39 Approach to the Palace

AS THE ENEMY overran the Mammon Quarter, and approached the steep streets leading to the Hallow and the Palace, Rollic’s own cohort prepared to lead their first assault. Wielding ropes ending in barbed hooks, his soldiers hid within the buildings below. Threadfin knew that Scatter and Podral were down there, though he’d seen no sign of Lorn. After all, she had promised she wouldn’t let herself be killed. He didn’t know why he thought of her now, but something about her bothered him.

Men and women crept along the rooftops. Here the streets were older, curving and narrower, and steep too. They leapt from one peaked roof to the next, a few of the soldiers slipping on slick or loose tiles. One man fell with a sharp cry, but none gave him a glance. There would be worse causalities before long.

The soldiers leapt out as the first giant appeared, swinging the hooks, ropes entwining the Rephaim’s thick legs. Others attacked from above, aiming for the neck. Two hit their target. The metal claws dug into flesh and bone, though steel armour and swatting wings thwarted others.

Four versions of Scatter rushed to aid the men on the ropes, and a lone Podral Pole, who appeared less than happy. Between those pulling from above and below, the lone Rephaim became unbalanced. Bellowing, it crashed earthward. Another soldier leapt from the rooftop onto its chest. Forcing up its steel faceguard, he buried a spear through its eye into the brain. The soldier worked the spear free with a spout of blood. The giant’s body twitched and jerked for a few moments.

Nephilim battled breathers in other streets, roaring amid the downpour. Humans slipped and screamed. Giants trod on them or minced them with heavy steel. Wargs savaged the injured who lay helpless. Ordinary citizens abandoned the false safety of their homes to flee. Few made it far.

Rollic’s men ran further along the street. Threadfin knew this would work a few times, but the Nephilim would catch on. As long as the enemy came in ones or twos, they could manage. The narrow climb towards the palace worked in their favour.

The captain stood rock still, but Threadfin sensed the tension in the breather. Rollic wanted to fight alongside his soldiers, but Threadfin needed him. He needed him to stay alive, to co-ordinate this defence.

The Nephilim prince approached. Buildings burst aflame, crumbling in smoke and ash, but there was no glow from those fires. The flames were as evil as the presence incensing them. Steam rose from the giant’s passage, the river evaporating as a fog enveloped the city. Hundreds of Nephilim flooded across to the western bank. The power of that beast was otherworldly, impossible.

How, thought Threadfin, staring at the monstrosity, in the name of the Holy Spectrum above, am I supposed to stop that thing?

Threadfin witnessed people flung aside by an unseen force, though he had to strain to see through the fog. Others it crushed or ripped asunder, like dolls in the hands of a brat, red stuffing carpeting the paving stones. The god devoured corpses and blood-spattered stone, which crumbled like biscuit. The earth gave way at its passing. Fissures opened, magma bubbling within. This was more than mere corrupted angelic power. Something terrible lay behind this obliteration, and that Grim-blinded Nalrost gave me the job of doing something about it.

The sheer slaughter, the finality with which those lives ended, disgusted him. He could no longer ignore it. I do care if these people live or die, even if I don’t like them. Okay, so maybe I like some of them. Fine, then, I like most of them, but he would reserve a few to dislike, on principle.

He saw how wretched and defenceless they were, and he felt helpless to save them. What a bad joke. The Aidari had been wrong, the poor fools. Yet, the desire to stop this madness, along with the fear it would also find Aiyana, motivated him to try. It was that, or run.

Black fire licked Gog’s limbs, kissing the edges of his breastplate. Skulls and dried skins girded his waist, a loincloth of conquest. The skulls moved, scanning the way ahead, speaking to their master. The giant’s thick shoulders bristled with spines of fire. It stood higher than rooftops, a flaming fist crushing buildings as it advanced.

Then the Nephilim prince burst into flame. This wasn’t an otherworldly fire of its own making, but a living fire of writhing orange, reds, and yellows. The imperial marshal and a small band rushed across the rooftops. They held clay pots in leather satchels on their backs. He’d seen them prepared with a noxious mixture, which included bitumen, naphtha, resin, and quicklime.

Two soldiers with lit torches raced beside them. They lit the fuses on each pot, which they held in leather slings. The torches sputtered in the rain forcing them to work quickly. They flung the missiles at the monstrous Nephilim, aiming for the head and upper torso. The pots shattered in a wash of sticky flame. The burning substance gummed armour and flesh with an unquenchable appetite.

It was a brave attempt. Threadfin felt elation as he watched their hazy forms through the fog and rain leap to another rooftop. Gog swung a heavy harog, wide as a small house. It was no natural weapon, formed of black flame into something solid. The blade ground through stone, wood, and glass, attempting to dislodge the attackers. The assault had infuriated the god, but that was all. Threadfin’s elation waned.

Captain Rollic bellowed beside him, ‘Bring the bastard down!’

His group reappeared with several hooks. They had a chance with Gog distracted. The Marshal and her group were racing towards the edge of a rooftop opposite Threadfin’s shattered building, about to leap the gap. There was a blur of motion as the colossus struck.

The soldiers disappeared in an eruption of shattered stone and dust. The giant’s gaze then settled on Threadfin. Rollic yelled something, but he couldn’t make sense of the words.

