Several, fearing betrayal by the fiend, turned their mental attacks upon it. Kez’et-dual roared under the barrage of mind-breaking assault. Its natural defenses shot up, rebounding the harassment onto the creatures. It hurt them much more than it had hurt him.
The army began to disintegrate into chaos. The demon lord shouted for order, something against its nature. Normally it would cherish the confusion and pandemonium, but this was its plan, its chance at greatness, and no one would take that from it. Dawn and Cite saw the malformed monster hover in the air, his great wings beating a rhythmic tattoo in the air. The sound grew as Kez’et-dual concentrated. The smaller beings below him calmed and looked in his direction. Cite felt the massive push of an incredible willpower wash over the whole area, and dozens of psychic ties from the Troöds to the demons snap and become replaced with something else. Kez’et-dual had control of the demonic forces. Refocusing after forcing his will upon the demons, he shouted encouragement at their former masters, and screamed that there was a hidden enemy that sought to crush their dream of conquering. The Troöds began to listen. Once Kez’et-dual had the attention of the reptilian folk he ordered them, and the demons, up the hill as fast as possible and away from the area.
Dawn and Cite kept their barrage going, trying to slow the attackers. She threw up walls and gouged out trenches to slow their escape. Kez’et-dual launched himself into the air. Dawn brought down lightning on the fiend. It soaked it up and laughed as it crackled then fizzled around it. Having traced the magics, Kez’et-dual pointed at the mound, and commanded a full attack on the nondescript hill. The whole legion turned towards the two who were trapped in a shell made to protect them.
Rogen threw his hand axe as he leapt forward, bringing his battle-axe to bear. The smaller axe buried itself in the skull of one of the twisted mockeries of a dasism. Kala released a bolt of blackened energy, knocking the seasoned warrior back to the brink of the chasm. Cyril ran towards where he had seen Gruedo fall, but changed direction when he saw Rogen skid past him on his back.
Calling upon the power of his god, and the magical representation of a trident appeared in Cyril’s hands. Turning towards the enemy, he approached cautiously. The Taksas charged forward with a bestial growl. Unlike the beings from which they were created, the Taksas did not stand completely upright; rather they hunched, and it made their arms seem too long for their bodies. The cleric met the mutants in a clash, with Rogen right behind.
Kala watched from where he stood. He looked at the castle for a moment. He had taken this beacon of faith from the humans to break their spirit, and he would not allow it to fall into their hands again, but if these people knew how to open it; perhaps he could garner that secret from them and reap the benefits they had hoped to gain. He looked back at his soldiers as they took care of the pests before him.
Rogen came in low, his huge axe taking out the legs of one of the creatures from the knees down. Cyril swung his trident in an arc, cracking the shaft against the skull of one, and then reversing the motion to pierce another through its stomach with the three tines.
The spindly humanoids had no fear. They waded in, beating at the two with large clubs torn from trees or clawing with their bare hands. Before a minute had passed, Rogen and Cyril both had scratches across their faces and bruises forming under their armor. The beasts were relentless. Even when the slave master opened the belly of one, it came on, never slowing in its attack until enough blood had flowed from it that it could no longer remain conscious.
It was a melee of confusion. Rogen swung with skill and precision, each strike causing serious injury to a foe. Cyril called upon his god and, thus protected, took little damage from any further attacks of the monsters. His strikes were well placed and hard-hitting, but did little to slow the mob.
Kala noticed that the two were gaining the upper hand over his shock troops. Calling upon the powers of his dark God, Obsidian, he aimed for the priest, who drew power from the proximity of his God’s holy land, and focused his life-stealing spell on him. Cyril screamed as the unholy magic wracked his body, his back arching and his eyes rolling back into his head. He continued to scream as Rogen decapitated one of the remaining three Taksas. Two more circled the short man with feral snarls.
