Stone Rising (27 page)

He smiled, his teeth long and white, even in the gloom of the ruined bar.

A twanging report and his grin vanished, replaced by confusion as he looked down to the crossbow bolt that had emerged an inch from the front of his chest. He turned to look over his shoulder; Gwenna stood there, in the doorway, the borrowed weapon held, still lightly smoking, in her hands.

With a shake of her head, Virginie was now free from the monster’s grasp. As he turned back to her with a snarl, she already had her hands up. His eyes widened as he felt the build-up of spiritual energy.

Virginie grinned in bloodlust, her youthful, beautiful visage twisted by the burning hunger of the spirits into something feral and ancient. But even as the ball of consuming fire leapt out, the man was no longer there; the space where he had been but an eye-blink ago now empty, the magic leaping forth to wash harmlessly against the far wall of the inn, scorching the plaster and setting alight the pictures that hung there.

Gwenna came running over now, spent crossbow discarded as she rushed to embrace her lost friend. Her mouth opened and closed in astonishment at the power she felt radiating from the girl; but the wisdom of Wrynn informed her quickly of how it had come to pass.

“We must leave,” the red-haired shaman told the French girl.

Virginie nodded through teary-eyed relief.

“
Oui, of course. The rest of your companions, I have already freed them. They are-“

Another rushing of wind and the door that led from the bar to the corridor beyond slammed shut, as if by itself.

“You will leave when and only when I give you permission…”

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once and the two girls looked about, wary, to all the shadows that seemed to gather in every corner of the bar.

“Well,” murmured Gwenna. “This creature is just full of surprises.”

“Creature? I thought he was a Malleus?” Virginie’s eyes widened in confusion as she looked to her friend.

“The world is full of many things that masquerade themselves as human,” explained Gwenna, her eyes never ceasing to dart about. “But that can wait till later. Keep your eyes peeled. And think
fast
…”

Again, the French girl went to frown in puzzlement at the shaman’s words, but the spirits of air knew Gwenna’s meaning. They lent the younger girl their speed, time slowing, till every mote of dust froze in the air.

There, a ripple of motion as part of the dark shadows detached themselves and rushed towards the pair. It was the man – or creature, whatever it may be – hurtling towards them, robes trailing behind him like smoke from a burning arrow. As he drew near, she whirled, lashing out with a backhand swipe, summoning all the fury of the spirits of earth to give her strength.

Her blow landed true, hitting the speeding Malleus on the side of the head even as he reached them, hurling him from his feet and away from the pair.

Straight into the window.

The leaded window fractured and bent as his bulk smashed into it, panes of glass falling out their frames and shattering on the floor as he bounced off, sunlight from the morning outside streaming in through the gaps.

The man landed in a heap on the floor, winded, but unharmed, and snarled, making to rise to his full height. But where the strong sunlight reached out to touch him, his form smouldered and smoked and he winced, shying away from the beams. Between them, the shafts of golden light that reached into the gloomy bar formed a prison, a barrier through which he could not cross.

The two women watched him and, for an instant, Virginie raised her hands, making ready to smite him one final time with a torrent of fire, but then a weariness overcame her, her face draining of blood as the spirits slipped away from her grasp.

And taking with them, their reward.

She fell, slumping to the ground in an undignified heap, as her consciousness was ripped away. She didn’t even see Gwenna, as she leapt forwards to try to catch her, eyes full of fear for she knew the cause…

***

Weary, they pushed on, eager to put as much distance between themselves and the village as they could before nightfall.

              For that was when his prison would break, freeing the demon from the bounds of his daylight shackles.

             
Gwenna still remembered the look that had been on his face as she had left the bar, half carrying, half dragging her unconscious friend. Standing there, surrounded by rays of sunlight that sought to turn him to ash if he so much as moved, he had laughed as he’d pulled the crossbow bolt free from his chest, the wound healing over in an instant.

             
The memory of that sound and the smirk of amused arrogance upon the creature’s face still haunted the shaman, even now. It had spoken of confidence. And why should he not be confident? She had glimpsed his mind; he was an immortal predator of the night, time had no meaning to him.

             
What was a wait of a few hours until nightfall?

Would he pursue them straight away? By himself? Would that not merely blow his cover that he had so carefully nurtured over years? No, she thought. He wouldn’t do that. Wouldn’t jeopardise his ruse for the sake of simple vengeance. He would gather reinforcements, more witch-hunters, more Malleus to replenish the ranks depleted by Virginie and her borrowed power.

They had time, she hoped.

She looked behind her, to where Arris and Trent, another of the shamans, carried a stretcher between them, upon which lay the pale and still form of Virginie. Her petite frame burdened them little, and she looked spent, empty almost; her eyes closed in an ashen face surrounded by long, brown hair.

Untrained. Unprepared. Yet gifted. A gift awakened by the bond between the two women. The spirits of this land had clamoured, clawing at her soul, lending her power limitless in exchange for some small morsel of her mortal essence. Such a transaction was a necessary part of spirit-craft, for was the craft itself not about balance?

But normally the price was small, the borrower of the power prepared, willing and able to pay with little suffering as a result. But this…

This was an unfortunate error made in an unfortunate situation. That the girl yet lived, no matter how weakly her heart beat, was nothing short of a miracle.

