by A W Tinney
The guard’s eyes widened with fear, yet to give her due, she did not move. “I have my orders,” she squeaked.
“The silver human has a point.”
Eresor turned. Nymida towered over, radiating that infernal authority that seemed inherent to her race. “Don’t you start. We agreed we were getting out of here.”
Nymida’s pale eyes burned with passion. Behind the elf, the sounds of battle raged from the walls. Howls of Void beasts filled the air. The roar of cannon and the screams of the dying mingled with the clash of steel. All of it spoke of a hard fight, one that could end with either side the victor. Eresor was in no mind to linger and witness the outcome. This city had caused him nothing but trouble. He would be glad to be rid of it.
The gnome could see the elf’s hands dancing over her sword hilts, however. “There is death in the air, brought about by the Void. We cannot allow this to pass.”
“You cannot,” Eresor reinforced. “It matters little to me. I have no investment here, and it does not include dying for a city that has been the source of many a headache.”
A flash of anger flickered over the elf’s face. “Do I need to remind you, gnome, of your oath to me?”
The sky-gnome growled. Of course, she would have to bring that up. The first encounter between Eresor and elf princess had been a fortuitous one, far north in the depths of the Marshlands. Eresor had been told of an artefact of great wealth hidden in the bowels of a dead forest. It had been a lie, of course, and a particularly bloody ambush ensued. Eresor, cut off from his ship and crew, found himself at the mercy of a savage blood king who possessed a disturbing fondness for gnome flesh. Nymida had saved him, slaughtering the tribe from the shadows. He could still see her, darting between the deceased trunks like a phantom, arcane bodkins singing their death song, before blades met flesh in a deadly dance. Rescued from death Eresor had vowed to aid her in her quest to banish evil wherever they may find it.
Words are iron.
Yet this was different. This was a battle, not some skirmish in the dead forests. “There’s little we can do,” he said. “This is not our fight.”
“This is our fight. Those creatures are the children of the Shadow. We must help the city.”
“We haven’t the firepower. We are low on ammunition from the merchant’s merry chase, and the crew are weary.”
The elf was stubborn. “I cannot stand idly by, Eresor. This is my path.”
“I’d listen to her if I were you,” the guard dared.
At that Eresor snapped, drew his pistol and used the butt to strike the guard across the face. Reeling from the blow, it was simple matter to shove the woman aside and stride up the air harbour, where his crew were watching him with perplexed faces. His coxswain, Hurbar, grumbled loudly. “What in the Sky-Queen’s name was all that about?”
“Start the ship,” he ordered and like clockwork his crew set into motion. The steam engines hummed, pistons hissed, and valves whistled as the frigate began to come alive. The huge sail unfurled and caught the breeze, tugging the hull. Nymida remained at the foot of the ramp, glaring at him. “Come on,” the gnome shouted.
Nymida frowned and turned her back. “Do not make me a hollow promise, Eresor.”
“Nymida this is folly.”
“Your word is brittle. Just like your stomach for a fight.”
Damn, that was clever. Insulting the captain in front of his crew was a sly tactic, one he had thought her above. “I will not tell you again. Get on the ship.”
“No.”
“Forger curse you, elf,” he swore, pounding his fist on the ships railing. Though he could not see them, he knew his crew would be watching him. Waiting. All gnomes were bound by their word, and the Code. He had sworn himself to the elf, and she to him. They were on the same path. The memory of the pale-skinned blood king leering over him with vicious yellow fangs swelled in Eresor’s mind.
The sky-gnome captain sighed, then cursed himself. Words are iron.
Eresor clambered up onto the bridge. He shouted back to her, over the din of his ship. “Are you going to board then? No good standing there when there’s void beasts needing slain.”
Nymida turned, offering the briefest of grins.
The elf raced across the ramp. With nimble dexterity that a gnome could only ever dream about she jumped, legs together and summersaulted onto the deck of the frigate. She gave the captain a coy wink.
Eresor grunted. “Hurbar,” he barked, “full steam to the walls.”
“Captain?”
“You heard me, you mangy sky-dog. Get to it. Pistols and swords ready you curs. Roll out the guns. Let’s blast them all to ashes.”
