27 Ribbons Of Blackness

MAYHEM FILLED THE streets of Icarthya nearest the city docks. Spearmen formed phalanxes, and archers fast marched in columns, engineers adjusted and shifted their war machines to face east, all in an organised uproar. Shouts and curses amid toppled supplies, and the odd gobsmacked citizen staring and pointing or fleeing in the opposite direction. There were fewer of the latter visible considering the previous few weeks.

Artorius grabbed hold of one of his marshals, a man by the name of Rivet. ‘Where are the mages?’

‘Wha?’

‘The Spectrum-forsaken mages, you fool! Where, in Grim’s own hell, are they?’

Rivet shrugged, barely looking at him. He was too busy staring down the street towards the coast and the narrow gap of ocean visible from their current vantage point. The ships loomed closer. He let go of Rivet with orders to find the virals. Then he turned and stared, and for a long moment, neither man moved. The ships were not any normal wooden craft, and not from any nation or continent he’d heard tell of.

At first, he thought them shaped like animals, carved in a manner he’d never believed possible, namely the entire vessel. As they grew larger, horror clenched his gut as he realised two things. First, they were not that near the shore yet, which meant the vessels were massive, well outsizing an imperial quinquereme. Second, those weren’t carved creatures. One of the ships appeared damaged, and a tentacle flailed as it listed on its side lagging behind the others. Those ships weren’t ships at all. They were creatures from the unknown depths of the Adalcis.

‘Tezcat Licolo!’ he shouted causing Nob Rivet to jump and then rush off to follow his orders. ‘Where is she, damn her?’ Soldiers and officers rushed past, and he grabbed another officer not bothering to check her rank. ‘The viral mage, Licolo, where is she? Have you seen her?’

The woman stared at him, before pointing in the opposite direction of the docks. ‘Yes, Marshal! I think she’s over in that direction. There’s been more of those nightmare attacks in the Pleth. A whole wave.’

A wave of attacks, timed to keep his viral mages preoccupied while those ships approached the Icarthian shore. He shoved her on. ‘Go! I’ll be right behind you.’ He wouldn’t, though. Without the mages they didn’t stand a chance. Licolo would have her hands full in the Pleth. She would have organised the virals into small clots, fighting together to contain those nightmares, as everyone had now taken to calling them. Problem was, he needed them all at the docks, and there wasn’t a minute to lose.

He spotted a lower-ranking officer, a sergeant now that he took the time to look. He looked familiar. The man had halted and was coming back. ‘Anything I can do sir?’ He seemed far too eager considering what was coming, but then he was relatively young and inexperienced. Well, that’s about to change.

Artorius nodded, feeling out of breath, though he’d hardly moved for several minutes. ‘Grab whoever you can and head into the Pleth. Round up every viral clot or individual mage you find. Order them to the docks immediately.’

‘The nightmares, marshal,’ said the soldier, whose name he couldn’t remember. ‘What if they can’t come?’

‘Just tell them something a lot worse is heading right for us. Whatever you do, make sure you find Licolo. Any virals, but her most of all.’

The sergeant took off at a run, and watching him go for a few seconds, he wondered if it would matter. He knew whatever was attacking them, just as with those nightmares, ordinary folk couldn’t fight it.

Without the undead at their sides, they would die and that was that.

We’ll probably all die anyhow, he thought, mages or no mages. He turned and rushed towards the docks, and his soldiers who were gathering to greet the tide with whatever dark filth it washed up.

‡

Captain Lazar stood staring about her, wondering what was happening. She felt odd, as though she wasn’t herself anymore. Who was she then?

The great elders back in Ancyra insisted this life was nothing more than a dream and that one day each person would awaken to their true existence. Lazar felt like she was on the verge of such an awakening. This world certainly no longer felt real.

The imperatrix was giving commands, insisting they head straight for the docks. They’d all seen the approaching ships. ‘I will not be coddled like some child by a bunch of armoured nursemaids. We will join the fight. We can do no good from up here.’

She looked furious, it was true, but she also looked fearsome. Like some heroine from one of those ancient Icarthian tales, the ones her mother used read her when she was little. Although she’d listened to her mother and never told anyone, Ancyrans preferred their own heroes in stories, those approved by the great elders.

It was part of the reason she’d become a soldier, those tales, the other part being her mother. A fighter she’d been, proving herself when her second husband had tried to murder them all. Drunk and off his mind, he had stabbed her brother and her sister, killing the former. Ancyran custom, though outlawed by the imperium, gave a man the right to murder his wife and children if the mood took him. They were his property after all.

However, her mother had long forsaken such customs, and she’d fought him, killing him with a bread knife to the neck, once, twice, and thrice, until the floor was nothing but a sticky red pool.

