31 To Greet the Grim

THE VILLAGE LOOKED abandoned; the lights they’d seen from above had extinguished by the time they’d descended into the valley. There was nothing to say anyone had been there.

Passing through empty streets, they kept to the shadows. The tower was roughly half a mile away. From his earlier vantage point, Threadfin guessed that at least a third of the structure lay buried within the ice and its diameter was half a mile.

Shoving open the door of a small house Pole and Striga entered first. Both breathers looked relieved to be inside; they had no cold weather clothing as everything had been on Dessa’s ship. Inside, once they had a fire going using old rags and wood littering the rooms, they crouched around it. If not for Striga’s unnatural abilities with heat, both men would’ve died long ago and Threadfin would’ve remained frozen solid. Cold air entering through gaps in the shuttered windows and door caused them to hug the fire more than advisable.

After half an hour, Striga touched Threadfin’s shoulder. ‘Undead one, you must find a way to enter the Tower. There is little time to waste.’

‘Can’t we just walk up and knock?’

She shook her head, obviously not getting the humour. No surprises there. ‘The Tower is well protected by wards. Anyone who is not a zorast will die in the attempt.’

‘What about you?’

The Torment gave him a long hard stare. ‘Uncertain,’ she said at last. ‘You must come with me, now.’

Threadfin got to his feet, but he motioned for Pole to remain with the scout.

‘You coming back?’ whispered his Darken, grabbing the sleeve of Threadfin’s cloak.

‘Honestly, Pod, I’ve no idea. In the meantime, I wouldn’t go crossing her if I was you.’

‘We’ll find you. You watch yourself in that place. Trust your instincts, lad.’

His friend understood this was a journey the mage had to make alone. He laid a hand on Podral’s shoulder and then hefting an old torch out of a rusty bracket, they left the breathers toasting by the fire and shut the door.

‡

THREADFIN AND STRIGA opened the large wooden door of an old church in the town. It seemed the zorasts had taken over this town, which was likely centuries old. He wondered what had happened to the people who used to live there. Maybe they all became zorasts? Swirling snow against the darkness filled the gap.

Stepping through into the vacant space, the mage let his magic wander into every corner. Refuse littered the interior, the remains of wooden benches and rafters, old bones and tufts of fur, bird and rat leavings, old coarse sacks. It stank of old grain too suggesting the church had been converted to a storehouse before whatever happened, well, had happened. Some of the bones looked human.

They halted in the centre of the church, errant flakes of snow entering from a torn roof. He knelt and lit the torch he’d brought, using old flint and a fire striker. He didn’t need the light. He just felt better having it. Getting more like a shivering breather every day, Todder.

‘You loved her,’ muttered the Torment without warning.

Threadfin felt a jolt of surprise and it took him a moment to work up an answer. Had he heard right? ‘She wasn’t what you thought she was, Striga.’

‘The soul fragments have been varied in personality and cruelty. I’ve encountered many. Perhaps in her case, I was ... hasty.’

‘I made a promise to her, and I will keep it.’

‘Even if,’ said another voice from his left, startling him, ‘such a promise might spell the end of this world and countless others?’ The fat man emerging into the torchlight looked familiar. ‘Of course, as always it is a matter of interpretation.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Threadfin said with a groan on recognising the new arrival.

‘Petraeus,’ said the Torment in greeting and Davard Tystrus nodded in return.

‘Just how many names have you got, anyway?’ the mage demanded.

‘The Grim is not the only threat,’ said Davard, ignoring his question. ‘I admit, he is currently the foremost. I ask this one thing of you, my old friend—’

‘We’re friends? When did that happen? You must’ve caught me napping. I say lots of stuff I don’t mean when I’m—’

‘Threadfin Todder, pay heed! Do not attempt to destroy the Grim. Stop him any way you can, but if you destroy him, there will be consequences even I cannot foresee.’

Threadfin muttered a curse. ‘Not you too. Well, at least you have faith in my abilities.’

‘I’ve always had faith in your talents. It’s faith in yourself that is lacking, among other things.’

