Twixt Heaven And Hell

by Tristan Gregory

  "Now he has fallen," Darius said, and paused while his own throat tightened. Swallowing to clear the way again for speech, he went on in a voice as steady as before. "Taken the Great Enemy itself. I tell you now, Robert would have it no other way. The Enemy bring the War, and the War brings death, and suffering and devastation. Years ago, when Robert had given Bastion the service it was owed, he remained a soldier. He fought long and hard so that when the time came for the War to bring pain, he could suffer it in place of another. When the War brought devastation, Robert stood between it and his home.

  "And when it brought death, Robert grieved that he could not bear that, as well."

  And now he has, Darius left unsaid. For a moment, he could find no more words. It was Pollis who spoke next, and his voice held the first hint of levity the Gryphons had seen that day. "Took no less than a Demon to bring it to him. How many men can say that, eh?"

  The men nodded, and Darius with them.

  "For certain, we are nothing in the face of the Aeonians – they will be fighting the War long after we are dust. For now, though, while we fight, let us fight as Robert did," he said. He looked down at his injured leg. "I am wounded and slow, but when I have been made whole again I swear I will lead us back to the War, and we will mourn Robert with our swords."

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Balkan's pace was subdued. The sun shone brightly yet, sharing the sky with only a few scant, wispy clouds on this very fine autumn day. The weather did little to brighten his conflicted heart. He had only recently quit the council chambers, where he and the other wizards had learned more about the most recent events in the war.

  Balkan absently scuffed some of the pebbles off the path with one toe, sending them skittering and skipping further along the road. Dust rose behind him, a sign of the recent dryness. A layer of dust lay over everything, and would until the next rain – in the rest of the city it was normal enough, and it didn't show on the wood and brown brick buildings as much as it did here in the Crown. Everything here was built of white stone. Roofed with tiles of light gray shale, they were normally a splendid sight. In times like this Balkan thought it too easily sullied by the dirt and dust.

  It was only a short walk from the Tower gate to Balkan's own house, a distance which he happened to know was about eighty-six paces, though due to his size Balkan's stride was a fair deal longer than most. He had counted the distance years before, days after he and Maggie had moved to their dwelling. They lived now amongst the families of Generals and the scant few other wizards who desired a house of their own – the ones who were also married, and the rest who simply did not wish one of the rooms within the tower.

  The houses were not large – only slightly bigger than any other dwelling in the city below. Four rooms was the norm, though Balkan's had five. The white stone blocks were so closely matched in color with their mortar that it seemed the houses were fashioned out of one large, squared boulder.

  Balkan's house, like the others, had dust on it. He stopped to consider the sight, standing still in the path until some moments later, when Maggie opened the door.

  "Balkan?" she asked. "Are you well?"

  His wife's voice startled the man out of his reverie. "Yes. Just fine."

  "What are you thinking about?" It was one of her favorite questions.

  "I'm wondering if I could create rain," was his answer.

  "Tired of the dry season already?" she asked with a smile.

  "I want to rid our house of the dust," he said. "Have you ever thought about rain? Where it comes from, how it is made? Rain is just so... basic. It seems absurd we don't know more about it."

  "No, dear," Maggie answered him, coming out of their doorway and meeting him on the path. "I have never thought about rain."

  Not like that. Who would but you, my love? She wondered even as she joined him in staring at the near-cloudless sky.

  "Rain comes from clouds," she said, pointing at the largest one on the horizon.

  "Yes, certainly," Balkan said as he pulled her close for a kiss. He seemed ready to let his most recent fancy go, and spoke no more of rain. Arm-in-arm, they walked back into the house.

  "Where is Kaylie?" he asked. There was a shadow of disappointment to his tone.

  Maggie noticed, and smiled. Sometimes Balkan's absent-mindedness made him seem distant, and it was easy to forget how fiercely he loved his family.