‘Captain,’ said another soldier, bringing her back to the present. ‘Are you alright?’ It was a woman, a recruit by the name of Morla. She had a look of concern mixed with abject terror in her face.

Lazar tried to pull herself together. She oversaw the imperatrix’s safety now. Her, and no one else. She would do it right, and make her mother proud. ‘Yes, I’m fine. My wound just aches a bit.’

‘Are you certain, captain?’ asked the imperatrix, who’d overheard. She stood right behind the recruit. ‘I need you at your best. I need to know I can depend on you.’

‘You can, imperatrix. I live to serve.’ The wound itched like crazy, but it wasn’t the type one cured by a good scratch. It was at her side, under her green cloak, armour, captain’s jacket, and tunic, the latter two soaked with sweat. I don’t think I’ve got long, she thought. She’d always believed she’d die with a sword in her hand. She drew it now, the scraping of the metal a comforting sound.

The imperatrix seemed to take it as agreement. ‘Good, because I will not remain here while good soldiers are dying,’ the imperatrix was insisting, her tone authoritative. It was a voice hard to ignore. They had tried to follow the imperial marshal’s lead and prevent the imperatrix from putting herself in harm’s way. They’d failed. Not a one of them could stand up to the infamous Sarscha Todralan.

The captain had not had the privilege of serving directly under the woman when she’d been imperial marshal, but she’d known her by reputation, and heard about her victories like every other grunt in the legions.

Funny, the air smelled strange here, and everything had taken on a darker hue. The soldiers around her seemed more like statues than real people. They were looking at her, confused.

Instinctively, she knew something was wrong, but the captain couldn’t find the will to do anything about it, let alone express it to the imperatrix.

When she spoke, her voice didn’t sound like hers, a grating noise in her ears, and she didn’t believe the words as she said them. ‘We’ve had reports of other vessels, imperatrix,’ she lied.

Sarscha Todralan’s gaze snapped towards her, eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘What other vessels? Where? You didn’t mention them before.’

‘I’m sorry, imperatrix. I’ve been distracted, with my injury and all, but I’m able to cope. They’re attacking the docks in the Pleth and Muck. They’ve come downriver from the northwest. There aren’t enough soldiers or mages in that direction, though. They’re all headed to the lower Pleth.’

She knew she’d just handed the imperatrix a serious problem. If she ignored the reports and they were right, she would have handed her city to the enemy. If the reports were false, she was leaving her soldiers at the docks to defend themselves without her. Knowing the imperatrix longed to be back in command with a sword in hand, the choice was obvious.

Sarscha grabbed Lazar by the arms and a strange impulse to punch her in the face overwhelmed her. It took all her strength to fight it off. ‘Are you certain, captain? Vessels coming at us downriver, from the northwest? How is that possible?’

Lazar found herself nodding, although she couldn’t have said why. None of the words she’d just spoken to the imperatrix made any sense. Why was she saying these things?

Sarscha Todralan stared at her a moment longer, then turned and descended the stairs from Wept. The soldiers followed suit, Lazar caught up in their wake, her feet moving of their own accord.

The infection had spread and she knew it. The decent thing would have been to use her dagger and kill herself before it went too far, but even the idea was painful. Whatever had invaded her body, it didn’t want her thinking, let alone killing herself.

She followed the imperatrix, knowing she was leading the woman to her death, but unable to do anything to stop it.

‡

The imperial marshal and several soldiers halted as the nightmare emerged from a side street, dragging a corpse by one leg. On sight of Artorius, it dropped the dead woman. The creature spat black slop at the three greencloaks who rushed to attack it. All died screaming.

This nightmare’s body was formed of what looked like fish guts and bones held together by ribbons of blackness, with two bulbous fish eyes sticking out of its head at odd angles.

Artorius drew his short sword and dagger, knowing they weren’t much use. He quickly dodged the first attack, the sludge striking the stone paving, and then rushed at it with a cry, not expecting to survive.

It grabbed him by the neck and sword arm, but his dagger sank into its abdomen, or what passed for one. It screeched and threw him aside. He landed hard and rolled, and then rose in shocked wonderment. It had sounded wounded, but he couldn’t understand how ... until he noticed his left hand.

Black veins bulged against his pale skin. The magical ward the mage had placed on his infection was failing. The nightmare slowly removed the marshal’s dagger, staring at it as though also in disbelief.

‘Yes, you ugly bastard,’ Artorius muttered. ‘Your friend might have killed me, but I’ll be damned if I don’t take some of you with me.’ He staggered forward, feeling tired and wanting to be done. The nightmare leapt to meet him.

It never reached him, as it burst apart in a welter of fish guts, black ooze, and water.

‘You isn’t lookin’ too healthy, marshal,’ noted Tezcat Licolo in a voice filled with too much good humour considering their circumstances. ‘You is needin’ some help, I hear?’

