‘. . . an inscription?’ Chaar asked. They waited for the Dark Angel’s reply.
‘It is in Arana,’ Raven said. ‘The Spider Tongue.’
‘Translate,’ Ett commanded in his broken whisper.
‘Arana is a language long lost to us,’ Raven said quietly.
There was a silence, a long one.
‘You would play games with us?’ Lima asked, bending her head to one side. Raven glared at her, standing his ground.
‘Oh no, sister,’ Exi said with relish. ‘He’s baiting us. The Angel wants to know how we know.’
‘Irrelevant,’ Ett said.
‘Are you a fool?’ Lima asked Raven. ‘You know we are Tantrics, Dark Angel. We whisper to the other side.’
‘I would like to know which Demon was brave enough to tell you,’ Raven said, ‘so it may learn the taste of my blade.’
‘I doubt you can reach this one,’ Exi said, his voice toying. ‘Even if you did gather the will to cross the River again. You see, this one is quite . . .’
‘. . . old,’ Chaar completed. ‘Ancient. Locked away.’
‘Sounds like an Elder,’ Raven said. ‘Interesting.’
‘The Angel is clever,’ Dos spoke. ‘Such cleverness should be rewarded.’
‘Let us tell him what we know, then,’ Lima said. ‘A fitting reward, the past he runs from.’
Raven took in a deep breath. ‘I do not wish to hear it again,’ he said.
‘The Creator cast you down, across the River, as punishment for your betrayal of the Angel Order,’ Exi said smugly, ‘along with three of your brothers.’
‘Down in the darkness,’ Drei said.
‘Whispers,’ Ett said.
Raven grit his teeth.
‘Yes, whispers,’ Lima said. ‘Whispers in your ears, the only thing in the darkness, the only thing you could hear other than the quiet.’
‘The deathly quiet,’ Drei said.
‘The Serpent’s whispers,’ Exi said. ‘I would like to think you knew it was the Serpent, yet you chose to hear. You were told things . . .’
‘. . . many things,’ Chaar said.
‘Things forbidden. The secret language Arana. The secrets of the Creator, corrupting your God before your eyes,’ Exi said.
‘We do not know why you chose to escape,’ Lima said. ‘Neither do we care. But you bore the mark. Your wings will forever remember the fires of Hell as you flew, as you flew.’
‘A desperate flight,’ Drei said.
‘A long one,’ Exi said. ‘As you lay in the hall of the Creator, begging for mercy, he knew what you knew now. The secrets . . .’
‘. . . the embarrassments,’ Chaar murmured.
‘You will not break me,’ Raven said, breathing deep.
‘You were already broken,’ Exi said, ‘when your fabled Creator put on you the cloth of silence, forcing you to keep to yourself what you had seen, what you had heard.’
‘The silence of a lifetime,’ Drei said.
‘And none may ever see your lips again,’ Lima quoted.
No one spoke then. The Seven watched Raven as he stood before them, his black wings folded.
‘You do not own me,’ Raven said at long last.
‘Your Creator owns you,’ Dos said. ‘You and your Angel Order. You know of the deal we have with him.’
‘It won’t be an expression of a weak ambition, therefore, to say that we own you,’ Exi said. ‘Through our deal.’
‘We control your Creator,’ Lima said. ‘He will listen to whatever we say, the pathetic old man.’
‘Do not insult him!’ Raven roared, breaking the low tone of the conversation, his voice ripping through the night. The Seven exchanged brief glances among themselves, except for the seventh, who spoke for the first time.
‘A creator who can’t create anymore,’ Septem said in his deep voice. ‘It is like a bad joke.’
Raven stared.
‘Of course we know the secret of your Creator,’ Septem continued calmly. ‘There is no cloth binding me from speaking the words.’
Raven did not know what to say. ‘You dare . . . you dare . . .’
‘Speak the truth?’ Septem asked. ‘Yes. I dare.’
‘Your truth weakens you,’ Drei told Raven.
‘Look at it this way, Dark Angel,’ Septem said. ‘Understand why the Angel Order makes this deal with us, why the Creator forces you to side with MYTH. In all your sharpness, you have, no doubt guessed what is it that we are looking for?’
‘The reason behind burning down the Old City, warring with the Free Demons,’ Exi said.
