Veischax, though never the most fearsome of the Angelus, is in many ways the most vital. Compared to the losses we’ve sustained trying to actually kill a daemon, the option to bind them in a prison is quite often the superior tactic.

* The Campaign Journals of General Aurelius, volume III

☀

16th Day of New Summer’s Moon, 297 AC

“I’ll never get used to that damned ring,” Cynric muttered as they moved out into the courtyard of The Fighting Lion. “It’s easier at night, when I can at least pretend things are normal. The stars haven’t changed.”

“Hush, now,” Margaret chided him. “Trist, there are lanterns hanging above the streets. Can you cover us with shadows before we move out?”

“Aye,” Trist said, keeping one hand on the back of her cuirass so that he didn’t get lost. “Give me a moment.” He unraveled two stands from his core, and threw them out. One, he cast off into the city, willing it to attach to the Angelus Camiel. That burning cord caught and stretched taught, and Trist could feel it pulling him toward the cathedral. The second, he used to gather shadows about them, as he’d done when breaking through the enemy lines with Clarisant, just before the siege of Rocher de la Garde.

“How does it look?” Margaret asked.

“Frightening,” Enid De Lancey admitted.

“But hard to see,” Margaret’s father, Roger, added. “Stay away from the lanterns where you can, I’d say. But if you keep to the alleys and the shadows, I can’t imagine anyone taking much notice of you all.”

“Good. You’ll get Enid out?” Margaret reminded him.

“Take her in the wagon as soon as you lot are gone,” Roger promised. “Take care of yourself, Maggie. Your mother and I expect to see you again when this is all over. And all you other knights, you come back to eat with us once the true king is on his throne!”

It was an awkward journey through the city, four knights in full battle harness clumped together on foot, creeping through alleys and crossing streets to avoid the light. They did their best to keep their chain and plate from clanking, but it was hard for Trist, especially, not to stumble. If he hadn’t had one hand on Margaret, it would have been a lot worse. She knew the city the best, out of all of them, which was no surprise now that Trist had learned she’d grown up in Lutetia. Twice, they hid from patrols of Avitus’ guards, crouched low against a wall, hardly daring to breathe until the men of the Barony du Champs d'Or had passed.

The night was cold, even worse than the day in the cellar, and Trist had a suspicion that without a sun to warm the days, Narvonne’s summer would quickly turn into an extended winter. How long before the crops died, and people began to starve? There was little he could do about it, so he focused on what was in front of him: the Cathedral of Saint Camiel.

“This is it,” Margaret whispered, finally, turning and taking his hand, which she pressed against a stone wall. “The wall of the cathedral. On the other side should be the nave.”

“I will take us through,” Trist promised. With a great deal more effort, he unwound a third burning thread from his core, and activated the Boon he’d stolen from the Serpent of Gates. The thread unwove, at his intent, into a dozen red strands, which spread out into a circle. At their widest extent, finally, they tore the world asunder. “Go now!” he told the other exarchs.

Trist recognized Lorengel moving through the gate first, by the color and number of threads wound in his core, and then it was obvious that Cynric followed, because Margaret still had a hand on him. Finally, the two stepped forward together, and then Trist let the doorway collapse behind them.

In the nave of the cathedral, the scent of incense lingered from whenever the priests of the Angelus had last conducted a service - but beneath that, there was another smell. Trist sucked a breath in through his nose, and then nearly gagged at the distinctive odor of blood, bowels and rot. “Can you smell that?” he asked the others.

“Ugh,” Margaret said. “Aye. Smells like a battlefield.”

“I don’t smell anything,” Lorengel said.

“That, my friend, is because you are as nose-blind as a tanner,” Cynric teased him. Trist shuddered; he’d only made the mistake of entering a tanner’s shop once. They used feces to treat the leather.

“Forgive me for not being able to identify a lady’s favor by her perfume,” Lorengel shot back.

“Oh, I’ve long since forgiven you,” Cynric said. “Lady Amelia, on the other hand…”

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“Enough,” Margaret silenced them both. “Come along. We need to get down into the tomb. Lorengel, you know the way?”

“Aye, I’ve been here before, to check the seals. Follow me.” Lorengel set off, and the other followed. Trist kept the shadows wrapped around them as best he could: he didn’t expect random patrols of guards, such as they’d had to evade in the streets, but he also couldn’t imagine Avitus being careless enough to leave the Cathedral entirely unguarded.

As they descended the stairs, the stench of blood and rot became overwhelming, and for a moment Trist thought he might vomit. Even Lorengel, at the head of their company, gagged and needed to pause for a moment to recover.

“By the Angelus,” Cynric whispered, “What have they done down there?”

“Nothing good,” Trist said. “I think we had best be ready to fight.” Swords cleared sheaths with the ring of steel against leather, and even Trist drew, though he didn’t feel confident he could fight well without the use of his eyes. Worse yet, he was starting to catch glimpses, again, of burning chains below them, and the sickening light bound at the center.

They continued on, and with every step a feeling of wrongness grew. “It’s just like Adrammelech,” Acrasia whispered in Trist’s ear. “Like under the mountain.”

