Stone Rising

by Gareth K Pengelly

  “Spawn of Satan – you shall not beguile me with your words!”

  He whirled about and stalked away in a flurry of black robes and anger, taking his sword from the scabbard that lay on the ground near the fire.

  Virginie gulped as she watched him through teary eyes.

  “What… what are you going to do to me, Francois?”

  The robed figure didn’t turn, instead, moving closer to the fire and kneeling down. He held the tip of the sword into the flames, warming the end of the blade. She could see the metal growing hotter and hotter.

  “I’m going to drive you out, beast.” His words were cold, calculating, matter of fact. I’m going to drive you out and reclaim the girl I once lost.”

  Virginie’s eyes fixed on the steel blade, her heart pounding faster and faster as the metal glowed brighter.

  Chapter Nine:

  SMASH! Another resounding crack, the windscreen of the speeding bus splintering in places, but holding against the impact, nonetheless. Sharp claws scrabbled in vain at the smooth glass as the orange-eyed demon glared in through the window in bestial fury. Marlyn waved at it with a cheery grin from behind the steering wheel, then reached down to pull at a lever on the column. Jets of water shot up, coating the windscreen, causing what little purchase there was before to disappear.

  Eyes now wide in fear, the horned demon scrabbled in renewed desperation, before sliding down to disappear with a shriek. A thump, as the beast was crushed beneath five tons of steel and rubber. Receding behind them, in the road, dark flames and acrid smoke flared up, as the demon’s mangled corpse vanished from the reality that sought to reject it.

  “Nice work!” It was Reno’s voice by his side.

  The guardsman was older than Marlyn, but not by much and as they bounced over another pothole, the man was forced to reach out and steady his portly frame against a handrail. Unlike the farmer’s son, Reno had been born and bred within the stone walls of Pen-Tulador proper; where Marlyn was wiry, Reno was bulky; where Marlyn was lean, Reno soft.

  Yet that softness did not extend to his eyes. They were Tulador eyes; eyes that had seen horrors that no man should witness and had lived to tell the tale. Thus far, at least.

  “How are we doing back there?” asked Marlyn, sweat pouring down his face at the effort of controlling the ungainly and unfamiliar bus.

  The other guardsman turned, staring back down the walkway to the troupe of Tulador Guards at the rear. Guardsmen were clustered along the sides of the bus, poking the barrels of their cannons out the windows as they unleashed shot after shot at their pursuers. Somewhere along the journey, the entire rear window had gone missing. Even as Reno watched, a demon launched itself from the road and into the space the rear window used to occupy, making it halfway through with its initial leap, cruel black talons piercing deep into the metalwork as it snarled in savage glee.

  Arbistrath turned, pressing the barrel of his cannon deep into the beast’s suddenly-fearful face, before pulling the trigger. The demon’s corpse rolled away onto the road, evaporating in a roar of dark flame as it did.

  Sprinting past the disintegrating corpse, packs of the snarling beasts came running after the Tuladors in a blur, leaping over cars with ease as their sinewy and inhuman legs propelled them along. Looking to the sides, to the buildings flashing past as the bus sped by, Reno could see hordes of more such demons clawing their way at great speed along the sides of concrete and glass, gravity no hindrance to their advance. And above now, too; the skies darkened with clouds of leering gargoyles, hideous winged monsters that swooped low with great shrieks, launching from their mouths great gobs of greenish saliva that landed, with a splat, to sizzle on the road.

  Here and there, lucky shots would impact on the roof of the bus, melting their way through the metal to drip down upon the unwary guards within. One such drip landed, even as he watched, upon the steel epaulet of a guardsman, who cried out, dropping his cannon in his haste to untie and discard the armour plate. He did so, managing just in time to cast the shoulder-guard out of the window, the leather of his jacket singed and smoking.

  A moment slower and he may have lost his arm.

  With a grunt, the trooper gathered up his cannon and leaned out the window, squeezing out shot after golden shot in revenge.

