Twixt Heaven And Hell (34 page)

Darius felt his heart quicken at the revelation. "It could be done here," he said, nearly whispering. Then his brow furrowed. "Why do you tell me this?" he asked.

Aethel turned again, facing Darius once more. "Because I know the truth of your words, Darius. More, perhaps, than you do.

"It was I who first came to this world. I was the first of the Aeonians amongst men. Before I came among you, I remained outside, watching. Your world and its ways were unlike anything found in Heaven or Hell. Ages passed as I looked on, uncomprehending of what I saw. I came closer, and studied your people. Every one of you different. Even as I watched, generations passed – untold thousands of you lived and died, every one unique – but soon each was gone, never again to return."

“How long ago was this?” Darius asked.

“I do not know. I had not yet come to understand time or how to mark its passing as you do. It must have been thousands of years. Ever closer I came, seeing more of your lives, your works, your habits – and your conflicts. Petty squabbles over food or water, but in them I saw the seeds of the Great War. I knew that it would come here, and better first from me than an agent of the Inferno.

"So I descended to this place, and other Angels followed. We taught of the Conflict, and to your primitive shamans we gave greater secrets of power. You changed quickly, then. The tribe we visited began to unite its neighbors. At first with words, passing on the urgent need to prepare for the coming of the Enemy. Those that would not assent to be gathered, though, were conquered. Where once life was taken only rarely and at great need, now you spilled it with little care – even with pleasure, seeing in these ones the true Enemy that had not yet come.”

Aethel bowed his head. "I saw that this boded ill – but soon after, the Enemy
did
arrive, and what you call the Old War began in earnest.

"Ever after, I have regretted that change in you – regretted, too, that it was I who wrought it. I had given you the War, but the Enemy had not yet shown – and so you reached out to find one. Before ever you knew what a Demon was, an Angel taught you to hate."

The regret that filled Aethel was palpable. Darius searched for something to say.

"Perhaps it was necessary," he said. "Had the Demons arrived first, hate would be all we know. We would revel in it. With your guidance we have moved beyond it. I have killed many men – but I have hated few."

Aethel did not reply – and nothing was said for some time after. The Angel stood silently, the myriad tendrils of his wings undulating slowly like willow branches in a gentle breeze.

Finally, Darius built up the courage to ask: "Will you help us end it, then?"

More silence, and soon despair crept back into his heart.

"
Please
, Aethel. Help us."

Still no answer, and Darius hung his head in defeat. In the span of a few minutes, he had gone from abject misery to hopefulness – and now he was spiraling back down, for he saw in his future nothing but the cruel reflection of his past, and the same for every living person until time came to an end.

"Yes."

Darius brought his head back up.

"I will help you – If you can tell me truly that this is what you wish. Speak not from your pain. Is it your true and honest desire that nor Angel nor Demon be allowed presence in your world, and all the good and ill we bring be forsaken, for all time?"

Darius did them both the service of considering the question anew, in all its enormity, as coldly as he was able. He searched his heart, doing his best to avoid the raw, open wound left by recent events.

Finally he nodded. "It is. All of mankind should be grateful to the Choirs – but your War cannot be ours any longer."

Aethel gave Darius a solemn bow.

"Then I will aid you."

Chapter Thirty-Five

Balkan's cell looked in on a circular room. In the center was a single large brazier, and the fire within was the only source of light. The walls and floors of this place were formed of a crumbly brown stone, somewhere between clay and real rock. The air was damp. Musky, earthy smells shared the air with the acrid smoke of the fire.

Around the room he could see additional cells identical to his own – two paces by two paces square, bare of even a chamber pot, and closed in by vertical iron bars. The entrance was a lattice of horizontal bars across the vertical ones, hanging on thick, poorly wrought hinges. He counted eight cells in all, arrayed around the chamber that was maybe five paces wide.

Wooden beams were set into the walls between the cells and along the ceiling, leading towards an even thicker wooden pillar set just off-center – like the shoring of a mineshaft, no doubt holding up a ceiling that would cave in otherwise. That pillar was slathered with clay to protected it from the heat of the brazier which sat near it. The only entrance to the room was off to the left of his cell, barely visible.

There were three sorcerers guarding him.

Balkan could only see one – a grim looking man seated directly opposite him on a simple three-legged stool. The other two were off the either side, out of sight – but Balkan could feel them there. When they had first brought him and his family here and locked each into a separate cell, there had been only two sorcerers. That had not been enough to prevent Balkan from attacking the moment he thought he could overwhelm them. His panic lending them strength, he killed one – but the other fended him off until soldiers arrived and clubbed him into oblivion.

Now there were three...

... and Maggie and Kaylie were gone.

They had been in the cells directly across from him – Maggie in one, and Kaylie beside her. Separated, but in sight.

"Where is my family?" Balkan croaked. His aching head and the miserable state of his body robbed his voice of vigor.

The sorcerer's only response as a smirk.

