The Foresters to his side ran at a sprint, Alann to their fore. An Iron Giant before him, swinging its great broadsword to cleave him in two. A leap, at the last instant, the Woodsman’s feet just touching the flat of the blade before bouncing off, hurtling over the monster’s helmet. As he passed it by, the silver axe struck out, a great rent tearing in the side of the dark dome, a scream of rage released as whatever bound spirit lurked within was sent back to its home. Alann landed catlike on his feet and continued on, the hulking mass of metal behind him collapsing to the ground.
Fifty yards now, the staircase growing closer, the tower of the Beacon looming dizzyingly high above them, stretching upwards into the murky, kaleidoscope sky of sorcerous colour.
An eruption ahead, the earth blossoming out like a volcano as another titanic construct hove into view to bar their path. The humans scattered before its wrath as the metal beast clawed its way from the pit. Encased in metal armour like the Iron Giants it was, with a torso and mighty arms, a crown atop its head. But there the similarities ended; this beast more akin to a centaur of legend, its lower half grossly enlarged with a titanic, spider-like abdomen, four metal, segmented legs lifting it high, high above the ground and the pathetic mortals that quailed before it. In one arm it clasped a shield of dark iron, its surface engraved in foul runes. In the other, a spear the length of ten men, which it used to thrust out, impaling men on the ground like fish in a stream.
The army of men skidded to a halt before the abomination, scattering as it sought to crush and thrust. The shamans unleashed their powers, the air pulsing to the tune of destruction, but Wrynn knew it was to no avail; the lightning and fire flickered and danced off its metal surface, leaving no mark or blemish. The Tulador Guard, this time, fared little better – the hard, angled armour of the construct deflecting the worst of the cannon shot with ease.
With a great, metallic roar of rage, the beast advanced.
***
“Iain!” called the Woodsman, diving to one side as a great, segmented leg came thrusting down towards the Foresters, sending up great clods of earth and splinters of stone. “How do you kill the Forest Viper?”
The second-in-command of the Foresters rose, brushing the dirt from his shoulders, as he frowned, before realising with shock what his Lord intended. He didn’t argue, instead nodding, calling out to a silver-armoured figure that crouched behind a rock.
“Hofsted! Lend me your cannon!”
The veteran ran over at a sprint as the metallic roars of the beast rang out, unslinging his weapon as he skidded to a halt beside the Forester.
“Does he know what he’s doing?”
The youth shrugged, a bemused smile on his face.
“Do any of us?”
The Forester handed the cannon to his leader, who tied it about him with the leather harness. Drop the weapon and this could all go horribly wrong.
“How are you going to do this? The beast will surely see you!”
He pointed out to the iron monster that scanned this way and that, its spear thrusting out with mechanical precision and metronomic regularity. To face it head on would be almost certain death. The Woodsman flashed him a rare smile, even as an olive-skinned warrior darted past, bow in hand.
“Got that covered…”
And with that, he took off.
***
Narlen sprinted, the ground a grey blur beneath his feet as he charged towards the looming construct, borrowed bow in his hands.
“Oi!” he hollered out, trying to catch the beast’s attention. “Over here!”
The demonic machine noticed him, hollow, empty visor snapping around to watch him.
“Oh shit…”
That long spear thrust out and Narlen rolled to one side, the sharp stony ground tearing at his back, but his reflexes kept him alive, as the mechanical thrust of the weapon buried its point five feet deep into the earth. The Plainsman leapt up to his feet, nocking an arrow and loosing at the monster’s head.
A satisfying metallic clang as the arrowhead bounced off the helmet and Narlen raced on, shocked for an instant, that he’d hit his mark; Yaht training had been banned under the rule of Invictus, no weapons training allowed for fear of it giving the slaves ‘ideas.’ Clandestine, night-time training had been his only experience of war till lately.
The whistling of air as the spearhead thrust forth once more, and another dive, running away from the bulk of the army now, turning the beast away from his friends as he had done once before.
Another lancing of that spear, the wind shrill behind him, this time the razor point just catching him on the shoulder, sending him spinning to the ground, a spray of blood from the superficial wound. He lay there, winded, shoulder burning from the injury, blinking the sudden tears from his eyes to see, with horror, the monstrosity towering high above him. He tried to rise, but couldn’t; taloned hands pinned him in place, the tips piercing savagely into his flesh. He looked up, left and right; gleeful red eyes as the two demon spawn held him down fast, ready for his fate.
The Iron Centaur roared in metallic triumph, but as it drew back the lethal lance to impale the Plainsmen with one final thrust, a figure hove into view atop its shoulder. A rapping of metal on metal, as the diminutive silhouette caught the monster’s attention.
“Knock, knock…”
The dark helmet turned, visor slit swivelling to take in the surprise visitor. A cannon barrel thrust into the darkness. A cacophonous boom, followed by a piercing shriek of tortured spirits. The four-legged construct began to weave, unsteady on its feet, now the guiding demon bound within had been sent back whence it came. The spawn to Narlen’s sides squealed in fear as they released him, leaping off in sinewy bounds to flee the impending destruction as the metal titan wavered, before falling forwards with a squeaking of metal joints, its shadow growing to encompass the Plainsman as he lay motionless before his doom.
