39 The Fall of Wormwood

THE BATTLE HAD turned, and not in favour of the vampires. Many had hesitated on the edge of the melee, sensing something wrong with their leader. Wormwood had paused in his attack, and had stared toward the temple.

Then inexplicably, he had turned and fled, tossing vampires aside in his haste to get clear. Of course, with their leader in flight, something these vampires were not accustomed to, the battle became a rout.

Amid a tumble of huge blocks of discarded stone, with strange symbols etched into their surfaces, Myral crouched beside Quel. Wormwood, in his flight, was headed right for them. She didn’t have a plan and didn’t think she stood a chance, but was past caring. A mortal woman, against an angel who commanded a horde of vampires. Not exactly a recipe for success. Glancing at Quel who hid behind the largest block of all, she knew she couldn’t count on any help from allies either.

As Wormwood came closer, she stepped out into view, and stood with feet apart, soul-shard gripped in her right hand.

The angel halted in surprise, before a spasm of anger crossed his face. ‘You dare to oppose me?’

Myral raised the shard, so he could see it clearly. ‘I dare.’

Then the angel laughed, loudly. ‘You can’t defeat me. Step aside, and I’ll let you live. Call it mercy if you wish. I don’t care.’

Myral felt startled, not expecting anything but for Wormwood to barrel over her, killing her in the process. She’d hoped to get in a lucky stab if at all. Then she felt a presence behind her, and half turned to see Adal behind her.

‘I don’t think he’s speaking to you,’ Adal whispered in her ear. ‘You should give me that, and get clear of this place. I will see you home safe afterwards.’

She glanced down at the shard in her hands, but found she couldn’t let go of its grip.

‘You are a fool, Adal,’ said Wormwood. ‘You always were.’ Some of the surviving vampires had gathered about their leader, while some fled. ‘You play too many foolish games with these mortals, and forget who and what you are. For your temerity, I will kill this human female, and make you watch.’

Quel, of course, chose the wrong moment to become a hero. He could have had any moment he’d wanted, but for some reason, he’d chosen the most ridiculous.

Leaping out from hiding with a cry, the dhampir took Wormwood by surprise, but that was as far as it went. A dark wing, hardened to steel, cleaved through Quel’s torso, slicing the dhampir in half.

A commotion rippled through the vampires nearest him as they backed away. Wormwood twisted around to see a viral with a shining black sword in his hands. A sword-like crystal of darkness, but this undead one was no vampire. The Torment Striga followed behind.

A snarling Threadfin Todder struck at Wormwood with the sword, but the angel managed to block it with one wing. A few blows of his own, and Wormwood knocked the artefact from Threadfin’s grasp sending the mage onto his back. The angel moved to destroy the viral, but Adal was there in an instant, grappling with him, thundering wings throwing up a cloud of red dust.

It was all the time Myral needed. Reaching the distracted Wormwood, she ducked beneath their violent wings, and drove the shard into his side under his arm where he was not protected as well by armour. He bellowed, and as she withdrew the blade, it pulled with it a tendril of bright light.

Wormwood collapsed to his knees, Adal holding him. ‘I’m sorry, uncle,’ Myral heard him whisper. ‘It always had to be this way.’

The light eventually ceased and the shard felt heavier in her hand. Adal lay Wormwood’s body gently down, and then turned towards Threadfin, saying something she didn’t bother to listen to. She turned and walked away, not knowing where to, and not caring over much. She’d done what she’d come to do.

‘And where are you off to?’ demanded a voice, which brought her up short. Adal was stood before her, blocking her path, having moved faster than lightning apparently. One of his many abilities.

She glanced at the shard, feeling sadness and most of all, feeling tired. ‘I’m sorry,’ she offered. ‘I failed you.’

‘Did you?’

She glanced up at him, and saw the same smug know-it-all look Davard Tystrus used to have. ‘I don’t understand. I was to find Wither, and help regain control of the vampires. I failed. Wither is dead.’

Adal stepped closer, and slowly reached out to take her free hand in both of his. ‘Myral Azarm, I told you once I cannot envisage all ends. I am an angel, but even I do not know all of what is to come. I know what might be.’ He then gestured for her to look back towards the temple.

