Post by lordtwinblade on Dec 28, 2008 19:25:32 GMT -6
Longest Chapter...ever. Of anything. From me, that is. You might want to get some food, a pillow, and a bunch of caffeine.
Chapter Six – Oneawacan
Rowan woke up to the clanging of alarms.
Screams ripped through the air as something hairy tore through the side of his tent. The captain scrambled to draw his sword as the red-furred beast leapt on him. Panic gripped Rowan as he tumbled in a tangled mass of muscular monster and fabric. His left hand wrapped around the hilt of his shortsword, but the cloth from the tent coiled around his arm, pinning it against his stomach. Sharp (claws?) raked across his steel clad chest, squealing as they scraped the metal.
Rowan planted his right foot in what he thought was the monster’s stomach and kicked. The hound yelped and rolled off him, dragging a mass of fabric with it. The captain rolled to his knees and fumbled for a weapon. His hand touched a cold piece of metal. He grabbed it and turned towards the writhing terror. It was not ready when he stabbed the impromptu weapon into it’s back.
The captain rolled away from the injured beast and freed his arm. The short blade cut through the fabric, and Rowan stumbled to his feet.
One of the Overdrives was in flame. His soldiers had already killed several of the hellhounds, but dark, skeletal warriors were leaping into the camp, borne on black, leathery wings. Bone white swords flashed in the firelight, glistening with blood.
“Retreat!” Rowan shouted. He spun to block a blow from a bony sword, riposting with his long blade. “Get aboard your transports and fall back!”
An explosion ripped through the humid air, and Rowan fell against a hellhound’s corpse. He rolled onto his back, head spinning, in time to see a second transport became no more than a pile of metal shavings and burning burlap. All around the captain soldiers were fleeing, heeding no command other than that of their own fear. Rowan struggled to rise, hissing as his hip shifted with a sickening crunch.
“Hold your positions, soldiers!” Rowan roared, trying to drown out the screams of pain that bounced off the insides of his skull. “Form a defensive line at my position!” He clawed his way to his feet, using the dead hellhound as support. He stood on one foot, the other leg dragging sluggishly behind. He raised his longsword to show his warriors where he stood. “Form up! Let’s push these slimy bastards back!”
A demon saw the captain’s raised blade and, sensing an easy target, rushed forward, grasping his blade in both hands. Rowan narrowed his eyes and swung his left arm, ignoring the twinge in his pelvis as he did so. The shortsword flew from his grip, spinning like a horrific Frisbee, and stabbed through the demon’s throat, lifting him off his feet and carrying him to the ground.
“Rally to the captain!” Rowan looked to his left and saw Grove, his helmet gone and an ugly cut oozing blood into his crimson eyes, his hair flying with each stroke of his blade, fell another fiendish warrior. “Push them back!”
The troops, heartened at the sight of their Captain on his feet and fighting, began to come together, operating as a cohesive unit rather than a scattered band of individuals. The demonic attackers, shocked by their foes sudden transformation from terrified men into determined soldiers, began to give ground. Rowan limped forward, using his longsword as a crutch while swinging one of the demon blades with his free hand.
A shadow fell across the flaming encampment, swooping low into the midst of Rowan’s ragtag band. Grove pivoted to face a new threat and lurched back as a trio of black claws punched into his chest. Nexia flared her wings and skidded for a couple yards, the elven scout still hanging from her talons. She grinned at the shock in his scarlet eyes, relishing his horror and pain. Lifting the man above her head, she sent a bolt of electricity through Grove’s body. His limbs jerked and spasmed as the energy lanced through his nerves, propelling him off the fiend general’s arm and into the air. Several of his fellows rushed their friend’s murderer, but didn’t even come close enough to strike. Lightning shot from Nexia’s wingtips, reaching out to embrace each of her attackers, wrapping them in cloaks of sparkling light for a few seconds before releasing them meet their new host.
Rowan stumbled back, horrified. His jaws worked, but it took him a full second to find his voice. “Retreat! All units, retreat!”
The soldiers did not need to be told twice. A few stood bravely next to their captain, but most of the men had seen enough, and bolted for the far side of the clearing, forsaking the large, cumbersome transports for the mobility of their own two legs. Most did not get far. Nexia’s aim was impeccable, and the missiles traveled faster than the eye could track.
Rowan advanced, hobbling, on the demonic general, rage throbbing in his chest. The grinning monster turned her crimson eyes on him and laughed viciously. She approached him at a leisurely pace, almost as if to emphasize that she could outfight and outmaneuver him without much effort. The captain ignored her, pointing the demon sword at her heart.
The dark warriors now swarmed up on the left and right of the two commanders, forming a full circle around them, an arena of sorts. At the urging of her soldiers, Nexia moved forward more quickly, daring to move into striking range of the smaller human.
Rowan swung his blade with all his might, roaring as he did so. To his dismay, Nexia caught the weapon in her ebony claws and tossed it aside. In the same motion, she kicked the longsword from his other hand, robbing him of the crutch that kept him standing. Gravity took hold of the young captain, and he fell against his foe. The demon caught him and lifted him off the ground, hurling him almost casually into the air to land some fifteen feet behind her. Rowan rolled to a stop and lay still.
The world seemed to pirouette, like an energetic young dancer, around Rowan’s head. He was dully aware of the dark figures around him that dragged him to his knees, but they seemed far away, like he was seeing them through a telescope.
Nexia crossed her arms. It hadn’t even been an exciting battle. At least the troops enjoyed it, she thought, grinning inwardly. “Tie him up and scourge him. At dawn we’ll release him to report us to his beloved general.” The dark warriors roared in assent and dragged the captain off to manufacture a rack for him.
___________________________
“Brother!” Caius’s voice boomed through the lava fields, amplified by the Shadowpriestess’ magic. The sun rose behind the Shadow Monarch, framing his muscular silhouette against the blood-red sky. “Thestalos! We can continue this battle as we have been, but if we do, my forces will wear yours down bit by bit, and each drop of blood spilt will be on your hands.”
The king raised his arms above his arms in front of him. “To prevent such needless slaughter, I offer you the opportunity to give yourself up peacefully. You have fought well, but now the time has come to save lives instead of taking them.”
“However, you may hesitate to surrender out of a misplaced sense of justice, so allow me to make the choice easier.” Caius motioned with one hand, and a figure rose into the air, chained by unseen shackles. The armored warrior was about Caius’s height, clad in earth-tone armor. He hung from his bonds, neither moving nor breathing. “I have in my protection our dear brother, Granmarg. However, if you do not surrender, my protection may lapse.” The Rock Monarch hovered out over a bubbling pit of magma. “Do you know what lava does to rock, Thestalos? That will be the fate of your brother if you do not give up.”
Caius stepped back to stand next to the Shadowpriestess. “You have until the sun sits at its peak. I strongly suggest you accept my offer.” He nodded to his servant, and she ended her spell. The Dark Emperor placed a hand on Empyrean’s snout and exhaled quietly. “Do you think he will come?”
Empyrean stretched her neck muscles. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“It will not work.” The Shadowpriestess did not look at her master as she spoke. “The Firestorm Monarch will not give in so easily, and it will take more than magma to destroy Granmarg.”
“Good.” Caius turned his crimson eyes on her. “He will suffer by my hand as I have suffered by his.”
“I do not understand what you wish to gain by this, my lord.” The priestess’s head was still bowed. Caius placed a firm hand on her spine, and she flinched, as though expecting to be struck.
“It is not for you to understand, priestess, only to obey.”
“Yes, my lord.” The witch fell into silence.
___________________________
Rahz’s horse whinnied irritably as he spurred the beast down the road, following the tugging in his chest. The commander patted his mount’s neck absent-mindedly and continued to urge it forward.
“Where are you?” He whispered, narrowing his hazel eyes, as though hoping to see through the surrounding foliage.
Émigré had left early in the morning. No one in the fortress had bound her there or even asked her to stay, so there was no reason to pursue her. Nevertheless, Rahz was certain the swordswoman was traveling to the same place the knot in his chest was taking him.
The swordsman dismounted and pulled his horse off the road, out of sight of the casual passerby. Tying its reins to a tree branch, Rahz gave the animal a reassuring pat on the neck and slipped through the thick wall of greenery.
The air beneath the trees was stifling, and Rahz found himself panting as made his way deeper into the forest. Very soon the swordsman lost track of where he had been, the entire wood blending into a single green mass. After less than half an hour, Rahz fell against a slender beech trunk and closed his eyes, lifting his waterskin to his lips and trickling a tiny rivulet of life into his mouth.
Rahz savored the sensation of liquid massaging his parched throat, basking in the brief moment of relief. He wiped a gauntleted hand gently across his face, careful not to let the metal rasp across his skin, and opened his eyes with some effort. Just ahead was a path he had not seen moments before, a packed-dirt game trail that passed beneath an awning of beech boughs. The warrior gingerly crawled to his feet and started down the miniature road. As he did so a gentle breeze picked up, tousling his short brown hair and caressing his face like a concerned lover, cooling his brow with its touch. Within moments the soldier’s step and heart felt lighter, and he moved like an elf through the woods, completely comfortable and at home beneath the trees.
After a few minutes the commander stepped out from beneath the treeline and found himself next to a crystal-clear pond. The warrior knelt next to the pool and splashed a handful of water across his face and neck. It was cool and fresh, making the water Rahz carried with him seem stale and salty by comparison. The soldier cupped his hands beneath the surface of the glittering mirror and was in the process of lifting his makeshift vessel to his lips when a loud splash near the center of the pond caught his attention. He looked up, and his drink fell from his hands, forgotten, as his thirst was replaced in his mind.
A marvelous head of brilliant red-gold hair had just burst from beneath the pool’s surface, tossing itself in a shower of crystalline droplets as the woman took in a breath of fresh air. With the air of a queen, the goddess strode regally through the water to the shore, where she lay back on the grass and let her crimson plumage pool freely around her naked body. Rahz gazed at the stranger in awe, taking in every detail, from her spotless porcelain skin to the contours of her lithe, attractive form. It was at least a minute before the girl sat up, curling her arms around one of her legs, and noticed his presence.
Rahz gasped, realized he had been staring, and looked away. The woman, oddly, didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. She got to her feet and strode purposefully around the perimeter of the pool until she came face to face with the blushing warrior.
“Hello there.” The woman’s voice was quiet and clear, her sultry tenor striking a sensual chord in Rahz’s chest. He struggled to keep his eyes on her face.
“Hello.” The commander swallowed in what he hoped was an indiscrete fashion. The girl’s reddish locks fell across her shoulders and chest, accentuating her beauty to a maddening level. The warrior felt a jerk of tension play through his groin and worked hard to keep his breathing even. The woman smiled, mischief dancing in her captivating green eyes.
