From the Ashes (21 page)

Chapter
Seven:

The summer sunlight glistened off the crystal waters of the Yow. The grass beneath him was cool, yet dry, so pleasant to sit on and he sank his fingers deep into the long green blades, relishing the richness of the soil.

              A sudden, quiet splash amidst the melodious calls of birdsong, and he looked out across the river, spying with a grin the wizened figure of Yalen, going as strong as ever, hauling out a struggling fish from the rocking platform of his canoe. The old man gave a cheery wave and Stone replied in turn, as the fisherman paddled away downstream with his catch.

             
Darkness, all of a sudden, and he smiled at the touch of the fingers that hid his eyes, spinning and throwing the slender form to the soft grass. Hazel eyes looked up at him from a warm, smiling face and he couldn’t help himself, drawing near, pressing his lips against hers, so soft and tender. He withdrew and Lanah looked up at him with a gentle gasp.

             
“What was that for?”

             
He shrugged, a smile on his face.

             
“I don’t know. Just feels like I’ve not seen you in ages.”

             
The girl giggled, snuggling up to him on the soft riverbank.

             
“I feel the same way,” she told him, her voice so soft, yet so mature, full of understanding despite her years. “An hour apart feels like a day. A day, a month.”

             
He merely nodded, a smile of contentment on his face; his arm about his love, the warm summer sun bathing him in its glow.

             
“Another feast tonight,” the girl told him. “Father wants to see you beforehand; says it’s something important.”

             
He looked down at her, puzzled.

             
“Oh aye? We’d best move then.”

             
He made to rise, but she was quicker, forcing him down to the ground before straddling his lean form, a playful smile on her face.

             
“No rush, my dear,” she told him, slender fingers reaching to untie the leather jerkin that concealed her shapely body. “We have all the time in the world…”

***

The summer evening was drawing in as they returned to the village, flush from an afternoon’s solitude on the banks of the Yow. The gentle Plains breeze brought with it the familiar smell of wood-smoke, of cooking, the sing-song voices of the village women chatting as they worked.

              Together, they passed the fire in the centre of the village, people already gathering about, Stone nodding to familiar faces as they threaded their way past; Neroo, laughing and joking amongst his friends; Arnoon, gracing him a nod and a smile, before returning to the adoring girls that surrounded him.

             
The air inside the Chief’s hut was dark and smoky, heavy with the scent of pipe-weed, and Stone wasn’t surprised to see both Farr and Wrynn sat before the fire, smoking their pipes and laughing as they chatted. At the sight of the pair, the two of them rose, smiling. Raine approached, bearing a gourd of water, and Stone took it gratefully, taking a deep draught before handing it back.

             
“Nagah-Slayer, Lanah, how goes it?” enquired the Chief, placing his great hands on the youths’ shoulders in greeting.

             
Stone glanced sidelong at the girl beside him; he could’ve sworn he saw her blush as she made her way to sit down in the flickering firelight.

             
“Couldn’t be happier, Chief,” he smiled, in reply.

             
“Really?” exclaimed Farr, as the shaman chuckled to his side. “We shall have to put that to the test. For I have a proposition for you…”

***

The air was dark now, the starry, velvet sky of the Plains cocooning the revellers like a warm and safe blanket as they danced and ate and smoked the hours away. The mood was light. The music, hypnotic. The hips of the women, beguiling.

             
Farr rose, clapping his hands above the din of merriment to get the attention of the feasting villagers, the drums dying off as eyes turned to see him and ears to listen. Stone clasped Lanah’s hand as she sat beside him, feeling her trembling. He looked her in her deep, brown eyes, smiling encouragement. She smiled back, that warm and honest smile that had stolen his heart so long ago.

             
“My friends, Youngbloods, honourable Elders. Thank you for coming tonight, to join with us. For this is no ordinary feast, but a celebration of our future.” The crowd murmured amongst themselves, puzzled by his words as he continued. “It pleases me, my villagers, to be the first to announce that the Nagah Slayer and my daughter Lanah are to be bound together as husband and wife!”

             
A roar of approval from the crowd as the couple rose, waving about in embarrassment amidst the cheers of the villagers, the whooping and hollering of the Youngbloods. Now it was Wrynn’s turn to rise, the shaman looming tall and proud above the people he served, the crowd’s excited babbling dying down as they listened to what he, too, had to say.

             
“There is more,” came his booming voice, to the nods of the Chief and the puzzled looks of the couple themselves.  “Stone, come to me.”

             
The youth shot a look at the girl to his side, seeing that she was as confused as he, but he did as he was asked, moving over to stand beside the shaman and the Chief.

             
“Chief Farr,” spoke Wrynn, as much to the crowd at large as Stone himself, “has led our people for nigh forty years now, since his father before him passed the mantle on to him.” He placed a hand on the greying leader’s shoulder, smiling in warm comfort. “But he grows weary of the burden, and who could blame him? These are his twilight years and he deserves to enjoy them in peace. So it has been decided, amongst the Elders of the village, that he shall pass on the mantle of leadership in turn.”

             
The crowd were silent, leaning forwards subconsciously as they strained to hear what they all knew was coming.

