Then a pistol round exploded against his chest, throwing him backwards as it unbalanced him. It also hurt, which tended to suggest that this incarnation was in fact real. Clambering back to his feet, he searched for the source of the shot, and then he saw it.
*
Zatan Amon was angry, intensely, mind-blowingly, earth-shatteringly so; and his men knew it. With this particular Tauran Elite, it was less than difficult to recognise when he was a little miffed. The Tauran had altered over the Centuries, his once pristine armour now splotched and bizzarely mended. His original body was now bursting out of his remaining metallic shroud and his helmet had become one with his face. As if they were some obscure form of piercing, horns sprouted in a seemingly random pattern from his skull, their asymmetry of design and size, accompanied by a squirming sea of runes, whose whirls and sworls filled the remaining space.
Discharges, both electrical and physical ran between the protrusions, and his eyes blazed continuously. With Zatan it was never whether he was angry, it was rather the extent to which he was. Arcs of power flashing and rivulets of pus pouring, signified his closeness to explosion, and right now he was shockingly liquid.
The cause of this eruption of ire was the pure and pristine form on the hill above him, one of the Prelate’s minions. Purity had always annoyed Amon, but when it was coupled with an apparently benign ignorance and the dribbling obesiance of Immortals, it really rang his bell. His single shot had been a statement of intent and his bone-shattering and teeth-breaking path through his own troops the demonstration of this.
“I’m coming for you, pretty boy!” he roared, his spittle raining down onto his own men, its acid biliousness attacking those who still had skin to burn.
“There’s nowhere for you to hide!” he screamed, decapitating one Tauran with a petulant swipe of his axe, “You’re mine!”
*
Geriond watched Zatan’s approach, his blatant disregard for casualties, his single-mindeness of purpose and his fury, which radiated off him like a visible wave of heat. It was not that he was ignorant, nor that he was arrogant, rather all who watched him assumed he was. That was how the Immortals attached to this army behaved, and died.
Bemusement and excitement were all that Geriond felt, he was still trying to come to terms with the feeling of health and power which coursed through his body. If any word best described his feelings towards the raging Tauran Elite, it would be oblivious.
He uncoiled the whip from his belt, letting it trail on the ground behind him, his hand twitching involuntarily in an apparently well-remembered rythym. It was a wicked-looking weapon, long, fine strands of chain had been interwoven with evenly spaced junctions of sharp teeth. The handle to which the lengths of metal were attached was beautifully decorated with religious icons and the head of a stylised angel rising above the hand grip, its eyes outlined in red and glowing sigils.
Almost obsessively he watched the end of the now uncoiled weapon flick, its action intrigued him and reminded him of the tail of an angry feline, just before it pounced.
*
“Don’t you ignore me!” howled Zatan Amon, discharging his pistol indiscriminately, each explosion heightening his anticipation and stoking the fires of his anger more, “You just wait, you’ll be sorry that you ever met me!”
He stopped, lifting one of his minions above his head and smashing him repeatedly into the ground. After a few moments, all that was left was a bloody pulp and a gore-smeared Amon. Mindless sounds came from his mouth now, his rage incoherent in its splendour. Rank upon rank of Taurans melted away from him and at last he stood alone, screaming his challenge to Geriond, who blatantly looked the other way.
This indifference infuriated Zatan even further and he began to pound and tear at his own flesh and remaining armour. Ripping chunks of metal and skin in equal measure, he continued, a bilious green foam frothing around his mouth. The pistol had been tossed to one side, its inability to deliver the detstruction its master desired measured and found wanting.
Stopping for a moment, he gathered his axe and started whirling the weapon insanely around his head. Enough of his mental processes remained for him to recognise the mass of Church soldiers and his tormentor. Madly howling his ire, Zatan crashed into them.
*
Troopers’ dying breaths, last words and screamed prayers, finally permeated into Geriond’s mazy consciousness. Turning slowly he contemplated that which was Amon and was piqued by the interruption. No anger flowed through him, rather a calm sadness and with a wistful regret he strode towards the raging beast.
