From the Ashes Page 14

  Stone’s face was serious as he spoke, his voice booming out quiet thunder to drown out the foul whispers of the dark gods, brooking no interruption, mortal or otherwise.

  You cannot defeat me, Cece. There was no arrogance in his words, only truth. In this world, I am invincible.

  The Seeress nodded slowly, regarding the glowing corona of white that surrounded him, the crystal Glaive that hung, motionless before him, awaiting his command.

  “So it would appear.” She cocked her head to one side and flashed a sinister grin. “Bavard…”

  A rush of wind and Stone turned, just in time to catch a glimpse of the hulking, swollen figure of dark plate that loomed high above him, cackling with manic glee, before a hammer-head of twisted stone smashed into him with the force of a meteor, hurling him through the air.

  Into the half-formed portal…

  Like a dog chasing its wayward master, Dexter followed, vanishing into the maelstrom on a trail of blinding, white light that dissipated into the sickly green.

  ***

  The army made their way up the stairs as best they could as per Stone’s instructions, the shamans and Foresters ranging ahead up the spiral as the Guards made their way slower, climbing backwards, below. The demons continued to spawn on the Isle below them, hounding them, pursuing every step of the way. But the Tulador Guards were empowered now and the forces of the enemy struggled to make headway before the rearguard of silver-plate.

  Marlyn roared in exhilaration as he thumbed the new trigger-piece that had somehow sprouted from the side of his cannon, cackling in thrilled wonder as the golden wave of power erupted once more from the end of the barrel to vaporise the horde of spawn that had threatened to charge him. A fading whine as the weapon recharged itself. Marlyn almost cried with joy at the glorious sound, yearning to take the cannon apart and see how it worked for himself, but knowing that this was neither the time or place, nor would he understand the workings if he did.

  An Iron Giant rose up unexpectedly to his side, climbing up from the stairs below. It hauled itself up with inhuman strength with one hand, broadsword clasped in the other and Marlyn leapt backwards to avoid the decapitating sweep, his instinctive return shot missing, a golden cloud of light lancing off into the sky as the monster loomed high, broadsword sweeping into the air once more ready to swing down and end his life. A duo of flashes from behind him, the broadsword exploding in the creature’s grip, followed shortly by a hole punched through its chest. The metal monster fell backwards with a groan, to smash into the hordes of spawn that swarmed below.

  Hofsted hauled the youth to his feet.

  “Thanks.”

  The Lieutenant nodded, hefting his recharging cannon as he took aim down the stairs. Arbistrath called out from behind, the righteous fury in his voice rising clear above the din of battle.

  “Men, ascend the stairs! We lag too far behind the shamans.”

  The Tulador Guard obeyed him, continuing their backwards climb of the stairs, even as they continued to pour destruction into the swarm below. Arbistrath nodded in satisfaction, turning to make his way up the spiral staircase, but he froze, eyes wide as silhouettes came flying out of the gloom towards him.

  These new creatures had the appearance of an ape, stunted and malformed, with the hideous tattered wings of a bat. Their faces were contorted with rage, gaping mouths rimmed with piercing fangs and their long gangly limbs ended in vicious claws that stretched out to grasp their prey. As with the demon spawn below, eyes glowed a baleful red that seemed to hunger for life.

  Once upon a time, the Lord of Tulador would have balked at the sight, but he was no longer that man. He brandished his ancestral sabre in a skilful flourish as he growled.

  “Bring it…”

  The Gargoyles shrieked as if in response, but didn’t venture closer, instead hovering out in the air to the side of the tower, flapping their bat-wings as they opened their maws. Cold prickles of foreboding on the nape of his neck warned him, and Arbistrath lunged to one side. The acrid reek of vomit assailed his nostrils and he turned, gazing in horror at the stone that hissed and melted at the touch of the Gargoyles’ acidic spit.

  He span, rising to his feet again, pulse pounding as his limbs filled with adrenaline. This was an unexpected development.

  “Lieutenant!”

