The Vitalis Chronicles: Steps of Krakador (53 page)

But then the Daemons appeared, the very ground shuddering as they emerged and took their form. Men once, Truans who had followed the dark arts and survived their destructive power, although survival was a term he knew might not be truly applicable to these. Their souls were damned, and it was said their minds had become the vacant tools of the Relequim.

The highest order of his religion had called few, and fewer still survived it long with any semblance of sanity. Those who did became as priests to the cult and as champions to the Relequim's army. They had gained the power they sought, but there was a limit and a cost, and whether the men they once were still lived on in any form within their immense, armored frames left great room for debate.

Unlike the rest of the Relequim's elite forces, Daemons inspired the amassed monsters. They did not rule by fear or drive by force. They infused the hearts of their sinister comrades with a fire that burned deep, and drew upon what some even called love. Though love was not a word one could easily associate with Daemons.

The Chaplains turned to meet the new challenge, seeing their glory rise with the Relequim's chosen, but they died all too quickly. Only three of the Daemons fell in the furious fight that unfolded beyond the Knobacks. Even the Dunmar stopped their whipping and roaring to watch higher up the gentle slope as the Chaplains steadily lost their final battle. One or two rode off, to their eternal shame. Whether they would survive through flight or not was another question altogether, but the rest were destroyed handily by the magic of the Relequim.

Bursts of fire and invisible shocks in the air burned and cut and decimated the holy knights in minutes. The Daemons spun, hacked, and slashed until only they remained. Then they turned to face the army of Islenda over the heads of the monsters between them. But what followed chilled Sir Beldin's heart and made his headache fade, for the armies of the Relequim cheered.

Sir Beldin called for his men to collapse their rows and bolster the front. He didn't care if the Relequim's army thought they had won, or if in fact they had, for if his men fled there was absolutely no hope for them, and their allies would be exposed. He rode the line, moving men into place and sending what was left of his cavalry to stand ready to break through.

The Knobacks had dropped back twenty yards, realigning themselves as their numbers in the first two columns had been significantly depleted. There was room for them to do this, but Beldin feared they were doing as much out of sheer certainty of their victory. He brought his archers together, quivers almost empty, and ordered them ready to unleash a charge-stalling blow like they had before. The heights had finally been cleared of Brenlucks, but it came as little consolation now. They were at a quarter of their starting strength, and their enemy was still at over half.

The Daemons were approaching now, the gap between the four columns widening to let them pass as a sense of awe washed over even the Dunmar. Their strides were long, their movements confident. No doubts flickered across their unmoving features. And then Sir Beldin saw the dragon.

It came from almost directly overhead, pumping its wings so as to lower itself slowly into position. His men began to shout, to wail, and to break. He was proud that they had lasted this long, and though he called for them to stand together, he knew it was futile with the red beast bearing down on them from above.

“
Armies of men, captains of Islenda!”
The booming voice of the largest Daemon came rolling through the canyon.
“
Your end is at hand. Lay down your arms and flee, lest ye be devoured.”

Suddenly there was a boom from above and a crack as something struck the dragon in the center of its long neck. The beast came hurtling to the ground in the midst of the Knobacks, sending them flying as the earth shook with the impact.

Tristram stepped off the monster's broken neck, his wings unfurling as he put his hands out towards the dragon's head. Ice formed around its mouth, and then its entire head was encased before another crack was heard and the monster lay still, its wings nearly as broad as the canyon.

“
Armies of men! Captains of Islenda!”
Tristram's voice was as loud as the impact he had just created.
“
Stand your ground and fight, for the destiny of this world rests on the bravery you demonstrate today.”

The Daemons growled as they turned, furious at the sight of their hated enemy. But the largest laughed.
“
The bird-warrior graces us with his presence.”

“
Has enough time passed for more of you to fall so far?”
Tristram said as he pulled his dazzling swords from his back. The sun glistened off the gold designs in his silvery plate brilliantly enough to cut through the clouds of swirling dust.
“
The souls of men were not meant to be wrought as such!”

The Daemons fanned out into an arc as their captain spoke, Dunmar and Knobacks falling back as if repelled. “
Our souls are ours to command, Tristram. Your folly is in your blind conviction to the past.”

They nearly had him surrounded. Then they sprinted forward as one.

“
Let me return you to your primeval state and render the mercy of a sudden death!”
Tristram leaped into the air as if gravity held no sway, then rocketed down to strike the center Daemon with his swords.

The Daemon screeched as its very core was slit, and then Tristram withdrew both swords quickly and it exploded into red and black dust. Its comrades bore down on the winged warrior, but he spun before they reached him, sending his wings out to knock back four and bringing up his swords to block the blows of the other two.

With his right sword above his head and his left sword below his waist, he simply rotated his arms a half turn to throw the Daemons off balance.

“
Pathetic,”
he spat the word.
“
You sell your souls for power, and in the end have none.”

A Daemon launched itself at his back, but Tristram caught it mid-air with a gesture of his hand. He turned, pushing his hand forward as he did so and sending the suspended Daemon into the wall behind it to die in an explosion of red dust and flying stones. Another ran at him, spinning with its sword to cut him in two.

Tristram turned to meet the threat, catching the blade with one of his own and diverting its strength past his hooded face. His other sword followed instantly after, rotating with his wrist and bringing his enemy's sword back around between both blades before he hauled them in different directions. In one motion he separated his arms and shattered the blade of his assailant.

