by Chris Moss
Above them, Musmahu’s beaked heads recoiled as if buffeted by a storm, swooping close to the confused and angry crowd.
“Oh, Kestel.” Maal laughed and clapped her hands, her expression sunny, as if the young man had shared a wonderful joke. “Please tell me you still haven’t figured out what it means to be the Herald. Did you think the Authority was just some kind of magical wish-granting? There are rules. Authority is meaningless without limits.”
Maal looked up at the monster twisting above her. “Authority cannot bind itself. Of course, now that you are finally here, I am only the former Herald of this Age.”
37
To my Dear Prioress
Words cannot express my grief at what has happened to you. I will never be able to atone for this failure. I hereby tender my resignation as Spymistress for the Citadel, effective immediately. I take full responsibility for the failure of this operation. A thousand times, a million times, I will regret my hesitation in not coming directly to you.
~personal correspondence from Spymistress Julia,
dated 90th year of the Exile~
Deep in the Citadel, Julia looked at the familiar hall and fought off the ghosts of the past. Trying to distract herself from things to come, she scanned the space. The nondescript hall had a concealed door leading from the far end of the hall into the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the Citadel complex. At Julia’s end stood a large oak and iron door that led deeper into the storage rooms, offices, and training halls that marked the interior service levels of the complex. The smaller wooden door flanking her right side provided access to a colonnaded garden—beyond that—the apartments of the Citadel’s leaders.
“Mistress, we’re ready,” said Tomlin, waving from the gallery. “They won’t get past us.”
Julia nodded and flashed a smile she did not feel. Ten years ago, Gyges fought his way through to this room and almost slaughtered the man she loved. Her reaction had left the Silver Prioress a cripple and ended Julia’s tenure as Spymistress.
But that was all a lie, wasn’t it? She tried to hold on to her rage against her former protégé.
“Something’s coming!” yelled an agent, running out of the tunnels at the far end of the hall. He hid behind the trio of armored figures by Julia’s side.
“Don’t worry, Sister,” said General Dio, the tall, dark man unsheathing his sword. “They won’t get past us.” His knights readied their own weapons.
Too tense to reply, Julia ignored the General and focused on the two figures crashing through the doorway.
“Memories, memories!” Harpalus sneered. The gaunt, bloodstained man swaggered into the central space, flipping his knife in his hands like a juggler. “I knew it had to be this place, Auntie.”
Julia noticed how dirty the former Spymaster had become. His feral grin could disarm even the knights standing before him, but she still remembered a ragged, cocky agent from ten years before. “I thought this would seem familiar to you.” She tried not to let her gaze wander to the old hunter in the gallery drawing his bow on Harpalus. “This is where you betrayed me by letting Gyges escape my trap.”
The bloodstained figure glanced at the impassive bulk of Gyges standing beside him and shrugged. “If I’d followed you, the Silver Prioress would be ten years dead, and we’d still be writing analytical reports about it. I saw the chance to act and took it.”
“And is that why you betrayed us to Maal’s agent?” yelled Julia, unable to hide the pain in her voice. “What did Tansy offer you?”
“Don’t you say her name!” Harpalus plucked his dagger from the air and pointed it at Julia before she could blink.
“She was mine.” The Spymaster bore down on Julia. The knights standing next to her braced, but Harpalus acted as if they were as inconsequential as insects.
“What did she offer you?” said Julia again, but made her tone gentler. “What could she give you that the Citadel could not?”
Harpalus raged. From this distance, Julia could make out the orange-rimmed eyes and red-tinged veins of a Bloodwyne overdose.
“A chance to live as more than the Citadel’s tool.”
“It was a life you wanted enough to stab me in the back for,” said Julia. She regretted the angry words the moment they left her mouth. She shook her head and reached out, but the madness returned to Harpalus’s eyes.
His lip curled into a cold sneer. He raised his knife, looking his former mentor in the eyes. He shifted his body, and Tomlin’s arrow whistled past his shoulder and buried itself in one of the knights beside Julia.
“Gyges!” yelled Harpalus. “Butcher everything in this room!”
