38 Making Things Right

SOMETIME LATER, ASHER Tone sat up to discover a smiling old man stood over him. ‘You are still in one piece,’ the man said, offering Asher a wrinkled and yet strong grip.

Asher took the hand, and marvelled as the old man pulled him upright. Adal then changed into his usual form, a far fiercer and more impressive, not to mention muscular, vision. It took all of Asher’s effort not to stare, but as he looked about him, the effort grew less.

There were survivors picking over the dead, not to mention hundreds of crows, with seagulls screeching in the sky overhead. There were no revenants, at least none upright, and no dragons, wights, and best of all, no Lucifer.

‘We won?’

Adal offered him a pained smile, but instead of answering he gestured at a spot Asher now remembered was where he’d last seen Threadfin.

He picked his away over the dead and rubble, but saw no sign of the mage. Instead, he discovered a man cradling a woman in his arms. The man looked slightly familiar, but the brown-haired woman was a stranger.

A hand touched Asher’s shoulder as Adal moved up to stand beside him. ‘I owed him, you see. I’d taken too much from him, too much from all of them, but him especially. It was high time that I repaid my debt. Thank you, Atlantian.’

‘What happened? I saw something attacking Lucifer? Two of them. They looked like shraeds.’

Adal’s face grew more sombre as he answered. ‘Yes, the new rulers of Tartaros. Manic and Mania, or Cerberus as they are sometimes called.’

‘I don’t understand.’

The angel shrugged. ‘I made a deal with the them, to save what remains of existence. Lucifer sought to destroy it, whereas they just seek to rule over it, and manipulate everyone and everything within it. It was a dark deal, one I may yet pay a heavy price for, but it was the only one on offer. Lucifer had to be destroyed, for there to be any hope, any chance. Otherwise, he would have returned.’

‘But then, that means we haven’t won. The war continues, but instead of Lucifer, there is this Manic and Mania.’ He’d heard of them spoken about before, but knew next to nothing about them.

Adal sighed. ‘Atlantian, the war between existence and oblivion is eternal. Perhaps one day it will end, and oblivion will have won.’

‘Then, then why bother to fight at all? Why not just give up? I mean, what’s the point if it’s all going to be for nothing anyway?’

‘Because, my friend, existence is worth the struggle. This is what you mortals have taught me.’

Asher felt confused, and glanced from the couple back to the angel at his side. ‘I don’t understand. Who are they?’

Adal, the most ancient of angels, sighed. ‘They, Atlantian, are my friends, and they prove the truth of my words.’

‡

Holding her in his arms, Threadfin couldn’t quite believe it. His first shock had come upon waking and realising he was whole. His second, had nearly stopped his heart, which had led to his third most incredible shock of all.

He was alive.

Not in the half-dead sense he’d always been, but in the proper, breather sense of the word. Breath filled his lungs, his chest rising and falling, and a heart thumped a rhythm in his chest. Rising slowly, certain it was some form of delirium, he had stared down at his hands and his legs. There wasn’t much clothing left to him, but he didn’t care about modesty anymore. Covering his living flesh was skin, pale, pink and smooth.

He had stumbled about staring at himself, almost completely forgetting everything that had led to this moment. He had let out a holler and then gasping for breath, followed it with another. He danced about and felt heat flush his face, and realised he must have looked a right sight, to anyone bothered to look.

Then he noticed all the death around him and his joy dimmed, replaced by sadness. He was responsible for all of it, and there he was celebrating?

When he noticed her lying there, at first, he had been certain he was dreaming. He had crept over to her and slowly knelt by her side, convinced it was impossible.

Lorn Larthuz had opened her eyes, and on seeing him, smiled.

Whether or not he should have felt happy or sad or a mixture, he didn’t care. He’d helped her up and then laid her back in his arms, checking her for any damage, but like him, she was in perfect health.

‘Is this real?’ she had asked him.

‘I don’t know,’ he had answered.

‘If it’s a dream, then I don’t want it to end,’ she had then said, her hand rising to stroke the short stubble on his face. ‘Never.’

‘Then,’ he said, deciding it right then and there, ‘we won’t let it end. I’m not letting you go this time.’

Her smile was so beautiful, tears flowing down her cheeks as she lifted her face to kiss him. Pulling back, she sighed, ‘My undeader.’

‡

The king of the Nephilim stooped and picked up the blade. Its glint had caught his attention as he had picked his way through the carnage. It was black as night, and yet reflected light.