  "I sent her to fetch me some onions," she said. "They butchered some bulls today. We'll have a stew."

  Balkan's ears perked up, all his attention now on the subject. "Fresh meat! That sounds wonderful."

  Even for wizards, fresh food in the height of summer was a delicacy. The army came first in all things in Bastion, and most food was smoked, salted, or otherwise preserved for their use. Maggie must have had some warning about the butchering if she had managed to secure a cut for their own table. As the wife of a wizard no request she made would be lightly refused, but even she could not request something that was not available.

  Maggie poured two goblets of wine, and sat with her husband at the table. "What news at the Council?" she inquired.

  "It is official," Balkan said. "Darius is alive, and well enough."

  With a smile and a sigh, Maggie expressed her relief at the news. "Kaylie will be glad to know that too," she said.

  "How did she know he was in trouble?” Balkan wondered aloud. That information has been held fairly close.

  "One of the generals told his wife, no doubt. Their sons overhear it, and from their sons to our Kaylie. She asked me about it yesterday."

  "Well, no more worries on that front. He is alive, though still wounded. He intends to make his way towards Bastion until the Angels deem he is far enough from the front to Heal him. Then he will turn around and head back."

  Balkan did not share the rest with his wife. The High Council was not pleased with Darius's intentions. They thought it too dangerous for him to be on the front, now. The Choirs had confirmed that the Demon who attacked the Gryphons was there for Darius, specifically. Most of the council had already come to the same conclusion, and those who were privy to Kray's identity thought that perhaps that man had been the true target. Whichever it was, though, it was a grave turn of events. For almost two hundred years the Angels and Demons had left the pursuit of the War in this world to men. The council dreaded a return to the old way.

  The good news was that the attempt had failed to claim Darius's life, and further had given the Demons themselves a costly defeat. In a battle that had lasted for three days and was heard half the valley away, the Angels had thrown their foe from the mortal world. Those Demons would not be seen again for many years, until they renewed their strength and returned to trouble the unhappy sons of Men.

  Balkan did not continue the subject. Instead he chatted about trivialities as he helped his wife about the kitchen for a few moments, cutting vegetables with hands that were clumsy with the knife – though he managed not to cut himself this time.

  His wife patiently directed him through the work, likely moving more slowly than she would have on her own. Balkan followed his wife's directions – and corrections – with good humor, and she accepted his 'help' with the same.

  Before long, Balkan found himself startled by his wife's hand on his shoulder.

  "What do you have against that potato, dear?" she asked.

  He looked over his shoulder to see her bemused gaze alternating between him and the partially-peeled root in his hands. Somewhere in the process, his wandering mind had seen fit to hijack the work his hands had been doing. Balkan looked back down and saw that etched into the side of the potato was one of his Angelic symbols.

  Balkan smiled sheepishly. "Sorry. I seem to have ruined this one."

  "It will taste just as fine as the others. Go on then – you have other things on your mind, you'd best see to them before Kaylie gets back. She'll not brook your attention on anything but herself."

  Maggie took the knife from her husband's hand
and shoved Balkan gently in the direction of the hallway and his own study. When she reached for the potato, though, Balkan caught her hand. Giving her a kiss, he kept hold of the vegetable.

  "I'm going to borrow this," he said as he left the room.

  "I won't want it back, I think," her words followed him out.

  Balkan moved quickly down the short hall of his home, the stone and wooden beams of the ceiling lit by a single window at the western end. Inside his study he lit the lamps without thought and sat at his bench.

  Balkan reached up to a lamp that hung directly over the workspace. It was a rare thing, fueled by seed oil. He turned a knob, extending the wick further from the base and increasing the size of the flame. The oil itself took a great deal of work to get, and so Balkan often left this lamp unlit. When used, the oil burned merrily and produced a wonderfully bright flame, and for this work Balkan needed to see very well. If the symbols he carved were inaccurate by even a small amount, it robbed them of any potency. Over and over he'd discovered the value of painstaking care when at this work – incorrect transcription had caused him no end of delay.

