38 Battle of the Plains

JOINING THE TITANS came winged women with red eyes and gleeful grins. These were the vicious harpies on muscular gorgon mounts. Also, chimeras in various forms from bestial to human-like joined the gathering. Threadfin had feared an invasion by the Grim, and he’d come to stop it, as well as to protect Astra.

The invasion had begun, but it was Astra who led it with the Grim drooling at her side. Fine, maybe he wasn’t drooling, but Threadfin was in a foul mood.

An army of revenants peppered with the Fallen and countless shraeds, all ready to bring his world to ruin. Just the right ingredients to ruin a perfectly nice and reasonable mage’s day.

It was then he spotted Podral Pole and the indomitable scout. They half carried Vilt between them, hurrying away from the approaching forces. The archer seemed to have an injured leg. The viral mage, fists on hips, watched them in disbelief. How in the name of the Spectrum above had those three gotten all the way out here?

Then he saw Striga, who acted as their rear-guard, reaping a bloody price from any enemy coming too close. ‘What are those idiots doing?’ Threadfin had hoped to end it all without involving his friends.

‘Ah well,’ said a voice startling him. ‘That might be my fault.’

Threadfin turned, fists still on hips, to face down none other than Adal. ‘Just tell me this: when will you ever quit meddling?’

The man he’d once known as Crawl – and who apparently had several dozen names, titles, and personalities – grinned. ‘I have brought you some reinforcements, my old friend.’

Threadfin turned and glared about. ‘Well, where are—’ His mouth clicked shut as he stared in disbelief. Figures formed out of the falling snow as though consisting of light and shadow. Their dark wings shimmered, glistening in faint sunlight.

Angels.

Lots of angels.

And no mere Angelborn neither. No, these were true angels. It was then he realised who Adal had to be. He’d suspected, considering the name and everything, but now that he was certain, he felt ill as he recalled several hundred unpleasant insults he’d made.

Adal caught his gaze, and his grin brightened further. ‘You know, Fin, you’ve always been my favourite. You’ve done well, my boy.’

Together they faced the oncoming horde, and the sorcerous duo leading it. ‘I want no harm to come to her,’ Threadfin blurted out, with a sidelong glance for his angelic companion.

‘Neither do I,’ said Adal, ‘but it isn’t up to us. She is lost to Tartaros and the Grim to both.’ Sadness then filled Adal’s face and after a pause, he added, ‘I am so sorry, Fin.’

Threadfin stared at the angel, confused, but there was no time for idle talk.

‡

DESOOL MADE THE DECISION to act, though it pained him. He was the Shathra Stone’s guardian, and he could not allow it fall into Astra’s hands. He had no desire to kill Rade Wyn, but he had no choices remaining. Likely, Astra had some control over the Stone, but all wasn’t lost. Not if he acted fast.

Unsheathing the soul shard he broke into a run, the muscles of his powerful legs hurtling him towards Rade Wyn’s shade.

The shraeds screeched as they attacked, but he was in full flight. A charging Nephilim warrior was unstoppable. He felt his blood spill, his flesh burn and blister, as they tried to thwart him, but a Nephilim’s hide was thick. They reached in with ethereal claws to chill his heart to stone, but a Nephilim’s heart was as molten iron. He bent his head into the flurry of ethereal wings, and then he was past his friend.

Rade Wyn’s shade leapt to meet him. As he made to stab her with the shard, he felt it wrenched from his grasp to clatter somewhere beyond reach. He felt his soul pulling apart, but Nephilim souls were descended from angels. She could not stop him from reaching out a hand, and grasping the ancient artifact where it hid within darkness. To his surprise, it’s size shrank to nestle secure in his grasp.

Pulling it to him, he clutched it to his chest, while the shade tore the flesh from his bones. He collapsed into a ball, the Stone hidden from her sight, but she did not relent. He felt his skin burn, his flesh sizzling as she murdered him, but he would not give it up.

Then the attacks ceased. He uncurled a little, his body in agony. He cried out with the pain in a long wailing roar. When he opened his eyes, he saw someone stood between him and the knot of darkness. The silver horns of the Tenth Torment had lengthened, his form grown taller. Somehow, he had driven her back. ‘You have failed, mother. You cannot have him, unless you wish to kill me too. That is the price for the Stone now. My death.’

Rade Wyn’s cry was a sorrowful sound. The shraeds clustered to her, joining her form until half the chamber was night. ‘You have betrayed me,’ her voice quavered, ‘and not for the first time. She must be whole, and I must join her. Would you leave me like this, my son?’

Ralan looked as though her question caused him great pain. ‘I would give you peace if you would let me. Tartaros works through you, but I forgive you, mother.’ In his hand, he held Desool’s scarap. ‘However, I cannot allow you to join with the sorceress. This world she would so casually enslave and destroy, is a world I love.’

