Stone Rising (The Graeme Stone Saga)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  More precisely, there had been. Until recently, that is.

  The guardsmen all stood in the middle of the pier that stretched out into the bay, gazing about in stunned silence at the burning wreckage that floated all about them. The gargoyles had beaten them, it seemed, hosing down anything that floated with their acidic spray, until fuel had caught light and fire had spread.

  From great yachts to small two-man boats, the flotilla burned. All about them, patches of burning fuel lit up the pier and floated on the water. Overhead, clouds of the winged demons swarmed in great flocks, poised and ready to descend in a killing frenzy. The guards had nowhere to go, unless they wished to venture back into the city and face the crowds of demons therein.

  Stranded.

  “Well,” came Reno’s voice amidst the muted crackle of flames and the lapping of the waves. “That’s that, then.”

  Arbistrath snorted.

  “So it would appear.” He withdrew a cigar from his pouch, a thick and dark number that smelt of chocolate. He’d been saving it for their victory. He bent down, lighting it on a small puddle of burning fuel by his feet. He rose, waving the cigar to let the vapours from the fuel dissipate, then closing his eyes as he took a deep and satisfying drag. He let the smoke out in a slow cloud before opening his eyes, a small, wry grin on his face. “Well, let’s at least give them a fight to remember, eh?”

  “I think I can help with that.”

  They turned to look at Marlyn, who had been standing nearby, laden down by the other cannons that hung from his back by their straps, recovered from the fallen Tuladors within the bus. He was playing with yet another delicate lever on his own Cannon. Giving himself a nod of satisfaction, he raised his weapon, pointing the muzzle to the sky

  He pulled the trigger.

  The weapon roared, but instead of its ball of power, a golden cone of light leapt out to scorch the sky. Spread thinly, as such, the shot lacked punch. Yet enough punch it had for the task at hand. Those gargoyles closest shrieked as the delicate membranes of their bat-like wings caught light, vanishing in a whoosh like so much paper. Wings now useless, a score of the beasts began to fall from the sky, to land with hard smacks in the water, where they flailed and clawed as they sank beneath the waves.

  A flicker of malicious glee flashed across Arbistrath’s face, as the other Tuladors began to gather in interest.

  “Which lever was that, pray tell?”

  Within moments, the sky caught light, as wide-angled cones of furious power rose up to scour the heavens of the demonic invaders. No mercy had the Tuladors, each shot accompanied by jeers and taunts. More than once, the flock attempted to descend, to turn on their assailants. Each time, they were beaten back, hurled away by the firepower of their foe, lest the delicate wings catch light and they, too, plummet to their deaths.

  A minute more of the punishment and, at last, the gargoyles rose skyward with a shriek, to disappear once and for all into the grey morning clouds.

  Cheers from the Tulador Guards and Arbistrath smiled through his cloud of cigar smoke as he heard his men congratulating themselves, happy that they remained alive for just this little bit longer. But as his eyes looked down, back along the pier to where they had left the bus parked on the road, his smile vanished.

  Perhaps their celebrations were premature.

  The hubbub from behind him began to die down as the men took in the scale of what they were witnessing. As if in terrible parody of the bay behind them, a sea, an ocean, an endless tide of demonkind stretched out before them. Baleful, glowing eyes glowered at them by the hundred. It seemed as though every single one of the once-men that had pursued them only an hour before had now taken on the guise of a horned and thirsting demon. They clustered about the bus, swarming over it, black-carapaced ants over the corpse of a fallen jungle beast. The tide stretched on, beyond the great buildings and warehouses that bordered the shore. A vast army of infernal foot-soldiers, their number beyond counting.

  Yet they held back. They were eager, for sure, stamping their cloven feet, hissing their vile language through ebony fangs. But not advancing, not yet.

  The cause of their restraint soon became clear.

  From atop one of the buildings that overlooked the bay, a great flash of orange, followed by the smell of brimstone, ash and sulphur, blown towards them on the coastal breeze. From the cloud of smoke coalesced a beast from the darkest of nightmares, a horned figure that embraced every archetype of hell. The being loomed tall and mighty, its form rippling with muscle and barely contained sorcerous power. It surveyed them from its vantage point with eyes that glowed the red of fresh blood.