Rogen, wanting to help his friend, reached out to break the ties that held the transformed Dasism to this world. He found none; the ties to the other world had been removed, and what remained was the tainted foul creatures in front of him. The small hesitation was all they needed to gain the advantage over the bearded man. They came in simultaneously and quick. The battleaxe was torn from his hold by the stronger grip of his foe, and the other fell behind him and distending its jaw, bit into the side of the smaller man.
Kala felt the pure energy of the young priest entering him. It was a cool wash of raw hope and clarity. Kala basked in the unpolluted essence that he drew into himself. Cyril was no longer screaming, his breath had run out and he was unable to draw another as the malevolent priest devoured his very soul. Rogen was bent over backwards as the monster behind him tore through his armor and ground his teeth through the weaponmaster’s armor and into his flesh. The other beast grabbed the small man’s face between its two large hands and gouged at his eyes with its jagged thumbnails.
Cite felt the pressure in his head of dozens of minds with powers like his own bombarding him with attacks. The ceiling of the stone hut shook as scores of miniature demons tore at it. Dust and chunks of stone fell around the two. Dawn tried to repel the fiends’ attack with sleet and hail, but it didn’t seem to affect them. Slowly the small air and sight holes were widened until the small creatures could pull themselves into the enclosed space.
Cite fell to his knees clutching his head, a small trickle of blood coming from his nose. His head felt as if it was bursting, and he could not see. The nether spawn overwhelmed Dawn. Biting and scratching, they ripped at her clothes, flesh, and hair. Kez’et-dual smiled in this moment of triumph.
Dawn threw herself on top of her collapsed friend and called upon the rain to flood the inside of the chamber, and at the same time called upon fire to scour the outside. A firestorm replaced the other storm that had raged outside. The explosion threw the attackers back, killing many. The Troöds that controlled the smaller imps attacking the two, released control as their lives died out. The population of smaller demons diminished suddenly. The smell of burnt flesh permeated the air and the reptilian beings fled the sudden attack. Dawn trembled with exhaustion.
The barrage in Cite’s brain ceased. He stood up on shaking legs and wiped away the blood. Dawn saw rage in the young man’s bloodshot eyes and knew this day would change them all. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her down to the ground. She felt the water being pushed away and saw the walls of their protective shelter burst outward. The lingering rain pattered on an invisible ceiling above them. Cite saw the remaining enemies regrouping in the dwindling rain as Dawn passed out in his arms.
Gruedo pulled herself over the rim of the canyon. The scene in front of her froze as she reacted without thinking. Her hand dove into her satchel and a half dozen small glass balls sailed towards the dark priest. Kala had closed his eyes and was smiling. He opened his arms to the delicious warmth of victory. The explosion at his feet threw him back and broke the link he had made to the human.
In a blur of black leather, Gruedo dashed across the space between her and Rogen’s attackers. As Cyril fell to the ground, she whirled past the priest and her daggers were in her hands as she sliced the muscles under the arms of the Taksas holding the small man’s face. The blades spun lower, crisscrossing the back and spine of the monster. A dozen wounds appeared in a few seconds, and then she plunged the twin knives upward through the beast’s ribs and punctured the lungs. A lesser blade would have stuck in the body as the powerful muscles contracted, trapping them. Gruedo’s blades were not ordinary, though. She had many uses for alchemy and her blades reaped the benefits.
The lass spun expert
ly and slid to the ground beside the Taksas gorging itself on her friend’s ribs. The first strike slit the throat of the monster, the second slid into the base of the skull from behind, piercing the brain. Not trusting that the brain was what motivated the creature, Gruedo continued to vivisect it until it collapsed in the dirt.
Cyril coughed and gasped on the ground, pale and haggard. Rogen, who had fallen onto his back due to the awkward angle the beasts had pinned him, rolled onto his hand and knees and pushed himself to a standing position. Gruedo was crouched protectively above her friends, looming over the prone forms of her enemy, her face a mask of deadly anger.
