Broken Blades Don't Sing (Tales of Ashkar Book One) (37 page)

“Almost did you triumph”, growled the demon.
“You fall here, and your friends will soon follow.”

The starry night filled Raxxil’s vision.
Hundreds of bright lights dotted the darkness above. Even the moon
was out to witness his fate, it would seem. Time seemed to slow, or
perhaps it was just his perception deciding to take a walk. It
slowed, the way it did when he was facing death. The way it did
when his mind traveled to nearly a century ago, where their smiles
had waited for him—especially hers. But he never returned. No, they
were gone before he did. His mind shifted back to the present. She
waited for him again, waited for him to come back.

Will I let you down again? Will I let you die
again?

To his left rested his hammer—conveniently out
of arm’s reach. To his right, the demon approached. It raised its
leg over Raxxil, then slowly lowered it until the demon’s foot
pressed down on Raxxil’s chest—particularly on his bleeding wound.
Raxxil groaned as pain surged through him. The demon pushed down
even further, then put his hand near Raxxil’s face. Again it
muttered the unintelligible words, readying another blast. Raxxil
could feel the energy coursing through the demon’s fingertips, mere
inches from his face. Larger and larger it grew as the energy
gathered. From this distance, the blast wouldn’t even leave enough
for him to be remembered.

Raxxil’s muscles ached. He could barely lift his
arms to resist, nor could he writhe away from the shadowy foot that
almost crushed his chest even if he wanted to. Something felt wrong
with his left shoulder. He could do nothing but watch as the demon
spelled out his doom. Where one would cower in fear and cling for
dear life, he glared at the demon in stoic defiance.

“How does it feel?” remarked the demon
balefully. “How does it feel to know that everything was for
naught?”

Raxxil smiled toothily at his enemy. He then
took as much of a deep breath as he could, and, gathering what
energy he had left, spat a font of lava at the monster. The hot
substance engulfed the demon’s face before he could unleash his own
attack. As the demon reeled back from the pain, he fired the dark
energy blindly. The blast struck the ground just to the side of
Raxxil’s face, boring a deep hole in the stone.

Roars of pain filled the air as the searing lava
burned and burned and burned. Raxxil struggled to get up. He first
rolled to the side, then brought a knee below him before moving
into a kneeling position. His body quivered, and he stumbled
slightly before standing up straight.

The lava was not nearly enough to end the
demon’s existence, but it was at least enough for Raxxil to find an
opening. In blind rage, the shadowy figure flailed around in search
for Raxxil.

The pain in Raxxil’s left shoulder remained, and
after a vain attempt at moving it, realized that he had dislocated
it after striking the ground. He reached up with his other hand,
steeled himself, and snapped his shoulder back into place with a
loud—and equally painful—pop. It was just in time, for Raxxil
dodged a downward chop before it cleaved him in two. Summoning all
of his strength, Raxxil punched the demon as hard as he could, and
the shadowy entity hunched over in pain.

Using the momentary respite, Raxxil stepped
behind his foe and wrapped his arms tightly around the monster's
body. He took a deep breath, then pulled up and backward,
performing a suplex maneuver. His enemy's entire body flew into the
air then crashed down head first as they both tumbled onto the
ground. A satisfyingly audible cracking of bone filled Raxxil's
ears.

He laid there for quite some time. He looked to
the left, then to the right in search for signs of any remaining
demons that were lying in wait for an opening. He was only met with
near silence, the only sound coming from the barely audible clashes
in the distance. A cool breeze swept by him, and he grinned
triumphantly as he once again looked up at the stars.

Chapter 22

4th Dusk of the 5000th Age of Lion

"Not yet", asserted Serraemas.

"We'll take him out in a flash if you do",
sighed Zaranet. "Come now, let me stretch my legs!"

Serraemas danced about, evading a slew of
shadowy projectiles cast forth from the hands of Orbo. They struck
the wall behind him, saturating it with hellish energy. The two
were locked in a back-and-forth struggle with neither gaining any
particular advantage. As Serraemas maneuvered acrobatically he
returned fire with his own frozen barrage, but the dark aura
surrounding the demon blocked his attacks.

A wicked smile flashed across the demon's face
as he straightened his arms, lifted them up and then moved them
back. Serraemas felt the demonic energy behind him surging forward,
attempting to engulf him.

He grunted as he whirled around, waving his arm
and hastily creating a field of ice that blocked the surprise
attack. The field did not hold, however, and it shattered as the
energy surged at him again. He rolled forward, glimpsing another
volley of blasts being thrown at him from the demon.

“Die, maggot”, cursed the demon.

Sandwiched between the attacks, Serraemas
surrounded himself in a thick dome of ice. It shattered under the
onslaught, but was able to repel the conjoined blasts, and the
energy dispersed harmlessly—

Serraemas felt a burning sensation on his left
leg. Looking down, he realized that part of the attack had indeed
reached him, blanketing over his leg and burning first through his
fitted pants and then through his exposed flesh. While only a
fraction of the attack had reached him, it still ate through
several layers of his skin. Serraemas could feel the lesions that
were forming, and pain surged through him when he tried to move his
leg. His mobility was severely crippled, and he could not afford to
be hit again.

The room filled with cackling laughter as if the
demon had already won.

"Just as I surmised", berated Orbo. "You're
nothing but a tiny insect. A foolish, little human that cannot see
past his own hands. Your elemental powers cannot even pierce my
shield, and you will soon meet your end. Pathetic."

The words struck a nerve. "The Frozen Chain,
Zaranet!"

"Ah, it's about time", said his elemental
coolly.

