Hubris - 87. Episode 87

A dozen troops surrounded Crowe and Barghast from all sides; a dozen troops who had given their lives to the constant spinning of the war machine. They ran down the steps of the tower and Crowe ran with them. It was either that or be trampled beneath their boot heels. All around them fires burned, casting distorted shadows on the chipped cobblestones. The streets were littered with debris and corpses. Only in his dreams had the practitioner seen so many corpses. Those who had not been shot or slashed down by blade were charred, burnt to black. Curls of ash rained from the sky.

Shapes moved in between the shadowed spaces, seeming to materialize in and out of existence, disappearing before Crowe could track their movements. All he could hear was the thunder of boots against the gritty pavement and the pounding of his own heart. They jumped over fallen sections of buildings, entire edifices that had been brought down by explosives. Lask hissed orders under his breath, gesturing with a gloved hand. The troops spread out, Augusta and two other soldiers hanging back to cover the rear. Barghast stopped suddenly, his eyes tracking the top of a spire directly in front of them. Suddenly he grabbed the back of Lask's collar as a crack split the air.

The bullet sparked against the ground where Lask had been standing a second ago. Barghast's rifle swung to the right before bucking back with a shot of his own. A shout sounded above their heads. Crowe caught a glimpse of thrashing limbs before a body hit the ground with a bone-crunching thud. Lask sprung forward, ducking beneath an awning. “Go, go, go!” he hissed, waving for the troops to run ahead of him.

Crowe turned around in time to see someone peek from behind a pillar long enough to chuck something in the air. “Explosives!” he shouted.

“I’ve got it!” Boomer shouted back with a savage grin. The muzzle of his rifle tracked the downward arch of the dynamite. His rifle bucked once. The explosive burst apart, making the air shutter. Even as Crowe ducked low he could feel the heat on the back of his neck. More bullets slammed into the pillar pressed against his back, chipping at the rock. A glance to his left showed that Barghast leaned against the next pillar, just out of reach. The enemy’s fire was too heavy to risk leaping over to him.

Movement up ahead. Someone was coming around a corner. The muzzle of a rifle swung in the practitioner's direction. He dropped to the ground as a bullet slammed into the wall above his head. A swish of his rod sent the assailant tumbling backwards in a flash of white light. Before he could gain his footing someone grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him to his feet. They were on the run again, troops spilling out into the next street. There was a whistling sound behind them and the building which they had just been using for cover groaned once before sagging to the ground in defeat, kicking up clouds of dust.

Someone screamed, the sound blood-thirsty and full of rage. The source of the rage lunged out from behind a vendor’s stall, a blade spinning from their hands. The blade sunk in between the shoulder blades of the soldier in front of Crowe; the impact sent them sprawling on their face. There was no time to help the soldier to their feet. Two more attackers had already joined the fray, their faces tattooed and skeletal. A detonation rocked the ground beneath the practitioner's feet. He had to cling to the corner of a stall to keep from losing his balance.

An occultist sprung up behind him, an axe raised above his head. The practitioner lashed out with a kick that sent his attacker stumbling backwards. Augusta leapt forward with a war cry. The butt of her rifle connected with his assailant’s head with a heavy thud. Again Lask and his troops were on the move, marching into the next street.

Lask pulled a flare from his belt. He ducked behind a pile of debris before he struck a match to light the fuse. He chucked it in the air. “Hopefully the other squad will see it,” he croaked hoarsely. He didn't sound overly convinced they would. A moment later an answering flare arched towards the sky. “That's them!” Lask shouted. “Move, move, move!”

It was a mad dash across thirty meters of exposed space. Already the enemy was advancing towards them, armed with knives, pitchforks and machetes, their faces tattooed in leering grins. More closed in from the left. Crowe could hear more shouts coming from the cafe in the front. Lask kicked the door open and they lunged inside before the enemy could close in from both directions.

For a moment Crowe was blind while his eyes readjusted to the gloom. He could see human shapes pressed up against the wall behind a set of overturned tables, huddled together. Other than their outlines it was impossible to see within the gloom that filled their newfound hiding place. Bodies shifted around. Voices stirred. Somewhere nearby a child sniffled, their sobs muffled by adult prayers. The stink of sweat and fear filled the place. Crowe reached through the dark until he found Barghast's paw; he resisted the urge to cling to the Okanavian out of fear of being separated again.

