Archangel’s Ascension
Page 30
***
The gluttonous philosopher was enjoying a vintage wine in the darkness of his room, remembering his great friend Strangelus. He was sure he would never find anybody as stubborn or as ready to argue about trivialities.
“And so the heroes die,” the philosopher was saying to himself as he watched the army’s movements in the streets. “This is why I’m the fat one, not the hero. To be a hero, you have to die heroically! Bah! Not for me! And the king, dead…”
He could not sleep, and neither could Elgahar. The palace was now filled with mages and experts in the Conjuring Arts, but there was no great Strangelus. The pupil had met with other comrades of the School of Magic, like Merko, Kafar, and Olaf.
“My master sacrificed himself to save us,” the young man said.
The philosopher, who had slipped away from the battle, seized this moment of intimacy to ask: “How big was the host you fought against in Kathanas?”
“There were thousands and thousands of them. It was impossible to calculate. The enemy came in waves, with the attacks overlapping. It was a massacre. Just like in the Times of Köel.” Elgahar studied his healed arm. It still hurt, but Balthazar had told him it would not have to be amputated.
“And to think that we won thanks to the network of caverns hidden underground. The Wild People called it the Ring of Amrin. They say that the whole world is connected by tunnels and caverns.” There were signs of inebriation in the philosopher’s voice.
Out of his satchel, the old thinker took his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He prepared the bowl and put it to the flame of the lamp. He took a deep breath and exhaled a dense smoke that came between him and the lad.
“Something’s not right,” he said. “The king murdered while he was eating, no signs of the queen and the princess. It all sounds too simple and convenient.” He drew on his pipe. “If the queen and princess were alive, they’d claim the crown, wouldn’t they? The king’s relatives will be hungry as dogs to get at that throne.”
“Maybe they ran away,” Elgahar said.
The apprentice was reading Rummbold Fagraz’s Conjuring Arts, which he had borrowed from the Imperial Library. He stretched out a hand, concentrated blue energy in it, and released a beam of light at the philosopher’s paunch, which tickled him. Elgahar felt the strain on his mana. He felt his life force drained very slightly. Use the potions, his master had told him. But Elgahar had no potions whatsoever and dared not buy them from a local witch’s lair. Witches were known to dilute their potions, or even mix them up for their amusement. No, he had to learn the craft, and, for the moment, he had no one to learn it from. Drinking potions was always risky. The people who risked them were soldiers and mages: people who needed more life force, energy, or speed to carry on with a fight.
“Listen, Elgahar, if you want to affect the enemy, you’ll have to perfect that technique. You won’t even kill a cockroach like that.”
“That’s right, philosopher. I need to practice more.” Elgahar had a moment of self-awareness. He was lucky to have been chosen by Strangelus to investigate the chaos that had overtaken San San-Tera. But in those three long years, he had learned nothing more than theory. Read, read, read! Strangelus had said. Get that mind of yours full of wisdom, and then, and only then, will your mind and soul connect through channels powerful enough for you to draw the life force from your core. Then, concentrate that force with your mind to manifest that power into reality. Magic isn’t easy, pupil. It takes many decades of mastery of theory to finally conjure. Carry on, and never grow weaker.
“Well, make more of an effort. You need to be ready before the Némaldines come,” said the philosopher. “You know what Strangelus said—”
There was a knock on the door. The lad opened it to admit Leandro Deathslayer along with Gramal, Lombardo, Lulita, Balthazar, and Baldi, the boy who had decided to leave Kathanas and join the final battle.
“Gáramond, stop drinking the imperial wine, we have important things to do. The scouts have informed us that the enemy’s less than two days away from here. Now then, we need to discuss the plan for defense with Hakama.”
The philosopher protested with a cat-like growl. “All right, let’s make disaster plans,” he said and took one last sip of wine.
***
The day had dawned, shrouded in leaden clouds through which a fine drizzle was falling. It seemed the heavens were weeping over the imperial capital. Warm days were giving way to winter. Everybody would turn a winter older as soon as that season came in with the first blizzard.
