From the Ashes Read online

  “The Avatars spoke to you, once, of dark powers that hunger for the life they bestow upon the world. These powers lie beyond the Veil, existing in a world of fire, brimstone and suffering. They thirst for our essence, seeping in where they can through gaps in the curtain of reality to take, to plunder, to pillage, leaving behind worlds dry and charred; blackened and lifeless lumps to float endlessly in the void.”

  “They are spirits?”

  “Of a sort, yes. But not under the jurisdiction of the Avatars. The elements exist to bestow life. The dark powers exist to take it. They are eternal and spiteful and relish in taking the forms of our worst nightmares. We’ve all seen them, in our darkest moments. We all fear them, fearing them to be the punishment that awaits us, should we fail in life.”

  Stone paused for a moment, thinking back to his previous life on Earth, to the religions he had studied as a child at school. Images of hell, pitchforks; horned, goat-legged monsters prancing about a lake of fire.

  “Demons…”

  The shaman nodded, sombre.

  “As good a word as any.”

  A thought struck Stone and he frowned, puzzled, before asking the question.

  “If they can enter worlds under their own power, why do they need the Portal atop the Beacon to enter mine? Why can they not simply pour out and ravage it as they have so many others before?”

  The Shaman bade Stone follow him, back over to the balcony, gesturing up into the blue sky.

  “How good’s your eyesight these days?”

  “Good.”

  “Look up, through the blue; what do you see?”

  The Nagah-Slayer did as he was told, gazing up into the sky, his immortal eyes piercing the blue and reaching out into the void above.

  “Stars. Twinkling. A sea of them.”

  The Shaman nodded.

  “And your world circles none of those stars. It lies further beyond than even you can see. Across a gulf of nothing, an ocean of cold so vast that even the ravenous hordes of hell can’t cross it. That, my apprentice, is why they need the portal. Once it’s open, they shall cross, have a presence in your world. And once they have that presence, the floodgates will open, for they shall construct their own means of transporting their legions. And your world shall fall.”

  Stone shuddered.

  “How do we stop them? The portal I constructed is indestructible; only by channelling all of their powers could I shape the cradle.”

  “We cannot.”

  The statement caused the towering warrior to start, for he wasn’t expecting such defeatism from the Shaman.

  “What do you mean?”

  Wrynn sighed.

  “This world,” he stretched out his arm to encompass the view outside, “is at an end, my friend. No matter what happens, a world cannot survive with only a hundred miles by a hundred miles of life. Slowly this planet will crumble to dust. And you are quite right, the cradle for the portal cannot be destroyed – they made sure of that by using your skills. No matter the outcome of our struggle, they will merely attempt the crossing again at the next astral alignment in a hundred years. And the one after that. And so on, until they succeed.”

  “Then what do we fight for?” spat Stone, his fingers splintering the wood of the balcony as he leant on it. “If it’s inevitable, why bother?”

  The Shaman put a soothing hand on his shoulder.

  “For though this world is lost, we may yet save yours and, by extension, countless others. If you can cross through the portal yourself, whilst at the same time preventing the legions from doing the same, then close it behind you…”

  “Then I shall have a hundred years to prepare my world to face them…”

  The realisation hit Stone hard as he realised the truth in the Shaman’s words. This world, whatever it may be called, wherever it may be, was lost. But the Earth might yet be saved.

  “The portal, though. What if it is already open? What if, as we speak, the legions of hell descend upon the Earth?”

  The Shaman shook his head.

  “We have scried the Beacon – the portal yet forms. We must act quickly, however, for in a week, ten days at most, the gateway will be stable enough for them to use.”

  Stone sniffed, nodded. A week. Ten days, tops. Not long. Certainly not if they were to march an army down from the mountains to the Steppes.

  “And, assuming we fight our way through the hordes of my former Clansmen, past my darkly empowered Council members, past whatever gribbly, infernal monsters they summon from beyond the Veil; assuming all that, how then do we close the portal behind us?”

  “With this.”

