Hunting in Hell (34 page)

She waved her hand in front of her face, and gusts of smoky wind whipped across the valley.
 
Like strands in a spinning wheel, they spooled together on the platform, swirling into a funnel cloud.
 
Like the smoke, pieces of debris flew into the mass, drawn by its suction.
 
It spun faster, until the angels of the Consortium scrabbled to hold onto the dirt like rats.
 

She waved a hand again, and the cloud knocked into the pyre, snuffing it with such suddenness that even the smoke disappeared.

The fire had only begun its work.
 
While Nemain's body was hairless and soot-stained, it was mostly intact - as were her wings.
 

The Oracle smiled.
 
"Give me Nemain's wings, and you may have your prisoner."
 

#

From his position in the south turret, Alsvior could hear the mass of angels cheering, could see their conglomeration shifting as they all moved as one.

Something is happening.

I have to get closer,
he thought.
 

He descended the turret.

TWENTY-THREE

T
here are moments where even Time herself waits with bated breath.
 
The Consortium, the Pentarch, the Oracle - all of them were caught, ensnared in tense confusion.

It was the last member of the Pentarch, Minoa, that finally snapped.
 
Her feet skimmed lightly as she ran to the pyre, her hair trailing behind her gazelle-like form.
 
It was not until she leaped that they realized her intent.
 
Ten feet above them, she scooped up the wings and threw them both at once.
 
They sailed through the air, charred half moons arcing across the sky.

The Oracle howled.
 
So did Golden, but it could not be undone.
 
He watched, powerless, as the Oracle
threw
her captive through the door.
 
He saw her snatch the wings out of the air, and then the mercenary's body sailed straight into Golden's arms, knocking him off-balance and obscuring his vision.
 
He heaved it off, and it fell face-down upon the stone, long hair pooling around the head like ink.

The door was shut.
 

Rage and frustration swelled in his throat.
 
He threw his head back and screamed, waves of uncontrolled power bursting from him and crashing into the crowd.
 
Their voices dropped out of the din, one by one, leaving him and his anger alone.
 

And then he, too, fell silent.
 
After an eternity, he said only, "Come."

Minoa descended from the platform with haunted grace.
 
She stood before him, her hands in fists at her sides.
 
"It was as it had to be," she murmured.
  
"Can you not see that?"

His sword grated as he drew it from its sheath.
 

Understanding flashed into Minoa's eyes.
 
"No, I was trying to save … Nemain was already dead…" Her hands stretched out to him as she begged.
 
Stony-faced, he lifted the sword, and the stream of her words bubbled forth with frantic desperation.

She screamed as he brought it down, the blade tracing two swift arcs around her.
 
Blood sprayed from her back, coating the stone beneath her, and then Minoa's wings fell to the ground with the muffled thump of a skinned pelt.

He turned to Veles.
 
"Put her wings on the pyre.
 
If she was willing to sacrifice Nemain's, then she must be willing to sacrifice her own."
 

To Volos, he asked, "Is the mercenary still alive?"
 
The angel bent over the body and put his hand on her neck.
 
He nodded.

Golden smiled grimly.
 
"Good.
 
It will be much easier then.
 
Carry her to the prison.
 
We will soon find out what she knows about Laufeyson."

First Nemain, then Minoa.
 
And the Pentarch must have five.
 

He sighed, his eyes closed.
 
If only he had more time to choose, to plan before setting things in motion.

He turned towards the crowd to address them directly, pushing them with new energy as he did so.
 
"I call Macha and Anann."

Macha was a veteran warrior, vicious in her loyalty to the Pentarch and the Consortium.
 
Anann was an advisor, intelligent - perhaps dangerously so.

Can you trust her loyalty?
 
The thought gave him pause, but in his mind swirled the vague conception of a plan.
 
Instinctively, he knew that trustworthy or not, there were none better suited for what he had in mind.

They came from opposite sides - Macha with her great sword across her back, her sublimely beautiful face scarred with the wounds of battle, jostling through the crowd with a machine-like purpose. By contrast, Anann floated across the ground, her inner light inviting the crowd to part.

They ascended the platform at the same time.
 
Macha kneeled at Golden's feet, her armor clanking as it fell into new positions.
 
Anann bowed once, deeply, her golden light reflecting off of Macha's breastplate as she moved.
 

"Relight the pyre, and make it strong," he said to Anann.
 
Minoa's sobs had faded, but after hearing his command, they swelled again with new grief.
 

Anann bowed once, bamboo bending in the wind.
 
Then, she pursed her lips and blew out gently, as if spreading a dandelion's seeds.
 
The pyre flared with flames ten times higher than before.
 
The Pentarchians instinctively shrank back, watching as the conflagration consumed the rest of Nemain's body and Minoa's wings.

Silently, Golden locked eyes with Macha.
 
He waited to see if she would know what was required of her.
 
When she stood, as efficiently as an oiled machine, and walked to Minoa's sobbing figure, his heart rose up in triumph.
 

