Fiction: Gargoyles Story

Chapter 1: The Last Vexillian

“YAHHHH!” A flash of energy exploded in the space above the Earth as a man tumbled through a portal. His white and purple robes stained in blood and tattered by constant battle.

The old man stopped his rolling by the use of more energy from his hands. He hovered in naked space, breathing heavily. He swished a hand through the air in front of him and a look of relief cross his aged features. “Good, my spell still holds the air around me. Now, I just have to close this before he...” his hand was up to seal the portal he had come through, but a new hand came out of the portal and prevented it’s closing. A second hand joined it and gripped the sides, shoving it open.

“NO!” The old man thrust both hands forward and began a chant, the energy around his hands now the same color as that of the portal, he attempted to grip it and force it closed.

“You haven’t the strength to fight me any longer.” Those two large, metal gloved hands broke his spell and tore the portal wide. A large figure of a man stepped through, clad in dark, metal armor that covered everything including his face.

The old man gathered energy in his hands and shot, “LEAVE THIS SPACE, KRAVIK!”

Kravik was hit and pushed back hard, but he opened his arms up and reflected the energy off of his chest. “No more!” He clapped his hands together and a shockwave crashed into the old man and sent him tumbling head over heels backward in space. Suddenly Kravik reached up and gripped his hand which caught the poor old man with an invisible force and squeezed him. Floating closer, Kravik said, “You are the last Vexillian, your kind was not good enough to face the Legion. It is my pleasure to end you and declare ultimate victory in this combat.”

“Gah!” The old man gagged under the extreme agony, “One day...that ego...will be the Legions...undoing.”

“Gods do not have egos, they are simply correct at all times.” Kravik squeezed his fingers tighter.

The Vexillian gasped and felt his bones giving into the pressures on his body. He wheezed hard and then said, “Perhaps...but the legion...are not gods. SHOTANIRI!” He cast the most powerful, desperate spell a Vexillian had in his arsenal. Out of his mouth and eyes came a blinding light that blasted the metal villain in the face. This wasn’t any simple spell, it was the tearing of his soul to power the magic within, it was suicide.

Kravik’s mask split in two with the impact of the energy. Both halves blasted away and the creature within screamed and gasped as his only life-support in the cold vacuum of space was stripped away.

The Vexillian was released from Kravik’s grip which stopped the magic attack short of completion. The old wizard struggled to maintain his life, but he wasn’t finished with Kravik. With a simple shoving spell, he hit his enemy and sent him flying away. “I knew your ego would be your undoing...gasp...” He crumpled his body in space as he fought to breathe. Watching his enemy growing more distant by the second he sighed, “but, this isn’t over, is it?” He groaned, feeling his life fading quickly. He would soon fall into the atmosphere of this alien world and die on entry. He stabbed a finger into nothingness and opened a small portal.

Falling into the opening, he tumbled across the grassy ground of this strange new world.

It was night on the side of this planet. The cool air smelled so sweet. Above him, strange little insects flew around and blinked light to one another. In the distance he could hear people enjoying some sort of festive time, completely unaware of what just happened above them in the heavens.

Pushing himself to sit upright, he looked around and saw a small village in the distance. A large fire burned near the center of town where colorful decorations were strewn about while children danced and people sang to archaic instruments. For the first time in too many years, he smiled. “Such a beautiful world.” His moment of peace was broken by an intense pain. The soul tearing spell continued it’s terrible march toward his death.

After the surge of pain passed he took in a deep breath of the air. The scent of baked bread caught his nose just then and he wanted so dearly to go taste them. Then it hit him, he sniffed again and wanted to cry in pure joy. “Morphons, I don’t smell morphons.” Most races do not smell those horrid molecules, but the Vexillians could sense their presence in many ways.

He closed his eyes as tears ran down his face, “I can’t...I can’t do this. I cannot let another world fall to their warmongering, their competition of death. I have to help these people. Gah!” He doubled over as a crack formed across his body with light spewing from it. “I cannot fade, I cannot leave. I have to help.”