  Using a small knife, Balkan sectioned up the potato, wiping the excess moisture absently onto his robes. He ended up with nearly a dozen blocks arrayed neatly onto the bench.

  As he reached for the stylus – an oversized needle, about as long as a man's hand – he chuckled. In all the months he'd been etching these symbols, he'd never though to branch out much with the medium. Wood metal, stone and leather were the only materials he'd used. Now, potatoes. Perhaps carrots would be next. Balkan was nothing if not thorough, and while one vegetable might be the same as the next as far as Angels – and their magical script – were concerned, Balkan would not take it for granted.

  From the iron box tucked into the corner, Balkan removed the strip of shimmering cloth. After that, he lifted out a few sheets of parchment. On each page were detailed some of the symbols whose meanings were still unknown.

  His study of the runes had slowed its frenetic pace. The deluge of early discoveries that often accompanied a project was an exciting time, plucking the low-hanging fruit off a newly ripened tree of knowledge. For Balkan, the more rewarding times came afterward – the steady, determined investigation which unlocked the more resilient secrets of magic.

  One by one, with exacting care, Balkan etched the symbols into the soft root. He took a few moments to go over the drawings upon the pages as well, comparing them against the ones on the Angelic cloth. He had lost count of the times he had re-checked their accuracy, but continued to do so out of habit.

  Setting the stylus aside, Balkan took up the first chunk of potato. The symbol etched into it was not unlike the capital 'N' in Bastion's own script, with the first stroke truncated and the final one hooked back into itself. Carefully he opened himself to magic, and directed the power that rose to his command into the rune.

  There was no effect. The magic he had harnessed quickly bled away. The result was the same for the second, and the third – and every one thereafter. Each time the power gathered and dissipated without any variation, with no answering event.

  On the very last, however, Balkan imagined he felt something different. The power lingered in a way that was not typical. He was putting forth so little of it in the first place, it was hard to tell. He tried again with more. It happened again.

  However, to Balkan's senses – both magical and not – there was no change beyond the one small anomaly.

  Just as he was about to try a third time, Balkan heard the door open and the familiar light patter of Kaylie's feet entered the house. For the briefest of moments, the father and the researcher fought for control. It was a losing battle for the latter. Setting the potato back down, Balkan rose from the bench. He extinguished the lamps on his way out, making a mental note to return and clean up after dinner.

  All was not still after Balkan left the room in darkness. Unseen, the root he had last set down shifted, rolling upon the outer skin. In a motion so slight any watchers would have been hard pressed to say they saw it at all – and yet, still far faster than was natural – a tiny, white sprout crept from beneath.

  ***

  Traigan had a new map. The hide was supple. The ink was dark as a cloudy midnight. The detail was exacting – every river tattooed into the leather wound the same course through the hide as its true counterpart did through the earth. All the lands the conquerors of Pyre had ever trod to the city's south and east and north, in any direction but towards Bastion and the War. The lands from which Pyre took its warriors, its food, the ores for its metal.

  This map had arrived only a day ago in the hands of Traigan's oldest explorer, a veteran of the War who had distinguished himself through his sharp mind and keen eye for detail – and indeed, he had only one eye. A skilled pathfinder and tracker, he had proven a natural mapmaker. Traigan had sent him out of the city with a hundred men.

  Thirteen had returned – the rest claimed by famine, sickness, and hostile tribes along the way. Each would now enjoy a life of privilege and plenty, having rendered unto their Warlord a service he valued greatly. The scribe himself would be amongst the very highest in Traigan's favor. Anything he wished, he would have. Traigan was not sparing with his rewards.

