With a roar, he launched himself forwards, axe sweeping across to cleave his foe in twain.
But the Plainsman wasn’t there.
The end of the staff lashed out again, wedging between the demon’s ankle and a gap in the decking of the pier, causing the beast to stumble and fall forwards as he ran. A mocking voice called out.
“Watch your step; this pier’s seen better days…”
Eyes wide with astonishment and anger, the demon flipped himself to his feet, rounding on his foe once more. The mortal was small, as most of them were, barely reaching the Baron’s chest, but he could move and move well. That staff whirled in a dizzying arc, and where it struck the demon, it should have bounced off, causing no more harm than a gnat does a bull.
But, no; it struck out. And it hurt.
Asmodeus snarled, flinching at each blow. This shouldn’t be happening, he thought, as he parried the staff with a wave of his burning axe, the flames seeming almost to stutter at the contact. This isn’t right; the spirits here are dead, no shamanic magic fuelling this whelp before him. So how did every blow seem to reverberate through him, shaking the demon to his very core?
Not since his fight with Stone, all that time ago, had he felt such a numbing power.
No, NO! This wouldn’t do. He was a Baron, exalted in the eyes of Those Beyond the Veil. He was not about to be defeated by some puny mortal, no matter what tricks it might employ.
That staff whirled about once again, aiming this time for his face. Asmodeus went to parry it, but then allowed the axe to disappear in a cloud of acrid smoke, instead, catching the staff with his bare palm and holding tight. The pain was extraordinary, a cold, numbing shock like electricity, that spoke of great pain and loss that had been mastered and brought under control.
So, thought the Baron, a snarling smile on his face. That’s your little secret, eh?
“Pathetic,” he spat.
The Plainsman strove in vain to free his Hruti from the demon’s grasp, but the beast ignored the pain now, its strength unmatchable. Its free hand shot out to grab the mortal about his neck, lifting him high off the wooden decking of the pier until he drew level with the Baron’s own bestial face.
The Plainsman gasped for breath, his feet dangling uselessly a metre above the ground.
“Pathetic,” the demon repeated, a sneering smile curling its fanged mouth. “You think that to suffer a few petty travails in your eye-blink of an existence will give you what it takes to defeat the likes of me?” It laughed, the sound booming out across the harbour.
To the beast’s astonishment, the Plainsman smiled, even as blood began to trickled from his nose at the pressure of the demon’s grip.
“Who said I had to beat you?” the human managed to croak out.
Comprehension dawned on the Baron’s features. He threw the Plainsman to one side, glaring down the pier in impotent rage as the laden boat at the end gunned its engines and began to power away from the shore in a spray of foam.
“No!”
Baron Asmodeus’ cry of frustration echoed off the clouds. Again, they were escaping his grasp. Again, he had let himself be distracted! He roared as he turned to vent his anger on the mortal, but even as he turned, the Plainsman struck out with the end of his staff, hitting the beast in his stomach and winding him, before leaping high, using the demon’s back as a springboard, to jump over him and away.
Incredulous, the Baron turned his head even as he sought to regain his breath. The human ran, a blur of motion along the pier, before leaping into the choppy bay. Asmodeus frowned in confusion, but then the Plainsman burst into view again, dragged along at breakneck pace along the surface of the water by a rope that had been left, deliberately, to dangle behind the speeding boat.
Anger surged through the demon’s veins at the sight. He rose up to his full height, striding along the pier, leaving hoof-prints of flame in his wake. He stood at the end of the ruined and flaming structure, even as it fell apart all about him, glaring out with hate-filled eyes at his escaping prey.
Soon, the sounds of the retreating boat began to fade away, leaving only the crackling of the burning harbour and the hissing of the hordes at his back.
A lowly spawn dared venture closer, keeping itself low and hunched in respect as it spoke.
“My lord Baron,” it hissed through needle fangs. “What would you have us do?”
The Baron didn’t even deign to look at the creature, snorting in anger as he spoke.
