Amid the riot of battle on the raised road, Mazer sees Indigo wounded and Squad kneeling by the mage on the crest of the road, protected by a dwindling number of soldiers; his riding eyes follow the magical attack back to its source and spot Salazar charging at them on his dragon. Moving with the quicksilver of violence, Mazer cuts down two Night Elves and charges at a point in the road just ahead.
Possessing a calm mind in battle, he's calculated that Salazar's charge towards the others will take him through this area low enough for him to reach. Time seems to slow down and each step feels like a detonation as Mazer runs, keeping an eye on the swift progress of Salazar's dragon until their paths almost intersect and then—crash! Leaping through the air, he slams into Salazar with a mighty thud that resounds like a stone skimmed over a surface of silence, knocking the great Elf from his dragon and sending them both tumbling to the road as the dragon pulls up, sensing its owner's absence.
He's just saved Indigo and Squad's lives, but now Mazer has a problem of his own. His grim, concentrated eyes focus on Salazar, whose glance is like death's stare in slow survey. Mazer attacks first, swinging his gigantic sword down one-handed and putting Salazar on the backfoot, striking down three times as the Elf blocks with his spear then reverses momentum by slamming his shoulder into the Scrovengi's chest, sending Mazer reeling back.
This is a type of opponent Mazer has never faced before, the great Elf moving with a savage majesty that is often too fast to be seen; Mazer's instincts are working on full alert just to predict the attacks in time to block them, though he's thrown off-guard and from side to side like a tennis player in a one-sided match. To Mazer it seems like he's never fought better, every movement crisp and decisive, yet he's still on the backfoot. Quickly throwing his sword, Mazer charges after the projectile and, when the Elf blocks it, smashes his fist into Salazar's face.
Grasping the back of Salazar's head, Mazer leaps a full twelve feet in the air and knees the Elf heavily in the face. There's a sickening crunch as Salazar steps back; Mazer kicks the spear from his hands, firing punches into the Elf's side and jolting his body violently each way. A third punch flies at Salazar's head but the Elf catches Mazer's fist in mid-flight, twists it and launches a palm-thrust into the Scrovengi's neck, choking him, then another into his face, smashing his head back.
Salazar charges magic into his fist and lifts it high above his head, ready to plunge into Mazer's face; screams of energy revolve in the palm of his hand as he slams it down, but finds it frozen by a barrier. Realising his magic-dampening amulet has temporarily blocked Salazar's attack, Mazer takes the initiative and headbutts Salazar's leg with his horns, ripping through muscle and freeing his wrist from Salazar's grip.
A grimace of pain flashes across Salazar's features and Mazer attacks, but the Elf is too fast, shifting to the side, tripping the Scrovengi and, as he falls, grasping the back of his head and using his momentum to slam his face into the ground at great speed. Stunned, something in Mazer's pain-drenched mind tells him to rise, though he barely knows where he is, but it's too late. Salazar's powerful foot slams down on his back and the sound of the Elf picking up his spear resounds in Mazer's ears.
Trapped by Salazar's strong foot pressing down on his back, Mazer senses the spear being lifted to plunge through his heart and, unable to do much, looks out on the battle for the raised road, at the two lines caught in a monotone of motion while, underneath, the languid disarray of crawling bodies recalls images of the underworld. The silver voice of blade on blade cobwebs the air, joining with other sounds to form a cold symphony of chaos.
He lived surrounded by battle and he will die amidst it. How fitting...but no. Mazer doesn't want to die and a crawling, hollow ache fills his chest as he thinks of Lu left alone, guiding the Jiangese amidst this pandemonium. Possible futures flood out from his brain and burst over the horizon of his heart like the first flame of day, filling his spine with a strength he never knew he had.
With explosive force, he pushes like a press-up, throwing Salazar's heavy foot from his back and launching himself into the air, where he flips backwards, catches a dagger hanging at Salazar's side, lands and slashes the great Elf across his cheek. All of this occurs in about a second.