Threadfin stared at the former conclavist, wondering if he’d just been complimented or insulted. All those years in Lame I spent working for the prime and I never knew him. I still don’t know the bastard. ‘I—’

‘—made a promise, yes, yes, I know. Everyone knows because you keep on telling everyone. However, do you know what promise you made? That is the question you never ask.’

Threadfin shook his head deciding not to bother. Crawl, Davard or whoever he was, was just trying to confuse him. It wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t allow the Grim to harm Astra and that was all there was to it. He would do what he had to.

The former conclavist, prime and imperial spymaster, shrugged. ‘We seek the same goal you and I. You must trust me as you once did.’

‘Hah!’ Threadfin snorted. ‘That’s just it. I never trusted you. Not then and not now.’

‘You wound me and besides which, I don’t believe you.’

‘You’re too sneaky, Davard. I don’t know what you are, who you are, but you’re not a prime or a spymaster, or—’

‘—a body servant?’

Threadfin stared at the man, confused. ‘You were a body servant? You mean you had to—’

Davard flapped a pudgy hand at him. ‘A very long time ago. I’ve had many occupations since.’

Striga took a step towards Threadfin, fists bunched. ‘You insult the Eleventh Torment,’ she spat. ‘I will tolerate it no longer.’

In response Threadfin’s magic bloomed like a black rose in his right hand, which in turn gave her pause. In truth, he didn’t have much lifeforce to draw on. He could try to draw on hers though if she was prepared for him, it would be difficult. He could lose this fight.

Instead, Threadfin glanced at Davard. ‘Eleventh Torment? Another name or is it a title? A bit fancy but interesting. I would’ve thought you more of the angelic persuasion all considered, but not a servant of the Grim.’

‘Watch your words, undead one.’ Striga’s voice could have cut through ice. ‘I came to destroy the Grim’s vessel, but I aided you at his request. I can destroy you with or without it.’

‘That is quite enough you two,’ snapped the Eleventh Torment or whatever. ‘What I will tell you, Mr. Todder, is that I am not a servant of the Grim. My honorary title is an over-long and complicated tale, one which I would rather not get into as it is none of your business. Now, we are not gathered in this unpleasant locale for an argument. We have an urgent matter to attend to.’

‘You are angelic though, right Adal?’

Adal ignored him. ‘Mr. Todder, you need a way inside Babel, a building protected by treacherous wards. Only the faithful can pass through. The whole thing is of course a trap. The Grim wants you to enter and so you will. We need to keep him and the other one, distracted ...’

‘Go on,’ said Threadfin, eyeing Striga.

Davard held out his hand. There was a perfectly circular piece of black glass in his palm. ‘Cut from a Darklight Stone. This is the Grim’s own Darklight. You can’t use any of your mirror-tricks to pass those wards, but with this you can get inside.’

‘That is from Hell’s Teeth,’ said Striga, shock in her voice. ‘How did you come by it?’

Davard chose not to answer as Threadfin took and examined the disc. It was thin and expertly cut. In fact, it didn’t seem possible for such precision with such a thin piece. Magic, of course. ‘You’re certain it will work?’

Davard nodded. ‘What I do not know is if it will get you out again. Babel may look like a normal tower from outside, but the kraken forms its core, and that contraption was also designed as a prison.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll figure something out when the time comes.’

‘Inside, you must find the link between this world and the Styx. You must hurry, Fin. Time is short. Just beware, he wants you to come to him. He wants you at his side. Be careful. He will say and do anything to sway you.’

‘I’m not that gullible,’ he grunted.

Davard grimaced but said nothing.

‘Well,’ the mage said turning to Striga, ‘we’d best get going.’

‘Striga will not be accompanying you,’ said Davard. ‘She is a Torment and while she could enter the Tower with or without the aid of the Darklight, if the Grim senses her she may become trapped. He is aware of her choices and is somewhat upset. He is expecting you, alone.’

‘Well, if he’s expecting me then why make it so difficult for me to get in? Why not just open the front door, put out a spread with a nice spiced Valtari red? Doesn’t anyone know me?’

