Twixt Heaven And Hell (37 page)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The room was brightly lit by Pyre's standards, bricks of dried sod burning in raised braziers all about the room. The ceilings were high, allowing the smoke to rise substantially before escaping through holes in the roof, never bothering those below. The man Traigan sought was, as usual, lounging on a divan piled high with luxurious furs and pillows. On the floor beside him lay a woman, sleeping on yet more of the extravagant fur coverings.

When Geralt had returned from his years-long mission in Bastion, Traigan had greeted him warmly – this man, after all, had done an unheard-of service to Pyre, infiltrating their leadership and living amongst them for many years. The information he had provided to Traigan in that time had undone countless enemy plans. As with all those who served him well, the Warlord had heaped rewards upon the former wizard, granting him the right to have whatever he wished in the city – with the usual stipulation that he not interfere with the War. Geralt had wasted no time in taking advantage of the Warlord's generosity. His apartments had belonged to a cadre of Chieftains in good standing, evicted the very day of Geralt's return.

Next to Geralt's bed was a bowl full of a smoldering herb, the resultant white smoke rising seductively to the sky. As Traigan approached, Geralt used one hand to waft the sweet-smelling smoke towards his face, breathing deeply.
Menshah
smoke was mildly intoxicating and was often used to perfume the sleeping chambers of influential individuals. Geralt seemed to be burning it like grass.

Geralt did not even look as the Warlord moved a stool closer to him and sat, joining in the enjoyment of the
menshah
.

Geralt did not look at his commander. Traigan could see that the man's eyes were half lidded – his movements were lazy and slow. Obviously the wizard had been indulging in the smoke for a long time.

"You honor me with your visit, Warlord."

Traigan grunted.

"You have been honoring me often."

"There is still a great deal you have to tell me, Geralt," Traigan answered sharply. He looked to the girl on the floor, young with black hair and a sublime figure. Her back was to the Warlord, but he recognized her by the hair and exotic dark skin. "Her again?"

"She is my favorite."

Traigan chuckled. "I'll have your name branded on her ass."

Geralt's hand, lazily as before, dropped down to caress the girl. His fingers traced up her thigh, across her buttocks and onto the small of her back.

"Why would I want to mar such beautiful skin?"

She gave a soft murmur and stirred, and Geralt returned his hand to caressing the smoke with the same tenderness he had shown to the girl.

There was no answer from Traigan. Instead, the Warlord abruptly changed the subject, launching into the line of questioning he had come for. At the change of tone Geralt's eyes came open, his mind and body coming fully awake to answer the demands of his commander. Today the questions were strange – how much land did Bastion cultivate? What crops? When did they plant? When did they harvest? Geralt answered to the best of his ability, though as a wizard he'd had nothing to do with farming. He did, however, have an immaculate memory, and recited every detail he had overheard in his years amongst the Enemy.

The line of questioning almost amused Geralt. Before it had been about troops – how many? Where? How many are recruited from abroad each year? - and other directly war-related information. His third day back Traigan had had the traitor wizard sketch the details of every map he'd ever seen while in Bastion. Geralt was a poor artist and could only give the Warlord a broad sense of the lands about Bastion, and an even more general one of the explored lands beyond. It seemed to satisfy the Warlord, though.

At one point, during a lull in the interrogation, the slumbering girl upon the floor came awake. She looked coyly over her shoulder to see who spoke to her master. She could not have recognized the Warlord's face, but the circlet upon his head was unmistakeable. Her eyes went wide and she spun around to place her forehead upon the floor in supplication. Traigan did no more than flick an annoyed glance at her, and then Geralt.

The wizard took the hint. "Food for the Warlord and myself," he ordered her. She half-rose to obey, but froze again when her eyes met the burning orbs of the lone Thrall that had followed Traigan into the room. She crouched, paralyzed with fright, until Geralt flicked her on the rear with one hand. "Go!"

The woman scurried from the room without bothering to cover herself, moving gracefully even in her haste. Traigan smirked appreciatively.

"She has not been in the city long," he observed.

"No. She came in with the last recruitment gang. I took her off their hands."

The recruiters responsible for combing outlying villages for strong boys and potential sorcerers also had the habit of bringing along the most attractive women for the army's pleasure. The demand was constant – the smooth loveliness of youth was a flower that wilted quickly in Pyre.

