Twixt Heaven And Hell

by Tristan Gregory

  As the Seraph strode closer, Darius recognized the figure.

  “Aethel!” he said, delighted. “Have you become our personal Angel?” Darius laughed at his own words, his spirits lifted enough by the Seraph’s presence to be mirthful. Some of his soldiers chuckled as well.

  “I wished to see you and your men, Darius,” the Angel replied simply. “You have done a great thing – but some of you are injured. I will tend them before we speak.”

  “I will wake the rest,” Darius said as he turned back to the camp. He was astounded to see that every Gryphon was already standing behind him, basking in Aethel’s glow.

  “There is no need,” Aethel said. “I have done so.”

  The Archangel removed his hands from the sleeves they habitually inhabited. He removed one glove, and those closest had to look away as the light of the Angel’s true form dazzled their eyes. Darius felt power gather, and Aethel lifted his ungloved hand. His wings spread wide and then swept forward as if meaning to embrace the soldiers in their glowing expanse. The Angel’s power washed over the men.

  In the space of a moment, every man was hale and hearty. One man dropped the crutches he’d made and stomped his leg lightly on the ground with a great, silly grin on his face. The attention of an Angel always made one feel a child in the face of a great and undeserved gift.

  Darius himself had had only minor scrapes and cuts, and the worst thing he’d taken from the battle in which half his men had died was a wretched soreness that had made walking painful – something he had been humiliated even to notice, surrounded as he was with wounded men. Now, at least, they had received the care they’d needed for so long, and their spirits too would begin to improve. Though an Angel could not heal the spiritual wounds outright, Aethel’s awesome beauty reminded the soldiers of what they fought – and died – to protect.

  The soldiers voiced their thanks, which Aethel somehow acknowledged without words. The Gryphons returned to their bed rolls, leaving Robert and Darius with the Seraph.

  “Thank you, Aethel. My men have had heavy hearts since the battle – we lost many friends, and with their wounds troubling them…”

  “Yes, I could feel this. Great sorrow fills each of them,” The Angel observed. “But fear not. Beneath it their souls remain bright and strong, and soon enough they will shine again.”

  Darius was not sure to what extent an Angel could read into a man’s heart – they always perceived more than you showed. “Thank you again. How went the supposed attack on Nebeth? Did Theodoric and his men get out safely?”

  “The General Theodoric and his men are safe, and he believes the valley remains secret for now. He maintains hope that it may be used for the original purpose in the future. The attack on Fortress Nebeth, however, became a vision of the Old War.”

  Chills went through Darius. The 'Old War' was the time at the beginning of Bastion's founding, shortly after the Aeonians had brought their War to the mortal world. In those early days, battles had been fought between Angel and Demon as often as men – but such clashes had rarely advanced the cause of either side. Men fled from such a terrible event. Sometimes the titans fought for moments only – and sometimes for much longer. A tome within Bastion recounted one battle that lasted for nearly a week before the Angels were vanquished. By that time, all mortal soldiers had left the field.

  Aethel went on. “The Enemy took Makaelic’s appearance very seriously. Astaroth, a great Archdemon, came to face him. He brought with him two lesser fiends, and my brethren were called upon. Praised be Makaelic, who triumphed – but the Fortress was not retaken.”

  “And the Shambles?” Darius asked. “Have the enemy taken the forts within?”

  “Fist fell. Andreth stands. The Enemy have it surrounded and lay siege, but have not launched any assault. This is all I know.”

  “It is far more than I knew. Thank you once more, Aethel. Your arrival was a great help to us. Is there anything you wish of me?”

  Aethel bowed to him, a profound gesture from such a distinguished being and Darius was left somewhat embarrassed. “Your continued dedication, Darius. And yours, Robert. Both of you do much for the Light in the War. I thank you.”

  Struck speechless, both men managed to squeeze out that the Angel was quite welcome. Aethel left then. His light ascended so high, Darius lost it amongst the twinkling stars.

