Valeria hung listlessly over her shoulder, her arms and legs dangling helplessly. The last command, to help, overriding Xlina’s compulsion to kill Owen and claim the scythe. Xlina cast a forlorn eye on the druid. She felt guilty leaving him in such a state, but he was safe from Valeria’s lust for power for the moment. She turned, sword in hand and Valeria over her shoulder and started her trek back up the hillside to the Mausoleum. Amber floated by her side, like a silent guardian. The soul glimmered with a new light. The dark spot at its core erased along with the foul demon Ertigan. There was just Amber now. She lowered her head and strode with determination, willing her fatigued body to keep moving. She had to know what had become of Arrivan and Oxivius.
OWEN STARED AT THE moon hung like a guiding light in the night sky. He felt cold and empty. The will of the Morrigan enacted, he had wielded the scythe. He had brought more than death to the vile arch demon. Owen had removed the creature from existence. He wallowed in shame, feeling lost and confused at the moment. He had completed the task, set on him by the Raven Queen, Morrigan. Goddess of Fate. Instead of feeling fulfilled, a hollow emptiness filled him. As if the scythe had also banished a part of himself from existence. He heard Xlina shuffle away and turned his head to see the proud woman carrying both the demon and the sanguine sword up the hillside.
They had done it. When the pair of druids had first set out on their holy quest, they had promised each other that no matter what, Arrivan’s baby sister would be spared. To the nine hells with gods and Fate. He cracked a faint smile as he watched her work her way up the mountainside. He remembered his first meeting with the plucky Baku girl in Pandora’s. She was so exquisite and strong. She had stepped in, stood up for the brew master against a crowd of bullies. In that moment, he knew, she could not be the vile demon puppet the order had feared. She was everything he desired. Strong, confident, and kind. Her compassion clearly worn on her sleeve. She had sat across from him in Pandora’s and sent his heart fluttering in all directions. Even when the demon had ordered his death. Even when she tried to claim the scythe, she still held that charm over his heart. His best friend’s baby sister. His feelings ran deep. It was his concern for Xlina that had caused him to summon the wicked scythe. Not the Morrigan, not his duty to the druid order, not some sense of holiness. No, it was her. Simply her.
A groan came from a distant pile of rubble, and he turned his head. His adrenaline kicked in, his heart racing. The remembrance of the living dead stalking the cemetery all around him sent fresh waves of fear through him. He rolled to the side with a groan. Every inch of his body screaming at him in protest, but to lie on the earth was to die. He slowly pushed himself to his feet. His will to survive prodding him on.
He staggered a second, his legs numb and sore as he took stock of his surroundings. There in the disheveled earth came another groan. He stumbled in the voice’s direction, veering to avoid the crushed rubble of broken headstones. Owen picked his way through the debris of the battle with the Arch Demon, astonished at the pure carnage and destruction left in the creature’s wake. He found the shattered sycamore and bent low, hearing another groan.
There under the felled tree trunk lie the angel Sariel. She lived. After the vicious assault by Ertigan, she still drew breath. He dropped to a knee and moved close to her battered and bruised face.
“Miss angel ma’am,” Owen whispered, reaching out to touch her hand. He hesitated momentarily, wondering what the proper etiquette was for touching an angel. She lifted her head slightly, her face obscured by a mask of fresh blood. Only her two crystal blue eyes peering out from behind the veil of gore signified any sign of life. Owen took her acknowledgement as permission and grabbed her hand.
“Demons...” Sariel squeezed his hand weakly. It was an odd sensation seeing the Seraph’s strength from before. He moved closer, examining the fallen tree pinning her to the ground. Owen pushed on the tree, but it did not budge. Instead, he dropped to the dirt and began digging under Sariel. He pulled soil in mounds out from under her until her body slacked. She sucked in a deep breath as he relived the pressure on her battered body.
“Hold on, I’ll get you out of there ma’am,” Owen swept his hands under her, feeling the cold damp earth in his hands as he as he dug deeper around her. “Sorry about this.”
