35 A Little Chat with Volcanus

A TREMBLING QUEL led Myral from the small shop through the streets of Dis. He’d managed to find her a hooded tattered cloak somewhere. She’d seen dhampir wearing them, and hoped they mistook her for one.

At one point, the dhampir halted and refused to move another step. They were stood at an intersection, sculpted buildings all around them. Vampires were everywhere and dhampir too. Most of the vicious virals clambered across the façade of buildings like scuttling spiders, but some walked on two legs, though any resemblance to the living ended there.

‘What is wrong with you?’ Myral grabbed Quel’s arm, in no mood for his hysterics. She’d never met a half-vampire more ill-suited to the role. It made her wonder if he’d lied about how he’d survived. Maybe Corso had taken pity on him or something. Although, thinking about it, she didn’t believe Corso capable of such an emotion.

‘You don’t understand,’ he whimpered, as they crouched on the corner, looking too conspicuous for her taste.

‘And I don’t want to,’ she hissed. ‘We made a deal with Corso. Now we see it through.’

‘You will leave and return to the world above, but I’ll be stuck down here with him. He’s cruel and dangerous. What do you think he’ll be like if he succeeds?’

Funny he should mention it, but she had no intention of letting Lord Corso become the leader of a new half-vampire, half-human race, not least because it would mean Wither was dead; Corso would not allow a potential rival to live. Also, because it would still leave the world above in danger.

Pulling Quel closer, she growled in his face. ‘Listen, you slimy piece of worm-dung! I’m not letting Wither die because of your cowardice. Show me where this Spectrum-forsaken ceremony is, and then you can go. Head up to the surface if you like. Disappear. I don’t care.’ She shoved him out into the street and he stumbled, catching himself just in time.

A passing vampire with a human-like visage, glanced in Quel’s direction, ignoring Myral. It wore a disgusted expression on its face. For his part, the dhampir offered a weak smile in return. The look of disgust became a sneer.

Quel had no choice but to keep going, heading in the same direction as everyone else. It felt as though they’d been summoned, which Myral supposed they must have been. She remembered Wither saying he could hear them in his mind, and it was likely Wormwood had such a connection too.

The gathering place, which Quel called Har-Megiddo, was located on the opposite side of the city from where they had first arrived. A low plain, miles wide, the interior walls of the mountain on that side too far off to make out, but for the distant twinkling of millions of glow worms.

The plain lay perhaps a hundred metres below the level of the city. Myral with her nervous guide, followed the rocky path down, at times hemmed in by vampires. It was the most terrifying moment for her, as she couldn’t get the image of them feeding out of her head.

One surprising discovery was that the plain was made of salt. When she halted at the bottom, stooping in the half-light to touch the white glistening surface, Quel whispered, ‘It was once an ocean many eons ago. At least, that’s what Lord Corso said. This is all that remains, but it is a sacred place to vampires.’

‘Huh,’ Myral muttered, straightening as she licked salt off her finger. ‘Everything gets weirder and weirder.’ She didn’t care about vampiric customs. She needed to reach Wither before it was too late. She pressed on, striding across the plain, and a reluctant Quel struggled to keep up.

Perhaps a quarter of a mile from the city, far out on the salt plain and beneath the twinkling lights, they reached a rocky formation, flat and jagged about the edges. It stood about four feet above the plain, and that was when she saw him.

Bound and bleeding, Wither knelt in the centre of the rocky dais. Recalling her time as a priestess, she saw it as a gigantic altar. One made for sacrifices.

Stood beside him was Wormwood in a long dark robe, silver hair loose down his back. In the angel’s hand was a circular piece of Darklight, or obsidian to the average person.

Stood around the edges of the huge altar facing outward was a line of vampires, like some twisted honour guard. Each one held a long black blade of obsidian in its left hand. Their pale skin reflected the glittering salt, and she realised they were coated in the stuff, though she had no idea why.

