Heirs of the Fallen: Book 04 - Wrath of the Fallen

by James A. West

  Leitos wrapped both hands around the lever and heaved. A rusty shriek reverberated deep within the wall. He yanked again, and there came a deep grinding noise of some mechanism. The lever dropped another inch, then stopped hard.

  The heavy tread of approaching Alon’mahk’lar boots echoed loudly in the colossal chamber. Their calls grew eager. The hunt was nearly over.

  Panting, Leitos hung all his weight on the end of the lever and began jerking it downward. Inch by inch, the metal arm creaked and groaned closer to the floor. The grinding sounded again, and then he heard a rattling clank.

  The demon-born were closing fast, the jangle of their armor mixing with a cascade of growls and drumming boots.

  At the halfway point, the lever bent under Leitos’s weight. Eyes bulging with fright, he let go and reached for the wheel. It moved a only little more than before.

  A frantic peek showed the Alon’mahk’lar were now just a few strides beyond the portcullis. Cold sweat mingled with bloody snow on Leitos’s brow. It was too late to run. He flung himself onto the lever. With a jarring clang, the arm slammed down. He sprang for the wheel, twisted hard, but it refused to budge.

  Not enough time!

  Leitos twisted the wheel the other direction and it moved, hard at first, then easier. The mechanism hidden behind the wall screeched in protest.

  Eager, guttural cries became furious roars.

  Leitos spun the wheel faster, hands flying over the grips, arms and shoulders burning from the effort. The portcullis shuddered as it lurched downward, its metal edges screaming through the grooves cut into either side of the doorway. A dusty shower of rust filled the air. The taste of it was like blood on his tongue.

  The Alon’mahk’lar howled, pounded closer ... closer.

  With a resounding boom, the portcullis slammed against the floor. An instant later, the demon-born rammed against the heavy iron grating. Massive as the beasts were, not even they could so much as shiver those sturdy bars.

  They glared with bulging black eyes cut through with golden slits. Throaty cries rang out, slaver flew from fangs and lips. More than one swung its sword against the barrier, striking off showers of sparks. Those ugly steel blades were thick and strong, made to crush an enemy’s bones rather than cut them, but they fared poorly against bars thick as a man’s wrist.

  Leitos caught up his sword and scabbard, and backed away gulping breath. The thought to poke at the demon-born flickered through his mind, but he feared they would snatch away his blade. Alon’mahk’lar could die, much like any other living thing, but not easily.

  With no other choice, he fled deeper into the tower.

  Chapter 4

  Diffuse blue radiance illuminated his path, its source seemingly the very air he breathed. Again, he was reminded of the Throat of Balaam. Every few strides, stone arches climbed high above, making it seem as though he were running through the rib bones of some great animal.

  He turned once and again, following a maze of passageways. Behind him, the shouts of the Alon’mahk’lar diminished, as did the ringing blows they struck the portcullis.

  When it seemed he might be running in circles, Leitos slowed to a walk. He had yet to find any way out of the labyrinth. Only the chill radiance, getting stronger the farther he went, kept him placing one foot in front of the other.

  As he plodded onward, he ran his fingers over the rough dark surface of one wall, recoiled from the damp warmth under his fingertips. Whether it was made of stone or some aged metal, he could not say.

  On and on, turn after turn, he moved deeper into the tower. Instinct told him the structure was far more vast on the inside than it had looked outside.

  He paused at another junction of empty corridors, unsure which way the light shone brightest. He made to turn left, but a voice on the right froze him.

  “Not that way.”

  Leitos ducked behind a wall. That was Zera’s voice. He had convinced himself that she had been a vision. Yet here she was again. As best he could tell, his wits were intact.

  “Drop your weapons and show yourself,” he ordered.

  “The dead have no need of weapons,” she said, a hint of sardonic laughter in her voice. Zera stepped into view, looking as real as the sword he leveled at her chest.

  Seeing edged steel aimed at her heart gave him a jolt, but he refused to lower the blade. She was dead by his hand. He could hardly kill her again.

