“What are you telling us?” Çrom frowned.
“By the time we got out of Snowhome, or what was to become Snowhome, we weren’t even a handful,” Greyblade continued. “The Ladyhawk will never fly again, and aside from me there are three Burning Knights left. We kept all this secret, of course. The three, damaged as they were, at least provided a root, something the Thalaar Institute can graft new Knights onto. One day. Maybe.”
“But not the same as they once were,” Rosedian said.
“No. No more than if we tried to build new Godfangs today. Or new I-Spies. Like the Ogres, like the Dragons, the Burning Knights belong to a different time. A time at once darker and more brilliant. Whatever comes next out of the Lowlands of the Áea, it won’t be the same. It will be … whatever comes next.”
There comes a time in every immortal’s dominion …
“You’re still not telling me why,” Çrom remarked. “Why are you here? Why are you doing this?”
“Do you think there comes a time in every immortal’s life when they stop caring?” Greyblade asked by way of answer. “When they have to stop caring, to protect themselves?”
“I hope not,” Çrom replied. “I think maybe I used to, but–”
Greyblade leaned across and drew his sword. A simple thing, more a symbol than a weapon. A trapping. All Burning Knights bore swords. Only Commanders bore swords made from the hulls of their commands. Çrom studied the sword distrustfully, then his eyes widened as Greyblade flipped it and presented it to him hilt-first.
“Take it,” Greyblade instructed.
“What are you doing?” Çrom asked.
“I’m going to want it back,” Greyblade said, “but I need you to make a modification. And I want you to promise something. I’m the last member of yet another race you’ve watched march into the history books. Grant me a last request.”
“If I can.”
“Never give up,” Greyblade said. “Never give up on them, Çrom. Never stop trying to save them, even when they don’t deserve it. Especially then. You’re going to be around for the long haul. You can’t give up on humans. When Gods and Pinians and Godfangs fail them, you can’t. Promise me, Çrom.”
“I promise,” Çrom said, taking the sword and blinking away tears. “Damn you to Hell, I promise.”
“That’s good,” Greyblade said. “Now, I have another sacrifice to demand of you.”
“I don’t know if I’ve got any more last requests in me,” Çrom said.
“That’s okay,” Greyblade said, “this one isn’t a request. It’s an order. And you’re not going to like it.”
Çrom opened his mouth to answer, when there was a low tolling sound from the Flesh-Eater parked on the edge of their camp. At the same moment, Rosedian stood up.
“What is it?” Çrom asked nervously.
“That,” Greyblade said at a nod from Rosedian, “is the Archangelic court,” he rose, flushed the alcohol from his system, and reached up to close his visor. “And it means we’re about to begin.”
COURT
The Flesh-Eater floated in orbit above Declivitorion, waiting.
“The Highwayman is gone,” Rosedian reported. “Do you think he’ll do what you asked?”
“Yes,” Greyblade said, “because I didn’t ask.”
Greyblade and Çrom had said their goodbyes, tainted just a little by the human’s outraged sulking upon hearing Greyblade’s final order. This time, although they’d both continued to treat the separation as a temporary thing and their reunion an inevitability, they had both felt the difference. Things were moving, and the point was rapidly approaching where Çrom Skelliglyph would be continuing alone once more, another fleeting mortal vanishing from his life and entering fond yet ultimately impermanent memory. If Greyblade was going to get his sword back – and he was – it wasn’t going to be from his travelling companion. His friend.
“Hah,” Rosedian said. “And what of our arrangement?” he went on. Greyblade looked up at him. Another travelling companion and friend – one with whom he’d actually travelled for a longer time, unless you counted the weird non-trip through Naskiraqad. And yet, he’d never really connected with the ancient Molran. Rosedian was more fabricant than man, his mind more Godfang than organism. And yes, their arrangement had coloured things, right from the start. “Without your sword…”
“I don’t need the sword, Arbus,” Greyblade said.
“I believe it,” Rosedian said. “And yet, part of me hoped…”
Silently, three vessels winked into existence out of the darkness. Vorontessi ships, as Greyblade had predicted. Of course they would send Vorontessæ, he thought as he studied the long, gnarled warships with their black-encrusted weapons turrets.
