by Tyler Krings
One moment they were on a stage in the center of a small town surrounded by both friends and enemies, the next, Jon stood alone in a darkened space. He reached for his sword only to find it missing, and he saw no trace of Ana. A short distance from him, a light appeared and illuminated a still figure. Jon did not move immediately to investigate. He crouched defensively and extended his senses. Nothing moved at the edge of his vision, but he thought he could hear the soft pads of footfalls somewhere in the darkness. He stepped quietly to the still figure, his movements silent and quick.
The figure was a statue, and Jon knew the likeness of his wife at first glance. Ana was presented in godly splendor; flowing hair as long as her spine whirled around her face at the behest of some mighty breeze, strong shoulders bore light armor, and her pose was that of a warrior. The sculptor had captured the lines of her face, the curves of her body, and every strand of hair in unbelievable detail. Were it not for the hue of the stone, Jon would have thought she standing there with him. He studied her face, suddenly missing her, as he knew this was the last night they would ever see each other. Her words from before caused grief he had not known since he was a child. It warred with anger over a betrayal he knew in his heart she must not have been aware of. Or was she? The soft footsteps came closer, and Jon knew he was not alone.
“What is this?” he asked.
The voice came from behind and it was Ana’s. “Shelter from the storm. For a moment, at least.”
Jon turned. It was not Ana as he had known her. She wore tailored armor of silver and gold and carried a long spear. Long, golden hair spilled out from her helm, and her eyes were grey with flecks of silver.
“You are not Ana,” he said.
“I am Galeblade,” she answered, “the last part of Arienaethin that remains untethered.” She pointed to the statue. “You must free the rest.”
Jon looked again at the statue to find a thin, golden tendril had descended from an unknown point in the sky and gripped the stone body of his wife in a mesh like the web of a spider.
“The damage cannot be undone wholly,” said Galeblade as she came up beside him. “His work runs deep, and it is invasive, not unlike an infection. But the source can be cut away.”
“Why haven’t you done it then?”
“Her hand is that which wields me.”
“Why do you remain untethered?”
“Because I cut deep.” There was anger in her voice.
Jon stared at the golden thread. “I have no sword.”
She came and stood in front of him with an extended hand. “Allow me.” Jon gripped her wrist strongly, and instead of a silver spear, a sword appeared in his hand.
Be wary, Naven, came the whisper in his mind, she is going to be very angry.
Jon smirked. “Good.” He cut the thread.
Arne Baylor looked through the stable in the back of the Rooster for a horse to get him out of town. Almost free, almost free. He could still hear the screams of the women as they had been gutted. The rasps from when their throats had been cut. All four of them were still alive in that room in the mansion, hearts impossibly beating despite the damage and disembowelment their bodies had suffered. He found a lone horse, an older mare from the look, in the stable and found the appropriate tack. He hurriedly applied saddle and bridle, pulled the girdle tight. He led the mare from the stable and into the barn. Almost there. The screams of the tortured still rattled his ears. He knew what was about to take place would level the town and everyone in it. With luck, he would be far enough away before the purge. He mounted.
The mare bucked him before he could find the reins. His head hit a rafter before his body found the ground. The mare stood over him and looked at him with an oddly human expression.
“You stink of murder,” said the horse. She put a hoof through his face.
Heavenly light came down in a lightning blast several meters from where the old man sat, and when the hail of dirt was spent, the Lord of Fate stood in its crater. Golden eyes bore into the old man in amusement.
“Niandithir,” he said to the old man, “Lord of Magic. It’s been too long.”
17
War and the Wind
“All right,” admitted Rom, “there’s something wrong with these fuckers.”
