30 Worse Trouble

‘IT’S HERE,’ STRIGA announced, staring back across the snow-covered expanse.

‘Where?’ Pole asked. ‘I don’t see anything.’

Threadfin squinted through the driving snow. ‘I’ve got to agree with him. No one out there and I’d see them if there were.’

Striga spared them both a suffering glance. ‘I am a Torment. I see heat and I can see a lot of it coming this way. It has arrived more swiftly than I feared. We will await it here.’

‘Sure,’ said the viral mage, ‘why not. Not much else to do.’ His body was seizing up, despite having kept close to Striga and her unnatural heat. Snow melted at her passage, flakes sizzling as they touched her skin. Without her, he’d have frozen solid again. The two breathers were also suffering.

Threadfin spotted movement. ‘I see it. It’s closing with us fast.’

Where the ground undulated in low rises and troughs, the approaching figure appeared and disappeared. It was not yet evening and there was plenty of light to make out its form despite the weather. The kraken moved with unnatural speed, bone tentacles serving as legs as it manoeuvred across the icy waste.

Threadfin felt for any life coming from the machine, but spectral wards blocked his attempts.

Grudge wasted no time in rushing to meet the mechanical nightmare with Striga right on his heels.

‘The idiot,’ muttered Pole, and Threadfin had to agree, but Vilt was likely still inside the kraken.

Striga reached the machine and leapt, landing onto its torso. She began doing what Threadfin would’ve. Trying to tear it to pieces.

‘Best leave ’em at it,’ suggested his Darken, shifting his feet. ‘You know what it’s like when two women go at it. Besides, not much we can do.’

Threadfin glanced at his friend and took note of the bunching muscles in his neck. Pole was on the verge of joining the fight.

Grudge was hacking pointlessly at a tentacle with his dagger. It struck him, sending him flying a dozen feet away to land in the snow with a wallop.

‘I guess,’ said Threadfin, ‘we should probably go get our idiot of a scout, or he’ll get himself killed. By we of course, I mean you.’ His store of lifeforce was low and he had no intention on drawing from his companions, unless he had to. There wasn’t much else he could do.

As a grumbling Pole went to rescue the scout, a bright flash blocked Threadfin’s view of the battle.

A moment later, and he was lying on his back, staring up at the falling snow. There was a buzzing sound in his ears, which grew louder.

Moths? He hoped not. Hadn’t had trouble with them for years. He sat up slowly, and saw a blackened circle surrounding the kraken. The machine had begun to lumber away. Striga was also picking herself up, her body covered in blue fire.

Podral Pole appeared, dragging an unconscious Grudge with him. Both looked like they’d seen the inside of a furnace, skin black and hair smoking.

Getting to his feet, Threadfin went to meet them. ‘What happened? You look like you’ve been cooked.’

The Torment also looked weakened. ‘The magic protecting the kraken is too strong,’ she said. ‘I cannot break through. The Atlantian is heading for a town not far from here to raise the tower. That is where she will use her father to release the Grim. I had hoped to beat them to it and to somehow prevent it. I’ve failed.’ She said those last words as though she was tasting something sour.

‘I don’t understand?’ Threadfin eyed his Darken who was examining Grudge. Blue fire flickered across Pole’s clothing. ‘I thought she needed her father to find the Tower.’

‘No,’ said Striga. ‘The kraken is the Tower of Babel, or rather it is the key to unlocking it. The island of Atlantis is sinking and no longer suitable. Since her first failure, she has wanted to bring it here. If we had not come through your vortex, she would have taken the kraken to the water and reached here in a couple of days.’

‘What exactly will happen when it reaches the town?’ asked Pole.

‘It will enter the ice and send its tendrils deep. The tower will rise, the bones of the kraken becoming the skeleton around which it will form.’

‘And I thought it was just buried out here,’ said Threadfin, fists on hips, glaring at the snow and ice as though it was hiding towers all over the place. ‘I’m an idiot.’

‘Well,’ said Pole, hunching lower into his coat, ‘if you do insist.’

Threadfin ignored the jibe, his frustration boiling over. ‘Dessa and the Librarian both wanted me to go to Atlantis, to help get past Asher Tone’s trap.’

‘You have the Librarian to thank for that,’ said Striga. ‘Like Dessa Tone, it serves the Grim. It is no longer possible to stop the Tower’s rise. Instead, you must enter it once it has risen. It is the Grim you now need to stop.’

‘Your master,’ Threadfin muttered before wondering if he’d said too much.

‘Not in all things. Not in this.’

‘Okay, what does she need her father for if not to find the tower? Why bring him here at all?’

‘My master’s form is not one of flesh. He will need a body to rule in this world and the old Atlantian king’s mind has fled. The king is an empty vessel. Thus, you or I must kill Haven Tone.’

Threadfin wagged a finger at the Torment, heedless that she might at any moment, bite. ‘So, that’s why you followed us to Hatava and Atlantis and why you were hunting Dessa. You didn’t just want to stop her. You wanted to kill the king, which would have prevented this. In fact, you wanted to kill them both.’

