(107) Demonic

The sun crept over the Peaks, with sparse green valleys shadowed by their towering heights. Life stirred within these valleys. Nocturnal predators retired for the night, diurnal creatures yawned and stretched, and crepuscular animals prowled. The morning mist rose from dew-speckled grass, lending the valleys a beauty and vibrance, hiding their inherent violence.

One of these peaks was split, as if its cap was sliced by a great blade. Within, the mountain appeared hollowed, the shell of a great behemoth. The ground far below was dug in tiers, rows of crops dominating the top, while stone buildings and architecture occupied the lower levels. People went about their morning rituals, smaller than ants from high up near the missing cap.

One of these ants, Daedron, stretched and yawned, warming his limbs up for a day of work. Though he had been a fletching assistant through his childhood, now that he was strong enough to leave the colony, he was strong enough to work in the pits, an honor that few had.

He set off toward the lower ramp with a pep in his step, but he was immediately waylaid by a commotion in the center of town. A growing crowd was gathered near the council building, seemingly circling something. Daedron could not see what was going on, but as he surveyed the scene, he spotted Daena marching toward it with purpose.

Setting off after her, he pushed his way through the throngs to find a circle of guards, Broga leading them, surrounding Leia. She stood in the center, the crowd’s obvious focus. She stared straight up toward the sky, her face uncharacteristically serious, and her enormous ax was drawn, held loosely in her right hand. 

What seemed like a heat haze surrounded her, keeping the crowd at bay. The guards circled her, spears leveled, but they, too, were hesitant to approach. Daena strode confidently through the encirclement, breaching the heat barrier and striding up to Leia’s side.

“What is the meaning of this? I asked you to leave, did I not?” she asked, her tone solemn.

Leia did not respond immediately, continuing to stare above, as if she had not even heard the question. After a moment of silence, Daena opened her mouth, likely to repeat her question, but Leia finally spoke.

“If I asked you all to evacuate, leave Chicolua, would you consider it?” she asked, not looking at Daena.

“Of course not. This is our home,” Daena answered firmly, her brow furrowed.

“I expected as much. You should at least seek shelter, then. Go underground. Occupy any escape tunnels you might have. I do not know what it is yet, but it is going to be bad,” she declared.

“What is going to be bad—” Daena started.

Smoke rose from Leia, though she did not move, nor even acknowledge it. It swirled about her, black and thick, almost like vaporized tar. It blew out around her, forcing Daena to back off toward the guards, who, one and all, grimaced, steeling their resolve for a confrontation with Nemesis.

The smoke coalesced into distinct figures, three of them, concentrating and firming into people. From the smoke stepped Leonidas, Alcander, and Setekh. They were undisguised and very obviously demonic, and gasps and shouts echoed from the crowd, the guards’ faces souring further.

The demons ignored their surroundings, all shifting their gazes upward to match Leia’s, as if they could all see something hidden from everyone else.

“Situation?” Leonidas asked.

“Unknown. Presence appeared in the night. It has moved this way slowly, growing stronger the closer it gets. It is demonic, but I know little else,” Leia reported.

“You have not surveilled it?” Leonidas asked.

“Mission directive is defense of Chicolua, not the surroundings. It was not my concern while it was not targeting the colony,” Leia answered.

“You should treat any foe of significant strength nearby as a potential threat and collect information, at a minimum. Remember this, and do not make this mistake again,” Leonidas scolded dryly, neutrally.

“Noted,” Leia said, though she, too, spoke in a near-monotone, as if reading from a script.

“Begone, demons, lest we tread your trespass as an invasion!” Broga growled, the guard’s spears inching forward, as if in response to his words.

Leonidas turned, affixing him with his wrong-way gaze, his face neutral, unbothered.

“This threat is beyond you and your ilk. Retreat. You are in the way,” he ordered, turning back toward the sky, as if assured his command would be heeded.

