Ghosts of Korath

by Jake Stone

  Atia and I exchange a glance, the both of us intrigued by the idea.

  “She does know how to sneak around,” I say. “I mean, she’s been doing it practically her entire life.”

  “And if she messes up?” Atia asks.

  “I won’t,” Tora assures.

  “Here,” Zorel says, reaching into her utility belt. “She can have my knife.”

  Tora examines the hefty blade with disconcerted eyes, as if its weight has just awoken her to the danger of her plan.

  “You can still back out if you want to,” I tell her.

  “No,” she says, meeting my gaze with a look of determination. “I can do this.”

  “You’d better,” Atia says, “Or we’ll all dead.”

  We watch from behind the pillar as Chun Hei and Atia creep their way toward the unsuspecting guards, knives lowered at their sides. They’re only a couple feet away, when Chun Hei nods her ascent at Tora. And the two of them leap at the demons, digging their blades into the back of their necks.

  The first hellion dies with barely a grunt as Chun Hei cups her hand around the demon’s mouth. But Tora’s victim isn’t as silent. It lets out a tiny groan, as if it’s been pricked by a mosquito, then spins around, eyes growing wide as it spots Tora standing behind him, who, in all her fright, can only stand in fear.

  Trying to scream, the hellion is unable to speak due to the blade lunged in its windpipe.

  “Oh shit!”

  Thankfully, Chun Hei finishes the job. She grabs the handle of the knife and yanks it to the side, severing half his neck. I watch in silence as the hellion’s head falls to the side, where it hangs over his shoulder.

  “It’s done,” I whisper to the others.

  As one, we rush out from behind the pillar, racing hunchback toward the stone columns that will lead us to the roof and into the window of the sepulcher.

  Tora’s still frozen by what she’s done, paralyzed by the sight of the decapitated hellion at her feet. So I catch her by the wrist and pull her forward. “Come on,” I whisper.

  Standing on my shoulders, Atia lifts herself up onto the roof, where she begins to tug the others up. They’re quick and silent—perfect. When it’s my turn, I’m relieved to be lifted by Petronelous who nearly flings me upward.

  “Inside,” Atia orders.

  We crouch around the window, watching as Chun Hei uses her knife to dig around the edges of the frame. From such a high vantage point, I’m able to see the part of the bridge, where at least a dozen hellions are standing guard. They linger in packs, staring over the sides as they search for anything strange. We need to hurry.

  With guarded hesitation, Chun Hei springs the frame from the wall, gentle as she pulls it out and lays it on the ground.

  One by one, we sneak into the room, our titanium boots landing atop the rocky floor like butterflies landing on a flower. The room is dark, rife with the pungent odor of mildew and age. With the snap of a finger, Tora lights a flame in her palm, and I’m hit with the ominous view of what looks to be a shrine.

  Pentagrams, drawn in the faded white of chalk, cover the walls in frightening and strange designs, while in the center of the room, the remains of a skeleton lies within an open casket—the witch.

  The women protect themselves with the mark of the corfew, their mouths agape, their eyes unblinking. Even I’m moved by the sight, feeling a definite tremble along my arms and legs.

  “So this is it,” Atia says, brave enough to crouch before the coffin of bones. She narrows her eyes and crinkles her nose, appearing disgusted with the sight.

  “To think,” Petronelous says, peering over Atia’s shoulder. “So many proud men and women of the Republic, killed by this being. It seems almost…”

  “Inconceivable?” Tora says, drawing the attention of the room. “The power with which she was granted was formidable indeed.”

  “You sound like you admire her,” Atia says.

  “Fear demands respect,” Tora says, her eyes growing downcast against the flame in her hand. “Which is why we must hurry.” She turns to the exit behind us. “Outside this door is a hall leading to the main chamber. All we have to do is take it, and we’ll have a bird’s eye view into the proceedings.”

  Atia is lifting to her feet, when from the top of the temple, we hear the ominous clang of bells ringing.

  “What’s that?” Zorel asks, her gazing lifting upward.