Picking his head off the floor, Balkan repeated himself, this time finding the strength to shout. The smirk only grew.

Then he could hear footsteps from outside the room, and he sat up at once to grip the bars and catch sight of whomever might come through the entryway. With his face poking partially out from his cell, he could see from the corner of his eyes both of the other sorcerers join the one in front of him in rising from their chairs, standing stiffly at attention.

Because he had heard only one set of footsteps echoing, Balkan was shocked to see no less that five figures enter the room. One look at four of them, however, told him much. They were not human. They wore the shape of men and moved in man-like ways – but with too much precision, a fluidity that was almost feline in nature. Then there were the eyes, which possessed a deep red shine. These things moved entirely without sound – and their eyes were locked on him like an adder's on a mouse.

Two of the creatures took up stations by the entrance. The others followed the fifth figure. This was a normal man, for the most part. His clothing was finely made – richly dyed cloth in deep reds and browns. He wore a circlet much like the sorcerers' - only instead of silver, the metal was reddish of hue, a material Balkan had never before seen. He had heard of it, though. The man who wore such a crown could be none other than the Warlord Mertoris Traigan – the supreme authority of the Enemy.

Without a second thought, Balkan lashed out – death was certain, but killing this man would be a greater service to Bastion than he could have hoped to render in ten lifetimes.

The next he knew, he was opening his eyes, lying flat on his back in the cell. His skull felt like it had been crushed in several places, but when he felt at his face he did not seem to be bleeding. Propping himself up on his elbows, he saw that bare seconds must have passed – for the Warlord was still standing before him, now with a bemused expression. Behind him, the unnatural man-things had bared their teeth, eyes glowing more powerfully than before.

"I hope you realize, now, the futility of
that
," The Warlord said in the uncouth accent of Pyre. "I am quite safe from you, whereas you are entirely in my power."

Balkan stood, painfully, determined not to speak with this man on his back. "Where is my family?"

"I have no idea. I gave the responsibility for you all over to Turan, here," the Warlord said while indicating the sorcerer behind him. "He tells me you've already caused some trouble."

The one he had pointed out as Balkan's overseer shifted uncomfortably. "Through no fault of mine. Nifre wasn't paying enough attention."

The Warlord only shrugged, never taking his eyes from Balkan's face. "That was impressive. Geralt tells me you are very intelligent, very clever. A pity I don't have very many like you under my own control."

Balkan's face twisted up in fury at the traitor's name. The Warlord took note, and chuckled. "I see you took his actions personally. You shouldn't. He was merely doing his job – he has been my man since before e'er he saw your city.

"But onto the reason I'm here. There is no reason for you and yours to suffer. You have knowledge that I require. Give it to me freely, and you will live – not only that, but I will allow you to return to your own people."

Balkan nearly laughed at the offer. Even to the most gullible of men, it would have shouted
Lie!
He merely scowled in reply.

"I see you do not believe me. I can understand that, though I speak nothing but truth. Very well – if you aid us as I request, you will remain here with your family. Unharmed, even living in comfort if you wish. I do not care about your circumstances once you have given me what I wish, that is true – but I am not in the habit of killing those who may yet be of further use to me. It is horribly inefficient."

"I'll say nothing until my family is restored to me."

The Warlord sighed slightly and turned his head to the sorcerer behind him. "Where are they?"

A cruel gleam lit the man's eyes. "I sent them to the camp – as punishment for Nifre's life."

The camp? Balkan struggled to think of some explanation other than the one that burst into his mind. The way of life within the Enemy lands was poorly known to Bastion, but some things were legendarily sinister – among them, the lot of women chosen to 'amuse' the soldiers.

He didn't notice the Warlord turn a harsh glare on the man, and missed when the sorcerer paled. "Only for a short time," the man added swiftly. "Merely to give them a taste."

Turning back to Balkan, the Warlord had to start several times to get the forlorn wizard's attention.

"They will not be harmed much. It is simply important for you to understand that I will do what I must to get what I need from you. Your wife and daughter are exactly as important to me as they are to you – cooperate with me, and they will be treated with the utmost care. Refuse," the Warlord's face adopted a mock-sorrowful expression as he let the threat hang, ripening, in the air, "and the camp will be the least of their worries."

Inside, Balkan was frantic – but somehow he maintained a thin veneer of calm. "Only until we die."

There was a pause before the Warlord answered. Slowly, the man with the crimson crown lifted his tunic on the right side to show Balkan a hideous scar, just below the chest. It was an angry red, and the skin looked rough and inflamed. He twisted a bit to show that it ran across his back as well, nearly to the spine. To have acquired a mark like that, the man must have been nearly cut in two.

"I've heard much about the Angels from Geralt. Mostly how they Heal. Demons can, as well – in their way. It is not something I wish to endure again. Better to die. Understand that, should I wish it, you all will live – and suffer – for a very long time."

