by Vox Day
“What is it, a clothing store?”
“I do hope not,” Khasar remarked. Holli had forced him to take her shopping after she’d spent her second day in a row wearing the same underwear. She might be able to walk through walls now, but the archon had adamantly refused to tell her how to make something from nothing. “Since we don’t have an afternoon to kill, let’s hope for humanity’s sake that it isn’t.”
“There’s more to clothes than robes and fur, you know. Not everyone wants to dress like a caveman.”
“Ah, but would a caveman be such a gentleman?” He held the door open for her.
“Why, it’s like, a toy soldier’s shop!” exclaimed Holli as she walked in. “Christopher would love this place!”
It was like a jeweler’s showroom, except that in the place of rings, necklaces and watches there were a thousand different tiny sculptures of people and fantastical beings filling the glass enclosures. Some of them were frightfully lifelike, others were wild and imaginative creations that, until a few weeks ago, Holli would have said were completely imaginary. Now, who was to say that the little figurine with the oversized green muscles and tusks didn’t exist somewhere, although judging by the enthusiasm with which he was twirling his axe about, Holli hoped he didn’t.
On a table in the center of the room, a spectacular battle was taking place, with a wizard summoning skeletons from the very ground of the battlefield, while tall elven archers on a small hill rained arrows down upon a troop of wolf-riding goblins advancing upon their position. The arrows hung in the air, seemingly suspended by magic, but when Holli looked away for a second, she could have sworn that she saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye. It was a colorful scene, as nearly every color in the rainbow was represented in the brilliant pennants, tunics and robes of the combatants.
Filling the showcases that made a hollow square around the room were Vikings and vampires, elves and elephant riders, soldiers from every age and historical era from spear-wielding Greeks to American soldiers firing machine guns. There was a fantasy section that looked like Christopher’s Warhammer collection, all orcs and intricately painted knights, and an entire set devoted to a Heaven and Hell theme that made Khasar laugh out loud.
“I should buy one of these and give it to Prince Uriel. Look at the nose he’s put on Michael! But I don’t think that Harab Serap is anywhere nearly so fat as he makes him out to be here. Oh, there’s little doubt that this is our friend Wayland.”
“May I help you?” asked a dark-skinned girl with a pierced nose and startling green eyes. She eyed Holli with what appeared to be surprise, then shrugged and returned her attention to Khasar, who was looking a little thinner and less powerful than he usually did in human form. He was, she realized with a silent laugh, trying unsuccessfully to look like the kind of guy who’d be out shopping for miniatures. What they really should have done was sent Derek in here. Of course, they might never have gotten him out—he was almost as bad as her brother when it came to game stuff.
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Smith, please.” Khasar had changed the scabbard which contained Excalibur into a brown leather briefcase. “It’s rather urgent.”
“I’ll see if he’s available.” She glanced suspiciously at the briefcase, then shrugged and walked towards a door at the back. Holli stifled a laugh—as if anyone was going to do a smash-and-grab just to grab some painted lead figurines!
“Now, that is interesting.” Khasar pointed to the battle, and leaned over to examine it more closely. “I believe there’s a spell of some sort on these little characters. If you look closely, you can see them move.”
Holli joined him in peering at the battle. The tableau had certainly changed since she’d looked at it before. The lead goblin’s mouth was open in a shout and a blue-feathered arrow that had not been there previously now protruded from the small round shield he bore. And whereas most of the skeletons had been waist deep in the dirt, they were now only buried to their knees as they rose from their violated graves.
“Christopher would give up his whole CD collection for something like this.” Holli said. “I have to admit, it’s kind of cool.”
The girl with the pierced nose returned and shook her head. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Smith isn’t free at the moment. Perhaps you could come back on Monday.”
