Broken Stone 02 - Warlock's Sun Rising

by Damien Black

  ‘Hardly fair odds I think!’ he cried, then muttered again, raising both hands and gesturing upwards with his fingers. The skeletal remains of five adventurers suddenly stirred and rose up, clutching rusted weapons as they stalked towards them.

  A light shone from Sir Braxus. Glancing down he saw it was the brooch the Earth Witch had given him. The embossed hawk was now glowing with a blinding light. He heard Andragorix scream as the light exploded, and five silver hawks suddenly burst from the brooch and flew towards the undead warriors, descending on them with metallic screeches.

  ‘Fair odds are overrated!’ he yelled back at the warlock.

  Horskram and Adelko remained rooted to the spot, chanting the psalm. Andragorix rained fire on both of them, but the scarlet flames enveloped an invisible space around them. Horskram held the blood of the Redeemer aloft, its single drop curiously similar to the conflagration that threatened to consume them.

  Adelko felt the warlock’s power pushing against them, threatening to overcome their sanctity. Shutting out all thoughts of fear he focused on the words, basking in the grace of the Redeemer. All doubts that the Earth Witch had raised in him about the Creed were pushed aside; doubt was a luxury he could not afford now.

  The skeletal warriors rolled across the floor as the silver hawks latched onto them, raking their bones as they slashed at them mechanically.

  Andragorix pushed with all his might. Visualising the symbol for fire, he commanded the Saraphi bound to his hand to attack the monks, enveloping them in a halo of red flames. He could sense their elan wavering before his onslaught, but the psalm would gather power over time and he had to act quickly. He kept the woodland peasant in the corner of his eye, waiting for her to fire again. Another woman was clambering up the chunk of masonry towards him, but he knew its eldritch stones and carvings would weaken her mind and slow her down.

  The woodlander drew her bowstring back and released. Andragorix furrowed his brow: this next bit wouldn’t be easy. While intensifying the Saraphi’s attack on the monks he commanded the Aethi bound to his cloak, directing them towards the arrow. The potions he had swallowed allowed him to perceive everything as happening ten times more slowly: he saw the shaft coming towards him in slow motion, the air spirits curling around it…

  Following his command, they spun the arrow around, pushing at its feathers and sending it back towards the shooter. The effort of commanding fire and air simultaneously with such intensity and precision nearly killed him, but it paid dividends: the Argolians were too busy focusing their elan on stopping him from burning them alive to neutralise his counter attack.

  He felt a surge of pleasure as the woodlander took two steps backward and dropped her bow. Looking down with a shocked expression she registered the arrow buried in her sternum. She slumped to her knees and keeled over.

  He had no time rejoice in his victory: the warrior woman was nearly on him now. Ceasing the attack on the monks he ordered the Aethi to gather him up, his robes billowing as he pirouetted through the air and landed agilely on the floor between the four swordsmen.

  Vaskrian gawped as Andragorix landed in their midst. In the blinking of an eye he swept a sword from its sheath. Its black blade was frosted over with tiny points of silvered light; it became a shimmering swirl as the warlock laid about him, fending off their attacks and going on the counter with a strength and speed that astonished him. Turning aside his blow and Braxus’s in quick succession, he spun to face Torgun and Aronn. The blade seemed to move with a life of its own as he parried Torgun’s thrust before knocking Sir Aronn’s sword out of his hand.

  Before Aronn realised what had happened Andragorix struck him down, shearing through the burly knight’s mail coat, collarbone and sternum. Aronn fell to his knees as a gout of blood erupted from him, slumping back in the awkward pose of death.

  Sir Torgun screamed a war-cry and launched himself at the warlock. The knight’s strength and speed were a match for Andragorix, who stepped back nimbly, fear written across his face. But fear turned to triumph as he caught Sir Torgun’s blade with a fierce stroke, shearing through it a hand’s breadth above the hilt. The warlock tried the same trick again, going on the counter with a lethal downwards stroke, but Sir Torgun saw it coming and hurled himself aside, rolling across the broken flagstones as Braxus and Vaskrian pressed him hard. Andragorix knocked their attacks aside as if they were children before countering. Vaskrian used footwork he never knew he had as they both retreated before the onslaught, breathing hard.

