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A HAZY SUN pushed the next afternoon towards oppressive heat, a rare occurrence in the mountains. Zan and company were on their way to Kurt and Malcolm’s for dinner. They had spent the previous few hours at an isolated lake near the Canadian border. Pellus had taken them there, and though it was accessible by rugged trail, they did not see a soul all day. Remiel practiced her English and the privacy gave them the freedom to discuss the mission to rescue the Sylvan Three. They were to leave the next morning.
As Zan parked the RV in front of the A-frame, Rainer stacked cases of beer. He’d insisted on buying three cases for her friends, rather than the one they’d asked for. He lifted all three easily, which made Zan think his endless laps in the lake and the ridiculous amount of food he’d been eating might be doing some good. Still, Malcolm would freak if he saw an injured man carrying that much weight.
“Honey, give me one of those, okay? So Malcolm won’t ask us what the hell is wrong with us.”
“Ah, yes. Of course.”
Zan took one case and Remiel another. With a knock on the door, they paraded in. Zan had to stop herself from laughing at the expression on her friends’ faces when they saw the commander—pinched, their eyes darting around like they were desperate to stare but knew it was rude.
“Hello, buddies-o-mine.” They set the cases on the counter. “Allow me to introduce you to Friedrich Pellus, Rainer’s business manager, and Remiel Senai, his cousin.”
This time, Zan did laugh at her friends’ expressions, as they looked from honey-skinned Rainer to mahogany-complected Remiel. “Don’t be so obtuse,” Zan said. “There are many kinds of families.” She left it at that. They’d developed a little background story for Remiel, along with her made-up name, but Zan figured why tell more lies if she didn’t have to?
Pellus was his usual gracious self, and looked debonair in the suit they’d brought for him. Remiel did well with her English pleasantries. Pellus had spirited her off to Boston to find something to wear. She wound up in a men’s off-the-rack suit from a big-and-tall store. She looked sharp because Pellus did his magic to make sure it was a custom fit.
And, of course, Kurt and Malcolm outdid themselves with the food, offering up a meat-free feast because all the guests except Zan were vegetarians. They grilled up sprouted tofu, a ton of veggies, and peppery polenta. Rainer’s ludicrous appetite had not abated. The way he shoveled food in his face seemed to make Zan’s friends happy in an otherwise awkward evening. She figured Kurt was flattered because he was the main chef, and Nurse Malcolm viewed it as a sign of healing.
About an hour into the post-meal fire out back, the Covalent took their leave. Zan decided to stay with her friends for the night, while the others went back to the motel.
After all, who knows when—or if—I’ll see them again.
It did not surprise Zan in the least when her army buddies laid into her the moment the RV’s tail lights disappeared down the long driveway.
“What the hell, Zan?” Malcolm said. “That woman is like something out of Greek mythology and the green-eyed gentleman is, uh, unsettling.”
“They have names, you know. Remiel and Pellus.”
“Oh, please,” Kurt said. “Rainer is strange enough, but those two? The green-eyed dude straight-up gives me the weebs. And that woman! I think I’ve sussed out the story you won't tell me. You’re working on some nightmarish super-soldier project for the government, aren't you? Pellus is the evil genius, Rainer got all fucked up in a test, and that Amazon chick is Supersoldier 2.0.
“You’re a laugh riot, Kurt.”
“But seriously, why are they here, Zan?” Malcolm asked. “You said Pellus is from Germany and Remiel lives in Finland, so what brings them stateside? Must be something heavy, judging from the looks they were giving each other.”
“Same heavy shit Rainer is dealing with.”
“His dad is after them too?” Kurt asked. “You’d think they’d want to split up.”
“I can’t tell you much about it, but someone close to Pellus is in worse danger than they are. They want to help. They’re trying to figure out what to do.”
“You know damn well, Zan, that you shouldn’t say, ‘I can’t tell you much about it.’ More like you won’t tell us much about it,” Malcolm said. “And you’re going to help, aren’t you? That’s why you’re leaving with them tomorrow morning.”
“Of course, I’m going to help.”
“Who the fuck has a life like this?” Kurt exclaimed. “It’s like The Godfather. We’re not going to find a horsehead in our bed are we?”
Zan laughed. “You’re not far off. Rainer’s father isn’t the only dangerous fucker we’re dealing with, and a power struggle is part of the whole mess. But please, let’s leave it there.”