“You must be another one of the Called.”
The tightness in Rahz’s loins disappeared in an instant, an ice-cold gap rushing into its place. “The Called? You have heard the song, too?”
“Everyone who comes to this grove has.” The woman placed a hand on his shoulder, sending a spark of ecstasy through his body. “We’re the same, you and I. We’ve heard something beyond ourselves reaching out, something that offers itself to us as freely as a lover.” She ran her fingertips up the side of his face, and a red flush rose to meet them. Rahz’s heartbeat skyrocketed. As if sensing the excitement she was causing, the woman turned away, giving the warrior just as much means to arousal as her previous position had. As she spoke again, her voice was tinged with humor. “My name is Syrian, but my friends call me Vix. What are you called, my ever-erect young friend?”
The commander’s cheeks burned with combined embarrassment and excitement. “I’m-“ His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I’m Field-Commander Rahz, 13th Infantry Division of the Anima Garrison.”
“Military, are you?” Vix’s voice was husky, and Rahz was sure he was about to burst. “I’ve always liked you warrior types.” She motioned with one hand for him to follow, leading him to the far side of the pool. She knelt next to a bundle of clothing wrapped around a katana’s sheath, and extracted a leather thong to tie her hair back.
“How long ago did you begin hearing the song?” Vix asked, pulling on a faded black tunic as she spoke.
Rahz inhaled slowly. “I only became aware of its call last night. I came as quickly as I could. I was hoping…” The warrior’s voice trailed off into silence. Vix didn’t seem to notice. She strapped a pair of steel greaves to her legs and pulled her boots on.
“The others should be here shortly.” Vix straightened, pulling on a steel breastplate over her tunic and cinching the straps tight. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” She lifted an overlong katana from the grass beside her other possessions and wrapped the baldric around her waist. “Ah, here comes one of them now.”
Rahz reluctantly turned away from the fire-headed temptress and gazed across the pool. He recognized the veiled face immediately, and the single-edged claymore strapped across her back left no room for doubt.
“Émigré,” he murmured. “I was right.”
Émigré’s cerulean eyes locked with Rahz’s hazel ones, and then she started around the edge of the pond. “Rahz?”
“Émigré.” Rahz nodded and stepped forward to grasp the swordswoman’s hand in a firm handshake. Syrian approached from behind, placing a hand on each warrior’s shoulder.
“We are three now.”
___________________________
Light touched the young man’s face, a lover’s warm hand caressing the skin of her sleeping paramour. A gentle breeze ruffled the soiled golden locks, and two sleep-stained eyelids slowly parted, the congealed crud flaking off as they did so.
Neo’s body ached. Each muscle felt like it had been stretched out to twice its normal length before being thoroughly beaten by a large hammer. Every single one of his knuckles cracked as he flexed his hands.
“Ow.” Neo’s abdomen protested and his back made a sound like wood splitting as he sat up. His neck followed suit as he turned his head to observe his surroundings.
The swordsman sat on a spur of rock jutting out from the side of a mountain. Behind him a yawning hole in the wall gaped sheepishly into the rising sun. The clouds below were dappled with gold and magenta light, and mountain hawks soared in and out of the fluffy masses like leaping fish in a frothy sea.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” The dragon’s head appeared to Neo’s left. He sensed the beast’s wings unfurling behind him. The single golden orb Neo could see was tinged with sadness. “Rurian loved to watch the sun rise every morning.”
“Rurian?” Neo glanced over at his mentor, his expression quizzical.
A long pause, punctuated by a hunting eagle’s shriek, followed. “That is a story for another day, young one.” The dragon exhaled. “Forgive me for my pensive mood. We have much yet to do.”
“You’re right.” Neo grinned. “I guess it’s time to save the world, huh?”
“As I said before, that is entirely up to you.”
“Well then, let’s get to it.” His soreness forgotten, the young warrior rushed forward three steps and performed and elegant swan dive off the cliff. The dragon let out a snort and kicked off the dais, following the swordsman’s descent. Neo shot toward the ground for the second time in two days, but this time he felt no fear, only the thrill of adrenaline racing through his veins.
When he was less than one hundred feet from the ground, he kicked his legs, spreading them wide to slow his fall. The dragon swooped in beneath him and spread its wings, blocking the air resistance that held Neo up. He fell like a stone and landed on its back feet first. When his momentum had been arrested, he dropped into the curve of the beast’s back and placed his hands against its neck.
I think I’ve come up with a name for you.
The dragon craned its neck, looking back at its charge. Do tell, young one.
From now on, Neo smiled, letting the wind buffet his dirty blond locks, I will call you Lore.
A good name. Lore banked towards Baltar’s palace below. Thank you.
___________________________
Vapid was a good goblin. He had served with Baltar’s army for most of his life. He had been brought up like most good goblins, learning how to rip entrails out of enemies before he quite understood what entrails were. He had been taught the best ways to skin dead creatures and to always make sure his quarry was dead before celebrating.
Now Vapid stood on the battlements of Baltar’s castle, gawking up at the winged shape descending from the mountains towards the fortress. He wondered if it might be an oversized eagle or vulture. After about ten seconds he decided that it couldn’t be, it was the wrong shape for a bird.
Possible identities for the flying shape plodded through Vapid’s mind, each lingering for the several long moments it took for the goblin to disqualify them. As his mental gears chugged unenthusiastically away at their task, the shape continued to grow and refine itself.
It was now that Vapid remembered one of the other virtues all good goblins are brought up to follow. Obey every order the big guy gives. In this case, Baltar was the big guy, and his order was, “Kill anything coming out of the mountains.”
It took several more seconds for Vapid to connect his order and the giant…thing, so by the time he cried, “Alert! Arm the ballistas!” the shape had become a dragon, and was preparing to settle down in the courtyard.
___________________________
Lore veered sharply away from the castle as the first oversized crossbow fired.
Why are they shooting? Neo asked, reaching for his sword, only to find that the weapon was no longer at his waist.
Evidently they have orders to kill us. Lore’s voice was calm. I have a feeling Sable may have set this up.
Someday I’m going to be the one educating him, the swordsman growled, baring his teeth. Well, let’s get started.
Acid hissed along the battlements as Lore spat its burning saliva onto a small party of Goblin Elites as they pointed crossbows at the passing dragon. The creatures screamed as they fell, writhing in pain as the greenish liquid consumed their flesh. Neo leapt down onto the wall just past them and charged towards a part of unarmed goblins as they scrambled to track the dragon with their ballista.
The first goblin was facing away, and didn’t so much as squeak when Neo snapped his neck. The other four turned, but even before they drew their weapons he had knocked one of them off the wall and sent him tumbling down to the ground some forty feet below. One rushed Neo with a spiked club, flailing wildly, but Neo sidestepped his clumsy swings and brought his palm up into the creature’s chin. The goblin’s feet kept going, while his head remained stationary, and the wind left his body in a rush as his back hit the stone with a meaty slap.
The last two foes had hung back, to see if their comrades would take care of the attacker, but now they moved forward cautiously. Neo raised his hand, spread his fingers wide, and focused his energy. Lightning leapt across his palm and slithered around his fingertips. The goblins looked at each other, looked at Neo’s hand, and ran away screaming. With a smirk, the swordsman launched his missile at the base of the ballista. The resultant explosion demolished the weapon and hurled shards of it in every direction. Goblins lining the battlements on either side were thrown to the ground as wooden spikes punctured armor and flesh, killing and maiming as they did so. Neo stood against the wave of destruction, not even bothering to shield his face. The wooden projectiles seemed to shift aside as they hurtled towards him, passing mere millimeters from his unprotected face.
Lore swept low over Neo, unleashing a bone-rattling roar as she did so. The swordsman once again summoned a tiny maelstrom of electricity around his hand, this time only releasing a microscopic blast. The spark struck the hilt of a discarded Elite’s sword and dispersed. The weapon flew to Neo’s hand, slapping into his magnetized palm. His left hand reached up to grasp Lore’s proffered claw, and he was in the air.
___________________________
A heavy boot hit the back of Rowan’s leg, and he fell. Scaly hands bound his arms to a steel pole behind him. The captain coughed as blood dripped down the back of his raw throat.
“Are you comfortable, captain?” A gravelly voice jeered as his head fell back against the pole. “No? Aww, we can fix that.” More hands grabbed him by the armpits and lifted him up until he was kneeling, his knees bent at ninety degrees. A rough iron collar was fastened around Rowan’s neck and attached to the pole. The edges bit into his flesh as he tried to relax his legs, forcing him to hold himself up. A gauntleted fist buried itself in his gut, and blood spouted from his mouth and trickled from new wounds in his neck.
“The passengers are all comfortable, men.” The same gruff voice sang out, “Let’s send them home!”
Whips cracked against flesh, and terrified horses brayed as the demons guffawed, setting the wagon train into motion.
___________________________
The young man’s eyes were filled with blood, everything he saw was through a red, stinging haze. His skin had been torn and flayed, scraped off his body by repeated whipping and scored by burning water. He felt as though he had been dipped into a fire pit, like a roasted slab of meat.
At the front of the wagon a chained beast snarled and barked, swinging its claws at the frantic horses, who continued the terrified charge across the plains. Above, the sun beat down, an aggressive, unforgiving tormentor that continued to ravage the frayed tatters of the shackled man.
Black shadows, shades of the horrors he had lived through, darted on either side of the man’s face. Emerald eyes leered down at him, and haunting laughs echoed in his ears. He wanted to die. To die would be a beautiful, peaceful rest from the pain he had been dealt.
No. No, he couldn’t die. There was something he had to do first. He had to warn someone.
This will be the fate of all who oppose the Terrorking’s legions.
___________________________
General Freed rushed down the stairs to the main hall, his bodyguards struggling to keep up. He hit the door at full speed, knocking it aside in his haste to reach the courtyard. He paid no heed to the red-furred corpse that lay discarded near the door. He ignored the salutes of the soldiers as they turned to face him. He pushed the officer who stood to greet him aside, and fell to his knees next to the mauled body laid out on a stretcher next to the reeking caravan of wagons.
“Rowan?” The General’s voice croaked as tears spilled from his eyes and collected in his beard. He gingerly took the boy’s hand, holding it up to his chest.
“Father…” Rowan rasped, his voice like a broken sword on rusted metal. “Demons…Archfiends…Allied with Caius…”
“Rowan, please, forgive me. I should never have sent you…” Freed glanced up at the doctor on the other side of the stretcher, who was feverishly binding medicated gauze strips around the young man’s other arm. “Can you save him?”