He passed the swords of the dead Maddogs to the other three. Hersh and Beeter made themselves busy stripping armor to adorn themselves. Rom and Ham bore new cuts and bullet wounds, from which blood and puss and fluids eked out of their bodies in a trickle. The battle itself had been unorthodox. Ham had run out first with a battle cry drowned out by the roar of gunshots that lifted him off his feet and blasted him back into the barricade. Rom rushed them as they reloaded with Hersh and Beeter behind him. The battle then consisted of a dance of finding a sword to be thrust upon so the two living could pound the Maddog’s with fists and soon to be stolen swords. Ham rejoined them just as the squad previously loading supplies joined the melee. It ended with Ham and Rom on the end of half a dozen swords and spears, and Hersh and Beeter mostly unscathed.
The pilot they had taken “hostage” was as hostile as his comrades and proved to be useless when they finally had to drive a spear through his gut. Hersh experimented in the cockpit, intent on pulling every lever within reach, making the airship grind its gears with a piercing shriek.
“…only now we seemed to have slain an entire squad of highly revered soldiers for the sake of ruining a friend’s wedding,” Hersh was saying.
“More alcohol is needed,” Beeter agreed.
“I mean, I’d be fine I suppose if they had attacked first, but Ham went out there cursing their mums. Hell, I think I’d ‘ave shot ‘im too!”
“Oy, there’s some wine ‘ere.”
“Fuck there is, pour us a glass.”
Rom walked the deck and unraveled in the lines in hopes of an eventual takeoff. Ham inspected and loaded the cannons on the deck below before ascending the narrow stair. The body of the airship resembled the ones that rode the sea, only the cockpit seated four and was oriented in the forward cabin and surrounded by narrow windows. Four cannons were placed on the main deck, two facing starboard and two portside. The sails were currently folded to either side of the great balloon and several rudders made of stiff fabric were placed both fore and aft.
After their inspection, Ham and Rom reconvened in the main deck and agreed silently.
“All right, you two,” called Rom. “Hand over the wheel, time to hop off.”
“Nonono!” said Hersh, “I just figured out this thing here puts more fire up in that thing there!”
“You can’t come,” answered Rom. “You’re going to die!”
Beeter belched. “Execution seems inevitable at this point, mate.” He raised his mug, “Hell of a fucking prank, this is.”
Ham leaned in. “Ya gotta admit, firing cannons and flying this thing would be a lot easier with four than two.”
Rm threw up his hands. “What part of ‘they’re going to die’ did you miss?”
“I didn’t miss it, but you think the Lord of Murder is going to spare a body count?”
“Oy!” The four men turned to the sound of a new voice. A tall horse was sticking its head in through a window in the main cabin.
The horse spoke again, “On the right; up rudder, down rudder. Use the wheel for starboard and port. Unfurl the sails with dial in the center, there. Put some fire in this thing and get a move on if you please.” It left.
The four stared at the window where the horse had been then looked at each other.
“Yeah, all right,” said Hersh. He finished off his mug and pulled the thing that made fire.
Emersin stood amongst Angels. Not the angels of which he had heard stories, benevolent beings that occasionally aided their human brethren in worldly matters. These were machines. Machines forged and armed and made for war. To any ignorant onlookers, these would like gods descending with the sole purpose of raining fire. Their armament could destroy the Empire twice o
ver. Several hundred such soldiers had been fashioned by the Lord of Fate. Rules, set by things that terrified the general, prevented the Angels from interfering in the world of man. These rules had not been broken, but Fate had a steady hand in their bend. Angels and gods could not leave Anu, save through a gate that could only be opened by mortal hand. One who was still harbored both soul and body. The general extended his hand, and like a conduit finding another, electricity surged. The gate opened.
His orders had been clear. “Kill all who oppose me,” Fate had said, “except the old man. Whoever he may be, he is mine. Anu will soon be yours.”
She knew that she loved him. She knew that it was a lie.
It lifted, slowly, as though someone were cutting a hole into a cloth that covered a birdcage and attempted to rip it wider with clumsy fingers. Light reached her and memory poured in, both false and true muddling and weaving then slowly separating. It was exorbitantly painful and as difficult as spooning dye from water. In the end, some would always remain.
