Terry W. Ervin (44 page)

“How do you know that?” asked Lilly. “Are you a seer too?”

Belinda ignored her. “It wasn’t the largest, or the most important meeting place of its kind, but it’s what has survived.”

We stood at the base of the skyscraper. Two levels held tall windows, dark from within and reflecting the scenery behind us. I had to crane my neck to view the rest built upon those levels. It did appear to touch the sky.

Belinda reached into her robes and pulled out a small leather scroll case. “Mercenary, I will lead you and your companions to the entrance.” She handed me the scroll case. “If the inhabitants suffer your presence, and the guardian grants passage, I will lead you up where you may contact the Colonel of the West. There will be a box on a long table. Ignore symbols and writings. They’re beyond your comprehension. Use the scroll I’ve provided and adjust the frequency, then press the black button next to the metal stick, speak your message into it. Release the button and listen.” She eyed Roos and Lilly standing to my left and right. “Do not allow your companions to fight your battles.”

Belinda covered her head with her cloak’s hood and turned, her black robes billowing out as she spun. “From this moment forward, do not look to me for answers or support. I shall give neither.”

Roos fixed his bayonet over the muzzle of his rifle. “If ye find thyself in my line of fire,” he said to Belinda, “do not look for concern or mercy. I shall give neither.”

Without a word Belinda led us around the building to a wide set of glass doors framed by shining metal. They magically whisked open as we approached. She stepped to the side, allowing us to enter first.

I stuffed the scroll case behind my breastplate and led our group through a small entryway into a well lit lobby. Globes that didn’t contain flame showered the polished stone floor and walls in white light. Recessed rays lit the long, arched ceiling. Triangular patterns of brown, white, and gold formed large squares on the marble floor. It appeared more for decoration than a pattern with magical intent. Our boots clapped as we walked, the sound echoing lightly as we proceeded. I decided to seek stairs leading upward. Belinda said that was where I could contact the Colonel of the West.

We passed through the first room, into a larger, square one lit by an ornate crystal chandelier. Lilly grabbed my arm. “I hear,” she whispered.

From hallways to the left and right approached what I guessed to be trogs. They looked like goblins, but were seven feet tall with pasty gray skin hanging over solid torsos. They walked upright swinging abnormally long arms, their flat feet slapping on the hard floor. Stubby fingers curled around the handles of their pickaxes, shovels and hammers. What dusty rags they wore made Lilly’s look extravagant and well kept.

Belinda stood against the wall as ten of the hairless, black-eyed creatures marched into the room and shuffled into a circle around us. Roos and Lilly stood at my back as I faced the largest.

The big trog had a welt on its head, as if a fallen brick had struck where its eyebrow should have been. The trog waved its battered sledge hammer, pointing it at me. “Follow,” rumbled from its throat.

It turned, expecting us to follow. Belinda hadn’t given me much on what to expect, so I asked, “Why?”

Three strides later the big trog turned and repeated, “Follow.” The other nine repeated the word.

“Why?” I asked, standing my ground. The trog didn’t seem too bright. Maybe it would unintentionally say something useful. “Where too?”

The big trog bunched its lips up and squinted at me. Everyone stood motionless as statues waiting for it to answer. If it came to a fight, ten trogs would be more than we could handle, so I didn’t think it was waiting until more arrived before answering. I tried to think of other questions to break the impasse.

“Hawk,” warned Roos.

A shimmering white-blue light floated into the room. It was the size of a shield and sparkled like coals in a campfire being stirred. A wandering, or lamenting, soul. I wondered if Roos’ saber would have any effect on it.

It stopped next to the big trog, so I addressed it. “Where too? And why?”

The big trog smiled and turned to face the lamenting soul. In a flash, the light shot into the brute’s chest. Its brilliance disappeared, but traces of its presence lit up the big trog’s eyes. Even a glimmer of light streamed out of its broad nostrils. I watched the injury on the trog’s forehead fade.

When the trog spoke, light flickered in its throat like a fire in a potbelly stove. “The guardian has noted your presence. We are here to escort you to his presence.”

