Clockwork King

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Archer (2)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 18, 2013

Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Mythic Qin, Short Story. Tagged: archery, arrow-shield, clockwork, Clockwork King, farmers, jutsu, martial arts, Mythic Qin, nature, steam, tank, White Mountains, WPLongform, wuxia, Wyrms of Westerwood. 3 Comments

a tale of Mythic Qin

Ruo-jian Chao walked slowly down the road in the early afternoon toward a device intricately made; a machine whose origins were of an alien design, one combining the majesty of clockwork mechanisms and the power of steam engines. Though Qin had both types of devices, they were never used together and never as weapons of war. The West had different sensibilities, it seemed to the old man.

The device was a giant. It stood twice the height of a tall man and as wide as a man was tall. It moved on two legs, its gait before it stopped was surprisingly swift despite is mass and its wide feet managed to move through any terrain without difficulty. It was made of an orange metal which might be brass, except it was far too red. It wasn’t purely copper either because no verdigris addressed its joints or extremities, areas known to rust on machines made from copper. The machine had a unhealthy shine, something about its appearance drove the eye away from it, making you unable or unwilling to focus on it.

The old man stopped and adjusted his chakra, his inner Qi energies and made a single handsign. Suddenly he could see the enchantments on the armor. A large rune was hidden in its ornate carvings, a powerful but primitive rune of misdirection. A warrior who trusted only his eyes might swing wide or aim too high as the rune altered their perception of the target.

Despite its cunning design as a mighty weapon of war, it was little more than a blunt instrument, like a sledgehammer made for destroying rocks in a quarry. Hardly the right tool for a threat such as he. It was not a tool he would have to fear. He would flow like water around it.

He approached within thirty yards and stopped. “I have no quarrel with thee. Go in peace. Return from whence you came and no more will be spoken of it, no honor lost.” Ruo-jian Chao’s accent was a bit thick but he thought it should be understandable to the drivers of the mechanism. He used the formal speech of the Western Kingdoms as he had learned when they came to this land so long ago.

The device, which looked so much like a man, had a face molded into the area where the head would be. The mouth opened and the clever device appeared to speak much as a man would, its mouth moving in syncopation with its words. “We will pass and you will allow it. You are one and we are as many.”

“Thou means to say, your power is as many, so I should allow thee to pass since you have the might to do so?”

“Yes.”

“It is our custom to reveal your name so that a warrior may tell your kin of your deeds in battle. You may call me Ruo-jian Chao. This province belongs to my family and in the absence of its garrison and guardians, I will send thee away or to thy doom.” The old man seemed to stand straighter, his cloak which he had kept over his slumped shoulders, fell away, revealing a thin shirt and a powerful chest. His arms and shoulders were covered in scars. His legs boasted an equal number of such scars and his brown skin was lined like a worn parchment. His wide and shoeless feet slid into the grass, feeling the earth and knowing its density, its resistance and how it would aid or impede his movement. The quiver of arrows were low-slung so they did not interfere as his cloak fell away.

“We have no such custom where we come from, but know this: We are not alone. You mistook our statement. Behold.” Two dozen men appeared as if they stepped from the shadows. A rune appeared on their armor for only a moment as they appeared, cloaked by magic. Each wore the livery of the Clockwork King, a great gear, a hammer and a sword on their tabard. They were lightly armed, a hardened leather-like armor, much like a fish’s scales. They wore a strange mask similar to the clockwork device’s face, their emotions hidden from view.

Ruo-jian Chao watched their movements, they moved as a unit, familiar with each other, trained together. The archers maintained their distance, while the swordsman, using two swords, one long and the other short approached in a crescent formation. The giant stood at the center of their attack wedge. “Can we broker no peace?”

“None. If you will not yield, you will die.”

The archers tightened their draw. The swordsman waited until the first volley would incapacitate their foe. The Clockwork raised its right hand and a small cannon protruded from its palm.

“So be it.” Ruo-jian Chao launched his first arrow before anyone saw him move. The Clockwork device fired its cannon a split second after he loosed his arrow.

