He reached up and touched her nose. “Here, you have something green…”
She slapped his hand away. “I do not!”
“Why is it that I am the one who almost died, and you are the one blubbering about it?”
“Ugh!” She tried to pull free, but he chuckled and held her tighter.
“Nah-uh, behave.”
Mirra sighed. “You make it impossible to stay sad, or even angry with you, Bane.”
Sensing that the worst of her self-recriminations were past, he said, “That was the idea.”
“I know. But it is annoying.”
“So why are you smiling?”
She hugged him. “Because I love you, even when you are trying to annoy me.”
“Have I not succeeded yet?”
“No, and you never will.”
“I would not wager on that if I was you.”
She closed her eyes and snuggled up to him.
Chapter Twelve
Black Wards
Majelin gazed through the Channel’s wall at the scintillating city of Airedene, his heart warming. He had thought he would never see it again, or his beloved wife. The miracle of his rescue and who had achieved it had yet to fully sink in. It still seemed like a happy dream. Three suns blazed in the hazy yellow sky, one golden, one white and one yellow, and the city reflected their radiance in glorious glimmers. Majelin knew he was privileged to have met Kayos, eldest of the Silver Gods. The Circle of Light must be informed of Arvandeth’s fall, but first he wanted to see his wife.
Tearing a portal in the Channel, he stepped out and spread his wings, revelling in the cool wind that ruffled his hair as it carried him down to a tiny house on the edge of one of Airedene’s sparkling arms; his home, where Sarmalin waited for him. He smelt the delicious aroma of buttered scones, which he remembered so well. He landed on the little garden’s soft grass, folded his wings and strode to the front door. He thrust it open and burst in, his breath catching at the sight of the familiar interior and the woman who stood beside the kitchen table, holding a silver tray of biscuits. Her green eyes met his and widened, and the tray hit the floor with a shrill clatter.
Majelin reached her in four paces and swept her into his arms. Sarmalin gave a choked cry and embraced him fiercely, trembling with the strength of her clasp and the sobs that racked her. Majelin rocked and shushed her, his eyes stinging. Several minutes passed before he held her away, and she regarded him with brimming eyes. He wiped the tears from her cheeks.
“Sarmalin. Words cannot express my joy at being reunited with you.”
She gulped. “I have hoped for this day for all this time.”
“I too have lived for this day.”
She stroked his cheek. “The tar’merin freed you. I knew he would.”
“My gratitude for your entreating his aid knows no bounds.”
“As does mine for your salvation.”
“Does the Circle know about him?” he asked.
“They are not convinced.”
“They must not be. His existence must remain a secret. Kayos has commanded it.”
Her brow wrinkled. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“He seeks to protect his son.”
“Oh… Of course.”
Majelin clasped her face and kissed her with lingering passion. When he drew back, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. “A pity it took so long for him to come.”
“Indeed. But fate brought him to us against all odds. He is a miracle, named as a curse.”
“Such is the darkness.”
“He deserves our aid, and I have promised it.”
Majelin nodded, took her hand and guided her to the settee in the lounge, then sat beside her. “I know. I have sworn it too. He…” The archangel looked away. “I died, protecting him, and he asked Kayos to bring me back.”
“By the light,” she whispered.
“Indeed. That was unexpected. He may need our help more than he thinks if he intends to save Kayos’ granddaughter. He escaped the dark angels, but -”
“Dark angels?”
“Yes. They were… It is a long story. You can listen when I tell Ordur. Is he here?”
“Yes. This past week. The Circle meets this afternoon, and Ordur will attend.”
“I shall inform him then,” Majelin said.
“And until then, you should rest. I shall make tea.”
Majelin drew her close again. “First hold me a little longer. I have missed you.”
She hugged him. “Tarsha will be overjoyed to have her father back.”
“I will visit her as soon as I have concluded my business with the Circle.”