The silent killer sprang into action, shaking off the group of agents who jumped toward him. He lurched toward the pillars supporting the gallery. Above him, Tomlin tried to knock another arrow, but Gyges slammed into the stone pillars like a battering ram. His Bloodwyne-infused bulk crashed through the supports, collapsing the entire structure. The killer pulled himself out of the debris and caught the sword arm of the agent springing toward him, twisting the limb until his opponent shrieked in pain. Julia watched General Dio launch himself at the bulky killer—the tall, dark figure the only man in the room with the muscle to stand up to Gyges. The pair rolled through the dirt and rubble.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t see your plan?” said Harpalus, his tone mocking.
Julia’s gaze snapped back to her former student. The whipcord figure twisted away from every attack the remaining knight pressed, before growing bored and ducking under a clumsy sword blow. A heartbeat later, Harpalus stood behind the knight. He plunged his knife deep into the man’s unprotected side, then let the body drop to the floor. Turning, he flashed a feral smile at Julia and lunged forward, pinning her back against the heavy, oak and iron door.
“Do you truly want to kill me?” whispered Julia, looking up at the gaunt, angry face pressed against her own.
“I am finished with interfering old women,” said her former student, his eyes cold and remorseless. “So yes, Auntie, I am going to kill you.”
Julia screwed up her face, a hollow wave of pain washing over her. She looked down. Harpalus’s dagger was driving into her belly.
“And when I am done with you,” said Harpalus, “I’ll pay that useless old Prioress a visit too. I am so utterly, utterly tired of—”
The Spymaster gasped but only gurgles escaped his lips, blood gushing from his mouth. He reached up to touch the blade in his neck, but Julia pulled the silver dagger free with a curved slice and replaced it in her sleeve.
Do what is necessary to protect the Citadel. No hesitation.
“I’m so sorry, Pye,” she whispered, pulling Harpalus’s dagger from her belly. The air around her glowed a pale silver, the wound in her gut closing over. Harpalus buckled onto the floor. Julia looked up to see how her companions fared. Most of her agents were dead or wounded, but General Dio still held his own against Gyges, keeping the bulky killer at bay long enough for a bleeding Tomlin to feather him with arrows.
On the eighth arrow, the giant keeled over. The scarred face that hit the stones was no longer blank but smiled with relief.
General Dio wiped dust and blood from his bronze face. Beyond the hall, a set of high-pitched trumpets sounded across the city.
“Mistress Julia, I must take my leave,” he said, his tone weary. “The rebellion has turned in our favor, but the Exsilium forces will need to be coordinated.”
The old cleric nodded, and Marcus bowed and left the room, supporting the remaining wounded knight.
“Thank you, all of you,” she whispered, dropping to her knees. The surviving agents tried to help her but she waved them away, gesturing to Tomlin.
“Take the survivors and get them cleaned up. I will report to the Prioress in due course. But for the moment—leave me.”
Julia pulled Harpalus’s body onto her knees and tried to wipe his bloodied face clean with her robe. Around the city, Exsilium trumpets sounded in chorus and the
victorious forces cheered in the morning light. Deep within the Citadel, Julia held the body of the one she had raised as her son and screamed and screamed and screamed.
38
Aedron looked up at the beast towering before his army, and the prophet’s fear was plain to see. Many asked him to run, for the power of the Hydra was beyond dispute.
“How little you understand,” admonished the Herald. “Power is meaningless without the authority to wield it. Even if we cannot defeat our enemy, we have the authority to appeal to one who can. I say to you now—let the heavens open!”
~from The Book of Aedron, undated~
“You?” said Kestel in confusion. “You were the Herald?”
“Of course.” Maal shrugged. “You should have seen this place a century ago—overflowing with vanity and useless pomp. The civil war would have killed more than a million. So, I took on the mantle of Herald—and found out the Authority was useless for getting what I want.”
Kestel was silent, unsure of what she meant.
Maal cocked an eyebrow. “Authority can’t bind itself, Herald. Which means, when I declared myself immortal, nothing happened.”
Kestel nodded, keeping his eye on Eriwasteg. “So, you summoned the Angel and ordered it to grant you immortality.”