‘The reason behind wanting a Great Purification,’ Lima said.
‘The one thing that we have been hunting for a decade,’ Dos said.
‘What lies hidden,’ Drei said.
‘. . . the one object . . .’ Chaar said.
‘It,’ Ett said.
Again, silence. Raven broke it. ‘The Loom,’ he said softly, not believing he was saying it.
‘Yes, manipulating the Web,’ Septem said. ‘Power undreamed of. Greater power than your Creator ever held.’
‘No wonder he wants a slice of the pie,’ Exi said.
‘Last night, we found the Loom,’ Septem said. ‘There is only one thing that lies between us and ultimate power, power to spin the Web to our desire. One last thing.’
Raven had known this, but Drei voiced his thought.
‘The door.’
‘Indeed, the door you saw tonight,’ Septem continued. ‘We know the Loom lies behind it. In our intelligence, we have even guessed what the inscription says, though we would like to confirm it.’
‘Translate,’ Ett said.
‘Yes, Dark Angel. There is nothing you can do,’ Septem said. ‘You are bound to strings, and we hold the strings to your puppet master. Obey.’
Raven reflected, and the Seven gave him the time to do so. The Angel felt his purpose broken. He knew the Seven were famous for doing this—breaking will, getting what they wanted, and now at their mercy, Raven knew he would have to buckle. There was no holding back when they knew all his secrets, when they could strip him naked in his shamefulness, when they could fleece the flesh off his hidden regrets. When they held in corruption all he held holy.
No other way. Raven’s mind raced for a single moment, but no loophole, nothing. He would not betray the Creator again. Never. If this is what the Creator wanted—
‘The door opens only from within,’ Raven said, slowly. ‘But you know that already, I’m sure.’
‘Our soldiers are . . .’ Drei nodded.
‘. . . overenthusiastic,’ Chaar completed.
‘Let them try, we said,’ Dos said. ‘Let them have their little fun, blowing things up, engaging themselves.’
‘Of course it opens from within,’ Exi said. ‘But the inscription.’
‘Aanklaah lea dratsh,’ Raven repeated. ‘An older version of Arana, a more archaic variant. Nevertheless, the meaning stays the same.’ He paused. ‘The beginning of the end and the end of the beginning.’
‘You have done well,’ Septem said. ‘It is what we thought.’
‘The door opens with the Apocalypse,’ Drei whispered.
‘Good,’ Ett said.
‘Should he stay?’ Lima asked the others. ‘For the rendezvous?’
‘He is powerless,’ Dos said.
‘Let him stay,’ Exi said.
‘If you choose to stay, Dark Angel,’ Septem said. ‘You may.’
Raven chose to. He knew this was not good, whatever was happening here, but he would rather be a spectator than not know at all. And so they waited in the darkness. Midnight was behind them, the air silent, the hours passing. The Seven did not speak to each other, nor did they move, but Raven knew, somehow, that they were communicating. There were rumours about their bond, about their faces—
He heard it then. In the silence. The beating of wings. He saw the great white wings soon. An Angel. Someone from his Order. The figure closed the dist
ance rapidly, and then was on the roof.
‘He’s coming, great ones,’ Aurcoe spoke.
‘Spare us the flattery,’ Lima said, but the others nodded. Aurcoe walked over and stood beside Raven as the Seven repositioned themselves into a semicircle. They were vacating one side of the roof.
‘Of course you’ve been working for them,’ Raven muttered. ‘Always wondered how you earned your wings so quickly.’
‘Spare me the theatrics, Dark Angel,’ Aurcoe shot back in a whisper. ‘You’re here as well.’
‘Who is coming?’ Raven asked, but his question was answered in a moment. Galloping. Loud galloping, water breaking. Closer and closer, loud neighs piercing the silence, and then one cry louder than the others, bringing the noise, all of it, to a stop. A leap, a gigantic leap, and Raven saw a figure rise above them all, into the air and onto the roof.
