by T. A. Miles
Xu Liang opened his eyes and felt a pang of remorse deep inside of him. Song Da-Xiao had called him brother since he returned to the Imperial City and learned of Song Lu’s death. Seeing her sorrow and her fear at being left alone among corrupt officials, skeptical warriors, and dangerously apprehensive family members, he immediately took an oath with her, that they would be from that day forward as brother and sister. Beyond his station and obligations, he would support her always and defend her to his last, dying breath. It was a mutual pact usually made between Fanese men—soldiers most often—but it seemed appropriate under the circumstances. There was no one to adopt her, who would not try to seize power of the Empire and for the same reasons—and considering her age at the time of Song Lu’s death—there was no one to marry her. She’d lost a father and brother. Xu Liang did all that he could to replace some of her loss and to inspire her strength. He feared, however, that she had come to rely on him too heavily.
Xu Liang sighed in a useless attempt to try and alleviate some of the weight he bore. Then he stood and emerged from his tent into the cooling night air. He smelled rain faintly as a storm passed to the north.
Gai Ping approached and knelt before him. “My lord, the little ones return.”
Xu Liang nodded. “See that they are made comfortable for the night and treated with respect. We set out in the morning.”
Gai Ping inclined his head obediently and left.
Xu Liang’s gaze wandered north. The storm breeze stirred long strands of his black hair as he turned his face into it. He felt a sudden sense of foreboding as he watched the sky above the treetops flash with the reflection of distant lightning.
A blade of storm...would they find it beyond the mountains, in the shadow of the Dragon’s spine? And who would be carrying it?
DARKNESS AGAIN. Always darkness—even by day. Is there no light left in this world that will shine upon me? I have never acted with malice in my heart. I have never sought to harm. I wanted only to protect. God, why have you turned away from me?
Tristus Edainien considered throwing his head back and screaming the question at the blackened sky, but he refrained, held by the bitter fact that he would not be answered.
“Perhaps there is no one to answer me,” he mumbled to himself. “Perhaps my faith has been misplaced in nothing...a void.”
His jaw muscles began to work involuntarily.
“If only my memory would be swallowed by such darkness.”
Shame and anger filled his weary body, made wearier with the white-gold partial plate armor of the Order. Specifically, it had belonged to his father, who died in service to the One God. Tristus felt like a desperate thief taking it from his parents’ home after having his own armor stripped from him by the Order Masters at the Eristan Citadel. He had been cast out and retained no rights pertaining to the Order, least of all the right to don such a symbolic suit. There was no question what it represented, and he was inviting trouble by flaunting it.
But what else could he do? He needed armor and to sell his father’s for the sake of purchasing other armor was unthinkable. Besides this had all come in error. He’d earned the right to wear this armor and to serve as a Holy Knight of Eris. He would plead his case in the sacred city itself, to the winged children of the One God, who above all—even the laws and ethics of mortal men—enforced justice. They were the true swords of God and the guides of mankind. They would have the answers Tristus sought. They had to. There was no one else.
Tristus—young still, though he felt ancient—wiped his gloved hand over his face and pushed errant brown curls away from his eyes, mentally retracing the steps behind him. He started further back than he intended, recalling his childhood, how as an undersized child it was believed that he wasn’t meant for the Order. He had been taught early to accept a path less physically demanding and saw more books than practice swords. Yet he wanted more than anything to become a knight, a protector. He abandoned his books whenever his mother wasn’t watching to practice with the other boys. They accepted him out of respect for his father, a hero in Andaria. He worked hard, slowly gained inches, and his thin frame began to fill out. It was eventually decided that he would follow in his father’s footsteps after all. Tristus followed those steps diligently, and at some point lost his way, straying onto a path so foul and so twisted as to make him wonder if he’d left the natural world altogether and come upon a living hell. Perhaps, then, he could never reach Eris. Perhaps here it didn’t exist.
Even if that were true, he would never abandon his search; it was all he had left.
