Ash Fallen

by Blake Channels

  Rosalie remained ramrod straight as the woman approached her. The woman lifted a strand of Rosalie’s hair and pressed it to her nose, inhaling it. “You have many powers,” she observed. Her voice was silky but cold.

  “You must be Siranya, the Receptor.”

  The Receptor smiled. Instead of softening her look, the smile made her appear wicked, and Rosalie shuddered involuntarily.

  “Women with powers are rare. And to be a Mender, a Soother, and a Healer.” She paused and ran a chilling index finger over Rosalie’s cheek while making a clucking sound with her elongated tongue. “You would be such an asset to our cause I can almost taste it.” Siranya’s face was inches from Rosalie’s. She enunciated taste as if the idea of joining forces with Rosalie was bursting off her taste buds.

  Taking a step back, Rosalie glared back at Siranya. “I would never join you.”

  Lord Zebadiah chuckled from his perch. “What choice do you have my dear?”

  She glared back at him. His black, beady eyes and gray pallor made her queasy. He beckoned her with his bony index finger. She swallowed the lump in her throat and tried to appear unphased. When she took one step towards him, she felt the pressing of the knife sheathed against her leg and took comfort in knowing it was there.

  In a flash Zebadiah was at her side. He jerked her up by the front of her shirt and she sucked in her breath in surprise.

  “I suppose there is the one alternative,” he said. “Death.” His breath was stale, and the word came out as a hiss. Rosalie flinched. At that moment she wished she was the warrior Ash once thought her to be. Then again, he’d only pretended to think it. Her legs wobbled and she fought to control her fear.

  “You don’t scare me,” she lied. “I’ve heard all about you.”

  “And just what have you heard?”

  “I heard you weren’t born with any natural powers of your own.”

  He glared back at her.

  “You’re inferior, she continued. “That’s why you harbor such a deep hatred for us variants. You want to harness our powers while making us suffer.”

  “I have powers,” he countered. He flicked his wrist which sent shockwaves through her. She doubled over in pain, then stood upright again.

  Her eyes narrowed in insubordination. “No. What you have is sorcery.”

  “Sorcery is power,” he corrected. “Dark magic.” He grinned. “I study it. Channel it. Harness it.” His eyes gleamed with pride.

  “But each season, as you grow more powerful, your heart grows darker. You’ve dammed yourself. You’ll never spend eternity with the gods.”

  “I am a god.” Lord Zebadiah was inches from her face. When he slipped his hands beneath her cloak and placed them on her waist, she shuddered and closed her eyes. His hands trailed to her inner thigh where they rested on her knife. He caressed her thigh, then slowly removed the knife from its sheath. Rosalie’s stomach twisted in knots. Her face remained impassive, but inside she was panic-stricken and silently screaming at herself to remain calm.

  “Nice piece of hardware.”

  “I find it gets the job done.” She lifted her chin in defiance.

  Lord Zebadiah’s eyes narrowed and one of his men appeared by his side. “Take her to the lab,” he ordered. “We’ll soon find out how deep her loyalties run.”

  Despite her terror, those were the words Rosalie had hoped for. It meant things were going according to plan.

  The lab looked as intimidating as she’d imagined it would – stark, cold, and sterile. Like most labs there were stainless steel workspaces furnished with vials, pipettes, autoclaves, and other scientific instruments. Massive, wooden fume hoods lined the center aisle. But instead of caged animals bordering the outer walls, there were holding cells full of the variants Lord Zebadiah had captured along the way.

  When one of Zebadiah’s men forced her into a cell, she feigned resistance but was ultimately relieved to be behind bars. It put some distance between her and her enemies. After yelling empty threats at her captors through the bars, she shed her restricting cloak, then turned to face her cellmates.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  With the vast size of the Liberation Alliance, it was every man on deck for the people of Druin, forcing the scientists out of the lab and the sentries away from their posts – just as Marx had predicted. It took Rosalie only moments to pick the lock using the file she’d hidden in her underneath clothes. In Zebadiah’s arrogance, he hadn’t searched her thoroughly. He’d confiscated the knife but hadn’t bothered to look further.