The memories that found her left the very real sensation of her own will crashing like tsunami waves against the steel walls of her mind, as the Lord of Fate found her body pleasing and made use of her again and again. Her own agonizing revulsion and the tremor of her unwilling soul bared useless teeth; she found herself accepting him as he entered her, as his lips found hers and his sex rose and came, as his easy laughter found her ears. The rape of her mind and body left her void of anything other than the pain and vivid remembrance. Of the vulnerability and unbearable guilt. Anger and the fear of his touch. Her mind cried vengeance and pleaded mercy, but the assault on her would not stop for a thousand years. It stripped her of everything she had been and eventually left her with nothing other than the empty place where she had hidden her soul, which begged to never be found again.
But it did stop. It stopped when he asked her to do it for another. And she agreed. Memories of another man twirled in the vortex. One who had not forced her but had been welcomed. For a time, there had been freedom of choice and purpose. For a time, her soul had dared peek through the edges of the curtain and dared entertain the thought that her actions were her own. Even that had been a lie. One she had performed willingly for one who had already stained her immeasurably.
The shroud parted even more. The hand that presented itself was one she had known. It was not the Lord of Fate that extended his aid. It was the other. She shied away, but the hand remained, still and unmoving. There was strength there. Compassion and love. But it was not these things she sought. The Tempest rose in her, a fury she had not let loose since the times when she wore the armor of war and shredded the lives of gods and men at will. She batted the hand away. She would do this herself.
The Lord of Murder watched them kiss when the priest pronounced them and smiled. This is nice. It looked around at the cheering crowd and clapped with them. It clapped for some time before it realized the couple was still kissing. It did not have much knowledge in such matters but thought that the act have gone on a bit longer than usual. It turned to the soldier next to him. “Is this normal?
The soldier returned a tranquil smile but did not respond.
“Did I leave anyone with a brain?” Murder asked. “Lancer Killian.”
The young man, again with the fucking smile, stepped up. “Yes, sir?”
“Are they supposed to kiss this long? Are we supposed to watch them fuck on stage?”
“No, sir. That would not be normal, but it certainly could be,” the Lancer turned to the couple on the stage. “All right you two, go on and consummate the marriage right there!”
“No!” said Murder, “Look at him! He’s very fit, it would take way too long.” Murder sighed. “Oh, fuck it. All right, kill them all. Spare no one, burn the town to the ground. Start with those two, I don’t think we need them anymore. No wait, just the Natheran. Best do it quick while they’re distracted.”
Arienaethin’s lips moved away from those of the man holding her. She stared into his eyes and found resolution and iron, pain and laughter. She found love even as she could see his heart breaking. His face did not show it, but whatever he had seen in her gaze caused him immeasurable sadness. He took a step from her and handed her something. She looked down. The hilt of a silver sword became the haft of a spear. One she knew well.
Welcome back, said Galeblade.
Arienaethin answered with silence as she turned to the enemies surrounding them. Men in the hold of some power stared at her with pleasant smiles while they unsheathed swords and leveled spears. The Lord of Murder smiled, speaking causally to a man in armor. People, commoners, pressed into the stage with applauding laughter or danced in the streets. Above them, the sky cracked with white lightning and wolves howled somewhere close by.
She gathered will and power into the palm of her hand. The Wind responded. She slammed her hand into the ground. Everyone and everything within reach of her power were thrown backward and up in an explosion of air. Bodies rained into nearby buildings, crashing through wood and glass, or landed hard into the street. The stage exploded in a rush of violence; lampposts and vendor stalls cracked into pieces and left the ground in a flurry. Dust and snow rained upward as startled and wounded people hollered and moaned in pain and surprise. She found herself alone in an area a dozen meters wide.
“Oof.”