Dà Gōng Nán sang a song of power. The release of the bowstring gave forth a musical note which caused everyone who heard it to hesitate, such was the power of the vibration from the bow. Its first arrow penetrated the great cannon and when it fired, the arm exploded from within. Shrapnel from the explosion caught two of the swordsmen closest to it and blew them from their feet. Their torn bodies were still landing before Dà Gōng Nán sang again. The archer farthest from Ruo-Jian flew from his feet as the arrow caught him in his eye, his turning head caused his arrow to be loosed and strike another swordsman in the back. Spinning from his shooting position, he heard seven arrows pass where he was a moment ago. Two archers held their shot.

The swordsman were fast, two of them closed the old man and their swords were flashing slivers of light as they attempted to carve Ruo-jian apart. Normally he would have had his own sword and they would already be dead. Instead he disarmed one by stepping inside of his swing and turned him around into his companion who would stab him. With the short sword released by the dying man, Ruo-jian spun and stabbed the second swordsman in the neck.

The release of two arrows. The old man dropped as the two swordsman were now pinned together by the remaining arrows.

Breath. Roll. Throw. The long knife flashed into the mask of an oncoming swordsman.

Ruo-jian grabbed his body as a shield when the next volley of arrows flew. Four found their mark in the swordsman’s flesh. One nicked Ruo-jian as he spun away. The last archer was slow in his firing and shot after his fellows. The old man plucked his arrow from the air and flipping it with his fingertips, restrung and fired before the archer had realized he missed.

They were moving slower. More disorganized. Not used to having to work. What’s that?

A click preceded the explosion of the ground front of him and only his quick reflexes spared him from the worst of the damage. The other swordsmen who were closing on Ruo-jian were knocked down and away from the old man who had landed in the tall grass at the edge of the road. Only one swordsman remained on his feet as the second arm cannon of the Clockwork fired into the midst of the attacking soldiers. Monstrous! They would kill their own to destroy an enemy.

Face down, Ruo-jian had held on to his bow, the mighty Dà Gōng Nán. As he brought the weapon to bear on the Clockwork device, it had opened two more gun ports on its chest plate. He would have to choose. Before he could make the shot, the Clockwork device exploded as the one of the two bolts from the ballista tore through one of its legs. Realizing the Clockwork would now spin to the left, its aim would be off. It’s chest cannons roared as its two shells streaked off into the distance. The old warrior didn’t have time to wonder where they might land. Ruo-jian sprinted and shot at one of the remaining archers who had maintained his presence of mind and was shooting at the same time.

Their arrows passed each other in flight. The old man shot better. Taking the younger bowman in the chest his arrow went completely through him. Ruo-jian was already taking his next shot. The now dead archer, however, did hit his mark and the old man’s thigh also had an arrow protruding from it. Their bows were less powerful and lacked penetrating power. Dà Gōng Nán sang again making one more shot and taking one more life before its bowstring broke, damaged by shrapnel in the explosion.

Ruo-jian watched as the remaining five archers sensing a momentary advantage rallied to fire again. The lone swordsman looking at his stunned and downed fellows hesitated, hoping the archers might take the day. Ruo-jian held Dà Gōng Nán out in front of him and with his free hand made a rapid handsign. He planted the end of the bow in the ground as the archers shot collectively. Dà Gōng Nán sprouted five arrows, seemingly drawing the arrows to it. Ruo-jian was already on the move, scooping up a longsword and short sword as he ran toward the archers.

Slowing down. Chakra disrupted by arrow. I need to end this now or I’m finished.

The old man could feel his jutsu’s failing, but he only needed a few more seconds. The short sword was thrown with speed and accuracy taking out the archer closest to him. Using the other longsword he parried two of the arrows as the third caught him in is upper arm, the fourth flew wide and that archer was the one closest to him. A single slash of his sword and his head was gone. Ruo-jian turned to face the remaining three archers and single swordsman. Blood flowed down his face from a shrapnel injury, multiple cuts across his upper body as well as the two arrows made him appear more monster than man. For a second the four of them stood motionless, each evaluating the other.

