From the Ashes

by Gareth K Pengelly

  “Manners, my dear Lieutenant. Ladies first.”

  Surprise barely had time to register in Hofsted’s eyes as the ball of golden energy leapt back the way it had come, the Lieutenant vaporised in a boiling cloud of steam and ash till nothing remained save the weapon itself that clattered noisily to the ground amidst its own high-pitched whine.

  A cry of dismay from the Tulador Guards and a roar of anguish from Arbistrath, who charged forwards to the amused stare of the Seeress, only to be held back by a firm hand.

  “No, lad,” hissed Alann behind him. “This is Gwenna’s fight. Besides,” his voice took on a different tone now, “we have worries of our own to contend with…”

  The men turned as one, looking down the steps they had ascended to the platform below; swarms of demon spawn, untold numbers, crawling towards them in a great seething mass of black skin, horns and baleful red eyes.

  Ceceline smiled, clapping her hands.

  “Gentlemen, some privacy please.”

  Pol stood at Gwenna’s side, his eyes full of concern.

  “Go,” she told him. “I can handle this bitch.”

  Reluctantly, he nodded and made off with the rest of the army as battle was joined below, leaving behind the Portal and the two women bathed in its evil glow, who each stood staring, with venom and hunger, at the other.

  ***

  “They need you, my Lord.”

  You? How are you here?

  “How do you think…?”

  Silence for a moment.

  I see. How fares the battle?

  “Not so well for me…”

  Laughter, quiet and sad.

  “But the army are at the summit. The climax is reached. They could use your aid. We could all have used your aid. Why are you here?”

  I got… distracted.

  More laughter.

  “Very well. But hurry back now; they have need of you and time is short.”

  No, Master Wrynn. Time is one thing I have in abundance now. Silence for a moment, then: Will I see you again?

  Silence.

  Their paths had diverged, one leading to death, the other to life.

  The end had come for one, yet for the other, was just within his reach.

  Chapter Eight:

  In great waves they came, swarming up the steps, clambering up the stone sides of the tower by fearsome claws, or propelled, soaring into the sky on tattered wings like those of a bat.

  The demon-spawn, the gargoyles; they came without number.

  Naresh swung his hammer once more, arms burning as the heavy, iron head pummelled the skull of another creature into oblivion, the beast flailing on the floor before vanishing in a roar of flame and smoke. The weapon had once felt awkward in his hands; he remembered the dungeons beneath the Slave Market, the stunned numbness that had filled him as he’d struck dead the Once-Clansman that had borne down on Narlen.

  But times had changed, events moving so fast, and now the hammer merely felt an extension of himself. Yet still he didn’t feel like a warrior. Something had changed within him after the fight in the Great Hall; that blazing, radiant angel that had appeared to save them, more than once now – something of his power had rubbed off on Naresh. No, he was no warrior and this hammer not a weapon. It was a tool. An instrument with which he could shape the future.

  Another gibbering monster came lunging forwards and it was almost as if on autopilot that he ducked the wild swing, thrusting forwards with his hammer to wind the beast, before swinging it up into the creature’s chin, the bones shattering with an audible crack, this new foe vanishing in turn as Naresh continued his train of thought with almost nonchalant detachment.

  One of the Woodsman’s Four. What did that mean? The words of the being of light echoed within his soul. Never had he been part of anything important, not to any great level; his entire life spent as merely a small cog in a vast machine. A cog so easily replaced should it break. Yet now he felt a calling, as though those luminous green eyes had pierced the fabric of time and seen the myriad possibilities and uses for him.

  He thought back to his family, long gone now, no doubt sacrificed to power the glowing green tear in space and time that swirled above them. Smiths, forgers of weapons. Small cogs, like him. Yet productive and taking pride in their work. Could he have that same pride, somewhere, buried within? He had never felt it. But maybe the giant had seen it. Could it be that he, Naresh, a nothing, a nobody, had been chosen to help build something? To be a part of Stone’s vision of mankind’s future?