Broga’s face darkened, and he seemed poised to deliver a scathing retort, but the Shattered Cap, the entire mountain, began to rumble. 

This was not the steadily growing rumble of an earthquake, nor was it the single crashes of impacts against the mountain’s surface. These were impulses, steady and consistent, as if the footsteps of a giant.

The thudding was easy to follow, and the crowd tracked the sound with their eyes, following it as it climbed the mountainside. After only minutes, a great shadow fell over Chicolua. A titanic, twisted hand of flesh and bone gripped the rim of the Shattered Cap.

————————————

Lyron marched at the head of the column, following just behind the archduke and his entourage, which now included several members of the Toplage family. Lyron had not caught the entire exchange, but they had assured the archduke that he would arrive to find the gates open and the city stabilized.

Lyron had his doubts, but they were, just like all his contributions to the current campaign, tossed aside. He supposed that, at worst, the family would be wrong, and the army would have to do what it was going to do anyway.

The remaining march took most of the morning, and the sun was high in the sky by the time they were close enough to glimpse the gates.

Closed. Locked.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ragnvald asked, staring pointedly at Frankton.

“I-I am unsure, my lord. I was assured—” Frankton started.

“Never mind. We shall find out soon enough,” Ragnvald said, cutting Frankton off with a wave of his hand.

The closer they drew, the stranger the situation appeared. Guards lined the wall in a row, all with fierce visages, not a single one intimidated by the strength assembled before them. Who were these guards? Why would they be aligned against Sardvend? 

Lyron had spent much of his time during the rebellion protecting the city guards. The vast majority of the survivors from that day would recognize his face, and he expected all of them to be loyal to him and, by extension, to Sardvend. However, he did not recognize even a single face among the hosts manning the wall.

As they approached, almost within shouting distance of the gates, a space cleared on the right side, the guards squeezing aside to allow what seemed to be a wooden cart through. 

It was tipped over the wall, and bodies fell from it, clearly already dead. They thumped the ground with that characteristic splat that only corpses can make, and Lyron observed Frankton’s face twist.

“Theiri, Gripson, Fiori…” he muttered, counting on his fingers as he watched body after body tumble over the wall. “All the major family heads save the cursed Donblatts! How?! They lack the resources, let alone the gall, to tangle with even one of these prolific—”

“Would someone remove this feckless whelp from my presence? His whimpering is beginning to try my patience,” Ragnvald said.

A trio of knights led the Toplage family away, all of whom had enough tact not to try something inadvisable, such as protesting their removal.

Ragnvald stared at the city, its manned walls, its staunch defenders, and its closed gates, for several minutes, his hand stroking his chin. Eventually, he shrugged, turning toward one of his knight captains.

“What of magic defenses?” he asked.

“Sir, our mages are reporting that there is a barrier surrounding the city. Records indicate that Promise City possesses such a defense, but we should assume the enemy has repurposed it to their own ends. Its effects are currently considered unknown.

“As such, we suggest testing it before passing through. They are certain that its maintenance is expensive, so waiting it out is also an option,” a captain explained.

“A siege is our last resort. We aim to remind them of their weakness, not meet them as equals,” Ragnvald mused.

After more moments of thought, he turned toward Lyron.

“Well, this is where you shine, Titan. Clear our entry into the city,” he ordered, turning away immediately.

Lyron opened his mouth and closed it again. There was no sense in asking any further questions. The dismissal was clear, and Lyron was more likely to receive a scolding rather than clarification.

He started toward the city, passing through a sheen of magic after a couple of hundred feet. It washed over him like submerging in a liquid. Strangely, he felt as if the magic chose not to affect him, rather than being rendered inert by his Titan heritage. That was strange, but it would not be unusual for him to have a few pre-battle jitters clouding his assessment.

