Twixt Heaven And Hell

by Tristan Gregory

  The infiltrators had no such hesitation. At a shouted a command and they moved as one, rushing the entrances to the lower levels. Several stayed back – six men guarding a seventh, whose eyes were fixed on Mortigern.

  Years had passed since the last time Mortigern had matched blows with a wizard, but the threat of imminent death helped jog his reflexes – and while the Warlord's opinion of his worth as a commander had landed him in this root-cellar of a border fort, his abilities as a sorcerer had never been in question.

  His men, caught by surprise, did not fare well. Mortigern had spent his entire reign weeding out those with even a spark of leadership or independence, and with their commander otherwise occupied the warriors hesitated and died to the seasoned teamwork of the enemy.

  Eventually the din of battle penetrated into the warrens below the fort, and a few warriors made their way upwards to look about. The first head out of the shallow tunnel was removed from the shoulders beneath it by the invaders guarding the entrance. His fellows wisely did not follow, but fled back down to retrieve the rest of the fort's defenders.

  Mortigern marked none of this as he dueled in unseen frenzy with the wizard. Spells visible only to the two of them rent the air. Some were simple, others intricate, but all had lethal intent.

  ***

  Darius was growing frustrated. This sorcerer had turned out to be far more skilled than he had any right to be. Any moment now the rest of the foe would come boiling up from underneath. It was a losing battle unless the sorcerer died quickly.

  His own men were nearly finished with the defenders remaining in the courtyard, ganging up on them in twos and threes. Most of the Gryphons were guarding the entrances now. Keeping the warriors bottled up in their own bedrooms.

  Anger gave him renewed strength. He began to attack in flurries of spells to overwhelm his foe. Unable to quell them all, the sorcerer turned some aside – fires flared and dust rose as Darius's magic spent its fury wherever it struck. Three men locked in combat atop the walls crumpled to the ground, victims of a wayward spell.

  Finally a spell slipped through the confusion, landing not upon the sorcerer but between his feet. Brick shards erupted, stinging flesh wherever they struck. The sorcerer was distracted for an instant, and Darius hammered in a death blow. Welts raised on every visible part of the sorcerer's skin as his blood boiled in his veins, and he toppled

  Darius paused an instant to breath deeply. His men were now struggling to keep a wave of men from bursting out of the warrens. Darius pounded home another spell onto the brick, and the men beneath paused in their fight as dust showered them from above.

  "Gryphons! Fall back!" Darius ordered.

  His men abandoned the entrance; those who could turned and ran, the others retreating as they fought. As soon as they had quit the immediate area, Darius gathered his strength, and rained destruction down on the fort. A roaring conflagration sprang from the air and began to consume the walls. The tallest towers were flung down as the foundation crumbled and caved into the tunnels below.

  As they were buried beneath brick and timber, the enemy cried out in despair. For the briefest of moments, Darius sympathized with them. He felt sorrow at killing those who were nearly as helpless against him as he was beneath the Aeonians.

  For a moment, he trembled at the feeling of bringing death to those who could not hope to defy him.

  In the next moment, he reveled in it.

  Chapter Thirty

  “They await your order, Warlord,” said the man in front of the globe.

  Traigan hesitated briefly, almost glancing to Ertellin as he did so. He could feel the Madman's eyes on him.

  “Begin the spell,” he said. Only then did he turn to face Ertellin.

  “Let us hope your estimation of the dangers was correct,” he said.

  The sorcerer's eyes narrowed. “It is you, esteemed Warlord, who decided to risk Nattan. I cautioned against it.”

  The sorcerer Nattan was one of the very few men with the talent to craft and 'twin' – link with a partner – the precious globes. It was a time-consuming process, and at the rate globes were lost or damaged in combat, men like him had no task as important as replacing those crucial tools.

  “The situation merits the risk,” Traigan responded.

  Ertellin smirked. “Oh? If things go poorly and we lose craft and craftsman alike, will you still say that?”