  A howling demon spawn charged towards him, ready to tackle him to the ground, and Naresh allowed himself to fall backwards, legs raised, hurling the creature over him to land, sprawled on the floor. Quick as a flash the young Steppes Man rose to his feet, looming over the hissing beast that knew its demise was inevitable. A single hammer blow and the demon was still.

  A tiny oasis of silence about him, a calm amidst the storm of battle, and the youth became aware of eyes regarding him. Men stood about, quailing before the fresh rush of demons that hurled themselves forwards on cloven feet, fearful eyes turning to him, as if seeking some shouted words of encouragement. Why him?

  These men were the Foresters; they had seen him with the Woodsman, fighting alongside him, striding across the back of the Demon of the Bridge like conquerors of old. Brave men and women, all, but pushed to the limit. He stood tall, straight, allowing the memories of those glowing, green eyes to fill him with promises of potential, quashing by sheer might of will the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Those that fought about him weren’t warriors either, he reminded himself, despite their skill; they were common men and women, like him. And they needed encouragement. He was the one to give it.

  He was no longer a small cog.

  “Steady friends!” he called out to those nearby, his voice filled with a strength surpassing his years. “We hold this platform. Not a single creature makes it past.” He narrowed his eyes as he growled. “Lord Stone will return and his vengeance shall be great.”

  With a great cry the next wave was met, hordes of red-eyed monstrosities hurling themselves in reckless abandon in their thirst for mortal blood.

  Naresh hoped that he was right.

  ***

  “Die!”

  Tears streamed down Arbistrath’s face as the hordes of demons that faced his wrath fell like wheat before the harvester’s scythe. Where his sabre lashed out, heads were parted from torsos. Where the cannon he wielded in one hand spoke, packs of gibbering entities would vanish without trace. Nothing could stand before his vengeance and his men stood back, in awe of his newfound prowess.

  But his courage was the madness of the bereaved. The blind berserker rage of loss. And one man knew the feeling too well. A hand on his shoulder, once again, and the Woodsman jumped backwards as the deposed Lord span, cannon aimed for the kill.

  “Calm yourself, Arbistrath! We fight for our survival, not their extermination.”

  Arbistrath nodded as the other man ran off, axe ever to hand, to aid a struggling group of men. The Woodsman was right, of course; there was a difference between courage in battle and recklessness; fury led to the destruction of your foe, but it was a cool head that prevented your own.

  And it would not do the Tulador Guard to lose their Lord, not now, not after their recent loss. First Master Wrynn, who had looked after them for the last year, always patient, despite Arbistrath’s attitude at times.

  And now Hofsted.

  The thought stirred a storm of rage in his chest and he channelled the pain into the Lieutenant’s borrowed weapon that lay cradled in his arm, pulling the trigger and sending a golden cloud of power skyward to evaporate a swarm of gargoyles.

  The men of Tulador had done their best to raise him, following the death of his father so long ago; Hofsted, teaching him the subtleties of court; Poland, teaching him the ways of battle. But despite being men of character, they had struggled to discipline him; they were servants, he their master. Perhaps
that was why he had grown so haughty over the years.

  But recently, amidst the pain of battle he had begun to know a kinship with those beside him; he was still their lord but they were all in it together, all fighting for their own survival. When that truth had hit him, that he was important not because of birthright, but because he was a leader of men, his heart had soared in his chest as he’d seen the paternal pride on the old warrior’s features.

  At last, he’d done them proud. But that pride cut short at the taking of Hofsted’s life.

  He snarled, then quelled the anger that threatened to overtake him. He glanced over to the figure of the Woodsman that fought but yards away; so different, the two of them, poles apart in station of birth. Yet now thrust into the same position by circumstance; both leaders of men. He watched, almost in awe, as he saw the hearts of men lift wherever the Woodsman fought, warriors hauling themselves up and charging into the fray, courage renewed by his example. The humble man didn’t inspire them out of political motivation, didn’t fight hard for glory.