Majelin glided towards the massive white crystal dome at the centre of Airedene that was the meeting place of the Circle of Light, the ruling hierarchy of angels. Giant banners of rippling cloud flew from the ten delicate diamond spires that radiated from it, forming the Corvadon Eye, a permanent window on the universe that Ordur and Airen had created to monitor events from around the God Realm and beyond. Its vortex swirled in a chaotic melee of darkness and light, flickers of lightning spanning it. Glimpses of other worlds were sometimes visible from above, and a few curious angels hovered over it. Others doubtless watched from the safety of Channels.
Majelin turned his head to smile at Sarmalin, who flew beside him, and she grinned. A shining silver moon had joined the three suns that glowed in the misty sky today, casting soft golden light that the citadel reflected in a warm, sparkling glow. Breezes stirred balmy air scented with flowers and brine from a distant ocean, and, off in the distance, a patch of darkness meandered, spitting blue lightning at the rippled sand.
Sarmalin touched down ahead of him on the shining path that led to the arched, carven alabaster entrance. He landed beside her and took her hand as they walked within. Shafts of light pierced the translucent roof to illuminate the gleaming obsidian floor where the stars of distant galaxies formed glimmering patterns. Glowing images of ancient battles moved with majestic splendour across the walls, each one a monumental historical event. Some had involved the Grey Gods; others were the heroic deeds of light gods and archangels recorded since the beginning of time and displayed here for all eternity. Angels strolled around the edifice, some pausing in groups for discussions, others gazing at the imagery.
Majelin led his wife across the black expanse that cooled and tingled his bare feet. The Circle of Light comprised twelve of the eldest and wisest archangels, some of whom might question his wisdom after his capture and imprisonment, but none would dispute his courage. His blunder had doubtless damaged his status, while his survival and escape would boost it, and he hoped the two would, at worst, cancel each other out.
Arthos, one of his oldest friends, approached to take Majelin ’s hand in a firm clasp, his golden eyes alight. “My brother. Sad are the ages that have passed since your fall into darkness. I rejoice at your safe return.”
Majelin smiled and inclined his head. “I thought myself lost for most of that time, yet the light blessed me; all of us, in fact.”
Arthos bowed his head to Sarmalin. “My Lady, it is good to see you smiling again.”
“My heart sings with joy, good Arthos.”
Arthos asked Majelin, “How were you saved?”
“Suffice it to say that I escaped.”
“Ah… So, someone saved you, and forbade you to speak of it. Intriguing.”
“I have been commanded by Kayos.”
Arthos’ brows rose. “Indeed? So why are you here if you cannot relate your adventure?”
“I have a message for Ordur.”
“From Kayos?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Lord Ordur will be overjoyed. He has not heard from his older brother for millennia. Let us hasten within to impart your news to him.”
Other friends approached to greet Majelin as he headed for the inner chamber, forcing him to pause and accept their congratulations when he longed to find Ordur. At last
, he passed through the pale jade doorway with its curtain of light and entered the sanctum where the Circle met. Tiers of glowing alcoves overlooked the misty floor, most of them occupied. Archangels murmured to each other between niches, many nibbling on sweet fruit and confections that young angels served, flying from niche to niche on rustling wings, bearing silver platters heavy with tender treats and crystal goblets of wine. Several elders stood on the floor, most clustered around the familiar grey-clad figure of Ordur.
The Grey God’s shoulder-length silver hair framed a lean, noble visage with deep-set grey eyes, a strong bone structure and a firm mouth. Like Kayos, he appeared to be in the prime of life. His jacket moulded a powerful figure, glimmering on the shoulders and sleeves. He was engrossed in a discussion with Grythor, First of the Circle of Light, but looked around when Majelin approached.
Grythor beamed and stepped forward to clasp Majelin’s hand. “Welcome back, Brother! This is a joyous day for us all.”
Majelin smiled and nodded to the rest of the group, most of whom were members of the Circle and old friends, then bowed to the Grey God. “Lord Ordur, praised be your name, Second of the Grey Gods. I have a message for you from your brother, Lord Kayos.”
Ordur smiled. “How is the old scoundrel?”
