Chapter 17

  “What have you done!?”

  The last of the man’s screams died out, and all grew quiet in the darkness below.

  “He wasn’t going to leave.”

  “We could have— I could have… done something.”

  “There was no time.” Malachai stood; arms folded. “He would have died regardless. Now we need not waste any more thought on his fate.”

  “You were not meant to hurt them… Albrecht said…you promised.”

  “I promised that I would let nothing stand in my way.” He exclaimed; face twisted in righteous fury. “Now hurry, or he will have died for nothing.”

  Outside the saferoom, the shop was in ruin. Windows smashed in, door hanging crookedly off its hinges. The shelves had been toppled and on the floor were the scattered remains of broken charms and grimoires torn apart, tattered pages blowing in the wind.

  Between the rubble and the oozing spill of a hundred different elixirs were signs of a disturbing truth. Something large had been here, tracking its prints all over the shop. Turning back, she saw deep gashes, clawed into the door of Sophie’s room. It had been trying to break in. But why?

  “We should go.” Said Malachai. “Whatever it was might come back.”

  Nodding, she shut the door and the runes glowed shifting and turning in the golden light, sealing the entrance. Picking their way through the ruin, they made their way out into the street.

  It was late, well past midnight, on a night with no moon. But the orange glow of distant fires lit the city, painting it in a strange burning twilight.

  “Your men do not seem to be heeding their commands.” She said darkly. “And now the city will be lost to flame.”

  “Such is the nature of war.” He replied. “When bloodlust strikes a man, nothing can stop him from returning to the savagery of his most base instincts.”

  The words rang hollow, caught in his throat. Confident as they were, the sight of Orent put to the torch had shaken Malachai. His shoulders drooped and he refused to lift his gaze as they journeyed up the hill, unable to acknowledge the destruction he had wrought.

  When they reached the gate of the second wall, they found it already abandoned. Its soldiers called back to fortify the palace to protect their king.

  “See!” Malachai shouted. “See how he abandons his subjects! What more proof do you need? A king who abandons his people cannot remain king.” His words were for Fia, but she thought their meaning truly meant for himself. Confirming his path and reassuring him that he had made the right choice.

  As always, the climb through the upper levels was an agonizing journey. The fires below hid most of the army's worst crimes in the lower wards, burning them away and leaving only ashes. But there were no fires here, only death. And the horror of his men’s descent took its toll on the rebel king.

  “It had to be done… it had to be done… no other way…” He muttered to himself as they walked, eyes dark, lost in madness.

  She could have spared him from the worst of it. Though it had been long since she walked this way, there was no forgetting the heinous acts carried out by Malachai’s army. Seared in her mind, she could not escape each horrendous scene, and deep down she wanted Malachai to feel the same disgust.

  He shuddered at every passing. Each alley, home to some vile transgression, and around every corner a new nightmare waiting to be revealed.

  Soon they came to the last wall, the foot of the palace. Here, scattered in a courtyard were the banners of the king, sapphire and gold stained red with crimson paint. A violent skirmish had taken place around the gatehouse, yet Fia could not see the banners of the white hawk. This had been no battle between men.

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  In the shadows of the gate lay a beast. It was peaceful, sleeping in the remains of a gluttonous feast. The mangy fur, matted with blood rose and fell steadily, its rib cage shaking, pressed against its meager hide. It was curled around a corpse, its rope-like tail twitching as it slumbered tugging at the man’s arms.

  Malachai strode towards it. “Begone, foul thing!” he cried.

  The beast stirred, raising its head as it yawned, lips pulling back to expose rows of thin needled fangs.

  “I only take what has been promised to me,” it whispered, blinking slowly, dark eyes shining curiously behind them.

  “You were promised the remains!” Malachai boomed. “While I am still here, there is nothing for you!”

  Scowling, the creature shrunk back, tail tugging at the body it had claimed. “Corpses all around,” it rasped. “Hard to tell which is which and whose is whose.”