A boom, the ground shaking, at the impact. Alann leapt from the monster’s shoulder, rolling to safety on the ground, before spinning and sprinting back to the pile of empty armour. There, the great slab of metal that formed the beast’s shield. He discarded the cannon, grasping with both hands the edge of the shield, still warm to the touch from the sorceries once bound within. Other figures flocked to either side, helping him heave. With a great groan of metal, the shield came lose, falling to land with a dull thud on the ground.
There, the face of Narlen, bloodied, covered in dirt, but still very much alive.
He grinned in good humour as his comrade pulled him free, hands wrapped about each other’s forearms.
“Twice, my friend. Twice I’ve saved your sorry ass…”
“I shall have to buy you a drink.”
“A drink?”
A brief respite, a ripple of laughter through the assembled warriors, but rudely interrupted by a grinding, crunching rumble of displaced rocks.
Behind the fallen construct, between the army and the stairs, fresh eruptions, two more metal horrors rising up, torturing the air with their mechanical cries of fury, demons and Iron Giants swarming about their segmented feet like ants about their queen.
The men backed off, limbs turning to lead, stomachs filling with ice.
Narlen gave out a brief sigh of resignation, as Alann shook his weary head. He went to open his mouth, to steel the hearts of his men, to shore up the last reserves of their tattered courage, but a piercing light, a rushing of wind and he never got to voice his words.
Overhead, high above the army, a streaking star, a burning missile; a comet, pure and blinding white that soared past them, aimed unerring for one of the towering Iron Centaurs. A resounding boom, as the bright light impacted against the metal, passing clean through the construct and lancing out the other side, before rising and looping about the Beacon tower and out of sight.
The Centaur looked down with an eyeless visor; a gaping hole, ragged edges glowing red with heat, pierced clean through its metal chest, the army gazing through the gap to spy t
he tower beyond. With a final shudder of release, the beast fell, crushing scores of its lesser demons beneath its bulk.
Bright light lit up the battlefield again, the streaking ball of fury back in sight now that it had looped about the tower, streaking down from the heavens, its intention clear.
The second Centaur tracked the incandescent comet with smooth, mechanical precision, ready this time. Its four legs buried themselves into the rock of the island beneath it as it braced, its massive, rune-engraved shield held before it.
To no avail.
A second impact, this time the construct surviving thanks to the sorceries of its shield. But the dark magicks couldn’t protect it from the laws of momentum; four piercing red lines of molten iron scored the earth as the beast was catapulted like a stone to fly clean off the island and land, a mile out to sea, where it sank, helpless, to the watery depths.
As one, the army of men turned to gaze at their salvation.
***
Gwenna staggered forwards, mind struggling to cope with the image before her, the impossibility of what she was seeing.
It was Stone. Only not.
Over her years of study under Master Wrynn she had come close to knowing the essence of the elements; she had even undertaken the Journey, as so few had in the decades since Invictus had risen to power, meeting with the Avatars themselves. And in this blazing, glorious titan that stood before her, before the army, she recognised a kinship, a bond, between it and the Avatars themselves.
Stone was no longer a shaman. No longer a borrower of the spirits’ might.
He was the elements incarnate. The perfect combination of man and nature.
His power, unlimited.
Unbidden, she fell to her knees, the rustling of armour about her indicating the army doing the same. Only Alann remained on his feet. Stone graced him with a nod and the Woodsman returned it in kind.
The radiant being of light walked towards them, his very presence renewing the strength of all gathered there, in a very real and physical sense. Wrynn rose, unable to withhold the smile of joy from his face any longer, as the titan embraced him like a lost son. They parted, the shaman’s eyes widening in disbelief; for all about the army, the gale-driven rain lashed down with languid slowness; the forces of the enemy frozen in time.
The entire army of men had been caught in a vortex of time, as though each and every man and woman had been blessed with the gift of Falcon-Sight.
“Stone… how…?”
Stone bade him hush with a smile, before speaking, his white robes fluttering in the gale, his voice not so much heard as felt; a voice beyond that of any mortal, or even immortal.
No time for pleasantries, old friend, he told the shaman. I must leave you shortly, for events transpire at the top of the Beacon and I must bend my power to their arrest.
“What would you have us do?”
Continue with the plan. Assault and take the stairs, making your way up. The Tulador Guard can bring up the rear and hold off the brunt of the pursuit.
Wrynn nodded in understanding.
“Yes, my Lord.” The title came naturally now. There was no other way to refer to this being before them.
Another voice now, hesitant; Marlyn, of the Tuladors.
“My Lord,” he knelt down to one knee, cannon slung over one shoulder. “We run low on ammunition and powder. I fear your trust in us is misplaced.”
The angel smiled, his confidence spreading out like a seeping warmth to wash away the fears of all knelt there.
Ammunition and powder are no longer your concern, brave Marlyn. He swept his arm over the assembled, silver-mailed warriors who held their cannons close. They gasped, as a tingling warmth passed through their weapons, the rough-cast metal taking on a polished and golden hue as powers untold worked wonders within.