“Aye Captain,” the crew roared as one.
The frigate roared into life and broke from the harbour, rising over the city. Eresor snarled heavy words at his crew as they scurried about deck, pulling pistons and levers. Valve pressures were checked and maintained, carbine barrels were cleaned and brought to the gallery. A heavy scraping accompanied the porthole opening and the ships main gun, a small cannon affectionally named Iron Widow, rolled out.
Nymida strung her bow, drawing one of the shimmering arcane bodkins from her quiver, readying it. Eresor checked his pistols, and took the helm, raising Firedawn higher into the air.
“Thank you,” she said, not looking at him.
“Don’t thank me yet,” the sky-gnome grumbled. “We may not come out of this alive.”
7
Something disturbed Aurelian’s attention. A horn blast. Then another, both markedly different. He rose once more from his contemplations, grasping his Sceptre. There was no mistaking the sound.
Faris-Manzil was under attack.
The Vigilant stomped to the chapel door, throwing it open. Instantly the din of battle struck him. Steel rang on steel, cannons boomed, shouts of panicked city-folk and dying soldiers filled the air. The distinctive blare of ar’kan horns and the rasping snarls of Void beasts made the Viligants blood boil. Then came the dull hiss of arcane energy, as malign sorcery erupted along the battlements in the distance. Crimson shadow lighting, and blue Void fire wafted over soldiers of the city. “Balar preserve us,” Aurelian cursed loudly.
How had he not anticipated this?
He began to run, heavy armour pounding on the cobblestones. The Solder was quickly filling with citizens as they fled from the districts near the wall. Panicked faces held him in awe as he charged past, and all parted to allow the god-warrior room. He rounded a corner, and a troupe of green-coated guardsmen were making a way through the crowd, doublehanded swords drawn and ready.
He pointed his Sceptre at the guards, one of whom carried a banner depicting a flaming anvil crossed with tongs. The Forge Born. “You,” the Vigilant shouted, his voice carrying easily over the frantic bustling of the crowd. “Follow me.”
The Forge Born did not dare question him. They formed around the god-warrior, gleaming in their armour of the finest steel, weapons honed to an impossible edge. The smiths of Faris-Manzil were blessed at having the finest metals of the world at their disposal. The weapons and armour of the city regiments were of the highest quality, able to deal optimum damage and provide nigh impenetrable defence, all while remaining lightweight. Even the elaborate feathers the guard wore in their steel caps glistened with metallic properties. Aurelian counted thirty warriors. They were not Vigilants, yet they would suffice.
He led them through the Solder, further from the fleeing crowd and into less savoury streets. The alleys were abandoned and rightly so. Not even beggars would remain in their holes, not when the Void beasts attacked.
The smell of malign sorcery was rank in the air. It tasted foul to Aurelian, augmenting the already hefty metallic tang that characterised the city of steel. They rounded a wide thoroughfare that was flanked by the more prosperous shops of the Solder district. That was when the Vigiliant heard it.
A throaty rasp, hissing like a steam engine along the alleyways.
“Lord Vigilant?
” the captain of the guard hailed, breathlessly. Despite being significantly less encumbered by armour than the god-warrior, the Forge Born were not accustomed to his relentless pace.
Aurelian had halted in the centre of the street. The barely audible hiss drew his attention. It unnerved him, much like his encounter in the chapel. Part of him knew he should ignore it, yet it was too perplexing to dismiss. A whisper through the din…
With a gesture the Vigilant bade the Forge Born to hold, and took a left, moving down a narrow alley. Hanging baubles of emerald stone, markers denoting some gang’s territory, rattled as he brushed them aside. The heavy scent of lavender and spice, mingled with something fouler, grew. He glanced right and saw a family quivering behind a thin window of silver glass. They looked wretched, each of their eyes diluted with the unmistakable haze of mercury poisoning. The children, a boy and girl, both less than five summers, watched the Balar-blessed giant plod past with awe.
It grew dark, roofs closing in overhead, as he stalked deeper and deeper into the alley. The Vigilant softly tapped the butt of his Sceptre, and illumination spread, catching the corners of the growing shadow.