He called up all his strength and rose from the ground. Stumbling under the pain he walked toward the town. The people were joyously celebrating and hardly noticed the man coming toward them. However, when he entered their square, it did not take long for the villages to become alert, and worried.

“Who is he?” “What is he?” Came from the locals.

The magic of the Vexillian allowed both him and the villagers to understand one another even though they were speaking thirteenth century Dutch.

“Help me, please. I need to...gah...I need to help...” he fell on the ground as a new crack formed, this one across his face, the light flickering brightly out of his skull.

This caused an uproar as people ran screaming from him. Now they yelled a new word, “Demon!”

He lay on the ground, abandoned and worried that he would not find someone to complete his last effort to save them. They were simple, primitive people, he did not blame them for their fear. He only wished to give them aid before the day of the Legion arrived.

“Please, won’t somebody help me?” He begged in a raspy whisper.

A splash of water hit his head and a deep-voiced man said, “Begone, foul creature, begone!”

He looked up to find a robed man flinging water at him and continuing this strange chant. It looked like a religious leader of some nature.

“I want to help.” He begged.

“BE GONE!” More water on the head.

Hopelessness filled him until he saw something that gave birth to a new plan. It would be a strange plan but it just might work. He ignored the shower he received and began to drag himself across the ground, no longer able to stand. He grabbed the feet of a statue that was currently tethered by ropes, no doubt to lift it and affix it to the sides of this stone building, where other odd statues were currently residing. It was the figure of a winged man, its wings sharp and evil-looking, its body muscular and naked.

“Let go of that gargoyle, demon!” The priest called out, still throwing water at him.

In the distance he could hear the sound of the constabulary rushing to deal with him, he did not have much time.

“Gargoyle...so that is your name.” He whispered as he maintained his grasp. He closed his eyes and let the last vestiges of energy surge through his broke body. “I give you my lifeforce, I give you my strength. I give you the ability to fight and not be harmed, to fly and not tire, to live, but not die. GAH!” The cracks across his body grew exponentially, the brilliance of the glow filling this plaza. The priest fled in fear while the guards came to a stop to cover their eyes. He continued his spell, “My strength is insufficient, my power to low, but when the morphons arrive and flood this world, they will give you the last of what you need. You will awaken to them, and you will know your enemy. Protect this world! DO NOT LET IT FALL!” As he said these last words his whole body was nothing but light. The statue of the grotesque gargoyle also beamed with light. It’s hunched, mangled form changed into a more human shape, its wings expanded to twice the size they were, and he stood up straight.

The light faded and the plaza was once again lit by the fire alone. The gargoyle statue had changed but was just as dormant as it had been since it was delivered by the artisans weeks ago. On the ground, all that remained of the last living Vexillian were his tattered, bloody, burnt robes.

The guards came rushing in and joined the priest. All looked at the mess on the ground and then the statue.

“What is this?” The captain asked.

The priest shook his head, “Work of the devil no doubt.”

“That gargoyle...it changed?!” One of the younger guards exclaimed.

The priest nodded, “Yes. It is strangely remade, bewitched by foul curses.”

The captain marched over to the smith's forge and grabbed a hammer. He returned and held it up, “Let us do away with this devilry!” He swung and hit the statue dead center of the chest. The head of the hammer exploded and he was thrown back across the ground, almost into the bonfire.

“Captain!” His officers rushed to him as did the priest.

He sat up and looked at the statue with wide eyes, “It is beyond mortal hands to deal with.”

“I agree.” The priest said. “It cannot stay here, lest it curse this town forever.”

The captain got to his feet and brushed himself off, “We will deliver it to Rome, let the Pope decide what will be done with this cursed object.”

(More to come...)

Read the rest of Gargoyle's Story on the Heroes Rising Forum