Chapter 23
Saer remained on the hilltop for hours, surrounded by the still, quiet dead. Men and women. Young and old.
Butchers and leather workers and fishermen and gardeners.
Fathers and mothers and grandparents and children.
Tens of thousands of lives he’d taken without thought or discrepancy, all in the name of the fallen angel who commanded him to destroy his beloved. The thought churned something in him, a discomfort which had everything to do with the implications and nothing to do with Neyu’s demise.
In the end, her death outweighed all else.
He waited for Lucifer to come for him, either to end his miserable existence or to take it all back. To rewind Neyu’s unmaking or show that she’d only returned to the Hells. She couldn’t be gone.
No one came. No fallen angel possessed his body. No other Daemoenic appeared.
Wind. The crashing of waves against the nearby cliff faces. The high-pitched, musical tweeting of warblers. Quiet sizzling of immeasurable tears from the corners of Saer’s eyes, trailing down his nose as he knelt, curled over with his arms clutching his middle, otherwise unmoving.
Get up.
What comes next?
I can’t go back.
She can’t be gone.
I won’t go back.
Lucifer would discover his discarding of the souls promised and come for him, possess him. Or send his kin after him to be dragged back to the Hells. Punishment was imminent.
Yet, Saer couldn’t imagine a greater punishment than the one already invoked.
There’s nothing else to lose.
The fallen angel could possess him at any moment, just as It possessed Errshek.
Errshek.
Saer’s raw eyes snapped open, the ground a blur and streaked with traces of wet, gray ashes.
Errshek, the reason for Lucifer’s discovery.
Errshek, the cause of Neyu’s unmaking.
He wasn’t worthy of Neyu’s sacrifice. He didn’t deserve saving.
Saer straightened his spine, unfocused gaze taking in the glowing horizon over a sea of deceased husks.
Before Lucifer came for him, before he was unmade for his rebellion, he had one last mission to complete.
Errshek had gained more than enough of a head start to disappear off Saer’s radar.
Returning to the Hells would only accelerate his own destruction before he had the chance to incinerate Envy from the inside out.
Though Lucifer wouldn’t have allowed the Sixth to cower from his duties in the Hells—of that much, Pride was certain.
He’d scour the surface by foot, mount, and ship for as long as it took.
With Neyu gone, nothing else mattered.
Saer’s bitter and persistent need for vengeance marinated. He clung to his rage, nurturing a willingness to wait for the impending payoff. Errshek would be found, and he’d be slaughtered.
When he failed to locate Envy in short order, Saer turned to the next obvious lead—by seeking out the remaining Daemoenica.
The rest of his kin could harvest with subtlety—all except Wrath. They’d helped one another through enough harvests for him to recognize her flagrant methods. He just had to pick the correct war.
It took him months of inquiry and traveling, but he wouldn’t be deterred, and his diligence led him to an island.
The landscape boasted a mixture of verdant marshland, crooked yew forests, fields of indigo hydrangeas, and dramatic shorelines buttressing against rolling green hills—it hardly seemed a place for bloodshed.
Yet, its allure and abundance were exactly why humans fought over the land from the start.
Once humankind began to equate ownership of land and creatures with power, it grew in enticement, and Runeak fed the temptation to perfection.
Saer arrived not by Hellsfire, but by ship.
Seawater, salt, and the scent of fish teased his nose.
As the expansive fishing boat pulled up to the creaking pier, Saer adjusted his dark hood to keep the rain from his skin.
The sensation didn’t bother him, but the way water steamed upon contact with his Daemoenic flesh tended to draw unwanted attention.
After paying the toothy captain a few coins for the passage, Saer disembarked and entered the humble seaside village to acquire a horse. He’d ride towards the battle’s borders and there, he hoped to find Runeak.
For two nights straight Saer stopped to camp, building himself ample fires. The days on the boat had been bereft of most flames, and while he absorbed heat from the sun, it proved difficult through cloud cover.
With nothing else to occupy his mind through the nights, he relived the moments of his beloved’s death. Allowed rage to break the mental walls he’d carefully constructed. Saer tasted it in the back of his throat, rolled it over on his tongue like a rich, butyraceous champagne.
The campfire crackled as licks of flame kissed his knuckles.