“Are you ready?” he asked quietly. Rosedian bared his great Molran fangs, and nodded. Then he extended a lower hand and tapped at the command console. Comms open, peaceful but cautious intent.
“This is Captain Thashta of the warship Spindlemere,” a Vorontessi voice said in crisp, businesslike Xidh. “On the authority of the Archangelic court of the Four Realms, you are ordered to surrender and submit to decommissioning in the shipyards of Central Nirvan.”
“I am Arbus Rosedian,” Rosedian announced over the Flesh-Eater’s communicator, “the Eater of Gods. And I do not recognise the authority of this Archangelic court you speak of. I answer to the Pinian Disciples, and to God. Not to their undead errand boys, and not to you.”
“Arbus Rosedian died a few centuries after the post-Cult diaspora,” Captain Thashta said. “Whoever you are, you are trespassing on Pinian sovereign territory, in violation of treaty, in misappropriated Pinian vessels.”
“Misappropriated?” Rosedian chuckled, and reactivated the comm. “I am on a mission on behalf of the revered Firstmades, in accordance with treaty. I would advise you good Heaven-folk to stand down.”
“And what mission would that be?” Captain Thashta asked. “Transcendus Excelsius Macabre has informed us of some preposterous plan to declare unilateral war on the Dark Realms and the Damorak empire.”
Rosedian looked at Greyblade.
“Transcendus Excelsius Macabre,” Greyblade said quietly. The name wasn’t familiar to him, but he hadn’t taken a full account from Gabriel. Just the name of their comms contact. “Pass it on to Blacknettle. That’s the Archangelic court informant they were looking for.”
Blacknettle, Greyblade remembered Çrom raving under the effects of the microscopic wilful of the Lonesome Ice. Ah God, tell them I’m sorry. Tell them I won’t let them die. Tell them.
He hadn’t told his human friend the name of the Angel who had so smoothly enabled communication between the fleet Flesh-Eaters and Gabriel’s operation. He had a feeling he would regret not doing so for as many hours or days he had left to live, but he hadn’t needed Gabriel to explain to him that Skelliglyph still had work to do, and didn’t need the distraction and potential conflict of interest that this represented. When the time came, Gabriel had assured Greyblade, he would tell his brother what he needed to know.
“Well, I suppose you needed it to be somebody,” Rosedian interrupted Greyblade’s penitent contemplation. “Shall we proceed?” Greyblade nodded, and Rosedian returned to the comm. “I do not intend to declare war on the Dark Realms, Captain Thashta,” he said. “I intend to end a war that has been going on under your noses for two hundred years. And excise a blight that has been growing in the heart of the Four Realms since you abandoned the humans in your charge. I am going to remove the Earth from between Heaven and Hell, and I am going to use the power of the invading Lapgod, the parasite Karl the Bloody-Handed, to do it. I repeat, you would be wise to stand down.”
“Where is your fleet, Arbus Rosedian?” Captain Thashta said. “We know what a Category 9 Flesh-Eater looks like, and we know their capabilities. We also know that you will not engage in hostile actions against Vorontessæ.”
“Oh dear me, Captain Thashta,” Rosedian said. The black vault of space behind the
warships flushed white as three Godfangs crash-dropped out of relative speed around them like looming cliffs. “You’re thinking of the Destarion.”
In perfect synchrony, the curved pinnacles crowning the three platforms vented tight beams of pale, nearly-invisible light that lanced out and cut the three warships apart. They tumbled slowly, without secondary damage or excess atmospheric leakage, their drives and major comms nodes severed.
“Clean shots,” Greyblade congratulated him.
“Of course,” Rosedian said, then looked sternly down at Greyblade. “Although they were shots you did promise us we wouldn’t have to fire.”
“That’s true,” Greyblade admitted. “On the other hand, we are technically in Cursèd’s Playground right now. Home territory, but not legally part of any treaties related to the Godfangs.”
“They seemed to think it was a violation.”