  He only did what was right.

  Arbistrath smiled. He would try his hardest to emulate that man, a peasant, someone that he once wouldn’t even have spared a second look should he pass him in the streets. Perhaps the lord lacked the easy charisma and likeability of the quiet, confident man, but he was sure it would come in time. Time changed a lot of things. Healed a lot of things.

  He turned, eyeing up the swelling horde that raced once more towards him and his men, before hefting his whining cannon in preparation.

  Time. That was all he wished for.

  ***

  Narlen span, whirling about, the Hruti spinning around him in a blur of motion that sent demons flying, left and right. Not for the first time the thought crossed his mind; how can I be doing this? I don’t have the skill. Don’t have the training. But he didn’t question it too hard.

  Lest the gift leave him, mid-flow.

  Elerik, by his side, the farmer wielding a borrowed broadsword with a grace and deftness that belied his less-than-martial bearing. Between them, one half of the Woodsman’s Four carved a path through the horde. But for every infernal creature they cut down, two more sprang up in their place.

  They were fighting a losing battle.

  Yet the ever present fear never seemed to gain purchase on the pair. No matter how fierce the foe, no matter how hopeless the odds, they duo stayed strong, kept fighting. Where did this boundless courage, this steely determination stem from? Had they been changed, deep in the bowels of the Pen after the visitation by the angel of light? Or, as Narlen suspected, was it the fact that they were now bound to the Woodsman himself, partaking of some of his courage and might?

  Whatever the cause for their new strength, Narlen was grateful.

  How things had changed; only weeks ago, he was a servant in the halls of Pen-Argyle; carrying burdens of wine to his gluttonous masters. Years of servitude – all he’d known since becoming strong enough to haul a load – but he’d always known he was different, always felt the burning pride in his chest, the pride of the Plains People that he’d seen all but sputter and die in his fellow slaves. So he’d taken it upon himself to leave, in the dead of night, to forge a new life in the wilds.

  It had only taken two days for the Hunt to find him. Oh, how he’d lamented his bad luck as they’d carted him south to the Pen. The Games. Inevitable doom. And yet, now, he saw it for what it was; a miracle. If he’d stayed behind, remained resigned to his lot, then he’d be out there, now, with Enree, with his people, fighting a last ditched and hopeless battle against the horde of implacable Clansmen, rather than here, right next to the portal, right at the crux of the matter, where the fate of man lived or died by the courage of the few.

  Part of him still yearned to be with his people, out there, on the plain. But he knew that, despite their renewed pride, they would all die, to a man. There was no saving the People of the Plains, not now. No. This is where he belonged. That angel; Stone they’d called him, his new Lord and Master, though by choice this time, had chosen him.

  His past was gone, but the future remained to be won.

  A brief respite amidst the press of battle. He caught his breath, shaking out his stiffening limbs, grateful for the moment’s rest. A sudden, jarring vibration through the stone beneath him and he watched in horror as huge, metal shapes clambered over the edge of the platform like infernal spiders, the stone cracking and splintering beneath the touch of their pointed legs.

  A firm hand on his shoulder as he regarded the approaching Centaurs, the voice of the farmer.

  “I think this battle is for those with more than sticks and swords, my friend.”

  Narlen nodded.

  Damn right.

  They withdrew.

  ***

  Part of Gwenna’s mind reached out behind her, feeling the desperate struggle below; the sheer number of demon spawn and gargoyles had been bad enough, but now the colossal figures of the Iron Giants and the Centaurs were atop the tower, lending their weight to the battle. The Tulador Guard could take care of those behemoths, of that she was sure, but to do so would require turning their attention away from the floods of lesser demons that threatened to overwhelm them.

  Where was the Glaive? Where was Sinister? Why did it not defend its people?

  She had no time to ponder such questions, for before her the captivating figure of her nemesis strode, a smile on her full lips, enjoyment and cool confidence radiating from those blue eyes. This is it. This is where it would end.