The imperial city was in mourning and attending the king’s funeral at the royal cemetery where all sovereigns were buried. Aheron III had been loved by his people, but it had been his lot to deal with a corrupt and conspiratorial council. His subjects stood in the rain that was gradually drenching them, some weeping openly while others listened, entranced. The Perfect Pontiff was saying the Holy Hours for the deceased.
“… and may his soul be transcendent forever,” a priest named Damasio was saying. “May the God of Light grant us another king as magnanimous as—”
The crowd remained expectant in the presence of the priest, who had suddenly fallen silent. His face, from which the color had drained, was the very image of fear. He fell to the ground on his face. A tiny dart had penetrated his neck.
The other men of faith became panicked. They ran in every direction, and one by one, they fell.
The general leaped like a hare on to the improvised altar, followed by a horde of soldiers ready to defend the body of the king just as a wave of men in black cloaks—only their eyes could be seen—came out of their hiding places and started killing everyone in sight.
“Attack!” the general yelled. “It’s the Brotherhood of the Crows!”
The soldiers responded efficiently and were beginning to eliminate the murderers, but the skirmish unleashed chaos among the crowd which scattered along the streets amid general hysteria.
“Damn Crows,” the general muttered. “Those bastards are seeking to destabilize us while their army’s arriving! Yank off their pendants upon death!”
A horn sounded in the distance. The general and the others turned towards it and were frozen to the spot: the beacons of several lookouts were burning.
“They’re here,” Deathslayer whispered.
He looked up. His heart stopped for a moment at the sight of more than a hundred black wyverns swooping down on the imperial city.
Chapter XXXIV – War Unleashed
“To arms! To arms!”
More horns sounded. The air smelt of burning.
More than half the enemy’s wyvern horde had been brought down by the archers, and the mages had taken care of the rest. Even if a hundred wyverns had been toppled, the defenders knew that there were more to come.
“To arms! To arms!” the general cried again.
Panic had broken out among the citizens of Háztatlon, who had never known war and were not used to this horde of wyverns ready to shrivel them up with their corrosive acid. The division that protected the palace formed itself into a ring around the building while the remaining soldiers organized themselves for battle.
Without war machines and no plan for attack or defense, the general feared for the future of the Empire.
“To war!” Lulita cried as she mounted Sureña.
After her came Tomasa on Granola, who neighed furiously. The estate horses had brought the general’s family to Háztatlon.
“Brutal Fark-Amon!” yelled Hakama enthusiastically, pleased to be able to let loose his most lethal weapon together with the group of mages.
Gramal Gard had got hold of the heavy armor appropriate for his faction. From his shoulders hung the girdle that held his two-handed sword.
“Brutal Fark-Amon!” Hakama cried again.
From the city came an outburst of shouting.
“Fark! Fark! Fark!”
The warriors beat their chests with their gauntlet-clad fists. The sound rang out like a victory b
ell. The yearning for war spread like gunpowder and infected the remaining soldiers and men, even the most fearful.
The Brutal Fark-Amon were beginning to come out of the palace and join in the war cry. Hakama was visibly proud of his warriors. They were trained to fight whole-heartedly, with passion pouring from every pore of their skin to face death. Their training had been both military and magical. Their spells were few but enough to tear through the enemy in specific situations.
When the two hundred Brutal Fark-Amon joined the army, the faction began to walk in a perfect formation. They sang The Saga of the Legendary Ones in unison.
Oheeeeoh! Ohhhh, oh!
Oheeeeoh! Ohhhh, oh!
Oheeeeoh! Ohhhh, oh!
Oheeeeoh! Ohhhh, oh!
War, we greet you, war most fair!
Come and befriend us in our lair!
The hearts of heroes can never fear you!
They long to thrill when at last we spear you!
Oheeeeoh! Ohhhh, oh!