  Traigan shot a warning look at the man. “Watch your tone, sorcerer. Yes, even then. Globes are valuable. Their makers moreso. Allowing the Enemy to continue their work on these weapons is more dangerous than losing either.”

  The globe room was crowded that day. All four of the Thralls had followed the Warlord into the chamber, and no sorcerer wished to stand too close to them. Around them the normal business of the day went on, and the steady drone of sorcerers taking reports filled the background. Traigan eavesdropped on them with one ear, but with the approaching winter, there was little of note.

  An annoying grin had drown on Ertellin's face. Traigan wasn't sure if the man was sane at the moment. He had not sent for the sorcerer – but he did not send him away. This new spell was almost entirely of Ertellin's devising. The old man's knowledge might be useful so long as his mind deigned to function.

  The sorcerer at the globe remained in his seat, showing the discipline that was part of his tutelage under Traigan. With his superiors, he waited patiently for further news.

  Ertellin broke the near-silence, speaking in a voice that told Mertoris he was at least mostly sane for the moment.

  "I will be interested in what Nattan has to say about this spell," he said. "The globes may have a great deal more to offer us than mere communication."

  When Traigan did not respond, Ertellin continued. "There remains the issue of power, though. The curtain of influence that prevents Demons from striking directly into Bastion will likely present some difficulty to our spell. We know they are conducting research into transportation, and so the initial spell may go unnoticed. To complete it through the interference, though... that will require vast power."

  Traigan snorted. "Power has never been our problem, Ertellin – but rather having the proper men in place to use it. The requirements for your spell made our assaults too haphazard. If we can use the globes to target Firewalking, it would be a simple thing to smuggle them behind the border. I could send a hundred men with five Globes around the mountains, and we shall come upon Bastion from behind. The world is rife with your kind of power – but the opportunities to use it well are few."

  Ertellin turned a bemused expression upon his commander. "It is a pity, Warlord, that you were not born a sorcerer. With a mind like yours and the ability to command magic, few could stand against you."

  "Few can stand against me now," Traigan said. "Had I been born a sorcerer, I would never have needed a mind. Thinking is a skill like any other – it improves only under duress. I have dozens of sorcerers. Few of them could outwit a dog."

  "Thus why you intend to raise those chieftains to the gold," Ertellin said flatly.

  Traigan's head jerked. "How did you know that?"

  The sorcerer met Traigan's gaze from the corner of his eye.

  "We are always watched, Warlord. You most of all. Nothing you do goes unmarked."

  He broke the stare and returned to looking at younger sorcerer who sat before them, staring into the globe awaiting a response. "Even sacrifice may not reap enough for this task, Warlord."

  It took a moment for Mertoris to realize that Ertellin had moved the subject back to the spell.

  "Why not? We can always spare more commoners," Traigan said.

  Then he wondered if that was true. It had not been long since he had made the decision to switch Pyre's focus of supply. Manpower may indeed become more precious in the near future. Every peasant given to the sorcerers would mean less food grown, less armor made.

  He voiced none of this. Change must come to Pyre from top to bottom. First he would have generals who
could plan and lead. Then he could set about reorganizing the chattel.

  "Caching the power released from sacrifice was a major step, but it has limits," Ertellin replied. "We are not speaking of a mere ten or twenty more, but rather of hundreds. Every one of whom must die at the hand of a sorcerer for the energy to be caught. We simply do not have enough sorcerers for the act."

  Frustration furrowed Traigan's brow. “Why did you not say this earlier? If the spell is useless I have no desire to risk a globe in testing it.”

  "I do not speak of the new technique in general, Warlord, only of the proposed strike into the city of Bastion. There are additional difficulties to overcome – but none insurmountable." Ertellin's lips quivered slightly as he paused. "The Demons are willing to aid us. They are not pleased with the failure in Threeforts, but I have managed to convince them of this task's importance."

