Choosing Destiny

What exactly is this? It's long. It makes more or less no sense out of context, and it's pulled straight out of the middle of the overall storyline. Still, this is a story of Hunter, and Darius, and what 'fate' really is.

CHOOSING DESTINY

In the year of shifting tides and restless winds

Two children shall be born of similar birth but dissimilar kin.

 

The first will be born to ravens and the summer sky

Son of hunters, sought out by the dark wolf

He will be thrice chosen:

By the Blood, by the Blade, and by the heart.

He will be Dragonlord and demon slayer;

The face behind the mask, and the gods themselves will kneel before him.

 

The second child will be of fire and winter’s snow.

He will be the one who comes in the night,

The blade that cannot be turned aside; deadly killer, master of the hunt.

Ghostly son to angels of flame

Pale shadow to dark Light, forsaken one, condemned one

He will be both betrayer and betrayed, reborn from the ashes.

 

Both are fated to meet, their lives interconnected.

Children of high destiny wield great power always, whether foes or friends

They shall be both, but the first foremost

And by the blade of fire shall the darkness be destroyed forever.

 

 

            That was the prophecy that started it all. Or so say the works penned by great scholars of centuries past, so say the histories I have read in the great library of Darkmere. Hundreds of years of bloodshed and slaughter, cities burned to the ground and thousands put to the sword. Such is the legacy of my people, fueled by this prophecy. Murder, deceit and intrigue; these are like mother’s milk to those who call themselves Seraphs.

            I was one of them, once. Another prophecy—as much myth as reality, for it was foretold in the earliest days of mankind—named me as more than human, the reincarnation of the son of a god. Prophesized to return in the darkest days of my clan. Or so it was thought. I do not believe it to be so. I am too unsure, too full of doubt and, my own very mortal flaws to be of divine descent. And even were it true, it was no god I was descended from. But this is beside the point; what matters is that I was once a Seraph. And I was the leader of my people.

            Perhaps I need not call them my people any longer. It has been years since I thought of myself as one of them. But I cannot excuse the acts I committed in those days, and so call myself Seraph as a reminder. To forget what I have done is to lose all sense of what I must redeem myself for.

            This story… It is a sad tale in many ways, and it still pains me to remember parts of it. But at the same time, it is a story of hope. Those were the days where—for good or ill—my life began again, and so I recount them to you now without pride or shame. Perhaps there are greater stories than this, ones that are Hunter’s to tell. He is, after all, the Reaper, the “thrice chosen.” But this one is mine, more than it is that of any other. These events that seem so long ago now fulfilled the ancient Prophecy of the Chosen, and led me to the greatest choice of all: to choose my own fate. To choose my own destiny.

          ~Darius Nightwalker Seraph

 

*     *     *

 

CHAPTER ONE: DOUBTS

 

            The dull thud and roar of explosions echoed through the quiet night, sending birds erupting skyward in a flurry of wings as they were disturbed from their rest. Bright blooms of fiery light could be seen even at this distance as magic battled magic.

            Cutting low above the treetops, Darius soared towards the distant conflict. Slightly behind him, Andrea urged Cirrus to fly even faster. The nightmare responded with an increase in the frequency of his wingbeats, and the Seraph was nearly startled out of the sky as massive batwings rushed above him. He scowled at Andrea as he came alongside her. “Can you make that creature watch where it’s going?” It was a struggle to make his voice heard over the rush of wind.

            She shrugged in apology. Slightly annoyed, Cirrus responded by flicking a wingtip, sending Darius tumbling at the unexpected turbulence. The Seraph gritted his teeth. For all that they might be allies—for the moment—he and the nightmare still didn’t get along with one another.

            Ahead, the explosions were getting nearer. A moment or two later, a thin pillar of flame shot into the sky directly in front of them. Cirrus and his rider were forced to furiously twist to the side in order to avoid it. Darius, on the other hand, continued his flight straight through it. Its fury countered by his natural immunity to all but the most potent fire, the flames registered as nothing more than a soothing warmth on his skin. His robe, treated to resist heat, was only slightly smoking as he came out the other side.

            Darius smirked levelly at the nightmare, which only snorted. “I still don’t see how you do that,” Andrea shouted, still only barely audible over the moving air and continuing explosions.

            “You get used to it, as a Seraph,” he yelled back. “I had plenty of mishaps with fire when I was younger. But less talking, more flying.”

            She nodded grimly. The two were trying to catch up with Hunter. There had been another demon sighting in the woods just outside the valley, and the Reaper had gone ahead as the fastest flier among them. Darius, still recovering from his poisoning, and Andrea riding Cirrus, were traveling together for their mutual protection and because of their slower pace.

            After a few moments more flying, they reached a spot where the treetops were bare and smoking, all the leaves burned away from blackened branches. In the space below, a small dark form was twisting and whirling to defend himself against a whole throng of smaller shapes. There was Hunter; and from the looks of it, there was more than one demon to be concerned about.

            Immediately Darius was dropping, descending through the smoking branches to touch down lightly in thick ashes with his sword already drawn. His coming did not go unnoticed; one of the little demons turned with a snarl, baring tiny but undoubtedly sharp and venomous fangs in his direction. A pair of the others that were presently circling looked up too. There were a lot; more than any of them had anticipated. Darius estimated nearly a dozen of the creatures, plus several corpses that were already beginning to dissipate as their bodies returned to their home plane.

