4 One Last Mission

MYRAL AZARM SHOVED her way through a throng of Keen worshipers, her face, hands, and feet covered as was the local custom for women. Well, more of a hard rule than a custom, one which could see her arrested and beaten if she ignored it. It was the first day of the week and it was customary for the locals to gather in worship at sunrise.

It made purchasing breakfast nigh impossible at this hour. She’d hidden the produce in a bundle beneath her clothing, making her appear with child. It meant most of the men folk moved to let her pass. At least they had some customs worth keeping. The people of Keen – both of city and land, since the name was the same – were as odd as any she’d come across, almost as strange and fanatical as zorasts. Dealing with religious types wasn’t new to her, though.

As she shoved her way between two elderly bearded men, who refused to budge, something stung the back of her legs. She stumbled, grabbing at the food bundle for fear of it falling. The purchase of goods during the hour of worship was a crime, not that the merchant she’d purchased it from cared. Being a man, he wouldn’t suffer. Always the woman’s fault.

Money was money to him, and she’d known that about the merchant before heading out pre-dawn. She wore a bronze knife strapped to her left thigh beneath her clothing, although stabbing a man would see her buried up to her neck and stoned. Any killing had to be done in extreme need. Fortunately, she’d had to kill but one man since her arrival.

Stumbling in the manner she did, she looked like a pregnant woman protecting her unborn. Others became outraged, intervened, and began to argue with the man holding the lash.

Her legs burning, she moved on through the mass of human bodies, wishing she’d gone hungry after all. She never risked being noticed in full daylight, or worse, being recognised as a foreigner by the wrong people. Customs didn’t always apply to outsiders, which could have both good and bad consequences.

Fasting. Three days of horrific fasting. Had she known the local religious festival was about to begin, she would’ve purchased enough beforehand. Her command of the local language of Keenish was barely passable, however. She’d not understood the clues leading up to the festival.

She went past several large tents set up to provide water for the worshipers once the day’s heat worsened. A wonder they didn’t expect people to drop dead from thirst too. Not for the last time, she wished she’d never come to the desert. She’d already decided to move on again, but every time she thought about it, she remembered why she’d come. She could still see Wither’s face in the desert of another continent, looking at her in the lost city of Mourn.

Clambering up the cold stone steps to her temporary abode, she entered through a large curtain, which served as a door in this land. Apparently, thievery was impossible because everyone was a servant of the local temple. She’d seen plenty of theft, but to accuse anyone and be found guilty of slander carried a penalty of fifty lashes. Few risked it and so thieves abounded, but apparently also didn’t exist.

Inside the cool interior, she removed the bundle of bread, cheese, and olives, and squatted on some cushions. These imbeciles didn’t bother with furniture either. Everyone sat on the floor. A decent chair, some watered wine, and ... well, she thought, munching in the gloom, at least the olives are nice. Cheese isn’t bad either. Goat was the most common source of milk with camel sometimes available. Funny, she would’ve thought it the other way around, but goat herding was big business in Keen.

She was halfway through breaking her fast, wincing at the pain in her legs while she ate. Lowering the last stub of cheese, she scanned the room. There was no sign anyone had been there, but the feeling of being watched wasn’t new. One didn’t become an imperial spy and last for as long as she’d done without decent instincts.

‘Whoever you are,’ she said in a quiet but determined voice, ‘I know you’re there. You might as well reveal yourself instead of skulking in the shadows. I’ve even got some cheese left.’

A section of the gloom before her twisted as though the air itself was partly solid. It resolved into the form of a man. A tall, muscular male with a strong jaw, he was dressed in a white linen of a style she’d never encountered.

‘At least you’re not a local,’ she noted, popping a piece of bread into her mouth, while trying to appear nonchalant. She felt terrified. What was he? ‘I’ve had enough of those of late.’ As she ate, her left hand found the hilt of a bronze knife beneath her clothing. She wouldn’t die without a fight if this stranger had any hostile intentions.