Salazar's head is thrown violently to the side and he uses the momentum to spin, smashing his spear violently into Mazer's chest with stunning force, sending armour debris flying everywhere and launching Mazer backwards, where he lands in a heap. Before Salazar can kill Mazer, Lu cries out and, conjoined by remembrance, the Jiangese volunteers join her, launching themselves at the great Elf in their hundreds, ferocious yells knifed out in advance of their attack.
A flaming and fantastic shower of magic puts Salazar on the defensive, dozens of mages fighting to overcome his resistance as their fellows rush in on the Elf with spears and blades, ready to cut him down or at least split his attention. Salazar smashes the first rank aside like skittles, twirls out of range of all counters, then launches back into the fray with the smooth suppleness of a dancer but the power of a colossus, his mind countering all enemy magic.
Rushing to Mazer's side, Lu sees that most of the heavy armour protecting his chest has been torn away and the Scrovengi is severely wounded. She looks at him, gorged with anxiety as he props himself up slowly, stiffly until he's looking her in the eye.
"You have to go and help the Jiangese," he tells her. "They fight better with your guidance."
"You're hurt," she sniffs, trying to stem the blood from his chest. "I'm not leaving you."
He smiles, then coughs up a dribble of blood, taking her small hand in his powerful grasp. "What a character you are," he smiles, proud as any father. "So small and yet so grand and gallant that I hardly know whether to laugh or to cry. I'm sorry you have to go on alone."
Her eyes welling with tears, Lu knows she has to help fill the Jiangese fighters with courage and resolve, tearing herself away from Mazer slowly, telling him: "I'll be back soon. You're going to be fine."
She charges back to the fight and the Jiangese renew their attack as one inspired and jubilant mob, dying in their dozens at Salazar's hands but never relenting. Their mages press Salazar, emptying all their tricks, and yet still he pushes back against their concentrated magic, killing them one-by-one.
In a flash of red hair, Tal Riose, commander of the Samarian forces in Tyria, launches herself at Salazar and brings her great sword down on his side; he deflects at the last moment and knocks her aside, but this buys the Jiangese time to close in, slashing at him from all sides, their leader Sima Chan at the forefront, her spear dancing fast and bright.
"Now, Pendragon!" Tal Riose says and the Genie, Pendragon, appears from nowhere, opening a great eye of energy behind Salazar. He locks magic with Salazar and they silently struggle as the great Elf fights off physical attacks from hundreds of Jiangese and Tal Riose.
Quick as lightning, Salazar strikes down several opponents and, with a subtle shift, smashes his spear into an opponent's face, which shatters ceramically. Tal Riose smashes him back towards the eye of energy with sweeps from her broad sword, but he slaps her blade aside and his spear crunches into her side like desired thunder, dropping her instantly. She falls helplessly, rolling out of the way as the Jiangese make another charge, Sima Chan springing from their ranks and launching herself at Salazar, spear poised for his face.
Surprised, Salazar lifts his hand and grasps the spear just as it reaches his chest with Sima Chan's full weight behind it, the edge pressing against his armour as he stalls its momentum, holding the Jiangese warrior in mid-air. With snake-like reflexes he reaches out and snaps her neck, then punches the ground, sending all the enemies massed before him to the ground.
With all enemies down, Salazar readies to finish his disordered opponents when a flashing strike from the side causes him to raise his spear and block. Mazer presses the attack, emptying all his strength into the effort and pushing Salazar back towards the eye of energy, their weapons eventually locking and each digging his feet into the ground trying to push the other back, Salazar almost touching the glowing eye.
Weapons locked and pushing, they look across at each other with silent and unflagging savageness, Salazar breaking the bond by pulling his spear up with extraordinary force, throwing Mazer back; he lands on the ground and swiftly rolls to his feet, hearing a voice shout as Salazar closes in, only to be stopped and forced onto the defensive by beam of magical energy.