  Darius and Robert returned to the camp, humbled and thoughtful after speaking with the Seraph. Robert recovered first, commenting that they would make better time, now. It was not a joke, but Darius laughed anyways and did not answer, lying down and waiting for sleep to take him.

  ***

  Mertoris Traigan rarely came to this place. Unbeknownst to the Warlord, the room housing most of the globes and their caretakers mirrored its counterpart in Bastion. Three sorcerers moved from globe to globe collecting the daily reports. There was a section off to one side where the ‘roving’ links were kept, globes carried by attacking forces and thus needing to receive more constant attention.

  It was next to this section that Traigan stood, while a sorcerer listened and nodded along with an unheard voice. Every so often, that sorcerer would sneak nervous glances at the two Thralls that had accompanied the Warlord into the room, their eyes always burning with that Hellish fire. Traigan could see shapes moving within the globe, but could hear nothing. Because he was not a sorcerer, this method of communication always forced information to come to him third- or fourth-hand, which bothered him to no end. Who knew how many tidbits of value might be lost after being passed through such a chain?

  Still, he’d ordered the man sitting there to contact him as soon as there were solid reports coming in from the assault. The man before him now spoke directly to Koya Nes.

  “There was no enemy response from the northern camp,” the General said, and this was relayed to the Warlord. “But when Greven arrived at our position upon the road, he found the men scattered, with many slain. Padraig is dead!”

  The surprise in the statement belonged to the globe operator alone. The sorcerers relegated to this task were young and with little talent, for the most part. Padraig had become a legend to such men.

  “And Kray?” the Warlord asked.

  The answer came back through. “Dead also, Warlord. They must have been ambushed – Padraig had had his throat cut.”

  The Warlord’s mouth went from scowl to smirk in the space of that statement. Not nearly so upset by Padraig’s death as his subordinates were, he found humor in that. It was a fitting death for such a fool – killed by a common soldier, who probably snuck up on the man from behind as he concentrated on destroying those in front of him. Then the Warlord’s smirk disappeared.

  “And Kray? Surely he was not surprised thus?”

  It took a few moments for the answer to filter back through – the General must be questioning the men who’d come with the news even as they spoke over the globe. “No, Warlord. Kray was burned horrendously, and most of their men died by magic. It must have been a Wizard.”

  “Any Enemy dead in the area?”

  “None were found, sir.”

  Yet, the Warlord thought. He knew enough to put the pieces together. Their attack had gone well, except that their flanking force had arrived piecemeal and thus the main assault had suffered from the enemy’s undivided attention. They had taken Fort Fist, but losses had been far higher than predicted. He had ordered scouts to find out what had gone wrong with the attack from the west, but he knew what they would find. The enemy leader, Darius, was proving to be trouble enough to warrant more direct attention.

  He turned away from the globe and the sorcerer without a word. The Thralls fell into step as he silently returned to the command chamber. Splayed out on the main table were three maps, now. One showed the Shambles and the attack that had just gone through. A ring of symbols denoting minor encampments of their troops surrounded the remaining fort, called Andreth by the enemy after one of the more successful leaders of the past. With the abje
ct failure of his flanking force, he did not have the troops to mount an attack that had much hope of succeeding on this much more formidable stronghold.

  The second map showed the city of Pyre itself, as well as the number of troops that remained within. There were very few now, and without the vast numbers of fighting men drinking, carousing, whoring, and brawling, Pyre seemed almost peaceful.

  The third map, however, detailed his third target. He was faced with a difficult choice – with Fort Andreth still standing, his position in the Shambles was not secure, and caution dictated that he suspend the third assault in order to shift more assets into the Shambles.