“We’re almost there,” Lorengel murmured. They took the last few steps as quietly as they could, then stepped out into the tomb.

Trist couldn’t see it: he had no idea what the layout of the room was. Nor could he see the bodies, but from the stink of the place they had to be there.

“Angelus,” Margaret gasped.

“What is it?” Trist asked. “What do you see?”

“They must have killed every priest here,” Cynric said, after a moment. “A dozen bodies, or more. They’ve used the blood to make the circle.”

“Not just the blood,” Lorengel said, and Trist could hear the clomp of his boots against the stone floor as the Exarch of the Seal walked forward. “Intestines strung out like rope. They’ve ripped the limbs off, as well, and set them in patterns.”

“I can see nine chains,” Trist said. “Each rooted in the floor, stretching inward.”

“Aye, I can see where they’re attached,” Lorengel confirmed. “We need to break the seals - nine smaller circles, arranged around the greater circle. I’ll go right, and Cynric, you go left. Margaret, watch our backs, and Trist, tell me what happens when I-”

The knight’s voice cut off with the sound of a sudden impact, a growl, and a cry. Trist saw a bundle of burning strands shoot out of the darkness, knock into Lorengel, and bowl him over onto the ground. Both cores pulsed with light, lashing out at each other and tumbling.

“What is it? Trist asked Margaret. “Which one?”

“I don’t know!” she shouted, pushing him against the wall of the crypt, where Trist braced himself. “I’ve never seen it before. Some kind of winged hound.” The sound of her boots on the stone told Trist she was running to fight it, and the sudden movement of her core away from him confirmed it.

He wished he knew which daemon it was, what capabilities it had. Not for the first time since being captured, Trist wished he could consult his wife. Clarisant had made a study of the Marian Codex - the king had even let her keep the copy from the Cathedral of Rahab in Rocher de la Garde. If anyone would recognize the monster, and be able to tell him how to beat it, it would be her.

Amidst the snarling, the cries of battle, and the flash of Boons in the darkness, Trist turned back to the chains wrapped around the corpse of the Angelus Camiel. Carefully, he crept closer, trusting to the three Exarchs who still had their eyes to fight the monster. Once he was right up on the circle, he began making his way to the left, away from the fighting, to the nearest place a chain was anchored. When he got there, he crouched down and felt around. Something squished beneath his gauntlet, and a wave of rot and blood hit him like a hammer to the face.

“Be my eyes,” he asked Acrasia. “Tell me what it is.”

“A human heart,” the faerie answered. “Ripped out of one of those priests, I would guess. Shot through with black veins, and still beating.”

Indeed, Trist could feel it now against his gauntlet. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. With each beat, the burning chain pulsed. The pulse moved, from the heart in his hand forward, to the center of the tomb where the nine chains met. Now that he knew what to look for, Trist could see similar pulses proceeding down each chain, all in time with each other, the beating of the hearts perfectly synchronized.

The bundle of threads at the center of the tomb, to which all nine chains were attached, must have been the corpse of Camiel. It was cold and dead, unlike the burning cores Trist had seen before. But with each pulse along the chains, two things happened. First, a brightness came over the core of the dead Angelus, like nothing so much as the sight of a man breathing coals back to life. Second, the pale, washed out colors of the Angelus’ cords were wound about with black filaments, and these extended further toward the center of the core each time the nine hearts beat together.

“Are they trying to bring it back to life?” Trist asked Acrasia.

“So it seems,” the faerie answered. “But not as it once was. They’re twisting Camiel’s core, corrupting it at the same time they pump life into it. The Angelus of War is gone, Trist. Whatever rises from the center of this tomb won’t have a mind - but it will have his power.”

“Each one of his Boons,” Trist murmured. From the direction of the fighting, Cynric cried out in pain, and Trist recalled the Exarch of Theliel admitting that he was the least powerful fighter among them. “What is that?” Trist asked Acrasia.

Cynric’s core had tumbled nearly over to the circle, and fire was spilling out of it toward one of the anchors.

“His blood,” Acrasia answered. “The daemon-hound tore his arm off, Trist, and then threw him into the circle. He’s bleeding right next to one of the hearts. I think-”

Before Acrasia could even finish her thought, Trist released the heart he’d been holding and clasped both hands around the hilt of his sword. Then, he plunged the tip down into the beating heart of a dead priest. Instead of pulsing power along the chain, the heart stilled, and a jolt coiled up Trist’s blade and into his arm. It was the first he’d taken since the fighting at Rocher de la Garde, and it went to Auberon, but no matter - he was going to take them all.

Trist scrambled left, away from the fighting, tripping his way through piles of corpses and severed limbs as he went. He got to the second heart just as the entire circle beat again. This time, a wave of fire from the wailing Cynric poured up through one of the eight remaining chains.

If the pulses from the priests’ hearts had been like a man blowing on coals, Cynric’s blood was like pouring alcohol on a fire. The core at the center of the tomb blazed to life. Cursing, Trist plunged his sword down into the second heart, claiming a Tithe for Acrasia, but it was too late.

In the center of the Tomb of Camiel, the dead Angelus’ core began to rise up into the air.