34 A Sacrificial Chamber

SARSCHA REACHED THE Pantheon Circle, stalking across the wide white travertine blocks with Raziel and Tezcat on either side. She’d sent Artorius to shore up the defences at the palace. He’d protested, but she’d pointed out that she had her Darken, who was after all, an angel.

Truth of it was, she had no intention of letting him die. He could not fight Angrboda with a sword. Neither can I, but at least I get to make the decisions around here. Most of the time.

Before the tall bronze doors of the Pantheon was a line of greencloak archers and two phalanxes with shields and spears. In front of those, a line of viral mages. Each undead mage wore a dark cloak, their faces hidden.

Sarscha didn’t like how things looked. They were too visible in this place, and she didn’t doubt Angrboda would have a plan for dealing with them. She hated being on the defensive. As they got closer, Tezcat headed towards a building adjacent to the Circle, and quickly climbed the steps to disappear into the gloom beneath its arch.

When she glanced to her left, she noted Raziel had vanished too. All according to their plan. Angrboda was meant to see the defence and fall into the trap. A trap for which I’m the bait. The juiciest part no doubt, not counting the bloody Book of Chains. Well, come on then witch. Don’t keep me waiting.

Sarscha raised the hood of her cloak, and chose a position behind the mages within the rank of soldiers. She had no doubt the witch would recognise her, and in her eagerness try to kill her. She just hoped Angrboda wouldn’t succeed.

‡

THE FIRST SIGN OF ANGRBODA’S approach wasn’t what the imperatrix had expected. A creeping fog developed, flowing between buildings, and billowing outward to fill the streets. With the fog came a crystalline webbing of ice that spread out to coat the stones of the Pantheon Circle, climbing steps and enveloping columns.

There was no command to attack, no word spoken. The undead mages of the horde reacted as one, as black flame met fog and ice. The clash resulted in a screech of magics, which had Sarscha clutching her ears as she knelt between the soldiers. When the noise ceased, she rose to find every one of her mages frozen solid.

She turned to the soldiers, all of them untouched having been saved by the mages. ‘Retreat. You can’t fight this with swords. Your part in this is done. Go!’

They obeyed, retreating in nice order, but the frost and ice threatened to cut them off. Then the witch appeared, and Sarscha had eyes for no one else.

‡

ANGRBODA STALKED TOWARDS the Pantheon, head bent, face hidden by long grey knotted hair. Eyes peeped through those locks, reddened and angry. Her feet were bare and dirty, bleeding, her tattered clothing mere rags, smothered in grime and old blood. If Sarscha had once imagined what a witch might look like, this was it.

Knowing there was no longer any point in hiding, the imperatrix stepped forwards through a small gap in the frozen line of mages. She wondered if they’d survive and guessed they might, being undead. However, the contorted figures of some of her soldiers who’d not retreated fast enough, would not.

The Icarthian leader stepped into full view, and lowered the hood of her cloak. The witch halted some fifteen away and raised her head. Those eyes were unnerving, like twin red molten suns. The voice issuing from the witch’s mouth was from no woman, but rather a harsh, grating sound Sarscha didn’t think any natural person could make. ‘Your imperium shall burn, and the One shall rise from her ashes. Bow before the Darkness of Tartaros and obey, mortal. Bow or die.’

As if on cue, Tezcat and Raziel sprung the trap. The viral mage unleashed a spiralling weave of viralic power at the witch, who of course, saw it coming and blocked it. What she didn’t see was Raziel in all his glory, descending upon her from above, glorious silver-dark wings folded as he dropped, his body lit with an otherworldly light.

The Dominion commander landed behind Angrboda, and enfolded the witch in his wings, as a burning light began to consume her. She screamed and thrashed, but Raziel held her fast. Unfortunately, this witch was not one to go quietly. Ice formed on the angel’s skin, and Sarscha could see it was no natural frost. It was consuming him, even as his light consumed her.

Tezcat tried to help Raziel finish off the witch, using her magic to kill the woman, but ice began to form at her feet too, climbing up the viral girl’s legs.

They’re killing each other. Gripping her sword, Sarscha decided she had to do something to save both angel and girl; they were her friends, not just subjects or allies. Friends just like Tame Vara and Pittle had been. For too long, she had grieved for those lost, not paying enough attention to those who had remained. Perhaps thick Icarthian iron through the witch’s heart might end things nicely. Maybe I’ll freeze to death. So be it. At least I die with a sword in my hand, and friends at my side. Taking a breath, she drew her sword and went to join the fight.

