by M. D. Grimm
“I was thinking of Mom and Dad,” he said softly.
She sighed. “Yes. I miss Mom’s cooking.”
“I miss Dad’s laugh.”
As if reading his mind, she said, “We should visit them together. Perhaps next month? I’ll need that time to convince the high chancellor to let me be away from training for more than a day.”
He kissed her temple in silent agreement.
He’d already gathered enough dew and mist from the clouds to keep him in paint of all colors and shades for at least six months, and his bag was heavy on his shoulder. Despite wishing for solitude at the beginning of his journey, he was happy that his sister followed him since her presence soothed him better than living inside his own head would have.
Yet the way she continued to cling to him, partially curling into him, had Roland frowning in concern. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and shifted them a little away from the guards. Though they were facing out, scanning for trouble, he was sure they weren’t beyond eavesdropping. Curiosity wasn’t just an artist’s purview. Soldiers had to be curious for information as well. It could mean the difference between life or death in a battle.
“Something troubles you,” Roland said softly, his head close to Anpiel’s. So close that his breath caused her hair to flutter.
She glanced up at his eyes before looking away, shaking her head.
Roland sighed, ruffling more of her hair, then hugged her close and stroked her arms. “You know anything you tell me will never leave my thoughts. I will take it to my fading.”
When angels died, they didn’t leave anything behind. Spirit—their spark of light from the One Who Brought the Light—held their physical bodies together. When their life was utterly spent, they faded from existence, often with the hope of rebirth sometime in the future. Gabryl had told Roland there were, in fact, a few spells angels could use to guarantee their rebirth.
“I keep having this dream,” she said.
“All right. About what?”
“It’s disturbing. It makes me so sad and scared. I know it’s nerves. All the responsibilities I’ve been taking on, all the important tasks only I can complete. The pressure. By the Light, Ro, you can’t know the pressure.”
He rubbed her soothingly, trying to relax the tense muscles. Her wings fluttered in anxiety, cold feathers brushing against his arms.
“Tell me about the dream.”
She closed her eyes, and a rare tear escaped her control and slid down her cheek. Now Roland was scared. His sister was tougher than he was, strong and fierce. She never cried. He said nothing, and both pretended the tear didn’t exist.
“I dream that I give birth. To a daughter. She’s…. Light… she’s unchosen.”
Roland blew out a breath, forcing himself not to roll his eyes in exasperation. She was truly scared of such a reality happening, so he kept his thoughts to himself and continued to stroke her arms and rub his cheek against her hair.
Roland thought of Omael, and anger tightened his muscles once again. Why would the Light Bringer allow such imperfections if not for a good reason? Everyone had a purpose, no matter what the seers said.
A large white eagle flickered across his vision before it landed on the lead guard’s shoulder, a man named Zander. He frowned and took the small rolled-up piece of parchment from the holder tied to the eagle’s leg. He scanned the missive and sucked in a breath.
“What is it, Zander?” Anpiel asked.
“Hordes of demons are attacking Emphoria’s gates.”
“What?” Roland said the same time Anpiel pulled away and reached for the missive.
“We must retreat to Auroran,” Zander said as Anpiel read. “We can’t risk returning to Emphoria. We aren’t far and—”
“Incoming!”
Roland flinched at the soldier’s shout. A horde of demons—fifty, sixty?—burst from the clouds, bearing down on them, swords and lances thrust forward, the sun glinting off the metal. Some wore little more than loincloths, and Roland vaguely remembered their skin was armor in itself, the opposite of the angels’ fragility.
The soldiers tightened their ring around Roland and Anpiel. Zander unsheathed a second sword and tossed it behind him, and Anpiel caught it, brandishing it with apparent knowledge of how to use it. Roland wasn’t so lucky. He didn’t know a thing about fighting. He clutched his heavy bag in one hand, gathering the strap in the other. He could bash a few heads if he needed to. The demons worked in tandem, spreading out their forces, encircling the angels. Weren’t they supposed to be fickle brawlers, not coordinated hunters?