“I don’t know, sir,” The medic’s voice was tight. “There isn’t much skin left on him, and the chance of infection is high. I’m going to have to immerse him in dock extract.” He looked up from his work. “We need to move him now, sir, or there will be no chance at all.”
Freed nodded emphatically. “Whatever you need, I promise, you will have it!” He looked back down at his son. “Hold on, Rowan. It’s going to be all right.” His voice was almost pleading.
The medic touched Freed’s shoulder. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to back away.”
Freed remained where he was for several long seconds, his jaw quivering and tears spilling from his eyes in long, salty rivulets. He stood and stepped back, and the medics lifted the mauled boy off the ground, hurrying him into the fortress.
“Please, gods, wherever you are…save my son!”
The General trudged back towards the main hall, his guards in tow. Behind him, soldiers continued to unload the wagon’s contents – dozens of bodies, all with eyes gouged out and faces twisted in agony.
___________________________
“It’s time.” Caius looked over at his suspended brother. “Still no word from Thestalos.”
“I told you he wouldn’t come,” The Shadowpriestess intoned from where she stood on the edge of the lava pit. “Surrender is not in a monarch’s blood.”
“Very well. I’ve given him my ultimatum. It’s time to make good on that threat.” Caius waited as the priestess wove her spell, and then stepped forward. “Thestalos, come out now. My patience is at its end. If you do not, our mutual brother shall suffer as you cannot imagine.”
The lava plains echoed with the monarch’s words, but there was no response. “Very well.” Caius snapped his fingers. The invisible strings holding Granmarg in the air snapped, and the monarch plunged into the molten rock. A guttural scream tore through the fetid atmosphere as Granmarg thrashed against the force that now held him beneath the boiling concoction.
A gout of flame twenty feet in diameter exploded from the ground beneath Caius’s feet. The monarch leapt back with startling agility, avoiding any significant damage. Empyrean recoiled, her jaws wide in a hiss. The Shadowpriestess tumbled out of the conflagration, crashing to the ground, her shoulder shattering as she struck the pumice. She cried out in pain and rolled onto her back, gasping. Before her, a red-armored titan erupted from the shattered earth, flanked by four muscular, crimson-furred humanoids.
Thestalos lunged at Caius, a blazing claymore manifesting in his grip. The other monarch fell to one knee and raised his arms, bringing his dark scimitar into existence between them. The weapons connected in a shower of sparks, and Caius guided his brother’s sword away, rolling to Thestalos’s right.
“I’m here to dethrone you, Emperor.” Thestalos snarled, swinging his blade in a wide arc. Caius performed an elegant back flip, avoiding the attack by a hair’s breadth, and stabbed straight for Thestalos’s iron clad chest. The Firestorm Monarch sidestepped and kicked upwards into Caius’s armpit. The Dark Emperor’s hand spasmed and the scimitar flickered, disappearing in a moment.
The crimson greatsword descended towards Caius’s skull again. The Shadow Monarch threw himself backwards and skidded down a short pumice hill, kicking up a cloud of black dust as he did so. Thestalos was right behind him, flying into the air and reversing his grip on the claymore to pin his foe to the ground.
Caius grunted and crossed his forearms, drawing them apart to reveal a new weapon, a pair of black bars two hand spans in length, each connected to the other by a flickering magenta chain. He released one of the grips and swung the weapon out to his right. The chain wrapped around the claymore’s blade and tugged it aside. The brand stabbed into the pumice, melting a two-inch wide diamond of stone around it.
Caius kicked his legs and closed them around his brother’s neck, using them to lift himself off the ground. He freed his nunchaku as he flexed his abdomen and swung the weapon down in the middle of Thestalos’s helmet. A loud bang resounded across the clearing and black energy lashed out from the impact point, dispersing into the air. Thestalos stumbled back and the Shadow Monarch released his neck, catching himself in a handspring and landing on his feet. The greatsword, still embedded in the stone, vanished in a wisp of smoke.
“You should never have risen against me, brother.”
Thestalos growled. “Any misgivings I had about imprisoning you that day are long gone now.”
Caius spun his nunchaku in a complex pattern, catching them behind his right shoulder. He lowered his head and grinned, though his brother could not see the expression. “I could say the same about any love I harbored for you. Come on.”
Tongues of fire were lashing from every crease in the Firestorm Monarch’s armor as a long staff with a wide, flame-swathed blade spawned in his grasp. He spun the zanbatou around his neck and caught it, lunging forward as he dragged the spearhead through the stone beside him, eliciting a spray of molten rocking behind him. As he approached, he swung the weapon forward, sending a wave of lava soaring towards his brother. The other Monarch didn’t flinch as the liquefied stone washed over him.
Thestalos’s blade stabbed through torrent, followed by the monarch himself. Caius leapt forward, putting a spin into his jump, and passed over Thestalos’s shoulder. His nunchaku struck the other monarch in the back of the neck, and Thestalos seemed to fall forward, catching himself with the haft of his zanbatou. Suddenly a steel boot struck Caius in the chest, knocking him on his back once more. Thestalos landed between the Dark Emperor’s legs and stabbed downward, his attack scoring through Caius’s armor and slicing through his left ribs. Caius roared and grabbed the spear pole. He flexed his arm and threw himself upwards at his brother. His right hand whipped up next to Thestalos’s head, and the nunchaku’s chain rested across the back of the Firestorm Monarch’s neck. Caius released the zanbatou and grabbed the grip with his left hand, and then slammed his helmet into Thestalos’s in a vicious headbutt. Momentarily stunned, Thestalos lost his balance and fell forward. The Dark Emperor planted a foot in his stomach and flipped the Firestorm Monarch on his back.
Caius rolled onto his side and slammed his palm into Thestalos’s chest, sending a shockwave of purple lightning bolts across his body. Thestalos convulsed, roaring in rage, and then fell silent, his body going limp.
“I win, brother.” Caius whispered, and then his vision swam and his helmet hit the stone.
___________________________
Dark Baltar the Terrible spun towards the chapel doors as they banged open. “What is it?” He snarled, baring his yellow fangs at the ebony-armored guards. The goblins flinched, but moved to surround him nonetheless. Their leader sheathed his sword and knelt at the demon lord’s feet.
“Sir, the castle is under attack. So far, the enemy has breached the walls and the inner courtyard.” As the goblin sergeant spoke, more black-armored elites filed up onto the scaffolding that ascended the chapel’s walls and ringed its beautiful stained-glass windows.
“I see.” Baltar grimaced, turning back to the altar. He knelt again and attempted to shut out the creaks of armored joints and the clatter of weapons, instead focusing on the intricate pattern the refracted light from the windows cast on the red-carpeted floor.
Humans are slow, brutish, unrefined creatures, but every-so-often, they show a wonderful flair for the magnificent. Baltar allowed his expression to soften as he admired the design on the floor before him. It was strange, but despite all that he had done, all that he had witnessed, sometimes something as simple as this tapestry of color before him was sometimes enough to bring tears to his green, lidless eyes.
There were shouts from outside, and the building shook. Baltar took no notice, continuing to stare at his idol. It was not until the crash of breaking glass pierced his skull that he turned to look towards the disturbance.
On the scaffolding some forty feet above a young human grappled with one of Baltar’s bodyguards. The goblin howled as a sword pierced his foot, pinning it to the wooden plank below. His cry was cut short as the man dealt him a crushing blow to the throat with the back of his hand. But all this seemed to be background noise to Baltar, whose eyes focused only on the killer. It was not the guard’s death that enraged the demon lord, nor the warrior’s intrusion. Only one thing mattered to Baltar.
“My window!” Spittle flew from the demon’s lipless jaws as he raged. “You shattered my window!”
Heedless of his guard’s cries, Baltar bowled through their protective perimeter, unsheathing a long, bony rapier forged of something other than metal. With a roar he launched himself into the air, using his spiked golden boots to propel his ascent by kicking off each level of scaffolding and leaving a trail of wood splinters to shower down in his wake. As he reached the young man’s level he extended his sword arm and cut through the plank above him, forcing the warrior to dive backwards. Nimbly the demon lord caught one of the steel poles and brought himself to a stop, stabbing at the vandal as he did so.
“Be careful, my lord!” One of the goblins dropped down between the two combatants to protect his charge, but Baltar slammed a gauntleted fist into the side of the elite’s helmet. The warrior, caught entirely by surprise, cried out in dismay as he tumbled down to the chapel floor, crashing through one of the oaken pews at the bottom to lie still. Ignoring his minion’s grisly fate, Baltar advanced once again on his young foe.
That aerial duel was the most harrowing Neo had ever fought, with the possible exception of his first bought with Sable. Baltar’s size belied his agility and speed, and his weapon seemed to be capable of leaping out to twice its normal length at unpredictable moments. The terrain, however, proved to be the most hazardous obstacle the Magic Swordsman was forced to overcome. Several times he was nearly knocked over the edge by faulty boards or by a powerful horizontal stroke by his burly opponent. The two battled higher, leaping between a pair of adjacent rigs, until they stood near the apex of the vaulted ceiling.
Baltar was tiring. It was obvious that, despite being a demon, he was still a bloated despot who did little more in his day than eat and admire his baubles. Though combat was second nature to him, it was not something he did often, and as they dueled onto a long slat that crossed the rafters the Terrible was trembling with each parried stroke, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Saliva dripped from his jaws and his armored belly heaved as he swung his blade. So it was that a swift kick simultaneously disarmed the demon and knocked him off the board. Baltar just managed to catch himself by his elbows. Neo pressed the tip of stolen brand into the demon lord’s forehead and allowed himself a smile of self-gratification.
“Where is Sable?”
“Sable?” The dark lord growled, his claws scrabbling at the plank beneath his feet. “That’s what you shattered my window for? That useless messenger boy?”
Neo brow knit in confusion. Sable, a mere messenger? Then again, in all likelihood his enigmatic mentor had allowed Baltar to see only one side of his personality, as deceptive as the mask he wore over his face. “That’s the one. Where is he?”
“I sent him to Caius, in Thestalos’s realm.” Baltar shuddered as his hands slipped. “You’ll not find him here.”
“What was he doing there?”
Baltar hissed as one shoulder popped out of joint. “Delivering a message.”
“What message?” Neo crouched down next to the demon. That was a mistake.
It took a moment for the warrior to realize that the clawed hands had wrapped around his body. That moment was too long to save him from the fall that followed.
The two warriors wrestled in midair, cunning human hands against crushing steel gauntlets. Baltar gasped in surprise as Neo’s unarmed strokes knocked his other shoulder loose from its socket, while the young swordsman struggled to break the vice grip Baltar’s left hand had on his throat. The goblins watched in horror as the combatants plunged toward the ground and struck the pews with a cloud of dust and debris.