             Hunter was too focused on defending himself against the multiple demons to look over, but he must have realized that an ally had arrived because suddenly there was new strength and ferocity to his counters and attacks. The renewed vigor drove his demonic assailants back for a moment, and Darius recognized the opening. Before any of the creatures had even become aware of the fact that he was in motion, the Seraph had jumped, a single mighty spring that carried him over their heads to the small clear space around Hunter. The two set themselves back to back, sword and dagger presented in a ready position.

            “Glad you could make it,” Hunter said with good-natured sarcasm in his voice. He was panting slightly from the fight he had been putting up, but didn’t sound too strained.

            Darius grinned, his eyes focused on the snarling demons that slunk back and forth just outside of his reach. “I try,” he responded drolly. Then, in a more serious tone, he continued, “there are more than I expected.”

            “More than any of us expected,” Hunter replied. “This is the second demon incident in the past two weeks, as well. Normally they’re very rare; I’ve only fought demons once or twice before this month. Having this many show up within a matter of weeks suggests that someone is purposefully summoning them. Someone who actually knows what they’re doing, and who is sending them here.”

            There was a brief flurry of action, and another demon dropped with its throat gaping. Another sprung back with a hiss, dragging its half-severed foreleg and leaving a trail of acidic black blood.

            “These particular ones are called maaleshen; small demons of middling power. They’re immune to most elemental extremes, capable of learning some minor spells, and fairly intelligent. Some spellcasters of… lesser integrity like to summon them to deliver messages or carry out specific tasks. Fortunately they’re not very gifted innately; the only thing they’re good at using is—“

            Another explosion shook the ground, nearly deafening the two, and an enormous sphere of flames just barely missed the very surprised Seraph. When it impacted with the trees with yet another earsplitting boom, more conflagrations sprang up.

            “…fire,” Hunter finished belatedly.

            “You don’t say,” Darius said evenly. The demons were closing in again. This time it seemed as though they would all attack simultaneously, trying to overwhelm both Reaper and Seraph in a single rush. He frowned. “What in the Nine Hells is taking Andrea so lon—”

            There was a hissing sound, and suddenly the demons were rearing up in surprise and pain as arrows seemed to sprout from shoulders and backs. Several fell dead in that first pass as nightmare and rider swooped low overhead. Andrea was shooting so rapidly that a single stream of arrows rained down from the sky. After a moment, she broke off shooting for just long enough to yell briefly, “There’s more! Up here, there’s some with wings! I’ll hold them off, but you’ll have to take care of the ones on the ground by yourself!” Even as she spoke, dark shapes wheeled past her and she was forced to redirect her shots. A moment later she was gone again. Andrea and Cirrus had taken their fight to the open sky, where they would be at less of a disadvantage when battling smaller, quicker opponents.  

            “Great,” Darius muttered under his breath, not really worried so much as annoyed. This couldn’t be any fairer, could it? No, where was the fun in that? He sighed, then shot a glance over his shoulder. “If it’s just us, then let’s finish these demons off. Andrea’ll probably need some help if there are a lot of them up there.”

            He was speaking to the empty air. Hunter had already made his charge, and was cutting into the line of disoriented and off-balance demons. Fully into his battle, he was moving with the characteristic blinding speed and impossible grace of a Reaper; seeming as though he was moving through the steps of a deadly and intricate dance rather than fighting for his life.

            The Seraph raised his eyes imploringly to the heavens and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Why do I even bother?” Still, for all his complaints, he too attacked with a wild abandon that gave away his true eagerness to fight.

            Before the two warriors, most of the demonic creatures were cut down in minutes.            Soon only four were left of the original dozen, and these were starting to look uneasy, whining deep in their throats at the advance of the two determined warriors. One broke forward in an unexpected dash, lunging towards Hunter without warning. From only a few feet away, it was leaping at him almost too fast for the eye to even register.

            The Reaper calmly and dispassionately cut it down.

            The body fell to the ground with a dull thud, its inky blood hissing as it came into contact with the thick coating of ashes on the forest floor. Moments later, the other three demons fled into the trees in separate directions.

            “Split up?” Hunter suggested. “I’ll take one, you take another. The third one leave alive; if we’re careful, maybe it can lead us back to its master. Try and kill the first as fast as possible, then look for the next.”

            “Alright,” the pale Seraph agreed. The two simultaneously broke and ran in opposite directions, following their respective demons.

 

*     *     *

 

            Darius ran through the trees without a sound. His light steps sought out the places where his feet would make not a noise, made him seem to float across the ground as easily as a spirit of the Realms of the Dead. Ahead, he could hear the regular crunching and snapping of broken twigs as his less skilled quarry fled for its life…in a manner of speaking. Demons could not be truly destroyed anywhere other than their home plane. Being killed, however, was just as painful as a final death, and also meant that the particular being could not return to the Prime Material Plane for a full hundred years unless summoned by its banisher.

            The demon ran for its life.