  Though Andreth did not have a sizable enough garrison to force him out on their own, if the Enemy moved more soldiers in and struck from the north as well, his forces were in serious jeopardy. He had no indication that they were doing anything of the sort – but though the Warlord depended on his sources of information, he was far from believing they were infallible. Even his most valuable success, his Crown jewel – as he called it in a joke to himself – made mistakes.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Geralt's limp meant that he could not walk quietly, but Balkan did not look up as he entered the work room. A steady 'tink, tink, tink' could be heard from the desk where Balkan sat bent over his latest project.

  Coming to stand along side him, Geralt watched him work for a moment before he was finally noticed. With a start, Balkan turned his head from the stone tiles that he had been carefully tapping away at with chisel and hammer.

  “Geralt! Apologies, I was concentrating.”

  “Not at all, Balkan. I thought you had acolytes to help you with all this?” Geralt asked with a chuckle, gesturing to the half-finished rune in the stone.

  “With some of it, yes. Wood and leather and such. The acolytes have better things to do with their time than learn stone carving, though – and the stone carvers have better things to do with theirs than assist me. So it is left to me.”

  Geralt took the miniscule chisel and mallet from Balkan's hands, studying them, and then his eyes dropped to the dozens of stone tiles that lay waiting in stacks for Balkan's attention. He shook his head disbelievingly.

  “You're a man of much greater patience than I.”

  Balkan laughed, and stretched, leaning back in his chair. “Is there news of Darius?”

  Once word got around of the battle in the Shambles, Balkan had asked Geralt to let him know if anything concerning the Gryphons came through the Globes.

  “Yes,” Geralt said, nodding slowly. “His Gryphons suffered during the battle, though I heard no mention of Darius himself being hurt.”

  “And the battle itself?”

  “The news there is not as good, I'm afraid. Fort Fist has almost certainly been captured, and Fort Andreth's situation is uncertain. The wizards there were ordered to the fight, and we haven't had news from them in some hours. The Enemy is blocking the globe connections.”

  “Choirs help them,” Balkan breathed.

  Geralt just nodded, deep in his own thoughts. The man no doubt had a much clearer picture of the War than Balkan – though Balkan's duties fell nearly entirely to research and instruction, Geralt was often tasked with gathering reports from the border and presenting them to the Council. Lately he had been able to present precious little good news.

  “So,” said Geralt, breaking the heavy silence. “What of this?” He again indicating the stone. “Have your runes yielded up anything interesting?”

  “Oh, you should know not to ask it like that,” Balkan scolded. “Everything is interesting.”

  “Ah, of course – silly me. How about 'useful?'”

  “Better,” Balkan said with a smile. “Some of it could be useful. There is a rune that very reliably produces heat – feed it enough power and the leather or wood it's carved in will burst into flame. Most, though, aren't so simple to figure out. One symbol seems to stiffen wood, but soften leather.”

  Geralt snorted in amusement.

  “Yes. That's this one here, actually,” Balkan nodded to his unfinished stone. “I wonder what it'll do to stone. Crumble it to dust, maybe.”

  “In short, then, nothing useful for the War.”

  “I suppose. Not yet. But I have many, many more runes to experiment with, and I've only tried a handful of mediums.”

  Geralt stood with a shrug. “As always, if I can help at all, simply ask. For now I should return to the globe room – I excused myself to bring you the news.”

  “Many thanks, Geralt.”

  ***

  On the eve of their arrival at Bastion, Darius and Robert took the sorcerer a stone’s throw from the sleeping Gryphons and sat him down. He had been given no herbal concoction the night before and was almost fully lucid. It did not take him long to realize he was no longer anywhere near the Shambles. The sorcerer looked wary. Darius was glad for that. It would make him more compliant.

  “You know my name, sorcerer. What is yours?”

  “Kray,” the man answered.

  “The sorcerer you killed. Who was he?” Darius asked.

  “Padraig,” said the man. There was lingering hatred in his voice. His accent struck Darius as harsh, the names strange and uncouth, the ‘r’ sounds rolled and consonants clipped. Darius had never heard the Enemy speak beyond shouts on the battlefield.