He nodded, staring at several puddles of ooze on the paving stones at his feet. Would that be his fate before all this was done? Nothing left but some puddles and a statue somewhere in the palace complex to remind everyone he’d once existed? ‘I’ve been looking all over for you.’

She shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Been busy.’ Tezcat appeared to spot the ships from their vantage point, which now loomed over the Icarthian harbour like sculptured monoliths. Figures could be seen moving on the decks.

Other virals joined her, several dozen at least. Following his gaze, she added, ‘Don’t worries much, marshal. More mages is comin’ soon. I is leavin two clots to fight them nightmares. The rest is headed for the docks with me.’

‘Good,’ he muttered, finding his voice. He turned and pointed his sword at the imperial harbour. ‘Then do whatever you can, mage, but stop those Spectrum-forsaken ships!’

‡

A little while later, Tezcat Licolo stood on the edge of a pier, thunderous waves hammering into the wooden pylons beneath her. Her mage’s cloak whipped about her, snapping at the air as though to fend off the incoming storm.

When she’d had her other existence two hundred years afore, magic had come easy. Taver, or Ralan as he was known as these days, had accepted her from the first day they’d met. Imagine, a breather accepting one of the undead for who she were? She’d never thought to be accepted by one of the living, but she had been. By him. Of course, she’d discovered since that he was the Son of Grim, a Torment, but no one was perfect. Back then, he hadn’t known who he was anyway.

Her magic came as easily now, but it was all different. A whole city, or most of it at least, not only accepted her but looked to her to save them. It were a giddy feeling she weren’t used to, and Threads always said she were one of the giddiest.

I’ve gots to do my best, she thought. Being an imperial mage weren’t easy, and she’d gotten on the wrong side of things more than once, but she knew this was what it had all been for. Beezer’s spell, the death of all virals during the purges, their existence as disembodied souls connected to Aiyana Todralan, her sacrifice, and their rebirth. All of it, for this moment.

The ships were closer, long limbs or tentacles beginning to move as the creatures sensed land. Tezcat heard the shouts and cries, and the breathers in a panic because the ships had breath in them instead of wood. She didn’t understand all the fuss. Trees had life in them, but breather folks just chopped them down and made ships out o’ them. What difference which life a body used?

As she thought about this, distracted as was her nature, she felt herself draw on the life of the sea creatures. With some tips from Threads, she’d learned to take life a little pinch at a time, rather than drain the nearest poor soul completely. Not unless he was an evil bastard of course; then she just sucked him dry.

However, she felt badly for these poor creatures, and had no desire to kill them. They didn’t want to be there. She sensed their pain, and knew she was adding to it, but she also had no choice. The crews aboard them weren’t alive so she couldn’t draw on those, and the imperial soldiers were needed.

She focused on the creatures and felt the other virals copy her. Just enough until she had gathered what she needed and those pustules on her hide no one could see had turned a horrible healthy pink. She’d always wondered what it would be like to breathe, to be alive. However, she couldn’t imagine being pink all over. It sounded gross.

The ships let out fierce wails and groans the likes she’d never heard, and lots of breathers who were too close collapsed while clutching their heads. Not the virals though. Made o’ tougher stuff, the undead were.

Her power at its fullest, she waited, letting the salt spray wash over her. The wind dried her as quick. Movement on those ships now, as the vessels halted far enough from shore for a decent swim.

Letting her power build, she raised a hand at the nearest vessel, and then struck at that movement. A spiralling black ribbon whipped at the deck and the creatures on it. The other mages helped, but instead of attacking directly, they fed her their power instead. She had told them what to do aforehand. Weaves of dark magic flowed through the air, creating a vast web with one focal point.

Tezcat Licolo.

Perhaps she should have felt giddy with all that power coursing through her, or if she’d had time to think about it, mayhap she should have felt afraid. As it was, she had no time for thinking.

Guiding that confluence of power, the female imperial mage sent another attack, this time a swirling funnel of darkness, which struck the deck of a second ship.

The deck exploded, pieces of sea beast flying high as it moaned its last. A pity as she would rather not have killed it, but she had begun to realise killing was unavoidable. Some of the strange-looking crew had leapt too late and were torn to pieces, while others were unaffected. These last were different; half there and half not. The angel dead, otherwise known as wights. She’d faced them before two hundred years ago, and Tezcat knew she had no power to stop those.

They seemed formed of night, woven into shapes resembling breathers with wings, but these creatures had no need of breath. They had no need of anything but to kill from what Tezcat knew of them. They flowed from the ships in huge numbers and glided over the water towards the hapless human army. It was then Tezcat realised they were in deep trouble. Far deeper than anything she had waded through before.

