“Let’s go,” were the only words of the man upon whom resided all the future hopes of a nation with an uncertain future.
***
The palace was surrounded by a sea of red-eyed dead. Legionaer was drunk with death and shadows. He went at the front of his army of the dead, showing his black and greedy claws with a malevolent smile that split his evil face from side to side. The rain had stopped, but a wind had risen which lashed both people and animals in its capricious passage. White hair and clothes fluttered in all directions as the demon concentrated black energy, a spell he had inherited from his master and creator, the God of Chaos. He reached out and launched a dark beam, which brought down several fleeing Brutal Fark-Amon as if they were no more than rag dolls. Those warriors, once they were brought back from death, would be useful allies for Némaldon.
Gramal and his dozen remaining comrades left everything to create a powerful link and, as one, they threw their long swords at Legionaer to decapitate him. Without Hakama to lead them, the resultant channeling of energy was weak.
The evil one was too fast and slipped in, cat-like, among the remaining Brutal Fark-Amon. He bit arteries, tore off heads, threw more lightning bolts. With incredible agility, he escaped all the attacks and ordered his army of the dead to eat the living soldiers.
The crowd of living corpses marched toward the remaining six Brutal Fark-Amon. Gramal could see nothing but red eyes and unhinged jaws. He struck out everywhere at random. A group of the dead seized him by the arms, legs, and head. They dug their fangs into his armor, and their nails screeched on the metal. He tried to cut himself loose, but there were too many of them. In a single moment, he found himself without the protection of his armor and with black teeth lunging at his abdomen.
Rorklak was dead. Yorlag was being eaten alive already, with the dead stretching out his entrails as if they were eating sausage.
Gramal saw the end. He screamed, he kicked. The other dead fell on his living flesh. He felt his strength leaving him. He had begun to pray for a quick death, but when he saw Legionaer’s face, he noticed the cruelty written all over it. Arrows flew towards the dead who were holding Gramal, but they were not enough to bring down the sea of the dead that surrounded the soldier. The arrows simply evaporated as they tried to hit Legionaer, who had his shield about him.
Gramal was being chewed alive. Piece by piece, it would seem every animated corpse took a bite at him. They amputated his arms with a yank, and the dead were revived by the flow of vital blood. They opened his belly with their nails and ate his entrails. Some gouged out his eyes and feasted on his eyeballs. A pair of dead smashed the soldier’s skull with stones and armor, then opened his cranium to eat his brain. By this time, he was dead. And thus, the Brutal Fark-Amon force had fallen.
Lulita, her eyes filled with tears, was unable to believe she had seen Gramal’s terrible death. But there was no end to the sea of demons advancing to choke and strangle the Empire. This was the end.
The evil army was going to take over the palace, and the survivors would not withstand such a charge. Armed with courage and wrath, the grandmother nocked an arrow and aimed. She released, and the arrow flew toward the leader of Némaldon. The arrow did nothing.
“Archers!” she cried with renewed hope. “Spears! To the evil one! Blood and glory!”
Hundreds of spears, arrows, and missiles flew like so many enraged wasps.
“Elgahar! Now!”
The apprentice had a sudden inspiration. He understood that words had the power to manipulate matter, that it was in them that the power of the spells lays.
“Magnasia!” he yelled, mistakenly. The spell he wanted was to energize the arrows, but instead, he made them blaze with flame. The sudden drainage of mana left him speechless and drained of all energy.
Legionaer was not prepared to fight off a fire spell. The flaming missiles pierced the energy shield and hit the monster on all sides of his body. He began to burn. The evil one was quickly surrounded by his dead soldiers, and the flames were quenched. He had been damaged!
Legionaer ordered the dead to surround him like a shield of flesh while he continued launching his black beams at the line of resistance in front of the palace. The beams crashed against the walls, causing some of the walls and columns to fall. He ordered the remaining warhogs to break the defensive lines. The mutant pigs buried their tusks in horses’ sides and trampled over many defenders, but soon they were brought down by hundreds of arrows and the corroding acid spat out by the red wyverns. Wild Men brought down the other gigantic boars.
