Einar, son of Sirius
Guardians
Index:
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7
This story is part of my first anthology book, A mandate of sword and railgun, and I intend to post all chapters on my Substack. If you like the story and want to support me, you can find the book here.
Chapter 8
Rot’s chosen now held sway over most of Belazem’s fortifications.
Though cheer was not in their hearts since to push the heretics and their peon helpers aback, hundreds had to die. Inconceivable was the thought of retreating; running away from some gaggle of serfs, armed or otherwise. Yet, after the tenth wave struggled to overcome craters filled nearly to the brim with the mangled corpses of their comrades, the leht loudly avowed their fears.
“Neither glory nor riches – only certain doom awaits us here!” – One of the high born Lothorian officers screamed, after witnessing two lehtas shredded by machine gun fire.
“Folly, this is folly!” – Shouted a Narco officer, after he stumbled upon blasted to pieces Jaern, their corpses clasped in nigh invincible high-tech armor.
What was mere hours ago a thought inconceivable, now, after crawling through machine gun fire and booby traps, didn’t feel so. Even their mighty Coalition allies fell prey to Lothorian hands, holding Terr’aan railguns. Spirits were faltering; both Leht and Narco were at their breaking point!
The generals, so loyal to their Prophet, they had to act in person or everything would be for naught. They quickly rushed forward and assumed positions at the head of their last two units. Yes, there were more troops marching to reinforce them, many thousands of leht, but those were a whole day away and they needed to win now.
Their stubborn opponents were tired, encircled and stuck inside one cramped position. Even with all the extra supplies the Terr’aan starship delivered, their machine gun could not fire all the time, nor cover the entire defensive perimeter. Weary hands and sleepy eyes could only do so much! Therefore, the two generals aimed to press the attack exactly where this brutally efficient piece of Terr’aan engineering wasn’t.
They need tie the two enemy leaders down and with Rot’s holy blessing – kill them!
Those who served the Coalition were much better than their kin. Be they Taz’aran, Jaern or Narco enforcers, these soldiers had superior gear and training. Rarely if ever, skilled people like them ran like cowards from the field of battle. Indeed, in situations like this, it was far better to stay put, take cover and call for mechanized support. That the Narco officers knew well, yet they could not rely on such means this time.
This was Lothoria and here, on these ancient grounds, there existed another type of support.
It was their master’s amazing powers, which these leaders of men trusted and implicitly so. The Prophet proved and many a time after they joined his force, that these magics of his were deathly. Yet, just like with everything else in times of war, it was one thing to fashion a brutal display of force from the leisure of your comfortable throne, entirely another when the constant tire of battle befell you.
Not their large warriors made of metal and armed with alien weaponry, nor the invisible, mighty Jaern, neither the hundreds of soldiers together could vanquish these heretics. They and their Terr’aan helpers bested everything which Rot’s Chosen Heir threw at them. Few in number, nevertheless these defiant Lothorians smote with impunity blessed by Rot leht and soldiers clad in alien armor, alike.
Though now, and from near point-blank range, the generals witnessed the sorry state of their heretical adversary. Bloodied, gray uniforms torn and missing limbs bandaged, this gaggle of former peons was indeed at their last breath. Encircled, with beam weapons aimed at them from all sides, soon their primitive redoubt would fall apart and the heretics, die. Inevitable it was and after pinpointing the Terr’aan’s position, the two generals strode forth.
“For the Greater Glory of Rot, we will crush you today!” – Bellowed the Temple’s most powerful commander, his long zhatarn shimmering, empowered by Rot’s mighty blessing.
“Vile Terr’aans, your defeat is at hand. Taz’e Nekh’da!” – With fervor ladened voice, atypical for most cartel enforcers, shouted the Narco.
Before them stood the two Terr’aans; both were hit by many a particle beam and struck with zhatarn, they bled red blood from their wounds. Yet, two dozen of the Prophet’s best warriors lay hewn, riddled with railgun shot before their feet. Unshakable their resolve was since they blocked the entrance to their redoubt with their own bodies.
