by Jeff Gunzel
* * *
The dark of night crept over the desert and Eric sat alone, gazing down at the camp. Flickering light from multiple fires highlighted solemn faces, soldiers sitting in silence while they stoked the low flames. How many of them will never make it home to their families? If they failed to make a stand here, would their families even exist within a week? The dark thoughts pulled at his mind.
He glanced up at the churning portal, pondering...thinking... What if I can stop this before it ever begins? Maybe I can close it, eliminating the threat altogether! How many centuries might pass before the planets realign and Krytoes gains a second chance to enter our world? It’s possible these perfect conditions might never repeat. I have to try...
He got to his feet and reached out with his mind, trying to focus on the foreign energies that swirled about in the sky. He could feel the energy, tame yet powerful like the rolling waves of an ocean—a massive body of untapped power just waiting to explode. His mind became in tune with the portal, its energy pulsing rhythmically like the music of nature. The soft thumping was almost pleasant. Inviting.
With what felt like a safe and secure link formed, he gently began to close off the swirling energy. He raised his hand higher, balling it into a fist. Yes, that’s it. He would sever the energy from this side and—
The soft, inviting energy abruptly turned vile. The link shattered, dropping him to his knees as the foul sickness flowed through him. He retched once, thrice, his stomach pumping with violent dry heaves that made his whole body twitch with convulsions. His belly was a ball of bile, his veins pumped acid. The agonizing combination of sickness and raw pain was enough to make him go mad.
“Eric!” came a distant call. It barely registered as he writhed in agony, twitching and flopping about like a fish on land. His arms lifted, something pulling him across the ground and away from the cliff. It was the farthest thing from his descending mind. Searing pain was his only reality now.
An icy blast revived a portion of his senses, snapping his eyes back into focus. Yammon stood over him holding an empty bucket. “I’m sorry, Eric,” he said, a solemn look on his face. “I should have been watching you closer.”
Eric looked up, gasping and panting as the pain began to bleed back into his body. “Sorry?” he gasped, gulping air as he looked around in confusion. “Sorry for wha—”
“For this.” Eric’s arms stretched out straight, a monk on each side holding him fast. Yammon lunged forward, clasping his mouth with a damp rag. “Do it, now!” Yammon barked, practically choking Eric with the foul-smelling cloth. Eric’s blood-curdling scream was muffled by the rag as both his wrists were sliced open. “What color?” Yammon asked, still pressing the rag as hard as he could.
“Black,” came two separate responses.
“Keep the blood flowing,” he replied, struggling against Eric’s strength. He thrashed about, fire shooting up both his wrists. He kicked futilely, monks holding him down from every angle. Seconds felt like hours as he fought to get away, pushed back against the pain. His cloudy mind could hardy register what was happening to his body.
“It’s turning red!” said one voice.
“Still black,” echoed the other.
“Put more pressure on his left wrist!” Yammon ordered, tipping Eric’s head in that direction. The fumes from the rag were helping, but his body still felt as if it were on fire. How much more of this could he take?
“Red! It just changed to red,” the second man called out.
Relief washed over Yammon, and he loosened the pressure on the rag. “Bandage him and stop the bleeding,” he said. “I think we’ve got it all.” Eric felt the pressure of wrappings being bound around his wrists. Normally, that kind of pressure should have hurt against his cuts. But compared to what he’d just been through, the snug wraps felt good. The fire had left his veins and his stomach no longer wanted to expel every meal he’d ever had.
Two men left with the full bowls and dumped them on the sand outside. The blackish bloody mix hissed against the ground, serpent-like fins surfacing up from the thick, foul liquid. Streams of misty white steam rose up from the dirt. The bowls themselves smoked, sizzling and falling apart right in their hands.
“Get him back to his hut,” Yammon said. “Rest in the only thing that will help him now.”
* * *
Morning came and Eric slowly opened his eyes. His head swam and throbbed. The whole room appeared to be spinning. With his mind filled with disturbing images, he wondered if it had all been a dream. But one glance at his bandaged wrists verified that those morbid memories had been real.