“Well, Lord. He sends his greetings, and bade me tell you that Arvandeth is destroyed.”
Ordur’s grin vanished. “How the blazes did that happen?”
“Lord Carthius returned to the light.”
“Right.” Ordur rubbed his brow, and the archangels bowed their heads. “This saddens me. Carthius was ancient and wise, and his parents will grieve for him, even as we celebrate his rejoining with the light.”
“Indeed,” Grythor chimed in, never one to be left out of important discussions. “We, too, mourn the first son of Vater and Airen. May he know everlasting peace.”
“Now pray tell us how you escaped Torvaran’s prison and discovered Arvandeth’s destruction,” Ordur said.
“I cannot, I am afraid,” Majelin replied.
“How so?”
Majelin lowered his eyes and shook his head. “I would be breaking a sacred oath.”
“Ah.” The Grey God’s eyes narrowed. “And to whom did you make this oath?”
“Lord Kayos.”
Ordur’s brow wrinkled. “Why would he swear you to secrecy?” He paused, frowning. “But of course, you cannot tell us that, either.”
“No, Lord, regretfully, I cannot. I can, however, inform you that the changelings in Arvandeth evolved into something far worse. They became dark angels. Carthius named them tra’mith. They were the reason he sealed the domain, and they are responsible for his demise. What is more, a few might have escaped when he died.”
“That is indeed troubling. Dark angels, you say? Corrupted angel abilities with mortal gifts and human souls?”
“Yes, Lord.”
“That is as I feared. They will quickly discover the Channels and find worlds to ravage. The Sword of Vengeance will slay them, though, because of their mortal blood.”
“Lords of the Light can also kill them.”
“Indeed, but their ability to use the Channels will make that difficult.” Ordur turned to Grythor. “What say you? Will the Circle of Light hunt these creatures?”
Grythor bowed. “We will heed the call to arms.”
“Let it be so.”
Majelin said, “I, too, wish to join the hunt.”
Ordur raised his eyebrows. “You have just returned.”
“I am partly responsible.”
“Hmmm. Your story must be interesting; a pity you cannot tell it.” He motioned to Sarmalin. “You have barely been reunited with your sweet wife, and you leave again on another perilous quest.”
She raised her chin. “I will accompany my husband, Lord.”
Ordur said to Majelin, “If whoever saved you from Arvandeth killed some of these dark angels, he or she is likely to be in danger. The tra’mith will want vengeance.”
The archangel nodded. “I understand, Lord. I shall watch over him. I shall anyway; I pledged my life to him, for saving mine.”
“I wish I could meet this paragon of virtue.”
Majelin smiled. “So do I. I think you would like him.”
The Demon Lord strolled across a barren plain towards a foul sea whose slothful, oily waves barely stirred the corpses of birds and fish mired in the sludge that clogged the shore. Sherinias’ people had brought her domain to the verge of ruin, and there seemed little worth saving in it. He had chosen this bleak place to create the seventh ward because it was far from civilisation.
Beneath the thin layer of poor soil, the bedrock was solid granite. A blue mage would not have been able to raise a rock ward in such a hostile environment, since the bedrock had no faults he could use to aid his magic, but for a god, such things were unnecessary. Bane paused to view the landscape. Distant mountains brushed the clouds and the polluted sea glinted like a sheet of beaten silver in the pale light of the newly risen sun. A cold wind plucked at his cloak and chilled his skin, and grimy hoarfrost whitened the grass. It reminded him of the plain where the seventh ward stood in Myrthran, and in Drayshina’s world.
Bane sighed a cloud of steam that the wind whipped away. Three days of rest had restored about half his strength, but his fingertips still sometimes tingled. He was glad there were no more battles to fight or angels to rescue. At least, not for a while, he hoped. Mirra and Kayos were right. He had to stop rushing into dangerous situations, or it would be the death of him. He remembered the intense pity in Mirra’s eyes when Sarmalin had made her plea. If he died, she would be devastated, but if he did not help the needy, she would be distressed. There was no way to win, but distressed was better than devastated, and he had no wish to die.