Geriond’s movements were slow and stately, even as his arm arced backwards to deliver the lashing movement of the whip, it was possible to admire the beauty of the moment. With a whistling, followed by a crack, the weapon reached the zenith of its vertical path. A flick of the wrist and its lateral twisting sent it looping towards Zatan Amon. He did not know it, but he was already dead.
The chain links seemed to scurry around his bull neck, clinking over each other in a serpent-like movement. Finally, the tip of the whip flicked up, scoring across the largest of Amon’s horns and bringing him back to his senses, just for an instance.
This passed as Geriond’s grin became broader and the mindless ranting took over once more. In dismissal, the new-found Immortal turned his back on Amon, the whip’s handle held loosely in his hand as he strolled casually away.
As he reached the full limit of the length of chain, he caressed the angels head, flicked his wrist almost casually and retrieved the weapon.
“Never, ever lose your head …” he mumbled to himself, before breaking into uncontrollable laughter.
Chapter Seven
Acedia
Be silent, thou accursed wolf;
Consume within thyself with thine own rage.
- The Inferno, Dante
Geriond sat on a boulder; his huge frame bowed under the weight of his apathy. It had been too easy; this death he held in his hands. His whip trailed forgotten from his right hand as he stared vacantly out over the battlefield. None were left to challenge him. Oh, he knew of Beelzebub, and of course Leviathin and their insatiable appetites, but it touched him not.
All passed him unnoticed, even the dim shape of the hound which studied him from close by, drew nothing but but a dim despair at the uselessness of it all. Men and Taurans died, were reanimated or trod into the already blood-soaked earth, and yet it piqued his melancholy not.
He sighed, fingering the Angel on his chest in half-remembered pride. Once it had meant something to him, but not now.
*
Belphegor cackled quietly. The Tauran could feel the tendrils of his magic reach to the very heart of the Church’s faith. He particularly liked the irony of the Church’s Champion, lost in self-pity and unable to raise a finger in the defence of his own.
As a demon, Belphegor’s anger was always close to the surface. Normally, he had to work hard; promising wealth, recognition, and power above all. His brothers though, had done his work for him. They had given the Churchmen a vision of the pointless struggle they were involved in. He had only needed to add a little suggestion of his own.
In this place, he had no need to hide his true form. Many had been the time he had presented himself in the guise of a beautiful young woman, eager and fawning beneath the greatness of a particular individual. Today though, he was himself; red-skinned, immensely muscled, with twin horns springing from his leaden brow. Wickedly sharp nails sprouted from his fingers and he tapped an unholy tatoo on the ground where he lay.
Cerberus was visible to him, yet he felt a certain kinship with his brother’s lackey and so was unconcerned. The hound himself was confused; Geriond held within himself the seeds of greatness, defeating even death in his fight againt the Tauran demons. He had been chosen by the silent watcher on the hill which overlooked the death-strewn landscape. Now he behaved strangely; listless and forgotten as the demons wreaked their wicked will below.
A repetitive tapping drew the great canine’s attention and at last he noticed Belphegor and understood. With a low growl, he climbed to his feet, finally understanding his role in this strange cameo.
*
Geriond rose from his torpor, struggling against the bonds which tied him as surely as though they were cast in iron. It was the animalistic sound of combat which pierced his foggy thoughts and he turned his head to see.
A titanic struggle greeted him; on one side the three-headed beast from his previous incarnation rent and tore with its huge fangs, on the another a demon’s sharpened talons cut viciously. One of the beast’s heads hung limply against its chest, throat sliced open by a massive swipe of the red-skinned monster’s claws. They rolled, biting and slashing in their rage, yet still Geriond waited.
His hand flexed, causing the whip to lazily react. Again he moved and got one foot to work, raising himself from the boulder. Other sounds reached him; pleas for forgiveness, hisses of pain and the awful roar of the rampaging demons below. The spark within became a flame, fluttering weakly and then bursting into life. Now the lash flicked back and forth as he prowled, waiting his moment to strike.
