Mt. Ohm - God Slayer, K. van Marshall [little bear else holmelund minarik .txt] 📗

her love of superstitions have stuck with him at his core. At this moment, the scene before him forced Zweek recall what she would tell him to cool his tantrums. ‘Since the age of the immortals came to exist, it has been taboo to do battle with all the moons at their fullest’. Although such words of wisdom would usually guide Zweek, he is more than prepared to spill the blood of a few hundred flat headed guards this eve. Now more than ever.

“Poor, Hector”, whispered Xena, while Stow grit his teeth, and Zweek continues to stare in disbelief.

I checked the Grim acre almost daily, I didn’t see him there - so thought. Zweek was stunned, he was sure Hector had escaped with a few lucky others.

The well trained members of Niisarm stood firm in the face of the threat, waiting for their leader to make a move. With Niisarm's reputation fearless enough to run across water and fly other canyons, the Youllon flat heads are on high alert; leaving a good gap between themselves and their outnumbered enemies.

“Now”, screeched a voice.

It was familiar to the leaders of Niisarm. Although its source was far from view, the JoDo knew instantly. They had the displeasure of hearing it on too many occasions.

With swords and shields jabbing forward, the army began to pincer the rebels; the air now filled with shouts of orders being barked. Their Commander General, the scoundrel Prince Edvard egged his troops forward. The orders from the rear flew forward in a steady stream with numerous captains joining in - relaying the message of the Prince down the line with extreme accuracy: ‘Keep in line’, ‘if anyone escapes your families will be tortured’, and ‘keep the leaders alive’.

This sleg hole, I don’t know how he did this to us. The King was always good to us, he would never allow this, he is just - or he was. “What did he do, dast him”, stressed Zweek, the words slipping out.

His face contorted by the slow burning rage, he could barely hold his anger. It took all he had to not charge recklessly at the sleg. He may have, if he could see him behind the hundred row of soldiers leading up to the castle.

“Zweek?!”, said Xena concerned. No matter how bad the situation was, he usually pulled his head into reality, but now he seemed stuck in a cycle of retrogressive hate. “Fix up”, she added.

Zweek could barely hear her, between the enemies pumping themselves up and the beasts of his mind running rampant, a red tinted vision clouded his gaze.

Originally, Zweek had a plan. The condition of their surrender were suspiciously lenient. If he and the other JoDo surrendered, all lesser members would be pardoned. Zweek hoped to come alone and wager his life for the rest. This decision may have been difficult for most, his life and freedom or the freedom for his family. However, for Zweek, the choice was simple ‘family always comes first’. Not only was he going to wager his own life, but Novus and Igo’s as well. He hoped sacrificing their three lives would be enough.

As Novus and Igo were captured on the very first night Zweek’s options severely limited. The two were key components of Niisarm. Once neutralized it halved Niisarm’s battle strength, and worse morale. Many of Niisarm’s more recent recruits only joined because of the awe inspiring strength of the duo. When members started getting sent to infinity, the disloyal scattered into the wind without delay. Most were quickly caught and executed, then left to rot; crucified on the Grim acre. It left the rest with one option, hide. The attack was swift and organized. Stow, Xena and Zweek only managed to escape due to their skill and luck.

Novus, how many times have you saved us? Even… even Hector... I was actually happy he didn’t come. I thought at least one member of Niisarm would survive. How foolish. Zweek looked back at the group, there was only determination in their eyes. We never had any intention of surrendering peacefully. “We go now, we fight for our family, for dignity”, said Zweek, in his indoor voice.

“What? Now?!”, said Stow, a wide grin spread on his previously miserable face. He has been itching to smash some soldiers.

“Worse chances and survived, plus Novus is just beyond those doors”, said Zweek.

The first statement may have been true, however the second was definitely a calculated lie. He knew if it was for Novus, Niisarm could easily become demons even the Pantheon would have to fear.

For the first time in an age Stow stood tall. Stretching out his massive frame, flexing his huge biceps and then banging his fists against his broad chest. “YEAH! Let’s send these rents to the wheels'a infinity!”, he bellows, rousing the squad.

In response, Niisarm prepare themselves, readying their hearts, minds and bodies for whatever may come next.

The group exude such an immense spiritual pressure being given off the Youllon army would be forgiven for running at this point, in fact many wished they could. The fearless demon slaying exploits of Niisarm make them a force not many want to do battle against.

“Fools!”, squealed the Prince, a brain numbingly loud voice pierced out of the short armoured man.

Stood at the top of the stairs, he watched the battle begin from far.

“Now!”.

With his signal five frail looking attendants step forward. Draped in navy blue cloaks, they are so skinny, their bones cause bumps to poke out beneath the heavy velvet cloth of their robes. The attendants are the royal Wizards of Youllo. Having spent their considerably long lives studying the Alkemist's knowledge their bodies have suffered. Due to this they move very slowly.