  She stepped closer, and Leitos scrubbed his eyes with the back of his free hand. Zera remained, her lips turned in a wry grin.

  “Who are you?” he asked, suspicious.

  She shrugged. “The lover you refused to take. The woman you killed. I forgive you, by the way. In your place, I would have killed me.”

  “This cannot be real.” He concentrated on the leather-wrapped hilt in his hand. It was damp from melted snow. The stones underfoot were solid. The air in his chest was stale but genuine.

  She stepped closer until the point of his sword dimpled the dark leather sheathing her left breast. “An inch more, and we start again where we left off. Is that what you want?” Her eyes flared brighter, and he read in them the same cutting amusement he had grown used to when traveling at her side on the road to Zuladah, and later into the Mountains of Fire. Used to it or not, now there was a sharper edge to her tone.

  “What do you want?”

  Using a finger, she eased the sword aside. Leitos was helpless to resist. “Only to help.”

  “How are you here—how are you alive?” Leitos had a thousand questions, but they came so fast, tumbling one over the other, that he had trouble sorting them out.

  “There are places where the veil between the Thousand Hells, your living world, and the blessed Paradise ruled by Pa’amadin, all come together. After the Well of Creation was destroyed, the number of such places increased.” She came nearer, and he could feel her warmth. “Here, and other places like it, you are as near to death as I am to life.”

  “And what about my dreams?” Leitos asked. “Was that you I saw?”

  She slid a languid fingertip along his jaw. “There were times that you passed close to places like this, and I came to you. On other occasions, I expect your mind resurrected me. Perhaps you’ll share what we did in these dreams of yours?”

  Heat flamed Leitos’s cheeks, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He did not move away, and did not want to. Her scent, that of leather and blossoming flowers, was too welcome to shun. She leaned in and kissed him, and for a moment he almost forgot she was dead.

  Almost, but not quite.

  He caught her waist, holding her at bay. “I trust that you didn’t lure me into the tower to seduce me.” Much as he could have wished for an eternity with Zera, he knew it would never happen. The living loving the dead made for a poor romance.

  “I suppose not,” Zera said. Echoing his thoughts, she added, “I suppose there will never be a time for us.”

  “What matters now,” Leitos said, “are the Alon’mahk’lar I locked out of the tower, who are even now working on a way to breach the gate.”

  “That is truer than you know,” Zera said, turning. “Come with me.”

  Leitos held fast. “Where are we going?”

  “This was once the realm of your ancestors,” Zera said, looking over her shoulder. “But no longer. Izutar has fallen, along with Aradan, Falseth, Tureece. Everything north of the Sea of Drakarra is lost. Geldain, Yato, and a few other lands are all that remain where some humans still survive. As I’m sure you know, their numbers are growing smaller by the day. Inside of a few months humanity, as it was created by the Three, will be forgotten, replaced by the Fallen and their heirs. You must leave here and prepare for a war you can scarcely hope to win, but a war that must be fought. But before you go, there is someone you need to speak with.”

  “Who?” Leitos asked, mistrustful.

  “You’ll see.”

  Leitos still didn’t move. This shade before him spoke with Zera’s voice, had her
eyes and shape, but he could not afford to drop his guard.

  “You’ve changed,” she said softly. “You were more trusting when we first met.”

  “I was a child then, a born slave.” Leitos remembered that night. He had been a captive of Sandros, a changeling Hunter. Zera drugged Sandros and her companion Pathil, then took Leitos away. As it turned out, she had been working with the two Hunters, and was in truth their leader. Trust, as he recalled, had nothing to do with his choice of going with Zera. Rather, it had been his immediate infatuation with her, the first woman he had ever seen. Her mere presence had captivated his mind and heart.

  Zera stepped closer. “It’s more than that. A darkness has come into you, a shadow cloaking your former innocence. It suits you.”

  “This is a world made for darkness,” Leitos said, voice tight. “And if there is a shadow within me, its maker is the Faceless One—Peropis—who casts darkness over all Creation.”