The crash of the Clockwork device as it toppled decided the battle. The last four fled without looking back.

Ruo-jian watched as they fled down the road. Then his chakra ran out and he collapsed where he stood.

When he awoke, his grandson Chen stood over him, a smile beaming on his face. “The last four were headed toward the White Mountains. We think they’re going to try and desert. There were two other survivors from the shell that exploded in the group. We tied them up and put them next to their machine. The rest of the dead have been taken off the road as well. We’ve stationed the ballista so they point down the road, but there have been no other sightings of anyone else coming that way for the moment. We have people keeping watch.”

“Which of you missed with the ballista?”

“I did, grandfather. Pa-mel’s shot was excellent. She is helping with their setup.”

“You might want to get more practice.” The old man noticed he had been patched up relatively well and would be adding a few more scars to his collection. “Where is Dà Gōng Nán?”

“Right here. We couldn’t remove the arrows.” Chen demonstrated by pulling each arrow as hard as he could.

“There’s a jutsu on the bow, so you won’t be able to pull them out. Only I could. The arrow shield jutsu made sure no arrow would hit me as long as I held Dà Gōng Nán.

“If no one could hit you as long as you were using the jutsu, then why didn’t you carry it with you to protect you from their arrows?” Chen looked at his grandfather with a look of profound confusion.

The old man reached over and grabbed one of the Clockwork archer’s bows and quivers. He hobbled away from his grandson who was still holding Dà Gōng Nán. He fired an arrow at the boy. Chen reflexively held the ancient weapon in front of him. The arrow found itself embedded in the bow. “Try to move with the bow in your hand,” Ruo-jian directed. Ruo-jian fired again as Chen tried to take a step. The bow caught the arrow again and Chen had not moved. Not a single step.

The old man dropped the foreign bow and was helped over to his grandson. “I told you when we first discussed handsigns and jutsu, every jutsu offers an advantage and a price for using it. In this case, the arrow-shield sacrifices mobility, a pure and nearly perfect defense but no offense. Since they could not know about it, they would not realize what they were seeing until it was too late. I used their surprise to my advantage.” His grandfather made a handsign and stroked the bow gently. The seven arrows dropped to the ground, unbroken. His face hardening, he looked at the wreckage and then at Chen. “Take me to them.”

Chen hoisted his grandfather onto his back and walked to the still smoking wreckage of the Clockwork device. His grandfather felt lighter and more frail. His old body was cold and trembling uncontrollably; the price of using so much chakra at his age. He would probably sleep for a week.

The two swordsman sat with their heads slumped forward and unmoving. Chen put Ruo-jian down next to the men who lifted their masked faces and appeared startled as the still bloody and bandaged old man sat before them. Trying to use the informal speech of the West, Ruo-jian spoke to the two soldiers, “This battle is now over. We offer you a chance at peace with us, or at least a return to your people.” Ruo-jian invoked the ritual of hospitality with reluctance. He had seen these people in battle and knew they would never keep their word as a native of Qin might.

“We refuse your offer. Our God-King will come to this forsaken land and cleanse it. He will build our factories of war with your bones as our fuel. Your blood will be used to drive our infernal devices giving them the life they need to continue our conquest of your land. Your people are nothing before our might.” The last statement trailed off as if he were embarrassed he had made it.

“My grandfather destroyed your machine and your men alone. He is nearly seventy summers old. Your might has not impressed us much.” Chen’s thoughts left his lips before he considered them seriously. His grandfather’s stern and reproving look said as much.

“Tell us of your advancing army, how soon before they arrive here?” Ruo-jian had no hope they would tell him anything useful. If there was anyone else coming down the road soon, he was in no shape to contend with it. The ache went all the way to his bones.

The second swordsman who had remained silent up till now, raised and cocked his head. “Our army is still quite a ways off, old warrior. We were sent to test the mettle of those we encountered along the way. When we met resistance and did not return, they would send the forces required to pacify this region, nothing more. When they return, there will be machines far more powerful than this training weapon and warriors far more seasoned than we. They will show no quarter. Expect none. I have told you more than I should but your skill in defeating us warrants my respect.”

