Twixt Heaven And Hell (35 page)

The corners of Balkan's vision had gone red, a killing haze that threatened to overwhelm his mind. He clung to control, knowing that attacking would do nothing but give them another opportunity to prove their power over him. He would not do that.

Oh, but how he hated them. There was nothing he wouldn't give to see his family safely out of this nightmare – and after that, if there was anything left, he would give it to see this man dead.

Unbidden, a symbol formed in his mind's eye – the Angelic rune of destruction. Far from being just a mental picture, it seemed a thing alive. It called to Balkan's roiling soul, and the wizard's hate swelled beyond mere emotion, and became power – power that rushed towards the place in his mind where the symbol dwelt.

Instinctively, Balkan banished the image, halting the strange reaction. He looked to Turan in alarm – but the man's expression had not changed. He glanced to either side at the sorcerers who had maintained a silent guard since he awoke. There was nothing to indicate they had noticed anything amiss.

Turan mistook his expression, and chuckled. "There is only one way to help them. Give us what we ask and they will be as safe as the Warlord himself."

Balkan barely heard the words. He looked back to Turan and again conjured up the image of the Rune of Destruction. He built the symbol in his mind as if he were etching it upon a stone tablet, as he had done so many times before. Balkan once more felt his hatred – even his very soul – drawn inwards. By dint of will he halted the surge of power, restraining its desire to unite with the purpose he had summoned. Balkan studied Turan – whatever he was doing, the sorcerer did not seem to notice.

Movement from behind the sorcerer caught Balkan's eye, and both hatred and curiosity were forgotten, the symbol evaporating from his mind. Maggie was stirring. Balkan moved so the sorcerer was not blocking his view of his wife.

"Maggie!" he called to her. She raised her head and looked around, dazed. Then her eyes focused on the men around Balkan's cell, and on Balkan himself. They went wide in realization and squeezed shut the next moment. Balkan saw her begin to shake as the memories of what had happened to her gripped her mind.

"Maggie!" he shouted again. "No, Maggie, open your eyes!" He kept shouting urgently, wanting to snap her out of that vision. "Please, Maggie! Look at me!"

She did, at last, and there was a depth of horror there that hurt him more than all the rest. He opened his mouth again to reassure her, but all that came our was a strangled croak. "Oh, Maggie... I..." he could not go on, could not bring himself to voice another impotent promise.

"Balkan," Maggie said – but too quietly. Balkan did not hear her over his own choked attempts to reassure her.

"Balkan!" she said again, and this time her voice was strong and calm, as if she were scolding him for bothering her while she was preparing dinner, or for letting his mind wander while they had been speaking. He quieted and looked into her eyes. The horror was gone. Then she did the last thing he could have expected – she smiled.

"I am all right, my love," she said.

The moment was shattered when Turan laughed. "That is a strong woman you have there!" he said. "It may take longer to break her than it will you – but break you shall. All of you."

Before he could continue there were again footsteps in the corridor. Through the doorway came three more sorcerers. At the sight of them, the three who had been guarding the prisoners rose. Words were exchanged between them. Maggie used the distraction to move to the edge of her cell on the side near Kaylie. She put her hand through the bars and reached as far as she could, so that her hand reached the next cell. Their daughter moved forward and grasped her mother's hand. Balkan wished he could do the same.

Their new guards – or rather,
his
new guards – did not speak at all. Kaylie complained of hunger, but Balkan could only tell her to try and sleep. Eventually both Kaylie and Maggie did sleep. Balkan did not. He feigned it, but in truth his mind was a storm of activity, considering the powerful reaction which had risen inside of him – and which the sorcerers had not noticed.

What had prompted the rise of such power? It was the sort of question that might have kept him occupied for days in Bastion – but he was not in Bastion, and he did not have days. To his own thinking, he did not have any time at all.

