White sand swirling, here at last
The Presence's final die is cast.
Mekka and Carmine landed on the roof of Carmine's apartment some way from the embassy. The bright red tiles simmered in the sun, which had scaled the canyon wall and was now attempting to outfly the billowing clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. A hot, dry breeze washed over the heads of the buildings, ruffling the Angel's feathers and scattering the last of the dust he'd cloaked himself in, returning his feathers to their natural glossy black.
Carmine could feel his heart thumping against her back, echoing her own. Despite his outward coolness, he was just as anxious about the groundbreaking news they had overheard as she was.
He was also, Carmine thought, holding her a little longer than was necessary.
"Thanks, Mekka," she told him politely.
Reluctantly, he released her. "You're welcome," he replied quietly.
She turned to catch his gaze, but he looked away awkwardly. With a flap of his wings, he leapt nimbly onto a chimney stack and slouched against it with one leg dangling over the rim. Carmine edged carefully down the tiles to a flat space and sat down. For a long while they sat in silence, not talking, brooding over the conversation between the King of Daroria and the Arkanian ambassador, letting the revelation and its consequences sift through their minds.
However Carmine looked at it, the repercussions were overwhelming.
The Aegis is failing…
She chewed her lip anxiously. "What are we going to do?" she said aloud.
Mekka simply frowned, saying nothing.
"King Neodine will launch an attack on the Dragons," Carmine went on. "He'll try to wipe them out while they're still confined on the Isle, before they have a chance to escape and scatter around the other nations. He has no other choice. There aren't any sorcerers left to restore the Aegis, therefore we have to assume that its failing is a certainty, and that it's going to happen sooner rather than later. The ambassador must have been pretty sure of what he'd seen in the Aurellian, otherwise he wouldn't have gone out of his way to warn us."
"Noble of him," Mekka muttered dryly.
Carmine ignored him, frowning in thought. "The King will need to rally the entire army, perhaps seek help from Siriaza or Remast or maybe even Enopina. Current enemies and former enemies, maybe, but petty power wars over redstone won't seem so important when everyone finds Dragons on their doorsteps."
Mekka shook his head. "It will make no difference," he said fatalistically. "Many kings of many nations have attempted to eradicate the Dragons throughout the ages, to no avail. A thousand years they have been imprisoned on that island, and in all that time only one Human has ever managed to slay one…" his voice trailed off and he gave a start of realisation.
Carmine closed her eyes. "My father," she whispered. Suddenly, she straightened with a jolt and looked up at the Angel, her eyes widening. "Oh no, Mekka, you don't think…?"
"That the King will seek Sirannor's aid once more?" Mekka replied darkly. "Assuredly."
"But he's a convicted traitor!"
"He is also a Freeroamer," Mekka pointed out. "Which may be enough to redeem himself in the eyes of the King… although General Dreikan will be more difficult to convince. But still, this is a desperate situation: anything is possible.
"The more important question, I think, is whether or not Sirannor Vandaris would be willing to help."
"Of course he would!" Carmine retorted, a little angrily. "It's true that he hates General Dreikan, and he hates the King, and he hates the Middle Isle, but he wouldn't let millions of people die and his own country fall into ruin out of spite!"
Would he? The question prickled uncomfortably in the back of her mind. She could not be completely sure. Her father's motives were incomprehensible to her.
"And then of course," Mekka said hesitantly, "there's Hawk."
Carmine gasped. "Oh, dammit!" she exclaimed, slamming her fist into her knee in frustration. There was a very good chance that both her father and her fiancée would be recruited for what was almost guaranteed to be a suicide mission. At least Sirannor had a choice in the matter: Devandar did not. He was in the service of the King, and would therefore be obligated to carry out whatever ludicrous orders he was given. And knowing General Dreikan, those orders certainly would be ludicrous, reckless and hasty, because that was the type of man he was.
Attack first, threaten anyone who asked questions later.
