38 What Matters Most

THE INNERMOST SANCTUM of the angelic temple proved somewhat disenchanting. At least, from a viral’s perspective. It was an old cavern hewn from rock, likely thousands of years ago, and not that big either. Precious stones such as garnets or zircon glittered in the torchlight. Surrounded by four tall metal torch stands, their flames glowing blue, was a tall wide plinth of basalt.

What didn’t disappoint was the artefact itself. Suspended above the plinth as if it weighed nothing was the Crystal Sword.

It caught the light of the flames and the glitter of the gemstones in the walls and ceiling, creating a light all its own. Threadfin approached it in awe. It was the first soul-shard made by Volcanus millennia ago to use in his fight against the Darkness, which he had unwittingly unleashed in his quest for greater power when he’d created the Shathra Stone.

The friends glanced at one another, one living, one undead, but neither spoke. There was a feeling in that place, of age, time, of majesty, and it all emanated from the sword.

At the base of the wide plinth were several steps, which Threadfin climbed until he stood before it. He knew the shard was empty, but he felt a slight pang of fear. A Fallen One named Canaan Pen Luthus had once attempted to steal his soul with a shard, albeit much smaller and far less entrancing.

Now, he thought, I’m the one who’s supposed to steal the Grim’s soul and free Volcanus. Or kill him. How things have turned round about and upside down. His days back in Lame seemed much simpler now, even desirable.

He stretched up and took hold of the hilt. Immediately he felt its weight and adjusted while tugging it free. There was a slight resistance, but nothing went wrong. He had half expected some sort of trap to be sprung, but then why bother? A garrison of angels guarded this temple, and Volcanus himself, not to mention in a world that until recently, no one had known about. Wormwood had been searching the Spectrum for it, though how he’d found out it had returned to Elysium was anyone’s guess.

‘That it?’ asked Pole, watching him, eyes wide as though he expected Threadfin to burst into flames.

‘I guess, it is.’ He climbed back down, wondering how he was going to get close enough to Volcanus and survive. It was the latter bit bothering him most of all. Mages always needed to think these things through.

‘Bit of a let-down, don’t you think?’

‘Thought you didn’t like magic, Pod. In fact, last time I checked, you hated it.’

The Darken shrugged. ‘A thing can grow on a person, can’t it?’

Threadfin almost shrieked in frustration, but managed to hold it in. ‘You decide this now,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘when I’ve got no magic at all?’

‘Yeah, but you see ...’

Threadfin didn’t let him finish, shoving past him, determined to ignore his so-called friend for the next few minutes. Typical. Just bloody typical.

As they made their way back through the corridors and vast chambers, past grand marble, or stone statues, some of ridiculous proportions, past altars, and carved tapestries, they felt the building shudder and groan.

It was hard not to glance upwards, to make sure the ludicrously high ceiling wasn’t coming down on top of them. Going back out the front entrance and into a raging battle didn’t seem all that alluring, but being buried alive, or half-dead depending on one’s persuasion, didn’t seem much fun either.

Choices, he thought. It always comes down to a bunch of unappealing, and quite possibly fatal, choices. Why does it seem like I’m always the one to make them?

As it happened, the choice ended up being made for them. Volcanus, or rather the Grim, stepped into view. He stood thirty feet ahead of them in the huge corridor, forcing them to a halt. There were no right or left turns, just forwards or back.

Volcanus laughed, the Grim’s voice echoing through the temple. ‘It’s thoughtful of you, Todder, to bring it right to me.’ He took a few steps, wings fanning in anticipation, a massive great sword in the angel’s right hand. Volcanus wore a vicious grin, which Threadfin doubted the angel had ever displayed. Rather, a cruel grimace, and all the Grim’s own.

Threadfin and his Darken halted, with the latter tugging free his short sword. What he was going to do with it, Threadfin had no idea. ‘Pod, please, you need to stay out of this. You hear me?’ There was no way either of them could succeed against a Grim-possessed angel, but maybe Pole could survive. If he just listened for once.

‘Wasn’t even thinking about it, lad. Never entered my mind.’

‘I’m serious.’ A terrible feeling in his gut was causing him to tremble. Something wasn’t right, and it wasn’t the Grim this time, but he couldn’t put a finger on it.

‘I know, lad. I know.’ Pole placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘It’s going to be alright. You’ll survive this, Fin. I promise.’

Threadfin lifted the shard, feeling its weight, wondering how he was going to save his friend. For too long, Pole had done the protecting. Now, it was his turn. However, as fate would have it, even when he’d finally made a choice, another chose differently. A hard lesson to learn; as much as he wanted to, he couldn’t control the choices of others. Magic or no.

Podral Pole broke into a run, heading straight for Volcanus with a yell, waving his sword like a lunatic. Threadfin knew what he was doing, of course. A distraction, however brief, to give Threadfin a chance to use the Sword. The stupid, brave, and utter idiot.

Threadfin had paused for two seconds, but then he charged too, several breather’s heartbeats behind his friend. In his withered heart, he knew they were both done for. They couldn’t defeat this foe without magic. His own dragon form slumbered, and though he now thought he felt it’s presence, he couldn’t reach it. It felt different without the Aura, but it was there as Adal had said it would be. Perhaps not all magic was lost to him, but he doubted he’d last long enough to find out.

What happened next became somewhat blurred and chaotic. The Torment, Striga, appeared from nowhere and leapt at Volcanus with a snarl. Pole had reached the ancient of angels by this time, with Threadfin a few steps behind.

Sometimes choices are made, and sometimes there are no choices to make. Just fate, having its bit of fun. Striga’s intervention distracted Volcanus so that his great sword missed Pole, who ducked beneath it. The Darken then stabbed his blade into the angel’s right thigh, driving it in deep right to the hilt.