The brazier was kept burning throughout the night, stoked and replenished by servants who came and went with mouse-like caution. The guard was changed once more as well – Balkan slitted his eyes open to see that Turan was not amongst the newcomers, and then went back to thoughts which had turned dire as the hours slipped away.

He only knew that morning had come by a parade of new arrivals – servants placing charcoal in the brazier, others carrying shallow bowls that were no doubt the prisoners' meals. With them came yet another change of guards – and Turan had returned.

The man looked positively jovial – having a wizard and family at his whim seemed to agree with him. A small, petty spirit made powerful by his talent of wielding magic. It was the sort of injustice that life with the Enemy seemed to embody.

Balkan ignored them all. A moment later he was showered with dirt and pebbles, and he opened his eyes to see Turan's foot drawing back to kick more detritus at him. Balkan raised his arm against the cloud this time, blinking his eyes in a facade of grogginess.

"Wake up, my friend!" the sorcerer said. "It is going to be a very long day for you." He knelt and placed his face nearer to his prisoner. "And even longer for them," he said with a motion of his head to indicate the females who were just waking.

Balkan raised his head to meet the man's eyes, and in his own stare was an expression wholly different from what Turan had expected. Balkan saw the man's brow knit in confusion.

"There is no need for that," Balkan said. His voice was so low the sorcerer was forced to lean closer. "I will give you what you asked for."

Surprise lit Turan's face, then slowly gave way to a sneer of contempt. Clearly, he had been looking forward to tormenting his subjects for awhile longer. Balkan knew that, were it not for his value to the Warlord, this man would have punished him for that alone.

Balkan wanted to snarl at the sadistic creature, but he needed to keep himself in check. He would not let more harm befall his family.

Turan's own expression grew ever more petulant, showing the Demon he wanted to be for the child he was. Balkan had recently discovered what it felt like to be almost an Angel. Soon he would show this little man what it really was to be almost a Demon.

"But," Balkan continued, "I want to hold my family first."

The sorcerer's satisfied smirk reappeared.. "Oh no. That is not how it will go. First you give us what we want and only
then
do you get something in return. Not before."

Tears of frustration began to flood Balkan's eyes. He needed to be with them! He needed to touch their faces, to feel them close again. He needed them to be near. "Please," he pleaded, though he knew there was no humanity here to appeal to. He changed his tone. "At least let me hold their hands through the bars. That only – or I'll change my mind. How pleased will your Warlord be when he finds you've delayed his prize?"

Turan hesitated, and his face reddened. He showed his teeth in an animal threat. "You may go to their cages – and remember, if you attempt some sort of trick, the Warlord will hand you all over to me."

"Just let me go to them," Balkan repeated.

Turan finally ordered a soldier to let Balkan out, and the wizard's heart leapt at the victory – and then began to pound. He nearly ran the few steps across the chamber, skidding to his knees between the alcoves that held his wife and daughter. He grasped their hands in his own, ran his fingers through Kaylie's hair and kissed his wife's fingers.

"I love you so much," he said to them both, speaking through his tears. "I'm sorry it came to this."

Maggie, feeling the blood pounding through her husband's trembling hands, looked up to meet his eyes with uncertainty. She gripped Balkan's and Kaylie's hands all the tighter. Balkan kissed her through the bars, and then Kaylie. Neither one had any inkling of what was about to happen. That was a mercy.

For the third and final time, he constructed the rune of destruction in his mind. It was oddly graceful for a symbol with such dire meaning – but then, everything about the Angels was graceful. They even killed elegantly.

Balkan let his hatred swell up again. Rage at the Enemy filled him, and the rune called for its release. He held it back. He held the eyes of his wife, then his daughter, basking in his love for them – and Destruction beckoned for that, too. If Balkan could choose, he would have wished to end his time with only love in his heart, not hate – but he found, to his surprise, that there was room for both.

"Emotion has power of its own,"
Darius had said – ages ago, it seemed. Balkan had had no time to follow the implications of that revelation. Someone else would have to.

