The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  “This is what they desired to see ruling here, on my world?” he exclaimed, horrified, as he stared up at the towering creature. “And they somehow convinced me I should go along with it—?”

  “It was Goraddon,” Tamerlane said. “We saw him. We heard him. He’s been controlling you—influencing you. He wanted you to help him implant this thing within the body of the princess. That was his goal all along.”

  “Goraddon?” Rameses reacted to this news as if he’d had no idea whatsoever. Then his mouth opened and closed and twisted into a horrified expression. He gasped. “Yes! Goraddon! It’s true—it’s all true!”

  The demon clearly understood what was happening. A beast it was, but it was cunning, possessed of a keen if crude intelligence already, only moments after its “birth” into our universe. It bellowed again, louder, and rushed at both of them.

  Fortunately, at that moment, the remaining Sons of Terra troops in the room appeared to have concluded that the hideous abomination that had erupted out of Belisarius was perhaps a more immediate enemy than Tamerlane or Rameses. They opened fire at it, their blast pistols and quad-rifles slashing and searing into its mottled flesh.

  The monster turned slowly away from the retreating duo it had been fighting and sized up the dozen or so black-clad II Legion soldiers who were firing at it. A second passed; two. A long, forked tongue emerged from its mouth and licked upward, touching a spot where a particularly powerful blast had struck the side of its face. Then it moved, and it moved like lightning. Before the Sons could fall back or find any sort of cover, it was in their midst, raking its talons here and there, its tail lashing like a heavy bullwhip, its fangs clamping down on whatever it could get between them.

  In a flash, half the Sons of Terra who had opened fire were dead, their smartcloth uniforms torn open, their weapons as mangled as their bodies.

  Tamerlane rushed around to where the creature was facing. He shouted and hurled a steady rain of fireballs at the thing’s face. Rameses watched him, hesitated for a moment, and then raced up behind the creature. He swung the Sword of Baranak—that legendary weapon of the gods—in a broad arc that took the blade directly into the demon’s back.

  The inconceivably sharp edge bit in, carrying with it the cosmic force of the Above. The demon lord screamed, and the sound was enough to shatter windows and send grown men to their knees, clutching their ears and clinging frantically to their sanity.

  Like a manic lumberjack assaulting a stubborn redwood, Rameses pulled back and swung again.

  Inquisitor Delain watched what was happening across the chamber in mounting horror and fascination. The general and the governor were somehow holding their own. She thought to go and help them, but then she looked down at the unconscious bodies of Colonel Arani and Major Elaro. They were entirely too exposed to danger, simply lying there in the floor of the throne room. Grasping first Arani and then Elaro by the ankles and gritting her teeth each time, she dragged first one and then the other out of harm’s way, into a recessed alcove nearby. There she leaned back against the stone wall, closed her eyes, and breathed heavily, recovering.

  When she opened her eyes she saw that Arani had awoken and was looking up at her, obviously puzzled.

  “What’s going on?” the colonel asked, slowly pulling herself to her feet and reaching up to rub at the knot on her head. “Did somebody—?”

  “They knocked you out,” Delain told her. “Him, too.”

  Arani gazed down at the still-unconscious Titus Elaro and pursed her lips. She stared at him for several seconds. It wasn’t clear whether she intended to help him or shoot him—and whether she meant to wake him up before doing either of those things.

  At that moment, Elaro solved at least part of the problem by waking up on his own. His eyes fluttered open and he groaned.

  Arani kicked at him, and not delicately. “Get up,” she barked.

  Frowning, still partly confused but starting to comprehend the situation, Elaro did as he was told. He stood there, rubbing at the large bump on his head just as Arani had done, and waited. “Well?” he asked finally. “Where do we stand now? Am I your prisoner—or still your teammate?” He chewed his lip. “Or are you just going to execute me?”

  Arani hesitated for another moment, as if weighing those options. Delain looked on, a bemused half-smile creeping across her pale features. At last, Arani shrugged. “The situation is critical,” she told him. “We good guys need all the help we can get—even from the likes of you.”