Before she got far, an arm wrapped about her chest, a cold blade biting at her throat. Then a voice hissed in her ear. ‘Drop it, my dear. There’s a good little imperatrix. We mustn’t have you interfering now, must we?’

Sarscha struggled, but the blade bit deeper, drawing blood. The short sword clattered onto frozen stone, as a strong hand dragged the imperatrix backwards and inside, the blade burning a thin line at her throat.

‡

SURROUNDED BY HOODED figures, it took Sarscha a moment to gather her wits. Someone had clouted her over the head, she supposed. For one, she had a pounding headache, and what felt like blood tickled down her forehead and face, not to mention her neck, though none were grievous wounds.

The cavern she squatted in with hands bound at her back, was lit with smoking torches. The air was close and acrid, water dripping down the rock face closest to her. The sound of water trickling away beneath her feet told her there were also caverns below. She thought she knew where she was. Beneath the city of Icarthya and beneath the Pantheon.

As her eyes adjusted to the low light, she recognised a shape to the cavern. She wasn’t certain, but she thought it might be a pentagram. An ancient place. Soldiering was her gift, fighting with sword and spear, planning strategies and outthinking enemies. This is a battle too, but of a different sort. I need to get my head right. She might get but one chance.

She was on a broad plateau with a ragged drop into darkness twenty feet away. A huge thick altar of black basalt stood nearby, with dark stone steps rising to it. It appeared to have been hewn from one rock as had the plateau. The amount of effort and skill impressed her, not that masonry was her thing. Still, it meant skilled masons had worked on this cavern long before the pantheon had been built.

‘Yes,’ said a voice behind her. Sarscha half twisted, grunting as the tight bonds chaffed her flesh. ‘This place is ancient.’ Paladin Creed stepped into full view. She wore a heavy blood-red and black robe, alike to those of the mages, holding a dripping torch in her right hand.

‘You’re a zorast, aren’t you?’ Sarscha guessed, putting it together. ‘A highest, if I don’t miss my guess. A fanatical servant of evil.’ Her head still hurt, and there were dancing spots in her vision, which were brighter than the torchlight, but she tried to maintain a composure of calm authority. After all, I am the imperatrix, and this bitch is a traitor.

Creed smiled, and it was the rictus of death. Sarscha became aware of people moving to positions from behind her. ‘Yes, and I am also The Sword of the Faith,’ said the paladin. ‘At last, the task has fallen to me. I have waited my whole life and watched countless fools claim to be the Sword, later to fall. I even bestowed the title on a few.’ Her smile widened. ‘But there was always just one.’

‘The Grim is defeated. You waste your time.’ An altar, and a victim all trussed up. This is not looking good.

Hands grabbed Sarscha under her arms, hauling her to her feet, as they began to drag her up the steps.

‘The Grim Master, Reaper of Souls,’ said Creed behind her, ‘was our master, yes, but his was ever Tartaros. The Book of Chains speaks of the Darkness young one, and it speaks of Oblivion. We serve as we always have, and if Tartaros is done with the Grim Master, then so are we. After all, it has chosen a new champion.’

‘The Sorceress,’ spat Sarscha through gritted teeth, as they forced her up the last few steps. On the altar’s wide flat surface was a large hide-covered book. It was trussed up with chains, which writhed as though alive. She assumed this was the infamous Book of Chains then. Pretty much as she’d imagined it would be, at least. Her hooded guards turned her about so the altar was behind her, forcing her to look down on Creed who’d halted a few steps below. Despite her height advantage, she’d never felt smaller.

‘The witch who attacked your precious city was just a means to neutralise your viralic pets ... and a certain angelic interference. Yes, we knew about Raziel for some time. He had them all fooled in the Pantheon, but not I. The witch served her purpose, and now I must serve mine, as you will serve yours.’

The elderly paladin held a hide bundle and began to unwrap it. She withdrew a large ceremonial dagger with a jewelled hilt. Hands forced Sarscha down onto the broad altar to lie next to the book. She struggled and attempted to kick, fighting for all her worth. Someone punched her in the head several times. They held her fast.

Creed stepped up to the altar, and opened the Book of Chains. Sarscha saw the chains entering the pages, as though through a tiny vortex. The words on the pages moved, constantly changing form, position, and no doubt, meaning.

No, no, she thought, trying to remain strong, this is definitely not good!

Creed began to chant, the rest joining in, their voices low and creepy, befitting the occasion.