"Long enough," Turan began, and moved to pull Balkan away from his family. He grabbed Balkan's shoulder.

Then he died. No-one in the room had time to feel pain or worry. Balkan offered his love and his hatred to the magic, and unleashed the power within.

Life fled his body as destruction burst from him, rending everything nearby. Flesh disintegrated, bone charred, wood splintered and burst into flame, and stone cracked and crumbled. The messenger posted at the entrance was consumed as well, and torches were extinguished in the hall as the air itself was devoured. Soon after, the roof of the chamber collapsed.

Within the rubble only one thing remained whole – Balkan's corpse, untouched by the devastation he had released, with a smile upon his face.

Chapter Thirty-Six

An office had been found for Ethion immediately upon his return to Bastion. He had always been an enthusiastic administrator, as well as a formidable combatant. His name had been alongside Arric's when a new Council Leader had last been chosen. Secretly, Ethion was glad he had not been picked. It was too much of an honor to refuse, but he was not as adept at mediating the disputes of equals as he was at coordinating the actions of subordinates.

He spent much of his time now aiding his friend, General Theodoric, in reducing Bastion's collection of unread reports from the frontier.

It was a pity how little attention was paid to these matters. The world outside of Bastion's immediate surroundings held many fascinating things, and intriguing peoples. Ethion held a report about a pair of neighboring tribes nearly one month's travel to the northwest – as far away as any of Bastion's explorers had gone – who had apparently been in some sort of a feud for nearly ten generations. Not one man had died in the fighting, as all 'combat' between them took the form of highly ritualized – and bloodless – wrestling matches.

If only
, Ethion thought.

There was a knock at his door, and Ethion called for whoever-it-was to enter. To his surprise, in walked Darius. The man seemed calm and rested for the first time in many days. It eased Ethion's mind to know that this man who shared his deep sorrow at Balkan's abduction had found some measure of peace.

Ethion rose to greet him. "You look much better," he said, deciding not to mince words. Darius took no offense, even giving the ghost of a smile.

"I
am
better, thank you," he replied, and then seemed to hesitate.

Ethion looked closer at Darius's face and saw that not only did the man look rested, but there was excitement in his eyes

"You've thought of something already," Ethion said.

Again, Darius hesitated. "Yes," he answered. "I have."

"Well? Tell me, by the Choirs! You aren't the only one eager for revenge."

Darius almost seemed to wince at the words. He took a half step backward and pushed the door shut behind him. Only when it had fully closed did he speak again.

"Arric was right – we cannot respond in revenge. We must retaliate, yes, but not to merely hurt the Enemy. We must destroy their ability to attack Bastion without marching and fighting over every step between here and the border."

It was not in Darius's nature to need prodding towards the point he was trying to make, but Ethion obliged. "And how do we accomplish this?"

"Get rid of the Demons."

Ethion's first urge was to laugh, though he could see that Darius was not jesting. He smothered that reaction, but was at a loss for what to say. Suddenly he was not sure if Darius had come through his ordeal with sanity intact.

"There was a Demon behind the spell that brought the Enemy into Bastion. It made a mockery of distance and our defenses both. Kray told me once that the Demons had something to do with the Firewalking spell in the first place."

"You don't have to convince me that it is a worthy goal," Ethion said. "But do you really think it is possible to destroy them?" Ethion asked gently.

""Not destroy, Ethion. Banish. Exile. Remove them from our world. And not only is it possible, I already have the way.” Darius said. “It requires... a hefty sacrifice."

This time, Ethion did laugh, finally showing his skepticism. "As well it may, but who cares? If it works, no cost is too high. What, though, could possibly be enough for the task?"

He had not seen it yet, just as Darius had not at first. Darius answered without further stalling.

"The Choirs," he said simply.

Ethion had been struck speechless again. He sat heavily back into his chair, mouth hanging open. Eventually it closed again and he gave a tiny nod.

