37 One Falls Another Rises

THREADFIN PICKED HIMSELF up, spitting out lumps of snow. The eruption of power, which had accompanied Babel’s demise had hurtled him leagues out over the icy Zalanthian wilderness. Had he been a breather, he would not have survived.

Bits of stone, metal and twisted bone dotted the brightening landscape. He felt surprised an entire night had passed, but then he recalled his palatial education; nights this far north were much longer. His time in the Tower had felt like a couple of hours, but inside Babel he’d been in another world.

It had begun to snow, and the wind had picked up. Soon, there would be a blizzard. He had no idea what had caused Babel’s destruction, but he suspected Astra. The Grim, the bloody half-wit, had handed himself over to her like a love-sick grolg in heat. Now what?

A thousand shades of colour ribboned the sky. Lightning, which never struck the ground. The Shathra Stone was touching reality, toying with it. He searched for sign of life, and spotted someone in the distance stalking towards him from what he guessed was the direction of Babel. At least, the path of destruction led that way. An ethereal spinning ball of light was in the person’s hands.

Astra.

As she got closer, he noticed a flicker within the Stone. At times, it vanished, to reappear a moment later. She doesn’t have full control of it, he thought, although enough to cause unnecessary havoc, and more than enough to make this viral’s existence a misery.

Winged shadows appeared between the episodic explosions of lightning to surround the young woman. A sea of dark figures also emerged from the driving snow following in her wake. Revenants, once the Grim’s army, and now hers. An army to destroy the world, and here I am by my lonesome ready to get in its way. Oh, just bloody wonderful. Wouldn’t have it any other way, I wouldn’t. His nerves were shot, what with all the ridiculous revelations and soul-searching he'd been forced to endure of late.

I should’ve taken the day off. Mages get days off, right? Holidays, benefits, nice luxurious extras like foot rubs? He’d need to see if he could wriggle something into imperial law. Nipper was good at the finer details.

Thunderous echoes reached him as the monstrous figures of Titans strode across the plain in the far distance.

Seriously, what am I doing here, he thought. These are forces far beyond my power. What am I supposed to do? Spit at them? Give them a good telling off?

The ground shook and began to split, cracks opening to reveal hissing magma far below. Sulphuric smoke blocked his view of the army. He turned and spotted the Grim and his own little force flanking Astra’s. Oh, this is all getting way out of control!

The Grim’s force had, of course, joined with Astra’s. It was one army with one purpose. To destroy everything in its path. It would spread out across the icy wastelands of Zalanthya and then southward. It would split east and west devouring kingdoms, empires, and continents. No human force could withstand it, and the revenant horde would grow in number.

Nalrost had sought to enslave the world. Threadfin could see the oh-such-deliciously-dark-logic, as the Grim had sought to defend existence. Now, the idiot had succumbed to Tartaros through his old lover instead. He had capitulated. Instead of enslavement it would be annihilation. Better than pitting two ancient lovers against one another, was to reunite them, gifting them ultimate power. Horrifically neat in its simplicity. He had to hand it to Tartaros. It was devious.

Astra strode across the plain with a flickering beacon in her grasp, as the Grim’s forces melded with hers. Lightning reached down from the sky, striking her, and the beacon grew.

‡

THE VANTH, WHO HAD once been Markus Cipius, gripped Tezcat Licolo by the throat, throttling her, while the viral girl flayed the skin from its flesh. Blood sprayed from its wounds, but Azrael did not let go, roaring in anger.

The undead girl had been quick to get in the vanth’s way, protecting Sarscha as she fought to regain her senses. The soul shard was still in her hand, as though fused to her flesh. Perhaps some unconscious force refused to let her drop it. However, she was wounded, too weak to stand.

Raziel appeared again, and launched another attack on the vanth, knocking it back several steps. Its grip on Tezcat broken, the undead girl fell. Her neck appeared damaged, the sinews and tendons visible where the dead flesh had been ripped away, but she was otherwise unharmed. There were obvious advantages to undeath.

