It was dark here. A scant few torches were kept to illuminate the halls, lighting the way to a handful of storerooms the wizards still used. Darius moved further down the long-derelict halls. It was not curiosity that led him, but the dim awareness that down here he was certain to be alone.
The sun had risen twice since the attack – through both days and the night in between, Darius had drifted in delirium. For much of that time it was rage that clouded his mind, rage at the loss he had suffered and hatred of those who had inflicted it upon him. It had consumed his mind beyond the grip of reason.
That rage had cooled now, burning itself out and leaving Darius to smolder in its wake. Darius clung to the ashes of anger that remained – it was his only succor against the horror that lurked in every unguarded moment. Several times he had lapsed into waking nightmares, reliving the attack in lurid detail. Each time he ended up clutching his skull in both hands, shaking his head until the vision left him.
Darius knew that his peers feared for his sanity. In truth, he was beginning to fear for it as well.
Darius happened upon a long hallway – it must have stretched the entire width of the Tower. At the very end, almost out of reach of the torchlight, he found a peculiar room. Low stone tables ran down its length in two rows, each one wide enough for two men to kneel before it. At the front of the room, directly next to the entrance, was a single stone chair. It was not unlike the seat of the Council Leader, far above his head, save that it was more ornate. High-backed with a wide seat and armrests carved with symbols Darius had never seen, its imposing form was not made for comfort, that much was certain.
Even so, looking at it, Darius came to realize that he was tired.
He was so very tired. Not just in body, though his legs ached fiercely – but in mind, and heart. For a moment he wanted to forget his losses, forget the war, forget his duties and his men – everything. He wanted peace.
Darius practically collapsed into the chair, and his anger flagged. The exhaustion he had been oblivious to gripped him. Head drooping down onto his chest, Darius lapsed into a fitful sleep.
He dreamed then, but not of Balkan's abduction. He saw the vale above Threeforts. He spoke again with Kray and Robert, and felt the horror of the demon's coming. Every moment, every word, every sound and emotion was replayed. As the Demon's power smote him, Darius awoke. His heart beat rapidly and sweat covered him.
Sitting still and quiet in the darkness, Darius reflected on the dream. In some dim fashion, he had known of the return of those memories. Now, in this first moment of calm, he could recall every instant of that day perfectly – more vividly than any other moment in his life, it seemed. He even knew the exact moment that he had regained them – in that span of timelessness while his consciousness was pulled into Hell.
His eyes stared far away, beyond stone and dust and dirt, as Darius contemplated that other world. Terrible as it had been, it held no fear for him. In that place where willpower was the only power, his wrath had been so titanic that he had outmatched any Demon. In their own den he had faced them. He knew their rage now as a dull, instinctual thing unbacked by intellect. He knew, viscerally, that they could be made to feel fear – for they had feared him.
They could feel fear, they could be attacked and hurt – but here in his home, Darius was not their match. Whatever potency of spirit allowed them to travel between worlds gave them supremacy here.
There was no justice in it! It was the Demons that made the most audacious acts of the Enemy possible. Without them it would not matter how brilliant or clever the Enemy made their plans. The ruthless parity of reality would laugh in their faces, reminding them over and over again that men could only do so much.
The Demons, in turn, laughed at those restrictions. Their reality was altogether different. Because of them, the best defenses of man and nature alike were for naught. Without them, Robert and Kray, and Balkan and Maggie and Kaylie – and countless others – would still live.
For a moment his rage returned, now directed at nothing, and at everything – at a cosmos that would allow mankind to be so insignificant in the face of their tormentors. Were people made only to suffer?
With no small effort, Darius calmed himself. He did not want to return to the near-madness of the previous days. Rage was viscerally exhilarating, but he needed more than anger now. He needed thought. If he could overpower the Demons in their home, surely there was some way to defeat them in his own.
