Dead Stars - Part One (The Emaneska Series) (60 page)

There was an almighty roar as the creature sprang from its pit, letting the rocks and earth tumble down behind it. Suddenly there it stood, brazen in the daylight for all to gaze at. And gaze they did, with every fearful eye the Arka had.

It was the face of it that drew the most eyes. A twisted snout and a cluster of orange eyes. An itchy jaw that refused to stop gnawing on the air. Black lips hiding jagged teeth and a throat like a blast furnace. Two notched ears, bitten by gods knew what, and a patch of hair growing between two horns, twisted and furled like a goat’s. No wings, just spines.

Tasting the stares, the daemon postured as though standing for a portrait, letting the ranks take in the rest of its monstrous appearance. He must have nudged twenty feet tall at a slouch. The sunlight seemed to make his grey skin pucker and fester, crystallising until he wore a carapace of rocky armour. Trails of white and yellow smoke leaked from its cracks. His tail swished back and forth behind his knobbly spine like a frayed whip. The smell of him was hard to bear, especially at such a close distance. He stank of sulphur and year-old meat, of forest fires and grave-soil. The stench made the nearest men gag and falter.

There were a few moments of dry-mouthed silence between the daemons and the Arka. From the windows and doors of the Spire to the firmly bolted and stuck-fast gate of the city itself, silence reigned like a cold king. The grotesque trio of daemons surveyed their welcome parties with sneers. The soldiers and mages assessed their uninvited guests with wide eyes. Claws clenched. Spears caught the sunlight.

And then they spoke.

‘Kiss the dirt you rose from, insects, and show us your respect!’ the daemons boomed in perfect unison, sharing the same voice between all three. Sulphur leaked from their maws as they raised their heads and hands, like preachers to a congregation.

Tyrfing and Durnus looked at each other. They could feel the tension, the pressure in the air, pushing down on the knees of their armoured men and women, as if the air itself had doubled in weight. Durnus nodded, somehow knowing Tyrfing was looking straight at him, and together they raised their spells. By their side, Modren saw their fire. He clanged his sword against his breastplate. The daemon looked right at him, chest heaving.

‘At the ready!’ Modren bellowed, staring straight back. His sergeants and captains carried the order all the way to the gates. A thousand balls of fire sprang into being across the Manesmark hill and below. The grass was whipped into a hissing frenzy. The sound of bowstrings stretching sounded like a forest leaning to one side. Swords and spears bristled from the ranks like spines of a horde of quillhogs.

At the forefront of it all, Farden was stuck staring at the daemon, his exhausted mind still trying to make sense of what his eyes were telling it. He dumbly raised his sword with the others, unsure if he would be a help or a hindrance. All he could think about was Samara, nothing else. How could she bring such a trio of creatures down on the world? Physically, mentally, morally? He had harboured a secret wish for them all to be wrong, but now, the truth ached. It stank, like the very creature in front of him. Farden looked up at the daemon and felt the fear it leaked. The ground beneath the mage’s boots thudded as the creature took a step back, not from fear, but from readiness. Its tail cracked, swishing back and forth.

‘You dare to challenge us?’ the daemons hissed. With metallic screeching, their claws slid further from their fingers, and glinted dully in the sun. Nobody gave them the satisfaction of a reply.

‘And you, cousin?’ grunted the daemon by the Spire. This time his voice was alone, and this time he stared straight at Durnus. The Arkmage could feel the prickly heat of his many eyes on his skin. ‘Yes, I smell your blood. The blood of our race, tainted by theirs. You would stand with these creatures, instead of us?’

Durnus didn’t reply. He barely moved. He knew he had to remain silent. It was answer enough for the daemon.

‘So be it,’ the daemon said, snorting smoke. With a snarl, he unhinged his jaw and screeched at a pitch that would have made a banshee weep. Half the soldiers in the front row clapped their hands to their ears, dropping their weapons. They were swept aside with screams as the daemon took a swipe at them with his hooked claws. Those who wore Tyrfing’s armour held strong, but the others were not so lucky. Blood sprayed the ranks behind.

‘Let fly!’ Tyrfing and Modren bellowed as one. A hundred firebolts surged into the daemon’s face, and he stumbled backwards, clapping his claws to his face. But he wasn’t shielding himself, much to the abhorrent dismay of the mages and soldiers; he was cupping his hands together, and inhaling the fire.