  Reno turned back to the young driver.

  “Probably best you don’t know, my friend.”

  “That bad, eh?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Reno held on once more, as the bus screeched around a wide corner, smashing an abandoned yellow cab out of its path, as a rhino might swat aside an unwary hyena. The Tulador Guards behind, unprepared, fell from one side of the bus to the other, a chorus of grunts and swears amidst the din of clashing metal.

  “Sorry!” Marlyn called back to the troops at the rear of the bus, scowling even as they sought to bring themselves back into a defensible position. “Can’t read this map and pilot this damn thing at the same time,” the young guard chuntered as he wrestled with the wheel in one hand, a folded and crinkled piece of paper in the other. “Here, grab this.”

  “What the…?”

  Reno’s eyes widened as Marlyn grabbed his hand, guiding it across to hold onto the large, black wheel.

  “It’s easy, just keep it straight. No different from the reigns of a horse.”

  “But I can barely ride a horse, man!”

  Reno’s protests fell on deaf ears, the younger Tulador already engrossed in the large map held up before his face. Marlyn mumbled to himself.

  “Nope. Don’t recognise that one… And didn’t we pass that back…? Ah.” He turned the map upside down, then grinned to himself. “That would explain that…”

  A smash that rocked the bus from side to side, Marlyn nearly cracking his head on the driver’s side window.

  “Ye gods, mate – just steer around things, would you?”

  “I’m trying!”

  Marlyn went back to his studying of the map.

  “Right. So if we follow this street, then turn right there… Yes, that island looks like it’d do. If we can find a way to cross the water.” He frowned to himself as he mused. “This is all assuming that demons can’t swim, of course. Even so, that island looks particularly defensible…”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Just steer around it, Reno. Left, right.”

  “I don’t think left and right are going to cut it this time, my friend.”

  Marlyn harrumphed, folding up the map in his hands before looking up and out the windscreen. His face went pale, the cause of Reno’s consternation growing larger and larger as they sped towards it.

  “Oh shit,” he echoed.

  The Iron Centaur scanned the approaching bus with its inscrutable visor from atop the footbridge that traversed the highway. It loomed tall on four spider-like legs of iron. In one hand the creature held a shield, blazing with foul runes of protection that hurt the eye. The other arm ended in a lance, ten feet long, that it raised high into the weak sunlight as it roared its metallic glee.

  Calculations flashed unbidden, as they were wont to do these days, through Marlyn’s mind. They were going too fast to stop before they went under the bridge. No choice. He slammed his foot hard on the throttle, the bus leaping forward with a tortured whine of its engine.

  Not fast enough.

  “Brace yourselves!”

  With a fluid motion that belied its bulk, the Centaur spun about on the bridge, leaping off the other side, even as the bus passed beneath. A hideous crunch of puncturing metal, the entire bus hunkering down, a wildebeest beneath the onslaught of a lion.

  Arbistrath turned to shout down the length of the bus from his position at the rear.

  “What the hell was that?”

  A roar of metallic triumph from above, as Marlyn fought to keep the now over-encumbered vehicle under control, the wheel jarring left and right as he sought to keep the mass in a straight line. Tulador Guards turned their attentions from the demons without,
looking with wide eyes to the four puncture wounds in the roof, through which iron tips could be seen, barbed and hooked like those of a spider.

  One of the guardsmen, Thom, took a step forwards, weapon dangling by his side as he reached up to inspect the iron hook nearest him. His wife having left him some years before, his children having grown up and flown the nest, Thom had joined the Guard as a last hurrah, eager to see the world, see some sights before his time at last came to an end.

  He had seen some sights, for sure. More than his fair share.

  A shower of sparks as the metal lance speared through the roof like a lightning bolt and down into the floor, before retreating just as fast.

  The roof of this bus would be the last sight he ever saw.

