And the last part (it didn't quite divide cleanly into 6 parts, but no matter, overall volume 2 was shorter than the first round).
Overall, I am, perhaps, not best pleased with how I did with the Henge Hold Scrolls, much to my regret, and I look back at it, pondering the things I could have done better, scenes which could have been better framed, more suitable (for the manner of release) turns of phrase and so on. I believe it was a symptom of what may be described as a naive approach to its production, this being my first go at micro-fiction, affected by a continual nervousness, working directly with Matt Wilson added into the bargain (the first I knew of having been taken on to do it was an e-mail more or less out of the blue, it was quite the surprise). Even so, I am grateful for what I learned in that time and for the opportunity it provided.
Henge Hold Scrolls - Summation Part 11
(first published @hengeholdscroll on Twitter, January 2022)
(story by Jason Soles & Matt Wilson, creative direction by Matt Wilson, additional direction by Matt Goetz)
Zaateroth struggled within the grasp of the machine, incensed it could subdue her. She had no time to weaken it as she had the other one. The time-witch’s mechanical ally grazed her with arcane magic and attacked with a flurry of blades, some of them holding her fast. The utter temerity that a human soul could attempt such action and, worse, succeed. She had the ear of the Magnate Tritorium, gods before even the creators of this puny world, yet Zaateroth was facing her demise. Save me, she called out to all who could answer her commands. Single-minded, spurred by irrational fear and fury, every horror, every infernal minion within sight made for the gate, toward their infernal master. Suddenly, the machine let go and sped toward the Guardian.
***
Syntherion saw her signal and input the last of the necessary configurations into the gate. It shimmered and changed color. He looked up to see the Guardian’s claw descend. Its attack did not connect, though, as the Iron Mother’s conservators slammed into its back.
The horror was driven stumbling into the gate instead. Seeing this, Syntherion had his modulator reinforce Iron Mother’s vector in disrupting the Guardian. But it was much weakened by its fight against so many defenders and unsteady under the momentum of the two vectors. Unable to keep its feet, the colossal horror lurched forward into the gate itself. The stone structure cracked under the Guardian’s weight as the creature fell.
***
As Iron Mother Directrix passed through the barrier of the gate, the presence of the infernal master terrifyingly close, she prayed fervently one last time. For her people who would make it before Cyriss. For those who would be deprived of that opportunity.
For he who was once Sebastian Nemo, the man she loved in days past, and for Aurora, her wayward, cherished daughter. Regretful she would not be a part of their future, she prayed her actions would ensure they may see it. And lamented that her vessel could not weep tears.
***
Hunched over on the ground, Victoria Haley remembered her childhood—innocent days with her sister and her family in a small fishing village. Early days in the army, ill-fitting journeyman warcaster’s armor, and the respect she fought to earn from the trenchers. Promotions as her power and renown grew. Ignorant of the madness swirling about her, she could do little but gaze at her fading hands and feel the many strands of time claiming her, weakly at first but gaining strength with every labored breath she took.
Among the many strands and echoes, she saw her fallen sister. Did I do enough, Gloria? Haley asked, watching the faint outlines of a thousand echoes gather around her. Those of Haley’s future and past selves embraced her near-transparent body as though in answer. The echoes disappeared, and with them, so, too, did she. ***
“It is time to…END THIS!” Krueger raised his spear, and a bolt of lightning arced down to vaporize a howler.
Observing the leaders of the clockwork cult and the infernals disappear through the gate, he ascended and sped towards it with all haste.
As he neared, he saw Syntherion working feverishly at the control panel.
“You are aware of what we intend. Make ready, druid,” the Forge Master uttered without looking away. “Finish your preparations quickly. We are at the eye of a coming tempest—one that is not of my making,” Krueger readied himself and moved to intercept the incoming infernal tide just as the clockwork forces, what remained of them, did likewise.
“A few more moments.” The priest’s reverberating voice sounded odd to the Stormlord as the battle raged louder around them.
In the distance, Krueger could see a cloud of grievers surging toward him. Of those present, only he was in any position to delay them.
“A few moments and we are ended, Priest of Cyriss!” he roared.
Syntherion’s mechanical limbs suddenly stopped and he backed away from the panel, “Now, Stormlord!”
Needing no further instruction, Krueger called a storm like no other to strike the gate down. Those who were saved would survive, those consigned to the void would remain there, and Krueger would be the agent of this certainty. The first bolt to strike disabled the control panel. Krueger bellowed amidst the thunder as he brought down a deafening bolt upon the gate. He had time only to watch the giant structure crumble in upon itself before the tide of horrors reached him.