Through the curtain of water and fog, Threadfin glimpsed another world and knew it was no coincidence. Within the blurred reflection was a shadow he knew belonged to him. Just as quickly, it was gone. Gog raised his weapon for another strike.

Two forms got to their feet on the opposite rooftop and Threadfin noted with relief that Sarscha was one of them. They retreated as the next squad took over. The replacements appeared on both the rooftops and in the streets. There were several versions of Scatter, casting hooks, hurling spears, or hauling on ropes. Podral was there, with a knot of soldiers and more of the clay pots. He looked as miserable as ever. He glowered across at Threadfin, who grinned back. His grin faded as he realised, they were waiting for him to do something.

What was he supposed to do? Scatter’s lessons rushed through his head in a vivid rush, but he saw nothing to stop this monster.

As Gog struck, they flung the last of the burning mud. Pots smacked into the giant’s head in a billow of flame. The Nephilim’s blow swung wide. The harog crunched into the rooftop, two feet from Threadfin. He stumbled backwards. When he regained his footing, he saw what was left of Captain Wyn Rollic. A sword lay a foot from the man’s outstretched hand ... just a hand, nothing else. He picked up the weapon, gazing into the iron, but a hazy image was all he saw. He dropped the blade, feeling lost.

Gog let the harog vanish, and replaced it with a spinning whirlwind between his gargantuan paws. Threadfin knew it was the Shathra Stone. Nothing but a white-blue light shot with colour was visible.

He felt a strangeness in his body, as though the Stone tugged at him. Instinctively, he raised his hands and saw through them. It was like looking into oily water. A black pattern erupted from his fingers and the thin weaves toyed with the air, like the tentacles of a frantic squid, but the Stone pulled at those too.

He knew if he remained there, he was done, but it was too late for anything. Instead, he focused the dark weaves of his power. They tried to rip at the fabric of time and existence. A dark vortex formed, extant for a breather’s heartbeat. The Stone foiled his attempts. He felt life forces like molten streams of energy feeding him, and the horror of it hit home, not knowing whose lives he took. Dozens, hundreds perhaps, would die because of what he now did, even as he failed. Worse, he was killing the people he sought to save, while attempting to flee. The Nephilim prince smiled, a cavernous grin of flame.

Threadfin let go of his power. He could not fight back, not at such cost. He gripped the lump of silver at his neck, and waited for the end. It was for the best. Perhaps Aiyana could find a way to survive. I’m sorry, he thought. I wasn’t strong enough, sister.

The swirling Stone became a hole of colourful flame. Both sides of the hole showed the on-going battle, but in a reverse image like a mirror. He saw wargs bounding across the rooftops and descending upon his companions. He saw more than one Scatter fall to vicious jaws, Pole stabbing like a man possessed. He saw armoured giants thunder into the knot of soldiers below, dislodging hooks, ripping into human flesh. Hundreds of Nephilim entered the city, crossing the mostly evaporated river.

Closer to the yawning vortex, he saw what lay behind it as though light bent around it, but the images were stretched. It was like looking through bubbled glass made of flame. People died, no matter if he used his magic or not. It was then he remembered he was the Key. With one last burst of viralic power, he tentatively reached out to the Stone, not to defeat it, but to unlock it. The vortex sucked him out of all time and reality into the fragmented reflection of another world.

‡

CANAAN’S BOOTS RAPPED on the blue-veined marble, a solid sound. They weren’t his, but taken from a deceased soldier. He wiped sweaty palms on his knee length tunic, crimson cloak whipping behind him. He’d left the armour. Against this foe, it would do no good. The pain in his shoulders made him wince. He could feel those protrusions. Soon, he thought, very soon. His angelic power corrupted by Darkness, he had become something twisted, a chimera. He would end this now, as an Angelborn.

Torches flickered as a frigid breeze gusted through the open colonnade of the outer palace grounds. Exemplar guards shivered. These stood not far from the stables. Their tunics and scaled armour, or the newer segmented cuirasses, were little grace against the cold. They wrapped their cloaks closer, not seeing him until it was too late.

They were Andromeda’s, no longer his. Many of the corridors of the palace opened to the air on this southern side. Sculpted pillars lined this one, marking members of the old families, in imitation of those in Icarthya. Stepping over the bodies, he passed along the colonnade, and saw the unfolding of imperial history, the ancient tharons and their city states giving way to an imperium, and a single ruler.

He halted by the final pillar. The features of Icarthya’s recent rulers were less weather worn. The face of each ruler earned a place. Silver etched the expressions, outlined eyes and hair. He felt drawn to one in particular. The sculptors had completed it not long ago. He stroked the face with a finger, feeling the smoothness, the prominent nose, and those eyes ... the palm of his hand grew hot, until it glowed redder than a coal fire. The stone face melted. She had brought all their plans to ruin. She would defeat the undead mage, taking the Key for herself. There would be no reward for him, no world to rule.

He turned and shoved open the narrow servant door. Light splashed across the pillars, and the bodies of exemplar guards, stone hair glittering above the disfigured likeness of Liviana Avitus. A lone torch lit the narrow plain whitewashed corridor.

The door shut behind him.