After a short time, Yammon entered the hut holding a pitcher of hot tea. “How are you feeling?” he asked, pouring them each a cup.
“Like a fool,” Eric replied, falling back as his head bounced off the pillow. “What in the world was I thinking?”
“You weren’t thinking,” Yammon stated, a cold edge to his voice. With a sigh he handed Eric the steaming cup. “But that’s never been your strength, has it? I admire your courage, but it nearly cost you your life. You allowed the evil of that portal to enter your body and we had to drain it as quickly as possible. If we hadn’t found you when we did...” He shuddered before taking a long sip of tea. “Best not to think about.”
Eric sat back up and accepted the tea. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was stupid of me. I...I just thought there might be another way. Maybe I could end this myself and no one would have to die.”
Yammon’s hard expression softened. “People are going to die, Eric. That can’t be helped. But without you everyone dies, and the sacrifice of so many will be for nothing. In the coming days you’re going to have to make some hard choices, but sacrificing your own life must not be one of them.” Eric looked away, his shame apparent.
Hearing a rising commotion outside, they shared a concerned look. Eric set down his tea and followed Yammon from the tent. Men gathered near the side of the cliff, pointing and shouting with excitement. Pushing their way through to the front, they looked out across the desert. Monks rubbed their eyes in stunned silence.
Off in the distance, armies marched with their banners high, several forces from multiple parts of Shangti, each varying greatly in appearance. Warriors from Meziton, tall lanky men with crude shields and no armor, marched with their red banners bearing a golden serpent. A legion sent from Crygosto, each man wearing full plate with strapped blades to either side, flew blue banners with a black scorpion.
Eric saw organized men marching in perfect rows as their leaders barked out timely orders, smoothly changing their formation with a single word. Near them marched groups of mercenaries wearing low-quality leather armor and mismatched weapons. Behind that group was the Borka Tribe clad from head to toe with furs, marching in chaotic formations that were comically unorganized. Word had spread throughout the land when that vortex opened, and militaries from the farthest corners of Shangti had been sent.
Yammon patted Eric on the back. “You see this, my boy? We are not so alone as you once feared. The world of men is not ready to give up what’s ours. A little faith goes a long w—”
Heads began turning to the tree line towards the east. Flocks of startled birds took flight, rising up above the treetops. Something was on the move and headed this way. Treetops began to shake and vibrate before tipping over with a shrill crackling. What had the power to topple those thick trees, snapping them like sticks?
The outline of a woman appeared from the tree line, tall and looking completely out of place wearing a dress instead of any battle attire. Close behind her trees were still breaking, falling forward like children’s toys being tipped with a finger. Morita gazed out at the camp of humans.
She grinned, her thick snake-like tongue snapping around in a wild frenzy. Silently, her hands raised up, pointing towards the loosely forming battle lines. There came an explosion of movement as her boarchards burst from the tree line, rolling with incredible speed. The metal balls hurled towa
rds the camp, kicking up clouds of dust as they crushed anything in their path.
* * *
“Coom ta shre ta,” Rheldon thundered, shouting a cryptic command to his fellow Tryads. In a flash these famed killers were perfectly aligned, shields readied with both hands. None had drawn a weapon as of yet. Kelus’s men held the rear, spears up and ready to do anything that was asked of them.
The boarchards rolled closer, their steel hard shells turning rocks to dust. “Hold,” Rheldon barked, his men still as statues. “Steady!” Only a few feet away now, the steel balls were positioned to wipe out the camp in a single pass. “Kro coo dis neera!”
With freakish precision, each man pivoted away from the path he was blocking, and used his momentum to slam his shield into the rolling beast to his opposite side. So many shields hitting metal at once caused a thunderous impact. They couldn’t possibly stop the beasts cold, but it slowed them greatly. The shrill grinding of metal on metal rang out, screeching as streams of sparks showered into the air. The boarchards tried to push through, but it was all muscle now as their momentum had been lost.
