Dawn of the Dreamsmith (The Raven's Tale Book 1) (84 page)

So the old fool wants to rule forever does he? And not a thought spared for his sons. Typical of the man!

Jarrod drew a stiletto from his tunic, its blade thin and razor-sharp, and leapt at his father’s back. Laughter bubbled up within him at the old man’s cries of alarm and pain as the blade slipped easily into his flesh.
Why was I ever afraid of you?

With one arm clamped around the loose skin-flaps of the old fool’s neck, Jarrod pulled his knife free and plunged it in again, over and over. The emperor’s head swivelled to face him, his eyes wide and uncomprehending. A feeble arm reached up to touch his face. “Jarrod...” he gasped. “Why?”

A myriad of clever remarks floated across his mind. But in Jarrod’s moment of exultation, his wit abandoned him. Instead, he cackled maniacally as the madness he had held at bay for so long took hold at last. “Fuck you!” he screamed, flecks of spittle flying from his mouth to spatter his father’s face. Jarrod threw the old man to the ground like a bundle of dry sticks. “It should be mine!” he screeched as he pounced upon him. “Do... you... hear... me? Mine!” With every word he stabbed down again with the blade. His hair, usually so carefully coiffed, whipped around his face, slick with sweat and blood.

When the light in his father’s eyes had faded at last, the frenzy left him. He stood on shaking legs and stared the bloody ruin of the man he had known his entire life. He felt no remorse.
So ends Maximilien the Great.

He turned to face the Archon. To his surprise, the man who had plotted both with and against him stood watching him placidly. “What about you?” Jarrod growled, gesturing at him with the gore-stained blade. “Aren’t you upset that I’ve spoiled your little plans?”

The Archon merely smiled. “On the contrary,” he replied. “You have worked out even better than I hoped, Jarrod. You will make a fine vessel. Maldonus was not thrilled by the prospect of inhabiting such a wrinkled old carcass. He craves younger flesh, you see, and it must be of royal blood.”

“Vessel? What are you babbling about, man?” Jarrod’s face twisted in irritation.

The Archon continued as if he had not heard him. There was a faraway, wistful look in his eyes. “I held out hopes of your brother,” he continued. “Such a strong, virile specimen... but I realised some time ago that would not be possible. Noble Adelmar would have resisted too fiercely to be of use. The gift we offer must be accepted freely. But you, Jarrod... I think you will serve nearly as well.”

Jarrod’s eyes narrowed. Whatever the infernal cleric was wittering on about, he didn’t like the sound of it. He was preparing to stab forward again with his dagger and silence him for good, when a bolt of lightning flashed in front of his eyes and struck the Archon full in the chest. With a startled cry, the cleric was launched into the air, landing in an undignified heap a dozen yards away, his once-white robes charred and smoking. Jarrod tittered at the undignified nature of the spectacle, but his amusement did not last long.

A soft whisper from behind made him turn. Inside the metal chamber swirled a cyclone of green smoke. It span around and around at mesmerising speed. The faster it went, the more it almost seemed to become solid...

A tendril of smoke flicked out towards him and took on the form of a colossal, scaly arm. Green fingers topped with sharp talons fastened around his waist, and dragged him shrieking into the chamber.

Jarrod continued to scream as the smoke coiled all around him. At first it caressed him, with almost a lover’s tenderness, before abruptly thrusting forward and invading him, rushing into his body through his ears and nose. And then Jarrod felt Him. A mind so vast that he was like an insect before it; trying to comprehend its entirety was as useless as trying to see the entire world while stood upon its surface. All the attention of this titanic, eternal presence was focused upon him. He felt its amusement. And its eagerness.

MINE.