“Don’t get up on my account,” Gruedo said, composing herself as she stood, reached into her satchel, and tossed the key to Cyril, “but when you do decide to join the fray, see if you can’t unlock your little stone bungalow.”
Kneeling, the rogue jabbed her daggers into the dirt. She drew a small metal case and three throwing knives from her satchel. The case opened with an audible click as she slid the knives across the moist cotton inside, coating the blades with a liquid. Looking up at the last enemy, she flung the knives underhanded with expert precision.
Kala the Black rose from the small crater that had been created by the explosion. Gruedo smiled as the blades flew true to their intended places; one in the throat, one in the heart, the last in the stomach. Her smile fell as the blades dropped to the ground after stopping centimeters from their target. Kala sneered and gestured at Gruedo, who doubled over in pain as her insides turned to fire.
Rogen staggered and blinked through a haze of agony and blood. His eyes dripped from the attack they had just received and his ribs were shredded. A pool of blood formed at his feet. He could feel his control of the demons he had summoned slipping from the distance and pain. Cyril pushed himself to a sitting position as Gruedo fell to the ground clutching her midsection. Both men stared at Kala. The Aeifain half-breed treasured the looks of fear and amazement on his victims’ faces. He realized that they were not looking at him, but at something behind him.
Something grabbed the dark priest. A huge hand wrapped around his throat from behind and a hairy, clawed hand raked across his midsection, tearing his fine chainmail like it was wet paper. At the same time the other hand closed around his windpipe, stealing any chance for a breath. Kala’s stomach was torn open, spilling his entrails into the dirt in front of him as he watched. He never even saw the face of his killer.
Rogen fell to his knees, his legs too weak to support him as his lifeblood drained from him. He reached for his last remaining weapon, his hammer. Gruedo rolled to her feet, stumbling as she snatched her remaining daggers from the sand. The huge beast dropped the lifeless remains of Kala the Black. It looked male, standing almost seven feet tall and misshapen. Veins stood out on muscles that were inhuman. His head was small compared to the rest of him. Tattered clothing hung from his monstrous form.
“Wait,” Cyril held out a shaking hand to stop his friends’ attacks, “I know him.” They stayed their hands but kept watch on the newest arrival. “Have you come to kill me, Cyrus?”
The man answered back, his voice rough and broken, as if he were no longer familiar with using it, “No. I have protected you, as I have always done.”
“What do you mean? I have not seen you since they took you.”
“You have seen me, sensed me, and watched me as I watched you,” Cyrus growled. “We don’t have time. Give me the key brother.”
“What? Why?”
“Look down there,” Cyrus snarled, pointing to the east where the rain had dissipated and a fiery cloud burst into the air, “your friends will die. You are in no shape to go there and face more enemies, nor are you in any condition to meet them here. You need the gate opened. None of you are capable of that. I am. Give me your key.”
Cyril hesitated then asked, “How do I know I can trust you? You are no longer with Jonath.”
“Brother, use that head you so pride yourself on having,” Cyrus mocked. “Who protected you on your lone journey from Humbrey? Why do you think no one ever attacked you in the night in Edgewater? Why did the werewolves turn away from easy prey in Red City? Who drew the Dasism away from your camp when you were hunted and didn’t know it? It was me. I am part of you, and if you are with Jonath, then so am I.”
Cyril nodded as the others watched him. He held out the key towards his brother. Cyrus reached out and took the key, his rough fingers touching his brother’s.
“Jonath protect you, brother,” Cyrus rumbled, and before Cyril could answer he turned and ran towards the chasm and launched himself into the air. They watched in amazement as the huge man sailed across the forty-foot gap. His arms windmilled, and his legs seemed to still run, even though there was nothing but air under him. Cyrus slammed into the stone wall, catching the spear with one huge mitt. He reached into the small niche and placed the key into the depression that had been made for it. Looking back at his brother, he let go of the spear and dropped. Cyril ran forward shouting. Rogen lurched towards him to stop him. They watched as his brother disappeared into the mist of the rapids below.
