He pulled the hammer from his belt as they drew ever closer to the darkened shoreline. The stars were out tonight… some of them, at least, breaking through the oppressive cloud cover for possibly the last time before the end of the world. A good omen, that… or bad, depending on how you took it.
Gram tossed up his hammer, letting it flip a few times before catching it. The scratches he’d gouged in one side to make it whistle in flight were facing up.
A good omen, then. He grinned coldly, and stuffed it back in his belt.
“Fishing for demons…” he chuckled grimly. “Not a chance. Hunting, more like it. The Last Hunt of King Gram.”
The Last Hunt. There was no turning back. Not now… not ever.
~
The Gray Cathedral was dark and cold, and the windy draughts bit at Gribly’s exposed face. He pulled the collar of his long brown coat up a little higher to block it out, and across from him he noticed Gramling do the same. Other than a slight difference in their coat color, they looked almost exactly the same: thin, with narrow, sad faces and unruly manes of blond hair. Until now he hadn’t really thought about just how similar they were.
“Ready?” Gramling whispered. Gribly nodded, and lifted his staff a few inches off the ground.
Gramling did the same. He had stolen a candlestaff from one of the clerics- Gribly hoped it hadn’t been anyone powerful- in the hopes it would help him control the Power of Spirit with more potency. The flame was not lit, yet… all their efforts to light it had produced nothing on the thick, unyielding wick.
Gribly closed his eyes, staff raised in front of him, and reached for Spirit. Nearby, he could feel Gramling do the same.
The staff grew hot in his hands. He opened his eyes when he had let the sweet energy fill him, and saw that Gramling’s candlestaff was burning brighter than any energy he himself had ever summoned.
“Ready?” Gramling whispered again, eyes alight with the excitement of the coming challenge.
Gribly felt the same feeling grip his heart… this was the kind of thing he had lived for, back in Ymeer… this thrill, this danger, this impossible task… It was only heightened, only made more convincing, by the things Gramling had shown him. Could you really not know? He wondered every minute, now. Were you really blind to the possibility, Traveller?
It didn’t matter.
“Ready,” he answered.
Together, they opened a Dream Portal. The Gray Cathedral filled with a white light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere, growing brighter and brighter by the second. Gribly prepared to make the jump through the Otherworld, steeling himself for the drain it would take…
…and saw a glimpse of gray and blue behind Gramling, almost merged with the last few shadows playing along the chamber’s far wall.
Traveller.
So you knew, after all… he thought, staring. Gramling took a step forward, and his form flickered. Gribly’s attention was drawn away for less than a second, but when he looked back the Gray Aura was nowhere to be found. But he had known.
Gribly stepped forward, completing the Stride Gramling had set into motion. The Portal was too bright to see in… the world was turning white… the light was burning him…
You know, Traveller. You always did. You knew he was my equal. You know he sees visions.
You know he’s the Prophet, too.
Gribly felt the world melt away, and the shining luminance of the Portal consume his body. Aura Above, Gramling… you’d better be right.
~
The day dawned, drearily as ever. Clouds still blanketed the sky, and snow soon blanketed the ground in a thin layer of the deepest chill. The sun glowed red behind a slate-colored veil of clouds. Wind blew, but weakly. There was no other sound, from the abandoned home of the Zain to the ruined labyrinth of Linolen’s arches…
Until King Gram set foot on the shore. He led his men, with Berne at his side, and in the time it took for the sun to reach its zenith, they had traversed the length of the land, entering the dusky canyons of snow-capped foliage, plunging deep into Linolen, past the arches that looked to have been built either to keep enemies out… or to cage them in.
Gram held his hammer at the ready, keeping a tight hold on his fear and regret as he led the troop of rogues deeper into the wilderness.
“Any idea where we’re to find these clerics?” Berne said quietly, hand on his cutlass pommel, twitching as if he itched to take it out at the slightest provocation… which he probably did.
“Not at all,” Gram whispered back, “Though I would’ve thought… Oh.”
He had led the troop around a bend in the rock, and now they clustered at his back, trying to see what had stopped him so fast.
They had walked into a hollow, hemmed in on every side by steep, lichen-strung cliffs. The broken remnants of a giant arena sat inside, filling the space with a wide, flat stone circle and crumbling walls and seats ringing the sides. The light fell on the scene strangely, leaving one half of the arena dark and the other light. In the middle, in the very center of the circle, lay eight stone blocks in a perfect circle, the austere symmetry looking all the more intimidating…
…for the eight men in clerics’ garb lying asleep or unconscious on the blocks. Candlestaffs were clasped unlit in their hands, and their faces and hands had been painted a deathly white.
“Trap,” Berne said instantly.
“Obviously,” Gram hissed, waving down his men to order them silent. Quickly he considered his options. If the Clockwork Demons were around, they probably already knew he was here. There were about thirty men with him, due to his decision to leave a full crew behind on the ships, in case they needed an instant escape. Four were Striders: two of Stone and two of Sky.