Roland turned so he was back-to-back with Anpiel, their wings brushing roughly against each other. He gazed in awe at their attackers. Some had skin as black as coal, others were deathly pale, eyes sunken in their heads. Some had long hair, others short, and yet others had the sides of their heads shaved and the remaining hair pointed in spikes. Many wore body jewelry that glinted like jewels and had tattoos, swirls and symbols that were beyond Roland’s knowledge. And so many had horns placed on faces or down backs, along wings, and even at joints such as the elbows or knees.
His heart bashed against his ribs, and he panted in fear and fascination. So close. They were so close. If he survived this, he’d have plenty of visuals to create accurate portraits. Even as the thought crossed his mind, he cringed. They were fighting for their lives, and there he was, selfishly thinking of his artistic endeavors. And not only were they being attacked, but Emphoria was also under siege. That was not coincidental. There was a guiding hand coordinating the demons.
The angels held their ground admirably, even being far outnumbered. The clang of blades, the smack of flesh against flesh, and the cries of the injured surrounded him, grating against his ears, thundering against his bones. Anpiel stayed in the circle, occasionally slashing through any opening, the steel of her blade cutting deep despite the thickness of demon hide.
Demons swarmed above them, and it was all the soldiers could do to keep them at bay. But what did they hope to accomplish? They were only delaying the inevitable.
“Demons should not be this high,” Anpiel said, as if to herself. She panted through her teeth, eyes blazing with fear and anger. “How did they move past our guards who watch over the Lower Realm?”
Those guards could be dead. Or were they being attacked as well? Like the gates and like them? Just how many demons were participating?
Roland looked above as the demons moved closer, blocking out the sun’s light. Cast into shadow, Roland knew the soldiers would break, and then the heir to the high chancellor’s seat would be gutted. At that moment the only thing that mattered was Anpiel’s life. Without her their world would fall into chaos. With no heir, order would be broken.
Roland looked below their feet. Their toes touched the thick gray clouds that grew darker as if a storm was coming. He looked around and up and realized more demons were joining the fray. If they were to escape, now was the time.
Fear wanted to burst his heart, but as he latched on to the absolute truth that Anpiel had to survive, the focus deadened much of it. He gripped Anpiel’s wrist and tugged her close.
“We must fly now. Below. The storm.”
She wanted to argue, he could see that. She didn’t want to leave her soldiers. But the cold, hard fact was her life meant more than theirs. She snarled and changed the grip, lacing steely fingers around his wrist instead. Then she yanked him with her, and they plunged through the clouds, leaving the screams and clangs of battle behind.
A storm was indeed brewing, and the rain soaked their robes, the silky fabric clinging to their bodies. With hair plastered against his face, Roland could barely see, the freezing droplets burning his eyes. His feathers didn’t enjoy the harshness either, but he pushed forward. Not that he really had a choice, considering Anpiel’s biting grip.
Stiffened with cold and soaked to the bone, they finally burst from under the cloud, jerking to a halt. The Middle Realm, a place wild and unclaimed, spre
ad out underneath them. Roland had seen it before; he’d even painted its likeness in his younger years. It was radiant, the blues and greens vibrant and alive, warm and soft. Starkly different from the hard, cold, and unyielding Upper Realm of the angels. But the beauty before them wasn’t the reason they stopped so suddenly.
Anpiel’s breath caught, and she held forth her sword. Roland only stared, mouth and throat drying in an instant. His gut pitched in utter terror. A void seemed to seep up from the Lower Realm, the thick darkness swallowing the Middle Realm from sight, steadily making its way up. Up.
Up to them.
Thunder cracked inside the black, and lightning flashed red and blue, bright enough to blind.
The darkness was alive.
And it was coming for them.
Anpiel recovered first and nearly yanked his arm out of its socket as she bolted in the direction of Emphoria, staying near the bottom of the clouds.
