From the Ashes (24 page)

             
“We cannot linger. We have a portal to close. And a world to save.”

             
Pol stepped forwards, a frown on his face.

             
“Master Wrynn’s body…?”

             
She smiled at him, voice gentle as she replied.

             
“A body is just a body. Wrynn is gone.”

             
She glanced down at the body of her Master in a final goodbye, before turning to face up the steps before them.

             
“Now, with me, my friends.” She narrowed her green eyes, smiling in grim anticipation. “This is where it ends.”

***

Their heads ached as they approached the summit of the pyramid. It was like the altitude sickness that the Plainsmen would sometimes experience upon venturing high into the mountains of the North. A dizzying wave of nausea and breathlessness. But this wasn’t the height affecting them.

             
It was the cloying, pressing weight of evil.

             
They crested the top of the stairs, the vanguard now atop the platform and there she was. The orchestrator, the architect; she who parlayed with evil.

             
The Seeress.

             
She didn’t turn to see them, instead remaining facing the portal, her arms outstretched to the lurid green tempest above as she spoke.

             
“And so… we meet again. I knew we would.”

             
Gwenna nodded, her voice low.

             
“So did I. This ends now, Ceceline.”

             
The army of men were quiet, not knowing what to make of the exchange. There was a tension between the two women. Then, a rising whine of a charging cannon and Hofsted took a step forwards, weapon hoisted and face grim as he inclined his head to the flame-haired shaman.

             
“Allow me this honour, my lady.”

             
Her mouth opened to deny him, but too late, his finger on the trigger, a golden blast of power leaping out to strike down the Seeress. Ceceline smiled, her mirth hidden from the crowd at her back as she raised one hand, the cloud of coruscating power coming to a halt behind her. She turned, grinning in sinister and evil delight.

             
“Manners, my dear Lieutenant. Ladies first.”

             
Surprise barely had time to register in Hofsted’s eyes as the ball of golden energy leapt back the way it had come, the Lieutenant vaporised in a boiling cloud of steam and ash till nothing remained save the weapon itself that clattered noisily to the ground amidst its own high-pitched whine.

             
A cry of dismay from the Tulador Guards and a roar of anguish from Arbistrath, who charged forwards to the amused stare of the Seeress, only to be held back by a firm hand.

             
“No, lad,” hissed Alann behind him. “This is Gwenna’s fight. Besides,” his voice took on a different tone now, “we have worries of our own to contend with…”

             
The men turned as one, looking down the steps they had ascended to the platform below; swarms of demon spawn, untold numbers, crawling towards them in a great seething mass of black skin, horns and baleful red eyes.

             
Ceceline smiled, clapping her hands.

             
“Gentlemen, some privacy please.”

             
Pol stood at Gwenna’s side, his eyes full of concern.

             
“Go,” she told him. “I can handle this bitch.”

             
Reluctantly, he nodded and made off with the rest of the army as battle was joined below, leaving behind the Portal and the two women bathed in its evil glow, who each stood staring, with venom and hunger, at the other.

***

             
“They need you, my Lord.”

             
You? How are you here?

             
“How do you think…?”

             
Silence for a moment.

             
I see. How fares the battle?

             
“Not so well for me…”

             
Laughter, quiet and sad.

             
“But the army are at the summit. The climax is reached. They could use your aid. We could all have used your aid. Why are you here?”

             
I got… distracted.

             
More laughter.

             
“Very well. But hurry back now; they have need of you and time is short.”

             
No, Master Wrynn. Time is one thing I have in abundance now.
Silence for a moment, then:
Will I see you again?

             
Silence.

Their paths had diverged, one leading to death, the other to life.

The end had come for one, yet for the other, was just within his reach.

Chapter Eight:

In great waves they came, swarming up the steps, clambering up the stone sides of the tower by fearsome claws, or propelled, soaring into the sky on tattered wings like those of a bat.

              The demon-spawn, the gargoyles; they came without number.

             
Naresh swung his hammer once more, arms burning as the heavy, iron head pummelled the skull of another creature into oblivion, the beast flailing on the floor before vanishing in a roar of flame and smoke. The weapon had once felt awkward in his hands; he remembered the dungeons beneath the Slave Market, the stunned numbness that had filled him as he’d struck dead the Once-Clansman that had borne down on Narlen.

             
But times had changed, events moving so fast, and now the hammer merely felt an extension of himself. Yet still he didn’t feel like a warrior. Something had changed within him after the fight in the Great Hall; that blazing, radiant angel that had appeared to save them, more than once now – something of his power had rubbed off on Naresh. No, he was no warrior and this hammer not a weapon. It was a tool. An instrument with which he could shape the future.

             
Another gibbering monster came lunging forwards and it was almost as if on autopilot that he ducked the wild swing, thrusting forwards with his hammer to wind the beast, before swinging it up into the creature’s chin, the bones shattering with an audible crack, this new foe vanishing in turn as Naresh continued his train of thought with almost nonchalant detachment.

