Airel - Aaron Patterson [104]
The smell of dirt and sweat filled his nostrils. He kept his eyes closed tightly, waiting for the right moment. He soaked it in, felt peace fill him with power. The strange thing to his mind was how he could feel the Sword at hand—and yet as he flexed his fingers it was not there. He wondered how long it could balance in between realities before it was lost completely.
Yamanu must not have been far, because as the Power filled Kreios, he could sense his friend and warrior brother rising up. The Shadower’s gift was augmenting and he was storing it, damming up the potential, making ready for a massive flood. He and Kreios were walking a narrow edge as they coordinated the timing of their one and only opportunity to break with the doom that the Seer desired to visit upon them.
Kreios opened his eyes and jumped to his feet. He was the embodiment of the Angel of the LORD, that enigmatic identity before whom prophets would fall down and kings would tremble. His body was awash; waves of spiritual power rippled throughout. He did not look to see if the Sword of Light was indeed physically at hand but he clenched his fist and he could feel its grips, more real ever. His only hope was that his faith was strong enough to make it real. He swung it high and held it there.
The tent exploded, ripped asunder and dissolved in light as demons and their pet slaves were thrown like toys. Simultaneously, Yamanu arose, swift and terrible, and though Kreios could feel him near enough, he could not locate him precisely. No matter: crippling cold and inky darkness descended upon the enemy camp with such ferocity that even the demons trembled.
Contrary to conflicting with the gifts of the Shadower, the Sword complimented and increased them, and heavy black fog exploded over and through the enemy camp, throwing the Seer’s horde into wincing grief. Some of the men became mute with it and could not remember why they were there or what they were doing, wandering helplessly.
Kreios stood at the epicenter of what was left of the travelling residence of the one he hated. He looked for the Seer, vengeance ripping through his veins. The demonic horde army was scurrying every which way. There were screams of incomprehension, vague orders and countermands as the enemy attempted to gather itself together out of confusion. He searched urgently, kicking bodies out of his way, hacking through obstacles, stirring the wreckage, but the Seer was not there. Kreios filled his lungs and reared back, raising his voice to the heavens with a roaring battle cry, calling out the Agent of Darkness.
“Come out and fight me, Seer!” The cry did not produce the intended result. Kreios and Yamanu, now standing side by side in the wreckage of the Seer’s tents, were faced not with a sporting contest with the disobedient deserter, but with a wave of filthy demonic infantry bearing down upon them.
Yamanu recovered his stolen sword from the ruined body of one of the guards, and with weapons raised at the ready, their eyes blazed with holy fire.
They became encircled by enemy forces, rallying against the battle cry that Kreios had delivered. The enemy could not perceive beyond the vagueness of the upside-down hope they had where they were going—where they were being driven.
Kreios and Yamanu waited to spring the trap. The enemy drew nearer still, their pikes deployed horizontally, pointing inward at the angels. When they had drawn within a stride or two, Kreios launched himself from his defensive position, smacking aside enemy combatants’ weapons with the flat of the Sword, which flowed fluidly back around to the attack, slicing with ease through muscle, bone, marrow.
Whirling angrily through their midst, Kreios downed enemy after enemy with his Sword, arcing high, then low. He swung upwards, slicing a demon from groin to chin, producing a horrible truncated