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NEAR THE MOUTH of the hidden base, a beleaguered collection of Covalent warriors assembled in a narrow canyon, a slit between jagged vertical cliffs of red rock, steeped in shadows. To look at them nearly made Commander Remiel cry. The Sylvan Three had done all they could in the time they’d been given, but still, these warriors were weary and hurting, forced to huddle in frigid, rocky caverns in high gravity that caused their bones to creak. Yet they were game. They spoke with passion of repaying the usurper for his treachery, of liberating the Council and other political prisoners, of reuniting the valiant adept with his mate. They knew the odds, but she had rallied them inside the caverns with descriptions of the rejuvenated Barakiel.
“The warrior who claimed Lucifer’s head will fight beside you once again,” she had shouted. “He does not intend to lose!”
The warriors had chanted his name, whipping up a storm of bloodlust. They had chanted the Covalent Pledge, their voices reverberating through the rock.
We are Covalent.
We stand between Creation and Destruction.
To bond them, to bind them.
Our blood we pledge to this.
To Balance, preserver of life.
Now, as the wind howled across the plain a short distance away, they arranged themselves as best they could to await her signal. They were to rush madly over the barren plain, around the thumb of a foothill, onto the approach to the Wasteland Dungeons. Speed was essential or they would lose the advantage of surprise. A hundred other warriors had spent a quarter turn hiding among the cliffs above the dungeons, no doubt a grueling climb and crouch in a maelstrom of wind-blasted sand. Remiel had chosen a time in the middle of a duty shift to attack. She had directed Pellus to bring Barakiel and Zan through the rift shortly after she expected her warriors to engage the three hundred or so fighters Abraxos had stationed in front of his misery pit. With a glance toward the glittering blue band of the Stream far above her head, she remembered the power she’d sensed when Barakiel walked out from under that earthly waterfall in a cloud of glowing mist.
He has said nothing will stop him. I must believe his confidence is not misplaced.
The Sylvan Three stood beside Remiel, eyes closed, in silent communication with each other, their slender forms obscured by long bolts of fabric made from the ticked hair of chukka beasts, beings the size of buildings who sucked energy—and warriors, if they got the chance—into their inky maws. When the healers opened their luminous eyes, one placed a hand on Remiel’s arm. “Are you sure you do not want us to accompany you, commander,” they said in unison. “We can take up a place behind the line and help your wounded warriors.”
“Thank you, but it would be too dangerous. We do not have enough fighters to maintain a secure healing area. I think the plan we have chosen is best. Medic warriors can attend to triage. You should go to the remote base. Some of the wounded may trickle in during the fighting. The flood will come once the battle is over and the survivors retreat to your location.”
“Do not call them ‘survivors,’ commander,” the Three gently chided. “They will be victors.” The radiance of their smiles almost had her believing it without question, but worry gnawed at her edges. The remote base lived up to its name, deep in the Wasteland, and she feared her depleted warriors would never make it there. Each battalion had such a base in a location known only to the commander and his or her fighters. For an age, these bases had been maintained in case Lucifer’s forces overran the city. Rage hardened in Remiel’s stomach to think that the heroic Covalent who battled the Corrupted had to flee from one of their own to these inhospitable sites.
Good. I need my rage. I must tend to it, take care that it burns even the damp wood of worry.
She thought about her lost colleagues. Abraxos had killed Commander Hagith trying to torture out the location of his base. By this time, Commander Kalaziel, Remiel’s dear friend, was most likely dead as well. She would never have revealed anything to Abraxos. Remiel wished Kalaziel had told the traitorous warlord something to save her life because Remiel’s scouts had found the remainder of Kalaziel’s battalion before they reached their remote base. They now stood in formation behind Remiel, pledging their tired blood to strike a blow against the usurper. The remnants of Osmadiel’s battalion also stood there. Though their numbers were few after facing the horror of the vanguard position during the battle in the Destructive Realm, Remiel knew their hearts were ferocious. They would give everything they had to honor their dead high commander.
The time had come. She ran her eyes up and down her lines of fighters, finding hope in their determined faces.
Remiel gripped the hilt of her bronze-colored sword, raised her hand, then let it fall. The true warriors charged in a disciplined phalanx across the plain, around the foothills, and toward the dungeons, their war cries rising as their quarry came into view. Abraxos’ fighters were caught flat-footed, and as Remiel’s vanguard rushed into their midst, many fell in a storm of blood and bewilderment. The clang of steel on steel and grunts and cries of pain rose over the stink of viscera and the kicked-up dirt as the enemy commander barked orders for his forces to get in formation. With the advantage of surprise spent, the well-rested and well-armed troops of the usurper did not take long to halt Remiel’s advance and mow down her depleted warriors with vicious glee.
Well-rested and whole herself, Remiel did what she could, dispatching enemy fighters with grim efficiency. She glanced toward the cliffs, saw a glow, dull green but translucent, that she surmised was an adept’s barrier, probably left visible to serve as a deterrent. Her cliff-side warriors should be in place by now, waiting for the right moment to descend to the dungeons. Chances were good that they would drop behind that barrier, but it would be to no avail if her ground forces could not penetrate the line to cleave the enemy in two as they had planned.
Abraxos’ warriors soon realized Remiel was their most formidable and important target. They ganged together to overwhelm her. As they closed in and her warriors continued to die, her chest seized with anxiety.
Has my timing been poor? Where are they?
Then came a rumble and a roar. The Stream above her flashed as she had never seen it, explosions of intense light, an ordered rhythm despite its speed, as if the Stream were telling a tale as old as time. Remiel stopped her swordplay, as did all those around her, blinded by the brilliance. The ground shook beneath them and Barakiel’s battle cry rose above the plain to meet the cacophony of light. Random shouts came from her warriors.