“Yeah, okay,” Malcolm said. “We’ll refrain from giving Rainer the stink eye again. I hate to admit it, but he scares me a little.” He leaned toward her. “I’ll stop bugging you, Zan, and trust you, if you look me in the eye right now and tell me he doesn’t scare you a little, too.”
She grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him full in the face. “No, I‘m not scared of Rainer. At all. Ever. I trust him with my life and I wouldn’t want to live without him. He’s my home.”
Malcolm returned her intensity, then glanced at Kurt, who nodded. “We believe you,” Malcolm said.
With Zan in his arms, Barakiel rushed toward the rift through a morning mist that curled among blueish hills. Zan was in her spacesuit, matte black with coils of beads around her limbs, hips, and neck, tiny power orbs that glinted like blue jewels. The weapon Pellus had made for her was tucked against her side. Barakiel settled her more smoothly on his hip. Remiel had been able to scavenge some armor for him from her warriors in the Wasteland and Pellus had made it fit. What a pleasure, to be geared for battle—to have his sword in a scabbard on his back once again.
They were close to the rift now, Barakiel’s last chance to insist that Zan stay behind. Last night, as he tossed and turned wishing she lay beside him, he wondered at the wisdom and the fairness of placing her in such danger, but he knew she would not stay behind willingly. More importantly, they needed her. As Remiel had said, with her weapon, Zan was formidable. She could very well be the difference between their success and failure.
Before dawn, they had picked her up at the end of her friends’ driveway and driven north to a little-used trail in the White Mountain range. Once they’d parked, Barakiel’s anxiety about the speed of the Covalent warriors—manifested in an endless stream of “what if?” questions about Zan’s role in their mission—had led Pellus to adjust Zan’s helmet to provide her with a crude targeting readout.
“Well, I am glad I learned something from my time working with Artisans Guild Master Derisen,” Pellus had said, sitting back from the table in the RV where he’d been tinkering with the helmet and weapon. “I am not an artisan, but I think I have managed to give you faster eyes, Zan. Please test it.”
Once outside, Zan donned her helmet and selected her targeting functions in quick succession. “I see blips, small, bright white dots in my field of vision. They line up with the trees I chose as targets. Seems like it’s working.”
“Please lock on us now, Zan,” Pellus said, gesturing to the three Covalent. “We will run in different directions at high velocity. Your weapon’s targeting function will follow us. Your helmet should show you this movement, or at least where your target is once it slows or stops moving. This way, you will not be bewildered when you confront the warriors. You will not feel like you are shooting blind.”
“Okay. Ready when you are.”
The helmet successfully tracked the Covalent through a series of tests.
“A little hard to get used to,” Zan said, “but no worse than the heat-signature gear I used in the army. Hopefully, I’ll be firing from some distance away so the movement won’t shoot off to the edges.”
“Good,” Pellus said. “Do you feel better now, Barakiel?”
Barakiel had said yes, although it wasn’t true. After the tests, they’d hiked up the trail until Pellus spotted a rift. Now, they followed him toward it. With a few more steps, they passed inside. The time for second-guessing was over.
Inside the rift, the bonded mates fortified each other. Together, their minds conjured images in a hundred shades of red, layer upon layer of neurons that pulsed and shimmered. Barakiel could feel Zan’s fear, but also her determination, her faith in him. He swelled with gratitude, his emotion obscuring the strange knot of black he sensed lurking in the shadows of his mind. Its power called to him, but in his present state, he could not use it. In those moments when he was honest with himself, he knew he was afraid.
All the same, when they emerged from the rift behind the ivory and gold tower of the Council Keep, he was better prepared for the mission than when he went in. Once a quick look around assured him there were no Covalent nearby, he kissed his mate. When they separated, Pellus and Remiel were looking at them with mild consternation.
“Do not begrudge us, please,” Barakiel said. “Our connection during travel was beneficial.”
Zan gave him a final squeeze and put on her helmet even though she could breathe the atmosphere inside Covalent City’s protective barrier. It paid to be ready.
Pellus anticipated a struggle with the adept guarding the Sylvan Three, so he chose not to cloak them, which would be tiring. He simply hid them all under a curtain of refracted light. As a result, they needed to take care with their route to the healers’ chambers lest they encounter a traveler who might see through their concealment. Down they went along the edge of the silvery canals behind the Keep, into the alleys behind the Artisans Guild Hall with its intricately carved braids of gray stone. They passed a few travelers, but none with the skill to see through the curtain until they set foot on the winding steps that led to the Sylvan Three’s chambers. Pellus held up his hand to stop them. They crowded around.