The Daemon stopped for a brief moment, stunned as its magic was outdone, and it was in that instant that Tristram rammed his gloved fist into its armored face. The red visor did little against the blow, and the monster dropped to its knees half-dead before Tristram ran both swords through its chest. He pulled in opposite directions, ripping the blades out through its side and shoulder and it too erupted into a cloud of fine dust.

He stepped aside as a long serrated blade lunged past his side. He batted it away, then turned and hammered the Daemon in the side of the head with the backhanded flat of one sword. His other blade followed in a whirling cut that opened the monster's chest wide open to the light of day. He kicked the Daemon so hard in the open wound that it disappeared into a cloud of its own dust.

Two Daemons rushed forward then, but as they approached, Tristram crossed his arms and swirled his wings, launching himself from the ground and drawing his assailants and the surrounding debris up with him. The motion carried them to him as he slowed himself mid-air, and twisted once more to cut both in half with his swords.

He landed deftly, as if he weighed no more than a solitary feather on his wings, and found the final Daemon already rushing to meet him. He simply took a step forward, and in that motion hurled one of his swords tumbling end over end into the face of the oncoming monster. Its feet kicked out from underneath it as it slammed on its back. He walked over, pulling the blade free and creating another small cloud of red and black dust as he did so.

No sooner had he reclaimed his sword than did another blur come hurtling in from the sky. It was dark, and it landed a few miles farther north on top of one of the mountains.

Tristram turned his head slightly in its direction. “
Relequim.”
He turned to face Beldin's army for a moment longer. “
Armies of men, fight well! For today you win the world for your children!”

With no more words than that, he launched himself into the sky to be met by his brothers, and together they made north as Sir Beldin and his men watched.

His attention dropped once more to the chaos that lay before them. A red dragon lay dead not a hundred yards farther on, its head encased in slowly melting ice. The vast majority of the Dunmar and Knobacks had survived the impact, but they were scattered and disorganized.

“
Men!” He shouted as he pulled his mount forward. “Let's clean up!”

And with a renewed cheer and a second wind, the army of the Shale plunged forward to the kill.

T
HE ENDLESS WAVES OF THE
D
EMON'S MONSTERS FILLED THE SLOPE BELOW WITH A PAINFUL CONSISTENCY.
There was no stopping them, whether Phelts' men stood their ground for another hour or broke in the next five minutes. The gunfire was as strong as it would get at this point, and as soldiers ran the last of the ammunition to the front and dragged yet more of the wounded to the rear, it was all coming to a horrible close.

He picked himself up from the edge of Merodach's pit and limped his way towards one of the engineer's trucks. If he was going to die here, he would make sure he took as many of those monsters down there with him as he could. He hadn't plotted and schemed and maneuvered his way into power to let Elandir fall without a fight. Merodach had always said that heroes were incendiary, that great men were meant to burn. Well, Phelts was no great man and no longer a puppet for Merodach to torch, but he would teach the filthy monsters below what it was to enter the fire.

He struggled to get his arm up over the tailgate, his leg refusing to support him fully as he tried, but he finally got it down. It knocked him to the ground as it swung open, but he didn't care. He wouldn't be around much longer in any case. What harm were a few more bruises? He picked himself up and pulled his lame body into the truck. The back was still full of gear for guns, but he was after something more volatile than artillery rounds.

He shoved a toolbox off of a crate marked with a flaming “X,” creating a sizable dent in the bed of the truck as it fell. He ripped the lid off the crate and smiled at the contents within. There were enough loose explosives here to destroy a small moon.

He put the lid back on and began pushing and pulling on the crate until he had it at the back of the truck. “You!” he yelled at two passing soldiers carrying a stretcher. “Get over here.”

His swollen leg screamed at him as he dropped to the floor of the truck with his legs out the back, but he ignored the pain and pushed himself out, falling to his good knee in the process. “Pick up the crate.”

“
Sir, we need to get more men from the fro–” but the fire in Phelts' eyes cut the protest short.

“
Pick up the crate, and follow me.” He stood back up and reached for the spindle of flammable fuse he had seen under the bench. He slid a long, square piece of light wood out as well and propped himself up as he turned. The soldiers had the box up on their stretcher, which made him smile. “Well then, let's get to blowing shit up.”

Phelts set off at a saunter with his makeshift crutch, unable to go as fast as he wanted but no longer caring. He had all the time in the world as far as he was concerned. An idea came to him, and he shouted at another passing soldier to bring a truck over to the bunker. He turned around and continued on his way, the box filled with high explosives following steadily behind.
Could have just left it in the first truck...

The truck almost beat them to the gap between the bunkers, and Phelts ordered the soldiers to load the box into the back.

“
Where's an engineer when you need one?” he said as he looked around before he spotted the girl from before. He whistled and motioned for her to join them, the fear so plain on her face he laughed out loud. “Girl, don't worry. We'll make them regret they ever set foot on our lovely continent.” He held up the spindle. “Know how to cut a fuse?”

Within seconds they had the truck rigged and ready to go. Phelts walked around to the passenger's side of the truck and pulled himself into the passenger's seat as the girl put the truck in gear.

“
Sir.” She had lost all of her certainty in the face of what was coming. “You won't be able to retreat fast enough.”

“
You look much prettier when you're wearing your confidence,” he said as he closed the door. “Stop being so scared and drive the truck.”

She put the truck in gear and began rolling slowly down the hill, honking repeatedly to clear a path as they continued onwards. “I hope you cut that fuse right,” he laughed as angered soldiers ducked out of their way. “Or this is gonna go poorly for all of us.”