Shield bent, armor and uniform in tatters; these abominable combatants still drew breath, their weapons felled Rot’s followers without fail. Eyes aglow with power, such that neither general had ever seen on the battlefield before, the Terr’aan and Asgardian rebuked them.
“Nothing built by weaklings stands the test of time, Narco. Not these ‘all-powerful’ Cartels, and not your pitiful Coalition! Because inevitably, all bad things must come to an end... a bloody, fiery end.” – Still standing despite his severely wounded leg, the morale officer calmly stated.
“I piss on thine glory.” – Shouted Einar and aimed the tip of his blood-dripping sword at the Temple general’s chest.
A dozen star-seconds ticked away; the Terr’aans breathed tiredly, their bodies drenched in blood and Rot’s generals felt emboldened. They knew that their Prophet only needed a few more moments, perhaps a star-minute and then he’ll unleash his magics once more. In their sorry state, the heretics and their foolhardy Lothorian underlings would stand no chance.
The two generals ordered an all-out, last attack, then informed the Prophet of their plan. He, in his wisdom, greatly approved their cerebrations and quickly moved forth to reinforce them. Such was his anger, his willingness to ensure the heretics’ doom, that the Prophet prematurely ended his battle meditation.
His blessed magics were more than enough to end two battered Terr’aans!
Einar and the Temple general clashed in brutal melee, eager to end one another. Two blades swiftly raced throughout the air, each warrior putting their utmost effort into it, every strike deathly. Such was their strength, that hot torrents of displaced air swirled around them after each clash. Lothorian and Terr’aan blood splashed all over, hewn limbs flew up in the air, accompanied by the vicious screech of blocked or deflected vibro weapons.
Experience was on the Temple leht’s side, for he was a grand general, a vicious warrior, winner of many a battle. Yet, Einar was an Asgardian and although young, unexperienced, his very soul was on fire. Empowered by the Terran Word, the youth trained beside agents of the Office. His teachers were Terran veterans with decades of battlefield lore, people who long since reforged every little fright of theirs and became indomitable. They instructed Einar in great many things, and not only how to shoot his railgun.
They taught him the true meaning of Terror!
He learned how to mold his utmost fears and use them when needed. It was a moment of warrior’s revelation during life-saving combat, when an Asgardian learned of his or her quality. Bleed he did, many times wounded by both zhatarn and particle-beam, yet the medics bandaged his wounds and restored his flesh. Such was the pain suffered from rapid healing, that most warriors would’ve long since faltered, their bodies either rejected the meds or fallen into a coma.
Einar screamed, he shouted each time and endured the pain. Instead of falling unconscious, before his eyes the young Asgardian saw those of Sirius who crawled through torturous pain, limbless and dying. In his ears he heard Lothorian voices; he remembered the words of young volunteers who ran through the desert, their feet bare and bleeding.
Faceplate long since broken beyond repair, Einar now glanced at his degenerate enemy. Eyes slanted and aglow with Oden force, his limbs moved with speed unexpected from a man of his size. To forge for himself an opening, he threw his already broken shield at the enemy and then, swiftly, he slashed with his sword.
The Temple general was no fool, he’d seen many a warrior possessed by rage, witnessed all sort of trickery and skillfully sidestepped, away from Einar’s flying shield. The Asgardian’s sword swiped mere inches above his head, and the general turned his most successful dodge into a forward roll.
Now, perfectly positioned to strike back, he jubilantly smiled under his helmet – victory would be his and his Prophet’s!
Not wasting even one star-second, he counterattacked; body empowered by Rot’s blessings and alien meds, his long zhatarn inevitably raced forwards. However, before his blade could reach and disembowel the Asgardian, his enemy acted. With near suicidal determination, Einar’s free hand, long as it was, grappled the general’s zhatarn!
Not the blade, but the handle was his target, and with his giant’s strength, he halted the Temple warrior’s deadly swing. Stopped the zhatarn he did, but not before the tip of this vile blade bit deep into his thigh. Despite the terrible pain, the young warrior did not scream, but grit his teeth and then, acted.
These dangerous moves, which he learned from the decrepit Asgardian swordsman, were to be used only as a last resort. If a youth faced an older, more experienced combatant, they could win either through sheer physical force, luck or... by employing the teachings of another old warrior.