Jarrod’s mind trembled beneath the force of the word. Then the fire began to scorch his flesh. His skin peeled and blistered in the merciless heat. The conflagration built in intensity, until what remained of his flesh sloughed away. His eyeballs followed, the fluid they contained steaming as it ran down his skull. As his bones began to char, Jarrod screamed in agony, his lungs filling with burning air. He felt his brain pop and fizzle, before dribbling away through his ears.
Why does it still hurt,
his consciousness wailed.
Divine, please make it stop.

Everything he was, everything he had been, everything he would ever be was obliterated beneath that pitiless, ineffable gaze. When he was nothing but dust, he felt even greater pain as the process reversed. He felt the power coursing through him, rebuilding him in its own image, mote by mote, its essence merging with his own. Visions of what was to follow flashed before his eyes, and his screams turned to peals of lunatic laughter.

It was glorious.

*      *      *

After what seemed an eternity, the light that surrounded the tiny boggit faded and he landed back on the floor with a plop.

The Brothers, who had been kept upright by the lightning jolting through their bodies, collapsed a moment later. With a crash, the Archon’s giant manservant toppled at last like a felled tree.

Raven was on her feet in an instant. The giant’s arms continued to move, albeit feebly. And if he still lived, then who knew how long they had before he was back on his feet and attacking them once more.
It must be now!

He lay on his back, the charred and smoking skin on his chest rising and falling with deep, slow breaths. Raven jumped and landed on top of him. Quickly, she raised her blade high above his exposed throat. But, just as she was about to strike down and put an end to it, something gave her pause.

Suddenly, the giant’s eyes flicked open behind his mask. Before she could move, his metal arm shot out and knocked the weapon from her hand. She tried to jump back, but strong hands found her and held her tight.

Raven struggled as the giant fought to stand, her arms clamped uselessly against her sides.
Why did I hesitate?

When the giant was upright, his mask, which had become warped and twisted by the tempest, fell away. Beneath, his face was hideous; deformed, but not by birth. Jagged scars lined his face, great chunks of flesh cut and burned away. His nose was a hollow stump, his lower lip missing. Above it all, his eyes were a storm of rage and torment.

He lifted her to his face, and she recoiled from the horror of it. Slowly at first, he began to crush her between his great, strong hands. She felt the air being pushed out from her lungs and began to cough, fighting for breath. All the while, the giant regarded her with silent fury.

And perhaps it was the stench of smoke and burned flesh. Perhaps it was the pitiful wails of the dying that filled the air. Perhaps it was the feel of those strong hands, or the pain in the giant’s eyes beyond the anger that drove him. Most likely it was a combination of all these things, that carried her far away from that room at the top of the Spire, to a time and place that had never been far from her thoughts. Where it had all begun. At last, as the life was being squeezed from her body, she saw him for what he was.

Tears stung her eyes. “Papa?”

The crushing stopped. A moment later, the pressure eased. The giant stared searchingly at her face, radiating confusion. Abruptly, the anger in his eyes died. They widened as they took her in, her face, the colour of her hair. Whatever she had recognised in his mutilated features, it was clear that he saw it too in hers. The strong hands released her, just as they had all those years before, and she knew then that it was true.

Wordlessly, her father collapsed onto his knees. Looking upon him, Raven no longer saw the giant that had stalked them through the forest and mountains. She saw the man who had carried her upon his broad shoulders, recognised the powerful arms that would throw her laughing into the air and never fail to catch her. Wet tracks ran down his scarred and pitted cheeks, washing away the soot, and she knew that his mind must be racing with the past twenty years, as hers was. She reached her arms around his neck and pulled him tight against her. “Oh papa,” she murmured. “What have they done to you?”

A strong arm, the one that was still his, looped around her shoulders and squeezed. Not with anger, this time, but love. Despite the destruction all around them, that arm made her feel safe, as it always had.

She could have stayed there forever in his embrace. But all too soon reality came crashing back down upon them. A shrill cry rang out across the hall and made her turn.