It seemed as if the man was about to continue when a young soldier with intelligent eyes entered and, without hesitation, approached the Warlord.

“Warlord, your presence is requested in the Globe room.”

Turning from his prisoner at once, the Warlord nodded calmly. "Return," was his only reply. The young men left as swiftly as he had entered, and the Warlord rose. Without another word to Balkan, he took the sorcerer named Turan aside, and spoke in hushed tones. There was little reaction from the sorcerer except an early, halfhearted protest which was cut off swiftly. When their exchange was over, the Warlord departed, taking his hellspawn with him. Turan came back over to his chair.

As the sorcerer sat again, Balkan rose to his feet. The Warlords strangely gentle manner had not dulled the threat – if Balkan did not cooperate, Maggie and Kaylie would be the ones to pay.

Tears streamed freely down his face and his throat constricted with terror. It all hit him at once. Before, he had been preoccupied with comforting his family – reassuring them with promises that he'd known were meaningless even as he made them. Now the full weight of their situation descended on his spirit, and Balkan nearly collapsed to his knees.

They were prisoners of the Enemy.

He leaned his head against the cold stone and wept.

"The Warlord was sincere in his offer," the sorcerer said. "He does not make such claims lightly."

Balkan did not even look at him. It was a lie, all of it – it must be. If he let himself start to believe them, it would be the first step in giving in. He wanted to respond defiantly. He wanted to tell them to save their breath, but he did not have the spirit.

Not twenty minutes after the Warlord departed, more sounds could be heard from the corridor. Balkan came out of his durance of despair as the sounds separated into the noise of booted feet approaching. Soon after the high pitched sobs of a child could be distinguished. Balkan moved quickly to the front of his cell, grasping the bars so tightly his knuckles went white – both eager and afraid to see his family again.

The first man who came in was a hulking brute who carried Balkan's daughter over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

"Kaylie!" Balkan shouted when he saw her. She turned her head to look at him. Her face was red, cheeks swollen by tears, but otherwise she seemed unharmed.

"Daddy..." Kaylie responded plaintively, her voice quiet with exhaustion. "They... they hurt mommy," she said, and the bewilderment and shock in her voice tore at Balkan's heart.

"I know, dearest, I know," he answered, voice nearly breaking. "But she will be okay."

"Oh yes, she will," spoke up Turan. "For now," he added, looking at Balkan with eyes full of evil promises.

Behind came two more soldiers. The rearmost of them carried Maggie just as the first had Kaylie. Balkan could see that she was unconscious. Then he noticed the rest, and bile rose in his throat. Her dress – made from a beautiful blue cloth which he had given her for their eighth anniversary – was torn and dirty. There were bruises, already a livid purple, on her legs – finger marks, Balkan realized. The soldier turned to place her in the cell directly opposite Balkan's own, bringing his wife's face into view. Balkan cried out and was forced to drop his eyes from her to control his nausea. His beautiful Maggie's face was covered in blood and dirt, one eye swollen shut and a cut on her left cheek still oozing blood.

Balkan wanted nothing more than to attack – save only, perhaps, to hold his family in his arms – but even then he could feel the sorcerers' readiness, feel their senses brushing his skin, alert for any signs of trouble.

They set his daughter down unceremoniously onto the floor of her cell, and Kaylie immediately scooted to put her back against the stone, curling into a ball. Maggie was dumped roughly into the cell next to her daughter's, as far from Balkan as they could be – but in sight.

"Did you have any trouble?" Turan asked.

"A couple of the men wanted to get rough, but we sorted them out," came the answer from the large man.

"I meant with the prisoners."

"Oh, that bitch is lively for sure. Fought plenty at first – and when they slapped 'er a bit to quiet 'er down, the gremlin bit me."

The big man held up a hand with a bandage around the palm, giving Kaylie a look that was more amusement than anger. "They both settled down after a bit, though. She even seemed to enjoy it by the time I had my turn."

"She was out cold by the time you had her," said one of the others.

The big one only smiled. "Naw, she was still plenty warm."

"Very well," Turan interrupted. "You've done well. Tell the messenger outside that our replacements should come. Go."

Through the conversation Balkan had glared at them with naked hatred, his hands squeezing the cage bars until his fists were skeletal and white. The looks they returned were ones of cruel amusement. The soldiers left, talking amongst themselves with crude gestures that left no doubt as to what they spoke of, and it drove Balkan's rage to new heights.

The sorcerer's gaze slid slyly to Balkan, and in that look Balkan could see that the entire conversation had been played our for his benefit.

"Give up now, man," Turan said. "She spent only an hour among the warriors. She'd be hurt more slipping and falling in the street." He leaned close, lowering his voice to a perversely intimate whisper. "Imagine when I send her out for a day, or a week? Next time she may not have my guards to protect her – the men can do as they please. If you are still stubborn after all this..." This time his gaze slid to Kaylie, who was still sniffling in her cell. "I'm sure I can find men with more
exotic
tastes."