The Wielder of Death Magic

Chapter 872: First Blood [10]

*Woosh,* summoned projectiles flung past Igna and exploded in the distance. Onlookers’ unknown to the truth of the matter, watched content to the sudden firework show. More projectiles summoned, fireballs, water bubbles, long as mana sufficed, the primary elements upon each of Igna’s fingers rattled – at times the elements merged into stronger attacks. Water stream and a shot of electricity in resemblance to lightning simply slid off the vehicles. Roars carried the invaders up the hill, by way of slowing movement, *Mana-Control: Ice Element, Gergusser Variant – Niflheim,* a pin hovered innocently, on impact, burst into a tempest of frost. Icicles cracked reinforced windows and impaled the driver of the first mobile fortress. Those, en file indienne1 slammed breaks – drop in temperature froze door locks, the windows greyed, *-Erak, we got trouble,” snuck amidst the radios.

“What is it?” thundered an impatient reply.

“The road’s been blocked, we’re stuck in a blizzard. Wire’s burst – the locks are frozen and the windows are about to cave. The engine’s been shut, any vibration will shatter the-” reports cut short, a majestically imposing outline carved across the canvas of white and snow. Wings at its back and a golden hue fluttering like fairies brought speechlessness.

“Report?” fired Erak.

“Someone’s in the blizzard,” they said and pulled onto the weapons.

“If the storm is that bad, why’s someone walking...” no reply, a sudden thud amplified across the channel. Sound of magazines and compact movement slithered through, a mental image cross the leader’s mind, “-let me out!” he voiced, the driver side-glanced and narrowed – the behemoth of a man zipped his mouth and innocently faced forth.

“What do we have here,” giggled Igna, the pupils washed in deep crimson, “-mercenaries?” he tapped, the windows shattered, a blast of cold air froze the crew instantly. “-There’s a reason why ice is deadly,” he casually gripped the driver’s frozen head and pulled, the neck snapped, “-it’s instant and doesn’t cause too much of a mess,” heat on his index slowly warmed the corpse as to harness bounty, *Blood-Arts: Bloody Mary,* the crystals pulled, leaving the bodies parched, to hover in a halo. A glance behind showed empty transport, the doors were opened – part of the ice melted, ‘-a fire user?’ he blinked and moved deeper.

.....

“The storm doesn’t end...” complained one, “-where even are we, the map says it’s a few meters in front...” blanche grass, naught save darkness of the moonless night, more they walked, the colder it grew, “-where are we?” they turned to stare Erak’s driver, a man dressed in a religious robe beside which hovered a few books. A move of the arm tore through space and broke the icy barrier. If the olden standard of rating spells were to be applied, Niflheim would easily be classified at the peak of its element, a potentially country-ending spell.

“Disturbance in the balance,” said the priest, “-move along,” he smiled, “-the lord’s on our side. Fret not, our god, Formle, shall answer the cries of his people. We tribute the blood and lives of our enemies to his grace. Carry on, comrades, I shall keep the pesky magic at bay,” he thrust outward of his chest, the gesture followed a vague curve, on which, a book flowed in front and opened, a bubble followed shortly, the icy hell dwindled.

“We meet at last,” an opposingly strong aura countered Igna’s walk, “-King of Hidros, nicknamed the Devil of Glenda. I’ve heard stories – you singlehandedly defeated the church’s army,” the outline of half-man and half-dragon stood with arms crossed. Wings hung at his back, half of the visage bore scales and the sharpness assigned to legendary creatures, extremities of the hands fully transformed into claws, “-the blood of the ancient gods flows through our veins,” he pressed his fists, “-and you, Devil, will pay the price of going against the church. The Wracia empires have kept our customs and way of life a priority – primitive as we stand, our lifestyle is far better than what the kingdom of heretic represents. Look at it all,” he opened his arms, “-manmade towers of God – information, war, destruction, death. It overwhelmingly flows – at the center of such change lays the incompetent leadership, the Riverty household... now, the Haggard, the infamous Haggards. We know, and so does everyone in Iqeavea – tales of a family so powerful they drink the blood of their enemies, kill those who so much at looks at them wrong, peddlers of temporary bliss. You,” he pointed, “-export thy sullied dust and beverage, you corrupt the people, make them go mad... Who do you think you are playing god?”

“Quite a monologue,” said Igna giving slow claps, “-really, I mean, look at this,” he casually turned side to side, “-conjuring a spell, did you think I wouldn’t notice?” the glasses shimmered, “-here’s the news, Erak, use mana within the barrier and I’ll know. Assumption of the title of Devil wasn’t in vain,” he moved forward, the would-be spells cracked on a single snap, “-nor was it a jest,” he smiled, “-magic is a means to an end,” the wings fluttered, sparkles hovered, “-the spellcaster is quite talented.”

“...”

“Erak, you’ve brought a priest to assist in a bloodbath. How moronic, preachers of righteousness stand foremost at the head of slaughter. Tell me, what happened to Loftha, how’ve the conglomerates involved?”

“Heh,” he laughed and shook the wings, “-not going to reveal the truth so easily. I’m not daft,” the ground carved, the extended limbs flapped, “-who cares if I can’t use magic, I’ll take thy head by my hand.”

“Simplistic fool,” Igna sidestepped, lowered his glasses, horned on an important pressure point, “-I control everything you do,” he tapped aided by an invisible hand, Erak’s transformation vanished, momentum sucked and he dropped headfirst, “-true power is the ability to save people one cares about,” he knelt at the restrained Erak, “-I, sadly, I’m not powerful. The Devil adheres to a few rules he’s set for himself,” the grip tightened around Erak’s face, “-and I sadly, have failed myself,” a slit opened Igna’s palm – a mouth opened.