Together in unison, they shouted: “We are from the Machine by the Machine and of the Machine. We return to the Machine. All hail the Clockwork!” Then the two soldiers began to scream as smoke rose from inside their armor and masks. Their bodies shook violently as they began to smolder and burst into flame. Suddenly all of the soldiers bodies did the same thing, exploding into flame. The farmers moved away in horror as the bodies of their enemies caught on fire. In the distance, four distinct screams echoed off the White Mountains, agonized screams which carried on the wind and too eventually stopped.

As the fires died, Ruo-jian took off one of their masks. The seared flesh peeled away from the bone beneath the mask. The stink of burning flesh rose into the late afternoon air.

Archer (1)

Posted by Ebonstorm on April 15, 2013

Posted in: 30 Characters in 30 Days 2013, 30 Stories in 30 Days 2013, 30 x 30 x 30, Mythic Qin, Short Story. Tagged: archery, clockwork, Clockwork King, farmers, martial arts, Mythic Qin, nature, tank, White Mountains, wuxia, Wyrms of Westerwood. 2 Comments

a tale of Mythic Qin

“The Great Wyrms of Westerwood were incredible beasts, easily as long as twenty wagons stretched end to end and weighing more than a full grown oak.”

My grandfather was a doddering old fool but he knew how to tell a good tale. I had heard this one so many times, even when I was out of earshot, his telling of this particular tall tale came back to me, in my inner ear.

“These were the greatest of the Great Wyrms. None had been seen like that since the wars of the Third Age in which they were all destroyed. Unable to be tamed, we battled them until they were driven from our skies. Our mountains still bear the great scars as the Wyrms fell and destroyed themselves against the mountain walls.”

I turned around to see the White Mountains and the brutal scars which adorned her sides. Trees grew halfway to the summit before the mountains became inhospitable, only ice and snow covered the rest. There were three gouges in the side of the mountain, large even from this distance, as if the mountain had been struck by a one of the Clockwork King’s bombs. Up close, it might take half a day to cross one of the scarred regions. Nothing natural grew in those places now.

“They had four legs, as thick as tree trunks. No I don’t mean seedlings either. It would take two men to be able to reach around those legs, I tell you. Their wing span was nearly as wide as they were long. Great wings which blotted out the sun if you saw them during the day. Their wings were thick as the leather armor I once wore serving the God-Emperor of Qin. But they were supple, too. They could be folded back along their body and this made them able to run faster than the fastest horse. Even on foot, they were something out of nightmare.”

My grandfather would sit and look out over the field with a short bow helping to protect us against predators while we farmed. Our county lost our last dog to the dire wolves which prowled the kingdom since the Clockwork King’s armies began their assault against Qin. The youngest who were too small to farm would sit with him and listen to his stories about early Qin and our southern border neighbors Wester, named after their greatest invader conqueror King Wester.

“Unlike their smaller wyvern cousins we tamed, the Great Worms could not be broken. They were proud and noble beasts. In the end, they flew high in the skies to avoid us. So high even my bow, Dà Gōng Nán couldn’t reach them.”

My grandfather was not nearly as humble as my father, Wu Chao, thought he should be. Perhaps it comes from grandfather having once been a great warrior. He was called Ruo-jian Chao, the Unsurpassed Blade, once known for his mastery of the sword and the great longbows of the Southern Provinces. But what battle does not take from a man, old age eventually does. Closer to seventy summers than sixty, he had grown infirm from a back injury he acquired during one of our many border wars. He could walk but it was agony for him, even using a cane brought him no relief.

I carried him to the edge of the field into a small covered tower to let him keep his eyes on the children. I was no warrior but a scholar like my father. This disappointed my grandfather greatly. He insisted I be trained in the basic arts of war. He honed my body’s strength and I secretly cheered even as I outwardly chaffed being taken from my studies. I gained the best of two worlds. I enjoyed the fact I could carry him to the field without struggle or strain.

