17​ Delicious Death

A FEW STEPS INSIDE the sanctum’s entrance, and Petraeus halted. There was the sound of fighting and cries from the hallways behind. The stench of smoke filled his nostrils. The dark wooden doors carved with wings, stood open and unguarded, the fire bowls and torches lit. Shadows danced across the thick stone columns lining the way to a broad staircase.

The rebellion had found a new name in the Exemplars. A military cult born of hatred and fear, it would grow and become a bulwark against the so-called horrors of the undead. It was a cult with a founder. He sought her here in the depths of the Black Palace. The dungeons were located beneath his feet, and yet stepping through those doors he felt already trapped.

The stairs ahead spiralled upward.

Petraeus knew her, oh yes, and not just in her current form. A devourer of souls, she sucked the heart of many dry, worse than any vampire. He’d known this day would arrive, and had ensured matters were taken care of, albeit in an unconventional manner.

Then again, he thought, as he climbed the staircase; there was a window to his right, high and bright in the morning sun. When have I ever done anything the easy way? No, to be unannounced and unseen, to be unexpected—these were essential in the war to come. A conflict he wasn’t certain anyone could win, but one he would see through. Some fights were worth it, the importance in standing one’s ground, immovable and undeterred no matter the outcome.

At the top of the stairs, there were grotesque statues in a much older interpretation of the angelic form lining a corridor. These depicted indolence and sexual depravity. At the end of the long passage was a set of open ironbound wooden doors. No guards to protect this sacred place today. The sanctum was a towering shrine dedicated to the angels. It was always guarded. Within it there were other statues, but of a different sort; angels carved from black basalt with wings swept upwards, hands resting on sword hilts. The tip of each stone weapon rested in the flames of squat blackened hearths. Their faces appeared mangled, and monstrous. Petraeus knew the origin of those depictions, knew both the lies and truths told in effigies of stone.

A woman in a gold dress stood at the sanctum’s heart before an altar five feet high. She stood alone but for a single corpse at her feet. Xanthus lay sprawled, blood pooling on the cold granite beneath him.

‘Ah, Petraeus,’ said Antipa with a welcoming smile, ‘you are just in time. I do enjoy punctuality, more than efficiency at times.’

Ignoring her, Petraeus stared at his friend’s body. Though he would not please her by showing his distress, inside he wept. He’d known Xanthus would not succeed, but then so had Xanthus. The Darken’s death had been a formality, the completion of a contract and nothing more. He could not have gone on living, not with his imperator dead in such a manner.

‘Oh, yes,’ she said with a gesture at the corpse, as though she’d forgotten it. ‘Such a dreadful conclusion to matters, don’t you agree? However, I do despise belligerence. Imagine: this cretin actually wanted to murder me.’

‘A pity he failed.’

‘Oh now, that is not polite.’

‘I know who and what you are—both you and your sister.’

She gave him an unreadable look, cocking her head. Then, she raised a bloodied finger to tap her chin. ‘You know, I’ve decided I don’t appreciate intelligence either. Far too inconvenient, interfering when I least need it. I imagine Xanthus here was of such a disposition, or was it you who enlightened him? If the latter, then his death is on you, is it not? Oh, how will you live with yourself?’

‘You know who I am. You’ve known for a while now. So enough with the games.’

‘But I so enjoy playing.’

‘I do not.’

She smiled. ‘Do you think to stop me? It is much too late for such bother. I know your power, ancient one. Astra Dar’s memories are mine, after all.’

‘Not all of them.’

‘Oh, really, and what would you know about it? Even one such as you cannot know the depth of my power.’

‘For one thing, if you had all her memories, you would be fleeing from me. An ancient spell, a fragmented soul. Correct, so far? Nalrost’s lover, a spectral mage of such power that he feared as much as loved her. You see, I do not know everything, but I do know you are not her. Not yet. I know her memories are scattered across time. Two fragments of her soul born as sisters. You two are not the first, and you won’t be the last. I tell you now, Antipa, neither of you will succeed.’

She scowled and her gown glowed. Tendrils of blue and white lightning whirled about her. The display of magic was breathtaking as it climbed, transforming her dress into blazing blue. She clapped her hands once, and the lightning shot out towards him.

Petraeus’ own power responded, and a barrier formed without thought. What came next, he did not expect, however. Her magic, crackling and spitting, blended with his own. He felt a wrenching of his gut as she stole his power, and used it against him. An impenetrable wall, born of both their powers separated them. He could see her through a rippling surface snapping with energy, but he could no longer reach her.

