From the Ashes Page 15

  “Why do you say such things?” asked the thing that posed as Wrynn, head cocked to one side in curiosity. “Is this not enough for you? Is this not what you had always dreamed of?”

  “That’s the point,” he retorted, matter-of-factly. “This is only a dream. What should have happened, were it not for you and your evil. You seek to keep me here, by giving me what I want, whilst outside, in the real world, my friends die by the claws of your fellows.”

  The demon frowned.

  “If you knew all along, then why wait till now?”

  Stone smiled sadly.

  “You put a lot of effort into this charade. It was quite realistic. I just wanted to know what it could have been like had things been different. But now I do, the ruse is up. Show yourself, demon; you do not deserve to wear that face.”

  The creature snarled, lips drawing back to reveal long, sharp fangs as its skin stretched, contorted, long curved horns beginning to sprout forth from its head.

  “Choose your words carefully, godling,” it chuckled, voice a deep and infernal rumble now that shook the ground beneath them. “You are in our realm now; you will find your powers quite… drained.”

  Stone looked up at the dark-skinned beast that now towered high above him and raised an eyebrow.

  “Aye. That’s why I always carry a charger…”

  A frown of confusion from the beast, then a whining of tortured air that caused it to turn, ducking just in time as a blazing projectile flew from the sky. A blinding flash of white, bleaching the village. The light died down, revealing the perfect, white-robed form of Stone, now standing just as tall as the demon that snarled and hissed at his new appearance. In his hand, the crystal form of Dexter, long and lethal, humming with bound power that now coursed through Stone’s form.

  Enough with this charade.

  The titan sank to one knee, driving into the ground a punch that would level a mountain, the world shattering about him like so much glass as the illusion of the village and the Plains fell apart to reveal the true world behind it. He rose, looking about at the scene before him, eyes widening in mounting horror. He knew no fear, he told himself. Fear is of the past.

  What then, this that he felt in his breast as he gazed out upon the Hosts of Hell?

  He was standing atop a column of dark stone, a mile high, gazing out upon great fields of stone and fire. This, he realised, was what he had felt atop the Beacon; the pocket dimension, the holding area for the army that lay, poised to invade his world.

  But he had underestimated the foe. Oh boy, had he underestimated them.

  Vile infantry, behorned and fearsome, hoisted foul banners in honour of their Infernal Lords. Millions. Millions of millions. The foot troops stretched off for miles in every direction; demon spawn, Iron Giants, Centaurs – these were but the lowliest of the enemy. Striding between them like mountains, war machines, rippling with heat from the demonic powers that gave them life; some many-legged, arachnid tanks the size of towns. Others on two legs, like giants of legend, part metal, part flesh, red-skinned with horns soaring high, a thousand feet above the ground.

  As his eyes took in the scale of the army before him, he realised with a shudder that again he was only seeing part of the picture, his eyes roaming up, further and further.

  There, high above him, barely visible in the void, great leviathans that floated in the abyss; some bloated and swollen as though ridden with disease and pus, others angular, pointed; great spear-heads of twisted black metal many miles long, glowing red with infernal heat. An armada, he realised, filled with further millions of demonkind, ready to glide from world to world and unleash death and suffering upon untold billions of souls. Here and there, between the hulking great ships of living flesh and metal, winged silhouettes, slender and reptilian, their shape stirring some deep and primeval part of his psyche.

  Far off, in the distance, he noticed, many miles away, the red sky turned into a sickly hue of pale green. The portal.

  A laughter chilled his spine from behind him. He turned, regarding the hulking great demon that chuckled.

  “You see now,” it lectured him in tones that dripped ancient malice, its eyes glowing the red of dying embers, “the futility of your resistance. We have been gathering here in readiness since before you were even born, Stone. Our numbers swell daily,” it pointed behind it, to the glow of infernal orange that scorched the horizon, the ranks of demons streaming from that point. The beast turned back to him, smiling with a cold and predatory confidence. “It is inevitable, mortal. Your world will burn.”

