Seraphs (26 page)

Whatever he had expected me to ask, it hadn’t been that. “Four summers.”

“What brought you the most glory, finding the town or dead-mining it?”

“Finding it,” he said, half unwillingly.

“And how many towns are left to be discovered?”

He looked away when he answered. “According to my Pre-Ap maps, dozens were left empty by the plagues, and are now lost beneath the ice caps. A few others were destroyed by war and buried by landslides.”

“And how many dead-miners have ever discovered more than one town?”

Audric’s eyes pierced me, his mouth turned down. “None. It has never been done.”

“You would be the first.” Audric stared. I double-checked the placement of three vials of baptismal water, tugging to make sure they would stay in place, yet pop off easily as needed, not that I was convinced they would work against Darkness. I had yet to see proof. “A dead-miner with two towns to his credit. Glory, a name for yourself that would survive until the end finally comes. You can’t, however, discover a second town if you’re excavating a hole in the ice. But if you sold your claim you could research all winter and spend the summer months looking. And you would only have to leave Mineral City for three months a year. You could have a home. A real one. It’s just a thought.”

I walked to the back window and hung a white cloth where it could be seen from outside. “Someone from the EIH will be coming. Maybe Eli. You can tell them where I’ll be. Maybe they’ll feel like helping.”

My heart in my throat, I said, “If I survive, I’ll be back before dark tomorrow.” With those words, I grabbed up my insulated leather cloak, food, a small bag I had packed for emergencies, and swung out the door and down the stairs to the stockroom for the real supplies. Minutes later, I had Homer saddled and bridled and was leading him out of the stable and up the Trine, my cloak and the bags filled with necessities tied to the saddle skirt.

My breath came tight in my chest. My body was rigid with cold and fear, my hands too firm on Homer’s reins. Picking up my agitation, he tossed his head and rolled an eye back at me. “Sorry,” I said, patting his big shoulder and easing the pressure on the reins. I was going up the Trine again. I was going into the pit of Darkness. A hellhole. Tears blurred my vision. I didn’t want to do this. I really, really,
really
didn’t want to do this.
Stupid, stupid, stupid,
my brain shouted at me.

I looked up into the sky and sighed. I had lived in the mountains long enough to read weather signs, and what I saw was Murphy’s Law in action. To the south, warm weather currents had gathered and slid north with the trade winds. From the north, a cold front had moved through the highest reaches of the stratosphere. A blizzard had begun to form. “Just ducky,” I said.

Chapter 25

The day was well advanced when I reached the site where Amethyst’s wheels had lain buried for a century or more. It was the first time I had come back since the amethyst ship had risen from the ground, reattached itself to the navcone—the ship’s navigation nose cone—killed a whole army of Darkness, melted the ice cap avalanche that was roaring down the Trine, then vaporized the deluge. The ship had taken off into the heavens.

In the way of the battle-mages, it was my moment of glory. But no one saw it but the few humans who had been there and Amethyst, who had seen what was happening from her prison underground. I had sort of thought the cherub had been a figment of my imagination, and figments don’t talk about moments of glory. And the men who had fought with me, well, they probably had big ideas about what had happened, but they didn’t really know. As moments of glory went, it was pretty great. But pretty secret.

Signs of the battle were buried beneath several snowfalls, leaving the site looking pristine and white, not blood-splattered, heaped with the bodies of the dead, burned, charred, and gory. The clearing had once held a manmade cairn of boulders and stones, now crushed and scattered, covered by snow, and the huge oval mound hiding the wheels was now a deep depression. The snow made the hole look smooth, neatly scraped and shaped, as if God the Victorious had taken an ice-cream scoop to the mountain.

I’m really here. I’m really doing this. How stupid can I get?
Fear whispered through my bloodstream.

Icy air moved through the bare branches of trees. Where once the mound had offered protection from the wind, now there was a barren desolation, and the sound was like the plaintive moans of bagpipes. I pulled the battle cloak over my knees and readjusted my feet in the stirrups. Battle boots weren’t made for riding and my knees hurt, locked at an awkward angle.

I rode Homer to the edge of the cavity and looked down, the big horse snorting his dislike of the sharp precipice. It was a long way down. A very long way. The sight made me lonely in ways I didn’t completely understand, but maybe it was just that no one wanted to die alone, and I had a good chance of doing that today. I had come close to dying the last time I went into the pit, and then I had some help from the wheels buried here. I had promised myself I’d never go underground, never again. I guess I lied.

A whistle sounded, echoing and reechoing up and down the mountain, a keening, mournful sound. I kneed Homer in a slow circle, searching for its origin, and finally spotted a row of horses below me, six of them, too far downhill to identify the riders, except for the bay in the lead. It was Thadd’s mount. Joy spiked through me, followed by some emotion I couldn’t name, bittersweet and painful, and I swallowed against a tight throat. Okay, so I wouldn’t die alone. But if I died, I’d likely take them with me. Which was much worse.