  The Guards below were busy, hearing him but unable to extricate themselves from their current fight long enough to aid him. The Gargoyles hissed in anticipation, readying yet more corrosive saliva, having ranged their target now. Another vile hacking and the streaming globules hurled towards him once more, aimed exactly for him and he raised his sabre in a futile attempt to block the spray.

  An instant before impact, a streaking shape, and the saliva stopped just short of him, spraying about in all directions, stray droplets hitting him on the arm and leg, causing him to howl in pain, but the majority blocked by the whirling blur before him. The Gargoyles ceased their barrage, enraged, and the whirling circle stopped its spin, the crystal form of Sinister floating before him. A whine of confusion from the winged creatures, before the Glaive leapt to the attack, hacking the demons to pieces in moments.

  Arbistrath hissed through gritted teeth as he inspected himself; his left arm burned with the pain of the spray that had hit him. Luckily, it wasn’t his sword arm. He’d live. He looked up to the tower that soared dizzyingly above; the shamans and the Foresters were making better progress than they. He didn’t want to be too far behind when the action kicked off above. A glinting of light beside him, the crystal sword floating patiently though awaiting instruction.

  “Help my men below,” he asked the weapon, feeling foolish for talking to a sword, but the Glaive did as he asked, streaking down to the battle below, carving a path of destruction through the throng as Arbistrath watched on in approval.

  “Men, with me! We are moving!”

  ***

  Wrynn opened his eyes, his senses withdrawing back into himself as he nodded in satisfaction; the Glaive had done its job, aiding the young Arbistrath as he’d asked it. He’d seen the swarm of Gargoyles as they’d dived past them, knowing that the Guards would have been taken by surprise. He looked ahead of him, to the form of Alann who climbed, swift and low with the practiced crouch of a stealthy hunter.

  “Still nothing?” he enquired with a whisper.

  The Woodsman turned, a curt nod his only reply.

  A shaman, young and impatient, bristled by Wrynn’s side.

  “Then why do we move so slow?” His eyes burned with eagerness to unleash his dormant powers. “It’s obvious the demons only spawn bel-“

  An explosion of stone, a metallic screech, a long lance of dark metal thrusting upwards from the step beneath them, impaling the youth from groin to head like a human kebab, before receding below once more. The young shaman stood for an instant, eyes darting about in confusion as he tried to speak, before falling backwards into the welcoming air, like a marionette with its strings suddenly cut.

  Alann span, leaping across to dash the blood-splattered Wrynn to one side, more lances of iron erupting from the floor as he screamed.

  “Ambush!”

  Like monstrous spiders the Iron Centaurs clambered over the side of the steps, the sharp points of their metal legs digging and holding fast into the stone of the tower. Down on the ground below, the constructs had loomed tall, but here, on the cramped staircase, they were behemoths of metal, unavoidable and terrifying.

  And all but immune to the magic of the Shamans and the arrows of the Foresters.

  “Move, move, move!”

  Alann’s bellowed orders spurred the scattered force into action. They ran, sprinting up the steps as best they could, caution thrown to the wind before the face of the beasts. Here and there, shamans and Foresters plucked from the tower by the probing lances, sent screaming to the depths below. Balls of fire or fingers of crackling lightning leapt out, but rebounded harmlessly off ensorcelled metal.

  Lungs burned like
fire within Wrynn’s chest; the Earth Tap was weaker up here, stymied by the evil atmosphere that hung, low and stifling. But still he kept going. Perhaps out on the open space of the platform above they might stand a slight chance against the demon-machines that pursued them with mechanical determination. Further and further they flew, the screeching metallic cries of the creatures receding behind them, till an eerie glow began to pervade the air about them; the sickly, fluorescent green of the portal itself.

  Alann and Wrynn at their head, the vanguard of man swept about the last corner of the stairs and clambered out onto the platform proper, shielding their eyes from the blazing portal that split the air before them, like a boil upon the face of the heavens. Behind the weary men and women, the grinding squeal of metal on stone as the Centaurs rose into view from the stairs.

