A dawn of strange and stormy skies
Of history sealed when fate decides.
Dawn arrived: slowly, majestically and ominously. Overnight, clouds had quietly gathered, crowding out the sky, save for a small hole in the east through which red light spilled, like a glorious, dignified wound.
The air had a strange, clammy feel to it, a chill on the skin, a breeze that stirred the soul uneasily and whispered vague portents as it passed.
Caer Sync rose through the morning gloom, its upper reaches lost in swirling clouds, its spiralling designs fading into the fog. Ascending from the forest canopy, a series of rounded platforms protruded from the trunk of the great white Tower like huge fungi. Situated on the largest and uppermost of these platforms was a pair of grand golden doors, flanked by two much smaller ornate gilded gates.
The entirety of the platform before the three portals was crowded with hundreds of winged people.
Angels. Spectators and witnesses to one of the most important events in their history.
Commander Re’Vier regarded them with idle contempt. The masses were fickle; to them, a notorious villain was no different to a beloved hero. He wondered how many of them had come to truly see justice being served, or simply to be part of a famous moment. There was no anger, no cold hatred on the faces of the crowd, but excitement, curiosity and anticipation. Gossip and whispered rumours hovered over the platform like bees.
To them, the black-winged Angel was a legend: a folk figure more than a real person. Something from a centuries-old prophecy passed down through generations as a bedtime story. Though the damage he had inflicted on their fine city was very real, and the lives he had taken were an horrific tragedy, to most common people it all seemed somehow mystical. Whether he was good or evil, it didn’t really matter.
They just wanted to see him with their own eyes.
Indeed, Reeves and his men had battled a scrum outside of the Gaolhouse just to get their prisoner into the sky. People had rushed forward trying to touch him, a few attempting to pluck black feathers out as souvenirs.
Reeves was disgusted. Their race was supposed to be the most enlightened and noble in all of Arvanor, and yet they acted no better than Human rabble!
The Wing Commander stood a little straighter, looking down his nose at them. Still, he was a part of this event too, and fierce pride buzzed within him. His Sky Legion were already making a name for themselves, turning heads in the street, creating their own storm of stories. He glanced sidelong at his men, smiling. And this was only the beginning…
Reeves stood at one end of the semi-circle formed by the seven men of the Sky Legion in the centre of the platform. To either side, members of Fleetfleer’s City Guard were arrayed, keeping the more exuberant members of the throng in check. Ahead of him was a white stone podium upon which stood the current Syncwarden; a young, reluctant-looking man dressed in ceremonial golden robes – the son of one of the Councillors: apparently no one else volunteered for the once-esteemed position after the murder of the previous Warden Tek’Hari. To the right of the podium stood six Councillors, haughty in their rich green and golden vestments, the oldest and most venerable of Angel society. To the left of the podium, standing alone with her assistant, in her own austere garb and usual inscrutable expression was the Governor.
She’s keeping a close eye on me, Reeves noticed. He gave her a half-smile and a wink in return, then chose to ignore her, turning his attention instead to the reason for all this pomp and ceremony.
Barefoot, clad in a simple white loose-fitting garment tied with a rope belt, hands shackled behind his back with silvertine, stood Mekk’Ayan. His raven-black wings and hair were stark against the surrounding white stone and pastel colours of the assembled crowd, his gaze fixed upon the base of the podium, making eye contact with no one. From Reeves’ position, he was silhouetted against the brilliant colours of the rising sun.
Even the dawn bleeds for you, Reeves thought.
The Syncwarden finally came to the end of a long, formal recital, involving the introduction of the Governor and Councillors and thanking them for their attendance; a history of the Tower and its purpose and importance to the Angelican way of life; acknowledgement of all those who had gone before and other tedious nonsense. Hardly anyone was listening, and the fact that the boy’s voice barely carried past the lectern didn’t help matters, until one of the Councillors stepped forward and quietly urged him to speak up.
“Um, yes. Ahem...” the young Syncwarden glanced nervously around at the crowd, and took a deep breath.
The murmuring of the audience died away into attentive silence.
Clearing his throat, the Syncwarden turned to Mekka.
