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Covalent City
BARAKIEL WAITED for the Sylvan Three in the pureness of their chambers. Usually, he could sense the energy barriers they created to shield their vulnerable patients, but now he felt nothing. He felt as disconnected as a human. Pellus had tried to accompany him, but Barakiel wouldn’t allow it, afraid Pellus would persuade the Three against his plan to come back into Balance.
As soon as the healers saw him, they knew. They rushed to lay their hands on him but immediately recoiled, their amazing eyes widened in concern.
“Fine warrior, we cannot heal you. It is forbidden,” they said. “There is too much Destruction in you. We do not understand.”
“I know, healers. I am here to ask if the actions I am planning will allow you to heal me without any threat to yourselves.”
They listened to his story, their lovely faces stricken with anxiety.
“You confide in us. The Council would imprison you if it knew.”
“Yes.”
With closed eyes, the Three embraced for a time, speaking to each other in a way none could hear. By the time they spoke out loud, their serenity had returned.
“The situation is unique,” they said. “Your actions were in defense of innocence as that is understood in the Earthly Realm, but humans are weak. Too weak to slaughter without paying this price, this poison of Destruction. However, you may be right. Service to the Realm may dilute the poison. The courage required to take up your sword with such a high chance of death may dilute the poison. This may be enough for us to heal you without threat to our own Balance. We cannot say, but we are willing to try.”
“I do not want to place you in jeopardy, healers. You are far more important to the Realm than I am.”
“Be that as it may, we wish to try. You are not the only brave Covalent here, warrior.”
Barakiel bowed, his face showing the first real smile to appear there in some time.
The warriors stood in formation in the enormous Hall of the Ancients waiting for the high commander to send them forward. The walls hummed with the collective energy of the battalion, pulsing from red to black to red. In silence, they basked in the power. Barakiel stood in the center of the front line, flanked by Kemuel and Tariel, two strong fighters from Remiel’s battalion.
He had reported to Remiel and confessed his slaughter of the false monks in violation of Covalent Law. She was shocked, but she heard out her friend and accepted that the deed was necessary. She said she did not understand the affairs of the Earthly Realm as he did.
She knows I would not do such a thing lightly.
Pellus urged Remiel to keep Barakiel from battle.
“Look at him,” Pellus said. “You know him well. He is in no condition.”
His efforts were in vain. Remiel said she herself would never submit to going on in such a state, and that as a traveler, Pellus could not know what it was like.
“Listen to me, commander,” Pellus said. “Barakiel will be killed. This abomination has been trying to kill his son since you were an untested youth. Do not let him.”
“I am sorry, adept. There is no other way.” She offered to fight with Osmadiel’s battalion, to personally protect Barakiel, but he refused.
“It is beneath one commander to serve another,” he said. “Your warriors would wonder.”
Remiel conceded the point but decided to send two of her best fighters with him. She told him to describe it as a sign of her deep respect for Osmadiel and her support for the strategy of rebalancing. When Barakiel declined that offer as well, saying he did not want to put her warriors at risk, Remiel insisted it was her decision as his commander.
Now, the gargantuan doors of the hall swung wide and the formation began to move. The citizens watched it go. In times past, the battalion’s passing would be greeted with much fanfare. This turn, the citizens watched grimly, wondering who would not come home.
If I fall, the letter I left with Christina will be delivered to Zan. She will know I will never return to her.
The Turning
The demon horde crashed into the warriors with the clang of blade on blade, their howls rising under the great glowing vault of the Turning. Though Barakiel’s speed and strength were compromised, the dim-witted beasts could not best him. He still had his technique. All the same, Kemuel and Tariel—his protectors—stayed close.
Concealed, Pellus watched at a short distance from the mêlée. His presence on the battlefield broke laws handed down by the Council, as well as rules imposed by the Travelers Guild.
I do not care. I will not let him die.
Kemuel and Tariel were indeed consummate warriors. With Barakiel’s help, they cleared a space within the demon horde into which other warriors rushed to form a fearsome line. They forced the demons back. Barakiel fought expertly, but he wasn’t drawing energy in any quantity to speak of, not even in the Turning. Pellus didn’t know how he managed to go on.
There came a hollowing of air and a metallic smell. Pellus felt them before he saw them. The Corrupted. At least twenty approached. Pellus felt fear like he never had before.
Ah, what am I doing here? We will die together, Barakiel.
