by Swanson, Jay
“He told me where Krakador was.” She tried to turn to look at Ardin, but quickly found it impossible. “He told me to find my brother and guide him here, but I had no horse. I had no way of getting to him in time...”
They do seem to like leaving us in binds... Ardin started to speak, but was cut short by the sudden appearance of two massive pillars standing along their path. Each was carved in dozens of runes, the carvings black against the red earth of the desert. At their top rested a series of interlinking spiked iron wheels that formed an intricate cage, each containing a floating red ball of flame.
“They look like the lights of the Magi.” Ardin said, suddenly aware of how blind he was to the world around him without his power.
“This way.” Rain pointed to the right as the ground rose steeply in the north. In fact, the mountains here seemed much taller than the rest, but a few more minutes revealed that the elevation of their bases was simply higher.
As they passed the third mountain on their left, she gestured to turn. Ardin didn't know how she knew where to go. He credited her natural sense of direction from countless hours of scouting to be the source of her certainty, and he trusted her intuition. As they continued, he felt a strange sensation, like the pulsing of a heart beating in the air, as if an energy penetrated to his very soul. As he tried to get a handle on the feeling, they suddenly came to a quick downward slope between two of the peaks.
Below them, in the settling darkness, more of the flameless fires of the Relequim lit an empty swath of land much broader than most of the canyons they had seen. The lights themselves seemed to lead off into the east, acting as some sort of beacons to light a road. To guide an army. And that was when Ardin realized exactly what they were looking at.
Between the mountains and the lights lay one solitary structure, made to look every bit like the piles of boulders around it, and in its center was a gaping hole big enough for twenty men to enter the earth abreast. Before them lay the entrance to Krakador, the end of Ardin's journey.
They took the slope down slowly, uncertain as to what lay below, but Ardin found himself drawn onward by the energy he now sensed clearly in the earth. This was not the great fortress he had been told about, nor was there an army as had been promised. But whatever the Relequim was working on, whatever it was he had hidden here, it was real, and it was powerful.
Strangely, the closer to the hole they drew, the healthier Ardin felt for it. This was something different than he had ever encountered, and the closer he drew the more he wished to untangle its secrets. He had expected fear, and the sickly-sweet scent of death he had experienced in the Cathedral when he had last encountered the Relequim, but instead he found a growing sense of confidence.
“Ardin.” He could tell by her tone that Rain did not share his growing sense of safety. “Ardin, we can't go down there. What if there are monsters?”
“I'm with you, Rain,” he said soothingly. “You haven't forgotten who I am so quickly, have you?”
“No, but...” She squeezed his leg as she tried to fight her fear. “But the Relequim...”
“Don't worry about him,” Ardin said as they walked his palfrey through the tall pillars and their brilliant red lights in the dimness of dusk. “He's not here.”
“How do you know?” she asked. “The lights...”
“The lights are a simple enchantment.” Ardin dismissed the fear as they approached the cave that dove steeply down into the earth. The power was emanating from it like the scent of bread from a bakery. It was warm, and so inviting Ardin could barely resist the urge to race downwards. “He's gone.”
“But how?” she asked again as he walked the horse down underground.
It was a good horse, to say the least, to be willing to walk so steadily underground. But it also served to confirm Ardin's conviction that the Relequim was nowhere near, nor were any of his monsters. He had been drawn successfully out, convinced of his enemy's presence to the east and threatened enough by it that he had emptied his fortress of every defense to rid himself of them.
The red lights continued farther on, illuminating the smooth path until it leveled out again hundreds of yards under the earth. It opened up into the most magnificent cavern Ardin had ever seen, and there before them stood the fortress he had been promised. There under the earth, illuminated by a thousand glowing orbs, stood the home of the world's greatest enemy. The fortress was immense, the size of a small city, soaring hundreds of feet towards the cavern ceiling.
They stopped at the wall that encircled the fortress, the massive stone gate before them open and waiting. Some buildings lay a good ways off to either side with more lined out behind the fortress itself. The keep stood tallest at the center, with grand towers at its corners, ringed with crowns of iron spikes. The entirety of the structure was wrought out of a better stone than could be found here, their joints and mortar protected by writhing veins of blackened metal. Grand statues, gargoyles, and spires decorated it so liberally that it looked to be eternally populated by stone apparitions.
The power washed through Ardin now, cleansing him, purifying him, and releasing his heart to a freedom he had not known in ages. He dismounted the palfrey and after sending it back to the surface, walked through the high gates, ignoring Rain's pleas to turn back. It was too late now. What he had come here to do he had to finish once and for all.
For it was here that he would turn the course of the war, forever changing the history of the world. The Relequim would fall, and everything would be made right again. He breathed deeply one last time, turning to beckon Rain to follow, then began his final ascent as he mounted the steps of Krakador.
THIRTY-SIX
SIR BELDIN LOOKED ON IN HORROR AS THE CHAPLAINS TURNED TO FACE THE DAEMONS BEYOND THE CLOSEST COLUMNS OF KNOBACKS. He had never seen Daemons, had hardly heard mention of them all his life save in whispered tales of forbidden lore, but here they stood in broad daylight. His men had surged forward once more. Their confidence was refreshed to see the Chaplains carve a path through the columns of Knobacks they had yet to engage. The enemy reserves couldn't stand against the holy knights, and now Beldin's men would push forward as well to win their desperate battle.
