36 Angel of Death

Present Day – Markus Cipius Legions

THE MARSH WATER bubbled as Sarscha made her way back to the rebel camp, careful of where she stepped. The earth shook making the going harder. Tremors were not unusual, but an instinct honed from years of warfare told her this was something else.

As she reached the camp’s edge, she saw what it was. Hundreds of figures rose from the marsh, bodies dark and wraith-like. They attacked the soldiers who tried to fight back, but once touched by a marsh-wraith, the soldiers curled up and died. Those who didn’t perish, ripped out their own eyes, tore off their ears, and joined the wraiths in killing former friends.

Revenants, controlled by the vanth.

Raziel had warned her. Until now, she hadn’t fully believed. Once the Grim’s army he’d told her, but now it belonged to a darker force invading the world. A force worse than the Grim wasn’t something Sarscha wanted anything to do with.

Cadaver had joined with others of his kind. Nine Torments bristling with horns and terrible to behold. Ignoring the wraiths, which rose from the marsh, they instead attacked the soldiers-without-eyes. Unfortunately, a wraith rose from the body each time to hunt for another mortal. It seemed the Torments could not kill the revenants themselves. No, but they might provide a distraction, drawing out the vanth.

The Torments didn’t use weapons except for Cadaver who bore twin scythes. Black fire enveloped their bodies and shot out at random to envelop revenants. She watched in fascination and horror as those struck took on an ethereal cast, dissolving into dark smoke. Each time however, the wraiths escaped to hunt down victims.

The Torments possessed a terrible strength and an obvious disdain for life. Combined with the revenants, it proved terrifying.

It proved a slaughter.

Sarscha hesitated for the first time in her life to join a battle. When several revenants-in-flesh came at her, she had no choice. The former marshal ducked and dodged swords and spears, keeping an eye out for the hunting wraiths. She used the melee as cover. If not for the marshy terrain, she might have reached Krasta Remus much faster. She had spotted the bastard at the heart of the storm.

The Torments’ intervention had drawn the vanth out. Horns lined Krasta’s shoulders, and he was taller now, broader. His bloodied eye-pits spotted her as she reached him, her long knife lunging at his throat.

He stepped aside, and a back-handed blow sent her sprawling. The vanth wasted no time, and he was on her in a heartbeat.

She stared up into those vacant red sockets and saw death.

‘Hi, Marshal,’ said Krasta in his usual tone as though nothing were amiss. Gripping her arms, he pinned her down as wings erupted in a spray of blood from his shoulders. The thin membranes fanned outward. ‘It’s good to see you. I like your new face. Do you like mine?’ Black horns sprouted from his forehead, but she knew it wasn’t Krasta. It was a vanth named Azrael.

‘Suits me,’ he continued, ‘don’t you think? Sorry about having to kill you, but don’t worry. It’ll be over soon. Nice and quick I promise. After all, you were always good to me.’ The vanth opened its jaws impossibly wide to reveal rows of shark-like teeth.

It roared in pain, back arching as it stood up, staggering about to reveal a spear in its back. Raziel stood some fifty paces away, a bloodied dagger in hand. The angel was in his natural form, silver-dark wings glistening in the glowing mist. He appeared made of light, but he had substance.

A ferocious battle between Raziel and Azrael then ensued. Each time Raziel attempt to near the vanth, wards erupted to send him sprawling. Once, he managed to find another spear, but the vanth’s magic shattered the weapon. Raziel couldn’t close with Azrael, but he knew this. He was giving her a chance.

Sarscha struggled to her feet, searching for the iron knife. All around her was mayhem. Surviving soldiers screamed in horror, scrambling to get away.

This is a sacrifice, she thought. The vanth had led the army to the marsh to sacrifice it and raise these revenants. There was nowhere to run to. Not like Cadaver didn’t warn me, but she’d never run from a fight before. Never.

Someone halted in front of her, splashing mud in her face. A figure in dark robes. Sarscha blinked the mud away, trying to see. She realised it was an undead mage as it attacked the approaching revenants with black fire. The creatures shrieked as they burned, and no wraiths escaped this time. This mage could fight the wraiths themselves.

