Stone Rising (The Graeme Stone Saga)

by Gareth K Pengelly

  Arbistrath nodded, face grim, but a confidence there, a glimmer of something in his eyes. His hand stroked the verdigris copper before him, the metal cold, hard. Defiant.

  “Aye, let’s do it.” He turned, raising his voice that his men might hear. “Tulador Guard – with me!”

  ***

  The Beast climbed. Though it had no eyes, it could feel the volleys of fire unleashed upon it from above. Then, as it strode higher, the talons of its mighty hands, the weight of cloven hooves crumbling the stone pedestal beneath it, it could feel the bee-sting assault begin to slow, to lessen.

  The mortals were afraid. And so they should be.

  For long years, the creature had lain dormant. Healing. Brooding. It was a demon of the darkest, foulest and most ancient kind. A living engine of destruction reserved for the mightiest of foes. On countless worlds it had slaughtered in the name of its masters; it had wrestled giant vessels, half-shark, half machine, at the bottom of icy oceans; it had swatted great airships from the skies on worlds of floating islands. Every few worlds, a lucky few warriors, or a powerful weapon, might vanquish it; but it never stayed dead, returning after a period of convalescence, stronger, harder. More hate-filled than ever before.

  And now, at long last, its master had seen fit to summon it forth once more from the void. The Beast roared its triumph as it climbed higher, black talons digging, now, deeply into the copper-work of the female colossus before it, gouging great gashes in the intricately wrought form.

  Yet the Beast cared not for works of art. It cared only for the destruction of its prey.

  Higher it climbed, ready to rise up, ready to smash the crowned and imperious head from the statue before it. Ready to end its hated enemies with but a single devastating blow.

  ***

  Narlen flew backwards, sandaled feet smoking as they screeched over the flagstones beneath him. Finally, he came to a halt. His staff had borne the brunt of the blow; the flexible wood dissipating most of the energy, yet still his every joint ached with the forces unleashed against him.

  He spat blood upon the earth and laughed, though the motion hurt his burning chest.

  The demon wasn’t holding back this time, eager to avenge its humiliating defeat of before. Eager to see its mortal foes ripped limb from limb. The form of Naresh came hurtling through the air, to impact hard against a commemorative plaque on the stone wall, denting the metal and shattering the bricks behind it with the force of his impact. He fell to the floor, then to his knees, gasping for air, hammer fallen to clatter uselessly at his side.

  Perhaps the demon might yet see its victory, Narlen grinned wryly.

  Though not if he had anything to do with it.

  He ran over, stooping to help his comrade to his feet. The Servant gave a shake of his head, to say that he was alright, before gathering up his hammer.

  Ahead of them, a roar of bestial rage, then the metallic clash of hell-forged axe against mortal broadsword.

  With a mutual nod, the pair raced back into the fight.

  ***

  The Baron of Hell laughed. Yes, he thought. These mortals had an air of mystery about them, an aura of destiny that caused even such a creature as he a moment’s pause. But no longer. He had tested them.

  And found them wanting.

  Whatever inspiration they had found that let them fight so, that let them weather blows that would end lesser men, it had its limits. They may be fast and strong; the steadfast and unyielding Farmer who darted back and forth with that sweeping broadsword; the nimble and laughing Plainsman, that whirled hither and thither in a blur of motion; the cursing Steppes man, that snarled his challenges and lashed out with that hammer. Fast and strong, indeed.

  But despite the purpose that fuelled them, they were still nought but men. They were not invincible, by any means.

  That accolade belonged to Asmodeus, he grinned, and him alone.

  That broadsword flickered out once more, ready to gouge another dark and smoky gash upon the Baron’s side, but the demon turned in a blur, twin axes catching the downward sweep of his enemy’s weapon. With a great kick of his hoofed foot, the Farmer was sent hurtling backwards, sword skittering away with a shower of sparks across the stone floor.