___________________________
The man’s eyes opened.
He was floating, floating above the ground. He felt no sense of gravity whatsoever. Nor could he see anything, for that matter, wrapped as he was in a veil of gray. For the first time in what seemed like months he felt comfortable, at peace. The twinges he felt along every inch of his skin were not bothersome in the least, reminding him of the tingly feeling he got after washing himself in the shower. He discovered that he could only breath through his mouth; someone had stopped his nose, no doubt to keep him from inhaling the gray liquid around him.
For several minutes the man admired the steady stream of bubbles that rose from his mouth each time he breathed. Presently a thought entered his mind.
Who am I?
___________________________
Rahz sat up and rubbed his eyes. Syrian’s cry of greeting had pulled him from his slumber back into the clearing, where he had been all day. The excitement of meeting others with a joint purpose had quickly given way to mind-numbing boredom. Rahz had drowsed off in the pleasantly warm sun, but now he was wide awake, clambering to his feet as the new arrivals stepped into the clearing.
The first was a pale-skinned man, clad in light red robes and matching armor. His hood was tall and pointed, like that of a mage, and he wore a slender longsword at his belt. A triangular shield decorated with precious stones was strapped to his left forearm. The second was a blonde man wearing a suit of stained, scuffed steel armor much like Rahz’s own. He was wrapped in a tattered brown cloak and carried no discernible weapon. His piercing blue eyes had a haunted look about them, and seemed to be trying to hide inside his skull.
The last warrior was a shorter man clad in green samurai armor and carrying a katana at his side. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and a green headband kept any loose strands out of his eyes, which were focused on Émigré.
“You!” The warrior’s hiss matched the sound of his sword leaving its sheath. He leapt towards the woman, swinging his blade in an aggressive arc. Émigré spun her own sword around to counter the move, but neither blade touched the other.
A massive black claymore embedded itself in the ground between the two fighters. Their blades bounced harmlessly off the weapon, and they stood goggling at it for a moment.
“Is this how friends should greet one another?” A chiding voice called out.
All eyes turned to the bone-masked figure, which seemed to have appeared standing atop the weapon’s crossbar.
“Sable!” Émigré and the samurai cried out in the same moment. Vix tossed her head and smiled wolfishly. “Hello, red-mane.”
“Hello yourself.” Sable leapt down from his perch. “I trust everyone has been introduced, then?”
“Not quite.” Vix shook her head. She turned to the others and addressed them as an emcee would a crowd of onlookers. “For posterity, the brown-haired man is Rahz, the woman in white is Émigré, her feisty opponent is Mataza, referred to as The Zapper by some. Our sallow-eyed friend here is Elan, the one in red is-“
“Breaker.” The warrior shifted, his crimson cloak rustling as he did so. “The Magical Warrior.”
Vix nodded, giving him a patronizing smile, “I am Syrian, though my friends call me Vix, and our charming host-“
“Is Sable, as Émigré and Mataza have already pointed out.” Sable made a flourishing bow and moved to the center of the disproportionate circle. “You have all been summoned here, though none of you knows why, yet none of you declined the invitation.”
“Like we had a choice.” Mataza grunted, sheathing his katana.
“Indeed. Nonetheless, here you are.” The dark-clad man smiled, revealing a line of perfect, pearly teeth. “Aren’t you excited?”
“Not really.” Breaker’s voice was gruff, cutting through Sable’s honeyed tones like butter.
“But how can you not be excited, knowing what is to come?” Sable smacked his forehead. “Of course, you don’t know yet! Silly me.”
“Sable, despite all your charm, sometimes you really know how to piss a girl off.” Émigré purred.
“Contraire.” The man tipped an imaginary hat, and then leaned on Vix’s shoulder. “Each of you has been called by another. None are the same, and yet all are one. Do you follow?”
Rahz grimaced. This man was worse at explaining things than old Senescent back home. Fortunately, he seemed to understand this.
“All right, I’ll speak plainly.” Sable crossed his arms. “You are swordsmen. And swordswomen.” He nodded apologetically to the two in question. “You are called by the Swords.”
“Called by the Swords? What does that mean?” Breaker leaned forward, expectant.
“Six Swords to oppose six Monarchs. A power forged by man to fight the gods. The Balance must be held.” Sable’s voice lilted in a singsong fashion. “Surely you’ve heard the stories?”
“The ones about the legendary smith Kotetsu?” Rahz squinted, dredging up childhood memories of fireside tales. “The man who forged blades to combat the immortals?”
“Precisely!” Sable shook his finger for emphasis. “It might also be said that Kotetsu gave birth to the blades, for only a living weapon can kill an immortal. They are as much real, soul-endowed creatures as their creator.” The man’s eyes sparkled behind his mask. “You have been called into partnership with these mighty weapons.”
“You keep saying ‘you’.” Elan spoke for the first time. His voice was low and soft, almost songlike. “How do you fit into this, Sable?”
“I?” The man laughed, and a shiver ran down Rahz’s spine. “I am merely a guide, to shed light on the path ahead.”
As Sable spoke, the sky grew dark. In moments it was nighttime. The moon was high in the sky and stars sparkled in both the heavens and the pool. The bone-masked warrior made a sweeping gesture with his hand to the pond. In its center floated a hexagonal emerald island, no more than twenty feet in diameter. At each corner a sword was embedded, its pommel reaching towards the deep azure.
“This is the first step.”
___________________________
Dust particles fluttered through the air as the goblins surrounded the impact point. Armor plates rattled as the Elites tensed, seeing a shape emerge from the cloud of debris.
A pale, blood-encrusted hand grasped the shattered remains of the oak pew. The body connected to it fell heavily against the wooden bench, blood dribbling down its chin. The goblins involuntarily faltered as the being pushed itself upright and staggered forward two steps.
“What’s wrong?” Neo grinned, showing bloodstained teeth. He fell into a combat crouch, raising one challenging hand towards the mob. “I’m just getting started.”
The goblins stood motionless, glancing at each other every few seconds. The young swordsman quickly grew impatient.
“Well, come on! I haven’t got all day.” Neo ignored the twin rivulets of blood dripping from his nose and beckoned with his one extended hand. Still, the goblins didn’t move. Finally, one of the warriors stepped forward, unsheathing his longsword and twirling it expertly. “That’s more like it.”
The goblin raised his sword above his head and brought it down in a stabbing motion, and Neo steeled himself. Instead of targeting the young swordsman, the point struck the stone floor, and the warrior knelt with both hands on the hilt. His harsh, gravelly voice echoed through the chamber.
“We pledge allegiance to you, mighty swordsman, who has defeated our former master.” One by one the ranks of goblins knelt, mirroring the first elite’s posture. Neo was so astonished he nearly lost balance again and had to steady himself with the pew beside him.
Lore, what is going on?
The dragon’s reply came back tinged with amusement. Goblins believe that the most powerful warrior should lead, hence, when you killed Baltar, you established yourself as their leader.
I didn’t kill him; I fell on top of him! Neo shook his head, partially in disbelief and partially to clear the gray fog that was gathering on the edge of his vision. Never mind. I guess some blessing should just be accepted.
The goblin’s loyalty is not all you’ve won. Lore’s shadow passed over the stained-glass window, and some of the warriors flinched, as though expecting the building to be struck by a catapult salvo. Approach the altar, my young friend, and you will receive your second reward.
Neo drifted forward, as though in a trance. The goblins parted to let him. His boots clicked softly against the stone floor as he slowly made his way up the steps through the broken rainbow light. At the edge of the altar he sank to his knees, placing both hands on the stone. It was cool to the touch, sending a wave of soothing energy up the warrior’s arms and into his core. The altar began to glow.
Waves of light surged from the stone table, and Neo’s hands vibrated, setting his teeth on edge. Glass from the windows fragmented off and crashed to the floor as the rock split, throwing the swordsman on his back. A luminous armored figure stepped out of the shattered altar as Neo clambered to his feet.
You who stand between light and shadow, you who holds in his hand the power of choice…I give you my strength. The being stepped forward and grasped Neo’s shoulder, and then slammed itself into him. A blinding flash exploded across the swordsman’s vision, and he staggered. The light slowly faded.
The goblins watched in awe as black steel plates manifested around Neo’s body, locking to him of their own accord. A sculpted ebony chest plate encased his torso, a pair of spiked pauldrons attached to his shoulders, full-length greaves shielded his legs, and a long, flowing crimson cloak spawned at the nape of his neck, flowing out in a breeze no one else felt. Two curved sabers sheathed themselves at his belt.
Neo turned to the goblin horde behind him as a spiked helmet descended into his outstretched hands. The warrior reverently raised it above his head and lowered it onto his shoulders. Even though the helmet had no faceplate, a shadow seemed to cover his face, concealing it behind a black veil. Only his eyes were unhidden, and these transformed into a pair of crimson slits that glared from behind the mask. Any hint of the injured young man disappeared. The new warrior raised a steel-sheathed fist above his head.
“I am Neo.” Neo’s new face turned, his red irises making contact with each warrior’s beady black ones as they traversed the crowd. “I am your leader, your kin, and your servant.” He pumped his fist in the air. “I am Dark Blade!”
The goblins leapt to their feet, roaring their assent. Blades smashed against armored chests, booted feet stomped, and Lore raised its voice in a song of triumph.
___________________________
Mobius stood just outside his throne room, one hand against the wall to steady himself. The other was pressed against his breastplate. An uncharacteristic heat filled his chest, constricting his lungs and rasping against his ribs.
“Brother…” Mobius stumbled towards the door, waving it aside and falling to one knee on the slick floor inside. With a hiss of frustration, the monarch summoned a pillar of ice from the ground beneath him and pushed himself to his feet.
“Sir, are you alright?” Two of the Frost Monarch’s bodyguards had rushed to his side.
“Send a scout unit to the border of Thestalos’s kingdom.” Mobius rasped, straightening his back and banishing the pain. The guards looked at each other, unsure. “Now!” The monarch barked.
Once the guards had left, Mobius crossed the chamber and sank into his throne, his chest throbbing painfully. He leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, taking in the frigid silence.
A ripple of sound reached the monarch’s ears; someone was breathing not far from his seat. Mobius’s eyes flashed open, a burst of freezing energy spurting out of his palm towards the intruder. The missile streaked across the room and struck an invisible wall, shattering as it spattered the floor. The interloper gazed impassively from behind his silver mask.
“Suzerain?”
The harbinger turned his head slightly, and when he spoke, all levity had left his voice.