He insisted on being allowed to stand watch and telling stories to the youngest of the children which kept them from underfoot until they could help with the farming chores. Though he could not stand for long, his arms were still strong enough to choke a wolf to death, barehanded. His archery, even with the inferior short bow, was never less than perfection itself.

My father, thanks to his own craft and my grandfather’s service held this land on the edge of the kingdom with a small garrison to help keep the farming resources flowing into the empire. My father was always fond of saying, “Shen, one day, this will all be yours. All I ask is you be ready for it.” The life of a farmer was not one I sought but came to me anyway.

“Their skin was tougher than the strongest iron and as black as the midnight coal. Up close, their scales were pitch black and cast no reflection at all. These were creatures designed to hide in dark places, only their gleaming golden eyes would give them away. They were thought to be so dark, men were known to take cover and stand right next to one without knowing, thinking they had found a shadow perfect for the waiting. A yellow glow and a final chomp was all that was left of them.” The children laughed at his overemphasis on the sound effects of his story.

Since the Clockwork Wars began nearly thirty years ago, they ravaged the kingdoms and provinces to the north and east. Recently, King Wester’s family and the bordering forest of the Westerwood have made overtures of peace and my father and the other elders have been eager to entertain them, since both sides have suffered great losses. Our province which encompasses my father’s land and the lands of Wester, south of us have begun to see more of the forces from the once distant war creeping ever closer to home.

“What about at night, noish-pa, did the Great Worms hunt at night?” One of the children piped up at the appropriate time.

“An astute question, young one, planning on a career in dragon-hunting?” The young child hoisted his tiny bow, a perfect replica of grandfather’s bow, Dà Gōng Nán.”

“Noish-pa, there are no such things as the Great Wyms anymore, only their much smaller cousins. You told us there hadn’t been a dragon seen even in the forest of Westerwood for thirty summers.” One of the girls from a neighboring farm, Pa-mel, shouted as she dropped off a bundle of rice and took a sip of water in the shade.

“Nonsense girl, they have just taken to flying at night because of bows like mine. Our province once boasted some of the finest archers in Qin. Even the dragons knew they had better take to flying only at night. But as much as we feared them in the day, at night they were even worse. Night hunters, they flew silently, snatching cows from the field barely disturbing even the grass under their feet. By the time you heard the whoosh of them overhead, all you would feel would be the wind of their mighty wings and the cries of your cow moving away in the distance. It was chilling.”

“Brrrrr.” the children squeal in unison.

“Would one of you youngsters bring your noish-pa something to parch an old man’s throat?” As the youngster hopped down from the covered overlook built for archers, Grandfather picked up his bow and moved the arrows in between his knees. His face lost the smile we had come to expect from him.

Then I heard it too. A whistle in the distance, the whistle of a steam engine, something large and mobile. The whistling sound grew steadily closer. As it crested the hill, we could see it in the distance; grey and brown with a stilted gait. It was a clockwork machine! There weren’t supposed to be any of their machine armies this far south. The machine moved slowly, clumsily, not like anything my father or grandfather described.

“It’s damaged. That makes it twice as dangerous. That device usually has at least two men with it. But it could support two dozen. I don’t see anyone but that could mean it is just being used to draw fire while their soldiers steal and burn food supplies. Shen, bring me Dà Gōng Nán and her arrows from below. Then get everyone out of the field. Pa-mel, you go with Shen and the other men to arm the two ballista at the edge of the field. Wait for my signal. I will stop it where you have the best chance at a shot.

“Grandfather, how will you get to the machine?” He stood up at the top of the tower and made some rapid handsigns. Signs he had never taught me. Then he walked to the edge of the tower and jumped to the ground. Qi mastery was not something to be taken lightly. He explained to me it should be used only in emergencies. This must qualify.

“I’ll walk, you take care of everyone else.” Taking Dà Gōng Nán from me, he turned and ambled down toward the road to face the deadly mechanism. Alone.