  A new voice, a young woman, bold and confident, and so familiar sounding that it caused Stone’s heart to race, putting him in mind of gentle hazel eyes from a century ago. He turned, wondering if some fresh new miracle were about to surprise him, but alas, no.

  This girl had green eyes, not brown. Her long curly hair was flame-red and, as she made her way across the side-chamber towards the two, holding a crystal object in her hands, Stone realised that this must be the shaman that Ceceline had spoken to him about, almost a year ago. She came to a halt, before them and she looked up at Stone, curious and he regarded her in turn, two sets of green eyes, so rare in this land and separated by a hundred years.

  “Stone,” introduced Wrynn, “this is Gwenna. Gwenna – this is the Nagah-Slayer.”

  Stone nodded at the girl.

  “I’ve heard of you before, Gwenna. It is you who saved Arbistrath when my troops came calling. And it is you who bested the Seeress…”

  An almost imperceptible shudder went through the girl and Stone was taken aback as he felt the curious wash of emotions at the memory. He glanced, sidelong at Wrynn, but the elder shaman hadn’t appeared to have noticed the conflict. Momentarily it was gone, leaving Stone to wonder whether he’d even felt it at all.

  “And I, of course, have heard of you, Nagah-Slayer.” Her eyes were serious, though she had a slight smile on her lips. “Most of it bad, I’m afraid to say. Though if our Master is to be believed, you’re our only hope in the coming battle.”

  Stone went to reply, but was cut off as she raised the crystal artefact in her hands.

  “And to answer your question of before – this is how we shall close the portal behind us.”

  He regarded the transparent orb, feeling power untold bound within its fragile form. Runes of the Elements; Earth, Air, Fire and Water were carved into its delicate surface.

  “The powers of Those Beyond the Veil,” she continued, “are antithesis to the elements; hence the Water Rune we had planted to try to warn you of our plan was drained before it could accomplish its task. It was only thanks to the backwash of power from the Astral Alignment that the Avatar of Air could rescue you from atop the Beacon.”

  Stone nodded, recalling the sylphin forms and tinkling laughter as he’d been rushed from the tower before falling into his fevered dreams.

  The girl went on, explaining the spherical object.

  “This Runestone contains a portion of the power of each Avatar, enough to withstand proximity to any demonic influence for long enough to reach the portal. Once we are through, the Runestone shall release the power, blowing out the portal like a gust of breath snuffing out a candle.”

  Stone nodded again, seeing the sense in the plan, the chance that it might work.

  “You say us? You say we? Am I to assume that you are coming to my world as well?”

  Gwenna nodded curtly by way of reply.

  “As are others.” She turned to Master Wrynn. “They await you. The army would like to meet their new general.”

  “Thank you, Gwenna. We shall be with you shortly.”

  With that, the girl turned and left, leaving the two, the Master and the apprentice, alone on the balcony. Stone stared at the closed door, pondering, before turning to Wrynn who stood, gazing out into the sunlit valley.

  “Master Wrynn?”

  “Hmm…?”


  “I think it’s time for some explanations. Tell me what happened whilst I was in the realm of the Avatars. Tell me everything...”

  ***

  The troops awaited and what a Ragtag bunch they were. Some of those gathered now in the Hall of the Elders Stone recognised; Arbistrath, standing haughty and impassive alongside his second in command, Lieutenant Hofsted and a smattering of guards, those who had been fortunate enough to escape the wrath of Memphias and Bavard; all in their armour, shining and maintained as though they were still patrolling the walls of their Pen.

  Others, too, that Stone had seen since arriving here; Gwenna with a small troupe of shamans. Though outwardly not looking like warriors, he could smell the tell-tale aroma of sorcery rising from them, as surely as one could smell bacon as soon as you crossed the threshold. Potent, heady; there was little of the subtlety in them that Wrynn had so preached a hundred years ago. Their power was honed towards more direct means. Battle-mages. But behind their power, Stone could also sense a weariness, an aching. They had taken turns in healing him, he realised gratefully, each taking but a small portion of the poisons from him, sending it in turn to the earth to dispel.

