Stone Rising (21 page)

             
“I think I can help with that.”

             
They turned to look at Marlyn, who had been standing nearby, laden down by the other cannons that hung from his back by their straps, recovered from the fallen Tuladors within the bus. He was playing with yet another delicate lever on his own Cannon. Giving himself a nod of satisfaction, he raised his weapon, pointing the muzzle to the sky

He pulled the trigger.

The weapon roared, but instead of its ball of power, a golden cone of light leapt out to scorch the sky. Spread thinly, as such, the shot lacked punch. Yet enough punch it had for the task at hand. Those gargoyles closest shrieked as the delicate membranes of their bat-like wings caught light, vanishing in a whoosh like so much paper. Wings now useless, a score of the beasts began to fall from the sky, to land with hard smacks in the water, where they flailed and clawed as they sank beneath the waves.

A flicker of malicious glee flashed across Arbistrath’s face, as the other Tuladors began to gather in interest.

“Which lever was that, pray tell?”

Within moments, the sky caught light, as wide-angled cones of furious power rose up to scour the heavens of the demonic invaders. No mercy had the Tuladors, each shot accompanied by
jeers and taunts. More than once, the flock attempted to descend, to turn on their assailants. Each time, they were beaten back, hurled away by the firepower of their foe, lest the delicate wings catch light and they, too, plummet to their deaths.

A minute more of the punishment and, at last, the gargoyles rose skyward with a shriek, to disappear once and for all into the grey morning clouds.

Cheers from the Tulador Guards and Arbistrath smiled through his cloud of cigar smoke  as he heard his men congratulating themselves, happy that they remained alive for just this little bit longer. But as his eyes looked down, back along the pier to where they had left the bus parked on the road, his smile vanished.

Perhaps their celebrations were premature.

The hubbub from behind him began to die down as the men took in the scale of what they were witnessing. As if in terrible parody of the bay behind them, a sea, an ocean, an endless tide of demonkind stretched out before them. Baleful, glowing eyes glowered at them by the hundred. It seemed as though every single one of the once-men that had pursued them only an hour before had now taken on the guise of a horned and thirsting demon. They clustered about the bus, swarming over it, black-carapaced ants over the corpse of a fallen jungle beast. The tide stretched on, beyond the great buildings and warehouses that bordered the shore. A vast army of infernal foot-soldiers, their number beyond counting.

Yet they held back. They were eager, for sure, stamping their cloven feet, hissing their vile language through ebony fangs. But not advancing, not yet.

The cause of their restraint soon became clear.

From atop one of the buildings that overlooked the bay, a great flash of orange, followed by the smell of brimstone, ash and sulphur, blown towards them on the coastal breeze. From the cloud
of smoke coalesced a beast from the darkest of nightmares, a horned figure that embraced every archetype of hell. The being loomed tall and mighty, its form rippling with muscle and barely contained sorcerous power. It surveyed them from its vantage point with eyes that glowed the red of fresh blood.

It looked amused.

“Humans,” it called out, its voice amplified by supernatural means to fill the bay in a crescendo of rumbling bass. “The chase ends now.”

Arbistrath sneered, but he knew the beast to be right. This was it. This was where it ended. Faced with the horde before them, it was obvious that they had no hope. His cannon beeped morosely by his side, weary yet ready if called upon again. It would never give up on him. Neither would he, he decided. He would stay defiant till the end.

He smiled as he called out in reply.

“Come down here and say that!”

The beast guffawed, its mirth echoing through the heavens like the rumbling of distant thunder.

“Think not to goad me, child. I am above the taunting of a spoilt brat such as yourself. The young Lord Arbistrath; thinking yourself high and mighty because of chance of birth; thinking yourself the swaggering hero because you’ve been entrusted with a toy, the power of which you barely understand.” The beast fixed him with its red eyes and, despite himself, Arbistrath shivered in fear. The demon continued, smiling. “Make no mistake, mortal; these are your last moments. These are your last words. Choose them wisely, for the memory of them is all that shall soon remain.”

The young Lord of the Tuladors glanced left. Marlyn looked at him, his youthful face bereft, now, of ideas, yet still set, still determined to fight alongside his lord till the last. He looked right, Reno there, and the others, all gazing at him, visibly shaken, terrified by the foes that faced them, yet each determined not to give way to their fears, even now. Even at the end.

Pride. That was the feeling in his chest as he looked out upon them. Old Hofsted had often spoken to him of pride during his formative years. Pride could lead to downfall, he had said. Or, just as easily, it could lead to greatness. Reciprocal pride, where a leader had the trust and loyalty of his troops and where they, in turn, had his gratitude. Once, not even that long ago, Arbistrath had seen himself as separate to his men, worlds apart; he their ruler, they his servants.

But he had learned, since, that things were not that easy, not that clear cut. He was their leader; they looked to him, needed him. And this role didn’t force them apart, instead, bringing them closer together. Yes, he was their lord and commander. But more than that, he was their champion. 

The beast called out again.

“Well? Any last words for posterity?”

Lord Arbistrath smiled as he took a deep drag from his cigar, nodding as he exhaled.

“Aye,” he called out into the air, fixing the demon with his stare. “Bring it.”

A cheer from the dozen Tulador Guards at his back, the whining hum of capacitors filling the air as they readied their weapons for war. Clenching his cigar between his teeth, the young Lord hefted his cannon in both hands, pushing forwards the lever to engage full power. It vibrated with pent up energies, as if eager to release them on its foes, as though sharing in his bloodlust.