             
“Stone,” came the shaman’s voice, his dark, powerful eyes boring straight into him. “Do you accept the mantle of leadership from Chief Farr. Do you promise to lead our people to peace, to glory, to protect us and rule us with a wise and fair hand? Do you swear by this compact?”

             
Stone smiled and nodded.

“I do.”

Wrynn reached forth and painted lines of red across his cheeks as symbol of this sacred rite of passage. The towering wonder-worker turned to the crowd, raising his hands into the sky.

             
“Before the spirits and the Elders, this compact has been witnessed. Behold, my friends; Stone of the Wilds, Nagah Slayer, Chief of our people.”

             
A roar, greater even than that of before and Stone felt the warmth of Lanah’s slender arm threading its way through his, holding him tight. He gazed out upon the sea of familiar faces; Yalen, Arnoon, Neroo, Raine, Rala, all cheering him on, jubilant at the future of their village, now secured. His heart soared in his chest. Everything had come to pass. This was all he had ever wanted. A simple, quiet life with the woman he loved.

             
Acceptance.

             
Peace.

             
A single tear rolled down his cheek. A gentle tug from beside him, Lanah’s radiant face gazing up at him.

             
“Why do you cry?” Her voice was so soft, so gentle, and he could close his eyes, bathing in the dulcet, silken tones.

He smiled, looking down at her with sad eyes as he replied.

              “Because none of this is real…”

***

Silence. Such as would drive a normal man insane. No noise, not from the flickering fire in the centre of the square, nor the crickets of the grass, nor even the gentle breeze that rippled across the Plains.

             
Only silence.             

             
And the blank, lifeless stares of a hundred motionless villagers that dissipated, vanishing into the air like smoke on the breeze.

             
Lanah removed her arm from about his, taking a few steps backwards away from him, face blank, before disappearing, the twisting, twirling tendrils of smoke dispersing without a trace. Wrynn moved closer, looming high above him, but all that did was compound the deceit; Stone had outgrown him a century ago.

             
“Why do you say such things?” asked the thing that posed as Wrynn, head cocked to one side in curiosity. “Is this not enough for you? Is this not what you had always dreamed of?”

             
“That’s the point,” he retorted, matter-of-factly. “This is only a dream. What should have happened, were it not for you and your evil. You seek to keep me here, by giving me what I want, whilst outside, in the real world, my friends die by the claws of your fellows.”

             
The demon frowned.

             
“If you knew all along, then why wait till now?”

             
Stone smiled sadly.

             
“You put a lot of effort into this charade. It was quite realistic. I just wanted to know what it could have been like had things been different. But now I do, the ruse is up. Show yourself, demon; you do not deserve to wear that face.”

             
The creature snarled, lips drawing back to reveal long, sharp fangs as its skin stretched, contorted, long curved horns beginning to sprout forth from its head.

             
“Choose your words carefully, godling,” it chuckled, voice a deep and infernal rumble now that shook the ground beneath them. “You are in our realm now; you will find your powers quite… drained.”

             
Stone looked up at the dark-skinned beast that now towered high above him and raised an eyebrow.

             
“Aye. That’s why I always carry a charger…”

             
A frown of confusion from the beast, then a whining of tortured air that caused it to turn,  ducking just in time as a blazing projectile flew from the sky. A blinding flash of white, bleaching the village. The light died down, revealing the perfect, white-robed form of Stone, now standing just as tall as the demon that snarled and hissed at his new appearance. In his hand, the crystal form of Dexter, long and lethal, humming with bound power that now coursed through Stone’s form.

             
Enough with this charade.

             
The titan sank to one knee, driving into the ground a punch that would level a mountain, the world shattering about him like so much glass as the illusion of the village and the Plains fell apart to reveal the true world behind it. He rose, looking about at the scene before him, eyes widening in mounting horror. He knew no fear, he told himself. Fear is of the past.

What then, this that he felt in his breast as he gazed out upon the Hosts of Hell?

He was standing atop a column of dark stone, a mile high, gazing out upon great fields of stone and fire. This, he realised, was what he had felt atop the Beacon; the pocket dimension, the holding area for the army that lay, poised to invade his world.

But he had underestimated the foe. Oh boy, had he underestimated them.

Vile infantry, behorned and fearsome, hoisted foul banners in honour of their Infernal Lords. Millions. Millions of millions. The foot troops stretched off for miles in every direction; demon spawn, Iron Giants, Centaurs – these were but the lowliest of the enemy. Striding between them like mountains, war machines, rippling with heat from the demonic powers that gave them life; some many-legged, arachnid tanks the size of towns. Others on two legs, like giants of legend, part metal, part flesh, red-skinned with horns soaring high, a thousand feet above the ground.

As his eyes took in the scale of the army before him, he realised with a shudder that again he was only seeing part of the picture, his eyes roaming up, further and further.

There, high above him, barely visible in the void, great leviathans that floated in the abyss; some bloated and swollen as though ridden with disease and pus, others angular, pointed; great spear-heads of twisted black metal many miles long, glowing red with infernal heat. An armada, he realised, filled with further millions of demonkind, ready to glide from world to world and unleash death and suffering upon untold billions of souls. Here and there, between the hulking great ships of living flesh and metal, winged silhouettes, slender and reptilian, their shape stirring some deep and primeval part of his psyche.