Azrael fought viciously, sharp talons slashing at Raziel who battled with equal fury, but each time the Dominion commander got close, magical wards took a terrible toll on him, sucking the light out of him and dimming his form.

‘He will fail,’ cried Sarscha to Tezcat, realising there was no help coming. It was up to them. ‘Girl, you must find the strength. You must help him.’

‘I hasn’t gots enough,’ she replied in a husky voice, crawling towards Sarscha. ‘We drinks in life for ours magic. That vanth’s immune, so I is left with you.’

‘The undead, the clots—’

‘No, they is stuck at the bridge. Tens o’ thousands o’ revenants there now.’ She paused, before adding, ‘I has enoughs to fix you. Won’t be nice, and it’ll hurts some.’

Sarscha stared at the young viral, and recalled her sister, Aiyana. She remembered those years she had spent haranguing the child, because she’d been different. I am so sorry, Aiy. I never understood you, and I never loved you as a sister should have. I was wrong. Nodding her consent, she whispered, ‘Do whatever you can.’

The undead girl grabbed Sarscha, and ignoring the screams, forced her body to heal. A cold healing, which her flesh sought to resist. The conflict resulted in a nightmarish agony.

When Sarscha awoke to the sounds of battle, she realised not much time had passed. Perhaps seconds, several minutes at most. She felt odd, and fingered her wound to find it cold ... she glanced down, and then at the undead girl. ‘What did you do?’

‘I isn’t good for healin’ and stuff, but I picked up bits. Mets a healer once named Vent. She were nice. Taught me stuff. I gaves you more punch. You gots to be quick, you gots to act now!’

Sarscha saw Raziel was still battling the vanth, trying to buy her time, but he was over-matched. The angel’s body looked ravaged, one arm limp and his form had become so dim as to be near insubstantial. It pained Sarscha’s heart in a way she’d never known, to see this angel so wounded. He was on the verge of defeat.

No, there was no time.

‡

THE INTERIOR OF THE Necropolis’ main hall was vast with a towering barrel-vaulted ceiling. Distorted faces of stone glared at Desool from above as though furious at this intrusion. Within the hall’s centre was a knot of darkness, enhanced by a sickly glow emanating from everywhere and nowhere.

The darkness writhed, the shape of a being emerging. It devoured itself, before regurgitating a new form, over and over. If there was an emotion Desool sensed from it, it was fear. Fear coating deep pain.

Rade Wyn, or what remained of her, was suffering.

Ralan stepped cautiously towards the darkness. Desool had entered behind as planned, and was now fifteen feet away. He noticed shraeds on either side clinging to the shadows. It took every ounce of will not to touch the hilt of his scarap.

An echoing voice filled the chamber, and he cringed. ‘You came back for me? asked a woman’s voice. ‘It is really you? Tell me, what name do you choose?’

There was a moment’s pause where Ralan halted, staring at the knot of darkness. Desool felt confusion at the question, but the tenth Torment answered, ‘Not the name I chose, but the one you gave me.’

The knot reformed into the shape of a woman. Features emerged, and Desool stared at a beautiful human female. As translucent as the shraeds, but there was no mistaking what she must have looked like in life. This was Rade Wyntara Todralan, and according to Ralan, the last fragment of Astra’s soul remaining free. What had happened to her? Then a thought occurred, which explained the overwhelming sense of fear he’d felt. She must be resisting the spell. All the fragments have perished and re-joined as one, as the new Astra. All but this one. Why?

‘You bring a thief into my presence, Ral. You always liked to drag strays into our little family.’

‘Once again, I bring a friend.’

The ghost of Rade sniffed. ‘Like that undead girl? I never approved of your choice in friends. I still have much to teach you it seems.’

‘He stays, or I leave.’

‘No, no my son. Please, do not leave me. Please.’