The tip of Einar’s sword had remained pointed up and to the left, after his last attack. Not giving the Temple general even a single star-second to scream, and keeping the iron grip over his enemy’s weapon, Einar swung with a downward motion. Every bit of strength and skill that he had, the young warrior put into this strike.
Painfully aware what would happen to him if he did nothing, the leht attempted to move both his zhatarn and head. It was too little too late, however; for in his fervor to end the young warrior, he’d moved too quickly and overextended himself. Though bleeding, tired beyond measure and heavily-wounded, the boy standing before him was an Asgardian!
Blue, dripping blood and its edge aglow with Oden force, the sword collided with olden Temple armor. However thick, empowered by alien tech and, Rot’s impenetrable blessings, the sheet metal gave in. Shimmering, the forged from Cloudsteel sword then effortlessly severed yet another neck. Leaving a trail of dark-blue blood, the general’s head landed in the mud and slowly rolled, stopping right before the Prophet’s floating feet.
Einar felt a sudden sting in his leg and then, eyesight waning, fell on his knee. He spat blood and saw the Prophet floating towards him, as if he was looking through a crooked, red glass. No, it wasn’t some telepathic power of his enemy’s, but his own eyes shedding tears of blood!
Part of that slowly coagulating pool of bodily fluids bubbled and then rose in the air before him. Shaped as a blade and commanded by the Prophet’s mind, this weapon became shrouded by frost and then, its tip aimed at Einar’s heart.
“This is where you belong, fool! On your knees, and about to be executed by Me, the Holy Prophet, for sullying His Most Glorious Name!” – Boomed the Prophet’s voice, his blood-forged by manifest magic sword, soon to pierce the Asgardian’s flesh.
While this was happening, Holden and the Cartel general were exchanging shots and both hit one another a number of times. The two were not equal, however; the Terr’aan could no longer employ his agility, dodge attacks. Moreover, without heavy armor-plating, he suffered mightily from every shot which hit him.
Despite his inability to move, the Narco found it strangely, annoyingly hard to actually aim and land a killing shot. It was as if something hindered him or aided the Human, yet in the end, whatever this thing was, it did not save the Terr’aan. Sawed off his shoulder by an accurate particle-beam, his smoldering left arm finally fell on the blood-soaked ground.
Indeed, most would immediately fall unconscious or lose their ability to fight altogether, but those who became Terran Morale Officers were of a special breed. Braving the pain, Holden injected himself with his last medispray, which closed the wound and stopped the bleeding.
He reloaded and switched his snub gun firing selector to full auto, then lowered its barrel since the weapon became overheated by constant shooting. Though he was able to survive and do all of this, his mind temporarily shut down – the peerless youth could only suffer so much.
The Narco, while prudently behind cover for the better part of his firefight with Holden, now saw his chance to achieve an even greater victory for his new lord. Besting a Terr’aan in combat was not an easy thing; moreover, if said opponent was a Morale Officer – it was thrice as hard. Glory, prestigious rewards, and fame beyond imagining were promised to Coalition troopers who achieved such a feat.
Since his leht counterpart had already clashed with the Asgardian, the ambitious Cartel officer decided to act quickly. He not only vied for promotion and recognition among his Coalition peers, but desired to back his comrade up. Lord General Nedal would suffer no pointless backstabbing or waste of powerful allies!
As the Terr’aan wallowed in pain, his once beautifully made armored uniform in tatters, knee deep in blood, the Narco dashed forth. He planned to move closer and, while that accursed Human railgun was still overheated, end the Morale Officer from point blank range. Of course, he’d say few chosen words before shooting the Terr’aan dead, on holo-record for all Coalition commanders and aspiring officers to watch.
They would know that even the mighty agents of the Office bled, suffered terrible pain and, yes, died by the hands of brave Coalition troopers!
One thing which postponed the Human’s doom was the appearance of two female medics. One rushed to provide aid, while the second shot with her laser rifle. From this range, getting hit by energy weapons and, of course, Terr’aan lasers or railguns could mean quick death. Everyone even remotely knowledgeable in space age warfare knew that, yet the Earthlings often did unthinkable things.