“They cannot escape me. This chase ends today.”
Other demons had crept closer now, behind the pair. Gaining confidence from the numbers of its kin, the spawn spoke again.
“Of course, o’ great and powerful master. How would you like us to help? Would you have us swim after them?” It glanced down into the choppy, cold waters with a gulp; such a prospect did not appeal to a creature born of dark flame.
The Baron laughed, the great, bellowing tones startling the numerous spawn into backing away a few steps.
“No,” he smiled, as he looked down upon the demon that had dared speak out. “I would not have you swim.”
The creature looked almost relieved for a moment, then its expression froze as it saw the look of pure malice on its master’s face.
“I would not have you swim, my loyal servants. I would have you die…”
With a gesture of the Baron’s massive, taloned hand, the spawn disappeared with a screech, in a puff of cloying black smoke and a burst of dirty flames. Turning, Asmodeus looked out at the rest of the demons behind him, sweeping out with his arm to encompass them all. With a chorus of pitiful screams and wails, the demons all began to vanish in the same way, swathes of spawn erupting in flames at his every gesture.
Soon, his infernal army had vanished, leaving not a trace.
The Baron smiled as he felt the fabric of reality relax, no longer stretched thin by the burden of so many unnatural creatures existing in one place at one time. He snarled, summoning upon his powers as he parted a doorway between dimensions through sheer force of will.
With the strain of maintaining his hordes of pathetic spawn gone, this world was now free to support something else of his choosing.
Something bigger. More suited to the task at hand.
As he waved his arms, a shape began to take form on the surface of the burning waters before him. A great circle of flames, within which there floated a five-pointed star.
From somewhere, a dread and echoing roar sounded out across dimensions, as an ancient leviathan was awoken from its decades-long slumber and called forth to battle.
Chapter Ten:
Sumptuous. That was the first word that sprang to mind. From the tapestried walls to the thick, downy cushions on the chairs, the chamber positively reeked of luxury, of decadence. But then another word leapt to the forefront of his mind.
Corruption.
Sure, he’d spent a lot of time in such chambers as this in his life – memories he’d tried to forget over the years – but none had been so lavishly furnished upon the proceeds of evil. The stench of expensive, perfumed oils permeated the air.
Somehow, he preferred the cells of before; at least the piss had smelt honest…
Cold eyes studied him from across the desk, as one might study a rare and interesting bug upon a walk in the forest.
“I know you…”
The Boy kept his mouth tightly shut, but no amount of willpower in the world could have kept the hatred from his eyes. He was sure the Shiriff was picking up on it. And he was sure that it merely amused the man.
“Yes,” the steward of Nottingham’s fingers were steepled before his smiling face as he continued his scrutiny. “I’m sure I’ve seen you before. That face; the lines so noble, the eyes so aristocratic.”
“Right you are, milord,” came the voice of Cooper from behind the Boy. “This one’s a toff an’ no mistake. Don’t get many joining the guard; could sniff him out a mile off.”
The Shiriff raised his eyebro
ws.
“Yes. Very good, Cooper. That will be all.”
“Milord?”
The Shiriff looked at his chief guard.
“Rest assured, Cooper, I shall be quite safe.”
The burly guard looked down with a sneer to where the Boy sat, not bound yet unarmed, before finally giving a curt nod.
“As you wish, sire. I shall be waitin’ outside. Gimme a shout if you need a hand.”
With that, the brute turned and stalked from the room, darting one last suspicious look at the prisoner before he closed the heavy door.
The thud of the closing door faded. And then there was silence.
The Boy could hear his heart beating within his chest. He tried to calm himself, to keep his feelings under control, but it was hard. It had always been hard. He snapped.
“You don’t even remember my name, do you, you murderous bastard?” His words came out in a stream of venom as the dam of restraint finally broke.
The Shiriff smiled.