There was a roar, the horrific sound a blend of avian cawing and the lowing of an ox. Under the light of the Sceptre a demon hurtled towards him. The creature was magnificently golden, yet twisted, malformed and distended. Three maws slapped open and closed, two on what Aurelian could only assume was its head and one set in a bulbous gut. Rows of silver teeth clanged, like the grinding of a machine. Cogs whirred from its back, entering and exiting golden flesh in an agonising procedure that seemed to grant the creature mobility and life. It stomped forward on legs made of black iron, clawed at the feet with blades of onyx. Swathes of red cloth were littered across its form, and its single eye glared at the Vigilant with tortuous pain.
“Begone, demon,” he declared, striking the Sceptre against the street. The beast cowered behind the dominating light, but from its shadow more than two dozen figures sprang into view. They were cloaked, wearing masks of lifeless steel. They raced past the Vigilant, wicked blades striking at his plate armour uselessly, before they made the street and fell upon the surprised Forge Born.
“Defend yourselves,” the captain called before a scimitar opened his throat. The sudden assault had caught the Forge Born unawares. Coupled by their abhorrence towards the hellish demon, they were rendered as useless as wheat, scythed down mercilessly by the ambushers.
“Fight for Balar,” Aurelian growled, drawing his blade. “or die in the attempt. Be remembered today as warriors. For the Ancient One!”
“Balar and the Forger,” a soldier cried out, then gasped, guts spilling from his open belly.
Aurelian fought with the fury of the heavens. Using sword and blazing Sceptre, he beat back the mechanical beast, forcing it out into the street where it could not corner him. His blade sizzled smoke as it sliced unholy Void flesh, and the creature whimpered, retreating behind the swarming masked assailants and out of his reach.
“The Balar born,” a masked man howled. “End him.”
Planting the Sceptre firmly, a ray of heavenly light shone on an advancing trio of assassins. They immediately halted, the glory of Balar’s truth piercing their souls. They were stunned, fixed to a stationary position as every wrongdoing, every sin they had ever committed was immediately laid before them and judged. Frozen in supplication, the assassins were brought low by the recovering Manzilians. The Forge Born had found their courage, buoyed by the fury of Aurelian and the deaths of their comrades. They would have their revenge.
“Press forward,” hissed the masked man, whom Aurelian determined to be their leader. He was tall and broad, and wielded a wickedly edged scimitar in his right hand, which he used dexterously to hold the advancing Forge Born at bay. It was what he held in his other hand that caught the Vigilant’s eye.
A staff, seeping with arcane power. “A Sceptre?” Aurelian breathed.
With a flick of the masked man’s wrist the staff ignited, sending a blast of silver barrelling into the Forge Born. Bodies were flung high and the stench of burning flesh and scorched metal filled Aurelian’s nostrils.
“Bring down the sorcerer,” the Vigilant bellowed, but the machine-demon was on him once more. Groaning like cogs under immense strain, the metal demon loped forward. The Vigilant brought the Sceptre forward, burning holy light into the Void spawned beast. Celestial rays singed metallic flesh, but the demon was now incensed beyond all comprehension of pain. It groped at Aurelian, metal limbs and claws scoring his plate armour. The Vigilant experienced a burst of pain as a chunk of his pauldron was torn and blood seeped into the crevices of his armour. He bellowed defiance, pushing back, using sword and Sceptre to bash at the monster.
“Balar take you,” he cursed.
With might granted to him by the Ancient One, Aurelian struck at the demon with his sword. Blessed steel cut through the beast’s metallic gut, and copper wire-like entrails melted as they spilled from the gaping wound. The creature shuddered, and finally succumbed, crashing to the cobblestone pavement. Aurelian breathed heavily, breath rasping from his helm. He turned and saw the Forge Born had reformed and were swiftly neutralising the remaining assassins. He took in the scene swiftly. Where was the masked man?
Realisation hit him. He hefted the Sceptre, pounding back down the street where he had come.
“My lord,” one of the guards protested. “The battle is to the walls.”
“We must go back to the chapel,” he boomed in reply. “The Portal is their target.”
