by Faith Hunter
“What about Zadkiel and Amethyst?” I asked. Barak’s eyes flickered the slightest bit. If I hadn’t still been seeing with mage-sight, I would never have noted it.
“They are far below. I am wounded, without weapons, unable to transmogrify, unable to fight Darkness.” Quick translation, “I’m not going down with you.” Big shock there.
“I won’t ask you to go down with me. But give me a boon.” When he didn’t turn away, I said, “Give me a seraph feather.” The words were as much a surprise to me as to him. His eyes narrowed, and this time he didn’t try to control the reaction. Seraph feathers, freely given, were strong weapons in the hands of a battle-mage, powering her other gifts. I might be only a half-trained stone mage, but I knew the power of a seraph feather.
Barak hesitated. “Though I am not among those Powers and Principalities who rebelled and fought against the High Host in the Battle of Heaven, as a fallen Watcher I have long been away from the Most High. I have been trapped here, in the lair of the beast, for decades. The gift might be weak. Or… polluted.” When I stared at him, silent, he bent to the feathers on the cell floor and reluctantly lifted one. The wing moved with a lifelike shudder as he plucked and said, “Stone and fire, water and air, defense and flight prevail. Wings and shield, dagger and sword, blood and shelter prevail.”
A sudden spike of instruction came from my amulet necklace, from the visa, and I bowed deeply, saying, “Stone and fire, water and air, blood and kin prevail. Wings and shield, dagger and sword, blood and kin prevail.” The compulsion from the visa ceased. What the heck did I just do? I accepted the feather and bowed again over the gift.
Almost three feet long, it was a primary flight feather, lighter than air, and power trembled through it. A current of air lifted it. Barak could have chosen a small, insignificant feather. Instead he had given me his best. It was a lustrous, deep green that threw back the plasma light of the Flames in burgundy and silver and ocean blue. I was ashamed of my earlier distrust, and touched the feather to my forehead once before sliding it through my dobok belt. I met his beautiful eyes and said simply, “Thank you.”
A surprised look crossed his face. “Much welcome, neomage. Fight true.”
I walked to a clear place and dug in the bag over my shoulder, pulling out a stone jar of clean salt, never used. The supply was limited, and so the circle I made was small, barely large enough to hold me, sitting yogi-style. Prepared to draw on the stone beneath me for power, I placed an amulet in front of me, outside the circle, settled myself, and closed the salt ring, shivering with the energy that quivered up my spine.
I looked at Eli and Durbarge. “Don’t kill the daywalker.” At Durbarge’s fierce glance, I added, “I, uh, I sorta bound one of those to me too.” He reached for his sigil, before his fingers grudgingly clenched. I figured he wanted to arrest me, but thought he had better wait for a more propitious occasion. Like, if we survived the night in a hellhole.
Taking a calming breath, I opened the stone jar holding the scrap of cloth saturated with the walker’s dried blood. I began to chant, “Malashe-el. Malashe-el. Attend to me. Malashe-el, attend and obey.” Long minutes passed. Demon-fast, the walker appeared before me. The rune of forgetting blazed on its chest and it carried a sword of demon-iron. It swept the blade back with a swish of sound; I held up the cloth. “Hold,” I said, praying the word would stay the blade. I hadn’t opened a shield of protection. Demon-iron held power of its own and would surely disrupt the energies I had drawn around me.
The blade stopped at the apex of its arc, quivering slightly. “Drop the blade,” I said. The walker’s arms trembled with resistance until I repeated the command. Its fingers slowly opened. The sword dropped to the floor with a clang.
This was not a boy. Now it looked like a man, fully grown, in its late twenties, perhaps. Deep black hair was still long and braided, but a stubble of beard marked its chin. It wore black, a short-waisted jacket of silk velvet over a black charmeuse shirt with lace cuffs and nubby silk pants. Its eyes were red and labradorite in equal measure.
Untouched by sunlight, tainted by the dark energies in the place, my mage-sight saw it as it really was. A mesh of power the reddish-black shade of old blood passed through its body, as though the webbing of a spider wrapped it. The mesh twisted along the walker’s legs, into its intestines, through its loins. The other threads were interlocking rings of blue Light, a conjure that swathed it, plunging into its body, entwining its heart and lungs.