A lantern bloomed in the dark. Lask's dirt-smeared face appeared in the flow. “I’m looking for the one who is in charge here.”

“That would be me,” a man whispered. He raised a hand to his mouth to muffle a cough before stepping to the front of the crowd. A sense of familiarity about the man nudged at the back of Crowe’s mind. The man's face was ruddy with smears of dirt and a weeks old worth of fiery red beard. His bright red hair was braided back from his skull. The last time Crowe had seen him, the man had been imprisoned in the back of a torchcoat wagon with other imprisoned souls. The practitioner remembered how the man had coldly dispatched a fallen torchcoat by slitting her throat; it was a memory that haunted the herald until this very day. Elias, he thought. His name was Elias.

There was little room inside the pub to get comfortable. Everyone stood with their shoulders pressed together. Lask and Elias hunched close together; their faces looked hollow. Elias in particular looked malnourished. We’re all machines running on fumes, the practitioner thought. How long before the oil drum runs out? He drew closer to get a better listen.

“How long have they had you pinned down?” Lask asked.

“For several hours,” Elias replied without hesitation; in spite of the dark circles around his eyes he sounded fully alert. “We’ve managed to hold them off with only a few casualties, but we're getting low…both on ammo and energy. As you can see I have several refugees with me. Some of them are injured. We managed to get one man on a makeshift stretcher of sorts, but we're afraid to move him.”

“We're only a few blocks away from the main spire where the governor has fortified himself and set up an infirmary. We'll take you back to the tower where your men and those who follow you can receive medical attention. From there we will continue to clear out the streets one block at a time.”

Elias grinned and something familiar and savage flashed in his dark blue eyes. “That sounds like a plan. I’ll gather everyone up.”

Under the direction of Lask and Elias the refugees gathered without protest. Crowe looked into their empty, wounded faces and saw that many of them did not have the spirit to protest. They've given up on hope. Many of them think this is their last moments. This time the practitioner sensed it would take more than words of encouragement and prayer to stir their spirits back up. Children clung to their mothers and fathers, their faces watchful and grave. Suddenly Crowe could feel eyes watching him. He turned his head to find Elias watching him closely.

“I know you,” the man said in a voice that sounded slightly uncertain.

“We’ve met before,” Crowe admitted at last. For a moment he was back on the highway, watching the man stalk towards a fallen torchcoat with a blade in hand. It was hard to believe that had been a year ago. In some ways it feels as if it's been longer. So much has happened since then.

“This is the herald of Monad,” Lask said with a grin, clapping the practitioner on the back.

Elias blinked before bowing his head. “Yes, of course. Forgive my manners.”

“No offense taken.” Crowe stepped back so that Lask could lead the conversation again. Something about Elias still made him feel uneasy; he didn't want to talk to the other practitioner any longer than he had to. That he might one day encounter a scenario that would drive him to such measures was a thought he still didn't want to think about. The only good thing about this loop is that it erases our past sins, he thought grimly. At least for those who cannot remember. “I am here to provide whatever aid I can.”

The refugees were gathered in a single line; the strongest of the men were given the task of carrying the children. Crowe did not see hope of fear in their eyes but expressions of a grim resignation. Not for the first time Crowe realized how truly ignorant he was. Just when you’d thought you'd seen all that war can do to a country. These people have lost all hope. The horrors they’ve witnessed have scoured them of all emotion. The sight of the children, drowsing in states of semi-catatonia reminded him of what was at stake; and the stakes were high.

He led Barghast to the front of the line just as Lask and Elias kicked the door of the pub down. They burst out into the streets, leading the charge into battle. Matthiesen's soldiers closed around the civilians like a fist, reminding Crowe that each soldier here was fully prepared to give their lives for those they were sworn to protect. As the herald I must be prepared to do the same. How could I stop below such standards? Once more adrenaline pumped through his veins, bringing everything into sharp focus.

Human shapes sprung out of the shadows, wielding ashes and pitchforks. A small army closed in on the ragtag group from both sides. Several of them were armed with rifles and a few ran forward with sticks of explosive strapped to their back. They ran in straight lines for Lask's group, trailing smoke behind them. Lask, Elias, and the demolition team took them out with precise shots to the forehead while still running. A stick of explosive arched through the air towards their heads. Crowe summoned a solid wall of mana to meet the impact of the dynamite. The explosive burst into a cloud of fire, flame licking along the curve of the dome like a dragon’s tongue.