It wasn’t apparent at first, but the big trog looked younger, and stronger. It could’ve been the light, although I didn’t think so.

“Why?” I asked.

The possessed trog’s eyes flicked a glance beyond me to where Belinda the Cursed stood before focusing on me again. “Why are you here?” Its voice was no longer flat.

“I am here,” I said, “in service of Reveron, Prince of Keesee. I seek to barter with the Colonel of the West on his behalf.”

The possessed trog seemed to look through me to the sword hanging across my back. “The guardian will assess the validity of your business and your fitness to barter with the Colonel of the West.”

The big trog had smiled before the lamenting soul entered it. The situation wasn’t like when the Blood-Sword possessed me. And the healing of the trog’s injury and improved health reminded me of what Belinda had said about the trogs and lamenting souls. I didn’t have time to ponder the connection. “I am called Flank Hawk, mercenary in the service of Prince Reveron. Who are you?”

“I am Janice Welson. Follow me and I will escort you to the guardian.”

I looked back at Roos and Lilly. They said nothing. “Okay, we’ll follow.”

“No, just you, Flank Hawk.”

Separating didn’t sound like a good idea. I wanted Lilly’s instincts and Roos’ ability to sense magic and his firepower at my back. The trogs were prepared to take all of us somewhere before I asked a question. Knowing Belinda believed the Colonel of the West wanted the Blood-Sword, and the lamenting soul focusing on the sword, gave me some bargaining strength. “They go with me.”

Only the possessed trog’s lips and jaw moved when the lamenting soul spoke through him. “Do they serve Reveron, Prince of Keesee?”

“No,” I said. “They are my friends and follow me for their own reasons.”

“If they follow you, you are their leader. You are responsible for their actions.”

The possessed trog turned and led the way through the left doorway. Lilly walked next to me. Roos, following us, said, “Friend Hawk, ye may want to wear thy helmet.”

The other nine trogs trailing behind us appeared more curious than aggressive. “If combat appears imminent, Roos.” Still, I loosened the strap securing it to my belt.

The possessed trog led us down several halls, narrower and less grand than the entrance. We walked upon tapestries that ran along the floor. Repetitive in design and expertly stitched together, it was difficult to tell where one ended and another began. We passed dozens of painted doors with unusual hook-like latches.

“Is Belinda still with us?” I asked.

“She is,” whispered Lilly.

Through several turns and a set of stairs, the possessed trog brought us into a long entrance hall with tall windows facing the waterfront. I spotted the Sunset Siren still tied to the pier.

We stopped in front of a pair of immense white double doors. The possessed trog pulled them open, revealing a huge room beyond. The hardwood floors, high ceiling and dozens of chandeliers reminded me of the palace ballroom I glimpsed while in Keesee.

Inside to the right a winged man sat upon a tall stool. The ornate stool had two padded arm rests and four stout legs carved to resemble those of a great cat down to the clawed paws. Having wings, sitting in a chair with a backrest wouldn’t work, so the stool made sense.

Around the room flitted at least twenty lamenting souls. Six hovered among the crystal chandeliers, adding their light to that of the small flame-like globes. The floor was otherwise clear except for a crew of four trogs with buckets, brushes, and rags, on their hands and knees washing and waxing the floor.

The possessed trog led us directly toward the winged man. He was tall as a trog, but far more handsome with blonde curly hair, dark eyes, firm jaw, and a muscular body. His white tunic emphasized an ashy tone to his skin that matched the color of his feathered wings folded behind his back. His right hand held a polished wooden scepter tipped with a jagged cluster of blue crystals.

“Friend Hawk,” said Roos openly, “ye are gazing upon a fallen angel.”

The winged man looked beyond us to the doorway where Belinda stood. “Iceheart, it has been many years since you have visited Outpost 4.” He spoke as a tenor singing a mirthful melody. “As always, you travel with interesting company.”