"Yes. Yes of course, if anything could... Darius this is... well, it still may not be possible."

"It is," Darius assured him, finally taking a seat. "Aethel has already shown me how."

Ethion's face widened once again in surprise. "Aethel knows of this?"

"More. He agreed that it is necessary, and has pledged his aid."

Darius could see that his compatriot was still struggling with the conversation; the vastity of what he was discussing was not easy to grasp.

"If the Choirs will help us, then we - " Ethion stopped when he saw Darius shaking his head.

"No. Just Aethel. He claims he is the only Angel who could understand the need for this. He has been changed by his time among us. He understands."

Ethion looked nervous. "So, the rest of the Choirs, every Angel save Aethel, may oppose this."

"Yes."

"Likewise, most wizards – most people! - in Bastion may think us deranged for contemplating it."

"Us?" Darius asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Ethion breathed deeply, and behind his eyes Darius could see powerful emotions at war with the need for calm reflection. Eventually, the man nodded once, firmly.

"Yes, I am with you as I promised. This is beyond the scope of anything I could have imagined, but perhaps it is the answer. Wherever the Demons attack, they kill before they are stopped. Perhaps only a few, and it does not sway the War – but these are the lives of men. They should matter to someone."

Darius smiled and drew breath – he had held it while Ethion debated silently with himself. "That is precisely the way I convinced Aethel," he said, and smiled. "You don't know how much of a relief it is to hear it from another, and know that I have not lost my mind for thinking it."

"Surely Aethel's support would put that fear to rest," Ethion scoffed.

"Nearly. Despite his empathy for us, though, Aethel is not human. I can never be sure how similar his thinking is to ours."

Ethion was nodding, but paying little attention. His mind was still working to catch up to the conversation and his skin tingled as he understood more and more completely what he had agreed to help bring about.

"Now," he said. "We have you, we have me, and we have the venerable Aethel. What else do we require?"

The enthusiasm on Darius's face abated somewhat, and he sighed.

"Much."

***

Winter was announcing its return to the city. The air had a biting chill and the sun could scarcely be seen through the dark sheet that had been drawn across the sky. A light snow was drifting lazily down through the gloom, as well. Darius knew that the first blizzard would not be long in coming. Up here in the mountains, the city could be buried in snow and ice for days at a time, so every one of its many thousands of inhabitants gained a new urgency to finish essential tasks before the storms came.

Darius blended in with every other person on the street, his marks of station covered by a heavy leather coat that laughed off even the most bitter winds.

As always, the massive barracks complex, a city within the City, was a hub of activity. Cartloads of food, preserved for the winter, were being hauled to the storehouses. Winter was a time when the soldiers in Bastion ate little better than those manning the border. Worse than some, in fact, for in the far west the soldiers had learned a trick of breaking holes in the ice-covered river and catching fish even in the coldest of winters.

Darius entered the complex with a throng of others, delivery men and soldiers and officers, and made his way to the buildings that long ago he had appropriated for his Gryphons.

Unexpectedly, the room he entered was deserted. Darius could hear a loud voice calling out intermittent orders in the yard.

When he opened the door at the other end of the hall, he found his men.

The Gryphons were in full field load – a pack, armor, weapon, and winter cover much like the one Darius wore. They were jumping, weaving, climbing and ducking around an assortment of barriers and obstacles strewn about the yard in a circular path, set up to mimic all the many environments the soldiers would need to slog through in the field.

"... do not fear the cold!" Pollis – Lieutenant Pollis, Darius reminded himself – was shouting. "We are predators that do not sleep through a storm! We hunt in the cold, because our prey is slow! We hunt in the storm, because our prey is blind! Double pace, now!"

The newcomers were fitting in well. Only once or twice did Darius recognize one by a flagging pace or unsure steps upon an obstacle. Each time words of encouragement hastened them, or a helping hand steadied them.