  Regardless of the battle below, Gwenna had the power to end it all, right here. If only she could defeat this cool, calm maiden of evil that stood before her. The Seeress was all that stood between them and the Portal.

  Defeat her.

  Move the army through the Portal.

  Blow it out behind them.

  “You seem… older,” came the soft, silken voice of the enemy. “More… mature.”

  A nod, from the red-head.

  “Let’s just say my master has taught me a lot in a short space of time.”

  With no further ado, the younger woman swung a hand up, a bolt of fire blasting out to engulf the Seeress. Ceceline raised her hands, a smile on her face, but her eyes widened; more power there than she was expecting. The ball of fire washed over her, leaving her raven hair steaming, but otherwise unharmed. She raised an eyebrow in suspicion.

  “Definitely more mature…”

  Gwenna’s own eyes widened now. She had put a lot of power into that attack; her own, considerable gifts now enhanced by the wisdom and knowledge that Wrynn had imparted within her. Yet still not enough to even faze the Seeress, empowered as she was by the nearness of her dark masters. The two women circled each other atop the pyramid, their slim bodies thrown into stark contrast by the lurid green glow of the Portal.

  Ceceline smiled, her posture so relaxed within her gossamer dress of black, almost see-through material. Gwenna shuddered as she tried to resist the other woman’s unearthly charm.

  “Why do we have to fight, my dear?” cooed the Seeress. “Why do you persist in this struggle? It is inevitable; this world and the next are merely the latest in a million worlds claimed by my masters. You really think the efforts of a few pathetic mortals are going to halt them, even for a moment?”

  “Mortals?” Gwenna smiled. “We have Stone.”

  The Seeress laughed.

  “Stone? And where is he, eh? My King? My lover?” She glanced over at the Portal, half formed, the connection to the Earth not yet stable, and the shaman followed her gaze. “That’s right.” A cold smile. “Even now your master screams as he hurtles, lost and alone, through the gap between worlds. Forever alone, in his immortality. No companionship, no solace. Nothing but an eternity of misery in the endless void…”

  Gwenna’s heart froze in her chest. Could the Seeress be telling the truth? Was he really in there? Lost behind the Veil? If so, then surely all was lost… Without Stone to lead them onto t
he Earth, without his guidance in readying another branch of mankind to repel this invasion, then what the point? Why continue the struggle?

  The Seeress could see the shock and conflict in the younger girl’s eyes.

  “Join me, Gwenna. No need for us to destroy each other. Be with me, be my right hand maiden. Together we shall rule the armies of our masters as we forge an empire across the stars.” She smiled as she drew closer. “Why should those with power such as ours be mere protectors of mankind? We should be rulers… Survival of the fittest…”

  Gwenna was torn. The words of the other woman were drawing her in. Was this herself, her own treachery staying her hand when she should be fighting? Had she truly given up hope? Was she really attracted so strongly to her nemesis? Did she crave the evil, the release, the new experiences? Visions flitted across her mind’s eye of an eternity of pleasure and pain, through it all accompanied by those cool blue eyes and that slim, soft figure.

  No. Another inner voice now, but stronger and full of experience and wisdom. No, it’s not you. It’s the connection, forged between the two of you a year ago. Your souls are linked and she knows this, taking advantage of your forced bond to distract you. You would never betray your people like that. That’s not how I raised you.

  She nodded, smiling, and Ceceline grinned wider, believing the young shaman to have succumbed.

  “That does sound good. Me, you.” Gwenna smiled. “So join me… abandon your masters, help us to repel them and build mankind towards a future free from their predation…”

  Ceceline frowned, staggering backwards, eyes closed as the words hit her in her heightened state of suggestibility. Gwenna grinned; it was merely the connection at work. She was no traitor to mankind.

  Ceceline shook her head, breaking free of the bewitchment before half smiling, half snarling.