It was tall and bony. Its entire body seemed to be made of something dry and rotten, something resembling wood. This wood-like skin encased it in a tight, shrivelled form, making it appear thin, frail, almost skeletal. Raven could see ribs, could see a hollow flat stomach concaving deep within, muscles of the same wood tightened beyond belief, constituting something dry, destitute. Its arms, abnormally long and skinny, held between them a long stick, gnarled and twisted, seemingly of the same wood. Its face was skeletal as well, but there was a mask, a fine mask, its bony features protruding from within. The face of a nightmare. There were no eyes, only the mask pushing backward into hollow eyeholes. No mouth either, the same skin-like mask stretching, stretching like rubber when the jaw moved. It was damnation itself, tortured beyond belief. It stood in a hunch, supporting itself on its stick.
The voice came from behind the skin, muffled, yet rankling them with its clarity, its moodiness.
‘You call me at your peril,’ the Horseman moaned. Its voice was high, and trembled, a voice long past death.
‘Famine,’ Ett said, and the Seven bowed together. Raven saw Aurcoe bow and felt a hot flash of anger. He stood his ground. Famine, bent heavily on its stick, turned slowly to look at him.
‘Dark Angel,’ it whispered. ‘You do not bow?’
‘I bow to no man,’ Raven said shortly.
‘But you will bow before the Serpent,’ Famine said. ‘All of you. There is no other way, not when the master walks the earth.’
‘And you shall lead his armies,’ Drei said softly.
Famine turned to look at him. ‘Yes, we shall. The four of us.’
‘And may you do so, in all your glory,’ Exi said.
‘Yet I am no stranger to puffery, Exi,’ Famine murmured. ‘One chance to explain yourselves, that is all I grant. Impress me, or I shall devour you.’
With the last line, Raven saw something move beneath the Horseman’s skin, something alive, which, for a second, writhed. Famine was not giving idle threats and the Seven knew that better than anyone else. Dos came to the point.
‘It has come to our attention that Death has found another akshouthur,’ he said.
Famine looked in his direction in silence.
‘We created that akshouthur,’ Lima said.
‘Created an akshouthur—so many years ago? Why would you? It will have to grow up, come of age before the soul may be harvested,’ Famine said.
‘We have abilities,’ Septem said slowly, ‘to increase the speed of aging. A process which enables us to age a man—from a babe in arms to a fully grown adult—in two years.’
‘There are drawbacks, of course,’ Dos said.
‘. . . but nothing that should concern you,’ Chaar said.
‘A usable soul for your brother’s seal,’ Drei said.
‘We have created this akshouthur—the soul Death needs to break his seal—recently,’ Exi said. ‘Your brother Death looks for it, but he cannot find it because it has not matured yet.’
‘Still a baby,’ Drei said.
‘Yet Death knows of its existence, he can feel it. It can be used to break the seal when it comes of age,’ Lima said. ‘And since we can control the aging—’
‘. . . a couple of years at best,’ Chaar said.
‘We would like to make a deal, Horseman,’ Septem said.
‘You offer an akshouthur like a commodity,’ Famine said slowly. ‘Souls are more than means to an end. A soul is existence itself, and my brother, he forever respects them in his reaping. How times change, how times change indeed . . .’ its voice trailed off. ‘What do you ask for in return?’
‘We know that the akshouthur will break the last seal, bring about the Apocalypse,’ Lima said.
‘A new world order,’ Drei said.
‘Darker,’ Ett said.
‘And we would not like MYTH to die out,’ Septem said. ‘We want a promise of power, of position. MYTH will stay MYTH, even as the world burns.’
‘All my seals are broken,’ Famine said. ‘It is Death who fails to break his last. Why do you ask me and not him?’
‘Death and War are impulsive,’ Exi said. ‘It would be suicide.’
‘We would not dream of facing them to discuss any terms,’ Dos said.
‘Death honours deals, we are aware, but it might not have the patience for this one,’ Lima said.
‘You and your brother Pestilence are the only ones who truly think,’ Septem said. ‘And we know Pestilence has its disagreements with Death. That leaves you.’
Famine looked at each one of them slowly.
‘An akshouthur,’ it whispered.
‘Yes,’ Ett said.
‘In two years,’ Famine said.
‘Yes,’ Ett repeated.
‘Explain the process of aging if I am to believe you, mortals.’
‘Fair enough,’ Dos said. ‘Step forward!’