Traigan resumed his questioning, moving now from farming to the industries of Bastion. Who made the armor and weapons? How many were devoted to these tasks? Geralt never showed any confusion or curiosity at the topics the Warlord was concerned with; he simply answered. The girl eventually brought in a tray of bread and roasted meats, and was dismissed as soon as she set it down. For almost an hour The Warlord continued his questioning over the domestic life of the Enemy, until the braziers began to burn low and Geralt had to call for a servant to replenish the fuel.

"Do the wizards contribute to the firing of iron ore?" Traigan asked when they were once again alone. In Pyre, the lower ranks of sorcerers were required to assist in this task, as there was not enough wood and the more plentiful fuels like sod and dung did not burn hot enough. Sorcerers hated it, but it was essential to the War, and Traigan brooked no argument – nor had his predecessors.

"No. Wood and coal is plentiful in Bastion. Your wizards would no doubt hate to learn that."

"My sorcerers."

Geralt snorted. "What is the difference?"

Traigan chuckled. The wizard continued, lighting another bowl full of the
menshah
as he did.

"Wizards or sorcerers, soldiers or warriors. Angels, or Demons. Different names, only."

"Surely the Aeonians are not so similar as a wizard and a sorcerer."

Geralt looked up with unfocused eyes and an enigmatic smile.

"Aren't they?" was his answer. "Balkan told me once, years ago, that if two actions have an identical outcome, then the actions themselves can be considered as identical. The same may as well apply to people – or the Aeonians." Geralt laid himself back upon the divan. "A very clever man, was Balkan."

Traigan's lip curled. He was well aware of how clever the damned wizard had been – he had killed several men and wrecked part of the palace in a final act that still had the sorcerers baffled.

"How often did you encounter the Angels?" Traigan asked, studying the man's reaction coldly. He was rewarded with a slight tightening of Geralt's lips, and one hand moved seemingly of its own volition towards the maimed knee of the left leg.

"Rarely. I avoided them as best I could."

"You have your revenge, in any case," Traigan said, and stood. It seemed Geralt would be content to spend his days in inebriation and idleness until the day he died – and perhaps Traigan would let him. He left the chamber without further conversation. His mind was heavy with comparisons between the words of Geralt and Ertellin, ruminations on the nature of the War and those who fought it.

Even the Demons acknowledged that sorcerers and wizards were the same. If there were some basic truth to be found, some fundamental law that had gone undiscovered, then Traigan burned to know it. Knowledge was, and always would be, the surest path to power.

The Warlord tried to shake off the strange impatience that had begun to grip him – an undirected restlessness, as if some race were underway that he was only dimly aware of. He comforted himself with the knowledge that, if Ertellin was to be believed, he truly had all the time in the world. The War would not change – until the day that it ended.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Deep beneath the Tower, a renovation had taken place. In light of the time they spent there, the wizards of the Great Conspiracy – as they termed themselves by way of both jest and grim recognition – had slowly brought more lamps, torches, cushions, and other items down to the strange room.

The room was now brightly lit, and a makeshift table had been constructed to one side, far enough from the benches for the compatriots to stand around it comfortably. A carefully – and recently – drawn map was the subject of the wizards' attention. Ethion was methodically pointing out every detail. A large chamber, similar in dimensions to the Council Chamber above though it was square, and studded with four thick pillars, lay at the center of a web of corridors. From the chamber itself five different hallways led in every direction. An antechamber attached to the main room by one of those, and from it two paths led off the edge of the parchment.

"Are you sure that's all of them?" Darius had asked when the map was set before them. Ethion had replied with only a smile and a nod. They all knew that Ethion, more than any wizard in Bastion, would know the deep layers of Nebeth. He had commanded the fortress for years, and been responsible for the expansion of the lower levels and construction of the escape tunnels which he himself had been forced to use.

He pointed to one of the hallways. "This is the tunnel that I took. It slopes steadily downward and branches thrice – most of these lead to dead ends to throw off pursuit. Two paths lead to the outside. I caved in the tunnel at multiple points when I escaped, but I cannot guarantee they haven't been reopened.

"These three are actually staircases," Ethion indicated corridors leading south and east. "Two open into storerooms. The third, here, was being used to billet soldiers. I find it likely that Pyre would have kept the room for that purpose, if they are using it at all. It depends on how many troops they have in the garrison.