For the second time, Davard grimaced, before nodding at the circle of Darklight. ‘He has opened the “front door” as you put it. How do you think I got that? He gave it to me.’

‘Let me get this straight: the Grim knows I’m coming to stop him and so he gave you, who is an enemy of his I imagine, the means for me to do just that? This does not make any sense.’

‘Rasnal Nalrost is arrogant to a fault. He does not believe you can stop him. However, to learn why he would risk you entering his tower you will need to speak with him. I have my suspicions though I’m not certain.’

‘What if he somehow forces me to join him?’ Not bloody likely but all the same.

Davard shrugged. ‘The Grim is one problem among many. Events must play out. I play the long game and I must be careful of the moves I make. I cannot see all outcomes. Yet, I see enough. Good luck and may we meet again when this is over. Oh, and don’t worry for your friends. I’ll make sure they can find you when the time comes.’

With that strange answer, Davard left with the Torment in tow and a grumbling viral mage stepped back outside into the dark swirling snow.

He left the town, and headed straight towards the Tower of Babel.

‡

79BI, Before the Imperium, 1003 years in the past

AIYANA TOUCHED HER face, staring at the reflection in the bowl of water. The woman staring back was a stranger and yet ... there was something of Aiyana there. Something in the eyes.

She’d managed to access more of Cydra’s memories and had discovered a modest house on stilts by the River Sulkar, as it was known in the past. Or the present, she thought. It was hard to think of the now as the past. Best not dwell on it too much. Insanity waited around the next corner otherwise.

She’d needed a quiet place to think. Treena and Mop were too alike to a pair of shraed siblings Threadfin had warned her about. Coincidence? She didn’t think so, but she had no idea if the duo would interfere with her plan. A plan thus far, she was no closer to executing.

There had been no one in the house when she’d arrived for which she was grateful. She’d feared Cydra might’ve had a husband or lover and had gone over every scenario in her head, from feigning illness to murder. Nothing could get in the way of her goal. Besides, if she had to kill someone, weren’t they already a thousand years dead as far she was concerned? No, stop it!

Cydra Dyre’s soul slumbered beneath Aiyana’s own. In a way, Cydra was Aiyana, or at least half of her was. The ritual to come would destroy thousands of magi and a few lesser ones would become the first ghouls. Thus, the plagues would begin. Cydra, her soul split in half, would become a Torment with the second half lost through time. That second half would not be born for another thousand years, as Aiyana Todralan.

Sat there in the woman’s home it seemed impossible, but here I am, staring at the face of another woman from a thousand years ago. But, it’s now and everything I’ve known will not exist for another thousand years. So much for not thinking about it. She slapped the wooden bowl from the table, spilling water across the floor just as the front door opened.

The woman who stepped inside did so with an air of authority, of a right to be there. Long blond hair fell in waves down her shoulders to the small of her back. Her eyes glowed with blue fire.

Instantly, Aiyana knew this was a spectral mage. The next thought was, which one. She didn’t have to think long or hard. The woman stared at her imperiously with an air of authority Nalrost himself couldn’t match.

High Mage, Astra Dar removed her hide gloves and slapped them down on the wooden table. ‘What in the name of the Spectrum above happened?’ she snapped.

Aiyana stared up at Astra with a mixture of terror and confusion. This woman, Nalrost’s lover, was his equal if not more so if some were to be believed. ‘Dinner happened,’ she managed, ‘or rather it didn’t. I was late.’

Astra glared at her for a long moment during which Aiyana feared she’d been discovered. Then the mage stalked towards a pitcher with twin bronze goblets on a tall stand. It appeared Cydra had not employed servants or else they were missing. Pouring what Aiyana took to be watered wine the mage glanced back at her. Her glare transformed into a disarming smile. ‘You always do that, my dear, although usually you are less bold about it. At least you have learned something.’

‘Um, yes thank you.’ She wished she could remember what she’d done.

