When Angels Fall (Demon Lord) (13 page)

“What guests, sir?”
his assistant’s tinny voice enquired.

“The two in my office
. Kandeskurry.”

“You had no appointment -”

“Just show them out.”

“Yes, sir.”

The twins rose, making the chairs creak again, and Dramon beamed and offered his hand. Randoman shook it, just to get rid of them, and they headed for the door, where his assistant waited. After they left, he gazed out of a window, pondering all the strange occurrences that had taken place since the girl had appeared in Cloud World. The news reports and numerous vidimages of two strange beings fighting over Darjahan were certainly disturbing, yet no other reports of similar occurrences had cropped up since then. Whoever, or whatever, the beings had been, they seemed to have disappeared. That did not mean Dramon and Nomard were wrong, however. There had been a more recent, and extremely worrisome incident where day had turned to night for several minutes, and the best and brightest of Bayona’s scientists could not explain how that was even possible, yet again, there was plenty of recorded evidence of it. What the twins had said about the white fire also interested and concerned him. If the religious nuts were in possession of some sort of weapon, it warranted investigation. The fanatics could be dangerous.

There had been rumours of a few strange incidents w
here people had turned to dust, while others had burst into flames, and traffic vidimages had tracked vehicles passing close to the victims at the time. The same vehicles had caused several incidents along their route, as if they carried a form of weapon. What if the twins were right, and the religious cults had got their hands on something dangerous? If what they had told him was true, it meant the people who had expired had, in fact, been fiends. That confirmed their assertion that there were fiends in Bayona, and that this white fire was a weapon that could destroy them.

Randoman keyed his intercom again. “Merrin, get me Major Ranjal.”

“Yes, sir.”

Major Ranjal had been Governor Predoran’s military liaison officer, and was now considered something of an authority on
dra’voren. Perhaps he could confirm or deny the twins’ claims.

The Demon Lord glanced around at the crowd behind him, annoyed by its proximity. If he used the dark power to fly up to the top of the gate to read the runes there, he would terrify and sicken the throng, but he needed to know what they said. He closed his eyes and used a far-see to view the five symbols, reading them with a frown.

“Damn.”

“What is it, Lord?” Lyrica enquired.

He opened his eyes. “The runes at the top of the gate…”

“What do they say?”

“‘None shall pass’.”

“So… it is hopeless? We are trapped?”

“I have no intention of spending the rest of my days in this infernal place.” He swung away and headed back up the road, the crowd parting for him.

The mayor rushed at him. “Please
, open the gate!”

“That gate?” Bane stopped and
indicated the portal. “You want me to open that gate? Are you sure?”

“Yes! We wish to leave here!”

“None more than I, but if I open that gate you will all die.”

“But how…?” The mayor trailed off, his expression shocked.

Bane brushed past him. “Do not plague me with stupid questions. I am not in the mood.”

Majelin caught up with Bane as he turned the corner and fell into step beside him. “Is asking what you intend to do now a stupid question?”

“I seem to be running low on options.”

“There is an Oracle here, in the Tower of Light.”

Bane looked up at the pillar of white fire. “Huh. This place is bizarre. Surely an Oracle needs a light god to keep it active?”

“Not this one, apparently.”

“Grey Gods again. So there is an Oracle here. What of it?”

“It does not appear to be in a spirit world. You could ask it how to get out.”

“How can an Oracle be in the real world?”

“Oracles
can exist in both worlds,” Majelin stated, “but there is no city of souls here. No children were meant to be born here save the changelings, who came here in their mother’s wombs. I think souls now come here from Sherinias’ light realm.”

“So it was not Ordur’s mistake that led to innocents being trapped here, but Pretarin’s.”

“He would not have known.”

“You think it will tell me?” Bane enquired.

“If you ask the right question, you will get the right answer.”

Bane glanced at the pillar of light, not keen on breaching the bastion of brilliance.

After several moments of silence, broken only by the clicking of Bane’s steel-soled boots on the cobblestones and the distant murmur of the crowd around the gate, Majelin asked, “Could a Grey God open that gate?”

“Forget about the gate,” Bane said. “It is not an exit. It is a trap. Every realm must have a gate, but this is a prison, so
there is no way to open it.”

“How do you know that?”

“The darkness knows.”

The archangel shot him a frown. “But it does not know how to get out of here?”

“No. It only urges me to seek an egress, or, failing that, destroy this place.”

Bane headed towards a tavern further down the street, whose bright, freshly painted sign named it ‘The Milkman’s Son’. He entered a cosy common room with whitewashed walls, a roaring fire in the black stone hearth
and clean-swept floors. Bunches of dried herbs hanging from the rafters gave it a clean, spicy scent. Pale blue cloths draped the tables and little vases of flowers stood upon them, all such feminine touches that he was not surprised when a plump, motherly woman approached as he sat down, a tray on her hip. She stared at him, her welcoming smile becoming a little strained, and cast Majelin a quick look when he sat opposite.

“Ale,” Bane ordered, and she hurried off, casting many disbelieving
glances over her shoulder. Evidently news of his arrival, along with his description, had spread to all and sundry.

“Could you bring him here with a Fetch?” Majelin enquired.

“Who?”

“Kayos.”

Bane frowned. “What makes you think a Fetch will work here, any more than a Gateway, or anything else, for that matter?”

“Well, Ordur did not prevent entry. Do you think Kayos knows how to leave here?”

“Probably,” Bane muttered. “He knows everything.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Not exactly. I do not know everything. I expect he is in the gazebo. Or he could be in the mess hall aboard Retribution.”

“
Retribution?”