I understood immediately that any exorcism I had done on the surface was useless here, close to the power sink of the resident evil. But I wasn’t powerless. I could try to bolster the power of Light that held it. From my place on the floor I looked into its face and said, “By the power of your Mistress, see the Light.” I had clearly said the correct words because the red in its eyes vanished like a mist dissipating over a sea at dawn, leaving its labradorite eyes clear and sparkling with relief, a blue-gray-green. “Bring me my blood.”
“By the power of my Mistress,” it whispered, and tears glistened in its eyes.
I pointed to the amulet. “Take that. When you have my blood, bring it to me.”
Faster than my eyes could follow, the walker snatched up the small peridot nugget and was gone. That was easy, I thought. Too easy? Settling myself again, I tried to follow the amulet’s progress through the tunnels. It led deep, demon-fast, to a place I had seen before.
I closed my eyes, envisioning the cell trapping Mistress Amethyst. I had linked the trails of the warren into a map and stored it in a stone. I gripped it now and compared the map to the walker’s position. Its path led into the foulest parts of the lair, a pall of unbreathable smoke occluding many of the tunnels. Or the smoke could be a Dark trap. In a quick mind-skim, I sniffed; it was the stench of burning spawn flesh, not conjures. Suddenly, I lost the walker’s trail. Seraph stones. All in one motion, I broke the circle and stood.
Suddenly Malashe-el was standing right in front of me, its lovely eyes blazing with Light and filled with tears. “My Mistress says this to you. My master has your blood. He is approaching the Mistress’ prison. He goes to drain unto emptiness the Holy Ones he trapped, and he carries a chain coated with Mole Man’s blood.”
“Crap,” Eli said, understanding. Silently, I echoed the miner’s mild obscenity.
We were three levels down in a pit, and the primary mission was compromised. Well, defunct actually, because the larvae were gone. But I wasn’t leaving without my blood. That meant I had to battle a Major Darkness and free the Mistress and her consort while I was down here. Careful not to speak Forcas’ name, I said, “The Power of the Trine trapped a seraph and his cherub about a thousand feet deeper.”
Durbarge touched the patch over his eye. Clearly, he remembered that one seraph had never reappeared after our last encounter on the Trine. “A cherub?” he asked. I hadn’t told him about Amethyst. I hadn’t told much of anyone. He dropped his hand and a look of wonder crossed his face. “They’re real? As the scriptures claim?”
“Yeah. They’re real,” I said. “That ship that exploded out of the Trine and mowed down Darkness not long ago? That also just happened to vaporize the ice cap? That was the cherub’s wheels. I’m going down to battle the Darkness. And to see if I can free the seraph and the cherub.” Fear and horror clotted my throat, but battle-lust allowed me to push through it. I looked at Malashe-el. “Show me the way.” His mouth set in a thin, unhappy line.
“Count me in,” Eli said.
Durbarge and Joseph glanced at one another and then at me. “Us too.”
Five was not a propitious number and six was even worse, but I didn’t say it. To the Watcher, I said, “What about you?” Before he could reply, I spun the short sword out of my spine sheath and extended it, hilt first. The hilt was heavily plated with silver set with garnets. Taking a chance, I said, “Daria, the priestess, gave this to me when I was a child. I think she sent me to free you.” He looked at the sword and his fingers clen
ched involuntarily. “I can’t do anything about your wings,” I said, “but you wouldn’t be weaponless.” Prompted by the visa, I said, “Your presence would be a thing of joy.”
At my words, the Flames whirled and darted behind the Watcher. Barak hissed and fell to his knees, exposing his back. The Minor Flames blazed with abandon, racing up and down the allied seraph’s spine. From his torn flesh, nubs and ripples appeared, hillocks that quickly grew to fist-sized prominences. The humeri ripped through his flesh. Wings began to form. The Watcher screamed. Reaching up, he took the hilt of the blade from my hand. He curled his body around the sword, cradling it. He screamed again, body wrenching. Barak blazed like a small sun, driving us out of the room, covering our faces.
“That went well,” Eli said. “Have you noticed that you live an interesting life?”
“Pre-Ap Chinese blessing interesting? Yeah. I noticed.” I pulled my blades and thumbed the amulet with the map of the Trine, copying it to the bloodstone hilt of my longsword. Looking at Malashe-el, I said, “By your Mistress’ power, take me to your master.”