  “Hey—I’m a good guy,” Elaro protested.

  “You’re a Son of Terra,” Arani snapped. “And a fraud. And a liar. That automatically rules you out of the good guy camp, as far as I’m concerned.”

  Elaro looked to be about to say something, but then he reconsidered and kept quiet, simply following the two women back out of their hiding spot and into the thick of things.

  They did so not a moment too soon; the demon had drawn back from Rameses’ assault with the sword, which had slowed considerably. It had circled around, and now had both of its antagonists cornered.

  And before Arani and her two associates could move another step, things got infinitely worse: the air crackled and split, a dimensional vortex swirled into existence, the temperature in the throne room dropped several degrees, and Goraddon—the man in black; the god of persuasion—stepped out of it and into the room. He surveyed what was happening before him and realized he had arrived only seconds too late. He opened his mouth and screamed.

  Tamerlane had moments earlier been driving the demon lord back with a relentless, sustained onslaught of fire blasts, even as Rameses had kept the creature from pressing its attack by fending it off with the Sword of Baranak. That being said, both men were obviously wearing down. Rameses, despite the boost in strength and stamina provided to him by the energies with which he had been infused and by the crimson cosmic armor he wore, was tiring. Tamerlane’s flames were running low; he’d never come close to using his power so often as this, nor in such a short time, nor with such intensity. Already he felt his body weakening, as though he’d been wandering for days through a barren desert with no food or water, slowly burning up all of his reserves of strength.

  Clearly the demon perceived these things. It hadn’t tired at all, and its only injuries appeared to have come when Rameses managed to strike it a pair of times with the sword. Flames still gutted out of the slashes he’d left in the creature’s back and side. Now the monster rushed forward, talons outstretched, intent on ending the battle quickly and decisively.

  Tamerlane felt the wall behind him—he was quite literally up against it— and he knew the decisive moment had arrived. There was no more retreating; the final confrontation would happen in the next few seconds. He had to give his all, regardless of consequences, and hope for the best. Raising both hands, he aimed them into the gaping maw of the demon as its hideous head descended toward him, fangs dripping.

  The fire blast rushed out, flowing mainly into the creature’s mouth and down its throat, and in reaction the monster recoiled, parts of its head burning now with the cosmic flames of the Above.

  Rameses seized the moment. He advanced, slashing and stabbing with the Sword of Baranak. His first strike was a swing that opened a gash across the creature’s chest that spat fire and smoke instead of blood. The second strike was a lunge that ran the demon through, from one side to the other.

  The demon lord howled bloody murder. It swung its scaly arm and swatted the armored governor away, just as he drew the blade out. Rameses tumbled over the mounds of dead bodies that lay in a heap near the base of a column, the Sword of Baranak sliding to a stop next to him.

  Tamerlane sprang forward, acting on instinct. He shoved his right fist into the burning hole that gaped open in the demon lord’s chest.

  Across the chamber, the newly arrived Goraddon saw what was happening—what was about to happen—and screamed in outrage.

  “For Nakamura,” Tamerlane breathed. Then he let loo
se every bit of flame he had left within him.

  The demon jerked away, suddenly afraid, but it was far too late. The holy fire of the Above filled it, expanded, bloated the massive creature beyond recognition—and consumed it. The demon wailed one last time and then exploded, spraying untold gallons of burning blood and ichor across the throne room.

  When the carnage ended, the demon lord was gone. All that remained were small, burning puddles across the marble floor.

  Goraddon saw it all happen, was powerless to prevent it, and screamed in wordless rage again.

  Tamerlane had slumped forward, onto his knees, breathing hard. He felt as if the flame power had been drained from him forever, though he had no idea if that was truly so. He raised up and saw the man in black glaring at him with unbridled fury. He wanted to do something—anything—to express his anger, his hatred, his contempt for the evil god. Unfortunately, he couldn’t move a muscle. He was utterly exhausted.

  Rameses, however, was not. The governor of Ahknaton climbed back to his feet and ran forward, his eyes locked on Goraddon, the Sword of Baranak held high. He swung it.