To Threadfin’s shock, dozens of mongrels then appeared as though from thin air. Worse, they’d arrived dragging bulging hemp sacks of gold and silver items of various sizes and descriptions. By now, he’d halted. He was frozen to the spot, confused. Pole was trying to free his sword, no doubt to use it again, while Striga dug her claws into the angel’s eyes. He remembered then, the last words of a strange poem Tezcat had discovered.

The despoiled children of Volcanus

Forever vowed requite.

Perhaps it had been more of a prophecy. The scarred mongrel children emptied their gold and silver all over the temple floor as though it was playtime, while the injured Volcanus struggled with Striga for control of the great sword, no doubt also a soul shard. The mongrels began to chant, their stubby arms raised so their palms were parallel to the floor. The gold and silver turned molten, congealing before it began to flow towards the feet of Volcanus.

Striga had hold of the dark-haired angel by the neck, his golden eyes bloodied, and in typical Torment fashion sunk her teeth into his ear, ripping it off. Pole, still in the thick of it, had retrieved his sword, and was trying to stab Volcanus somewhere else.

Magic billowed around the Torment in waves of sickly light, which enveloped Volcanus like binding cords, as she yelled at Threadfin to finish it. All the while, the mongrels kept up their chant; the molten metal touched Volcanus’ feet and began to climb. Like some spectator at a macabre theatre, Threadfin had stood there for what had likely been seconds, immobile, though it had felt an eternity.

Now, it was his turn. He rushed forwards and jabbed the Crystal Sword’s tip up into the armpit of Volcanus, where the flesh was exposed beneath the armour. Pole dropped his own weapon and helped him drive it further on through to the angel’s chest. A blinded and wounded Volcanus dropped his own sword, which vanished like smoke. A huge wing swept around to crash into both Threadfin and his Darken. The blow sent them hurtling through the air.

Threadfin hit the temple floor hard and rolled to stop. Shaking his head, the undead mage got to his feet, and rushed back into the battle, trying to avoid the molten metal. He managed to grip the Crystal Sword’s hilt again, this time to pull it out.

The Grim screeched, as Striga kept him bound with her magic, and as the molten metal left the floor and climbed up his stolen body.

Threadfin withdrew the shard, blood tinged with threads of darkness and light coming with it. The soul-shard fed and the blade turned black as night. Volcanus slumped forwards, but the hardening metal prevented him from falling as it reached his chest. Threadfin stepped back to stare at the artefact in his hand.

He felt the power within it. The power of the Aura entwined with the Grim’s soul, and likely an angelic one too.

Striga had let go of Volcanus by this stage. The mongrel chant grew in strength as the molten gold reached the angel’s neck. The circle of mongrels closed in as the metal climbed higher, solidifying as it went. He glanced down at the shard, and decided it best the mongrels didn’t know they were entombing a soulless body.

Threadfin heard someone calling, and looked away from the scene to Striga. He followed her gaze to a prone figure near the far wall.

Without a thought, Threadfin dropped the Sword and rushed to his friend’s side. Podral Pole lay in a twisted heap, both legs and arms broken. His eyes were open as he attempted to gulp in some air. Threadfin knelt beside him, and stroked his friend’s head, trying in vain to comfort him.

The gulping of air ceased, but the eyes remained open, fixed on Threadfin’s face. There were no last words, no begging or pleading. Nothing, but the forlorn stare of death.

Threadfin couldn’t believe it at first. He waited for Pole revive, to come out with some inventive insult, anything. Those eyes just continued to stare.

Two bodies, the first being the most ancient of angels, the second the most gracious and selfless of Darkens. Was one worth more than the other? Were both worth the power of some ancient artefact?

‘He was always a pain in my butt,’ Threadfin found himself muttering, as he cradled Pole’s head in his lap, rocking for no reason he could understand, as though sending his friend to sleep. ‘He’d just started to like magic too, right at the end. Always a real bloody pain in my bony ass, eh Pod? I never got to tell him that, you know. Not properly. Always a bloody pain, he was.’

It had often bothered him that he couldn’t weep for the dead. Such a simple act, but within those tears of the living were memories spilled in honour of those they’d lost.

Striga, however, knelt by his side and did the weeping for him. The mongrels joined them, gathering around and holding hands with their scarred heads bowed. Threadfin was grateful to them, to Striga, for the honour they gave his friend.

He remained there for a long time afterward in a lost world and a forgotten temple, with a golden angel watching over them. He cradled the head of his friend, with some stupid crystal sword lying forgotten on the cold stone.

‡

THE TORMENT STRIGA exited the great temple doors, mongrel retinue in tow. She held a sword of black crystal in her hands. Her siblings were ravaging the vampires, and with the angelic warriors at their side, had turned the tide. Wormwood seeing her with the Sword, turned and fled. He knew when to cut his losses that one.

When the last of them had fallen or had begun to flee, Adal returned to stand over the bodies of his sister and the elder viral, Beezer. Wormwood had slain Virtue after a brief battle. She had ignored Adal’s warnings to stay close and during the melee, he’d lost sight of her. Apparently, Beezer had leapt to her defence, but it had proved too late for them both.

So many lost, family, friends, and strangers, and yet the war raged on. When a lost-looking Threadfin Todder finally emerged from the temple, cradling his dead friend in his arms, the heart of an angel finally broke.

I have asked too much of him, he thought in anguish, knowing there was no way to fix this, no way to make amends. And still, I must ask more of him, for this war one day must end.

Until then, my dear friend, we must fight on. We will remember the fallen, our friends and loved ones, but we must fight on.