‘I do like cheese,’ said the visitor, ‘but if you’re thinking of using your blade, I’d like that a lot less.’ Dark wings emerged from his shoulders. The man, who was obviously Angelborn, then folded the wings and retracted them, until once again an ordinary man stood before her. A little display, to show her who she was dealing with. She gulped down the bread, a lump in her throat. Angelborn. She’d never get used to seeing one.

‘What do you want,’ she asked in a whisper, having forgotten her knife. Angels had always fascinated her, and once she’d stood by and watched one of the Angelborn die. The highest and lowest point of her life. The emotions she felt were complex, so interwoven she couldn’t untangle them, and she’d avoided thinking about that day until now.

The stranger moved towards her with careful slowness, as though afraid to spook her. He got down on one knee, reaching out a slow hand to stroke her cheek, wiping away her tears. Funny, she hadn’t realised she’d been crying. What a fool.

‘Why are you here?’ she asked, feeling small and cold, but not in any danger. If anything, she felt safer than she had in months.

‘For you, Myral Azarm. My name is Adal, but you have known me by a different one for many years. We are friends, at least for my part.’

‘I don’t think so. I would remember your face. I’m good with faces. It was sort of my job, once.’ Adal was a name she knew from the legends of the past, however, but it wasn’t a name of one of the Angelborn. Rather, it belonged to an actual angel. After all, Angelborn were only half angelic. She gulped down a lump in her throat, which wasn’t bread or cheese.

The air around the angel shimmered again. He warped into a shorter, fatter figure, and before her was a man she’d known as Davard Tystrus. Her former employer and the spymaster of the Icarthian Imperium in Adalalcas.

‘No, no, no,’ was all she managed, but it all began to fit into place. She’d known Tystrus was different and somewhat eccentric. An imperial spymaster with peculiar talents, but ... an angel?

The fat spymaster nodded before he changed into the younger and muscular, Adal. A shimmer of air and it was done. ‘Davard Tystrus is gone, the need for my anonymity at an end. I hope this does not disappoint you. I did enjoy our times together.’

‘I hated that smug fat bastard,’ she blurted before clamping a hand to her mouth, eyes going wide.

Adal grinned, a genuine warmth full of humour, his eyes twinkling. Immediately, she liked him; perhaps more than liked him. She fought to gather her wits before she made a bigger fool of herself. Her thoughts were everywhere and she couldn’t focus.

‘I know you did,’ he said, lowering himself properly to sit, ‘but a change in appearance also calls for a change in personality, I’ve found. I’ve been many people over the centuries with many names. Davard was the latest of two incarnations. I was also known as Crawl, the prime of Lame City, for a time.’

Recovering, Myral remembered her manners and offered him what little of her food remained but he declined. He was seated like her on the cushions. ‘The spymaster promised you he would never ask you to serve the imperium again. I am not here to break his promise, but I am here to ask you to serve a greater cause. One last task awaits you, Myral Azarm, if you will agree to it.’

‘Good,’ she said, without the need to give it any thought, ‘because I’m sick of this shithole and its shitty traditions and these clothes and ... and, I miss Adalalcas.’ For the second time, she found herself grasping for control. Why did she keep telling him exactly what she was thinking? She never did that.

‘Wither, a man once known as Gratalan Vanthyr,’ the angel said. ‘You know him.’ He poured some water from a clay jug and sipped it from a cup. The statement, he left hanging in the air between them, like bait.

Myral paused for a long moment and then nodded, knowing what was coming. ‘You wish me to find him, don’t you?’ She’d somehow known her fate was linked to that man though she’d never been able to understand why.

‘Finding him is the easy bit. Are you aware there is a war being fought that will decide the fate of us all? At this point, Wither has not chosen a side. Instead, he sits among a horde of ancient undead poised to do ... well, nothing it seems. I have attempted to reach him, to discern his intentions, but his mind is closed. He is either the greatest threat or ally to our cause. I would know which before it is too late.’

‘And what is this cause?’ Myral asked as she also took some water, her throat having gone dry. Outside, there was the sound of chanting as the masses heaved through the streets, banging their goat-hide drums, praying to their five-headed god, goddess, goat, or whatever it was. Perhaps a mixture of all three.

I must get out of here one way or other, she thought, and this looks like my chance. She’d been robbed twice and had no money left to escape. The desert beyond was large enough to give her pause, though. Still, it had to be better than this existence.