Whoever it was helped her up, shoving her in a different direction. ‘You needs to get gone,’ shouted a girl’s voice in her ear. ‘Moves it, stupid!’

Sarscha obeyed and stumbling away, she fled.

‡

THE VIRAL GIRL LOUNGED against a stunted tree in the small grove. ‘My name’s Tezcat,’ she said with a smile, ‘but you can calls me, Cat. All my friends does, and we is gonna be friends. I just knows it.’

Sarscha took an involuntary stumble back, recognising the girl. The undead child who’d appeared with Aiyana years ago, but back then she’d looked younger. This girl was on the verge of woman-hood.

‘You doesn’t needs fear me,’ Tezcat said. She glanced back in the direction of the marshes. ‘They won’t finds us up here, leastways for a bit. Beez, Lyrin and them others will keep them flesh-ghosts busy.’

Sarscha’s legs gave way. Guilt for having fled overwhelmed her as she plopped onto the ground. Soldiers were dying down there, and here she was hiding beneath some trees. She stared back down towards the marshes. ‘They’re all dead?’

‘Yeah,’ said Tezcat, her voice sad, ‘they is all done in right ’nough. She needs them ya see for her army.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘I nevers liked her, but Threads thought she were special. He weren’t wrong, or not exactly. Different sort o’ wrong if you gets me.’

Sarscha shook her head.

‘An old sorceress buts young and pretty. Her name’s, Astra Dar. Well, that were her name once, but she’s just plain Astra now. She’s got the hump or somethin’, I guess. She were the Grim’s old girlfriend. Raised thems flesh-ghosts down there, the ones whats she stole from the Grim. Wants o’ take this world for herself.’

‘You are virals. Why do you care?’ Sarscha also wanted to know how they’d come to be there and just in time. A part of her refused to acknowledge the question. There was an answer there she didn’t want to hear. Not yet.

Tezcat tilted her head to the left as though examining a strange specimen of little intelligence. ‘We is yours undead guardians, stupid. Like guardian angels, I guess. We is here to makes sure the livin’ keep livin’.’

That’s twice she’s called me stupid, thought Sarscha. Maybe the girl was right. I’ve made mistakes that’s for sure. She paused, no longer able to keep the question buried. She had to know and so she asked for news of Aiyana. These virals had been linked with her sister’s soul; she’d known that much though she’d always shied away from the details.

Sarscha felt unnerved as Tezcat became distraught, wringing her grey-blue hands. ‘Yours sister sent us, but ... oh, I is so sorry, really I is, but she’s gone. Dead. Full dead, is whats I meant. It were necessary you see, a part o’ the spell. To sends us back to this world, all solid-like. That’s how we knows ya see, because we is all here.’ Tezcat began to fiddle with her fingers, rubbing hard at them. ‘I is sorry. Like a bigs sister to me, she were. I is so sorry.’

Sarscha tried to rise, but found her legs uncooperative. Maybe it was shock or all the marching, but she knew it was the numbness forming within her. Aiyana was dead. Her one sister gone before she could make things right. It had never occurred to her that Aiyana might die. She’d always thought she’d be the one to go, and Aiyana would continue with her unlife. Wasn’t that how it was supposed to be? The undead persisted while the living perished? This was wrong. She didn’t know what to do with the information, so she buried it.

For some reason the viral girl was holding her, and it took her a moment to realise she was sobbing. Sarscha took several deep breaths to regain control. ‘I’m okay,’ she muttered, shoving the girl away. ‘Please, I’m okay.’

‘I’s nots good with snots and stuff,’ said Tezcat. ‘I is good with killin’ though. Makin’ trouble, too; I loves that.’

Sarscha fought to reorder her thoughts. There was work to do, and she wasn’t about to let her emotions rule her. She would grieve but later, in private.