Owen reached under the angel’s arms and pulled, dragging her body free from under the felled sycamore tree. She let out a cry of pain as her broken wing caught on the tree and wrenched in the wrong direction. Owen stopped, adjusting his angle before pulling her up into his arms. She was lighter than he would have expected and despite the battle, an aroma of fresh linen wafted off her. A scent of cleanliness.
He pivoted, walking a few strides away from the fallen sycamore until he found a clear patch of grass near the remains of a blasted tombstone. He gingerly laid Sariel down on the grass. Her lower sets of wings had been sheared off, leaving only the largest set at the top of her back. Of the remaining pair, the right wing showed the corrosion from the shadow flail. Feathers and skin melted away to show a porous bare bone on the joint. Her shoulder bubbled with a yellowish green discoloration that formed boils which blistered and popped. Her clothes were tattered, revealing cuts and bruises that seemed to diminish the luster of the Seraph. Her head lolled to the side weakly and, looking down on the fallen form of the angel, his heart sunk.
It was more than he could explain. A profound sadness welled within him. As if seeing this celestial angel in such a condition was an assault on everything he held dear. His eye watered and tears fell freely, leaving streaks on his dirty cheeks and dampening his beard. He fell to his knees over Sariel and held her hand in his.
“Hold on there, ma’am,” Owen clasped her hand in his and held it to his heart as he rocked back and forth. He was not an acolyte like Arrivan; his magic was clumsy and weak. Parlor tricks at best. The only thing that made him worthy of being on this battlefield was the scythe. If Arrivan were here, he could summon the elemental magic of the earth, could use the call of magic to mend her broken form, but Arrivan was not here. He was alone, and in this moment, he felt the absence profoundly. Since leaving the druid grove, Arrivan had been his protector, his guardian. The acolyte who was meant to carry the scythe, Arrivan would know just what to do. Owen was just a brew master. He grew herbs and tended barely. He was no warrior; he was barely even a druid.
“Druid,” Sariel’s head lolled in his direction, her eyes growing dim as he held her hand close. She smiled faintly. “In this my final hour, you seek to comfort me?”
“What little comfort I can offer, ma’am,” Owen wiped a tear from his cheek and squeezed the angel’s hand reassuringly.
“Fret not, young one, for what is a celestial’s purpose but to serve the order?”
“What purpose? Duty and the natural order? Why I have had my fill of such thing’s ma’am. Pardon me, but I would have been just fine tending my herbs and refining my lager had fate not intervened.” Owen cast a longing gaze at Sariel. The natural order called for death. It marked the cycle of life. All beginnings had an end.
“The end is what gives our existence meaning, young druid. It finalizes our legacy for those who follow.”
“We should welcome death then?” Owen squeezed her hand, lowering his right hand to cup her cheek.
“Your heart is pure, yet you falter, young druid? Why do you struggle so?”
“Because I want to live. I want to see tomorrow’s sunrise and each day after that. I want to feel the wind in my hair as I stand on the rocky shore welcoming the waves of the sea. I want to taste the finest lagers in all the realms and celebrate good endings with family and friends at my side. Do angels not wish for the same? Do you not regret passing here in the necropolis alone?” Owen’s words flowed from his heart. His sense of right and wrong knocked askew by the terrible weight of the scythe. He knew deep in his heart there was no happy ending for him. His fate would be the same as the dark druid who had previously wielded the scythe. His spirit
trapped between this plane and the beyond. Teetering on the edge of existence in wait for another poor soul to be called on by the Morrigan. When that poor bastard retrieved the scythe, his spirit, ancient and crumbling, would not pass on. It would instead become one with the scythe fading from all existence as if it never were. He would share the same fate as the dark druid before him.
“But I am not alone, am I young druid?” Sariel closed her eyes, relishing in the warmth of his touch. Her wings seem to fade from a vibrant alabaster to a tepid gray. Her halo flickered like a worn-out neon sign about to blink out for the last time.