“I stand immortal now,” he spat contemptuously. “What will you be but a foul memory years from now?”
He swept Wormtongue around and decapitated the nearest one. Below him, Syntherion, still at the damaged monitor and modulator before him, fired salvoes in the druid’s aid but could do little to stop the wave of infernals.
Dozens were dispatched with each swing of Krueger’s spear and each shot from the Forge Master’s warjacks. But there were too many of them. So much more I wished to accomplish, Krueger ruminated, before his lacerated body, covered in gore, tumbled from the skies. ***
“It’s…over, isn’t it?” Ryan said, stumbling toward Caine.
Her fellow Hellslinger did not answer. Instead, he slumped to the ground, eyes closed as he leaned against Ace’s leg. Cynthia was beside him, just as bedraggled and exhausted. Ryan started to turn away.
“I’m not dead, in case you were wonderin’,” Caine said.
“Like you’d let somethin’ like this kill you,” she smirked and went to kneel down beside Cynthia.
“Watts?”
“Getting himself a new line of stitches.” Ryan reached out and placed a hand on the resting girl’s shoulder.
“She’s had one hell of a last few months, eh?”
“Sound familiar?” Caine grinned and exhaled.
Ryan stood, looked about, and gently kicked Caine’s boot.
“Time to be a responsible adult. The battle is won, but we ain’t got time to rest. Not yet.”
“Never the time to rest.” He hauled himself to his feet.
Before leaving with her, he checked Ace’s coal hopper. There was still some fuel and water left, enough for the warjack to remain active for a couple hours still. As he stepped away to join Ryan, Ace rumbled at him.
“Not any more, buddy. You’re hers, now,” he said, patting Cynthia’s head, “Take care of her.”
Ace gave a strange clanking salute, careful to keep its legs still. ***
Alexia Ciannor roamed the battlefield, Witchfire in hand, unsure of her place amongst the carnage. Everywhere she went, she saw defeat in the faces of those retreating. But amidst her own battle, she paused to see the gathered specters of the Legion of Lost Souls approach.
An angelic figure, her armor emblazoned with the iconography of Morrow, bowed to Alexia and pointed to the maelstrom of violence around them. At the archon’s sweeping gesture, the Legion of Lost Souls marched into battle.
“What am I to do here when the dead come to try where the living have failed?”
You will know when the time comes, the voices of her mother and the coveners assured her.
***
Omodamos watched uncomprehending as the metal priestess grappled his fellow infernal master and, struggling against one another, vanished through the gate. His confusion led to an unfamiliar fear and unfathomable outrage when lightning struck the gate’s foundations. First, the loss of the Guardian and all the souls it was entrusted with, and now the infernal armies were deprived of the Weaver of Shadow’s leadership itself. And Agathon remained unaccounted for. Omodamos felt the presence and power the souls afforded him slip away.
The Harbinger opened her eyes. She knew the infernal master lashed out in frustration. He yet remained a great threat and none but the most powerful of humans could stand against him with any chance of survival.
The massed crowds of refugees, with many thousands of the faithful among them, fled, terrified, before his advance. The Harbinger interposed herself before Omodamos, knowing she would have done so whether or not she stood alone. While she might die once more, she would do so knowing the glory of Menoth was brought to the new world. Indeed, she knew another congregation succeeded in crossing as the ship disappeared through the gate not far from where she stood ringed by her loyal paladins. She regarded them. Many had been slain in her defense and that of the pilgrims. But the girl, born from nothing, who would be a prophet, the voice of Menoth on Caen, privy to his words…she was given no more time to offer her mortal praises to what her Creator had bestowed.
She lay on the ground, unable to breathe, hearing little but muffled cries of despair. Voice by voice, the battlefield grew quiet to her ears. Though she knew she was soon to depart, she sensed an impending arrival. ***
The wrath of Menoth had been incurred. He did not remain idle. ***
The heavens were torn open when a single beam of blinding fire lanced down, striking the Harbinger. All near were compelled to their knees or to retreat from the holy light. Even the infernals struggled to stand straight, such was His fury.
Surrounded by Menoth’s radiance, the Testament stood before Omodamos, the Harbinger’s now pristine form held in his arms. Silently, he watched the infernal master, conveying the judgment of the Creator of Man upon him. The enemy would have no more souls from believers. The spirits of the fallen warriors, defenders who left their homes to help the effort here at Henge Hold, stood as a defiant phalanx around the Testament. Angered by the intervention of a god to such a worthless race, Omodamos swung his mace at the Testament. But the first among Reclaimers was unmoved. The weapon passed through him, striking nothing but air. Souls gathered around him, untouched and unbowed. As though in contempt, he strode forward, still reverently carrying the Harbinger and attended by the souls of the fallen.