With a cry, she raised her hand and challenged the skies. She could feel the dark power burning through her. There were limits for every mage, living or undead, and Tezcat was wily enough to know it. They all thought her a childish prankster, but she’d paid attention to those lessons of Lyrin’s and Beezer’s, and as a ghostly entity, she’d watched over Aiyana Todralan and her brother for years, all the while learning.

No matter the cost, she had to stop this invasion, and something told her the cost was going to be high.

‡

Threadfin stared at her, transfixed by her piercing gaze. Astra was exactly as he remembered, terrifying and lost-looking all at once. An enigma that both drew and repulsed him. How many contradictions could there be in one person? Then again, he knew she was not just one person, but a collection of lifetimes and conflicting personalities, albeit now usurped by Lucifer. The little girl he had met in those ruins in Tystria was gone.

In her hand, the sorceress held a tall staff bent like a tree’s branches at the top, with a writhing snake-like creature wrapped about its top half. Nestled in those branches was the Shathra Stone. The artefact shone with a bright intensity that would have temporarily blinded a breather, but Threadfin just stood staring at it, wondering how it had all gone wrong.

Volar approached the sorceress with the Crystal Sword in his hand, and the viral mage realised everything he had done up until now had been by her design. She drew me here, knowing I’d bring the Sword. She baited me with Gressil. She wanted me to come to her, and like an idiot I did. Volar handed it to her hilt first, and she accepted it with a nod, before pointing it at Threadfin.

The sword glowed and he knew what came next, but he didn’t move. He’d come this far to save the world, to protect the living. Some believed destiny was a thing decided for a person ahead of time, but Threadfin knew it for folly. The only destiny that mattered was the one he forged for himself. If full death awaited at the end of it, then so be it. He hadn’t expected to survive anyway, and if he was honest, he didn’t think he should. Perhaps none of the undead should, for this world belonged to the living.

At least, he had followed his own path and done all he could. Yes, that was something he could say, not that he’d survive long to say it.

He stood tall, gaze locked with hers, and waited for the end.

Astra Dar, however, did not strike. Something appeared to be holding her back. Her face warped and twisted, as though there were two faces, one male, one female. Then a third face appeared, and had Threadfin a heart it would have stopped beating.

The face of Lorn Larthuz ... his Lorn — for the briefest moment he saw her. It looked like she was struggling to break through. Then Astra’s face returned. The sorceress leered at him with an evil visage not entirely her own. No doubt he was also facing Lucifer the prince of Tartaros, for they were now one and the same apparently.

Before she could strike at him, the Stone shone brighter, and she vanished. The remaining white-eyed Nephilim collapsed, Volar among them.

Threadfin fell to one knee, fists to the floor, trying to think, to gather himself.

Lorn is alive! How ... no, you desperate fool, she’s not. She died — but her soul was there. I saw her trying to reach out to me. He felt certain it was she who had prevented Astra from destroying him. She kept on fighting against all odds. How then could he do any less?

Oracle was on her feet, looking a little unsteady as she glanced around the chamber. She spotted him and frowned.

Yes, I’m still here, Oracle. I imagine you expected to see pieces of me all over this room. Sorry to disappoint.

The female viral grabbed her head, and he knew what was coming. However, she staggered to the side, obviously too weak.

Threadfin glanced down at his hand, and formed the Shadow Stone just as the Grim had taught him. He held a faint echo of the Shathra Stone — not as good as the real thing, but it might be enough. Where the shadowy sphere touched him, his skin looked healthy and alive, pinkish with blue veins, and the effect climbed his bared forearm revealing healthy muscles, thick flesh; the arm of a breather.

Oracle had retrieved a dagger from the floor and was advancing on him. She was too weak to kill him with her magic due to whatever Manic and Mania had done to her, but that wouldn’t stop her from trying.

Perhaps he should have killed her, but his focus was all on the sorceress. He touched the Shadow Stone with his power, while thinking of Astra Dar. He let her face fill his mind, remembering the sound of her voice, that piercing gaze.

Of course, this alone wasn’t going to work. He needed one more thing. It was an extra ability, a power of the mind he didn’t possess, but one he could usurp. As Oracle neared him, he leapt up and grabbed her, ignoring the soul shard entering his chest, devouring his soul.

I’m coming for you, Astra, he thought. As his magic touched the shadow of a stone, he could feel Oracle’s power and reaching out, he stole it. With her abilities now under his control, he first healed the wound from the soul shard. The blade withdrew, clattering to the floor. They were now aloft, rising on currents of magic towards the ceiling.

Next, he reached into Oracle’s mind, partly using her talent against her, and the power he drew from the shadow stone. He heard her scream and felt her fighting him. She could pass through walls like Tezcat Licolo, and he knew he’d guessed right. She’d never jumped any distance before, but then neither had Tezcat until she’d discovered how. Their abilities were similar.

It was too late for Oracle to stop him, as they both flew through the air into nothingness.