Khasar smiled at her, like a wolf being rebuked by a lamb. “Go back and tell Wayland that it’s rather urgent.” He gestured towards the miniature battlefield, and suddenly the hostilities erupted at full speed. The charge of the goblins slowed as the first round of arrows slammed home, then broke in dismay as a second and a third flight brought down their captain and their flag-bearer, among others.
Holli watched, fascinated, as a small troop of elven cavalry rode out of the nearby woods, galloping madly in pursuit of the fleeing goblins. They rode them down without mercy, then swept behind the clumsy skeletons towards the purple-robe wizard who had summoned them. The mage lowered his wand and a bright beam lanced out to drop one of the lead elves from his saddle, but moments later, he fell before the flashing swords of the elven riders. No sooner had he fallen than the entire troop of skeletons collapsed to the earth, as the evil spell that had summoned them died with its caster. But just as the last undead warrior collapsed in a heap of white bones, the entire tableau froze once more.
“I had thought that my wolfriders would have proved themselves more doughty, but one underestimates the lethality of Ulthuan’s longbows at one’s peril.” The speaker was a large bearded man, broad-shouldered and muscular, with a broad, ruddy face, black hair and friendly brown eyes. He reminded Holli of a good-natured bear; she liked him at once. “Siobhan, you may take the rest of the afternoon off, and please turn the sign around as you leave. And, if you would be so kind, drop this off with the bartender at the Red Crown.”
The big man, who Holli was quite sure was not a man at all, passed her a catalog advertising the Smithy’s wares. She did not look at all pleased to be dismissed, but she nodded obediently enough and if she closed the door a little harder than was necessary, it did not seem to bother Mr. John Wayland Smith in the least.
“You lead a dangerously open life.”
Smith waved off Khasar’s criticism. “So have I always. This town is full of spiritists, occultists, charlatans and frauds. And, of course, the occasional genuine article. Siobhan thinks I am an ordinary man of extraordinary talents, as have a hundred others before her. They are far too self-absorbed to spare a thought for my true nature.”
“An interesting choice of occupation.”
Smith glanced fondly at the battlefield, littered with green-skinned corpses. “I have no urge to play at the game of Man. This harmless dabbling is more to my liking, and I find the sculpting most relaxing. There is little demand for swords in this honor-less age.”
He startled Holli by reaching out and grabbing her face in one large, horny hand. But he meant her no harm, instead, he tilted his head back and forth, surveying her features.
“A lovely nose. The cheekbones could do with a bit more projection, but yes, you’d do nicely. What do you say to a fairy warrior princess? Or a sorceress, perhaps, although that might be offensive to one of your loyalties.”
“I’m afraid we don’t have the leisure to discuss your past-time, Wayland.” Khasar placed the briefcase on the top of the display and opened it. At the sight of the metal shards, the supernatural smith drew his breath in sharply. It was obvious that he recognized the sword—what was left of it—immediately.
“This is Nimue’s blade!” He glanced sharply at Khasar, then Holli. “How did this happen? Where did you find it?”
“I want to know if you can fix it.”
The powerful angel frowned at the non-answer, but his interest in the sword was too great to take offense. “A ritual, perhaps… I can see there’s human blood on it.” He picked up a piece and ran a finger lightly over the broken edge. “Yes, there would be power in such a blade, though rather less than
one might suppose.”
“But can you fix it!” Holli demanded.
“My, for two Divine, you are impatient. I can effect some repairs now, in a manner of speaking, but as for its peculiar qualities, that will take some time. How much time, precisely, I cannot say. Here, come back into my office and I will see what I can do.”
Without waiting for them, he walked towards the rear of the room, still holding the bloody shard in his hand. Khasar looked at Holli, grimaced, then snapped the briefcase shut and followed. Holli, too, followed, through a short hallway full of shelves and past what looked like a small warehouse into a large, dark office. Swords were mounted on the side walls, three on each side, and the far wall was taken up by what looked like a huge metal oven of some kind. It was his forge, she realized, although it was cold and dead at the moment.