But then the Daemons appeared, the very ground shuddering as they emerged and took their form. Men once, Truans who had followed the dark arts and survived their destructive power, although survival was a term he knew might not be truly applicable to these. Their souls were damned, and it was said their minds had become the vacant tools of the Relequim.
The highest order of his religion had called few, and fewer still survived it long with any semblance of sanity. Those who did became as priests to the cult and as champions to the Relequim's army. They had gained the power they sought, but there was a limit and a cost, and whether the men they once were still lived on in any form within their immense, armored frames left great room for debate.
Unlike the rest of the Relequim's elite forces, Daemons inspired the amassed monsters. They did not rule by fear or drive by force. They infused the hearts of their sinister comrades with a fire that burned deep, and drew upon what some even called love. Though love was not a word one could easily associate with Daemons.
The Chaplains turned to meet the new challenge, seeing their glory rise with the Relequim's chosen, but they died all too quickly. Only three of the Daemons fell in the furious fight that unfolded beyond the Knobacks. Even the Dunmar stopped their whipping and roaring to watch higher up the gentle slope as the Chaplains steadily lost their final battle. One or two rode off, to their eternal shame. Whether they would survive through flight or not was another question altogether, but the rest were destroyed handily by the magic of the Relequim.
Bursts of fire and invisible shocks in the air burned and cut and decimated the holy knights in minutes. The Daemons spun, hacked, and slashed until only they remained. Then they turned to face the army of Islenda over the heads of the monsters between them. But what followed chilled Sir Beldin's heart and
made his headache fade, for the armies of the Relequim cheered.
Sir Beldin called for his men to collapse their rows and bolster the front. He didn't care if the Relequim's army thought they had won, or if in fact they had, for if his men fled there was absolutely no hope for them, and their allies would be exposed. He rode the line, moving men into place and sending what was left of his cavalry to stand ready to break through.
The Knobacks had dropped back twenty yards, realigning themselves as their numbers in the first two columns had been significantly depleted. There was room for them to do this, but Beldin feared they were doing as much out of sheer certainty of their victory. He brought his archers together, quivers almost empty, and ordered them ready to unleash a charge-stalling blow like they had before. The heights had finally been cleared of Brenlucks, but it came as little consolation now. They were at a quarter of their starting strength, and their enemy was still at over half.
The Daemons were approaching now, the gap between the four columns widening to let them pass as a sense of awe washed over even the Dunmar. Their strides were long, their movements confident. No doubts flickered across their unmoving features. And then Sir Beldin saw the dragon.
It came from almost directly overhead, pumping its wings so as to lower itself slowly into position. His men began to shout, to wail, and to break. He was proud that they had lasted this long, and though he called for them to stand together, he knew it was futile with the red beast bearing down on them from above.
“Armies of men, captains of Islenda!” The booming voice of the largest Daemon came rolling through the canyon. “Your end is at hand. Lay down your arms and flee, lest ye be devoured.”
Suddenly there was a boom from above and a crack as something struck the dragon in the center of its long neck. The beast came hurtling to the ground in the midst of the Knobacks, sending them flying as the earth shook with the impact.
Tristram stepped off the monster's broken neck, his wings unfurling as he put his hands out towards the dragon's head. Ice formed around its mouth, and then its entire head was encased before another crack was heard and the monster lay still, its wings nearly as broad as the canyon.
“Armies of men! Captains of Islenda!” Tristram's voice was as loud as the impact he had just created. “Stand your ground and fight, for the destiny of this world rests on the bravery you demonstrate today.”
The Daemons growled as they turned, furious at the sight of their hated enemy. But the largest laughed. “The bird-warrior graces us with his presence.”
“Has enough time passed for more of you to fall so far?” Tristram said as he pulled his dazzling swords from his back. The sun glistened off the gold designs in his silvery plate brilliantly enough to cut through the clouds of swirling dust. “The souls of men were not meant to be wrought as such!”
The Daemons fanned out into an arc as their captain spoke, Dunmar and Knobacks falling back as if repelled. “Our souls are ours to command, Tristram. Your folly is in your blind conviction to the past.”
They nearly had him surrounded. Then they sprinted forward as one.
“Let me return you to your primeval state and render the mercy of a sudden death!” Tristram leaped into the air as if gravity held no sway, then rocketed down to strike the center Daemon with his swords.
The Daemon screeched as its very core was slit, and then Tristram withdrew both swords quickly and it exploded into red and black dust. Its comrades bore down on the winged warrior, but he spun before they reached him, sending his wings out to knock back four and bringing up his swords to block the blows of the other two.
With his right sword above his head and his left sword below his waist, he simply rotated his arms a half turn to throw the Daemons off balance.
“Pathetic,” he spat the word. “You sell your souls for power, and in the end have none.”
