Mythborn (2 page)

Kings

“I do not relish facing the man who,

When knocked down a sixth time,

Grasps his bloody blade,

Grits his teeth, and grimly rises a seventh.

It is unnatural.”

-
          
Toorval Singh, Memoirs of a Mercenary

K
ing Bernal Galadine shifted his shield to his arm, his gray eyes never leaving the hulking mass of the Stormlord, Baalor. The demon claimed to have been worshipped as a god by the people of Edyn, his power plain for all to see in the dance of lightning and the boom of thunder that swept across the land whenever anvil heads formed. It was his hammer, myths said, that smelted the world upon which they lived. Bernal nodded to himself. No matter, for today either he or a supposed storm god would die. He stepped forward, ready.

“Hold, King,” Baalor’s voice boomed into the open space in where they stood.

The king’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent. Only moments ago the adepts, his niece Yetteje, and Ash had disappeared into the bowels of the fortress, pushing onward in an attempt to save his son Niall and that apprentice. His stand had bought them necessary time, and his senses were highly attuned to any potential betrayal.

“Be not so quick to throw away your life,” said the Stormlord. “There are many chances to save your people. I offer you one.”

The king waited, knowing every moment helped his friends, then said carefully, “Speak.”

Baalor gestured, and from the smoky mist rose Sergeant Alyx Stemmer, struck down by Yetteje during the last skirmish with Baalor and his force of wraiths.

Bernal stared at her, stunned. He had seen Stemmer fall as Yetteje’s blade sliced her from shoulder to waist, cutting the young sergeant almost in half. Yet here she stood, whole and mostly uninjured. The only evidence of the strike lay in the sliced jerkin and the visible scar beneath, which even now was healing and fading from view.

“King Galadine,” the dead sergeant spread her arms and said, “We do not wish war, only
life
. You can save our people and yours.”

“How?” He refused to say her name, for this could not be the same Alyx Stemmer who had served him so faithfully. This was something else, a parasite, an imitation of whatever he knew and respected about the sergeant, used to lull him into a false sense of familiarity and trust. Yet, he had to buy time if his son was to have any hope of rescue.

“Join us willingly, and you will be given everlasting life and power beyond your ken. The Aeris call it Ascension. You will need it to face the true enemy.” Alyx bowed, fist to chest, a perfect execution of the salute he had seen performed a thousand times before by his own men, even by her in life. It unnerved him, but the king’s shrewd mind had also heard what the wraith of his former sergeant had said.

“How?” he asked. Here was information he could use, perhaps something to help fight these creatures. Was “Ascension” responsible for Stemmer’s resurrection? Hearing the demon speak could shed light on possession and what now inhabited his former sergeant’s body. It was also a chance to delay them further.

Baalor stepped forward. “I offer myself, King Galadine. I offer myself to save our people. Join me through Ascension and together we will become one, a being of true unity as our forefathers intended.”

The king stepped back. “Join…” he gasped as the implication of what Baalor said hit him. “Become possessed? Like you have done with my sergeant and others? I will not—”

Baalor interrupted, “No, you will be as you are now, but stronger. You face an enemy you cannot comprehend! Sovereign comes and none shall withstand where his hand falls. He will remake the world in his image and all we were will be less than a memory, lost forever. Be not so hasty to refuse for in the end it is the same for us all.”

A moment passed and the king could hear his own indrawn breath. His heartbeat was strong and steady in his ears. He could feel the soft leather of the grip of his blade. His shoulder flexed, his shield a comfortable reassuring weight upon his arm.

He let go of his breath slowly. It washed out of him and took with it any remaining doubt. He would not listen to this demon and though he did not hold the same abhorrence to magic as his forbears, he knew no demon ever spoke the truth. He always knew he would die in battle and this moment felt like an old friend come to visit him again. For him, it held no fear. “You will never possess me,” he said.