            It was no good, though. All too soon it came to a sheer drop, a place where the ground fell away into a deeply carved out river canyon. Behind, Darius emerged from the forest with his keenly enchanted sword in hand and an expression of irritation on his face.

            The maalesha looked back fearfully, and then looked out over the chasm again. It was at least twenty feet to the other side—a long jump for a creature no bigger than a medium-sized dog—and many feet down if it fell. The creature hesitantly flexed its stunted wings and bunched its muscles. Then it leapt.

            Much good that did it.

            A hand shot out, grabbed its trailing forked tail firmly, and then yanked it back from the drop. Darius threw the demon down to the ground, hard. As it scrambled to get up, he placed the tip of his shortsword on the creature’s skinny chest. The wickedly enchanted weapon bit in without pressure, drawing a black ooze. Darius firmly gripped the hilt with both hands in a reverse grip, then prepared to impale the demon.

            It spat, then suddenly placed its clawed hands together with index fingers and thumbs touching and muttered a few unintelligible words. A jet of white-hot flame shot out, striking Darius squarely in the chest. The heat would have killed an ordinary human as it melted flesh from bones. For the Seraph Huntlord, the fire simply glanced off, rebounding in weird angles and gouts of flame until it hit the demon itself.

            The maalesha’s small horned face contorted in surprise and dismay. “What?!” it squeaked in a ghastly voice, speaking in a language Darius knew all too well, “why does the fire not burn you, puny human-boy?”

            He frowned, rearranged his sword so that it was once again positioned directly over the center of the demon’s chest. “I am a Seraph,” he said coldly, “and how do you come to know the Sacred Tongue?” The maalesha had spoken in the prayer language of the Seraphs. Darius hadn’t thought it was known anywhere outside of the clan, and certainly not by this, a demon!     

            To his surprise, it yelled at him. “Stop, Seraph boy Darius!”

            He started in surprise, but did not loosen his grip on the hilt of the sword. “You… know my name? How?!”

            “You are Darius?” the little creature hissed, speaking almost too fast to be understood, “You are the Seraph Huntlord? The master commands me to seek you out. He does not believe that you are dead, though the snake boy says that you fell. The snake boy is strong; your people say he is to be made Huntlord, maybe. He—”

            The next words were cut off. The maalesha was clawing futilely at Darius’s hand, which was clenched around its throat and holding it up suspended in the air.

            “What?!” Darius spat, nearly blind with anger. “This ‘snake boy’, was he slightly shorter than me, with dark hair and a burned right hand?”

            The demon gurgled, its struggles weakening. He dropped it, and it collapsed to the ground with a strangled gasp of relief. “Snake boy is shorter and has dark hair, yes. But hand that was burned is healed.”

            “And Ery—the snake boy, he is to be the next Huntlord of my people?”

            The little creature nodded. “The Seraphs say so, they say he is strong and wise, to bring all but one assassin home.” Looking up slyly, it added, “But the master doubts. He says: snake boy did not bring the Huntlord home. Snake boy ran from the Raven one. The master thinks the snake boy is a coward.”

            Darius clenched his fists, feeling an odd mixture of anger and warmth flow through his veins. It had been a long time since he had really thought about his family and the intrigue he had left behind when he fell in the meadow. But now this brought it all flooding back, this news from his home. So now Eryn—the traitor—was to take his place as the leader of the family. That fact made him want to leave now, to seek out and kill his treacherous cousin. But he couldn’t.

            And the ‘master’… So Ak’har still believed him to be alive. His grandfather was summoning the demons; still looking for him, still trying to find him despite the false reports of his death. Darius wasn’t sure what to make of that, but was glad. The knowledge made him feel more of a Seraph than he had in a long while, since before Hunter’s blood had mixed with his own to form the combination that now ran through his veins.     

            “The master said one more thing too,” the maalesha added, cutting into his thoughts. “He says: find Darius. Tell him one thing.”

            It paused, and Darius snarled in frustration. “What? What did my lord tell you to say?”

            The creature looked up at him with visible apprehension in its eyes. “He says to tell you: the twelfth moon rises.” It cringed away at that, clearly expecting its time on the Material Plane to end abruptly and painfully.

            The Seraph did not further threaten the creature, though. Instead, Darius felt his heart sink once more. For all that Ak’har might still be seeking him, things had not changed. He had only a few days, until the full of the moon, to either capture Hunter to be sacrificed or be sacrificed himself. If he lived past that, he would live without honor; a cowardly outcast, kinless and clanless. But was he really strong enough to betray Hunter, to turn over the one who had saved him?

            The demon, as if reading his thoughts, leered at him wickedly. It had gained in confidence after no retribution for the message. “Seraph boy, what are you doing fighting me and my kind?”

            “A true Seraph destroys unnatural beings, monsters like you and your kin.” he answered dismissively, not seeing the need to explain himself to this creature. 

            “But your own clan-master summoned us, Seraph boy! Is he not a true Seraph?” Its smile was positively ecstatic at having caught him in a contradiction. Those burning eyes seemed almost hypnotic and strangely familiar. “Besides, you fought along with the Raven one; is he your master to command you?”

            Darius grabbed it by the throat again, even more angry than before. He didn’t even know why he was so angry, but the rage burned through his veins like molten lead. “No one is my master,” he gritted out between clenched teeth, “particularly not the damned Reaper! He does not command me!”

