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VEDMAK
The Alchemist’s final gift courses through me turning my blood into a burning lake of fire. I am a god of war. Reaping souls is my harvest—and the harvest is plentiful. My senses tingle with another inhaled breath of the nebulized concoction. These whimpering cowards come and bring war to my house. I will give them what they so desire.
Twisting, I grind the toes of my boots into the bloody slush at my feet searching for a more stable position. The open-mouthed head propped against my ankle draws a cruel smile across these lips. Let them come and share his fate. The plasma scythe ignites with a crackling sound then fizzles as it steadies. It pops and sputters a few times and catches again. The power cell won’t last much longer.
I lift the stump of an arm, now adorned with a crudely welded war hammer. A crimson wash, the blood of my foes, drips from its square edges. I am battle born, made to bring the end that haunts all men.
The little suka fights her way through the throngs of warriors to reach me. She is an aggressive creature—there is no shame in admitting that. I hate the bitch down to Demitri’s very bones but admire the tenacity with which she comes. Pure, driven, dauntless. It will make emptying her blood upon the snow that much more satisfying.
“Come on,” I shout, pointing my scythe at her. “Come and taste of death.”
But she cannot. Instead, she’s swarmed by a swath of my Rippers.
A group of the Kahangan fighters breaks through the lines and gallops toward me, their mouths filled with the last words of dying men. The neural link activates, connecting with the optical nerve in Demitri’s head. The battlefield stutters, slowing to a crawl. I have all the time in the world to take these fools apart.
I sidestep a clumsy swipe from a machete. My scythe buzzes as it swings upward, cleaving the shocked man vertically from groin to sternum. He cries out, falling and fumbling with his guts as they empty into his hands. Glorious. The single frames of action come one at a time and I take the second attacker head on, the iron hammer crashing down into his clavicle and folding his chest inward. The third and fourth would have had a good shot had they not hesitated. The scythe crackles as it sweeps clean through the lower half of one man, his gawking upper end toppling awkwardly into the snow at his own feet. I turn on the last man, who is just registering the carnage I have wrought upon his comrades. His feet slide as he tries to change direction.
And the flame of my weapon sputters out. Sard it all to hell.
No matter. I lunge, crossing the distance in a fraction of a second, swinging the heel of the scythe upward, catching him hard under the chin. The sound of his teeth breaking against each other is sweet music. His body, straight as a board, flops backward into the snow, unmoving.
With a gasp, the world around me regains its composure. A stream of blood rolls from my host’s left nostril. I am beyond the human weakness that plagues this flesh.
A fury still boils over inside my chest, at the turning of the tide of battle. The cockroaches brought their forces to bear this time, and no matter the superiority of my Graciles or the madness in these stimmed-up Rippers. Not even the dushi of my brethren or the mind-altering chemicals are enough—my army is still being forced back.
The Logosian’s resistance and their allies keep pushing forward. This is not how it was supposed to be. This body quakes with pent up rage.
Charging forward, I seize a resistance fighter by the neck and sling her back against the ice at my feet, her skull breaking upon impact. Another two fall from critical blows from the iron hammer attached to my arm.
A roar freezes me in place.
No. It can’t be. I turn to see the source of the primal sound, knowing full well from what it comes. The massive tiger stalks its way toward me, and riding on its back is ... is ... “You!” I scream, vocal chords straining above the chaos. “You would come to challenge me? Desire me to break you again, do you? Did you enjoy it that much?”
“Give up, demon. Give back what you have stolen,” my former captive says with confidence, her headdress blowing in the storm.
“I will not. I’ll kill that tiger and choke the life out of you!”
“Don’t make me hurt you,” she calls into the wind.
Infernal bitch. I try to ignite the plasma scythe. It would give me a strong advantage against the beast. But no, the worthless garbage sputters, the power cell extinguished.
She notches an arrow to her bow and draws on me.
“Do it,” I screech. “You can’t because you know the weakling Demitri who set you free still lives trapped inside this body.”
She hesitates, staring into the eyes I’ve stolen. The bow twangs. I can’t even turn before the shaft strikes, penetrating deep into the thigh muscle. A spike of searing pain flares through this engineered shell.
“No, but I can slow you down,” she says.
That bitch! She shot me. Flinging the used-up scythe into the snow, I grab the arrow shaft and yank the barb from the meat. Blood streams down the thigh of my Gracile war horse.
The tiger roars and there’s another twang of the bow. The arrow strikes me in the shoulder, stopped by the plate armor I wear.
“I’ll kill you all!” I scream, sprinting as fast as this injured shell will allow toward the lillipad entrance, now being barricaded by Merodach.
“You can’t stop it, Vardøger,” the wild woman calls out, her voice swarming my brain. “Fate is coming for you.”