Baalor’s armored head tilted, and though only the glow of his eyes could be seen, the king felt a wave of sadness wash out of this god of storms. “You are wrong, King of Bara’cor. You
will
serve our needs, just as have all those who have died under your command.”

In response, the mist surrounding the area congealed into dozens of armored forms, then hundreds. They were the fallen of Bara’cor, possessed and now raised again from the dead by the power of the Aeris Lords. They pulled back as Baalor stepped forward, creating a circle around the two from which there was no escape.

“Only power sufficient to match that which you already carry will be brought to bear upon thee, mortal.” The armored god paused and said, “We shall take measure of one another as required by the First Laws.”

What I carry with me? The king assumed Baalor meant the enchantment he’d seen Duncan perform prior to his departure with Ash and the rescuers. The man was unhinged, seldom making sense during Bernal’s brief encounter with him. Then again, perhaps this was Duncan’s way of insuring Baalor brought his full might to bear, for the Galadine family was no friend of the insane archmage.

He turned to Baalor and stated, “I did not ask for Duncan’s aid.”

Baalor shook his head. “The Old Lord did nothing to change this outcome. Your blade and shield speak for themselves, baned to destroy our kind. Your feigned ignorance is unbecoming. Your name has caused our people much harm and woe.”

The statement about his weapons did not surprise the king exactly. Many rumors abounded of the weapons and armor of the Galadine line against demons. After all, they had been forged at the forefront of the Demon Wars. Still, to hear confirmation fall from this demon’s mouth called to question his earlier belief that everything said was a lie. The point about his name bringing woe to Baalor’s people… that
did
surprise him. Yet he was careful not to let anything show on his face. If what Baalor said was correct a small part of him dared to hope he might yet prevail.

“Very well,” he answered, “let us have at it. This endless chatter is useless.” The king’s shield snapped up and his blade,
Azani,
sang ready as it cleared his scabbard and crossed in front.

The ebonite-armored giant did the same, the flex in his legs and arms promising violence and carnage. The mace came up, blue threads of lightning arcing about its length, tainting the air with a strange metallic tang. Bernal watched grimly as Baalor circled without another sound, giving credence to the king’s words that a time for talking had indeed ended.

Then the Stormlord attacked, bounding forward with steps that shook the granite ground. His mace, dancing with lightning, rose and fell like a blacksmith’s hammer as Baalor again went to the labor of smelting what he desired most from the world. It was bloody work, for the thing he sought to shape was the body of Bernal Galadine.

Bernal dodged to his right, keeping his shield between the mace and himself. The downward strike shattered the stone of the ground where the king had stood, causing a tremor to run through Bara’cor’s walls. The smash was followed by a swipe that seemed to leap up at the king without pausing. As Bernal had seen before, for all his size and bulk, Baalor was as fast as a sky serpent with his strikes.

Bernal crouched and deflected the mace upward, his arm and shoulder taking the brunt of the massive blow that would have taken his head completely off his shoulders. The strike sounded like thunder, blasting him backward and shaking his very bones. Yet the king’s shield held, showing no sign of damage from the storm god’s blow.

King Galadine spun, using his shield to pivot around Baalor’s strike before riposting with his own blade. It sang through the air, the razor-keen point seemingly thirsting for the Stormlord’s blood. Bernal was sure had he connected, the strike would have gone through Baalor’s chest. But the blade sparked and skittered, deflecting off the giant warrior’s unyielding armored forearm. Then Baalor swung his off-hand in a tight arc.

A granite fist caught the king and flung him away to land in a heap. At first it looked as if he had been knocked unconscious and the ghosts of Bara’cor crowded inward, each thirsting for any drop of Galadine life. Then the wraith-like soldiers pulled back as Bernal stirred, not so incapacitated as they thought.

He levered himself up and shook off the blow that would have felled a dozen men if not for his shield, which now lay more than an arm’s reach away. It had been torn from his grasp by the leviathan blow it had absorbed, yet its surface still looked unmarred. Likely, mused Bernal through pain-filled eyes, the shield would be the only witness to his final stand.