  The Plainsman leapt forwards in a storm of tanned flesh and dark, wild hair. An axe of flames swept up, powered by sorcerous muscle. The hruti exploded, split in twain by the blow, the Plainsman blasted high into the air at the explosion, riven by splinters erupting from his own, shattered weapon, before falling back down to the earth. He rolled upon the stone floor, struggling to all fours, blood dripping from a score of wounds upon his bare chest and face.

  A stinging blow in the back of his leg and Asmodeus fell to one knee. He looked over his shoulder, in time to spy the head of that crude hammer swinging towards his horned skull. Axes vanishing in a puff of smoke, the demon turned, faster than thought, a dark blur of unnatural speed, catching the mortal’s weapon arm in one mighty, taloned hand. With a snarl of glee, the demon crushed the Servant’s own hand about the shaft of his hammer. Bones cracked beneath the creature’s hideous strength and the human gasped in pain. Then the demon thrust forth with his other hand, powering a punch that launched the human fifty feet backwards to land in a heap, his hammer flying from his mangled hand to skitter over the edge of the island and land, with a splash, in the sea below.

  The demon lord looked about him with an amused snort of disappointment.

  “I expected more from you,” he admonished the fallen trio. “I thought I would have found more spirit in Earth’s last heroes. Alas, your world ends no differently to all those before it…”

  Silence, save the lapping of the sea and the distant, bellowing roars of the Beast as it continued its murderous ascent. Then laughter.

  Quiet at first, then building, Asmodeus looking about, incredulous, as the three broken warriors vented their mirth.

  “This is how you meet your end? Laughing, like children?”

  Narlen looked up, chest wracked with pain from the laughter, wiping a blood-flecked tear from the corner of one eye as he spoke to the demon.

  “You don’t learn, do you demon?” He smiled, eyes twinkling. “It’s not about us beating you. It was never about us beating you.”

  The Baron’s red eyes widened, as a whining wail of building power began to pierce the air. He turned to the source of the noise, facing the base of the vast copper statue, not noticing the three mortals that had risen and fled on weary legs, leaping into the safety of the choppy waters.

  ***

  The Beast stood now, atop the plinth of stone, locked in a foul embrace with the female colossus. Black talons the length of men tore into copper skin as the structure of the statue groaned, striving defiantly to stand tall against the demon’s hideous weight.

  Eyeless face level with that scarred yet beautiful copper visage, the Beast sniffed through great nostrils, searching for the scent of man. For the scent of blood, of prey, of sweet, sweet souls ripe for the plunder.

  Nothing.

  It roared its frustration, its victims escaping its clutches, but they could only delay the inevitable. The Beast was ancient, remorseless, unstoppable and would not be denied. As it began to turn, ready to climb back down to the island below, it paused.

  What was that noise? A whining, high-pitched sound, that built and built until it reached a crescendo.

  With slow thoughts born of aeons of slumber, the demon finally realised the danger.

  But by then, it was too late.

  ***

  Marlyn ran and ran, his heart pounding within his chest, feet struggling, as they pounded the grass, straining against the weight of the armour that encumbered him. He looked to his sides; the other Tuladors, too, sprinting as fast as they could, away from the great, stone building at the base of the statue.

  Behind them, the whining of the three overloading cannons within the structure rose to a piercing crescendo that threatened to burst the eardrums.

&
nbsp; The final, posthumous vengeance of the victims of the Iron Centaur.

  Detonation. A blinding flash of gold that scoured the eyeballs, despite the fact that they were facing away from the source. Then a shockwave. Like the hand of an invisible giant, it picked them up, hurling them forwards like autumn leaves in a gale, before gravity caught up and slammed them hard into the ground.

  Moments passed, though it could have been minutes, for who could tell through the haze of semi-consciousness. Was he alive? Was he dead? Marlyn smiled; the fact he could even think the question was its own answer. He tried to rise, wincing as pain flared through his side. He looked down; some of his armour plate had buckled upon impact, digging painfully into his ribs. Gingerly, he turned, till the metal no longer impeded him and he could rise to his knees.

  Smoke, dust, though less than he would have expected. The shockwave had no doubt carried a lot of the fallout with it, out into the sea. All about him, scattered on the grass that had cushioned their fall, the other Tuladors stirred, rolling, laying on their backs, slowly rising and checking themselves for injuries.