Yet he was too late. The world seemed to burst and the Vigilant was lifted into the air. The ground rushed to meet him. Blessed plate armour cracked as the force drove him into blood-soaked cobbles. There came a flood of white noise followed by the muffled moans of the city guard scattered in the street. Then, with harrowing clarity, a ripple of energy, and in the horizon a beam of violet arched high into the sky.
The Acero Portal had reopened.
8
Jardis panted heavily as he sped away from the conflict. To his advantage, the streets before the chapel were abandoned, citizens having already fled to the nearby mines scattered throughout the city, seeking a haven from the attack. That thought made him cackle inwardly. There will be no shelter from the shadow about to descend upon this city.
Finally, the spiralling streets opened into the grounds before the chapel. The walls of the ancient structure were dull stone grey, unlike the myriad of colours that characterised even the desolate Solder. The effigy of forge was set atop the door, its body cracked and rusted with neglect. Jardis’ heart pounded, a hammer beating against the anvil of his chest. Never had he run so hard, seeking escape from the infernal Vigilant and his troops. He had been so sure that the machine creature he created would have bested the champion of Balar, yet the Vigilant had proven too mighty.
He steadied himself. It is a set-back, nothing more. Not all things go according to plan.
There are many routes in the Thousand Paths. The Shadows twist and turn. All things change.
The chapel doors were large and barred by the Vigilant in his wake. It would take great effort to open, strength that Jardis did not currently possess. It mattered little. The acolyte raised his hands, uttering fell words he had learned from one of the many forbidden tomes he had cast eyes upon in recent days. In a burst of Void flame, the doors melted, transmuting into liquid metal and pouring down the street. It cooled instantly, a river of hard iron. One unfortunate rodent got trapped in the cooling puddle and squeaked desperately as it tried to free itself from a solid metal bond. Jardis stepped on its head, hearing bone and brain matter crunch. The act made him smile.
This is how easily the Shadow Witch shall crush this city.
The acolyte stomped into the chapel. Before him lay the ruins of the Acero Portal, blighted by the cursed Vigilant. To have such power, such sorcery at one’s disposal only to ruin it was folly in Jardis’ mind. Already he could feel tendrils of ma
gic reach out to him, caressing his soul. He had been chosen by Morigana, allowed power no mortal being should wield. He would bring the ruin of an entire city about and from the ashes raise an empire, an empire he would rule. That was what he had been promised.
That is my destiny.
He lowered the staff, drew the scroll from his robes and began the incantation. Twisted words sounded from his mouth, a diction that should be incomprehensible to man, yet it flowed from him like honey. Symbols formed in mid-air, metallic bursts flickered and flashed. Arcane echoes howled. The Umbral Staff began to hum, vibrating as it sensed the conclusion of its purpose.
“Tchensar, hear me,” Jardis uttered and in a cavalcade of penumbral energy one of the Thousand Paths ruptured into reality.
Screaming, screeching demons before the hole, crashing against the gateway to reality in a fury of shadow magic. Obsidian golems roared harrowing screams, feral jaws snapping hellish teeth. Other winged beings whooped and cackled, clawing at one another in blood fuelled fervour. A flock of silver ravens whooshed past. Jardis cackled inanely at he majesty of it all, renewing his chants.
In a whirlwind of cabalistic energy, four silver ravens penetrated the Path, each bearing an ar’kan rider. Once the beasts and their sinister mounts were through there was a pop and the gateway closed once more. One of the twisted creatures hovered by Jardis, its animalistic face nodding approvingly.
“Tchensar,” the acolyte greeted, bowing lowly. The ar’kan shaman regarded the human closely.
“You have done well, mortal,” he said, his voice that same terrible echoing whisper. “Very well indeed. The Shadow Witch has been watching you with great interest.”
Jardis smiled, revealing savage yellow teeth. “I do what I am bid. No more.” He bowed then, reverently presenting the staff to the shaman. “I have brought the artefact as requested.”
“The Umbral Staff,” Tchensar hissed gleefully. “The time of change is almost upon us.” He outstretched a clawed hand. “Hand it to me and see the work of our lady completed.”