Arienaethin watched as the Lord of Murder rose from a pile of debris, its guise destroyed. He knocked its head as if to clear something from its ear and started toward her over the ruins of merchant’s stall. She watched as he stumbled and fell with the grace of a drunk circus performer. Walking slowly toward him, she descended the stage’s single still-intact stair. Men and women, some in armor, some not, recuperated from the fall and began to stand in her way. She threw them from her path with strong gusts of wind before their bearings could be gathered, and did not discriminate.
Murder’s distorted face seemed to reconsider his advance, withering under her glare. “Ho, hey, let’s think about this!” the little disjointed god backpedaled and waved the knives of his fingers in surrender. “How about we talk instead? I can talk, I’m good at talking!”
She continued forward, throwing soldier and pedestrian from her path. The wind howled and whipped the remaining decorations and lights from their posts as thunder barked its deranged laughter overhead.
The Lord of Murder backed itself into a wall. Arienaethin reached him and placed her spear by his throat. She said nothing as he stammered and tried to reason with her. With a swipe she beheaded the god, watched her prize roll a few paces to the side as the body collapsed. Thunder that was not of the earth’s creation cracked the sky. She glanced upward.
“Here they come,” mumbled the disembodied head of the Lord of Murder. “Took their sweet time.” Little arms and hands spouted from the bloodied end of the god’s neck and began to crawl back to its lifeless body. Arienaethin watched, half amused, half horrified.
“Can’t kill me, love,” said Murder’s head as it dragged itself over debris and cobblestone. “Murder is everywhere. I’d be more interested in them angels.” Her attention was drawn back to the sky. Streaks of white descended upon them through a break in the clouds by the hundreds. They remained at a distance yet, but they would be among them soon.
“Angels cannot cross the threshold…” she whispered.
A strong hand grasped her arm and she spun away. She raised her spear and attacked her assailant with abandon. Her flurry of blows was parried with easy grace and lightning reflexes. She roared in fury and surged, only to stop short as a blade was suddenly at her throat.
The human man took a step back, covered in dust and snow, and raised his hands.
“Ana…” he said. The name triggered recollection. Ana had been her name. Real memories of her and the boy and the old man filtered through the haze of Fate’s raping influence. He had been the one that she had fallen for. Jon. The one that she had been bidden to take back Anu for “correcting.” Her target. Ex
cept that he was not. He had fallen for her, and she for him, but theirs was not one made by Fate. Her love for him was real, something unbidden. A thing that had happened despite the devil’s work on her mind. She knew him now. A man who had stolen her heart when it had no right to feel anything at all.
“Jon,” she said. Tears fell freely from her eyes, and she found that she could not look at him, no matter how much she wanted to. It was guilt. Guilt that she loved him. Guilt that she had led him here. Guilt that she had made him her friend. Strong fingers found her chin and guided her gaze back to his.
“I am with you,” he said. And I am with you, but she could not say the words. He kissed her and she folded into the embrace. When they parted, Jon looked to the sky and pointed. “You are the only one who can help him now.”
The Angels were flying to a point beyond the town. Where the old man waited in a field.
Soldiers flooded the town square by the dozens, heavily armed and armored. They moved through and over the people standing or lying on the ground as if they did not exist and advanced to where she and her love stood.
“You’ll die,” she said. To her surprise, Jon smirked.
“No. I won’t,” he said. He gestured with his head. “Go on. The old man needs you.”
The thunder did nothing to mask the sound of explosions from somewhere in the town. Fate and Magic remained silent in the darkened field as the sound of battle commenced, a familiar cadence of screams and metal on metal. Metal on flesh. The sound carried easily as the wind whipped toward them in fury. The sky opened, and like meteors, an army descended. The Lord of Magic’s hands flew into a series of quick movements as Fate looked at him curiously. A shield flashed into existence, and several angelic figures careened into the invisible wall, casting bright detonations just above the tree line. The remainder of the army braked hard and peeled off at the last moment. A few hundred bright figures surrounded the patch of field and leveled weapons in their forearms. As one, they ignited lances of heavenly power at a single point in the shield, directly above the old man.