She hesitated as she got closer, wondering how she was going to do this. There was no sign of Corso, and they were surrounded by dhampir and vampires. Any move she made now would end in her death before she could reach Wither. She crept closer, with Quel – who was near pissing himself, if dhampir were capable of such functions – right behind her.

All she needed now was for the idiot to give them away. It would be typical when she was so close. Their one chance was if Wormwood died at Corso’s hand, and Wither regained control of the vampires. She didn’t give herself great odds of surviving long enough though. Wither looked barely conscious.

Her hope was Corso stabbing the angel would draw every vampire towards him. However, one thing she knew well, was hope rarely lived up to expectations.

‡

THE FALLEN ANGEL HELD the circular piece of Darklight to his face and a white nimbus developed around him. Myral knew it was spectralic magic, and she ached to be closer to it. The loss of her own was a gaping wound that would not heal.

The vampires, thousands filling the plain, began to chant. The eerie sound filled the ancient mountain cavern, and the salt beneath Myral’s feet vibrated.

Wormwood appeared to breathe on the obsidian disk, and with his breath, a tendril of bright light left his mouth and entered it.

One of the salt-covered vampires turned and took the disk from the angel, who remained as a statue. He did not seem dead, and Myral remembered Corso telling her the angel would need to make use of Wither’s body. It was now she had to act if they were to defeat the angel. Where was that dratted Corso?

The vampire held the disk to Wither’s face, as though forcing him to see his reflection. Wither then jerked and went into a spasm, and Myral almost chose that moment to leap up the dais to his rescue. If not for Quel’s grip on her arm, she might have done.

‘Not yet,’ he whispered, ‘it’s too soon. Too soon. Remember the plan. Wait!’

Wither’s eyes turned up in his head, just the whites visible. He stood unsteadily, turned, and began to draw with his finger in the air. A white swirl of light followed the path of his finger as he sculpted what appeared to be a circular disk filled with smaller circles and symbols. He concluded the odd piece of ethereal artwork by drawing a pentagram within the circle.

Then, it all went wrong.

First the circle began to grow brighter and brighter, but as it did, Wither’s body bled. From his eyes, nose, ears, and mouth, blood oozed and then gushed. Too much for anyone to survive.

The vampires surrounding the altar, raised their blades and then turning in to face Wither, they stabbed him over and over. The entire horde began to chant, their noise deafening.

Of course, Myral, despite knowing it was far too late, was already clambering up the side of the rocky plateau, trying to reach him. So much for Corso’s distraction. She was screaming his name, but no one heard or took notice of her.

As Wither died, tendrils of light exited his wounds and flowed back to Wormwood. As the angel revived, Wormwood turned to stare at Myral with a confused expression. It was then Corso appeared with soul shard in hand behind him.

Quel had vanished by now, but Myral was screeching, her throat raw as she tried with flailing efforts to reach the top. She saw Wormwood take notice of her, but she didn’t care anymore. She knew Wither was dead, but couldn’t accept she’d failed. The vampires were then reacting to something she couldn’t see, and she assumed it was the death of their leader, a grinning Corso stood over the body.

Thus, she found herself alone before the ravaged corpse of her friend. He had been that much at least, if for a short time, but a part of her had loved him too.

Blood flowed from his wounds, congealing beneath his body.

It was in that moment she realised why he’d been named the Red Prince. I was always going to be too late, she thought, feeling helpless. Strangely, she felt no grief, only a general sadness. She had thought she could save him since she couldn’t save Hazine. Now she realised there’d never been hope, not once they’d gotten their claws on him. Besides, it was clear Corso had lied. He’d known Wither could not survive, and had just sought to use her as a distraction while he took Wormwood from behind. She sat down beside him, and lifted Wither’s head to cradle in her lap.

I was a fool, she thought. I couldn’t save either of them, and now I am stuck down here, lost and alone. In that moment, part of her wished to die, and she guessed her wish would be granted soon enough.

