by Gwynn White
The farther they walked, the more uneasy he became. When the sand behind the panes disappeared to reveal the sheer blackness of the ocean deep, he was somewhat relieved. The tonnage would be no different, but there was something about the sand. The opening of the tunnel’s far end was still a mere dot of pale light. Darya had been vague as to what they would find, and he hadn’t pressed. Whether or not she told them made no difference to him. Leta may be going forward for the Jasper, Jazz may be following him, but he was going for Valon. He was going to square up for his spine, and for something else, someone else. The structure they found Valon in, an undiscovered Bubble, a Tube station, or some holdover Omni tech from the Spectral War; it didn’t matter, as long as they found him.
Midway through the tunnel, Abby caught patches of deep purple in his peripheral, sky far above. A reef surrounded Mahayana. Abby had seen the shadow around the island as the Delta Wing descended. The ghostly ink spots, he surmised, were small windows through thousands of years of growth.
From his peripheral, Abby saw something he didn’t expect. A small segment of red, a snippet of tunnel, maybe four meters long, and behind the tube, another patch of sky silhouetted by the apex of a pyramid, and another. Two pyramids and an orb, and the wriggled top of another cube, all of those structures in the snapshot of one small piece of deep purple sky.
Abby stopped walking. “We’re in a city,” he said. His hand dropped away from Darya’s arm.
“I thought you figured that out already,” she said, rubbing the spot he’d held so tight for so long.
All three of their other companions cocked their heads toward the curved tunnel pane to see the silhouettes closer.
“Amazing,” Winslow said. “I thought it would be smaller.”
“You knew about this?” Jazz asked.
Winslow appeared puzzled. “No. Not at all.”
Abby raised his pistol toward the end of the tunnel. “You can continue to lead the way.”
“You’re not going to take my arm again?” Darya asked.
Abby flashed her a charming grin, then said, “Just stay ahead of me so I get a clear shot.”
“Don’t worry,” Leta said. She slid one of her daggers behind her back then drew her pistol. “I have a clear shot.”
53
There was another brief silhouette of the ancient city then the world outside the pane was again hidden, first by a band of silt then more sand. Blood rushed through Abby’s head as his ocular optics scanned down the spectrum for hidden Maro. The tunnel was clear.
As they neared the end of the tunnel, they heard the lulling of drums. Abby and Jazz had both heard those drums before, in the lairs of the Maro Plane. Only when they were against the transparent door did they hear the cadence of muffled voices from within. The chanting.
When Darya waved her bangle and the door slid open, the intensity of the voices beyond grew. Leta gave Abby a nod then disappeared mid-step, with the illusion of crossing through a portal. In a way, she had.
A few seconds later, her voice in his head reported, All clear.
He nodded to Jazz then raised his index finger to his lips to let Winslow and Darya know to remain silent. He then shook the same finger at Darya, shot her a harsh eye, and crossed his throat.
She appeared offended. He smirked, raised the hilt of his blade, then, on guard, slowly left the tunnel.
The tunnel opened into a vast, scarlet-hued anteroom, separated from the next by a hundred-meter, square barrier wall. The stone wall to his back rose at an ominous inward incline to meet the barrier high above. They were in another ancient building, not a cube like the first, rather one of the city’s ziggurats or pyramids. The source of the scarlet light was a series of LED strips stretched across the wall before them to the openings at either end.
The anteroom was a lobby of some sort, and from the height of the ceiling, the tall shadows that danced on the walls above, and the echo of the chants, Abby imagined the room on the other side to be massive.
A bit of vertigo struck him as he let his ocular implants shift up spectrum. The bright scarlet dulled and darkened. He wanted to go far enough to see Leta’s frame. He found her, a faint glimmer against the dim red wall. He shifted back.
He locked eyes with Jazz. “Together,” he chin-chipped. They both shrugged. Jazz raised his brows and tilted his head to the right. One side was as good as the other. Abby looked in the direction of where he’d seen Leta’s glimmer, no longer in his view, and gestured to the right. Then, along with Jazz, he led Darya and Winslow to the opening at the end of the wall.