Oheeeeoh! Ohhhh, oh!
Oheeeeoh! Ohhhh, Oh!
Marching to face the enemy,
Who must not now turn tail and flee!
Though to gain the honors of victory!
Tomorrow’s sunrise we may never see!
Oheeeeoh! Ohhhh, oh!
Oheeeeoh! Ohhhh, oh!
The enemies of yore have woken!
They’ve said the word they should ne’er have spoken!
Whole-hearted now, with sword and shield!
We’ll bury evil on the battlefield!
Oheeeeoh! Ohhhh, oh!
Oheeeeoh! Ohhhh, oh!
The metallic footsteps echoed in the streets and stirred the hearts of the citizens, the soldiers, and, in particular, General Leandro. Dispirited by the loss of Kathanas, he was beginning to regain hope at the sight of the heavily clad soldiers in white who brandished their great claymores. He would give himself fully to the war, and if it turned out to be the last one of all, he would die with honor.
Like a tide, the force crossed the city toward the battlefront, in the fields where no enemy had ever before set foot. Today, they would make history. Hopefully, there would be voices left to sing the legend.
***
The sáffurtan’s black cloud was gradually spreading to cover the sky, trapping all in the gloom. The drizzle grew heavier. The battlefield was now a mudhole.
The Brutal Fark-Amon took up their positions at the Imperial Army's vanguard, each of them creating a mental link with the others and weaving a solid net to work as a single body with a single mind. This network was called unison, a weak spell that formed a network in which each soldier was connected to his brothers in arms. With that connection, a faint yet powerful channel of blue energy would be transferred between them, allowing them to share mana and strength. This was their most powerful spell, granting them the capacity to transfer energy and power to individuals on the battlefront.
“Annacera!” exploded the voices of the Brutal Fark-Amon as they all summoned the spell to enchant their claymores with energy. Gramal was the only Brutal among them with armor that was other than white. His battle-brothers would have made fun of him in simpler times. At this moment, each of the heavy soldiers was concentrated on giving all they had. To die for the Empire.
Némaldon’s legion appeared as a sea of small black dots, as it had in Kathanas. Leandro could see the enemy’s movements from his horse. They had organized themselves into three factions: humans, demons (warhogs, voj, and duj), and war machines. In the rearguard was the demon brought back to life three years before, accompanied by the dethis.
The black cloud now covered the whole sky. Only the light of the lookouts and the torches were left, but it was not enough to reveal the enemy.
“Mages!” Leandro ordered. “I want light!”
In the center of the formation, the mages, Elgahar among them, prepared a volley of spells. In command was Ulfbar Üdessa. The new leader focused his energy in his hands, like other advanced mages.
“Potions,” said Ulfbar. Every mage drank a sip of a purple potion. Elgahar had been gifted a vial by Ulfbar himself. The pupil in magic found the potion disgusting. He did not feel any reactions in his body, at least not yet. He noticed that all his friends from the School of Magic, all pupils, were among those summoned to the fight. He, like the other pupils, was extremely nervous. None of them were battle-ready. Not even close to it. But they had been summoned to the battle that would define whether or not the Empire carried on with its songs or was entombed this very day.
More than seventy threads of blue energy issued from the hands of the mages and pierced the air with a deafening crack. The display of power was extreme. The energy beam shot through the air in an arc, then exploded on the enemy.
In the distance, a blue fire took hold. A series of intense flames broke out with humans and demons writhing as they tried unsuccessfully to escape from the magic fire which consumed them in a matter of seconds. The bodies burning in the field in front of the imperial city lit up the scene. The fire was no ordinary fire, as most could see. It would burn intensely for many hours.
“Raise your death shields!” called Ulfbar after the bolt of energy had been fired. He was ready for battle. He knew that sáffurtans would summon more spells that wielded death energy. He could only summon one shield of a single element, and protecting himself and his fellow mages against death energy seemed the most appropriate choice.