  Behind the ache, he could sense in them a wariness, too; unsurprising, for each of them would have touched his soul briefly in the process, brushing against the dark and complex mind of an immortal.

  Finally, clustered in an undisciplined crowd behind the shamans and the soldiers, were the bulk of the army. Fresh reinforcements, by the looks of them, looking ill at ease in their surroundings. Men, women, all in clothes that spoke of a long time in the wild. All wearing the hunted, tired expression of life on the run. Yet he could feel a determination in them, a hunger to do their part. And a courage that belied their ragged appearance. A courage that spoke of great loss.

  He had felt that courage before. Recently.

  Stone walked towards the rabble who backed away, slightly, in apprehension, for though he was clad now in a simple white robe – disdaining his bear-skin cloak and leathers in which he’d arrived, for they were the mantle of Invictus, not Stone – he still cut an imposing figure. He did his best to disarm them with a smile and a nod, singling out the lean, youthful figure at the front of the crowd.

  “What is your name, lad?”

  “Iain, my King.”

  “I am no King of yours, Iain. Call me Stone. Or Nagah-Slayer, if you must. These men are yours, I take it?” he enquired, nodding towards the gathered men and women.

  The youth hesitated before replying.

  “I… I guess they are now. We are the Foresters. We were once led by Alann, the Woodsman. We found this place as per his orders, when he was captured. Find the Valley of the Shamans, he told us. Aid them. That is why we are here. We fight in his memory.”

  Stone could feel the heartbreak in the Foresters at the mention of their leader’s name, could feel that he was more than just a leader; he was a father-figure, an inspiration.

  Inspiration is what they would need for the fight ahead.

  “Memories are worth fighting for. But hope is worth far more. Take hope, my friends, for the Woodsman still lives!”

  The Foresters gasped, a ripple of shock running through their ranks and the boy named Iain looked up at Stone, tears stinging his eyes.

  “You speak the truth? This isn’t some cruel joke?”

  Stone shook his head, a warm smile on his face.

  “As recently as three days ago your leader fought in the Games at Pen-Merethia. He led his fellow captives to a brave victory against a fearsome monster. By doing so, he won himself and his fellows a week’s reprieve.”

  The cheer was palpable as Stone continued.

  “I cannot guarantee what changes the Council will enact, now that I’m gone, or how quickly. But assuming we march soon, there is every chance that he may still live by the time we reach the gates of Merethia.”

  “If there is a chance of rescuing our Lord, then the Foresters are with you, Nagah-Slayer.”

  He nodded and left the Foresters to their excited discussion at the news, turning now to the Tulador Guards and their leaders.

  “How many men managed to escape Pen-Tulador?”

  Hofsted answered.

  “Twenty, my… Nagah-Slayer,” he replied, correcting himself mid-sentence. “A mix of veterans and recruits. We have done what we can to train the Foresters too, though they already have skill in abundance from their time fighting the Hunt. Weapons and armour, on the other hand, are in short supply.”

  Stone nodded, then frowned, quizzically, as he noticed a young guardsman behind the Lieutenant with a contraption hefted in his arms.

  “What’s that?”

  Hofsted turned, puzzled, before chuckling.

  “Marlyn – one of the recruits I was talking about. He likes to fiddle with things, so I’ve noticed. This is one of his latest imaginings. Probably blow up, like the rest of them.”

  A ripple of laughter through the Tulador guards, as though enjoying a long-standing joke, but Stone beckoned the youth over.

  “Marlyn, is it?”

  “Yes, Nagah-Slayer,” stammered the obviously awestruck youth who clutched a long cylinder of iron and wood to his chest.

  “May I…?”

  Marlyn handed over the contraption with trembling hands and Stone grasped it, the long barrel rendered toy-like in his giant arms. The Nagah-Slayer examined the device closely, a smile spreading across his features as his mind took it to pieces bit by bit. Yes, it would work. This lad had talent. He had single-handedly advanced the technology of this world by a hundred years.