They’d only walked twenty meters when the chanting and drumming ceased. In a single motion, Abby brought the bead of his hilt up with his right hand and signaled Darya and Winslow to freeze with his left. Jazz did the same. Then the lull of the drums resumed, along with the low sustained note of a soloist. Darya had been right. Whatever was due to happen was beginning. The note drifted into a liturgy that Abby recognized, a dialect not Maro. It was one of the Elders, never spoken, only written, a mass for the Ancients. The soloist was accompanied by what was unmistakably the pull of a bow across the eleven strings of a Maro lyre. The instrument yielded beautiful but eerie music. Abby nodded to Jazz, then signaled the other two to move forward.
Another few meters and the chants of the crowd resumed as well, softer than the pleading soloist, a prayer beneath the prayers.
Abby lurched his head forward as they approached the end of the barrier wall. The backs of red-robed chanters immediately came into view. All of the robed were hooded, their cowls tented at varying heights, depending on the variety of horn.
They’re different clans, Jazz said.
Abby nodded. A variety of horns meant a variety of clans. There were more meeting here than Arden Mortuus. He gestured to a table at the end of the wall where stacks of red robes still remained, gave one each to Winslow and Darya, then slipped one over his head. He watched Jazz wince as his head popped through the opening of the cowled robe. Jazz didn’t need to say anything for Abby to understand. The robes smelled like Maro. He smiled at Jazz, pulled the cowl up and over his head, then boldly stepped behind the row of chanters.
He was confident those hooded next to him wouldn’t take notice.
The room was massive, as Abby had guessed; a huge hall full of red-robed figures. The space appeared to him to be an ancient theater, and he was reminded of the MidHi public theaters he went to with his parents as a child, of the theaters where he would later watch his love dance at the University ballet. Huge scarlet banners draped the walls, and flaming torches—a favorite of the Maro—were fastened to makeshift sconces. Up on the stage, front and center, was a huge altar. Behind the altar was a towering stone carving. Abby sucked in an extra breath when he recognized the rune carved into the stone: the angel rune that peppered Conrad’s notes.
Before him, row after row toward the stage, the hundreds of hooded members of the great congregation stood, all focused on the altar and Valon, the deep-voiced soloist. The Arden Mortuus clan chief wore only his loincloth and one of the Elder headdresses Abby had seen in Winslow’s prize cabinet. To either side of Valon stood a line of four naked and masked female syns, and as he bellowed the long tonal words from the tongue of the Elders, the beast raised his arms high. Abby recognized the pose, the image, the priest, and the supplicants. He’d seen hieroglyphics and reliefs of priests, pharaohs, and kings from around the globe, across the planes, all worshiping the Ancients in just this way. And with his mighty horns seeming to sprout from the headdress, Valon reminded Abby of one of those priests.
Abby understood what was happening.
Valon had converted the cavernous theater hall into a temple, with the Jasper resting on the altar the centerpiece. There was no doubt that Valon was a believer; the ritual proved as much.
And soon, there would be a sacrifice.
54
Abby lost himself in the thought of the ritual. His categorical mind searched for the exact mass that Va
lon was performing for a clue as to what to expect next. He scanned the room for a way to circumvent the crowd and couldn’t find one. The only way to approach Valon was directly, and that was suicide. He thought about shifting up, perhaps that way he could make his way to the stage, wait for Valon to finish his act, then… A rush of blood flooded Abby’s skull at the brief image of what would happen, payback a century in waiting.
But the hall was too crowded for him to slip through, even unseen. He would have to slide far spectrum.
In the wonder of the plan, Abby had momentarily lost his presence. The chant of those around him had escalated in volume and tempo. The words were visceral—colorful steam clouds that appeared to float from the field of cowls into the air and come to life as they joined into one upward swirling stream. He tilted his head up to see the notes of the chant mingling in a soup near the high ceiling, then he jerked his neck to his right to see the banners lift from the walls and furl together. The rush of blood had not merely been the enticement of reaching his quarry. He was in the midst of an echo, a heavy one. In his left peripheral, he saw a red blur trailing forward. He swung his head to clearly see Darya step forward, her face submissive, drawn to the great horned beast. He reached to stop her, and managed to clutch her red robe. She let the fabric of the red robe and the other she wore beneath it slip from her body, and continued down the long flat steps to Valon. The congregation parted as she passed. Paralyzed by the echo, Abby could only watch her march forward.
