Greyblade

by Andrew Hindle

  Gabriel grunted. “What’s the bottom line?” be asked. He pointed a long, gnarled finger at the buttons. “Work in progress?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Galatine said. “I’m using a similar power profile to a human soul for the tests, even if it’s got nothing like the energy behind it. It still burns the seals right out of the system. To contain something as powerful as an actual soul, we’d need about two trillion of these buttons. Each one carefully calibrated to network together.”

  “The Two Trillion Seals of the Apocalypse doesn’t really roll off the tongue,” Frogsalt remarked.

  “And we’ll need more than that,” Gabriel concluded, clearly taking care to avoid details. The Ogres were still tagging along, and nobody was quite sure how they’d react to finding out the real target of these experiments. Always assuming they understood any of the jabbering that went on before someone pointed and said bash that.

  “Much more,” Galatine nodded. “Orders of magnitude more, to borrow a tired old phrase. If I was going to make the seals to these same material specs for our purposes, there wouldn’t just have to be two trillion of them – each one would have to be about a kilometre across.”

  “You’re not serious,” Gabriel said.

  “Actually no,” Galatine admitted, “that’s a ridiculously low estimate, but it’s funnier if you know the theoretical mathematics involved. I wasn’t expecting you to get it,” the Archangel looked at him levelly from beneath the heavy ledge of his brow. “Each one would probably have to be about the size of Cursèd’s Playground.”

  Gabriel sighed gustily. “Well obviously it’s something other than metal lumps we need to use as seals,” he said. “Greyblade’s bringing back a fleet of Category 9s,” the Archangel glanced at Magna. “Didn’t your prophecy say something about six of them doing battle … ?” he paused again, out of regard for the Ogres.

  “Doing battle,” Magna stressed, “not sealing a power reservoir or guarding some kind of prison.”

  “That might have been poetic license though,” Gabriel attempted.

  “She’s right. The Godfangs won’t work in this part of the system,” Galatine said carefully. This skirted dangerously around the edges of a debate they’d had many, many times since the Knight had left. “I’m dealing with a series of practical challenges – practical as in mechanical and logistical,” he added, “rather than the opposite of impractical–”

  “Galatine,” Magna said patiently.

  “The Godfangs will hopefully provide the interception and the ultimate mechanism for confronting and containing our captive,” Galatine said. “In that sense, they’ll be doing battle. And we can only hope they do,” he added, “because I’ve got enough to worry about making the fountains and power network operate together.”

  “Not encouraging,” Gabriel noted.

  “It always seems that way at the beginning of a project,” Galatine replied, “but we’re just getting started, right?” Gabriel gave a short laugh. “How about you?”

  “Getting started too,” Gabriel replied. “I hope.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve brought some friends,” Gabriel said. “They wanted to wait outside in case … I don’t know, I’m still sort of in negotiations with a couple of them and there’s some trust issues,” he half-turned, and raised his voice. “Come on in,” he called, and swung his way back out into the warehouse proper.

  Three glorious wingèd figures swept into the warehouse and landed at the end of the aisle facing the Exorcist room. The Ogres, who were still shuffling around in the doorway after Gabriel’s exit, grunted but didn’t respond negatively to the new arrivals. They tended to take Angels in stride.

  “Philip!” Frogsalt exclaimed, shooting past Galatine and embracing the tall, slightly uncomfortable-looking male Angel. “This is my friend Phil,” she said, turning back to the humans. She dropped back to the floor – she was a solid half-metre shorter than ‘Phil’ – patted his chest affectionately, and added, “the one I’ve been telling you about.”

  “You haven’t told us anything about an Angel named Phil,” Ludi said, although it was the other two – the female Angels, hanging back near the end of the aisle – she was looking at. “We would have remembered.”

  Phil looked even more uncomfortable. “My official Angelic designation is Transcendus Excelsius Macabre,” he said, but seemed appropriately embarrassed to be saying so.

  “Yeah, this is Transcendus Excelsius Macabre,” Gabriel said, “who everyone in Ogrehome just heard Frog call ‘Phil’, so let’s not kid ourselves. Mac was human under the name Philip Reginald Grundy, and he died … let’s say that it was twenty-seven years ago in a post-war police action, and leave it at that.”