  Arbistrath was already on his feet. He was looking at Marlyn. His mouth was moving, but no words were coming out. Marlyn frowned, but then laughed; words were indeed coming out of his leader’s mouth, but he couldn’t hear them. Couldn’t hear anything, the ringing of the blast still loud in his ears. Instead, he allowed his eyes to follow Arbistrath’s pointing finger.

  Where once the titanic statue, the watchful guardian, the copper and steel testament to man’s ingenuity and artistry had stood, there was now empty space, the stonework of the base glowing with fiery heat in the aftermath of the explosion.

  A surge of joy in his breast that took his breath away, leaving tears to sting his eyes, as he glanced to the huge pile of twisted wreckage that had fallen at the front of the structure. There, laying trapped and impaled, amidst hundreds of tons of glowing copper and steel, the prone form of the Beast. It stirred weakly, growling in thunderous yet faltering tones as its form began to smoke and smoulder, its earthly body beginning to lose its coherence at the extent of its wounds.

  “We’ve done it…” Reno was by his side now, his scorched face alight with the same joy that Marlyn himself felt. “We’ve only gone and done it!”

  Marlyn clapped his fellow guardsman on his shoulder, the ringing of metal on metal as gauntlet met epaulet. But then he saw his leader, walking slowly forwards, face serious as his eyes scanned the scene of destruction.

  At last, it clicked.

  “The Three…”

  A tide of sorrow passed through the ranks of the Tulador Guard now, as they staggered forwards, gazing deep into the smouldering mass of statue and demon that lay before them. Nothing that had been beneath that impact could have survived.

  Nothing.

  “Turn around, you fools…”

  It was the stoic voice of the Farmer.

  Startled, the guardsmen spun as one on the spot. There, behind them, three wet and bedraggled figures climbed wearily up the steps that led from the water at the edge of the island. Gasps of delight and astonishment and Marlyn’s face broke into a huge beaming grin as he took in the sight.

  The Three were in a bad way, each of them a mess of bruises and blood. Following his words, Elerik coughed, a thin dribble of blood that trailed from his mouth speaking of great injury within. Naresh held one hand away from his side, lest he bump it by mistake, his hand crushed and mangled, fingers at unnatural angles. And Narlen bled copiously upon the grass as he walked, lifeblood trickling from a hundred cuts that shredded the skin of his torso.

  And yet, despite all this, they lived. That was all that mattered.

  They all lived.

  The Plainsman approached him, face pale from loss of blood, yet noble, proud.

  “You could have warned us, Marlyn,” the youth berated him. “A little bang, you said.”

  The Tulador Guard went to open his mouth, to retort, then stopped himself, smiling, as he saw the humour in the other man’s eyes. As guardsmen and the Woodsman’s Three began to chat, began to mill and sit down upon the grass, eyes still taking in the scene of destruction that lay sprawled before them, a sudden surge of relief passed through Marlyn, bringing with it a wave of weariness.

  He sat down upon the grass, relishing the coolness of the blades between his fingers. He smiled. This world had been through a lot. Yet even now it still strove to grow. He set his cannon down by his side on the moist earth, then lay back, resting. The weak sun shone as best it could through the clouds and for a moment he forgot the violence of but moments before. Forced from his senses the acrid smell of burning metal and stone. Instead, allowing himself the simple pleasure of feeling the sun’s rays on his skin.

  A shadow over him, then the feeling of someone sitting beside him. Wearily, he opened his eyes and looked to his side.

  It was Arbistrath. Marlyn looked upon his lord, noting the same tiredness in his features as he felt himself. Yet also the same look of hopeful relief. The same look that said, yes, this might be it.

  Things might be getting better from here on out.

  “Do you think it’s over?” he asked his leader. “Do you think we’ve finally done enough?”

  Arbistrath turned his head, looking down upon his loyal soldier, eyes glistening in the weak sunlight as he opened his mouth to reply.

