Diablo smiled grimly, one hand running purposefully down Loki’s back. ‘I’m pleasantly surprised by you, Loki har Aralis,’ he said. ‘Yes, there’s time.’
Darq and Geburael had reached the shadow of the outermost tower of Thannaril Above. Darq could feel strange energies wheeling around him, like invisible flying fish with huge diaphanous tails. He felt light-headed. Geburael put a hand on Darq’s right arm and pointed to one of the towers with his free hand. ‘Go in there. It’s empty. Wait for me.’
Darq didn’t like the idea of waiting, but could see the sense in Geburael’s suggestion. ‘All right. Try not to take too long.’
Geburael grunted in response and jogged off between the clustering towers.
Darq examined the edifice before him for some moments and then walked up the worn steps to the entranceway, some fifteen feet above the ground. He felt he was being observed. Thannaril was too silent for his liking, because the silence didn’t really indicate emptiness; something other than that. At the threshold to the tower, a dark red lizard-like creature regarded Darq with intelligent eyes. After a moment, it sped off down the steps. Darq went inside.
He could tell at once that a very faint residue of power remained in this place. He walked around the circular room, touching the walls. As he did so, a weak vibration shivered up his arm. He came to a flight of stone steps that led to the next floor. There was something about the uninviting black hole of the room above that called to him. He began to mount the steps, one hand still touching the wall. Something was waiting for him up there; a revelation.
Darq had no sooner set foot on the dusty floorboards at the top of the steps when a powerful force hit him full in the chest. He would have been thrown back down the steps if he hadn’t willed himself to fall to the side. He rolled over, on his feet in an instant, his body held in a defensive crouch. Something was in there with him, but it was invisible to him, and neither could he gain any information about it with his inner sight. He calmed his breath, mustered his strength in the way that Ookami had taught him. If another assault came, he’d be ready for it.
Unfortunately, the next blow came from behind and caught him full in the back of the head. Darq was thrown to his knees; red lights pulsed in his eyes. He realised that whoever or whatever was attacking him was darting in and out of the otherlanes. Warmth ran down his face; his head was bleeding. Hashmallim! He thought. But they were playing with him. If they’d wanted to, they could have killed him outright.
He directed healing energy into the wound to stem the flow of blood, and drew his strength in around him like a shield. At the same time, he extended his perception to observe otherlanes portals forming. He had to move into a kind of quick time to be faster than whatever came for him. He perceived it then, a pale blur flashing past him. There was a further flicker of movement, which he focused his perceptions to identify; a weapon. It looked like a metal bar. He whipped out a hand and grabbed hold of it, swinging all of his weight into the movement. Whoever or whatever held the weapon would be thrown off balance. A body slammed onto the floor beside him, and rolled over several times before it came to rest, stunned.
Darq felt a jolt in his flesh. His assailant was Loki. Darq recognised the pale hair, the face too like Cal’s, which was bizarre considering Cal wasn’t really his father. But Loki’s inner essence had somehow changed. Darq could feel no sense of familiarity. What had the Hashmallim done to him, and what was he doing here, at this precise moment? Darq wondered if Geburael had betrayed him and had simply told Loki where to find him.
Loki was still only for an instant. Before Darq could even say his brother’s name, he was faced with another attack. Loki moved unbelievably fast; undoubtedly the results of Hashmallim training. He pushed Darq backwards until they were up against the far wall. Loki’s face was a snarling mask. His hands were round Darq’s throat, pressing it with an iron grasp. Hostile energy streamed from those hands; the intention to explode arteries and shred the heart. Darq could barely fend him off. He sent an arrow of crippling energy into Loki’s eyes and in the brief lessening of Loki’s grip managed to free himself. He knew it was impossible to negotiate with this har. Loki didn’t utter a word, not even a threat or an insult. He was a single purpose; a killing machine.
Darq ran to the stairs, hurtled down them. He intended to get outside, give himself enough space to clear his head. He had to formulate a strategy to incapacitate Loki. It was impossible to do that in the face of such mindless aggression.
Loki attacked him again before he reached the entrance. Darq sent a loud message: Stop! But it was ignored. He realised that part of his defenses must be to stop caring whether he hurt Loki or not. He had to survive.