“But of course I do,” replied the steward, his face calm and eyes twinkling with amusement. “I never forget a face, young Sir Loxley…”
A cold shiver descended on the Boy’s face, as the blood flushed away. Loxley? How long had it been since he had been called by that name? He had almost forgotten the sound of it himself. Who yet lived that knew him by that title? Too few, thanks to the predations of this man. None had called him that in recent years.
Not since that day.
“I’m merely surprised you still live, child,” the Shiriff continued. “How long has it been since your bastard of a father returned from the holy lands and tried to usurp the rightful king’s reign, hmm? Two years? Three?”
“Four.” Cold hatred filled Loxley’s chest, gripping his throat tight and making it hard to force the words out. “Four years since the last time someone stood up to your pathetic schemes.”
The Shiriff smiled again, seemingly not at all threatened by the quivering anger in his prisoner’s voice.
“Four years? My, how time flies. You were but a boy back then. I’m not surprised my lackeys failed to find you; probably holed up in some cupboard, I don’t doubt, or smuggled out beneath a housemaid’s skirts. And where have you been hiding in the years since, pray tell? Your father’s hall must have become a tad draughty of late, what, with the walls having been burned down…” He frowned for a second, thinking, then smiled again. “Ah, yes. The Forest, I imagine. Hiding out with the other outlaws, traitors and tax-dodgers. How romantic. And how fitting that that home, too, shall end in flames, soon enough…”
Loxley balled his hands into fists, knuckles white. Forcing himself to hold back his temper, he glanced about the room without moving his head. To his right, not five paces distant, a pair of crossed swords hanging upon the stone wall. The Shiriff saw the movement of his eyes and nodded.
“Go to it, child.” He gestured with a hand weighed down with lavish rings and jewels. “I wouldn’t blame you. Unleash those skills you’ve no doubt been preparing for this day.”
Could he, thought Loxley? Would he let me? Or would he simply call Cooper and his brutes back into the room to pummel me senseless?
Fuck it, what other chance will I ever get?
Adrenaline surged as he jumped to his feet, so quickly that his chair flew backwards to clatter on the floor. He darted over to the wall, drawing one of the crossed swords with a ringing of steel, before rounding on the object of his hate.
Still the Shiriff sat there, relaxed, eyes full of mocking amusement.
“Do it,” he goaded. “End it. Avenge your father. Did you ever hear the tales of his demise? How he pleaded for his life on bended knee? Renounced his oaths to the Lionheart as he wept at my sleeve?”
With a roar, Loxley lunged forwards, the sharp point of the sword aimed squarely at his tormentor’s heart. But the Shiriff wasn’t there; the sword point jamming fast into the wooden back of his chair. A knee, to Loxley’s midsection, then a bejewelled fist connecting with his jaw that sent him sprawling to his knees.
“It’s that passion that makes you weak, child,” taunted the noble as he drove a knee, now, into Loxley’s exposed face. The nose broke with an audible snap, blood beginning to trickle out in a torrent of crimson to cover the youth’s mouth. “It’s the downfall of all your kind,” he continued, voice measured, controlled. “Living in some kind of fantasy world in the woods, thinking that happy thoughts and rousing songs will change the world. You need to stop and learn to think.”
Loxley roared again in hatred and frustration, rising unsteadily to his feet. He lashed out, eager to wreak havoc upon that noble, mocking face, but his eyes were blurred from tears of pain. He missed, staggering past the Shiriff, who side-stepped and tripped him so that he sprawled to the floor, the impact driving the wind from his lungs.
The Shiriff circled him imperiously, as a cat a mouse, taking his time, picking his moment, before driving a hard kick with his fine boots into Loxley’s ribs, doubling the youth up in pain.
“Your father, Loxley senior, had a choice, young sir knight. He had the rank, the position, to be in the favour of his new king from the off. But he squandered that power. Such a mistake! There’s a lesson there; always side with the winning team. Alas, now the sins of the father have returned to haunt the son…”
Even though he lay wincing in pain, the flagstones growing red from the dripping of his lifeblood onto the floor, the boy, Loxley, gave a weak laugh.