Acid continued to rain on the advancing evil army with little or no effect. The dead would not die from those burns, while the living who died were brought back to life by the action of sáffurtan in the rearguard.
When the volley of arrows stopped, Legionaer renewed the offensive. The dead advanced, Legionaer among them. Hundreds of voj and duj joined the march of victory, and in a few strides, they passed through the barrier of the walls.
The defenders, including Lulita and the Wild Men, fled within the Imperial Palace, abandoning their hopes. Red wyverns were brought down from the air by energy bolts and arrows.
At that very moment, silver light radiated from the palace entrance. A rider and a hundred soldiers in armor of white-gold came out shouting. The rider, dressed like a king, carried a shield and a long, threatening spear. It was Mérdmerén and the thieves.
Mérdmerén shot the spear. The missile struck Legionaer in his leg, and he swore. He concentrated his frustration and rage into his claws and created a great ball of black energy. He was about to launch it when a series of knives pierced his forearm and ruined his concentration. At a prudent distance, Turi the Crafty and Cail congratulated each other with conspiratorial smiles.
The evil one growled. He set up his shield against energy spells and created another against earth attacks, including weapons made of wood and steel. Once again, he summoned rapid movement. With a leap, he covered the distance that separated him from Mérdmerén and tore off his horse’s head. Its rider fell to the ground. The weight of the armor and the years accumulated in his wasted joints made movement difficult, but he managed to get to his feet and take his sword from his belt. It was a long-preserved relic: the Challenger.
Meanwhile, the soldiers had regained their will to fight and launched themselves into battle once again. They fought hand-to-hand against the dead, some of them their former comrades. Wild Men and Devnonic Shepherds did their best to defend the palace. The city had been overrun, its citizens easy prey for orcs who were already plundering and ransacking it.
“Their heads!” Mérdmerén shouted. “You have to cut off their heads!”
Soldiers and citizens followed the new leader without hesitation; they had nothing to lose. Mérdmerén, concentrating fully on his task, prepared to face the enemy, but Legionaer was not going to grant him that luxury and began to launch attacks at once, tearing off his helmet and some of his scalp. Mérdmerén was no match for Legionaer.
Blood ran down the former Deserter’s forehead. From the ground, Lion Fist refused to give up the fight. But his ceaseless strokes did not prevent the evil one from seizing his leg and tearing off a piece of flesh.
“Grim Shepherds! Now!” shouted the demon, his mouth dripping blood.
There appeared a battalion of soldiers with armor similar to Legionaer’s own, which clung to their bodies like a second skin. The Grim Shepherds—humans mixed with dethis—carried swords which they wielded with ease. But the worst was yet to come. The sáffurtans, with the help of other Grim Shepherds, were creating a beast made out of corpses and those souls lost in the carnage.
The beast rose out of the ground in a swirling of shadows. In the dust, its tusks shone, made out of the bones of the dead. But those shadows were special; they could change. They took the shape of snakes that began to coil tight, eager to attack. Their red eyes turned toward the palace, and there they began to make their way.
The wild-born
did not flinch, nor did the Devonic Shepherds. They had to stop the monsters that were beginning to make their way into the palace through a new gap in the wall. And, although this funnel gave the imperial defenders the advantage, the Némaldines had all the will to win.
Blood was running, and the ground was piling up with flesh, bone, entrails, and lives. Every second more and more people died. The war was a massacre. The defenders would never manage to withstand the pressure on them. And there was still half a legion awaiting Legionaer’s orders. The mages were down, depleted of their mana. The Brutal Fark-Amon were defeated. It was now up to the soldiers of the Imperial Army and the Wild Men and Women to defend what little remained of the Empire.
They could see sure defeat when the demon grabbed Mérdmerén by the neck and began to press, squeezing out his life.
“See how everything ends, Ehréledán. We have been seeking you out for months. Now I am lucky enough to have you in my hands and to end your life once and for all. Die.”