Uttering a hoarse cry of anger, Darq stopped defending himself and fought back. He fought with his fists and his feet, but also his intention. He projected himself into the place where his mind had been throughout his training. He was stronger than Loki; he had to be.
In Phaonica, Cal awoke from sleep and sat up in bed, the covers falling from his body. The room was utterly without light; not even the soft sheen of the lamps from the city below penetrated the murk. He could see nothing, not even Pellaz, who he could tell still slept on beside him, breathing deeply and evenly. Earlier, they had dared to think that everything might turn out all right, that danger would pass, that Darquiel was the shining herald of a new, more enlightened, age.
Pellaz had asked Cal to come to him after the dinner party and from the mere glance Pell had given him, Cal had been waiting all evening for the party to end. Part of him had been concerned about Darquiel; he had sensed their son had private plans. But mainly he’d wanted to see what lay behind the look in Pell’s eyes. He quickly found out. Perhaps for the first time since he’d come to Immanion, Cal had felt that Pellaz had given himself fully, without cares of the past marring their union. It was as if Darquiel’s return had healed ancient wounds, and brought soothing awareness.
The sweet oblivion of aruna had lasted for several hours, until both Cal and Pellaz had fallen asleep. But now Cal knew, in the deepest fibers of his body, that everything was not all right and that passion can be a brightly painted veil. He could feel it in the unnatural dark; he could feel it in the listening stillness.
‘What?’ he said aloud.
In the distance, he heard wolves lamenting. His skin prickled. There were no wolves around Immanion.
‘What?’
A figure appeared before him, limned in a soft radiance. It hung at the end of the bed, like a vision of an angel. It was Tava-edzen. ‘Go to him,’ Tava-edzen said. ‘You must go at once.’
Cal opened his mouth to speak, ask a question, but then his body flinched sharply, and he found he was waking from a dream. He opened his eyes and the room was dimly lit by a lamp on a table near the door. Cal swallowed. His mouth was dry. He glanced at Pellaz, who was lying on his stomach, covered by the shawl of his hair. Cal carefully got out of bed and reached for his clothes.
Dressed, he padded from the room and went to Pell’s office. Tava-edzen must have been referring to Darquiel, and at first Cal was in two minds whether to go directly to his son’s room in the Tigrina’s apartments or not. But his instincts advised him he should investigate first, while the essence of the dream was still strong and vital. If Tava-edzen was attempting to contact him, he should act upon it without delay. And Cal intended to work alone: he didn’t consider waking Pellaz or contacting Velaxis or Thiede. He composed himself on the floor and focused his intention upon Anakhai. The ethers were disturbed; not as badly as when Ponclast had been freed from Gebaddon all those years ago, but certainly not how they usually were. Cal perceived a faint strand of awareness at the end of the shining cord of his will. Should he go to Anakhai through the otherlanes? Before he could make a decision about this, Tava-edzen made an extraordinary effort to contact him, because the message, when it came, was clear: Go to Thanatep. Darq is in danger, terrible danger.
Cal knew he must keep this dialogue to
the point. He could find out how Tava-edzen knew this information later. It’s difficult to break into that realm. Is the danger coming from there? Shall I send Darq to you for safety?
Too late. He’s in Thanatep.
Cal was so surprised by this, it nearly severed his contact. The little fool!
The barrier has been breached, Tava-edzen told him. You’ll be able to get through.
Against his usual instincts, Cal made an offer: Come with me, he said urgently. I can come to Anakhai swiftly and collect you.
Tava-edzen’s connection began to waver, but Cal could feel the har pouring all of his will into maintaining it. He was in awe of the Nezreka’s force, but then, of course, he had once been the legendary Manticker. No. Tava-edzen told him. Unable. I’ll add my strength to yours. Only you can go.
Give me guidance.
I’ll try. Go now. Hurry.
Cal ended the contact and leapt to his feet. He closed his eyes, opened a portal.