Elgahar did very little to contribute to the beam of energy that was tearing through the Némaldine ranks. However, he managed to cast a small current of energy and felt it draining his life force. The effect was different, though: more subtle. Perhaps the potion granted him some kind of mana protection so that his pool of energy would not be drained as fast.
“Archers! Blood and glory!” Leandro cried.
A swarm of arrows flew to the other side of the field and disappeared into the blackness.
“Blood and glory!” Deathslayer repeated.
The arrows found their targets, the enemy bodies began to fall. But those corpses still had a second chance. One by one, they rose from the ground with an evil howl. A bolt of lightning pierced the black cloud, and all at once, the unthinkable happened: the humans of Némaldon began to fight among themselves.
A shower of acid fell upon Háztatlon from the wyverns.
“Wyverns!” yelled a soldier.
But the creatures did not attack, at least not directly. Their riders were leaping free as their mounts flew low. The assassins of the Brotherhood of the Crows leaped off their mounts and mingled with the soldiers. Hidden in the darkness, they killed and created chaos as they moved through the ranks like shadows. Dead men were now a potential weapon for necromancers.
Another evil howl pierced the sky. The dead of the Empire were beginning to rise again.
“Ahh!”
“They bite! Kill them!”
Panic spread through the ranks of the Empire. Those who had been comrades were rising from death, red-eyed, attacking, biting, and killing.
It was the moment of the Brutal Fark-Amon. A horde of walking corpses would not be able to penetrate that magic ring. The general was preparing to give orders when another attack fell on them. From the rearguard of the evil army, the war machines released a volley of missiles of liquid fire. Two of them felled more than ten Brutal Fark-Amon, which shattered the unity of the magic warriors. Without losing their courage, they regrouped to create anew the iron unity between them. Soon, the faint blue light began to shine again among the group.
The other missiles caused havoc among the soldiers and in the city whose streets and quarters began to burn. Screaming broke out, the panic of those being consumed by the fire and the attacking wyverns.
Némaldon launched another volley of missiles. Several soldiers moved, disorganizing the formation.
“Keep to your lines!” Deathslayer yelled.
It was the first sign of defeat, Leandro thought. An army without control is
easy prey. A sea of corpses was approaching.
“Brutal Fark-Amon! Blood and glory!” the general ordered.
The elite soldiers, in a magical fusion, began to walk toward the enemy in unison, following a choreography that seemed to have been rehearsed a thousand times. As they passed, they left a faint wake of blue energy behind them.
The clash with the dead was brutal. The warriors moved like cats, cutting to either side and felling their attackers even though the bewitched were far more numerous. But the massive soldiers united their energies to create an ironclad force. Enchanted claymores sliced easily through the walking dead, slaying three or four with each blow.
The battle took on a different complexion when the dead surrounded the group of warriors like a stream of water around a rock. Deathslayer decided to send support.
“Soldiers! Attack!” he ordered. He pointed his sword at the river of corpses that were closing in on the Brutal Fark-Amon. “Cavalry!”
More than three hundred riders came, ready to give their all. Among them were Lulita, Tomasa, Lombardo, and Balthazar. They joined the racing infantry, and together, they decapitated the dead in no more than half an hour. Despite this, soldiers fell among the ranks of the Empire too, and the sáffurtans brought them back to life to renew the attack.
Another croak came from the accursed army, and a new party of orcs and demons stampeded forward, yelling insanely and hurling themselves onto the battlefield as if that were their only purpose in life. Warhogs joined the attack. The gigantic, possessed wild animals used their huge tusks to rip through the enemy, killing horses and riders as they stampeded through the defense. The gigantic pigs were strong and fast; it took many riders, their spears, and a horde of arrows to bring them down.
Another wave of defending riders galloped to the front. The clash between the two forces took its toll on the demonic horde. The Brutal Fark-Amon came and mingled with the forces of evil. The clamor of war rose to the heavens; in the air hung cries of agony, sweat, and tears.