He played with the fiery tendrils and pictured the languid, torturous death he’d put Errshek through.
With Neyu, he’d made it as swift as he could manage, no hesitation, no additional time for torment—it wouldn’t be so with the one he called his little brother.
Saer wanted to eat Errshek’s suffering as he devoured the blaze in front of him.
Methodically.
Degree by glorious, delicious degree.
A clearing of grass served as the latest installation for the war encampment.
Expansive, raised tents with walls made of cured, thick leather hides set in row upon neat row.
Still far enough away that he wouldn’t be spotted but close enough to sense the warm bodies milling about, Saer estimated the number in the thousands.
He cared about one heat signature amidst the throng, and it glowed fiercely, a beacon amongst the rest of the horde. The signal stood within the largest tent, near the center of the entire base.
Tapping his heels on the brown mare’s flanks, Saer spurred her to trot up to the front of the encampment. The moment the soldiers spotted him, loud shouts rang out. He recognized the language as that spoken on the fishing boat he arrived on, though only understood every fifth-or-so word.
Saer pulled his hood back to reveal his face, then raised his arms over his head. His palms were empty.
The base sent a trio of guards on armored horses his way.
They wore a mixture of rust-toned wood, leather, and metal plates strung together in small sections with thick fabric cords at the joints.
The armor stopped at their knees, and further plates coiled around their shins, held together by glinting ropes of cloth.
To Saer’s mild amusement, they each had a helmet donned with long points of various shapes to mimic horns.
The leader sported a trim, black beard while those flanking him had smooth faces with chiseled jaws. Saer took a moment to appreciate their tan skin and dark eyes, so different from his own features.
He touched a hand to his chest, stopping their inquisitive chatter. “Saer.” He pointed to their largest tent. “Leader? Let me speak.”
The guard shook his head, voice raising.
Saer pointed again. “Leader! Let me speak!”
Once again, the apparent guard in charge shook his head with more emphasis. Louder words returned. Saer’s temper flared.
Another voice called from the tent, and the group turned. A fourth guard rode towards them in haste.
Leaving one of the flanking sentries to keep an eye on Saer, the lead soldier spoke in hushed, intense tones with the newcomer.
He made a sound of frustration at the end of the short conversation and raised his deep brown eyes to glare.
Pride lifted his sable eyebrows with a mixture of amusement and impatience.
The captain made the same irritated noise and performed a series of sharp gestures while barking orders.
The two original, mounted guards rushed to line up on either side of Saer’s mare.
One took her reins at the bit, and Saer just kept from striking the offensive hand away.
The interaction seemed to be leading in the right direction, even if he was less than thrilled about being escorted in such a manner.
He rested tense hands on the horn of his saddle.
As a unit, they approached the series of hide-dressed tents.
It pleased Saer when they bypassed the smaller ones and went straight towards what he’d indicated as his ultimate destination—the general’s draped pavilion.
Onlooking soldiers paused during the short journey to observe the small procession before resuming their duties.
As usual, wherever Saer went, he invoked an air of curiosity.
The group slid off their respective saddles. One of the soldiers reached for Saer’s mare to tie it to a hitching post, and another took him by an elbow to guide him. Before he entered the large tent, Saer could have sworn the guard shot him a look of apology.
The tent flap pulled back, and Saer found himself ushered into the entryway of the tall structure. A massive, round, wooden table took up a full half of the space. Various scrolls, depictions of maps, and whittled figurines sat arranged atop.
Saer knew a war board when he spotted one.
Various wooden-carved masks and half-masks decorated the walls of the enclosure, the haunting maliciousness of their make evoking a sense of foreboding.
Their creators sculpted the eyes at sharp angles with shapes and colors depicting rage.
Snarling, oversized teeth projected over pulled back lips from above and below, some jutting far out like tusks.
Just like the helmets of the guards, most of the masks possessed horns of various shapes and sizes.
Painted in multiple deep shades of sable, crimson, and gray, each one was terrifying in its own right.
The vast majority reflected scarlet, just as most had onyx horns protruding forward.
Rather than admire the craftsmanship, his gaze slid to the imposing figure in the center of the room. The air might have stilled in his lungs and throat, if he housed less familiarity with her.