From the Ashes (20 page)

             
He opened his eyes, almost starting as he saw a figure standing before him at the top of the pyramid who hadn’t been there before.

             
“My King… well, this is a pleasant surprise.”

The Seeress had changed little during his time away; every bit as cold, shapely and alluring as ever before. He could feel her dark charms radiating outwards, trying to befuddle his senses.

He was above such petty magicks now.

These are your last moments, Ceceline. Use them wisely.

The Seeress staggered backwards half a step, taken aback by the power of his voice, but quickly regained her composure. She raised an eyebrow in curiosity, a smile on her face as she moved around him, one long, slender arm reaching over to touch his shoulder, but jerking away quickly as though the recipient of a static shock.

“What, no treaties? No pleas for me to stop? No persuading me to see the error of my ways?” She pouted, like a hurt child.

No. This ends one way; with your death. As it did with Kurnos. As it did with Memphias. So it shall with you.

The witch snorted, backing off a few steps, raising her hands to her sides as thunder rumbled in the background. Dark energies gathered about her slender form, wreathing her in an infernal embrace and she shuddered in ecstasy as eldritch power coursed through her body.

She opened her eyes with a smile and spoke, her voice overlaid with a thousand hushed whispers that promised pain and pleasure in equal measure, clawing incessantly from the air all about them.

“Bold words, my lover. But there is only one destiny; that of my masters.”

She reached out her slim hands before her, dark lightning lunging out with ferocious hunger to strike him down, but Dexter whipped in from nowhere with a flash, the foul energies bouncing harmlessly off its indestructible crystal form.

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.