Instead of taking cover herself or providing covering fire for her comrade, the obnoxious woman was shooting to kill. Her well-aimed, overcharged laser beams, bore through his chest plate with terrifying ease! It was only because his suit was fitted with a heat resistant underlay, that he survived. The nifty, expensive upgrade saved his life and instead of suffering mortal wounds, he was able to fire back.
The Cartels actually trained their officers well and he was talented, gifted with battlefield awareness, greater than most. Instead of doing something foolish, he immediately unloaded what was left of his power pack. His particle-beam assault rifle was capable of full auto fire and from that range, the torrent of beams blasted the still aiming at him medic to burning chunks.
With a slick, well-trained move, he unholstered his sidearm; while the second medic was desperately trying to operate on the unconscious Morale Officer, he blew a nice hole in her faceplate. Head turned into mush, the woman collapsed beside her unmoving patient. With a voice command, he switched his PDA’s holo-cam on, then moved forward, ready to shoot. Pistol aimed and finger on the trigger, he spoke loudly:
“See how the mighty Terr’aans fall! Where are your biting words now, Human filth?!”
Before they were felled by their enemy, there was a boom which came from up in the air. Then the ground shook mightily and while the Prophet and his Cartel general exchanged surprised looks, an earsplitting shout echoed across the broken entrenchments:
“Follow me Star Knights! For Life Eternal!”
Holden was no longer unconscious, for with her last breath before the Narco shot her, the medic did her duty. Lying on the corpse-littered ground, he aimed his submachine gun and the instance before he fired, the morale officer screamed:
“There, hear to my words, feel their mettle!”
Somehow still able to maintain a steady grip, Holden’s weapon bellowed a hail of railgun pellets. Startled, the Narco expected oblivion, however death did not come, at least not this instant.
The torrent of projectiles blasted apart his Lord’s manifest magic, shards of his blood-forged blade evaporating in the air. Then, correcting his aim, Holden emptied what was left in his weapon’s power pack, straight into the Prophet’s chest. Although the barrage was not nearly powerful and saturated enough to penetrate his magics, it did distract him.
With his pistol aimed well, the Narco had to shoot. A few star-seconds of unnatural sluggishness when he heard the Terr’aan’s words, his Prophet’s attack being foiled, all of this came and passed. He forgot all arrogant, beforehand readied scornful statements and simply pulled the trigger.
The weapon fired, its death delivering beam hit, yet it was not the Terr’aan. Instead, a Lothorian body, an armed with zhatarn peon fell with a gory hole in his torso. Quickly, more peons came; one after another they leaped at the Narco, ineptly swinging their weapons.
Fools!
From point-blank range he easily shot all of them dead, yet as the bodies piled up before him, he could not unsee the smiles adorning their faces. Eyes full of terror, one of them mumbled something about securing the future of their children, before he drew his last breath.
The Narco reloaded with shaking hands – these Lothorians were not afraid of him! Not in the least scared of dying too since they most probably knew that there was no chance of victory. Yet they still attacked, placed their scrawny bodies between him and his target. It was the Terr’aan plague, their disease spreading Word which had successfully infected them!
“I cannot fight, but I will carry you!”
Now, instead of zhatarn armed peons, a small Lothorian girl desperately fought to pull her Human master away from certain death. The tiny, bloodied hands and sinewy limbs of a child should not be strong enough to even move one of this man’s limbs. Breath still from the sight unfolding before his eyes, the Cartel commander witnessed how this wimpy child dragged his target one full foot across the bloodied ground.
Now quaking with fear, he aimed his gun at her and pulled the trigger, but this time the Terr’aan took the hit. With superhuman effort he rolled, shielding the child with his body. The fool peon cried, but exhausted as she was, it was impossible to crawl under a fully grown man. Having suffered too much pain and tire, her little body finally gave up and she fell unconscious.
Cartel enforcers cared not about whom or how many they had to kill.
