Chapter Ten
Where Angels Rest
They hurried down the long, rolling hillside and into the wide valley-bowl where the great fortress sat. As soon as they made it to flat land, they ran across the wild grass toward the mouth of Fort Guardian.
Michael was confused to see the rangers slow down beside him when Aroha quickly grabbed his arm and called, “Whoa! You keen for a swim?” as she pulled him to a sharp stop.
Michael frowned in confusion. She nodded ahead and he turned to realise the entire fortress was surrounded by a deep, curving moat some fifteen feet or more across, which was nearly invisible in the shadow of the night.
Behind it loomed the enormous drawbridge of the stronghold. A structural feat to say the least, Michael couldn’t guess at its length, since from below it seemed to touch the sky. He knew when it was lowered it would shake the ground, and that the coiled chains which kept it bound to the gate consisted of links which were each made from steel thicker than Michael’s arms. Platoons at a time could cross it, or be crushed beneath it without cruel moment’s notice.
High atop the walls, a handful of shadow-clad figures watched as Michael and the rangers approached. Michael caught glimpses of bows being idly handled and arrows fitted to their strings, and a cold shiver ran down his back.
A voice called down, “Who goes there?”
Nichole stepped forward and shouted, “Archangels Huntress and Oswald! Returning from assignment!”
Michael caught her last name and frowned. Huntress is an orphan name, he realised.
Great gears began to clink and turn deep behind the towering walls and slowly drawbridge was lowered across the moat. Behind them lay the doors, pure steel, almost as tall as the walls themselves, resting on hinges and revolving mechanisms so massive that alone they likely would’ve been taller than Michael himself.
The drawbridge sank softly and touched the grass just shy of the trio’s feet. But unlike what he would’ve believed, the monolithic bridge kissed the soil and came to rest like a stray sparrow feather. It didn’t make so much as a sound. They started across with Michael in an awestruck tow. He peered over the edge to find a dark, shifting sludge in the moat belief. It smelt oddly of fresh-cut flowers.
“Don’t slip,” Aroha said, all too smugly.
Nichole sighed and muttered, “If you push him, you have to fish him out again.”
Michael stepped away from the edge a tad and watched with delight as they walked toward the steel gates. Without warning they began silently swinging backward and before him was a forum and a wide path, worn through by the feet which had trodden there for centuries.
As they walked, Michael peered through the night, trying to make out the different buildings by the light of golden lamps hung about the forum.
First on his left seemed to be an armoury, strung heavy with polished armour, shields, and every form of weapon Michael had ever seen, heard, or read about, even all along on the outside. It was dark and dead, quite the opposite to the building which was next along his left.
This one was wider on its face and topped by many stout chimneys. It rang out with chimes of metal clashing metal, occasionally billowing with steam and smoke, accompanied by a crackle and hiss. Nichole explained them as ‘the Forges’ and they ambled onward letting Michael set the pace.
The next was an incredibly long stretch of bizarre terrain, clearly an archery range of some sort, but divided into different rows, each with a distinct environment and season. Michael ogled at the strangeness of it. A broad tree grew on the line between two rows, but on one side it was barren of leaves, and the other it was flush and green. One row was thick with flowers and was quiet as the night while others seemed to harbour their own short sections of wind, moving gently through the long grass.
Further down were two arenas, one behind another. The one further from view was simple and low upon the ground, lined with weapon racks and training dummies, and the closer arena was raised upon a wooden stage for viewing and competition.
Moving toward the keep on their right was a smaller, more familiar set of structures.
The first was a low, dark-windowed tavern, much like any of the hundreds of others across the empire. The building made Michael feel slightly more comfortable and a tad less awestruck, smiling at the idea that even members of some secretive, faerie-tale society needed to vomit in an alleyway sometimes.
Next was a much smaller structure, little more than three rooms bundled up into a square, brick hut with a single, orange chimney stretching above it. It was empty for the time being, Michael knew, but still the scent of fresh bread and toasted butter lingered in the air. A bakery, he thought, warmed all the more by the strange place.
Last of all was a beautiful garden space, wide and round, centred by a tall fountain, lightly trickling water. The garden was dotted with flower bushes, park benches and smaller statues, but the central artwork was the most striking. It was a woman, plunging a great sword in the soil, roaring at the height of her lungs. She was painted, and while most of it had faded, Michael recognised her eyes as being bright and yellow, like they were bursting with fire. On the tablet at her feet were the words: Kyliana the Vengeful.