The bulging mass surged at him, and struck. It passed through Ralan, his skin blackening to form huge blisters. The Torment fell to his knees, as Rade Wyn grabbed Desool. Black flames devoured him, and he shrieked. He felt one of his arms forced from his chest, as the darkness tried to take the Stone. He could not withstand its power much longer. He knew he was dying.

The knot of darkness had enveloped him by this time, and he was blind. It flayed the skin from his powerful back and shoulders, causing him such agony his roars turned to screams.

Then he remembered something, a stray thought flitting through the pain: he had stood with his father, Og of Bashan, watching a ritual performed by the Horites, Guardians of the Stone. It was one of the few memories he had of his father, for Og had lost interest in him afterwards.

His father’s voice now whispered in his mind those same words, ‘The Guardians of the Stone are not chosen. Each chooses to devote his or her life to its protection. To die in defence of existence. Is there a worthier end for a warrior? Is there a more honourable life?’

‘Can I choose to protect it, father?’

Og of Bashan had laughed. ‘You? No, you are too soft, too weak, and the Stone requires strength of mind and will. Such a path is not for you.’

Desool gripped the Shathra Stone with all the strength remaining him. He would prove his father wrong. He curled into a ball, denying it to the Darkness, and if he should die this day in defence of existence, was there a worthier end?

‡

SEVERAL OF THE TITANS pounded toward the angelic lines. The wings of the Fallen Ones fanned, taloned tips wisping like smoke.

When Threadfin had first seen his own magic, it had been in the form of a winged scaly beast called the Watcher. It had slumbered within his soul ever since their first encounter. Now it broke the surface of his consciousness. It attempted to force him aside, but the viral mage had anticipated this. With all his will, he reined in the beast of his power. You get some freedom today, you scaly old bastard, he thought, but on my terms.

As the Titans reached the angelic lines, the mage’s wings burst forth. This time, his entire body transformed too, his scaly hide lengthening. His hands became talons, the horns of his face and head growing to immense proportions. It was enough to cause the Fallen to halt in confusion.

In the Watcher’s form, he took flight. A dragon – he now knew its name as his thoughts melded with the Watcher’s – all undead black, and bristling with natural weapons. He slashed with his talons at the Titans, and lashed them with his horned tail, while ripping at their borrowed flesh with rows of dagger-like teeth. His wings bludgeoned the monstrosities, but these were the most terrible of the Fallen Ones. The greatest of the Rifts and no easy prey.

Behind him, the angels joined the battle as the enemy reached their lines. Threadfin caught glimpses of shimmering swords and arched wings, as light met darkness.

While he was distracted for a moment, a Titan grabbed at his left wing. It pummelled him with powerful blows. Another, scored deep wounds along the side of his scaly hide, his armour no obstacle.

Threadfin withdrew, as more of the Titans came for him. They realised the threat, or perhaps Astra had. They wouldn’t destroy him, but he was at great risk of capture. He was the Key, and the Stone was almost hers. Existence itself hung in the balance, as Tartaros struck at the heart of the Spectrum.

Winging away from the fight, wounded, and flying low, Threadfin glanced upward and spotted them. Dragons like him, though none as large, darted between the clouds.

They flocked to him like crows, circling. Then he knew; Aiyana had released the viral souls, but then that meant ... he recalled the sadness in Adal’s eyes, his words of apology and understood.

A wave of grief overwhelmed him, his form threatening to revert to its human state. Aiyana had thought him oblivious, but he’d always known the price. The Librarian had been emphatic it would be paid. He felt the truth of her death in his soul; not where the Watcher resided, but a different place. A part he kept close, safe.

His sister was dead.

The dragons screeched as they sensed his pain, mirroring their own. These viralic souls returned to the world were now his to command. He knew many would have chosen their human form, like Beezer and Tezcat, but not all. Some chose to remain as dragons, and he was glad for it.

And so, he sent them one thought.

For Aiyana.

The dragons echoed the words, the battle cry erupting across the sky.

The Titans lumbered closer, attempting to rip at Threadfin’s wings, to capture him. They had no chance to strike as thousands of undead dragons assailed them from above.

Threadfin turned his attention to Astra, and the Grim. His own grief would wait, else her sacrifice might prove for naught. That, he couldn’t allow.

The ancient sorceress stood amid devastation and death, a beacon of light, growing brighter. Within her hands was the Shathra Stone, its own light competing with hers, blending and becoming one. He could not see where the Grim had gotten to, but he wouldn’t be far.

Threadfin flew towards her, ignoring his wounds, and the lopsided way his body hung in the sky.

Astra strode across the battlefield, but then halted, staring down at her hands. She let out a wail of rage and sorrow. Her cry wounded him, because in that voice he heard Lorn’s too. No, she’s dead you fool. Gone, no matter if she’s a part of Astra’s soul or not. That woman down there is not her. He hardened his resolve, and then the undead dragon grinned when it saw the reason for her distress, and the grin of a dragon was never a nice thing to see.

The Shathra Stone was gone.