“Hope you guys brought lunch and feed,” I said to the cold wind, “because I can’t take care of you all.” Which was more true than it might seem.

I slid from the horse’s back, led him away from the precipice to a flat area on the south side of a large rock, and loosed his girth. A bit of grass peeked through the snow, and Homer sighed happily before pawing at the ground to uncover more. I dumped two handfuls of feed at his feet for lunch and opened a jar of peanut butter and a package of crackers for me. I would need the protein. If I ate meat, now would be the time for a big juicy steak, some fried potatoes, and cake or pie for the sugar burst. I ate quickly and was standing on a boulder, my cloak tightly wrapped against the cold, watching, when the cavalcade came into view.

A heavily armed Thadd was in the lead, an automatic rifle with an unusual barrel design hung from his saddle. Joseph Barefoot rode behind him on a sure-footed mountain pony. Eli, wearing a fringed leather jacket, buckskin chaps, and cowboy hat, looked like a riding armament with knives in his hatband and belt, bandoliers crossed over his chest, and his flamethrower slung over his back. He rode a flashy Appaloosa, its coat apricot-colored with molasses-colored spots. At their six was Durbarge, the assey, his black eye patch and twisted features malevolent, his remaining, droopy-lidded eye hard. Thadd and Durbarge were wearing long leather dusters, fashioned to ride and to fight, the pockets bulging. Flames had healed Durbarge’s foot, mangled in the street fight, and he rode without pain.

Between the assey and Eli, riding sturdy palomino mules, were two men I didn’t know. Like Barefoot, each had a branded cheek; clearly EIH operatives. The Earth Invasion Heretics were poorly dressed in jeans and ratty leather jackets that stopped at their thighs, but they were well armed, and one had what looked like a shoulder-mounted rocket launcher strapped to his mount’s withers. It was strange to see the EIH and an investigator with the Administration of the ArchSeraph working together. Durbarge’s cheek, below his eye patch, was twitching, though whether because his eye pained him or because of the company I didn’t know.

As they snaked toward the clearing, Eli took off his hat and waved it over his head, calling, “Hey, beautiful! Can you take on all six of us?” Thadd looked back at him, irritated at the innuendo.

I hid a smile, folded back my cloak, and lifted a hand, considering the six men. Together we made seven, an auspicious number, holy. Revelation 1:16 said of a seraph, “And he had in his right hand seven stars: and out of his mouth went a sharp twoedged sword . . .”

I wasn’t a star—nowhere near being a seraph—but I had a two-edged sword. And now there were seven of us. That thought cheered me as the men reached the clearing, dismounted, and began to open supplies. Eli, holding what looked like a ham sub, walked to the boulder and stood below me, munching. He talked between swallows, amber eyes squinting up at me. As he talked, the other men gathered around him. “You know everyone but Tomas and Rickie here.” He indicated the two EIH men with his sandwich. “They saw you fight in the street battle the other day. Thought you looked interesting.” I wasn’t certain what
interesting
meant, but I didn’t interrupt. “Got enough players to make a good-sized Pre-Ap boy band,” he said. I rolled my eyes at his flippancy, and nodded to the strangers. “If this can wait, we can mobilize a good-sized force by morning,” Eli said.

“I don’t think it can wait.”

“We got your message,” Joseph Barefoot said, finishing off a beef jerky stick. “Brought enough weapons to wage a small war. Not what we’d have with some notice, but a bit. What’s this your champard said about a succubus queen?”

I told the men about the queen who had given birth to the succubi, the voluptuous killers from the battle, and they listened with keen intent while eating and drinking water from plastic bottles. When I told them the new succubi were possibly fertile, capable of birth, and that thousands of succubus eggs might be ready to hatch, they moved uneasily.

“And how do you know this?” Durbarge asked, his droopy eye deceptively sleepy-looking in his scarred face.

This was the tricky part. Durbarge was contractually bound to assist me in my duties and in fighting Darkness, but he could also arrest me if I overstepped my bounds. As a licensed mage I could operate among humans, but having conversations with minions of Darkness wasn’t exactly part of my rights. “The queen, uh, tried to attack me last night. And I, well, I kinda, accidentally, bound it to me.” The men’s expressions were comical.

“You bound a Darkness to you,” Durbarge said tonelessly.

“Seems like it,” I said, glad I was hiding behind my cloak so the assey couldn’t see me fidget. “I thought it was human, possessed by a demon. I was going for exorcism, but it turned out to be a partially transmogrified Darkness. It’s bound to me. I’m guessing its master will undo the binding when it gets free.”

“Free? You left it alive?” Durbarge asked. Maybe I should have taken the fifth then, but I didn’t, though it was a crime to leave a Darkness breathing.

“Yes,” I said, and watched as he processed the information. He didn’t go for his sigil to arrest me or his gun to shoot me. So far so good.