“You’re not alone ma’am, I’m staying right here until the very end.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
And The Sky Wept Tears Of Blood
Xlina crested the hilltop with a grunt. Sweat beaded on her brow as her thighs and calves screamed in protest. Valeria’s lithe form hung from her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and she struggled to adjust the demon’s dead weight. In her left hand, she held the sanguine demon blade. The wicked sword from the infernal realms had tasted both angel and demon blood this day, and she found the bone hilt warm to the touch. It sent waves of satisfaction radiating up her arm, and she recoiled slightly, pondering the possibilities that the blade itself was sentient. As the mausoleum came into view, she was greeted by the shouts of two familiar voices.
“You corrupted her,” Arrivan growled. He leaned heavily on a fracture tombstone. His black shirt darkened with blood from Archam’s crossbow bolt, she could see his skin patched and woven together through the hole left behind by the quarrel.
“For an enlightened man, you sound more the fool than the scholar.” Oxivius stood on the stone steps of the mausoleum. His legs wrapped in roots that sprawled up from the earth. His arms weaved in the air before him, drawing black ash like clouds into sigils. The scent of rotten flesh hung in the air, mixing oddly with the pine and soil aroma of the druid’s magic. It stunk like a swamp. The fetid stench of decay mingling with the rampant growth of vegetation.
“Lofty words from a dead man,” Arrivan pushed his hands forward and gout of earth shot from the ground, forming a spear of solid stone that careened through the air at the necromancer. Oxivius’ good eye went wide as he pulled to free himself of the ensnaring roots. A howl cut the air as Granite swooped in, knocking the rocky spear aside where it collided with a crumbling column. The mausoleum shifted slightly as debris fell from above, forcing Oxivius to lift his hands over his head.
“What in the nine hells?” Xlina stormed between them, still holding Valeria and the demon blade she cast a menacing glare on the two men.
“I healed him,” Oxivius pointed to Arrivan as if accusing him of a crime.
“He killed them all.” Arrivan swept a hand out wide, gesturing over the cemetery.
“They were going to kill you all,” Oxivius slapped his hand to his forehead, shaking his head in dismay.
“And we are better men why? Because we are the more efficient killers?” Arrivan closed his fist and gritted his teeth.
“Had I not you would be rotting in the earth instead of them.”
“Enough, Owen lies on the field of battle and needs your help.” Xlina stomped her foot, glaring at the druid and the necromancer. “Val... She needs healing as well. Ertigan nearly killed her.”
“A shame.” Arrivan crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the demon with no remorse.
“What is your problem?” Xlina looked back, seeing Amber’s spirit crest the hillside.
“I’ve had my fill of demons and necromancy.” Arrivan looked at Amber’s spirit warily.
“Amber, you look well, love,” Oxivius bent low in a formal bow toward the spirit, “A little pale, but well nonetheless.”
“It’s over runt,” Arrivan’s eyes narrowed at the spirit. “No more bloodshed on the account of her.”
“It is over,” Xlina nodded affirmatively, “Owen called on the scythe and struck down Ertigan, banishing the monster from all existence.”
“Then he embraced his destiny after all.” Arrivan cast a wary eye down the hillside. “And you left him down there?”
“It was better that way.” Xlina gingerly lowered Valeria to the ground. “Valeria’s last command was to save her. It overwrote the command to kill Owen, temporarily at least. Better the Druid of Morrigu stay far away from me.”
“I’ll not let you kill him, runt,” Arrivan turned a cold eye on her. “I don’t care what your demon master commands.”
“After seeing him strike down Ertigan,” Xlina swallowed hard, recalling Owen’s raw strength, “I doubt I could.”
“He didn’t want the scythe, you know,” Arrivan eyed her suspiciously. “He stopped me from claiming the weapon, prevented my destiny. He was just trying to spare me from having to...”
“To wipe me from existence,” Xlina finished his sentence as she adjusted Valeria’s prone form delicately.
“She didn’t ask for the mark, you know,” Oxivius cut in, pointing to Xlina, “Before you strike her from the plains for her heinous crimes.”
“Go to hell.” Arrivan turned a steely gaze on Oxivius, who at last freed himself from the ensnaring roots.
