Authors: Gareth K Pengelly
How could you defeat that which was immortal?
You gain a reprieve, he thought to himself. Defeat it now. Then in the future, you’re smarter, more ready, better prepared. Each time you defeat them, they become less of a threat. But last time, his mind taunted him, we had the Woodsman and his axe. We had Stone and his Glaives.
What do we have this time?
Twelve weary Tulador Guards and three of the Woodsman’s Four, armed with stick, sword and hammer.
Yes. This fight was going to be interesting.
The Beast had reached the island now, crushing their boat and the flimsy pier beneath one stomp of its mighty cloven hoof as it strode from the sea. There would be no running now. This was where they would stand and fight.
This is where they would live or die.
He gulped as the Woodsman’s Three ran past him, making their way down the spiral staircase towards the bottom of the statue. The Plainsman, Narlen, stopped for a moment, placing an encouraging hand on his shoulder and a smile on his face.
“Take heart, Tulador,” the olive-skinned warrior told him. “This is it; this is where it all ends.”
Wow, thought the Guardsman as the bare-chested tribesman scuttled on past and Arbistrath began to shout orders to his men. He could really have phrased that better.
***
Yes, thought Asmodeus, eyes widening with anticipation. Yes, this is where it ends. His foul, black heart hammered with joy in his chest as he took in the glowing, radiant light of the mortal souls before him. One last feast, one final hurrah before leaving this wretched Earth to crumble.
“Take the tin-plated ones,” he told the Beast, gazing down to the ground so far below, where the three souls that shone the brightest had emerged from the base of the statue, readying their pathetic weapons as they awaited him. “I shall take those three myself…”
The towering Beast roared an earth-shattering acknowledgement, turning to focus its attentions on the statue that rose before it, even as Asmodeus launched himself from the creature’s shoulder, descending towards the ground in a trail of smoke and flame. His three opponents scattered as the demon landed in a ground-shaking impact that left a crater in the stone floor and hurled shrapnel all about.
He rose amidst the smoke and dust, twin axes of dirty-flame erupting into existence at each hand as his blood-red eyes narrowed in readiness. He had made the mistake of underestimating his diminutive foes before. With a brief surge of his will, dark power flooded from beyond the veil to flood his limbs.
He would not make the same mistake again.
Warily, his three foes closed in.
***
Not enough. Somehow, Arbistrath had known that it wouldn’t be. The blasts of golden energy leapt forth from the crown atop the statue, reaching out to smite their foe, but they were denied; the strange runic tattoos that swirled and covered the Beast’s flesh flaring at each impact, dark and potent sorceries robbing the cannon-shots of much of their power.
It was like throwing pebbles at a charging bull.
Oaths and battle-cries filled the air in the confined space about him, as Tulador Guards took turns at the viewports, launching their salvoes then swapping with another warrior as their weapon recharged with a whining hum.
Yet the furious activity was proving fruitless; the unceasing fusillade, ineffective.
Still, it had been worth a try.
Marlyn appeared by his side.
“Ready?”
Arbistrath nodded, face grim, but a confidence there, a glimmer of something in his eyes. His hand stroked the verdigris copper before him, the metal cold, hard. Defiant.
“Aye, let’s do it.” He turned, raising his voice that his men might hear. “Tulador Guard – with me!”
***
The Beast climbed. Though it had no eyes, it could feel the volleys of fire unleashed upon it from above. Then, as it strode higher, the talons of its mighty hands, the weight of cloven hooves crumbling the stone pedestal beneath it, it could feel the bee-sting assault begin to slow, to lessen.
The mortals were afraid. And so they should be.
For long years, the creature had lain dormant. Healing. Brooding. It was a demon of the darkest, foulest and most ancient kind. A living engine of destruction reserved for the mightiest of foes. On countless worlds it had slaughtered in the name of its masters; it had wrestled giant vessels, half-shark, half machine, at the bottom of icy oceans; it had swatted great airships from the skies on worlds of floating islands. Every few worlds, a lucky few warriors, or a powerful weapon, might vanquish it; but it never stayed dead, returning after a period of convalescence, stronger, harder. More hate-filled than ever before.
And now, at long last, its master had seen fit to summon it forth once more from the void. The Beast roared its triumph as it climbed higher, black talons digging, now, deeply into the copper-work of the female colossus before it, gouging great gashes in the intricately wrought form.
Yet the Beast cared not for works of art. It cared only for the destruction of its prey.
Higher it climbed, ready to rise up, ready to smash the crowned and imperious head from the statue before it. Ready to end its hated enemies with but a single devastating blow.
***
Narlen flew backwards, sandaled feet smoking as they screeched over the flagstones beneath him. Finally, he came to a halt. His staff had borne the brunt of the blow; the flexible wood dissipating most of the energy, yet still his every joint ached with the forces unleashed against him.
He spat blood upon the earth and laughed, though the motion hurt his burning chest.
