All That Lives Must Die - Eric Nylund [95]
Satan was a true nightmare.
Seeing it made her wanted to whimper and hide.
As he ran, the fire in one hand solidified into an iron lance, pitchfork tipped and white hot.
Following his lead, the other Infernals took shape.
One lay down and transformed into a serpent, longer and fatter, and swelled into a form that dwarfed Satan . . . corpulent coils of scaled flesh that wormed forward, crushing the rocks before it to dust.
Another strode forth, each step growing in size until it was a giant that cast shadows in all directions; at its center darkness that defied the sunlight. Fiona saw its smile, however, swimming suspended in the black nothingness, fanged and full of malice. It dragged a chain whip the size of a tank tread with fishhook barbs.
Mitch stepped next to Fiona and furiously scribbled this into his sketchbook. “It’s not real,” he whispered. His voice wavered, unsure.
But Fiona couldn’t answer. It felt like there was no oxygen in her lungs.
A bat-shape cloud took to the air, screaming, and leaving a trail of crows and insect clouds and smog.
There was a clockwork man with bladed arms, a woman who dripped boiling poison and left a sizzling trail of lava in her wake, a three-headed hound with black eyes, a dragon, some shapeless tentacled horror, and centipede with a million needle legs.
Fiona forced herself to look away—or she would have frozen completely solid with terror.
She turned to the Immortals.
They stood tall and held their formation. They braced lance and spear and held their shields before them, ready for the onslaught. None broke ranks.
Uncle Aaron shouted orders and raised an impossibly large sword. His army cheered.
Fiona’s heart leaped with joy. Yes! She felt the courage and the power and the nobility flowing though her blood as well. Her fear evaporated. She gathered herself and stood taller. She would have given anything to be with her family on that field.
Immortal archers loosened arrows; a cloud of spines filled the air, arcing up and toward the enemy.
One archer held back his shot, however. He wore silver armor, so mirror-polished that he blended with the background. He ran onto the field, bow held out before him.
He launched a sliver of light from his bow—its trajectory flat and so fast, it streaked under the other arrows.
The Great Satan dodged—surprisingly even faster than this arrow—although the projectile grazed his side and left a scar of blue flames.
The arrow continued on course, rocketed toward the Infernals, and struck the monstrous serpent in the right eye—obliterating the socket and exploding out the back of the angular viper head.
The serpent hissed and thrashed, its coils smashed trees and hills, blocking the advance of the other Infernals.
The other arrows landed, some sticking the Infernals and drawing blood, most harmlessly bouncing off or shattering upon their bare skin.
“One lucky shot,” Mr. Ma said, “or perhaps it was not luck, may have decided the battle before it started. The mighty Leviathan was distracted. The Immortals would have not survived a direct confrontation with the Beast. Learn the lesson: Remove your largest opponent if you are able. You might be as lucky.”
Fiona spotted a man in the chariot by Uncle Aaron’s side. He was older, handsome, with a curled white beard. He shouted orders, and Aaron nodded with grim determination, looked once upon Satan bearing down on them, and stepped aside, ordering the soldiers nearby to do the same.
She saw now that the older man was larger than Aaron, muscular, and regal. Four white stallions drew his chariot. Within the chariot’s carriage were metal coils and spinning armatures that sparked and arced electricity and connected to the lance held by the man.
The apparatus spun faster, and the air about the chariot wavered and smoked.
The man spoke to his horses and they snorted with fear, but nonetheless pulled the chariot ahead.
He shouted and flipped a switch