“Stay together!” Lask roared over his shoulder.

The message passed down the line, the group thrumming with the command. Crowe had been wrong to think the civilians were completely lost to shock; this far they’d managed to keep up with Lask and his growing entourage. Elias' troops were every bit as skilled and graceful as Lask’s. In the time since Crowe's last encounter with the man on the Daminion Highway, Elias had grown from a cutthroat rebel to a capable commander.

Like a well-oiled machine, Lask and Elias and their followers drew back from their attackers before springing out in a single charge. Crowe unleashed volleys of mana at the army of tattooed assailants. His blood sang in his ears. Each bolt of mana he channeled from his arm into his rod sent returning bolts of resistance back up his arm to his skull; soon that push of resistance would turn into bolts of pain that would grow until he bled. Just a bit further. If Lask, a regular man can push on, you can push on. A side glance at his lycan companion assured the practitioner that unlike him Barghast had no shortage in stamina. The lycan towered above the rest of the mob, his tail straight as an arrow.

A familiar blood-curdling shriek pierced the air. The mother of flame swooped between the towers, casting wreaths of smoke behind her. Already Crowe could feel the heat of her wings on the back of his neck. He imagined her talons closing on the collar of his robes and lifting him effortlessly into the air only to drop him to his death. He stopped, tugging on Barghast's tunic. “I’m going to lead the Architect away from the group,” he huffed. “I want you to follow Lask and come with me.”

“No, twin o’rre!” Barghast growled. “We are not separating again! I’m going with you…”

There was no time to argue. Bullets whizzed over their heads, smacking into stone walls. Barghast steered Crowe away from the draw of fire, ducking behind an overturned wagon. The practitioner could feel the start of a dull ache beginning to build behind his eyes. Voices shouted from somewhere behind the wagon. Three occultists fanned out, running in the direction of where the sorcerer and lycan were hunkered. Crowe ducked out from behind the wagon long enough to fire two volleys of mana from his rod. Through the haze of smoke he watched a body drop to the street. “Let's go!”

Crowe and Barghast ran. Within moments the clatter of gunfire grew distant behind them but the Architect's shrill shrieks was a reminder that they were still being pursued. Like a comet with a mind of its own, she soared above their heads. Black talons glinted with the promise of pierced flesh and agony. Turning desperately for sanctuary, Crowe shouldered the double doors of a church open and ducked inside. Barghast followed a step behind, kicking the doors shut behind him.

The muscles in Crowe's leg seized. He couldn't remember a time when he’d run more in his life. He stumbled, almost tripping over the leg of a pew. He clung to it for balance, praying that the Architect would not be able to come into the church. His prayers were thwarted when she crashed through the crystal glass windows. Jagged shards of glass rained from the vaulted ceilings. Barghast threw himself over Crowe before ducking behind the pews. The Architect's fury filled the church, heat billowing from her aviary form in every direction. Smoke rose towards the ceiling. Barghast's broad chest pressed Crowe to the floor.

After the heat subsided, Crowe and Barghast clambered to their feet. The Architect hovered before them, exuding wreaths of smoke and flame. A strong gust of ash-smelling wind blew Crowe's hood back from his face. Barghast took aim with his rifle and fired off several shots. They sizzled and fizzed out before hitting their target. Barghast seized Crowe's arm again, tugging at it, urging him to run once more, but Crowe's feet remained rooted to the spot. The practitioner sensed there was nowhere to run where the Architect would not follow. He pushed his will into the rod he still gripped tightly in his clammy fingers, gritting his teeth in determination. Either we end this fight here or we die here, he thought. Blood began to trickle from his nose.

He jabbed his rod in the Architect's direction and unleashed his fury on the mother of flame. Arcs of light burst from the tip of the rod, shattering the windows behind the Architect, striking her. She spun in place, a wall of flame springing up around her. She swooped forward with another hellish shriek. Crowe and Barghast sprung to the side to avoid her. The practitioner fired off several more volleys of mana, dancing on his feet. The Architect was swinging around for another pass, her talons extended. Her eyes blazed with fury.