Michael wanted to ask about her but the rangers seemed more urgent in their strides so he bit back his tongue.
Beyond the structures on the right were great, long fields and rows of crops spread all the way to the walls, unencumbered by anything but picking stations. He couldn’t make out the specific produce in the dark but knew just by its fragrance that it would’ve made any true farmer in the world more envious than a mountain of silver and gold.
“Michael! Come on.”
He hurried back up the trodden path and together they strolled past a great pavilion, made up of dozens upon dozens of long, mahogany tables and row-length seats. Braziers hung in the corners, burning low in the dark hours when no one used them. Banquet stands sat in the middle of the sets of tables with empty stations where food would be displayed. Michael tried to do a count but couldn’t make a guess better than two hundred seating-spaces before they carried on.
As they approached the doors of the great central keep, Michael looked up in complete amazement. He could muster no words as the bronze doors swung open before them and revealed a cavernous, dark hall, lit by bronze lanterns, much like the dining pavilion. It was held up by inner pillars and finished with pale marble and dark slate, Michael looked upon the entire keep before he walked inside. He realised he couldn’t decide whether it looked more like a mansion or a small bastion, and settled on the idea that it was probably built that way on purpose.
The keep was silent as they entered, apart from the light pitter-patter of their echoing steps.
Michael glanced all about himself as they walked to the other end of the hall, where three sets of doors lay waiting. In the centre were a pair of ornate double-doors, and on either side were single doors, seemingly leading to different wings of the keep.
As Michael approached them, he noticed various pieces of artwork, from beautiful paintings to architectural designs displayed along the pillars. Other pillars were the backdrop for statues and busts of both the famous and unfamiliar.
He noted some astounding works like The Ahuran Child and the Jade Falls, paintings that belonged in museums.
“These are incredible. My friend told me about them when he visited Arcavelot city. Apparently, they’re worth more than an entire block of houses in Bright-side. Who painted these?” Michael asked, astonished.
Aroha fought off a chuckle and asked, half-sincerely, “You think we have an entire hidden fortress, but we have rip-off art?”
The realisation washed over Michael and he took a step back. He suddenly became very aware of his steps, understanding just how expensive it would be to knock over anything in that hall. “Why aren’t these behind glass?” he asked, almost shrill.
“Glass gathers condensation. Besides, art is meant to be breathed.”
Michael blinked, not altogether convinced.
Aroha and Nichole stopped outside of the central doors and Michael looked to the passageways on either side. “Where do they lead?”
Nichole pointed to the words inscribed above which he’d missed. The hallway on the left was marked with the word Archangels and the one on the right was similarly etched Paladins. “Chamber wings. Somewhere for us to sleep or spend downtime.”
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“How is it divided up? Please tell me its not some Redthornian-age thinking about girls and boys…” Michael pleaded.
Nichole shook her head and explained, “From what we can tell, it was actually built to be more of a class-divided thing. Archangels for the Gentry and Paladins for the Paupers.” She watched the look of disgust grow on his face and quickly amended, “Obviously, we’ve abandoned that idea. Some people think it also means magic-users and blade-wielders. They obviously mix nowadays. Not to mention, anyone who wants to can switch whenever they like.”
Michael frowned and asked, “Is everyone comfortable with that?”
Aroha grouped her arrows more tidily in her quiver and said, “We’re warriors, first and foremost. But also, anyone who makes anybody else uncomfortable gets removed from the fortress. So, if you’re any kind of pervert, you’ll have to find some other impregnable stronghold to stay in. Plus, you would not believe the ass-kicking you’ll get before they even get around to banishing you.”
Michael suppressed a smile and said, “Trust me, that’s not something you’ll need to worry about with me. Who stays in there?” He gestured to the double doors before them.
“Why don’t I introduce you,” Nichole said, rapping gently on the wood.
“Who else is even awake?”
They waited for some time before a tired but deep voice called, “Come!”
Nichole opened the door for Michael but didn’t step through. He did a double-take and hastily asked, “You’re not coming?”
The two rangers shook their heads and Nichole gently said, “We’ll be here when you get out. It’s mid-Rising, he won’t keep you long.”
