From the Ashes (18 page)

             
“I used to like this view,” he murmured as if to himself.

             
Another tortured whine behind him, the assassin not pausing for banter, daggers poised to kill. They swung through empty air, embedding deep in the stone, Memphias wrenching them out with a roar of fury as he span. Stone was behind him now, arms folded, leant against the other side of the bridge.

             
“You toy with me as though I’m a child,” the master of assassins snarled. “Take me seriously, for mine will be the last face you ever see,” he spat.

             
“I could think of better,” replied the white-robed giant, a wry smile on his face.

             
Memphias charged again and the two forms disappeared in a blur of motion too fast for mortal eyes to follow. Seconds past, then they appeared once more, Stone dusting his shoulders as the assassin stood before him, heaving with exertion despite the infernal power that coursed through his veins.

             
“Why won’t you fight back?” he cried out in exasperation. “Either die or kill me!”

             
Stone’s air of nonchalance dissipated, luminous green eyes narrowing as he regarded the warrior before him.

             
“My dear Memphias… you were dead the moment you set foot on this bridge.”

             
The assassin frowned, taken aback by the vehemence in the words, then his eyes widened as a series of smashes echoed from behind him.

             
From the King’s quarters.

             
From the antechamber…

             
A streaking blur of speed beyond even Memphias’ means to avoid and he gasped, looking down with disbelief, even as the debris from the shattered wall before him settled to the ground.

             
The daggers in each hand dropped to the floor with a clatter, a thin trail of blood leaking from his mouth as it opened and shut like a fish out of water. He rose, suspended in the air, turning about to face his killer that walked, hands behind his back, mouth set grim.

             
Sinister and Dexter awaited Stone’s command, holding their victim steady as their lord addressed him.

             
“It was only ever going to end this way, assassin.”

             
The murdered Memphias spat blood.

             
“I will return, false King.”

             
Stone smiled humourlessly and nodded.

             
“I know. And it will always end the same way.”

             
He turned and walked to the railing, the twin Glaives bringing the man through the air to hover out above the abyss.

             
“Goodbye, Memphias. Or should I say, au revoir?”

             
The assassin frowned, for the words meant nothing to him, opening his mouth to reply, but Stone shook his head. No more words.

             
At unspoken command, the Glaives returned to Stone’s sides, and the assassin plummeted into empty space, trailing smoke and flame as he was dragged, screaming, to the hellish realm of his infernal lords. To Stone’s side, the Khrdas shrieked in pain, as they too dissipated in a cloud of smoke, following their master wherever he may go. A sizzling on the floor beside him, the godbane daggers vanishing with a hiss, leaving but their outline on the slabs.

             
Stone stood for a moment on the bridge between the two towers, content to enjoy the silence, but knowing that there was still work to be done. He gazed across to the Isle of Storms, seeing his men charging, heroically, into the jaws of the enemy as they fought their way to the Beacon.

             
Even his eyes couldn’t pierce the ruddy haze that beset the top of the soaring tower, such was the potency of the otherworldly energies at work. There would be enemies there, such as to render the beast of causeway nothing more than a fond memory, he thought, with a shudder. He couldn’t afford to hold back any longer, not as he had here, facing Memphias and the Khrdas. Yet at the same time, such outpouring of energy would surely endanger the very friends he was trying to aid. If only there was a way to have that power at his beck and call, yet not have it rippling out to affect the world about him…

             
A nudge at his side; the obsidian point of Dexter responding to his subconscious thoughts.

             
He smiled as he regarded the indestructible Glaives.

             
Yes, that might work.

             
He took a step backwards, away from the stone railing, holding out his hands, the jet-black handles of his weapons floating naturally into his grasp as he closed his eyes.

             
“My loyal friends,” he whispered. “Let’s see just how indestructible you are…”

             
With a smile that vanished amidst the blazing white, he opened the floodgates to his power.

Chapter Six
:

A blazing light erupting from the towers of the Pen on the coast, but no time to think about it, not now, not amidst the noise of carnage and pain.

              For the closer they came to the Beacon as they scrambled up from the causeway and onto the Isle proper, the larger and more monstrous the foes they faced.

             
The demon spawn still swarmed, but they were only a nuisance now, supplanted as they were by the hulking great forms of iron giants; suits of armour, ten feet tall and wielding broadswords the length of a man. Wrynn lashed out, lightning spewing from one hand, fire from the other, the swirling energies bathing one such construct that stomped its way towards him, but the magicks simply washed over its metal form; only physical force could hurt these, he realised with a snarl.

             
“Marlyn!”

             
The youth turned from his own battle, face dripping sweat and streaked with dried blood, following the shaman’s eyes and levelling his cannon, a ripple of air as the blast leapt out to take the approaching giant’s helmet clean off, a tortured howl erupting from the darkness within. The suit collapsed to the ground and Wrynn frowned, for the armour was hollow, empty. No time to ponder this though; the foes kept coming.

             
A war cry and the shaman smiled; Arbistrath leading the charge of his men as they pushed forwards towards the steps at the foot of the Beacon. His newfound bravery, whether inspired by madness or revelation, had breathed new life into the Tulador Guards.