The Corrupted made a line straight for Barakiel. Osmadiel’s warriors tried to engage the dark warriors but the Corrupted merely threw them aside. Kemuel and Tariel saw them coming, as did Barakiel. They stood abreast until the Corrupted were nearly upon them before Barakiel fell back to become the point of an inverted triangle. The protectors fought furiously but there were too many. Two dark warriors punched through and set upon Barakiel, who could not answer their blows for long. Pellus’ heart seized in his chest.
Hang on.
Covalent fighters came from all sides, seeking to slaughter the Corrupted. Barakiel evaded or repelled the blows of his two attackers, but he was slow. Kemuel fought desperately to hold off three more, but the dark warriors soon realized they should kill the protectors to clear the path to their true quarry. Two more fell upon Kemuel as a handful of others rushed Tariel.
Barakiel launched himself into the group of Corrupted surrounding Kemuel. He shouted for Tariel, but by this time she was pinned down, doing all she could do just to stay alive. Barakiel was knocked back. He stumbled. When he raised his head, Kemuel lay dead at the feet of the dark warriors.
All seven fell upon Barakiel then. They brought him to the ground, stabbing him multiple times with their swords. From his hidden place, Pellus held deadly still as he let the furious energy of the Turning invade his mind and body.
Though Tariel had managed to take the heads of two Corrupted, she could not break free from the throng to help Barakiel, who curled and writhed defensively in a pool of his own blood, trying to strike with his dagger.
A dark warrior brought his sword to Barakiel’s neck and smiled. The swirling light of the Turning played over his lifeless black eyes.
“What a waste,” he said. “You could have taken your place at Lord Lucifer’s right hand. Now, your resistance has left you a useless pile and we cannot escape with you. I will have to kill you instead.”
All the Corrupted laughed, a sound like the rattling of chains on ice. The one who had spoken raised his sword to take Barakiel’s head, but when he lowered the blade it did not connect, careening off an invisible barrier. The Corrupted near Barakiel screeched as Pellus focused the heat of battle and burned them where they stood. They backed away from the frightful pain. His blood-filled mouth agape, Barakiel watched them move away with dull eyes. He passed out.
Pellus struggled to maintain the barrier. He mind began to splinter.
Save him. Take him please, please. I cannot hold. I cannot hold.
More warriors arrived from the right flank to deal with the Corrupted as Pellus lost consciousness.
Covalent City
The Void. Did I always know this was my home? I lied to myself across the phases, the centuries of feeling the Earthly Realm beneath my feet and claiming it as my place. If I call now, will someone answer me? All that I am is nothing.
Yahoel?
No heat, no cold. I hear a ringing, too high to be pleasant. I can smell him now. He smells like me.
Still calling for Yahoel, wayward son? I thought you would have given up your craven need once I left her mutilated corpse in your chambers.
No defense in the Void. He surrounds me. Push him away. Think of the mighty warriors as they slay the Corrupted, cutting a path to Lucifer. My sword pinning him to the ground as I crush his perversion of a heart.
The heart, it grows, sprouts teeth to rip my flesh. Lucifer laughs.
You foolish child. The Void is Lucifer, your home.
I fight for the Council. I will prevail for the Council. I am a powerful warrior. Command me. Send me. I will do my duty.
You want to take orders from the Council? Do not be ridiculous. Following orders is not for Covalent such as us. We take orders from no one.
He snatches his heart from my hand.
You will join me, son. Feel this power. It is for you.
Intoxication. Thunderous, inevitable, continuous force.
Oh, to kill Abraxos. To jam my thumbs into his eyes, his brain. To hear his voice break in agony as the life leaves him. He made my mother a pariah, the thanks she got for her loyalty to the Realm. For renouncing her mate. He exiled me, forced me from my home. Lucifer welcomes me. Together, we will rule the realms. None can challenge the Void.
None? No, no, no. Something pulls at my hatred. I smell fresh mountain air. Another calls me back. A greater power within me. The Void will not claim me. She stands high on a ridge above a sweep of untouched snow. She glows in the dawn, her arms open to the pure wind.
My love. Destruction sinks like a stone within you and disappears.
Barakiel opened his eyes.
“We did not think you would wake with such a rapturous look on your face, warrior,” said the Sylvan Three.
“What? Where am I? What happened?” Barakiel darted his eyes around the softly lit room, half rising from his luminous green bed.