Mérdmerén felt his life escaping through the demon’s grey eyes, eyes which seemed to contain universes. Deep grey eyes. It was the strangest and most wonderful thing he had ever experienced. Those eyes radiated a strange and evil power. He was entranced by them. He could no longer feel his legs, his arms, the world around him. He lost consciousness.
The infernal beast created from corpses went through the walls that surrounded the Imperial Palace. From its mouth, it exhaled a putrid breath. Several red wyverns attacked it, but the beast dispatched them as though swatting mosquitoes. When it reached the palace, it began to hammer the wall with its fists. The white building was falling.
Lulita and Tomasa were still fighting. The grandmother noticed a one-armed creature among the dead, decapitating them with ease and receiving no harm at all as if he were protected by some spell. Mowriz. She smiled weakly, grateful for the strange boy’s presence. What a pity his heroic efforts would be no use at all.
***
In the distance, Argbralius was watching the massacre. He was comfortably seated on the roof of a tall building, which allowed him to see Legionaer’s advance on the city. He wondered at the monstrous creation from corpses and began to feel the urge to master the power of the Black Arts.
Look for the demon which bears our totem. We gave it to him before we left the universe.
“But how am I going to find that demon?” Argbralius asked. He was scanning the panorama of desolation as he spoke.
This disaster pleased him. At last, he had found himself. At last, he had accepted himself for what he was: a dark person.
It’s the leader of the demons of the South, our servant, came the voice that was his own in another time and space, in another dimension. The young man held Wrath the Godslayer up to his face, admiring its blade of black matter, the matter of the God of Chaos himself. Further away, closer to the palace, he glimpsed a handsome, malevolent figure with long white hair. This must be the leader of the Némaldines.
That’s him! Our servant! yelled the God of Chaos from another spacetime.
I see him. Does he have our possession? asked Argbralius.
He does. He’s either wearing it as a weapon or as part of his armor. Redeem it! And you’ll regain yet more of our power!
Argbralius descended from the building with ease and ran off at an impossible speed, only possible thanks to the sword that held a piece of the soul of the God of Chaos.
***
Mérdmerén was turning purple when Legionaer had to let go of him. He lost his balance and bent double. Blood was dripping from his legs and face. He raised his face to confront his attacker. It was a human of medium size dressed in a black toga with dark hair and eyes and very pale skin. On his face was a smile which bode ill, and he was carrying a sword: Wrath the Godslayer. Each blow from the dark sword ripped away Legionaer’s life force as if it had sucked it out of him. That force—it was one of a kind. He remembered it well. It was his master’s force. And there was only one who could wield that dark sword and master its qualities. This had to be his lord! Back from chaos! He had not been expecting Mórgomiel to return from chaos in this way, much less reincarnated in a human. But his aura was unmistakable. This was his Lord of Chaos.
Legionaer began to tremble like a frightened dog before its tamer. He bent his head and begged for his life because he had a feeling that it was about to be taken from him, and not in a merciful way.
“My Lord of Chaos, Mórgomiel! You are back! I beg you to look at what I have done for you, for our cause. I only want to recover what is ours. Our land—We are so close!”
The battle around them went on as if this scene was not taking place. The dead were still advancing. And the summoned monster made of corpses was pummeling the palace.
Argbralius cut him short. In a cavernous voice very unlike his human one, he said, “Silence. Your conquest is ephemeral and vengeful, a game for imbeciles who have nothing better to do. If you think all this is glory, fame, and importance, then you should still be sucking your ill-begotten mother’s udder. I do not seek to conquer mere lands but the entire universe. The Times of Chaos return with my reincarnation.”
Around them, the war went on as though they were in a separate bubble.
“I am glad it is so, my lord,” Legionaer said, still with his head bent.
“You have something that belongs to me, my good servant. You have carried out your duty to keep it safe, far from the crime of Light, but now it is time for it to return to me: my totem. Give it to me.”
