25 The Worst Thing of All

CLIMBING A SET OF granite steps, Ralan and Striga made their way further into the fortress of Torrent. Strange sounds emanated from the place, shrieking noises punctuated by thuds and an odd hammering. The odd scream sent a shiver through Ralan as he fought to maintain a measure of calm. He was a Torment after all, and had a reputation to uphold.

For her part, Striga looked as though she was out for a stroll in a park. Maybe a park filled with nightmares and freakish noises, he thought grimly.

The corridors were much as expected. Granite ceilings, walls, and floor. There was the odd torch blazing in a rusty bracket on the walls, and here or there a stone brazier sat inside a blackened niche. Apart from the distant sound of voices, and those often hellish, there was no sign of life.

This is a little too easy, he thought, well, apart from almost getting eaten in the river. He knew something had to go wrong. Didn’t it always?

They reached a juncture where the corridor turned left, and Striga paused, raising her fist as she peered round it. She glanced back at him with a frown, and gestured for him to follow before stepping out from the corner.

Ralan, to his shame, found that he had no issue with her going first. There was no doubt that although he was a Torment, between the two of them, there was no contest. Striga was far more formidable and—

The female Torment flew backwards through the air and slammed into the wall. She hit it with such force it left a crack, showering her with dust as she collapsed in a heap.

Ralan had little time to react as a monstrous figure appeared. The being’s face had twin concentric rows of razor-sharp teeth, and little else but for two beady red eyes. Its body was a distorted mass formed of various-sized tumours and other offensive growths. In fact, its body was one giant tumour from what Ralan could tell.

It swung a massive tumour-like appendage that posed as an arm at Ralan. He ducked and rolled until he was next to Striga. A little dazed, but she looked like she would recover. He just needed to keep the damned thing busy until she did. He placed a hand on the hilt of the soul shard before thinking twice about it. They would need it for a soul far worse than this thing. He wasn’t sure it had a soul to begin with anyway.

The horns on his neck and shoulders ripped through his clothing as his size increased, and just in time, for the creature was on him. He rolled aside, and attempted to block a blow, but the other arm caught him in the chest as he got to his feet, and sent him flying into the wall. He sank down onto the floor.

Striga glanced over at him with a wry smile. ‘Having fun yet?’ Then with a roar, she surged upright and charged the thing. The clash resounded off the walls and Ralan was deafened. Both screamed as the creature’s round mouth tried to bite Striga in the neck. Just about managing to fend off the fiend, she was locked in a titanic struggle, her horns enlarged, her face enraged.

Neither of them appeared able to gain the upper hand, and Ralan, picking himself up, decided he’d have to unbalance the scales.

As Torment and creature hurtled one another into wall and floor, and then wall again, Ralan spotted his chance and grabbed the menace from behind. Getting a choke hold he did his utmost to avoid those horrific teeth. Too late, he realised there were other mouths on its hide, and they began to bite him. Grimacing from the pain, but mostly from revulsion, he tightened his hold until he heard it begin to choke. So, it was alive then.

At least, it needed air anyway, although what manner of thing it was, he couldn’t have guessed. The biting ceased and Striga disentangled herself from it. Ralan let it drop, the creature thumping onto the stone floor.

After checking for bite marks, of which he found dozens, albeit nothing serious, he regarded his sister. ‘That was interesting, I have to say.’

Before she could respond, the corridor shifted, and both toppled in opposite directions. Striga vanished as the wall she fell against devoured her. The walls swung violently, stone grinding on stone, and the floor fell out from beneath him. He dropped several feet and hit with a smack.

When the movement stopped, and he got to his feet, everything looked different. Instead of a corridor, he was standing within a huge cavernous chamber. The ceiling was far above, at least twenty feet or more although he was certain he hadn’t fallen that far. Crisscrossing the stale air above him were stone walkways or bridges at various levels, each starting and finishing at a different angle of the walls.

With no little apprehension, Ralan realised he was inside a stone pentagram. ‘Well, now,’ he whispered to no one in particular, since it appeared he was alone, ‘that was even more interesting and no, I’m not having fun.’

Then he noted the darkness of what he took for the apex of the pentagram. A swirling vortex pulling at the eyes, devouring light, and time.

He heard voices, or perhaps it was one voice, echoing off the walls. He wasn’t sure.

‘Welcome home, my son,’ it said.

‡

Instead of one voice, in some way reminiscent of his mother’s, Ralan heard multiple voices each time she spoke. They bounced off the walls, appearing to come from everywhere.

‘I have missed you,’ said the voices, sounding as though a hundred snakes hissed as one. It did not sound like Rade Wyn.