She did and gasped. Encircled by the angels, were most of the surviving vampires, but not a seething hissing vicious horde. Each of the survivors who hadn’t fled, knelt on one knee, and all were staring towards Myral.

‘I, I don’t understand,’ she said, although she was beginning to. ‘This was Wither’s legacy.’

Adal touched her hand, the one holding the shard. ‘You said he stole your magic to control the vampires. Did it ever occur to you, that if it had been his legacy in truth, he’d have possessed the power to control them without you? Why would he have needed your magic at all?’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Myral, the vampires were never his. I didn’t know it before, but I know it now; they were yours. Look at them; even they know it.’

Without realising what she was doing, perhaps moving on instinct, she walked back towards the kneeling horde remnant, the angelic guards moving aside to let her pass. They appeared beaten, lost, and yet in those vicious blood-thirsty eyes, she saw hope as they gazed up at her. She remembered now those vampires who’d visited her in the pit, and realised they had not been threatening her at all.

Adal stepped up beside her, and said, ‘Cut yourself.’

‘What?’

‘With the shard. You want your magic back, don’t you? Cut yourself.’

Hesitating for a moment, she decided to trust him. After all, she’d come this far. The blade of the shard proved terrifically sharp, as she sliced the fleshy part of her left palm. Blood dripped from her hand, but then she noticed a light leaking from the shard, and into the wound.

And that was when she felt it. Her magic, and then she felt them. The vampires, their voices whispering to her.

‘Wormwood stole your magic from Wither with that blade,’ said Adal. ‘When you killed Wormwood, the blade absorbed back that magic along with his soul. Now it is returned to you. The vampires belong to you now. You don’t know your family history, do you? No, I thought not. From what I could learn, both you and Wither shared the same ancient ancestor. Your blood is also that of a Vanthyr, Myral, no matter what your name is. Of course, your mother’s name was Scatter, an old friend of mine in fact. Her angelic name was Linuncia.’

‘She was no angel.’

Adal sighed. ‘You never knew her, Myral, but she loved you. This much, I know. However, her calling was something far greater than motherhood. You have angelic blood, my dear, and you too have a calling. Your magic is angelic in nature as all spectralic magic is.’

‘What are you saying? I’m some sort of Nephilim?’

He nodded. ‘Not all Nephilim are giants, Myral. Some look quite ordinary, and don’t even know their true nature. Great things are expected of you. However, your path is ultimately yours to decide.’

She stared upon the vampires, feeling them in her mind, knowing they would do anything she asked. Anything at all. The power she felt was nothing like she’d ever experienced. All those times she’d entered the minds of rodents and birds, she’d been practicing. For this.

‘I guess now you’ve got it back,’ said Adal, ‘all you need to do is decide what you’re going to do with it.’

Myral smiled for the first time in many days, feeling the warmth of her new role. She knew exactly what she was going to do. With a silent command, she turned away from Adal and his angels, and led her silent host from the battlefield. No one else would die here this day, not for Wormwood, not for Adal.

They were hers now. Her new family, and one thing Myral Azarm knew for truth, was family always stuck together. Something her mother had never learned.

‡

SOMETIME LATER, ON the outskirts of Icarthya, within the foothills of the Wunn Mountains, Threadfin stood alone. His black robes flapped about him in a cold easterly wind. A wrapped bundle, bound with hemp rope lay on the ground before him. There was a popping sensation as the air about him shimmered and the familiar landscape transformed.

‘You are most welcome,’ said Mania, stood before him in a blasted landscape, devoid of all life. There seemed to be no air not that any of the them needed it. The ground was black rock heaped in massive folds as far as the eye could see. The sky above was red and orange, as three suns began to set. One of their infamous memory fragments no doubt.

‘I wouldn’t go as far as that, sister,’ said Manic.

‘A tragedy.’

‘An inevitability.’

‘Nevertheless,’ said Mania stepping forwards to take Threadfin’s hands in hers, ‘he is in great pain this one.’