Ignoring him, and his finger, Striga walked away. ‘We must hurry, undead one. Any time you thought we had is gone.’

‡

THREADFIN OBSERVED the goings-on in the darkening valley below. The kraken had slowed once it reached the town, and now rested a half mile outside it. The town itself was unwalled, and fire pits blazed throughout, with light also spilling from doorways and windows.

People were emerging to stare at the new arrival. The kraken stood with its legs splayed, before each tentacle lifted and then pounded into the snow and ice, rooting it to the spot. Then the central body produced a long sword-like appendage. It drilled into the snow sending tremors through the earth.

None of the people appeared distressed or attempted to flee and Threadfin realised why. ‘Those are zorasts,’ he whispered. ‘Grim-worshiping fanatical half-wits!’

Striga must have heard. ‘They have been gathering for months. I’ve killed any I’ve encountered, but there are thousands.’

The appendage of bone widened as it absorbed the legs, incorporating them before widening further. Then the ice cracked and split around it as walls of stone rose. Before his eyes, the Tower of Babel took form, like a monster of stone awakening from its slumber. Though part of it lay beneath the ice the rest grew upwards and out, forming towers and battlements.

Grudge groaned and mumbled something about his Ma, which Threadfin thought was a good sign. The Torment turned to the viral mage. ‘You came here to stop my master, yet you have no understanding of what is happening.’

‘Enlighten me, then.’

‘First, you cannot kill the Grim. Should you succeed in killing the Atlantian king this will not slay my master. Within him is the power of Tartaros just like it is within me ... and you, but the Grim is a shade.’

Threadfin felt like she had struck him in the face. He almost reached up to check for damage. ‘What did you say about the power of ... what? It’s in me?’ He’d never really given thought to it before, but it made sense. Viralic magic was a product of Tartaros.

She gestured at the still-forming tower down in the valley. ‘Within, he awaits you. He has wanted to speak with you for a very long time.’

‘You had no intention of helping us at all. This is a trap.’

Striga began to look annoyed. ‘As I said, no understanding. I wish to stop my master enslaving this world. He believes it is our last chance, but I now know it is exactly what Tartaros wants him to do. I serve him, not the Darkness.

‘However, I will not allow harm to come to him either. I am his servant, a true servant. Unlike the others, I provide him with what he needs and not always what he wants.’

‘What exactly do you expect me to do in there then?’

‘I cannot stop him, but you must find a way. I don’t know how. I know if you fail then this world is lost, and Tartaros will have gained the foothold it has long sought.’

Threadfin eyed the Torment, daring her to blink first. ‘There is something you’re not telling me. I know a trap when I smell one, Striga. The Grim wants me to enter the Tower, yes? You said he wants to speak with me. I want to know, why?’

‘For that, undead one, you must first greet the Grim and then ask him yourself.’

‡

SARSCHA’S BOOTS SANK in the wet mud of the Artaca plains. Soldiers all around her were bogged down, swearing while tempers flared as they tried to negotiate their way through the marsh and cloying mist. Little progress each day, perhaps a mile or two. Several bridge crossings lay to the southeast and to drier terrain, while somewhere behind them was the road to Lame, which also led to Icarthya.

The march, if it could be called such, had halted. Up ahead, she spotted Dragan Rove, no longer on his sydarag, which two mud-coated soldiers now led through the boggy terrain. They’d abandoned the other mounts.

The rebellion’s imperial marshal halted and turned to survey the floundering legions. Several officers were trying to convince Cipius to reverse course, to get them out of the marsh. He appeared oblivious, snapping at them to keep the soldiers moving. Markus Cipius was not himself.

Officers called a halt as soldiers tried to find better footing. They needed a rest, wading knee deep in marshland taxing their strength. Sarscha lost sight of Cipius and the officers in the mist, but she spotted Rove walking away from the main line.

She followed, relying on the mist to conceal her. Raziel had warned her to stay out of Rove’s way, but she had no intention of letting this opportunity pass. She needed to know what was happening, what to expect. If Dragan Rove was here to stop the revenants as Raziel had suggested, then she needed to know what he knew. She needed an ally.

Sarscha crept to the edge of a ruined village, little remaining which the marsh hadn’t devoured. The camp’s perimeter sentries were missing. There should’ve been at least four within a stone’s throw. She knew Cipius wasn’t stupid. In fact, as a military leader she respected him. No, not in his right mind at all.

The camp behind her was quiet, the fires few. Most soldiers sat where they could, staring into the mist. Ahead, beyond the ruins were foothills to her left with the plains to her right. She held her breath, not moving as motion caught her attention. She crept closer.

Her quarry appeared out of the mist and Sarscha almost choked. Horns protruded from the shoulders of what she thought of as a monster. A foot taller than the tallest man, muscular too, it had a skull shaped with odd angles and a thick brow ridge. Its skin was pale, eyes a deep red. Despite the scars on its face there could be no mistaking its identity. The visage belonged to Dragan Rove.