  Stone looked thoughtful.

  Are you the orchestrator of this invasion? Stone asked in genuine interest.

  The beast laughed again, the bass of its voice rippling the air about it.

  “No, godling. I am merely a lieutenant of powers far great than I.” It made a mock bow before him. “Baron Asmodeus, at your service…”

  Stone nodded, Dexter held low at his side.

  Very well. Given your lowly rank I shall forgive you your two mistakes.

  The Baron frowned.

  “What mistakes?”

  The titan of light smiled.

  Firstly, nothing is inevitable. Secondly, he hefted the crystal Glaive in his hand. I am no mortal.

  The demon’s eyes widened in bestial rage as it bent backwards to avoid the razor sword that whistled through the space its head used to occupy, before righting itself again, only to receive a white-wrapped foot to the face in reward. The beast went skidding along the dark stone, nearly flying off the edge of the column, its long, black talons scoring lines into the rock as it arrested its flight. It rose, spitting boiling blood, looking up to see Stone careening out of the sky to land on it, but the Baron rolled out of the way, spinning to connect a great punch to the side of its opponent’s head, sending Stone stumbling away.

  The combatants parted, circling each other on the confined arena a mile in the air. At a thought, an axe of dark orange flame appeared in the Baron’s clawed hand and he snarled.

  “You only prolong the inevitable, godling. I know your tricks. Even now I can feel the power draining away from that toy of yours…”

  Stone smiled, but the demon was right; he had charged the Glaives with power and was relying on that power now, his connection to the elements cut off here, in this hellish pocket in space and time. The energies that brimmed the blade were draining fast keeping him powered up so. The beast leapt forwards, bringing its axe down in a double-handed blow that left a trail of smoke and rippling haze in the air and Stone moved fast, raising his own weapon up to shield him.

  The impact drove him to his knees; the demon’s strength beyond belief, the column of dark rock beneath them straining and buckling beneath the collision as a spider’s web of cracks worked their way down its height. Roaring, Stone summoned further on the fast-fading power at his command, rising up and driving a hard kick into the creature’s knotted midsection, hurling it away, before lunging forwards once more, Glaive poised to kill.

  Asmodeus span, flying out of the way of the blow and bringing his hard elbow into the back of Stone’s head, sending him sprawling dazed to the ground. Stone went to turn, went to face his opponent, but not fast enough, a blinding, searing pain contorting him in agony as it felt like his back had been split in two. He looked down; his white robes alight, burning away about his chest.

  The beast chuckled behind him, the head of his infernal axe buried deep within Stone’s spine as his victim moaned in pain. But his mirth was short lived; a blast of light enveloping the fallen titan, shattering the axe of flame and launching the demon away.

  Stone rose, eyes closed as he concentrated. The axe had caused serious damage; the ethereal nature of its blade bypassing all the natural defences of his superhuman body. No matter; a thought, yet more of the elemental power flowing into him from the Glaive, and the injury was healed. He looked down at Dexter, the blade glowing more faintly now, its power all but depleted. He turned, walking to the edg
e of the column that rocked and crumbled still, following the fury of their exchange.

  The beast was still alive, clinging by black talons to the edge of the rocks, dangling a mile above the ground below.

  I don’t know much about the physiology of demons, admitted Stone. Perhaps you’ll die from this height. Perhaps you won’t. He smiled, readying Dexter to deliver the killing blow. But it’ll be interesting finding out.

  The Baron of Hell smiled in return, hissing out his reply as they were both enveloped in sudden, darkening shadow.

  “Perhaps you should be spending less time quipping and more time looking behind you, godling…?”

  Stone span, gazing up in eyes-wide awe as the cathedral-sized dragon hovered above the column. It regarded him, for a moment, as a lizard does a cricket, before its serpentine head snapped down and a fanged mouth the size of a house surrounded him in darkness.