He’d been among the Alabaster Mountains almost since leaving his hometown of Tesina more than a month ago. The region had been growing steadily less wooded, the openness exposing the pale rocky terrain that had given the vast range its name. It ran south to north, spreading wider in some regions, invading the dark pine woods of lower Yvaria to the east, and spilling onto the otherwise featureless plains known as the Flatlands on the other side. At their center the great river wound through steep cliffs and stark canyons that looked like vast cracks separating what was once united. Heavy clouds skirted the peaks, forming a pocket of tolerably chill air between the cold rock and freezing upper air. The winds were sudden and powerful, deadly to one who chanced walking too near a ledge. They were deadly to a human, anyway. The mountain goats and elk didn’t seem threatened, not even by Tristus, who may have been the first human to set foot across their uninviting terrain in years, maybe longer. What had they to fear with the angels protecting them?
As quickly as the thought came, it blackened. Were the angels protecting them?
Tristus despised his moodiness, his depressing angst over the life that had been taken from him and his unnatural determination to have it back. Unnatural...why that word?
Because you’re not natural, he thought and scowled at the ugly memories it summoned. Eventually the scowl dulled and he was simply sad again, existing in pathetic mockery to all that his father’s armor stood for.
“Idiot,” he mumbled. “You don’t even know where you’re going. You’re wandering like the homeless fool that you are. And now it’s begun to snow.”
The flakes began their descent without warning, drifting slowly at first, then dropping heavy and constant, obscuring his bearings. Tristus had decided to walk his horse—as if he would sense a sudden drop any quicker than the animal. He couldn’t say how long he’d been on foot, but stopped abruptly when a sudden shriek penetrated the heavy air. A moment before, he’d heard only his and his horse’s footsteps, along with the newly falling snow, which had begun to accumulate quickly. The shriek sounded somehow out of place through the whispering curtain of heavy flakes and cold air. It might have been a bird, but it was not one he’d ever heard the like of. It made a hideous sound, like death’s cry.
“Could you possibly be more dismal?” he asked himself, tasting the bitter sarcasm as it sounded.
Tristus frowned and moved slowly forward, unsure if he was headed toward the sound or away from it. His hand dropped unconsciously onto the hilt of his sword while the other gripped the reins. His breath preceded him in small, frosty clouds. The rapidly descending flakes melted and refroze as they landed on his warm skin. He felt the cold stinging his brow and cheeks, stiffening his mouth. Absently, he drew up the hood of his cloak, then dropped his hand once again to his sword, more swiftly now, as he heard a man cry out.
More shrieks like the first followed the human sound. Tristus thought surely that they were coming from ahead of him, maybe not far. He acted on impulse, abandoning his horse and running through the curtains of snow, toward Heaven only knew what.
IT SEEMED TO take an eternity to get to the source of the sounds. For a moment Tristus thought he’d strayed far away from them. And then snow suddenly burst up from the ground ahead of him, like a wave breaking on the shore. A heavy sheet of white fanned as it descended, blending once again with the rest that which blanketed the ground.
Tristus descried two fo
rms in the near distance, two humanoid shapes in mortal struggle. The black cloak of one individual billowed behind it while the thick ivory cape worn by the other was flattened beneath the body. The man in black was hovering over his pinned opponent, clawing at him with his bare hands.
Tristus moved to stop them, calling out, but his voice was drowned by a sudden, deep ringing sound, as if someone had struck an enormous bell in the river canyon far below. A blinding flash of golden light followed and Tristus had to turn his face away. The shriek sounded again, clashing horridly with the lingering chime. When Tristus dared to look, the combatants were apart, but far from finished.
The warrior with the white cloak was on his feet, making visible the silver-gold plate armor that adorned his chest and shoulders. The rest of his attire, not including the heavy cape, appeared little more than a white belted tunic. In his hands he gripped a spear of palest gold, or of platinum. It was beautiful, accented by the stoic grace of the man wielding it. His opponent was as a shadow in comparison, featureless and dark, and carrying no weapon. It should have been no contest.
