Armilus obeyed and held his sabre high.
“Breath deep into your entrails. Deeper…yes. Now squeeze your lower belly. Exhale your very essence.”
It happened within the seconds expended to teach the lesson: a cloud of black fire erupted from the Heritor’s face cage, cloaked the sabre, hilt and blade, and stressed the steel till it wailed like an animal. When the flames dissipated, the weapon had changed.
Armilus flourished the bronze sickle-sword, tested its reach, its balance, how the old bone hilt filled his grip, and how its crescent curve culminated in the weight of it fang tip. The thing looked alive and hungry as the man brandishing it—the man whose attention turned toward Adam. The Messah bit his tongue to keep from calling Adnihilo’s name, drew his sword instead, held the rusted blade between himself and Armilus. Everything had gone as the Charred Angel claimed. Then this is truly the end.
“Heritor,” spoke the Xanthos King, “You feel it, do you not? The depletion of your soul. This is the cost of bringing true light. Now you must regain your strength, for this purpose we have prepared a sacrifice. So go now, and be satiated. There is much work yet ahead.”
“Blood! Blood!” the demon lords chanted, begging with their chalices that Armilus take the Messah’s head.
“I’ve found my purpose,” the Heritor said. “Have you found yours?”
Adam lowered the point of his sword, thrust it into the sand. “Yes, I have,” he answered, his heart racing in his chest, his knees shaking as he approached his destiny—and Armilus his own. The blade came fast. A flash of bronze, of pale light, then the thousand eyes of the Blind Leviathan.
Coda
Hark! And hear thy prophet Kashim out in the dark of Tsaazaar on the night of the Beast. This lease, God, has got me feeling like a damned fool, standing off with demons while companions abscond the sand bowl. But sure, Luthor’s sword swings heavy enough. I lug the steel on my shoulder, stare out looking tough when the mutt lopes around to the south of the dune—sound of claws cut the ground, claws larger than you. It’s the desert deserter murderer with fur that churns like turning your guts to viscous pitch, more viscous than Iisah bitches, fangs that light you up. Devil-engine levels of quickness. No witnesses after it hits, till the Mad Dog puts it down, now.
Marauder Kyoken, remember the name. Kashim, infamous for innocence slain. Rhyme lyric mysticist, theurgist mysterious, wanted from Gautama to Nuw Gard’s Wild Isle.
Notorious for work laborious, some say I’m possessed; a sabre-strapped maniac who never could rest. A lunatic, perhaps, but the best of the best while I’m laughing at the moon, shouting, “Shaking in your boots? Scared how Luthor did to Veles, I’m going to do to you?”
“True,” from the darkness, the Black Beast admits, slips within vision, the demon lord Seth seeming six feet of human, black skinned and hound-headed, packing a sceptre that’s deaded more men than I care to count. Now, he’s concentrated, aiming straight for the brain. Domination, just like Jezebel did Cain. So I’m waiting there, patient, cause slavery’s not placed upon a man who hasn’t yet already given his consent.
That’s life, nothing but salt and strife, fighting on a knife’s edge half-blind in the moonlight asking, “why?” And there’s never an answer; so take a chance, or take a dive. Either way, Life looses the arrow of time.
Flying forward, I drop the steel off my shoulder, overcome the inertia, nearly knock myself over shifting rhythm; I dig myself in with my toes, swing the winged sword low, from hip to collar bone. Seth slips into the shadows, howls sick as brothel-moans, cause his tricks aren’t cutting it. He switches tactics—explodes! Lo, and behold, above and below, the Beast’s teeth close. On the upswing, I flow like windmills, my heel wheels—hits a blow to the nose, and the demon goes reeling. I get this feeling I’m chosen to spit lyrics that glow like steel flashes, a stroke thrown faster than bolt lighting arcing wide as I gloat like I really did smote Seth’s neck from his shoulders. But the demon darts right so I connect on the side, cut him off with a slice, watch the lopped paw drop like your jaw from the rhymes.
Ho! It’s time I finish this, heft the great sword, impressive with one hand, be damned if I’m not ending this in style. Standing over him, I smile like a pygmy in denial, bring the blade behind my head and let it swing like something wild, saying, “Die.”
I’ll be damned.
It seems the tables have turned. Scratch the record—these fangs are really testing my nerves from wrist to shoulder. I’m hurting, though I suppose I deserve it. Traitor’s bones are forever cold beneath the sand and ocean. But I’m not ghosting it yet—from a dog bite? Like Hell. Draw my sabre half way, toss it up, grab the blade like a spear and take aim. Eye’s the prize in life; you’re only good as your last phrase.
Snicker-Snack! What was that? Vorpal sharp turns the pain in my arm. Sounds of fangs tear apart—Can it be? Nothing! of this world can ever damage me within. Suck it up, the spirit that your fearing deep within. A sin? Might be the state of mind that I’ve been in invites the rhyme to open eyes to a vision that transcends.
Blinding demons while bleeding out onto the sand, it occurs: the triple burners. Inspire purposes grand and emergent, searching for words that serve perfect, the fans that expand the ambition in my gut. Only then can I expire, when they’re giving it