  ***

  An impasse. The Foresters and the Shamans surrounded; Iron Centaurs at their rear, the looming figure of Bavard to their fore. None dared move, for fear of being the one to set off the inevitable carnage.

  The General of the Legions no longer bore any resemblance to the humans that stood before him; sealed now, from head to toe in his armour, he was, the gleaming silver-plate of before now the dirty black of an old stove, encrusted with vile runes that glowed a dirty, hellish orange. His hammer enlarged along with the rest of him, fused now onto the end of his right arm, no separate hand discernible from the handle of his weapon. From a visor-slit in his helmet, twenty feet above the ground, maddened eyes stared out, darting this way and that to the tune of manic laughter, that of the deranged and the damned.

  A whisper amidst the silence; Alann, turning to the wise Wrynn for advice.

  “How do we take him?”

  The shaman narrowed his eyes, reaching out with his mind as he took in the scene; the General’s armour was covered in the same anti-spirit runes that bedecked the shields of the Centaurs. Magic would be useless against him. And a simple look at the inches-thick plate told one that arrows would splatter like raindrops against it.

  “I’m… unsure,” he admitted.

  A great bellowing roar of mindless hatred from the General that shook the very platform they were on and, like great iron pistons, his legs propelled him forwards to meet the assembled host.

  Alann whipped up his axe as the men scattered.

  “Well, think fast!”

  With the hideous inevitability of a trebuchet, the hammer swung overhead in a slow, unstoppable arc, smashing into the flagstones where men had been only moments before. The scattered warriors returned fire, arrows and magical bolts leaping out in futile response, to patter harmlessly from his armoured sides.

  The Centaurs stayed put, content to watch their gibbering master at work.

  Rolling away from yet another cataclysmic hammer blow, Alann sprinted towards the General, ducking under a wild swing from a monstrous left hand and lashing out with his axe; a trail of sparks as metal squealed off metal, and Bavard roared out as though in pain, the runes in his side flaring up in angry protest at the touch. The armoured warrior span, trying to reach for the Woodsman, but the lean, fast hunter was within his guard, keeping out of sight of the lumbering behemoth as he worked his way round, his plain axe leaving scores across armoured flanks as he lashed it two and fro with double-handed swings.

  At last, the swollen giant grew tired of the play, spinning around the other way without warning. Alann froze as his cover disappeared in an instant, unprepared for the iron-clad foot that span towards him. A sickening crunch, the boot hitting him in the chest and sending him flying, tumbling over the flagstones, to land, broken and twisted in a spreading pool of his own blood.

  He tried to rise, but couldn’t; his splintered ribs roared at him like a furnace within his chest. The world went quiet, muted, muffled as though underwater. Figures swam blurrily into view, concerned, even as the bright flash and roars of the battle continued in the background. The red-haired girl, her petite frame in view now; she went to place her hands on his chest, but was pushed aside by the looming figure of Wrynn, that grey-haired shaman that had led them thus far. An argument, it seemed, between the two, before the girl gave in, making off to rejoin the battle. Wrynn crouched down beside him, his eyes full of concern, even as the vision left Alann’s eyes and the world faded to blackness.

  “Rest now, Woodsman.”

  ***

  As his men unleashed their futile missiles at the roaring beast, Iain stood, shaking with the conflict of emotions that raged within.

  For mere minutes they had had their leader back. Now, there he lay, broken and twisted at the hands of this creature; whether he lived or died now in the hands of the greying shaman that crouched over his prone form. Anger flared up, bitter resentment at the ill fortune, but then his eyes caught a glint of silver on the flagstones, its shining surface reflecting the myriad flashes and sparks of the magical fusillade.

  The Woodsman’s Axe.

  The youth made his way over, reaching down with a trembling hand to grasp the weapon by its wooden haft, raising it into the air. He stood, for a moment, confused, as he regarded the weapon. What had he been expecting? A surge of divine power? A brief glimpse into the heroic soul of his commander? Nothing so romantic was forthcoming; the weapon he held, merely an axe. Yet hadn’t he seen it scoring lines across the armoured beast’s flank? The very runes wrought across those metal plates had howled in pain at the touch of this blade.