No infernal would harm them. As though by divine command, a rift opened before the Testament. The souls parted, making way for him to lead to the City of Man. The infernal master flinched away from the light shining from the Harbinger as she was carried into Urcaen. ***
Franticly, Omodamos looked to something, anything, that might grant him renewed strength. But the priest. That accursed priest who had returned to the dead, he, his presence, the ground upon which he had walked, all were inviolable.
The infernal master grasped at the passing spirits as they followed the priest. It was useless. His power was being taken from him and he felt himself fading from this realm. Like him, his forces grew weaker as each moment passed. But he sensed many souls, different souls, and they were close. Omodamos turned to see a massive formation of the undead, marching in serried ranks toward him. With slow, measured steps, the ensouled dead advanced upon the infernals, moving in unceasing and perfect unison.
Not knowing what else to do, the Black Gate ordered his horde to charge this latest enemy. *** “I am—we are—close,” Alexia said softly. ***
His power is no more, he has no souls left to consume. Her mother and the coveners urged Alexia on. Driven by their voices, the Mistress of the Witchfire strode toward Omodamos. The Legion of Lost Souls were tireless, a boon to the flagging allies of the Iron Kingdoms.
The living were beyond exhaustion, and the clockwork soldiers were few as evening drew near. With the advance of the Legion, the infernal army was surely diminished bit by bit. Unwavering with each effort, they isolated the infernal master while staying out of his reach. Instead, Alexia stood before Omodamos, his maces heavy on the ground. Every action was slow and ragged as he tried to raise his weapons. She would give him no chance. Faster than either thought possible, Witchfire was buried in his chest. It cast a light from the wound that almost blinded all who beheld it. Omodamos had souls remaining to heal, but it was as though they were locked away. Unable to move, he felt fear—inexplicable, immense fear. It became a weight upon him, closing in around him, crushing him.
He resisted it, but the more he struggled, the heavier it became. The infernal master’s sheer power threatened to engulf Alexia as it surged into Witchfire. The coveners were insistent, and she understood, intimately, the strength of the sword she wielded. She leaned into it, driving it farther into Omodamos’ chest. It seemed an eternity later, but abruptly the sword pushed back against her. Alexia withdrew it with a cry of surprise, stumbling for several steps. She opened her eyes to see nothing before her. Instead, the runes running the length of Witchfire flared brightly. All around her was silence except for her ragged breathing. No fighting to be heard, no horrors to defend against, no infernalists to betray them. The Legion of Lost Souls stood stoic, facing her. As one, they saluted her. They started to back away and gradually turned to dust. The souls they left behind gathered about the awaiting archon, the Prophet, ready to guide them back to Urcaen as they had done before. ***
They arrived but were not sure what they had managed to escape to. Inexplicably, Zaateroth was nowhere to be seen. And they witnessed Omodamos overwhelmed, struck down by a mere girl. Impossible. This was beneath the dignity of the Nonokrion Order. How could the beings of this solitary planet, just one continent even, be capable of defeating them? The Magnate Tritorium would not be… They thought better than to dwell on where that might lead.
Agathon nervously fumbled through the contracts they had with them. Contracts…yes, they would do well to make sure the contracts were carried out to the letter. But they were distracted by events before them. Agathon was concealed from mortal eyes. Even so, they felt as though there was no place to hide. There was a gate in the east, but that way, they awaited. Agathon recalled the power and attitude of the master of the occult of House Vyre and the skorne warrior sorcerer. No, they thought. Without a great deal more support, confronting them again was too great a risk. Those two were not human and had an ingenuity that Agathon needed more time to acquire the means to counter fully. Past Henge Hold, out toward the Meridius. They might not come tomorrow, next year, or even within the decade, but they, the servants of a most hated rival, would come. The other societies would no doubt seek to capitalize on the Nonokrion failure here. Agathon was unaccustomed to fear and yet felt it only recently. And once more. Now. They focused once more on the contracts in hand. Yes, best exploit the more familiar. Even if the infernals were to taste defeat here and other threats loomed near, the humans… Well, the humans would remain human.
They carefully rolled up the contracts that had served as a convenient diversion. And with a renewed sense of purpose, if tempered by necessary vigilance, Agathon planned their next move. First was undermining what would become of the Iron Kingdoms. And foremost was ensuring an infernalist presence remained, if not strong then at least persistent, to withstand the struggles that lay ahead.