“Go!” ordered Kelus, sending his men in as a second wave. They converged on the slowing beasts, Tryads still pushing back with their shields locked up tight. Thick pink whiskers twitched in frustration, exposing the joining weak spot in the otherwise solid shells. Spearheads drove in, wiggling and prying to open them up enough to get a clear strike at a vital spot.
Staying rolled up didn’t matter now. All their momentum had been lost, and sooner or later the humans would pry their way in. With no choice left they snapped open, each rising up to their substantial height. The Tryads jumped back, many abandoning their shields in favor of quickly drawn blades. Their job was to stop this rolling death any way they could, and they had done that. Now it was time to finish them off.
Wide gray heads with purple eyes glanced about, chirping with thick pink whiskers flopping up and down. Even in this clumsier form they were still plenty dangerous. Segmented batons flashed in their hands, their bellies clicking with tiny clawed legs that could easily rip flesh from bone. Soldiers circled the creatures, spears and swords readied while cutting off any possible escape.
“Don’t let them grab you!” yelled Jacob, rushing at one with his staff whirling about. With a clumsy looping swing, a baton strike whizzed past his shoulder. He flinched more than ducked, evading the heavy blow, then unleashed a barrage of strikes. Arm, arm, knee...he cracked the giant with snapping shots, then rolled to the side as the baton came crashing in on a backswing, sinking into the sand.
He sprang to his feet and rushed in once more, staff already spinning in motion. He sidestepped a second blow, this one too sinking into the ground beside him. Seeing the easy target, he changed his course of action. Using no finesse whatsoever, he drove his staff down with everything he had. The beast’s arm cracked under the immense pressure, elbow hyper extending the wrong direction. It gurgled with pain, releasing the baton and stumbling to the side.
Jacob reversed his staff, driving it directly in the boarchard’s knee. Again, he used all the force he could muster but the result was not the same. Thick as a tree trunk, the leg buckled but was still able to support the creature’s weight.
Enraged, it rumbled forward, charging him head-on. Bewildered by his strike’s lack of effectiveness, Jacob stumbled back against the charging onslaught. It seemed as though he may have underestimated the resilience of this beast.
A torrent of arrows zipped over the top of his head, blasting the boarchard across the chest and arms. Several bounced off its hard skin, but most managed to sink into flesh, forcing it to stagger back the other way. Jacob sighed with relief. Another step or two and he would have been crushed. He needed to show more patience considering how many soldiers were around him to help. No need to do this alone.
Glancing around, it seemed the others were having similar success against their own antagonists. Once their rolling charge had been stopped, the boarchards were still certainly powerful, but slow and relatively clumsy. They could be overwhelmed with swarming numbers.
“Tri coo do!” yelled Rheldon, facing off against one of his own. His men surrounded it, mostly slashing out probing strikes that deflected off its steel-like shell. All they were doing was trying to keep it occupied so the bladesmaster could step in and do what he did best. Jacob watched from a distance, knowing he couldn’t really help without getting in the way. Part of him really just wanted to see what this legend could do. It was not every day one could watch the leader of the Tryads in action.
The beast flicked its baton, each segment separating as the weapon elongated. In a blink, it now held a metal whip that could cut as easily as any blade. With a rolling lash, its weapon cracked left then right, driving back the soldiers and creating some space for itself. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rheldon charged forward, steel flashing in his hand.
The metal whip snapped out, deflecting off the blade in a shower of sparks. It retracted then snapped back again with the same result. The boarchard no longer appeared clumsy, displaying fine mastery with this form of his weapon. It snapped out again with lightning speed, its lash sailing over the top of Rheldon as he dropped into a forward roll.
Springing up in front of the beast’s chest, he unleashed a flurry like Jacob had never seen before. His blade worked like a viper, each slash barely detectable by the human eye. The whirling steel was a blur, shards of shell, claws and whiskers shaving off with the high-pitched squeal of metal shredding metal.