“As to that, your presence might be in violation of the court’s interpretation of the treaty,” Greyblade said. “But I assure you, there is nothing spelled out in the accords that prohibit you from firing your weapons in the Playground. It’s a dumping ground, and the Brotherhood doesn’t want much regulation. In any case, I believe I did specify that you wouldn’t have to fire your big guns. I think those were merely World-Eaters … ?”
“Leave the politics to the Heaven-folk,” Rosedian chided him. “But from now on,” the big Molran went on, eyeing Greyblade sidelong, “no more shooting.”
“If you like,” Greyblade said, and nodded at the console. “Are their short-range communications still operational?” he asked. Rosedian looked hurt. “Alright,” he raised his hands. “I was just asking. Please, go ahead.”
“Once you get your drives reconnected,” Rosedian told the Vorontessæ, “go back to Heaven and tell your masters in the court that the Godfangs are back to clean up their mess and drive Karl the Bloody-Handed out of the Four Realms like a kicked gutter pig,” he tapped the console and grinned at Greyblade. “Arrogant enough?”
“Worthy of Brutan,” Greyblade said. Provided the Pinians, and Jalah, don’t react too quickly, he thought. He suspected that as soon as the Firstmades got wind of the latest developments, they would sit back and wait to see what their clever mortals had in mind.
Or so he hoped.
“Have you chosen a location?” Rosedian asked. “For your showdown?”
“Yes,” Greyblade said. “Minimal population, and the right combination of geography, geology and placement. If the process is as destructive as you say…”
“You saw Wyrm,” Rosedian said simply.
“I did,” Greyblade replied. “I also hope it’s not going to be that bad, because Earth is infinitesimally small in comparison to Wyrm.”
“Beyond the Walls is not the same as the Corporation.”
“That’s the truth,” Greyblade acknowledged. “And we’re not planning precisely the same thing here. Like I promised, you won’t be firing your All-Eaters here.”
“I am relieved,” Rosedian said with feeling. “They are best left to sleep.”
“Hm,” Greyblade said.
They stood and watched the slowly-turning pieces of warship for a few moments. The Vorontessæ didn’t contact them again.
“It was said, when God drew the Riddlespawn from its Tower, He simply clapped His hands together by the Tower’s walls,” Rosedian spoke up. “Of course, a God can create most mid- and high-level physics events with relative ease.”
“Was that a pun?” Greyblade asked.
“I would never,” Rosedian said solemnly, but Greyblade saw a smile playing around the already-upcurved corners of the Molran’s mouth. He was still a little tipsy, Greyblade judged. Perhaps more than a little. “What of Earth?” he went on as the view tilted before them and the Flesh-Eater swooped in towards the closest Godfang. “Have you picked a location for that yet?”
“Not me,” Greyblade said. “Necessity – and some clever machines – made that choice for us,” he half-turned, and pointed back the way they had come. “Not far from here,” he said, “stellar vacuum ends and Castle space begins. Where the two areas meet–”
“The Face of the Deep,” Rosedian nodded.
“Exactly. That’s the only place a flatworld can function anyway, so it limits our choices even if we could manage a longer relative jump. I left the calculations to the experts, but it’s projected to wind up about as close to the upper edge of the Face as it’s possible to go without losing the supporting physics of Castle space, which would cause the world to break up and sweep away into the Playground.”
“Another relic,” Rosedian said. “Another failed project tossed into the Pinians’ back yard.”
“Hopefully with its population intact,” Greyblade said. They docked, and the Flesh-Eater unfolded around them.
“But a safe distance,” Rosedian added, “if things go wrong.”
“Safer than sandwiched between Heaven and Hell.”
“And where are we dropping you,” Rosedian asked, “before the final act of this show begins?”
“Somewhere secluded,” Greyblade said. “I’ll make my own way to Earth, through the proper public channels as befits a retired army officer. There shouldn’t be any reason for the Interdict authorities to stop me.”
“You don’t think this Macabre fellow will have told the Archangelic court about your involvement in this?”