‘Overpowering aura. He’s nothing like what the stories say. I felt it the moment we arrived, Igna Haggard isn’t just a devil, he’s a god, a living manifestation of what power represents. I doubt anything or anyone strong enough to fight or else, defeat him,’ the eyes closed in prayer, “-to the mighty lord above, guardian of the Sadian people, a patron to whomst we yield our soul and harvest, Formle, I, simple servant in service of thy greatness, relinquish my hold over the mortal realm. Devour my soul, take my body and defeat my enemy – Ancient-Arts: Requiem of the Gods,” a bright light forced Igna’s grip – Erak teleported, raw unhampered strength lashed in flickers of bright green.

“I’ve been summoned,” he said and examined the vessel, “-a gracious offering from my people,” soon to lock on Igna, “-and you are the one I must destroy?”

“Formle, God of war,” returned Igna, “-I’m indeed the one thee must defeat. Before the inevitable, I’d advise for thee to take in the air, touch the ground and basque, for tonight, where thee stand shall be thy resting place.”

“Are you an idiot, human?” he blinked, “-never mind, are you an idiot, nightwalker?”

“...”

“No one has the power to slay a god. Even if I’m defeated, which I doubt to ever happen, the vessel shall take the damage, not I, for I live on a higher plane. Still, try, I offer thee the first strike,” he opened his arms, “-do your worst.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha,” slowly maniacal laughter filled his stomach, “-Formle, I know but one thing, and tis to never give an inch to a cocky bastard,” the fingers went and tapped the belt, Orenmir sheath uncloaked, “-blind as thou art daft. A belligerent god in service of slaughter – the title of God of War belongs to only one, and tis Athena,” the stance lowered, “-blinded by arrogance, my wings, my halo, the divine perspective limits thy scope. Farewell,”

“Go on with it already-” a flash, the head dropped and rolled until it faced Igna, “-the wings of a god, the halo of a destroyer. Ancient symbols drop in and out of existence. He didn’t use the full extent of the power – what is a candidate for the position of Supreme God loitering in the mortal realm...” consciousness faded, “-I underestimated the living world.”

“Not so fast,” before the entity escaped the body, Igna reached and grabbed the man’s soul, *Box of Alche,* a chest summoned, *-create me a body suited for a god,* fragments of the bodies left in his wake sucked into a vortex, “-here you are,” a naked body of a muscular bald man blinked, “-pardon?” he coughed and looked about, “-didn’t I die?”

“Advantages of being who I am,” returned Igna, “-Formle, a forgotten deity of the Misen Era. Look into my eyes,” he grabbed the well-chisel chin and glared, “-what is it thee sees?”

“N-nothing,” he gasped, “-nothing, I see nothing...” a chilling frost rode along the spine, “-what, who, sorry?”

“My name’s Igna Haggard, Watcher of the Shadow Realm, Heir to Death and inheritor of Kronos, Origin and Scifer will. In the past, I was shunned as the representation of sin, the amalgamation of what shouldn’t exist, bearer of the millennium curse, Alfred, the cursed King, devourer of Angels, and enemy of the heavens.”

“By the gods,” he exhaled, “-explains a lot. Watchers are ranked above and below gods. I’m surprised the stingy guardian allowed thee the honors of bearing the title. Origin,” he reminisced, “-I remember someone or something like that on my coming to reality. Scifer, I have no idea, Kronos I do know is the Supreme God. If you bear his will, means he’s dead?”

“Eons spent in the much-praised heaven has rendered thee numb to current events.”

“Give me a break, I’ve been called to the mortal realm plenty of time. I come, kill a few people, and go back to sleep. The title of God of War, I didn’t steal nor did I assume the honors by choice. Happened during the first war, Alfred against the heavens – I was part of the fight – and I was killed instantly, never regained my powers after that. My symbol of power shattered,” he looked at the forearm, “-see, the blade’s missing the tip. So much for a God of War. Athena’s a virtuously scary lady. Right,” he stood and looked about, “-I understand a few things, why pull me onto the real plane?”

“I have pleasant memories,” he smiled, “-the young god tasked to destroy my fellow people, we fought and on the last draw, I said you were worthy of being called a true god,” gates to locked memories opened, Formle found himself pulled into the shaft of time. Fuzzy images of him falling into Alfred’s arm shone, “-thee fought well, a believer in truth. Fate had it for us to be on different sides. Worry not, young one, I made sure to spare thy symbol, death shan’t come soon. I wish thee a pleasant dream – live and smile, war isn’t for those who embody the title of God truly. Formle, God of War, on my title of cursed King, I say, thou art worthy,” those very words were sweet and heartwarming on the ears of a dying soul. Hung around Alfred’s arms, he smiled, “-I wish war to have never happened.”

Consciousness returned, a warmness gathered at his chest, “-Formle,” said Igna with the wings shining bright, “-this is yours,” the fingers carved letters on the air, “-I return thee thy blade,” the broken symbol rejuvenated. A physical manifestation of his weapon rose from the ground, “-my blade,” he smiled, “-it’s back.”

“Welcome to the mortal realm, Formle.”

“Thank you,” he returned, “-what now?” the blizzard subsided, “-I have a feeling something isn’t right...”

“We’ll talk about it soon,” *Incoming Call – éclair,*

“Hello?”

“MASTER, MALLEY’S BEEN SHOT!”

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