“Inarius never runs out of tricks.” Uldyssian surveyed the body, seeking again the cause of death. He needed badly to find a cause. A single wound. A cracked gap at the back of the skull. Anything.
But there was no mark.
Uldyssian looked around, but the nearest edyrem were far away. “We can’t have this now, Mendeln! I can’t concentrate on both him and Inarius—”
“Malic is my mistake,” Mendeln hissed, his eyes narrowed in self-loathing. “My curse to bear. I was reckless, and because of that, I let a fiend as terrible as any demon back into the world.” He straightened. “I will deal with him. You must focus on Inarius only.”
They both knew that there was far more of an impending threat than just the renegade angel, but Inarius was indeed the imminent problem. Nothing else would matter if they failed to defeat him.
Still, Uldyssian could not help considering their new problem—and a possible answer finally came to him. “He was here. He was the only one nearby.”
“Who?”
“Jonas.” Now that he thought more about it, Uldyssian recalled also what he felt had been the Parthan’s odd behavior. “Yes…it’s Jonas, damn it!”
That was all Mendeln evidently needed. He held the ivory dagger ready. It glowed with a deathly light. “I will find him. He will not escape this time.”
Neither suggested telling the others of the monster in their midst. That would be the final panic as edyrem turned on one another believing Malic was about to take over their bodies. The high priest was invisible to Uldyssian’s senses, and that no doubt had to do with Inarius. That meant that none of the others—save perhaps Mendeln—could sense Malic, either.
Worse, who was to say the specter even looked like Jonas anymore?
He could not think about it. Uldyssian had to trust Mendeln. Mendeln would not let him down.
Rathma suddenly stood next to him. It said something for Uldyssian’s current mood that he found no surprise in the Ancient’s abrupt arrival. Such things were becoming much too commonplace for the former farmer.
“I have a thought,” Rathma declared.
“Those are never good. What is it?”
The Ancient cocked his head, then granted Uldyssian his point. “This one has the hopes of being something better…at least, I think so.”
“Does it have the same chance of success that your visit to your father had?” the mortal asked with open sarcasm in his tone.
“More than that.” Rathma pursed his lips. “But possibly not much more.”
Uldyssian was more concerned with what Inarius was currently plotting. He glanced to the north but only saw the Cathedral of Light. Something was brewing, though. Inarius would not remain idle….
“We can’t do anything to help you this time.”
The cowled figure wrapped his cloak tight about him. His inhumanly handsome face held no emotion. “I expect none. But this must be attempted.”
There was obviously no talking Rathma out of whatever it was that he thought he needed to do, but Uldyssian wanted at least to know what the Ancient thought so important that he would leave the edyrem at such a juncture. “Just tell me what you think you can accomplish. Where are you going this time?”
His face as still as death, Inarius’s son casually replied, “I’m going for what help I might be able to find. I’m calling a family gathering….”
Mendeln rushed among the edyrem, no doubt looking to them like death itself come to gather more victims. For all their might, even the most skilled of his brother’s followers looked away as he passed. Only one of his handful of “students” acknowledged him, but he immediately indicated to her that he was on a task demanding the utmost privacy.
Of necessity, Uldyssian’s brother paused now and then to ask some unsettled edyrem if they had seen the Parthan. Most had not, but finally two directed him toward where they had last noticed him. Not at all confident that he would still find the false Jonas there, Mendeln nonetheless vigorously pursued his only lead.
He continued to hold the dagger in front of him, but thus far, it had given no sign that he was near the ghoulish shade. Mendeln eyed everyone he passed, seeking whether one of them might be Malic’s latest host.
Inarius’s attacks and the edyrem’s defenses had left much of the area churned up. The massive chunks of ice had raised entire hills when they had come crashing down, and although they were now rapidly melting, they, too, created more barriers, more places around which to hide.
But as Mendeln neared one particularly jagged hill, his sharp eyes caught sight of something pale peeking out from the unstable rubble. At the same time, he sensed the wrongness that was Malic in the nearby vicinity.