A sound caused them both to turn, and a cloaked figure stumbled into view before collapsing to its knees. Tezcat rushed to Raziel’s side, helping him up. The angel bore numerous wounds. It appeared his battle with the vanth had not gone well.

Raziel’s face held a determined look, eyes clear despite his injuries. ‘The revenants are too numerous, and are already heading for Icarthya. The main viral horde has gathered and will meet them head on beyond the plains, but it doesn’t look good.’

Sarscha surged to her feet. ‘Can the undead mages hold them there?’

Raziel glanced at Tezcat and then nodded. ‘Why?’

Sarscha turned. ‘Markus Cipius thought he was leading a rebellion against my sister. I thought I’d have to kill him. Now, seeing what is happening it all seems somehow trite. The vanth is controlling him. I want to save him, but to do that I must kill this vanth.’ She drew the iron dagger from her belt, glancing down at it. ‘Will one stab be enough?’

‘I hope so, but this vanth is powerful. If it must be one, make it count. Do not forget, Markus Cipius is not your task.’

Sarscha felt her stubbornness harden. ‘He is just a man, and I’m just a woman. I’ve lost too many people. He doesn’t deserve to die like this. I must try to save him.’

Raziel’s gaze pierced her as though trying to unravel the mystery of Sarscha Todralan. ‘Why?’ he asked for the second time.

She met his gaze. ‘I can’t save the world like you seem to want of me. It’s too much. I can save one man though. To save one man I can kill this vanth.’

‘Then,’ said Raziel, his voice full of sorrow, ‘you had best hurry.’

‡

SARSCHA COULDN’T BELIEVE her eyes. They had followed the revenants back to the River Noy, careful not to be spotted. The water flowed fast and furious beneath an ancient stone arch bridge, some twenty-five hundred feet to the opposite side. And upon that opposite bank, an army of undead. A fog crept across, moving with the urgency of magic.

‘They have destroyed all remaining bridges,’ noted Raziel by her side. ‘The viral mage leading them knows the revenants cannot make it across water so deep and fast. They will have to go eight hundred miles north over mountains and valleys to find another crossing.’

‘Why don’t he smash ups this bridge?’ asked Tezcat.

Raziel pondered that for a second before answering. ‘I think because we must face them at some point. Here, we can control how many we fight at a time, and the river acts as a natural defence.’

‘Who commands that army,’ Sarscha asked with a glance for the opposite bank.

‘Beezer,’ said Tezcat with a wide grin. ‘His name’s Beezer. You doesn’t needs worry much. Beez’ll take care o’ it.’

A knot of revenants surged towards the bridge, and began to cross as viralic magic hammered into them. Far behind the revenants and barely visible was the camp, tents toppled and torn, fires burning uncontrollably in several areas.

‘There’s no sign of Krasta Remus anywhere,’ Sarscha noted.

‘The vanth must be with them,’ said Raziel gesturing at the horde.

‘Does it need to be to control them?’

Raziel grimaced. ‘No, I don’t believe it does.’

‘Well, I’m going to try and find him.’ She drew the shard, and glanced down at the iron blade. ‘Wish me luck.’

Raziel nodded, and broke into a run, heading right for the bridge and its ghastly horde.

Sarscha turned to the undead girl. ‘What about you?’

‘Oh, I’s with you. I is yours guardian angel, me.’ Tezcat grinned, and Sarscha realised she was starting to like the girl. Who would’ve thought she could feel fondness for one of the undead?

The former marshal and the undead girl ran towards the camp. By the time they reached it, the fires had worsened. Sarscha felt winded and stood bent over gripping her legs. Too many months quaffing ale and no real training. What training she’d received as a recruit again had been brief and basic. She had but herself to blame.

There appeared to be no life in the camp, but she gripped the dagger tight, a short sword in her left hand. The girl had vanished, but she had no doubt Tezcat would appear when needed. For some reason she felt herself trusting her.

The world has turned on its head. She thought briefly of her brother, and knew she had a lot of making up to do. At least she could still make things right with one of them.