  Malachai moved forward stepping into the shade of the gatehouse. As he did his figure seemed to grow, expanding until he towered over the beast. From his waist, he drew a blade, silver as the moon it shone, radiant, even in the dark of night. And the creature shook, cowering before him.

  When he spoke his voice echoed, loud as thunder, ringing through the empty streets, and all traces of madness and doubt vanished. “You will have your time, demon! Begone! Do not think to defile these men while I stand before you. You are here by my grace and by the grace of those whose authority I wield.” He raised the blade and the world seemed to bend around its visage rending the very air before it.

  It fled from him, slinking into the shadows. But just before it disappeared the monster turned its eyes to Fia, meeting her gaze. It stared at her knowingly, then its snout curled into a hideous grin and it faded into the night.

  “You let that thing into the city!” Fia shook with anger, “Bargained with it! For our lives!”

  He turned back to her, smaller now, but shining still. “There is no victory here without a meaningful sacrifice.” He muttered.

  “Beasts like that fill your ranks and you wonder at the carnage left in their wake?”

  But the doubt that had filled him was gone, and his conviction returned to him in waves. “We are lucky,” he said. “It has cleared the way for us. The rest will be at the front, defending against my army.” His eyes rose to the palace, high above. “We will find no more resistance here.”

  The road to the palace was still long, and the steps to its door were narrow and winding. Cut into the great knoll, they bent and curved, twisting back and forth climbing towards the stars. But Malachai had been right. There was no more opposition, no defense against a second assault. They only needed to walk, and the way would open before them.

  At the stairs end, the path opened into an imperial garden. It was vast, green, and beautiful, but something was amiss. The trees were too tall, the flowers too vibrant, the air was still, and yet the long grass called to her, dancing in the light of a moon that was not there. It was so like their world, and so unlike it. An artist's rendition of a land once dreamt of.

  “We best not dally here,” Malachai spoke softly eyes lifted to the heavens in awe.

  “What is this place?” She whispered. The stars above were strange. They flickered and glowed like hers, but the shapes they made were foreign and unknown.

  “The Garden of the Moon.” Tears streamed down his face. “I have always wanted to see it. A man may gaze a hundred years here, never seeing the same stars twice… On whose sky do we look upon this night…” He stood entranced until the light of his eyes was merely a reflection of the constellations above.

  “Malachai, we should go.”

  He did not respond.

  “Malachai, remember your path.”

  Only muttered ramblings. He was lost in their radiant glow.

  “Malachai!” She shouted, pulling at his arm and tearing his eyes from the stars.

  And the spell was broken. “I’m sorry Fia…” He blinked, eyes glassy, rubbing his face in his hands. “It is a strange thing… to be so close to the end. Should we succeed here the Garden will fall, and never again will our world be home to such wonder… I am grateful to have seen it, yet, I think it might be better if I never had.”

  He took one last look, lingering on its beauty. Then he let out a sigh lowering his head, and looked upon it no more.

  “Fia, the compass.” He held out his hand.

  She pulled it from her robes and it started to spin in the palm of her hand.

  “Throw it!” He commanded. “Cast it into the air and we shall follow it to the door!”

  She did as he asked tossing it up, and it whirled before them, hovering, for just a moment. Then it took off towards the palace.

  “After it!”

  They ran. Over hill and dale, through beds of flowers, and across meadows of long grass. The golden light led them onward.

  Finally, it stopped, and Fia caught it, plucked it from the air, and held it in her fingers. The compass had grown hot. It did not burn, nor was it painful to touch, a strange sensation, tickling at her skin making her feel ill at ease.

  It had stopped in front of a small path leading to a large doorway, barred by towering slabs of stone set into the mountain. In their center cut into the rock was an indentation, a spiral of stars and runes.

  “A keyhole.”

  “Yes,” Malachai replied. “Good thing we have the key.”

  Between them and the door were two immense statues. Covered in eyes, they watched her, their thin twisting limbs reaching out as if to take her from this world.

  “What are they?”

  “Guardians.”

  “Will they wake?”

  “Only one way to find out.”

  Cycle: Timor 3-3