by Edward Cox
Spiral summoned his thaumaturgy and dragged Clara and Namji across the rocky ground, hoisting them into the air to hover just below his feet. Although they couldn’t move or speak, Samuel still saw the panic and terror in the eyes of his friends. ‘Now, unless you want to watch me feed your friends to the Retrospective, you will tell me where Simowyn Hamir is.’
Samuel felt a nudge from his prescient awareness. It wasn’t much, just enough to brighten the dark hopelessness with shadowy light, and it encouraged him to look up at the clouds. The sky was changing, darkening.
‘Hamir is with a friend of ours.’ With a surge of courage, Samuel decided that on these damned, demonic plains, surrounded by untold numbers of enemies, he would face his fate on his feet, and he forced himself upright before the Genii Lord. ‘His name is Gulduur Bellow. He’s an elder of the Nephilim herd.’
Clara and Namji fell to the ground, the restraining spell evaporated. They scurried to Samuel’s side.
Spiral rose higher into the air. The demons around the hill hissed. The Genii looked up at their lord uncertainly. A dark hole appeared in the poisonous clouds above him. Flying demons fled from it.
‘Impossible!’ There might have been fear in Spiral’s tone. ‘There are no free Nephilim.’
Samuel’s magic became a warm, oily feeling, soaking into his intuition. ‘You were too late,’ he growled. ‘Hamir and Bellow got inside the prison. The Nephilim are coming for you, Iblisha Spiral.’
‘My Genii—’ Spiral began, but his wings fell limp and he crashed to the hilltop in a heavy, ungainly manner.
A sudden stillness gripped the Retrospective.
A shout of thunder came from the hole in the sky.
Spiral got to his feet, trembling with rage at the pain he appeared to be feeling. He glowed with higher magic. Samuel, Clara and Namji backed away – as did the Genii, and the wild demons. All of them looked to the sky.
It was raining. Dark, viscous drops of blood pattered down on the group, filling the air with a rusty tang. Each drop glistened with energy as it splashed upon the red rock and seeped into the Retrospective.
The atmosphere crackled. A storm of lightning shredded the clouds and the dark hole widened, turning a deep shade of amber.
‘No!’ Spiral shouted, and his wings fanned once more.
Figures appeared from the amber light, hundreds of them, bringing the rain of blood. Even from such a distance, Samuel could tell they were giants.
‘The Nephilim,’ Clara breathed.
Namji whimpered.
With a roar of fury, Spiral beat his wings and vaulted into the air, becoming a tornado of fiery smoke that billowed up to meet his adversaries.
The wild demons broke ranks, countless in number, fighting and scrambling over each other to get clear of the magical rain.
Samuel wiped blood from his eyes to watch Viktor Gadreel summon thaumaturgy and race skywards to join his master in battle. Mo Asajad had no such intensions, or any interest in her human captives. Whispering the language of the Thaumaturgists, she sliced a hand through the air, causing the dark rent of a portal to appear. She jumped into it and disappeared from the Retrospective.
Namji had lost her mind. She knelt on the ground, spattered in red, covering her head with her hands. Clara was with her, holding her. Samuel made to join them but Fabian Moor yanked him back and held the hunting knife to his throat.
‘You’re coming with me,’ the Genii hissed.
While the sky exploded with fire and infinite colours, Samuel was dragged into churning darkness.
The voice of the Nightshade spoke to the magic in Ennis’s blood.
It was as though the building was flexing its muscles, no longer a victim of the Genii’s disease, gathering its energy until it was returned to the peak of its power. And it welcomed Ennis, welcomed him in a way that made him feel more a part of Labrys Town than he had ever felt before. And it thanked him for his part in saving hundreds of thousands of lives.
The Resident was dead. Her demons were gone. But Ennis wasn’t alone in the Nightshade.
A small army of automatons were prowling the corridors. Wherever they had come from, they appeared to be leaving, perhaps to add their numbers to the automatons and denizens already fighting the infected out on the streets. Ennis wanted to follow them, feeling exhilarated, almost desperate to join the fight. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He had two children to rescue from the Nightshade’s labyrinthine structure.