A spell ready on his lips, Uldyssian’s brother approached whatever it was the upturned stone and dirt all but covered. With caution, he used his free hand to brush some of the rubble away.
A scarred, bone-white elbow revealed itself. It was a body, just as he had assumed, but it did not wear the garments of Jonas. That it was very likely Parthan—for there was none of the light-skinned Kehjani among the edyrem—was all Mendeln could tell of it. He dismissed the corpse quickly, still aware that Malic had to be close by.
He would have asked the ghosts, but since the moment Uldyssian and the rest had entered the grasslands, all the ghosts had vanished. Even those of the recent dead had not remained in the vicinity, as was usual. It was as if they dared not stay near the confrontation. Mendeln was frustrated by the lack of such company. Now, more than ever, he could have used their eyes, their knowledge.
From the north, there suddenly came what sounded—impossibly—like a glorious chorus. Light glistened above him, a fantastic light reflected by the huge chunk of ice. That light also illuminated everything save the area shadowed by the churned ground.
Mendeln froze. He knew what the light and the chorus presaged.
Inarius had finally entered the fray.
For the moment, all thought of Malic vanished as Mendeln concerned himself with Uldyssian and the angel. He wanted to rush to his brother’s side, even though he knew that Serenthia and Rathma would already be there. He had sworn to himself that when the Prophet appeared, he, too, would face him.
But Malic could not be ignored.
The dagger flared.
Mendeln started to turn.
He could only imagine that it was because of his swift reaction that his skull was not cracked open. Even still, the rock in Malic’s fist sent shock waves through Mendeln’s head. Uldyssian’s brother collapsed against the hill.
Through blurry eyes, he beheld Jonas’s leering face. The smile was exactly as he recalled Malic’s.
“A crude method, but effective,” remarked the specter, holding forth the rock. “I dared not use a spell other than to add to the masking shield. We wanted you to notice me just enough and no more….”
We. That could only mean Inarius had planned this with the shade. “You—” Mendeln’s head ached. “This moment was to—”
“This moment was all arranged, if that is what you mean!” Throwing away the rock, the bald figure retrieved Mendeln’s dagger. “This should help.” Malic reached into a pouch on Jonas’s belt, removing from it a red stone. “Between the two, I should have no trouble taking your body this time.”
Mendeln could not fathom why Malic would want a body so badly injured, but then he realized that his head wound was not life-threatening. He was merely stunned, something that would not affect the ghost.
As for why Malic would want him at all, the answer was obvious. Mendeln ul-Diomed would stand by his brother’s side—and then with a touch steal Uldyssian’s body while simultaneously killing the older sibling.
And hardly lifting a finger, the Prophet would defeat his adversary.
Mendeln sought to focus his thoughts enough to cast a spell, but too late he realized that the high priest had struck with calculation. He had never meant to hit his victim anywhere but where he had and Mendeln had foolishly obliged him by t
urning as planned. Better if Uldyssian’s brother had simply stood with his back to the creature, for then perhaps Malic would have killed him.
In actuality, that was doubtful. Malic was not so careless. He wanted Uldyssian’s body, and the only way to achieve that was through Mendeln.
“You—you are being used!” the son of Diomedes managed. “Inarius—the angels—”
Malic grinned. “Will find that the fate of Sanctuary is beyond their control.”
And suddenly, Mendeln recalled what Serenthia had found, that demonic hordes waited to attack. But they were not in league with Inarius anymore. Instead, they prepared to battle over Sanctuary and its humans, especially the edyrem, with Tyrael’s host.
And the high priest intended to profit by that, assuming—perhaps wrongly—that the Burning Hells would triumph. Uldyssian’s brother considered pointing out the risk the double-dealing ghost was taking but chose not to. More important than Malic’s plot was the fact that Mendeln at last felt his head clearing. The words he had sought came back to him. He blurted out the first—
Malic held the red stone before his eyes. Immediately, Mendeln could not help but stare at it. His spell died on his lips.
“Your gaze cannot escape,” mocked the specter, leaning close. “Your mind cannot think save to hear me.”