Two others, with similar likeness emerged from the gloom, one male and one female. It wasn’t their forms so much as their eyes and the threat they promised. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, so she crept closer. Whatever these things were they were posing as soldiers within the ranks.

Then, they vanished. All three.

Hands grabbed her, pinning her to the ground before turning her over. She was powerless in that inhuman grip. The visage of a monster with red eyes glared down at her.

And then, without a word it released her.

Sarscha got to her feet keeping her movements slow. Dragan Rove, a man again, had backed off a few paces although his expression was like a thunderhead. ‘It is fortunate for you that I know who you are and why you are spying on me.’

‘Wish I could say the same.’

Markus Cipius’ imperial marshal snarled. ‘I am known as, Cadaver. Raziel told you of me? He always talked too much. More human than angel that one.’

‘He had the decency to warn me of what’s coming. Why didn’t you just destroy this army. I’ve seen you now and those others. You could slaughter everyone here. Why wait? Why drag us all into this marsh?’

‘The vanth’s power permeates these legions. We can tolerate its magic, but we cannot pierce or defeat it. I did not lead the army here. The vanth is responsible. It controls Cipius.’

‘But, why haven’t you—’ Whatever she’d been about to ask was forgotten as distant screams rose from the encampment.

Dragan transformed as before and became the Torment, Cadaver. ‘You had best flee, mortal. You do not wish to see what comes next.’

‘No, I go with you. I have my part in this too whether I like it or not.’

This time, his snarl might have been a smile. ‘Welcome, Sarscha Todralan to the battle for existence.’

The screams grew louder.

‡

THE INTERIOR OF THE Necropolis was cold and gloomy, much as he had expected. Pale light filtered through vacant windows revealing corridors in immaculate condition. Immaculate as any expensive tomb. Desool despised the place. Nephilim burned their deceased on pyres. Tombs were for humans although the Nephilim custom had spread to some human communities on Eladaldor. No giant willingly stepped into a tomb. Until now.

‘She knows we’re here,’ Ralan said, with a glance for the Guardian. ‘She will not just hand it over. What’s your plan?’

Desool paused, turning to face his friend. ‘She is your mother.’

Ralan grimaced. ‘In a manner of speaking. It’s a long tale, which I do not enjoy telling. You mentioned something about a complex existence? My friend, you have no idea.’

‘Contrary to popular opinion we giants are not dumb brutes. Give me the gist.’ He needed to understand what he was about to face.

In the dim light, Ralan’s eyes glistened. ‘The ancient sorceress, Astra, was my true mother. She was the one who gave birth to me. Both of us perished, our souls spread across time. Fragments of her soul were reborn over and over. My soul was reborn but twice and here I stand an immortal.

‘Rade Wyn was a fragment of Astra’s soul. After my second rebirth she found me. She raised me on this island as her own son. The town back there is Vasara. Or it was.’ Ralan’s face changed, eyes staring off past Desool. ‘Time moves so quickly and all of it seems like a dream.’

‘Memories are sometimes a curse, a burden we could do without.’

Ralan shut his eyes for a moment and then opened them, as if conjuring a memory from deep in his mind. ‘Rade raised me here, two centuries ago. I had a different name back then. I refused to accept who I was. I also had a friend I’ve been waiting for ever since. Sometimes, I envy you mortals.’

‘Why?’

‘Because for you there is an end.’

For the first time in their journey, Desool thought of Zane waiting for him in Icarthya. He would return. He had promised her. They continued through the Necropolis until they reached a courtyard.

‘Which way do we go?’

Ralan pointed ahead at a set of doors leading to the main section of the Necropolis.

The giant began to walk towards the doors, but Ralan grabbed his arm. ‘She’s waiting in there. She will have wights or worse with her. Tartaros has claimed her, and the Darkness will not just let us take it. We may have to battle our way through to reach her.’

‘Then,’ asked Desool with a frown, ‘why are we stood here talking about it?’

‘If I go in alone, they may not harm me. It’s why the Council wanted me here. I just need to convince her I’m me and not a dream. Once she believes that she will relax, enough perhaps for you to take the Stone.’

‘May? Perhaps? These words do not inspire confidence, my friend.’

The Son of Grim frowned. ‘Who knows the extent of a mother’s love after she is given to the Darkness? Today, I guess I will learn the answer.’

Desool understood the logic of Ralan’s plan. It could work. ‘You enter first, but I will not remain outside. I will follow some distance behind.’

Ralan nodded. ‘As you wish though sheath that weapon. I must make it clear to her we are not going to hurt her.’

No, thought Desool, tasting the irony. ‘Just here to steal the one thing she will not give.’ Not to mention the Seraphim Council had tasked him with killing her.

As Ralan opened the doors wide and strode into the gloom, Desool sheathed his weapon, waited a moment, and then followed.