36 Into The Light

LORN FELT HIM. A presence. It was like a malignant growth, enlarging as it forced its way through. Volcanoes erupted across the landscape beyond the city, but instead of scorching lava creeping down their sides, there was a black ichor.

Lorn stood atop one of the empty buildings, staring out at the devastation. ‘He’s coming,’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ Mania agreed at her side, ‘he is.’ The shraed gripped her hand, a cold touch, but Lorn didn’t imagine hers was any warmer in return. ‘It is up to you now, my dearest.’

Lorn shook her head. ‘I can’t do it. What you’re asking is impossible.’

Manic, who stood on her other side, sighed dramatically. ‘Living or dead, sister, they are such an unenterprising lot, aren’t they?’

‘They just need encouragement,’ suggested Mania.

‘Chastisement would be more apt, I should think.’

‘Enlightenment.’

‘Judgement.’

Lorn kneaded her temples, caught between the two of them with no escape. Was it normal for a wandering soul to get a headache? ‘Fine, if it’ll shut the two of you up, I’ll do it. Anything for a moment of peace.’

Mania smiled triumphantly, while Manic looked disinterested as if the whole affair was beneath him. Lorn winced, not knowing how this was going to go. The city shook, buildings swaying, including the one they stood on. Lorn, however, didn’t budge, having learned not to behave as though alive. The building could have collapsed and she would remain there, floating in the air. It was that same new skill she would need to pull this off.

‘Remember,’ said Mania as she and her brother began to fade, leaving Lorn alone, ‘time here flows differently. Gather them together and do it right. You will have but one opportunity. If he notices what you’re doing too soon, he will crush you.’

The wind began to howl as though a vicious storm was brewing. Above was a swirling mass of something she hesitated to call clouds. The numerous suns were hidden, their glow diffuse behind the greying sky.

The eruptions had grown more violent, but Lorn spotted one of the puddles of light. The one she’d come to know. She leapt from the building, her soul floating down until her feet touched the ground. Then she ran, at speed, faster than she could have managed alive, until she reached the puddle’s edge. After all, Lucifer still hunted her. This time, however, she was going to surprise him. She would give him exactly what he wanted. It was the part of the plan that made her most nervous. Why do I let those two get me into these things?

Thick broiling black fog spewed from the ground as fissures appeared. Wasting no time, Lorn dove into the puddle.

‡

Sarscha had intended on regrouping her forces at the palace walls, where archers, ballistae, and over a thousand of her Actaeon Guard were positioned. They would fight a rearguard action using buildings, alleyways, and narrow streets to slow the enemy’s advance.

In her head, she knew they stood no chance; even with the soul shards, they were losing. Thousands of her soldiers and most of the mages had fallen – the rest of the undead having turned against them - but she’d always known this battle would be her last.

It's all up to you, little brother, she thought as she rushed through the streets, her contingent of soldiers surrounding her. Of course, there could be no victory if Threadfin failed, but her role was simply to buy time for her people, to save as many as she could. To hold on.

The streets had narrowed, and she knew her soldiers waited in alleys and on rooftops, ready to ambush the enemy coming behind her. The dragons were another problem, but she hoped the ballistae and scorpions could handle those.

An old woman stepped out of a doorway on the approach to the Black Palace. Her face and hands were wrinkled and liver-spotted, her white hair blowing in the light ocean breeze. In those gnarled hands, the crone held a book with chains.

A book Sarscha had seen before, along with the bitch holding it.

Creed smiled. ‘It is good to see you again, dear. This book once imprisoned thousands of souls. Now it is empty. It is my task to fill it again.’

Sarscha’s soldiers didn’t know how to react at first, not understanding if this woman was a threat. Before Sarscha could shout an order to kill her, bolts flew from open windows striking her soldiers.

Men and women in red robes, charged from doorways and alleys. Zorast fanatics, armed and murderous. The surviving greencloaks did their best to protect their imperatrix. Sarscha still held a soul shard, but the zorasts outnumbered her soldiers.

Despite their lack of martial training, the ambush proved effective. The archers pinning down Sarscha’s small group proved to be the telling factor. The imperatrix had lunged towards a doorway when the attack began, shouting at her soldiers to follow her. If they remained in the street, they’d die.

With some two dozen guards left to her, they fought their way inside, and there discovered more zorasts waiting. Quickly the battle turned. In close quarters, the priests proved no match to trained greencloaks.

There were cries outside and she knew more of her soldiers had arrived. Reaching the upper levels and the rooftops, they eliminated the archers. Minutes later, stood on the edge of a roof, Sarscha glared down into the street, but she could see no sign of Creed.

More bolts flew at them from other buildings, and she spotted zorasts in darkened windows. Creed must have eliminated the ambush Sarscha had ordered in place, and replaced it with one of her own. She had to hope her people still held the palace at least.

The imperatrix bellowed orders at her greencloaks to go building to building, to eliminate any zorast they found. To give no quarter. Neither side would be taking prisoners this day. Once back in the street, she ordered the latest arrivals to the palace. They all ducked as an undead dragon passed overhead, tail lashing at a rooftop, hurling masonry down on their heads.

‘Damn it,’ she swore. ‘We’re too exposed. Get to the palace!’

A short time later, and through the palace gates, Sarscha made straight for the nearest round tower climbing quickly to the top. Ballistae and scorpions hurled missiles at the dragons as they swept overhead. Most of them missed, but the few that struck home seemed to do no damage.

‘Flame,’ she screeched at one of the officers, jabbing a finger at each of the towers. ‘Use fire!’ He rushed to obey. The grip of her sword was slick with sweat. Her breathing was laboured. She was no longer in the same physical shape she used to be, and was that much older.

