War and the Wind

by Tyler Krings

  As the battle looked to be turning, the Wolf was suddenly launched into the air. Golden threads descended from the sky and ascended from the earth, binding the creatures to the ground, tearing into their flesh and cutting them in pieces. The Wolf landed as Fate stood, bleeding and heaving.

  “Harnen!” Fate cried. “Another fucking dead god come to claim what he so desperately desires!” The threads seized the Lord of Wolves and began to cut into his flesh. The Angels converged on the Wolf and lit him aflame. Niandithir looked at his old friend as he thrashed and struggled in the binds of the threads. One last trick then.

  Fly true. He heaved Spellhound at the speed of light. Fate caught the blade in the air and flung it back into the old man’s chest.

  Isca raced over the field. The remains of golden armored figures littered the burning fields, and still fire poured from somewhere ahead in great beams. The howls of wolves and the eruptions of power boomed in continuous thunder and racked Jon’s eardrums.

  “Faster, if you can,” Jon whispered.

  “I’m trying,” said Isca as her hooves pounded the frozen earth. In a sudden terrible instant, Isca collapsed forward, flinging Jon head over heels into the snow. Jon rolled and rose quickly with his sword at the ready. Isca cried, wreathed in pain. Her front legs had been cut above the knee. Blood pooled in the snow and the horse flailed in anger and agony. Jon ran to her and clutched her head in his hands.

  “No!”

  The horse met his eye and stopped struggling, her breath coming in spurts. She was crying. He held her head tightly and stroked her mane. “I’m so sorry…”

  “I…It’s all right,” said Isca. “Irving waits for me. Do it Jon. There is no other choice.”

  His tears fell freely now. Gods…no. Please no.

  “Jon,” she pleaded, “Please.”

  “I can’t…” Even as he said the words, he drew his sword. He kissed her head and took her nose in his hand. He steeled himself, “I will see you again.”

  “Fight well, my boy,” she said to him. He nodded and cut her throat in a single stroke.

  On his knees, covered in blood, he screamed. Fury poured from him in waves.

  “Rise, Natheran.” Jon stood and faced the murderer. He knew her instantly. The woman who had spoken with Ana that day at the Women’s Council. Maerko. In her hand was a long, thin sword made of silver light.

  “I am Maerko,” she said, “Lady of the Dance. Forgive me, Son of War, but you can go no further.”

  Breathe, the voice of his father suggested. He did.

  Sheathe it, Jon thought.

  No, his father responded, the time for that has passed. Jon agreed. He raised his sword in a duelists salute. She returned the gesture. Her sword was longer than his. He would have to move quickly. He squared his shoulders, made light his feet.

  She came at him swiftly. Her feet barely touched the ground as she closed the distance. Her longer blade sang with his as he parried the thrust. Their blades touched sparingly as their feet took them in and out of engagement, the timing carefully measured. They dodged and weaved in unison, and when they came together, their blows were lightning, their parries the thunder. The wind had stilled, and the only motion in the field was the dance as ash and snow fell among them.

  Jon spun from her reach again, and again she came at him unrelenting. His defense was as perfect as her attack. He knew his ability was a match for hers, but his body was beginning to tire. No more dancing, he thought. He planted his feet where he stood and allowed her to close the distance. He shifted minutely and waited for the coming thrust. He raised his sword above him, revealing an opening and an obvious feint. He saw in her eyes the need to strike a killing blow and moved just shy of it, letting the edge of her blade clip his ear and move passed him. With speed, he slapped the edge of his blade atop hers and in a single stride he was a hand’s breath from her, the edge of his sword kissing her neck. Her eyes widened. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You knew that was a feint,” Jon said.

  She looked at him with pleading eyes. Yes. She knew.

  “My blade did not kill the Lord of Murder.”

  “I have no such magic upon me, Son of War. Nor will I ever desire such,” she answered, “Please.”

  Jon nodded to her once and severed her head from her shoulders.

  “STOP!”

  Fate turned at the sound of Emersin’s voice, as the man in angelic armor walked out of the field, the lances in his arms raised as though fire. “Leave them be, leave them all be,” he said.

