by Tom Lloyd
With sword in two hands, Ice fought a desperate retreat, a blurred skein of fire filling the air as the angel warded off the darting shadow. It was clear the angel could do little more than defend; cut adrift from the God’s power, it barely matched the shadow-beast’s strength and speed – martial prowess failing in the face of monstrosity. One vambrace was torn free of Ice’s arm, the angel only narrowly avoiding its arm being ripped away entirely. A hurried counter-thrust drove deep and cut a stream of shadow-threads away, but barely made the creature pause before it resumed its attack.
‘We have to help Ice,’ Shell said, turning to Moss.
The soldier had obviously realised the same and was in the process of stringing his bow. It was a battlefield weapon and far more powerful than Shell’s own hunting bow, so even the powerful Moss had to strain to bend it far enough. He selected an arrow from his quiver and held the head up to inspect. It had a short, narrow point to the head, intended to penetrate as deeply as possible, and he nocked it and aimed with practiced speed.
He fired and was already reaching for a second before it had hit its zenith, the second arrow drawn back as Shell watched the first thud home against the shadow-beast’s arm. She gave a small sound of dismay as the arrow glanced away, but Moss’s second shot slammed into its torso and the creature flinched under the impact.
‘You’ve hurt it!’ she cried, as Moss reached for another.
‘Hurt, not killed,’ he muttered, sighting again. The third shot flashed out through the gloom and also struck the nearer arm, but again wounded it, causing the shadow-beast to hesitate as it pressed its attack.
It turned to face them. Shell felt the breath catch in her throat as it dodged Ice’s blade and charged towards them with shocking speed. Moss fired again, but amid the flurry of shadowy limbs it was impossible to see what effect it had and he abandoned the bow. Behind them Lichen whimpered and Shell raised her spear, her stomach cold with terror as the huge creature covered the ground in seconds.
Mere yards short of them, something slammed into the creature’s side with the force of a hammer. Its body was thrown over, clawing wildly as it fought for balance before managing to clamber up into the air and dislodge what had hit it. A dark figure was propelled upwards, pin-wheeling thirty yards while the creature thrashed around. It reached up as though to catch the figure, but somehow the newcomer managed to slant its fall and drop to the side of the creature, chopping down with a long axe as it went.
A fierce flickering light appeared behind it – Ice, Shell guessed, though she could see nothing of the angel behind the clawing shadows. Under assault from two sides, the creature backed away, its rear limbs rising on invisible threads as it sought the higher ground. To cut it off, Ice leapt into the air, climbing faster than the creature, and arrested its efforts while Moss and Shell raced up behind to try and add their own weapons to the fight.
‘Kill the light!’ A voice crashed through Shell’s head – alien and booming. She stumbled to a halt while Moss charged on past to chance a blow at the shadow-creature. For a moment, Shell just watched him, too startled to join. Then the voice came again and she cried out in pain, the shout carrying as much force as a punch to the head.
‘Kill the light!’
Shell took an uncertain step forward, realising it was the Voiceless in her mind. She looked down at the black stains on her wrists. Now their darkness was even more profound– so utterly black she could not even see the curve of her skin there. It was hard to make out the figure ahead of her, fighting with blinding speed, but nothing had changed about the Voiceless – the cut-off ears and hairless, blunt head, the mass of scars where his mouth should be picked out against his dark skin. Long limbs and broad shoulders wielded an axe almost as long as her with such ease it could have been a toy, while starlight shone from his eyes.
She skirted the fighting, seeing Moss was barely able to get close past the creature’s many darting legs, and found herself staring at the glowing disc in the centre of the strange structure. The shadow-creature seemed to sense the danger and launched forward, but the Voiceless met its charge, driving the axe shaft against its stabbing mandibles. Shell didn’t wait to see how long he could hold it. She sprinted for the centre of the structure, spear raised.