The demon raised his gaze and confronted his master’s gaze. “I have kept it safe, my Lord of Chaos,” he said and trembled because he knew what was coming.
It is the eyes, Argbralius mused as he released the dark sword that fell to the ground with a soft sound. No one would dare touch it; it would damn them for eternity. His hands were free. He raised them and aimed. With a fierce and violent movement, he thrust his fingers into those eyes. Legionaer howled, although his pain was lost in the tumultuous din of the war. Argbralius buried his fingers deep. Blood splattered across his face. When he had the eyeballs firmly grasped, he pulled, tearing them from their nerves. The demon put his hands to his face and howled where he lay on the ground.
“They are mine! My eyes!” Argbralius cried, with the eyes in his bloodied hands.
But how would he regain them if he already had eyes? Fear struck him. He realized that to regain Mórgomiel’s eyes, he must tear out his own.
What is the matter? Mórgomiel’s voice asked him. Are you not happy to be yourself again, the god of anti-matter, chaos, and disaster? Is not this what we have been wishing for all this time? The young man saw in his head the God of Chaos traveling in time, between dimensions, on the dragon Górgometh.
“But I won’t see with Argbralius’s eyes any longer,” he said warily, still staring at those eyes which seemed to contain universes in their depths. More than the pain, what troubled the young man most was not seeing through his own eyes anymore.
Meanwhile, the world around him degenerated into utter chaos, the destruction of both sides, a universal slaughter. And nobody seemed to notice that a god was about to blossom, the same god who was enjoying the cataclysm and taking nourishment from it.
Once you have my eyes—your eyes—you will once again see as we did at the beginning of time, when we were the God of Chaos. You will not see your world as a simple, fragile human, but through your true perception. You will be able to enter Kanumorsus and travel through the universe in search of the rest of our armor so that we may be one again, complete and eternal, and thus unleash the Times of Chaos afresh. It is our destiny. That is why you found me when you were no more than a child. Remember when you summoned up the negative forces of the universe, you found refuge between my wings.
“True,” Argbralius said.
He looked at Legionaer, who was still stretched out on the ground, although he had stopped moaning. He now looked like a beaten soul, waiting for his master’s verdict.
“Scum,” Argbralius spat out.
“Yes, my lord?” said the evil one.
“Tear out my human eyes.” Argbralius swallowed. It was going to hurt, but it was necessary.
“It will be an honor, my lord,” said Legionaer, and nodded.
Argbralius was breathing quickly. He looked at the grey eyes in his hands, the sword, Legionaer’s claws which would perform the extraction of his human gaze, the ruins of the war, and the beast made out of the dead. And there was Lulita! Argbralius recognized her as the grandmother of San San-Tera. The old woman was studying him carefully, making signs to him and shouting something. But it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered anymore. He was going to bring a process to its culmination, a process which had begun when he had accepted the black seed in his soul. He took a deep breath and felt gratitude for his life as a human, only to say farewell to it forever.
“Do it now. Stand up.”
Legionaer got up with difficulty, with his arms stretched out in front of him. He touched Argbralius and groped until he had his claws on his master’s eyes.
“Are you ready, my lord?”
“Do it.”
The demon sank his claws into the young man’s eye sockets. Argbralius screamed and tried to pull back, but the demon had him firmly in his grasp. He did not let go until he had dug in his claws and torn the other’s eyes out. Argbralius pushed the demon away, moaned in frustration, raised his hands to his sockets, and pushed Mórgomiel’s eyes in. His sobs turned into a celebration when he felt the magic in every fiber of his being.
He opened his eyes and looked out with the supreme confidence of a reincarnated god. He could see through matter and began searching for the entrance to Kanumorsus to regain the remainder of his belongings. He became aware of his dying servant and came closer to him. He saw the dark sword differently. It was so much more than just a dark blade! It was a magical receptacle that used the consumed souls as a mode of power! He could see how the souls trapped within it ebbed and swirled like smoke. It had such powerful souls trapped within. No wonder it had driven Thoragón Roam insane!
Archangel’s Ascension Page 32