End of Part 1 – Duck into the tall grass and read Archer, part 2

Aethermancer: Saga of the Clockwork King

Posted by Ebonstorm on November 29, 2011

Posted in: Aethermancer: The Saga of The Clockwork King, Character Bio. Tagged: Black, Celestials, clockwork, Clockwork King, demon, fantasy, galaxy, magic, Mythic Qin, Rhackomanon, science fiction and fantasy, sorceress, steampunk, sword and sorcery, woman, wuxia. Leave a comment

Rhackomanon: The Sixth Demon Prince

An Untimely Meeting

a tale of Mythic Qin

She was a vision in black, her hair braided in tiny rows, held close to her scalp and then plaited together ran down her back to her waist. She was of the clan Modru, the Sundwellers, so she was of a dark brown hue, her skin, smooth like fine ironwood, with full lips, slightly parted as she look down into her hands at a small glowing device. It whirred quietly as she waved it about from the cover of her cloak.

When she looked up, her brow furrowed, her eyes burned like coals, she was a woman with a mission. Her cloak, long and flowing covered her wide, strong shoulders, and she wore a right proper lady’s full dress, it too, in full black with only the tiniest traces of silver running down the bodice. I did not see it at first but she also bore a straight sword beneath her cloak at her hip, but it moved imperceptibly, part of her.

She turned down the brightly lit streets as the galaxy’s core had risen some hours ago and brilliantly lit the night. There were still a few people about, but this late, most were returning to their homes to be locking their doors against the night. I would be too, if I had a home from which to return. Many of us had been displaced after the wars with the Clockwork King of Lantu and even with his defeat, our suffering was still great. Homeless, I expected to huddle through the night, nibbling this crust of bread in my lap.

As I sat swaddled in darkness, I would have passed it off as a noble lady looking for a trinket but there was something about her that seemed out of place. Then she turned toward me and I could feel the power of her stare. My mother, cursed with the darkness passed it to me; I could see it in others. Even in the complete darkness, she could see me, I could feel it. Her gaze held me in place and as she approached, but I felt no malice, so I waited.

“Good sir, if I may have a moment of your time?”

Her manners, so deferential, to me, little more than a forgotten veteran of a dozen wars, I loved her in that second. “Yes, miss, how can I help you this evening?

“Have you seen anything passing strange or untoward this evening, near this corner? Anything that would make you wary or fearful? I know it seems a unusual question, but I ask your forbearance while you think.”

“I had seen something amiss but for the life of me I cannot seem to remember it. It was…” As I struggled to remember, I struggled for breath. My chest felt as if it were in a vice, the very air wrest from my lungs.

The lady looked into her hand again as the air above the tiny device began to glow strongly as she proffered it in my direction. Its clockwork parts clicked wildly. “Touch it. Now.” Her tone brooked no refusal and as I could not draw breath I was hardly in a state to refuse. Once I touched it, I could see a shape on my chest akin to a snake wrapped around me squeezing me tight. She took the strange device and pressed it to my chest and I could feel her will around me, solidifying and then the pressure was gone. As she withdrew the device I could see a silver thread pulled into it and fade after a few moments.

“What I seek is here, tell me quickly old veteran and then get as far away as your legs will carry you.”

Now that the creature was gone, the horror returned to me of the unspeakable things I had seen. I scrambled backward until I struck the wall and cowered, senseless for a few seconds. Then my words returned. “It was a Dsur daemon covered in brass armor, floating with three of its windkin slaves. It was fiery red and lightning flashed between its fingertips.” As my heart calmed, I remembered more. “I thought I was, at first, too deep in my cups. The creature rode a soldier who had come into town, sick with what I thought was Theron’s pox. I had it as a child, so I had no fear of him. I tried to convince him to share with an old hand, but he was lost in his visions. He asked which way to a chirurgeon and I pointed him down Lacksmir Way. He passed me a penny and as I thanked him, I saw it, I saw the Dsur and it saw me. The penny was infected with the creature and I could see it take me but could not resist.