A shout came from up ahead, from beyond a right-hand turn in the corridor. Ennis slowed and peeked around the corner. His heart froze when he saw the Genii Lady Asajad.
But she was on her knees in an antechamber, held down by two imposing automatons. Her face, smooth and porcelain pale, paler than the scarring on her forehead, was streaked with lines of dried blood. Before her stood another woman, dressed in purple robes, her head shaved bald. Through slits in the robe, Ennis could make out something silver on her back. Wings? The woman’s hand glowed with higher magic.
‘Amilee, wait!’ Asajad cried.
Yes, the Nightshade whispered to Ennis’s blood. Lady Amilee, the Skywatcher, the patron of the denizens …
‘We were wrong!’ Asajad’s tone was pleading. She appeared frail, painfully thin, exhibiting nothing of a creature of higher magic’s power. ‘Iblisha Spiral is insane!’
‘A shame you did not recognise that fact forty years ago, Lady Asajad.’ Amilee’s voice rivalled the surging power of the Nightshade. ‘Baran Wolfe tried to warn you.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Asajad half-sobbed, half-snarled. She tried and failed to free herself from the automatons’ clutches, ‘Spiral doesn’t wish to merely overthrow the Timewatcher – he will become Her, exceed Her power—’
‘Not any more,’ Amilee interrupted. ‘There is blood on your face. It is the blood of the Nephilim. They have sown a seed of dead time in you, and it is destroying your thaumaturgy. You have been cursed by blood-magic.’
‘Amilee, please …’
‘It is a little too late to be seeking my mercy.’
Amilee’s magic became a wicked spike of energy in her palm. Her silver wings spread and she grew taller, more powerful. ‘Lady Mo Asajad, usurper, Genii, former disciple of the Pantheon of Thaumaturgists – in the name of the Timewatcher, the Trinity of Skywatchers and the people of Labrys Town, I sentence you to death.’
Held prone by the automatons, Asajad could only begin to scream, ‘No!’ before Amilee rammed the spike of higher magic into her face.
The Genii convulsed, thrashing in the automatons’ vice-like grip. When Amilee dispelled her magical weapon, Asajad fell limp, hanging dead from metal hands, her face a charred and blackened ruin.
‘Take her away,’ the Skywatcher said dispassionately.
The automatons dragged the dead body down the corridor leading away from the antechamber. Amilee watched them leave and then looked back over her shoulder. Ennis caught a glimpse of the black diamond tattooed onto her forehead before ducking back and hiding.
‘The Nightshade’s defences are now at full strength.’ Amilee’s voice drifted to Ennis, perhaps even from the walls and floor and ceiling around him. ‘Its magic is once again protecting the denizens and ridding this town of the Genii’s filthy virus. This is largely because of you, Sergeant Ennis, and you have no reason to hide from me.’
Gingerly, Ennis left his hiding place and faced her, not knowing whether to feel fearful or humbled that the Skywatcher knew his name; but not even the Nightshade could fill him with the courage to walk down the corridor and join her in the antechamber.
Amilee smiled. ‘On behalf of the Nightshade, the Relic Guild and the denizens of Labrys Town – thank you, Ennis.’
He tried to reply but his mouth only succeeded in moving wordlessly. Even from that distance, he couldn’t look into her tawny eyes. Lady Amilee was rad
iant, and her very presence only highlighted the fatigue in Ennis that begged him to lie down and cry and not get up again for a very long time. He was almost glad when another automaton arrived to disturb the moment.
Sitting in the crooks of its arms were the two children. The automaton let them down and they hid behind Lady Amilee, clutching the folds of her purple robe. Their eyes were wide and full of fear.
‘I believe you have already met Jade and Daniel,’ Amilee said.
They recognised Ennis and hope came to their small faces.
Amilee’s long, slender hands rested protectively on the children’s shoulders, and they looked up at her. ‘Now then, young ones, this is Sergeant Ennis. He is a policeman, and you have my promise that you can trust him.’
Ennis stared at the three of them. The way this creature of higher magic spoke, communicated with these children as equals … he found himself wishing that she would speak to him in the same manner.
‘Sergeant Ennis,’ Amilee prompted. ‘You will take care of Jade and Daniel for me?’