And it was with that thought that Tristus stole a second look at the feral dark man, who was no man at all, but some manner of beast. The face was twisted and grotesque, black as its naked flesh with two yellow slits glaring from it. There were sharp horns protruding from its brow. Its ears were more pointed than the purest-blooded elf and it had a tail that lashed beneath a mantle not of cloth, but of leathery skin and delicate bone. They were wings, not billowing in the wind, but stretched out behind it as it stood riled and vicious before its enemy.
“My...God...” Tristus breathed, his previously frozen jaw suddenly feeling slack.
With the words, the winged beast turned its foul head and focused deliberately on Tristus. The look of malevolence in the thing’s golden eyes was so pure it made Tristus want to wretch, but he could do nothing. Paralyzed with sudden fear, he could only stare as the demon shifted in the snow on taloned feet and came at him.
Voices assailed him moments before the beast did. “Get out of here,” one shouted. “Move now!”
Another hissed, possibly only in his mind. “Pathetic mortal! I shall peel the skin from your flesh and drink the blood until there is nothing left of you but a heap of bone and dry tissue. Even in death my image will be burned upon your eyes for all eternity. You will learn that one of your kind does not look upon mine lightly.”
Tristus stood utterly still, staring evil in the face. He now had a face to give to evil, and the demon was right; he would see it forever. He would never forget the distorted mockery of a man’s face, the eyes golden slits, the brow sharp and rigid, the tongue lashing out of its thin-lipped and fanged mouth.
It was gliding toward him, wings outstretched, slim black arms reaching.
Tristus was on the ground before he knew it. The air erupted out of his lungs and he gained none of it back as long hands coiled around his neck, squeezing and scratching at once with clawed fingers. All Tristus could think was that he had been damned. His journey into Hell had been predetermined, but why? He wasn’t evil. He’d never once acted with malice in his heart.
“To act as an instrument of evil, whether willingly or unwittingly, is the same as to be evil. Your remorse earns you life, Tristus Edainien, but you no longer have a place here.”
The past words of the Order Master attacked him nearly as brutally as the demon. Both brought tears of pain to his eyes and drained him of all will. He would die in darkness. Such was his fate.
Mother, Father...forgive me.
He closed his eyes and still saw the demon, grinning madly as it choked the life out of him.
HE OPENED HIS eyes to darkness, cold and bleak. The Abyss?
“It is only night,” someone said, as if in answer. “Do not be afraid.”
Tristus sat up slowly, feeling groggy but otherwise well. He touched his neck, searching for claw marks that weren’t there. He looked around at snow, sparse trees, and the incessant cloud layer that hid the mountaintops from view. “What...what’s happened?”
He slowly focused on the man sitting nearby. The sculpted face appeared improbably haggard with weariness and his white cloak hung sullied and tattered at his back. The stains appeared to be blood. Perhaps the claws had raked his back. He seemed unharmed otherwise.
In answer to Tristus’ question, the man said, “You were attacked by a shade demon. Above all things, they resent humans, as to them they are shades of their past. A past so distant that it is no longer truly connected to humans. Still, they harbor a deadly grudge.” He sighed and his breath seemed to shudder. “Do not worry, though. It is gone. You are safe now.”
Somehow Tristus believed that.
The man smiled somewhat, as if sensing Tristus’ unquestioning trust. His lips smiled, but there was pain in his eyes…eyes the color of sky and light.
That pain drew Tristus forward with concern. “What of you? Are you injured?”
The stranger surprised him by saying, “I am dying.”
Tristus instantly wanted to help. He rose to his knees, not knowing what to do, but feeling that he should do something. “Where are you hurt?” Even as the question formed he recalled the demon’s long nails scratching his own neck and instinctively lifted his hand to touch wounds that weren’t there. He watched the man, watching him, and said, “You healed me, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” the man answered quietly, displaying almost no emotion and not a trace of fear, even as he seemed to be fading right in front of Tristus.
“There must be...something that can be done for you.”