  “The call to prayer,” Tora answers. “They’re starting the ritual.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Atia peers over the edge of the balcony, her movement slow and steady, like a cat creeping on a bird.

  We wait in the shadows, our chests rising with deep breaths as we do our best to remain calm.

  Lord Bantha is a dangerous foe, perhaps the most dangerous we’ve ever faced. In fact, it’s rumored that his ability to smell out an enemy is as good as a spider sensing the vibration of a fly caught in its web. We must be careful.

  I hate cowering, though. It demeans me, and I feel the wrath of irritation urging my joints to move forward.

  “Wait here,” I sign to the girls.

  I creep forward to join Atia. The trembling of my awareness warns me of the demons below, and I know that we’re, unfortunately, in the right place.

  “How many?” I ask, kneeling next to her.

  “Many,” she says, motioning over the ridge.

  I follow her gaze into the pit of demons, my heart sinking into my stomach as I find a chamber of hell, unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. A place of worship where the spoils of unholy war decorate its king in disgusting splendor.

  I stare, horrified by the tapestries of human flesh hanging along the walls. They shiver in the firelight as if the very souls that lived in them are still trapped inside, frightened by the armored hellions who stand sentinel beneath them.

  Along the circular chamber, large archways have been carved out, giving view into the adjacent chambers, where dozens, if not hundreds, of hellions stand in ranks, facing the altar like a congregation from hell.

  In the center of the main chamber, a giant pentagram formed out of human bones, sits, surrounded by the eighteen young women I’d met in the cells, their wrists chained to the high, metal poles standing behind them. Appearing with no bruises or cuts, I can only thank God that they weren’t injured in the standoff with the hellions.

  Galail and the women weep as they struggle to free themselves, yanking on the metal chains, crying out to be freed. But it’s no use. They’re too weak, and the metal is too strong. Soon, they’ll be sacrificed. And there’s nothing they can do to stop it.

  This is it, I realize, with a pang of fear. The place where Lord Bantha plans to resurrect the Great Witch of Korath who will then destroy the Republic army and any hope of keeping the demons from gaining a foothold in the galaxy.

  Eighteen demon priests dressed in the ceremonial robes of hell—long flowing pieces of skin that have been stitched together with strands of human hair and cursed with the markings of Zendal—appear from the entrance below, their heads bowed in subservience as each of them holds a swath of red cloth between their hands, where crooked daggers sit, waiting.

  I watch as they take their places around the circle, standing before each of the girls. The decrepit bastards wait in silence for their master, who, appearing from the exit in a black hooded cloak, takes his place before the altar at the edge of the dais.

  Bantha.

  I study the figure carefully, still in disbelief by how small and slim he is. Nothing like the gigantic demon knight we faced earlier, a brute whose stomps could cause a small earthquake. Instead, he’s more slender and elegant, like a fairy who lives off of roots and toads. Atia shoots me a glance, her confusion clearly written across her face.

  “That can’t be him,” she whispers.

  “Don’t let his size fool you,” I say, my heart beating so loudly that I can actually hear it in my ears. “It’s him and he’s definitely powerful.”

>   Bantha takes his place before the altar, a moment of stilled hush as he peels back the hood of his cloak. Staring out at his demonic followers, he casts them with a wizen faced, his yellow eyes accented by a sincere look of gratitude.

  “Brothers,” he says in greeting, his arms stretching out in a welcoming gesture. “We come today to pay our respects to a great and powerful soul, one that will serve our lord Zendal in his pursuit of destruction. So much flesh…so much life… I can feel the disease of my essence crying for blood, oozing with lust.

  “But we must hurry my brethren. We must begin the rites of passage, so that we can once again revive the tool of Zendal and awaken the witch of the mountain once more!”

  The horde of hellions watching from their pews through the archways erupts with grunted cheers, their wild fanaticism threatening to undo the entire ceremony. It won’t be long now.

  “Come,” Atia says, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me back toward the rest of the group, who wait for us in the shadows.