Bodies lay sprawled across camp, those the illness had spared and the revenants had then killed. Sarscha had no idea where to look first. The vanth might be anywhere, and Cipius might be a blackened corpse. She’d always relied on instinct. A soldier’s instinct, which had kept her alive.

There were several undamaged tents in the middle of the camp. As she made her way towards them, she heard the faint concussions of magic at the bridge. If those things made it to the capital, there would be no stopping them.

She forced herself to focus at the task at hand. It was then she discovered him in a tent on his back. He appeared to be asleep.

She reached his side and sheathed her knife, while laying her sword on the ground. She began to examine him for wounds. At least he was alive. She saw the body of Krasta Remus lying face down nearby, but she could tell it was him.

Then Cipius awoke.

‡

MARKUS CIPIUS DIDN’T look normal. He stared up at her with eyes like molten lava. Veins of light swelled beneath his skin. Too late, Sarscha realised she should’ve stabbed him through the heart.

His hands found her neck as she fumbled for her sword. Grabbing the blade, her world beginning to darken, she felt the sting of its bite in her palm as she grabbed it by the blade instead of the hilt. She drove the point into his neck.

His grip vanished, and Sarscha fell onto her back drawing painful gulps of air. Her neck and chest hurt, and there was a pounding in her skull. She tried to rise.

Markus Cipius rose to his knees, blood oozing from the neck wound. Horns began to push through his forehead, and Sarscha stared in shock as threads of darkness knit the neck wound shut. The vanth Azrael possessed Cipius. It must have switched bodies, but its transformation wasn’t complete. Perhaps it needed time. Well, it wasn’t going to get it.

‘Markus,’ she managed to croak, hoping for one last chance to save him. ‘It’s me, Sarscha. I’m here to help you. Listen to me: fight it. Don’t let it control you.’

Azrael rose to his feet, and advanced on her.

She fumbled for the soul shard, but having no time, instead stabbed the sword into his gut. The former conclavist staggered back several feet, staring down at the wound. There was no grunt of pain, no reaction to say she’d wounded it. Did the surprise belong to the vanth, or Markus?

‘Please, don’t make me kill you.’ The thought occurred she might not be able to, and then she knew why the vanth had changed form. It must have guessed she’d struggle to kill this man. The thought also occurred it might try to take her body. Raziel had not mentioned it could switch forms this easily. Maybe he hadn’t known.

Magic stitched the gut wound shut.

This time, Cipius lunged for her, one hand gripping her arm, twisting it, forcing the sword from her bloodied grasp. The right hand gripped her neck again, squeezing. There was nothing in those eyes to say Markus was in there. She felt pain blossom in her abdomen as something cut deep.

A dark web caught hold of Cipius, and his fingers loosened. Once again Sarscha was on the ground, struggling to remain conscious.

Her vision had dimmed, but she discerned Tezcat by the tent flap; the girl’s dark magic had entangled the vanth.

Filaments of dark flame enveloped Cipius as the vanth’s power took hold. It forced back Tezcat’s viralic web, snapping the threads with a thunderous detonation. The undead girl flew backwards through the air without a sound.

Sarscha, clutching her stomach, stumbled outside after her. The viral girl was sitting up looking bewildered, hair plastered to her face. She looked almost comical sat there with her forehead wrinkled in a deep frown as though peeved.

Fire took the tent, burning faster than normal, and the vanth stepped free of the conflagration. It was no longer Markus Cipius. Naked, its body was aflame, the skin and flesh molten. The flames appeared like a mixture of light and darkness, a contradiction. Horns erupted from its forehead along with four eyes and six wings from its shoulders. In the vanth’s right hand was a scythe of molten flame. Perhaps it had switched bodies because Krasta’s had proved inadequate. In Markus Cipius the vanth Azrael appeared to have been reborn as an angel of death.

The laughter from what had once been the rebellion’s commander was deep and otherworldly. It chilled Sarscha to the bone.

We can’t fight this, she thought. Neither of us can, living or undead. Staring death in the face was something she’d experienced many times before, but now it just seemed unfair.