Desool’s left arm was broken and one of his wings had been shorn off, blood congealing on his back and uncomfortably down in the crack of his buttocks. Few of his warriors had survived, he had only managed to find five in total, and Nanel’s death was still too fresh.

Turning the strange metal over in his hand, he saw there were three more. A young man and woman, the man partially naked, sat nearby, canoodling in a manner highly inappropriate and somewhat strange on a battle field. They didn’t look like soldiers and he couldn’t understand how they’d come to be there. The man, though, did look familiar.

‘Even amid destruction there is beauty,’ said a voice behind him. The king whirled, ready to fight despite his wounds, but instead just groaned.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ was all the reply the angel got for his trouble.

‘They are yours,’ said Adal, with a nod for the blade in his hand. ‘Formed from the very essence of Tartaros, their power is not only unique, but far greater than anything this world has seen.’

The Nephilim king surveyed the devastation around him. So many of his kin gone back to the ground, including Nanel. So much horrifying death. ‘Was it worth it?’

‘The sun still rises in the east and sets in the west,’ the angel replied. ‘Humans and Nephilim still breathe fresh air, and the Darkness has been beaten back.’

‘But not defeated.’

‘No, but we all live to fight another day, and perhaps this world will be a brighter place.’ Adal turned to leave.

‘And what of you, angel, where do you go now? Are you just going to abandon us?’

Adal paused and turned. ‘I’m not sure you need me anymore. After all, all I ever did was offer a nudge here or there. You mortals achieved this all by yourselves, with just a little help.’ The angel then looked up, staring through the clouds to something beyond. ‘Besides, I have not seen my daughter in millennia. I think, perhaps, it is time to make amends.’

‘You have a daughter.’ For some reason, Desool found this notion both surprising and yet, natural.

Adal nodded. ‘Her name is, Rue.’ He lowered his gaze to eye the king, one last time. ‘Goodbye, my friend. Somehow, I do not think you and I will meet again. I will, however, always be watching.’

Desool snorted and tossed the black dagger onto the ground with the other three. ‘Now that sounds too good to be true,’ he said with a growl.

The angel smiled, and then oddly began to fade. Before his form disappeared, all Desool heard was a faint whisper. ‘Farewell, King of the Nephilim ... until we meet again.’

Desool couldn’t help but smile.

‡

Myral stumbled over the bodies, dazed, and lost. She couldn’t remember everything, but enough that she felt like vomiting over and over. The vampires had been destroyed, and in a manner of speaking, she with them.

Myral had become something dark and terrible for a time, and though she was restored, she still felt an emptiness inside. Something had returned her to her old body; she’d awoken gasping for breath, drinking in the air as though she’d been drowning. In a way, she had been. She had no idea how she’d been able to return, her gift having only allowed her the ability to enter living creatures.

She was certain her body had been dead. Yes, something or someone else had intervened.

She fell; her foot had caught on the cadaver of what had been a vampire. Now it was just a human male, though still dead. She knew it for what it had been however. Instinct perhaps. Her children were dead.

Hands caught her, and she glanced up to see a being of light. The light faded and she saw Adal, just as he had been when he’d appeared to her in Keen.

He helped her get clear of the killing field, before she shrugged off his touch, trying to get away from him. ‘I will never do anything for you again,’ she hissed, her voice hoarse.

‘I am sorry,’ Adal said, and she saw in his face, sincerity.

The smug angelic bastard. How dare he be sincere! ‘Stay away from me.’

He stepped back from her, hands lowered to his side with a sad expression on his face. ‘What you went through, Myral, no one should have had to endure, but it is over now. The battle has been won, and Lucifer slain.’

She glanced at him then, just as she felt something strange inside of her. A warm light filled her and she felt an urge. Raising her hands, she saw an ethereal light, a faint flame dancing on her fingertips. Spectralic magic, she thought, knowing it was impossible, and yet knowing it was also true.

Then she glanced around the battlefield, and saw that it was real. It was over. They had won. For some reason, she didn’t feel like celebrating. ‘You said the battle was won. Don’t you mean the war?’

Adal’s face looked even sadder, and she fought the urge to reach out to him. ‘I’m afraid Miss Azarm, that war is never over. The fight between existence and oblivion is eternal, fought on every world in the Spectrum. This day is ours, but I cannot say what tomorrow will bring.’

She turned her back to him then, somehow knowing she’d never see him again, and feeling quite alright about it. She walked on across the isthmus, north into the imperium, forward into tomorrow, whatever it might bring.