"Do you go honorably?"
 
Her voice was the steel of her blade, flat and cold, hammered under pressure and fire.
 

Motionless, Minoa did not answer.
 
Macha turned away, and then she heard the tinkle of metal and the gasp of the crowd.
 
She twisted to look back, her armor clanking.

Minoa's chains were in her outstretched hands, an offering to Macha and her own death.

#

What could have possessed her to do something so rash?

Minoa's impulsive actions had not only undermined Golden's authority in full view of the Consortium, they had defiled Nemain's funeral.

With the stoicism that had carried her across countless battlefields, Macha fought to keep her face from betraying her.
 
In Hell, there were many punishments worse than death, none more feared than the enchantment of Diaspar, reserved for murderers and traitors to the Consortium's cause.
 
Even Macha could not suppress a shudder as she recalled the memory.

* * *

Capra was many things - a Consortium deserter, one of the chief agents of the Damned, and most presently, an amulet thief.
 
He was an enigma, a demon cloaked by shadowy rumors and tall tales.
 
Numerous witnesses had sworn to his unbelievable imperviousness on the battlefield, and many thought him invincible.
 

"I'll make no secret of it - I don't know what he stands to gain, and it makes me damned uncomfortable.
 
I smell a trap."

Golden smiled then, his perfect eyes twinkling with a beauty that fairly stole her breath.
 
"And so, you want me to send an army to recover the artifact."

"Yes."

She knew she was staring, but she couldn't control herself; damming up the flow of her questions took all of the willpower she could muster.

He laughed, the rich sound strangely out of place in the barren quarters his soldiers affectionately called the "war-room".
 
"I had forgotten, dear Macha, this face of yours, although it is one of my favorites.
 
Ask your question, before it kills you."

Flustered, she cleared her throat.
 
"Why the Amulet?
 
It is old, powerful, but useless to Capra and to his cause.
 
Unless they know something we don’t?"

Seconds passed in silence.
 
The animation that lit Golden's face faded, leaving behind a shell that was obviously weary.
 
When he spoke again, she could hear an unfamiliar note, an emptiness and sorrow that chilled her.
 
"No, I do not think it is as you fear.
 
There is no special power to the Amulet - as an artifact, it is mostly symbolic."

"So why then, would he take it, and at such great risk?"

Golden's mouth withered into a tight line.
 
"You won't need an army.
 
Take Henai-"

"-the
sorcerer
?"

He continued as if she had not interrupted him,
"-
and a scout.
 
Do you have one that you like?
 
Perhaps the young Lipan?"

Questioning him further would only bring his wrath upon her, and yet, she could not stop herself.
 
"A sorcerer?
 
On the battlefield?
 
What manner of-"

"Capra is no longer a warrior.
 
He has chosen the coward's way out, and I doubt he presents a danger to you or any of us.
 
This is a hunt, not a battle, and he will have no armor of protection to render the magic ineffective.
 
Bring the sorcerer."
 

She would have asked how he knew, but his eyes were snapping fire.
 
She backed out and shut the door.

* * *

For the last two days, the three of them had tracked Capra through the gnarled wood.
 
Although slowed by undergrowth and uneven terrain, their pace was intense, as their target had run without pausing for food or rest.
 

Perhaps it is fear that sustains him,
she thought.
 
Or even the Amulet.
 
Could it have such a power?

The moon was high overhead when they heard the howls of the
Wulfkinder
, packs of manlike creatures with fangs nearly a foot long.
 
Given the beasts' predilection for angel flesh, the small party immediately drew swords and moved for cover - all except silent Henai, the sorcerer.
 
He simply disappeared.
 

The howls grew fainter, until they faded away completely.
 
Lipan was the quietest, and she sent him to investigate, confident in his ability to outthink and outrun any
Wulfkinder
he might come across.
 

When the lithe young angel returned, his face was pale.
 
"I think our hunt has ended, Warrior."

"What?"
 
Her eyes slowly drew into a squint.

"We are alone.
 
There is a … body, of sorts."

"Impossible.
 
You expect me to believe that the great Capra was taken down by a pack of Wulfkinder?"

He shifted from one foot to another, his eyes darting to the sides.
 
"Just … come see for yourself."
 
He glided away, deer-like, Macha following close behind.

The trees abruptly fell away to reveal a clearing.
 
The fair night and open space gave her an instant visual of the splattered remains.

She understood why Lipan had seemed uncomfortable with the word "body."
 
The
Wulfkinder
had made excellent work of their target, tearing the flesh to ribbons, breaking the bones into fragments with their powerful jaws.
 
Pieces were spread over an area as large as the platform in the Valley of Ascension, and the entire clearing was painted in blood.

"I suppose that is finished, then."
 
After three days of pursuit, the anticlimactic end was both disappointing and a relief.

Henai materialized to their side.
 
He stretched his wings and yawned.
 
"Hardly."