The king wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, noting it came away wet with his blood. Either the strike or the fall had broken something inside him. Regardless, this fight would not last much longer if he yielded. He gritted his teeth against the pain and rose, his stance unsteady. But when his blade came up, its point never wavered from Baalor’s eyes.

Something flitted across the storm god’s face, and the giant tilted his head forward and said, “You will beg to join us when your life hangs by a thread.” Then the armored god attacked again, swinging his mace in an arc trailing lightning at a speed that made the earlier attack seem like sparring practice. Clearly the stakes had been raised.

Despite his injuries, Bernal couldn’t hesitate. Hesitation meant certain death. He moved forward under the swing, and could feel whatever was wrong with him grinding in his chest. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. He ignored it, his blade thrusting out.

Baalor dodged the strike then brought his knee up, catching the king under his jaw. A second strike from the pommel of his mace smashed Bernal’s face, breaking his nose and flinging him spread-eagled onto his back. A cough of blood punctuated his impact, spurting into the air above him. His sword fell from nerveless fingers, ringing as it bounced off the fine stonework of Bara’cor.

“I have fought battles for endless lifetimes, King. Power is not enough. Puissance is required, and you are outmatched. Accept my gift and be healed. Do not seek to become legend.”

At first, nothing happened. Then Bernal stirred, rolling onto his stomach with a groan and pushing himself to all fours. His vision swam. Sounds came to him from what seemed like inside a deep tunnel. Yet his right hand crawled across the stone with a mind of its own, finding and slowly curling around the hilt of his blade.

He sighed, and the sound came out like a wet gurgle, ending in a spit, spattering the ground with his blood. He rose slowly with the weariness of a beaten man, but still said nothing. There was nothing to say, but every beat of his heart drew time. Every moment bettered his son’s chance to be rescued. It was a worthy sacrifice and he knew staying alive meant everything. He drew another shuddering breath and levered to his feet. He wavered there for a heartbeat, then leapt again at the Lord of Storms.

His blade danced out, right then left then right, aiming alternatively at the juncture of the storm god’s neck and hips. The blows came true and exact, a testament to his lifetime of training. Even in exhaustion his body could not let him attempt anything less than perfection. Talin would have been proud of him had the armsmaster lived, the king’s mind mused with regret. His eyes watered from the pain as he ducked under a counter and struck again.

Baalor’s mace swung back and forth in short arcs, catching the king’s blade on its haft. Each impact created a starburst of blue, a flash that left afterimages of yellow in Bernal’s eyes. At the last strike Baalor turned his mace over the king’s arm, forcing it down. The demonlord’s elbow came flying over the top and smashed into Bernal’s skull.

Pain and black exploded in the king’s vision. He felt rather than saw himself hit the ground. Strangely he felt detached, a part of him thankful that he hadn’t actually felt the thundering impact, even as another cried at the damage being done to his frail mortal body.

“Your sacrifice achieves nothing.” Baalor’s deep voice whispered. “Accept your fate. Accept us.”

Weariness far deeper than anything physical came over the king. It would be easy to lie down, to give in and let the pain end. Another bloody cough wracked his chest, a spasm of pain that brought more tears to his eyes.

Though he felt this deep within his bones, his body still would not listen. It rolled over again. He could feel the gritty ground under one cheek, his betraying hands pushing him up to a knee. He paused there, head hanging, as his vision slowly returned. He could feel broken teeth in his mouth, and spat them out. No need for a last meal, he thought wryly.

His head tilted back and he gazed up at the Stormlord, a goliath wreathed in lightning. He was wrong, he thought. This
was
worth it. He smiled, a grotesque visage made up of split skin, jagged teeth, and broken bone. When Niall was rescued, it would be worth every drop of blood spilled here.