“A ship.” Bane waved a hand. “It is irrelevant. He might not realise who it is, though, and I doubt I have the power to draw a Grey God down if he fights it.”

“Is he watching?”

“Yes.” Bane sat back as the proprietor returned and placed two tankards of frothy, pale golden ale in front of
them. “Are you suggesting I use sign language? Hold up a note, perhaps?”

“Surely he will know what you are doing? Is it not worth a try?”

“A Fetch may not work even if Ordur’s wards do not block it. We are not in an underworld, as far as I can discern, even though we passed through one to get here.”

“Will you try?” Majelin insisted.

Bane snorted. “Why not? What is the worst that can happen? I could be slapped down again by the damned boundary wards, is all, but I am becoming accustomed to failure.” He glanced out of the window. “At least I do not have the entire bloody city following me anymore.”

“They thought you were going to open the gate.”

“And since I am not, I am no longer of interest, hmmm?” Bane asked, annoyed. His mood was so foul that everything irritated him. He sipped the ale and found it good, but warm, and murmured, “Cold.” The tankard frosted.

“Pardon?” Majelin
enquired.

Bane sighed. “Nothing. The ale was warm.”

“Oh.” The archangel sipped his and pulled a face. “I have never understood why humans like this stuff.”

“It makes them drunk.”

“I have never understood the attraction of being mentally impaired, either.”

“Well, you are an angel, and worse, and archangel. I am sure you are far too stuck up to ever have any fun.”

Majelin eyed him. “You are in a bad mood.”

“What gave me away? So would you be if you were stuck in this infernal place. Oh, wait, you are. Do archangels have moods?”

“Of course we do.”

“Just good ones, huh? It must be boring to be you.”

The angel sipped his ale. “Are you angry with me, because this happened because you rescued me?”

“No, although I probably should be. I am angry with myself for agreeing to rescue you. I should have left you to rot.”

“You can be a most disagreeable person, Bane.”

The Demon Lord leant forward
and banged his tankard down. “You have no idea. And no one is forcing you to drink with me. Go away, if my mood troubles you. I have no wish for company.”

“I understand your anger and frustration.”

“Do you? I doubt that. I have the power to destroy this place and free myself, but I cannot. Why? Because there are people here! And they are almost as annoying as you, but killing them would be wrong, and I am a damned tar’merin, am I not? An exalted warrior of the light, who wishes, right now, that he was not!”

Majelin lowered his eyes. “I am glad that you are, and… thank you, for saving me.”

Bane grunted. “That was a bit overdue. And why is it that you do not use my title? Others of your kind tend to overdo that, if anything, with the kneeling and fawning and boot kissing, yet I have not even heard a single honorific from you.”

“I do not know. I should, I know, and yet… I cannot. Is it so important to you?”

“I do not care. I am just curious. Your reactions to me are wrong. At first, you were suspicious and hostile, and I know you would have killed me while I was unconscious if you had not been worried about turning into a piece of charcoal. Then you became bossy and rude, and now you treat me as an equal. Is it an archangel thing?”

“No, I think it is something all my own, a product of five hundred years of torture at the hands of dark gods, then being rescued… by a dark god. I am a little resentful at owing you my life.”

Bane leant back, quaffing his ale. “I am resentful at ending up here because of it. I think I have the greater gripe.”

Majelin nodded. “You do.”

Bane gazed out of the window, wondering why there were still no people on the streets. It seemed they remained at the gate, probably discussing how to persuade him to open it. Majelin took refuge in silence to avoid the biting lash of Bane’s tongue, and he ignored the archangel’s rather disgruntled air. Like all creatures of the light, Majelin was unused to antagonism, Bane gathered, and disliked it, but it suited him to drink in silence. He considered getting horribly drunk to escape his situation, but the nagging anger at his entrapment spurred him to keep trying. He had little hope that a Fetch would work, but it needed to be attempted, just in case.

Bane finished his ale and left the taproom, Majelin at his heels. Evidently the archangel was not about to let him out of his sight. Bane continued along the street until he reached a deserted marketplace, where barrows piled with fresh fruit, vegetables and meat stood beside covered stalls
laden with bolts of silken cloth, metal goods, pottery and carvings. He wondered where it all came from, since there was not enough cultivated land around the city to produce such abundance and no others to trade with, save the changelings. He somehow doubted they raised crops or spun cloth. He contemplated the task before him with some misgivings, having never created a Fetch. The dark power provided the requisite knowledge, but even so, his inexperience could prove disastrous, especially if the white wards slammed it shut. The backlash would be fairly cataclysmic. It would have been better to do it outside the city, but at this point he no longer cared how much destruction he wrought if it went wrong. No one was around to be hurt.

Majelin retreated at Bane’s gesture, although not as far as he should, to be safe. Angels were all a little arrogant, Bane mused, certain of their strength, which was a mistake when it came to the darkness. Majelin should really know better, after his experience with it. Bane described a shadow pentagram in the air at waist height, walking around in a seven-foot circle and passing through the lines as he drew it, the shadows unaffected by his passage. The Fetch would have to be powerful, to capture Kayos, even if he did not fight it, and Bane had no idea what kind of distance it wo
uld have to span.

Bane went to its centre and stretched out his arms, palms down, and hammered
the shadow pentagram into the ground with a vicious downward motion. The shadows vanished into the street with a sizzling crunch and puff of dust, leaving a perfectly carved pentagram in the cobblestones. Bane wrote a sequence of six runes with the shadows that trickled from his fingers, whispering their names, and his gesture hammered them into the cobblestones in the centre of the pentagram. Stepping out of it, he raised his arms.