From atop the warehouse roof, the demon growled, narrowing its eyes.

“So be it,” it spat. “Consider it brought.” It raised one huge black-taloned hand into the sky as it roared out to its troops. “My minions, spare no-one. Atta – “

It paused midway through its sentence, cocking its head as if distracted by a sound, then keen eyes squinting as it glared out into the bay. Arbistrath watched the beast, puzzled, before turning, the rest of the Tuladors following his lead.

There, on the horizon, and closing fast across the water; a shape, sleek and low. From its sides, sprays of foam as it parted the sea like an arrow the air. The droning rumble of its engines began to cut the air as it grew nearer.

“No…”

A flicker of a smile flashed across Marlyn’s face as he took a step forwards, staring out into the distance. There, atop the speeding boat, a figure; bare-chested, lean and sinewy with tanned-olive skin and a mop of wild, windswept black hair tied back into a short pony-tail. Above its head, the figure brandished a staff, long and thin.

Arbistrath appeared at Marlyn’s side.

“Yes…”

He turned, bellowing orders to his men with fresh urgency.

“Two ranks, form up, now!” They hustled to obey him, even as the lord turned to Marlyn to enquire: “Blasts or cones?”

Marlyn pondered for a second.

“Keep the weapons on wide arc, but full power. It may not be enough to kill the beasts, but it’ll slow down many of them at a time.”

Arbistrath nodded, smiling, taking another drag from his cigar before throwing it to the ground and stamping it out.

“Alright troops, you heard the man, you know the drill!”

Even as those words left his mouth, a great bellowing roar of a thousand hate-filled tongues as the hordes of hell advanced.

“Destroy them!” came the great thunder of command from above. “Tear them limb from limb! Hurry!”

Arbistrath grinned, the promise of his lord renewed in his chest.

Yes, he thought, as the droning of the engines behind him grew louder. We might just get away with this, after all.

With that, he knelt down with his men, fingers tight on the handle of his cannon as the first of the braying demons came into range.

“First rank,” he cried out. “FIRE!”

***

Narlen’s heart thundered within his chest as he took in the sight before him. The flashing of weak sunlight on silver armour. The bawled orders in an aristocratic voice, yet one that had grown, matured. Hardened. The steady strobe of golden power that flickered out in great cones to blind and scorch the advancing demons.

              The Tulador Guard.

             
Tears pricked the Plainsman’s eyes that had nothing to do with the briny spray. He turned to face his companions behind him in the boat.

             
“Do you see that?” he enquired of them in a torrent of gushing excitement. “Do you see that?”

             
Naresh stalked forwards to the prow. The Servant’s youthful eyes had become full of bitterness of late; no wonder with all grim sights they had beheld. But now they twinkled with something that bordered on hope. Bordered, even, on joy.

             
“Oh aye,” he smiled, his tones full of rich, Steppes inflective. “I see them alright.”

             
A grumble from the rear of the boat, the stoic voice of the Farmer, Elerik.

             
“Do not get ahead of yourselves, lads,” he warned. “There is killing to be done yet.”

             
The Plainsman smiled, his knuckles whitening about the wood of his Hruti.

             
“I’m counting on it.”

             
“I shall bring you close,” the Farmer told them. “Naresh, get the Tuladors into the boat. Narlen – hold off the hordes.”

             
The pair nodded, aware of their tasks.

             
The boat powered on, weaving twixt all manner of flaming wrecks, as the Farmer guided them in with precision. Nearing the pier, Elerik backed off the throttle, the craft gliding to a halt alongside the pier not far from the embattled Tuladors.

             
Elerik nodded at his two companions.

             
“Go.”

             
The two warriors leapt for the ladder, clambering up with ease onto the pier proper. They ran over to the ranks of warriors facing the other way. Arbistrath saw them coming, turning, face alight with joyous disbelief.

             
“How…? We thought…?”

             
Naresh smiled, raising his hands to placate the man, to fend off his questions.

             
“As did we, Lord Arbistrath. As did we. But now’s not the time.” He glanced meaningly at the hordes of demons that threw themselves into the brunt of the Tulador firepower, each wave advancing further than the last. “Let’s go. Get your men on board the boat.”

             
Arbistrath nodded.

             
“We shall need to withdraw in stages, lest the foe overwhelm us.”

             
The Servant smiled, his swarthy tanned skin creased with good-natured humour.

             
“With all due respect, let Narlen handle that. Just get your men on board as fast as you can.”

             
A furrowed frown of confusion from the Tulador, but he relented with a nod, turning to his men and calling out.

             
“Tulador Guard – cease fire and withdraw!”

***

The Guard had unleashed their final fusillade, the air still ringing to the dying booms.

             
Good, the Plainsman thought, his Hruti held tight in his hands before him. Hard to concentrate with that racket.

             
The silver-armoured warriors streamed past him towards the boat. One, a youth, the one named Marlyn that he had seen speaking to Stone on the battlefield before the Beacon nodded as he passed. Narlen nodded in reply.

             
Then he turned his attention to the foe.

             
The Tulador weaponry had done its job and done it well, holding off the foe for a good time. But there came a time when ranged weaponry became cumbersome, unwieldy and slow to react. Once the enemy got up close and personal, it was time for the Woodsman’s Three to shine.

             
As the first of the horned and ravenous creatures drew near, pressed forwards by the weight of their brethren behind, the Plainsman grinned, his face full of savage glee as he felt the power tingling through his weapon.