Chapter 27
The Sons of the Black Sword moved quickly up a wide avenue. It was the only path available to them not totally consumed by fire. The demons’ trail was easy to follow because of all the corpses and body parts left behind. Flaming buildings crumpled and fell around them. The heat was overwhelming. The gutters ran with blood, which boiled and sizzled as burning debris fell into the red rivers. The air was choked with smoke.
Through this hell of fire, Ashok led them toward the final battle against the hell of water.
Broken glass crunched beneath their boots. The Fortress gunners kept their sacks of powder close to their bodies, shielded beneath their leather aprons so one of the many sparks that rained down upon them wouldn’t cause an inadvertent detonation. Innocents were trapped in the flaming rubble, but they could spare no time to aid them. Their pleas would haunt the survivors for the rest of their lives.
Warriors of Vadal and other houses, Protectors, Defenders, wizards, and even other bearers who had been scattered by the demonic assault had seen the Sons marching past and rushed to join their ranks. In this final hour there was no longer division between criminal or caste, of fanatic or Law-abiding, but only man united against demon. They abandoned the relative safety of their forts to follow Ashok into battle, not because they were ordered to, but because honor demanded it.
Through that chaos, Ashok moved as if in a haze, existing both in the present and a millennium ago simultaneously, for the memories buried in Angruvadal had never been more clear. The images rushed over him like being submerged in a rushing river, and these memories were so old that they could only have belonged to Angruvdal’s first master, Ramrowan himself.
As Vadal City burned now, so too had it burned a thousand years before. But those towering cubes of steel and glass had been far greater than the comparatively humble ones made of wood, brick, and carved stone that they marched past now. While the Sons faced hundreds of demons today, the ancients had fought millions, and both sides had been armed with weapons made of scalding light capable of slicing bodies to pieces. Above them today remained nothing but empty Upagraha, but for Ramrowan there had been many flying castles that had hurled down flaming bolts to split wide the sky. One by one those castles had fallen, burning through the air, and when the charred remains had struck the ground, they’d blown apart the world.
Yet in both times, at the end, all that remained to decide the fate of mankind was a small band of heroes who simply refused to quit.
They were but a thin shadow of the glory that had come before. Except Ashok, who had become something more. Blood of the gods, hybrid of black steel and man, defier of death, he was a weapon refined, prepared for this time over generations.
The sword’s memories faded as the enemy came into view once more. Ashok raised one fist.
Thousands of men stopped in the street, awaiting his orders.
Ahead of them were two of the giants, each as big as an elephant, blacker than night. That was the enemy’s rear guard. They turned toward Ashok when they sensed their doom approaching. In the distance, behind the giants was the lone tower, atop which was likely still the woman he loved.
Thera should have left as soon as the demons broke through. In his heart, he knew she hadn’t.
With Eklavya wounded, the real leadership of the Sons now fell to Ongud. “Your command, General?”
Ashok had been carrying his battered helm. He reached down and pried the bent steel of his visor back into place. Then he put his helmet on and, satisfied he could see sufficiently, drew Angruvadal.
“Follow as best as you can.”