“You were gravely injured, warrior. You have been sleeping for three turns. Your fine body was covered with wounds, your organs lacerated, but you fought so bravely we were able to heal you. You are in Balance once again.”
“Kemuel and Tariel. They were protecting me. Did they survive?” Barakiel sat up, ready to run out the door.
“We are sorry. Kemuel is dead, slain by the Corrupted.”
The warrior hid his face in his hands.
Remiel, please forgive me.
“Do not condemn yourself.” The Three placed their delicate hands on his shoulders. “Kemuel died fulfilling his purpose. He killed three dark warriors in that battle. We will honor him.”
“And Tariel?”
“She remains. She dragged you from the fray when Osmadiel’s fighters arrived in force to engage the Corrupted. You were brought here, along with the adept.”
“So, Pellus saved me once again by bringing me to you?”
“He did more than that to save you, warrior.”
“What do you mean?”
“The mind of the adept has been grievously depleted by the actions he took to save your life.”
“Please, healers, tell me what you mean.” Barakiel shot to his feet but immediately fell back on the bed, overcome by a wave of nausea.
“In defiance of Covalent Law, Pellus stole his way into the Turning,” the Three said, their voices filled with worry, and with pride. “Concealed there, he watched over you. Tariel told us that Pellus created a barrier that shielded you from the death blow and burned the Corrupted where they stood. Against his purpose, the adept performed an act of such power it was not thought possible.”
I am not worth such a price.
“Will he die? I killed him. I killed him!” Barakiel’s words descended into choked sobs.
Like my mother, like Kemuel. No wonder my father calls to me.
“He will not die, warrior, but he is lost. As he sought to master the furious energy of the Turning he ventured so far into complexity that he cannot find his way back. He sleeps, but without your help, he will sleep forever.”
“Anything, anything. Take me, use me,” Barakiel implored them. He wanted them to see his desperation. His love.
“We will find him and bring him back,” the Three said, as one took Barakiel’s hand. “We must open ourselves to break Pellus from the loop of perception that traps him, but we do not know the boundaries of his mind. He could trap us as well. This is why we need your help. With the power of your sentience fused with ours, we can safely enter Pellus’ mind to refocus it and bring him back to consciousness.”
The Three searched Barakiel’s face. “Be warned, warrior. You nearly died. We will be taking the energy you need to complete your healing. This will weaken you. It could leave us all insane.”
“Take all you need.”
Constant motion. Flinging, flying and vibrating. Guardian save us, the travelers live with this? Strings undulate. Membranes quiver like drums slapped by an invisible hand. The fabric of existence. We are frightened, adept. Your perception frightens us. Reach the warrior. The warrior will not be afraid. We take you from yourself. You trust.
This expanse. This riot of power! Constant motion. Flinging, flying and vibrating. We are not afraid. The adept is lost, but the power holds us as we seek. The warrior is as open as a child. We only see what we need to see, fine warrior.
You trust. You love. Like steel and silk, you love. You are suffused! How could you fear with such a love as this? It would pull you from a thousand chasms, allow you to hold a thousand stars.
We wander in the maelstrom. Do the turns pass here? Do the Guardians understand? Even we cannot perceive how this seeming chaos is not chaos. No wonder you are lost, adept, in this deafening noise. The fabric of existence screams with the pain of death and birth. No one should journey here, adept, but love brought you and love will bring you back.
The trap. Vibrations threaten to overwhelm us. The bonds you created channel your mind, fling you along a loop that wriggles and swells, your speed so great that you disappear. Swallowed by the blackness, spit out into the blinding light. Where do you go, adept? What is hidden in the blackness? Your terror shrouds you. You cannot see us. Cannot feel us. Particles invade, your own bonds nearly broken by the force you brought into your mind. The particles would destroy us, but they cannot destroy the warrior. They only make him stronger. Lead the way, Barakiel.
Images. The warrior knows them. A Covalent of delicate beauty. Your mate, adept.
Images. The spinning, streaming, endless heavens. Phenomena so remote and fantastic we cannot conceive. Only you can conceive of such complexity. You are lost in its majesty. You cannot hear us over the screams of existence. The warrior absorbs the deafening roar. We hold his strength within us. He calls to you. Will you not look, adept? Will you not hear? The warrior holds your beauty within him. Your mate is waiting for you, adept.
We feel you. Return to your mate. Return to your warrior. His power carries us in its great tide. His love is a beacon. He can never be lost.
Yes, that is right. You know us, Pellus. We are your friends.