‘I know,’ said Manic in a near ecstatic whisper, closing his eyes. ‘I can taste it.’

The viral said nothing as he jerked his hands away from hers. He gestured at the wrapped bundle at his feet.

‘Ah,’ said the female shraed. ‘You have kept your side of the bargain then.’

‘Wonders do exist, I suppose,’ said her brother with a sniff. ‘Best we examine the goods first, sister. These undead creatures are swindlers at the best of times.’

Threadfin took a step back, as Manic unwrapped the Crystal Sword without touching it. Its black crystalline blade reflected the reddish sky as though it contained blood, but what it held was far more terrible.

Mania then bent to retrieve it. She held it flat in her hands as she lifted it to eye level. ‘Ah, yes, truly it does contain a soul. In fact, it contains two.’

‘Is one of them him?’ demanded Manic.

‘Undoubtedly.’ She lowered it as her brother produced a long spiral cylinder-type object, touching it to the swords tip. Both shraeds began to whisper, a low chant with meaningless words. The blackness of the sword appeared to flow into the cylinder, it turning a dark ruby colour.

Mania smiled, handing back the Sword, hilt first to Threadfin, it’s blade clear and bright again. ‘It is my suspicion you will have need of this in the weeks and months to follow. The angelic soul within is more powerful than anything I’ve come across. Combined with the Aura, this is a truly remarkable weapon.’

Threadfin took hold of the hilt, feeling uncertain if he wanted it. ‘And my sister’s soul?’

Mania bowed her head, and her form began to darken until it appeared she consisted of hundreds of snakes constantly devouring one another. She whispered again, and a gigantic figure bound in chains appeared beside her.

The Librarian looked cowed, with the head named Sigos blubbering incoherently. The larger head of Enep seemed resigned, as he adjusted his spectacles. With a snap of their fingers, a ghostly menagerie appeared behind them. Spirits of all shapes and sizes, of all manner of creatures, most of whom Threadfin had never seen before, though they included humans too.

One of the latter stepped forwards from the mass, and Threadfin recognised her face.

Aiyana.

She smiled on sight of him, but he found he could utter no words. What comfort for the dead? It appeared she could not speak to him either, though she came close enough he could almost touch her. Had she not been a ghost of course.

Then her form dissolved, floating upwards as it did.

‘It is done,’ announced Enep with a slight quaver of his voice, and perhaps a note of anticipation.

‘Release them all,’ Threadfin ordered.

Enep frowned, and Sigos squeaked, but it was Mania who spoke. ‘That was not part of the bargain we struck.’

‘What is it to you two?’ the viral mage demanded.

‘There are matters you know nothing about, mage.’

Threadfin stared down the twin heads of the Librarian, Orthrus. ‘Release them all, or you will never be set free. Do it now, for I have no patience left. Do it now, and I may not chop off one of your heads to make a point.’

Both heads shut their eyes in concentration and then with a double snap of their fingers, all the spirits dissolved as Aiyana had done.

‘Release the prisoner,’ he instructed the sibling shraeds, ‘and please return me to my world.’

With a glance from Mania at the Librarian, the chains fell away. A dark look, filled with promise filled Enep’s gaze, though the smaller head just seemed eager to get away. They shimmered, and then vanished.

‘You may have trouble with Orthrus in the future,’ said Mania, who now held the black cylinder, examining it. ‘You should have killed him.’ She lifted the cylinder in one hand. ‘Aren’t you curious what we’re going to do with this? Don’t you want to know where your sister’s soul has gone to?’

Threadfin turned away. ‘Return me to my world, shraed, and never bother me again.’ He would have used the Aura’s ability contained within the blade, but he didn’t know how.

As the blasted landscape shimmered and transformed into one that was familiar, he heard Mania and Manic discussing him.

‘Does he seem different to you?’ asked the male shraed. ‘Not once did he insult us.’ He sounded offended of all things.

‘There is a wretched darkness within him,’ agreed his sister. ‘A darkness that may yet be the undoing of us.’