“Where is Lacksmir Way?” Her voice had softened and she put the strange device away in her cloak and she reached toward a small pouch at her hip. I pointed wordlessly and she gave me a small collection of oddly shaped coins. They were Modruan silver bits, to me, a small fortune. “Now run as fast as you can from this place and head to the inn near the center of town. Rashaban’s Place. Tell him the Lady Ishtar sent you as my guest. He will provide anything you need. Now hurry. You have been of great service.”

I wanted to flee and not look back but as I stood to thank her, I felt the sudden chill, out of place on this warm summer night. The same breeze I felt earlier when the soldier passed. But this time, I saw the chirurgeon, an older man whose name escaped me because I had always been lucky enough to never go to him, but I knew his face and this was not him. Then the darkness parted and I could see the daemon’s essence again, hovering over the body of the chirurgeon, my bowels turned to water.

“It’s here.” I scramble away and she turns, draws her blade and deflects three kunai thrown at her from the three mistwraiths floating over the shoulders of the chirurgeon.

“Aethermancer. So nice to see you again. I knew I could count on your timely arrival. After our last interaction, I needed a new host, no thanks to you. This time, I am fresh and you’re exhausted. It will end differently, I assure you. Destroy her.” He points and the mistwraiths swarm out with spirit kunai knives whirring through the air, each whistling a tiny song of death.

She stands her ground and her sword is a flashing blur, knocking away the kunai, their intent blunted, they vanish like smoke. “Run sir, there is naught here for you now but dying, you are not safe from either of us. Make haste and never look back!”

I ran down the street, as fast as my wizen feet could carry me, scrambling on my hands and knees as the terror came from the Mistwraiths in waves, mixed within their smoke that comprised their bodies, they were covering the entire area in a cold fog of icy ennui. A tendril touched my leg and I fell over, tumbling limply in the street until I stopped moving. I felt nothing. No fear, no terror, no concern for my life.

My life had become crushingly filled with despair and there was no release save death. I slowly sat up, hearing the sound of battle two dozen steps away and the deadly play of her sword work, but try as she might, she could get no advantage on the mistwraiths, nor could they press their numerical superiority, her sword seemed to be everywhere. I pressed my rags for a knife, and found the scrap of a blade that I carried for self defense, something broken found on a battlefield long ago. I found my wrists and sat down. My first cut was pain-free and soothing, the crush of life began to fade from me. And I watched her, drawn to the beauty of her dance.

She moves to gain more mobility and whirls her cloak through the air, blinding a Wraith. Pulling her blade back to her, extending her arm behind her and blade in front, she whispers the word, “Shikai.” The mist in the area explodes away from her and one of the wraiths who was to close is disrupted along with the rest of their glamour. The wraith who was covered by the cloak in those seconds, phases free, only to meet her glittering blade now covered in shimmer field of blue energy. The wraith blocks with his spirit kunai, but they stop nothing. He is no more. Her body is covered in the same blue aura, but her breath is ragged now and she stands still as the last Wraith retreats to the chirurgeon.

“You weak pathetic fools. I will destroy her myself. But you will feed me first.”

“No, Master, anything but that.” A terrible vortex appears over the mouth of the chirurgeon and the mistwraith is drawn toward it, unable to escape. It’s terrible wail as it is being consumed echoes down the street.

“Now Aethermancer Ishtar, destroyer of cities, breaker of gates, and slayer of the Clockwork King, his vengeance is now upon you. I was summoned from my castle of Brass, enslaved to his will and even his death did not free me. It would seem only yours will suffice. Have you made your peace?”

“One of us will die this day Daemon, but it shall not be me. You still have five kin left on in the Realm. I will not leave this work undone, no matter what the cost.”

“We shall see. Defend yourself.” He moved, impossibly fast, first he was standing ten steps away, and then he was one, his hand swung through the air, a blade formed of his dark aether, but when he expected contact there was none.

“We both know Shumpo, the quickstep. You will have to do better.” She smiled. For just a moment she seemed her old self, fast, beautiful, dangerous, but their battle had simply moved to a different level, they were still too evenly matched. As my life bled out, I knew I might die, before the battle was determined. Each strike of her weapon or his aether, rang out, creating waves of force that wore on the very ground and buildings around them. At one point, a group of constables appeared, and the force of the battle knocked them back down the street. They fled.