Crowe pushed through the pain growing in his skull once more. A shockwave of mana exploded from him before slamming into the wall of flame that wafted from the Architect. The impact ripped through the church, punching through the windows, blowing the doors off their hinges, flinging Crowe off his feet. He hit the ground hard enough to punch the air from his lungs. Blackness threatened to engulf his vision from all sides. He clung to consciousness, knowing that the Architect was not yet defeated. Embers danced through the growing cloud of smoke. He rose to his feet, coughing, struggling to breathe.

It was impossible to see. Shards of glass crunched beneath his feet. The practitioner stumbled blindly forward. “Barghast,” he croaked. His hands fumbled through the gloom in search of the lycan.

The sound of glass crunching beneath feet made him turn. A dark figure emerged slowly from the gloom, staggering towards him. It was slighter than Barghast and rounder in the hips and bosom. In her true form this version of the Architect was a shrivelled thing, her skin wilted and blackened with burns. She's a representation of the fury the Architect and Gyrell both carry within them, the practitioner thought. One side of a multi-faceted coin. If I defeat her now will she be forever gone or will she remanifest?

The wraith continued to stagger towards him. Her burnt flesh glittered from where stray shards of glass had pierced it. She fell to her knees. Her eyes which had burned like white-hot coals were now as black as her flesh. Her expression was one of defeat. It was time to finish this once and for all.

Crowe closed the remaining distance between them. He should have felt fury. He should have felt fear. What he felt for this creature was a kind of pity. She's beautiful in her own broken way. Beneath her fury I sense a great amount of despair of her own…as if she has lost everything. As if she has lost a child. And for all that she is a destructive force that cannot be allowed to live.

“I’m sorry,” he told her. And he pushed the charm dangling from around his neck. Drawing on his inner flame, he said, “May you find splendor in the Eternal City. May Mercius’ flame burn away the chains that bind you!” His voice rose, building into a roar he didn't know he was capable of. A draft of wind blew through the chapel, brushing long black locks of hair back from his soot-covered face. His eyes reflected back at him through the surface of hers, white as bone. A flame traveled from the center of his core, down the length of his arm, through his fingers into the charm. The wind which had started has a single gust picked up into a moaning force with a fury and mind of its own, brushing flecks of ash and broken glass across the stone floor. The ground trembled once before splitting open, cracks forming around Crowe and the wraith, spreading like a growing web.

He felt something within the Architect rise up to meet him, to parry his attack, but he swept it aside as he might a fly. When he spoke again his voice vibrated with an alien power. “I am the herald of Monad, reflection of the one who created you…Like the lowest of mortals you are but a flea to me. I have the power to vanquish with a single thought if I so wish. And so I rebuke you, mother of ash. I command you to leave this city and return to your vessel. Warn her that the herald of Monad is coming with the flame of retribution riding at his back…”

Strands of white light shot from his hand, lancing up his arm. If anyone were to ask how he was doing this he wouldn't have known how to answer. The alien force that had seized over him had yet to name itself. It rooted him to the spot, the floor groaning at his feet. The fear that it could give way at any second was a distant muted thing. He gritted his teeth. He was merely a conduit, an instrument through which the power and will of Monad was channeled. Without him to guide me, I too would be little more than an insect. But because he lives through me I have everything. I am everything…

At last the light burst out through the mother of ashes’ nose and mouth in cones of blinding gold. She shrieked once, a sound that should have been deafening within this proximity, but did not reach him. The practitioner was too lost to be reached. Still he held on, the power passing through him in waves, making the air thrum around him…like a current building a charge. The draft blowing through the church had grown into a full roar, making the pews wobble and rock into one another. Flakes of the Architect's flesh blew away like dead leaves. Her eyes were wide in an expression that mimicked shock or fear, her mouth stretched open in a scream to which there was no end. And still the sound did not reach him. He felt as if he was standing on top of the tallest of mountains. To know such euphoria, to feel such bliss in the moment of triumph was a sin. If only he could pull back before it devoured him whole.

With a final shriek the Architect flew apart. The wind scattered her ashes across the altar and through the open planes of the window. Invisible hands seemed to slam into Crowe, almost knocking him down. Boulders of exhaustion crashed down on his shoulders. The euphoria was gone, leaving him weak and shaken. Had Barghast not been there to slide an arm around his shoulders he surely would have lost his footing.

“You did it.” Barghast held up a cloth to Crowe's bleeding nose. “You defeated her.”

“No,” the practitioner said, “I don't think I did. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing her again soon.”