28 Dark Gatherings

THE OTHERWORLDLY ARMADA had reached its destination in a matter of hours. Myral had felt fascinated, despite the obvious danger she was in, at the swiftness of the vessel beneath her feet.

Several times an hour, the gigantic sea creature would utter a wailing groan that ripped at her heart. It had been the creature’s suffering that had pulled her out of whatever trance she’d been in. She now felt torn in two—part of her tied to her vampires, and the other to someone she used to be.

The past few days were a blur, and she realised she had done things. Terrible things. People had died, some by her own hand. She was terrified her current lucidity wouldn’t last. I am two different people, she realised. Which one will win? The evil vampire queen or the miserable former priestess no one cares about?

Watching the shoreline approach, she did her best to ignore those around her. The vampires of course, she could never fully ignore for she was in their minds, and they in hers. The other creatures on the vessel were different. They watched her from time to time. The ghostly ones worried her most of all. Wights, she knew they were called, and she feared they might turn on her. The vampires, for their part, had started several quarrels with the others, and always she’d had to take her mind elsewhere to calm them down. They reacted to her emotions. She needed to maintain control.

Myral knew, though she was no seafarer, that they had reached Adalalcas. They had sailed north into the Half Ocean from Rize, curving around the northwestern tip of Eladaldor and had approached the Gulley from the west. Other ships had approached from the Adalcis ocean to the east. As they’d drawn closer, a mountain range had appeared, running what she thought was north to south. Closer still, the massive watchtowers and walls.

Without warning, a huge vessel loomed into view, towering over her own. The sea leviathan was taller than any building she’d ever seen, never mind a ship. The part of its body that stood out of the water, which was most of it, was coated in barnacles. It opened a cavernous mouth filled with tiny teeth, at least tiny compared to the rest of it, and the resulting sound sent Myral sprawling.

Her hearing was surely damaged for life. She regained her feet, staring upwards, and noticed someone looking back down at her from a great height. The whispers of the vampires came to her, and she knew she had to go up there.

She was summoned.

A vampire, a female to Myral’s mind, named Shade, grabbed her by the waist, and leapt. As before, it was both a terrifying and exhilarating experience, almost like flying. She clung to the vampire, who held her with one claw using its other arm and feet to clamber up the side of the gigantic vessel.

Once on the other ship’s deck, Myral tried to maintain her composure and appear like a vampire queen should. The drop to the ships below was a long one, but all thought soon fled when she realised who was in front of her.

Astra Dar, the infamous sorceress, reborn after a millennium’s absence, proved beautiful in person. Terrifying it had to be noted, but beautiful in a way Myral could never have imagined. Her blond hair was tied back, strands of it falling across her youthful face, playful in the strong sea breeze. She wore a red dress divided at the waist into several sections to reveal long legs in armoured boots. She wore some armour on her arms, but it was the tall staff she held that forced a gasp from Myral.

It seemed almost a living thing, as though a snaking tree branch that still grew. It was what it clutched at its top that was most shocking. Myral had known the Shathra Stone had been taken to Raddhon for safekeeping, but there it was, a swirl of light containing all of existence, and it was shining upon her.

Myral gave a start as some of her vampires clambered up onto the deck, crowding her. The sorceress smiled, but it did not reach her eyes, which oddly held sadness.

‘Welcome Myral,’ said Astra, though her voice sounded disembodied with a touch of masculinity to it. It was unnerving to hear.

‘Lucifer,’ she replied in acknowledgement, shivering. It could only be him, of course.

‘You seem nervous. Don’t be. You have done well. I am so proud of you, Myral.’

Myral shook her head and noted Lycus beside her giving her a strange look, at least for a vampire. She feared he didn’t trust her although she did her utmost to keep him out of her head. ‘I remember our agreement,’ she said to the sorceress, or rather to the power controlling her.

‘Good,’ said Astra leaning forward to touch Myral’s chin with one hand, raising it to look into her eyes. ‘However, I’d like to make a few changes to that agreement.’