She sighed heavily and stood up. "Someone has to warn them…"
Mekka was already standing on the chimney stack, arms folded across his lean chest. He was rather tall for an Angel, an inch taller than Hawk, in fact. Perhaps that was another reason Hawk found him insufferable.
"I will go," he declared, seemingly having come to the same conclusion way ahead of her.
He had a set look to his face, which Carmine knew indicated that he had made a decision and would not be budged on it. She had to try, anyway.
"You don't have to do this, Mekka," she replied, shaking her head, though was nevertheless touched that he had made the offer. Mekka rarely visited other cities; most places in Daroria weren't as accommodating to Angels as the capital was, and his ominous colouring especially seemed to spook people. "My family aren't your responsibility."
His elegant eyebrow raised in genuine surprise, as though any other possibility had never occurred to him. "I can get there much faster than you can, redfeathers," he told her reasonably.
There was no arguing with that. Even on horseback, she could not match the swiftness of an Angel.
She sighed again. "You always get your way, don't you?" she said jokingly.
Mekka's self-satisfied smirk faded and he gave her a long look. "No," he answered softly. "Not always."
He glanced away abruptly, then his smile returned. "Don't get into trouble while I'm gone," he said with a wink.
She gave him a sweet, innocent, 'who, me?' look.
With a sceptical "hmm," he took off.
"Mekka!" Carmine called.
He whirled in the air, shadowy wings flapping.
"If Hawk calls you a Muron again, you have my permission to punch him!"
I will hold you to that, Mekka signed back, and Carmine watched him swoop away across the city to collect supplies for the journey.
* * *
"You know what, Captain?" Hawk said.
"What?" Sirannor replied wearily.
"I'm sick of this bloody place."
"You don't need to tell me."
"Have you thought of a plan yet?"
"No."
"Good. 'Cause I have."
Hawk jumped down off the dais and began crunching over the glass, swinging his sword up to rest on his shoulder. "I'm getting out of here, even if I have to walk until my legs drop off. And even then," he added, "I'm gonna keep on walking anyway, 'cause it'll probably be a trick."
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Sirannor smiled. "As good a plan as any," he said. He turned to drag Cimmeran to his feet.
Hawk scowled at the stone ball as he walked, looming on the glass field some way away like the moon's angry little sister. "Go on, flatten me," he muttered. "I could use a good lie down."
And then he heard the noise.
Despite his own resolve, Hawk halted, glancing again at the ball. But the sound was not coming particularly from there; the great stone had not moved.
It was coming from all around them and sounded like laughter. But it was strange, warped and heavily echoed, entwined with many voices, like listening to a crowd jeering from underwater.
Hawk turned around slowly, holding his sword up defensively, bracing himself for whatever mad new manifestation was to appear.
Then he saw them.
They surrounded the dais and the three men, maybe three score of them, figures that were presumably Human although some were unmistakably Angel. It was difficult to define anything more specific about them because every single one of them was horribly, sickeningly disfigured.
Hawk was no stranger to burn injuries, on the Middle Isle there were casualties on a daily basis from the Dragons and volcanoes. But these turned his stomach.
"Dead people?" he said, fighting back a sweep of nausea. "It's trying to scare us with corpses?"
"Not just any dead people," Sirannor replied quietly. "Look at their clothing – what's left of it – and the objects they are holding."
Hawk looked around uncomprehendingly. "They just look like freaks to me…"
"Some of them are carrying books, some are carrying swords. Look closely at the weapons."
Hawk did so. "They all seem to be the same design,” he observed. “Gems in the hilt; entwined snakes…"
"The Swords of the Gods," Sirannor declared. "I have seen relics of these weapons before. Their origin is well known…"
"The School of Magical Studies!" Hawk finished in realisation. A chill of horror passed through him. "Holy Goddess, they're sorcerers… the people who died in the explosion…?"
"Indeed," Sirannor replied sombrely.
You are more intelligent than most who enter our domain, the crowd said.
"Damn right we are!" Hawk answered. "We know who you are, and we know your secret, so quit with the stupid mind games!"