  Grabbing up Aronn’s sword, Torgun joined the three of them as they circled the sorcerer warily, not daring to close with him again.

  ‘Stay separated,’ he said. ‘He’ll cut us to ribbons if we attack him together.’

  A scream fiercer than any Wadwo’s ripped through the air. Anupe had seen Kyra’s corpse and was bounding down the ruin she had climbed towards the warlock. But as she cleared the fallen monument something strange happened: her legs tottered and she fell to her knees gasping.

  ‘Horskram might have warned you about not touching the stones the Elder Wizards wrought,’ crowed Andragorix. ‘They aren’t very healthy for those unaccustomed to their magic!’

  Adelko muttered the psalm in a feverish voice. He was focusing hard on the words, but could not help notice what was happening. Aronn and Kyra lay dead, and Anupe was writhing on the floor having some kind of fit. Andragorix seemed possessed of a superhuman strength and speed, and was armed with an indestructible weapon to boot. The Psalm might turn his fire and weaken his force field, but even bereft of those he seemed invulnerable.

  His hope was faltering when metallic screeches reminded him they were not alone. The silver hawks had got the best of the undead warriors, whose decayed weapons were of little use against their metallic feathers, tearing bones from sockets and skulls from vertebrae. The five birds now sped towards the warlock, who conjured up a force field to protect himself, swirling his cloak around him. But at least it distracted him enough to give the others some respite.

  Closing his eyes and reattuning his psyche to Horskram’s, the novice focused on the sacred words…

  From behind the swirling vortex of air spirits protecting him, Andragorix stared at his ten remaining opponents, half of them mortal, half not. He could feel the psalm’s power growing, bolstered by the relic Horskram wielded. Its proximity sickened him; he could feel it sapping his elan and weakening his body, counteracting the effects of the potions. He couldn’t hide behind his shield forever, but he wasn’t sure his demonic blade would avail much against the conjured hawks. The Earth Witch’s power coursed through them, spirits of nature bound to magic metal.

  He furrowed his brow again. Time to change tack.

  Raising his silver hand he visualised a stylised zigzag, dropping the shield as he summoned more Thaumaturgy to aid him. Opening his mouth he felt a pressure build inside his head. Energy coursed the length of his body. He spat hard. With a blinding crack, blue veins of electricity shot from his mouth, striking the silver hawks with jagged fingers and sending them skittering across the ruined precinct with screeches that set his teeth on edge.

  The swordsmen hadn’t attacked: they weren’t sure if he had dropped his force field or not. Spitting on his blade, he sent a shock of electricity running up the length of it and renewed his onslaught.

  Andragorix dashed towards them, his body and blade wreathed in a crackling web of blue energy. Sir Torgun dodged out of the way, circling him frantically. He didn’t normally go on the defensive, but this was no ordinary opponent. Keeping out of range of his sword wasn’t much help though: energy coruscated the length of the sorcerer, intensifying before exploding towards him in a blinding bolt. Sir Torgun felt a shock course through him as his feet lifted off the ground just before he blacked out…

  Vaskrian watched as his hero went sailing through the air, carried by a blue bolt of lightning and landing in a crumpled heap ten yards away from where he had stood. The warlock must have used up his spell,
for only a few stray strokes of energy flickered around him now. This was his chance. Dashing towards the sorcerer he raised his sword high to strike him down…

  Andragorix spun and held up his silver hand. A torrent of fire shot from it. It wasn’t as powerful as before but at close range it was enough to do damage – Vaskrian screamed as the crimson flames burned up his arm and a searing pain strafed the side of his face. He dropped his sword and slumped to the ground, agony exploding through him…

  Braxus came hard at the warlock, striking at his other side as he repelled Vaskrian with a blast of fire. The mage turned and deflected his blade, before riposting with a lethal thrust. Braxus gasped as he felt it slice through his side – a step slower and he would have been gutted like a pig. The wound burned with a strange frost. Ignoring it he struck at the sorcerer again. The Argolians were practically shouting the words now; he wasn’t a religious man but something in them stirred him up. He was damned if he would die here, in this blasted godforsaken place: again and again he hewed at the sorcerer, driving him back towards the broken monument where Anupe had tried to attack him.