“They have been released. Beware all the Swords, but especially the darkest blade.” Then he was gone.
Chapter Six – Oneawacan
Rowan woke up to the clanging of alarms.
Screams ripped through the air as something hairy tore through the side of his tent. The captain scrambled to draw his sword as the red-furred beast leapt on him. Panic gripped Rowan as he tumbled in a tangled mass of muscular monster and fabric. His left hand wrapped around the hilt of his shortsword, but the cloth from the tent coiled around his arm, pinning it against his stomach. Sharp (claws?) raked across his steel clad chest, squealing as they scraped the metal.
Rowan planted his right foot in what he thought was the monster’s stomach and kicked. The hound yelped and rolled off him, dragging a mass of fabric with it. The captain rolled to his knees and fumbled for a weapon. His hand touched a cold piece of metal. He grabbed it and turned towards the writhing terror. It was not ready when he stabbed the impromptu weapon into it’s back.
The captain rolled away from the injured beast and freed his arm. The short blade cut through the fabric, and Rowan stumbled to his feet.
One of the Overdrives was in flame. His soldiers had already killed several of the hellhounds, but dark, skeletal warriors were leaping into the camp, borne on black, leathery wings. Bone white swords flashed in the firelight, glistening with blood.
“Retreat!” Rowan shouted. He spun to block a blow from a bony sword, riposting with his long blade. “Get aboard your transports and fall back!”
An explosion ripped through the humid air, and Rowan fell against a hellhound’s corpse. He rolled onto his back, head spinning, in time to see a second transport became no more than a pile of metal shavings and burning burlap. All around the captain soldiers were fleeing, heeding no command other than that of their own fear. Rowan struggled to rise, hissing as his hip shifted with a sickening crunch.
“Hold your positions, soldiers!” Rowan roared, trying to drown out the screams of pain that bounced off the insides of his skull. “Form a defensive line at my position!” He clawed his way to his feet, using the dead hellhound as support. He stood on one foot, the other leg dragging sluggishly behind. He raised his longsword to show his warriors where he stood. “Form up! Let’s push these slimy bastards back!”
A demon saw the captain’s raised blade and, sensing an easy target, rushed forward, grasping his blade in both hands. Rowan narrowed his eyes and swung his left arm, ignoring the twinge in his pelvis as he did so. The shortsword flew from his grip, spinning like a horrific Frisbee, and stabbed through the demon’s throat, lifting him off his feet and carrying him to the ground.
“Rally to the captain!” Rowan looked to his left and saw Grove, his helmet gone and an ugly cut oozing blood into his crimson eyes, his hair flying with each stroke of his blade, fell another fiendish warrior. “Push them back!”
The troops, heartened at the sight of their Captain on his feet and fighting, began to come together, operating as a cohesive unit rather than a scattered band of individuals. The demonic attackers, shocked by their foes sudden transformation from terrified men into determined soldiers, began to give ground. Rowan limped forward, using his longsword as a crutch while swinging one of the demon blades with his free hand.
A shadow fell across the flaming encampment, swooping low into the midst of Rowan’s ragtag band. Grove pivoted to face a new threat and lurched back as a trio of black claws punched into his chest. Nexia flared her wings and skidded for a couple yards, the elven scout still hanging from her talons. She grinned at the shock in his scarlet eyes, relishing his horror and pain. Lifting the man above her head, she sent a bolt of electricity through Grove’s body. His limbs jerked and spasmed as the energy lanced through his nerves, propelling him off the fiend general’s arm and into the air. Several of his fellows rushed their friend’s murderer, but didn’t even come close enough to strike. Lightning shot from Nexia’s wingtips, reaching out to embrace each of her attackers, wrapping them in cloaks of sparkling light for a few seconds before releasing them meet their new host.
Rowan stumbled back, horrified. His jaws worked, but it took him a full second to find his voice. “Retreat! All units, retreat!”
The soldiers did not need to be told twice. A few stood bravely next to their captain, but most of the men had seen enough, and bolted for the far side of the clearing, forsaking the large, cumbersome transports for the mobility of their own two legs. Most did not get far. Nexia’s aim was impeccable, and the missiles traveled faster than the eye could track.
Rowan advanced, hobbling, on the demonic general, rage throbbing in his chest. The grinning monster turned her crimson eyes on him and laughed viciously. She approached him at a leisurely pace, almost as if to emphasize that she could outfight and outmaneuver him without much effort. The captain ignored her, pointing the demon sword at her heart.
The dark warriors now swarmed up on the left and right of the two commanders, forming a full circle around them, an arena of sorts. At the urging of her soldiers, Nexia moved forward more quickly, daring to move into striking range of the smaller human.
Rowan swung his blade with all his might, roaring as he did so. To his dismay, Nexia caught the weapon in her ebony claws and tossed it aside. In the same motion, she kicked the longsword from his other hand, robbing him of the crutch that kept him standing. Gravity took hold of the young captain, and he fell against his foe. The demon caught him and lifted him off the ground, hurling him almost casually into the air to land some fifteen feet behind her. Rowan rolled to a stop and lay still.
The world seemed to pirouette, like an energetic young dancer, around Rowan’s head. He was dully aware of the dark figures around him that dragged him to his knees, but they seemed far away, like he was seeing them through a telescope.
Nexia crossed her arms. It hadn’t even been an exciting battle. At least the troops enjoyed it, she thought, grinning inwardly. “Tie him up and scourge him. At dawn we’ll release him to report us to his beloved general.” The dark warriors roared in assent and dragged the captain off to manufacture a rack for him.
___________________________
“Brother!” Caius’s voice boomed through the lava fields, amplified by the Shadowpriestess’ magic. The sun rose behind the Shadow Monarch, framing his muscular silhouette against the blood-red sky. “Thestalos! We can continue this battle as we have been, but if we do, my forces will wear yours down bit by bit, and each drop of blood spilt will be on your hands.”
The king raised his arms above his arms in front of him. “To prevent such needless slaughter, I offer you the opportunity to give yourself up peacefully. You have fought well, but now the time has come to save lives instead of taking them.”
“However, you may hesitate to surrender out of a misplaced sense of justice, so allow me to make the choice easier.” Caius motioned with one hand, and a figure rose into the air, chained by unseen shackles. The armored warrior was about Caius’s height, clad in earth-tone armor. He hung from his bonds, neither moving nor breathing. “I have in my protection our dear brother, Granmarg. However, if you do not surrender, my protection may lapse.” The Rock Monarch hovered out over a bubbling pit of magma. “Do you know what lava does to rock, Thestalos? That will be the fate of your brother if you do not give up.”
Caius stepped back to stand next to the Shadowpriestess. “You have until the sun sits at its peak. I strongly suggest you accept my offer.” He nodded to his servant, and she ended her spell. The Dark Emperor placed a hand on Empyrean’s snout and exhaled quietly. “Do you think he will come?”
Empyrean stretched her neck muscles. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
“It will not work.” The Shadowpriestess did not look at her master as she spoke. “The Firestorm Monarch will not give in so easily, and it will take more than magma to destroy Granmarg.”
“Good.” Caius turned his crimson eyes on her. “He will suffer by my hand as I have suffered by his.”
“I do not understand what you wish to gain by this, my lord.” The priestess’s head was still bowed. Caius placed a firm hand on her spine, and she flinched, as though expecting to be struck.
“It is not for you to understand, priestess, only to obey.”
“Yes, my lord.” The witch fell into silence.
___________________________
Rahz’s horse whinnied irritably as he spurred the beast down the road, following the tugging in his chest. The commander patted his mount’s neck absent-mindedly and continued to urge it forward.
“Where are you?” He whispered, narrowing his hazel eyes, as though hoping to see through the surrounding foliage.
Émigré had left early in the morning. No one in the fortress had bound her there or even asked her to stay, so there was no reason to pursue her. Nevertheless, Rahz was certain the swordswoman was traveling to the same place the knot in his chest was taking him.
The swordsman dismounted and pulled his horse off the road, out of sight of the casual passerby. Tying its reins to a tree branch, Rahz gave the animal a reassuring pat on the neck and slipped through the thick wall of greenery.
The air beneath the trees was stifling, and Rahz found himself panting as made his way deeper into the forest. Very soon the swordsman lost track of where he had been, the entire wood blending into a single green mass. After less than half an hour, Rahz fell against a slender beech trunk and closed his eyes, lifting his waterskin to his lips and trickling a tiny rivulet of life into his mouth.
Rahz savored the sensation of liquid massaging his parched throat, basking in the brief moment of relief. He wiped a gauntleted hand gently across his face, careful not to let the metal rasp across his skin, and opened his eyes with some effort. Just ahead was a path he had not seen moments before, a packed-dirt game trail that passed beneath an awning of beech boughs. The warrior gingerly crawled to his feet and started down the miniature road. As he did so a gentle breeze picked up, tousling his short brown hair and caressing his face like a concerned lover, cooling his brow with its touch. Within moments the soldier’s step and heart felt lighter, and he moved like an elf through the woods, completely comfortable and at home beneath the trees.
After a few minutes the commander stepped out from beneath the treeline and found himself next to a crystal-clear pond. The warrior knelt next to the pool and splashed a handful of water across his face and neck. It was cool and fresh, making the water Rahz carried with him seem stale and salty by comparison. The soldier cupped his hands beneath the surface of the glittering mirror and was in the process of lifting his makeshift vessel to his lips when a loud splash near the center of the pond caught his attention. He looked up, and his drink fell from his hands, forgotten, as his thirst was replaced in his mind.
A marvelous head of brilliant red-gold hair had just burst from beneath the pool’s surface, tossing itself in a shower of crystalline droplets as the woman took in a breath of fresh air. With the air of a queen, the goddess strode regally through the water to the shore, where she lay back on the grass and let her crimson plumage pool freely around her naked body. Rahz gazed at the stranger in awe, taking in every detail, from her spotless porcelain skin to the contours of her lithe, attractive form. It was at least a minute before the girl sat up, curling her arms around one of her legs, and noticed his presence.
Rahz gasped, realized he had been staring, and looked away. The woman, oddly, didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. She got to her feet and strode purposefully around the perimeter of the pool until she came face to face with the blushing warrior.
“Hello there.” The woman’s voice was quiet and clear, her sultry tenor striking a sensual chord in Rahz’s chest. He struggled to keep his eyes on her face.
“Hello.” The commander swallowed in what he hoped was an indiscrete fashion. The girl’s reddish locks fell across her shoulders and chest, accentuating her beauty to a maddening level. The warrior felt a jerk of tension play through his groin and worked hard to keep his breathing even. The woman smiled, mischief dancing in her captivating green eyes.