Desool felt struck with grief. This echo of a woman’s soul had held on, because of a mother’s love. He did not see any emotion in Ralan, and so Desool wept for him. It was clear he loved her, but between them was hurt, anger, and above all, time. No, he thought, if the Seraphim Council want to destroy Rade Wyn, they can do it themselves. I will not do what I must, not this day. Only what I can, and I cannot kill a mother’s love.

Ralan had moved several steps closer, but halted again and appeared reluctant to close the distance.

‘Tell your friend to go,’ she instructed. ‘I sense in him honour, and a true love for you, which is all that stops me from destroying him. However, he cannot have what he came for. Tartaros claims the Spectrum for its own.’

‘The Shathra Stone is useless to Tartaros,’ said Ralan, ‘without the Key.’

‘The Aura Crystal,’ she hissed. Rade reverted to a blot of darkness, which lurched to within feet of her son. Her form re-emerged but wavered, as though she struggled to maintain cohesion. ‘The undead mage will be taken, and the Darkness will fall across the worlds. I can save you, my son. I care what happens to you. As always.’

‘You’ve said those words to me, once before.’

‘And I meant them. You are stubborn willed like your father. You always stuck to your own path. Please, Ral, I must not lose you. I cannot.’

‘You can’t even protect yourself,’ said Ralan in a small voice, for all the world a child defying his mother. ‘Astra has been reborn. The ancient ritual has come full circle, and right now she drains what remains of you. I see you fighting it. However, she will be whole, and you will no longer exist.’

Rade placed two ghostly hands on her son’s shoulders, and made a motion like a kiss to his forehead. Desool scanned the interior of the hall for sign of the Shathra Stone. It had to be there. He did not believe she would let it out of her sight. It had to be hidden in the darkness with her. Well, he thought, no one said this would be easy.

‘Yes, I will become part of the sorceress, my son,’ said Rade. ‘Do you think she cares that we had our own lives, our own existence, here on Yalta? All I had back then was you. For a while, her desires were mine, but I realise now I should have sought my own path, for both of us.’

Ralan shook his head, more in sorrow from Desool’s perspective, than denial. ‘The Shathra Stone was never yours to take. If you do not release it to me, she will soon possess it when she takes you. Your prediction of the Darkness falling will come true.’

The darkness retracted, her form losing cohesion. ‘I did not take it. It was entrusted to me.’

‘Yes, by another fragment as rebellious as you. One who felt love for another, which helped to resist the spell. But your resistance, like Lorn’s, will end. Give it to me before it is too late.’

‘I am its guardian,’ she shrieked.

Desool felt, rather than saw the shadows gathering closer to his position. Rade Wyn’s love was real, perhaps as real as her insanity.

‘What does not exist cannot touch what is extant,’ said Ralan. ‘Why do you think the Darkness uses you like a tool, as it uses Astra, or my father? It lies outside of existence and cannot touch the Shathra Stone. It used and deceived you as it did many others, and now it will discard you. All it wanted from you was a guardian for the Stone, until Astra was ready. Your role in all of this is over.’ He paused, as though wrestling with a decision he’d already made. ‘Mother, if you let me help you, I can find a way to give you peace. I can keep you from her, forever. Let me help you.’

The face of Rade Wyn had grown severe within the darkness. ‘You have never called me, mother.’ Desool realised she was weeping. ‘Yes, you are my son in every way that matters, Taver.’ A dark hand reached out to stroke Ralan’s face. ‘I am glad to have seen you one last time. I am sorry I was never the mother you deserved. I am sorry I did not do better.’

Ralan’s face seemed made of stone, and Desool’s heart broke for his friend. His mother was dying. He was helpless, and yet desperate to give her something back.

But there was nothing to give. Only to take.

‘Mother,’ he tried again. ‘The Shathra Stone. Please.’

There was a long pause while her face vanished, and the writhing darkness grew violent. Then, her voice came in a whisper, ‘I am sorry, Ral, but I cannot.’