  No. There was something magical about this weapon.

  He turned, lip curling into a snarl as he regarded the behemoth that roared and span in the midst of the battle, before unleashing a roar of his own, charging across the flagstones and into the fray. Both hands gripped the axe with white-knuckled fury as he drew closer to his foe and as he swung, he put every ounce of his being into the blow; every frustrated day of not knowing whether their commander was alive or dead; every fallen comrade since this war had begun; his rage, against the Hunt, against the bloated, vile Kurnos; the bitter memories of his brothers carted off into the distance as he lay, trapped beneath the burning remnants of their home.

  All of this he put into the blow; a swing to end all swings; retribution on the edge of a silver-blade, poised to split this foe asunder and turn the tide of battle, once and for all.

  A dull clang of metal on metal, the shockwave reverberating up his arm and jarring his shoulder as the axe-head bounced away from the unmarked iron. He stood still, numbed, shocked at the futility. There was no magic. The axe was, truly, just an axe. Though it may as well have been a sausage for all the damage he had done. There would be no retribution today.

  Or, indeed, ever.

  The youth gazed up with empty eyes as the monster turned, chuckling, looming high above him like a house. It looked down on him with crazy eyes, ignoring the magic and the missiles that sparked harmlessly from its pauldrons, raising an armour-plated finger that it wagged in admonition, before hefting that huge, unstoppable hammer high, high above his head and bringing it crashing down.

  Iain opened his eyes, the air rippling above him like water on a lake as the metal-clad titan roared in frustration. Bavard hoisted his hammer again, bringing it down in another thundercrack blow, again the stone head rebounding off the coruscating dome of air above, as the very ground about him split and cracked. The Forester turned, the red-haired young woman beside him, hands raised high and green eyes blazing with power as she strove to maintain the barrier about them. Sweat beaded her forehead at the effort. A thin rivulet of blood dripped freely from one slim nostril.

  “Why bother…?” the Forester asked her, looking down at the axe in his hands. “There is no magic that can save us…”

  A voice from behind, calm, confident, carrying with it the hope of an entire people.

  “That’s because you’re looking in the wrong place, my young friend.”

  A muscled forearm, a powerful hand grasping the haft of t
he axe and Iain looked up, tears stinging his eyes as Alann strode past, whole and well. He turned to the youth, pale blue eyes twinkling beneath his hair, so fair like straw.

  “The magic’s in here.” He patted the youth’s chest with the flat of the blade. “Not bound in steel or carved into runes. As long as you hold true to the memories of the past, taking from them hope and joy, not anger and bitterness, then nothing can stop you.” He smiled. “Stone taught me that.” He turned to the shaman beside him, placing a calloused, workman’s hand on her shoulder. “Relax, girl. We do not die this day.”

  She looked at him for an instant, as though he were stupid, but something struck her about his expression that softened her cynicism. With a deep breath she stood up straight, lowering her hands, the rippling dome that surrounded them fading into the air. The General cocked his head, puzzled as he looked down on the puny mortals before it.

  “Given up?” His once strong and youthful voice now a twisted, metallic mockery of its former self.

  The Woodsman smiled up at the monster, even as the two figures at his side paled and looked at each other.

  “Try us…”

  Bavard roared, hammer raised high to squash these insolent bugs, but then a golden-light, a booming of man-made thunder, and the armour-plated leviathan stumbled away from the trio, falling to his knees.

  Iain and Gwenna stared over in shock and joy to where the stairs met the platform. There, amidst the smouldering and lifeless piles of iron that once stood guard, a figure stood, braced and bloodied, wreathed in the smoke of his victims as his weapon recharged with a rising whine.

  Marlyn smirked behind streaks of blood and dirt that rendered fierce his youthful face.

  “Never bring a hammer to a cannon-fight…”