Astra removed her hand and stepped back. For a moment she appeared to shimmer, as though fading. Myral gasped as she saw the rest of the ship through Astra’s body. The Shathra Stone atop her staff blazed and Myral had to avert her eyes and cover them with one arm for fear of being blinded.

How long it went on for, the former imperial spy didn’t know, but when it was over, she realised she was on her knees cowering from the light.

She opened her eyes and saw Astra Dark staring into the reflection of a massive sword. A crystal sword, and one she’d seen before on Elysium. Then the sorceress lifted back her head and screamed.

The vampires by now had clustered together, seemingly in awe of the power Astra held. Their voices were quiet, their thoughts closed off from her, and Myral felt the first touch of freedom.

It didn’t last long.

The Shathra Stone and Sword both glowed, this time with a more tolerable brightness and Astra heard her children shrieking. It was only in her mind, or so she thought, but she clutched her head at the horrible sound.

When it was over, she opened her eyes and had to bite back a cry. The vampires all around her looked ... different. She knew it was still them because she could feel them. She knew each of them by name, Lycus, Shade, Cretin, Lavet, and thousands more below her on the other ships.

But they no longer looked as they had. Their heads were elongated and bulbous, their eyes missing, and their mouths filled with concentric rows of massive teeth. They were hunched over, limbs more muscular and elongated than before, while some of them had four arms now.

The worst of it was, Myral could no longer hear them. This wasn’t just their having gone quiet. It was something else. She could feel a change, as her sense of them lessened with each passing moment.

‘A little improvement,’ said Astra with Lucifer’s voice, ‘and a slight change in our plan.’

‘What ... what do you mean?’ Myral wanted to back away, but she was surrounded. At least she felt like her old self again, no longer linked to the ancient virals, but she knew this was also a bad thing.

Astra gave her a cold smile. ‘I’ve had some time to think on our little arrangement, and I’ve decided I will be the ruler of this world instead, and the vampires shall be my children. I think I will enjoy it too. I possess this body after all, and she will do just as good as queen.’ The vampires began to leave Myral’s side and gathered around Astra Dar instead.

All but one, Lycus.

He stood by her, and then she realised she could still feel him. Something of him, at least, if not as potent.

Astra had noticed it too. ‘What is this?’ The sorceress’s eyes widened in surprise. She shook her staff, the Stone blaring into life for a brief moment, but nothing changed.

Lycus stood by Myral, and she knew he was there to protect her.

Astra then laughed. It was an odd sound that gave Myral a shiver. ‘I should have known. This has the stink of angelic interference. Adal, perhaps, or another as arrogant, but it does not matter.’

The sorceress swung her staff and a massive wave of power struck them. In that moment, Lycus shielded her with his body and they were flung over the edge of the vessel.

They plunged to the waters below and struck with force, but Lycus had twisted at the last to take the impact. Seconds later, Myral was floundering in the water, alone, trying to figure out which way was up, knowing as she did that surfacing would see her killed.

Slowly, she sank into the depths, her children lost to her, her death waiting in the cold darkness of the Adalcis.

‡

The Nephilim king adjusted his grip on the scarap in his right hand. His few dozen spread out as they crept through the acropolis in Bashan. They’d left their wargs outside, but he wondered if he should have brought them in. Afterall, he had no idea what they might face.

There was no life, no movement, just bodies littering every room, chamber, and corridor. Many were Horim, but not a few were Rephaim, and some had clearly become revenants. Those ones several of his warriors touched with torches setting the moving bodies alight. They could not afford to let one survive.

When they reached the throne room, they discovered Nanel waiting in the shadows. At first, he didn’t recognise her. Her features were different, but there was still something about her, something familiar. It was instinct that told him it was her. She didn’t look like his sister, at least not exactly; he’d heard some rumours about the Horites and their origins, but like everyone else, had dismissed them as nonsense. They’d kept their secrets even from their king.

No torches were lit, no fire pits, but Desool’s eyes had already adjusted to the dim light. His warriors spread out, wary, for though the king’s sister appeared to be alone, none of them were fools.