             
He turned, a pack of demon spawn leaping towards him, but they were cut down in mid-air by a hail of arrows and he waved behind him to the group of Foresters that knelt, bows raised, to his rear. The Foresters; they too now fought with renewed determination. The arrival of their leader, for so long thought lost, had given them a fire in their already brave hearts.

             
And he could see why; the Woodsman fought with a steel and skill more suited to a seasoned soldier than a common man. Wherever he strode, men fought harder, inspired by his bravery. Wherever that simple axe swung, demons fell down and broken men rose again.

             
The odds were stacked against the small army of men, yet with the bravery of men like these to aid them, Wrynn never felt more sure of their victory.

             
“We must push forwards, take the stairs.”

             
He nodded at Gwenna’s words of wisdom; take the stairs and the demons would have to come at them in smaller numbers, the Tulador cannon doubling in effectiveness.

             
“Army of Men – forward to the stairs!”

             
A mighty roar as the host charged forwards as one, the red-haired girl at his side sprinting ahead, lightning lashing out from her fingertips in dazzling arcs, laying waste to the demon spawn that charged forth to meet her. Marlyn and Pol, by her sides, one with cannon, the other with spirit-craft, protecting her flanks as she ran.

Wrynn wondered at the shaman-girl’s fortitude;  alone out of all the spirit-crafters in the army, Gwenna seemed undiminished by the constant battle, her reserves never flagging, never wavering. Wrynn marvelled, but wasn’t surprised; the girl was special, in many ways.

The Foresters to his side ran at a sprint, Alann to their fore. An Iron Giant before him, swinging its great broadsword to cleave him in two. A leap, at the last instant, the Woodsman’s feet just touching the flat of the blade before bouncing off, hurtling over the monster’s helmet. As he passed it by, the silver axe struck out, a great rent tearing in the side of the dark dome, a scream of rage released as whatever bound spirit lurked within was sent back to its home. Alann landed catlike on his feet and continued on, the hulking mass of metal behind him collapsing to the ground.

Fifty yards now, the staircase growing closer, the tower of the Beacon looming dizzyingly high above them, stretching upwards into the murky, kaleidoscope sky of sorcerous colour.

An eruption ahead, the earth blossoming out like a volcano as another titanic construct hove into view to bar their path. The humans scattered before its wrath as the metal beast clawed its way from the pit. Encased in metal armour like the Iron Giants it was, with a torso and mighty arms, a crown atop its head. But there the similarities ended; this beast more akin to a centaur of legend, its lower half grossly enlarged with a titanic, spider-like abdomen, four metal, segmented legs lifting it high, high above the ground and the pathetic mortals that quailed before it. In one arm it clasped a shield of dark iron, its surface engraved in foul runes. In the other, a spear the length of ten men, which it used to thrust out, impaling men on the ground like fish in a stream.

The army of men skidded to a halt before the abomination, scattering as it sought to crush and thrust. The shamans unleashed their powers, the air pulsing to the tune of destruction, but Wrynn knew it was to no avail; the lightning and fire flickered and danced off its metal surface, leaving no mark or blemish. The Tulador Guard, this time, fared little better – the hard, angled armour of the construct deflecting the worst of the cannon shot with ease.

With a great, metallic roar of rage, the beast advanced.

***

              “Iain!” called the Woodsman, diving to one side as a great, segmented leg came thrusting down towards the Foresters, sending up great clods of earth and splinters of stone. “How do you kill the Forest Viper?”

             
The second-in-command of the Foresters rose, brushing the dirt from his shoulders, as he frowned, before realising with shock what his Lord intended. He didn’t argue, instead nodding, calling out to a silver-armoured figure that crouched behind a rock.

             
“Hofsted! Lend me your cannon!”

             
The veteran ran over at a sprint as the metallic roars of the beast rang out, unslinging his weapon as he skidded to a halt beside the Forester.

             
“Does he know what he’s doing?”

             
The youth shrugged, a bemused smile on his face.

             
“Do any of us?”

             
The Forester handed the cannon to his leader, who tied it about him with the leather harness. Drop the weapon and this could all go horribly wrong.

             
“How are you going to do this? The beast will surely see you!”

             
He pointed out to the iron monster that scanned this way and that, its spear thrusting out with mechanical precision and metronomic regularity. To face it head on would be almost certain death. The Woodsman flashed him a rare smile, even as an olive-skinned warrior darted past, bow in hand.

             
“Got that covered…”

             
And with that, he took off.

***

              Narlen sprinted, the ground a grey blur beneath his feet as he charged towards the looming construct, borrowed bow in his hands.

             
“Oi!” he hollered out, trying to catch the beast’s attention. “Over here!”

             
The demonic machine noticed him, hollow, empty visor snapping around to watch him.

             
“Oh shit…”

             
That long spear thrust out and Narlen rolled to one side, the sharp stony ground tearing at his back, but his reflexes kept him alive, as the mechanical thrust of the weapon buried its point five feet deep into the earth. The Plainsman leapt up to his feet, nocking an arrow and loosing at the monster’s head.