  Thom stood, motionless, eyes still staring at the iron claw. The troupe looked on. Slowly, from the corner of his mouth, then his nose, then his very eyes, trickles of deep crimson began to worm their way down. Only when he finally fell, lifeless, to the floor of the rocking bus, did they see the puncture holes in the top of his helmet and the crotch of his trousers, where the lance had impaled him like a skewer through a fish.

  A burst of motion and cries of fear, for now, at last, the Tulador Guards knew what they faced atop their carriage. For they had faced the very same beasts on their ascent of the Beacon Tower, all that time ago.

  A scramble, as fingers went to power-levers, a whining hum of increased potential beginning to fill the interior of the bus as guardsmen prepared their weapons for this new and tougher threat, aiming the muzzles of their cannons upwards at the roof.

  “Hold, men!” Arbistrath’s voice sounded clear above the din of the engine and the metallic cries of the beast above. “We’re stuffed in here like kippers – one shot at full power and we’re all as good as dead!”

  The guards paused, knowing for themselves the truth in his words, thankful for his restraint. The Centaur roared again, adjusting its position, ready to stab and impale once more. A guardsman turned to their commander, fear writ large upon his face.

  “Then what do we do, my Lord?”

  Arbistrath snarled, feeling his bloodlust rising, his anger building to a point where it would override his fear. That was the key to his courage; not the stoic determination of the Woodsman, or supernatural wisdom of the shaman. Just a cold, killing fury that knew no bounds.

  “Watch its feet, predict its attacks,” he ordered, as he tightened the harness of his cannon and made his way to the rear window. “And above all, stay alive!”

  With that, he clambered out of the broken window and up, up, onto the roof…

  ***

  Fie, he thought to himself. He’d forgotten how huge these beasts were. Back, before the Portal, they’d fought a dozen such monsters as they’d ascended the Beacon Tower. But they’d had space to manoeuvre.

  Here, on top of the speeding bus, the beast was a leviathan of dark iron and fiery, infernal heat.

  He climbed out onto the edge of the roof, squinting his eyes against the rush of the wind. He took a quick look left, then right; the smaller, horned demons were still keeping pace with the vehicle, skittering along with supernatural pace as they tore along the concrete walls and leapt from burnt out car to burnt out car. Yet they kept their distance, wary, as though not wanting to get in between the metallic creature and its prey.

  That suited him just fine.

  The beast was facing away from him, roaring as it perforated the roof again and again with its iron lance. With each strike, he half expected to see a gush of crimson to signal the end of another of his troops. He hoped that they were moving, dodging, keeping their wits about them.

  He made his way out onto the roof proper, trying his feet, before a violent shudder went through the bus, nearly knocking him off the side. He grimaced, struggling to keep his balance, as he unslung his cannon. His finger found the power-lever, pushing it forwards till the weapon’s capacitors began to whine in protest at the powers building within. The grip became hot to the touch.

  He knelt, taking aim at the back of the Centaur’s head, hoping to dispatch the construct with a single blow. He pulled the trigger, just as the bus hit another pothole. The golden blast of power launched out, but the shot went wide, soaring past the beast and skimming its shoulder, leaving the metal glowing and smouldering, but otherwise unharmed.

  A bellow of rage and the demon-machine turned, pointed feet on the end of its segmented legs stabbing into the roof of the bus to hold itself upright as it moved. Its visored head snapped about, locking onto Arbistrath with mechanical precision.

  “Oh, fuck.”

  Luck or skill, he knew not which and cared even less, but somehow he managed to dash himself to one side as the lance came darting towards him. He could hear the whistle of tortured air as the point flashed past. On his side now, one hand flailing to keep him from falling off the edge to certain doom, his other arm strained in effort to hold the cannon upright and aim at the beast’s head. A beep, as the weapon spoke to him of its readiness.

  He pulled the trigger, little recoil from the mystical device, only a bolt of pure power leaping out. He roared in triumph, for his aim was true this time. But the infernal construct was fast, raising that dark-iron slab of a shield to defend itself. The golden energies crackled and seethed as they washed over the beast’s defences, but the orange runes glowed bright and the demon was unharmed.