Serraemas’s staff transformed, its simple form
replaced with blue, icy elegance. At the tip of the staff a
formation of frozen crystals rotated around an icy core. Serraemas
slammed the staff downward and embedded it into the ground. From
the core shot out a long chain that was able to pierce the dark
shield.

For the first time, the demon’s expression
shifted from arrogance to shock.

The chain wrapped itself around Orbo's ankle,
immobilizing his movement and pinning him to the ground. Serraemas
then created a barricade of ice in front of him as a shield. The
demon cursed at him in a tongue he did not understand while
continuing to cast bolts of dark energy at the staff-wielder. They
struck the barrier of ice, whittling it down little-by-little.

Serraemas waved his arms once again, this time
pouring his energy into a massive lance of ice—one that was several
times larger than the rest. It took much longer to generate, and
his adversary slowly oozed trepidation at the realization that his
protection would no longer suffice. The demon shifted his attacks,
instead aiming for the chain that bound him. A blast connected with
the chain, breaking its snare as it whipped back—

Immediately, it shot back again. Once more, the
demon was held in place, confused at his inability to break free.
Even if the demon managed to fully escape the snare, it was already
too late.

Serraemas glared at Orbo with furious eyes. "You
seem in a hurry to find death, so allow me to hand it to you
myself."

The demon growled, still frantic in his attempts
to dismantle the chain. Dark energy flew in every direction
randomly in Orbo's last, futile effort.

Serraemas would not give him the chance. He
whipped his arm forward, and the spike soared through the air. It
penetrated the shadowy aura and impaled the demon in the chest. The
blasts of energy stopped immediately as Orbo fell on his knees in
defeat.

Serraemas hobbled forward painfully to the
center of the room, still poised in case the demon resorted to
trickery. Ragged, heavy breaths emanated from the demon, and he
looked up with red orbs at Serraemas.

"You... you think you have... won?" said Orbo
weakly. "You've done... nothing. The Lords of Hell... will soon
rise. Lion, Zorvinus, Titan, Aeuvi, and Rimas. All five of them...
and Ashkar will be engulfed in darkness. You've done...
nothing."

The demon's essence dissipated, his body
vanishing slowly until there was nothing left. Serraemas walked
past where Orbo had just been moments ago, past the grimoire, and
to the stranger that had eluded him thus far. The bearded man had
propped himself up against the wall, and he sat with legs
outstretched. His head was down, his eyes looking at nothing in
particular. The man's chest rose up and down quickly with short,
irregular breaths.

As Serraemas approached, Aramal looked up to
regard the icy elementalist.

Aramal's eyes pleaded, but not for mercy. His
face, slightly aged when they first met, was now gaunt and much
paler. Serraemas stopped just in front of the dying soul and held
up his right hand. A sword of ice slowly formed, starting from his
palm and moving upward into a sharp edge.

"Go on, do it", said the man hoarsely. "I've got
nothing to say to your cold, condescending—“

Serraemas brought down his arm diagonally,
slashing Aramal at the throat and beheading him. The head rolled
down and onto the floor a few feet away. As the sword shattered
into thin air, footfalls bounded down the stairs on the opposite
side of the room.

Serraemas turned around to Raxxil, who had his
upper body exposed. A gash ran down from the top left of the fiery
elementalist's chest to his right side. Regardless, the
hammer-wielder displayed a cheery smile. Behind him entered
Erendil, Arwynn, and someone that should have been dead.

Samantha surveyed the room with one eye, and was
accompanied by the older officer that always seemed to follow her.
They all entered the room with fierce expressions, ready for
anything that might assault them, but relaxed when they saw only
Serraemas.

"Who got you to release, the enemy or Zaranet?"
mocked Raxxil playfully, noticing that the staff was still embedded
into the ground in its true form.

"Neither", lied Serraemas as he walked over to
the open grimoire. He reached down, closed it, and picked it up
before heading to his weapon. Sealing it, the ornate staff returned
to its simple guise. All together, they made their way back up the
stairs and out into the alley.

They were met by a host of men that glowered at
the group with all manner of weapons raised and ready to strike.
The crowd was comprised of the inhabitants of the city, from
drunkards to shop owners and even thieves. Likewise, their
expressions softened as the elementalist's emerged.

"You sure don't look like demons", croaked one
among the crowd. He stepped forward, his bulbous eyes examining the
warriors. He wore a well-tailored black suit with a top hat that
accentuated his strange look. In his right hand he held a
finely-crafted cane. All ten fingers were fitted with golden rings
which were embedded with lavish jewels of all types, and Serraemas
was sure that the man would wear more if he had more fingers to
spare. He was short in stature, and he spoke with an authority that
belied his size. Around him stood several imposing bodyguards.

"Neither do you", returned Serraemas softly.

"Well, no shit", he spat. "I'm Flint, one of the
Tradesmen. I guess you guys took care of this...
problem
."

"You bet your ass we did!" clamored Raxxil.

"Alright, take it easy", responded Flint. "Jeez.
So, uh, what do you want?"

"For what?" asked Serraemas, gripping the
grimoire tightly at his side and tucking it away from the wandering
of eyes.

"Your services?" asked the wealthy entrepreneur
incredulously. "In Merchant's Keep, we live by a code of service
and reward. You provide a service, you get something in return."
Flint motioned to one of his bodyguards, and was handed a log book
along with a pen.

"We were never here", said Serraemas. He then
pointed to his wounded leg and Raxxil’s chest. “We also need a
medicine man for our wounds. That is all we want.”

Flint looked up in confusion, as if surprised
that they did not want any sort of monetary compensation. "Now
that's what I call good business." He handed the materials back and
gestured to a second bodyguard, then pointed down the door that
Serraemas had emerged from. "Go clean that mess up, Janitor. Do you
do this for free? No, so why are you still here?"