Chapter 30
“Seriously, though,” said Harald as he thwipped green blood from his Dawnblade. “Vic. How’d you survive the cathedral? I know you’re a charming bastard, but after what you did…”
Vic raked his blond hair back and sighed.
Something bleak stole into his handsome features.
“It was touch and go there for bit, I’ll grant you that.
” He surveyed the battlefield. Their companions were gathering scales.
“There I was, trussed like a hog at a summer solstice feast, and folks were ready to carve me right up. But like I said. Sam interceded. She got fierce. Took responsibility for me. Said she’d bring me to Alabenthos for judgment. ”
“Hard to top that, I guess.” Harald propped his blade over his shoulder. “How’d you convince Alabenthos to let your misdeeds slide?”
Vic closed one eye and grinned. “Oh, I layered on just the right amount of guilt and begging for mercy. You should have seen me. It’d have been my finest hour were it not for the, you know, context.”
“I find it hard to believe Alabenthos could be so easily played.”
“But it was his fault.” Vic retracted The Point, then allowed it to fade away altogether.
“Who gave us ultimatums and then allowed me to leave? Allowed me to leave knowing I’d have no friends, no companions, and no resources that deep in the dungeon?
Is it a surprise I turned to my demonic patron in my hour of need?
Cut off from you all, alone and left to die?
No.” Vic’s expression turned scornful. “Such a twist was utterly predictable. And then I was manipulated. My ego played to, my desire for social justice placed on an altar with just the right amount of scorn that I could believe I’d wrest some silver lining from the bargain.
Alabenthos must have known. He allowed it to happen.
And!” Vic held up a finger. “In the end, I was a victim, not an architect. I thought the Handmaidens mine to command. Fool that I was. I’d no idea that Eclavistra would play me so foully.
A victim and a fool.” Vic sighed and looked away, the last of his false cheer draining away.
“That’s ol’ Vic for you. A victim and a fool. ”
Harald tongued the inside of his cheek. The others had noticed them talking and were giving them space. “Not if you learn from it.”
“Learn what?” Vic raised a blond brow. “To not try to manifest my delusional dreams? To bow my head to every angel that commands I feel shame? That for all my vaunted wit and street smarts, I’m as gullible as the next man?”
Harald studied him. There was a dark and ugly gleam in Vic’s eye. “There you are, old friend.”
Vic quirked his brow again. “Hmm?”
“It takes work to get past the supercilious charm, doesn’t it? But there you are. There’s the anger I was looking for. Anger born of what—shame? For having nearly brought about the destruction of the very city you were trying to save?”
“Demons,” said Vic with an insouciant shrug. “Just when you think they really are your best friends.”
Harald stepped in close and thumped him lightly on the shoulder. “Demons are good for only one thing: killing.”
“That so? And angels are any different?”
Harald paused. “You mean to kill them?”
“Two sides of the same coin, Harry-boy.” But Vic wasn’t smiling.
“Both manipulate and use us toward their own end. Humanity is but a source of infantry, a means to an end. Have the angels done anything to better those they don’t weaponize?
What, precisely, have they done that qualifies as ‘angelic?’”
“Try to save the Fallen Angel.”
“And you’re so sure that’s their actual goal?
You know for a fact they mean to ‘save’ her and not claim her power for themselves?
How is that different from the demons?” Now it was Vic’s turn to thump him on the chest. “If I’ve learned a lesson here, it’s not to listen to words but observe deeds.
And when you strip their actions of all propaganda, what, exactly, have the angels done for anyone but themselves? ”
Harald considered. “I mean, the Church of the Fallen Angel upstairs could have used some more guidance.”
Vic snorted. “Did you hear why they withdrew completely from the fight? Turns out half their ecclesiastical court is beholden to one demon or another. That’s right.
Do you know how many had a direct connection to an angel?
None. Their whole structure collapsed into civil war after my Handmaidens called them out.
Think on it. The angels can’t even be bothered to provide guidance to the church.
So, tell me again: how, materially, are they different from the demons?
What, exactly, is the difference between you and Seraphina, other than aesthetics and diction? ”
Harald rubbed at his jawline. “So, what are you saying?”
Vic spread his arms and walked backward, his smile wide and genuine and not touching his eyes at all. “Wake up, Harry. That’s all I’m saying. Don’t go pledging your undying loyalty to those who couldn’t care less about you.”