The sky was turning orange overhead as dusk approached. Pol drew near, his face grim, lip still scabbed over from his escape attempt of before.

“There’s a building up ahead,” he told her, never turning to meet her gaze. “Perhaps we can find shelter.”

With that, he stalked ahead. She could feel the darkness of his mood, as tangible as the encroaching gloom of dusk.

Chapter Twelve:

The wind howled in through the shattered windows, singing a low and sorrowful dirge, as if it knew the struggles that lay ahead. Yet, despite the fearsome prospect that lay before them, Arbistrath couldn’t help but feel a bubble of hope within his chest.

             
He glanced to the three men that stood, like him, gazing out from their vantage point at the view across the bay. The sea glistened, twinkling beneath the weak sun. The city, a mile distant, loomed impressively in the background, a testament to man’s creativity and hard work. Only one thing spoiled the view.

             
But, for now, he pushed it from his mind.

             
Had all of this been for nothing? Had the people of this world all strived to attain such power, such industry, only for it to fall to ruin? Conquered by an unimaginable foe as they bickered and fought between themselves, unable to unite for the sake of mankind’s future? Perhaps a day ago, he may have believed that. His faith in the promise of their lord, he was forced to admit now, had been wavering for some time. He had hidden it, beneath a calm façade of unflappable duty. But that had only been for the benefit of his men. In truth, he had been struggling.

He had felt… abandoned.

              And yet now, today, despite the flight for their lives, the desperate struggle against an innumerable foe, that hope had been rekindled. Despite the loss, despite the hardship, all the demons had managed to do was restore his faith. Not break it.

             
These three beside him, appearing out of seemingly nowhere. And now the Beast before them. There was no coincidence, not in this. This had the feel of destiny. Even this vast, hollow statue within which they now waited seemed to face the enemy with a determination, a knowledge that righteousness would prevail.

             
He recalled the inscription he had seen, as they had arrived on the island, gazing up in awe at the battle-scarred figure that had still stood, majestic and defiant, despite the apocalypse that had claimed its creators.

             
Give me your tired, it had read. Give me your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe.

             
They were no masses, not now. Fifteen of them, in total, including the Woodsman’s Three. But they were tired, for sure. And they were poor. Something of this colossus spoke to him.

             
This was where they would make their stand.

             
He looked out, out into the ocean. Calm, but for one scar upon its scenic seascape. In silence, the men of the Tulador Guard and the Woodsman’s Three could do nothing but wait. And watch.

             
As the Beast drew nearer.

***

Asmodeus raised his head high, nostrils taking in the salty, fresh tang of the ocean and grimacing in distaste. This world, still so hopeful, so
defiant
in its death throes. Even now, years after invasion, years after the pathetic spawn of the Avatars had been driven away, the planet yet fought to live.

             
It was in vain, of course. Once the spirits had abandoned a planet, it would inevitably die and crumble. As so many others had before. So very many others.

             
Memories. A million worlds across a thousand centuries. An eternity of carnage and slaughter in the name of Those Beyond the Veil. Each world taken, drained of vitality. Drained of souls. The tang of life-force – sentient life-force, with hopes and dreams, memories and aspirations – was what drove them.

             
For one born of the flame, that brief moment slaked a thirst in them, an eternal and unyielding thirst for life. It was akin to water for a man lost and dying in the desert. Just a drop was all it needed. And this planet, this
Earth
, had been more than a drop. It had been a banquet, a feast of delectable life just ripe for the picking. Now it was gone, empty, drained. And like a locust swarm, the armada had moved on.

             
All the life here gone, stripped away.

             
Except for them. Except for this few that lay in wait, cowering, atop the statue that stared, even now, in defiance at him. He smiled. Their souls would be the ripest of them all. The soul of a warrior, of a
hero
was always the sweetest.

             
Especially at the moment of crushing defeat.

             
He had spoken the truth to the man-children before, in the ruins of the souvenir shop. He had known that they would appear eventually, and even without the goading of his masters, he would have pursued his quarry to the ends of the world.

             
He looked forwards to tasting them. To draining their souls dry.

             
Let the other lieutenants scrabble to the other worlds in this galaxy. Let them begin their scouring anew. He preferred quality over quantity. Once he had supped of these ripe souls, then and only then would he return to the realm of fire beyond the veil and join the rest of the armada in their invasions.

             
He had worked too hard for this.

             
“Onward!” he commanded the Beast upon whose titanic shoulder he stood. “Onward! There are those that yet live in this world and I thirst for their souls!”

             
Below him, the Beast with no eyes roared, the power of its rage scaring the clouds from the sky and sending ripples outward across the sea that all might know and shudder before its fury.

***

We can do it, thought Marlyn. We’ve done it before. We can do it again.

             
But then he looked out once more from the windows atop the statue and quailed before the size of the beast before them.

             
It was the same, no doubt. The same horns, fifty feet long at least. The same fanged, snarling face, bereft of eyes and all the more fearsome for it. Yes, it was the same demon alright. Yet, if anything, it looked bigger now. More powerful. Older. More malicious.

             
They had defeated it before, he remembered, as the visions flitted across his mind’s eye. He would never forget the sight. Never forget the fear. Yet here it was again. How could you defeat the enemy, when they could merely reappear, summoned once again to be hurled against you?