  Traigan managed to keep his reaction to a wince. The debacle above Threeforts had had very unpleasant consequences. The simple assassination had turned into a major loss in the Great War – and the wizard Darius had survived. Mertoris cursed the man's luck.

  As a final insult, it had almost certainly been Darius and his Gryphons who were responsible for the destruction of a fort and its garrison a handful of days earlier.

  Before they could continue, the sorcerer attending the globe leaned forward and spoke: "He is here."

  After a glance over his shoulder to make sure the Warlord was paying attention, he told the man on the other end to continue. Traigan moved closer as the young sorcerer repeated the words he heard. "The spell is successful. Nattan is resting – he is unharmed, but says there was some strange resistance to the spell. Two other sorcerers had to aid him to complete it."

  A pause. "Both globes are ruined."

  After the warnings of both Ertellin and Nattan, Traigan had already resigned himself to that possibility. “See that Nattan has ample time to rest before he returns to Pyre,” he said. “The rest of you return to your duties.”

  Once he had finished, he moved to leave the globe room. The Thralls followed – as did Ertellin, who spoke again as if there had been no pause to their exchange. "It may be that with one of Them to aid it, the spell can avoid the shield entirely."

  He seemed about to elaborate, and Traigan held up a hand to silence him. "If you say it is so, then I trust in it. Keep working on the spell. It is your only task. If we don't keep these new weapons from the Enemy's hand, we may not have the time to capitalize on our recent gains. I must secure our gains before the winter's end, and then I will pressure them until they break – before they can re-discover this man's work."

  To his side, Ertellin cackled softly.

  "You do not think I can do it," Mertoris said.

  Ertellin met his gaze with a strange expression – pity.

  "Not due to any lack of faith in your abilities, Warlord. I simply estimate the task to be impossible."

  "Nonsense."

  "Oh, no, Warlord," Ertellin said. His tone matched his face now, the slightly sorrowful voice of a man forced to dash a child's hopes. "We will not win the War in such a way. Have you never wondered why the border has remained so stable for so very long?"

  Traigan stopped walking, halting in the corridor and turning to face Ertellin. The Thralls took up station around them. "What are you saying?"

  The sorcerer sighed. “This War has been fought for three hundred years – in this world. For countless millennia before that – if time had any meaning at all – Angels and Demons have fought, but neither has ever held the clear advantage. When some great victory was won, a defeat would come soon behind to balance it.

  “We have seen it in the past few months, even. You took Nebeth and the Shambles by storm, with miniscule loss. Shortly thereafter, you lost at Threeforts – and lost so dearly that all semblance of our advantage disappeared. Some call it luck, but it is not. It is a pattern.”

  Mertoris kept silent, knowing the man had more to say.

  "On this world we act as an extension of the Aeonians, our War is an extension of their Great Conflict. That Conflict, Warlord, is eternal. It is the natural order of the universe – of all existence. When one side gains an upper hand, lo! Something restores the balance. Often the cause is un-looked for, miraculous, a stroke of luck. It is not luck, though. It is fate. The balance is self-restoring. The Conflict, self-perpetuating."

  Ertellin fell silent then. His eyes had taken on a strange gleam.

  "You're saying that the War cannot be won, then?” Traigan asked. “Why did you urge haste with this spell?”

  "Ah hah! But I did not say that," Ertellin exclaimed. "It is the Aeonians who cannot win. It is the Great Conflict that cannot end. We are not as they – our war is not theirs. The Angels and Demons do not fight to win the War, but simply to avoid losing. Such a thing as an end, a final victory, has never entered their mind – it is beyond their comprehension.

  “But not ours. We can conceive of victory. It is only their influence that enforces such ruthless parity upon us. It is the intrusion of the Great War into the lesser that keeps us from holding advantage for long.”

  Traigan shook his head. "Then the effect is the same. All effort is for naught."

  "No, not quite. Momentary advantage will always exist. Here, the War is as a fighter with both feet firm upon the ground."

  The sorcerer gestured to a passing warrior, shoving him lightly. The man looked in alarm at his Warlord and the madman, freezing in place.