‘But you see,’ she said in a soft voice, ‘I do remember you, Eleventh Torment. An unusual title that, especially for one such as you. I understand even the other Torments do not accept you. You must tell me that tale one day. No, I don’t remember everything, it is true, but I remember enough. I do not intend to challenge one such as you to a duel. I am not a fool.’

‘You,’ he said, ‘are far too powerful for a single soul fragment, far more than your sister.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. Rade and I are about equal in that regard I would imagine, but not when it comes to viciousness. In that discipline, I outstrip her.’

Studying her, he realised that while she was still Antipa, she also was not. ‘You are more her, than you should be.’ It wasn’t a full circle; it was too soon for that by several centuries, but it was closer than last time. Antipa was indeed very dangerous. It meant that each fragment of Astra’s soul yet to be reborn, until the final fragment, would become stronger—until at last, the sorceress was reborn.

‘My dear Petraeus—ugh, such a horrid name. Couldn’t you come up with anything better? I did so love that other one. Adal, yes. Now that one suited you. I don’t have anything against you, Adal. In fact, I’m rather fond of you. My memories tell me that much. However, I cannot have you upsetting my plans. You do have a penchant for the over dramatic once every few hundred years, but then you are an angel after all. Overdramatic is what defines your kind. You and I could be so good together, but alas ...’

‘What afflicts me is a conscience, but you don’t have one of those.’

She laughed as she knelt beside Xanthus’ body. She moved the Valtari onto his back. Unstrapping the coin studded cuirass under his robes, she exposed the leather jerkin. With the aid of a dagger, she ripped it open to show the man’s chest. ‘You know, I was surprised when he came for me. Of all the possibilities, I never suspected him as my grandfather’s Darken. To let the old man die, and without lifting a finger, how terrible. Don’t you agree?’

He obeyed his imperator right up to the end. What more could Tolan Laman have asked of him? He’d witnessed the pain in his old friend’s eyes, seen what stepping aside had cost him. It would have proven easier to have died at his master’s side. No, Antipa, you hoary old bitch, you will never understand loyalty. There are too few men like him in this world. Far too few.

Petraeus ignored her while he tested the barrier for weakness. Because a portion of the barrier contained her magic, and she was the one who’d woven this wall of power, it resisted his efforts. It should not have been possible.

‘Oh, I am certain he had his reasons, but his ridiculous attempt to kill me ... well, it was churlish.’ She glanced over at Petraeus with a frown. ‘He knew he couldn’t succeed. So then, why did he bother?’

She began humming in a low nasal tone as she worked. Before long, she had completely eviscerated the corpse. Removing the liver, she took a breath, and then bit into the chewy mass. The stories among mortals always said it was the heart, a ritual performed by haggard witches with warts on their noses. The heart was in fact useless, but the liver held power.

Having eaten what she could stomach, without regurgitating it, she cast the rest aside. She wiped at her bloodied mouth. Picking up her dagger, she sliced deep into the belly of her right forearm, following the track of a dozen other wounds. Blood welled, dripping onto the cold flags. Within the Black Palace were walls dating back centuries, walls of what had once been a Necropolis. They held power, for locked within them were the souls of countless dead. Not that she wanted them, of course. No, Petraeus knew it was the dead of a different sort she summoned.

A swarm of beetles erupted from the body. Hundreds and then thousands, until they became a seething mass. Ethereal forms crept from the dark recesses of the chamber. Some of those took shape, first as writhing masses of beetles, and then as men in red cloaks and armour. She continued the resonating tone, lulling them, and once they were near, she swiped her dagger through the remainder in a single fluid motion. She did not get them all, for there were far too many, but enough to matter. The survivors shrieked in rage, and a number of them collided with the magical barrier. They saw Petraeus and screeched for his help.

Dozens of wights now resided within the minute folds of her blade. A soul shard, it was an ancient angelic weapon. The others would not dare touch her, though he knew they cared nothing for her. She pointed the blade at Petraeus, and the other wights turned their regard upon him.

‘Kill him,’ she whispered, ‘destroy him, body, and soul. The Eleventh Torment in the eleventh hour, oh, and my sister claimed I have no appreciation for poetry.’

Bound to their new mistress, the angel dead followed her as she left, leaving half a dozen of the red cloaked so-called guardsmen. Within each of them were at least a dozen wights, if not more. The barrier dropped with a snap that sent Petraeus sprawling.

The redcloaks advanced.

***

ANTIPA TODRALAN EXULTED in the slaughter, in the deliciousness of death. Astride her personal mount, a white sydarag barded in gold, she swept her army of wights through the city. They cleansed the metropolis of the undead and all who supported them.