Returning his attention to the task at hand, he pointed at a spot a hundred yards ahead of him and commanded the dark power. A sheet of shadow some two hundred paces long shot up, red sparkles glinting within it. It was the sort he employed as shields, but it had other uses. Turning, he motioned to an area adjoining the first, and a second dark sheet rose, at an angle to the first. He repeated the procedure three more times, until a pentagon of black shields surrounded him. Although he had never raised a dark ward before, it seemed like a simple enough process. Bane wrote five runes in the air with the shadows that trickled from his fingers and spoke their guttural names, then hammered them into the ground, where they formed smoking sigils in the sandy soil and the bedrock beneath it.
Lowering his hands, he commanded the sheets of shadow, which sank, turning the ground molten. Lava bubbled from the pentagon’s sides as he sent the shields slicing deep into the earth in dead straight lines. When the shadows had penetrated several hundred yards down, he closed his eyes and spread his hands towards the earth. It trembled, and a rumble emanated from deep underground as Bane clenched his hands. With a dull, gritty grinding, the five-sided ward rose. He raised his hands, holding the invisible reins of power that guided the rising monolith upon which he stood. Although he could not see them from his vantage, he knew the megalith’s sides glowed red hot, perfectly smooth and streaked with bright lava.
The ward rose to three hundred feet tall, then four hundred. Bane intended that this seventh ward would be impressive, indestructible and immensely powerful. No one would ever be able to free those he imprisoned in the underworld on this day. They would languish below until this domain was destroyed. The land around the rising ward cracked and crumbled, fissures snaking across it as the bedrock tore. The deep rumble rolled away across the plains, echoed off distant mountains and reverberated like thunder.
As the ward rose to seven hundred feet tall, then eight hundred, he lowered his hands, slowing its ascent as it neared one thousand feet. It reached the required height, and Bane opened his hands, released the reins of power and allowed the shadows to settle in a gentle fall. The ward stopped, and a shudder passed through it as the bedrock far below clamped onto its sid
es, supporting it. He gazed across the desolate expanse. The view was pleasant, if a little monotonous. Nothing but dry, frost-whitened grass and hazy mountains as far as the eye could see, save in the direction of the silver sea. Knowing the people of this domain, they would want to build an eatery atop the monolith, with a gift shop, but the black ward would deter them.
Bane described a shadow pentagram in the air and flicked it into the stone at his feet. A deep, gong-like chime rang out as lines of power hissed from the ward’s base, forming a web just under the ground, a barrier through which no spirit god could pass. The black pentagram hovered two feet above the stone, surrounding Bane. He walked through it, went to the edge and stepped off. He floated down on a column of black fire and turned to admire his handiwork. The wind swept away the dust the ward’s rising had raised, and the glowing rock dulled as it cooled. The ward’s mirror-smooth granite sides glinted, obviously unnatural and born of immense power. Doubtless his wards would puzzle men for ages to come. He wondered if they would ever solve the mystery, or be forever stymied, as they were by the realm gate. Being the architect of an enigma pleased him. A single black ward was more powerful than seven blue ones, but ward magic was supposed to be blue, so seven were required to seal the demons and demonic beasts below.
Bane Moved to a busy city street lined with blocky buildings and glass-paned towers under a pale grey sky. Streams of traffic passed overhead, and people thronged the pavements, a smattering of droges and demons amongst them. Many buildings had cracked walls and broken windows from the quakes his summoning had caused, and workmen already repaired the damage. Disguising himself, he sauntered along the street in search of a building with an empty cellar or storeroom. Black wards only needed to be simple shadow pentagrams with a solid pentagram to support them. He had made the seventh ward formidable to distract the humans while he created the rest. He did not need them trying to interfere. He pushed through the crowd, cursing this domain’s overpopulation and wondering if he should not have done this at night when fewer people were abroad.
When Angels Fall (Demon Lord) Page 21