An unearthly grinding noise issued from the massive drawbridge as the locks released and it began its slow decent. Tiny rocks and debris from bird and animal nests fell away as it lowered. The gargantuan chains groaned as their ancient purpose was once again put to use.
“You should definitely put one of those things on this side,” Gruedo said.
The three stared at the colossal portal as it opened for the first time in three hundred years. The ground shook as it settled into the groove that had been carved for it over six hundred years ago.
“Our friends need us,” said Cyril. “We can’t help them as we are; let’s hope there is something inside that can help.”
With no further discussion the three set across the drawbridge, stopping only to retrieve the key. The three entered Silver Castle. The entry foyer was grand, ten meters across and twenty meters tall. Marble columns lined the wall, and an altar made of platinum was at the far side, where hallways went to the left and right. Words were carved into the stone above it, ‘All who enter with honor, shall have sanctuary. This humble keep shall protect the land, and all those who hold other’s safety above their own.’
Globes of light on the columns lit as the trio stumbled towards the shrine. Upon reaching it, Cyril fell to his knees - Rogen doing the same, as Gruedo looked around in wonder - and began to pray to Jonath.
“Jonath, god of the element of earth, protector of the people, and keeper of honor beyond law, I beseech you to bring your gaze to this place and protect the people without your castle. Send your just strength and mighty sentence from this place to judge those that bring destruction and death to this place.”
It grew dark inside the transparent dome as the small demonic forms covered it again. Cite’s head throbbed, and he felt the psychic intrusions from the remaining Troöds building again. He had lain Dawn on the ground. Unsure how much longer he would last, he prepared his final assault. The telekinetic shield had shrunk until he was kneeling and had pulled Dawn’s knees up against her chest.
A silvery burst of light outside of the dome washed across the landscape. Cite covered his eyes, unsure what this attack would bring. When he looked again, the psychic shelter was no longer covered and the sun shone down upon them. Kez’et-dual was screaming and had taken to the air. It ranted about it being too late now.
The Troöds, their small demons obliterated, stared towards the castle in fear. As one, they turned and fled. Down the hill and into the woods they went. Cite looked at the road to the castle but saw nothing. Hours later, when he was finally able to see something, it would be one of his finest memories and he would review it often for the rest of his life.
Chapter 23: Winter’s Dawning
“No one wants to know what happens in a story, or wants it to end, more than the character in the story.”
Wanderly
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The hooded figure stood in the mild winter wind watching the city bloom with life in a season when things were supposed to shrivel and withdraw. Shulyar City, once known as Silver City, once again had a heartbeat of life. The figure smiled sadly, knowing that what he had set in motion was for the best, but it was a long and hard road ahead.
Cyril brought Captain Dorvick to the city to oversee the rebuilding of the populace. Ships carried word days after the Castle had been opened and people had been coming ever since. The first pilgrims arrived on foot that morning. A trio of priests from Rayr City came to run the church and set up the legal system. Men from the surrounding ports came across land to claim their lost birthrights. More came with each passing day.
Someone suggested changing the name of the city back to its original name, but Cyril pushed to keep it the same, in honor of the Dasism that had befriended the human people once, and so recently died for them. Cyril spent most of his time helping with the reopening of the city. Some suggested he should be the Lord Father of the church of Jonath, but he declined the opportunity saying that Jonath had other plans for him. That post was for someone older and wiser who would not do foolhardy things, like rush into ancient forests full of dangers.
Cite spent his time in quiet meditation or poring through the libraries he found. He had aged two decades from the dark magics which Kala the Black had used. He regained strength slowly, but his hair was now tinted with grey and his face showed lines that a young man wouldn’t have. He had a haunted look as he watched the people filtering into the city. He preferred the quiet, private halls of books to the noise and activity of the town. Dreams came to him every night; most of them memories from other people that had once lived in this city in other times. He often sought the others when companionship was needed.
Harbinger: The Downfall - Book One Page 38