Desool noted the dark webbing on her skin, the eyes turned up in her head, and felt his heart sink. He had partly hoped he might find her as she once was, his sister, fists on hips, demanding to know what was going on. Instead, Tartaros held her in its evil grip and he saw no way to save her ... no way but one.

He readjusted the scarap in his grip a second time, like some nervous imp on his first hunt, worried he might fail and receive a whipping. She’s hurting, in pain, he thought as he approached, and it’s up to me to release her. What else could he do? Sometimes the choices of a king are gut-wrenching, but they need to be made nonetheless.

Creatures emerged from beyond the columns, flanking his warriors who’d begun to contract in response. Desool noted they were twisted, their bodies turned inward, muscles enlarged with growths, limbs elongated while their eyeless heads twisted left and right as they sniffed out their prey. More revenants, but he noted that these had once been Horite priests.

The revenants attacked, clashing with his warriors. The king kept his focus on his sister. She stood still, chin raised as her white eyes watched him stalk closer.

‘Nanel,’ he called, ‘can you hear me? It’s your brother, Deso—it’s your brother, Thor. Nel?’

The voice issuing from her mouth wasn’t hers, but a weird combination of both male and female. ‘She is not here, angel-spawn, but is there anything I can do for you?’ Her head was bent at an unnatural angle as she laughed.

In the background, weapons clashed with talons and claws as his warriors attempted to hold off the revenants. Several fell, though Desool didn’t look back. He heard their death cries. He’d lost at least four, the others fighting harder to hold the line.

Desool climbed the short steps to the dais and the throne, the weapon in his hand feeling far stranger than he could have imagined. The scarap blade was a soul shard, a discovery he’d made at the Necropolis on Aidaril Island when he’d fought the wights. A gift from his father, Og of Bashan, although he doubted the old bastard had known how great a prize he’d gone and handed his youngest. The weapon itself looked unremarkable, but then some of the best blades did. This one contained the soul of a wight, and it was more powerful for it.

With a roar, he stabbed it at his sister. The blade’s point never reached her. Two hands formed of darkness emerged from her own so it looked as though she had four arms instead of two. They gripped the blade preventing it from cutting.

Her head straightened, and the unnatural voice spoke again. ‘Now, is that any way for a brother to treat his sister?’ She swiped at him with a back-handed blow, and he flew with the scarap still in his grip. His wings unfurled and flapped, so he landed lightly on the balls of his feet, ready to attack again.

Nanel took the steps slowly as she descended, her movements more languid and sexual than had been natural for her. The creature within her was taunting him, provoking him. It wanted him angry, desperate.

Gritting his teeth, his wings flapped once, and he waited for her to make the next move. Calmness settled in his heart. Nanel was dead. He would grieve for her later. It was this creature who’d stolen her body he needed to defeat.

Around him the battle continued, as more of his warriors fell. The revenants left no wounded in their wake and though they too succumbed to Nephilim steel, they did not die. Just like Nanel, they were already dead.

To his horror, he spotted a small figure appearing from behind the throne. He had no idea where Zane had come from, but he had left her somewhere safe, warning her to stay put. It was typical of her to disobey him. He’d even left one of his warriors with her to make certain. Then he noticed that same warrior moving in the shadows behind her.

Somehow Zane’s powers of persuasion had proven too much for the thick-headed Avim.

Realising she might die, Desool roared and charged at Nanel. Just before they met, he tossed the soul shard over her head as he hammered into her.

Numerous dark hands erupted from her body grabbing hold of him by his arms, shoulders, torso, and wings. Their touch burned. He felt the dark magic reaching inside of him. His wings erupted in black flame, and he knew he was dying.

But then Nanel spasmed, and a strange wailing sound uttered from her lips. She staggered backward, the ethereal hands releasing him. She folded up and collapsed to her knees.

Behind her stood Zane, holding the grip of the scarap he’d tossed to her. Its point was dug into Nanel’s back. The soul shard fed on the creature of Tartaros, and Desool watched on in horror and pain as its screeches turned into the cries of his own sister.

