Standing where the funnel had been was a boy in a black cloak, gingerly supporting one of the most beautiful nymph women Gribly had ever seen.
“Aura above, Brother,” Gramling said, spitting a bit of stone out, “you work too bloody fast. Any idea how I had to rush to get here in time to save your sorry…” The woman slumped, and the rogue Pit Strider bit off his words, hoisting her back up again and slinging an arm around her waist. She had the oddest shade of scarlet hair, Gribly noticed.
“Is this…?” he began.
“The nymph princess? Sure is,” Gramling confirmed. “Now help me get her to safety before what’s left of that blasted golden army realizes it’s just two of us… and a bloody weak two of us, to boot.”
Gribly ignored the urge to argue, shuffling over and helping his brother support the nearly unconscious woman. He was struck with how young she was- a girl, really, and not someone he would’ve marked as royalty. What else hasn’t Lauro told us about her?
“Imagine it,” Gramling snickered, as they picked their way carefully out of the crater. “A thief and a traitor, beating the Golden Nation’s best and saving the damsel, while the high-and-mighty king marches behind. Some use he is.”
Gribly was about to snap back at him for insulting Lauro, but an ear-splitting trumpet blast drowned out any words. Before it had faded, a line of gray-armored men marched in orderly fashion from the ragged remnant of the forest surrounding Mortenhine.
“And here the king comes now,” Gribly muttered.
Gramling just laughed that cold laugh of his, and stared ahead like he wanted to stab someone. It didn’t matter that Lauro Vale had had to fight his way here through the Golden Nation’s occupation of the Blackwood… Gramling always seemed to find something lacking in the new king. Gribly had to remind himself that he had once felt the same way about Lauro… but still, this alliance with his rogue brother was tenuous at best.
We saved the Blackwood, Lauro… but at what cost? Why do our victories always seem like defeats?
Looking around at the blasted, empty ruins of Mortenhine, it wasn’t too hard to figure out.
Chapter Two: Chaose Morten
“What do you mean, he isn’t here?” Gribly stared at the High Cleric, daring him to repeat what he’d just said.
“Exactly what I said,” Sotheland Vath replied. He was the unofficial leader of Vast’s surviving clerics, though there were not many at present. That wasn’t what bothered Gribly; the Spirit Striders needed a more experienced leader than himself, and Vath certainly fit the description. But did he have to keep that cold poise all the time? It made him look suspicious, especially in contrast with the wild hair and beard he wore.
“You mean to tell me that Lauro…” Vath frowned, causing Gribly to pause… “I mean King Lauro Vale simply turned the White Wind around and headed home, leaving you in charge? You hadn’t even reached Mortenhine yet! He hasn’t met the… his… the Tannarch! He’s been dead set on this conquest for weeks! We barely made it in time, and now you expect me to believe you when you tell me he’s just gone away?”
The tent was deathly quiet. It was closed off from the bustle of the war camp outside, but amid the clutter of the High Cleric’s possessions his several scribes and assistants froze, mortified. Gribly had all but called their master a liar and traitor.
“No,” a different voice said, “But I expect you to believe me.”
General Karanel Winter stepped into the tent, brushing the door flap aside with the metal-clad stump of her right hand. Her left hand rested on the hilt of a mechanical sword Gribly knew all too well.
“How long have you been listening?” he said, gripping his staff until his knuckles whitened. “As long as you’ve been wearing Lauro’s blade?”
Karanel glared daggers at him, pale face framed by even paler flaxen locks. Her usual braid was gone, and she had a nasty-looking cut over one eye. Whatever venomous response she had in mind, though, she kept it back, stating the facts coldly to him instead.
“King Lauro has returned to the Gray Cathedral on a vital errand. He has left Sotheland Vath and myself in charge of the Vastic army.”
“And the sword?”
“He gave it to me this morning, before the battle you were absent for. He has taken up his rightful weapon, Ker’junas, and no longer needs this mortal blade.”
“The Midnight Sword? He’s got the Midnight Sword?” Gribly was stunned, and angry. “What in Vast happened? Why did he leave?”
“Because he had to,” the High Cleric broke in, looking red in the face from all the interruptions. “I’ve been trying to tell you! After you had left, your… brother came to the king, and spoke with him in private. Then he followed you on your mission.”
“To rescue the Tannarch girl and save Mortenhine. Right,” Gribly said, feeling numb.
“The king reluctantly told us what went on.” Vath gestured animatedly with his candlestaff, and the yellow flame sparked with unnatural energy, mimicking the cleric’s emotions. “He said that he had been called back… he had to go. Had to. There was some danger to his forces in the Fellmere, and you were to follow him as quickly as possible. Gramling, too.”
Could all these people be in league? Gribly wondered. But no… Gramling would never willingly work with the High Cleric, though he might consider it with Karanel Winter. They shared a certain… viciousness.
“I need to speak with Gramling,” Gribly said, the full effects of his earlier antics only now hitting him in full force. SLEEP, they told his mind. DROP. REST. CLOSE YOUR EYES. SLEEP… “I need…” Gribly repeated, fighting as hard as he could to stay on his feet. “I… need…”
The world became a blur of colors. He heard voices, but none of the words made sense.