  It looked amused.

  “Humans,” it called out, its voice amplified by supernatural means to fill the bay in a crescendo of rumbling bass. “The chase ends now.”

  Arbistrath sneered, but he knew the beast to be right. This was it. This was where it ended. Faced with the horde before them, it was obvious that they had no hope. His cannon beeped morosely by his side, weary yet ready if called upon again. It would never give up on him. Neither would he, he decided. He would stay defiant till the end.

  He smiled as he called out in reply.

  “Come down here and say that!”

  The beast guffawed, its mirth echoing through the heavens like the rumbling of distant thunder.

  “Think not to goad me, child. I am above the taunting of a spoilt brat such as yourself. The young Lord Arbistrath; thinking yourself high and mighty because of chance of birth; thinking yourself the swaggering hero because you’ve been entrusted with a toy, the power of which you barely understand.” The beast fixed him with its red eyes and, despite himself, Arbistrath shivered in fear. The demon continued, smiling. “Make no mistake, mortal; these are your last moments. These are your last words. Choose them wisely, for the memory of them is all that shall soon remain.”

  The young Lord of the Tuladors glanced left. Marlyn looked at him, his youthful face bereft, now, of ideas, yet still set, still determined to fight alongside his lord till the last. He looked right, Reno there, and the others, all gazing at him, visibly shaken, terrified by the foes that faced them, yet each determined not to give way to their fears, even now. Even at the end.

  Pride. That was the feeling in his chest as he looked out upon them. Old Hofsted had often spoken to him of pride during his formative years. Pride could lead to downfall, he had said. Or, just as easily, it could lead to greatness. Reciprocal pride, where a leader had the trust and loyalty of his troops and where they, in turn, had his gratitude. Once, not even that long ago, Arbistrath had seen himself as separate to his men, worlds apart; he their ruler, they his servants.

  But he had learned, since, that things were not that easy, not that clear cut. He was their leader; they looked to him, needed him. And this role didn’t force them apart, instead, bringing them closer together. Yes, he was their lord and commander. But more than that, he was their champion.

  The beast called out again.

  “Well? Any last words for posterity?”

  Lord Arbistrath smiled as he took a deep drag from his cigar, nodding as he exhaled.

  “Aye,” he called out into the air, fixing the demon with his stare. “Bring it.”

  A cheer from the dozen Tulador Guards at his back, the whining hum of capacitors filling the air as they readied their weapons for war. Clenching his cigar between his teeth, the young Lord hefted his cannon in both hands, pushing forwards the lever to engage full power. It vibrated with pent up energies, as if eager to release them on its foes, as though sharing in his bloodlust.

  From atop the warehouse roof, the demon growled, narrowing its eyes.

  “So be it,” it spat. “Consider it brought.” It raised one huge black-taloned hand into the sky as it roared out to its troops. “My minions, spare no-one. Atta – “

  It paused midway through its sentence, cocking its head as if distracted by a sound, then keen eyes squinting as it glared out into the bay. Arbistrath wa
tched the beast, puzzled, before turning, the rest of the Tuladors following his lead.

  There, on the horizon, and closing fast across the water; a shape, sleek and low. From its sides, sprays of foam as it parted the sea like an arrow the air. The droning rumble of its engines began to cut the air as it grew nearer.

  “No…”

  A flicker of a smile flashed across Marlyn’s face as he took a step forwards, staring out into the distance. There, atop the speeding boat, a figure; bare-chested, lean and sinewy with tanned-olive skin and a mop of wild, windswept black hair tied back into a short pony-tail. Above its head, the figure brandished a staff, long and thin.

  Arbistrath appeared at Marlyn’s side.

  “Yes…”

  He turned, bellowing orders to his men with fresh urgency.

  “Two ranks, form up, now!” They hustled to obey him, even as the lord turned to Marlyn to enquire: “Blasts or cones?”

  Marlyn pondered for a second.