‘Who are you?’ he demanded, knowing he was caught like a slinkt in a trap.

The broiling mass moved, and he realised it was far larger than he had thought. It spread like an oily smoke, and he imagined it could have easily filled the gigantic chamber if it chose to. ‘You brought others with you.’

He debated denying it, but she or it or whatever his one-time mother had become, would know of the other Torments. ‘A friend came with me to visit you, mother.’

‘You brought more than one,’ it repeated. ‘I can feel them.’

He could see no sign that anything of his mother remained. It was a shraed, or a collection of shraeds, perhaps. He imagined his mother attacking this fortress, devouring the shraeds, and this being the result. Rade Wyn died a long time ago, he thought. She’s not here, no more than she had been on Aidaril Island.

‘Why have you come?’ it demanded. ‘What do you want?’

Ralan wondered about that, but he knew there was a greater task at hand. The armies marching for the mortal world were a threat to millions of people. ‘To destroy you,’ he whispered, deciding that lying was going to get him nowhere. He suspected it would sense the lie.

The bilious mass shook and vibrated, changing forms but never taking on a shape that was recognisable. ‘You would kill your own mother?’ it asked eventually.

‘You are not Rade Wyn, and she was never my true mother.’

Revolting laughter reverberated from the walls. ‘No, we are not her.’

‘What are you, then?’

‘We are legion. We are destroyer of worlds. We are death. Your death.’

It seemed to him the shraeds, or some bastardised form of them, had twisted into something else when what remained of Rade Wyn’s soul had combined with them. A new form of Darkness, a new terror. A most disturbing thought occurred to him then. Why am I still breathing? It should have killed me already. He doubted he could fight this thing. In fact, their plan to break into Torrent now seemed foolhardy.

The laughter grew, and then it spoke, again, ‘Come, Son of Grim, Tenth Torment. Join with us. We’ve been waiting for you.’

Ah, so that’s it. Too late he noticed that the shadow had spread further, encompassing the far walls, flanking him, then encircling him. The space he stood in was getting smaller. He was like a fly caught in a spider’s web with no escape.

As though reading his mind, the shraeds said in unison, ‘You cannot escape, Son of Grim. Your friends cannot help you.’

The floor near him cracked and split, and what appeared to be molten lava emerged, spreading outward. Torments could withstand lava to a point, but there were limits. Then a face and a body formed, one he recognised.

Striga.

She was unmoving, eyes shut, and as the lava cooled, she was left hardened, encased in stone.

If Striga, his one stalwart ally, could not beat this thing, then he doubted he stood any chance. Likely Cadaver and the others had fallen victim too.

Confirming his fears, lava burst from cracks in the walls to his left and right, and the forms of the other Torments appeared, also solidified in stone.

‘You see, Taver Wyn,’ the shadow cooed, its dark tentacles getting closer. ‘You must join with us. There is no way out.’

‘That is not my name, anymore,’ he snapped, feeling like he was stuck in some weird twisted time loop. After his rebirth, Rade Wyn had never accepted the name Taver, and he had always hated it when she’d called him Ralan. Now, he had come to terms with his past, accepted who he was, both then and now. He had left the name of Taver Wyn behind him in another life where it belonged.

The horns on his neck and shoulders grew further in length, his size increased, muscles swelling, as the Torment within emerged again.

He felt anger, but not at the constant pain within, for he had grown accustomed to it. It was a comfort, in fact. Neither was it because of his mother’s, or his father’s, death. He had accepted both. He snorted his rage, and glared at the shadow, but not before a glance at his brothers and sisters. They were all he had left, all the family he knew. Dysfunctional as it was. His rage was for them. It was for the woman he loved, a human who fought to protect her imperium, and for everyone else the Darkness threatened.

There was no point waiting for the shadow to come to him. It wanted him to join with it. Well, that was never going to happen.

Drawing the soul shard, he ran at it, leaping over Striga’s solid form, and the Darkness leapt to embrace him.

‡

Stabbing at nothing but air, Ralan attempted to destroy the shadow, but it was like trying to stab smoke. Impossible. His rage proved useless as he twisted and lunged, surrounded by its billowing presence.

But a Torment is not someone who gives up, and despite assertions by some, neither was a Torment a fool. He recognised a pattern, and squinting, he spotted them. Within the vaporous mass, he saw the shraeds. Not his first encounter with them, but these were different from others he’d seen.

They were trying to corral him, to force him into surrendering, their voices at one point whispering and then screeching. But now that he could make them out, he feigned confusion and blindness, until one came close enough.