  “Sounds logical,” Magna said immediately.

  “That may already be too much information,” Galatine agreed.

  “He was glorified as a political move,” Frogsalt said, “but a little perspective made him realise that things were rotten in Snowhome, so he went into hiding in protest,” she beamed. “I taught him everything he knows.”

  “That much is painfully obvious,” Gabriel said good-naturedly.

  “That isn’t quite the way I remember it,” Phil said, “but when the Archangel told me he was gathering volunteers, I couldn’t refuse.”

  “That isn’t quite the way I remember it,” Gabriel said, “but alright. I can’t abide greenwings, so Frog did me a favour – and Mac fell out of favour with the Archangelic court proportionally. So, that’s Phil Grundy,” Phil grimaced, but his flawless Angelic visage told Galatine that he’d tolerate just about any level of inappropriateness from the Archangel. “Now, speaking of falling … allow me to introduce Blacknettle of Bayn Taro, and Athé of the Rooftop.”

  There was a hush as the two Angels stepped forward. Although ‘Angels’ might not have been entirely accurate.

  Galatine, like the others, had immediately noticed the wings sported by Athé. One white, like those of the other Angels … and the other deep, lustrous grey-black, like the wings of the Archangel. Athé of the Rooftop, it seemed, was somewhere in between the two breeds. Somehow. Galatine was fascinated.

  Even aside from that rather unique distinction, the two Angels were still quite dissimilar. Blacknettle was almost the Old High Televangelical archetype of an Angel, pale and delicate and seeming to glow with a white inner light. Her hair was arranged into almost hilarious blonde-white tresses. Her robes were as flowing and regal as those of her peers, but were as white as bone and had a style reminiscent of the wrappings Galatine had seen on the Elevator People delegates on their rare visits before and during the war.

  Athé, like Frogsalt, was darker and somehow more human-looking than the pallid classical figure of Blacknettle, although it was a lighter shade than the little Angel’s high-contrast combination of skin and eyes, hair and wings. Athé’s eyes were brown and her hair was black with streaks of silver. Her mismatched wings were, of course, her most immediately distinctive feature.

  Galatine realised in surprise that he knew about Athé of the Rooftop, or had at least heard the name. He didn’t think he’d heard of her as an actual historical figure, but more as a myth. The Angel that fell, when there was no Earth or Hell or even Cursèd to break her fall. The Angel that fell all the way to the Rooftop of Castle Void, never to be heard from again.

  Until now, apparently.

  Blacknettle, and indeed Bayn Taro, were also vaguely familiar names, but Galatine couldn’t put his finger on why.

  Frogsalt had stepped away from Phil ‘Transcendus Excelsius ‘Mac’ Macabre’ Grundy, who was still clearly mortified at how his introduction had gone and was gauging his chances at making a second entrance and hoping it somehow went better. Frogsalt eyeballed Athé, but there was a deep, pain-filled something else behind the coolness.

  “Mehapmiamariel,” Athé said, her voice stiff and formal.

  “It’s Frogsalt,” Frog corrected her, in a voice close to heartbreak. Galatine would never get
used to the charisma of Angels, and now there were more under the roof of Ogrehome than he’d ever seen before. “You remember me.”

  “Yes,” Athé said.

  “Now now,” Gabriel said, “we’re all on the same side here.”

  “No,” both Athé and Frogsalt said simultaneously. “A mutual enemy does not an ally make,” Athé added.

  “Same philosophy here,” Frogsalt added, the painful something receding in her inky black eyes and the coolness becoming everything. “But less pompous.”

  “Well,” Ludi said, “our little resistance always welcomes new members, so as far as I’m concerned you’re allies. You’re free to think what you like about us.”

  “I will,” Athé replied.

  “I thought I was going to be bringing … I have some other leads to follow,” Gabriel said, gruffly apologetic, “but this is something.”

  “It’s something alright,” Ludi said.

  “Yes, well,” Gabriel said, “what can I say? The invitation of the Archangel Gabriel doesn’t have quite the pull it used to.”