Without waiting, she slammed the point down into the light. It shattered under the impact, crumpling like eggshell with the spear driving right the way through it. Glowing threads spilled from the fissure, spurting out like thin entrails while white ooze spattered across her face. Shell flinched away and dropped her spear, the light already fading while a rattling screech echoed out from the struggle behind her. On instinct, she wiped her face with her sleeve, a shining white residue coming away on her clothes and smeared over the black stains on her wrists.
For one brief moment her face and hands were gripped with such exquisite pain her vision went white and she screamed for all she was worth – the world seeming to twist and rise to hit her. It lasted only a second or two and then it faded with unnatural speed. She found herself blinking up at the stone struts far above her head, hands shaking uncontrollably. Something had changed in her sight. Shell first gasped then keened with fear as she screwed up her eyes and shook her head as hard as she could, trying to right it.
It didn’t change – the left hand side of her vision was now a blaze of white despite the twilight of the dead world – the rocks and tiny stones on the ground outlined with perfect detail and clarity, but all shading and colour was stripped away. The right-hand side of her vision – the right eye she discovered, closing her left – was unaffected and could perceive the thousand shades of grey of this place.
She rolled and pushed herself up, streaks of bright white overlaying both her palms and the dark handprints on her wrists. They shone with a fierce light, but that remained a secondary fear compared to her eyes. Turning to the fight still going on behind her, Shell cried out at what her left eye now perceived – a cloud of ghostly figures rather than a monster; knights and soldiers, men and women, angels and mortals even.
‘The shadows we drag in our wake,’ the Voiceless said in her mind, ‘even angels cast a shadow.’
With the light gone, the creature her right eye could see was weakened. Unable to batter the Voiceless and angel with its superior strength, their skill and deadly blades began to take their toll. Each one chopped and sliced at the shadow threads, severing great handfuls with each blow until at last they came close enough to drive their weapons as one into the creature’s body. The shadows burst apart, boiling madly for an instant before melting to nothing on the cold breeze.
The angel and Voiceless faced each other, weapons drawn and no enemy between. Off to the right, Moss panted a brief cheer, his voice tailing off as he lowered his axe and watched the two immortals. Shell blinked at the strange, merged vision until she gave up and closed her right eye entirely. In place of the angel, there was only a column of smoke, twisting and churning, while the Voiceless was replaced by two child-figures, long hair falling loose down their backs and holding that great half moon axe between them. Past them, Moss was himself but younger – lacking most of his scars with a neat beard and a thin serpent draped over his shoulders.
With trembling knees, she walked towards them and the sound of her feet seemed to decide something for Ice. The angel sheathed its burning sword according to her right eye; her left saw a thunderbolt shape sweep around the column of smoke and disappear behind. The Voiceless had no sheath for its weapon, but it lowered the axe and looked at Shell with such intensity in its starlit eyes she faltered as she approached.
‘What’s happened to me?’
Ice walked over and took her by the shoulders, inspecting her face carefully before lifting her hands. The angel was careful not to touch the white streaks – two distinct lines of varying size down each hand and what she somehow knew were three more running from her left eye away across her cheek.
‘I do not know,’ Ice said eventually, ‘but there is power in
you now.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘What does any power mean?’ the angel replied. ‘Power is to be used or not, that is your choice. All you can know is that it sets you above other mortals.’
‘Above others? No, I’m not that. I’ll never be that, whatever power you think I might have. The world would be better if your kind realised that.’ She shook her head. ‘I never wanted a burden like this,’ Shell said in a whisper. ‘I can see . . . not you, it’s though I’m looking inside you or something – Moss as he was in the past, maybe you too?’
‘The unwilling are best suited to power. What do you see?’
‘A column of smoke where you are.’
The angel bowed its head. ‘You see my true form of the heavens. This will prove a blessing and a curse, if you see the truth in all things. There are many who will want to use such a power, whether by force or reward.’
Ice said nothing more as the Voiceless moved up beside it, the two comparable in unnatural strength and height. Shell could see the two children more clearly now – a brother and sister she guessed from their near-identical serene faces.