“He has returned!”
“It is Barakiel!”
“Barakiel has brought the vengeance of Creation!”
Chanting Barakiel’s name, the warriors threw themselves into the fight with renewed vigor. And Remiel saw him, progressing slowly through the mêlée, shining like all the cosmos had been gathered in one spot, each stride followed by slashing attacks in all directions. He slaughtered anything that moved around him as Zan followed behind with her weapon, disabling the usurper’s warriors in wide swaths so they could be met by Remiel’s own, on fire with the heat of the righteous.
At breakfast on the morning they were to leave for the raid, Pellus was quiet. As Barakiel consumed the entire tray of croissants set out by the guest house—much to Zan’s embarrassment judging by the dirty looks she gave him—Pellus stared thoughtfully into his coffee. Barakiel had assumed he would be in high spirits. Finally, the time had come to rescue Jeduthan.
Please have faith in me, my friend. Your fear will soon be relieved.
“The time has come, hasn’t it, Pellus?” Barakiel asked.
“Yes.”
He didn’t seem disposed to speak further. Zan squeezed his hand. Barakiel looked around at the rustic dining room with its rough-hewn walls, hanging animal heads, and checkered table cloths. The other guests were staring at them.
“Shall we go outside? We can go over our plans one more time.”
“All right, Barakiel.”
Outside, Pellus and Zan sat on the tailgate of the truck with the early morning sun in their eyes. Barakiel faced them. They’d kept their rooms in the guest house to store their things. Zan knew an old logging road they could take deep into the forest where they would leave the truck and wait for a rift. Pellus had explained the plan of attack the night before. He hadn’t been enthusiastic then, either.
“What’s the matter, Pellus?” Zan asked gently as he went over it one more time. She glanced at Barakiel. “Are you that pessimistic about our chances?”
“No.” He watched a group of guests get into their car and leave. “I do not know. The warriors believe in themselves, but I saw their sagging energy. And I worry about my own part. I want to immediately storm inside, dissolve every wall, find Jeduthan, wrap her in my arms and whisk her away to the heavens. I am afraid my discipline will be sorely tested by the role I have been asked to play.”
“I understand, but I think our plan offers the best chance,” Barakiel said.
“Remember, Pellus. Thanks to you I have a weapon that can cut through walls,” Zan said.
Pellus gripped the edge of the tailgate and forcefully exhaled. “What if they kill her as soon as the fighting begins? Guardian save me.” He looked desperately from Barakiel to Zan.
“I know that has been your fear, my friend, but I don’t think it will happen,” Barakiel said. “They’ll seek to lure you in, and me, so the other adepts can spring a trap. Give me and the warriors who are to descend from the cliffs some time to penetrate the dungeons. Hopefully, Remiel’s frontal assault will have collapsed the defensive line by then, and you can leave off your struggle with the adepts outside and join me in the final push to liberate Jeduthan. We’ll let them think they have us where they want us. I’m sure Abraxos has prioritized our deaths. He’ll have trouble consolidating his power if the citizens have hope that we’ll return.”
“What if we fail to rescue Jeduthan within the twelfth-turn we have before reinforcements arrive? If Abraxos sends a battalion we will all be slaughtered. Every last one of us.”
Barakiel hugged him and understood his friend’s heartache and dread from the way he hugged back, a rare occurrence. “Please, Pellus. You’re being unkind to yourself. Don’t imagine the worst-case scenario. We’re likely to have more than a twelfth. For Abraxos to send reinforcements that quickly, a messenger would have to immediately get through our perimeter. And remember, when Remiel’s warriors did a dry run, it took them closer to a tenth-turn to arrive at the dungeons. Time enough. You can rely on me to clear your path to Jeduthan as you handle the adepts.”
Once Barakiel broke his grasp, Pellus rose from the tailgate with a spasm. “Ah! Adepts! Another of my worries. I detected two safeguarding the exterior of the dungeons. Who knows how many lie in wait within? Borosen, the new guild master, is powerful. What if I cannot collapse the barrier at the entrance? I will need to devote some energy to sustaining myself in the Wasteland because it is so cold and the gravity is difficult. They have had more time to adjust to the conditions.”
“You’ll do it with ease, Pellus. You’re the adept who imposed your will on the relentless force of Destruction. The Wasteland will be child’s play for you.”
“I know you believe that, but I am not sure.” He looked away. “I am terrified.”
I have never seen him this way. I must be strong for him.
“Of course, you are,” Barakiel said. “You’ve been deprived of your mate for too long. Look at me.” He grabbed Pellus’ shoulders and their eyes met. “I won’t give you my usual dramatic pledge that I would rather die than fail. I will not die and I will not fail. Zan will be with me. We will not fail. We’ll clear a path to your mate as you once rescued mine right from under Lucifer’s nose.”
Barakiel’s pep talk drew a weak smile from Pellus. Zan jumped up and slapped him on the back. “Right from under his nose! You saved my life! Now, we’re going to save yours, because we know Jeduthan is your life.” Zan glanced at her watch. “Let’s go.”
They piled in the cab and drove miles back into the forest, stopping once so Barakiel could don his armor and Zan her protective suit. It took only a few minutes more for Pellus to sense a rift beginning to form. They parked. Barakiel sheathed his sword on his back and Zan put on her helmet, tested her communications, and secured her blaster in its holster.
“We will need to flow in the dark veins of the cosmos for a little while, to burn up the extra time I allowed in case a rift was slow to appear,” Pellus said. “We must emerge into the Wasteland at the right moment. Are you ready? The rift is there.” He pointed. With a nod, Barakiel scooped up his friend and his mate and ran as Pellus directed. In a few pulses, they had passed within.