‘Just don’t let it go too far.’ She turned to face Aiyana, or Cydra as she would see it, while sipping her wine. ‘I have my limits in tolerance although a backbone does suit you a little. Save it for the others, will you?’

Aiyana bowed her head in what she hoped was sufficient submission. I don’t know what I’m doing, she thought, or what the mage wanted of her. Bluffing her way through everything as Cydra Dyre was difficult enough, yet doable. Doing so in the presence of this woman might prove impossible. Why was Astra in Cydra’s home in the first place? She searched through those memories, but couldn’t find a reason. Was Astra visiting or did she live here with her? Or, did Cydra live with her?

‘Did you see it, at least?’

Aiyana paused thinking furiously. Then it hit her. The mage could mean just one thing by such a question. She nodded, deciding words were dangerous.

‘And?’

She tried to retrieve Cydra’s memories, but most of them remained too deep, likely warded. She possessed the mage’s body, but not her soul and Cydra had been powerful. ‘Um, well, he did seem pleased with himself.’ A gamble, phrasing it that way though the tone of Astra’s question had given her some clues.

Astra drained her cup and tossed it to one side. ‘There is something odd about you, dear. I don’t like odd or change for that matter. You will stop it at once.’

‘Yes, High Mage.’

Astra strode towards Aiyana and placing a hand on her shoulder, lifted Cydra’s chin. ‘I didn’t say forget who and what you are, either. Be strong and proud of yourself. You are a spectral mage of immense power. Just do not forget your place.’ The mage stepped way, tapping her chin with a finger. ‘Pleased with himself, was he?’

Aiyana decided not to comment. She struggled being close to this woman. A ghost out of history, little truth of the woman herself having survived. Just legend and myth and little of it pleasant. The child Threadfin had found by the same name, who was a fragment of this woman’s soul or she would be in the future, was but a pale shadow. Having looked into those eyes she knew the myths were true. She felt Astra Dar’s power like radiating waves of heat. It was unnerving.

‘He will not listen to reason,’ said the spectral mage, ‘and I’m past trying to convince him. Do you know what he plans to do with it?’

‘He will kill us all.’ The words left Cydra’s mouth before Aiyana could stop them and she wondered if they were her own.

Astra stepped back, tapping her chin in irritation. ‘How did he convince the Guardians to give it up, I wonder? Something works against us in all this. Something unseen and I like that less than change.’

She turned to stare at Aiyana. ‘Leave Icarthya immediately. Go north into the foothills, to the ruins. Someone will meet you there with something I need. This plan of his must fail.’

‘What is it I’m retrieving, if I may ask?’

The mage glanced at her, frowning. ‘Yes, well, I suppose there is no harm in you knowing. It is the Aura Crystal.’

Aiyana felt her jaw drop open. There was one mention of such an object in the White Daemoni, an object in the hands of an angel. Many paytors and scholars had argued over what it was. The ancient book had offered few clues.

Astra Dar offered her a cold smile. ‘You recognise the name? How interesting, for I had never heard of it until a short while ago. You are different today, my dear.’

Struggling for an answer, all Aiyana could think of was, ‘I read a lot.’

‘Yes, you do spend most of your time in the libraries, I admit. I will be sending someone with you. You have until sunrise to return with the Crystal. I imagine I do not need to remind you what happens if you fail.’

‘In other words don’t come back?’

Astra’s smile turned deathly cold. ‘Well, of course you will come back. How else can I punish your failure?’

‘Uh, who is going with me?’ It was then she saw the pain, all this time hidden beneath that smooth surface. There was a long pause and Aiyana felt sure she had been discovered.

‘My son Ralan shall escort you. I am sure you don’t mind.’

‘Oh no, not at all.’

‡

PRESENT DAY - IN ZALANTHYA

A swirling black vortex spat out the viral mage. Threadfin landed hard and rolled before getting to his feet quickly, and had his first look inside.

His neck creaked as his gaze rose higher and he twisted and turned attempting to take it all in, but it was too vast for his mind to comprehend. If the tower looked a half a mile wide on the outside, inside its diameter was more like fifty miles.