You know nothing of us. You do not understand the meaning of pain, of fear, of eternity, or of games. We are the sand, the dust at your feet…
Beneath Hawk's feet, the glass shards softened and dissolved back into white sand.
We are the sky and the stars, the old stone and the buried bones. The children of the Gods. The rulers of a shattered order. The black windows that frame your soul. Nothing is hidden from us. We are the Presence.
"You are dead," Sirannor said simply. "Your deaths were tragic and we pity you, but you have no right to make the living suffer for that tragedy. It is you who do not understand us!
“Shall I tell you a sad story? I believe that your own magic has corrupted you, trapped you here in a tortured half-world, like the wraiths on Demon Heights. You died in fear, and fear is the only thing you can now comprehend, the only thing you still have the power to manipulate.
"And you miss that power, don't you? You long to regain it. You feed hungrily on the weaknesses of those that venture into this place because it gives you back a shred of your lost superiority."
The laughter came again, longer this time. Your fear is beautiful.
"We're not afraid of you," Hawk said determinedly. "There's nothing more you can show us that we can't overcome."
No? the Presence challenged. Then let us search a little deeper…
One of the figures broke away from the circle and ran towards Hawk. Pieces of scarlet fabric still clung to its charred body like torn flesh. In its one remaining hand it raised its shining Sword and attacked him. Hawk swiftly parried the blow but his own sword passed right through his opponent's, and he felt a devastating pain as the blade plunged into his chest.
He staggered in shock, his face going pale as he watched blood trickle down his breastplate.
Images flashed past his vision in rapid succession, a perverse collage of every terrifying, painful or unhappy moment that he had ever experienced in his life. His parents fatally injured in a rockfall… sitting by their grave on a rainy, cold day that reflected his mood so perfectly… desperately trying to warn soldiers on a watchtower before it was consumed by Dragon fire… the first time he had met Carmine, when hoodlums had attacked her in an alley and she had nearly lost her life…
And on and on, until they came to the most recent event… leading Sirannor out of the infirmary room, only to come back and find Sergeant Aari dead… murdered… blood dripping onto the floor… he had led Sirannor out of the room…
All of these images were the bitter truth; things that he could not deny or ignore, and he felt his legs weaken under the monstrous weight of despair and guilt. His chest burned, his body seized with pain… he was dying.
No, he told himself with an immense effort, fighting the darkness that was closing around him. No! That ... is not... my life! There were... good times as well... many of them! Carmine's touch… her laughter when he made an unexpected joke… sailing to the Middle Isle for the first time on a huge warship, full of enthusiasm… the wind in his hair… sunlight sparkling on water…
He was not a bad person. He had no regrets. He did not resent the unpleasant aspects of his life; he needed them, for without them the wonderful, beautiful moments would have no meaning.
Abruptly, the dead sorcerer stumbled backwards as Hawk had done, pulling its Sword from his chest, and the pain and visions vanished. Hawk looked down, relieved and empowered to see no blood, no wound. Glaring at the sorcerer, he swung his own sword again and this time the corpse exploded in a shower of sand.
An uncertain murmur rippled through the rest of the crowd. A faint tremor passed through the ground. The stone boulder cracked. A third of the gruesome figures evaporated into grey mist.
Another one loped up to the dais and attacked Sirannor. The Captain did nothing at all, merely folded his arms and closed his eyes placidly. The moment the Sword struck him, both weapon and sorcerer turned to dust.
The Presence let out a scream, and another third of the corpses disappeared. The tremor this time was more powerful, and the boulder fell apart.
Sirannor brushed some sand off his sleeve.
The Presence appeared to be losing its resolve. The remaining figures wavered and flickered, and one by one melted into mist.
Grinning, Hawk ran back to the dais and clasped his old friend's hand in victory.
But the Presence had not retreated entirely.
One solitary figure remained.
She was an Angel with long silver hair, once very pretty but now half her small body was ruined, the bones melted so badly that she could hardly stand upright. One wing was soft and grey and white, the other a twisted mess of burnt feathers. Tattered turquoise robes trailed in the sand as she limped slowly towards the dais. She carried no weapon.