“A figure appeared out of nowhere behind that tumble of chambers and is heading our way. The energy signal could be an adept’s. Quick, go some way up that alley. I will drop the refracted-light concealment and cloak myself in the guise of a scholar.”
The two warriors and Zan hustled up the alley but soon realized a group of Covalent approached from the direction of the Keep.
“Barakiel you must not be seen,” Remiel said. “They will recognize you.”
“Let us get on that roof, there.” Barakiel pointed. He and Remiel were able to lift Zan until she could get a handhold on an ornate cornice and pull herself up. The commander leaped upward with ease, but Barakiel failed, having to grasp the cornice instead and scramble over the edge much like Zan had done. She ran to him. “Are you all right, honey? Your wounds.”
“It is all right.” He put his arm around her. They flattened themselves on the roof and watched a group of artisans pass noisily below them. They had no choice but to stay where they were, because more Covalent streamed down the alley. Remiel rolled onto her back and groaned. “I have lost my patience.”
“We may be waiting a long time in front of the Sylvan Three’s chambers, commander, for the right opportunity,” Barakiel said.
“I am beginning to think that is a mistake. Let us strike quickly. The slight advantage to be gained by sleepy or distracted guards does not make up for the increased chance of discovery the longer we wait.”
“Speaking of waiting, where is Pellus?” Zan asked. “Will he be able to find us?”
“Yes. He can detect my energy signal,” Barakiel said. “I suspect he has gone to reconnoiter.”
While Barakiel and Remiel kept their eyes on the alley, Zan lay on her back, no doubt admiring the sapphire-blue Stream. It gave Barakiel a pang, the beauty she found in his world. He wished they could stroll along the Lake of Strands, arm in arm, whispering sweet nothings to each other, bathed in its warm glow, as the Stream above graced them with its power.
If only we could end this new tyranny. This shining city would be at our disposal.
When Pellus returned, Remiel told him she thought a quick strike was best.
“You are right,” he said. “Patrols are everywhere.”
“Was it an adept you detected, Pellus?” Barakiel asked.
“Yes. Koreth. A former apprentice of Ravellen. She only recently gained the rank of adept.”
“Could she help?” Zan asked. “Most of the adepts support the Council, do they not?”
Pellus frowned and looked off towards the illusory wall of fire that covered the Travelers Guild Hall. “Most adepts seek to avoid conflict, especially violent conflict, as it is against our purpose. We cannot rely on any of them, except perhaps Thanis, the guild master. And Ravellen, of course. That is not to say no others will help us, but who can say which? At least three adepts are in league with Abraxos. One maintains a detection net at the healers, and two attend to the exterior of the Wasteland Dungeons. I suspect there are more inside, maintaining the trap they have baited with Jeduthan. I could not penetrate the external barrier sufficiently to get a clear picture of the interior, at least not without being detected.”
“Then we cannot trust the adepts. We must do this ourselves,” Remiel said. “Without delay. Please conceal us.”
When Pellus had done so, she picked him up and jumped off the roof, Barakiel close behind her with Zan in his arms. In a few pulses, they huddled some way beyond the Sylvan Three’s chambers, behind a utility dome. Despite the seven warriors posted along the perimeter of the chambers, they were a picture of crystalline serenity.
“Seven. It will not be difficult,” Remiel said.
“No,” Pellus agreed. “The difficulty will come with the escape.” He said he would collapse the detection net, then keep the adept engaged. They were to shout when they had secured the Sylvan Three, and Pellus would lead them to a rift. “During our escape, Barakiel, you should carry Zan and take up the rear, allowing her to lay down covering fire.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Zan said in English, with a salute.
“You are a peculiar human, Zan,” Pellus said, although his voice held a smile.
“Best to stay loose.”
Remiel instructed Zan to rush into the chamber and gather the Three, while she and Barakiel dealt with the outside guards. “Sweep each room, Zan. You must disable any warrior you find. You cannot take the time to ascertain whether they are friend or foe.”
“I understand, commander. I have been trained to secure an interior.”
“Excellent.” She glanced at Pellus. “Now, on my signal.” She dropped her hand and they rushed forward.
Remiel reached the guards first, in front of the building, while the others were still concealed. Five guards charged her, with shouts of “The criminal Remiel! Kill her!” Two guards held their posts. Barakiel barreled out of the concealment and set Zan down. He took the head of the first warrior, but the other had time to react. As Zan ran to blast the front doors, Barakiel engaged the guard, who didn’t take long to realize whom he was fighting.