No wizard – or sorcerer – had ever successfully opposed the Aeonians, though. The gulf in power was not just vast. It was incomprehensible. Darius had personally seen sorcerers use life sacrifices against Angels in battle. The soldiers of Heaven had borne the assault without hesitation, and then slain the foolish mortals who dared oppose them. It would be the same with the Demons.
If the sacrifice of life itself could not avail against the Aeonians, what would? What loss could be more dear; what offering could be greater?
It was the sort of question to which the answer was so sublimely simple that it beguiles the mind into passing right over – and so Darius did, continuing to mull it over even as he lapsed once more into sleep.
He was troubled again by nightmares, the same ones that he had had, waking, for the past three days. They drove him from the rest he so badly needed and he woke with a cry. This time, there was no rage to waylay his tears. Darius wept quietly in the dark, shaking in his misery. He wept at the loss of his friend, and kind Maggie, and most of all the spirited Kaylie. He choked with grief at what their fates may be, finally turning his mind from it only when it threatened to send him fully into madness. He wept finally for Robert and Kray, whom he had not shed tears over in his stupor. He cried until his body could produce no more tears, and still he sobbed in the darkness.
Then he became aware of a growing light, steady and beautiful, slowly outshining the distant, flickering torches. Soft footsteps could be heard approaching. A moment later tendrils of light reached through the portal and seemed to pull an Angel in after.
It could only be Aethel. Here in the darkness, the light that shone from his wings and from under the concealing hood was hauntingly beautiful. The robes were the same shade of blue in the dimness as in the light of sun or moon. Shadow could find no purchase upon an Angel.
The light washed over him, and the burden on his heart eased. The seraph said nothing at first. His wings stretched wide through the room, and by their light it could be seen that the room was quite large, stretching back nearly thirty paces. Then the radiant filaments gathered in again, and embraced Darius in the soft glow so that he and Aethel were at the center of a glowing nimbus. Bit by bit, Darius breathed more normally, drinking in the peace that flowed from Aethel, but still the sorrow remained.
Finally Aethel stretched forth one gloved hand and placed it upon Darius's shoulder. He spoke then, and in his voice was a trace of the sorrow that Darius felt. "You have suffered a terrible loss, Darius. I am sorry."
"Thank you," Darius replied quietly, trying to bury himself still further in the otherworldly serenity. If he could just cast off the pain he felt. If he could just...
Forget?
A strange indignation flared in Darius. Were not the loved and lost worth the pain he now felt? Darius looked almost accusingly at Aethel, grasping at the grief that had been draining away and filling once again with anger – anger at this being who came to beguile him. His mind flashed back to the weeks before the attack, to the cursed emptiness that had pervaded his days. Had that not been worse? Darius had always been a man of powerful emotions, and he reveled in that. He laughed and loved and cried and raged with all his soul, and now that he had tasted that cold desolation, he was sure he would not want to return.
Darius stood abruptly. The Angel seemed startled, his hand removed from Darius's shoulder and hovering for a moment between them as if to ward off an attack. Soon it dropped, and Aethel tucked his hands into his wide, silver-cuffed sleeves.
"However
you choose to handle your pain, Darius, I wish only to help you in it. Do not mistake my intentions for anything else, I beg you," Aethel said.
Indignation had not fled him. "Thank you again, Aethel,” he said. “But... I do not want your help in this.” Darius was startled by his own words, startled to realize he meant them.
With the suddenness of a lightning bolt, a thought flashed through Darius's mind, the answer to the riddle he had puzzled over. Even as he had it, he tried to bury the idea, to forget it, to hide it somehow from Aethel's clairvoyance.
The glowing wall around them exploded outward as Aethel's wings stretched wide again, filling the room. He took a step backward, and Darius saw with alarm that one gloved hand strayed towards the mighty sword that hung on the belt of corded silver.
Darius took a deep breath and forced himself into calm. He raised his head, standing straight, but there was no challenge in him now.
"Forgive me Aethel. It was just a foolish notion."