  The Foresters dropped down into a practiced crouch, ready to unleash a hail of missiles, no matter how futile the gesture may be. The shamans, likewise, spread their hands, striking warlike poses as they summoned forth the destructive fury of the elements, ready for the battle ahead. One Centaur made its way onto the platform, moving left out of the way of its fellows, before standing still, facing the gathered warriors with mechanical stillness. The second followed, moving right, it too standing still, lance held to attention. Finally, the third Centaur, taking its position between the first two. The party of men stood, pulses beating a staccato rhythm in their chests as they eyed the unnervingly motionless line of constructs that faced them like statues, not advancing, not retreating.

  Merely waiting.

  It was Narlen who voiced the thought, his whispered words aimed at Alann beside him, who stood, eyes narrowed, axe ready.

  “What are they waiting for…?”

  His answer came in the form of a dull thud, a vibration through the stone beneath them. The men looked at each other, wary. Another thud, rippling through them and up their legs. The sound of something heavy. Heavier, even, than the beasts before them. Slowly, hesitantly, the army of men turned about to witness what fresh horror now stalked them.

  Gwenna gasped. The men of Tulador balked.

  Bavard, General of the Legions, had come once more to wreak his gibbering fury upon them all. Rising up to his full twenty feet of dark, armour-plated might he bellowed his insane laughter at the uncaring sky as he swung his monstrous warhammer about in an whirling arc of death.

  Chapter Seven:

  The summer sunlight glistened off the crystal waters of the Yow. The grass beneath him was cool, yet dry, so pleasant to sit on and he sank his fingers deep into the long green blades, relishing the richness of the soil.

  A sudden, quiet splash amidst the melodious calls of birdsong, and he looked out across the river, spying with a grin the wizened figure of Yalen, going as strong as ever, hauling out a struggling fish from the rocking platform of his canoe. The old man gave a cheery wave and Stone replied in turn, as the fisherman paddled away downstream with his catch.

  Darkness, all of a sudden, and he smiled at the touch of the fingers that hid his eyes, spinning and throwing the slender form to the soft grass. Hazel eyes looked up at him from a warm, smiling face and he couldn’t help himself, drawing near, pressing his lips against hers, so soft and tender. He withdrew and Lanah looked up at him with a gentle gasp.

  “What was that for?”

  He shrugged, a smile on his face.

  “I don’t know. Just feels like I’ve not seen you in ages.”

  The girl giggled, snuggling up to him on the soft riverbank.

  “I feel the same way,” she told him, her voice so soft, yet so mature, full of understanding despite her years. “An hour apart feels like a day. A day, a month.”

  He merely nodded, a smile of contentment on his face; his arm about his love, the warm summer sun bathing him in its glow.

  “Another feast tonight,” the girl told him. “Father wants to see you beforehand; says it’s something important.”

  He looked down at her, puzzled.

  “Oh aye? We’d best move then.”

  He made to rise, but she was quicker, forcing him down to the ground before straddling his lean form, a playful smile on her face.

  “No rush, my dear,” she told him, slender fingers reaching to untie the leather jerkin that concealed her shapely body. “We have all the time in the world…”

  ***

  The summer evening was drawing in as they returned to the village, flush from an afternoon’s solitude on the banks of the Yow. The gentle Plains breeze brought with it the familiar smell of wood-smoke, of cooking, the sing-song voices of the village women chatting as they worked.

  Together, they passed the fire in the centre of the village, people already gathering about, Stone nodding to familiar faces as they threaded their way past; Neroo, laughing and joking amongst his friends; Arnoon, gracing him a nod and a smile, before returning to the adoring girls that surrounded him.

  The air inside the Chief’s hut was dark and smoky, heavy with the scent of pipe-weed, and Stone wasn’t surprised to see both Farr and Wrynn sat before the fire, smoking their pipes and laughing as they chatted. At the sight of the pair, the two of them rose, smiling. Raine approached, bearing a gourd of water, and Stone took it gratefully, taking a deep draught before handing it back.

  “Nagah-Slayer, Lanah, how goes it?” enquired the Chief, placing his great hands on the youths’ shoulders in greeting.

  Stone glanced sidelong at the girl beside him; he could’ve sworn he saw her blush as she made her way to sit down in the flickering firelight.

  “Couldn’t be happier, Chief,” he smiled, in reply.