  “Kray, tomorrow we will arrive in the city of Bastion. You will enter with us. If you make one hostile move, you will be killed. Do you understand?”

  The man actually looked insulted at the insinuation that he might harm anyone, but merely nodded. A moment later, though, he did mutter, “I mean you no harm.”

  Darius nodded, though he had no intentions of letting his guard down until he knew far more about their new friend.

  “Be that as it may, we must still be careful. Surely you understand that much.”

  To his surprise, the sorcerer made no more protestations of friendliness, and merely nodded. “I expected this.”

  “Then you are wise. Here is a blanket – join the soldiers and get some rest.”

  When the sorcerer had obeyed, Robert looked uneasily at his captain, though he did not voice his misgivings. Darius tried to reassure him.

  “I will not sleep tonight, Robert. If this man is sincere about joining us, it is time to start showing him at least a little bit of kindness.”

  “And if he’s a snake in the bushes, sir?”

  “Then we watch the bushes and cut his head off as soon as he rears up.”

  Soon after the sun reached its apex the next day, the Gryphons entered Bastion by a side gate. Several wizards were there to greet them, including Balkan. Arric was conspicuously absent, though his man Callos was present. Darius watched them take note of how many men were missing. Balkan’s eyes were filled with concern, though when he spoke to Darius it was in an attempt to lighten the homecoming.

  “Back for rest already? What a lazy bunch your Gryphons have become, Darius,” he said in a forcedly jovial tone.

  Somewhere within this ‘lazy’ bunch was the man Kray, who wore a cloak to disguise his armor. To every soldier of Bastion, the enemy armor was clearly distinct from the style that Bastion used.

  A half-hearted smile was Darius's only reply to Balkan’s poor jest. He addressed the wizards who had shown to see him arrive.

  “I know you have come for the news I bring, but that must wait. As you can see my men have had a very hard time in the field and I must see them back to the barracks, and rest a bit myself, before I bring what I have learned to the council.”

  In his mind, Darius phrased it differently. I have a sorcerer with me who I do not wish known to you, and I must make arrangements to have him hidden and guarded.

  Wizards cannot read the secret intentions within the minds of men, and this was the first time Darius had been glad for that. Always before he had wished the opposite – but he had never sought to hide something from his own fellows. He would not, however, let Arric and the rest of the coun
cil stick their nose in this matter.

  They made it to the barracks without incident. The majority of the men settled in for additional rest. Darius and Robert took the prisoner into the wizard's own quarters.

  Turning to Robert, he dropped his voice low enough that Kray would not hear. “Robert, I need you to go and get Wizard Balkan, and bring him here.” He gave his lieutenant directions to Balkan’s home and sent him off. Then he turned once more to his captive sorcerer. He barely knew how to begin, there were so many questions. He started with the obvious one first.

  “Why?” He was sure the man would know what he referred to. What else could there be?

  The answer was calm and simple. “I hate them.”

  “Who?” When Kray did not seem about to answer – seemed confused by the question, in fact – Darius went on. “You hated your people? Your superiors? The other sorcerers? Who?”

  Something shimmered darkly in Kray’s eyes as he considered. “All of them.”

  “Again then, why?”

  More hesitation, and Darius repeated the question. At last however, a look of intense confusion and annoyance screwed up the sorcerer’s face as he finally answered – “I… don’t remember.”

  Darius scoffed in disbelief. This man had murdered his peer and butchered hundreds of his own soldiers, and he did not remember why? Absurd!

  “Do you mean us harm, Kray?” With the brutality the man had shown in the Shambles Darius half-suspected that Kray was mad, though – save perhaps for the sudden, suspicious memory loss – he acted sane enough now.

  “No!” was the vehement answer. There was also surprise at the question, as if Darius should have known. “I mean… to join you. To be a man of Bastion.”

  The words came out clumsily, as if the man had never spoken them aloud before. When Darius realized exactly what Kray had said he had the urge to laugh. It all sounded so ridiculous.