"Finally, these two corridors from the antechamber lead separately to the rest of the fortress. The most direct path is down this corridor, but it leads through the commanders' quarters."

The others followed as Ethion traced the indicated routes with his finger. There were no interconnections – the large room served as a hub in the travels within Nebeth's interior, a dim subterranean crossroads.

"You were right, Ethion, exactly right," Darius said. "It's perfect. What else could we ask of a defensive position?"

"How about some big, thick doors to lock?" responded one man, rousing laughter from the group.

Darius laughed with the rest, but he looked thoughtful. "We could bring them with us," he muttered to himself, then repeated himself more loudly. "Something to barricade with, at least. A few timbers is all we'd need, nothing hard to obtain."

"Would they survive the spell?" someone asked.

"Nothing else is harmed by the Firewalking. Even clothing remains untouched. You feel the heat, but you don't get burned. We can put it to the test easily enough, though. Ethion, when is our next trial?"

"In two days."

"Good, we'll - "

Darius stopped abruptly as the room brightened from behind them. The wizards turned as one. Aethel had appeared behind them – at an end of the room with no door.

The Archangel took a single stride forward. "It is time."

"Time to learn the heart of our plan, gentlemen," Darius said. As it always did when he took another step down this path, his heart had begun to beat more rapidly. "Aethel has come to show you the spell that will make this world our own again."

Darius spoke calmly, though he'd had no idea Aethel would show up just then. The Angel's only words to him on the matter were that he would come again 'in time.'

"Extend your hands," the Angel said, and one by one the wizards put forth their hands to him. Aethel's wings swept forward, and each man's fingertips were grazed by one of the myriad gossamer tendrils. A shocked expression and a sharp intake of breath accompanied the contact. Darius did not reach his head out – he had done so before. He remembered what came next, though – as vividly as if it were happening right then.

***

There was no sight – all around was blackness. Emptiness. Somewhere in that black, though, was the Enemy. Their taint of hatred could be felt like the glow of a fire – and the heat was growing. The respite was over. The Enemy returned.

With a thought the darkness fled, replaced by light in a place that was
different
. All around was the power of the Choirs, felt not as individual Angels but as a single encompassing warmth. Here and there a Power shone forth in its own right, the Archangels. Makaelic was here, and others, the mightiest of the hosts of Heaven.

Through the Choirs could be felt another power – a strange power. Not Heaven, not Hell. It's presence was a dimness within the light, a wrinkle in this place that was
different –
it was why this place was
different
at all. Gabriel was there, near it, and all around it were his host, the Guardians.

The Cherubim began their song. There were tones in it of power and of sadness, but mostly of resolve. This act was necessary, and there would be no hesitation. This place was
different
in a way that was dangerous, and it could not be allowed to fall into the grasp of Hell, even for a moment.

Ever.

The Enemy had come, in strength greater than before. One way or another, Heaven's sway over this place would be broken. All the Choirs moved to safeguard the Cherubim, but the Enemy were stronger, and inexorably the power of the Demons pressed inward. Through it all the Guardians worked their ritual. A vast and powerful force was rising from their song.

When it completed, the War
stopped
.

Angel and Demon were thrown from that place, thrown into the black emptiness that was everywhere and nowhere in the cosmos. For a fleeting moment, Angel and Demon alike took stock of the change the Cherubim had wrought. That strange place, where the devouring abyss was held at bay, was seemingly gone.

***

The whole of the vision hit the men in the fraction of an instant that they touched Aethel's wings. It was meaningless to dwell on how long the event in that vision – that memory, as Darius believed it to be – lasted. Darius found he could not think too much on the vision, or his mind began to reel at its very strangeness, how things such as time, distance, or even the concept of individuality were hard to apply. However the Great War was fought beyond the boundaries of the mortal world, it was beyond the power of a human mind to comprehend.

In the silence that followed, his fellows had the same reaction Darius himself had had. Most of them stood with mouths agape, minds still struggling to sift through the vision, and heads shook softly as they realized that the more they thought about it, the less they understood of it.

"Amazing," one man breathed. All nodded in agreement.

"I don't understand," Ethion said, his hopelessly confounded expression directed at the floor. "Did the spell come with the vision, or the vision with the spell?"