“They didn’t mention me in the intercept message,” Greyblade said. “Either they managed to hide my involvement from Macabre, or it was not considered important. Either way, last time I went to Earth we looped straight from the Portal from The Centre, and didn’t even stop in Heaven. I don’t think the Archangelic court takes much of an interest in who is coming and going. They leave the paranoia – and the failures – to the humans,” he put a short-list of discreet locations up on his surface-data for the platform to read. “Any of these will be fine.”
“Very well,” Rosedian said. “And I suppose that is where we will part ways.”
“I suppose it is.”
“And when, I wonder, will you fulfil your side of our agreement?” Rosedian mused.
“I’ve fulfilled it already,” Greyblade said. Rosedian looked at him sharply. “If I’m lying, come and find me in Sprawling Adelbairn in a few days’ time. Derail the whole mission, with my blessing.”
“You want me to let you leave, and go to your death,” Rosedian said, “and trust that your promise will somehow come true?”
“No,” Greyblade said. “Never trust me. Do what I say because it’s right, not out of blind faith. My honour as a Burning Knight is nothing compared to common sense.”
Rosedian was clearly unhappy with this, but let it pass. A short while later they returned to the Flesh-Eater and were spat out at a lonesome transit lodge in a distant corner of the Unknown Dimension, where Greyblade could acquire semi-registered transport to Ninadhi. They disembarked, and strolled a short distance from the Flesh-Eater to exchange their final words.
“I suppose this is the end of our long journey together, Sir Greyblade,” Rosedian said. “I would shake your hand, but I remain dissatisfied. I thought that we understood–”
“Arbus,” Greyblade said, “look at your hand. Are your fingernails pale? Bluish?”
“What are you–” Rosedian looked down, then closed his hand abruptly. “Poison?” he murmured.
“Nothing so crass,” Greyblade said. “I told you, Modarkan plum wine was one of the great joys you’ve missed over the past twenty thousand years. Well, so is the long lull.”
“What is that?”
“A subviral flaw in Molran physiology,” Greyblade said. “They eradicated it from the genetic code of the entire superspecies back in the time of the Fifteenth Modarkan Dynasty. It’s a little-known fact these days, but their plum wine became very popular after that – as a delicacy Molren couldn’t drink before, in its unadulterated state. Prior to the Fifteenth Dynasty, the Modarkans filtered the harmonic fibre out of the susp
ension – you could drink it, but it was pretty tasteless. I was willing to gamble that, as an antique model, you would still have that weakness even if the Godfangs have kept you in otherwise quite stupendous health.”
“You mean…”
“Die well, Arbus Rosedian,” Greyblade said. “There is nothing the merciless medicine of your daughters will be able to do to stop it. It is painless, and you will drop from ordinary lull to a full sleep-like state. It’s already too late.”
“I will tell them this was my wish,” Rosedian said, his voice trembling with emotion. “And that they have their orders,” he looked down at his nails again, smiled – exhausted relief – and extended his hand. “Thank you, Sir Greyblade,” he said. “May you also die well.”
“Oh no,” Greyblade shook the Molran’s hand. “I intend to die appallingly.”
GABRIEL’S PLAN (REPRISE)
Frogsalt was waiting for Gabriel at the security and transit dock when he arrived. Gabriel looked pointedly out the window, where the last rays of the sun were still fading from the western sky.
Earth’s last sunset, Gabriel thought optimistically. At least under the roof of Heaven.
“You made good time,” he complimented the tight-lipped Angel.
Frogsalt was almost vibrating with rage, but she still couldn’t entirely suppress her nature. “There’s a filtration and distribution aquifer sanctified to Mygon in the basement,” she said. “Not technically a church, but it is holy ground. I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Gabriel.”
“I didn’t,” Gabriel said, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “I always overday in the New Pinian mosque over on Dalwallinu Road. Like a chump.”
“I guess you don’t think of everything,” she said, and eyed the sign he was holding. The flier wasn’t due for another couple of hours, but the only solid rule of transit from Amazônia Capital was to expect the unexpected. “Kisser,” she read scornfully. “You old monsters like your light-hearted nicknames, don’t you?”
Greyblade Page 63