  The blow didn’t come close. Goraddon struck him down with a single, casual, almost dismissive gesture of his left hand. Rameses crashed to the floor to Goraddon’s right; the sword skidded across the marble to his left. The armored governor lay stunned, his head spinning.

  Standing over the Sword of Baranak, Goraddon looked down at it.

  “No!” cried Rameses. “No—that’s mine! It belongs to me now!”

  The man in black simply laughed. “Pathetic human. Even if it did belong to you—you belong to me!” Goraddon said this, and returned his gaze to the sword, yet still he did not pick it up. Instead, as he seemed to become aware for the first time that he and Rameses and Tamerlane were not alone in the room, he raised one hand high and snapped his fingers. Ice instantly formed on the floor and the walls as his overwhelming psychic power reached out and robbed everyone there of the ability to move.

  Locked down, still as statues, the others in the chamber looked on, witnessing what they could perceive of the events playing out. It wasn’t easy; to even turn one’s eyes toward Goraddon was to find one’s vision blurred and fuzzy.

  “You have failed me, Rameses,” Goraddon was saying. “You have failed me utterly and completely. Not only did you fail to live up to your portion of the plan, you actually helped destroy the last of the demon lords available to me here in this misbegotten universe.” He snorted a cynical laugh. “You scarcely could have done more if you’d possessed all your senses and had been intentionally trying to thwart me.”

  Rameses gurgled an attempted response.

  “Oh, by all means—share with me your brilliant riposte.” He nodded towards the governor, freeing his body.

  Rameses found that he could move again. He raised himself to his feet slowly, eyeing the man—the god—as he did. Then, roaring with rage, he rushed him.

  Goraddon snapped his fingers.

  The crimson armor instantly abandoned Rameses, peeling away from his body. It reformed itself in midair into a crimson cube, and the cube flew across the short distance to land in Goraddon’s open, outstretched hand.

  “No,” Rameses murmured, stumbling to a halt midway. “No—not the armor, too...”

  “Oh yes,” the man in black laughed.

  “Yyyyoooouu—” came a drawn-out sound from the left. Someone was attempting to speak, despite the psychic lockdown Goraddon had imposed on the entire chamber. Intrigued by the willpower being displayed even by the utterance of such a simple sound, the man in black turned.

  Tamerlane was attempting to rise. He was up on one knee now, his face contorted with the effort, as though he had to fight ten gravities or more to stand.

  “Ah,” Goraddon intoned. “General Tamerlane. Of course. Most impressive.”

  Tamerlane glared back at him, still attempting to speak, still mostly failing.

  Goraddon shook his head and raised one hand. “No, no—don’t strain yourself overmuch, General. You have more than made your point. Your actions have spoken quite loudly and clearly to me. And, truly, I should’ve known,” he added enigmatically. “I should’ve anticipated. You are resilient. Stubborn. Very like your illustrious ancestor.” He nodded once. “This round goes to you,” he said, his voice casual but tinged with a growing anger and menace. “Twice now you have proven to be a more formidable opponent than I expected. Rest assured—I will not make that mistake a third time.”

  Tamerlane’s body was practically frozen in place, but his mind whirled as he considered exactly what the man in black could’ve been possibly talking about. Illustrious ancestor? He couldn’t guess.

  Goraddon strolled a few leisurely steps forward and looked down again at the golden Sword of Baranak where it lay on the floor. He frowned deeply this time, then gave a sort of shrug and turned back toward the swirling dimensional gateway through which he’d entered. Just before he stepped through, he glanced back at Rameses. “Oh,” he said, matter-of-factly. “I also reclaim the tiny bit of the Power you were granted by Zahir. You were never anything approaching a god, Rameses, but now you are entirely mortal again.”

  “No!” the governor shrieked. He fell to his knees, pitched forward, and screamed as waves of light radiated out of his body momentarily. “No—please!”

  The man in black stepped through the portal and it closed behind him, as if neither he nor it had ever been there.