“Did you make those?” she asked, pointing to a wicked-looking black sword, longer than the others, with a pair of jagged hilt guards long enough to be blades of their own.
“I did indeed. Do you like that one? Don’t touch it! It’s my interpretation of Stormbringer, inspired by Brom, of course. I was rather taken with Moorcock’s notion of a sword that drank souls. My skill falls rather short of that, unfortunately, but I daresay it wouldn’t mind a taste of that which burns inside that pretty little Aspect of yours.”
Indeed, the blade was rattling a little inside its metal supports, quivering at Holli’s nearness. She drew her hand quickly away. What a horrible thing, it was a disgusting demonic vampire of a sword. She was forced to revise her initial impression of the friendly, but clearly Fallen smith.
“It takes a true artist to conceive a vision so appalling,” Khasar commented mildly. He seemed to share Holli’s dislike of the black blade, but he opened the case again and laid it on Wayland’s desk. The smith smiled, unconcerned by their failure to appreciate his dark artistry, and withdrew the pieces one by one, placing them together like a toddler’s first jigsaw puzzle.
“Excellent! I assumed there would be nothing missing, but it costs little to be sure.” He lifted the hilt and placed the broken edge in front of his face. Holli didn’t realize what he was doing at first, but then she saw he was breathing on it. Why, she did not know, until she smelled something hot and saw that the edge of the blade had turned orange. Without putting it down, he picked up the joining piece and began to breathe on it too, alternating back and forth between the two until the edges of both looked as if they were about to start dripping.
The burly smith winked at her, then turned and placed the two overheated pieces on top of his ancient forge, joining them together with care. Then he reached out and ran his hands over them.
“No!” Holli cried in horror. But her fear was unfounded. Wayland only chuckled and shook his head as he continued to massage the near-molten metal with his hands, stroking out its imperfections with his surprisingly gentle fingers.
“Never fear, little Guardian. ‘Tis but a little trick of mine, useful when time is pressing, not that I’d recommend it to our mortal friends.”
Wayland repeated the process four more times, and in far less time than Khasar had predicted, Excalibur was restored to its former glory, and to the naked eye, at least, its jeweled majesty was no less wonderful than before. Wayland picked it up and brandished it. The blade lacked polish, but for all that it was still a magnificent weapon, putting the mounted swords on the walls to shame.
“It’s a noble blade, my Divine friend. But better it had stayed in the waters to which Sir Bedivere consigned it. There is no future king, and no man shall wield this weapon again.”
Khasar’s eyes narrowed and he reached out for the sword. “Give me that!” he ordered harshly. But Wayland only smiled, and as if some unseen, unheard alarm had gone off, Khasar abruptly whirled around to face the door to the hallway through which they’d entered.
“What is it?” Holli cried, bewildered, and she had her answer a moment later as a cold back wind rushed into the room, swirling and shrieking with the howls of a thousand damned souls. Even in her half-angelic form, the twisting black spirals froze her bones and forced her to clap her hands over her ears. There were three of the evil whirlwinds, she realized as they spun faster and faster, then suddenly, there were three great demons standing before her, tall and terrible, with not one, but two faces on each head, one in front and one behind, and a pair of curved spiral horns protruding, red and glistening, from each forehead.
They had no wings, but instead wore black cloaks beneath which there were no bodies, only restless, coiling black smoke that created the illusion of a muscular being. The cloaks were clasped at the neck with iron in the shape of the Mad One’s mark, leaving her with no doubt of whom they served. They were coldly haughty, and they radiated a frightening air of daunting power.
“Stand back, archon,” the one in the middle warned Khasar, who had stepped in front of Holli. “Our master seeks no quarrel with the Divine, but even so you may not have the sword. All that is of this realm belongs to him. Leave it with us and leave our master’s domain in peace, or interfere and perish. It is all one to us.”
“You are his Eyes!” Khasar hissed.