Ennis snorted a laugh. ‘Of course I will.’ He felt such relief within him that he sank to one knee and opened his arms. ‘I’ve already helped them once.’
With a little encouragement from Amilee, the children ran to him and he gathered them into his embrace.
‘Labrys Town is hurting, Sergeant,’ Amilee said as she strode off with the automaton. ‘The denizens will need people like you to help them heal.’
The wild demons couldn’t escape.
They tried to flee the rain of blood and the fury of the Nephilim but they didn’t get far. In their tens of millions the demons died upon the endless savage plains and crashed down from the sky. Their screams were cut short as dead time broke them, crushed them, churned their remains into a soup of blood and meat and bone, forming a deep layer of compost from which strange plant life grew with preternatural speed. Fungi the size of houses; trees as tall as mountains; swards of grass as grey as ash, littered with flowers glowing with amber light. The Retrospective bloomed with the life of the Nephilim.
But the battle was not yet over.
As the House of dead time transformed, a patch of scorched rock erupted on a hilltop. From the depths of a dark hole, a hundred insectoid automatons burst to the surface, their tails lashing with thaumaturgic stings. They swarmed, creating a protective circle around a human magicker and an Aelf kneeling on the ground in each other’s arms.
Clara barely noticed the Toymaker’s return. Her teeth clenched, she only had eyes for the battle between Spiral and the Nephilim herd. The wrath of incomprehensible power, shouting with thunder, shaking the ground and blistering the air, had turned the sky deep crimson. The blazes of higher magic were so fierce, so bright, that Clara could barely discern the multitude of giants draining the last slivers of control from the fierce storm that Spiral had become: a tornado of flaming black smoke that stretched from morphing ground to bloody clouds.
Namji’s mind had snapped. She clung to Clara, sinking into her embrace, weeping and moaning on her knees as though the changeling was her last hope. The blood that had rained down on them earlier had dried to flakes that tingled upon the skin. Clara and Namji were now covered by a shield of energy, a dome of translucent magic that protected them from the battle and the bloody downpour.
Namji needs you, Van Bam said. He sounded as though his teeth were gritted, too. The two of you could be all that is left of us.
Marney, Hamir and Gulduur Bellow had obviously succeeded in opening the Nephilim’s prison, but where were they now? Lady Asajad had disappeared and Clara didn’t know where Fabian Moor had taken Samuel, but Viktor Gadreel was present.
The hulking brute, the only Genii to remain loyal to his master, had been thrown from the battle almost as soon as he tried to enter it, crashing into the hilltop like a bird with broken wings, landing so hard he cracked the rock. Only Gadreel’s thaumaturgy had saved him from death; but that power was quickly drained from him by the blood-magic of three Nephilim who had descended to accost the Genii.
Gadreel looked puny as he raged and spat at the two giants holding him down on his knees. The third giant approached Clara and Namji, and the Toymaker parted before her.
Wiry beneath a robe of brown, itchy-looking material, she bore a plethora of pale scars on the weathered skin of her arms and legs. Her dusky hair was tied loosely into a tail. A few stray tangles framed her gaunt face and startling blue eyes. Above her, the sky blazed and shouted.
‘My name is Eysha Bellow,’ she said, her voice surprisingly clear and calm, betraying no anxiety amidst the tumult of battle. ‘I am an elder of my herd, and you …’ She stared, her eyes drifting briefly to Namji’s shivering, weeping form in the changeling’s arms, before deciding something. ‘Your name is Clara, and you speak for your people.’
Clara wasn’t sure how to reply until Van Bam reminded her that she very much spoke for humankind now. ‘I am the Resident of Labrys Town,’ she said, looking up at the Nephilim towering over her. ‘I am the leader of the Relic Guild.’
Eysha Bellow bobbed her head respectfully, solemnly. ‘We Nephilim owe you and your kind a great debt of gratitude.’
Namji clutched at Clara, her sobbing increasing.
‘Your friend is terrified,’ Eysha said with sympathy. ‘And who can blame her?’ She turned her eyes to the battle in the sky. ‘This is no place for creatures of lower magic.’