‡

The Circle of Heroes, Icarthya City – five months later

Sarscha Todralan examined the weave of light between her fingers with amazement. She still couldn’t come to terms with it.

I’m a spectral mage, she thought. I’m a Grim-hooded mage!

And what was even more wondrous was, she wasn’t the only one. Virals no longer existed, all the surviving undead having been transformed in to, well, living people.

She’d since listened to a report on the miraculous event from Asher Tone, who was now a Atlantian ambassador for all of those with Atlantian blood who wished to make the imperium their home. His device, though it had been destroyed in the process, had done something incredible in ending a thousand-year-old spell.

Yet in so doing, somehow it had restored the proper balance, and many of those viral mages were now spectral mages. What Sarscha couldn’t figure out, was how she’d become one too. Maybe it didn’t matter. She was a mage, and as the light danced between her fingers, making spirals and geometric shapes, she found herself laughing.

Glancing up, she realised everyone was looking at her, but they were all smiling too.

The ceremony was being held in the new Circle of Heroes, and Threadfin had chosen the exact spot. Right at the feet of his old friend, Podral Pole. The statue stared down at him, fists on hips, staring at him with that same look of frustration he’d had in life, and with that sly smile at the corner of his mouth.

Sarscha let the light in her hands dissipate. She hated letting go of her magic, feeling cold and lonely every time. The feeling always passed quickly however, and gripping her husband’s hand as he stood beside her, she turned and smiled at him.

Ralan looked far more ordinary than he once had, with no horns peeking from his neck and shoulders. The ameliorate had done the same for the Torments, returning them to their mortal selves.

Ralan claimed he didn’t care. In fact, he’d genuinely seemed happy for the first time since she’d met him. No longer a Son of Grim, the Tenth Torment, he was a normal man and had pledged to spend the rest of his mortal years by her side. Both of them being spectral mages, however, those years might still be long. As his fingers tightened around hers, his warmth and affection filling her with a magical light all its own, she knew she couldn’t have asked for anything more.

‡

Threadfin took both of her hands in his, staring into Lorn’s eyes. Not only did he have the woman he loved back in his life, he was a spectral bloody mage.

It still felt strange to reach inside of himself and not find the Watcher slumbering with one eye open. Instead, there was a light, a warmth he still couldn’t get used to. Not only that, but his wife was a mage too. Lorn, it was believed, might yet become the greatest healer the world had ever seen.

It all felt so surreal, like a dream; he still pinched himself sometimes, convinced he’d wake up in his tower, with Nipper holding his hands, a sack full of palace silver at the bottom of the bed.

The mongrels had vanished of course, without a word of goodbye, but Threadfin had discovered a note nailed to the door of his tower. Unintelligible of course, and there wasn’t an imperial paytor, historian or scholar who could translate mongrel speak, but it had been touching all the same. Though no one knew for sure, Threadfin had heard rumours of an ancient city called Dis. Perhaps they had returned home.

With a quick glance up at his old friend who seemed far more life-like than should have been possible – suggesting the statue had been created with magic, which would have irritated Podral no end – he noted that grin at the corner of the mouth. No doubt, ready with some intelligent and well-timed insult.

I wish you were here, my old friend, he thought. You should be. Thanks, Pod, for everything you did for me, for always being there, and for always being a pain in my ass. You were a great Darken, and an even greater friend.

Lorn squeezed his hands and he withdrew his gaze to look at her. He was so terribly in love, and happy. His heart, literally beating in his chest like an episodic thunder, felt like it would burst. I have but one life to live. One to live well, and I choose to spend it with her, and what a life it’s going to be. I’ll enjoy this life, Pod. I promise.

The paytor overseeing the marriage, took his place, at the feet of Podral Pole, glancing nervously up at the statue. He cleared his throat and the ceremony began.

There were no angels present, although Threadfin did catch sight of shimmer in the air. Adal was more discreet these days, but he was watching; he had promised that he would. Thankfully there was no sign of Manic and Mania, but then he didn’t expect to see those two. Likely they were busy as the new rulers of Tartaros, Mania redecorating and Manic planning on how to subdue all of existence.

Asher Tone smiled fondly at the couple as did the Nephilim representatives. At over twelve foot tall, Desool stood with his kin outside of the circle, a human woman at his side.

Threadfin still didn’t know how that relationship was going to work, but then if a woman like Lorn could have loved an undead fool like him, then there was hope for anyone.

After all, the real magic in his life was just beginning.

This ends the final book

of the Plagueborn Series.