‘Shields!’ yelled Modren, as the daemon puffed out his chest. Fire spewed from his lips. It bubbled and flowed like liquid, wrapping around shields and licking at visors. A dozen fell, while another dozen ran in circles like human torches. The water mages did their best to save them.

‘Ice spells, as you please!’ came the next order, and this the daemon did seem to fear. Shard upon shard of white ice burst from the ranks alongside a volley of arrows and deadly short spears. The daemon had nowhere to go. He turned to catch the volley on his rocky hide, but he whined as they dug deep and caught the flesh underneath.

‘Curse you to the void, you blasphemous creatures!’ he screeched, swiping arrows from his clustered eyes. One had been pierced, and it dribbled fiery blood along his cheek. The monster could bleed after all, and the army saw it. Fear began to melt like a glacier in the sun, and they reformed their ranks.

‘Again! Written, forward!’ Modren bellowed. He held out his hands and threw a barrage of lightning at their grotesque foe. Around him, Written emerged out of the ranks, shimmering with power and polish like diamonds emerging from sifted granite. As they cleared the ranks, they paired up, clasping each other with one hand and firing spell after spell with the other. Ice, lightning, light, fire, force, wind, and sheer will flew at the daemon, wave after wave. Farden found himself marching forward with them, sword raised but useless.

As the daemon took another step back, the Written seized their chance to press forward. It was an onslaught the daemon had never expected, and caught off-guard, he had no retaliation but to screech and to lash out wildly as the magick pressed in on all sides.

Of all the things to slay a daemon, it was a simple wine barrel that did it in the end. It may not have delivered the killing blow, but it helped, nonetheless.

As the daemon stepped back once more, his foot caught the rounded edge of the barrel and he slipped, like a drunkard on a cobble. The creature toppled backwards and the mages surged forward once again. Furnace-mouth wide and bellowing, the daemon crashed headlong into the Spire.

It was then that the Written saw the error of their eagerness. As the daemon tumbled into the weak scaffolding, he lashed out with every limb. Stones flew aside as though they had been hurled by catapults. Men and mages ducked and braced their spells as the huge blocks cart-wheeled through the ranks. With a deep boom, the weakened wall of the Spire gave way, and caved inwards.

‘Elessi!’ bellowed Modren, suddenly sprinting toward the door. He threw up a shield spell as he ran, but he was not quick enough. A shower of bricks rained down on him. Tyrfing’s armour did its work, but the bricks bludgeoned him into the ground. Blood tricked down the mage’s forehead. His legs were pinned. Modren desperately clawed at the dirt. ‘Elessi!’ he yelled again. A hand grabbed his wrist and pulled weakly. Modren looked up to find Farden standing there, eyes clenched, sword fending off the stone chips and dust, heaving with all his feeble might. ‘Come on!’ he was yelling.

Modren pushed himself up so he could see his legs. Half a boulder had pinned him. The armour had barely kept it from crushing him.

‘You aren’t Undermage for nothing!’ Farden was still pulling. Modren slapped his free hand on the grass and the boulder crumbled into pulverised rubble. Farden yanked him onto his feet, but was rewarded by a savage thump in the chest.

‘Get out of my way!’ Modren spat as he ran for the door. Farden ignored him and followed, ducking and weaving as best as his tired legs could. Behind them, there was a massive crash as Durnus threw a spear of ice deep into the daemon’s side. Tyrfing followed it with another.

‘Let me help, you fool!’ Farden shouted, as the Undermage grappled with the door. The huge frame had sagged under the impact of the daemon, and the door was stuck fast. It was like wrestling the root of a mountain.

‘You’ve done enough!’ Modren spread his hands over the door and strained. Farden couldn’t help but join him, even though he felt as useless and as blunt as the bricks that rained down around them. He snarled and began to hack at the door-frame with his sword while Modren pushed with every ounce of his Book. His magick made Farden’s head pound.

Above them, the daemon thrashed and whirled, burying himself deeper and deeper into the Spire with every twitch and every spell that wracked his hide. Over the racket of the dying monster, screams could be heard.

Modren began to attack the door with his fists. Farden was out of breath already, but he dared not stop hacking. Even the Undermage’s words were vicious strikes upon the immovable wood. ‘Come! On! You! BASTARD!’ he thundered. Suddenly the door gave way, and the two mages flew into the dusty darkness.