‘I . . . I see—’
The Voiceless held up a hand to stop her.
‘It is not for others to see.’
Shell’s mouth fell open, but eventually she understood and closed it again, nodding. There was a long moment of quiet as her head span and her thoughts melted away, but eventually she righted herself and took stock of her surroundings. ‘So now you’re here.’ She croaked. ‘Thank you.’
‘I am here.’
‘Well, Ice,’ she said, turning to the angel. ‘You wanted to speak to him? Do you know why now?’
‘What do you see in him?’ the angel asked with sudden intensity.
‘He doesn’t want me to say,’ Shell said. For a moment she thought Ice was growing angry at that, but then the impression faded and the angel’s expression returned to its usual placidity.
Ice closed its eyes a long while, trembling slightly as though the ground beneath it shook. When it opened them again, there was a light shining from within as bright as the sun compared to the star’s cold glitter of the Voiceless.
‘Child of two worlds,’ Ice intoned in a voice that seemed to echo all around the stone forest. ‘The God summons you to serve. Our millennia-long war against the enemy is ended - victory is achieved.’
‘The enemy?’ Shell broke in.
‘The enemy,’ Ice confirmed. ‘The great beast of fire; the devourer, Iramael. The armies of the God descended deep into the earth and cleansed it of the beast and its followers. Our losses were many – the Sword of the God is dead, the Messenger is lost in the black depths of the lowest pit, the Light of Dawn pulled down and extinguished.’
‘Those are angels?’
Ice dipped its head in assent. ‘Members of the Knightly Host, vanguard of the God.’ It paused. They were the greatest of angels and my siblings under the God. They sacrificed all in honour of the God, in pursuit of victory.’
‘I will not serve.’ The Voiceless said into Shell’s mind. Before she could repeat the words, she saw in Ice’s face that the angel had heard them too.
‘The God commands,’ it said in surprise. ‘You are of the creation - I can see that much in you. You must obey the God.’
‘I obey no God.’
‘You are granted the greatest of stations, second only to the God itself and . . .’ Ice seemed to hesitate then, a shudder running through the angel’s body.
The column of smoke rippled as the angel’s feathers trembled. The light began to fade from the air around them and, for a moment, Shell thought the shadow-creature was returning. Then it seemed to sink into Ice and the mottled feathers darkened, turning as deep a grey as the stones underfoot until it was almost perfectly camouflaged against them. The angel’s pale skin turned porcelain, bleached as white as bone, and Ice sagged, dropping to one knee as though agonised by the changes to its body. Eventually it looked up and its sexless features were somehow alluring now, its eyes lit red and its teeth pointed and predatory. The column of smoke was now twisting and writhing, illuminated by orange flames from within and wreathed in fire.
‘You are granted me also,’ the angel said, sounding strained for a moment until the changes to it were finished. ‘I am of the Knightly Host – named in mortal scripture as the Reaper of the North Wind. I am to be your servant.’
Shell watched Ice, aghast, while the Voiceless said nothing. ‘Cold hells,’ she breathed, ‘that’s why you came to find him?’ She looked up at Moss and saw the man was shocked but still uncomprehending.
‘Granted the greatest of stations?’ she croaked. ‘Don’t you mean lowest? You’re not offering him a place in the Knightly Host are you?’
‘The Knightly Host are vessels of the God’s power. We are conduits of light incarnate and made not only of flesh. Only angels may survive with such light in their veins.’
Shell took a step back, bile rising in her throat as she appreciated the full import of its words. For a moment she could say nothing in response as she saw how they were seen by their God – little more than cattle to be herded, servants to obey. Her faith, or rather her obedience, she had lost early – certainly once she had been captured by slavers and taken to this dead place – but still the words of the priests were imprinted on her memory. The God loves his creations, they had said. The God cares for all life and defends it against all adversaries.