She stared at the ravaged body, knowing there was no point to anything. She’d failed in her task for the first time since she’d begun working for Adal. She’d failed, and the world would pay the price.

A persistent tugging at the sleeve of her cloak began to irritate her. She turned with the intention of clubbing the useless Quel. After all, she didn’t need him now. Trying to get out alive was hardly worth the bother.

Instead, she saw what the dhampir was trying to draw her attention to. Wormwood was still alive, angelic soul intact, but poor Lord Corso wasn’t. The dhampir lord’s plan had failed miserably. Held by the neck, Corso dangled, limbs flopping. Every bone in his body appeared broken. With a twist, Wormwood ripped off Corso’s head and tossed it into the sea of vampires. Then, with a last curious look at Myral, he turned away and left this world.

‘Well,’ whispered Myral, stroking Wither’s hair, ‘I guess neither of us got what we wanted, eh, Corso?’

The circular gateway was open. The vampires were marching through it, rank upon rank climbing up the sides of the broad rocky plateau, entering the light after their leader.

They were going to war, a conflict involving the Spectrum itself, vampires, angels and who knew what else. Then a thought occurred, a memory of something Adal had told her.

Stood before her in the city of Keen, he had smiled upon her, and said, ‘My dearest child, you have no idea of your talents. The Spectrum is not finished with you. You serve something greater than any imperium.’

Her task wasn’t done. It was just the beginning, for she still drew breath. Without thinking it through, and without knowing why, she lowered Wither’s head and stood. Then, she grabbed Quel by the arm and dragged him after her, eliciting a squeak of protest. As she passed by where Wormwood had been, a glint of something caught her eye, and she briefly bent down.

Then she too entered the light and another world, for the Spectrum wasn’t done with her.

‡

‘JUST ... TELL HIM ... the truth,’ Pole hissed in Threadfin’s ear, as they lay trussed up like a pair of lambs for slaughter. ‘We’re gonna get ... nowhere fast ... this way, lad.’

Volcanus’ smile returned as the ropes of light tightened. It seemed Pole must’ve passed out then, going silent. Threadfin remained uncomfortably aware as did Beezer.

‘Ah,’ said the Despoiler, ‘now the introductions are complete, we can get down to business. Your friend is correct by the way,’ he added, having overhead. ‘I do dislike dishonesty, which has put you at a disadvantage. Also, I am not known for my patience as you can see.’

‘Please,’ begged Threadfin, having decided begging was in this case warranted, and not at all beneath him. ‘I came here, I mean, we came here for your help.’

‘You came for the Sword. Don’t dissemble.’

The bright cords tightened further around Threadfin, and this time he let out a cry. The bonds of light burned, and there was no escape. His magic was unreachable unless he wanted to let the Grim loose. Lyrin was dead, and Beezer as incapacitated as he was. Not to mention his friend might not survive this. We lost already, and we just found the bastard. Should’ve known this wasn’t going to be easy.

Threadfin thought about it for a moment, and decided honesty was best after all. Well, there was a first time for everything. ‘Okay, yes, I wanted your bloody sword, but not to take it. To use it. I need you to use it, in fact. I need you to stab me.’

Volcanus looked confused. ‘Excuse me? You need what?’

‘It’s a soul shard, isn’t it?’

Volcanus frowned, staring long and hard at him. ‘You’ve hardly earned the right to ask anything of me, no matter how odd the request.’

Well, you’ve at least got his attention. Might as well tell him the rest of it. Where in Hell’s Teeth did Virtue get to? Threadfin growled against the pain of his bonds. Not the first time he’d been caught and bound like this. ‘I’ve a little problem with someone called the Grim, which I was hoping you might rectify. Apparently, you are the only one who can.’

A long pause. ‘Who told you this?’

‘An angel.’

‘Name?’