“You must be another one of the Called.”
The tightness in Rahz’s loins disappeared in an instant, an ice-cold gap rushing into its place. “The Called? You have heard the song, too?”
“Everyone who comes to this grove has.” The woman placed a hand on his shoulder, sending a spark of ecstasy through his body. “We’re the same, you and I. We’ve heard something beyond ourselves reaching out, something that offers itself to us as freely as a lover.” She ran her fingertips up the side of his face, and a red flush rose to meet them. Rahz’s heartbeat skyrocketed. As if sensing the excitement she was causing, the woman turned away, giving the warrior just as much means to arousal as her previous position had. As she spoke again, her voice was tinged with humor. “My name is Syrian, but my friends call me Vix. What are you called, my ever-erect young friend?”
The commander’s cheeks burned with combined embarrassment and excitement. “I’m-“ His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I’m Field-Commander Rahz, 13th Infantry Division of the Anima Garrison.”
“Military, are you?” Vix’s voice was husky, and Rahz was sure he was about to burst. “I’ve always liked you warrior types.” She motioned with one hand for him to follow, leading him to the far side of the pool. She knelt next to a bundle of clothing wrapped around a katana’s sheath, and extracted a leather thong to tie her hair back.
“How long ago did you begin hearing the song?” Vix asked, pulling on a faded black tunic as she spoke.
Rahz inhaled slowly. “I only became aware of its call last night. I came as quickly as I could. I was hoping…” The warrior’s voice trailed off into silence. Vix didn’t seem to notice. She strapped a pair of steel greaves to her legs and pulled her boots on.
“The others should be here shortly.” Vix straightened, pulling on a steel breastplate over her tunic and cinching the straps tight. “Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.” She lifted an overlong katana from the grass beside her other possessions and wrapped the baldric around her waist. “Ah, here comes one of them now.”
Rahz reluctantly turned away from the fire-headed temptress and gazed across the pool. He recognized the veiled face immediately, and the single-edged claymore strapped across her back left no room for doubt.
“Émigré,” he murmured. “I was right.”
Émigré’s cerulean eyes locked with Rahz’s hazel ones, and then she started around the edge of the pond. “Rahz?”
“Émigré.” Rahz nodded and stepped forward to grasp the swordswoman’s hand in a firm handshake. Syrian approached from behind, placing a hand on each warrior’s shoulder.
“We are three now.”
___________________________
Light touched the young man’s face, a lover’s warm hand caressing the skin of her sleeping paramour. A gentle breeze ruffled the soiled golden locks, and two sleep-stained eyelids slowly parted, the congealed crud flaking off as they did so.
Neo’s body ached. Each muscle felt like it had been stretched out to twice its normal length before being thoroughly beaten by a large hammer. Every single one of his knuckles cracked as he flexed his hands.
“Ow.” Neo’s abdomen protested and his back made a sound like wood splitting as he sat up. His neck followed suit as he turned his head to observe his surroundings.
The swordsman sat on a spur of rock jutting out from the side of a mountain. Behind him a yawning hole in the wall gaped sheepishly into the rising sun. The clouds below were dappled with gold and magenta light, and mountain hawks soared in and out of the fluffy masses like leaping fish in a frothy sea.
“It is beautiful, isn’t it?” The dragon’s head appeared to Neo’s left. He sensed the beast’s wings unfurling behind him. The single golden orb Neo could see was tinged with sadness. “Rurian loved to watch the sun rise every morning.”
“Rurian?” Neo glanced over at his mentor, his expression quizzical.
A long pause, punctuated by a hunting eagle’s shriek, followed. “That is a story for another day, young one.” The dragon exhaled. “Forgive me for my pensive mood. We have much yet to do.”
“You’re right.” Neo grinned. “I guess it’s time to save the world, huh?”
“As I said before, that is entirely up to you.”
“Well then, let’s get to it.” His soreness forgotten, the young warrior rushed forward three steps and performed and elegant swan dive off the cliff. The dragon let out a snort and kicked off the dais, following the swordsman’s descent. Neo shot toward the ground for the second time in two days, but this time he felt no fear, only the thrill of adrenaline racing through his veins.
When he was less than one hundred feet from the ground, he kicked his legs, spreading them wide to slow his fall. The dragon swooped in beneath him and spread its wings, blocking the air resistance that held Neo up. He fell like a stone and landed on its back feet first. When his momentum had been arrested, he dropped into the curve of the beast’s back and placed his hands against its neck.
I think I’ve come up with a name for you.
The dragon craned its neck, looking back at its charge. Do tell, young one.
From now on, Neo smiled, letting the wind buffet his dirty blond locks, I will call you Lore.
A good name. Lore banked towards Baltar’s palace below. Thank you.
___________________________
Vapid was a good goblin. He had served with Baltar’s army for most of his life. He had been brought up like most good goblins, learning how to rip entrails out of enemies before he quite understood what entrails were. He had been taught the best ways to skin dead creatures and to always make sure his quarry was dead before celebrating.
Now Vapid stood on the battlements of Baltar’s castle, gawking up at the winged shape descending from the mountains towards the fortress. He wondered if it might be an oversized eagle or vulture. After about ten seconds he decided that it couldn’t be, it was the wrong shape for a bird.
Possible identities for the flying shape plodded through Vapid’s mind, each lingering for the several long moments it took for the goblin to disqualify them. As his mental gears chugged unenthusiastically away at their task, the shape continued to grow and refine itself.
It was now that Vapid remembered one of the other virtues all good goblins are brought up to follow. Obey every order the big guy gives. In this case, Baltar was the big guy, and his order was, “Kill anything coming out of the mountains.”
It took several more seconds for Vapid to connect his order and the giant…thing, so by the time he cried, “Alert! Arm the ballistas!” the shape had become a dragon, and was preparing to settle down in the courtyard.
___________________________
Lore veered sharply away from the castle as the first oversized crossbow fired.
Why are they shooting? Neo asked, reaching for his sword, only to find that the weapon was no longer at his waist.
Evidently they have orders to kill us. Lore’s voice was calm. I have a feeling Sable may have set this up.
Someday I’m going to be the one educating him, the swordsman growled, baring his teeth. Well, let’s get started.
Acid hissed along the battlements as Lore spat its burning saliva onto a small party of Goblin Elites as they pointed crossbows at the passing dragon. The creatures screamed as they fell, writhing in pain as the greenish liquid consumed their flesh. Neo leapt down onto the wall just past them and charged towards a part of unarmed goblins as they scrambled to track the dragon with their ballista.
The first goblin was facing away, and didn’t so much as squeak when Neo snapped his neck. The other four turned, but even before they drew their weapons he had knocked one of them off the wall and sent him tumbling down to the ground some forty feet below. One rushed Neo with a spiked club, flailing wildly, but Neo sidestepped his clumsy swings and brought his palm up into the creature’s chin. The goblin’s feet kept going, while his head remained stationary, and the wind left his body in a rush as his back hit the stone with a meaty slap.
The last two foes had hung back, to see if their comrades would take care of the attacker, but now they moved forward cautiously. Neo raised his hand, spread his fingers wide, and focused his energy. Lightning leapt across his palm and slithered around his fingertips. The goblins looked at each other, looked at Neo’s hand, and ran away screaming. With a smirk, the swordsman launched his missile at the base of the ballista. The resultant explosion demolished the weapon and hurled shards of it in every direction. Goblins lining the battlements on either side were thrown to the ground as wooden spikes punctured armor and flesh, killing and maiming as they did so. Neo stood against the wave of destruction, not even bothering to shield his face. The wooden projectiles seemed to shift aside as they hurtled towards him, passing mere millimeters from his unprotected face.
Lore swept low over Neo, unleashing a bone-rattling roar as she did so. The swordsman once again summoned a tiny maelstrom of electricity around his hand, this time only releasing a microscopic blast. The spark struck the hilt of a discarded Elite’s sword and dispersed. The weapon flew to Neo’s hand, slapping into his magnetized palm. His left hand reached up to grasp Lore’s proffered claw, and he was in the air.
___________________________
A heavy boot hit the back of Rowan’s leg, and he fell. Scaly hands bound his arms to a steel pole behind him. The captain coughed as blood dripped down the back of his raw throat.
“Are you comfortable, captain?” A gravelly voice jeered as his head fell back against the pole. “No? Aww, we can fix that.” More hands grabbed him by the armpits and lifted him up until he was kneeling, his knees bent at ninety degrees. A rough iron collar was fastened around Rowan’s neck and attached to the pole. The edges bit into his flesh as he tried to relax his legs, forcing him to hold himself up. A gauntleted fist buried itself in his gut, and blood spouted from his mouth and trickled from new wounds in his neck.
“The passengers are all comfortable, men.” The same gruff voice sang out, “Let’s send them home!”
Whips cracked against flesh, and terrified horses brayed as the demons guffawed, setting the wagon train into motion.
___________________________
The young man’s eyes were filled with blood, everything he saw was through a red, stinging haze. His skin had been torn and flayed, scraped off his body by repeated whipping and scored by burning water. He felt as though he had been dipped into a fire pit, like a roasted slab of meat.
At the front of the wagon a chained beast snarled and barked, swinging its claws at the frantic horses, who continued the terrified charge across the plains. Above, the sun beat down, an aggressive, unforgiving tormentor that continued to ravage the frayed tatters of the shackled man.
Black shadows, shades of the horrors he had lived through, darted on either side of the man’s face. Emerald eyes leered down at him, and haunting laughs echoed in his ears. He wanted to die. To die would be a beautiful, peaceful rest from the pain he had been dealt.
No. No, he couldn’t die. There was something he had to do first. He had to warn someone.
This will be the fate of all who oppose the Terrorking’s legions.
___________________________
General Freed rushed down the stairs to the main hall, his bodyguards struggling to keep up. He hit the door at full speed, knocking it aside in his haste to reach the courtyard. He paid no heed to the red-furred corpse that lay discarded near the door. He ignored the salutes of the soldiers as they turned to face him. He pushed the officer who stood to greet him aside, and fell to his knees next to the mauled body laid out on a stretcher next to the reeking caravan of wagons.
“Rowan?” The General’s voice croaked as tears spilled from his eyes and collected in his beard. He gingerly took the boy’s hand, holding it up to his chest.
“Father…” Rowan rasped, his voice like a broken sword on rusted metal. “Demons…Archfiends…Allied with Caius…”
“Rowan, please, forgive me. I should never have sent you…” Freed glanced up at the doctor on the other side of the stretcher, who was feverishly binding medicated gauze strips around the young man’s other arm. “Can you save him?”