‡

SHIP AFTER SHIP DOCKED at the port of Icarthya, disgorging all manner of people. Many wore dumbfounded expressions with some looking frightened or resigned. Some wore rich garb if somewhat soiled or damaged, while others were garbed in nothing but rags, all mingled together, the idea of class or position forgotten. Many were from Keen, Tage and Nynt, a few from Zalanthya or from the southern continent of Eladaldor.

Artorius Agrippa stood with several of his officers, watching the flood of refugees, wondering where in the name of the Spectrum above they would find places for everyone. With the constant arrival of virals into the capital too, the city was close to bursting. There had already been numerous fights and arrests, with his soldiers working overtime to keep the peace.

Severo stood beside him, his expression grim. ‘Few of them are Vegoian,’ he remarked, eyes roving through the crowd, searching.

Artorius had grown to like the man, though he knew little about him. They had becoming friends after a fashion, but Severo kept his secrets close. ‘She’ll come,’ he said, not knowing what else to say. ‘Might be, she’s on the next ship. You’ll see.’

But Severo shook his head. ‘No, no, Vegoia is gone, and so is she.’ He turned and walked away from the docks with head bowed.

Something told Artorius that he would not see the man again. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to lose one’s homeland, and the woman he loved.

He stared at the mob of arrivals, at the fear in their eyes, the shock and sadness. ‘Somehow,’ he whispered to himself, ‘I think we’re soon going to find out.’

‡

THE CIPIUS CONCLAVE wasn’t at all what Sarscha had expected. A building smaller than the original, which a younger Astra Dar had destroyed. Much of the restoration of the Pleth Quarter was near completion, as were the works in the Muck and further beyond in the wider imperium. The primes of Byrsa had settled down, and commerce, trade and wealth had begun to return there too. Of course, the arrival of refugees complicated matters, but she had full confidence in her imperial marshal to handle it.

All with the money from Creed’s Forum, discovered hidden deep within the zorast’s former temple, right in the heart of Icarthya. Tens of millions of gold dralans. They had yet to complete a full count of the hoard. Although with the work required throughout the imperium she wondered how long before it was all spent.

Four dozen greencloaks, along with her imperial mages, followed the imperatrix’ assent up the new steps. Tezcat Licolo had become a close confidant as well as a friend, and her brother had proven himself. She owed Threadfin much, not that she’d tell him. There was still a distance between them, a gap she hoped to one day bridge and regain some sense of family.

Her main advisor was also a step behind her. Paladin Ralan, otherwise known as the Son of Grim. She had some feelings towards him she had yet to reconcile with. She did note Tezcat had a close bond with him too, though what type of bond she didn’t yet know. She would have to tread carefully there.

Of course, politically, Ralan was very useful. He was a link to the Nephilim king in the south, and such connections couldn’t be ignored. Not to mention his connection to the Torments. It would be her official story if matters progressed, not that she needed to explain herself. As she climbed, she thought of their kiss after the events below the pantheon. Brazen and beyond all decorum, but she could not deny how right it had felt.

Imperial Marshal Artorius Agrippa walked on her other side, a constant comforting presence now Raziel was gone. She had learned of the angel’s death after ascending from the depths of Creed’s pagan temple, still reeling from that kiss. Raziel had perished while killing the witch Angrboda, and she had wept in private afterwards. It had unnerved her, thinking an angel could die, and she wondered how she could possibly see her imperium through the war to come.

The building work on the new Conclave had been completed in the past week, the final touches finished the day previous. A painted life-size statue of Markus Cipius stood outside the main entrance at the top of the broad marble steps. On the opposite side, another honouring her late father, Markus Olen. She continued climbing, staring at the statues. She hadn’t known about them, and no one had asked her permission.

‘It doesn’t even look like them,’ she muttered, although she knew that wasn’t quite true. She recognised enough from the sculptures to know who they were supposed to be. ‘They got the chin of my father wrong, and the eyes of Markus. He had such a great presence in life. Didn’t he?’

Her new Darken leaned in as she paused halfway up the seventy steps. ‘The eyes are the hardest to achieve,’ Ralan said. ‘Windows into the soul.’