  “We’ll get the job done,” Frogsalt said, skipping forward and nudging Phil. “Won’t we, Philip?”

  “Yes,” Phil said queasily. “What is the job?”

  A FEW ANGELS SHORT OF A CHOIR

  It fell to Magna, for reasons she couldn’t quite isolate to satisfaction, to wrangle the four Angels. Gabriel, who might have been able to keep them in line – although this was by no means certain – departed again almost immediately. First to speak with the Drake since he was one of the only TrollCagers that could do so without being incinerated,55 then off again to who-knew-where to seek out more allies.

  It wasn’t entirely fair to consider the Angels in terms of being kept in line, though. They were generally very sedate and adhered to the rules. Well, rule. Gabriel’s monolithic Don’t Go Outside seemed to be the only one worth caring about, and the newcomers kept to that – admittedly better than Frogsalt had. It was just that, if they did decide to act up, there wasn’t a damn thing any of the humans could do about it. Or the Ogres, for that matter.

  Blacknettle, at least, was low-effort. The pale, delicate-looking Angel didn’t speak, and rarely even moved. She went downstairs into the Ogres’ den, tucked herself into a corner, and sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, her wings wrapped around her body, and her head down so only a few wisps of silky white hair were visible. Thus cocooned, she seemed content to wait for the order to march upon Karl the Bloody-Handed with sword drawn. Just as soon as Gabriel showed up with the swords.

  Frogsalt explained what little was known of Blacknettle’s history.

  Once a dedicated Earthly Herald, she had managed to fly up the remains of the Eden Road to the step-nation of Fade56 when Earth and the not-yet-seared realms had vanished behind the veil. She had then enacted Heavenly government policy and attempted to bring the Destarion to port – as it was believed, at the outset, that the erratic Godfang may have had something to do with the disappearing flatworlds.

  The Destarion had been gone, of course – vanished along with Earth, Hell and Cursèd – but one of the platform’s accompanying ships, known as Bayn Taro, had been left in the gulf. Blacknettle had been swallowed by this ship, and had not been seen again for a long time. Moskin Stormburg, Frogsalt said, had ultimately freed her in the process of establishing a connection with the veiled worlds, but her final fate had never been recorded. She had apparently spent a lot of the time between her disappearance and Stormburg’s relocating her integrated into Bayn Taro,57 at least partially, and that long and intimate connection had left her more than a little strange.

  Frogsalt, nothing if not a shameless romantic and even more shameless embellisher, insisted there was something more to Blacknettle’s story. There was something tragic and star-crossed in her quest to find the Destarion and the veiled worlds, something dark and secret in her long-gone past as a mortal woman. But Frog didn’t know any of it, and Blacknettle was unlikely to tell them, and Athé was even less likely to do so, and the only other immortal who might know anything – specifically Gabriel – was probably the least likely of them all to indulge in gossip.

  Still, if Sir Greyblade was going to come back from Beyond the Walls with more of the terrible defence platforms, Frogsalt pointed out, Blacknettle might prove to be the most valuable asset they could have on their side.

  “Short of actually getting some Elevator People to help us,” she concluded. She was sitting on the top of one of the big stacks, kicking her feet while Magna sat on a crate below and ate her lunch. “And they might turn out to be more trouble than they’re worth. Oh,” the Angel went on, “speaking of Elevator People, do you know why they’re such bad yankyball players?” she grinned down at Magna. “Because the only opponents they have up there are Flesh-Eaters.”

  “Sorry,” Magna admitted, “that one passed me by.”

  “Because they have blades for fingers,” Frogsalt explained. She waved a hand and stopped it abruptly in the air, fingers clawed. “Psssshhh…”

  “I’m guessing yankyball is a game played with an air-filled ball of some kind,” Magna said. “Possibly made out of yanky, whatever that is.”

  Frogsalt laughed. “You’re too much.”