  The cells in the lab were cramped with people from countless townships, with a myriad of special powers. As she worked to free them all, she realized some might be dangerous criminals who actually needed to be imprisoned, but she didn’t have time to worry about that now.

  Many of the variants fled once she released them. They didn’t have an appetite for a fight. The few who remained looked to Rosalie for guidance.

  “Search the lab and nearby rooms. Find anything you can use as a weapon,” she ordered. “We’ll meet back here in ten minutes.”

  She rummaged through the lab first, hoping to find scientific instruments that could double as weapons. When she reached a cluttered workspace, she stopped short. A black and red lab journal sat, open-faced. She picked it up. There were sketches of the human body, formulas scrawled across the pages, but two bold words caught her eye. MELDED POWER. She blinked twice, trying to make sense of the data. Her brow furrowed in concentration as her eyes skimmed the open pages. “They were designing a serum for a superpower,” she said aloud.

  One of the newly freed prisoners came up beside her. “Do you think they were successful?”

  With growing concern, she flipped through the pages of the journal until she came to the final page. She stared at the page; sucked in a breath. She noted the empty syringe on the counter, read the labeling on the half-empty beaker beside it, and her eyes brimmed with tears. “I’m afraid so,” she whispered.

  Rosalie shoved the lab journal into her waistband while she searched the remainder of the lab. She found a half-empty canvas bag, poured out its contents, and began to fill it with prospective weapons. A few scalpels and surgical scissors, bollards made of galvanized steel – pathetic compared to the swords and guns she knew Lord Zebadiah’s men carried. She looked around, then hid the journal at the bottom of the bag.

  Convinced she’d uncovered all there was to find in the lab, she slung the canvas bag over her shoulder and set off to search the nearby rooms. She was rifling through one of the bedroom dressers when she heard someone approaching from behind. She froze, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling. With painstaking care, she curled her fingers around the closest thing to a weapon she could find. She spun around to meet her aggressor, wielding a brass candlestick.

  The man before her held a knife in his hand. Rosalie widened her stance, ready to swing the brass weapon with all her might if the man tried to harm her. But he didn’t attack. Instead, he took a step backward and offered a disarming grin.

  “Remember me? We just met in the lab?”

  Rosalie thought for a moment. She hesitated, then nodded, finally recognizing him as the man beside her when she’d discovered the lab journal; but she didn’t lower the candlestick.

  “Here, take this,” he said, offering her the knife. “I think you’ll find it makes a better weapon.”

  She dropped the candlestick, which hit the floor with a resounding clunk. She eagerly accepted the knife and held it close. It wasn’t the knife she was used to carrying, but it would have to do. She secured it in the sheath and felt her confidence return.

  “I’m Kipser.” He extended his hand. “I’m an Inflictor.”

  “Rosalie.” She shook his warm hand, impressed by his firm grip. “I’m a Healer.”

  “And a Mender, and a Soother. So I’ve heard.”

  “Really?” She felt flattered and a little embarrassed.

  He chuckled.

  “Thank yo
u for the knife. But what will you use?”

  “I’ve got something a bit better.” He pointed to a gun tucked in the waistband of his pants.

  The pair circled back to the lab. “I see we’ve lost a few more,” Rosalie mumbled aloud, taking note of the dwindling group of newly released variants. She tossed the canvas bag on the floor in front of her. “If you still don’t have a weapon, please take what you need,” she spoke up.

  When the bag was empty, and the modest-sized group of ex-prisoners were as armed as they were able, she continued to give orders.

  “Let’s spread out. No less than groups of two. Our primary target is Lord Zebadiah. Take note there are friendlies amongst us. The Liberation Alliance is here to help us. Be sure to identify yourselves if needed and be careful out there.”

  The new recruits nodded in response.

  “Good. Then let’s move out.”