Where once hundreds of foes had stood against them, now there were none. The Brothers laying in gently steaming heaps; some still moved, but many more lay motionless. The Archon had been felled as well. He sat crumpled near the foot of his precious device. Even at this distance, she could tell that far from lasting the eternity he had envisaged, the emperor’s reign had reached a premature, bloody end.
Did we win?
she wondered.

At another cry, she looked up and saw Cole clinging to the surface of the giant crystal. His face was contorted with pain. “What’s wrong?” she called, across the carnage.

Cole gasped. “I... I can’t stop him.” He grimaced through the pain. “I thought... I could... break... the connection. But... he’s too... strong. He’s...”

There was a flash of light. Cole’s eyes rolled back in his skull and he fell away from the crystal. His body landed in a lifeless heap at its foot with a thump.

“COLE!” Raven screamed his name, and then she was running towards him over the heap of bodies that lay between them.

A tidal wave of emotions crashed through her as her eyes remained glued to his slumped form; anger, fear, hope. Guilt.
I should have protected him better
, she told herself.
I tried, but I didn’t know what else to do but fight.
It was all she had ever done.

One thought reverberated around her skull above all others.
Move, Cole. Please move.
Yet even this simple prayer went unanswered.

As she ran, she saw movement from the archway at the base of the Archon’s device.
Something
was trying to emerge, but moving awkwardly, as if unaccustomed to the operation of its limbs.

What do I do?
she asked, caught between rushing to Cole’s side and dealing with whatever it was the Order had conjured forth. In desperation, she took her blade and threw it, as hard as she could, in the direction of the spinning metal sphere above her head.

The sword flew from her hand,
thrumming
through the air as it span end over end. With a clang it found a space between the metal struts, which snapped down on the crossguard. Of a sudden, the spheres stopped spinning, stuck fast. As she watched, the entire contrivance began to judder and shake. Steam hissed from its joints.

Now unarmed, Raven did the only other thing she could think to do. She rushed towards Cole’s body, hoping against hope that when she reached him her worst fears weren’t realised.

As she reached the crystal, the struggle between whatever was trying to power the device and the sword that was holding it back ended in stalemate. It exploded gracelessly and with little ceremony, sending large lumps of metal and stone flying in every direction.

For the second time that evening, Raven was lifted from her feet and thrown, this time towards the giant green crystal. She folded her arms around her face to protect it from the impact, but none came. There was a feeling of great speed, then falling. Everything turned black.

*      *      *

Trying to ignore the pounding in his head, and the red-hot burning in his chest, the Archon forced his eyes open. With an involuntary groan he forced himself up into a sitting position, and stared in disbelief at his surroundings.
So much death
, he thought. In the back of his mind, he felt his god revel in the slaughter.

None of his Brothers remained standing. His device was a charred, smoking ruin. The hall was filled with parts of it; twisted metal struts, dented sheets of metal, fractured lumps of stone. A number of brown-robed bodies had been impaled by various components. The fact that they had been already dead when the device exploded was presumably cold comfort.

At least he had been lucky to escape relatively unscathed. He gathered himself, then attempted to stand. As he moved, a lump of rubble rolled down a nearby heap and came to a stop by his foot.

The Archon watched as others followed it. From amidst the wreckage crawled a hand. Its fingers were grazed and covered with dirt, and scrabbled at the mound of debris.

Then, slowly, a bar of twisted metal that lay across the top of the mound was heaved aside, landing with a loud crash upon the floor. A figure raised itself up.

The Archon gasped, and in his head his god howled in triumph. “M-my lord?” he stammered.

The being that had arisen from the wreckage looked down upon him, and its lips twisted into a cruel smirk. It bore a striking resemblance to the young prince he had spoken with minutes before, but one eye now burned with an intense green fire. The other was a bloodied wound, blinded by the jagged metal splinter that jutted from the eye socket. Whatever transformation Jarrod had undergone inside the chamber had evidently been interrupted by the explosion; while one arm was human in appearance, the other was withered and covered with pale green scales. The fingers of that arm were twisted and claw-like.