            The little demon chuckled somehow, despite the vise-like grip around its neck. It had seen its death in his eyes and was beyond fear. “He is your master, Seraph boy. You cannot stand against his command. You are the true traitor to your kin.” Those dull red eyes glittered at him mockingly.

            Enraged beyond words, Darius threw it down and drew his sword in a heartbeat. The steel dove downward, driving through flesh and bone until its tip lodged in the dirt beneath.

            The demon, skewered neatly on the blade, just laughed at him as its blood soaked the earth and its body began to fade away into smoke. “Poor Seraph boy. Slave to the Raven. The master puts too much faith in you and soon he will know it, soon you will be—”

            The words faded out into nothingness as the little demon disappeared altogether. Darius was left with his sword driven into the ground, which was steaming and blackened.

            “I have no master but my lord, and I am NOT A SLAVE!” he shouted in sudden, implacable rage to the air. Breathing hard in anger, the Seraph straightened and pulled his weapon from the ground. The black, acidic demon blood seemed to form a dark web over the bright steel. Angrily, he swiped it across the grass at his feet, and then swore vehemently when he saw that the splatters had eaten into the metal. Now his sword was flawed, no longer pure as it had once been. It was weakened, and sooner or later it was going to break.

            He shoved it back into the sheath at his waist, then turned and nearly impaled Hunter with a knife before recognizing who it was. The dark-haired teenager had at some point approached him from behind, moving as always without a sound. For some reason, this irritated Darius more than seemed reasonable. His good-natured mood from earlier that evening was gone. “What?” he snapped irritably.

            Hunter seemed taken aback by his friend’s venomous tone. “Darius, are you alright? I heard yelling…”

            “I’m fine,” the Seraph snapped, “I can take care of myself and I don’t need you help!”

            “I didn’t say you did.” His voice sounded hurt.

            Darius forced himself to stop for a moment, breathing and focusing on calming down. When he felt calm enough—at least on the outside—he said quietly, “I know. Sorry. I don’t know why I reacted like that.”

            Hunter nodded forgivingly, continuing as though nothing had happened. “I had to kill both of the other demons; they had banded together at some point and were attacking in a group. I’d hoped to catch up before you killed this one, but…” he shrugged. “It seems I was too late.”

            Yet again, Darius was forced to bite back another sarcastic comment. Why was he so angry? “There’s nothing we can do then.” He turned away, scanned the sky for the flares of light that would mark more fighting. A moment passed, then two, and then an orange bloom marked the night far off over the treetops. Maybe there were still a few demons left to kill. “Andrea needs help. Let’s go.”

            He found himself behind again, though. Hunter was no longer standing at his side. Instead, the Reaper had already spread his wings and risen into the air without a whisper of sound, an inky shape against the midnight sky. Darius snarled quietly to himself, then sprung skywards in a blast of wind. He shot upwards, past his friend, and set a rapid pace for the distant battle.

            After a moment or two, the effects of his continuing recovery made themselves clear. He couldn’t keep up a pace; Hunter, flying steadily, slowly drew even with, and then passed him. The Seraph fumed, but could do nothing to catch up. Even the simple act of flight was already taking far more of his strength than it should.

            As they made their way over the dark forest, he soon realized that Hunter was flying slower than normal, decreasing his speed to allow for Darius’s own reduced pace. The condensation irritated him. But there was no way he could go faster. He seemed even more tired than the usual amount accounted for by the poison’s effects; ever since the fight with the maalesha the world had seemed dimmer and fuzzier, as it would appear if he was exceptionally tired.

            They flew on, and no more fireballs exploded against the dramatic starry backdrop. There was no sign of any fight—or of Cirrus or Andrea. Even Darius was beginning to feel a twinge of worry when, without warning, an arrow shot down past him only inches from the right side of his face. He wheeled in midair, flipping over to face upwards with the tiny seed of flame that could become a fireball cupped between his hands in readiness to be thrown.

            He let the spell fade away a moment later with a resigned sigh when he saw a shame-faced Andrea lowering her bow. “I’m sorry!” the girl called down to him from her lofty perch on Cirrus’s back. “I didn’t recognize you!”

            He wanted to reply with a biting retort, but held back the impulse. Why was his mood so foul? Instead, the Seraph merely willed himself higher, until he was on a level with the girl. “Are all the demons dead?”

            She nodded, then amended, “Well, not dead, but gone. After I had killed about four the rest left for no reason that I could see. I don’t think it was a trick; they’re actually gone.”

            “Maybe whoever summoned them called them back,” Hunter suggested, “A proper summoner—as I suspect this one must be—would be able to maintain that level of control.”

            Darius swore to himself. Why had Ak’har recalled the demons? Even now he found it hard to believe that his grandfather would stoop to the use of unholy beings such as these. But who was he to second-guess his lord? What he should be concerned with now was what damning tales the creatures could tell.

            A part of him wanted to fly after them, to catch them and kill them all. But he knew it was futile. Darius had to trust in his grandfather’s perception and believe that the patriarch would realize he was no traitor.   

            “Well, they’re too far gone now,” he said in irritation. “Let’s go.”