In addition, I shall not be leaving you entirely alone.
A rushing of wind and two radiant blades flew overhead to hover, loyal and patient by the sides of their master. The twin Glaives of legend. The army gasped as they regarded the weapons. Tales, stories regaled by travellers and passed down from father to son had spoken of these swords; obsidian black, and smoky as though forged of the night air itself. These must be the same weapons, by all rights, must be. But they were not black, no. Not any longer.
The weapons were clear like crystal, shimmering with barely contained power; roiling maelstroms of bright colours captured within, hinting at the elemental fury locked and bound within those blades.
Sinister shall aid your ascent. At unspoken command, the left-hand blade, shorter, stockier, like a cleaver, floated over to take its place by Wrynn.
Again, the shaman nodded.
“Thank you.”
Now I must leave you to join battle at the top of the tower. Meet me when you can. I shall clear a path to the stairs for you, but make haste; the enemy respawn quickly.
With that, the frozen moment in time passed, the rain hammering it down once more as the blazing defender of mankind leapt into the sky. Turning, he soared towards the tower, cleansing white flames scouring the ground beneath him of demons as he went, before whipping up, going ballistic and disappearing with a boom of thunder into the murky sky.
***
The wind made no noise during his ascent, for he was supersonic now, the sound of his passage receding behind him as he rose on trails of light. A flock of bat-like creatures barred his way about halfway up, dozens of them, faces contorted in gargoyle snarls of rage as they swarmed, but he paid them no heed, the shockwave as he ploughed on by blasting them aside and dashing them against the stone flanks of the tower.
Fear had no place in his mind after his transformation; such mortal concerns left far behind, but a certain apprehension still plagued him. He was, for all intents and purposes, a god now in the natural world; for as long as the power of the elements coursed through him at full flow, nothing could touch him. But as he rose through the cloud, nearing the top of the tower, he could feel the power constricting, throttling off somewhat, like water trying to rush through a blocked pipe.
He was leaving this plane of reality.
He slowed back down to sub-sonic velocities, lest he overshoot the platform at the top, the flat surface coming into view from through the maelstrom. He rose up over the edge, fully expecting to be assailed by a hail of dark sorcery, but there was none. Curious, he alighted on the stone surface, allowing gravity to once more resume its hold on him.
The platform was eerily quiet as he looked about. Everything seemed much the same as it had the last time he’d set foot here. The difference this time being that the dark runes and symbols inscribed in the floor now rebelled at his presence, hissing in torment as he paced over them. The pyramid rose ahead, the portal atop glowing a lurid green and he stopped, taken aback for an instant, by how large the portal had already grown.
The vortex swirled a hundred feet across from the cradle of obsidian stone, the green emerald already consumed by the process. Some hope remained, however, for the connection was not yet complete, the portal as yet merely a tear in reality, seeping off into dimensions unknown.
Soon, however, the link would be forged and the portal would erupt from the other side, opening out onto Stone’s homeworld. The Earth.
He frowned, pondering, as he strode, two-at-a-time, up the steps of the pyramid, upwards towards the portal itself. Where, exactly, were the vast armies of the enemy? It came to him; the creatures’ energies were drained by staying in this world, therefore they were probably kept in some pocket dimension, garnering their strength till the moment of transport. He closed his eyes, extending his senses outwards, feeling through the walls of reality like one might try to guess the hidden contents of a bag. Yes. There they were. He could feel the darkness. The malice.
At least, the bulk of the forces, the elite were there, waiting. The plebs, the trash, the fodder were unleashed far below in an attempt to stave off the army of men that even now sought to climb the tower.
He opened his eyes, almost starting as he saw a figure standing before him at the top of the pyramid who hadn’t been there before.
“My King… well, this is a pleasant surprise.”
The Seeress had changed little during his time away; every bit as cold, shapely and alluring as ever before. He could feel her dark charms radiating outwards, trying to befuddle his senses.
He was above such petty magicks now.
These are your last moments, Ceceline. Use them wisely.
The Seeress staggered backwards half a step, taken aback by the power of his voice, but quickly regained her composure. She raised an eyebrow in curiosity, a smile on her face as she moved around him, one long, slender arm reaching over to touch his shoulder, but jerking away quickly as though the recipient of a static shock.
“What, no treaties? No pleas for me to stop? No persuading me to see the error of my ways?” She pouted, like a hurt child.
No. This ends one way; with your death. As it did with Kurnos. As it did with Memphias. So it shall with you.
The witch snorted, backing off a few steps, raising her hands to her sides as thunder rumbled in the background. Dark energies gathered about her slender form, wreathing her in an infernal embrace and she shuddered in ecstasy as eldritch power coursed through her body.
She opened her eyes with a smile and spoke, her voice overlaid with a thousand hushed whispers that promised pain and pleasure in equal measure, clawing incessantly from the air all about them.
“Bold words, my lover. But there is only one destiny; that of my masters.”
She reached out her slim hands before her, dark lightning lunging out with ferocious hunger to strike him down, but Dexter whipped in from nowhere with a flash, the foul energies bouncing harmlessly off its indestructible crystal form.
From the Ashes Page 13