  The warlock was starting to slow, though he was still very quick. His sword moved with a life of its own, but the strokes behind them were less mighty, the footwork less nimble. No more fire shot from the mage’s silver hand, and the electricity had disappeared altogether. Was that a look of fear he saw on his face?

  Andragorix fell back before the enraged knight, sweat lashing off of him. He could feel his strength ebbing. He needed to kill this fool and deal with the monks quickly, before their cursed prayers neutralised all his magic.

  A metallic screeching reminded him that wasn’t his only problem. The birds had reanimated themselves: though their silver forms had been tarnished by his attack they were swooping down towards him again.

  It was time to do something he had hoped wouldn’t be necessary, but there was no alternative. Mouthing a command to the Aethi he flew up, circling around the crater before landing on top of the half-ruined storey that topped his complex of chambers.

  The hawks pursued him mercilessly and he ordered the Aethi to shield him. He could sense the air spirits’ power weakening: it wouldn’t be long before they were useless to him.

  Closing his eyes he mouthed a few syllables, envisaging a stylised gate opening and a bar being lifted off a great portal in quick succession. The vast ebonite grill slowly parted down the middle. He had not learned to control his captive – he had only captured it by temporarily shrinking it and putting it in a cage – but one more burst from his cloak should get him out of range of its demented attacks.

  Andragorix smiled evilly as a gargantuan hand reached over the edge of the hole exposed by the receding grill.

  He dropped his shield and the hawks descended on him. He sheared through the first with his demonic blade, before leaping backwards out of range of the others. His body was trembling with the effort now: his superhuman strength and agility were fading too.

  Sir Braxus turned in the direction of the rumbling sound. The vast grill was opening, parting into two halves as it slid into the floor. Something clutched at the lip of the pit it had sealed: Braxus gaped as it slowly hauled itself out.

  The Gygant was humanoid in shape, but looked as though it had been fashioned from liquid rock; its vast knotted muscles moved supplely and yet somehow looked as solid as stone. Its face resembled a primitive statue of a man’s, only one that was alive. Something like moss and lichen passed for its beard and hair.

  Braxus trembled as it took a thundering step into the chamber: it was at the other side, but even from that distance it was obvious he reached no higher than its knee. The giant gave vent to a roar that shook the mighty ruin to its foundations; stray chips of stone fell from the shattered storeys, skittering across the floor hundreds of yards below.

  The Gygant scanned the chamber. It seemed confused, though it was hard to tell from its chthonian features. Horskram and Adelko had broken off their psalm, and turned to stare wide-eyed at the gargantuan horror that now menaced them. The giant made the Golem they had fought look like a toy doll. Something in Braxus snapped as it turned its yellow eyes on him. They looked like two pools of molten lava, which for all he knew they were.

  Sinking to his knees the knight mouthed a prayer, and hoped for a swift end.

  Adelko felt his faith drain out of him like lifeblood from a lethal wound as the colossus crashed towards them. No psalms that he knew of could ward off a Gygant, fashioned from the flesh of Aurgelmir, Father of Giants, of whose very body the earth was made. Making the sign he mouthed an ordinary prayer for succour – only a miracle could save them now.

  The giant was lumbering towards Sir Braxus, obviously intending him as its first victim. The poor knight’s will was broken, and he stared vacantly as his death closed on him with feet bigger than a man’s torso.

  Horskram sighed and shook his head. Stepping into the Gygant’s path, he looked up at it and bellowed something in a language Adelko could not understand. The colossus paused and leaned down, cocking its head. It was disconcertingly man-like in its manner. Horskram repeated the foreign word he had yelled, before yelling some more in a voice grown hoarse with use.

  The Gygant stared at him. Two great furrows of lichen slanted over the pools of molten lava. Was it glaring at him? Then it spoke, if you could call it that, the words reverberating around the cavernous shaft and shaking more residue from the walls.