Then she spotted Ralan, fighting a rearguard action in the streets beyond the walls. The Torment’s horns had lengthened and his size had increased dramatically as he fought the revenants and nightmares.

Then she spotted other Torments battling as hard, each with their own array of horns and impressive physiques. Some with numerous horns forming armour, others with horns on their shoulders and forearms to use as offensive weapons. One of them wielded a pale bone sword. Another had a head all angles and horns. Being the largest, Cadaver tore his enemies apart with his bare hands. Each was tall and muscular, not to mention vicious. Even, her Ralan.

There were no mages remaining, all having transformed into dragons. Sarscha couldn’t understand how that had happened, but it didn’t matter. If there was one thing she knew about battle, it was its unpredictability.

Still, Ralan and his kin proved a powerful resistance to the enemy. It was their stand that allowed hundreds of Sarscha’s soldiers to reach the palace alive.

Inside the complex there was ordered chaos as many rushed to help the badly wounded, while officers forced the survivors to join the defence on the walls. There could be no respite, not until it was over.

The scorpions and ballistae fired again, whump, whump, as they launched flaming missiles. Several missed, but one struck a dragon in its flank, and this time it caught fire.

The beast screeched and veered, before tumbling to crash into houses below. She didn’t know if that would kill the beast, but for now, it was out of the fight.

Ralan and the other Torments had their backs to the palace outer defensive wall. The revenants were as numerous as the nightmares, despite many having been destroyed. Although more were slowed as they attacked Icarthya’s citizenry in their homes.

Worse, the fallen soldiers, presumably those killed by the nightmares, had arisen. They shambled forward to join the fray.

If anything, the enemies’ numbers were growing as dead citizens joined them. Sarscha looked out over the walls at a seething mass, and then the dragons struck in unison.

Several of the winged beasts flew so low over the walls, the defenders were forced to duck. Some of the winged beasts used their claws to sweep defenders from the battlements. Others used their tails to smash the walls, creating breaches.

One struck the tower Sarscha was standing on. When she opened her eyes and tried to rise, she found herself smothered in dust and pieces of masonry. Her left leg was ablaze with pain, and raising her head as far as she could, she spotted blood. Her left arm wasn’t better off, and she tasted the coppery tang of blood in her mouth. There was a ringing, buzzing noise in her ears.

She tried to rise, knowing she had to lead. She fell back with a cry, her body pinned. Then a greencloak was beside her, screaming for help. At least he looked like he was screaming. She could barely hear him. Soon, three men were helping to shift stone off of her.

Without warning, one of the men helping her, shuddered and went into spasm. Blood poured from his mouth, nose, and eyes, and he dropped dead beside the imperatrix. The other two followed him seconds later.

A figure loomed out of the dust and smoke, holding a book with chains.

The former paladin smiled down at Sarscha, but it was not a pleasant smile.

‡

Lorn felt them resist. Some of the souls were quite insane, their minds lost to the ravages of death and time. Others were less belligerent if not pleasant, but then she hadn’t gathered them for a nice chat.

The souls had begun to emerge from the puddles of light. A few looked enraged, others horrified, as the so-called world around them fell apart. The sky was lit aflame but with a light brighter than a hundred suns. The ground beneath their feet erupted, splitting apart.

Lorn had used every ounce of her will to summon them. It had been Manic and Mania who had hinted that it would be possible. Just like Lorn, they were all fragments of the original Astra Dar who had lived separate lives throughout time, forced together in one body.

What Lorn had realised was that not only could she manipulate herself, by first accepting she was dead, she could also tap into the minds of other souls. The others had obviously not made such discoveries or it might have proved harder. As it was, it wasn’t easy.

Rade Wyntara Todralan, otherwise known as Rade Wyn, was first. The woman’s soul looked haggard and disorientated. She babbled about her son, staring at her like a wild woman, clueless to the fact she was dead. Beyond her was the soul of her sister, Antipa, who seemed much more aware, and glared at Lorn.

Antipa stabbed a finger at her, ‘You dare summon me, you little witch? Don’t you know who I am?’

Lorn snorted, not in the least bit interested in humouring the fool. They were dead, all shattered pieces of an ancient soul, and therefore in some ways, equal.

Liviana Avitus looked terrified and confused, but then she had spent her last days possessed by a harpy named Andromeda, and doubtless remembered little of those events.

Lorn watched the others gather, some fainter being much older, with a few barely there at all. There were far more than she had realised, souls all born and died over the past thousand years.

There was no need for words, let alone for agreement. There was no time, and she didn’t doubt they would resist her.

Lorn let herself go. A part of her had clung to the notion that she still existed, to the idea she was real and solid. Now, she simply accepted what she was, a dead soul wandering the wastelands of another’s.

With that acceptance came peace, and a freedom she had not known before, but she didn’t leave it there. Oblivion beckoned, but she didn’t answer.

Instead, she used all that remained of her will to force the others closer. Antipa swore and spat insults, while Rade Wyn cried out in fear, but Lorn ignored their protestations. They were within her power. She gathered them until their forms began to meld with her own.

The portal Lucifer had created depended on the fractured soul of Astra Dar, but now by gathering the souls to her and joining with them, becoming one, she drew those fractures together and sealed them. If her plan was to work, then Lucifer had to believe he was succeeding. It would be up to Manic and Mania after this.

She knew it was the end of her too, for the soul that was Lorn Larthuz would cease to exist. They all would, but she did it for Threadfin. She did it to stop Lucifer, and to save the world of the living.

For the first time, Lorn did something she was proud of, and she smiled at oblivion. Maybe it would not be so bad after all. Maybe, it would be nice to sleep and to forget.