To Darquiel, his conflict with Loki had become utterly surreal. They were fighting as spiritual creatures, no longer exactly in their own bodies. They tumbled and leapt and soared into the heart of Thannaril Above, where the tower of Mutandis shuddered to emanations from Below. Darq and Loki shrieked like maddened angels, tearing at the etheric fabric of each other’s beings. Personality was lost. All that existed was the essence of the conflict: one will against another. And in that elemental fight, so the towers suffered. Their fragile, untended stones began to crumble, buffeted by hurricanes of hostile force.
For a few moments, Darq came to his senses, outside of himself. There below, huddled against the wall of a tower, was Geburael, his face set in an expression of horror. Darq could see that the har had not helped initiate this fight.
His senses zoomed out. All around the city, attenuated spectral shapes were converging from the outer lands. They must be Thanax, drawn by the heat of the event. Darq realised a dreadful truth. This was what the Aasp had wanted all along – Darquiel and Loki har Aralis in battle. They were both the products of unusual conceptions, possessed of abilities and awareness few other hara owned. Their conflict would destroy what was left of Thannaril, the heart of Thanatep, and then no creature alive could reactivate the towers.
Even as Darq realised this, he was powerless to stop the inevitable. It could only be a fight to the death. With this realisation, he snapped back into the moment. He was an angel of devastation.
In Thannaril Below, Ta Ke writhed upon his black throne. He was so close to breakthrough, so close. If only he had others to help him, but destiny had decreed he must work alone. A sphere of energy was forming in Mutandis, which was the initial requirement for reactivating the towers. Ta Ke projected every shred of strength he possessed into its creation. Blood streamed from his nostrils and his tightly closed eyes. His body shook fiercely. Above him, through the strength of his will, and the pure sounds he could direct from the heart of the universe, Mutandis was rebuilding itself, atom by atom. And now this terrible maelstrom had come, tearing apart all the painstaking work Ta Ke had done. He cried out in desolation.
Lileem emerged from Mutandis to find herself in the heart of a storm of hatred. The air was full of the groan and thunder of cracking stone. For some moments she was disorientated and her first instinct was to flee back to the base of the tower and hide in Thannaril Below. Then she noticed a young har crouched against the outer wall of Mutandis, his hands over his head to protect himself from flying debris. Ducking the bouncing chunks of stone, she went to his side, pulled his hands from his face. ‘What’s happening?’ she yelled. Her words were blown away from her mouth; she wasn’t sure he’d heard her.
The har stared at her; his eyes full of hopelessness. ‘They fight,’ he mouthed.
It was obvious to Lileem that she and this har couldn’t remain outside. She took hold of his clothes and dragged him into the relative shelter of the tower. They were both panting like exhausted dogs. ‘Who are you?’ Lileem demanded.
‘Geburael har Teraghast,’ said the har. He had a cut on his forehead and now wiped blood from his eyes. ‘And you?’
‘Lileem… Kamagrian…’ She had no idea if he’d know of her or her kind.
But Geburael nodded. ‘I know of you. You know my hostling, Ponclast.’
Lileem smiled sardonically. ‘Small world… or rather multiplicity of worlds! What a strange way for us to meet.’
Geburael grimaced. ‘I know you were in the city below. Have you just come up through the tower?’
‘Yes. What the hell’s going on?’
‘The Aralisians are fighting,’ Geburael said. ‘Loki and Darquiel, sons of the Tigron.’
Lileem leapt to her feet. ‘What? Why? We have to stop them.’
‘You can’t,’ Geburael said. He coughed. ‘I think it’s meant to be.’
‘I don’t care!’ Lileem cried. ‘They’re tearing this place apart and that mustn’t happen. Ta Ke has nearly finished working on Mutandis. Get up, Geburael! You must help me stop this fight!’
Geburael made a helpless sound. ‘You can’t stop it; they’re like elementals. I couldn’t even get near them. Believe me, I want to stop it as much as you do, but it’s hopeless.’ He moaned, pressed his face against his hands. ‘I brought Darquiel here. It’s my fault.’
Lileem couldn’t be bothered to comfort or argue with him. Neither was she prepared to stand by and do nothing. She ran out into the storm of stone and dust.