“Been there already,” Oxivius pointed to his charred flesh on the left side of his face. “Should have gone with a stronger sunscreen for that healthy glow.”
“Will you two just stop,” Xlina rose to her feet and gestured to Valeria impatiently.
“I hope she suffers,” Arrivan turned his back to the prone demon and started picking his way down the dirt road.
“How very noble.” Oxivius shrugged dismissively, causing the druid to spin on his heels and storm back. Anger flared in his eyes as he barged past Xlina and met the necromancer face to face.
“You want to say something, corpse breath,” Arrivan balled a fist and pulled it back threateningly.
“Arri!” Xlina shouted.
“Yes, I do.” Oxivius turned his head, meeting the druid’s glare with his left eye. It glowed orange like a smoldering coal in the socket. His skin a deep red burned tissue blackened with soot and ash. “You are a bigot. A xenophobic horse’s ass who has known nothing but the teat of the Druid order for his whole miserable existence. I would tell you to go consummate your ignorance with a farm animal, except I doubt the Druids taught you the how’s and whether nots of your nether regions!”
“Ox!” Xlina stomped once again, motioning to Valeria. “More important things.”
Arrivan grumbled as Oxivius’ words washed over him. A fire lit in his eyes as the mean registered on his face. He threw his balled fist, sending a hard cross squarely at the necromancer’s face. Oxivius dipped back, allowing the cross to slip within inches of his cheek.
“Try to hit a man on his blind side, poor form!” Oxivius balled a fist of his own and swung back with a wide hook. Xlina squinted as Arrivan ducked the clumsy hook easily. Neither of the men were as accomplished as her in physical combat, and watching them take shots at each other was uncomfortable.
“Blind my ass,” Arrivan pushed forward, spearing Oxivius in the waist and sending the pair sprawling to the ground. The two imposing magical juggernauts reduced to rolling in the dirt like a pair of schoolboys. Oxivius rolled to the top of the pile and rained clumsy strikes down on the druid, who shielded himself with his arms over his head. As Oxivius tired, Arrivan rolled back to the top of the pile and threw hooks aimed at the necromancer’s body. Xlina heard a giggle, and she turned to see the spirit of Amber pointing at the duo of struggling testosterone rolling in the dirt. The soul laughed. It started as a small giggle and built into a crescendo of sound as the spirit wrapped her arms around her body and laughed from her belly. It was the most reminiscent sign of life Xlina had seen from the wayward soul and she couldn’t help but break out into a joyous giggle herself.
“Wait, wait,” Oxivius put his hands up defensively as Arrivan rolled to the top of the pile once more. He pointed at Xlina and the ghostly Amber. “Hey now
!”
Arrivan hesitated, holding his fist high he allowed a sidelong glance at the pair to see the spirit bowled over at the waist and pointing in a fully belly laugh at the pair. His face flushed red with embarrassment, and he lowered his fist.
“You look ridiculous,” Xlina managed between gasps.
“He started it,” Oxivius pointed at the druid sheepishly.
“Shut up,” Arrivan rose from the ground and crossed his arms, sending a foreboding glare at the necromancer.
“Come on, you two can argue later,” Xlina pointed back at Valeria. “Will one of you please help her?”
“Why?” Arrivan cocked his head.
“Because it’s the right thing to” Oxivius grinned like the Cheshire cat.
“That makes little sense,” Arrivan shook his head, “Use your head man, just let the demon die.”
“That’s what makes it the right thing,” Xlina smiled at Oxivius, understanding his intent, “Because it’s a choice made with the heart instead of the head.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself, love.”
“Hey, not demon or hoodoo user over here,” Hawke grumbled from the dirt below. “Either of you magic folk, spare an aspirin. That Irish bastard left bagpipes blaring in my head and your bickering is only making it worse.”
“Detective,” Arrivan offered Hawke a hand, looking at the welt on his cheek. “I think you’ll make it.”
“Well, if you will spare none of your Druid mojo, then where is your brew master friend? There is more than one way to skin a cat.” Hawke looked from person to person. Oxivius kneeled next to Valeria, softly mumbling words while moving his hand in circular sigils above her.
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