“…Just a boy, Vath…”
“…Who are you to… Winter!”
“…He needs rest… where’s the bloody…”
And then… Gramling. Stronger than any of the other voices, the voice of his twin brother forced its way into his consciousness and understanding.
“It had to be done, Gribly. Everything is changing, faster than any of us knew…”
What was changing? Why couldn’t he see, or hear, or feel right? What was going…
Pain, lucid and fiery, burned at his insides. His hazy awareness sharpened acutely as reality hit him with a jolt. “Gah! What the…”
Gramling’s face loomed in front of him, looking smug. “Can’t take it, Brother? Come on. Wake up. Wake up!”
Blistering heat pulled Gribly the last stretch into wakefulness. He was laid out on his back, on a table, in a tent. Sotheland Vath’s tent? There people clustered around him: Vath himself, Gramling… another cleric he did not recognize… and Avarine, the Tannarch. All of them looked worried. Karanel was gone.
“You went limp,” the High Cleric said, “and you… your eyes…”
“You spoke, Gribly,” Gramling said, and for once he sounded unsure of himself. “But it wasn’t you. You’ve got some explaining to do.”
“So do you,” Gribly said, feeling sick. I guess power doesn’t mean success… everything’s as confusing as ever.
~
Lauro leaped from the bloodhawk, landing hard in front of the Gray Cathedral. He hadn’t worn much armor- the hawk couldn’t have carried it- but still, he felt like a snail without a shell, especially now that he had rashly given Karanel Winter his old sword. Ugh, but it was hard to think around that woman.
The men of the White Wind he had sent out through the camp to deal with whatever might be there. Hopefully there would be no enemies between him and the Midnight Sword, where it lay beneath the Cathedral’s recently rebuilt altar. This battle was his, and his alone… whatever it might be.
The vision had been so vivid: Gribly, older, wiser, telling him to return and take the sword before it could be stolen. Strange, how his friend had seemed to know nothing of it in the morning. Even stranger how the vision-Gribly had told him not to speak of it.
And t
hen Gramling had come, and told him the same thing. You must claim Ker’junas. You must wield the Midnight Sword. You must redeem your name in blood. None of it had made sense, but something… something had urged him to go on, despite all his misgivings. It seemed idiotic, now. It could’ve just been a dream, or a strange coincidence… or a plot from Gramling. Lauro didn’t trust that fiend any more than he trusted Sheolus himself.
Then why did you come? The rogue’s voice seemed to mock him. He forced down the chilling possibility he had been tricked: it was too late to turn back.
The moment of hesitation gone, Lauro seized two of the iron spikes on the Cathedral’s great oak doors in his gauntleted grip. With a titanic effort, enhanced by Sky Striding, he pulled them open.
Inside was the scene of a shocking and gruesome massacre. Bodies made a trail from the doorstep to the altar, throats and torsos soaked scarlet. Spikes protruded here and there, like the discarded claws of some vile predator.
Light fell through holes in the partially repaired roof, illuminating faces Lauro shuddered to recognize. Armir and Gando… Rangers. Danner Waterpike, a rogue lord. Kite S’wrath, another. Holy Heroes, Lauro cursed internally, wondering how the two factions had come to blows.
But they had not. His gaze was drawn fearfully upward as a sickly moan caught his attention. At the end of the grisly path, two figures were locked in a deadly wrestling match. There was just enough light for Lauro to make out Marvol Winter’s chisel-cut features before the general’s opponent gained the advantage, hurling him away from the altar.
“Winter!” Lauro yelled, sprinting forward with wind-accelerated strides. Lightning flickered and sparked in his palm, but he couldn’t make the strike… not yet.
Marvol’s assailant leaped after the fallen general, black coat swirling. Could it be King Gram? It looked too thin…. What in the Blaze was going on?
Lauro crossed the floor in seconds, but he came seconds too late. The villain stabbed downward, a narrow black spike protruding from his wrist, and Marvol’s head lolled to the side, neck slashed open.
“NO! Curse you!” Lauro hurtled into the air, sending a bolt of sapphire light recklessly at Marvol’s murderer, no longer caring for safety now that his ally lay dead. The explosion sent shards of molten stone flying, but he twisted in mid-flight and avoided them. The black-coated man burst in a million smoking fragments as Lauro careened into him, fists swinging.
The young king stumbled, tripping over Marvol’s body, and the man’s pieces fell to the ground, clattering.
What the… The pieces were… gears? Had the murderer been made of clockwork? Lauro had seen Vastion’s only clock: an ancient relic, rumored to be a gift from none other than the Red Aura. He scrambled to his feet, pointedly ignoring the general’s corpse. Could Automo have sent this assassin? If so, why? It had died easily enough… how could it have killed so many before he came?
Lauro was still in shock, brokenly leaping from one disjointed thought to the next, when he heard the rattling. A quick glance around answered his questions once and for all.
The clockwork pieces were drawing together, blackened but unharmed, like a swarm of hard-shelled black insects. In horror, Lauro realized he could make out feet, and in seconds, legs. The monster, whatever it was, was already re-forming; and fast. Could it be Automo himself?