“I don’t know, sir,” The medic’s voice was tight. “There isn’t much skin left on him, and the chance of infection is high. I’m going to have to immerse him in dock extract.” He looked up from his work. “We need to move him now, sir, or there will be no chance at all.”
Freed nodded emphatically. “Whatever you need, I promise, you will have it!” He looked back down at his son. “Hold on, Rowan. It’s going to be all right.” His voice was almost pleading.
The medic touched Freed’s shoulder. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to back away.”
Freed remained where he was for several long seconds, his jaw quivering and tears spilling from his eyes in long, salty rivulets. He stood and stepped back, and the medics lifted the mauled boy off the ground, hurrying him into the fortress.
“Please, gods, wherever you are…save my son!”
The General trudged back towards the main hall, his guards in tow. Behind him, soldiers continued to unload the wagon’s contents – dozens of bodies, all with eyes gouged out and faces twisted in agony.
___________________________
“It’s time.” Caius looked over at his suspended brother. “Still no word from Thestalos.”
“I told you he wouldn’t come,” The Shadowpriestess intoned from where she stood on the edge of the lava pit. “Surrender is not in a monarch’s blood.”
“Very well. I’ve given him my ultimatum. It’s time to make good on that threat.” Caius waited as the priestess wove her spell, and then stepped forward. “Thestalos, come out now. My patience is at its end. If you do not, our mutual brother shall suffer as you cannot imagine.”
The lava plains echoed with the monarch’s words, but there was no response. “Very well.” Caius snapped his fingers. The invisible strings holding Granmarg in the air snapped, and the monarch plunged into the molten rock. A guttural scream tore through the fetid atmosphere as Granmarg thrashed against the force that now held him beneath the boiling concoction.
A gout of flame twenty feet in diameter exploded from the ground beneath Caius’s feet. The monarch leapt back with startling agility, avoiding any significant damage. Empyrean recoiled, her jaws wide in a hiss. The Shadowpriestess tumbled out of the conflagration, crashing to the ground, her shoulder shattering as she struck the pumice. She cried out in pain and rolled onto her back, gasping. Before her, a red-armored titan erupted from the shattered earth, flanked by four muscular, crimson-furred humanoids.
Thestalos lunged at Caius, a blazing claymore manifesting in his grip. The other monarch fell to one knee and raised his arms, bringing his dark scimitar into existence between them. The weapons connected in a shower of sparks, and Caius guided his brother’s sword away, rolling to Thestalos’s right.
“I’m here to dethrone you, Emperor.” Thestalos snarled, swinging his blade in a wide arc. Caius performed an elegant back flip, avoiding the attack by a hair’s breadth, and stabbed straight for Thestalos’s iron clad chest. The Firestorm Monarch sidestepped and kicked upwards into Caius’s armpit. The Dark Emperor’s hand spasmed and the scimitar flickered, disappearing in a moment.
The crimson greatsword descended towards Caius’s skull again. The Shadow Monarch threw himself backwards and skidded down a short pumice hill, kicking up a cloud of black dust as he did so. Thestalos was right behind him, flying into the air and reversing his grip on the claymore to pin his foe to the ground.
Caius grunted and crossed his forearms, drawing them apart to reveal a new weapon, a pair of black bars two hand spans in length, each connected to the other by a flickering magenta chain. He released one of the grips and swung the weapon out to his right. The chain wrapped around the claymore’s blade and tugged it aside. The brand stabbed into the pumice, melting a two-inch wide diamond of stone around it.
Caius kicked his legs and closed them around his brother’s neck, using them to lift himself off the ground. He freed his nunchaku as he flexed his abdomen and swung the weapon down in the middle of Thestalos’s helmet. A loud bang resounded across the clearing and black energy lashed out from the impact point, dispersing into the air. Thestalos stumbled back and the Shadow Monarch released his neck, catching himself in a handspring and landing on his feet. The greatsword, still embedded in the stone, vanished in a wisp of smoke.
“You should never have risen against me, brother.”
Thestalos growled. “Any misgivings I had about imprisoning you that day are long gone now.”
Caius spun his nunchaku in a complex pattern, catching them behind his right shoulder. He lowered his head and grinned, though his brother could not see the expression. “I could say the same about any love I harbored for you. Come on.”
Tongues of fire were lashing from every crease in the Firestorm Monarch’s armor as a long staff with a wide, flame-swathed blade spawned in his grasp. He spun the zanbatou around his neck and caught it, lunging forward as he dragged the spearhead through the stone beside him, eliciting a spray of molten rocking behind him. As he approached, he swung the weapon forward, sending a wave of lava soaring towards his brother. The other Monarch didn’t flinch as the liquefied stone washed over him.
Thestalos’s blade stabbed through torrent, followed by the monarch himself. Caius leapt forward, putting a spin into his jump, and passed over Thestalos’s shoulder. His nunchaku struck the other monarch in the back of the neck, and Thestalos seemed to fall forward, catching himself with the haft of his zanbatou. Suddenly a steel boot struck Caius in the chest, knocking him on his back once more. Thestalos landed between the Dark Emperor’s legs and stabbed downward, his attack scoring through Caius’s armor and slicing through his left ribs. Caius roared and grabbed the spear pole. He flexed his arm and threw himself upwards at his brother. His right hand whipped up next to Thestalos’s head, and the nunchaku’s chain rested across the back of the Firestorm Monarch’s neck. Caius released the zanbatou and grabbed the grip with his left hand, and then slammed his helmet into Thestalos’s in a vicious headbutt. Momentarily stunned, Thestalos lost his balance and fell forward. The Dark Emperor planted a foot in his stomach and flipped the Firestorm Monarch on his back.
Caius rolled onto his side and slammed his palm into Thestalos’s chest, sending a shockwave of purple lightning bolts across his body. Thestalos convulsed, roaring in rage, and then fell silent, his body going limp.
“I win, brother.” Caius whispered, and then his vision swam and his helmet hit the stone.
___________________________
Dark Baltar the Terrible spun towards the chapel doors as they banged open. “What is it?” He snarled, baring his yellow fangs at the ebony-armored guards. The goblins flinched, but moved to surround him nonetheless. Their leader sheathed his sword and knelt at the demon lord’s feet.
“Sir, the castle is under attack. So far, the enemy has breached the walls and the inner courtyard.” As the goblin sergeant spoke, more black-armored elites filed up onto the scaffolding that ascended the chapel’s walls and ringed its beautiful stained-glass windows.
“I see.” Baltar grimaced, turning back to the altar. He knelt again and attempted to shut out the creaks of armored joints and the clatter of weapons, instead focusing on the intricate pattern the refracted light from the windows cast on the red-carpeted floor.
Humans are slow, brutish, unrefined creatures, but every-so-often, they show a wonderful flair for the magnificent. Baltar allowed his expression to soften as he admired the design on the floor before him. It was strange, but despite all that he had done, all that he had witnessed, sometimes something as simple as this tapestry of color before him was sometimes enough to bring tears to his green, lidless eyes.
There were shouts from outside, and the building shook. Baltar took no notice, continuing to stare at his idol. It was not until the crash of breaking glass pierced his skull that he turned to look towards the disturbance.
On the scaffolding some forty feet above a young human grappled with one of Baltar’s bodyguards. The goblin howled as a sword pierced his foot, pinning it to the wooden plank below. His cry was cut short as the man dealt him a crushing blow to the throat with the back of his hand. But all this seemed to be background noise to Baltar, whose eyes focused only on the killer. It was not the guard’s death that enraged the demon lord, nor the warrior’s intrusion. Only one thing mattered to Baltar.
“My window!” Spittle flew from the demon’s lipless jaws as he raged. “You shattered my window!”
Heedless of his guard’s cries, Baltar bowled through their protective perimeter, unsheathing a long, bony rapier forged of something other than metal. With a roar he launched himself into the air, using his spiked golden boots to propel his ascent by kicking off each level of scaffolding and leaving a trail of wood splinters to shower down in his wake. As he reached the young man’s level he extended his sword arm and cut through the plank above him, forcing the warrior to dive backwards. Nimbly the demon lord caught one of the steel poles and brought himself to a stop, stabbing at the vandal as he did so.
“Be careful, my lord!” One of the goblins dropped down between the two combatants to protect his charge, but Baltar slammed a gauntleted fist into the side of the elite’s helmet. The warrior, caught entirely by surprise, cried out in dismay as he tumbled down to the chapel floor, crashing through one of the oaken pews at the bottom to lie still. Ignoring his minion’s grisly fate, Baltar advanced once again on his young foe.
That aerial duel was the most harrowing Neo had ever fought, with the possible exception of his first bought with Sable. Baltar’s size belied his agility and speed, and his weapon seemed to be capable of leaping out to twice its normal length at unpredictable moments. The terrain, however, proved to be the most hazardous obstacle the Magic Swordsman was forced to overcome. Several times he was nearly knocked over the edge by faulty boards or by a powerful horizontal stroke by his burly opponent. The two battled higher, leaping between a pair of adjacent rigs, until they stood near the apex of the vaulted ceiling.
Baltar was tiring. It was obvious that, despite being a demon, he was still a bloated despot who did little more in his day than eat and admire his baubles. Though combat was second nature to him, it was not something he did often, and as they dueled onto a long slat that crossed the rafters the Terrible was trembling with each parried stroke, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Saliva dripped from his jaws and his armored belly heaved as he swung his blade. So it was that a swift kick simultaneously disarmed the demon and knocked him off the board. Baltar just managed to catch himself by his elbows. Neo pressed the tip of stolen brand into the demon lord’s forehead and allowed himself a smile of self-gratification.
“Where is Sable?”
“Sable?” The dark lord growled, his claws scrabbling at the plank beneath his feet. “That’s what you shattered my window for? That useless messenger boy?”
Neo brow knit in confusion. Sable, a mere messenger? Then again, in all likelihood his enigmatic mentor had allowed Baltar to see only one side of his personality, as deceptive as the mask he wore over his face. “That’s the one. Where is he?”
“I sent him to Caius, in Thestalos’s realm.” Baltar shuddered as his hands slipped. “You’ll not find him here.”
“What was he doing there?”
Baltar hissed as one shoulder popped out of joint. “Delivering a message.”
“What message?” Neo crouched down next to the demon. That was a mistake.
It took a moment for the warrior to realize that the clawed hands had wrapped around his body. That moment was too long to save him from the fall that followed.
The two warriors wrestled in midair, cunning human hands against crushing steel gauntlets. Baltar gasped in surprise as Neo’s unarmed strokes knocked his other shoulder loose from its socket, while the young swordsman struggled to break the vice grip Baltar’s left hand had on his throat. The goblins watched in horror as the combatants plunged toward the ground and struck the pews with a cloud of dust and debris.