From the cleftlike opening in the tunnel wall, a chitinous clacking and snapping sounded. A dragonet skittered into the passageway, bouncing up and down on segmented legs. Its exoskeleton was scarlet and orange stripes, its carapace humped and spiked with black barbs. Another dragonet followed. And another.
Demon-fast, Malashe-el took off in the opposite direction. More dragonets poured through the opening. As one, they attacked. Eli blasted one batch with flames, and Joseph tossed a hand grenade. We all ducked. The explosion rocked the cavern. Dust and debris, some of it slimy, rained down on us.
“No!” Eli shouted over the ringing in my ears. “Grenades’ll bring the roof down!”
I offered the original amulet for the map and the one for the moving shield to Durbarge. “You can use these?” I asked, not really hearing my voice. He hesitated only an instant before taking the stones. I thought he mouthed the words, “Go with God the Victorious,” but I wasn’t sure.
As fast as I could, I followed Malashe-el down, into the Dark.
Chapter 27
Opening mage-sight to its fullest, I sighted Malashe-el’s heel as he rounded a corner and took a downward ramp. I raced after. Smoke billowed up, and the ramp turned again, deeper into the thick fumes. I could scarcely breathe. I thumbed open the map in the bloodstone hilt and followed the daywalker down, and down, spotting our route on the three-dimensional interpretation in my mind. We were descending much faster than I had thought possible.
“Save us,” the remembered voice belled in my mind. “Save us!”
“Yeah,” I said, my breath harsh in the contaminated air as my hearing returned. “I’m working at it.” I rounded the next hallway and stopped short.
Forcas stood in my path, a tall being, over six feet in physical form. In mage-sight it bulked twelve feet tall, powerful in this place and beautiful as a seraph of Light. In one hand it clutched Malashe-el by the throat. The walker’s feet thrashed; its face was mottled, its tongue protruding through swollen lips. Without thought, I dropped and rolled across the cold stone floor, sheathing the longsword, drawing the blades along my calves and throwing. As they spun, I shouted, “Jehovah sabaoth!” The knives slammed into Forcas’ chest to either side of the walker. The Darkness released its hold and Malashe-el fell in a boneless heap. Its hand opened, revealing a small vial that glowed in my sight like gathered diamond dust. The walker had done it. It had my blood. Blood that can be used against me. Or blood I can sacrifice. Blood I can use as a weapon.
I scuttled across the intervening space, directly under the feet of the Darkness, and grabbed the vial. Elation pulsed through me. Almost in slow motion Forcas withdrew my blades, tossed them, and reached for me. Its seraph face, the beautiful face that once was, rippled and changed as a glamour fell away. A cat head, puma or lion, its flesh leathery and burned, took shape in its stead, all that was left of its once holy mien. This was much more formidable than a Watcher allied with Darkness. This was a true Fallen, one of the Powers who rebelled against the Most High and was swept out of heaven in the war that was only hinted at in holy scriptures. A crimson metal chain, the color of fresh blood, was around its neck. The spur amulet was in its hand.
Forcas laughed and grabbed me about the waist with one hand, as it had once before. No. Twice before. It held the spur before me and raised me to its face. Holding me close, it rammed the spur into my side. Pain, exquisite and elegant as a shaft of poetry, lanced through me. “Time, time, and a third time I have held you thus. Time, time, and a third time has your flesh been pierced with the conjure of binding. The full flower is now mine,” he said.
Tied to my stomach, the visa flashed with ruby light, and I knew I couldn’t let it say the line three times. The vial of my blood felt warm even through the battle glove. “The full flower is now mine,” it said a second time.
Pain froze my muscles, paralyzing me, the blood arrested in my veins. I heard myself gurgle as the conjure in the spur stopped my breath. I crushed the vial in my palm and slid the tanto’s edge in the blood-soaked glove. With a single thrust, I took the beast through the throat. His grip eased and I inhaled, chanting, “Mage in battle, mage in dire, seraphs, come with holy fire.”
Forcas dropped me and I landed on Malashe-el, even as I ripped the spur amulet from my side, tucked it into my boot, and drew my sword. Smoke billowed up around me. Over my head, Forcas roared, a lion’s roar. I rolled across the tunnel, leaving splatters of blood from the wound in my side, pulling the walker into a crevice with me as I called mage in dire again. Still nothing happened. “Like being held in the grip of a Major Darkness isn’t dire enough?” I croaked to the heavens. I looked at my side, but that wound wasn’t sacrifice; it was battle. I picked a scar that looked like it might open easily.