"Uh-oh," Hawk said quietly, his grin fading as he realised the corpse's intentions.
Both he and Sirannor looked at Cimmeran.
The servant cowered from the advancing horror, his eyes wide and terrified.
Sirannor grabbed him by the scruff of his tunic. "Listen to me," he said coldly. "You must face this thing or none of us will ever get out of this godforsaken place again. The Presence will show you things that you do not want to see, that will terrify you and cause you pain. Pain, greater than you have ever felt before in your life. It will try to make you believe that you are worthless…" his voice trailed off.
Hawk put his face in his hand. "We're doomed."
After a moment of uncertain silence, in which they all watched the Angel corpse climb awkwardly onto the dais, Sirannor went on in a low voice: "For what you did to Aari, you will gain no forgiveness from me. Ever. It does not matter to me whether or not the Presence takes your life. It would please me greatly if it did."
His grip tightened and his steel eyes narrowed. "But it does concern me if the Presence uses your fear to strengthen itself all over again, so for all our sakes, fight it! For once in your miserable life, show some courage and consider lives other than your own!" With that, he shoved Cimmeran at the walking corpse.
The Angel stretched out a grey, slender arm and touched Cimmeran's face. Tears trickled down her ravaged cheeks from pale blue eyes, which were clear but empty of life or emotion, staring at nothing. "Poor lost one," she whispered. "Poor lost one…"
And then Cimmeran began to scream.
He tried to pull away, but the Angel wrapped her arms around him with startling speed, clutching him to her possessively. He struggled hysterically, but the Angel was much stronger than she looked, and with his hands still bound behind his back, he could not fight her off.
Cimmeran's screams turned to shrieks so raw and primitive that the hairs on the back of Hawk's neck prickled. He remembered what the Presence had attempted to do to his own mind, and the memories that it had dragged up. Cimmeran had been bonded to a sadistic sorcerer and subjected to Gods knew what unspeakable cruelty. Did he have any happy memories to fall back on?
His torment was painful to watch. "Sirannor," Hawk said anxiously, wincing, "that thing's going to torture him to death. Do we have to put him through this? The Presence is weakened already, maybe it won't chase us if we make a run for…"
Movement off to his right caught Hawk's eye.
The boulder was putting itself back together.
But not in the shape of a ball. Amidst a whirl of sand, the chunks of stone rearranged themselves into something resembling an enormous horned and armoured beetle, with six legs and three long, segmented tails that curved over its back like a scorpion's.
Sirannor cursed and lunged at Cimmeran. "Fight it!" he yelled angrily.
Cimmeran did not respond, just continued to scream and writhe in agony.
"Dammit!" Sirannor cried, as the stone monster moved towards them. "It is drawing on his terror to fuel one last manifestation!"
Hawk felt his heart begin to pound anew. "It's real this time, isn't it?"
"As real as Cimmeran makes it!"
Hawk swallowed, watching the monster approach, looming against the skyline. Its shadow spilled out across the white sand. Its footsteps shook the ground, sending up puffs of dust.
Hawk's hands tightened around the hilt of his sword. "There's only one way to find out," he said.
Before he could think better of it, he leaped off the dais and ran to meet it.
The monster was swifter than he expected, swivelling on the spot, swinging its three massive tails towards him. Hawk flung himself to the ground, feeling the stone scrape across his pauldrons as they passed over. Leaping at once to his feet, he managed to gain the relative cover of the creature's body before the tails came back for another pass, only to be confronted by an even more arduous problem: avoiding being stepped on.
Joints grinding, the monster twisted and turned in an effort to find him, churning up the sand. Hawk ducked and dodged and swung his sword with all his might at one of the legs.
The blade rebounded with a vicious clang, spraying out sparks, sending him staggering backwards. He let his momentum carry him backwards into the sand to avoid the leg that slammed down right where he had been standing.
"Hellfire," he panted in dismay. "Guess this night ain't over yet…"