  “Just so.”

  Chapter 5

  Where Leitos had wandered aimlessly through the tower, Zera seemed to know its secrets as if raised within its walls. More than once she took a path he was certain he had walked earlier, only to find a set of stairs leading down. Always down.

  Each new level looked much the same as the former, with a great central hall and scores of vaulted passageways branching off from it. The lower they went, the brighter the azure light grew, until the pitted black walls took on the the appearance of cool sapphire.

  “What is the afterlife like?” Leitos asked, as they moved along. “Does Peropis really eat the sins of humankind? And what of Paradise?”

  Zera’s step faltered the tiniest margin as she rounded a corner, then she was moving on, her stride brisk. “Those are secrets kept by the dead.”

  That was not enough for Leitos. “Can you tell me nothing?”

  Zera whirled. “What good does it do you to know?”

  “Perhaps none,” Leitos said, expressionless. He wanted to know because he had killed her, and needed to assure himself that her spirit existed in peace, rather than in torment.

  “Peropis does eat the sins of humankind,” she said slowly, setting out again. “Such is the meat and wine she gluts upon, never to be satiated.”

  “So ... death is torture?”

  “For humankind there is pain, but it is brief, like the lancing of a corrupted wound. The following relief is so great as to obscure the previous agony. Suffering is reserved for ... others.”

  “Who?” Leitos asked, uneasy.

  Zera did not answer for a time. When she did, her voice was bitter. “The Fallen and their heirs suffer Peropis’s insatiable hunger for all eternity in the Thousand Hells. Such is the reason that some few of my kindred hold great reverence for one human alone—Varis Kilvar, he who shattered the Well of Creation and freed them, and so provided the chance for rebellion.”

  Understanding filled Leitos like poison. In killing Zera, he had condemned her. “Why do any of your kindred side with her? Why not band together and fight?”

  “Most know that prevailing against the first child of the Three is a futile ambition. At best, such struggle gives them some small purpose beyond suffering.”

  “Yet they still despise humankind?”

  “Of course, and most even more than they hate Peropis.”

  After a time, he said, “My father told me about the Black Keep of Fortress El’hadar. He said that it has stood at the edge of the Qaharadin Marshes since the forming of the world. And when the Fauthians of Yato brought us to Armala, he named it a city of ‘Black Keeps.’”

  “Your father is right,” Zera answered. “Only a few places exist like this tower, the black Keep, and Armala. They were built during the short time that Mahk’lar walked the world. That was an age long before men were given life.”

  “What purpose do these places serve?”

  “In the beginning, they might have been monuments. Now Peropis uses them as bridges between this world and the Thousand Hells.”

  Leitos frowned. “Why would she need bridges?”

  “Of all the Mahk’lar, Peropis alone cannot escape the Thousand Hells, at least not fully. But using the Powers of Creation she already posses in places like this tower, her presence in the living world is stronger.”

  “Can I use the tower to return Yato?” Leitos asked.

  “There is a path back to Yato, and it will remain passable for a short time. If we don’t hurry, you will be trapped here with Peropis’s faithful.”

  Zera brought them to a stairwell leading steeply down. From far away, Leitos heard a moaning sigh.

  As they started their descent, Leitos sensed their time together growing shorter, and sought to keep Zera talking. “Why does Peropis hate mankind so much?”

  “Pa’amadin chose to bless humans over the first children of the Three. She cannot attack him openly, but she can destroy those he favors.”

  “And he would let her?”

  “He’s not called the Silent God of All for nothing.”

  The deeper they went, the warmer the air became. The brightness never increased, never lessened, but moving through it was like sinking into a blue fog. They came to a landing, and beyond this waited another passageway.

  “Are you ready?” Zera asked.

  “Yes.”

  Zera moved off at a fast clip. The floor underfoot was smooth stone. Soon the way became so bright that Leitos had to squint to keep from being blinded. The odor of scorched rock filled his nostrils. He had smelled the same inside the Throat of Balaam, as it fell to ruin.

  Zera halted abruptly. “We’re here.”

