Erin Evans - Brimstone Angels

Spurred by her nerves, the powers that swirled through her spread outward in a cloak of shadowy smoke, a miasma that blurred her and made it harder to spot where she stood. A little protection at least.

She tried to focus, to draw up the powers Lorcan’s pact granted her, but her nerves were jangling. There were too many eyes ready to stare at her.

There are too many eyes, she thought, but they’re too busy to notice you. If you don’t do something they’ll all be dead, and their eyes will be treats for the crows.

She clutched at the stream of magic that ran through her and hurled a rain of fiery bolts toward the forest, far from the crowd, over where the arrows seemed to fall from. She cast another, frustrated-who knew if she were even hitting anything?

Then she saw a boy, about her own age, running toward the thorns that lined the road, chased by orcs. He didn’t see her-she was sure-but she saw the look of fear in his eyes.

The orcs were going to kill him, and he knew it.

No one else was going to save him. She drew hard on the powers of the Hells.

A chorus of bowstrings sang out and the driver of the wagon behind them screamed, an arrow sunk into his side. Orcs boiled out of the brush, axes clattering on their shields. The little girls in the wagon woke, eyes wide, startling at screams and too shocked to listen to their father’s orders to lie flat in the cart.

All around Brin, people who’d been riding along, quiet as you please, pulled weapons from under provisions and wagon seats and jumped from their carts under a hail of arrows. Tam leaped out of the cart as well and unwound the spiked chain he wore around his narrow waist.

“Shar and hrast.” The priest spat. He shoved a dagger into Brin’s hand. “Under the cart. Stay low and hamstring them as they pass.” His chain lashed out, suddenly alive with holy fire, and caught an orc that sprang onto the road by the throat.

Brin’s ears were buzzing loud enough to drown out the screaming. He looked down at the blade in his hand-rougher than the one in his pack, smaller than the short sword he had in the cart bed. What had the priest said?

What had Constancia said? Loyal Fury, you fight like an actor. You’ll faint the first time someone draws a sword on you, Torm help me-

Brin gripped the blade, despite the fact he did feel light-headed and sick-he knew how to use a bloody dagger!

He looked up in time to duck a notched axe blade. It sliced past his head and slammed into the side of the wagon.

Instinct made him turn the dagger into the orc’s partly bare chest. It sliced through his pectoral and immediately caught on a rib. The orc screamed, a sound more of rage than pain, as he struggled against the stuck axe head.

Brin bolted.

The loose dirt of the forest floor made him slip, and his legs seemed suddenly too long and clumsy, but he ran as fast as he could as the clashing sounds of battle built behind him. There was no room in his head for thoughts of what Constancia would think, what the priest would think, what Torm-the god of duty himself-would think. All Brin knew was that he needed to get as far as possible from the orc with the axe.

Another fearsome roar rattled the air and a creature-half man and half dragon it seemed-barreled up the road. The refugees turned to contend with this new front. But the huge, wicked-looking sword the dragon-man carried avoided the humans and cut into one orc after another. He roared, and the crackle of lightning spread out from his mouth, leaping from orc to orc.

After him, on feet as quick as a deer’s, a devil dressed in well-fitted scale armor used a glaive to stab one orc and then vaulted over his body to kick a second.

Brin’s foot caught a wagon rut as he sprinted past. He sprawled forward, skinning his nose on the ground. He turned over, at the thud of feet. Axe-wielding orcs, three of them now, were chasing him down.

He hadn’t even made it across the road.

The orc in the lead slowed, just enough to pull his axe back over one shoulder.

Torm forgive me, Brin thought. He wished he could apologize to Constancia.

Crack !

With a gust of flames and shadows, something, some creature stood between Brin and the orcs, a horned thing in purple robes with a twitching tail. It raised both hands, gave a soft gasp of effort, and where the robes had fallen down its arms-its human arms-Brin saw veins suffused with black. Horrible clouds of something caustic and dark billowed out toward the orcs. Their screams drowned out the sounds of the fight beyond.

The thing turned on Brin. He glimpsed a face like a girl’s, but with strange eyes and horns. A devil.

“Oh, Loyal Torm,” he managed, before she grabbed him firmly by the arm, and he was yanked … away . The world dropped out from under him, and it felt as if he were being dragged through a bonfire.

He blinked, and suddenly, he was coughing at the sharp taste of brimstone and looking up at the fir tree that had been a solid twenty feet to his right when she’d first grabbed his arm.

The devil wasn’t looking at him. She was watching the orcs. One lay on the ground, half out of the thicket and dead or at least stunned into stillness, but the other two were trying to figure out where the devil and Brin had gone.

She didn’t give them much time to wonder. She tensed again, as something seemed to pulse through her. She spoke a soft word, and a smattering of missiles-a hail of burning sulfur-rained down on the orcs. They howled again, and sprinted toward the devil.

Brin pulled himself up and to his feet. He’d lost the dagger, but … surely there was something he could do to stop her … send her back to-

The devil cast another hail of fire and one of the orcs racing toward them went down. She grabbed Brin by the hand as the orcs reached them, but he twisted, trying to break free. The closest orc’s axe darted out awkwardly, and the flat of it smashed into Brin’s thigh as it swung past.

The devil twisted and punched a fist under the orc’s upraised arm. The orc cried out and dropped the axe. The devil gasped another word in some infernal language.

Again all Brin smelled was brimstone and they were suddenly a few cart-lengths ahead of where they’d been, beyond the fir tree and behind some brush that overhung the side of the road. Brin fell to the ground and cried out with pain. The creature looked down at him, one eye blazing gold, the other silver. “Stay back!”

The second devil was nearly on top of them. She twisted, her glaive catching two orc warriors in the throat in quick succession, the end thrusting back into the first’s belly for good measure, as the first devil caught the same orc with a blaze of flames.

This close he could make out their faces-nearly identical. The same sort of devil. The world was full of monsters.

“What are you doing?” the devil with the glaive shouted.

“Changing the plan!”

“Well hit the damned archers at least!”

The devil who had Brin dragged another rain of sulfur into existence, sending the missiles searing through the forest. Screams followed. She did it again, the blackness suffusing her veins like rot.

He looked up to see the orc who had wounded him running toward them, his features fixed in fury.

“Ye gods!” he cried. He raised his hands, praying furiously-

The orc roared and swung his axe again. The devil-girl holding Brin by the arm didn’t flinch. Her hand came up again, and this time a great gout of flame streaked out of it.

The last of the three orcs toppled over, smoldering slightly and not moving. Another dozen or so lay dead around the caravan, and the remainder were running, crashing through the woods. The scaled man poked at a few orcs’ bodies. The other devil made a few flourishes with her glaive, but the battle had ended. Brin saw the priest drop his chain and rush to the side of a woman whose shirtfront was soaked through with blood. She wasn’t the only casualty. Brin’s hands started to itch.