*
Belphegor rolled away from the crazed canine, at a loss to explain the furious attack. Slothful by nature, when roused he was a temerous opponent as his brothers. The triumph which had been close was now slipping away. He felt the bite of the corded lether whip around his throat and bent his horns in an effort to cut it away.
Looking up he saw the angelic figure who now burned with a vitality of life his magic had dampened and he knew he was lost. He screamed his need to his brothers, felt their begrudging acquiesence and renewed his struggle.
The whip tightened, strangling the demon as it pulled taut, cutting his flesh and drawing a whimper of submission. Geriond was implacable; muscles writhed beneath his armour as he dragged his weapon clear, and the demon fell.
Cerberus lay panting at his feet, his dying breath sawing from the half-parted lips of his last remaining head. Beelzebub oozed up the hillside, his brother tunneling through the unresitent rock by his side. High above them the Watcher looked on; the end was near. This time. There would be other battles and the Church needed his Champion.
A mist began to flow down the craggy features of the hillside, enfolding Geriond in its loving embrace. He did not feel the earth open beneath him, the crushing blow which tore him in two. Beelzebub screeched his annoyance as the soul fled the smashed body, Taking his pleasure in the crushed bones and rent skin.
Leviathan travelled on, opening his maw to devour the three-headed tormentor of his brother, but here he too failed. They had been infected with the apathy of their brother and would pay. Now was not the moment, but the Watcher had his Champion, and the Taurans their nemesis.
Finale
The Watcher held Geriond’s soul within his grasp, that of Cerberus coiled by his feet. He saw the carnage continue, the demons’ rage unstoppable. He was not overly concerned; he had his answer.
As night fell, he made his way down the hill, gathering the broken and shattered remains of that which had been Geriond. They would join those of Belphegor, a little of Asmodai and a pinch of Cerberus. His magic would have passion, loyalty and invention. With Geriond he had heart, soul and drive.
The others who had fallen would be forgotten, those who survived defeated. Geriond would rise again and the two races be unified under one banner.
*
Of all the races known to the Watcher, the humans had thrived the most. The once agrarian Ori had grown, taking their place as Lords of their own domain. It had been ironic that humans remained stagnant, receding somewhat into the background and that the Ori had taken the fight to the Taurans themselves.
Others would play their part; the Rigelians and the Shran, but in the end human kind would be needed. It was with this thought in mind that he had come here to Newhome, searching for something, someone. Days were spent trawling inns, shops and byways looking for the spark he knew was here. Last night he had found the old man, Heard his pitiful tale and his yearning for a son, and had known that this was right.
He looked down upon the buried remains of the meal that he had shared with the farmer. The old man’s wish would be granted, but first he needed to add a little magic of his own. From beneath his cloak he took a bundle of flesh and bones, wrapped in a stained and moth-eaten cloth. Scraping clear the earth, he let the grizzly remains fall amongst the remnants of their meal.
Once the soil had been roughly pushed back, he gathered his will. Although the evening still held the warmth of summer, frost began to form on the recently turned earth. Tendrils of mist crept from beneath his cloak as his incantation grew. Energy flowed through and around him, piercing deep into the ground and the air hummed with its intensity.
Breath rasped from his throat painfully, calming as the spell unfolded. Pale light flowed from his open mouth, bathing the ground. Vague shapes could be seen within it, which writhed and fought against him, but eventually succumbed. They were absorbed greedily by the dirt below, disappearing quickly from sight.
With a final sigh of contentment, the Great One turned away. It was done.
The End
Englishman, traveller, who was captivated by Spain and stayed. Proud husband and father. Work took me around the globe, taught me a new language and opened my eyes.
Other Works:
Sudden Dearth
A Guiding Light (Sudden Dearth Book Two)
A Leap Of Faith (Sudden Dearth Book Three)
Urion’s Belt
A Cold Dish
Euthan Palace
The Gift
26-S
The Wildwose
A Knight’s Charge
Find out more by visiting www.sudderndearth.blogspot.com
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