“Inadequate,” a familiar voice belled, closer now, audible. I blinked away the smoke, turned, and saw the Mistress far below me in a cavern, her seraph trapped above her, on top of the scarlet cage that imprisoned her. Zadkiel, only feet below me, was burned to the bone, his legs wrapped in chains, dragonets attached at his waist, sucking and engorged. The seraph held neither sword nor shield, a thing I had never heard of. When in battle, the weapons were said to be part of them, as much an appendage as a leg or hand. Amethyst’s seraph face was turned to me. “To reach us you must offer much blood. Much blood.”
“So I’m the sucker after all,” I said. When it came to the High Host, other supernats always had been. Behind me, Forcas stepped closer, its footsteps vibrating the rocky ground. I dropped the daywalker and darted along a ledge above the Mistress’ cell, holding my elbow against the wound in my side. I checked the map in the hilt and saw that while there were numerous channels leading to the deepest prison, this doorway was the only way in. I had no way out. I won’t live through this anyway.
Lifting my left wrist, I sliced the sleeve of the dobok. With a deeper slash, I opened the artery at my elbow. Mage-blood gushed, drenching Zadkiel. One dragonet lifted its teeth away and spit at me, a snake hiss through bloody fangs.
I jumped toward the trap, falling to my knees in the sticky red adhesive that buried the seraph’s feet. “I sacrifice myself for Zadkiel and the Mistress,” I said. “I sacrifice myself for Zadkiel and the Mistress.” I had lost blood from the wound in my side and my throat injury, and my blood pressure dropped fast. I fell forward, my face sticking in the red snare. The trap smelled of old blood. Like Mole Man’s blood. Like Lucas. The huge clawed feet of another beast landed beside me. “I sacrifice myself for Zadkiel and the Mistress,” I murmured, my lips touching the trap made of blood. “Mage in battle, mage in dire, seraphs, come with holy fire,” I whispered. “Mage in dire. Raziel….”
Far below, I met the Mistress’ eyes. “Help him,” she commanded. If I’d had breath, I might have laughed. Instead I managed to turn my face.
Zadkiel was locked in mortal combat with Forcas, now a lion-headed beast bulging with m
uscle and radiating Darkness, its body strong, scaled, and crested with horns. Winged dragonets were wrapped around the seraph’s leg. Forcas reared back and drove its lion fangs into Zadkiel’s throat, the bloody chain on its neck clinking.
Tears of Taharial. All this for nothing. I was dying, and no help had come for my sacrifice. But then, I was soulless. What more could I expect? With my last breath, I smelled Lucas’ blood, blood that had been used in the creation of the beasts, the cell, and the chain Forcas wore. My vision telescoped into tiny holes.
The scarlet, spherical cage beneath me undulated, as if hit by a great force. A foot stepped near my head, sinking into the red adhesive. Strands leaped up and wrapped around the crimson battle boots. “I hear, little mage,” Raziel’s voice called, ringing like bronze bells. “I am here, as I promised, in life and battle and love.” His hand rested for a moment on my spine, fingers hot against my chilling skin. At his touch, strength flowed into me. My body shuddered hard. My lungs found a breath and vision expanded. I could see. His hand lifted, and I heard the crash of fighting over my body, swords clashing. Raziel screamed his battle cry. Hot, acidic blood splattered over my body, burning through my cloak and dobok. I smelled sulfur and brimstone, and chocolate and blood. Lust and battle-lust twined and rose up in me.
“Now,” the Mistress belled, “now.” Her lavender eyes caressed me, the soft purple eyes of the cobra that had come to me; that had drowned me. “Use the otherness. Use it as you used my wheels. As you did once before.”
There wasn’t time to tell her I didn’t know how. I opened mage-sight and a mind-skim, the blended scan. The world took on strange hues and scents and textures. The otherness was there as well. Hooking a metaphysical finger in it, I slid sideways, outside of my body, my world moving with a whoosh of sensation. I rose to my knees and inspected my physical remains, which still hurt on a distant level, but the pain was growing more remote. I looked at my elbow in this not-here body. It wasn’t cut, but my feet were still trapped in the red ooze. Interesting. I felt my heart beat, then nothing for a long moment. Even with Raziel’s touch, I was dying. Blood loss. The spur.