Stone Rising (15 page)

At last, the golden glare receded, the noise abating, their vision at last returning to their stinging eyes as the air filled with the multi-layered hum of recharging weapons.

A collective gasp of fear and horror. The beast yet stood, exactly where it had been, obsidian fangs bared in a savage grin of mirth, its darkly muscled form blissfully free from injury or hurt. Behind it, the walls and stock of the room twisted and glowing from the heat of the onslaught, save the patch directly behind its figure that remained untouched, unmarked. The ceiling, the walls, all about the room, cracking, splintering, as the intense heat of the energies unleashed began to take their toll on the structure.

“Fools!” The creature snarled as it took a thudding step forwards on its cloven hooves. “You really believe that such simple sorceries can harm a being such as - ”

A cloud of dust billowed forth, cutting off the beast’s words and choking the three humans. As the dust dissipated, the air cleared to reveal a huge mound of shifting, settling concrete where the demon had been standing. Tons upon tons collapsed down from the floors above; the steel joists of the ceiling having finally given way under the heat.

Silence, then Reno ventured: “Is it…?”

A bellowing roar, the concrete beginning to shift in answer to his question. The two turned to Marlyn, horror in their eyes as they looked to him for guidance.

“Fucking
run
!”

They did.

On wings of fear they flew, launching their way through the cluttered debris of the shop, bursting out into sunlight to the startled surprise of the guards without. Seeing the look of alarm on their faces, Arbistrath turned, eyes questioning.

“What happened?” he enquired. “What was all that noise?”

It was Marlyn that answered, his chest huffing and puffing as he strove to catch his breath.

“Demon, sire… A bloody big bastard, too. Like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

Arbistrath snarled, anger welling up as he thought back to encounters with demons in the past. Brutal foes, vicious and other-worldly, with powers that defied the laws of reality and made them hard to kill. He looked up, staring at the building within which the Gift Shop was set, multiple stories of bricks, mortar and steel. He nodded, raising his voice that all might hear his command.

“Level it.”

A chorus of cataclysmic roars. Golden orbs of plasma smashing into the base of the building, rending stonework and melting steel. A great groan, then the entire structure collapsed in an avalanche of dust and debris, hundreds of tons of rubble settling in a vast and disorganised heap to crush anything within.

Only briefly did the young Lord’s face show any hint of pleasure, for as soon as the rumbling of the collapsed building faded away, it was replaced with another noise. The men of the Tulador Guard turned, as one, to stare down the length of the avenue.

The horde had arrived. A sea, a torrent, a tidal wave of possessed former-humans, racing as fast as their ragged bodies could take them.

Arbistrath shuddered inwardly as he watched the mass draw nearer. They were outnumbered a hundred-to-one. Maybe more. They had no chance; at full-power, their cannons would die of overheating. At lower power, they could not hope to kill enough of the foe before they reached them. He didn’t let his men see his fear, instead, turning to Marlyn.

“If you’ve got any of those genius ideas brewing in there, now’d be a rather splendid time…”

The youth was staring at the large, windowed vehicle that lay abandoned in the square, a look of thoughtful concentration mixed with hope on his face.

“Yes. I think I just might…”

***

The horde raced on, eager, desperate, driven by the mental whips of invisible masters, but their prey had eluded them, at least for now. The dense exhaust fumes of the until now long-abandoned bus choked the square, the vehicle itself and its cargo of Tulador Guards slowly disappearing into the distance, weaving as it went to avoid crashing into the other rusted vehicles and debris that littered the street.

             
Prey now out of reach, the horde began to slow, then mill around, as though waiting for instruction. Perhaps those few lost souls that had not yet succumbed to madness, trapped within their own hijacked bodies, might have rejoiced at the getaway of their fellow humans.

             
The silence of the street was shattered as the collapsed building that once housed the Gift Shop exploded with the force of a dozen bombs, chunks of masonry and dust erupting outwards to sweep away a hundred once-men in its fury. As the dust blew away on the morning breeze, the air was filled with the acrid, cloying stench of sulphur.

             
The beast strode forth from his would-be prison, hooves leaving prints of orange flame as he marched imperiously into the centre of the horde, taloned fingers brushing debris from his cloaked shoulders. As he stared down the street, gazing with infernal eyes into the distance at the retreating bus, he snarled, the rumbling growl of a dozen frustrated tigers.

             
The crowd of tortured souls milled about, but kept their distance, whatever spirits that possessed the bodies obviously wary of the great power and authority of the horned beast. One such human, however, moved closer. It was a child, a boy of no more than eight years old, blond hair unruly, cheeks besmirched with soot and dust. It approached him, drawing near, the top of its head barely reaching the giant’s knee.

             
As the child stood there, an arm’s length away, the demon looked down, face a mixture of curiosity and annoyance, taloned right hand flexing as though ready to smash the wretch to ruins with a single swipe. But then before it could, a rushing, rustling gale of whispers began to rise up from all about; quiet yet insistent. The man-child’s head snapped up, gazing up to fix the demon’s red stare. Its eyes opened; within, inky wells of infinite blackness.

             
Once more, the demon snarled, the corner of one lip rising to reveal its pointed teeth.

             
You disappoint us once again, Asmodeus. Your penchant for theatrics grows wearisome.

