Chapter 2 #2
Harald bit his lower lip, considered, then gave a sharp nod. “All right, that’s clear enough, then. He wants to know what manner of man I am. If I’m a slave to the Demon Seed. Perhaps it’s restraint he’s looking for. Or nobility. Or—”
“How quickly you’re turned to gleaming red goo?
” Vic rose to his feet. “You’re all mad.
Sam’s already made it clear: you can’t defeat ol’ Brauxis.
So, what’s there to debate? It’s so painfully simple: Alabenthos is at war with the demons.
He’s not killed us yet out of respect for Sam.
But if we insist on staying, he’ll have his Steward kill us, who, don’t forget, is just yearning for a good fight.
So we go!” He looked around plaintively.
“Right? Please tell me you’re not all collectively insane. ”
“I go where Harald goes,” said Kársek calmly.
“As do I,” said Sam. “But I’m in agreement with Vic on this one.”
Nessa shrugged. “The smart money is on leaving. But this isn’t about being smart, is it, Harald?” Her gaze was probing. “You need this.”
“Yes.” Harald took a deep breath. “I do. And I think Kársek is right. This really is a test. Alabenthos isn’t Melisende Celestis. He’s an angel. He wouldn’t give me a test I couldn’t pass.”
“You poor, stupid fool,” said Vic, voice grown harsh. “Honestly, your need for a paternal figure’s approval is too much. Well! If you’re intent on throwing your life away, I won’t stop you. But I won’t help, either.”
Harald smiled sadly at his friend. “Didn’t think you would.”
Vic narrowed his eyes. “There are no heroes. Every legend is a lie we fabricate to make this world bearable. Alabenthos, Vorakhar—they’re just different sides of the same coin.”
“Careful,” said Sam, tone low.
Harald turned to face his friend full on. “So, if you don’t respect the angels, and won’t serve the demons, what’s left, huh, Vic? You going to set yourself above everyone else?”
Vic sneered. “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed Vic is king. You know what the true definition of maturity is? No longer needing authority figures to tell you what to do.” He bowed. “Well, I shall excuse myself. I wish you the best in your quixotic quest to make your new father figure proud.”
They all watched him saunter into the hall.
“He’s not wrong,” said Nessa. “But strangely enough, that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s right, either. You sure about this, Harald?”
Harald reached out to Shadowpaw. Again, he caught faint flickers of joy and savage predatory instincts from the hound. Shadowpaw was having a grand time with Brauxis. And that knowledge settled his fears. “I am.”
“Then so be it.” Nessa leaned back and closed her eyes.
“You’ve got a few hours to rest before the biggest fight of your life.
I’d urge you to use them wisely. Oh.” She sat back up and summoned a small golden sphere into her palm which she tossed over to him.
“Here. You should probably use this in the fight.”
The Solace of Aurelum, taken from Sabina, one of House Celestara Silver-ranked raiders.
“Thanks.” Harald absorbed it into his Cosmos, relinquishing the Rootheart Sigil he’d taken from Thracos, which he tossed over to her in turn.
That done, he rubbed his face vigorously.
The battles at the House Celestara estate felt like only a moment ago—his body ached, and suddenly he could barely keep his eyes open. “Sleep. Good idea.”
Sam went to say something, changed her mind. She touched his shoulder instead, and remained behind, watching, as he stumbled into the hallway to find a room.
* * *
A deep and dreamless sleep. The bed was incredible. The darkness absolute. When Harald awoke, he felt ravenous and restored. Instinct caused him to reach out: Shadowpaw was restored to his Cosmos.
Very well.
Harald rose, and a soft light bloomed in the room from no discernible source. By its light, he washed his face, donned the clean clothing Sam had given him, and emerged back into the central chamber.
A man awaited him there, a stranger. Stern of face, square-shouldered, narrow hips, his physique athletic and trim.
He wore a black body suit over which was draped an ivory cloak.
His arms were clad in armor, his hands protected by fearsome gauntlets, one of which rested on the pommel of a drawn blade.
Its guard was an abstract swirl of platinum and gold, and its blade began broad and tapered quickly to a long and wicked point.
An Artifact, Harald had no doubt.
The man had been deep in thought, lips pursed, staring fiercely down and away at nothing, but at Harald’s entrance he looked up. He was young, Harald’s age perhaps, his hair a thick shock of chestnut, handsome and with a gravitas beyond his apparent age.
“Harald Darrowdelve.” The blade disappeared. “My name is Rovarik Tane. Angel-kin in service to Alabenthos, and a Level 10 Luminarch Templar. I’m here to escort you to your duel.”
“Well met,” said Harald. “My friends?”
“Awaiting you there. Except for your companion, Vic. He chose to quit the level and was given permission to depart.”
Harald grimaced. “Vic. Damn it. Very well. Lead on.”
Rovarik led him through the double golden doors and down a flight of shallow steps into a broad atrium carved out of the living rock. A waterfall cascaded in the near distance down one rough wall, sunlight pouring into the cavern from above its frothing waters.
“I asked to escort you,” volunteered Rovarik, looking sidelong at Harald as they walked. “You’re an Abyssal Master, are you not?”
“That’s right.”
“Yet you wish to fight for my lord?”
“Alabenthos? Yes. Him and all the angels.”
“Fascinating.” Rovarik scrutinized him. “You’re aware of course that no mortal has ever resisted a Demon Seed forever? Everybody succumbs.”
“There’s always a first.”
Rovarik smirked. “True enough. If you could have yours removed, would you agree?”
Harald thought of Father Pastoric and his ritual. “I did, once. But events grew dire. I needed my powers to save my friends.”
“And now?”
“I’m not sure I’d be of much use to your lord without it.”
“Pragmatic.”
The man continued to watch him as they strode into a long hall. Its vaulted ceiling rose high above them, a placid river running down its length between boulders crowned in pink flowers.
Harald frowned. “What?”
“I’ve slain three demon-kin. I’m just wondering if I’ll have to kill you, one day.”
Now it was Harald’s turn to smirk. “I see. Came to learn about your eventual foe?”
Rovarik’s smile was roguish, unabashed. “Can you fault me? You’re Darrowdelve’s son. I’m sure you’ll prove formidable.”
“Well, you have my apologies. I don’t intend to give you cause.”
Rovarik inclined his head. “Time will tell.”
Alabenthos’ domain was beautiful. Light tended to pour down from high windows, and running water was everywhere.
The rock was marble, and columns were in evidence against the unworked walls.
Broad staircases, worked stone, inlays of gold and silver.
It felt like traversing a continuous cathedral that had frozen in the midst of emerging from the raw caverns.
Finally, they reached their destination. A massive chamber, a domed ceiling rising high, high above, stadium seating rising halfway up the walls, greatly weathered and worn. Arches climbed the rest of the way to the dome, each boasting a window in its depth, and from these poured golden light.
His companions awaited him on the lowest seats, clustered together, and when he entered through a grand archway, they rose to their feet.
But Harald’s gaze was locked on the great winged figure standing in the center of a large ceremonial circle in the middle of the chamber, its perimeter marked by a broad gold band.