  The two dozen remaining Angels raised their arms and moved between Fate and the general, their emotionless eyes regarding the him as they would an insect.

  Fate snarled beneath his cracked mask. “Or what?”

  “Or I will burn you to the Hells where you belong!”

  “The very place that you have condemned yourself and your wife. How fitting.”

  The general grimaced. “Leave this world and never return.”

  Fate lowered his gaze. “I intend to do just that. Kill him.” Emersin struck before Fate could finish uttering the words. He blasted the first Angel near him and sprinted forward as lances bore down upon him. He drew forth a sword of blazing electricity and split three Angels in half with a single swing. The Angels surrounded him quickly and drew their own swords and spears, attacking in unison. Emersin desperately fought with all the speed his armor allowed. He felled two, three, then his leg was cleaved at the knee. His other leg collapsed; he found himself pivoting in multiple directions on his remaining knee. He parried a series of wild swings and lunges but could not move far enough forward to counter. His breath and energy waned as he held his sword in front of him. The Angels circled. Then he heard the sound of his salvation. Cannons.

  “Look at ‘em fly boys!” cackled Ham from below. The first shot took a single combatant in the chest. The second exploded in a group and sent them into the air. Rom readied another shot, slipping the cannonball into the muzzle and down the bore. Through the window, the fields were ablaze with tortured crisscrossing lines of fire. Beeter flew over controls, adjusting sails and altitude, as Hersh manned the wheel. Completely belying their drunken stupor, they kept the airship in a circle of the battlefield.

  Ham and Rom continued to load, fire, clean, reload, fire. Ham did the aiming, making minute and gradual changes to the cannons level and tilt, while Rom lit the fuse.

  “You know, you’re actually quite good at this,” Rom remarked.

  “Ah fuck that,” Ham responded. “I’m just fucking around and pretending really well.”

  “Well, you keep hitting shit.”

  “Fucking good luck, that is.”

  “Bad luck, boys!” hollered Hersh.

  Rom yelled up the stair. “What do you mean?”

  “Bunch o’ fuckers in bright lights are flying up to meet us!”

  Ham looked at Rom and threw down the rammer. “Welp. This was fun.”

  Rom looked at his friend and smiled. “Aye.” He called to Hersh, “Ram the guy in white!”

  “He just say ‘ram him’?”

  “Yup.”

  “How much wine is left?”

  “Eh, enough.”

  “You sure that’s our guy?” Ham asked.

  “Yeah,” Rom answered. “Buncha’ gold ropes coming out the ground is a dead giveaway.”

  Fire and power collided into the ship’s hull, throwing Ham and Rom off their feet. Beams of light shredded the ship’s armor. Figures in gold and violet entered through the holes they had created. Ham and Rom stood together. The demon aimed the cannon in its arm.

  Rom shoved Ham to the side and was engulfed in fire.

  The cannons ceased as the Angels breached the hull of the airship, surrounding and burning it with their lances. The balloon ignited and the airship’s descent became very rapid. Jon walked into the circle, his body covered in ash, his clothing stained with the blood of the Lady of the Dance. He found Ana on her back and pulled her as far
from the danger as he could manage. She was breathing but heavily burned. He tore off his formal coat and covered her. An explosion rocked the sky.

  Jon looked up. The fiery wreck of the airship was plummeting expertly toward the figure in white and the soldiers in angelic armor. The Angels continued to throw fire into the wreck, but it would not be swayed off course, even with the sails and rudders ripped and torched.

  “Ah…crap.” Jon threw his body over his beloved as the ship made landfall in tremendous fashion.

  Niandithir woke from where he had been thrown, Spellhound still in his chest. The blood pooled around him and filled his lungs. His breaths were short and ragged. The last of his will was now the only thing keeping him alive. The collision had thrown flaming wreckage as far as the next field. Most of it burned where Fate had been standing. He could not see any Angels through the smoke, but he could hear their armor whirring in the air above him. A great wrench rocked the air, and the remainder of the forward cabin shattered outward. Fate stumbled through the flames, his robe and mask in tatters. Golden light streamed from multiple wounds. Angels landed protectively around their lord and aided him to his feet. The old man extended his will into the earth, questing for power. His old body was beginning to fail, and blood continued to flow. I have nothing left. Fate looked to where the old man kneeled and threw away the armored hands. The old man watched his approach as his vision faded.