  “Keep the weapons on wide arc, but full power. It may not be enough to kill the beasts, but it’ll slow down many of them at a time.”

  Arbistrath nodded, smiling, taking another drag from his cigar before throwing it to the ground and stamping it out.

  “Alright troops, you heard the man, you know the drill!”

  Even as those words left his mouth, a great bellowing roar of a thousand hate-filled tongues as the hordes of hell advanced.

  “Destroy them!” came the great thunder of command from above. “Tear them limb from limb! Hurry!”

  Arbistrath grinned, the promise of his lord renewed in his chest.

  Yes, he thought, as the droning of the engines behind him grew louder. We might just get away with this, after all.

  With that, he knelt down with his men, fingers tight on the handle of his cannon as the first of the braying demons came into range.

  “First rank,” he cried out. “FIRE!”

  ***

  Narlen’s heart thundered within his chest as he took in the sight before him. The flashing of weak sunlight on silver armour. The bawled orders in an aristocratic voice, yet one that had grown, matured. Hardened. The steady strobe of golden power that flickered out in great cones to blind and scorch the advancing demons.

  The Tulador Guard.

  Tears pricked the Plainsman’s eyes that had nothing to do with the briny spray. He turned to face his companions behind him in the boat.

  “Do you see that?” he enquired of them in a torrent of gushing excitement. “Do you see that?”

  Naresh stalked forwards to the prow. The Servant’s youthful eyes had become full of bitterness of late; no wonder with all grim sights they had beheld. But now they twinkled with something that bordered on hope. Bordered, even, on joy.

  “Oh aye,” he smiled, his tones full of rich, Steppes inflective. “I see them alright.”

  A grumble from the rear of the boat, the stoic voice of the Farmer, Elerik.

  “Do not get ahead of yourselves, lads,” he warned. “There is killing to be done yet.”

  The Plainsman smiled, his knuckles whitening about the wood of his Hruti.

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “I shall bring you close,” the Farmer told them. “Naresh, get the Tuladors into the boat. Narlen – hold off the hordes.”

  The pair nodded, aware of their tasks.

  The boat powered on, weaving twixt all manner of flaming wrecks, as the Farmer guided them in with precision. Nearing the pier, Elerik backed off the throttle, the craft gliding to a halt alongside the pier not far from the embattled Tuladors.

  Elerik nodded at his two companions.

  “Go.”

  The two warriors leapt for the ladder, clambering up with ease onto the pier proper. They ran over to the ranks of warriors facing the other way. Arbistrath saw them coming, turning, face alight with joyous disbelief.

  “How…? We thought…?”

  Naresh smiled, raising his hands to placate the man, to fend off his questions.

  “As did we, Lord Arbistrath. As did we. But now’s not the time.” He glanced meaningly at the hordes of demons that threw themselves into the brunt of the Tulador firepower, each wave advancing further than the last. “Let’s go. Get your men on board the boat.”

  Arbistrath nodded.

  “We shall need to withdraw in stages, lest the foe overwhelm us.”

  The Servant smiled, his swarthy tanned skin creased with good-natured humour.

  “With all due respect, let Narlen handle that. Just get your men on board as fast as you can.”

  A furrowed frown of confusion from the Tulador, but he relented with a nod, turning to his men and calling out.

  “Tulador Guard – cease fire and withdraw!”

  ***

  The Guard had unleashed their final fusillade, the air still ringing to the dying booms.

  Good, the Plainsman thought, his Hruti held tight in his hands before him. Hard to concentrate with that racket.

  The silver-armoured warriors streamed past him towards the boat. One, a youth, the one named Marlyn that he had seen speaking to Stone on the battlefield before the Beacon nodded as he passed. Narlen nodded in reply.

  Then he turned his attention to the foe.

  The Tulador weaponry had done its job and done it well, holding off the foe for a good time. But there came a time when ranged weaponry became cumbersome, unwieldy and slow to react. Once the enemy got up close and personal, it was time for the Woodsman’s Three to shine.

  As the first of the horned and ravenous creatures drew near, pressed forwards by the weight of their brethren behind, the Plainsman grinned, his face full of savage glee as he felt the power tingling through his weapon.