“To the Angel named Mekk’Ayan,” he declared, attempting to project his voice. “You stand here today seeking admission to our most Holy Tower, Caer Sync. You have arrived here not of your own free desire to end your life, which is your right; but to see justice done, which is the right of the people. You have been accused of a number of ghastly crimes, deeds that have caused great pain, distress and destruction to our fair city of Fleetfleer, and the entirety of the Angel nation of Arkana. These deeds include several breaches of the First Law: Murder of Angel Kin; our Governor Mon Carroll and Syncwarden Tek’Hari, along with many brave members of the City Guard who lost their lives defending them. As well, the death of a Holy Seraphim for which there is no precedent in our law.
“In addition, the loss of the Seraphim led to a failure of our city’s crucial protection against Dragon attack, leading to sixty-seven further fatalities of innocent civilians in the resultant onslaught.”
The Syncwarden went on, detailing lesser crimes such as the damage to property and livelihoods and the financial cost of rebuilding the city. Mekka did not move as the list of crimes was spoken, save for the wind ruffling his hair and feathers, but his expression flickered. Reeves was sure he saw a glint of tears in the black-winged Angel’s eyes.
“The Council has received your confession,” the Syncwarden continued, “and examined it. Do you, Mekk’Ayan, attest that everything there written is the whole of the truth, and none of it false, misleading or with parts omitted?”
Mekka looked up, meeting the Syncwarden’s gaze. “I do,” he answered softly.
“Do you attest that you wrote it by free will, and not under duress?”
Mekka nodded. “Yes.”
The Syncwarden nodded. “Your confession has been recorded permanently in the library of Grath Ardan, and can not be retracted or changed. However…” The Syncwarden hesitated, looking around at the crowd. “If anyone here present can provide evidence that refutes this confession, please step forward now.”
The crowd was silent and deathly still, the only movement the chill morning breeze stirring a sea of feathers.
“If anyone here present can provide any compelling reason as to why this man should not be committed to the Tower today, please step forward.”
Again, silence. The wind died for a moment, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
No one stepped forward.
The Syncwarden took a deep breath and cleared his throat again. “So it shall be. The Council has granted you permission to enter the Tower for Judgement. No matter the severity of your crimes, our law states that all Angels are judged equally at the end of their lives, by Excelsior or the Endless Pit, as Fate decrees.”
The Syncwarden stepped down off the podium. A murmur arose once more amongst those watching as the Governor’s aide walked forward bearing a white cloth. The Syncwarden took it from her reverently and stepped over to Mekka, binding the strip of cloth around his eyes. The long ends fluttered out behind him as the wind picked up again.
This was traditional, afforded only for criminals. The condemned were not permitted to behold the Seraphim as they were Judged.
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“May… may the Goddess have mercy on you,” the Syncwarden said awkwardly to Mekka, then: “Come this way, please.” The Syncwarden gestured at Reeves as he turned and started walking.
Finally, Reeves thought. Picking up his spear, he strode over to Mekka, took the Angel by the arm and shoved him after the Syncwarden. Then he fell a few steps behind as the three of them marched towards the Tower.
The wind gusted as they made their way across the platform, the voice of the crowd rising with it, a mixture of cheers and jeers, an incomprehensible roar of noise. A few cries of: “The Pit! The Pit!” could be made out in the din. Reeves took his spear in both hands, gripping it tightly. The air was charged. A strange quiver of apprehension passed through him, a dark thrill, a sense that… something was on the verge of happening.
Something more than the end of one villain’s life.
The crowd felt it too. They were restless, energised…
Reeves turned a full circle as he walked, watching the assembled masses like an eagle. Mekka had no friends amongst Angels, but there were Humans loyal to him, as evidenced by the scene back in Forthwhite. They had been hiding him at the inn. Reeves licked his lips nervously. Could he have underestimated them? Could they have found their way here? But no, there was no possible way for Humans to reach this platform, not without Angel assistance or a means of flight that would clearly be seen…
They had almost reached the doors. If there was going to be a rescue attempt… it had to be now. There wouldn’t be another chance.
But nothing happened.
The audience continued to roar. Loose feathers danced past on the wind. Reeves turned back to face the doors, sweating beneath his armour.
The sky had grown darker, as though night was trying to crawl back. The clouds had lowered, closing in around Caer Sync. The Syncwarden, Mekka and Reeves paused before the vast golden portal as four guards took hold of the doors, pulling them ponderously open. As they did so, the clouds split apart to the east, revealing a glimpse of the newly-risen sun. Glorious golden light spilled across the platform, and the roar of the crowd subsided into an awed lull.