“Help! It is Barakiel! Sounds the horns! Barakiel! Help! Help!”
The warrior’s fear played to Barakiel’s advantage, but in his weakened state, he could not finish him. While his adversary could not penetrate Barakiel’s defenses with his sword, he managed to plunge his dagger through a seam in Barakiel’s armor and partially open the worst wound he had received in his battle with Lucifer. Blood gushed down his front as a dazzling array of golden light erupted over the chambers, pooling in its furrows and popping like a field of earthly flowers. Pellus taking care of the adept.
As I knew you would, my friend.
Swallowing his pain, Barakiel glanced at the Stream.
Why are you not speaking to me?
Try as he might, he could not access the power within him, so he distracted himself from the pain with worry for Zan, who was inside collecting the Three. He held his own for a while, but the guard soon realized Barakiel was not the legendary warrior he’d expected and pressed until he had him against the gold-streaked crystal of the chamber wall.
I cannot believe I am to die at the hands of a guard. I would rather have perished on the Obsidian, next to my father’s headless corpse. Forgive me, Zan.
With bloodlust shining from eager eyes, the warrior pulled his sword back for a final thrust, but it never came. Instead, a thin line of emerald sizzled across Barakiel’s vision and his adversary’s arm fell off with a bloodless thud. Zan’s laser.
“Rainer! My god, the blood.” She rushed to him as he fell back against the Sylvan Three’s chambers. “Can you run? Remiel and I killed all the other guards, the Three are at the front, we’ve got to go!”
“I cannot, my love. Go, go without me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Stay still, this is going to hurt.” Zan peeled back his armor and hit the opal on her weapon. A burst of fire surrounded them, one of which grazed Barakiel’s gut and knocked him to the ground. The incredible pain cleared his mind and he saw that the blast had cauterized his wound.
“Good,” Zan said. “I figured the multitarget setting was weak enough for you to survive.”
“You figured?” Barakiel cocked his head. “Warriors approach! I hear them marching. Please find Remiel and go. Please.”
“As if,” Zan said. “Remiel! Pellus!” She screamed more loudly than he knew she could. Remiel came charging around the corner with the Three in tow, but a twelve-warrior patrol had emerged from the alley and was bearing down, swords drawn.
“Zan! Fire!” Remiel shouted. Zan stepped up and stunned all twelve, but it took only a few pulses for them to resume their advance. Remiel prepared to engage until they all stopped abruptly. Some fell down.
“A barrier! Pellus has saved us,” the Three said.
“Yes.” Pellus charged up behind them. “And now we must go. Donoreth, the adept posted here, will not stay disabled for long and another patrol is nearly here. Three,” he nodded toward the bewildered healers then scanned the firmament for a rift. “There.” He pointed behind them.
“Rainer cannot move,” Zan said. “He is severely injured.”
“You all must— ”
“Shut up, Barakiel,” Pellus said. He turned and stared intensely at the chamber until a thick layer of crystal fell away. By this time the second patrol was rushing towards them, shouting and growling. Zan stunned them then switched settings to vaporize one, then another.
“Get on the slab of crystal, Zan!” Pellus shouted. While she moved toward it, Remiel and the Three dragged Barakiel onto the slab, by now transformed into a makeshift sled. “Use your weapon,” Pellus said, “to shoot toward the rift, there, toward that small black building.”
She leaped onto Barakiel’s chest, looped her arm under the sled’s handle, secured her blaster against her side, and used the expulsion of its spent fuel to shoot off just as the surviving members of the patrol resumed their charge.
Once near the rift, Zan anxiously looked back. Remiel could outrun the warriors but Pellus and the Three were too slow. The commander turned to fight. Barakiel grasped Zan’s arm, afraid she was about to use her weapon to join the commander in a last stand, when a gleaming wall of ice crawled upward from the tan soil, knitting together so quickly that only three warriors were able to leap over it before it was too high.
“They will break through quite easily,” Pellus shouted. “Do not engage, Remiel. Run! Get Barakiel. Now, to the right, yes. Six or seven swordspans. Come on, Zan! Run, Three!”
With three final bursts from her weapon, Zan took out the warriors about to lay hands on the healers as the other members of the patrol cracked through the wall of ice in a cloud of shimmering vapor. But Pellus had bought enough time. He herded them into the rift like a cosmic shepherd. Barakiel had one thought before the travel bond took him.
The Three must heal me. For Jeduthan.