  “And so,” Fate snarled. “The Revolution has ended.”

  “No,” the Lord of Magic sputtered, barely audible. “Not yet.”

  Jon threw off wreckage. He looked down at his wife, checking for more injuries than she had already sustained. She smiled at him. With an effort, she reached out a hand and stroked the side of his face. What was not burned and blistered was pale, her breathing fading.

  “Ana,” said Jon. He took her hand in his own. “I am with you.”

  Her eyes welled, but there was no strength for her to speak. He brought his lips to her head and kissed her softly, his own tears no longer in check. He held her until the last moments. When her breathing stopped and her smiled faded, her Aden pulsed in beautiful light and danced along his arm.

  He was in the darkened room again, only there was no statue of his wife. She was there in the flesh. He ran to her and took her in his arms. She gripped him fiercely. He cried, and so did she. They slid to the floor together, holding tightly. Jon feared, more than anything, what would happen if he let her go.

  “Is this it?” he whispered. “Was that all the time we had?”

  She pulled his face from her shoulder and looked him in the eye. “I am with you. Always.”

  He opened his eyes and found his wife dead in his arms. Her Aden glowed brightly one last time before even they, too, faded. And his ignited.

  Are you ready, Naven of the Sacred Edge? asked Galeblade.

  His eyes turned to his enemy. Yes.

  Emersin crawled out of the flaming wreck, his armor in shambles, the bloody stump of his leg pulsing like a punctured steam pipe. The rest of his body was impaled on multiple shards of wood, and the carcass of the airship burned around him. There was one lance remaining on his left arm. He aimed at his bloodied stump and pulsed a single shot. The leg smoldered and seared, but it stopped bleeding. It took the rest of his energy not to scream.

  “What you doin’ here, Commander?” asked a soldier—not a Maddog, but one of the local boys. The lad placed a hand on the general’s shoulder and began to drag him from the wreckage. It was not easy going, for the soldier did not have any legs either.

  “Just trying to do the right thing for once,” the general muttered.

  “Oh yeah? How’s that goin’?”

  “I’ve led better campaigns. They do all seem to end the same way though.”

  They made their way out of the airship and into a burning field. They hunkered down as Angels descended and encircled the Lord of Fate, who stood over the still body of Noah. A figure appeared through the flames. It was Jon.

  “What’s your name, soldier?” Emersin asked.

  “Corporal Hamsey Frill. At your service, sir.”

  “And how are you not dead?”

  “Oh, I am, sir. Bit of some fucking bad luck. The Lord of Death was a nice enough fellow, though. Seemed to have some concerns about the goings on up here.”

  “The Lord of Death?”

  “Oh yeah. But I lied, he wasn’t all that nice.”

  “I’m sure I’ll find out for myself in a moment.”

  “Very right, sir. I don’t suppose you have a plan regarding fucking their shit up?”

  “Language, Corporal. For the moment, I’m intent to see what the Natheran can do.”

  “Yeah, all right…What’s a Natheran?”

  Jon flew through the Angels, his blade finding the soft spots in their armor with ease and quickness. They turned fire upon him, and when they could not reach him, they unsheathed their swords and extended their spears from places in their arms. For all their strength and power, the Angels fell. Jon’s movements were the product of years of training in an art designed for killing gods, with the added power of Galeblade and his own fury. The Angels’ energy had already been depleted, and the defense they offered could not withstand Jon’s blade. When the last of them fell, the boy turned to the Lord of Fate, who stood over the old man’s body.

  Jon squared his shoulders and made light his feet. “Leave him be.”

  The Lord of Fate cocked his head. “What happens next, boy? Will you take my body to the Anu and present it to Lords and Ladies whose loyalty to me is complete? There is no future for you without me.”

  “Doesn’t seem like I have much of one with you.”

  “Well,” agreed Fate, “in that you are correct.”