When she reached Valon, she knelt before him and began a second beckoning prayer to the Ancient ones.
Abby was compelled to scream out, but no sound could be made. The muscles of his body were tense, solid, a prison he was trapped in while his ocular implants tried to compensate for the rainbows surrounding him.
Abby felt hands upon him, lifting him.
He hadn’t detected the members of the congregation maneuvering behind him.
As his head was raised above the crowd, he saw that Jazz too was being hoisted into the air. No one was harming or disarming them. They still had their weapons. They were merely being passed toward the altar.
As the army of hands shuffled Abby down the steps of the hall, he caught an occasional glimpse of a cowled face. The members of the congregation weren’t all Maro; there were mortals among the crowd as well. Arcadians, he guessed, but that made sense. The many clans, the Arcadians, Kasmine and Lumen, these were the allies Valon would recruit first. The clarity of thought calmed the echo. If there were any truth to the Jasper, if Valon could inflict his will, these were the mortals and Maro to start with.
As Abby moved forward, the twisted clicks and vowels of the Elder’s prayers became clearer. The speed and volume of the words Valon and Darya chanted escalated, their prayers became song. Abby twirled to rest on his side at the edge of the stage. The Jasper glowed brightly from within.
The female syn in front of Abby collapsed to the floor, surprising him. Her throat was lacerated. She was dying and in her death throes appeared too mortal. Her eyes were wide, staring, pleading at him. The next syn fell and he realized a red-robed figure was moving behind the line of naked syns. Helpless to move, his eyes darted toward the glowing idol. A red viscous liquid emanated from the sides in a sappy pour.
The next syn fell and a mix of terror and remorse filled Abby’s core.
Valon’s wide-spread arms lowered to the altar so that his mighty clawed hands could tightly embrace the Jasper. Abby had suspected the naked syns were not the only sacrifice; he and Jazz were about to be thrown into the mix.
Leta’s voice popped into his head. “The two of you are being jammed. I just need a second more.”
With her words, there was a flash of clarity.
The odds that both he and Jazz would experience a paralyzing echo at the same time were thin. That hadn’t occurred to Abby, or that there would be any tech in play designed to muddle his own.
And this tech was good—agent specific—because the Arcadians he saw appeared fine.
The chants were at a crescendo and Valon at a howl. The Maro lord dramatically arched his shoulders back then lunged his arms forward to take hold of the brilliantly lit Jasper stone.
At the same instant, three rapid particle bursts filled the grand hall and a chin chip of Leta rang through his skull. “Now,” she urged.
Abby felt his entire body spring to life.
He lunged upward from the edge of the stage, sending two blasts toward the altar while igniting his blade’s flame.
Jazz, blade extended, ran from the side of the stage where he’d landed and dove over the altar. He clutched the statue midair then flew past Valon.
Valon locked onto Abby, the blood taint of his irises crimson against black. He bellowed a fang-filled war cry that made Abby’s jaw quiver.
55
Though the Maro members of the congregation closest to Abby were quick to fight, they were no match. Any weapons they possessed were beneath their robes and not easily at hand. Abby twirled his blade to the left, right, then back again, reaping his way through their front lines.
Even hidden by their cowls, the Arcadians were easy to pick out. They faced the other way.
A premonition of a large Maro assaulting his flank filled Abby’s mind. He brought his blade up accordingly and, rather than splay three fleeing Arcadians across their backs, raised a boot to the nearest one’s backside, thrust the three forward and down, then pivoted himself to the side.
Again, his premonition failed him.