Michael nodded and stepped through the threshold before he slowed to a stop and turned once more. He opened his mouth to speak and couldn’t find the words. They’d saved his life.
Aroha watched the look on his face and reached into her quiver, drawing out the same silver arrow she’d fired through the Nethotar. She passed it quickly to him and stepped back through the door as Nichole closed it.
“In case you need it.”
The door shut silently and Michael found himself alone in a large reception room. The ceilings were high and it was filled with beautiful, leather couches and polished desks topped with writing utensils. A great window sat on either side, pitch black and Michael stared at them for some time. They were in the centre of a keep, leaving him unsure how there could be external windows. He shook away the question and looked square-ahead to find another set of doors. He approached them and raised his fist to knock when they were whipped open out of his reach.
A tired, older gentleman, pale of skin with a close-shaved beard and well-kept head of hair smiled neutrally at him and stood back, opening the door further.
Michael nodded awkwardly and stepped inside what appeared to be an office. The bulk of it was taken up by a grand mahogany desk, filled with dozens of drawers and backed by a beautiful, ornate window. The walls were lined with bookshelves, piled thick with scrolls and tombs. In every other space upon the wall, paintings were hung and emblems of aristocracy were fitted.
“Mister Williams, isn’t it?” His voice was deep and smooth and trained to be so.
Michael hovered as the man sat himself back down behind his desk. “Michael is fine. Sorry if I woke you-”
The man chuckled in a polite fashion and set his hands automatically on his table. “Worry not, I knew to expect you at an odd hour.”
Michael avoided the man’s gaze and idly looked around the room.
“Sit, Michael. And let me introduce myself. I’m Amekot. Amekot Hillborn. I’m effectively the headmaster-commander of this stronghold,” he said, gesturing to one of the two seats in front of his desk.
“I’m sorry?” Michael asked, noting the use of effectively.
“Arm-eh-cot,” Amekot said patiently.
Michael decided not to push and pulled out the chair. “Like the blacksmith from Ahuran mythology?”
“The very same,” he said, smiling. His eyes were a rich dark, like a tanned version of the colour of his oiled hair. The man sat and stared at Michael as though he was trying to read words scribbled behind his eyes. When he finally spoke, he gestured softly to the space around him and said, “What do you know of all this so far?”
Michael huffed and shrugged. “Know? Nothing. I’ve been told a lot of stuff, but all I actually know is that the thing which tried to kill me was something I never would have believed to have existed ten minutes before I saw it.”
Amekot smiled performativity, the kind of smile which followed the answer to any question at all. “I see the Guardian Rangers explained everything in their typical manner. Let me guess, they burned through the topics of the Gargan, magic, monsters and Legacies all in the one go?”
Michael bit his tongue, listening to the word ‘monster’ echo in his mind, recalling that the rangers didn’t want to use it.
His instinct was to tell anyone fishing for information that they could fuck themselves, that he’d never heard any of the names before in his life. However, he’d also been walking for twenty hours, and he was sitting before a man in the centre of a hidden fortress. “It was rushed,” he said carefully, “but understandably so, given the situation.”
Amekot cocked his head at the young boy, pleasantly surprised. “Well, in that case. I’ll start from the top and keep it simple. You’re perfectly aware of the Holy Church of Riinity and its many denominations. How about the faith of Malankin; Radi and Kann, the Gods of Light and Night?”
Michael nodded, his stoic. “Of course. Riinity and Malankin are the two biggest religions in the world.”
“Correct. Millions of people in the world believe in God and his Seraphs, and even more believe in Radi and Kann. They are all fooled.”.
Michael almost laughed at his starkness. “Is that so? And you’re the authority on that, are you?”
Amekot leant back and smile formally. He opened one of his lower desk drawers and pulled out a thick folder heavy in his hands. He placed it gently on the desk and pulled it off to reveal a glass case, displaying a stone tablet.
Michael looked over the object for a moment to find it was thinner than parchment and pale as birch bark with bizarre lettering scrawled upon its face. The longer he looked, however, the more he realised the lettering wasn’t etched, or even painted, but merely darker stone, moving gently like a breeze within the rock.
Michael’s face was pale with shock as he watched the mysticism. “What is that?”