            Again, Hunter gave him an odd glance at the angry tone, one that had been all but absent from the Seraph’s voice for nearly the entire time he had spent healing. Darius forced himself to take a steadying breath and remind himself that he had no real justification for his anger, especially directed at his friends. He didn’t restate the question, but his glare softened.

            Andrea, aware that something was going on but not sure as to what, was looking back and forth between them. Hunter seemed to be struggling with the desire to ask what was truly vexing his friend, but eventually overcame the urge. “Okay,” he finally said. “You’re right. There’s nothing we can do at this point. We all need rest.”

            With a weary shrug of wings, he turned and followed Darius, who was already headed in the direction of the valley. Andrea, too, fell in line with the others.

            At the front of the small procession, Darius allowed himself a tiny smile. Slave to the Reaper, the demon had said.

            We shall see.

*     *     *

 

CHAPTER TWO: FALLING INTO SHADOW

 

            The rising moon, three quarters full now, found Darius sitting on a water-smoothed rock at the foot of the waterfall. He had come to the place trying to find the peace of mind the area usually brought to him, but it seemed that peace would not be found tonight. Currently, he was trying to meditate as was his habit, but the exercise was proving impossible.

            The battle with the maaleshen was several days past now, yet still all he saw when he closed his eyes was the dull ruby malice of the demon’s stare. His ears were still filled with its mocking, triumphant laughter.

            At the thought, his hands clenched to fists and Darius realized he was reaching for the hilt of the shortsword that he had placed within easy reach. He sighed, abandoning all hope of meditation, and opened his eyes. Perhaps a battle dance would be better anyways.

            Grabbing hold of the sword, he lightly jumped down from his perch and stretched muscles that were cramped from sitting on the hard stone. Carefully and deliberately, Darius swung the weapon through a few simplistic passes, loosing up his arms as he strode down the rocky trail to a flatter area. Then, in a spot where the ground was firmly packed and all but bare of any grass or weeds, he took a fighting stance and began to move into the opening moves of one of the first routines he had learned as a child under his father’s gentle guidance.

            Those had been happy days. As he thought back, Darius realized that he could remember nothing before his father. Not his mother, not Ak’har; the first memories—and perhaps best memories—he had were of learning to hold and wield a sword by watching his father train. Joshua had been a good man, if slightly different from most Seraphs. He could remember a kind, smiling face, bright brown eyes winking mischievously at him over a neat, fuzzy beard; the face of someone to be trusted and adored.

            And he had adored his father, had loved and respected him like no other. Joshua had been the only one in his family to give him the same affection that he had later seen between normal children and their parents. His father had been the greatest hero of Darius’s world. He had been a teacher, had taught the young Seraph his brilliant swordplay after noticing the wide-eyed child watching him train. He had been a friend and a mentor, always teaching his son what he saw as the right thing. And he had been a protector, often shielding Darius from Ak’har’s somewhat harsher upbringing.

            Joshua had been two men, it seemed now. There was the laughing, smiling father who had always been there to comfort and teach his young son, and there had been the commanding, wise Huntlord who had ruled over Darius’s entire family. He could remember both, and could also remember the pride his younger self had always felt knowing that people had looked up to and admired his father.

            Of course, those days had ended all too soon, when Darius had been no more than eight. He had watched those bright eyes grow dark and lifeless at the end of a Reaper’s blade and known that more had ended in that moment than his father’s life. That single death had been the death of so much more than he had ever imagined.

            With a snarl, he forced away the painful memories. The brief lapse of serenity proved a grave mistake. His meditative state, the one which let him think of everything and nothing at all, was lost with that momentary lapse, and his concentration was lost. Off balance, Darius stumbled and lost his momentum. The battle dance was ruined.

            In frustration, he stabbed the sword into the trunk of a nearby tree. The blade would not be ruined by the attack—after all, what would be the purpose to its lethal enchantment if it did?—and he wanted to stab something. He wanted to kill something.

            With a growl, he yanked the blade free of the tree trunk and shoved it back in his sash. Glancing around, he turned and stalked up the trail towards the waterfall, following it behind the torrent to where a dimly lit cave yawned in the rock. Inside, the moonlight shone down through a hole where water fell from the ceiling, giving the shadows a silvery light.

            Darius paused here, giving his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. When they did, his surroundings became clear. The cave was not a large place, perhaps ten feet across and twenty deep, with walls of bare stone made smooth long ago by the movement of water. The place was bare, unadorned; a simple place, cool and comfortable no matter the temperature outside. He came here often, to be alone or think away from the others. The cave had allowed him a place for solitary reflection, and he had often found peace of mind while watching the falling water.

            But now, that peace was not so easy to find. He could only remember the last time he had been here, what he had done. Memories seemed to surround him, the warm echo of fire glimmering off the smooth stone. He remembered…

            Thinking back, he for once did not flinch away from the memories; he embraced them, laid bare the truth of what he had done. He had betrayed his clan in truth the moment he had been fool enough to possibly harbor any emotion for one so clearly an enemy of the Seraphs. What had passed between him and Alysa in this place had been a mockery, a pretense at something that had never existed and never would. He had let his basic emotion get in the way of his most ingrained lessons.