‘The rest of my friends,’ Clara said, desperation and panic rising. ‘They’re missing. There was—’
‘They are beyond your help.’ Eysha spoke with certainty, not unkindness. ‘And I suspect that your people need their Resident now. I will return you to the Labyrinth.’
That’s it? Clara thought. We just leave and keep our fingers crossed that the Nephilim defeat Spiral?
The Nephilim have already won, Van Bam replied. Look at the sky.
The smoky black tornado that was Spiral had shrunk, becoming noticeably thinner, its fire dying in the blood rain, beset on all sides by nearly a thousand Nephilim shining with higher magic.
Then we go home, Clara said, realising that she had never expected to be saying such a thing. But Van Bam had other ideas.
No, he growled. Not yet.
The ex-Resident directed Clara’s vision to Viktor Gadreel.
The Genii had given up struggling against his Nephilim captors. He now stared into the battle, calling his lord’s name.
Gadreel’s thaumaturgy is gone. The ghost’s tone was as harsh as talons scraping the inside of Clara’s skull. He is as mortal as any human.
Clara had never known the illusionist to exhibit such heat and anger, and she did not disapprove. She drew courage from it, strength.
Gadreel fed me to wild demons, Van Bam said hotly. And he made you watch!
Clara felt her magic stirring. You want me to kill him for you?
I want the wolf to rip him apart.
Eysha already appeared to know what was going on in Clara’s mind and her blue eyes studied Gadreel. ‘You wish revenge?’
Clara rose, standing little higher than the giant’s midriff. ‘I do.’
Namji grabbed at her. ‘Don’t … don’t leave me,’ she begged.
‘It’ll be all right, I promise,’ Clara soothed. Namji wrapped her arms around her body and began to rock back and forth. Clara addressed Eysha. ‘For his crimes against my people, Viktor Gadreel deserves to die.’
The Nephilim watched the battle. Spiral’s ever-decreasing storm was now shot through with spears of violet lightning. Gadreel called his lord’s name again.
‘Yes,’ Eysha said. ‘I understand why you would wish for vengeance.’ She drew a shuddery, exhilarated breath. ‘Very well. We will not stand in your way.’
Clara instructed the Toymaker to not interfere. Eysha ordered her fellow Nephilim to release their prisoner with
a wave of her hand. She then picked up Namji. Eyes squeezed shut, the Aelf wept in the giant’s arms.
It took Gadreel a moment to realise that he was no longer being held, and then he stood, suspicious until his one dark eye fixed on Clara and the clear ground between them.
‘Little wolf,’ he rumbled – seething, defeated. ‘You deserved all the pain I gave you.’
Van Bam sighed. Do as you were born to do.
Clara summoned her magic.
It came with searing heat that rushed through every inch of her being. Clara’s limbs and body morphed and grew, absorbing her magical clothes even as silver-grey hair sprouted from her skin. With a final surge, Clara’s face snapped into a long muzzle and she stood on four strong legs.
Snarling, the wolf bounded forward.
Gadreel was big, a brute, quick and strong even without his higher magic. He raised an arm for defence and managed to remain upright when Clara sank her long teeth into it. Gadreel hissed, smashing a meaty fist into the wolf’s side. Clara felt a rib snap but she didn’t let go. She bit as hard as she could, tearing the arm away at the elbow. Gadreel roared in pain and fell down onto his back, spraying blood. His remaining hand gripped Clara around the throat, trying to crush her windpipe. With impressive strength, he held the wolf at bay. For a moment.
Viktor Gadreel’s final curse was lost as Clara’s jaws closed around his head. Her teeth sank through skin, cracking bone. The wolf revelled in the taste of his defeat, crushing his head until his skull gave and her teeth speared into his brain. Growling, Clara bit and shook until Gadreel’s head was torn from his neck.
Van Bam was silent in her mind.
With the hot, salty tang of Genii blood filling her mouth, the wolf stood astride her foe’s corpse and howled victory at the furious sky.
The remnants of Spiral’s storm had become thin tendrils of oily smoke hanging from the crimson clouds. One after the other, they dissipated as bolts of purple lightning struck them. The sound of thunder faded into the distance. Blood rain continued to fall. The Lord of the Genii was dead. The magic of the Nephilim flourished and commanded the Retrospective.