I could hear her breath now, fast, hard, rough. She is slowing down, but so is he, his skin tightening upon his face, becoming grey and lifeless. His muscles disappearing every time he tries to increase his speed. The two are now moving at speeds that resemble human combat again. Still fast, but no longer the ghostlike blurs of a few seconds ago.

“Rhackomanon, no more talk? It’s not like you to be silent. Not feeling as confident as you were?”

“No sorcereress, I am simply savoring your last moments. Your sword is heavy, isn’t it. Your legs like lead. Shunpo deserts you now. You are just flesh, your chi expended, what can you possible do against the likes of me!” The body of the chirurgeon falls to its knees and opens its mouth. the Daemon Rhackomanon pours forth, a ghost with flesh, crimson with fanged tusks, bright brass armor covered with noxious runes, they hurt my eyes to see. He towers over her, covered in flames. “Time to die, Witch.”

She looks at me. I feel her sadness. I feel the pain at what she is about to do. I forgive her as I feel my spirit drawn to her.

“Bankai.” Her whisper belied the power of the word. The world grew silent.

Suddenly I see her as I could never in life. She is not diminished, she is like a star, suddenly brighter than I could have imagined as I rush into her and surround her with the eight others I see standing with her. My energy invigorates her, and she slashes with abandon. Rhackomanon parries but it is of no use, her sword now tears into him, breaking his brass shield, his brass armor, he claws but she is never there. She is like a surgeon striking again and again, each blow steals more of his aether.

She uses the quickstep and appears near my body, staring at the blood all around it. Rhackomanon sees her looking at me and rushes as his fires surge blue-white he appears and her sword is through his chest, slashing, with abandon, until she strikes the heart of the daemon. Then she grabs his mighty form, and says to him, “See this man. He was your undoing. When you return to your hell for a thousand years, weak and prey for others of your kind, I want you to remember his face. Not mine. His is the sacrifice that binds your spirit. To Hell with you.”

She releases him and makes a series of gestures. A shimmering field with dark tendrils reaches out and Rhackomanon is still conscious as his diminished form is drawn back into the void. His screams chill the blood of any who hear it and will cause those to have nightmares to last a lifetime. His promises of power fall on deaf ears.

Her sword, with the aether it has absorbed, glows and beats with a sinister life. She whips it around into its ornate scabbard. Covered with runes, darkly sinister, etched in malice and blood on the sheath quell and bind the daemonic power for use another day.

She turns to me, and she can see me. The other eight spirits disappear, leaving the two of us alone. “I am sorry this happened to you.”

“What does this mean, I thought I was dead?”

“You are, but you are bound to me and my quest. As long as I live, or your spirit persists, you will lend your power to me.”

“I don’t have any powers.”

“I know, but the human soul is a power in and of itself. Do you suppose daemons would not bargain so hard for them unless they had a power we do not appreciate?”

“Will I ever be released?”

She walks over to her cape and with the tiniest application of her power, her cape and clothing resume their previously pleasing forms. With the last of her dwindling power, she destroys my body, leaving not a trace of me in the world. At first I resented it. Then I realized, I wasn’t doing anything with my life until she came along. Perhaps dead, I might make more difference than I did in life.

She looked at her compass and turned west. We walked into the setting light of the galactic core.

First Appearance: The Aethermancer Ishtar and the demon prince Rhackomanon have a history that goes back several years. However, when we first meet him in the novel Aethermancer, he is getting his ass handed to him and starts the story being the second casualty of our heroine. Once we start going backward in time, we will see their struggle was much more complex than it appears in this scene.

About the Artist: Another *Rhado masterpiece, there are no words for this piece other than bodacious, covered in awesome-sauce. The piece, called Zarah Neman, was another of his commissioned works made in a variety of media. I chose it for the demonic being called Rhackomanon because of the six of his demonic brothers, he is still the most likely to appear human even outside of a host being. He gets his ass handed to him because he is arrogant.