Read Online The Books of the Wars by Mark Geston - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Geston
Tags: Science-Fiction
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a crest with a winged horse and armored fist was engraved on the guard and surrounded with brilliants.
"You all right, lad?" The man asked, his voice curiously distinct over the din. Rome looked into his deep-set eyes and scarred face and could do nothing but nod, yes.
Rome tottered down the deck a few paces and then heard a groan rise from the half-men. He saw the old man moving like a scythe-wielder through the half-men, their dismembered parts literally sailing off through the air. The giant turned into a dervish, a whirling Death, his sword everywhere; and through it all he said not a word, uttered not a cry of fury. The Shrieks seemed to simply fall apart while the blade was still thirty feet below them. The man started to move toward the rafts, casually murdering the half-men that stood in his way.
The cloaked figures stirred nervously and pointed their staffs at him. Fires ten times more brilliant than those directed at the ships screamed at the man. Rome gaped in astonishment as the spheres hit the giant and then burst like soap bubbles. An unusually bright and large flame-sphere flew at the man, its yellow-white core burning with a fire so hot it appeared, in its center, to be black. The man halted and then raised his sword before him. He caught the ball as it burst around him, the fire attaching itself to his weapon. He regarded it for a second and then hurled the burning shaft at the largest raft.
The cloaked mutants saw the missile coming and gestured frantically to the half-men pulling them. The sword hit the barge squarely in the middle, and a flash of light erupted, it seemed, from the river bottom. Temporarily blinded, Rome buried his eyes in his hands; titanic explosions assaulted his ears and five successive shock waves battered his tired body.
Fragments of wood and torn robes floated down, burning, from the smoke filled sky. The whole battle was frozen with amazement and awe; then the man turned, his broadsword suddenly returned to his hand. "For the Ship, my lad! Kill the bloody bastards! For the Caroline and the Victory! " And he rushed back through the steaming water to the renewed battle.
Rome grasped the hilt of his sword and felt power flowing through him. Then he felt as if he had fallen into a kind of grim ecstasy; he knew exactly what was to be done and he saw that the other men had the same look in their eyes as did the sword-hurler. He found a stooped half-man scuttling along the deck; he brought his boot down heavily upon its neck and plunged his blade deep into the cancerous hide. Rome sensed a maniacal grin distorting his face.
Then he enjoyed killing the half-men; he liked shoving his sword deep into their corrupted bodies; the soft squishing crunch as a mace pushed a lizard head into an insect body became an almost musical sound. Cut, slash, rip, tear their bodies to pieces, mates! See the flow of the rich blood, how beautiful its color, how rich its feel and lovely its taste. Death to the bastards, mates, death to them all so that the Ship may live.
Rome kept on swinging his ragged sword until a man tapped him on the shoulder. "You can stop now, sir." Completely drained, Rome fell heavily to the beslimed deck. He tried to retch again, but all that came up was a little green bile.
The gray haired man was nowhere to be seen. Who had he been, then? Rome was later told that the Caroline, in its infinite wisdom, had seen fit to send men versed in certain rare arts along with the expedition. The man had been the ghost of Miolnor IV, raised from the dead to once again defeat the Vale's ghastly hordes. True enough, thought Rome, for in this land all the preconceptions one had about what should, or should not be, must be discarded. Miolnor IV! And indeed it must have been he, for had not Rome seen with his own eyes the ancient crest of the great house of Mourne on the spirit's sword hilt?
* * *
The Government made a great play of the expedition. Although the initial mission of reaching the
"You all right, lad?" The man asked, his voice curiously distinct over the din. Rome looked into his deep-set eyes and scarred face and could do nothing but nod, yes.
Rome tottered down the deck a few paces and then heard a groan rise from the half-men. He saw the old man moving like a scythe-wielder through the half-men, their dismembered parts literally sailing off through the air. The giant turned into a dervish, a whirling Death, his sword everywhere; and through it all he said not a word, uttered not a cry of fury. The Shrieks seemed to simply fall apart while the blade was still thirty feet below them. The man started to move toward the rafts, casually murdering the half-men that stood in his way.
The cloaked figures stirred nervously and pointed their staffs at him. Fires ten times more brilliant than those directed at the ships screamed at the man. Rome gaped in astonishment as the spheres hit the giant and then burst like soap bubbles. An unusually bright and large flame-sphere flew at the man, its yellow-white core burning with a fire so hot it appeared, in its center, to be black. The man halted and then raised his sword before him. He caught the ball as it burst around him, the fire attaching itself to his weapon. He regarded it for a second and then hurled the burning shaft at the largest raft.
The cloaked mutants saw the missile coming and gestured frantically to the half-men pulling them. The sword hit the barge squarely in the middle, and a flash of light erupted, it seemed, from the river bottom. Temporarily blinded, Rome buried his eyes in his hands; titanic explosions assaulted his ears and five successive shock waves battered his tired body.
Fragments of wood and torn robes floated down, burning, from the smoke filled sky. The whole battle was frozen with amazement and awe; then the man turned, his broadsword suddenly returned to his hand. "For the Ship, my lad! Kill the bloody bastards! For the Caroline and the Victory! " And he rushed back through the steaming water to the renewed battle.
Rome grasped the hilt of his sword and felt power flowing through him. Then he felt as if he had fallen into a kind of grim ecstasy; he knew exactly what was to be done and he saw that the other men had the same look in their eyes as did the sword-hurler. He found a stooped half-man scuttling along the deck; he brought his boot down heavily upon its neck and plunged his blade deep into the cancerous hide. Rome sensed a maniacal grin distorting his face.
Then he enjoyed killing the half-men; he liked shoving his sword deep into their corrupted bodies; the soft squishing crunch as a mace pushed a lizard head into an insect body became an almost musical sound. Cut, slash, rip, tear their bodies to pieces, mates! See the flow of the rich blood, how beautiful its color, how rich its feel and lovely its taste. Death to the bastards, mates, death to them all so that the Ship may live.
Rome kept on swinging his ragged sword until a man tapped him on the shoulder. "You can stop now, sir." Completely drained, Rome fell heavily to the beslimed deck. He tried to retch again, but all that came up was a little green bile.
The gray haired man was nowhere to be seen. Who had he been, then? Rome was later told that the Caroline, in its infinite wisdom, had seen fit to send men versed in certain rare arts along with the expedition. The man had been the ghost of Miolnor IV, raised from the dead to once again defeat the Vale's ghastly hordes. True enough, thought Rome, for in this land all the preconceptions one had about what should, or should not be, must be discarded. Miolnor IV! And indeed it must have been he, for had not Rome seen with his own eyes the ancient crest of the great house of Mourne on the spirit's sword hilt?
* * *
The Government made a great play of the expedition. Although the initial mission of reaching the
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