"Now," Mazer hears Pendragon, the Genie shout.
Charging, Mazer sees Salazar break the magical beam and The Elf's spear suddenly shifts in his direction. With little choice, he throws himself through the air, bats the spear aside and loses his sword in the process, then crashes into Salazar with a ferocious shoulder smash, knocking the Elf into the portal summoned by Pendragon, which winks out in a flash of light, taking Salazar with it.
Heaving an exhausted sigh, Mazer drops to a knee and looks around for Lu: spotting her, he smiles, takes a breath that's as cutting as a razor, picks up his sword and drags himself forward. They hug and Mazer understands the effect the Mandate of Heaven has on the Jiangese, only there's no magic working on him—everything he fights for is right before him.
Dead on his feet, he wipes a tear from her eye and experiences a deep, innate and ineradicable love that he never expected to feel in his life as a soldier.
A howl breaks and becomes flesh, demon after demon pouring onto the raised road, joining a renewed Night Elf attack. The demons are a black, ferocious flock of shadows sweeping their way forwards with unrelenting pace, Mazer pushing Lu back towards the few remaining Jiangese warriors and yelling.
"Form a fighting retreat until you can be reinforced!"
Turning towards the charging demons, he lifts his sword in salute and pain lashes through his wounded chest as he slices into the first rank, his blade a wild, hot leaping flame. He cuts the head from a demon, a battle shriek separated from its shoulders, though other scraps of darkness make their way round his flanks, attacking from all sides; he feels the red scratch marks of their wounding eyes all around and a long slash down his back causes him to stumble forward.
His sword falls and Mazer fights with his hands, punching and tearing at faces, cuts needling his body from a thousand sources. A huge black wave flings itself across the surface of the raised road, like a tide striking a cliff, and Mazer sees hundreds of demons in the air, ready to fall upon him in a great crushing wave.
In the moment he has, Mazer turns and looks for Lu, spotting her being dragged back by the Jiangese fighting retreat, her panic shining in the quiet, vespertine light. She's shouting something he can't hear but he focusses on her face, like a sweet silent sun, and each memory burns like flames, ever brighter until the great black wave lands and he's gone.
*
Ten thousand miles from The Battle of The Line, a dark Undercity street is powdered with the stares of bright, unmoving streetlights, black ribs of shadow hiding men, women and other sentient fighters. Though a great warrior in his younger days, John Quivermass holds his mace like a dusty relic and looks over to Dante, his eyes on the door of a shutdown club.
"Are we sure he's in there?"
"He's been spotted," Dante mutters. "He had to have his fingers magically reattached after the Ghoul got him, so if we're lucky he'll still be recovering."
"Let's see how tough he really is. It's easy to tear down someone else's achievements, but let's see how Shryke deals with adversity of his own."
For a moment Quivermass thinks about his adopted father, Gaunt, who's tucked up in bed with his emptying flask of memories, unable to even look after himself, and a great sadness floats in his eyes. With a raise of his hand, Quivermass signals the charge and several dozen bodies move towards the front door, the rest waiting to charge with their leader.
The fighting is intense, Dante and Quivermass covering each other's backs like old times, and to the first man's delight the second wields his mighty mace with almost the ease of old. Dropping two enemies with his twin daggers, Dante laughs and dances around several others, the old joy thundering in his heart.
There's nothing between them and the streets: no business, no administration, no disorder of the mind, just the fierce duel of youth and experience out in the world and within men.
Shryke exits the club's doorway, in a melee of dozens of friends and foes. For a single arching moment, Dante drinks in the sight of a kindred soul, a killer without notion of mercy or reprieve, then he charges with a guttural cry.
He flings down the first two of Shryke's bodyguards and cuts their throats, his armour singed with delicate hissing red blood that snares the senses and makes everything seem unreal, like a painting or memories of a play. A Roenan female steps forward, dragging one of Dante's men by the neck, his desiccated glare staring out accusingly in death as the Roenan raises her black sword in challenge.