  Rameses lay face-down on the marble tiles, sobbing. “I—I was a god,” he gasped. “I was a god...”

  Tamerlane could move again. He stood, his muscles aching from the strain he’d put on them, fighting the psychic lockdown, and looked from the spot where Goraddon had vanished to the broken form of Rameses. Then he saw the sword still lying where it had fallen. No one else had noticed it. He hurried toward it.

  He didn’t reach it in time.

  Another figure appeared, moving out of the shadows and into the light like a specter. A pale hand reached down and grasped the hilt of the sword, lifting it and holding it casually to one side.

  “I believe it’s time this thing was stored away,” stated General Ioan Iapetus with a chuckle as he studied the gleaming weapon. “It’s done more than its share of damage today.” He looked from Tamerlane to Rameses and back. “Now it’s my turn.”

  6

  “Regent?” Tamerlane exploded. “You?” Anger seemed to pour from him as he glared back at General Iapetus. “Have you lost your mind?”

  The two rival generals stood facing one another in the now mostly empty throne room of the Heliopolis palace. Behind Iapetus stood red-robed Teluria and Colonel Barbarossa, as well as some two dozen elite soldiers of the II Legion, their black and gold uniforms immaculate despite the very rough fighting that had raged across much of the planet as the last of the Sand Kings had been, in Iapetus’s words, “pacified or converted.”

  Behind Tamerlane stood only the two women, Colonel Arani and Inquisitor Delain, with Major Titus Elaro off to one side, remaining near Arani but utterly ignored by her. Of the surviving members of the team Tamerlane had led into the palace—I Legion troops and Nizam soldiers—there was no sign. The general fervently hoped they had been merely taken into temporary custody while he and Iapetus worked out their differences, and nothing worse—though he would scarcely put anything past the Sons of Terra commander at this point.

  “Lost my mind?” Iapetus repeated Tamerlane’s words, regarding him sidelong, appearing to give the question serious consideration. His hands were clasped behind his back and he bowed his rough countenance, staring down at the floor. Then he raised his head, met Tamerlane’s eyes, and, “No,” he said. “No, I believe I am perhaps the only sane person left among the leadership of this Empire. Certainly the only competent one.”

  Tamerlane bristled at this. “Your arrogance is breathtaking,” he growled.

  “Watch your mouth,” Colonel Barbarossa snapped, but his commander raised a hand, sett
ling him down.

  “Arrogance?” Iapetus snorted. “Scarcely. I merely deal in facts.” He smiled again. “And the facts are these: I have the Sword of Baranak. I have Princess Marens. I have Ahknaton.” He leaned his head back as though attempting to peer upwards through the domed ceiling of the great hall. “My legion’s fleet has arrived in orbit above us, and the shuttles are bringing reinforcements and heavy equipment down even as we speak.” He looked back at Tamerlane. “I have Holy Earth, and the Inner Worlds—all in the custody of my legion, all safe. It makes perfect sense that I should assume the position of regent until the young lady comes of age.” He smiled his cruel smile. “You, on the other hand, my dear Ezekial—along with the late Nakamura, of course—have lost most of the Outer Worlds to invaders, and virtually everything you have attempted has failed—or has actually made matters worse.”

  “The Empire wouldn’t be in this state if you had agreed to help out from the beginning,” Tamerlane almost shouted.

  Iapetus shrugged at this. “Perhaps. I doubt that’s true, though. Had I come rushing to aid—had I dispatched whole companies of my legion to assist you in your lost causes on the frontiers—it’s quite likely Earth would be in enemy hands now, and all of the Empire lost.”

  “That’s garbage,” Tamerlane shot back—though, deep inside, a small part of him wondered if there was some grain of truth to it. Had Iapetus been right all along? Right to hold back his legion until the situation became most critical—

  No, Tamerlane told himself. He didn’t hold his forces back until they were most needed. He held them back until the situation could most benefit him—until the rewards for him and his legion grew large enough that he could walk in and take them; take the entire Empire, plucking it like an overripe fruit.