            It had been a mistake; a mistake that had validated every condemning word the maalesha had spoken. Ak’har would be right to kill him now, and he would welcome it, would return to his home to die by the hand of his liege lord. To die with honor was far more than he deserved.

            If Darius had taken a moment to consider his thoughts, he would have realized that they were more those of the Seraph Huntlord than any he had thought in weeks. A subtle poison was burning through his mind, tainting and clouding any sort of rational thinking, changing what had been altered within him back to the way they had been. He was slowly but surely reverting to the assassin who would kill without consideration or hesitation. The man he had become while recovering was being burned away by the fire.

            The Seraph stood there for several minutes, gazing at the stone while the venom of a demon’s words seeped through his mind. Then, without preamble, he turned and walked quietly out of the cave that harbored so many sweet but ultimately damning memories.

            As he walked down into the forest, a slender shape detached itself from the shadows and caught hold of his arm. Darius resisted the urge to shake the hand off, but didn’t have the heart for it. After all, she didn’t mean him any harm.

            “The tree cries out in pain,” Alysa reproached him gently, placing her other hand over the sap oozing from the tree he had stabbed earlier. “What did it do to so earn your ire?”

            Darius said nothing. He was still filled with that unexplainable anger, didn’t appreciate her reprimand, as good-natured as it might be. Besides, why should he have to explain himself to an el—

            That thought stopped him in his tracks sure enough. How long had it been since he had last thought of Alysa, the beautiful woman who had become something like a friend to him, by the slant of her eyes or the shape her ears?

            “I worry about you, Darius,” she said plaintively. The wistful note to her voice tugged at his conscience. Should he try and talk to her, to try and explain what was happening to him and how he felt at the moment?

            In the end, his pride won out. “I’m fine,” he said shortly. When he sensed her turning away from him, Darius caught hold of her hand and looked her in the face. “Don’t worry. I’m… fine.”

He could see the doubt in her eyes. She didn’t believe him. Darius wasn’t surprised—he didn’t entirely believe it himself—but he wasn’t about to offer anything further in the way of explanation. Why should he have to explain himself?

            That undercurrent of irritation must have shown on his face, because her expression tightened. “I hope so,” she said in a voice little more than a whisper. She was hurt. He could tell, and the thought truly did cause him pain. But he couldn’t apologize.

            Not even when she turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the shadows of the trees.

 

*     *     *

 

CHAPTER THREE: BETRAYER

 

            The peace—if it could be called such—didn’t last long. Only a week after the battle with the maaleshen, another report came in through the small network that reported to the Reaper that there was another demon somewhere out in the forest.

            They were together when the news came, shortly after what was considered a sit-down dinner in the settlement. Comfortably within the fire’s warm glow, Hunter and Andrea were sitting together, as always, talking about some book they had both read. It was the same sort of quiet, peaceful talk that the two seemed to be able to summon up at will, despite the strangeness of their shared life, and they both looked happy enough. Things had been quiet lately—since the last attack by the demons, at least—due in part to the fact that Andrea had caught some sort of cold and had been sick for the past several days. Every now and then her conversation with Hunter was punctuated with a quiet coughing.

             Further away from the light, Darius and Alysa sat out at the edges of the circle of radiance. An uncomfortable distance had grown between the two over the past few days. The uneasy silence was a lot like it had been in the very beginning. As was usual, Elasion was nowhere to be seen. The warrior was away, on another report to the elven High King who ruled over Darkmere.

            Stifling a sigh, Alysa looked sidelong to where Darius was sitting. As he had been doing a great deal of late, the teenager was staring up at the bright, nearly full moon with an unreadable expression on his face. Alysa realized now, looking back, that she had never really been able to tell what he was thinking. The human had always been, well, just that; impossible to understand, a different race from her. What he felt, what he thought, those things were a complete mystery. She had never in her sixty-something years of life met anyone else who was such an utter mystery, so dangerous—and at the same time, that she felt such an unexplainable attraction to.

            The tentative silence wore on. In the deep shadows outside the firelight, the rustles of the forest night could be heard, but were disregarded. Both Hunter and Darius were of the night, and in their presence the others felt at least somewhat safe. But when a dark shape dropped through a gap in the trees with a thunderclap of wings, each and every one of them jumped to their feet.

            After a moment, the tension at least somewhat melted away. Crouched in the dirt next to the fire, a large raven with white-tipped wings was waiting. Cirrus. A moment later, the creature flapped its wings and somehow lazily soared to comfortably perch itself on Hunter’s shoulder.

            Darius scowled. He wasn’t particularly happy at being startled; it wasn’t a common feeling for him, and he still maintained a mutual dislike with the nightmare. Cirrus didn’t particularly trust him—which he actually thought was surprisingly intelligent, given that he would love to kill the creature if given the chance—but more importantly, the nightmare would turn on him if given the opportunity. In Darius’s mind, those he knew were neatly divided between allies and enemies. If someone—something—couldn’t be trusted to watch his back, then it was his enemy. Cirrus was clearly in this category. The nightmare was something to be tolerated, but nothing more.

            Still, Hunter seemed to trust it well enough. He tilted his head towards the raven, face focused and frowning as he took in some sort of message. Then his dark eyes widened, and he looked up. “There’s another one. A demon. And a big one this time.”