Women, children, the elderly – if ordered by their commanders, they obeyed quickly, without question or hesitation. This time, after the morale officer fell dead by his hand and on holo-record, he’d take his time and slowly end that annoying child. One cannot allow anyone infected by the Terr’aan Word to spread this madness!
Before he could finish the weaponless, heavily-wounded human, another quake-like commotion distracted him. Then, a movement caught his eye and he fired immediately, uncaring who he was shooting at.
One, two, three, and then four beams hit the charging Lothorian soldier. Then the Narco felt pain and screamed, before the bayonet which split his belly open found his brain, silencing him forever. Beside his still twitching body knelt that same soldier who killed him; mortally wounded, the Lothorian found enough strength to stand and aim his damaged rifle at the Prophet.
With broken teeth and after spitting much blood, he uttered:
“Those who are free die upright, weapons emptied and tightly gripped in their hands.”
“Then die you shall, filthy heretic!” – Instead of finishing Einar, the Prophet, enraged beyond measure, aimed his magics at the veteran.
Blasted with intense cold, this defiant man was instantly turned into a frozen statue. Die he did and indeed upright, with his rifle emptied; a smile not unlike those which adorned the dead heroes of Sirius upon his face.
Artifacts aglow with telepathic might, the Prophet screamed – unleashing another frosty gale, yet his Asgardian target smirked. Cold was something his people had a natural resistance against and the very fact that this “holy prophet” knew not about it, gave Einar hope.
He’d heard the victorious shouts, saw shapes moving in the distance and, unmistakably, knew that their reinforcements had arrived. Whatever the poison coursing through his veins, the warrior understood there was only one reason why he was still alive – his Asgardian blood. His body was way too big to be so easily overcome by a bio-weapon designed for normal sentients.
“A promise is a... cough … promise, my Guardian. Now endure... cough ... survive for as long as possible.” – Barely alive, Holden found strength to say.
“Endure?! Survive?! Deranged heretics, the whole lot of you! As if mere words can put a stopper to death!”
Before Einar floated the shape of his enemy; staff raised and surrounded with much smaller blood-forged blades, the Prophet attacked. One after another, these dagger sized magics stabbed his flesh, but he endured. Two bright red laser beams hit the Prophet, disturbed his magics and even made him land.
His pristine boots now sullied with blood, gore, and mud, the heir of Rot turned to face another duo of Terran women. Laser rifles overloaded to the point of melting were discarded, sidearms unholstered and shooting, the two medics moved forwards. They aimed to help Einar and Holden, no matter how hopeless their condition appeared.
“Will you uppity Humans ever learn your place?!” – Screeched the Prophet, tire now audibly heard in his otherwise empowered by magics voice.
“It is exactly here, where we stand.” – Shouted one of the medics, after a blood-forged dagger stabbed her in the leg.
Power, and especially telepathic one had its limits. Even those who carried into battle enhanced, brimming with energy artifacts, even they had to stop at one point. The Prophet was not a fool, and though he wanted nothing more than to end these filthy heretics here and now, it was apparent that this battle was lost.
A star chariot, one that was invisible both to the eyes made of flesh and those of machine, still lingered here. It was the very same vessel which delivered his Jaa’ern reinforcements. By order of Lord General Nedal it was to evacuate him, the most Holy Prophet, so that the Heir of Rot would not fall. Armies of men could be replaced, but His existence had to be protected, for he was a God and most deserving of eternal life.
Therefore, after both his loyal generals fell to the Terr’aans, and he was assured more enemies came, the Prophet unleashed another blast of cold. Though this was one of his most powerful magics, before committing to this assault, he had cut short his battle meditation and it... fizzled. Unaffected, the two women doctors made every possible effort and succeeded in saving their patients.
After his mind sensed the inevitable assault of Terr’aan reinforcements, the Prophet summoned his last power reserves and, focusing what energy he could muster into his staff, manifested a deathly hail. Aimed and covering a quite large area behind him, he expected that no one could possibly pass and attack for some time. Enough so he can finish the Humans, kill the Asgardian and then, get to the safety of that invisible star chariot.
Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the desperate cries for mercy – what was left of his leht begged for their lives.
The pitiful fools could die, every single one of them for all he cared!