  Ertellin continued. "Push him, prod him, even with much force, and he will adjust.” The sorcerer demonstrated with the poor, bewildered soldier. “Try to pull him down, and he resists. If you are to defeat him, you must dash him from his feet all at once.”

  A blast of magic threw the soldier down the hall, dust pluming as he landed, and was still.

  “In one. Mighty. Blow."

  With one eye on the fallen soldier – idly hoping that Ertellin had not killed the man – Traigan tried to decide whether or not this revelation was merely the ravings of a madman.

  "The weapons might be what the Enemy needs, then," he finally said. Ertellin shrugged.

  "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Firewalking might have been ours, but apparently was not. We must continue to fight the war, and when an opportunity presents itself, we must seize upon it with utmost vigor."

  This time Traigan did laugh. “Despite all you've said, you're not saying anything should change.”

  Ertellin smiled. "Of course not, Warlord. Nothing can change – until everything does."

  Traigan did not know whether to be amused at the self-fulfilling nature of the theory or annoyed at the waste of time. In the end he decided that this man was unlikely to be taken by flights of fancy. Ertellin's madness was not the result of a mind detached from reality – but rather of delving too far into it.

  “Just how much of this did the Demons reveal to you?”

  The strange gleam returned to the sorcerer's eyes. "Reveal? They seldom reveal anything to me, Warlord. I ask many questions. Some they answer in hints, others in riddles.”

  He leaned close to the Warlord, and his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “But a very great deal can be learned from the questions they refuse to answer at all.”

  There was another pause from the Warlord. Eventually he turned and resumed his journey back to his own quarters. Over his shoulder he spoke to the man again.

  “It is a pity, Ertellin, that you were born a sorcerer.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Balkan had nearly reached Arric's offices when low voices caught his ear, emanating from one of the narrow side passages that crisscrossed the tower. Balkan glanced in as he walked by, and stopped short – for there was Arric, whom he had come to find, and Arric's confidant Callos. The two spoke in hushed tones.

  Though few wizards knew it, the news of a spy had changed things in Bastion. Where once every plan and rumor flowed freely through the Council, now much information was
guarded.

  Arric's back was to Balkan, but Callos saw him. He interrupted the conversation and indicated the other man, who had remained respectfully out of hearing.

  Arric turned and beckoned Balkan closer. "Balkan, come. Callos and I were almost done."

  "You wished to see me about something?"

  "Yes, and thank you for coming so quickly. Come up to my chambers, we'll speak there."

  Arric led Balkan up a narrow flight of stairs. Around a bend and down a much wider hallway was the Council Leader's office. Arric took a seat, not at his desk, but at a smaller table more fit for a polite meeting between friends than an interview with authority.

  "How is your family?" Arric asked when they both had sat.

  Balkan smiled. "Well. Kaylie is dreading the coming winter. She loves fresh fruit."

  "Ah, as do I. It is always sad to see winter come – though at least it affords us some peace for a time. There is such balance to the world."

  "She is yet too young to understand it, unfortunately."

  Arric nodded. "And your wife? How is Maggie?"

  Balkan held up a hand. "Please, Arric. Thank you for your concern, but you did not ask me here to inquire after my family."

  Arric laughed. "You must be working on something exciting, Balkan, if you do not want to speak of them."

  "And you must be very reluctant to get the point, as you are still dodging it."

  With a sigh, Arric nodded. "Very well, then. I'm concerned about Darius."

  "Ah," Balkan said. "Yes."

  "Have you seen him recently?"

  Balkan shook his head. "No, I was not able to meet the Gryphons at the gates when they returned. I did hear about Robert's death, of course. That is very unfortunate."

  "Darius is not taking it well, I think. We cannot find him."

  "He is likely with his men at the barracks."

  "His own soldiers have not seen him since their return. They claim he took the road to the Crown as soon as he entered the city. Now it seems he has made himself invisible."