There wasn’t one but two towering Maro, and before he could connect his blade to the first, the second knocked him off balance and his blade free. Abby planted a foot to save himself from falling and, rather than make for his lost weapon or grab another, sprung back toward the two. The move was futile. A modified mortal against one bull Maro might have had a chance. Against two? Hardly.
Abby wasn’t thinking. He was acting on impulse.
The two giants didn’t even make a move to block him. Springing forward, his arms lunged to connect to the center of their chests. Chests that were as solid as steel. If there’d been one, he could’ve knocked the Maro back, but distributing his weight between the two, he may as well’ve been hitting heavy bags—heavy bags filled with concrete.
But Abby didn’t hit them at all.
In the millisecond his fists were at their chests, his hands flared bright violet.
The Maro disappeared into thin air.
Abby’s eyes went wide. He spread his fingers and gawked at his still-glowing empty hands.
Leta’s voice filled his skull. “What just happened?”
“They disappeared,” he replied, still staring dumbly at his raised hands. “I’ve never seen that tech.”
Her voice filled his mind again, this time in a rapid gasp. “To your left!”
In his peripheral, he saw the Maro rushing to him—no, not in his peripheral. He saw the Maro in a mental image, smaller than the last two, with long thin horns. Again, he didn’t think. He swung his arms over to the side to meet the charging foe, again his hands flashed, and again the Maro blinked away.
“Another one,” he said. “How’d they do that?”
“I don’t think they did. Did you see your hands?”
He slowly turned his palms up to look at them.
“Abby,” she said. “I could use some help.”
He raised his head to see a large bull charging toward him. Abby extended one hand and, on contact, the giant blinked away.
Abby lunged a long step forward and reached for another Maro, blink. Then another, blink. And another.
The Maro stopped. Abby had their attention. They were tightly packed in a circle around him. Abby slid a step to his left and the pack moved left. He stepped forward and they moved back. He faked a right leap and the Maro, fierce beasts that they were, gasped. In an effort to keep out of his way, they stumbled into each other.
A wide smile crossed Abby’s face. Again, he faked the pack, then agai
n. He chuckled.
“They’re afraid of you,” Leta said aloud, shifting into view next to Abby.
He looked at his hands. “Yeah,” he said.
Behind them, Valon bellowed out, “Wait, my brothers. The mortal is mine.”
Abby slowly turned back toward Valon. He rolled his head around, flexing his neck. “I think you’ve got it the wrong way around,” Abby said. “This has been a long time coming.”
Abby picked up his blade from the floor, ignited the flame, then he and Leta moved toward Valon. The Maro near them shuffled out of their way. He placed a foot on the stage, prepared to step up, and saw the shimmer of a polished long sword flying from behind the Maro to his right. The heavy metal blade landed in front of them with a clang. His eyes ran up to the two female hands at the hilt and the wide chromium bangle on the wrist.
Darya’s brows were arched inward and the corners of her mouth were curved high.
“Are you sure you want to play with that?” Abby asked. “I mean, you aren’t even dressed.”
She flicked her hair back, rolled her shoulders, then hurled the sword up above her head and over toward Abby and Leta.
Leta merely stepped back. The Maro who had closed in behind made room for her. Abby lifted himself onto the stage to Darya’s left to avoid the falling blade. Not even a dodge, really. Darya grunted heavily and wielded the sword high again. The blade fell slowly, giving Abby plenty of time to step right. She circled right, putting herself between Abby and Valon.
Abby released the flame from his blade and holstered the weapon.
“You don’t need to do this,” he warned.
Again, Darya attempted a futile strike. Abby looked at the bangle. He didn’t know why she didn’t use the fang. He peered into her eyes. Her expression was fixed.
“Darya?” he asked. “Can you hear me?”
If she heard him, Abby couldn’t tell. Her expression hadn’t changed. The point of the sword, obviously too heavy for her, hovered before his gut, shaking with the tremble of her hand. He spread his fingers wide again and lashed out to clutch the blade. The angle of her brow didn’t change, nor did her smile. Abby understood why. Why she had no expression, why she held a weapon she was unfit for rather than the fang beneath her bangle.