He blood-forged more blades and aimed them at everyone still standing, focusing more at the Asgardian. No longer shaking and spitting blood after the female doctor injected him with something, the giant reached for a stone. Sparkles and lighting shot out of his eyes and the young man finally found enough strength so he could stand on one knee.
Eyes faltered, even before one’s own magics, but his mind saw and the Prophet was forced to shift targets. Miraculously, through the brutal gale had marched a number of tall, bulky-looking warriors. Wearing white and gray colored armor, holding their outlined with golden colors tall shields, swords in hand did these men run at him. The blood-forged blades found their new targets and yet, it was nowhere near enough to stop them.
Not one of the alien soldiers who wore unmistakably Terr’aan made armor and wielded crafted by Humans shields fell dead! The three swords came closer and closer; despite the magics he hurled at them and the gale they traversed, there was no hesitation in their step. Finally, from close range he was able to discern which race these warriors belonged to and surprised, the Prophet shouted:
“Vaugn?! How dare your Mistresses send their thralls to fight for Terr’aan barbarians!”
“We fight for Life Eternal!”
Close, they were too close!
The Prophet swiped with his staff, invoked the crown’s magics and hit by a mind blast, two of the treacherous Vaugn thralls fell. The third however, after braving the devastating attack and with torn innards, charged him. A Terr’aan made sword crushed the Prophet’s ancient staff in one blow and tore open his chest. The wound, although shallow, was bleeding profusely and after losing all of his concentration, he screamed for aid in the communication device:
“Pick me up immediately!”
He felt somebody’s telepathic power reaching, shrouding him and then... nothing! He was still standing there on the battlefield, holding a piece of his broken staff. No, something was amiss! The greatest artifacts of Rot, his crystal, it was no longer in his hand, and too late did he realize that ship was not here to evacuate him.
No longer a Prophet, the Priest felt his mind burning, splitting in two, then three, and finally a choir of voices swallowed him. It was then, when a rock hit him straight in the back. Twas a big one, this rock, and without his special magics or the throne shield to protect him, the Priest’s very breakable back snapped like a dry twig.
Einar had thrown the stone, imbued with what Oden force he still had command over. He then slowly limped over and gently moved Holden’s body. His Morale Officer smiled, before falling unconscious once more, one of the medics placing the severed hand into a portable stasis container.
The girl, after she was treated by one of the medics, woke up and tiredly sat next to Einar. She pointed at the newly-arrived, clad in pure white warriors and asked:
“Are we safe?”
Still affected by the poison Einar could not see far, but he heard the sounds of more vessels landing.
“For now.” – His eyes affixed at the distant horizon and despite the pain, Einar braved the sunlight for a few seconds. Then, with a sad sigh, he pointed at the shot Lothorians, and stated:
“Their sacrifice will not be in vain! When I and my friend recover, we will seek out those who still draw breath and aim to enslave Lothoria. By Mandate of Sword and Railgun will your homes be protected and the degenerates, exterminated.”
Extremely tired, the yawning little girl cuddled in the palm of his hand and said:
“When I grow up, Uncle Holden will learn me the Terr’aan Word. You... you will teach the Assa’gaard sword, right Uncle Einar?” – More she could not say since sleep finally embraced her mind.
Einar felt like the blades of thousand daggers were stabbing his mind, but stood up and dutifully sheathed his sword. He then gently picked up Holden’s patched up body and followed up by the two remaining medics, exited the redoubt.
It was near evening, and Lothoria’s star ready to sleep; yet before she gracefully swam behind the horizon with fingers made of light, she caressed both her children and those who ensured their survival. Einar boarded a recently landed Star Knight dropship and eyes squinted, soaked the last sunrays.
The soldiers and knights who wanted to congratulate their Terran brothers, found him there – left hand holding his brother in arms, a little Lothorian girl sleeping in his right. What made the biggest impression to even the most seasoned of them was the smile etched upon his giant face. Eerily this smirk was and those of Sirius immediately recognized it.
Before long, the knights who took a glimpse of this began calling the young Asgardian warrior – Einar, son of Sirius.
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