9 A Summons

A NEPHILIM WATCHED as the thick latch on the door lifted and the human female entered. Tucking the leather tome under the blanket, he lay back on the feather mattress and pillows just in time. His wounds had healed, yet she’d begged him not to leave the villa. He’d snuck out a few hours earlier anyway and had discovered a shop selling innumerable odds and ends, including Nephilim literature.

It was obvious to Desool not everything was well in the city of Byrsa, but he was careful. Not yet full height for a Rephaim, in the dawn light he’d stooped over and passed himself off as an overlarge mercenary in the hire of a prime. It had worked or else the shopkeeper hadn’t cared, but Desool realised he’d had enough of this northern human empire. He longed for home.

The woman entering was named Zane, an Aidari witch who had helped him. She came from somewhere south in the imperium; still a northerner as far as he was concerned. The oddest thing was, she spoke like a Raddhonar and in the dialect of his people. When he asked how she’d learned his language she’d refused to answer, her face clouding over. She had a past, which he was very interested in learning about.

Presently, she approached the cot where he lay with eyes shut tight. ‘I know you’re awake,’ she said in a dry tone. When he didn’t move or answer, she added, ‘It’s your breathing; it has changed as has your position in the bed since I left. I might be human, but I’m not stupid. You went outside, didn’t you?’

‘Can’t a Nephilim get any peace?’ He opened his eyes and looked up into hers. A beautiful woman, by human standards he supposed. She had a strong nose and a prominent chin with a penetrating gaze. His master had eyes like those confirming her magical prowess. Humans missed such signs, but Nephilim did not.

‘You should leave,’ he began but then added, ‘no, no, forgive me. I should be the one to go. You do not understand what you are doing and I have no desire to bring you suffering. There has been too much of it already.’

‘The fighting between the factions is getting worse,’ Zane said, sitting on the edge of the cot like a child on her parent’s bed. Desool was always aware of how strong and menacing he must seem, especially since he had grown an extra foot. As one of the Rephaim clan, he knew he would eventually tower over these humans, a monster in their eyes. His wings would emerge in a few months and then staying in the north would prove impossible.

‘I know who you are,’ she said, ‘although I’m sure you’ll deny it.’ When he said nothing, she went on, ‘If any of those primes learn your identity they will be after you. Not for revenge, but to use you. That lot don’t care about vengeance. They do care about power.’

‘Davard Tystrus talks too much,’ Desool muttered. ‘By the way, has there been any word from him?’ He hadn’t seen his master since they’d both survived a battle with an Emim and its warg. The warg handler had wounded Tystrus, but Desool had managed to kill its beast, suffering grievous wounds himself. Davard had used his magic to whisk them both away, but his master’s injuries had prevented them from getting far. They’d ended up a few streets away trapped within the city. Davard had since vanished.

Zane nodded, and with a damp rag she’d squeezed out into a wooden pail, she mopped Desool’s brow, not that it needed it now. Still, he found her attentions pleasant. ‘When I found you, where he told me you’d be, you were near death. I imagine if not for him you would be dead. He has some incredible abilities although I saw his wounds too. He should have been dead. I guess you’ll never tell me what happened?’ She often prompted him for information about Tystrus.

‘I will die when it is time, and not before.’

‘Huh, well I hope you’re right,’ she snapped. ‘I mean, I hope that it’s not for a long time—that’s what I meant.’ She was nervous, which wasn’t like her.

‘What did he say to you?’

Zane grimaced. ‘Always makes it sound like a request, doesn’t he? He says you are to leave this city and for once I agree with him. He also said it is, time, and that you’d understand. Oh, and you need not call him master any longer.’

Desool nodded, catching her hand, and lowering the rag from his face. ‘They have summoned me, and one other.’

‘Who have?’

He was aware she knew too much already. Her involvement was unnecessary and Davard’s insistence on using her confused him. ‘I am healed and your duty to me is over, whatever duty you thought that was. You should go. I am aware of the mood of this city. I will leave tonight.’

‘You mean, we will leave.’ For some reason she seemed annoyed, irritated.

Pushing himself upright, Desool swung his thick legs onto the floor. The cot protested though it was of strong oak. All the same, if he remained there another few months it wouldn’t hold him. It was not the oak, but the manner of construction.