  “Really?” exclaimed Farr, as the shaman chuckled to his side. “We shall have to put that to the test. For I have a proposition for you…”

  ***

  The air was dark now, the starry, velvet sky of the Plains cocooning the revellers like a warm and safe blanket as they danced and ate and smoked the hours away. The mood was light. The music, hypnotic. The hips of the women, beguiling.

  Farr rose, clapping his hands above the din of merriment to get the attention of the feasting villagers, the drums dying off as eyes turned to see him and ears to listen. Stone clasped Lanah’s hand as she sat beside him, feeling her trembling. He looked her in her deep, brown eyes, smiling encouragement. She smiled back, that warm and honest smile that had stolen his heart so long ago.

  “My friends, Youngbloods, honourable Elders. Thank you for coming tonight, to join with us. For this is no ordinary feast, but a celebration of our future.” The crowd murmured amongst themselves, puzzled by his words as he continued. “It pleases me, my villagers, to be the first to announce that the Nagah Slayer and my daughter Lanah are to be bound together as husband and wife!”

  A roar of approval from the crowd as the couple rose, waving about in embarrassment amidst the cheers of the villagers, the whooping and hollering of the Youngbloods. Now it was Wrynn’s turn to rise, the shaman looming tall and proud above the people he served, the crowd’s excited babbling dying down as they listened to what he, too, had to say.

  “There is more,” came his booming voice, to the nods of the Chief and the puzzled looks of the couple themselves. “Stone, come to me.”

  The youth shot a look at the girl to his side, seeing that she was as confused as he, but he did as he was asked, moving over to stand beside the shaman and the Chief.

  “Chief Farr,” spoke Wrynn, as much to the crowd at large as Stone himself, “has led our people for nigh forty years now, since his father before him passed the mantle on to him.” He placed a hand on the greying leader’s shoulder, smiling in warm comfort. “But he grows weary of the burden, and who could blame him? These are his twilight years and he deserves to enjoy them in peace. So it has been decided, amongst the Elders of the village, that he shall pass on the mantle of leadership in turn.”

  The crowd were silent, leaning forwards subconsciously as they strained to hear what they all knew was coming.

 
“Stone,” came the shaman’s voice, his dark, powerful eyes boring straight into him. “Do you accept the mantle of leadership from Chief Farr. Do you promise to lead our people to peace, to glory, to protect us and rule us with a wise and fair hand? Do you swear by this compact?”

  Stone smiled and nodded.

  “I do.”

  Wrynn reached forth and painted lines of red across his cheeks as symbol of this sacred rite of passage. The towering wonder-worker turned to the crowd, raising his hands into the sky.

  “Before the spirits and the Elders, this compact has been witnessed. Behold, my friends; Stone of the Wilds, Nagah Slayer, Chief of our people.”

  A roar, greater even than that of before and Stone felt the warmth of Lanah’s slender arm threading its way through his, holding him tight. He gazed out upon the sea of familiar faces; Yalen, Arnoon, Neroo, Raine, Rala, all cheering him on, jubilant at the future of their village, now secured. His heart soared in his chest. Everything had come to pass. This was all he had ever wanted. A simple, quiet life with the woman he loved.

  Acceptance.

  Peace.

  A single tear rolled down his cheek. A gentle tug from beside him, Lanah’s radiant face gazing up at him.

  “Why do you cry?” Her voice was so soft, so gentle, and he could close his eyes, bathing in the dulcet, silken tones.

  He smiled, looking down at her with sad eyes as he replied.

  “Because none of this is real…”

  ***

  Silence. Such as would drive a normal man insane. No noise, not from the flickering fire in the centre of the square, nor the crickets of the grass, nor even the gentle breeze that rippled across the Plains.

  Only silence.

  And the blank, lifeless stares of a hundred motionless villagers that dissipated, vanishing into the air like smoke on the breeze.

  Lanah removed her arm from about his, taking a few steps backwards away from him, face blank, before disappearing, the twisting, twirling tendrils of smoke dispersing without a trace. Wrynn moved closer, looming high above him, but all that did was compound the deceit; Stone had outgrown him a century ago.