Mekka turned his blindfolded head slowly to face the light.
It was such a poignant and beautiful moment that for a fleeting instant Reeves doubted. He doubted Mekka’s confession, doubted his own feelings, doubted that sending him to the Tower was right.
The light of the Goddess was shining on him. Mekka wasn’t a demon. He wasn’t evil. He was mortal. Just another mortal who had made mistakes.
Just as Reeves had made mistakes…
He allowed the black-winged Angel that last moment of serenity, before lifting the butt of his spear and moving Mekka forcibly along. Then they were passing into the cool hallowed space of the Sanctuary, and the moment was gone.
Reeves paused, turning to watch the mighty doors close behind them with a final, resounding boom.
He should have felt relieved. There had been no last minute heroics, no sudden arrival of Mekka’s allies, nor resistance from Mekka himself. Everything was going as planned. Nothing could happen now, save the inevitable.
Why, then, did he feel so on edge?
He strode forward, through the short, high corridor and a large archway, onto the platform overlooking the Sanctuary.
It was a huge, cylindrical space of smooth white stone, ringed by tiny triangular windows. There was no way in or out save the huge, heavy entry doors and two small gates, both meticulously guarded. The small antechambers inside the Tower had been thoroughly searched before the ceremony.
Above them loomed Excelsior’s Clock, below them the impenetrable darkness of the Pit. Two gigantic Seraphim hung suspended to either side of the chamber, made of stone. There were three eyes in each of their heads, all closed, wings folded, massive hands resting upon their robed chests.
There was no one else inside the Tower besides himself, the young Syncwarden, and Mekk’Ayan. And yet… Reeves’ apprehension had increased.
The Syncwarden was agitated too, fidgeting with his sleeves and smoothing his golden robes as though uncomfortable in them. He shook his head. “Something is… something is not right...”
Reeves looked around again, but could see nothing amiss, and could hear nothing, not even the wind or the crowd outside. The chamber was deathly quiet. Nothing moved apart from the torches burning on the walls.
“He is correct.”
To their surprise, it was Mekka who had spoken. “It is silent.”
They looked at him, and the Syncwarden gasped. “The Singing Cliffs!” he exclaimed. “I cannot hear them!”
The three of them listened to the ominous hush.
The Syncwarden’s face went pale. “We should be able to hear them! What… what does this mean?”
“Who cares?” Reeves swiped a hand through the air. “It is irrelevant! Open the gates!”
The Syncwarden hesitated, then hurried over to a complicated mechanism on the wall to the right of the main archway. Reeves held out his spear, blocking the boy’s path. “Don’t bother with that one. Just the Pit.”
To his surprise, the Syncwarden drew himself up. “This is my domain!” he declared, softly but with undeniable authority. “Excelsior is always to be opened first! That is how it is done!”
He held the Commander’s stare impressively. Reeves gave him a sardonic smile and relented, withdrawing his spear. As the young man worked the crank, Reeves spun and paced across the platform.
“You!” he thwacked Mekka across the back as he passed. “Step up to the edge!”
Mekka did so, slowly.
Reeves strode back and forth impatiently. Looking up, he saw Excelsior’s Clock split into four parts, the segments folding back against the sides of the Tower. Brilliant white light, more pure than the sun, spilled down. High in the vast reaches a silvery pool could be seen, tantalisingly, deep and inviting like an exquisite lake, swimming with rainbow colours. It was a place of profound peace, heartachingly wonderful, like a memory of distant childhood happiness…
Reeves blinked and quickly looked away, taking a deep breath. That was a place he wasn’t ready to go to yet, though even that brief glimpse of it burned in his mind.
The Syncwarden moved to the left-hand mechanism and began working it. Reeves edged to the side of the platform and glanced down. The black, ornate grille covering the Pit opened as the Clock had done. There was a clanging sound as the four segments came to rest against the walls.
He moved quickly back to the centre of the platform.
“Marvellous,” he declared. “Let’s get this over with.”
Mekka stood on the edge, not moving, staring straight ahead. The ends of the blindfold trailed down his back, over his black wings.
Reeves rolled his eyes. “No last words?” he said sarcastically. “You’re sorry? You regret everything? You’re a changed man, blah, blah, blah?”