“Marle. Skipe. Volgor. Trann.” He called the men forward quietly. The Stone Striders were his own, clad in black coats with a silver hammer clasping them at the throat. The Sky Striders were Vastic warriors, in light armor with winged helmets and metal-studded jackets.
“Yes?” Answered the one, quietly. It might’ve been either Marle or Skipe; they were twins.
“Two of you, one Stone one Sky, at each end of this arch.” Gram pointed above them, tracing the line the curious stone arc made against the sky. “Stay in the shadows. Take a few of the boys with you, if you want. I’ll go in, and the Cap’… and we’ll spring the trap. If they come your way, murder ‘em. If they jump us from inside the arena… come in swingin’. Alright?”
The four men nodded grimly, no strangers to brutal combat, and melted into the shadows.
“Right then… shall we dance?” Berne muttered.
“Aura protect us…” Gram said, “but yes. Let’s go.” As they headed into the arena with their men, Berne saw fit to add one more observation.
“We’ll need more than the Aura, Gram. If these Clockworks are all they’re cracked up to be, we’ll need the Creator himself.”
Slowly Gram stalked forward into the open, passing under the arches with a lurching stomach and a guilty conscience. Have I led these men to their deaths? Is this a rescue, or a slaughter? He had faced so many dangers and horrors in his life… but the tremendous pressure of the unknown was worse than them all.
It was a little more than the length of a Cathedral to reach the center of the arena. The rogue force trailed slightly behind him and Berne… but he didn’t blame them.
He approached the prone form of the nearest cleric. The man had long, white hair that flowed to his shoulders. He was clean-shaven and bore a slashing scar that had mutilated his right eye. Despite the wound, he seemed calm and composed in his slumber, the beginnings of a smile just touching the corners of his mouth as he breathed in, out, in and out…
“Wake up, my good sir,” Berne said quietly, reaching out.
“No!” hissed Gram, but it was too late. The moment the Captain’s hand touched the cleric’s shoulder, the sleeping man sat bolt upright, his good eye widening and his jaw hanging slack. The candlestaff slipped from his
limp hands, clattering loudly on the stone pavement.
“What are you… who…?” he began, gaze darting between the two, then noticing the men gathered behind them. “Are you insane? How did you find me. Why… oh, Aura… we’re all going to die!” The man’s composure shattered, and he curled up into a ball, sobbing uncontrollably.
“Keep it down, keep it down!” Berne hissed, trying to comfort him. The cleric slapped his hand away.
“You don’t understand,” he moaned, “…it’s too late! Those… creatures…”
“No need to elaborate, Man,” Gram snarled. “Pick up your staff- we’re out of here! Berne, wake the others! We need to…”
An earsplitting screech echoed from the arena’s only entrance arch, accompanied by a thunderous thump and a sound like the wings of a giant bat.
“The Striders!” Berne cursed. “We’re out of time!”
Chapter Eight: Achillais Requiem
The men behind broke formation, rushing around in fear without any clear plan of attack or defense.
“We were out of time before we started!” Gram spat. “Get the men in a circle formation around these fools on the stone!” Berne nodded, pulling his cutlass out with one hand and reaching for the anchorblade on his back with the other. He barked a few concise orders, and the men obeyed him without question.
“What are you… why…?” the moaning cleric stuttered.
“Shut up,” Gram said, kicking up the fallen candlestaff with his foot. The cleric caught it deftly and slid off his seat, shocked back into a sense of self-preservation. The pirate king walked calmly into the center of the eight stone blocks, lifted his hammer high…
…and brought it down with unstoppable force, slamming it into the ground with a powerful Stone Stride.
It was more complex than it seemed, but brutally effective. The stone area between the sleeping clerics actually tore free of the ground beneath, leaping in the air with the force of the blow. The sleeping men were thrown from their berths, waking instantly with a chorus of surprised cries.
The shockwave passed under his men, only tossing a few to their knees: he protected them with his mind, causing a sort of reverse ripple. The farther the ripple got, the stronger it became, instead of weaker. The stone pavement cracked and heaved, rumbling louder and louder, until at last the Stride reached the ruined walls and seats at the edges of the arena circle.
BOOM! Dust billowed up instantly, but not enough to hide the tremendous destruction Gram wrecked on the cliffs and edges. The explosion echoed thunderously on all sides, ripping the earth apart like a wet sheet in a storm of blades. Gram had used such a maneuver only a few times before: anyone within the blast radius, friend or foe, would be crushed and pulped by the unforgiving earth.
Hope those boys at the arch got running… or dying. That’ll finish them if they aren’t ready. An idiot I was, leaving all four o’ my Striders outside! Blast!
For the minute immediately after the Stride, the only sound was gasping men and crumbling rock.
“Do… do you think we got ‘em?” a battered young rogue said, stumbling out from the formation to Gram’s side. He had a shifty eye and large, able hands for strangling. Gram recognized him but couldn’t place his name.