“There is nothing to be done for me,” the man said. “Perhaps, were things as they should be, I might survive, but they are not and I will die soon…for now. I’m sorry you must witness this, but I could not bring myself to leave your side.”
“What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
“The demon’s touch, while harmful to you, is poison to me...in my state.”
“I don’t...” Tristus looked again at the man’s white cloak, seeing the blood and shreds anew. He saw the feathers half fallen, sticking out at unnatural angles. Bone gleamed through in some places. Blood-sodden tufts of down scattered the snow around him.
Tears came immediately to Tristus’ eyes as he realized just what he was witnessing; an angel, dying. Perhaps he’d gone farther on his quest than he believed he could. Perhaps, atop one of these enshrouded peaks lay Eris, the Kingdom of the Angels, God’s winged children.
“You are not destined to darkness,” the angel suddenly said, inspiring Tristus to look into his eyes that were a shade so pale as to almost have no color at all. While Tristus marveled at this, the angel added, “Your life shall last as long as your will, in whatever light you choose to follow.”
The tears finally escaped and tumbled down Tristus’ cold cheeks.
“I cannot grant you redemption,” the angel furthered to say. “Forgiveness will redeem you, when you are ready. Though I fear that is a long way off, for it is a heavy burden that you bear upon your heart. Perhaps I can offer you this light as comfort on your shrouded journey...Knight of Andaria.” The angel picked up his spear that had been lying in the snow beside him and passed it solemnly to Tristus. “Its name is Dawnfire.”
Slowly, reverently, Tristus pulled Dawnfire into his grasp. For a timeless span, he and the angel held the glorious weapon together. Tristus looked into the beauteous creature’s crystalline gaze and wanted to say so many things, but exhaustion suddenly overcame him and not a word escaped as he lowered the spear into his lap and fell fast asleep where he sat.
WHEN TRISTUS OPENED his eyes again, it was day. The angel was nowhere to be seen and his hands were empty. He thought at first that he’d dreamt the event still fresh in his memory. And then he spied the spear resting beside him in the snow that was already melting in the filtered morning sun. He hesitated before touching the weapon again, then slowly reached his hand toward it and stroked the cool plati
num shaft before carefully curling his fingers around it. He lifted it, surprised by how light it was—from tip to butt it was easily as tall as him. He marveled at the craftsmanship and then wondered if he’d gone mad. Did an angel truly mean for him to have such a fantastic weapon? An outcast from the very order of knights devoted to the Angels of Eris? What would the Order Masters have to say now, and the priests?
They would call him a liar and a blasphemer. They would never believe he had been chosen to behold such a miracle, to be saved by one of the True God’s children and then granted its heavenly blade. They would believe the account of the demon more readily, and they would blame its trickery for his delusions and then confiscate the spear as a tool of evil’s will. How could the faith of such righteous men be so selective as to question a miracle and turn it to devilry so easily? Perhaps if it had happened to someone else...
But it happened to me. This weapon came to me. I will not question it.
Tristus took up the spear, then placed it neatly on the ground directly in front of him and knelt solemnly before it. He prayed, and in his prayers he vowed never to allow evil to be performed with or upon the blade entrusted to him. “I will continue to serve your will, God, beloved Father of Heaven. And I shall not forget the sacrifice made by your messenger, whose name I did not know, but whose memory I shall embrace for as long as I am upon this world and afterward, should you permit my passage. I thank you, dear God, for this gift and for your blessing and for your guidance.” At the end of his prayer, he touched the tips of two fingers successively to his forehead, his lips, and his heart, where the starburst-behind-a-sword insignia of the Order happened to be engraved upon his armor.
Then he stood with renewed determination and found his horse standing patiently where he’d left it, grazing on a patch of freshly exposed grass. The short blades glistened with beads of melted snow in the hazy shafts of sunlight penetrating the cloud canopy. He spent the next several moments rigging straps to hold his new weapon in place with the rest of his gear, which wasn’t much. Once that task was complete, he mounted and set off in the same direction he’d been going. Though he was no longer certain he was looking for Eris, he knew he didn’t want to return home.