40 Praxis

WHEN DESOOL OPENED his eyes, his first thought was for his friend. Ralan lay face down, unmoving. The giant reached out an arm, grunting with pain, and touched the tenth Torment’s blistered foot. Ralan groaned.

Alive then, thought the Guardian. Something good had come out of it all, at least.

He turned his attention to the Shathra Stone, nestled between his knees and chest. In those final moments he’d felt Astra’s attempts to take it as she’d begun to absorb Rade’s soul fragment. In the end, she’d failed, and remained incomplete. Ralan must have found the strength for one final strike. A soul shard lay in his friend’s hand, the blade containing a swirl of night. It would need as much protection as the Stone.

‘Astra will come for it, now,’ whispered Ralan, who had rolled onto his side, clutching the scarap to his chest. ‘You must return to Raddhon, and do all you can to keep it from her.’

Desool got to his knees, and picked up the Stone. It shrank in size at his touch, settling into his palm. ‘I will return it to its rightful place. The Horites will see no one gets near it.’

Ralan held out a pleading hand. ‘No, you don’t understand. Only the king of the Nephilim can keep it from her. The Horites will not be enough. You must become king, and fast. She will bring an army and lay siege to Raddhon.’

Desool stared at him. ‘Gog of Magog is soon to be the king.’

‘Exactly.’

‘You are suggesting I should stop him from taking the throne? What of my brothers, all who are in line before me? You are no different from the Seraphim Council.’

Ralan gave a soft laugh, full of pain. ‘Now, there’s no need to go insulting me.’ He hacked up some blood and spat. ‘A good thing, neither of us are ordinary, eh? We’d never have survived my mother otherwise. Told you she was in a bad mood.’

‘I am sorry for your loss, my friend.’

Ralan idly waved a hand.

‘However, you are now suggesting I must commit treason,’ Desool persisted. ‘I cannot do what you ask.’

Ralan got to his feet, shoving the scarap into his belt. He wobbled, and then holding his arms wide managed to steady himself. ‘Wow, that does not feel right. I hope you heal as quick as I. You don’t look much better.’

Desool joined him, cupping the Stone protectively, ignoring the pain as but a Nephilim could. He had no intention of asking for the scarap. The soul shard and what it contained was Ralan’s responsibility now. ‘I will return to Raddhon and do all I can. That is my duty.’

‘Isn’t that what I’ve been saying?’

‘It is not what you meant.’

Ralan held out a shaky hand, and touched his arm. ‘You told me, sometimes you do what you must. When you can’t, you do what you can. I’m telling you, my friend, you must become king and you can. I’m not telling you how, but you will find a way.’

Desool shook his head. What way was there but to go to war against his brothers? All of them at the same time. Civil war.

Ralan did not relent. ‘You are Rephaim. You are of the ruling class, and you are of Og’s blood, the same Og who gifted you a soul shard. You have the most rightful claim. If you doubt me, why don’t you return to your father before he dies, and ask him. I think his answer might surprise you. He kept his distance from you for a good reason; to ensure your brothers never saw you as a threat.’

Ralan then turned and stumbled towards the exit. Already, his skin was showing signs of healing, but Desool knew the son of Rasnal Nalrost and Astra Dar, was special. Once a spectral mage in his own right, and now a Torment too. He wished he knew the full story. It was no doubt, quite a tale.

Desool’s own body would take longer to recover. Inside, he screamed in agony, but outwardly showed nothing. He forced the pain deeper, trying to make sense of Ralan’s words and predictions.

By the time he had reached the exit and all those agonising steps back down, he’d arrived at a disturbing conclusion. His friend was right and unfortunately, so were the Seraphim Council.

So, I will return home, he thought, and somehow become king of the Nephilim.

The Guardian of the Stone left the Necropolis. Waiting for him back in Adalalcas was a human woman, a witch who had bewitched him.

Hours later, his soul warmed at the thought of her while his brother’s damaged longship battled the heaving waves of the Adalcis Ocean.

‡

THREADFIN CLIMBED THE steps to the Black Palace. His face was hidden beneath a black mourning dalba, worn by the Imperial Family. No one required him to wear it, and this mage had no care for tradition, but he had loved his sister. She would have wanted him to observe Icarthian custom, to be a Todralan. The paladins, who stood on the edge of each step in descending order of rank, glared at him.

At the summit, before the great doors, was a stand containing a pot beneath a shroud. Candles and flowers had been arranged around it. It should have been a pyre with his sister’s corpse beneath a black shroud. However, reports suggested her body had turned to ash. That same ash now lay beneath the shroud, in a golden pot.

Before it stood his sister, Sarscha, in plain leathers and swals, a bronze short sword on her hip. She favoured her side as though wounded. Always the soldier, and now their new imperatrix. She’d been sworn in by the conclave hours earlier. It was for her the paladins had bothered to attend at all. Politics never ended, especially at funerals. Sarscha smiled at him, her face filled with sadness, but it also held acknowledgement, and hope.

Threadfin lifted back the shroud to gaze upon what remained of his sister. He reached out, and touched the ash with a finger.

Tezcat Licolo, Beezer, Lyrin and many virals joined him, each placing their hands on the edges of the stand. It went against all custom, but none cared. Her death had bought their existence. She’d known from the start the price, and had paid it willingly. Her sacrifice had also been for the living she’d sworn to protect. When Sarscha added her hand, no one objected.

It was all a lie; the undead were harbingers of death and destruction, servants of the Darkness. But, as he looked up at each of them, his gaze coming to rest on Tezcat, he knew it did not have to be so. Not if they chose to ignore fate, to spit in the face of destiny.

I choose not to serve Tartaros, and so do they. We defend the living. Through all the hate and violence, the selfishness and greed, we see love and a desire to be better. Yes, sister, I see it now. I see the living as you did, and I understand.

This time, as he bowed his head, he made no promises to do this, or that. There was no need. Promises were words, whether spoken or written upon the heart, and words could be rewritten or erased. His actions would be the fulfilment of an unspoken, unwritten promise.

Tartaros would unleash all its power on the world in the form of a new servant called, Lucifer.

The viral mage turned, surveying the gathered citizens of Icarthya, the living. We are their guardians against the Darkness, against that which would destroy them all.

Yes, Astra, you and I will meet again and then we shall see.

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This Ends

A PLAGUEBORN NOVEL BOOK 3