‘Myral, I know you like to pretend otherwise, but you know of Tartaros, of the war for the Spectrum of Existence.’

‘I know a little,’ she conceded, ‘but I’ve purposely kept my nose out of it. Was always above my need-to-know, you know? I wanted to find a quiet corner of the world to live my life in peace.’

She gestured at the curtain and the growing heat of the day beyond it. ‘And look where I ended up. Is the Spectrum punishing me for something? The angels above know I deserve it.’ For a third time, she wished she’d shut her mouth. It wasn’t like talking with Davard at all. Adal was mysterious, dangerous, and a freaking angel! She didn’t think she’d get over that part.

Adal smiled. ‘You are not a terrible person, or else you and I would probably not be having this conversation. I am picky about my friends. Although, we angels are not so different from humans at times. There are those who tend to darker thoughts among us, but most of us try to do what is right. Like you.’

‘Who decides what is right?’

‘Exactly.’

She didn’t know what he meant, but she couldn’t concentrate anyway. It hit her then like a slap in the face, the full implication of it all. She recalled all the things she’d said to Davard Tystrus, and her stomach roiled. It wasn’t the cheese either. ‘You know, I’ve been not so ... I mean, I shouldn’t have said ...’

Adal barked a laugh and leaned forward to take her hands in his, shocking her. He looked deep into her eyes and she just knew he could see into her soul. ‘Myral, the past is what it is, and I am not Davard no more than he was I. He loved you, like a father loves a daughter. I love you too, and I will not let you come to harm. Now, will you help me?’

She found herself nodding and crying. She stared down at the blurred cushions and stone floor, wondering what was wrong with her? Was it Adal having some sort of effect on her, or was it her own foolishness? Did it matter? ‘What must I do?’

Nodding, he let go of her hands, rose and walked towards the curtained exit before turning back to look at her. ‘There is no “must” in this, Myral. This is a task for which you need to volunteer, for I cannot see all outcomes. This could go well for you, and it could turn out badly.

‘However, if you agree to go, then I wish you to find Wither, and I don’t mean just geographically. He is lost, in pain and anguish. There was a woman he loved who might have succeeded in helping him, but she is gone. There is just you, and whatever connection you managed to create between you. If you can, help release him from his pain. And in so doing, I believe you will find your destiny.’

It was Myral’s turn to laugh as she wiped her eyes. ‘I’m not certain there was anything between us at all, and as for my destiny ...’

Adal’s face turned grave. ‘He commands an army of vampires, or at least he should. I’m not certain he is in control anymore. Something is wrong, although I do not yet know what. I need you to find out.

‘If he regains his hold over the vampires, you should help him see our cause is just. You can guide him, Myral, but first help him. What I ask is dangerous, but I cannot be everywhere. As I’ve already said, I cannot envisage all ends. Angels, unfortunately, are not all-knowing, no matter what the churches of this world suggest.’

Myral was wringing her hands, feeling agitated, scared for the first time since his arrival. ‘I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not what you think I am. All those years as a priestess I was terrified, and I don’t know if I can face such fears again.’

Adal smiled down at her. ‘My dearest child, you have no idea of your talents. The Spectrum is not finished with you. You serve something greater than any imperium. You always have.’

She let go a long sigh. It was either remain in Keen, try to find a new place somewhere far away, or do what he asked. ‘Where would I find him?’

‘Not too far from here. Interesting, isn’t it, how you ended up so close to him without trying? There is a mountain range to the west with a vast system of caves. You’ll find Wither deep within. Good luck, Myral, and I hope we meet again.’

With a slight movement of displaced air, he was gone.

She stared around at the empty room for a long moment, and shook herself. One last job, she thought. Thank the Spectrum above it was a vampire horde, and not another religious sect she had to infiltrate. She’d had her fill of zealots, festivals and above all, people. Besides, she’d been thinking of Wither a lot lately. For some unknowable reason she missed him, and she also wanted to punch him. Well, she’d been thinking of leaving anyway, and Adal had handed her the perfect excuse.

One last mission, then. Should be no problem at all.