  The Tulador Cannon whined as it recharged, steam pouring from its vents as it sought in haste to cool itself. The Centaur roared in what might have been glee, the metallic cry causing Arbistrath to wince in pain as he lay helpless on the roof.

  In futile and impotent rage, the warrior pulled the trigger of his weapon, again and again. The device merely beeped at him apologetically, its power not yet restored, its devastating energies not yet ready to be unleashed.

  The beast drew back its lance in readiness for the killing blow, as the Lord of the Tulador Guard closed his eyes in resignation.

  BANG! A thudding report like the splitting of mountain in twain and Arbistrath opened his eyes, just in time to see the iron form of the Centaur go flying above him, followed by a moment of blackness. Then light streamed down again, the sky, the clouds. Shaking his head in astonishment, Arbistrath turned himself over, looking behind him to the receding bridge that they’d just driven under at speed. The concrete, even on this side, was cracked and buckled. As he watched, the mangled demon fell to the road from the other side, buckled and lifeless following the impact.

  Arbistrath laughed, rolling over once more onto his back, chest shaking with relief. His mirth was short lived, however, the sky growing dark once again, this time with the shapes of hundreds of gargoyles, diving down for the kill.

  He forced himself to his feet, spitting in distaste, before clambering his way back down into the interior of the speeding bus.

  ***

  Two more Tulador Guards had joined Thom in eternal slumber during Arbistrath’s foray above. Two more loyal warriors of his homeland, who had followed him, unswervingly, as he had led them into a new and nightmarish world, now lying rent and broken on the bloodied floor.

  Adding that to the losses at the Shopping Mall, that made only a dozen of them now. Only a dozen men who had grown up in the lush fields and forests of his homeland. Only a dozen that would carry the memories and traditions of their past.

  No sadness in his chest, however. No remorse. There would be time for that later. For now, he held onto his cold and burning hatred.

  He glared out of the window as the hail of acidic globs began to rain down about them, sizzling on the ground and melting the roofs of wrecked vehicles. He glared at the gargoyles. He glared, too, at the horned demons that bounded along.

  His hand tightened about the grip of his weapon.

  Yes. If it came to it, if it truly was their time to go, then he would take as many of those soulless bastards out with him as he could. He closed his eyes, breathing out in a long drawn out sigh as he sought to calm
himself.

  That was not his task, however. This was not a war of aggression; this was merely holding out. Surviving. They were going to be rescued, he reminded himself. It had been promised. And if he didn’t have that promise to hold onto, then what was the point?

  Yet time was running out. The hounds of hell, quite literally, closing in. And time – he glanced down at the trio of corpses on the floor of the bus – had already ran out for some.

  Get your head in the game, Arbistrath, he rebuked himself. You’re a lord. Act like it. He moved, forcing his way past his men, down the aisle to the front of the bus.

  “How much further?” he demanded of Marlyn. “We’ve been heading south for what feels like an hour…”

  “Almost there,” came the reply, as the youth yanked the steering wheel, guiding the bus about the piled up wrecks of crashed cars in the middle of the street. Finally, they’d made it out onto a clear stretch of road that ran alongside the water. It was blissfully clear of obstruction. He put his foot down, the bus picking up pace and beginning to leave the cloven-hoofed demons behind. “The harbour should be no more than half a mile ahead. From there, we can take a boat, make our way out to an island where we can hold out more easily.”

  Arbistrath nodded.

  “And if there are no boats?”

  Marlyn smiled, as if his lord had told a particularly good joke.

  “This is a large city, sire. A very large city. There will be boats…”

  ***

  There were no boats.

  More precisely, there had been. Until recently, that is.

  The guardsmen all stood in the middle of the pier that stretched out into the bay, gazing about in stunned silence at the burning wreckage that floated all about them. The gargoyles had beaten them, it seemed, hosing down anything that floated with their acidic spray, until fuel had caught light and fire had spread.