“Indeed. And we have been watching you, archon, from the moment you entered Britain. We did not understand your purpose or we would have intervened much sooner. And see, brothers, the wisdom of our patience is rewarded. Now, will you stand aside, or no?”
Khasar hesitated for a moment, then nodded. These creatures were strong and their pride was not without foundation, they were no wretched Twice-Fallen. Even for one as powerful as an archon, it would have been pointless to resist. The cruel face smiled, not without contempt. “Whilst it was surely not your purpose to serve the master, you have served him well even so. Long has he wished to know the whereabouts of this weapon; even more has he desired to see it safely in his hands. You have his thanks, archon, and you are free to leave his realm. I suggest you do not tarry overlong, lest his grace dissipate with time.”
Khasar acknowledged the Eye with a stiff bow, and he did not attempt to interfere as Wayland handed over Excalibur hilt-first to the two-faced being. For all its insubstantial appearance, it had no trouble holding the heavy weapon in one black-gloved hand. Holli felt terrible for Khasar, seeing the helpless chagrin in his eyes. Breaking the sword had been bad enough, but seeing it handed over to the enemy was even worse. Now Prince Uriel’s plan was in shambles, and there was no choice except to let the Fallen fight out their three-way war and hope that someone could defeat Diavelina. She knew nothing of Diavelina, but she remembered the dread army waiting on the coast and she knew that anything worse than these horrid Eyes could only mean disaster.
The Eye turned to Wayland, who was leaning against his forge with his arms folded and a faint smile on his bearded face. “Your loyalty shall not be forgotten, nor shall it pass unrewarded, swordmaster.”
“The only reward I ask is to be let alone. I want no part of these internecine battles. And tell your master that he need fear nothing from the blade. Whatever magic it once possessed is gone and is beyond even my skill to restore.”
The Eye inclined his head. “It shall be as you request. Swordmaster. Archon. Angel.” Maomoondagh’s terrible servitor drew the sword into its wispy body and began to spin, followed immediately by its two companions. A cold chill again filled the room, and the howling rush of the unnatural wind caused Holli’s hair to flail about her face as the evil whirlwinds roared out of The Smithy, taking with them the precious sword as well as their last hope of preventing the approaching tragedy. As the black spirals vanished from her sight, she imagined she could see Diavelina’s storm clouds looming ominously over the island.
Chapter 31
Thief of Flames
I’m in love with this malicious intent
You’ve been taken but you don’t know it yet
What you will know must never live to be found
Cos it’s the subject of the eyes of the drowned
—Mi
nistry, (“New World Order”)
Waving off Khasar’s bitter accusations, Wayland sat down heavily on his leather-backed chair.
“You’d do well to get off your high horse, so sit down and listen to me. Of course I gave them the sword. There was no reason not to because it’s not the one you’re looking for. I don’t know what put it into your head that Excalibur would do the trick, but I can assure you that even if you hadn’t managed to break it—and I’m very curious to know how you managed that, by the way—it would have been useless to you.”
Khasar and Holli looked at each other, each afraid to first give voice to the hope that was suddenly rising in their hearts. “It wasn’t the right sword?”
“You mean, you didn’t betray us? You’re not on the Mad One’s side after all?”
John Smith laughed, his powerful chest heaving with his amusement. “I’m on no one’s side but my own, little girl. That’s why they kicked me out of Heaven in the first place. And if I was too proud to bend my knee before the Creator, how could I ever serve a jumped-up bit of flux and mirrors like Maomoondagh or whatever it’s calling itself these days?”
“Why did you call me that?”
“Little girl?” He smiled again as he reached out and withdrew a fat, leather-bound book from one of his sagging shelves. “I’ve lived among humans for five hundred generations. I know a mortal lass when I see one, for all that someone’s done a clever job of making you appear to be something you’re not.”
Holli glanced at Khasar, who was more than a little chagrined about the smith’s casual penetration of her disguise. “Do you think the Eyes noticed too?” he asked Wayland.