             
One of the Woodsman’s Four. What did that mean? The words of the being of light echoed within his soul. Never had he been part of anything important, not to any great level; his entire life spent as merely a small cog in a vast machine. A cog so easily replaced should it break. Yet now he felt a calling, as though those luminous green eyes had pierced the fabric of time and seen the myriad possibilities and uses for him.

             
He thought back to his family, long gone now, no doubt sacrificed to power the glowing green tear in space and time that swirled above them. Smiths, forgers of weapons. Small cogs, like him. Yet productive and taking pride in their work. Could he have that same pride, somewhere, buried within? He had never felt it. But maybe the giant had seen it. Could it be that he, Naresh, a nothing, a nobody, had been chosen to help build something? To be a part of Stone’s vision of mankind’s future?

             
A howling demon spawn charged towards him, ready to tackle him to the ground, and Naresh allowed himself to fall backwards, legs raised, hurling the creature over him to land, sprawled on the floor. Quick as a flash the young Steppes Man rose to his feet, looming over the hissing beast that knew its demise was inevitable. A single hammer blow and the demon was still.

             
A tiny oasis of silence about him, a calm amidst the storm of battle, and the youth became aware of eyes regarding him. Men stood about, quailing before the fresh rush of demons that hurled themselves forwards on cloven feet, fearful eyes turning to him, as if seeking some shouted words of encouragement. Why him?

             
These men were the Foresters; they had seen him with the Woodsman, fighting alongside him, striding across the back of the Demon of the Bridge like conquerors of old. Brave men and women, all, but pushed to the limit. He stood tall, straight, allowing the memories of those glowing, green eyes to fill him with promises of potential, quashing by sheer might of will the fear that threatened to overwhelm him. Those that fought about him weren’t warriors either, he reminded himself, despite their skill; they were common men and women, like him. And they needed encouragement. He was the one to give it.

             
He was no longer a small cog.

             
“Steady friends!” he called out to those nearby, his voice filled with a strength surpassing his years. “We hold this platform. Not a single creature makes it past.” He narrowed his eyes as he growled. “Lord Stone will return and his vengeance shall be great.”

             
With a great cry the next wave was met, hordes of red-eyed monstrosities hurling themselves in reckless abandon in their thirst for mortal blood.

             
Naresh hoped that he was right.

***

              “Die!”

             
Tears streamed down Arbistrath’s face as the hordes of demons that faced his wrath fell like wheat before the harvester’s scythe. Where his sabre lashed out, heads were parted from torsos. Where the cannon he wielded in one hand spoke, packs of gibbering entities would vanish without trace. Nothing could stand before his vengeance and his men stood back, in awe of his newfound prowess.

             
But his courage was the madness of the bereaved. The blind berserker rage of loss. And one man knew the feeling too well. A hand on his shoulder, once again, and the Woodsman jumped backwards as the deposed Lord span, cannon aimed for the kill.

             
“Calm yourself, Arbistrath! We fight for our survival, not their extermination.”

             
Arbistrath nodded as the other man ran off, axe ever to hand, to aid a struggling group of men. The Woodsman was right, of course; there was a difference between courage in battle and recklessness; fury led to the destruction of your foe, but it was a cool head that prevented your own.

             
And it would not do the Tulador Guard to lose their Lord, not now, not after their recent loss. First Master Wrynn, who had looked after them for the last year, always patient, despite Arbistrath’s attitude at times.

             
And now Hofsted.

             
The thought stirred a storm of rage in his chest and he channelled the pain into the Lieutenant’s borrowed weapon that lay cradled in his arm, pulling the trigger and sending a golden cloud of power skyward to evaporate a swarm of gargoyles.

             
The men of Tulador had done their best to raise him, following the death of his father so long ago; Hofsted, teaching him the subtleties of court; Poland, teaching him the ways of battle. But despite being men of character, they had struggled to discipline him; they were servants, he their master. Perhaps that was why he had grown so haughty over the years.

             
But recently, amidst the pain of battle he had begun to know a kinship with those beside him; he was still their lord but they were all in it together, all fighting for their own survival. When that truth had hit him, that he was important not because of birthright, but because he was a leader of men, his heart had soared in his chest as he’d seen the paternal pride on the old warrior’s features.

             
At last, he’d done them proud. But that pride cut short at the taking of Hofsted’s life.

             
He snarled, then quelled the anger that threatened to overtake him. He glanced over to the figure of the Woodsman that fought but yards away; so different, the two of them, poles apart in station of birth. Yet now thrust into the same position by circumstance; both leaders of men. He watched, almost in awe, as he saw the hearts of men lift wherever the Woodsman fought, warriors hauling themselves up and charging into the fray, courage renewed by his example. The humble man didn’t inspire them out of political motivation, didn’t fight hard for glory.