Aethel did not answer immediately, and Darius could feel the gaze from under the hood, scrutinizing him – peering into his soul.
"No, Darius," the Angel said at last. "This was more. It was... an intent. Almost a plan. What could have brought you to this?"
With a start, Darius realized what it was that made Aethel's voice so odd – pain. The Seraph felt betrayed.
"Forgive me," Darius pleaded again, tears returning to his eyes. "But the War is changing, and not for the better."
Darius glanced upward as if to see the city through the layers of stone. "They have attacked our home now. It is always terrible, when the Demons come. They claim many lives before an Angel comes to our rescue, and there is naught we can do. On the battlefield, we accept it. But always it is they who attack – they who come for us. And now they can take our families, our wives and children.
“They came into Bastion – into our own heart – and could not be stopped from taking who they wished.”
"Yes," Aethel said. "They attack, they destroy – that is their nature. Do not despair, for always their gain is short lived and by their aggression are they undone. In the end it counts for nothing."
"Nothing?" Darius asked in angry disbelief. "It is an infinite loss, Aethel. Are we so insignificant to you? Are we valuable only as fodder for your War?"
"You know that is not true."
With a curt nod, Darius answered through clenched teeth. "Yes," he admitted. "But fighting a war that will not end requires a warrior that does not die.
"People. Die. We cannot be the ones to fight your war. We make no difference. With or without us it continues, and the only change is the pain and loss we suffer. Do you think we can suffer it forever? Someday, after the loss of one more child, one more family, one more home burned by the Enemy, our spirits will fail, and our will to fight will die as well."
Again, beneath the cowl, Darius could feel the Angel searching his face – or perhaps deeper – for some glimmer of... Darius knew not what. Hope, perhaps. There was none in him. With prophetic clarity, Darius could see the future – and it was grim.
With a sudden sigh, Darius turned his eyes from that unseen gaze and collapsed heavily back into the great stone chair.
"But I speak in vain," he muttered. "To bring about such a thing as I dreamed would require a spell... beyond my ability to imagine. Much less create." Another sigh. "It would take us ages to devise it, even if I could convince every soul in Bastion of the need."
Darius sat stewing in the helplessness of the circumstances, hating and fearing a future he did not want but knew he was powerless to alter.
Then the Angelic light dimmed, plunging the room into near-total darkness. It rallied a heartbeat later, and Darius raised his head wondering what could have caused the odd reaction.
Aethel had turned his back on the wizard. His voice, though low, filled the room – an unearthly whisper.
"Such an invocation already exists."
"What?" Darius asked, barely believing. In another moment his brow knitted in confusion. "Why?" What need could there have been for such a thing, before now?
"There was a place," Aethel began, "As unique amongst the cosmos as this world is now. It was a passage to a still stranger realm – planes of pure nothingness, absolute void. Both sides sought to control this place, thinking it could be made a weapon. Long did the War ignore all else. Briefly, the Choirs held sway – but Gabriel, chief of the Cherubim, foretold that this doorway could be no weapon. Any attempt to harness it would result in all the cosmos slowly bleeding away into the devouring dark that was held at bay. He guided the Cherubim in a ritual to deny it to both sides, to lock it away. The War has not returned to that place – for the Aeonians cannot go there."
Darius felt his heart quicken at the revelation. "It could be done here," he said, nearly whispering. Then his brow furrowed. "Why do you tell me this?" he asked.
Aethel turned again, facing Darius once more. "Because I know the truth of your words, Darius. More, perhaps, than you do.
"It was I who first came to this world. I was the first of the Aeonians amongst men. Before I came among you, I remained outside, watching. Your world and its ways were unlike anything found in Heaven or Hell. Ages passed as I looked on, uncomprehending of what I saw. I came closer, and studied your people. Every one of you different. Even as I watched, generations passed – untold thousands of you lived and died, every one unique – but soon each was gone, never again to return."
“How long ago was this?” Darius asked.
