green fire. Men began to scatter all around in fear for their lives.

  Time seemed to slow down to an impossibly slow pace. Everything seemed quiet though he knew it was not. He stood his ground, preparing for action, and stared the beast in its eyes, seeing his own hatred and inner bestiality reflected back at him. In its gruesome black reptilian visage, yellow eyes with black vertical slits stared on with a shared, primal understanding.

  Both knew that one would not be leaving the field this day.

  Vincent’s right hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. His jaw clenched. He readied himself. The wyvern’s jaws finished opening. Green flame began to surge from inside.

  At the moment of terror, the beast’s right wing was suddenly flung back uncontrollably, causing the creature’s entire body to twist while it fell to the ground out in front of him. The streak of green flame shot off to the right and above their army, harming no one. Sound, life, and the violent pandemonium returned to his senses. Vincent snapped his gaze over and saw a calm Master Anthony lowering his hand.

  He immediately looked back. His opponent was disadvantaged. He didn’t care; he was lost in another world. His mind had become like that of the beast itself and driven by only one instinct: to slay his foe. He heated his blade to a glowing red and took his sword in both hands while dashing madly toward the winged creature. His dark blue cloak billowed out behind him. A long enraged yell came from his lungs.

  “What is he doing?!!” He heard someone say.

  “Get back here!” Someone else shouted to him. He knew why, the swarm of dead was approaching, but didn’t care. Their words were like an annoying insect buzzing by a lion’s head while it gave chase.

  Vincent had become the lion.

  Nothing less than its blood would suffice.

  When he was almost upon it, he lifted his blade out to the side and behind him. With a furious roar, he brought the sword downward, hungering for its head. At the last instant, the wyvern’s yellow eyes snapped over to him, and it reacted quickly, jerking its head back in fear but not quite fast enough. The bright red sword caught its hide and made a long, deep gash down the side of its face and near its yellow eye, which it blinked in agitation.

  It turned its head with a howl of pain while rearing back its neck and opened its mouth for another breath. Vincent crouched and then leapt like a cat, rolling to his feet afterward as the hot flames spread behind him. He immediately pressed his attack, slashing at the wyvern’s hide. It frantically jumped back, using a wing to lift itself. Vincent went after the wing. His downward strike reached only the scales of the limb’s base as it pulled away.

  He charged in and slashed at its underside. From above and behind where he was standing, it coiled its neck down to snap at him. In a mad rage, Vincent swung backward, slicing into its jaw from underneath. Another bellow erupted from its snout. He heated his red-glowing blade to a higher intensity and prepared to dive at the beast’s chest when it suddenly jumped back, flapped its wings, and then did so again to distance itself from him. It let loose another blast of flame from its mouth, forcing Vincent to abandon his chase and roll to the right, landing on his side.

  As he furiously scrambled to his feet to go after it, he saw the beast turn left in his view and run, beating its wings and taking to the air once more. Arrows from Deralon’s men bounced off it, some coming near its eyes. Sharp wind blew into it, making its flight less steady. From uphill, streams of lightning bolts and fire sparks continued flying over him. A few hit an invisible shield around the wyvern, causing no damage. Others missed the cultists’ shield and destroyed corpses in the distance. Not wanting to fall again, the beast turned away to soar over the undead army, keeping away. Vincent knew it was only waiting for another opportunity.

  “Get out of there!” He heard Master Anthony and many others yelling at him.

  Vincent looked down and immediately saw a mass of undead rushing straight at him. He turned and bolted to rejoin the others. His cloak billowed out as he ran recklessly. Grasping dead hands gripped it, trying to jerk him back. He frantically stopped and skidded while he lowered himself and turned around with a wide swing that cut every torso behind him, the blade passing under his cloak.

  Before the crawling upper halves could do anything, he forcefully backed away, his cloak being torn off by the clawing hands. Deranged corpses lunged toward him with snarls and grasping fingers. He swung decapitating strikes, catching most at the neck where he desired. His blade went through the heads of others that were shorter with mixed success. The pain from the gash in his side returned. Elvin arrows dropped zombies. Others were blasted apart by magic at an uncomfortably close distance, sending sprays of their burning bits and blood which struck him with stinging force.

  The only thing that sa
ved him from certain death was the quick actions of those from the keep; while he swung, black arrows that otherwise would have claimed him were destroyed prior to contact. A few splinters hit his face, bringing searing pain as they dissolved, and there was nothing he could do about it; he had to keep swinging. Steam came from his face as he gritted his teeth and channeled the pain to feed his aggression. Dead children tried to sneak in beneath his blade’s path; he beat a close one with his sword’s hilt and then swung low to catch them, his blade facing increased resistance as it tore into the bodies behind. Their blood covered him. Long hair was cut as the heads of the dead women fell to the ground along with those of dead men. Sweat covered his face, causing his wounds to sting. His breath was harsh and ragged. His arms burned while his sword scythed relentlessly into a torrent of flesh.

  Vincent backed away as he fought until he was right up against his compatriots, having no ground left to give. Rygan soldiers at his sides hacked desperately at their foes. The thundering of magic making impact was all around. Bright and frequent flashes from their light filled his peripheral view and lit his foes as he slew them.

  Their forces were heavily engaged, standing firm, and granting no quarter. Men who died were decapitated by their fellows before the undead could take them, yet few still rose, causing steel to meet steel. Magic destroyed bodies. Wind threw back throngs that sought to overwhelm their positions. All were trapped in a veritable gridlock where blood, pain, and death abounded.

  No one spared any effort. Karl crushed another cult member. Black arrows were destroyed. Streams of flame arched over. Master Anthony brought down a now rare devastation from the sky, causing a deafening thundercrack. Vincent swung for all he was worth, continuing to swing even as he shut his eyes for a moment when the wind of dust slammed into him.

  Before he could open them fully, he heard a loud whoosh of flame followed by a blood-chilling cacophony of death cries. He heard men being overtaken by fear; many were screaming out to run.