‘Virtue,’ said a voice from the steps above. Threadfin turned his head a fraction, which hurt, in both surprise and relief, and no small amount of curiosity as to what had taken her so bloody long. What had she been up to? Getting her hair done?

The golden doors of the temple above stood open, and hundreds of angels were issuing forth armed with swords and spears, all with wings of every imaginable hue. Their brightness was not as he had remembered from the battle on the plains of Zalanthya, but they were no less impressive. Ah, so that’s what she was doing, although he had to wonder why. Expecting a battle, are we?

Unfortunately, he didn’t have to wonder long. Twisting his head in the other direction, he noticed something in the distance. A storm thundering across the vast red desert, miles in length hurtling dust high into a tempestuous sky.

‘Vampires,’ Virtue said. ‘They have found us at last, or rather he has.’

With the vampiric horde coming closer, the angels added their own din to the growing tempest, as they lined up to greet their uninvited guests. One angel separated from the others, and descended the steps to join Virtue.

‘Well, well,’ said Adal. ‘Imagine meeting you here, Fin Todder? You do get around I’ll give you that. You know you—’

‘Don’t you bloody say it,’ Threadfin growled, still struggling against his bonds.

‘—always were my favourite.’

‘You had to say it. I don’t suppose you can let us go then, since I’m your favourite?’

Adal shook his head. ‘Volcanus has greater power than I. If he wants to destroy you, I cannot stop him.’

‘Well, fat lot of use you are then. Don’t you have some other poor half soul to annoy?’

Adal looked nothing like Threadfin remembered, and yet both Crawl and Davard were there, in the eyes. A more handsome and youthful face surrounded those eyes now, it had to be said. Not that he was in the least bit jealous. Virals didn’t get jealous.

‘Ah, my daughter,’ said Volcanus, eyes alight with a possessive fire, until he glanced at Adal and they hardened, ‘and my wayward son. You have both been fraternizing with mortals despite my advice otherwise.’

‘Um,’ said Threadfin, trying to nudge his friend back to consciousness. The Darken gave a moan when Threadfin managed to kick him. ‘Does anybody not see the epic battle about to erupt right in front of us, or is it just me?’ However, no one seemed to pay him any attention.

‘Interfering would be an apt description,’ said Adal to his father, with a wry look. He seemed worn down somehow; in a way Threadfin hadn’t noticed before.

Virtue descended the steps to stand next to Threadfin. ‘You owe them, father. You owe them all. The Grim hides within this one’s soul, but he is not Rasnal Nalrost as you knew him.’

‘I second that,’ said Adal. ‘You’ve hidden away for long enough. Your crimes have caught up with you. Let them go.’

Volcanus snarled, and his wings fanned in his agitation. ‘You dare lecture me, son of mine? You abandoned me. You erased my name, demolished my reputation. They falsely called you the First, but you never were. I was the Father of All. What of your crimes?’

Threadfin had seen Adal in a fury, both as Davard Tystrus and as Crawl. He had never seen him like this, though. Adal’s own wings matched his father’s, but something about his bearing and his presence gave him a dangerous edge Volcanus couldn’t match. The mage couldn’t have put his finger on it exactly, but he sensed it.

At his full height, Adal was over seven foot tall, and his body was powerfully built, his eyes alight with fire, with veins pulsing as though filled with liquid flame. ‘Father of the Fallen is what you became, Despoiler. You betrayed all those who had followed you. You damaged existence itself, risked oblivion, and all for greater power. I became the First Angel because you never could be.’

‘It was you Nalrost encountered, wasn’t it?’ croaked Threadfin, figuring it out. ‘When he experimented with his power, seeking the knowledge of the Spectrum. You, Volcanus, and it was you who gave him the Shathra Stone.’

The elder angel did not deny it. ‘I’ve made mistakes, it is true. Now, I seek to rectify them, as I also did then. The Grim must pay, and all he wrought must burn. I am sorry.’ As he spoke, he closed one fist, and a cord of spectralic light entered Threadfin’s mouth and down his throat. He spasmed, feeling the corrosive magic scouring his soul, seeking out the Grim. It began to burn him from the inside out.