Dante accepts the fight in a rush of blades and material, the female calmly stepping back to parry his blows but quickly reversing momentum, pushing forward against the veteran killer. There's no wind in the Undercity and yet her black blade sings, whispers of a song older than Dante can ever know.
From the corner of his eye, Dante spots Quivermass cutting down enemies and visions awake in him of the leader's youth, following Dante around and clearly wanting to be like him, but even at that age Quivermass stood aside from his peers, tried to do old things in new ways. Dante ducks a lightning flash attack, rises to strike and is pierced through the gut straight out to the other side, eyes crinkling with memory as he dies in a street he ruled, his eyes, those little informers, giving out like the eclipse of some last, crashing eon.
Shouts skid around the building's side and from both flanks, more of Shryke's fighters pour into the fray, Quivermass gasping as he takes several arrows from these new arrivals, tearing down one attacker and breaking his body on the curb. Their era has failed and now it's the time of the angry young things, as it had once been his time and he'd tried to turn away from the cycle of violence and renewal; to keep things in a peaceful stasis. But a vision can only be driven so far without resorting to fresh resources within a person, and a single person can only produce so many revolutions of spirit, and so after almost thirty years Quivermass has run out of road, fallen into the yawning abyss of violence over which he'd been building a bridge.
His body spends its last penny of strength on a charge and the great, hulking leader breaks out of the ambush and fights through bloody, darkened streets to a tall, imposing building. Ignoring the shouts of his guards, he scrambles upstairs, pulling out arrows as he runs and bleeding softly on the stone steps.
In the old man's bedroom, Gaunt shifts uneasily in his sleep as his son lifts him and whines in a happy, whispered song of dementia.
"The days we've seen, John! The days we've seen!"
"Yes, father," Quivermass utters from the broad box of his chest.
The old man falls into a deeper unconsciousness and Quivermass moves softly, tenderly towards the door. They could still make it out.
*
Light enters the room brutally through small, high-up windows, pitching like tents in the darkness where Gaunt sits in his side-throne thinking of Quivermass, his son. Boots echo somewhere in the building and the old man moans, a fearful little laugh in the depths of his eyes. The ragged old creature breathes deeply through his wrecked chest and speaks to his son, though the darkness makes it impossible to see if John Quivermass occupies the throne beside him.
"Oh, John, the days we've seen!" he whines happily, then stops as if on the precipice of some great revelation, ideas buzzing inside his skull but darting out of reach. He would feel ashamed, and vulnerable, if it had been anyone but his son beside him.
He places a hand that's little more than a withered leaf on a huge, powerful paw belonging to Quivermass and feels a little of the blood welling between the fingers, dripping down the black throne onto the cold, stone floor.
"The days we've seen," he smiles sadly and then every emotion leaves him, and there's nothing but a crushing silence and poignant light crisscrossing the floor like memories between patches of bleak, harsh darkness.
The far-off boots march on and a door opens then shuts again forever.
Outside, the door closes behind Arkady and the Roenan steps forward, dead guards at her back and Shryke's wide, scarred mouth before her.
"It's done," she states simply.
*
The raised road is a bloodied river of humanity, flowing this way and that; held in reserve because of the heroics of his amateur Territorial Defence Legion, Talbot sees it all happening, his eyes hungering from point to point. He reads the iron necessity of the situation and grimly turns to his fighters, though when he speaks his gaze occasionally ascends into the dimming heavens as if he can see hope shining like a comet against the future's black immensity.
"You have before you The Line, with all its glories and imperfections clear to see. What shall we do with it? Where shall we, as caring citizens, best deploy our efforts, small or large as they may be? To the left, our future empress Elizabeth Clay, Anya Fitzwallis and Sig Hammerhead are holding the end of The Line in the north, under siege in their fort and trying to break out. In the centre, The Line has already been pierced once, repaired by the heroic Jiangese volunteers and is now beset again."