  “Did you see them?” Tora whispers, her voice like a razor against the grating cacophonous voice of Lord Bantha as it echoes through the cavern.

  “They have them tied to metal posts around a circle with a pentagon in the middle,” I say.

  “How’s Galail?” she quickly asks.

  “Alive,” I tell her.

  “You have to get them out of there!” she pleads, gripping me by the arm. “You promised.”

  “We will,” I assure, resting a hand on her shoulder. But by the doubt I see in the eyes of my fellow Saints, I know that it's highly unlikely.

  Nevertheless, we’ll do what we can.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  We perform a weapons check, loading power cartridges into rifles and checking blades, doubling up on explosives and latching grenades to our belt, using whatever’s left of our ammunition.

  “That’s it,” Petronelous says. “The last of it.”

  “Nothing’s left?” Atia asks.

  “Nope. Once we fire the last bolt, its blade and strength after that.”

  Atia nods. “That should be more than enough to rid this temple of this filth,” she says valiantly.

  She pulls us into a circle where we all take a knee. Using the tip of her dagger, she scrapes out a game plan against the rocky surface, drawing the dimensions of the chamber below.

  It’s a round room with a number archways leading into the adjoining chambers, where ranks of hellion soldiers wait, watching the unholy procession. We can’t see exactly how many there are, but from what I saw during my escape and by the way my nerves are trembling, I can only imagine that it’s a small army.

  “Alright,” Atia begins. “Our first priority is the women. We have to keep the priests from killing them.” Her gaze turns to Chun Hei. “Take them out first,” she signs.

  Chun Hei replies with a nod.

  “Zorel,” Atia turns to the elemental. “How powerful are your energy walls?”

  “How powerful do you need them to be?”

  “The archways of the adjoining chambers need to be shut. If you can hold off the enemy for as long as you can, it’ll give the rest of us a chance to pool our powers to defeat Bantha.”

  Zorel sighs in thought. She’s never tried something like that before, I can tell, and the prospect of employing so much of her power causes her to waver in her answer. Finally, as if reconciling herself to such a feat, she nods. “Sure, I can do it.”

  “Good.” Atia rises to her feet, as do we all, and turns to toward the cliff overlooking the cavern, her hand reaching for her rectifier.

  “What about me?” Tora asks, grabbing me by the arm.

  Atia and I share a glance, signaling to each other that we’re on the same page.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “But you need to remain here.”

  “Why?” she asks. “My sister’s down there. I want to fight.”

  “I’m sure you do,” I say, gently removing her hand from my arm and holding it in my hand. “But you said it yourself, fire doesn’t work against demons.”

  “But this isn’t fair,” she protests. “What if you die? What if you can’t save my sister? What am I to do then? Just wait here?”

  “You must escape,” I tell her, brushing the hair away from her face. “Take refuge inside the passages as you’ve done before. Lead your people out of the mountain and find the Republic army outside. Warn them of what is to come. That is what you can do.”

  Reluctant, she holds me in her glare, face twisted with emotion. She wants to come with us, I know, to fight the demons for her sister, perhaps even to prove to Atia that she can be a Battle Saint just like us. But she’s not suited for this, and I can only hold her hand until realization brings her to lucidity. She smiles. “As horrible as all this was, at least I got to meet you, Xander.” She lifts onto her toes and pecks me on the lips. A fleeting kiss, one that ends before I can enjoy it, but I savor it all the same.

  “May the corfew guide you,” she tells me.

  “And you as well.”

  Atia clears her throat, drawing our attention. “If you don’t mind, we have some demons to slay.”

  “Goodbye,” I tell Tora.

  “Goodbye,” she replies.

  I turn to join my friends who are waiting for me at the edge of the balcony with their rifles firmly in hand. We stand there on the eve of our destruction, hearts racing as we prepare to meet the enemy. Stealing one last glance at Tora, I’m gifted with a regretful smile that fills my heart with longing.

  “On my call,” Atia tells us, eyes hard as steel.