  Pyre had always relied to a great extent on exploration for its survival. New lands meant new peoples to recruit from. Unlike Bastion, Pyre did not cultivate much land, instead gathering food from the vast tracts of wild soil as it grew, as well as requiring tithes of supplies from outlying villages. As the explorers were forced to travel farther and farther from Pyre, the time it took for new supplies and recruits to reach the city, and the War, increased accordingly. It also took more manpower to mount an effective search of the new lands.

  The cost increased, but always there were new lands to find – until now. Exploration to the south was effectively over. The men of Pyre had run into a wall – of water. Shoreline stretched farther than men could walk. It was a lake the size of which could not be imagined. Rumors had come to Pyre of this mighty water, but now that his soldiers had seen it with their own eyes, Traigan was forced to acknowledge what it meant.

  The world, seemingly, was not endless. The tribes who lived by this mighty water, this ocean, all agreed – there was nothing beyond it. The shoreline was the edge of the world. That meant that Pyre might run into a similar edge in other directions. Eventually, there would be no more peoples to bring under his command – no more lands to reap a first virgin harvest from.

  To survive beyond that point, Pyre would have to change its ways. Farming, herding, fishing the rivers – these things would need to become Pyre's means of support. Just as they were for Bastion.

  A snarl curled the upper edges of Traigan's mouth. He did not enjoy the prospect of emulating the enemy – but if an army was not fed, it could not fight. This was one of the hard-and-fast rules that the Warlord had known in his bones since first he began to lead men to battle. Attempting to bend it in any way invited disaster.

  Of course, such a change in their methods of support would mean more men spared from the army to till fields and tend herds. With fewer men to fight, Traigan's hands would be increasingly tied to defense instead of attack. Reviewing the circumstances again, it became all the more clear to him that he needed to squeeze Bastion now, before his traditional methods of supply died.

  Looking up to one of the messengers who stood in silent readiness by the entrance to his personal rooms, he had already opened his mouth to give orders when the curtains parted and another of their number entered.

  "Warlord, the Sorcerer Ertellin sends for you. He says, 'There have been developments that he will wish to know immediately.'"

  Traigan knew the quote was verbatim – and likely uncannily similar to the original utterance in inflection as well. Not that inflection always meant a great deal when working with Ertellin – known amongst the commanders of Pyre as the Madman. Mad though he was, Ertellin was Pyre's most prolific researcher
. Traigan rose at once.

  "Return to your station. I am coming."

  The messenger was off like an arrow from the string. Traigan rolled the maps upon his desk neatly, tying them with thin cords of leather and signaling to a clerk to return it to its place in the archives. As he left the room, the Thralls moved from positions along the walls to follow, the messengers pointedly keeping their expressions blank as the unsettlingly inhuman figures moved past.

  The Thralls took up their stations. Two in front of the Warlord, four trailing. By their peculiar connections to him, they knew when he would turn, when his pace would quicken or slow. They did not glance about as normal bodyguards would. Those ember-glow eyes remained fixed ahead.

  The apartments inhabited by the sorcerers were a second palace, but not connected to the central seat of power. It was a vast complex of buildings, added to at various times over the years as the sorcerers' ranks had expanded. One entire wing, however, had long since been appropriated for use by Ertellin and his ilk, the men who pushed further into the depths of magic's capabilities.

  Ertellin himself was one of the eldest of living sorcerers, bald as an adder and nearly as friendly. He was also quite insane, manifesting violent mood swings that commonly claimed lives – though usually of his labor force, cripples and slaves, rather than the other sorcerers who joined him in his work. Somewhere inside his fractured mind remained an understanding of who was expendable and who was not.

  Though the sun was past its zenith, the day's heat had not yet loosened its grip. To the north it was well into fall, but around Pyre the flat and largely treeless land paid little heed to that season. Summer would give way only for winter. If Traigan did not manage a last gain before the snows buried the border, there was unlikely to be any significant fighting until the thaws. There, though, Pyre held the advantage – snow fell but lightly here. Traigan would continue to gather warriors and supplies from the outlands in the interim.