This wasn’t Zalanthya. It was the heart of the Grimstyx. The tower’s height was something beyond comprehension. Of course, magic was the reason, a magic he had no knowledge of. Threadfin had never liked things he couldn’t understand, but he knew the tower was acting as a bridge between two worlds.

A skeletal frame of bone, which he guessed was the kraken – albeit far larger than the contraption he’d seen – held up black walls dotted with millions of niches. In the wall closest to him he spotted bodies occupying them all. The naked figures, most human, looked to be breathers suspended within a magical containment. Their feet didn’t touch the floors of their prison, arms folded across their chests. All had their eyes shut, heads thrown back with faces contorted in agony. He had to fight the urge to set about trying to free them; likely he would fail and he was here for a different purpose. Besides, how could he free millions of prisoners?

Turning his back on the wall he began the long walk into the heart of the tower. In the distance, at the centre, which he estimated twenty-five miles away was a structure sat on a rocky plateau. It was difficult to judge its dimensions, Babel’s size confusing matters. Squinting, he decided it was also ridiculously large, a stepped pyramid like those found in ancient Pethram. There seemed no sign of activity anywhere. No life. It felt eerie, and Threadfin was Plagueborn. Eerie was his thing after all. I mean, I even got a tower all my own although Wept didn’t compare to this. I wonder if I can get those lazy mongrels to add a few levels?

He began the long descent to the tower floor, and the strange pyramid, grumbling about the unfairness of it all.

‡

AS THREADFIN WALKED, he noticed the tower floor was uneven with numerous hillocks and tunnels of twisted rock. On impulse, he snuck inside one to discover it sloped downwards, and after a long walk found it changed as he passed beneath rock and then ice.

He felt for life and discovered it ahead and he dared to draw upon it. Magic leaked into his fingers and up his arms and the rest of him to prevent the cold seizing his joints. Not a place to end up immobile. It only worked for so long. If the temperature dropped further, he would be in trouble.

The tunnel ended in a wide cavern, revealing two dozen men and women in red robes stood around a gaping pit filled with an unnatural-looking darkness. For some reason it seemed alive. And why not? Seemed to fit with everything else. He noted a concentric ring of basalt steps leading up to the pit’s edge and he judged the pit itself at least twenty feet across. On the slope above, Threadfin lowered himself behind some rocks to observe. Each zorast priest and priestess held a knife in their right hand and they stood as though statues made flesh.

From another tunnel opening closer to the cavern floor, he spotted others arriving with Dessa Tone. She led them to the edge where they arranged themselves in concentric circles. Several dragged the old Atlantian king with them, who for now remained unconscious.

Dessa stepped up to the pit’s edge, the robed fanatics moving aside to let her through.

She grabbed her father’s arm and taking his left hand, cut a deep gash with a small knife. She held his bleeding hand out over the void.

The darkness within the pit began to swirl, blackness lapping the edges like oily waves.

The chanting grew louder and Threadfin discerned a change in his surroundings. The cave walls began to withdraw, the roof rising higher as the pit became smaller. The tower was growing. As if it isn’t big enough already?

The black soup within the pit solidified into what Threadfin recognised as Darklight. What rose from within held a vague form with arms and legs. It looked like a ghost if darker as though rejecting the light cast by the torches. As it rose, other forms came with it.

The shade grabbed hold of the king and entered him. Haven Tone’s face began to melt and his hair fell out.

The shapes then attacked the gathered zorasts. The hapless faithful began to scream as fresh blood flowed down into the pit of Hells Teeth. A handful managed to crawl away, cowering behind rocks, several of them wounded.

Dessa Tone managed to flee, likely having anticipated something like this. Threadfin watched her go, feeling a mix of emotions so complex he didn’t know where to start.

Haven Tone stood unaided, the shades flocking to him like crows. Each entered the old king’s body until none remained. The king was examining his hands and arms, touching his face. A cry escaped him. Not what Threadfin had expected for it was filled with sorrow.

The Grim had arrived.