The soul shard struck the shraed through what would have been the abdomen of a human. It shrieked, clawing, its wings stabbing at him with furious blows, but a Torment is used to pain and suffering. He held the shard, which began to absorb its essence, suffering the blows.

Unfortunately, though the shard devoured one of them, the others remained intent on their goal. They attacked as a group, wings and talons piercing his flesh, driving him back. The first shraed perished, its soul lost within the shard, but before he could use the weapon again, he received a heavy blow sending him sprawling. The shard clattered across the stone flags.

‘You will join us,’ the voices hissed as a flurry of wings and claws rendered him bloody. ‘She wanted you to join her. We hear her voice. She loved you like no other. You abandoned her!’

‘A terrible son.’

‘She loved you.’

‘You abandoned her!’

Ralan began to rise from the floor, despite the pummelling he received. He felt the essence of Tartaros rip into his body and soul, tearing at his mind. They wanted to separate him from the flesh, to devour him whole.

But the Son of Grim had no intention of dying this day, or any other.

‡

Grudge stood staring into the darkness, waiting. It was something he’d never understood about soldiering. All the waiting. It was part of the reason he’d talked so much about his Ma. His nerves were always worse when he had nothing to do. At least when the action started, there was no time for thinking. Just swinging his sword and killing. Yes, killing always brought him peace of mind.

Besides, thoughts of his Ma comforted him. They all believed she had been some psychotic murderess, and she had been for some of the time, he supposed. But for the rest, she’d been his Ma. He could still remember her holding him, rocking him to sleep, as his Da lay in a pool of blood. Good memories those. Something worth holding on to, he reckoned. Vilt understood him, even if she did get annoyed at him sometimes. Like his Ma that way, she was.

He saw them coming.

Legions and legions of enemies. Rank on rank marching, large, and small ... although some were floating like thistledown on the wind. He’d not thought to see any beautiful sights when he’d got ordered to the Gulley. Were nothing beautiful this far south, as far as he was aware, but that was one gorgeous sight right there. An enemy, and all the need for thinking was done.

Ordered panic ensued on the walls, and below within the courtyard as other soldiers spotted what he had. Horns blew and shouts erupted. He’d never understood why they all got nervous once the waiting was done. Was the best time, far as he knew. He drew out his short sword, freshly sharpened that morning. His Ma, both alive and dead, had always harped on at him about a good sharp blade, and he’d never forgotten it.

The wind had picked up, but the floaters as he thought of them, didn’t seem to pick up with it. They just stopped about five hundred paces from the wall. Strange-looking creatures, all twisted and oily and see-through. Beyond them were titans, those massive creatures what made Nephilim look like children. They were naked, and stood fifteen feet or more at the shoulder, with white orbs for eyes. Their molten wings seared the air, while waves of darkness cocooned them like cloaks.

Others bounded in various animalistic forms, and he guessed they might be those chimaeras. A whole range of the Fallen Ones, angels turned to the Darkness and numerous other creatures what looked mashed together in a hurry. Glancing down at his sword, the captain soon saw the flaw in their preparations.

I sure wish Mr Todder were with us, he thought, but his Ma would have done just as good. A master with a few blades on her person were his Ma. Soon would have had that lot running back south.

Marshal Janus was screeching and bellowing as always, her voice like a file, eating at Grudge’s patience. One thing he didn’t like about the Gulley was that woman. Oddly, she reminded him of his Da more, and the urge to stab the marshal grew with every utterance from her gob.

Trebuchets – designs gifted to the imperium by the new Nephilim king, which had seen imperial engineers work day and night to complete, never mind the transportation of metal and wood to the correct specifications over hundreds of leagues of ocean by ship from Twinport – let loose their missiles. A huge laborious whoosh ... whoosh ... whoosh. The mages had been fiddling with them for days, and three of the trebuchets shot missiles glowing darkly with magic.

They rose into the sky and arced down to strike into the enemy ranks. More shots followed and Grudge kept his eye on them as they struck amid their foes. Yep, there were some beautiful sights this far south.

Grudge picked at his nose absently, flicking the results over the wall’s edge. The floaters, who formed the vanguard of the enemy ranks, had gone unharmed from the enfilade, though at least some of the others had been destroyed. He’d seen one of the magic-enhanced missiles go right through a floater and explode with no effect. Not good was that. Not good.

Wights, he guessed they were, hearing about them before. He’d listened closely to Mr. Todder he had, and he’d learned a lot. The creatures kept standing there as though waiting for something.

Yep, his Ma had been right, sure as blood was wet. Waiting was just the absolute worst thing of all.