“Don’t reckon we did,” he said, massaging his hammer shoulder to ease the strain. “But we probably hurt ‘em. Made ‘em angry. Maybe killed a few.”
The boy’s reaction surprised him. The lad fell to his knees, hands clasped and eyes wet with tears. “Please forgive me… Help me… don’t kill me for what I done…”
“What? Speak clearly, Lad!”
The boy shook violently. “I done it… given us all into the Hand of Death!” he yelped. “I done been on their pay for years, now… lots of us have! We… we…” he was overcome with sobs.
Thump. Swish. Thump. Something… many somethings… many large somethings… were coming.
“Blast. Bloody p… what’s your name, Boy?”
“M… Mant. Kite S’wrath’s old crew. She was one o’ us, too.”
“You ready to die, Mant?”
The misguided wretch almost screamed. “No! No! I didn’t think t’would come to this! Honest, I didn’t!”
“Then FIGHT, fool! It’s our only chance! Fight, and help your fellow as much as you help your own sorry self! We’re all dead if we don’t stick together!” Gram stepped towards the lad, who leaped up and whipped a small fire-hurler from his coat. Where did he…
“Yes! Yessir… I’ll… I…”
The youth gave up and returned to the formation, looking just as frightened as before, but grimly determined to survive. Gram let out a breath, checking the failing red light that seeped through the clouds overhead. The shadowy portion of the arena had almost encompassed the entire space now… all his men were in it. He hoped the men had heard his conversation… it was as much for them as for-
Thump. Thud. Thud. Thud.
Gram wheeled around… there, from the opposite direction the screams had come in, a menacingly large shape was rising. It was dark, almost too dark to see against the failing light, and it had wings… huge wings. It bore a long, arching neck, ending in a hideous head shaped like the skull of a raptor. Beneath the wings pumped powerful legs, sporting long, straight claws like giant spikes.
“The Ticking Dark,” Gram said, and whistled.
“No…” groaned a voice. Gram turned to see one of the newly-awakened clerics getting stiffly to his feet. “Only part of it. The rest is…”
“Gram!” Berne shouted from somewhere in the formation. “Shadows! At the edge of the…” but he was drowned out by cries of horror from all around.
Gram whirled. At least five dark shapes sprinted across the shattered arena from the direction of the arches, red eyes glinting, black coats fluttering like discarded rags. Clockwork Demons.
Six enemies. Two sides. Gram’s mind whirred, as the enormous automaton flew closer.
“Find the nymph with the blade of an anchor!” he snapped at the recovering clerics. “Help him defeat the bloody demons!”
“But the… that thing! The dragon!” The first cleric said, pointing. Gram snarled.
“I’ll take it. Help these men live, you useless Spirit-mongers.”
Shocked, the eight men nevertheless responded with surprising speed, dodging into the fray with candlestaffs alight. Gram turned, just as the formation broke on the far side. Men pressed away from the coming aerial menace as fast as they could, willing to face even the Clockwork Demons in place of this new terror.
“Come here, Beastie,” Gram snarled, hefting his war hammer. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”
To the aging pirate king, it was as if the fray around him had ceased to exist. The world consisted of two beings, him and monster that threatened him.
Heart pounding, the bloodlust of battle sharpening his senses, Gram ran forward. His huge, booted feet pounded against the cracked stone. His breath steamed and blew away in the wind as he rushed faster and faster, Stone Striding against the ground to increase his speed.
A hundred meters away and at least fifty in the air, the mechanical beast spread its enormous wings, slowing abruptly, and let loose a massive spray of liquid fire from its jaws.
Gram never even slowed, swinging his hammer and Striding the ground just to his left. The stones heaved and burst upward, forming a man-thick tendril of rock that lashed out, shielding him from the worst of the blast. He hurdled an errant jet of flame that escaped, laughing despite the danger. You’ll have to do better than that, Beastie!
Fifty yards lay between them. It was time to strike. Before the monster could breathe fire again, Gram Stone Strode, whirling his hammer over his head and bending his legs slightly.
A longer, thinner tendril of rock materialized from the pavement, lifting him in a single smooth motion and hurling him skyward. The wind rushed by him as he flew, whipping his hair and clothes into a frenzy as he battled gravity.
In less than a second, h
e had flown higher than the dragon’s eye, and crossed most of the distance. His arc reached its apex as he hurtled towards his foe.
Do not fail me, war hammer of the gods, Gram prayed, gripping the weapon in both hands and channeling every ounce of his power into an end-all mid-air swing. The dragon twisted its neck blindingly fast, hoping to snap him out of the air… but it was too late.
His hammer caught the beast directly in one blazing eye. It sank into the fire unharmed and carved a pulverized streak from its eye socket to the base of its skull, sending an explosion of charred clockwork in every direction. Heat and pain assailed Gram as he sailed past the dragon’s wrecked head, landing heavily on its smooth back amid licking flames and a storm of metal splinters.
Storm Kings (Song of the Aura, Book Six) Page 7