We stopped ten paces in front of the fallen angel while the possessed trog knelt before him. The lamenting souls that had been flitting about the ballroom gathered to the gray angel’s left. Those in the chandeliers remained where they were and the nine trogs formed a semicircle behind us. The four cleaning trogs must have departed.

Lilly whispered into my ear, “I’ll watch our back while you talk.”

The fallen angel motioned with his scepter for the possessed trog to rise and stand to his right. “Remind you of a poorly written play, Crusader? Me, here as guardian.” He laughed deeply. “A guardian angel.”

No one else laughed. Roos ground his teeth.

The fallen angel gazed at me. “I am aware you believe your business urgent, Mercenary. But it has been centuries since the opportunity to speak with a believer has presented itself.”

I shrugged, not knowing what to say. His voice sounded sincere and without malice, but I’d learned to trust my friends’ instincts. I’d watched many farm cats play with mice before devouring them. I guessed that angels were minions of the Crusaders’ God, and Roos’ tense jaw indicated he wasn’t interested in exchanging pleasantries with a fallen one.

“Your ignorance should be corrected, Believer. I have withdrawn my service from Him above. I do not serve him below. I am not fallen.”

“Fallen One, ye should concentrate on serving thy new master rather than strive to justify thy foolish decision to sever thyself from His presence.”

The fallen angel retained his smile, but the rustling of his wings betrayed his reaction. “You, Believer, who travels in company of a cursed one and a practitioner of the forbidden arts that intends to barter a trapped malevolent soul, one that inflicted untold suffering and death to millions upon the eve of the cataclysm. You dare question my actions and my motives?”

Roos calmly slung his rifle over his shoulder and slowly drew his saber.

“Believer, your feeble weapons hold no special power or influence in my presence.”

I couldn’t tell if the fallen angel believed what he said, let alone determine his reason for challenging Roos’ integrity and loyalty to his God. I began to suspect Belinda intended this confrontation all along.

“This saber,” said Roos, holding it over his head, “blessed by Saint Godfrey Augustus and entrusted to me by Archbishop Simeon of Canterbury upon revealing the vision granted by the Lord of All, symbolizes the purity of my mission.” He lowered the saber and stood relaxed. “Arrogance and separation from our Father has clouded thy vision, Fallen One.”

Lilly whispered in my ear. “He’s muted the Crusaders’ saber. It hardly shimmers at all.”

The fallen angel roared with laughter. “Believer, history is rife with examples of petty, self-serving, and plain unwise decisions made by both clergy and saints.”

“I have my granted vision and my faith, Fallen One. What have ye? Knowledge of loss and loneliness of an empty heart? Set aside thy pride and beg forgiveness. He will not turn ye away.”

The fallen angel shook his head. “Have you heard the phrase, ‘Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven?’”

It was Roos’ turn to laugh. “At the moment, ye serves the one named Colonel of the West. Thou does not rule, but administers the fourth outpost, three ranks below thy master’s most important one.”

“As expected, Believer,” the fallen angel said, frowning and shaking his head, “your narrow vision overflows with ignorance.” He looked back to Belinda, smiling. “You have outdone yourself once again, Iceheart. Now, be gone while I attend to business at hand.”

I turned when Belinda unexpectedly replied. “I see you’ve discovered the Crusader’s tongue has nasty barbs, Warden of Outpost 4.” She leaned on her white staff. “You hold no sway over me. I shall stay to ensure my father’s interests are upheld.”

Her statement caused the fallen angel’s wings once again to rustle. “Mercenary, state your business with the Colonel of the West.” The melody in his voice fell flat.

I repeated what I’d told the lamenting soul possessing the trog. “I am here in service of Reveron, Prince of Keesee. I seek to barter with the Colonel of the West on his behalf.”

“Why does he not come himself?”

I could have told the truth, but felt the less information I provided, the better. “It is not my place to question decisions of my prince. He tasked me and so I have come.”

“A prince of any account would send more than a lowly mercenary in his stead.” He eyed the tattered armband bearing Keesee’s colors. “A poorly equipped one at that. And to enlist the aid of a cursed one and a pathetic Crusader?”