Raven realised the Tantric was addressing someone else, someone who had been in the shadows until now, so still that even he had not noticed. He saw the bulky armour, the pearl white eyes, and recognised the figure instantly.
It was a Guardian of New Kolkata. The soldier walked forward and assumed the usual position, sword downwards, hands on hilt.
‘Aged in two years,’ Drei said, pointing at the Guardian.
‘The mind can’t grow as fast as the body,’ Exi said. ‘All the Guardians are like children.’
‘Programmable,’ Ett said.
Famine peered at the Guardian with its invisible eyes. ‘Interesting,’ it muttered. ‘A couple of years indeed.’
‘Kill yourself,’ Dos told the Guardian.
Raven watched as the Guardian obeyed in silence, plunging his sword past his armour, into his torso. There was blood, a body breathing its last, mouthing gasps, and then he lay still.
‘Perfect obedience,’ Septem said. ‘As you can see, there will be no trouble getting the akshouthur to surrender to Death’s scythe. We’ve trained the Guardians this way for decades. This seemed like the perfect opportunity to make one an akshouthur.’
‘Which we did,’ Drei said.
‘Are you convinced now?’ Exi asked.
Famine looked at the dead Guardian in silence. No one spoke. Famine was the one to break the quiet.
There was a loud grumble, a protest which came from the Horseman’s wood stomach. ‘I’m going to eat this one,’ Famine said suddenly. ‘Tell me of your terms while I feast.’
14
The first snowflake came out of nowhere. Gray watched it come down slowly, a little white ball of cotton that preferred falling to floating. His hand went up without his knowing and he took the snowflake in his palm. Cold. It was water now. He looked up, and saw the others falling.
‘So this is snow,’ he said, mostly to himself.
Zabrielle watched him with a smile. ‘The first time you are seeing snow?’
‘Yes,’ Gray said, gazing up at the red sky. ‘Always heard stories about the sky once being blue, about snow falling in the west and the north.’
‘Then you have not seen the sea?’
‘No. Seen photographs, though.’
/> ‘Nothing can compare to the real sight, the smell,’ Zabrielle said. ‘One envies you.’
Maya looked at the snow as a good sign. It did mystify her for moments, but she was over it immediately. The snow meant they were near Frozen Bombay—they had spent days on the trail, and they needed to reach the city as soon as possible. The encounter with the Soul Hunters had left them jarred, however nonchalant even Maya pretended to be. They were vulnerable, and it seemed Victor Sen had an immense amount of resources at his disposal.
‘How the hell can Victor afford all these assassins?’ Gray had asked once, frustrated.
His question was relevant. Maya had wondered about this, but there were far too many secrets to Victor. The man had woven an aura of mystery around him similar to that around the Horseman—no one really knew his weaknesses, not the Gunsmith in his dying moments, not his own son in battle. Perhaps Victor Sen had prepared for this, perhaps he had savings—he seemed crazy enough to save for the Apocalypse. Or maybe he had stumbled upon vast treasures in his adventures. It was impossible to draw any concrete conclusions, and Maya did not want to discuss anything with anyone. There was a restlessness in her, something she grudgingly liked. It gave her the feeling of being alive, even if it caused her to withdraw from everyone and everything else.
As the days passed, she had only grown more sullen and withdrawn. Gray was still not talking to her, and Zabrielle being Zabrielle, she gave Maya her space, something Maya realised she appreciated. Fayne was in no condition to talk, but Maya felt he had grown distant since she had made her accusations. No, she walked amongst strangers, and apart from her magic, she really had nothing else.
Maya had been giving the magic practice. She practiced as she walked and before she slept—she had taken to walking apart and sleeping a little distance away from the rest of the group—she let the magic flow through her and do as it pleased. Sometimes she would lift small rocks from afar, sometimes she would create fire again. The dragon swept around her all the time, ready for her call. Its scales, in her mind’s eye, had grown darker. They were not a bright purple anymore.
As the nights got colder, Maya often called upon the magic to take away the cold from her body. She would create small things of ice, controlling the drawing of the cold from her skin and from her blood better, and feel warm immediately, warm enough to sleep comfortably without a blanket. Zabrielle would often cast silent glances in her direction. Maya was sure the Demon had realised what she was doing, but the last thing Maya wanted was approval.
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