  Behind them, a great splash in the water of the bay, as though a depth charge had gone off below the surface.

  Then a shadow fell over them all.

  ***

  Asmodeus landed hard, feet gouging a deep crater in the earth with the fury of his fall as mortals scattered in all directions like so much chaff. He rose, slowly, painfully. One of his horns was chipped at the end. Here and there, great gashes in his black muscled form, from supersonic shrapnel that had clipped him. His skin still smouldered from the flash of superheated radiation. The trick of his enemy had been an impressive one; the power unleashed, devastating, his minion crushed and sent back to its hellish slumber by the blast. He, himself, had only lived, thanks to the shockwave blasting him clean from the island and out of the path of the falling Beast.

  Yet live he did. And his foes would soon learn to regret that fact.

  The Woodsman’s Three were the first to recover from the shock of his landing, launching to the attack. Yet the weapons that had channelled their might had been scattered and a blur of black-taloned fists sent the mortal champions flying in different directions.

  The Baron paused, for an instant, to consider his course of action. He was weakened by the explosion; the onslaught of stored shamanic power having overridden the infernal runes of warding tattooed deep into his flesh, scorching and melting his armour of dark brass and iron. The cannons which the Tuladors carried might now harm him. Might even destroy his corporeal form, hurling him back beyond the veil till he could gather the energy to recover.

  No, he would have to act fast if his vengeance was not to be denied.

  Gleaming red eyes scanned the crowd before him that moved, as if in slow motion, in reaction to his threat. He grinned, lips drawing back to reveal black, sharp fangs, streaked with burning, ethereal blood.

  Yes, there he was; the architect of this disaster. The one that had cost Asmodeus this victory.

  Arbistrath rose up, bravely, before the infernal creature, but a mighty backhand sent the human lord skidding across the grass, unconscious. The demon spared him but a single glance, for it was not the human leader that he was after.

  The Tulador, the mortal youth named Marlyn, lay upon the grass, eyes wide in fear at the terrible apparition before him. The Baron scrutinised the man-child. How could such a pathetic creature have cost him so dear? If only he had destroyed him within the Gift Shop, crushing him to paste with a single lightning blow, rather than playing games.

  Never mind. He would have his vengeance now.

  The human reached for the weapon by his side, raising the cannon, finger tightening on the trigg
er, but to the demon’s supernatural speed, the movement was languid, slow, as though the youth moved through treacle.

  With a thought, his axe of dark flame erupted to hand. A single sweep, faster than the human eye could follow, and the threat was ended; the mortal youth’s eyes widening now, in horror, pain and disbelief, as his arm detached itself at the elbow with the smell of scorched meat. It flew away through the air on a trail of blood and sinew, cannon still clasped in his hand, even as it landed ten feet away.

  As the pitiful creature screamed in agony, gazing down in shock at the burning remnants of his arm below the shoulder, the Baron smiled. Behind him, he could hear the whining surge as multiple Tulador cannons began to power up. They would end him, he knew, casting him from this plain. He was too weary, too weak to withstand such concentrated power at such close range.

  But it mattered not; he would have had his revenge.

  Snarling his rage, he raised his axe, ready to end this mortal’s suffering with a single, inevitable, blow.

  ***

  The Baron staggered, blinking away the blinding whiteness that had flooded the world about him. On his tongue, a strange, metallic taste, like tin. Finally, after long moments, the whiteness began to fade away, till his eyes could at last see the world about him.

  Directly before him, a mountain rose up; huge, majestic, its angular flanks of stone grey rising near vertical to dizzying heights. Hearing the gentle caw of birds, he turned. A valley of grassy plains as far as his red eyes could see, fields lit gold by the rising sun on the horizon. Down through the middle of the plains, a winding river gently snaked its way across, glittering serenely in the morning light. The beautiful landscape bustled with tiny dots of life; families of rabbits; herds of deer; lazing crocodiles sunning themselves on rocks by the bank of the river.

  And, to his demonic senses, the world reeked of invisible life, too; the spirits of the elements, the spawn of the Avatars. This was a world that thronged with life of all kinds.