In a pool of calm within the madness, Diablo sat in Apanage and shivered. He could feel the fabric of the towers starting to unravel around him. It would soon be over. As he’d lain in Loki’s arms, he had perceived Darquiel and Geburael break into Thanatep and, even at the height of aruna, had informed Zikael by mind touch at once. Geburael was a fool. He would need severe chastising later. But at least he had brought the abomination to this realm, albeit for the wrong reasons. As for Loki, he had turned out well. Diablo had been a soume-well of dark strength for him; Loki was now more than ready to take on the abomination and complete something that had been started so long ago. When it was over, Diablo would consume the remains, as should have happened back in the beginning. Ponclast hadn’t been strong enough. He’d been weak, ravaged by his exile in Gebaddon. No, it was up to his sons to finish his business for him.
Diablo rocked back and forth, pouring all of his spite and meanness into Loki’s conditioned mind. Tear. Rend asunder. Destroy. He was the battery of Loki’s power and he was inexhaustible. Not even a demon like Darquiel could stand up to it, for he fought alone.
Tears ran down Diablo’s face as waves of hot and cold energy streamed through his flesh. He felt he was Darquiel’s complete opposite; dark and shriveled in places where Darquiel expanded like a sun. This demon was an insult to all who had born and suffered in Gebaddon. He was the Gelaming’s ultimate sneer at those they had oppressed and disempowered. For a brief moment, Diablo cursed the fact that the Hashmallim had given him awareness. When he’d been ignorant, almost like an animal, there hadn’t been so much pain. You must help me end it now, Diablo thought. Let me destroy their shining avatar as they destroyed all our hopes. He sensed Zikael observing him, but the Hashmal wouldn’t manifest now. What was happening was a ritual that only hara could perform. It was Diablo’s job to make sure it produced the right results. He cared nothing for the desires of the Hashmallim and the Aasp; he saw them merely as tools to achieve his own ends.
Then Diablo sensed a new presence. At first, he ignored it as inconsequential, until a voice penetrated his mind. I should have finished you off at Fulminir, you scrap of offal!
Diablo opened his eyes, while the major part of his being still concentrated on feeding Loki with power. He saw a tall pale shape standing before him, which gradually swam into focus. It was the har who had prevented him from killing Pellaz har Aralis at Fulminir, the har Diablo had occasionally observed throughout the years; he had planned all kinds of satisfying ends for him. Calanthe.
Diablo snar
led; a low venomous sound.
‘Please,’ said Cal in a reasonable tone, displaying his palms. ‘Do take me on, Diablo.’
This was just a minor irritation. Diablo knew he had the power of the Hashmallim at his disposal and through them the mightier power of the Aasp, those shadowy entities he had never encountered. It would take very little concentration or effort to squash this Wraeththu fly. There was no point in attempting to communicate. He leapt up and lunged forward, but Cal did not attack or defend himself. He merely grabbed hold of Diablo’s arms and hauled him into the otherlanes.
Diablo screeched in fury as the hectic vortex enveloped them. He fought with all his strength, but Cal was like vapor, enfolding him totally. They tumbled in and out of the otherlanes, through multiple realms and lightless voids. Cal was taking Diablo further and further from Thanatep, so that his connection with Loki was broken. Diablo could no longer perceive what was happening in that realm. He gave up trying to attack the essence that held him, and concentrated simply on escaping it, but Cal was too strong, too driven. He was driven by love, not hate, and Diablo found, too late, that his bitterness was no match for it.
After what seemed like many days had passed, but was perhaps only minutes, in the strange time-sense of the otherlanes, Cal dragged Diablo into an uninhabited realm of bare, wind-scoured mountains. It was perhaps a temporary area, much like the one Zikael had created for Loki, that had been formed for a purpose and then abandoned.
Diablo thought he might have a chance to escape now, but Cal, trained by Thiede himself, put restrictions upon the fabric of the realm, so that portals could not be formed until the wards were removed. Cal released Diablo and folded his arms.
Diablo sank to his knees. He needed to restore his strength before he could attempt to vanquish this Gelaming warrior, for that was how he perceived Cal.
‘I could leave you here,’ Cal said, ‘like your hostling was left in Gebaddon. Would that be a wise choice, do you think?’
Diablo did not answer. He was putting every shred of effort into preventing his body from trembling.
The Ghosts of Blood and Innocence Page 47