“I do not know. I had not yet come to understand time or how to mark its passing as you do. It must have been thousands of years. Ever closer I came, seeing more of your lives, your works, your habits – and your conflicts. Petty squabbles over food or water, but in them I saw the seeds of the Great War. I knew that it would come here, and better first from me than an agent of the Inferno.
"So I descended to this place, and other Angels followed. We taught of the Conflict, and to your primitive shamans we gave greater secrets of power. You changed quickly, then. The tribe we visited began to unite its neighbors. At first with words, passing on the urgent need to prepare for the coming of the Enemy. Those that would not assent to be gathered, though, were conquered. Where once life was taken only rarely and at great need, now you spilled it with little care – even with pleasure, seeing in these ones the true Enemy that had not yet come.”
Aethel bowed his head. "I saw that this boded ill – but soon after, the Enemy did arrive, and what you call the Old War began in earnest.
"Ever after, I have regretted that change in you – regretted, too, that it was I who wrought it. I had given you the War, but the Enemy had not yet shown – and so you reached out to find one. Before ever you knew what a Demon was, an Angel taught you to hate."
The regret that filled Aethel was palpable. Darius searched for something to say.
"Perhaps it was necessary," he said. "Had the Demons arrived first, hate would be all we know. We would revel in it. With your guidance we have moved beyond it. I have killed many men – but I have hated few."
Aethel did not reply – and nothing was said for some time after. The Angel stood silently, the myriad tendrils of his wings undulating slowly like willow branches in a gentle breeze.
Finally, Darius built up the courage to ask: "Will you help us end it, then?"
More silence, and soon despair crept back into his heart.
"Please, Aethel. Help us."
Still no answer, and Darius hung his head in defeat. In the span of a few minutes, he had gone from abject misery to hopefulness – and now he was spiraling back down, for he saw in his future nothing but the cruel reflection of his past, and the same for every living person until time came to an end.
"Yes."
Darius brought his head back up.
"I will help you – If you can tell me truly that this is what you wish. Speak not from your pain. Is it your true and honest desire that nor Angel nor Demon be allowed presence
in your world, and all the good and ill we bring be forsaken, for all time?"
Darius did them both the service of considering the question anew, in all its enormity, as coldly as he was able. He searched his heart, doing his best to avoid the raw, open wound left by recent events.
Finally he nodded. "It is. All of mankind should be grateful to the Choirs – but your War cannot be ours any longer."
Aethel gave Darius a solemn bow.
"Then I will aid you."
Chapter Thirty-Five
Balkan's cell looked in on a circular room. In the center was a single large brazier, and the fire within was the only source of light. The walls and floors of this place were formed of a crumbly brown stone, somewhere between clay and real rock. The air was damp. Musky, earthy smells shared the air with the acrid smoke of the fire.
Around the room he could see additional cells identical to his own – two paces by two paces square, bare of even a chamber pot, and closed in by vertical iron bars. The entrance was a lattice of horizontal bars across the vertical ones, hanging on thick, poorly wrought hinges. He counted eight cells in all, arrayed around the chamber that was maybe five paces wide.
Wooden beams were set into the walls between the cells and along the ceiling, leading towards an even thicker wooden pillar set just off-center – like the shoring of a mineshaft, no doubt holding up a ceiling that would cave in otherwise. That pillar was slathered with clay to protected it from the heat of the brazier which sat near it. The only entrance to the room was off to the left of his cell, barely visible.
There were three sorcerers guarding him.
Balkan could only see one – a grim looking man seated directly opposite him on a simple three-legged stool. The other two were off the either side, out of sight – but Balkan could feel them there. When they had first brought him and his family here and locked each into a separate cell, there had been only two sorcerers. That had not been enough to prevent Balkan from attacking the moment he thought he could overwhelm them. His panic lending them strength, he killed one – but the other fended him off until soldiers arrived and clubbed him into oblivion.
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