The demon wasn’t holding back this time, eager to avenge its humiliating defeat of before. Eager to see its mortal foes ripped limb from limb. The form of Naresh came hurtling through the air, to impact hard against a commemorative plaque on the stone wall, denting the metal and shattering the bricks behind it with the force of his impact. He fell to the floor, then to his knees, gasping for air, hammer fallen to clatter uselessly at his side.
Perhaps the demon might yet see its victory, Narlen grinned wryly.
Though not if he had anything to do with it.
He ran over, stooping to help his comrade to his feet. The Servant gave a shake of his head, to say that he was alright, before gathering up his hammer.
Ahead of them, a roar of bestial rage, then the metallic clash of hell-forged axe against mortal broadsword.
With a mutual nod, the pair raced back into the fight.
***
The Baron of Hell laughed. Yes, he thought. These mortals had an air of mystery about them, an aura of destiny that caused even such a creature as he a moment’s pause. But no longer. He had tested them.
And found them wanting.
Whatever inspiration they had found that let them fight so, that let them weather blows that would end lesser men, it had its limits. They may be fast and strong; the steadfast and unyielding Farmer who darted back and forth with that sweeping broadsword; the nimble and laughing Plainsman, that whirled hither and thither in a blur of motion; the cursing Steppes man, that snarled his challenges and lashed out with that hammer. Fast and strong, indeed.
But despite the purpose that fuelled them, they were still nought but men. They were not invincible, by any means.
That accolade belonged to Asmodeus, he grinned, and him alone.
That broadsword flickered out once more, ready to gouge another dark and smoky gash upon the Baron’s side, but the demon turned in a blur, twin axes catching the downward sweep of his enemy’s weapon. With a great kick of his hoofed foot, the Farmer was sent hurtling backwards, sword skittering away with a shower of sparks across the stone floor.
The Plainsman leapt forwards in a storm of tanned flesh and dark, wild hair. An axe of flames swept up, powered by sorcerous muscle. The hruti exploded, split in twain by the blow, the Plainsman blasted high into the air at the explosion, riven by splinters erupting from his own, shattered weapon, before falling back down to the earth. He rolled upon the stone floor, struggling to all fours, blood dripping from a score of wounds upon his bare chest and face.
A stinging blow in the back of his leg and Asmodeus fell to one knee. He looked over his shoulder, in time to spy the head of that crude hammer swinging towards his horned skull. Axes vanishing in a puff of smoke, the demon turned, faster than thought, a dark blur of unnatural speed, catching the mortal’s weapon arm in one mighty, taloned hand. With a snarl of glee, the demon crushed the Servant’s own hand about the shaft of his hammer. Bones cracked beneath the creature’s hideous strength and the human gasped in pain. Then the demon thrust forth with his other hand, powering a punch that launched the human fifty feet backwards to land in a heap, his hammer flying from his mangled hand to skitter over the edge of the island and land, with a splash, in the sea below.
The demon lord looked about him with an amused snort of disappointment.
“I expected more from you,” he admonished the fallen trio. “I thought I would have found more spirit in Earth’s last heroes. Alas, your world ends no differently to all those before it…”
Silence, save the lapping of the sea and the distant, bellowing roars of the Beast as it continued its murderous ascent. Then laughter.
Quiet at first, then building, Asmodeus looking about, incredulous, as the three broken warriors vented their mirth.
“This is how you meet your end? Laughing, like children?”
Narlen looked up, chest wracked with pain from the laughter, wiping a blood-flecked tear from the corner of one eye as he spoke to the demon.
“You don’t learn, do you demon?” He smiled, eyes twinkling. “It’s not about us beating you. It was never about us beating you.”
The Baron’s red eyes widened, as a whining wail of building power began to pierce the air. He turned to the source of the noise, facing the base of the vast copper statue, not noticing the three mortals that had risen and fled on weary legs, leaping into the safety of the choppy waters.
***
The Beast stood now, atop the plinth of stone, locked in a foul embrace with the female colossus. Black talons the length of men tore into copper skin as the structure of the statue groaned, striving defiantly to stand tall against the demon’s hideous weight.
Eyeless face level with that scarred yet beautiful copper visage, the Beast sniffed through great nostrils, searching for the scent of man. For the scent of blood, of prey, of sweet, sweet souls ripe for the plunder.
Nothing.
It roared its frustration, its victims escaping its clutches, but they could only delay the inevitable. The Beast was ancient, remorseless, unstoppable and would not be denied. As it began to turn, ready to climb back down to the island below, it paused.
What was that noise? A whining, high-pitched sound, that built and built until it reached a crescendo.
With slow thoughts born of aeons of slumber, the demon finally realised the danger.
But by then, it was too late.
***
Marlyn ran and ran, his heart pounding within his chest, feet struggling, as they pounded the grass, straining against the weight of the armour that encumbered him. He looked to his sides; the other Tuladors, too, sprinting as fast as they could, away from the great, stone building at the base of the statue.