  I activate my helmet and draw the rectifier from my back, hands trembling as I stare into the chamber below. You can do this, I tell myself. You can beat these bastards and save the women. All you have to do is stay calm and cool and you’ll get out of this alive.

  “For the corfew,” Petronelous says.

  “For the republic,” Zorel replies.

  And with that, Atia gives the order. “Go!”

  We leap into the chamber, our arrival announced by the slamming of our metal boots on the solid floor. Bantha and his priests turn in our direction, their shock evident by their frozen faces.

  Through the archways of the cavern, I’m able to see into the adjacent chambers, horrified by the small army of hellions watching from the pews. They stare at us in surprise, their maws widening as anger fills their red eyes.

  “Now, Zorel!” Atia screams.

  Zorel rushes toward the perimeter of the cavern, arms outstretched as she blasts a shock of blue light at the archways, forming a vast wall of electricity that protects us from the charging horde.

  The hellions roar out in anger as they crash into the sparking barricade, their bodies erupting in splatters of gory flesh.

  Zorel, her strength suddenly tested, winces at the sudden impact. But she holds herself firm, face tightening into a look of determination as she increases the strength of her energy.

  Bantha whirls on his priests. “Hurry!” he orders, pointing a twisted finger at the women. “We must begin the sacrifice!”

  The wretched beings rush for their daggers, fumbling like idiots as the pressure of the moment gets the best of them. The blades fall from their bony hands, clanking against the ground, where they bounce and spin away, leaving the priests defenseless as babies.

  Chun Hei seizes the moment with fervor.

  One-by-one, she picks them off, exploding their brains with pulse blasts, that cause the chained women to scream as their faces are showered by bone and brain.

  But there are others—priests whose resolve is not as easily ruptured, whose hands are much steadier.

  They grip the daggers with concentrated effort, careful as they press the blades against the women’s throats. And that’s where we come in.

  Atia tosses a dagger at one of the priest’s head, sinking the tip of her blade into the back of his skull. His body falls back with a thud, blade sticking out of one of his eyes. Petronelous isn’t as s
leek, though. She picks up a large rock and throws it like a fastball, caving in the face a priest, who was already drawing blood. Rectifier in hand, I set my sights on the priest standing before Galail, fear twisting in my belly as he raises his blade above her. No! Firing my weapon, I watch as the priest’s back is incinerated with a shock of blue plasma, the back of his cloak smoking as he drops to the floor.

  Galail’s eyes find me amongst the chaos, our faces marred with fear and relief.

  “Thank you,” she mouths.

  I nod.

  When they’re all dead, we turn our attention to the altar where Bantha is watching us through slitted eyes.

  “I wondered if you’d be brave enough to return,” he says in a calm, yet menacing voice. “But I guess hope is as delusional as I thought.”

  I retract my helmet, meeting his eyes with my own. “What can I say, I’m a pretty delusional guy.”

  He sneers. “No matter. In a few moments, I will destroy you, along with your friends and the pointless army that waits outside this mountain.”

  “You may try,” Atia says. “But first, you’ll taste the edge of our steel.”

  “Very well,” Bantha replies. “As you wish.”

  We watch, dumbfounded as he begins to twitch. It’s a subtle gesture, a jerk of the head, a blink of an eye. But eventually, the movements become so animated that he’s full-on convulsing, leaving us to stare in wonderment. He lets out a cry of pain as his hands snap out, fingers sprouting into branches of rotted wood. His black cloak rips apart as his chest and torso expand into a massive trunk.

  Demons have been known to transfigure, to change shape in the face of the enemy. But the extent to which this demon changes baffles us to the point of horror. We all come to a halt, watching as the evil continues to grow.

  “By the corfew,” Atia whispers, head tilted back as she tries to hold Bantha in her gaze.

  But he’s growing so quickly, rising and rising, until he’s at least twenty feet high, a giant tree towering amidst the flickering torches of the chamber. The transformation itself is a cruel one, a price the demon lord pays dearly.