  The small group dispersed, but Kipser stayed behind. “I’m going with you,” he told Rosalie.

  “I’m going too,” another man spoke up from the doorway, joining the pair. “I’m Gluge. I’m a Discloser,” he said, sticking out his hand.

  Rosalie and Kipser nodded, politely introduced themselves, but forewent the handshakes.

  Gluge grinned knowingly. It was the typical response he received once he revealed his power. “Before I so readily volunteer,” he said, “I guess I should ask. Where are we going?”

  “I see you missed the speech,” Kipser told him.

  Grinning, Rosalie said, “To find Lord Zebadiah and that psycho, Siranya.”

  “What do we do when we find them?”

  “We kill them,” she said without hesitation.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Ash and Stryker remained out front of their men as they crept through the castle hallways in search of the evil lord. The Alliance did their best to keep casualties to a minimum – relying on their powers over their weapons to incapacitate the Druins. The Druin army was not as honorable. They were prepared to fight, and they used both power and weaponry to slay anyone who stood in the way; even their own people.

  Swords clashed and guns blazed. The Druin army was vast in numbers, but most were no match for the skilled fighters and honed powers of the Liberation Alliance. In Lord Zebadiah’s quest to conquer and harness variants, he’d failed to teach and cultivate his own army. Ash reckoned Zebadiah’s selfishness would be his downfall.

  Rounding the corner of a winding corridor, Ash and his men came face-to-face with a being they weren’t prepared for. The man was a beast: standing over seven feet tall with legs like tree trunks and a head like an ox. He wore heavy armor, complete with a brass plated shield and breastplate, and carried a gigantic, silver-tipped axe. The axe would have been difficult for a normal-sized man to lift, but the mountain of a man carried it with ease. He had an aura about him, a visible purple haze that radiated from his skin and darkened his already terrifying features.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” the man spoke. “You might say I was designed for this moment.” His eyes gleamed with satisfaction and disdain as he rotated the axe between his grasp.

  Ash blinked in confusion. “We’re not here for you. We’ve come to apprehend Lord Zebadiah.”

  “Well then, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Broagen. And I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He lifted the axe. His dreadful words rang out like a chilling melody, low and smooth.

  The Liberation Alliance trained their weapons.

  Broagen closed his eyes, hissed one undiscernible word, and the weapons of the Alliance fell to the ground. Clangs of metal and a single gunshot from a dropped gun added to the chaos.

  “Take it easy,” Ash barked at his men before hysteria could set in.

  The men scrambled for their weapons, but another mumbled word from Broagen and they were clutching their bellies and screaming out in pain.

  Ash squared his shoulders through the pain and faced the man head on. He turned his index finger in a circular motion as he spoke slowly. “You don’t want to do this. You can trust us. Let us pass.”

  The giant of a man laughed at him. “You think your Seducer charms will work on me? I am immune to such antics.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Ash saw Stryker and two of his men edging along the sidewall. He sensed they were hoping to sneak up behind the man and defeat him with the element of surprise.

  “So, you’re a Blocker,” Ash said, keeping the man distracted.

  The man puffed out his enormous chest. He lifted his axe, then pounded the handle on the floor with a resounding thud. “I have more powers than anyone on Orthron.”

  “That sounds a bit exaggerated. Show me.” Ash knew it was dangerous to toy with the beast, but the distraction was working. Stryker and his men were closing in.

  Broagen accepted the challenge. He snapped his fingers and the room morphed into a field of bones. A river of blood flowed through the field. Children stumbled through the bones, crying out for comfort. The ceiling opened up, and droplets of blood poured down on the men.

  The sounds of grown men crying out in horror echoed through the room.

  “Close your eyes,” Ash bellowed out the order. “It’s not real.”

  Another snap of his fingers, and Broagen brought the soldiers to their knees. The men were in agony – a mixture of pain and unexplained grief surged through them. Ash sank to his knees, but kept his eyes trained on his enemy. “That’s all you got?” he challenged through his pain.