Pollis continued his litany, changing the pace at times, even having the soldiers crawl on theirs hands and knees once. He joined in from time to time as well, always moving faster than the general flow and keeping up the constant monologue, cajoling, encouraging, and heckling.

No one had noticed Darius yet. The snow and activity kept their attention focused on their path. Darius strode out into the yard until he was only a couple of arm lengths away from the running soldiers. Then some of the men did see him, despite their discipline, they slowed. Darius had not shown his face to his troops in nearly two weeks now, since the night before the attack.

Pollis saw him, too, and called for a halt. Soon the Gryphons were gathered around their captain, some smiling openly in relief that he had made it through his ordeal. Pollis, though trying to keep a stern face, was not stoic enough to conceal his relief entirely.

"My friends," Darius began. "I must apologize for my absence. You are no doubt aware of the cause, but that does not excuse me for abandoning my duties."

"You're fine now!" said one of the men, and Darius nodded.

"More than fine," he replied. "I'm ready to take revenge."

There was an exultant cheer from his men, practically a roar. Darius smiled widely. With such soldiers as these, how could he fail?

"Pollis!" he called. "Let them rest. I need a word with you." He glanced around at the tired faces. "And give them tomorrow, as well."

"You heard him! By the grace of our good Captain, boys. Get inside, take care of your gear, and you can be your own men for a precious, precious short time."

Darius almost laughed. Pollis had certainly developed his own tact for authority.

Back inside, he and Pollis withdrew to a far corner, near the door to Darius's own room.

"Yes sir?" Pollis asked when they were out of earshot – the bustle of soldiers attending to the oiling, buffing, sharpening and shining of their equipment drowning out their voices beyond a few feet.

"I'm amazed, Pollis," Darius said first, "At how aptly you've taken to your new position."

Another smile that the man couldn't quite hide. "Just trying to make the Lieutenant proud, sir," he said. Darius wondered how long it would be before the men referred to Pollis in the exact same way.

"I know he would be, Pollis. I want to change the focus of the training some," Darius said.

"What's our new goal?"

"Taking and holding forts. Hallways and small rooms, tight spaces and little awareness of what is around us," Darius said. "Without relying on my help."

Pollis nodded. "So we dig into the place and guard you while you bring it down around us, eh?"

"Something similar, yes. We can train right within the halls, to start with. The underground storage will also be useful."

"We should get some short blades, as well. Standard swords are awkward to use in close."

"Yes, good thinking. Find out what we can get – have more made if you think it necessary."

"Aye, sir."

They both became aware that the sounds in the room had halted. Darius turned to find that many of the Gryphons were gathered, with Emanuelle at their head.

"Captain? Can I beg a question?" Emanuelle said.

Darius nodded. "Of course."

"What happened, uh, when..." the young soldier began, then rethought his words. "Is Bastion still in danger, sir?"

The wizard breathed deeply before his reply to be sure of the steadiness of his voice. "We do not think so. The Enemy was able to attack us, yes, but they went to great lengths for it. They won't have the ability to do so again."

Darius could see his answer had not had the desired effect. Instead of reassuring the man, he seemed to have confirmed some gnawing fear.

"You're not sure," Emanuelle said quietly.

"No. I do not fear another attack, though. Even with what they took from us – from me – even paranoia won't make me believe it can happen again," Darius said. It was only a small lie.

This time, Emanuelle merely nodded.

"Remember men, that the War has always demanded blood. This is a time when all of Bastion, soldiers and otherwise, must have courage. We can't expect the war to respect our homes all the time."

"No!" came a shout from Emanuelle. His eyes were beginning to glimmer with tears – of anger, or fear, or frustration, Darius could not tell.

The soldier looked sheepish at his outburst, but kept speaking. "Beg pardon, sir, but you're wrong. Our homes... our families..." he trailed off. Turning his eyes from Darius, he mumbled an apology for his outburst.