He turns fully to the south and indicates far off, where Salazar's great dragon Bahamut, shorn of its master, blazes like a black sun and dives as a flaming maelstrom into the territory occupied by the elite Samarian Iron Legion special forces. At that distance the individuals are so small they seem to have been scratched on the horizon by a fingernail, but incredibly Talbot thinks he spies some Iron Legion soldiers dangling from Bahamut by grappling hooks, illuminated by cascading explosions and then disappearing into the dark like water vanishing into sand.
"Life springs from death; and from the graves of brave men and woman spring great nations. We cast aide out interests, rights and customs, and put them into a common stock, bent unremittingly to a simple and supreme task: freedom. A small word with a lot of punch behind it. It's brought down many a dictator in the past and will do so again whenever the call rises. It is the love of the people and their attachment to their government that gives it its power. As volunteers, you are the sign and signal of this great lineage, its latest and greatest defenders. Show the enemy that freedom and individuality doesn't make us weaker, it is the source of our greatest strength: our souls are not scattered and diffused but blended and brightened by the presence of others, by difference and the urge to connect without obedience. You have done too much not to do more; you have gone too far not to go on. Those who speak up and fight for the rights of others, whether they're born to the highest estate or have nothing but conscience to their name, can walk with sovereign tread in this land of ours. Draw the sword for freedom and cast away the scabbard! To the middle and help the Jiangese!"
The Territorial Defence Legion smash into the centre of the raised road, cutting their way into the Night Elves, demons and other creatures, and linking up with the Jiangese volunteers; in the midst of it all, Talbot fights and measures their chances, the small blue flames of his eyes shining out. The fighting is grim, the casualties of magic left as mashed and shapeless debris, the living slicing and wrestling above the corpses, some falling to the floor caught in a careless braid of limbs with their enemies, grappling for control of weapons.
A Night Elf jumps out and swings vertically down at Talbot's head, the hit barely blocked by Talbot's upswinging sword and forcing him back. Following, the Night Elf sweeps in attacks from either side, knocking Talbot this way and that but never able to break through his guard. With a flick of his wrist, Talbot knocks the attacker's sword away, steps to the side and sweeps his blade horizontally up his torso.
Amazed, the Night Elf looks down at his torn body and then, helpless, stares up at Talbot, his eyes like cornered rats. Without thinking, Talbot strides up and puts his sword through the dying Elf's head, cutting it in two; then gazes down at his handiwork with a sorrowful anger, black anger, holy anger, and the hope and pain of his opponent's last look distilled into a molecule of guilt.
There's a vicious, tearing sound and Talbot looks down at his chest, where a demon's claw has punched through his back and cut through to the front of his torso. It's ripped out again and Talbot turns, swinging, pursuing eyes that are globes of fire and striking down at scaled forearms blocking his blade. Sweeping a forearm aside, he stabs the demon through its chest and it dissipates.
From the raised road, he looks out across a plain which is as flat and boundless as the sky; earlier, the Night Elf forces filled the plain but now they must all be here, and across The Line, with both sides fully committed and the fighting in the balance. A vicious torpor seems to put a brake on his leg, strength ebbing out like a wave as he touches a hand to his chest and feels blood pumping between the fingers.
All across the road, swords gleam in the moonlight, phantoms of metal. Perhaps it's only nagging duty, but Talbot feels a mob of eyeballs on him, the expectations of his people. With the last of his strength, he lifts his sword and prepares to speak, arrows shooting past his failing sight like rocks in the mist. He's going to tell his people how they have the power to shape, crown and consecrate their own life and the lives of those around them, but before he can speak an arrow strikes him in the throat and chokes that powerful stream of language.
The torpor increases and Talbot smiles, thinking this must be what humans feel when the invincible weight of old age descends and ends their days, shut in the night's embrace; in this moment he, an immortal Elf, is united with all those previous lives, a blinding sweetness of sympathy, empathy and release. He stands speechless, like a question mark, and then falls over one last time.
***
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