"Try not to think about it too hard," Darius suggested.

Aethel spoke at last. "You have what you need now. May you use it wisely."

With that, the Angel turned and moved towards the door, leaving the stunned wizards to glance to one another at the sudden appearance and departure. Aethel's long strides took him from the room by the time Darius thought to follow, calling out the Angel's name once he had left the room. Strangely, the Angel was much further down the corridor than he should have been.

"Aethel, wait! I must thank you, again, for helping us." Darius said. "I see – I can sense, somehow, that you are troubled. Why?"

The Angel stopped and turned. From beneath the hood, the light of Heaven was dimmed, a sure sign that something weighed upon the Angel's mind.

"I worry, Darius. I have looked into their hearts now – as I have looked into yours. You alone of them have considered the great loss humanity will suffer. It does not bode well."

"It is a sacrifice – the loss must equal the gain. They know this," Darius protested.

"They do not. Not in the depths of their souls. Not yet. They see only the gain, the great gift they are to receive."

Darius was speechless for a few moments, fearing that Aethel had changed his mind – but if so, why grant them the spell?

"Does this change anything?" Darius asked tentatively.

"No," came the welcome reply. Aethel tucked his hands within his sleeves in the familiar pose, and seemed to lose some of his burden. "The cause is right. But I worry, Darius – for if your own compatriots cannot fathom the loss, what will happen when the entire world must face it? Before the Angels came, your people lived very simply. Under our tutelage we have given you a great strength – we have given you the unity of Heaven. Now, the might Bastion wields is greater than you know. To what works will that might be set, once the War is gone?"

Darius answered carefully. "I cannot say, Aethel, but that our concern, not yours. We want our destinies to belong to us alone, and with that comes the responsibility of deciding them."

Somehow, he had said the wrong thing, for the Archangel's cowled head bowed, and his light flickered once more.

"No, Darius. I bear that responsibility as well – for I have helped you to this. Succeed or fail, some day you will die, and escape the consequences," Aethel said. "I risk coming to regret my actions for all eternity."

Darius was speechless. After a moment, Aethel bowed his farewell, and disappeared around the corner.

When he re-entered the room, the wizards were all sitting about on the newly-padded benches and chatting. Ethion looked up at his return.

"All is well?" the man asked. Darius nodded in response, quickly taking a seat beside his fellows.

"There is one last part of the plan that we should discuss," said Alexander.

Darius could still feel Ethion's inquiring gaze upon him, but looked instead to Alexander. "What is that?"

"Escape."

There was a chorus of agreement, and Alexander continued. "I'm sure you're ready to give your life for this, Darius – and so am I. That doesn't mean I'm eager to. Once we've cast our spell, we'll be buried in the catacombs of Nebeth. The strongest fortress in the world. How do we leave?"

"I don't know," Darius admitted. "Perhaps we could try to excavate the tunnels again."

"I ruined them quite thoroughly," Ethion said. "If the Enemy hasn't done any work on them, it will take us a good long while."

"We can bring plenty of provisions. The journey from here to there will be only a matter of a few steps to us – we can carry enormous amounts of supplies."

"What happens if we all die anyway?"

Everyone looked towards the wall, against which sat the young Pendrick. There was a great measure of sadness on his face. The young man had a wife, and still was determined to be a part of the plan. Darius admired him greatly for that.

"No need to be morose, man," Alexander said.

"What if we succeed, and then die?" Pendrick insisted. "We have to ensure that Bastion learns of what has happened. They might think it's some attack of the Enemy, or that the Choirs abandoned us. If all this occurs with no explanation, there will be panic."

"He's right," agreed another. "We need to leave word behind, somehow."

"One of us stays behind?"

All eyes turned to Pendrick. If there was one man who deserved to remain, it was he. His expression simply hardened, though, and he shook his head slowly. "I am going."

"It need not be someone," Ethion mused. "We could leave behind a message. A letter, entrusted to somebody who will deliver it to the Council after we've left."

The wizards discussed who might be given the task. Eventually the talk turned to other details of the plan. Preparation, timing – escape was brought up again, and the wizards argued back and forth over the best options. It was like a session of the Council – every detail discussed to death, few decisions made. Darius listened to it with little interest, remaining silent. In his mind, the plan was more or less complete – if it comforted the others to endlessly discuss about the trivialities, so be it.