  The man dropped the axe, then clapped his hands together. When he did, a fireball blasted from his fingertips. It shot above the Liberation Alliance, leaving a scorched mark in the wall behind them.

  “I missed on purpose,” he said wickedly. “The next one…”

  Before he could finish his thought, Stryker and the two men with him pounced from behind. Two took Broagen out at the knees. When he sank to the ground, the third jumped on his back and slipped a thin wire around his neck. Broagen flailed, clawing at his neck and screaming in pain and surprise.

  “Now,” Ash screamed. The Liberation Alliance picked up their weapons and rushed their enemy. The brute tried to defend himself, conjuring up terrifying visions and paralyzing spells, but his powers were weakening as the life drained out of him. The visions were like a mist, the spells no more than a nuisance, and the Liberation Alliance pressed through them.

  As a multitude of swords plunged into him, the beastly man cried out in anguish, then crashed to the ground, defeated. Stryker finished him off with a single gunshot to the temple.

  “It was him or us,” Stryker told the younger men who appeared shell-shocked by the violence. They nodded, but there was a reverent silence for the man’s passing.

  “I’ve never seen anyone with that many powers,” Marx spoke up, leaning over the fallen man. “I started to fear my visions of our victory had been wrong.”

  “He was created that way,” a man spoke up from behind them.

  Ash’s men drew their swords, put off by the stranger’s presence.

  “I mean no harm,” the man said, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m only a servant here. Most people of Druin were too terrified to stand up to Lord Zebadiah. Anyone who defied him paid dearly. We’ve spent years living in fear for ourselves and our families.”

  “Can you show us where he’s hiding?” Ash asked.

  “Oh, he’s not hiding. He’s waiting for you.” The man looked down in shame. “He’s been preparing for this day.”

  “Show us.”

  The Druin servant led the Liberation Alliance through several winding corridors until they reached a grand room. The soldiers inched towards the center of the room. There were archways leading to more corridors and the servant started to look uneasy.

  Ash gave the man a sideways look. “Draw your weapons,” he bellowed. “He’s led us into a trap.”

  The Druin army flanked them from all sides. The servant slinked away, cowering behind Zebadiah’s loyal men.

/>   Ash fought to keep his men calm. “Don’t forget your powers,” he instructed.

  The Fabricator gave Ash a knowing look, then concentrated hard on his surroundings. This time he projected an empty room in place of where he and the rest of the Alliance were standing. The Druin army paused, confused. Next he conjured up a beautiful woman standing in the center. She wore a pink, flowing dress. The dress was sheer, exposing her ample bosoms beneath the fabric, and the Druins stared in awe.

  Once the evil army was distracted, Marx knew the time had come to subdue them. “Now,” he called out. The remainder of the Liberation Alliance spilled out of the neighboring corridors, surrounding the Druins. Marx had foreseen the ambush, and he had men ready to counter the attack.

  When the Fabricator’s vision dissolved, the Druin army found themselves surrounded on all sides.

  Ash and Stryker grinned at each other, both in on the plan from the beginning.

  “You could foresee this, but you couldn’t see that powerful freak we just defeated?” Stryker teased Marx.

  “I’m pretty sure he was also a Blocker.”

  “A long-distance Blocker?” Stryker mused, grinning.

  “Shut your trap and help me fight,” Marx said, motioning to the Druin army who, despite being in a state of shock, were still heavily armed.

  “I think you and I both know we’ve got this one in the bag.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Rosalie and her new comrades combed the castle for Lord Zebadiah, searching bedrooms, common areas, and dimly lit corridors. They figured they were getting close when they heard battle cries echoing down the hallways. They found the evil lord waiting for them in the atrium of the east wing. He was guarded by a dozen men, all heavily armed.

  Gluge drew his sword, Kipser his gun, and Rosalie her knife. Lord Zebadiah threw his head back and laughed. “Is this what you brought to bring me down? Paupers’ weapons?”