  “Explain this to me, as though I were a simpleton.”

  Marlyn looked from side to side with nervous eyes, as though expecting someone to speak for him, but realised he was delaying and sputtered into an explanation.

  “I’m no good at wielding the bow, my Lord Stone. And the crossbow used by the Clans is difficult to reload in the heat of battle. So I, err, threw this together. It’s inspired by the exploding powders the Desert Nomads use to frighten away the djinns at festivities. A little of the powder in the bottom of the cylinder,” he took the device from the immortal’s hands now, taken by the flow of his own explanation, “here, followed by whatever ammunition you want to use – I don’t know, pebbles, nails – then touch a lighted taper here,” he pointed to a small hole at the sealed end of the tube, “and it fires the ammunition out with greater force even than a crossbow.” He looked sheepish now that his explanation had tailed off, aware of the scrutiny of all those around him. “Or at least, that’s what should happen…”

  “Does it work?”

  The youth shrugged, embarrassed.

  “I can’t seem to get the powder mixture right…”

  Stone smiled, handing the device back to its owner.

  “I’m sure I can help you with that. In my world we call this weapon a Cannon. And I think you may have swung the odds just a little bit in our favour.”

  He left the Tulador guards now, to move onto the shamans, Marlyn still standing, stunned, rolling the word about his mouth. Cannon.

  Gwenna was standing, eyebrow raised at the ease with which he had disarmed those who until recently would have gladly seen him killed.

  “You have a way with words, it would seem.”

  He nodded.

  “I do. And I hear that you have a way with Spirit-Craft. I would be surprised if it were otherwise if Master Wrynn has had a hand in your teaching.” He swept a giant hand to encompass the shamans behind her. “Are your fellows as skilled as yourself?”

  The red-haired young woman smiled, her green eyes flashing with challenge.

  “Why don’t you try us…?”

  ***

  The sun beat down on the courtyard as the crowd rushed out to watch the display. For the Shamans were powerful, a counter to the sorceries of the enemy.

  And their pyrotechnics always impressed.

  “Times have changed, my apprentice, and these Shamans are a differen
t breed to those of our day. Their power is direct, brute force.”

  Stone smiled as he listened to his Master, walking side by side as they left the Hall and strode down the white stone steps towards the courtyard.

  “A blunt instrument, you might say?”

  The old Shaman laughed.

  “Indeed!”

  “Have any of them been on the Journey?”

  “Only Gwenna. The others have no need of subtlety in their art.” The Shaman’s face darkened momentarily as he spoke. “Such times we live in when Spirit-Craft devolves into no more than a weapon, rather than a way of life. If we succeed in staving off our foe, then we shall have to make a greater effort to live in communion with the elements, rather than simply calling upon them when the need arises.”

  Stone thought back to the Earth he’d left behind.

  “That may be difficult.”

  The people in the courtyard now formed two parallel lines, a makeshift arena wherein the Shamans could display their skills. Two such wielders of the ancient arts stood, facing each other across the courtyard and Stone could feel the subtle tingling in the air, the charge of spirits gathering to unleash their power.

  A roaring, crackling in the air and searing fire surrounded the fists of one youth, a girl, who raised her arms, launching a ball of flame to arc in a cloud of smoke and rippling air towards her opponent. The lad swept his own arms up, a rushing of air rising up to blow the fireball off course, sending it soaring upwards and out of harm’s way. Spinning, the youth dropped to a crouching stance as he retaliated, what moisture remained in the air in the wake of the fireball gathering at his fingertips to form shards of ice that lanced out, like arrows, towards the girl. With superhuman speed, the girl dove out of the way and replied in turn. Back and forth the two duelled, wielding their sorcerous skills with all the aplomb of master fencers with their foils.

  The Nagah-Slayer raised an eyebrow.

  “Impressive,” he remarked, turning to his master. “I didn’t learn anything like this when I was studying under you.”

  The elder shaman smiled.