Zane rose and moved back a few steps. ‘I am going with you,’ she insisted, holding the rag tight in her hands water squeezing through her fingers. It tap-tapped onto the floor forming a puddle.

‘Did my former master instruct you to accompany me?’

She paused, and then answered, ‘Yes.’

Desool sighed, knowing she lied. ‘You have no idea where we are going.’

‘East?’ She offered him a cheeky grin.

He wondered how much she did know, or suspect. Did it matter? ‘We will visit the Council. They will not countenance your presence, human. Davard is agreeable and knows you, but the others do not. Let us just say they can be a cantankerous bunch.’

Zane did not answer straight away. Her brow furrowed as she obviously thought hard about the implications. ‘Who is Davard Tystrus. He is on this Council? You know, he just showed up one day and recruited me. Said he needed a new imperial spy and had the cheek to tell me my time as an Aidari was over. Funny thing was, I felt no urge to argue. He’s not just a spymaster though, is he?’

Desool grimaced. She had never been as direct with her questioning before. ‘He is angelic.’

‘Davard is Angelborn?’

‘Angelborn are human souls entwined with the angelic,’ said Desool, ‘the entanglement occurring at conception, a union of angel and human. There is also the outlawed practice of possession, but he is not that either. Davard Tystrus, or Adal by his true name, is ... all angelic, or used to be. He wears flesh and bone for appearances sake.’

‘Adal?’ Her eyes had gone impossibly wide. ‘Wait, what do you mean used to be?’

Desool scratched at his head, wondering how much he should reveal. ‘A thousand years ago Adal’s soul was corrupted, though he fights it with every fibre of his being. Thus, he earned a new title, the Eleventh Torment. He is a dangerous adversary and a gracious friend. You should be honoured to have him as your master.’

‘Oh, should I now?’ Her mouth was working as though chewing something tough. ‘So, um, this Council then ...’

‘You are not going.’

Her tiny hands balled into fists, which she planted on her hips as she stared him down, no ordinary feat for a human female. However, he also knew her dangerous pose and this wasn’t it. It was for dramatic effect, which incidentally had none on him.

Still, she had been good to him and he’d grown fond of her. He nodded. ‘You may remain with me for a short journey. I do enjoy your company Zane, but soon I will travel east and you will not be coming. This is not negotiable. I will not be responsible if ill befalls you. Where I will be heading is not for one such as you.’

He noted the stubborn set to her jaw, but she said nothing.

‘As you no doubt have guessed,’ Desool continued, ‘they are the Seraphim Council, the ruling body of angels. What remains of them at least. The war against the Darkness has taken its toll.’

‘If you go east, I won’t see you again, will I? You’ll abandon me. You’ll forget me.’ She seemed genuinely afraid.

He felt anxious as he noted how small and fragile, she looked. Although she’d once been a leader among the Aidari, there was much she did not know. Many among his people sneered at the human world, calling it infantile. He had come to feel differently. His feelings for Zane however, he had yet to figure out. They were confusing.

‘Where is this short journey to exactly?’ she demanded.

He began to gather his things, not that he had much. ‘Icarthya. There is someone there I must find.’

When he didn’t elaborate, she burst out with, ‘Well, who is it?’

‘A friend and like my old master, a very dangerous individual.’ He looked her in the eye, pausing as he thought his decision through. ‘You will remain in Icarthya until I return for you.’

‘Oh, will I now?’ she asked in a calm voice, now displaying her dangerous pose. At least she wasn’t wearing her knives this time.

‘Yes.’

‘And then what?’

‘I will take you home with me to Raddhon, if you wish it.’

Her face broke into a tearful grin and when he embraced her in his arms, he felt the truth of his words. He would return and they would be together. No matter what came next.

‡

RALAN TOOK A DEEP BREATH, filling his lungs. The air in the north was cold and wet. He relished it. It didn’t leave his throat parched, his nostrils burning. The heat of the south was oppressive and though accustomed to it, he preferred northern Adalalcas. He preferred his imperium. After all, he was the one who had founded it, guided it for a time too though none remembered. Reborn twice, his priorities and outlook had changed. Nonetheless, it would always be his.