“Just a little ways more,” she said, gasping for air. “Then we go up through the clouds again.”
“What is that?” he said, croaking the words.
“You don’t want to know.”
“What is that?” he screamed.
She flashed him a fierce look out of dark eyes and didn’t answer. She merely flew faster, and he could barely keep up.
“Where do you hope to fly to, little angels?”
Roland nearly fell from the sky. That voice. Was. Enormous. It rumbled against his bones, rattled his teeth. It seemed to come from all around them, the source unseen. Even Anpiel faltered for a moment. Then she gritted her teeth and continued to fly, though exhaustion slowed her and the strain on her face was visible.
It also disturbed him that the speaker was using Middle Enochian, the most common angelic dialect in use. The voice clearly did not belong to an angel, so what was it?
“There is nowhere you can fly that I won’t find you.” The voice sounded… amused. Arrogantly amused, like an owner watching a favorite pet doing something silly. The condescension momentarily managed to bump Roland’s fear to the side.
Who was this ass?
As if answering his unspoken question, a giant mass emerged from the darkness below, solidifying into a…. Oh Light.
Dragon.
Dragon!
The beast rose to hover in front of them, colossal wings languidly flapping and holding him aloft with ease. Built like a mountain, yet slender and elegant despite his size, the beast was as black as the Outer Borders, beyond all creation and formation. He was a force of nature, a power to be reckoned with, one that never apologized or asked for permission. He simply took what he wanted and damn anyone who got his way. If he wanted to destroy something, nothing could stop him.
Heat washed over them, the dragon the obvious source. Roland could see that every time the dragon moved, slivers of red and white, blue and orange could be seen between the scales, as if an inferno blazed within his body.
Sweat rolled down Roland’s face, and he hovered there, gaping, eyes bulging.
The magnificence of the creature before them was mind-blowing. Now he understood Gabryl’s fear about dragons being near extinction and turning their attentions elsewhere.
Here was proof that they had.
Was this…. Could this be… Asagoroth?
The dragon tilted his horned face as he stared at them with blazing blue oval eyes. The slit diamond-shaped pupil focused upon them so intently that Roland felt naked and exposed, all his secrets and doubts blasted into the open.
He felt like the most unworthy and insignificant creature to ever crawl out of the muck. What was he, compared to this beast who personified untamable power?
“Save your strength,” the dragon said. “And cease your flight. Come quietly.”
Anpiel let go of Roland and held the sword with both hands. The futility of the act was nearly laughable, but it was so like his sister. She never surrendered. Ever.
A rumble pulsed through the sky, and he realized a moment later the dragon was laughing. Noise behind them had Roland spinning around. Five demons appeared and surrounded them in a half circle, blocking escape. Now he understood why they were coordinated. Only dragons could control demons and corral their fickle behavior into a unified effort. Apparently this dragon was, indeed, mighty enough to command legions of demons.
“What do you plan to do with that piece of steel, little angel?”
The condescending amusement continued, and Anpiel growled at the blatant arrogance. His own pride was dampened by the obvious domination and lack of options before them. What could they do except surrender and hope for the best? What could they do against something so colossal?
“I do not wish to harm your tiny body, but I will if you refuse to surrender.”
At that moment, despite the terror flowing through his veins, Roland made a choice. He was going to die today. If it helped his sister live and escape the dragon’s clutches, then it would be worth it.
He swiveled toward Anpiel, keeping the demons in sight. “Do as I say. No arguments. Fling your sword at the dragon’s eye.”
“What?” she hissed.
“You want to surrender?” he hissed back.
She growled and tensed, shaking her head.
“Do it. Now!”
She flung as hard as she could—which was mighty hard—and as the blade shot straight for the dragon’s eye, Roland used his heavy bag and slammed it against the demons’ heads, one after the other in quick succession. The suddenness of their attack gave them the advantage. The demons rolled and tumbled through the sky with cries of pain and shock.