He thought he heard pleading, and someone touch him, but he was too absorbed in the pain to be certain.

As it often happened, a stray thought occurred at the oddest of times, and he recalled the Grim’s words to him in the dungeon beneath the Black Palace. He’d been wearing another’s face when he’d said them.

‘The angels themselves couldn’t contain me,’ the Grim snarled, screwing up Haven Tone’s face in a mass of wrinkles and spit. ‘The Despoiler failed too, so what makes you think you undead can do better?’ Volcanus had tried to imprison the Grim, after he had realised his mistake.

Threadfin smiled as he felt his body smoulder. Okay then, you hoary evil bastard, you get your wish. Almost immediately, he felt something stir inside him as he allowed the Grim to touch his magic. Threadfin fought to control how much, but the Grim was like a greedy child with honey cakes. It all happened within seconds of Volcanus’ attack.

Threadfin’s magic burst from him like dark ribbons, whipping the air, tasting it with delight. The cords of light snapped and Volcanus staggered back, the surprise etched into his face a pleasure to behold. It was the viral mage’s turn, but the elder angel rebuffed his efforts, viralic magic rebounding from a shield of light.

Threadfin rose, and with a gesture severed the bonds around Beezer and Pole. Maybe Volcanus would find it difficult with two viral mages to tangle with. Pole just groaned and cursed, rolling over. Beezer glanced at him, then offered a slight nod of gratitude. The older viral got to his feet, hood lowered to reveal a face fresh from the grave. He stared at the elder angel with rage in his eyes.

‘There is no need for this,’ warned Adal. ‘We’re all on the same side here. Todder, I’m warning you to back down.’

Volcanus looked ready to battle, spectralic magic held in his fists. Then the angel turned and took in the ranks of his kin arrayed before the approaching vampiric horde. ‘I am afraid,’ he said sadly, ‘there is no time for atonement, or anything else today.’

‘Actually,’ said Virtue, joining her father’s side, ‘there is time for atonement and nothing else. I will fight by your side.’

‘Then, we must postpone our little discussion to deal with this larger problem.’

‘I still think you are the problem,’ snapped Threadfin, feeling the Grim’s anger feed into his own. He fought hard to hold the other’s presence at bay, but he’d gone and let the Grim loose now. He was barely managing to keep control.

‘Fin,’ said Adal, the all-knowing bastard, ‘you must hold on, my friend.’

Threadfin glared at the oldest of angels, his body filling with power, as he sought to control the Grim’s reach. It was an internal battle none of them could see. To win one fight only to lose the next. Seemed a bit unfair.

Adal placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear. ‘Fight it, Fin. I have faith in you. I always have.’

Volcanus’ expression was dour. ‘We are come to it at last then. I am glad for I am weary, my son, my daughter. I will be glad to an end of it all.’ He glanced back at Threadfin. ‘You are not the only one who seeks the Sword, undead one. I believe your intentions are not dishonourable. I simply lost my temper as I am wont to do.’ He waved a hand as though it was of no consequence. ‘It is the one fighting to take your soul with whom I am upset. However, worse than he now comes.’

‘What’s happening?’ asked Pole, getting to his feet. He looked at Threadfin, eyes popping. ‘Did you know there’s smoke coming out of your nose?’

‘Wormwood is coming,’ Adal explained. ‘The brother of Volcanus has returned to claim the Crystal Sword. For centuries he has searched for it. Volcanus never hid it in the same place for long, but recently he returned it to the place of its making here on Elysium, and Wormwood has found out.

‘This one serves the Darkness, and has from the beginning. Perhaps we are not all friends here, but Wormwood is the enemy of us all.’