Severely wounded and leaking from dozens of lacerations, the beast desperately snapped its whip back and forth, flailing wildly to try and fend off this lone attacker. Rheldon’s sidestepping dodges appeared more like he was teleporting from side to side, each movement effortless and smooth. With each flailing miss, the boarchard paid with another chunk of his body. It dropped to its knees, a single pink whisker hanging by a thin piece of tattered flesh.
Not breathing hard or even showing a drop of sweat, Rheldon bowed before the beast. “May the gods show you mercy,” he said. “Because I am not in the business of mercy.” He struck out, sword sinking deep between those clicking claws. Then with an incredible show of strength, he tore his blade upward, ripping through several feet of hardened flesh. In a gush of gore it exited out through the top of its head, splitting right between those large purple eyes.
Jacob could only watch, eyes wide and jaw hung open. Oh, what he wouldn’t give to watch a sparring session between Rheldon and Azek!
Chapter 16
Nervously, Eric watched from above. It appeared they had somehow managed to suppress the first wave of boarchards. Jacob looked to be in rare form, and the Tryads were certainly living up to their reputation, but that still wasn’t enough to ease his uncertainty. This was only the beginning, and the real threat had yet to show itself. Heads shifted to the north, drawing his gaze as well.
“Oh no,” Yammon gasped under his breath. For the first time, Eric saw true fear in the old man’s eyes. “The Crimson Empire!”
The great red army was marching in, Empress Ilenaya Moki herself riding out in front. Mounting a great white bear clad in golden chainmail, she was surrounded by red guards each wearing their famous spiked armor. The rest of her forces marched behind them in tight lines, together forming a perfect square of advancing power.
High above circled some strange sort of giant birds with scaly heads. Gliding through the clouds, their long, powerful wings pounded the air with a sharp whooshing that could be heard even from this distance. The crintonas bore riders on their backs with bright red chainmail. Wind Riders! Each held a long lance strapped to his back, the perfect weapon for diving down on the enemy from above.
As the army moved closer, Yammon got a better look at the bodyguards surrounding Ilenaya. From here they looked to be headless men with red capes fluttering at their backs. Each step was in perfect unison with the man next to him, the timing too perfect to be anything from this world. On their
chest plates were golden crowns, colorless jewels atop five separate peaks.
“Soul Walkers,” Yammon whispered, clearly shaken by the sight. “There are at least fifty of them!”
“Soul Walkers?” said Eric. “What are those? What exactly are we up against?”
“I’m afraid your friends are in trouble,” Yammon admitted, unable to take his eyes off the sea of marching red. “But there is nothing we can do for them now.”
“I disagree,” said Eric, swiping his hand outward. The air ripped open, and he started to bolt into the shimmering portal, but a heaving impact sent him straight to the ground before he got through.
“No, you can’t!” Yammon ordered, pinning him down along with two other monks. In a flash, even more piled on to help hold him down. “I’m sorry, but we cannot allow you to risk yourself amongst a war of men. Your importance is far greater than anything happening down there. Your purpose is clear, and we forbid you to risk yourself.”
Eric’s eyes began to glow, the charred markings along his arms shimmering with energy. “Do you really think you can hold me here?” he hissed, voice dangerously quiet. “You think I’ll sit by and watch as my friends die? This is your only warning, release me now or—”
A second doorway ripped open a few feet away. Eric’s confused expression confirmed that he had nothing to do with it. A black outline materialized, causing a sudden scramble amongst the monks. Weapons were drawn, the monks surrounding the Gate Keeper protectively. The shadowy outline materialized into a plump woman with curly brown hair. She smiled at Eric as he pushed his way back to his feet.
“Mise?” he said, brushing himself off.
“Of course it’s me,” she replied, her almost motherly smile seeming so out of place when surrounded by such violence. Did the aloof woman’s demeanor ever change?
“Mise, please,” Eric pleaded. “I have no idea what you think you’re doing, but you must get out of here. This is not a good time!”