Even as the dragon merely flicked his head to the side to avoid the blade, Roland gripped his sister’s waist and gathered what strength he possessed to toss her into the stormy clouds above. She screamed in protest, but he knew she would leave. She loved him, but she had to know he was right. His life was nothing compared to hers.
The instant she was gone, Roland gulped a deep breath and charged the dragon. Knowing he would die didn’t exactly stop his fear, but at least he knew the outcome. There would be pain, and then he would fade. And that would be that.
Taking the path of the sword, Roland figured the most vulnerable spot on the dragon—relatively speaking, that is—was the eyes. The dragon looked up at the clouds, following the path that Anpiel taken, somehow conveying amused annoyance despite the fact his expression never changed. Roland darted low to keep out of his range of sight, then shot up and hurtled with all his strength. Unbelievably he caught the dragon by surprise. Perhaps it was the dragon’s colossal arrogance that had him dropping his guard or seeing Roland as no threat.
Whatever the reason, Roland hit the dragon’s open eye at full speed, and a roar of shock and pain erupted from the beast even as Roland bounced away, tumbling uncontrollably. It felt like he’d hit the side of a slightly squishy boulder that didn’t give enough to keep the impact from jarring both of them.
As he tried to stop his tumble and straighten out his wings, he hit something hard and sharp with no give whatsoever and bounced off of that, hearing and feeling something snap. Agony radiated through his wing, up his shoulder, then farther into his neck and head. His vision darkened, and he couldn’t breathe. Darkness and heat enfolded and suffocated him, and he vaguely wondered if he’d landed in the living void the dragon had called forth.
He fought despite having no strength, despite knowing he would die. Pain knifed through one of his wings and shoulder, and he cried out, losing more air, unable to suck any in. Still falling through the black, pressure built in his head, and he knew he was done.
In the last moment before death took him, he could have sworn something else moved in the void. Moving toward him.
A blaze of fiery blue light blinded him right before consciousness faded.
Chapter Three
PAIN WOKE him. Pain meant he was alive. How was he alive? Why was he alive? He’d punched a dragon in the freaking eye, for the Light’s sake! Shouldn’t he be a smo
king pile of ash or being digested in the dragon’s stomach?
His head lay on something soft and cool. Gentle hands stroked his hair. He grimaced as sharp pain spiked continuously through his wing and shoulder. Cracking his eyes open, his vision was blurry for a moment before sharpening to show him the inside of a monstrous cave. Condensation dripped from the ceiling, the stalagmites and stalactites giving the illusion that he was inside a monster’s mouth. A dragon’s mouth. He shuddered.
“Roland?”
He closed his eyes and sighed wearily. His plan hadn’t worked. Anpiel had him in her arms, holding him close.
“Annie.”
She brushed a kiss over his temple. “Remind me to kick your ass when you’re well enough to stand. What in the Light Bringer’s name were you thinking? How could you be so reckless?”
“Had to save you,” he whispered. “You matter. I don’t.”
She squeezed his hand, and there was a sharp intake of breath. “You matter to me. Idiot.”
He closed his eyes again and nodded. “When I can stand, I’ll remind you to bloody my ass. Where are we?”
“A cave in the Middle Realm. Demons surround us, standing guard. There’s around ten with us at all times, though some come and go as if they have shifts. There’s another angel here. His name is Sabrael. He’s the heir to the chancellor of Auroran.”
Roland popped his eyes open and struggled to sit up. He gritted his teeth against the pain, and Anpiel steadied him. Breathing deeply, he turned his head to look at his wing.
“Nothing’s broken. I think it was wrenched badly. You should shimmer them to prevent more damage. And it’ll heal faster.”
He nodded and shimmered his wings intangible. His shoulder still throbbed, but it was endurable. He met his sister’s dark eyes.
“Is the dragon hoarding heirs or something?” he asked quietly so the demons didn’t hear them.
“I think so,” she said, equally quiet. “That would make sense. What better way to conquer us than to hold all the heirs hostage?”