The Avim helped Zane pull the shard out, and with it a long dark tentacle as the blade absorbed the essence of Tartaros, turning black. The last of the revenants fell dead, the vanth within Nanel vanquished, its control over them severed. The surviving warriors turned to face him, most of them exhausted and all carrying wounds.

Zane rushed to him fussing over his smouldering body and his half-burnt wings. The pain of it nearly drove him to his knees.

Moving past his wife, he knelt beside his sister and lifted her head to rest it in his lap, stroking her hair. Zane moved to stand behind him, resting a hand on his bowed head. Nanel’s eyes fluttered open and found his face.

‘I am ... sorry, brother,’ she managed, her voice sounding strangled, the words barely a whisper.

He shook his head and realised he was weeping. Nephilim never wept for the dying or the dead, but he could not help it, and did not care to try. ‘You have nothing to be sorry for. Nothing, Nel. You are not at fault.’

‘I could not ... stop him.’

He stroked her hair and her cheek, wiping away her tears. She blinked once, and did not blink again.

Laying her head on to the floor gently, Desool rose to stand above her. His damaged wings unfurled again as he roared. The sound filled the acropolis, and all who heard it cowered or bowed their heads.

It was the roar of a warrior, the roar of a king, and all knew what it meant.

Once again, the Nephilim were going to war.

‡

It was a sad thing to say, but Lorn wished she had listened to Manic and Mania. Well, to Mania anyway. She would never admit it out loud. They had swelled heads enough as it was and besides, there were some things just not worth it, for she would never hear the end of it.

She had found the puddle of light she’d been searching for in purgatory, after what felt like eons. It had been hidden within a rocky valley, by Lucifer she assumed. A feeling had pulled Lorn towards it, although this pull had been something different to what she’d felt before when the soul fragments had tried to bond her. This was a pull all her own. An instinct she decided to listen to.

Leaping into the puddle, she instantly found herself staring out through the eyes of someone else. It was an eerie sensation. Whoever’s body she now inhabited, she realised she had no control over it. Another thing she quickly realised was that the person, whose eyes she saw through, was alive and in the world of the living. I think I’ve just gone and possessed someone, but who?

There were others in her field of vision, but she didn’t recognise them, nor did she understand where she was.

Then she saw him.

Threadfin.

He looked wounded, staring back at her in shock. An arm lifted a sword into view, pointing it at him and she knew she had to do something. With all of her being, she fought to control the body she inhabited. At the last, she felt something give. Then the world tilted.

Was that water surrounding her? In the ocean? Aboard a ship, yes, that’s where she was.

What good is being trapped in someone else’s body when I’ve no control? At least, it was an improvement on her previous state. She now understood why Manic and Manic could not follow, but if this had been part of their plan all along, then what were they up to?

Before her were rows of strange creatures, each one a mismatch of various bones, some with bits of flesh and hide still on them. Others had an uncanny human appearance, while yet others seemed more like ghosts. One of them stared directly at her, and Lorn had the distinct impression it could see her.

Worse, she now thought she knew whose body she inhabited. It made sense. She needed a mirror, a pool of water, anything. The reflection in a blade, maybe.

The world tilted a little, and she saw the shine of a crystal sword and in it a face. At first, there were just the eyes, but the blade pulled back until a whole face came into view, no doubt held at arm’s length.

Astra Dar stared back at her, and in her eyes was an intense sadness.

You can hear me? asked Lorn and Astra nodded in response.

What it meant, Lorn couldn’t have guessed, but she realised this was not how it had been meant to go. Surely Manic and Mania hadn’t meant for her to occupy the same body as Astra bloody Dar. What good would that do?

Then she felt something strange. There was another presence, a pressure forming. It hadn’t been there a moment before. It filled Astra until she screamed, head tilted back, before dropping the sword from view.

Instinctively, Lorn knew she was in trouble. Both of them were, and she fled, seeking out the deepest darkest parts of Astra’s soul.

The presence came after her, and Lorn realised she was being hunted.