His victim sought to protest but could not. Mendeln’s last coherent thought was that he could expect no aid from anyone else, for they were all focused upon Inarius’s coming.
Beyond the crystal, Malic raised the dagger. It was not his intention to stab Mendeln but to use the ethereal weapon’s magic against its owner.
“So very close now…” The shade’s words echoed in Mendeln’s numbed mind. “Soon—”
Without warning, the mesmerizing stone vanished from sight. Mendeln blinked. His brain and body seemed disconnected from each other, but his ears apparently worked, for they registered the sounds of struggle. Uldyssian’s brother tried to clear his vision—
And as he did, he beheld Jonas—no, Malic—battling with someone who held the high priest’s wrists from behind. The hand wielding the dagger thrust straight up as the two fought over it. Of the crystal, there was no sign.
But all that mattered to Mendeln was just who had come to his rescue, the person he would have least expected.
Achilios.
Twenty
The invisible chorus was the first hint of his coming. The perfect voices sang their wordless praises from seemingly every direction. They were both beautiful and awful to hear, for although they touched even Uldyssian’s heart, they also reminded him that they presaged the coming of the Prophet.
Indeed, even as the edyrem came to grips with the unseen singers, a blaze of wondrous light erupted from the Cathedral. It burned away the clouds in that direction. It was blinding, yet no one who gazed at it could look away.
And in its midst, the golden figure of the Prophet—riding in a glittering diamond chariot pulled by two winged horses—materialized several yards above the startled rebels. The glorious youth was clad for battle, his armor gleaming, the shining, bejeweled sword at his side sharp enough to cut the very air.
He reined the chariot to a halt while it was still several feet above the ground. The Prophet looked over the edyrem. “My wayward children,” he began, smiling sadly. “Led astray as surely as if by demons…”
Somewhere behind Uldyssian, a man sobbed. The son of Diomedes quickly sent a reassuring touch to the minds of all his followers.
Inarius stepped away from the chariot—which then faded away. He slowly descended to the ground as if walking down a flight of nonexistent steps. As he did, behind him, the brilliant glow magnified.
“Let those who would seek my forgiveness fall to their knees,” commanded Inarius.
Aware that even the slightest of words spoken by the angel had the strength to demand absolute obedience, Uldyssian silently roared, Keep standing!
Uldyssian could not entirely be certain if his own order had succeeded, but Inarius’s expression did grow more disappointed. That was enough to encourage the mortal.
“So many determined unbelievers as that…too many unbelievers.” The Prophet steepled his hands, then shook his head. “Too many unbelievers. The world must be cleansed.”
And as he opened his hands again, a searing white force swept over Uldyssian and the rest.
“Mendeln!” called Achilios. “You…must…stop him!”
Uldyssian’s brother sought to rise, but his body would not obey his commands properly. There had been magic in the head blow, he now understood. His continually scattered thoughts and weakness were not merely by chance.
Letting out a growl, Malic tore the hand bearing the crystal from Achilios’s grip. He immediately thrust his palm against the archer’s side.
Aware of just what that would do, Mendeln let out a gasp. He teetered to his feet, but far too late to stop the high priest’s foul work.
But Malic and Achilios merely stood there for a moment, their eyes locked upon each other’s. From Jonas’s mouth erupted furious and somewhat confused words. “Not possible! I cannot possess you! I cannot make your life mine!”
“Your lord…Lucion…did that already,” muttered Achilios. “There’s no more…no more life to take, you…you bastard!”
“Then there are other ways to be rid of you!”
Somehow, Mendeln managed to throw himself toward the pair. He collided with Malic’s back just as the latter uttered something that made the crimson stone flare bright.
Achilios fell back as if hit by a bolt of lightning. However, in doing so, he wrenched Mendeln’s dagger free. Uldyssian’s brother and Malic went crashing into the side of the makeshift hill.
A strong hand gripped Mendeln’s throat tightly. Malic squeezed.
Mendeln did the only thing of which he could think. He grabbed some of the dirt and threw it in Malic’s face.