  Leitos’s eyes widened, and he found himself standing inside an area where the sapphire radiance was seemingly held back by three wrought iron stands. Clutched in settings atop each stand glowed three stones—topaz, amber, and ruby—and none larger than the egg of a hen. A crackling rip hung in the air between the stands, like a flaming eye turned on edge. It was also the source of the moaning he had been hearing. Dark shades of every color pulsed and burned along the opening, and as those strange flames slowly spiraled inward, they darkened to a rippling black.

  “Is this the way back to Yato?”

  “It is,” Zera said. “These stones are the keys needed to make such a journey. They are made from the souls of Hiphkos, Memokk, and Attandaeus, which Peropis ensnared the moment they gave up their powers. Remove any of the keys, and the portal is rendered unusable. Of course, that is only part of it, for someone must be able to use the keys to open the passage. As far as I know, only Peropis has such power.”

  Hearing a soft groan, Leitos turned and saw a man sitting on a wooden stool, his head hanging. Leitos was sure it was Kian—the real one, his grandfather. He was also sure that the man was not entirely whole. He looked otherworldly, a vision of a dream. His skin was gray, nearly transparent. His hair dangled in limp strands that were as white as the stubble on his jaw. What strength might have once filled his limbs had long since fled. Seeing him this way, the man Adham had often named the King of the North, staggered Leitos. Besides Ba’Sel, Kian was the last living man to have been present when Varis Kilvar destroyed the Well of Creation. He was also the first man to have ever stood against the goddess Peropis. It seemed that for all he had done and sacrificed, his legacy was now to rot away.

  Zera edged closer to Leitos. “What you see is the essence of Kian’s soul, trapped here by Peropis. Somehow, he still resists her.”

  “How can he?” Leitos asked.

  “Kian Valara was always a cunning fellow.” Zera spoke as if she had known him from his birth. “Before Peropis captured him, Kian had reasoned out what she has been after since the moment she was imprisoned in the Thousand Hells. After he was captured, he abandoned his body and made a stronghold of his soul. Peropis is still searching for a way to breach those walls. In time, have no doubt, she will possess his essence, much as she has already done with the Three.”

  “Separate his soul from his body,” Lei
tos said in wonder. “That’s how Peropis was able to wear his flesh and rename herself the Faceless One.” He moved closer to Kian, wanting to reach out to his grandfather, but not daring. He feared the slightest touch would crumble him to dust.

  “What did Kian learn Peropis was after?”

  Zera hesitated. “Time is short, and my answers are few. Go to him.”

  “Tell me,” Leitos demanded.

  “Every moment you waste is a moment Peropis creeps closer. She cannot escape the Thousand Hells for long, but she can escape—here, especially—and it would take only a short time for her to take what she wants from you.”

  “Tell me.”

  Zera fixed him with a irritated stare. “Very well. It has to do with the stones of protection.”

  “Anyone or anything that is not washed in the Powers of Creation can use the stones to keep from being possessed by Mahk’lar. Peropis created the stones to keep her loyal Alon’mahk’lar safe.”

  “Yes,” Zera said, “but they are so much more than that. The stones themselves are actually pieces of the shattered Well of Creation. When Prince Varis Kilvar destroyed the Well, those fragments were scattered across the face of the world. And as cold air can become hoarfrost, those fragments became the ore that is mined for the making of stones of protection. But by themselves, those rocks are useless baubles.”

  “She needs blood,” Leitos said slowly. “The living blood of those washed in the Powers of Creation.”

  Zera gestured to Kian. “And the most potent blood of all comes from the Valara line, and anyone else who absorbed the Powers of Creation when they first sprang from the rupturing Well of Creation. As well, that potency flows into their children.”

  “My grandfather and Ba’Sel ... me and my father.”

  “For over two hundred years,” Zera went on, “Peropis has forced slaves to dig deep into the earth, searching for the solidified fragments of the Well of Creation, and in turn—”

  “She fills them with the blood of those like me,” Leitos interrupted. “This is known.”