  Jon raised his sword. Four serrated blades cut off his arm below the shoulder. Arm and sword dropped onto the ground, twitching and bleeding. Jon stared at his arm in shock, cursing himself for feeding a fury that did not let him hear the footsteps behind him, for ignoring a lifetime of discipline, for vengeance that was now out of reach. Then came the pain.

  “Ahh,” Jon managed as he fell to his knees. The Lord of Murder cried in joy and danced in front of him.

  “YES! I got you, motherfucker! I got you!” Golden cords flew from the ground, whipping and tying Jon’s body. He barely had time for one last breath before the threads of fate closed around his throat.

  “Let me do him, my Lord,” muttered Murder. “I’ve got a score to settle.”

  “Do as you please,” came Fate’s answer.

  Murder yelped in excitement and leaned down in front of the boy. “We could have been something together. But I think in the end it wouldn’t have worked ou—”

  Galeblade appeared in Jon’s hand in the form of a dagger, cutting threads as she unsheathed into his palm. He rammed the tip of the spear upward through Murder’s chin, pinning its tongue to the roof of its mouth. Its eyes went wide as its body spasmed.

  He watched the body of Murder fall over with a slight smile even as rest of the threads cut into his skin. Fate watched silently. Murder flopped this way and that as it tried to remove the spear from his face whilst shouting incoherent curses.

  “Well.” The Lord of Fate waved his hand, and the ground in front of Jon opened. The Lord of Murder was caught in the wake as air rushed into the hellmouth. It stabbed bladed fingers into the ground before the current of air could pull it under. Jon grimaced at the foul and terrible smell, but reached out with his free hand. Galeblade responded, and the dagger removed herself from Murder’s face. The creature screamed and began its climb to the boy, sticking its fingers into the ground and pulling itself forward. Galeblade forged herself into a sword and found Jon’s hand. He cut the threads around him even as more sprang from the ground and wrapped around his legs and torso. Realizing the futility, Jon stepped forward using the pull of the hellmouth to grant him speed, and severed Murder’s hands from its wrists. The creature howled as the hell wind dragged it i
nto the pit. Jon thrust Galeblade into the ground and held tightly, using all his remaining strength to keep standing against the hellmouth’s pull.

  Fate walked into Jon’s peripheral vision and waited as Jon continued to struggle. “You will not get in the way of a perfect world. Arthen could not accomplish such, and neither shall you.” Fate gestured, and the hellmouth’s pull doubled its efforts. The threads of fate jerked Jon off his feet, his grip on Galeblade lessening quickly. The Lord of Fate watched impassively. A sword of silver light pierced the lord’s torso from behind. Fate’s scream echoed like thunder. The old man appeared from behind the golden god and leaned into his ear.

  “Let my curse be upon you,” whispered the Lord of Magic. “You will see your perfect world, and you will see it end.” Spellhound grew bright.

  Behind his mask, Fate’s eyes widened. He turned abruptly and seized the old man by the head. Niandithir looked to his boy and smiled proudly.

  “No…” Jon managed. Fate tore the old man’s head from his shoulders. Jon cried out in rage and fury. He cut many of the threads holding him before he launched himself at the king of Anu. The Lord of Fate gestured, and the remaining threads pulled Jon from the air and into the waiting hellmouth. The last son of Nathera gripped the edge of the pit as the rest of his body dangled over a fiery eternity. He found Fate’s eyes and snarled. This will not be my end. Fate frowned as though he had heard.

  Jon’s grip failed and he fell into the abyss. The pit closed around the last of the Natherans, the last son of War, and the terrible wind ceased, leaving the Lord of Fate alone amidst the burning field.

  The Lord of Fate walked among the fallen Angels and over the charred remains of the human airship, admiring the art of death as he had not seen since the war. The pain in his chest throbbed and burned with the heat of magic, and Niandithir’s last words rang through his mind. He walked and stumbled through the battlefield until he found what he was looking for. Arienaethin lay still but drew breath, even as her face began the miraculous art of healing. A man sat next to her, flowers blooming at his feet. Fate felt a very human chill creep up his spine.