“And the Angel said no!” said Maal, her voice light, as if recalling a minor irritation. “I was shocked. I had thought myself all-powerful, but it didn’t matter. By that time, my thoughts had already turned to the Ancient Gods of Legend. I doubted I would have the Authority to command them—even Aedron couldn’t kill Musmahu on his own—but perhaps I could find a way to steal eternal life from them.”
“You learned of the Sepulchre,” said Kestel. “You brought the hydra back.”
“Credit where credit is due, Herald! You have no idea what it took to resurrect Musmahu. It should have been impossible, even for a Herald, but Rawshnet showed me ways of using the Aeris that the incompetent old clerics couldn’t even dream of.”
“Then you unleashed Musmahu on an unsuspecting continent. Just so you could drink its blood and stay young forever.”
Maal smiled, no longer bothering to hide the cruelty in her gaze. “I stopped the civil war before it started. And I took responsibility for the choice I made by becoming ruler.”
“You drove this entire continent into the ground!” yelled Kestel. “There’s almost nothing left to worship but your warped vanity!”
“I won’t need them for much longer.” Maal laughed. “Now that you’re finally here. You see, when I brought back Musmahu, I lost my Authority. I had created a new type of life, something that other Heralds had never tried before. But when I went to instill the creature’s immortality into my own soul—nothing. So, I waited for the next Herald. I had no idea he would be one of my own Divine Guard.”
“I will never help you,” said Kestel pulling at his chains.
Herald, listen to me, whispered Creven.
“You don’t have a choice,” said Maal, but her eyebrows furrowed.
Kestel, listen, look at Musmahu. Something’s not right. It’s—it’s almost like a reliquary.
Kestel frowned but risked a look upward at the seven-headed creature towering above them. Gazing at the silver and amber scales, Kestel’s vision expanded, taking in the entirety of the colossal beast. He saw the power Maal had forged around Musmahu, wrapping around the hydra like a cage, encapsulating a violent blur of oily black and blinding white. Unable to control what he saw, Kestel cried out at the sheer power of the hydra’s soul spinning around him like a tornado—angry, trapped, and fighting—not with Maal, but with itself.
“Who are you talking to?” Maal screamed, but he could barely make out her voice through the storm. “Whose voice did I hear?”
The furious image of the hydra’s soul drifted into the background, his vision solidifying onto Maal’s furious face looking down at him. The woman’s lips were screwed up in anger and golden blood dripped from her torn knuckles.
“How dare you interfere?” she screamed, gesturing at the beast looming above them. The scratch on her hand healed over. “Musmahu is mine! I’ve waited too long, to have a street thug get ideas beyond his place!”
The hydra’s bellow of anger shook the entire Amphitheater, its tail and wings swinging over the screaming crowd.
“Give me what I want, now,” Maal said, her face wrenched in fury. “Or I will start cutting strips off your little bitch!”
Kestel glared at Maal, his mind racing over everything he had learned about the self-styled Goddess.
“Don’t you dare!” Maal snatched one of the guard’s swords and held it to Eriwasteg’s throat. “You do as I command!”
Kestel ignored her and looked up at the silver beast quivering above them. His calm and clear voice rose above the wailing of the people below. “Musmahu. Angel. I unbind you from each other.”
Musmahu’s seven heads squealed in unison as if the sky itself were tearing apart, drowning out Maal’s scream. The giant, silver beast flailed backward, falling onto the crowd. Thrashing and rolling, it crushed hundreds beneath its silver coils.
“What have you done?” Maal pushed Eriwasteg away and ripped at her long, golden hair. “What have you done?”
Musmahu’s giant body convulsed with a grotesque, tearing sound. A deep weal opened across the silvery scales, splitting the hydra’s chest before exploding in a shower of golden blood. The seven heads thrashed and then dropped onto the stones. Everyone remained transfixed on the shining ball of light emerging from the creature’s body. It coalesced into a bone-white figure and stretched forth two giant wings of silver.
Kestel, too shocked to speak, felt a dark, hairy muzzle lean down next to his ear.
“Thank you, Herald,” said Rawshnet, his fetid breath washing over Kestel’s face. “I told you that the freedom of our God would come by your hand.”
