King Bernal Galadine shifted his shield to his arm, his gray eyes never leaving the hulking mass of the stormlord Baalor towering over him. The Lord of Storms had been worshipped as a god by the people of Edyn, his power plain for all to see in the dance of lightning and the boom of thunder that swept across the land whenever anvil heads formed. It was his hammer’s beat that shaped the world upon which they lived. Bernal nodded to himself. No matter, for today either he or a supposed god would die. He stepped forward, ready.
“Hold, King,” Baalor’s voice boomed into the open space in where they stood.
Bernal’s eyes narrowed, but he remained silent. Only moments ago the adepts, his niece Yetteje, and Firstmark Ash Rillaran had disappeared into the bowels of the fortress, pushing onward in an attempt to save his son and that apprentice. His stand must buy them time.
“Be not so quick to throw away your life,” said the Lord of Storms. “There are many chances to save your people. I offer you one.”
Bernal waited, knowing every moment helped his friends, then said carefully, “Speak.”
Baalor gestured, and from the smoky mist rose Sergeant Alyx Stemmer, struck down by Yetteje during the last skirmish, after the sergeant was possessed.
Bernal stared at her, stunned. He had seen Stemmer fall, possessed by demons, as Yetteje’s blade sliced her from shoulder to waist, cutting the young sergeant almost in half. Yet here she stood, whole and mostly uninjured. The only evidence of the strike lay in the sliced jerkin and the visible scar beneath, which even now was healing and fading.
“King Galadine,” said the dead sergeant, spreading her arms in supplication. “We do not wish war, only life. You can save our people and yours.”
“How?” He refused to say her name, for this could not be the same Alyx Stemmer who had served him so faithfully. This was something else, a parasite, an imitation used to lull him into a false sense of familiarity and trust. Bernal could only pretend to listen, buying precious time and with it hope for his son’s rescue.
“Join us willingly, and you will be given everlasting life and power beyond your ken. The Aeris call it Ascension. You will need its power to face the true enemy.” Alyx bowed, fist to chest, a perfect execution of the salute he had seen a thousand times before. It unnerved him, but Bernal had also heard what the wraith of his former sergeant had said.
“How?” he asked again. Here was information he could use, perhaps something to help fight these creatures. Was “ascension” responsible for Stemmer’s resurrection? Hearing the demon speak could shed light on possession and what now inhabited his former sergeant’s body. It was also a chance to delay them further.
Baalor stepped forward. “I offer myself, King Galadine. I offer myself to save our people. Join me through Ascension and together we will become one, a being of true unity as our forefathers intended.”
Bernal stepped back. “Join…” He gasped as the implication of what Baalor said hit him. “Become possessed? Like you have done with my sergeant and others? I will not—”
Baalor interrupted, “No, you will be as you are now, but stronger.” The stormlord drew closer.
“You face an enemy you cannot comprehend. Sovereign comes, and none can withstand where his hand falls. He will remake the world in his image and we all will be less than a memory, lost forever. Be not so hasty to refuse, for in the end true death awaits. Yet through Ascension we can become more powerful. I will join with you brother, not as the possessor, but as the Way that obeys your will.”
A moment passed. Bernal listened to his own breathing. His heartbeat was strong and steady in his ears. He could feel the soft leather of the grip of his blade. His shoulder flexed, his shield a comfortable reassuring weight upon his arm.
He let go of his breath slowly. It washed out of him and took with it any remaining doubt. Though he did not hold the same abhorrence to magic as his forbears, he knew no demon ever spoke the truth. He always knew he would die in battle and this moment felt like an old friend come to visit him again. He would not listen to this demon. For him, death held no fear.
“You will never possess me,” he said.
Baalor’s armored head tilted, and though only the glow of his eyes could be seen, Bernal felt a wave of sadness wash out of this god of storms. “You are wrong, King of Bara’cor. You will serve our needs, just as have all those who have died under your command.”