The wights surged as beetles into cracks and crevices, seeking out prey, or as a mist beneath doors, through shuttered windows. Some marched as flesh and bone, red cloaks the colour of blood. No matter what form they took, the angel dead proved unstoppable.

Virals revealed themselves at times, their dark sorcery hurled in her direction. Oh, they knew the source of their destruction, and it pleased her. It wasn’t until she reached the southern half of the city that her smile faltered.

Reports had already reached her of an army beyond the walls, gathered to oppose her. Adal was surely behind this, the meddling old fool.

Her grandfather’s legions, peppered with young mages barely capable of using their power. Apprentices to their elders, these should have served centuries before becoming full mages. Individually, they were like gnats she swatted aside, but unified they offered resistance.

So be it, she thought. Let them see my power. Let them know me. Let them see and cower in terror of their new imperatrix.

As she exited the southern gates to face the enemy arrayed against her, her wights rushed to meet them. The dozen or so mages within their ranks lashed out like children with stones. She batted aside their feeble attempts. Did the fools think they could win? She targeted those mages. Spears of lightning lanced each one through the mush they called brains, exploding skulls. There were more than there should have been. Beezer, the old rotting crow, must have hidden them outside the city with several legions. She now smelled the imperator’s hand in it too, for there was no way such a secret could have been kept from her.

She gathered her strength, and sent it into the earth beneath the enemy force. It was time to end this. Rock and black soil erupted in fountains streaked with blood and mangled armour. She struck again, and again. An end at last to her grandfather’s stupidity. The wights waded through the survivors, slaying in gleeful rage.

She dismounted as several of the enemy had the audacity to reach her position, bloodied and staggering. She might have admired their persistence, their courage, had she had a mind for such things. She strode into their midst and with the soul shard, dealt eternal damnation. The wights within the blade fed on their blood, strengthening the weapon further.

A black cloud had formed over the remaining imperial force. Billowing with snaps of lightning, the cloud loomed closer.

It was then, Antipa realised her mistake.

They had sacrificed themselves to distract her, positioning their weakest mages within the main force. Too late, she spotted a concentration of over two dozen undead gathered well behind the main body, many of them possessing greater power if not quite to old Beezer’s level. They were on a hill and until this moment, hidden from view within a grove. She should have sensed them, but the smell of blood, the scent of victory at hand had been intoxicating.

The black cloud of viralic power loomed over her. A storm of magic formed of their collective effort rushing towards her like a hurricane. Silently, she bid her enslaved wights to attack the treeline, and they obeyed.

With her waning strength, she attempted to shield herself. The barrier held for a matter of seconds, before imploding and the cloud descended.

She ran to her mount, leaping onto its back, and turned about to flee behind the city walls.

As the last mages succumbed to her wights, their counter attack struck as she raced through the gates.

Wall, gate, mount, and rider disintegrated in a wave of coruscating magic only the undead could appreciate.

***

PETRAEUS’ LEATHER SHOES made a crunching sound as he stalked across the room. The remaining two wights had spread out, forcing him to choose. Drawing deep on the furnace within his soul, the Eleventh Torment fanned the flames of his wrath. His stature became twice his normal size, wings ripping his clothing as they emerged.

In his hands was a broad sword of flame, hilt to tip. This sword had already cut down the others, had set aflame beetles by the millions. Their blackened bodies littered the chamber, sizzling, cooked in their own juices.

These angel dead had seen their brethren receive a final death. They now understood they did not face a mortal human, but something worse. A living angel. They did not know how to fight back. They knew only hate and rage at their own deaths, for angels were supposed to be immortal. They had suffered further humiliation with their enslavement to Antipa. Now they were being slain by one who reminded them of what they’d once been. He could see it in them. It was too much.

Petraeus paused before the cowering duo. Mercy quenched the flames of both his sword, which evaporated like smoke, and his anger.

‘Get gone,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Find a quiet corner of the Spectrum and bother no one. If we meet again, I will not hesitate to destroy you. Antipa is dead,’ he added, having sensed her end, ‘and her hold over you is ended. Know my mercy, but never forget my wrath. Get gone!’

The wights, their forms a sickening combination of beetles and flesh, needed no further encouragement. They fell apart and vanished.

Petraeus, or Adal as he was less commonly known, diminished to a more mortal appearance, his wings retracting inside the flesh, the wounds sealing over. He vacated the sanctum. He was too late to save the undead, to save his friends. Perhaps though, he was not too late to save the world.