The trees of the villa’s gardens were in blossom as spring burgeoned. What they called summer in these lands would not be far off.

A voice interrupted his thoughts and he turned awkwardly. The wooden cane he used for walking the high-walled gardens rapped against a paving stone. He had not fully recovered from his time in the dungeon although he knew it to be an injury of the mind, not the body. The cane managed expectations and kept questions at bay.

The visitor was unexpected; a man over seven-foot tall and not yet full-grown entered the garden. Desool had grown since Ralan had last seen him. Davard had introduced them years ago. The woman looked like a child beside her companion and again he was reminded of the fragility of humanity.

‘Well met, Th—’ Ralan began.

‘That is no longer my name,’ the giant interrupted. ‘I am now, Desool.’

Ralan cocked his head, the quirk of a smile on his lips. ‘A bit presumptuous, isn’t it?’ The name in the old Nephilim tongue was a title, which translated as, Guardian. When softened, they often used the word to calm someone in distress. It meant a friend was there to protect them. It was not a given name among any of the clans, until now.

‘It was bestowed upon me by ... someone.’

‘You mean bestowed by a human with no understanding of its meaning?’ It was a guess, but he had some knowledge of recent events.

The Rephaim sighed, staring off at nothing. ‘I would not say, no understanding. Maybe, an incident of fate. She is undead and resides in the Black Palace. She had no idea what she did, true, since she never understood my words. However, I took it as an omen. It is the will of the Spectrum.’ He returned his gaze to Ralan. ‘Tell me, why are you still here, son of Grim?’

Ralan noted the look of surprise in the woman, tinged with fear, upon hearing his title. He turned away, the cane tapping an echo on the stones. ‘I’d also rather you didn’t use that one. It’s not a title I’m proud of, you know.’

He tossed the cane away and stretched, horns erupting from the thin garments he wore. He turned and noted with sadness the wide-eyed shock of the human. ‘I was merely waiting for you to get out of bed. For a while, I thought you were going to go the way of your father. Although ruling from one’s bed has some merit, I suppose. Delegation I imagine, is the key.’

‘The Council have summoned you,’ said the Rephaim prince, through gritted teeth.

Oh, thought Ralan, guess, I touched a nerve there. ‘I don’t answer to those charlatans. I don’t answer to anyone in case you haven’t noticed.’

‘Consider it a request, then.’

Ralan gestured at his surroundings. ‘Couldn’t they have visited me in my home?’

‘This is not your home, Torment. You have merely borrowed it.’

Ralan glowered up at the giant, all good humour evaporating. ‘I don’t like that title much better, giant. What do they want?’

‘It is regarding a sensitive matter.’

‘Which would be...?’

‘I believe it is the Shathra Stone, but they don’t tell me everything. I am like you, in the dark.’

Oh no, not like me my old friend. Despite the moist air, Ralan’s throat had gone dry. ‘I see, and what do they want me for? I don’t have it. They should be speaking to my father, shouldn’t they? That’s his area of expertise and Hell’s Teeth does admit visitors from time to time. They never leave, but that’s another matter.’

The Nephilim stretched to his full height, and then offered a smile to soften his show of strength. A giant’s diplomacy. ‘If you wish, I will speak to them on your behalf.’

‘Yes,’ said the son of Grim. ‘It might be best lest I murder an angel or something as useful to humanity. Arrogant bastards.’ He didn’t mean it, but Adal could have freed him, couldn’t he? Instead, his sister had done the honours. He felt ... let down. ‘Let me know what they want although the answer will still be, no. You tell them I said that.’

Desool turned and left with the woman in tow. There was something about her, the way she kept close to the Nephilim prince. Interesting and potentially dangerous.

They left him alone among the budding branches and scent-ridden blossoms. The Tenth Torment, and the son of Grim, knew one thing: whatever the Seraphim wanted it wasn’t good and likely impossible. He would say yes, despite his rash words. There was duty, after all, and his father among others never rested in their efforts to take this world from mortals.

No matter how much they fought against Tartaros and its wiles, it was the humans who were the first to suffer. Ralan thought it might be about time to change all that.