No. Not Automo. Too undignified. A demon, then. A Clockwork Demon.
There was only seconds to act. It was plain to Lauro, unnerved though he was, that no ordinary weapon or Stride would hurt this thing. How to beat it, then? He backed up, skirting the rapidly growing storm of mechanical shards, thinking furiously.
His gaze fell to Marvol, who lay with a stricken expression, one hand outstretched in a gesture. He was pointing… but at what? Had he seen Lauro after all? Was this a message?
Whump. Lauro’s foot struck the stairs leading up to the altar. Of course! He spun, lurching up them as the Clockwork Demon’s head clicked and rattled into place. The Midnight Sword… that was his only chance!
Lauro raced to the rear of the altar, pulling aside a body before gasping in disgusted shock. It was Arlin; legless old Arlin, the hero of a thousand fights and leader of the Vastic Rangers. He almost gave up then and there, but an ugly rasping came from behind him, like an army of draiks breathing through crushed throats. No. I will NOT dishonor their sacrifice!
Lauro turned away from Arlin and surveyed his next problem. The compartment holding the sword was carved from the solid block of marble that held the altar up; closed in by a sliding stone panel that fit into the block with miniscule precision. A mechanical lock provided by the rangers held it in place.
Lauro grabbed the lock, fiddling with it, but it was no use. Arlin might have the key… perhaps that was what he had been trying to do when he was stabbed in the back by the demon…
Footsteps: broken, but there. The demon was coming.
Lauro braced himself, drew back his fist, and punched the mechanism with all the power of metal links driven by Sky Striding. It bent like a green twig, and the bolt holding it in place snapped with a shrieking ring!
Aura, that hurt. Lauro pulled numbly at a handle-groove in the stone slab, and it slid down into the platform with a thud. There, in the alcove, lay Ker’junas. Crunch. He felt his enemy land on the altar, sliding yet more spikes out from its body. Never pausing, he seized the enormous weapon and swung it out and upward, acting on instinct.
Clang! The bone-white blade sparked against the ebony spike of the Clockwork Demon. Lauro shivered as he finally saw it in its true form: the black coat had been blasted away, leaving the thing as hideous mockery of the human form. It was misshapen, as if the pieces had not fit together as well the second time, and red fire leaked out from its eyes and cracks in its metal skull.
“Die…” it hissed.
“The Blaze I will,” Lauro spat, gripping the handle in both hands and driving the Midnight Sword past the spike and straight at the demon’s heart. It responded quickly, ducking to the side and avoiding his stab. The white blade cut the creature’s shoulder, and sickly yellow flames burst from the wound.
The Clockwork Demon screamed, and Lauro crowed in triumph, hacking at it until it was forced to jump back off the altar. Armir was right! This CAN hurt it! Still, he felt sure that the demon would slay anyone else happening upon the scene. It was time for something unpredictable.
Lauro Wind Strode, kicking up into a flying flip that launched him over the altar at the demon. Sword met spike as they clashed, his foe bending back unnaturally to block the strike. Lauro’s feet met the ground on the other side, and he immediately pressed his advantage. It wouldn’t last long; these were close quarters, and the demon’s weapons were better suited for the fight.
A spike found Lauro’s thigh, and the king cried out in anger and pain. Batting the weapon away, he abandoned all caution, summoning lightning along the blade of the Midnight Sword as he swung it back. The demon pulled the spike from him, stabbing him in the gut with another. Hot pain blossomed in his stomach, but Lauro completed the stroke. Crackling energy blasted the demon apart, even as the power of the sword unmade the ensorcelled clockwork shards.
Cloven from head to foot, the twisted, smoking demon toppled to both sides, melting into black soot that seemed to be sucked inward on his blade, evaporating as if the holy power of the Cathedral would not allow it to stain.
The fight was over, quicker than it had begun. Silence blanketed the chamber, broken only by Lauro’s shallow breathing. Aura above, but those wounds hurt. Lauro laid the sword down on the altar carefully, then doubled over in pain. Blood seeped from his wounds at an alarming rate, and he felt too fuzzy-headed to think.
Heal, he thought. I have to heal the wounds, using Sky Striding. He had healed Avarine and himself before, but he wondered if his limited abilities would work on the deep punctures the Clockwork Demon had given him.
Have to try. I’ll die, otherwise.
The world was empty. Absolutely silent
. Absolutely still.
Lauro breathed gently but firmly, inhaling, exhaling, inhaling…
The Power of Sky filled him. Be healed!
He clapped one hand to his thigh, and one to his stomach. Blue light crackled and sparked beneath his touch, searing him with unbearable icy coolness that burned and healed simultaneously.
A beam of the sky’s failing light struck him from above as he tipped back his head, mouth open in a silent scream. I will not be weak. I will do what I must. I will honor my father’s legacy.
I will be worthy of my title!
He made not a sound.
Chapter Three: Bellia Mindum
“Traitor’s gift and prophet’s bane,
Storm Kings (Song of the Aura, Book Six) Page 2