  Athé was another matter, and in this case Frog was no help. Athé had been responsible for finding and returning Blacknettle to Heaven, but she’d failed and had subsequently fallen through the gulf. To wind up on the Rooftop, if her title and the obscure myths about her were anything to go by. Ludi, although she admitted to Magna that she was irritated at the way Athé had sneered her way into the TrollCage family, was very interested in learning the Angel’s history. She wanted to know about all the adventures Athé had had down there on the roof of Castle Void, and how Gabriel had found her, and why he’d only now gotten around to bringing her back up, and what Blacknettle and Athé had said to each other when he had, and – most importantly – how exactly she’d managed to wind up with half an Archangel accreditation.

  Magna, for her part, was mostly interested in preventing Angelic brawls in the warehouse. And she suspected that a large proportion of Ludi’s interest in Athé’s past was due to the Angel’s loftiness, and Ludi’s desire to find something that might bring her down a half-dozen pegs or so. And Magna was interested in keeping that bullshit under control as well.

  Philip, as diligent and earnest as only a ‘greenwing’ could be, had a little more information about the enigmatic semi-Archangel. Unfortunately, he was also very eager not to upset any of his immortal elders.

  “Athé had a reputation – still has a reputation, in the Archangelic court – for … not being averse to doing what was necessary,” he said. “For example, intervening in the veil experiments even if it was against the will of the – the revered Pinians or their more … fanatical, deluded followers.”

  “Like Stormburg,” Magna said.

  Philip looked as uncomfortable as Magna thought it was possible for an Angel to look. “Not a popular opinion, given the role Stormburg and Bayn Taro and Blacknettle played in the preservation of Earth,” he said, “but she did what she felt was right to prevent the escape of the … well, it’s ancient history,” he said, “before your time and certainly before mine,” he paused. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded–”

  “It’s fine,” Magna said, amused. Philip looked like he’d been glorified at about twenty years of age, which put him in his fifties now, if you could add the years up that way. It was hard to tell, with Angels. “She probably feels pretty vindicated in her decision to keep Stormburg from messing with the veil, considering how it turned out.”

  Philip didn’t even pretend he was going to answer that one. “Anyway, my point is that in some respects you could consider her a rebel for doing the right thing against – perhaps – the spirit of the Brotherhood,” the greenwing went on. “But really, it’s more like having a consistent moral and legal code, regardless of circumstance.”

  Magna h
ad to wonder, this being the case, why Athé was here of all places. She was also painfully aware that if Athé’s hearing was as acute as Frogsalt’s, there was little point trying to talk about her anywhere in the warehouse without her hearing. “So she did what the Archangelic court told her,” she summarised, “and when it went badly she was just … left down there on the Rooftop?”

  “You’d have to ask her about that,” Philip replied. “But if I had to guess, I’d say that the fact that Gabriel came after her, when she was basically campaigning to leave him trapped behind the veil more or less indefinitely, convinced her that he was in the right.”

  In Magna’s experience, doing things to help people after they’d done wrong was meaningless at best, encouragement to go on doing wrong with impunity at worst, without some reciprocal shift in the wrongdoer’s behaviour. And that went double for people with ‘a consistent moral and legal code, regardless of circumstance.’ But she and Galatine were here in Ogrehome for very similar reasons, so the least she could do was extend the same benefit of the doubt to their new Angel friends. They were, after all, here – even if they didn’t seem quite so content about it as Frogsalt had been.

  In fact, their attitude had resulted in even Frogsalt becoming a bit more subdued. The unspoken mutual history between the five Angels probably also had an impact, but for the most part it just seemed like ‘jaded’ was the Angelic group condition, and additional Angels dragged any outliers down to this level like objects in a gravity well. The more Angels, the deeper the well.

  She wondered if Angels had always been this way, or it was the inevitable result of human psychology glorified into an immortal shell. Or if perhaps Angels had been better once upon a time, before humans had made such a mess of the Four Realms and given their glorified cousins such a titanic dose of cultural cringe.

  2616 AD – or 238 ExE, depending on who you asked – rolled around and the months trundled inexorably on, hot and parched and blazing against the roof of TrollCage Storage as they passed. Galatine went into practical seclusion again, experimenting and developing and tweaking his assortment of devices. Magna would have helped if she could, but there was really nothing she could do. The Gunsmith was alone in a sleek, gleaming world of deadly, venomous machines and only he could navigate his way out of it.