People. Clamouring to get out. They had been blocking the door from behind. They surged out into the sunlight, nearly trampling the fallen mages, and scattered in every direction, screaming and yelling. Modren dragged himself and an elderly woman to her feet and thrust her towards safety. Leaving Farden to marvel at the splinters protruding from bloody holes in his upper arms, Modren ran towards a growing slope of rubble, underneath where the roof was caving in. Farden turned and stared at the horrifying sight: legs and arms and dusty faces straining to free themselves, pinned by wood and stone. Women, children, men, guests and guards, council members and servants, there must have been almost fifty of them in varying stages of burial. Farden fought to his feet and dashed to help. He might have been a cold soul, but he still had a thread of humanity in him. These people were here because of him, after all.

With both hands, he dug into the rubble and hoisted a child free. Next came a woman, then a man with a broken leg, and so on. Modren was furiously digging at the other side with the help of two guards. They were shouting and pointing furiously at something deeper in the pile. Farden abruptly felt as though he had swallowed a brick.

‘Modren?!’

‘Just keep digging!’ came the reply, frantic now. Muffled shouts were coming from somewhere. Farden cast his aches aside and did what Modren told him. He dug and he dug with all his might. The stones flew past his shoulders and like ghosts of dust people slowly crawled and limped from the holes he had made. The deeper he went, the more injured they were. Modren was doing the same, only faster, stronger, and more frenzied.

It was then that the Undermage uncovered two familiar figures, as dusty as could be but incredibly unhurt. They rolled from the rubble, bewildered, oddly silent. Modren grabbed Loki and Verix in each hand and pulled them close to his face. ‘Where is she?’ he cried above the sound of the dying daemon. Loki could do nothing but stare upwards at the rocky hide convulsing above them, sending showers of splinters and stone down upon them.

‘In there!’ Verix pointed to the rubble. The truth was useful for once. Modren dropped them as quickly as he had grabbed them.

‘Farden!’ he cried. The mage ran to his side. ‘She’s under…
this
,’ Modren mumbled and cursed as he hauled brick after obsidian brick out of the pile. It was all he could say. The dust took the rest of his words and laid them to rest. His gauntlets clanged off each brick, as if they were the teeth of a vice. Farden was there with him, his Scalussen armour glittering in the light of the fire and lightning above.

Farden licked his lips, making cement of his tongue. ‘I’m sure she’s…’ he began, but his words failed when they caught sight of a golden patch of cloth trapped between the grip of two rafters.

‘Elessi!’ Modren shouted, as he dragged the huge beam clear. His magick and desperation lent him strength, and somehow, limbs shaking, he did it. Farden dug until he found a face. The breath stuck in his dirt-lined throat. There was not a lot of blood, but any would have been a travesty on Elessi’s face. A smear of it led a straight trail from her nose to her ear. Her eyes were fluttering, but she was alive. She gasped as she saw Modren and Farden above her. ‘Is it dead?’

Farden looked up. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘We need to move!’

‘Help me, Farden,’ Modren yelled, as yet another beam came crashing down beside them. The daemon was in his final throes now.

‘My leg!’ Elessi cried, as Modren dragged her free. It was broken. Two places at least. That was obvious from the angle it hung at. They did not waste any time fixing it now. The infant Spire was caving in, and the daemon with it. As Farden yelled to the stragglers, Modren ran to the door and burst into the sunlight. Farden was hot on his heels with Verix, Loki, and a handful of others. They barely made it out before the door-frame collapsed, spraying them with a shower of dust and splinters. A cheer went up from the army as the daemon disappeared into the rubble.

‘That building is cursed,’ Farden muttered, eyes roaming over the crushed and broken walls, the arrows in the splintered scaffolding, the severed and smoking tail of something dead and ghastly lying in the bricks. Tyrfing and Durnus were running over, he could see their Scalussen armour glinting through the dust cloud. He raised his sword to salute them, and as he did, the sky was blackened with smoke.

There came an enormous whooshing sound, like the noise of the wind folding in on itself. Everyone was thrown to the ground again, much to the screaming of Elessi. In the space of a blink, a daemon stood between them and the approaching crowd, wreathed in the smoke of whatever spell he had just cast. He turned to stare down at the five figures sprawled on the grass, and his black lip curled at the sight of the gods.