And that was it. That was the key. What worth was a defender with nothing to defend against? The priests had made all sorts of claims as to the afterlife, but scripture was silent on the matter. Judgement and sin were punished in this life or not at all, so far as the writings of the God’s chosen went. Life itself came from the God, that much she knew, but to punish souls with torment after death would mean the God did not re-gather the life it had loaned out to its creations.
Judgement itself diminished it, and victory over its enemies rendered it obsolete. Power without purpose – how long before its creations turned on it then?
‘What?’ Moss demanded. ‘What’s going on?’
Shell shook her head, scarcely able to believe what was going on. ‘You’ve come to find a new enemy? To create one that’ll serve your purpose?’
‘The throne of the pit is broken,’ Ice confirmed. ‘The adversary is vanquished. A new throne must be made – a sovereign of this world, anathema to the God.’
‘Why?’ Moss demanded, marching forward to the sight of Ice’s hellish visage. ‘A new enemy? But you won? You won the war, defeated the beast. Isn’t that the point? Isn’t that why you exist, you damned holy vulture?’
‘The world is defined by struggle,’ Ice said, still kneeling before the Voiceless. ‘Mortals must know struggle and hardship; it forms them like clay to their rightful shape. Victory is assured because the God wills it, but there must always be an enemy. The struggle must remain or all life is without purpose.’
‘So you recruit another just like that?’ Shell gasped. ‘You create a new beast so your war will never end?’
‘I will not serve.’ The Voiceless broke in. The twins were frowning now, like a dark cloud passing across their brows. ‘Evil is a choice I do not make.’
‘There must be evil,’ Ice insisted. ‘There must be structure – good and evil, life and death. Without opposing forces the world is tipped into imbalance.’
A heavy silence fell across them, as oppressive as a looming storm. The Voiceless stood firm, resolved to face that storm down and never bend, while the angel – or whatever it had become now – looked ready to unleash fury as the malevolent changes to its body stripped its once-serene air.
‘The God is granting this power,’ Shell said eventually, pointing at the changes wrought in Ice, ‘so the evil comes from the same source as good?’
‘All is in balance – the God is embodiment of balance.’
‘Then the God’s servant can be evil too,’ she continued hesitantly. ‘I
f it’s service you love so much, the task’s yours.’
‘I am appointed to serve,’ Ice said, looking pained.
‘This is the service you are appointed to,’ the Voiceless said. ‘The God has cursed you to walk these plains, to gather forces anathema to your world and lead them against it. You will reap a harvest of terrors and send them across the divide.’
That seemed to throw the angel. ‘I . . . I have not the strength.’
‘You will find it. If you are so devoted to your duty, you will find the strength out here.’
‘I am an angel of the God. Duty is all I have.’
‘Then go,’ Shell said, feeling her anger well up inside. ‘Walk these dead plains and let your duty keep you warm. Me, I’m going home again. You used me to bring the Voiceless to you and my job’s done.’
‘You are marked with power,’ Ice said in a strangely hungry voice. ‘You must choose a side in the war to come. Join us and become more than a mortal pawn.’
‘There is no us,’ the Voiceless said in a roar that made Shell reel. ‘I will not serve, nor lead.’
Shell looked at Ice, but the transformed angel looked right through her, lost in the magnitude of its new duty while it’s past and present natures warred beneath the surface.
‘The Reaper of the North Wind,’ she said softly, at which Ice flinched and drew back. The angel fought its way to its feet and looked down at the deathly pallor its skin had taken on. ‘Now you’ll be the reaper of men, the reaper of angels.’
At that, the war inside it seemed to resolve and find a new equilibrium of power. The Reaper briefly bowed its head then straightened up and looked around at all of them, its great height never more starkly obvious to Shell.
‘So I am reborn.’
The acceptance was a lifting weight from its shoulders, Shell realised. It stood taller than before, unencumbered by its years of duty and now with the strength of purpose instead.
‘You are reborn with me, our fates tied together,’ the Reaper said to her. ‘Join me.’