Before Kestel could reply, the bestial figure arched his back and howled. The Chonoroq army leaped from the shadows around the Amphitheater and raced toward the prone body of Musmahu. The hairy beasts covered the silver body within minutes.
Rawshnet drew Eriwasteg’s sword and sliced the blade across his chest, cutting deep into the dirty fur. Kestel struggled against his chains, helpless to stop the black blood oozing from the old Chonoroq’s chest. It dripped from the grisly, open tear onto the hydra’s body. Musmahu’s body jerked once more, and to Kestel’s horror, the ragged gash began to close, and the enormous coils began to move.
The Divine Guard fell upon the Chonoroq, but the muscular beasts tore through the ragged soldiers with ease. Rawshnet snarled, the slashes across his chest closing and sprouting new hair. Once healed, the ancient creature lunged at Maal. The Goddess smiled and brought up her hand, spraying the hairy figure in golden acid. Rawshnet dropped the blade and struggled forward, his bestial form healing as fast as Maal could burn it.
Above them, the Angel circled high.
Musmahu’s heads reared up out of the rubble. The hydra, now as shiny and black as the waters of its swamp, shook itself free of the silver scales like a snake molting its skin. The weaving and bobbing heads hissed, the beaks and crests sloughing away to reveal a smooth and reptilian visage. The beast’s silver wings lay discarded and useless among the screaming crowd. The hydra coiled and struck outward—meeting the Angel’s downward attack with an impact that cracked open the Amphitheater like an egg.
Kestel shook his head and looked at Maal, then at the chains holding him to the ground. “Release me.” He struggled to his feet, the manacles opening and slipping free of his hands. He picked up a sword and stepped over the wailing figure of Maal’s Master of Ceremonies, trying to get close to Eriwasteg.
Eriwasteg ducked and dodged Maal’s attacks, snatching up her father’s blade as she worked her way close to the ruler of the Sacred Realm. Dropping low, the nimble young woman launched forward, then rolled away as Maal stepped back in shock. Maal looked down at the long sword plunged deep into he
r side, her fingers trailing over the handle.
"That was for my family," the Baavghirla said, her smile fierce. Eriwasteg's eyes widened when the blonde woman reached down and pulled the blade free, smiling as the weapon dissolved in her hands.
Maal lunged forward and grabbed the young woman by the neck.
“Beg for your life, you little Baavghirla slut,” she said, lifting Eriwasteg as if she were a toy.
“Tzvarec.” Tears streamed down Eriwasteg’s face, the poison burning into her skin. “Kill her, Kestel.”
Kestel launched himself at the Goddess, but Maal snapped Eriwasteg’s neck with a sharp crack. She rounded on Kestel, letting the scarred and lifeless body flop onto the stones.
“Damn you!” Kestel thrust his sword into the beautiful crimson figure again and again.
Don’t lose control! said Creven.
Lost in a red haze, he sliced open the laughing woman’s body as fast as it healed.
“Do you think this is the end, boy?” Maal jeered, doing nothing to stop Kestel’s useless rage against her. “I have enough of the hydra’s blood stored away to last lifetimes—enough to wait for the next Herald.”
High above the pair, Musmahu and the Angel reared. The hydra’s heads snapped forward in a tangled mass to try and catch the Angel. The metallic-winged figure dipped and soared.
Kestel, stop! Creven’s shout brought Kestel back into focus. Stop getting angry and think. How would Arbalis solve this? How would Calla? Or Mollis?
He stumbled back from the sneering Goddess, ignoring the pandemonium around him. Fighting for breath, his eyes glanced around at the screaming, warring figures. Maal smiled and brought up her hands, forcing Kestel to duck and roll behind a group of Chonoroq and Divine Guard. They screamed—their bodies dissolved in a corrosive spray.
Above them, the Angel flew out of reach of the snapping reptilian heads and raised a pale hand, drawing the surrounding light and air until it formed into a long, glowing sword. The Angel banked and dived toward Musmahu. The weapon glowed red and burst into flames. Musmahu’s heads hissed and snapped forward, but reared back when the Angel sent one of its seven heads tumbling onto the struggling crowd. Kestel watched the oily, black blood steam and boil before turning back to Maal.