‘The blood of the Sworn One shall unlock my secrets.

The tears of the Crowned One shall sever my bonds.

The cries of the Soldier shall release my voice, and

forever the souls of the Faithfull shall be mine.’

Instead of stabbing her, Creed used the blade’s point to score a long red line down Sarscha’s cheek, from below her left eye to her chin following the track of her previous scar. Tears flowed of course, and there was nothing Sarscha could do to stop them. With the tip of the blade, Creed collected them along with the blood, and spattered the book’s cover. Then with a sharp stab and twist, the blade entered Sarscha’s side and she screamed. She’d suffered stab wounds during her career in the legions, but none like this. Creed pulled the blade free.

A soldier most of her life, Sarscha had fought alongside and led warriors, but she had never envisaged such a death. She’d always believed she would either meet her fate on the battlefield, or she’d live long enough to die an old drunk. This was not how it was supposed to happen.

Creed stepped around the altar with the dagger, and held it over the book to drip more of Sarscha’s blood onto its pages.

As her cries faded, Sarscha heard something coming from the grimoire. She turned her head a fraction, and as the strange unearthly whine grew, she saw the pages ooze blood, the chains retracting from them, unlocking it.

Paladin Creed lifted the dagger, and held it over Sarscha’s breast, offering her a sad smile as though this wasn’t what she wanted, but it was for the best.

Searching for a way out of her predicament, Sarscha refused to believe it was the end. Damn, but she needed to stall this bitch. ‘I will always be there, when you need me most,’ he had vowed, and she had believed him. It was crazy, but for some reason she still did. Maybe because there was no alternative, or maybe because some instinct told her he was coming.

‘Why?’ she asked, her voice hoarse. ‘Just tell me that much, Creed. Don’t you want me to know?’

‘I suppose you should hear it before you join him,’ said the old woman with a raised eyebrow. ‘It was I who killed your father. Liviana Avitus was one of my agents, although she ended up betraying me while getting herself possessed the stupid little fool, and—’

Creed’s words faded, as several of her zorast companions fell dead. Sarscha didn’t need to see him to know what was happening. He had come.

Blades flashed and cries filled the ancient cavern. Creed cursed and stabbed at Sarscha’s chest. Since the zorasts who’d held her down had abandoned her to face this new threat, the imperatrix rolled out of the way. The blade sliced her arm, but she managed to fall off the altar’s edge, and tumble down the steps.

Someone was kneeling by Sarscha’s side, saying something, but she struggled to make out the words. Her bonds were cut, then hands grabbed her and pulled her to her feet. She felt sore and bruised, but she thought she could manage.

‘Imperatrix,’ said a male voice, whom she realised was her imperial marshal, and instantly felt a wave of disappointment. Not the rescuer she’d been expecting. She knew it was unfair, but couldn’t help the feeling. ‘Imperatrix, can you fight?’ Artorius demanded.

A sword hilt was thrust into her hand, which immediately gripped the weapon tight as though by reflex. She felt stronger, despite the wound to her arm. ‘I ordered you to the palace as I recall.’

Her marshal grinned. ‘Never made it. Ran into someone on the way there.’ Then he was slashing and bobbing as two zorasts came at him with spears.

She knew that someone had to be Ralan. So, he had come, after all. Holding her side and ignoring the pain, she threw herself stumbling into the fight. She knew she might yet die of her wounds, but she wasn’t about to be left out of this battle. She ran a zorast through her thick heavy robes, piercing the woman’s heart. The religious fanatic fell with an open mouth and a look of surprise as though in the moment of death, she’d realised her faith had all been a lie.

The imperatrix fought her way through several opponents, but she was tiring fast, her side throbbing. She was trying to get back to the altar where a battle was occurring. She then spotted Ralan, the Son of Grim, as he slayed zorasts with expert ease, silver tipped horns glistening in the torch light. He looked bigger, and Sarscha couldn’t help but be impressed by his strength and power, his speed.

There had to be several dozen acolytes within the cavern, but many fell at Ralan’s touch, their bodies glowing with coruscating fire. She’d never felt a connection with anyone like she did with him. Tezcat had told her everything about him, and the more she’d learned the more she’d come to like him, yet still mystery surrounded him.

Sarscha cut down another zorast as she sought out Creed, but there was no sign of the traitor. Slaying the last priest in her way, she clambered up the steps to find the altar bare save for Sarscha’s blood.

The Book of Chains was gone, and so was Paladin Creed.