  Horskram yelled back at it some more. It knelt on one knee, bending its head closer to hear him.

  Adelko was so focused on the bizarre conversation – not that he understood a word of it – that he almost forgot about the fight up on the roof. A final screech told him it was over: the last hawk fell, decapitated by Andragorix’s night-black blade. But as the warlock limped over to the edge the novice saw that it was a dear-bought victory: his robes were torn in several places, and he was covered in his own blood.

  The Gygant was looking from Horskram to Andragorix and shaking its head. Seeing the sorcerer approach it started to rise. Andragorix yelled something at it in the same tongue, his voice shrill and his face angry. Horskram was yelling too. The Gygant took a step towards Andragorix, then hesitated. It shook its head again. Turning, it bounded towards the wall, shaking the ground as it went.

  ‘Did you think you were the only one who would ever bother learning the tongue of giants?’ asked Horskram, gazing coldly up at the mage. ‘It is a simple enough language to learn, though I grant you lessons are not easy to come by.’

  Andragorix sneered. ‘Let the cowardly brute run, I’ll deal with it after I’ve finished with you! It’s provided me with the distraction I needed to finish off that earth bitch’s sorcerous thralls.’

  Adelko’s sixth sense put the lie to those words instantly: the warlock had clearly been hoping the Gygant would kill them for him in its fury. Whatever his mentor had said to it, he had evidently convinced it to let them be. The warlock was scared and his powers were greatly diminished. The Gygant began climbing out of the shaft, using the broken storeys as a ladder.

  ‘Come down here and let’s finish this off,’ said Horskram. ‘Enough chicanery – why don’t we fight it out man to man? No more sorcery, no more psalms. Just you and me.’

  ‘I don’t see your merry band coming to much in the way of interference in any case,’ laughed Andragorix.

  Glancing around him Adelko saw it was true enough: Anupe appeared to have recovered from her fit, though she was moving slowly as she dragged herself to her feet. Sir Torgun lay dead or unconscious and Vaskrian writhed on the floor moaning and clutching at his face. Sir Braxus was staring off after the giant, still mouthing incoherent prayers. It seemed a strange time to find one’s faith – or perhaps quite the contrary.

  ‘I take it your novice knows well enough to stay out of this,’ said Andragorix.

  Without waiting for an answer he spat another word and his cloak furled up around him again, the symbols on it fl
aring into light. Rather than fly, all he could manage this time was a gust of air to settle him down on the floor gently. His powers had been sorely taxed by the psalm: it wouldn’t wear off for a while so Horskram should be safe from his Thaumaturgy. Adelko half considered praying by himself, but his own psyche was badly drained and in any case he wasn’t confident of being able to harness the psalm’s power by himself.

  Horskram drew his quarterstaff from his back in a swift fluid motion as Andragorix came at him with a feral snarl. His Alchemy was evidently still working some of its magic, and though he wasn’t superhumanly fast he would still be a formidable foe. Adelko mouthed another prayer as the warlock closed on his mentor.

  Horskram clutched his staff in both hands, one end tilted towards Andragorix, his feet planted firmly apart in a defensive posture.

  The warlock tore into him with a primal scream.

  The next minute was a blur of motion as he absorbed the attack, parrying one blow after another as he stepped nimbly around Andragorix, soaking up his furious onslaught like shifting sands against a stormy tide. His quarterstaff rang across the blasted precinct, his arms juddering as Andragorix struck time and again with a strength that surpassed his slender body. The warlock was trying to shear through his quarterstaff, but good honest iron would turn any demon magic, denying his vorpal blade the chance to cleave it in twain: whatever else the warlock’s powers ran to, smelting ebonite wasn’t among them.

  His spirit was weary with channelling the power of the Redeemer, but his body brimmed with vigour far exceeding his run of mortal years. His sixth sense anticipated every move the warlock made: as fast as he was, Horskram was a shade faster. A clinical battle rage burned in the old monk like a cold fire.

  One of them would die tonight: let his soul rot in Purgatory for another killing if that was Reus’ will.