  “Let’s play.”

  Time slowed, as it always did, the wiry, lean form of the Plainsman becoming a blur of speed as he leapt into battle. His first blow with the end of his Hruti took off a demon’s head at the neck, sending it sailing through the air with a look of comical confusion still plastered on its bestial face. The next was a thrust, disembowelling a gibbering creature, its form collapsing into a smoking ruin. A beast leapt at him, roaring its bloodlust, but even as it sailed through the air, the Plainsman spun in a circle, hitting the creature in the stomach with the side of his staff. The demon was hurled backwards, as though struck by incredible force, to smash aside a path through its kin as it flew.

  The demons continued to come at him, foes without number, pressing in on every direction. But everywhere they leapt to the attack, that staff lashed out, dashing brains, rending limb from torso in sprays of smoky, ethereal gore. At the centre of the fray, Narlen laughed as he whirled about, a dancing, unstoppable blur of destruction.

  A smile on his face and laughter on his lips, he danced the dance of death, his movements liquid, flowing, like the crystal waters of the summer Yow.

  He noticed, as he fought, from the corner of his eye, that the Tulador Guards were watching him as they made their way to the boat, slowing and gawping in amazement at the destruction he wrought. He could almost hear their thoughts; how could he be wreaking such devastation with a mere stick? Why was he always in the right place at the right time? Why did his blows strike with the force of ten men, not one?

  The musings only increased his laughter. If only they knew the truth, as had been slowly revealed to the Three since that fateful night in Pen-Merethia. Any of the Three could fight like this, when the moment called for it; The Servant with his hammer. The Farmer, with his broadsword.

  So few shared the secret. Stone knew it, of course, for he had been the one to impart it. And the Woodsman, their kinsman, wherever he may be; he knew it, too.

  Where did the power come from, that let the Plainsman move so fast and strike so hard?

  If only the Tuladors knew the truth of it, he thought with a wry grin, as he punched a slavering beast in the stomach, causing it to fly backwards and land in a smouldering heap.

  For the secret was, that there was no power
. He was just a man.

  Just a man that had nothing left to lose.

  ***

  Asmodeus growled in frustration as he watched the carnage before him. Again, he thought. Again I’ve been let down by the failings of my minions. The tide of demon spawn all about him charged blindly forwards into the reach of that damnable Plainsman, to be chewed up and spat out.

  Meat into a grinder.

  The Baron cracked his knuckles and spat, the spittle catching light as it landed on the roof of the building, the flames melting their way through concrete and steel.

  “Enough.”

  On piston legs of infernal power, the demon lord launched himself from the roof of the high building, soaring high overhead, as his shadow passed over his foot-soldiers. Controlling the angle of his descent with nothing more than a thought, he fell, plummeting to the pier, cloak of shadows streaming behind him like an unholy comet.

  With a boom that shook the harbour, the Baron impacted upon the pier, the wooden planks that had weathered the sea for a hundred years shattering beneath his weight; splinters and shrapnel flying everywhere to eviscerate his troops, even as they were blasted off their feet and into the water by the shockwave.

  Only the youth before him kept his feet, wooden staff whirling this way and that, deflecting the flying splinters with speed and precision.

  Asmodeus rose up from his crouch, stretching upwards to his full, majestic height. Eyes blazing a fearsome red, he took in the sight of the diminutive warrior before him.

  “This is what my minions throw themselves against in droves, and fail, still, to defeat?”

  He laughed, but his laughter was cut short, as the butt-end of a staff smashed into his face, to rebound away and be caught once again by the Plainsman. Stunned, the demon felt his jaw with a taloned hand, eyes burning with fury.

  “Impudent whelp!” he raged, one hand extending, a burning axe of dark, angry flames seeming to coalesce out of thin air as thunder began to rumble in the heavens above. “Pathetic man-child, you meddle with forces beyond your ken!”

  Whether the warrior before him was at all cowed at this display of power, Asmodeus couldn’t tell; the hazel eyes set in the olive face spoke only of mischief, a barely contained amusement. This only fuelled the Baron’s rage.