“So. You called a succubus—a succubus queen, as you call it—captured it, and bound it, all without the help of the AAS. Where is this
succubus queen
?”

I suppressed a flare of anger at his tone. He was right. It had been stupid, even if I hadn’t planned it that way. “In my loft. Duct-taped to a chair in a conjuring circle. I was afraid that if I killed it, its master would know. If I can get to the nest before it gets loose, I can do a lot of damage. And if we get there before nightfall, we can surprise its master.”

Durbarge sighed, rubbed his hand across his head, and slid the tip of a finger under the band that held his patch in place. Before he could decide what he was going to do about me, I added, “I learned the name of the Major Darkness on the Trine too.”

“That thing that tried to take you in the street battle?” Thadd asked.

I remembered my horror and the pain of being held in its claws. “Yes. It’s Forcas. Not its seraphic name, I know, but it gives us at least some power over it.”

“And this can’t wait until I can get reinforcements in?” Durbarge asked.

“Train is out until spring thaw.”

“I can get troops in on military transports,” he said. “Take two days, three at most.”

“I don’t know how much time we have,” I said, shrugging, my cloak moving with the motion and catching the cold breeze. “She said the larvae would hatch at dawn. I’m guessing it’s easier to kill eggs than larvae, and I know for a fact my circle can’t hold the queen for long. She’ll be free sooner rather than later.” Their faces were indecisive, mutinous, or irritated, and I knew I couldn’t wait on them.

Unable to conceal the anger in my tone, I said, “You guys decide what you want to do. There’s water for the horses.” I pointed to a runnel near Homer. “I’ll be on the Trine.” I jumped from the boulder, tightened Homer’s saddle girth, and climbed a branch to remount. With a leap that threw my cloak flying, I was astride the Friesian and heading up the mountain. I tamped down my irritation as the men argued behind me. They would come or they wouldn’t. Nothing I could do about it either way.
Men.

As I rode, I studied the triple peaks. The entrance to the lair of Darkness was on the left peak, near the top. I wanted to reach the mouth of Forcas’ domain way before nightfall, and with the ice pack gone and bare ground most of the way, that was possible. But I was, maybe, back to doing it alone. Just ducky.

Barak settled against his feathers, staring at the dark rock roof of his prison cell, his mouth turned up in satisfaction. It had been long and long since he had felt the presence of a kylen. But the near-breed was close and armed. He traveled with a mage, both of them prepared for war. It would not be long now. Zadkiel wanted him to bring the Light into the cavern, and chaos and war. Zadkiel wanted many things. Barak would settle for freedom.

In the corridor beyond the bars, he heard a soft soughing, smelled the mingled scents of Light and Darkness, of flowers and spring wind and freshening rain blended with the stenches of rotting meat and old blood, mold, stagnant water, and an overlay of brimstone. The smells had tantalized and beckoned to him, pulling him to the bars, once close enough to burn his face on the demon-iron. He had first noted the slight smells several hours ago, as time was counted here, and they had grown, the scents peaking some hours past. But they had weakened, and whatever had emitted the odors was gone.

Two hours before nightfall, I reached the hellhole, the smell of brimstone and dead things blowing across me, the entrance glowing a dull yellow and red in mage-sight. The men had finally made their decision and were only a few hundred yards behind, their mounts lathered, their faces inscrutable. No one looked happy to be there, not that I was dancing a jig myself. If someone—if Lolo—had sent me instructions on how to use the blasted visa I might not need to be here, at least not without seraphic support.

I dismounted and tethered Homer to the trunk of a long-dead tree, removed his saddle and the bit, and poured him more food. When he looked settled, I threw a shield of protection over him. He had drank deeply only minutes before, and water would be plentiful come morning as sunlight melted the snow. When he got thirsty he could pull the tether loose, pop through the shield of protection, and get to a runnel. Eventually, the Friesian could make his way down the mountain. That was assuming I didn’t get out alive.

Before the men reached me, I drank a liter of water, found a secluded place to relieve myself, and scuffed a conjuring circle in the hard ground just below the lip of the hellhole. Sitting on a rock, I closed my eyes, and prepared for battle. I had been to war. I knew how it was done.

I was pretty sure I had sat on this exact rock to prepare myself the last time I came here, except it was in a different place and turned on its side. Melting snow had changed the face of the entrance, moving boulders downhill, cutting runnels in the dirt, carving out a ledge just below the opening to the lair.

Mage-sight open, I closed the circle, and the stench of evil intensified. The peak glowed the ailing greenish-yellow of snow, overlaid with the red and black of Darkness. Swallowing down the nausea of fear, I began to chant. “Stone and fire, water and air, blood and kin prevail. Wings and shield, dagger and sword, blood and kin prevail.” Calm descended, as soft and gentle as seraph down. I chanted the litany created by the earliest neomages, a nursery rhyme chant that had followed us down through the decades. Breathing, feeling my heart beat, my blood pulse, I centered myself, preparing for death, as all warrior mages must.