Harald watched him go, then glanced at Exeros’ mote. “That true? What he said?”
His question had been rhetorical, but to his surprise the mote expanded and became the scarred and street-worn child, his six wings furled, his thin, emaciated limbs crossed over his narrow chest. The Seraph watched Vic depart, eyes narrowed, lips pursed.
Harald stared at the child, surprised. A weight filled the air, and from the frown on the Seraph’s brow, it was clear he wasn’t about to simply contradict Vic.
But then Exeros flicked a storm-wracked gaze at Harald, grimaced, and rose back up to his mote form.
“Very enlightening,” said Harald. “Thanks for the advice. Great having you around.”
The mote glimmered dully and gave no response.
“Also, thanks for alerting Alabenthos and sending my friends along.”
No response.
“Glad to know you’re not above acting as a messenger boy.”
That last had been crafted to provoke, but if it stung the Seraph’s ire, the mote gave no sign.
Harald sighed and turned away.
“Ready to descend?” called Nessa. “There’s a well beyond that mound.”
“Let’s go,” said Harald, and shoved his doubts aside.
They closed on the well. It was crudely fashioned, and, to no surprise, teal green.
“You sure you don’t want your Artifacts back?” asked Nessa as they stared into its dark throat.
“I’m still just Level 6,” said Harald. “Got to keep grinding.”
“No complaints here,” she smirked, the Aureate Master gleaming on her arm. “Then let’s go say hello to the moths.”
“I’ll take point.” Harald hopped up easily onto the well’s edge, turned, gave a mock salute, and stepped back to drop into the darkness.
Dislocation. The kiss of the abyss.
And then, glorious crimson.
The sky was alight with sunset, the hues virulent and royal, the ragged clouds gradating to deepest umber to the east, lightening to pinks and flesh-reds and forge bright glimmers of gold to the west. A resplendent sky that took his breath away, vast, arching massively overhead, a conflagration such as he’d never seen in Flutic or the surface world.
Was this really a level of a dungeon? The sheer scale made it feel like another world altogether. Where was the evidence that each level was stacked neatly below the last? How could the 36th be above this cerulean vault?
The others appeared beside him, jolting him back into alertness.
They had appeared on a hillside high above a shadowed vale.
Winter trees, limbs bare, were scattered across the rocky ground.
Fog wreathed the ground below, and on the shallow valley’s far side, a rough and raw hill rose, crowned with the ruins of a sprawling castle whose every western edge and face were painted in blood by the sunset, the rest of it cast into shadow.
“Beautiful,” breathed Sam, moving up alongside Harald. “That must be the Lumin Court?”
“Looks pretty shabby,” said Vic doubtfully. “But then again, are we holding moths to an unfair housekeeping standard?”
“The valley floor will be where the battle takes place.” Nessa was taking it all in, moving her head from side to side as if trying to peer around corners and spires. “The moment we move, we’ll draw attention.”
“This sky will play to their advantage,” said Kársek. “They can remain high above us with impunity.”
“Then should we get inside the castle?” asked Sam. “Race across the valley and take the fight inside?”
Nessa nodded and then turned in a circle. Harald did the same, taking in the rest of the landscape. The setting sun daubed the hills about them in salmon pinks and carnelian, with everything else slumbering into shadow. In the far distance a dark forest, bare canopy, uninviting.
“Not much choice for terrain,” murmured Nessa. “The well should be inside the castle, too. Yes. I think Sam’s right. We race for the walls as one. The path isn’t simple. Look.”
Harald examined the route they might take, and saw she was right: ragged outcroppings and boulders dotted the slope down to the valley, making it easy to split apart if they moved too quickly. The fog shrouded the details of the valley floor, but countless islands of sharp rocks rose from the mist.
“The Lumin Court excels in illusions,” said Sam. “In the tale, it said they can weave duplicates, change one’s sense of direction, and bedazzle the eyes.”
“My Thurak Rune might prove effective against such enchantments,” said Kársek. “But not if we’re racing pell-mell toward the castle.”
“Guess it won’t be so easy, then.” Harald bit his lower lip, considered the route one last time, then shrugged. “We go slow and steady, stick together, and make for that main archway on the far valley side.”