            “Brilliant,” Darius muttered to the side. But to the others, he responded with, “Where is it?”

            “Over by Fairfax, up in the hills.”

            “There’re a lot of people who live over there,” Andrea cut in from where she was standing. She looked concerned, worried. Darius wasn’t surprised. Hunter, Andrea, Alysa; they all cared so much about other people. In a way, the Seraph held a grudging admiration for their caring. But at the same time, it wasn’t something that would ever help him. He was a Seraph, an assassin and a fighter more than anything else. Compassion was an unwanted emotion and something that could only ever get in the way of his inherited profession.

            Hunter nodded to Andrea. “And besides the danger to the people living there, there are other problems. Even if whatever sort of demon this is decides to not kill anyone—not likely—someone’s bound to see it. And a demon running around will bring far too much attention to the area.”

            As he spoke, the teenager seemed to stand straighter and taller. The shadows appeared to flow towards him, melting into his clothing and turning the already black garments into pure midnight hues. Hunter always wore Reaper clothing now, Darius reflected idly. He had wondered if the teenager had a whole closet full of identical outfits before finding out that Hunter used a simple charm each day to keep his clothes fresh and clean. Darius would have scorned this as a wasteful use of magic if he hadn’t been forced to do the same thing over the past month out of necessity.

            A moment or two later, massive wings unfolded from Hunter’s shoulders. Hunter flexed them once or twice, stretching black feathers to their fullest extent before settling them tight to his back again. It had always seemed a great irony to Darius—and undoubtedly other Seraphs before him—that death came on the wings of an angel.

            Hunter turned to look at him expectantly. “Are you coming?”

            “You even have to ask? It’s my job to get rid of monsters.” Though he hadn’t said them out loud, the words like you seemed to hover in the air. At least to him. The others didn’t seem to notice so much… except for perhaps Alysa, who turned her face away.

            “And you—” Hunter began to ask Andrea, before he realized that she was already nodding.

            “I’ll come too,” she answered, “Just give me a second to get my bo—” Suddenly she was cut off, doubled over and coughing. Hunter was immediately there, putting a steadying hand on her back as she fought for air.

            “I’m so sorry,” he said in concern, “I forgot. You should stay here. It’s not a good idea to be fighting while you’re this sick.”

            She tried to wave him away, but he put an arm around her shoulders and walked across the clearing to where Darius and Alysa were standing. He turned pleading eyes to the elven woman. “Alysa, I’m sorry to ask, but could you maybe wait here with Andrea?”

            Alysa didn’t hesitate to agree, though Darius caught the brief flash of resignation in her eyes. She wanted to fight as much as any of them. Still, she stood by while Hunter carefully eased Andrea down at the base of a tree.

            The girl smiled at him apologetically. “Sorry. You know I would go if I could.”

            “I know,” Hunter answered. He leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, then stood once more and looked to Darius.

            Darius wasn’t looking. He was watching Alysa, who had been in turn watching the brief, sweet exchange between the two lovers. Hunter, watching the both of them, saw a bitter regret there. Something had gone on between the two of them. What, he could only guess, but looking at Darius now he saw something remarkably like caring, more than he had ever seen on the often unapproachable teenager’s face before. Hunter knew that his old friend was possessed of some basic emotion—revealed briefly when Darius was on the brink of death—but he didn’t think it was something that the former Seraph had even allowed himself to admit when in a clear state of mind.

            But there was some sort of caring on Darius’s face now as he looked at Alysa; a bitter sort of caring, perhaps, but caring nonetheless.  

            Then Darius turned to look him directly in the eyes, and Hunter was forced to quickly turn his head aside, reluctant to let the proud teenager see how much of the puzzle he had put together.

            “Let’s go,” he said quickly.

            The former Seraph nodded sharply, then started to say something and stopped. Finally he managed, “Goodbye, Alysa.”

            Alysa looked up in surprise and perhaps the slightest hint of anger, but her eyes softened as she saw Darius’s obvious discomfort. “Goodbye, Se—Darius,” she said softly. After a moment’s hesitation she reached out to catch hold of his hand.

            He didn’t give her that opportunity. Darius was already turned, had begun walking away as the winds began to whip around him. Hunter, a second behind his friend, saw Alysa’s face fall, then harden once again as the former Seraph walked away. The two of them were tearing themselves apart. No matter what there was between them, it couldn’t hold up to this sort of damage.

            But there was nothing he could say. It wasn’t his place to interfere in something so personal. With a final goodbye to his friend and his lover, Hunter turned and ran after Darius, becoming airborne in a rush of wind. From the shadowy branches of the trees Cirrus flew after him.

            Then they were in the crystalline night sky, and the whole world spread out beneath them like a vast tapestry. The fliers set a course for the point in the distance where twinkling lights marked the quiet Marin suburb of Fairfax and the dark shadow of Mount Tam rose up to blot out the stars.

 

*     *     *

 

            “Down!”

            At the shout from behind him, Darius ducked just in time to avoid the wickedly edged claws of the demon which would have otherwise undoubtedly parted his head from his shoulders. The rush of air in the wake of the blow raised his pale hair, blowing it into his face.