While the Prince patiently waits for his wizards. The battle below rages. Niisarm ferociously destroy a whole platoon in minutes without losing a single member. Meanwhile the wizards are still getting in position. Each step lands at the slowest pace possible. They seem barely able to hold the long silver staffs they carry. Just walking is a struggle.

Each staff is crowned by a glass orb containing a fist sized chunk of red bismuthinium; the rare items are the pinnacle of retrofitted Alkemist technology.

Once in position around the Prince, they smash the staff ends into the hard ground between their feet. With their staffs staked, they ready themselves for the next phase; calling on their inner kirah.

“Look at them, these dankish fool-born bladders”. The Prince gloated, walking into the centre of the formation. “They have no clue. Do it now!”, he yelled.

“Uzumaki, Gutz, Eren!”, the five meek men chant together.

Their invisible mantra mingle in the air, becoming a thick colourless smog. When channelling kirah; first the caller performs the mantra, which in turn summons the etheric entities needed. The two will endowed energies combine, and once growing to their satisfaction they complete the manifestation, and the will of the caller.

A dim red glow sparks into life inside the orbs. Then a red electrical chain of current flows out - spiralling erratically around the staffs crown - connecting each of five staff ends together. The Prince stands gleefully in the centre of the five point star. The pure alchemical discharge around him builds from a bright flicker to a violent red glow. The red pulse explodes into an intense vision stealing blast of astonishing light. The whole courtyard is immediately drenched with a spellbinding haze, followed by a minor stomach flipping shock wave. The impact swamps the courtyard at a speed faster than sound.

As soon as brightness  dimmed, the blast rendered everyone unconscious, except Zweek and the soldiers of Youllon. While both are guarded by the unique properties of their armours, Zweek's ettopion suit only guards him from half the energy zapping attack. He only stands due to the sheer force of his will and depth of his spirit.

Dast, dast, dast… not like this… The beasts of his subconscious will not allow him to fall so easy.

Shoulders slumped, Zweek looked down, pass his downed family and straight towards his lost hopes and regrets. With much of his strength stolen from him, he could barely stand, but still he refused to go down without a fight.

“What’s this? Someone still standing... I always knew you were trouble Zek… It’s why I placed the highest bounty on your head”, said Prince Edvard, walking leisurely towards his all but finished foe. “Get him then”, he gestured to the men before him.

Three stepped forward, only to be dealt with quickly. Groggy, sick or even stinking drunk, Zweek was more than skilled enough to protect his family from a few grunts. It took the swift strike from the hilt of Creed - Prince Edvard’s legendary sword - to send Zweek sprawling to the ground next to his nakama.

“Haa, your lives are mine”, laughed Prince Edvard, placing a steel plated boot on the face his prize. “You will make great Spriggers”. Putting the cross-guard of Creed to his ear, then lips. “Shhhh, you will soon get your chance”, whispered the Prince.

 

Chapter 3 - The Undajelly

Subterra, Wasp Wastelands

 

A cool relaxing breeze flows through the long, winding tunnels. Both dark and warm, it would be the ideal conditions for a nap, if not for the dingy pathways and electric buzz of giddiness in the air.

Two hooded travellers move swiftly through the cramped tunnels. Their dusty grey cloaks disappearing into the shadows every other step. With no time for sleep they streak through the darkness, making nimble work of unsteady footing. Possessing tall and powerful bodies, they are forced to crouch for much of the time as sections of the cosy tunnels grow tighter and thinner unpredictably.

A faint hypnotic scent hangs in the foul air, washing the wind with a metallic sour stink. Its purpose, to make both the lecherous and innocent succumb to the most shameful of their desires. Far from its source, the smell-spell wafts all the way from Undajelly.

The mild pheromones do no more then make the pairs noses tingle. They easily clear their nostrils with a few large snorts, and the gobbing of bright yellow bubbling blobs of spit. As the strange pair of Sumatran and Javan step purposefully to their destination with their guards up the pheromones have no chance.

The blessings of immortality make dealing with such low level enchantments a breeze. Unlike stepping foot inside the underground pleasure city of the Ant Demon, Formicidea; that is always a risk. Many come to Undajelly in search of adventure and bliss, only to find themselves trapped forever. The slightest mishap here can cost even the strongest of immortals their lives, or worse freedom.

The demon ruler of Subterra is not a petty wasteland savage, but a Great Demon King; powerful enough to force national superpowers to respect his sovereignty as undisputed monarch of the blue sands. Sumatran has intelligently made avoiding his wrath a top priority for the pair.

“Dis place is yuuge, ei”, said Javan, his hooded head slung to the side of his neck as he crawls through a particularly thin long stretch of tunnel.

“De'city spans de size of’a small country, yuh kno dis -