Mekka said nothing.
“You knew this moment was coming!” Reeves said in annoyance. “You’ve spent innumerable days dwelling in self-pity. Step off with whatever is left of your dignity!” He looked sidelong at the Syncwarden, who shook his head, reading his expression.
“We cannot intervene. He must step off the platform himself.”
Reeves gave him an irritated look. “Even if it takes all day?”
The other man shrugged apologetically.
Reeves’ foot tapped on the stone. He took up his spear. “I’ve got better things to do.” He stepped forward.
“I have something to say,” Mekka said quietly.
Reeves paused with a sigh. “Yes?”
Mekka turned his head slightly. “I am not the only one who is about to die.”
“What are you…”
“Commander…”
There was something about the quiet tone of the Syncwarden’s voice that sent the hairs on the back of Reeves’ neck prickling.
“What?” he snapped, and turned to see the young man pointing.
He looked.
At first, he couldn’t see what had bothered the Syncwarden, thinking that something was happening with the Seraphim. But the great stone statues remained in their places, unmoving and unchanged.
Behind them, however…
The triangular windows were black.
Not just dark. Not clouded by the approaching storm. They were pitch black.
It had been relatively light outside just moments ago.
“We… w-we need to get out of here,” the Syncwarden stammered. “We–”
CRACK.
The sound was so loud it made all three of them jump, the echoes rebounding around the circular chamber.
Then it came again, like thunder.
CRACK.
“Just… just the storm…” Reeves tried to say, but the words trailed off. The Syncwarden was staring wide-eyed at the walls. Reeves stared too.
They watched as dark lines traced over the pale stone, travelling outwards from the points of the triangular windows.
For an indefinably long moment, the two of them just stared in mesmerised horror, watching the cracks grow longer and longer, connecting with each other like a vast spiderweb…
Then the Syncwarden bolted. Without another word, he fled into the adjacent corridor.
Reeves’ instincts screamed at him. He started to follow, but his gaze fell on Mekka, crouched at the edge of the platform.
And then, all reason failed him.
He had come so far to bring his damned man to justice! This black-winged godforsaken freak of nature who refused to die, who had eluded authorities and death for so long. He had brought Mekka here to see him cast into the Pit, and he could not leave without being sure that it was done. How could he rest easy if he abandoned the Tower now? He would never be sure that Mekka hadn’t miraculously escaped…
A violent tremor rocked the Tower, sending him tumbling. Chunks of rock broke from the walls, narrowly missing him, bouncing into the Pit. With a furious cry, Commander Re’Vier shoved himself to his feet and charged across the platform towards the hated black-winged Angel, spear extended…
Time seemed to slow oddly as he ran. The cracks in the walls widened, the entire chamber shattering almost gracefully, like pottery, the pieces floating apart, dreamlike, into a black void…
He reached Mekka. But just at the moment when the Angel would have been skewered, Mekka sprang upwards like a cat, twisting in the air, leg swinging out to knock Reeves’ spear away. But the Commander’s reflexes were just as quick, and he had anticipated this move. He diverted his spear aside, Mekka’s foot brushing the shaft. He let his momentum carry him in a full circle, bringing the spear around and up just as Mekka landed from his jump, raking the tip across his side. Twirling his spear as Mekka gasped in pain, he batted the black-winged Angel off the platform.
As he did so, the ledge beneath him crumbled away, falling apart like a piece of old cheese, tumbling into the blackness of the Pit.
Instinctively, Reeves spread his wings to catch his fall, but was astonished to find that he did not drop like a stone. He was drawn neither upwards or downwards, but instead simply floated, weightless in empty space. Enormous pieces of masonry tumbled slowly around him. A short way away, Mekka also drifted in the middle of the chamber, hunched over his wound, still blindfolded and shackled. Blood floated out of him in a curious way, leaving a trail of globules hanging in the air.
Reeves had no idea what was happening; he looked around in confusion, and found that his movements were sluggish. Nothing felt real; the Tower around him was simply gone, a jumbled mess of suspended stone, and time seemed to have crawled almost to a halt…
On either side of him, the Seraphim were slowly, slowly opening their huge eyes, light blazing forth.
He was so intent on staring at them that he didn’t notice the massive slab of stone spinning elegantly towards him, until it was too late…
Something heavier than the world crashed into his head, and his consciousness winked out.