‘It was my fault,’ whispered the Despoiler, wings fanning impressively wide. ‘He was young, born mere fractions of a mortal second after I, but he always looked up to me. I corrupted him, more than I ever corrupted myself.’ He looked so old now to Threadfin’s eyes, as though he had aged thousands of years in the space of minutes, his mistakes weighing on him.

The ground at their feet trembled, dirt and stones and then rocks vibrating, lifting into the air. The air was charged with power, as the lightning drew nearer.

And Threadfin saw them.

Thousands, and then tens of thousands. He’d had no idea so many existed. How they’d come to Elysium he couldn’t have guessed, but they had, and leading them was Wormwood. He couldn’t see the brother of Volcanus, but he knew he was there. He could sense him, feel his malice in the crackling air as the horde drew closer.

‘Vampires,’ he whispered, as he attempted to rein in his power, which felt easier than he’d expected, as though the Grim was half asleep or not trying, which was just as well. ‘At least my day can’t get any worse.’

It was then of course, the Grim decided to disabuse him of such hopeful thinking, and fully awaken to claim Threadfin’s mind, body, and soul.

‡

MYRAL WAS ON HER KNEES, blinking away spots in her vision, a roaring sound filling her head. The light was too bright after her time beneath the mountains. She kept blinking, an arm up to shield her face, tears flowing down her cheeks.

She felt the grip of metal in her hand, and knew exactly what she needed to do. Perhaps it wasn’t what Adal had intended, but then who knew what angels thought? She thought she knew what Davard Tystrus might have said and smiled.

‘I don’t know what there is to be happy about,’ a voice griped beside her.

Her vision was improving, and she began to make out a silhouette. Quel had stayed with her. She’d half expected him to run at first opportunity. He was blinking and squinting for all his worth, obviously not enjoying the brightness either.

‘Come on,’ she said, rising to her feet, everything coming into focus. A red world greeted her, and after witnessing the end of the Red Prince, she thought nothing could be more fitting. Rust coloured dust swirled about her in eddies thrown up by spiralling columns of wind brushing the landscape. She turned about, and saw the vortex had vanished.

Guess, I’m trapped here, she thought, but without much feeling. She no longer cared, as she turned towards the disturbing sounds.

A battle was underway, spreading across a vast plain, which dwarfed the salt one she’d just left. In the centre of a vast circular area, and at least several miles distant, was a stone building. A little closer were huge monoliths, blockish in appearance, their function as buildings or as sculptures unclear.

‘This is a mistake,’ announced Quel, at her side, looking pale and out of place in a world above ground, as he stared at the battle. She noted his human features and saw how he might once have been a handsome man.

‘It doesn’t matter. Listen, Quel, you don’t need to stick with me. You can go if you wish.’

‘No,’ he said, pointing. ‘Look at who they are fighting?’

Of course, the vampires had come to fight someone, and Corso had said something about a family reunion. In the distance, she saw a line of winged beings battling to hold their positions in front of the large building, which she realised must have been a temple of some description. An angelic temple.

‘Angels,’ she whispered, thinking of Adal, and then wondering if he was out there somewhere.

The dhampir gave her a forlorn look, licked his lips, and then returned his focus to the buildings and the battle. ‘I’ve no one left, you know. Not a single person in the world above or below, and this isn’t even our world.’ He glanced at her briefly with a shrug. ‘You are all I have, or at least, the closest I have to family.’

Myral didn’t know how she felt about that, but decided against being cruel. There had been enough of that already. ‘I don’t know about family, but how about friends, eh? Stick with me, but don’t get in my way. I’ve a job to do, and then we can leave.’ The leaving part might prove difficult, but she’d find a way.

‘What job?’

‘I’m going to kill Wormwood.’ She lifted the soul shard Corso had dropped and glanced at the blade, which gleamed like blood in the otherworldly light, then set off towards the battle. Somehow, she would stop the vampires, and avenge Wither’s death.

Behind her, Quel gave what amounted to a squeak in answer, and followed.