‘That’s not helpful, you know.’ She stared for a moment longer at the likeness of her old friend and rival, and then at her father, a man she’d never really known. There was no statue of Tame Vara, a woman she’d loved more than life, and none of Pint Little. No sculpture of Raziel, or of her sister’s Darken, Cathya Shivar. None of Podral Pole, her brother’s Darken. I shall have to remedy that. Yes, a new pantheon, built with Creed’s gold, to commemorate the real heroes. There were plenty of parks in Icarthya where she could have it built. ‘Who commissioned these?’

Tezcat shoved forward to reach her. ‘I heards it were Creed what ordered them. I suppose she meants somethin’ by ’em.’

Sarscha stared at them for a long moment, wondering if she should order them torn down. No, leave them stand, for the men they represent were also heroes in their own way, both fallen to this wretched darkness in different ways.

‘Yes,’ said Ralan, ‘it was likely her, but I was not aware of it either. Most of the construction was completed before her disappearance. A message to you, perhaps?’

‘Yes,’ said Sarscha knowing it for the truth, ‘but whatever message she was trying to send will go unheard.’

‘A lot moves unseen,’ she then added as they reached the top, ‘directed from the shadows. We must all be careful in the days and months ahead.’

‘A den of vipers,’ agreed her brother, the first words he’d spoken in over a month. The poor man was forlorn, and had spent most of his time alone in his tower with just the mongrel Nipper for company. They’d had a small private funeral for his friend at Threadfin’s request, and he had stood there alone long after the pyre had become nothing more than ashes.

The imperatrix entered the conclave, through a door set between towering fat pillars of stone. Inside, the main entrance hall was floored in marble, the walls depicting friezes in white plaster, with gold and silver leaf. It may well have been a smaller building than the original, but it had been built at a greater cost.

My dear sister once did battle in this spot, even if it was a different building. I can hope to be half as daring and as clever. Politics had been a skill of Aiyana’s whether she’d known it or not, a talent Sarscha had never fully appreciated until now.

She had discovered in the palace library many books her sister had read, with notes left stuck between pages or parchment. Books on all things political, on history and the otherworldly, on all things related to the imperium, and on military strategy too, which had surprised her, also on banking and on any number of topics.

I can but hope to match your intelligence, your quickness of thought, Aiy. I’m sorry I never gave the time to get to know you. I’m sorry for a lot of things. I’m a soldier, a leader of men and women, but on the battlefield. Not in this place. In conclave, the rules were different and she didn’t claim to know them. However, she had survived being imperatrix this long. She could survive a gaggle of competitive, conniving politicians.

She allowed two dozen of the Imperial Guardians, all in green cloaks, to lead the way inside. The captain of the guard announced her and she wasted no time in striding into their midst. Her advisors moved to their seats on the right of the imperial seat and opposite the conclavists.

She walked towards the Imperial Seat, noting it looked exactly as it had done in the original building. Positioned atop a small dais, it was shoved partly out of the way in a small domed apse at one end of the chamber. She saw that the marble benches of the conclavists sat a little higher too. It seemed Paladin Creed had invested a lot of effort in the new construction, perhaps imagining a new butt on the throne too.

Sarscha climbed the few steps, turned, and sat. At once, discussion amongst the gathered politicians broke out, until one of them with a shrill voice ordered everyone to silence. Lucius Aidarius did not look well, his body so thin it was beyond belief he could stand. How had he climbed all those steps? Few faces gazing at her were recognizable, but then so few of the patrician families had survived Liviana Avitus’ coup, and the recent events when the risen dead had roamed the streets.

Paladin Benedict rose, a newly appointed leader to replace Creed, and began to speak.

And now it begins, thought Sarscha feeling that old calmness she’d always known as battle commenced. Up to that point, all nerves and confusion, but everything settled into place once the action started.

It was just a different type of war. As she glanced across at her undead brother who stared back expressionless, she began to feel right at home.

The imperium was at war, and its imperatrix wouldn’t have had it any other way.

This Ends

A PLAGUEBORN NOVEL BOOK 4