The high priest coughed as much of the dirt filled his mouth and nose. Unfortunately, his grip did not weaken much.
But it was still enough to enable Mendeln to recover his wits somewhat. With his voice cut off by the specter’s hand, he concentrated on the one thing that might serve him. He had done it before. If it would only work now—
The ivory dagger materialized in his left hand.
Mendeln drove it into the body once belonging to Jonas, praying that he would hit some spot vital to Malic. Unfortunately, Malic tried to block his arm, and the blade sank lower, cutting into an area that Uldyssian’s brother knew might hurt the high priest a bit but certainly would not destroy him.
Yet the specter howled wildly as soon as the blade even touched, so wildly, in fact, that Mendeln had to release the dagger and cover his ears. From what had been Jonas’s mouth, there erupted a wind that buffeted the black-robed figure as if it were a tornado.
Despite the dagger still deep in his lower torso, Malic managed to rise. All the while, though, he continued to howl in agony. Jonas’s face became a parody of itself, the eyes growing too wide, the mouth a gaping hole large enough to swallow a small child and growing larger yet.
The bulging eyes gazed furiously at the blade. Congealing blood dripped from the wound, but to Mendeln’s gaze, the cut should not have been a deadly one. He finally understood what was actually happening. The dagger itself was anathema to the dread shadow, its magic slowly but surely consuming him.
Malic evidently realized that, too, for, clutching at the hilt with one hand, he desperately sought to remove it. Fearing what would happen if he succeeded, Mendeln again flung himself at the high priest. He caught Malic just below the lungs. Uldyssian’s brother planted both hands over Malic’s, trying to force the dagger to remain embedded.
Still howling, the ghost used his other hand to grasp for Mendeln’s eyes. Mendeln forced himself to endure Malic’s attack. The howling grew more incessant; he felt certain that if he could just keep the dagger in a little longer—
Malic’s head bent back beyond li
ving limits. The bone cracked, the sound sickening Mendeln. Still, the ghoulish figure shrieked.
Then a thick black substance like tar flew up out of Malic’s mouth. It shot into the air above Uldyssian’s brother, pouring out of what had once been Jonas like a geyser. It was accompanied by a stench that reminded Mendeln of rotting flesh and vegetation mixed together.
The last of it issued forth. The figure before Mendeln teetered, and then the corpse collapsed like parchment in his arms.
Above there was one last, long shriek. It finally ended when the floating black tar melted into nothing.
But the effort had been too much for Mendeln. His head wound pounded more than ever. Vertigo overtook Rathma’s student. Even the weight of the emaciated body was more than he could handle. Uldyssian’s brother fell back, the corpse draping across him.
Mendeln blacked out before he hit the ground.
The edyrem were scattered like leaves in the wind as the Prophet’s hands spread apart. Even Uldyssian was nearly swept away. At the last, he dug his feet into the scorched land, pushing forward despite the angel’s fearsome spell.
And as he battled Inarius’s work, he strained to keep his tie to each and every one of his people, reassuring them and guiding them. Through Uldyssian, the edyrem began to regain their ground, and they, in turn, helped to strengthen him.
Gritting his teeth, Uldyssian thrust his hands forward. He focused on the Prophet.
The wind instantly vanished, but not because the angel had ceased his assault. Rather, it was now because the son of Diomedes had summoned a wall of solid air that spread all the way across the charred grasslands, protecting everyone behind it. The power of the Prophet buffeted his creation with such force that Uldyssian’s every muscle strained, but the wall held.
Then Uldyssian sensed some slight shift from Inarius. The gale-force wind faltered, finally ceasing entirely. It was almost as if something had happened not to Inarius’s liking, something significant enough to distract him.
Although he had no idea just what that might have been, Uldyssian immediately used the hesitation to his advantage. He sent the invisible wall barreling into the Prophet with all the strength that he and the added wills of the edyrem could muster.
The Sin War Box Set: Birthright, Scales of the Serpent, and The Veiled Prophet Page 90