“You speak of power,” he gasped, through nostrils filled with blood. “You know nothing of power. The vengeance of the people is coming down upon you, mark my words. A man of power is coming to find you; power the likes of which you have never known…”
He laughed again, but was cut short as the Shiriff drove another booted kick into his ribs.
“Is that so?” The Shiriff’s face was mildly amused. “I look forward to meeting this man. If he arrives soon enough then he shall get a good view of your head atop the city gates. That’s if the crows don’t have at it first…” He turned, calling towards the door. “Cooper! Take this lad back to his cells for some rest.” He glanced down with a look of disappointment to the groaning figure that lay before him. “He’s got a date, tomorrow, with the executioner’s axe…”
***
What could he have done, he thought to himself for the tenth time? What possible aid could he have rendered his friend? After he had erupted, covered in night-soil and stinking to high heaven, from the bottom of the latrine chute, Will had soon realised that the Boy was not follow. He had been half tempted to dash back round to the barrack gates and barge his way within, but how far would that have gotten him?
That big brute Cooper would have no doubt warned his guards to be on the lookout for the runaway recruit. No, there was no way. Despite his loyalty, despite the camaraderie, the bond, almost, of brotherhood that he had forged with the Boy over the last couple of years of living in the forests, he knew that to attempt a rescue, now, on his own would be nought but suicide and would avail no-one anything.
He’d had no choice but to flee, before Cooper’s city guard could find him and drag him back at the point of a halberd. But such certain knowledge did in no way lessen the shame he’d felt as he’d trudged northwards from the city walls, following the old roads home.
As he had journeyed north, part of him had toyed with the idea of stopping off at Blidworth of an afternoon; how long had it been since he’d set foot in the village of his birth? But no, what would have been the point? Who would have remained that might know him, still? Half the village from his days had been forced from their homes at the point of spear and sword. Most of those that still knew him from then already lived in the Forest.
And those that remained in Blidworth would know him only as outlaw and traitor. Only as a source of bounty and easy coin. Such was the influence of evil men and their greed; driving wedges in families, tearing apart the bonds of friendship. Perhaps some of them, some of the older generati
on that had escaped the wrath of the tax-collectors, might keep his secret, might welcome him, see him with food and beer for the journey home to the Forest.
But no. No, it was not worth the risk. If this entire venture had taught him anything, perhaps it was that risks were rarely worth the taking. Perhaps the admonishments of John and Iain had been right all along; he and the Boy were nought but reckless youths after all, with plenty of growing up yet to do.
The thought had been a sobering one and one that had caused Will, even as the spire of Blidworth had risen in the distance, to turn off the path, ready to make his way around the outskirts of the village, safe from prying eyes.
That was when he had seen them, approaching down the path, out the corner of his eye.
That was when hope had been rekindled in his chest.
***
The sun glistened off the armour of the two guards to his sides as he was marched out into the street before the castle. Broken-nose and his pugilist friend. They smiled at him in dark amusement, relishing this moment, but he didn’t care, instead lifting his battered face to the warmth of the morning sun. The rays felt soothing on his bruised skin and he closed his eyes for a second, relishing their caress, but then the firm prod of a steel point in his back forced him on, his hands bound tightly behind his back.
Strange, he thought, that the sun should feel so nice today. He remembered being told by his father, years before, that the sun in foreign climes beat down with far greater strength than the English sun. He had seen, first hand, his father’s tanned skin upon returning from war. The sun here was never that strong, always struggling to break through the mists. Yet there was a subtle warmth to it today that made him feel good.
Made him feel alive.
The irony made him smile; he knew that it was all an illusion. The sun was no brighter. The wind no more crisp, no more clean than it ever had been. The birds didn’t sing with renewed gusto, their melodies no more clear or sweet than before. All a trick of his mind, he knew, as it sought to distract him from the horror that was the impending end of life.
Stone Rising (The Graeme Stone Saga) Page 16