             
“I fear you’re too pessimistic,” the demon called Asmodeus growled in reply. “The mortals cannot get far. This island is surrounded by ocean. They extend their pathetic lives by mere heartbeats. Their souls shall taste all the sweeter for these brief moments of vain hope.” Its words rumbled like distant thunder, but despite the inhuman tones, the restraint was easy to hear. Whatever this creature was, whatever its rank in the infernal order, it knew to respect its masters. At least outwardly.

             
You are a fool, Baron. You do not understand what is at stake, here.

             
“At stake?” Asmodeus sounded puzzled, his black, scaly eyebrows furrowed in sincere confusion. “This world is long-taken, the schemes of Stone long-since proven to be nought but vainglorious dreams. What could possibly be at stake? We have victory here!”

             
The whispers rose in volume, countless overlaid voices that spoke different words but with the same meaning. And this meaning was urgent and mocking.

             
Nay, Asmodeus. And nay again. The threads of fate fray. Our situation, precarious. In the ether, we found betrayal in our ranks. Rebellion amongst our bound slaves. Stone freed himself an ally, one of those that soars upon the winds of time.

             
Gleaming red eyes widened in apprehension. There was only one thing that this could mean.

             
Correct. Stone possesses such knowledge now, and the power, too, to wield it. This world, this future, all our accomplishments will be for nought if he returns in time to claim his men. So, we say to you, crush these mortals and crush them quick. Without those few to which the threads of destiny are bound, even Stone is powerless to change things. But go, lest this reality crumble and we can do nought but begin anew. Go, we say!

             
Baron Asmodeus growled, flexing his mighty taloned hands, eyes narrowing and glowing an infernal hue. He knew now his task. He did not relish the thought of being swept away on the tidal wave of temporal change, nor indeed the thought of rebuilding all his hard work.

             
“It shall be done.” He glanced about him at the sea of once-men and women. “But these flesh puppets are weak and the humans resourceful. I shall need new troops to command.”

             
They are yours. Now, go!

             
With that, the human child exploded, its limbs and organs erupting in a violent spray of gore and blood, to be replaced by a burning, ragged hole in space and time. Though the portal, a gangly and behorned creature strode forth, with obsidian blade, long claws and dully glowing eyes of fire. The effect began to ripple throughout the horde, human shells exploding to be replaced by demonic warriors, smaller caricatures of the Baron himself, cruel and bloodthirsty, eager for the hunt, until at last, Asmodeus found himself at the head of an army of demonkind.

             
He allowed himself a moment to grin, then roared, the noise shaking the glass from the buildings and scaring the clouds from the sky.

             
As one, the demons began to run.

Chapter Seven:

The rain. Again with the rain. Did it ever stop in this accursed country? It plastered the hair to the scalp, soaked clothes to the bone. It did nothing to improve Iain’s mood.

              And he wasn’t in the best of moods to begin with.

             
They squelched on, down the wet and muddy road, their torches held aloft, flickering as they fought to live against the constant onslaught of drizzle. Five of them, five men of the Foresters and the outlaws, that was all they had spared for this fool’s errand.

             
But Alann had been adamant.

Besides Iain trudged the looming form of John, his boulder-like shoulders wrapped in a cloak to shield him from the worst of the weather, his great bushy beard dripping droplets of water as the wetness in the air slowly trickled down his craggy face.

Alann, himself, a step behind, axe slung across his back, his usual woodman’s attire of leather jerkin and trousers all he had to protect him from the rain. Cold, heat, discomfort; none of it had ever shown on the Woodsman’s face, even before whatever mighty sorceries the Lord Stone had wrought into his serious form. Whatever grim circumstances that had beset the man in the past had seen to that, driving out such petty weaknesses.

In front of the trio, holding aloft their torches, Luis and Nial. Luis, one of the greenest of the Foresters’ recruits, only joining up with them on the march to the Shaman’s Retreat from the forests that clad the Northern Hills. Green, Iain smiled, yet even that journey felt like a lifetime ago.

Nial, one of the outlaws, a good and trusted older man that John had recommended for the mission. In a former life, the wiry, blond-haired veteran had been a tracker, making his living poaching the Shiriff’s land of deer. He knew these roads and the land about the town like no-one else, knowing where to lay low to avoid the wrath of the town-guard.

Five men. Against whatever forces might be arrayed against them upon their discovery. Iain held little hope of their chances of success should that happen. Sure, he had witnessed for himself the berserker strength of John, when the battle-lust descended. And Luis, young though he may be, was an able fighter. And no doubt the grizzled tracker held a trick or two up his sleeves.

And himself? He knew that there was little this land could offer that would match up to the horrors he had fought in the past; had he not himself faced down the mighty form of Kurnos the Hunter on the fields of Merethia? Had he not led the Foresters into battle against the Beast of the Bridge? No, this mission held little fear for him.

But that made him no more optimistic about their chances of success. To find their friends and return alive would take skill, courage and – more than the others would admit it – a great deal of luck. Why, then, was he here? Why come on this journey if he thought it so doomed to failure?

The answer was striding nearby, face set in determination, eyes narrowed against the cold rain.

When the Woodsman  set his mind to something, he inspired a confidence in him within others; his quiet yet steadfast manner causing folk to flock to his cause, his honesty winning people over, just as much as his actions. For someone so humble-seeming, so reserved, not given to shows of bravado or boastful words, Alann had a way about him, a subtle charisma that perhaps he himself didn’t know, yet any fiery preacher in a town square would give a right arm to possess.