___________________________
The man’s eyes opened.
He was floating, floating above the ground. He felt no sense of gravity whatsoever. Nor could he see anything, for that matter, wrapped as he was in a veil of gray. For the first time in what seemed like months he felt comfortable, at peace. The twinges he felt along every inch of his skin were not bothersome in the least, reminding him of the tingly feeling he got after washing himself in the shower. He discovered that he could only breath through his mouth; someone had stopped his nose, no doubt to keep him from inhaling the gray liquid around him.
For several minutes the man admired the steady stream of bubbles that rose from his mouth each time he breathed. Presently a thought entered his mind.
Who am I?
___________________________
Rahz sat up and rubbed his eyes. Syrian’s cry of greeting had pulled him from his slumber back into the clearing, where he had been all day. The excitement of meeting others with a joint purpose had quickly given way to mind-numbing boredom. Rahz had drowsed off in the pleasantly warm sun, but now he was wide awake, clambering to his feet as the new arrivals stepped into the clearing.
The first was a pale-skinned man, clad in light red robes and matching armor. His hood was tall and pointed, like that of a mage, and he wore a slender longsword at his belt. A triangular shield decorated with precious stones was strapped to his left forearm. The second was a blonde man wearing a suit of stained, scuffed steel armor much like Rahz’s own. He was wrapped in a tattered brown cloak and carried no discernible weapon. His piercing blue eyes had a haunted look about them, and seemed to be trying to hide inside his skull.
The last warrior was a shorter man clad in green samurai armor and carrying a katana at his side. His hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and a green headband kept any loose strands out of his eyes, which were focused on Émigré.
“You!” The warrior’s hiss matched the sound of his sword leaving its sheath. He leapt towards the woman, swinging his blade in an aggressive arc. Émigré spun her own sword around to counter the move, but neither blade touched the other.
A massive black claymore embedded itself in the ground between the two fighters. Their blades bounced harmlessly off the weapon, and they stood goggling at it for a moment.
“Is this how friends should greet one another?” A chiding voice called out.
All eyes turned to the bone-masked figure, which seemed to have appeared standing atop the weapon’s crossbar.
“Sable!” Émigré and the samurai cried out in the same moment. Vix tossed her head and smiled wolfishly. “Hello, red-mane.”
“Hello yourself.” Sable leapt down from his perch. “I trust everyone has been introduced, then?”
“Not quite.” Vix shook her head. She turned to the others and addressed them as an emcee would a crowd of onlookers. “For posterity, the brown-haired man is Rahz, the woman in white is Émigré, her feisty opponent is Mataza, referred to as The Zapper by some. Our sallow-eyed friend here is Elan, the one in red is-“
“Breaker.” The warrior shifted, his crimson cloak rustling as he did so. “The Magical Warrior.”
Vix nodded, giving him a patronizing smile, “I am Syrian, though my friends call me Vix, and our charming host-“
“Is Sable, as Émigré and Mataza have already pointed out.” Sable made a flourishing bow and moved to the center of the disproportionate circle. “You have all been summoned here, though none of you knows why, yet none of you declined the invitation.”
“Like we had a choice.” Mataza grunted, sheathing his katana.
“Indeed. Nonetheless, here you are.” The dark-clad man smiled, revealing a line of perfect, pearly teeth. “Aren’t you excited?”
“Not really.” Breaker’s voice was gruff, cutting through Sable’s honeyed tones like butter.
“But how can you not be excited, knowing what is to come?” Sable smacked his forehead. “Of course, you don’t know yet! Silly me.”
“Sable, despite all your charm, sometimes you really know how to piss a girl off.” Émigré purred.
“Contraire.” The man tipped an imaginary hat, and then leaned on Vix’s shoulder. “Each of you has been called by another. None are the same, and yet all are one. Do you follow?”
Rahz grimaced. This man was worse at explaining things than old Senescent back home. Fortunately, he seemed to understand this.
“All right, I’ll speak plainly.” Sable crossed his arms. “You are swordsmen. And swordswomen.” He nodded apologetically to the two in question. “You are called by the Swords.”
“Called by the Swords? What does that mean?” Breaker leaned forward, expectant.
“Six Swords to oppose six Monarchs. A power forged by man to fight the gods. The Balance must be held.” Sable’s voice lilted in a singsong fashion. “Surely you’ve heard the stories?”
“The ones about the legendary smith Kotetsu?” Rahz squinted, dredging up childhood memories of fireside tales. “The man who forged blades to combat the immortals?”
“Precisely!” Sable shook his finger for emphasis. “It might also be said that Kotetsu gave birth to the blades, for only a living weapon can kill an immortal. They are as much real, soul-endowed creatures as their creator.” The man’s eyes sparkled behind his mask. “You have been called into partnership with these mighty weapons.”
“You keep saying ‘you’.” Elan spoke for the first time. His voice was low and soft, almost songlike. “How do you fit into this, Sable?”
“I?” The man laughed, and a shiver ran down Rahz’s spine. “I am merely a guide, to shed light on the path ahead.”
As Sable spoke, the sky grew dark. In moments it was nighttime. The moon was high in the sky and stars sparkled in both the heavens and the pool. The bone-masked warrior made a sweeping gesture with his hand to the pond. In its center floated a hexagonal emerald island, no more than twenty feet in diameter. At each corner a sword was embedded, its pommel reaching towards the deep azure.
“This is the first step.”
___________________________
Dust particles fluttered through the air as the goblins surrounded the impact point. Armor plates rattled as the Elites tensed, seeing a shape emerge from the cloud of debris.
A pale, blood-encrusted hand grasped the shattered remains of the oak pew. The body connected to it fell heavily against the wooden bench, blood dribbling down its chin. The goblins involuntarily faltered as the being pushed itself upright and staggered forward two steps.
“What’s wrong?” Neo grinned, showing bloodstained teeth. He fell into a combat crouch, raising one challenging hand towards the mob. “I’m just getting started.”
The goblins stood motionless, glancing at each other every few seconds. The young swordsman quickly grew impatient.
“Well, come on! I haven’t got all day.” Neo ignored the twin rivulets of blood dripping from his nose and beckoned with his one extended hand. Still, the goblins didn’t move. Finally, one of the warriors stepped forward, unsheathing his longsword and twirling it expertly. “That’s more like it.”
The goblin raised his sword above his head and brought it down in a stabbing motion, and Neo steeled himself. Instead of targeting the young swordsman, the point struck the stone floor, and the warrior knelt with both hands on the hilt. His harsh, gravelly voice echoed through the chamber.
“We pledge allegiance to you, mighty swordsman, who has defeated our former master.” One by one the ranks of goblins knelt, mirroring the first elite’s posture. Neo was so astonished he nearly lost balance again and had to steady himself with the pew beside him.
Lore, what is going on?
The dragon’s reply came back tinged with amusement. Goblins believe that the most powerful warrior should lead, hence, when you killed Baltar, you established yourself as their leader.
I didn’t kill him; I fell on top of him! Neo shook his head, partially in disbelief and partially to clear the gray fog that was gathering on the edge of his vision. Never mind. I guess some blessing should just be accepted.
The goblin’s loyalty is not all you’ve won. Lore’s shadow passed over the stained-glass window, and some of the warriors flinched, as though expecting the building to be struck by a catapult salvo. Approach the altar, my young friend, and you will receive your second reward.
Neo drifted forward, as though in a trance. The goblins parted to let him. His boots clicked softly against the stone floor as he slowly made his way up the steps through the broken rainbow light. At the edge of the altar he sank to his knees, placing both hands on the stone. It was cool to the touch, sending a wave of soothing energy up the warrior’s arms and into his core. The altar began to glow.
Waves of light surged from the stone table, and Neo’s hands vibrated, setting his teeth on edge. Glass from the windows fragmented off and crashed to the floor as the rock split, throwing the swordsman on his back. A luminous armored figure stepped out of the shattered altar as Neo clambered to his feet.
You who stand between light and shadow, you who holds in his hand the power of choice…I give you my strength. The being stepped forward and grasped Neo’s shoulder, and then slammed itself into him. A blinding flash exploded across the swordsman’s vision, and he staggered. The light slowly faded.
The goblins watched in awe as black steel plates manifested around Neo’s body, locking to him of their own accord. A sculpted ebony chest plate encased his torso, a pair of spiked pauldrons attached to his shoulders, full-length greaves shielded his legs, and a long, flowing crimson cloak spawned at the nape of his neck, flowing out in a breeze no one else felt. Two curved sabers sheathed themselves at his belt.
Neo turned to the goblin horde behind him as a spiked helmet descended into his outstretched hands. The warrior reverently raised it above his head and lowered it onto his shoulders. Even though the helmet had no faceplate, a shadow seemed to cover his face, concealing it behind a black veil. Only his eyes were unhidden, and these transformed into a pair of crimson slits that glared from behind the mask. Any hint of the injured young man disappeared. The new warrior raised a steel-sheathed fist above his head.
“I am Neo.” Neo’s new face turned, his red irises making contact with each warrior’s beady black ones as they traversed the crowd. “I am your leader, your kin, and your servant.” He pumped his fist in the air. “I am Dark Blade!”
The goblins leapt to their feet, roaring their assent. Blades smashed against armored chests, booted feet stomped, and Lore raised its voice in a song of triumph.
___________________________
Mobius stood just outside his throne room, one hand against the wall to steady himself. The other was pressed against his breastplate. An uncharacteristic heat filled his chest, constricting his lungs and rasping against his ribs.
“Brother…” Mobius stumbled towards the door, waving it aside and falling to one knee on the slick floor inside. With a hiss of frustration, the monarch summoned a pillar of ice from the ground beneath him and pushed himself to his feet.
“Sir, are you alright?” Two of the Frost Monarch’s bodyguards had rushed to his side.
“Send a scout unit to the border of Thestalos’s kingdom.” Mobius rasped, straightening his back and banishing the pain. The guards looked at each other, unsure. “Now!” The monarch barked.
Once the guards had left, Mobius crossed the chamber and sank into his throne, his chest throbbing painfully. He leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes, taking in the frigid silence.
A ripple of sound reached the monarch’s ears; someone was breathing not far from his seat. Mobius’s eyes flashed open, a burst of freezing energy spurting out of his palm towards the intruder. The missile streaked across the room and struck an invisible wall, shattering as it spattered the floor. The interloper gazed impassively from behind his silver mask.
“Suzerain?”
The harbinger turned his head slightly, and when he spoke, all levity had left his voice.
“They have been released. Beware all the Swords, but especially the darkest blade.” Then he was gone.