He shook it off, continuing his approach. Ragnvald probably expected him to do something outlandish, like punch the gates open or something, but he could simply leap over the wall, opening the gate from within—

A shiver ran down his spine, and Lyron halted his approach. His eyes were drawn immediately toward the portion of the wall directly above the gate. There, a guard with a particularly decorated helmet stared at him, his eyes nearly glowing. 

Lyron had a hard time describing why his gaze was drawn to the guard, but he felt it akin to prey knowing it was being watched by a predator.

The guard placed his foot on the wall and stepped over, descending to the ground without slowing. He landed in a cloud of dust, his arms crossed, his legs unbent, as if the fall were nothing more than a small step.

The two stared for a few moments, both sizing each other up. Lyron needed no indication of what was about to happen. Warriors needed no words on the battlefield. He crouched down, raising his hands to guard his head. Yet, just as he readied his combat stance, the guard seemed to vanish. 

He suddenly appeared directly in front of Lyron, his arms still crossed. He was smaller than Lyron and forced to look up to stare him in the eyes, yet Lyron felt small, overwhelmed by the man’s immense presence.

He threw a straight punch into the man’s chest, intending to start the confrontation by feeling his opponent out. However, the man stepped to the side, somehow sliding past Lyron’s punch, which sent a small shockwave out to all sides. He grabbed Lyron’s arm with one hand, flinging him in the direction of his punch’s momentum.

Lyron was sent flying through the air, his head slamming into the wall and cratering it. He quickly wrenched his body from the impact site, intending to dodge any follow-up attacks. Yet, when he righted himself, he found the man still standing in his original position, his arms crossed, unconcerned.

A vein began to pulse in Lyron’s head so fiercely he could feel it.

He was being looked down on.

He exhaled slowly, crouching low. His muscles tensed, and his veins bulged. With a crash, he launched through the air like an arrow aimed straight at the man’s heart.

Somehow, faster than Lyron could perceive, the man vanished, reappearing just feet from him, directly in his path. The man’s arm was out, and it slammed into Lyron’s chest mid-charge. The impact felt like running into metal, the arm unmoving, even in the face of Lyron’s overwhelming strength.

With a grunt, he was sent tumbling head-over-heels, rolling and beating his body on the ground until he managed to regain his senses and plant his feet, digging furrows into the earth as he halted his tumble.

“Gack,” he spat, bloody saliva landing with a splat beside him.

Who is this man? The rebellion would never have happened if there were a guard this strong—

His thoughts ground to a halt, the man appearing directly before him once again. This time, he floated slightly off the ground so that his head was above Lyron’s. He grabbed Lyron by the throat, hoisting him up.

Lyron’s mind went blank as he watched the guard’s eyes shift. The pupils elongated, becoming slits, like a reptile’s. The irises glowed a fiery blue, and the sclera went black as night.

Demon. 

This was the only thought Lyron had time for.

He was slammed against the ground, his back digging into the soil. He only lay there long enough for the demon to grab his arm and fling him over, slamming him into the ground on his front.

Wham! Wham! Wham! Wham!

Over and over again, Lyron was crushed into the ground on his front, then his back, then his front again. His hyper-resilient body was breaking. He could feel his skin tearing, his bones shattering. His thoughts were chaotic, the pain and the surreal reality of encountering a demon this strong stripping all logic from his mind.

The demon stopped after what was probably only seconds but felt like hours to Lyron, hoisting him up once again to eye level.

“Be grateful for my lady’s mercy, for I would show you none,” the demon commanded.

Lyron had no time to process these words, as the demon flung him through the air once again. There was a brief sensation of cold, as if he had been thrown into water, before he crashed into the ground, rolling for several feet.

He lay in the grass on his back, staring up at the sky only because he felt he had forgotten how even to close his eyes. The sun was approaching the horizon, as if ready to set. That was strange. It was just before noon, right?

Using all the energy he could muster, Lyron turned his head to the side, and his stomach dropped. 

Before him, like a shining jewel in the distance, was the unmistakable capital of Sardvend in all its glory.

He was back in Vadenlaud.