A Daemon launched itself at his back, but Tristram caught it mid-air with a gesture of his hand. He turned, pushing his hand forward as he did so and sending the suspended Daemon into the wall behind it to die in an explosion of red dust and flying stones. Another ran at him, spinning with its sword to cut him in two.
Tristram turned to meet the threat, catching the blade with one of his own and diverting its strength past his hooded face. His other sword followed instantly after, rotating with his wrist and bringing his enemy's sword back around between both blades before he hauled them in different directions. In one motion he separated his arms and shattered the blade of his assailant.
The Daemon stopped for a brief moment, stunned as its magic was outdone, and it was in that instant that Tristram rammed his gloved fist into its armored face. The red visor did little against the blow, and the monster dropped to its knees half-dead before Tristram ran both swords through its chest. He pulled in opposite directions, ripping the blades out through its side and shoulder and it too erupted into a cloud of fine dust.
He stepped aside as a long serrated blade lunged past his side. He batted it away, then turned and hammered the Daemon in the side of the head with the backhanded flat of one sword. His other blade followed in a whirling cut that opened the monster's chest wide open to the light of day. He kicked the Daemon so hard in the open wound that it disappeared into a cloud of its own dust.
Two Daemons rushed forward then, but as they approached, Tristram crossed his arms and swirled his wings, launching himself from the ground and drawing his assailants and the surrounding debris up with him. The motion carried them to him as he slowed himself mid-air, and twisted once more to cut both in half with his swords.
He landed deftly, as if he weighed no more than a solitary feather on his wings, and found the final Daemon already rushing to meet him. He simply took a step forward, and in that motion hurled one of his swords tumbling end over end into the face of the oncoming monster. Its feet kicked out from underneath it as it slammed on its back. He walked over, pulling the blade free and creating another small cloud of red and black dust as he did so.
No sooner had he reclaimed his sword than did another blur come hurtling in from the sky. It was dark, and it landed a few miles farther north on top of one of the mountains.
Tristram turned his head slightly in its direction. “Relequim.” He turned to face Beldin's army for a moment longer. “Armies of men, fight well! For today you win the world for your children!”
With no more words than that, he launched himself into the sky to be met by his brothers, and together they made north as Sir Beldin and his men watched.
His attention dropped once more to the chaos that lay before them. A red dragon lay dead not a hundred yards farther on, its head encased in slowly melting ice. The vast majority of the Dunmar and Knobacks had survived the impact, but they were scattered and disorganized.
“Men!” He shouted as he pulled his mount forward. “Let's clean up!”
And with a renewed cheer and a second wind, the army of the Shale plunged forward to the kill.
THE ENDLESS WAVES OF THE DEMON'S MONSTERS FILLED THE SLOPE BELOW WITH A PAINFUL CONSISTENCY. There was no stopping them, whether Phelts' men stood their ground for another hour or broke in the next five minutes. The gunfire was as strong as it would get at this point, and as soldiers ran the last of the ammunition to the front and dragged yet more of the wounded to the rear, it was all coming to a horrible close.
He picked himself up from the edge of Merodach's pit and limped his way towards one of the engineer's trucks. If he was going to die here, he would make sure he took as many of those monsters down there with him as he could. He hadn't plotted and schemed and maneuvered his way into power to let Elandir fall without a fight. Merodach had always said that heroes were incendiary, that great men were meant to burn. Well, Phelts was no great man and no longer a puppet for Merodach to torch, but he would teach the filthy monsters below what it was to enter the fire.
He struggled to get his arm up over the tailgate, his leg refusing to support him fully as he tried, but he finally got i
t down. It knocked him to the ground as it swung open, but he didn't care. He wouldn't be around much longer in any case. What harm were a few more bruises? He picked himself up and pulled his lame body into the truck. The back was still full of gear for guns, but he was after something more volatile than artillery rounds.
He shoved a toolbox off of a crate marked with a flaming “X,” creating a sizable dent in the bed of the truck as it fell. He ripped the lid off the crate and smiled at the contents within. There were enough loose explosives here to destroy a small moon.
He put the lid back on and began pushing and pulling on the crate until he had it at the back of the truck. “You!” he yelled at two passing soldiers carrying a stretcher. “Get over here.”
His swollen leg screamed at him as he dropped to the floor of the truck with his legs out the back, but he ignored the pain and pushed himself out, falling to his good knee in the process. “Pick up the crate.”
“Sir, we need to get more men from the fro–” but the fire in Phelts' eyes cut the protest short.
“Pick up the crate, and follow me.” He stood back up and reached for the spindle of flammable fuse he had seen under the bench. He slid a long, square piece of light wood out as well and propped himself up as he turned. The soldiers had the box up on their stretcher, which made him smile. “Well then, let's get to blowing shit up.”
Phelts set off at a saunter with his makeshift crutch, unable to go as fast as he wanted but no longer caring. He had all the time in the world as far as he was concerned. An idea came to him, and he shouted at another passing soldier to bring a truck over to the bunker. He turned around and continued on his way, the box filled with high explosives following steadily behind. Could have just left it in the first truck...
The truck almost beat them to the gap between the bunkers, and Phelts ordered the soldiers to load the box into the back.