Amekot looked at it in familiar awe and answered, “The script of High Garganii. The language of our Creators, themselves. Read it.”
Michael glanced at him and huffed. “Sorry, my faerie-tale language class was cancelled yesterday, so I’m a little rusty.”
Amekot pushed it sharply toward him and sat back.
Michael sighed and looked at the document for a long time to no avail, watching as the bizarre lettering shifted like the mud in a riverbed. Then the age-old artefact seemed to play a trick on his eyes. The shifting stopped. All of a sudden, the words had shaped into the Common Tongue, and rather than looking at written imitations of the wind, he now saw a list of artfully scribed words. ‘
Michael didn’t know what else to do so he read aloud. “Khasm. The Void and All-maker. Baeyne. First-conjured and Love of the World. Rosébuin. Second-conjured and All-kindness. Sèjune. Third-conjured and Joy-bringer-”
The stone tablet was shattered beneath, cutting off the rest of the text, and Michael’s voice was caught deep in his throat. The very act of speaking the words caused a kind of resonation within the roof of his mouth. Michael expected to see steam when he let out his shocked breath, like it were freezing inside the room but no. Michael looked back at the words and touched the shifting script within the stone.
It hummed beneath his touch like a current ran through it.
He wanted to ask for proof beyond it. He wanted to know why he should believe it. He wanted to know how he could possibly phrase the question How do I know this magic wasn’t made to trick me?
Amekot watched him fumble for thoughts and stood up, buttoning the dark, fine-fabric cloak about his shoulders. “I’ll have you assigned to a room and you can sleep on it.”
Michael wanted to laugh. Here’s a life-altering document, I hope you liked it. Go to bed. He opened his mouth and frowned. “I have to stay here?” He suddenly realised Carter and James would be coming back to Istol to find him gone without a trace.
Amekot’s tired eyes squinted as he shook his head. “No. But you probably should.”
“Why?”
Amekot blinked and let out a small laugh, edged with derision. “It was a Nethotar that found you in Dim-side, right? The section of that town with nearly a thousand homes and thousands of people? And it still found you. There are more things looking for folk like us, Michael. Much worse things. And it’s about as easy for them to find us as it is for us to find a place to piss.”
He began walking Michael to the door and the young man quickly asked, “Wait, people like us, what do you mean? Are you- are you really saying we’re- that we are-”
“Legacies. Yes. Beings bound and fuelled by blood magic –Arcancy– the very same power used to make the world you’re standing on. I’m not sure what your power is, but the very fact that the beast came looking for you means you’re one of us. We belong here. At least until we can survive out there.”
Michael was ushered gently to the door. As good as their word the rangers were waiting outside.
Amekot bid Michael goodnight and left him in the care of the rangers, not so much as waving goodbye before the door shut softly.
Michael was staring into the vastness of the great hall, aware that his own head was one more revelation from bursting. He didn’t want to poke the dam any further tonight. “Seems like he has a lot going on,” Michael said dryly.
Aroha smirked and Nichole swatted her shoulder, replying, “He’s a busy guy, and a tad...”
“-Performative-” Aroha interjected smugly.
“Pedantic. Come, Michael. We’ll set you up in the Paladin guest room for tonight.”
They lead him through the door on the right side of the great hall and into a connecting corridor. They wandered through the next set of doors, leading to a wing lined with doors and at the far end lay a staircase that Michael assumed led to the next floors. They didn’t walk far, stopping beside a smaller cabin door at the beginning of the Paladin wing. Above it, the word Unassigned was inscribed into the panelling.
Nichole pulled the door open and Michael stepped in. It was lit by two hand-lamps, hung by either wall and was crowded with four single-sized bunkbeds, each with their own side table.
“You’ve got a few hours ‘til Rising,” said Nichole, stopping to yawn, “get as much sleep as you can. We’ll give you the real tour when you wake up.”
They stepped out back into the hall and Michael went to speak but Aroha stopped him and smiled softly, giving him pause. She held out her hand and instinctively he took it, squeezing tighter than he meant to. “Night, Michael.”
Michael fell into his bed soon after. He didn’t bother with blankets and was whisked away to sleep before he knew what was happening. He dreamed of many things. His friends, his school, dead gods and the monster in the dark.
But mostly of his mother and the letter she wrote to him.