            With impossible reflexes, the demon reversed the strike, sending those claws streaking back for his face. But Darius was the highest level of warrior, and he too possessed a fighter’s instinct and talent for the impossible. He somehow managed to bring his sword up to catch the blow at the last possible second.

            The force behind that swipe was incredible though. His arms seemed to scream, feeling as though they would break, as though they had to yield before this impossible pressure. But Darius refused to give in to the pain. He gritted his teeth and held his ground.

            It saved him. Just when it seemed he couldn’t hold out any longer, the demon wailed in pain and spun away, striking at the dark winged shape that he knew to be Hunter. Given a momentary reprieve, Darius had to again take in the predatory, alien beauty of the demon.

            It was a fairly well-known variety. He remembered seeing it in the scrolls of arcane knowledge that he had been taught from, but couldn’t remember the name. Whatever it was, it was distinct enough for him to recognize it from the faded but detailed illustration that had accompanied a name.

            The demon was about the size of a draft horse, but it moved with the predatory grace of a lion. Back legs sported powerful hooked claws; the forelegs extended into long, slender but unbreakable claw-blades. A long tail split into three bone segments at the end. Leathery wings sprouted from its back. Most distinctively, perhaps, a visor-like bone plate covered its face. Darius wondered if the creature even had eyes to see beneath that shield. The demon certainly responded as though it saw its surroundings. Whatever the case, that area of bone was more or less the only pale spot on it; a bone-white glimmer in stark contrast to a body of black and deep burgundy scales.

            The demon screamed again, a sound that set the Seraph’s skin crawling. It was a noise like nothing heard on Earth. In a way, this made sense. Demons like this were monsters in the truest sense of the word; an aberration from the natural order, an abomination that could not be suffered to exist. It was exactly the kind of thing that his clan destroyed.

            As the demon turned away, its back turned to him, he saw his opening and sprung. A single immense leap brought him in close; close enough to touch the demon. In this case, close enough to stab in at the monster’s unprotected spine.

            But to his dismay, what should have been a clean, easy kill failed utterly. His sword glanced off the demon’s scales as though he had tried to stab a stone. Even the lethal enchantment on his sword did nothing. Whatever this creature was, it was powerful. Very powerful. And he had just made a potentially fatal mistake.

            On instinct, he threw himself flat to the side just in time to avoid being impaled by one of those deadly bone spikes. As it was, the spike sheared cleanly through the sleeve of his robe, but it didn’t even scratch the skin. As Darius fell, he noticed the edges of the previously white cloth singeing and darkening to black. There must be some sort of extremely potent venom on those spikes. But then even that was jolted out of his mind as he hit the dirt, hard. The only thought left in his jolted mind was that maybe that poisoned spine would inflict some sort of damage. It was unlikely that it would succeed when his keenly enchanted blade had failed, but it was possible; after all, sometimes a weapon that was part of the thing it was attacking would prove more successful. It worked with other things, to be sure—the best example he could bring to mind, though not quite the same, was dragon-scale armor that could resist even the most potent of flames. Now if this would just work the same way…

            Unfortunately, even though the attack squarely hit the demon’s back, it did no more than his attack had. Those scales were simply too hard to penetrate. A terrible, rattling laughter sound echoed through the air as the demon gave up its attack on Hunter to turn on him as he lay stunned on the ground. It raised a single hand high, those dagger-like claws aimed downward like an executioner’s weapon. He stared up for a second, uncomprehending.

            The claws knifed downwards towards him.

            Time seemed to slow.

            Desperately, Darius rolled to the side. He wasn’t even completely aware of what was happening, only that if he didn’t move, now, he would be very dead. But the claws seemed to shift their angle, following him, and he knew that he would never escape that lethal fall. At the same time, his eyes caught a dark form plummeting in behind the demon. An upraised dagger flashed briefly in moon’s light. He wanted to shout out that it was useless. Hunter was making the same mistake that he had only moments before. And yet at the same time, it just didn’t seem to matter. He—Darius, though possibly Hunter as well—would be dead in a second anyways…

            The claws suddenly were scything to the side, passing a hairsbreadth from his face. Dimly, Darius heard a dull thunk and a choked-off gasp.

            Then, a brightly bleeding puncture straight through his chest, Hunter fell to the ground beside him.

            The Reaper’s face was a mask of pain; eyes clenched shut as his hand pressed over the wound. Darius knew that it wasn’t lethal—at least, not by itself—due to Hunter’s amazing ability to heal that came as a part of his heritage, but it was more than enough to put him out of the fight for several moments to come. And for the moment, it gave Darius a chance to get away.

            He scrambled to his feet and was halfway to the edge of the trees before he halted and looked back. The demon wasn’t paying him any attention. Instead it was slowly stalking in to where Hunter lay on the ground. The Reaper was, at this moment, defenseless. Darius had seen him fight despite horrendous injuries before, but this was too serious for even a massively powerful being such as the Reaper to ignore.

            Darius’s face tightened in uncertainty as he watched the impending death of his rival and one-time friend. It seemed somehow wrong to let it end like this. If Hunter was to die, then it should at least be at his hands, gods all d****t! The Reaper was his enemy, and it didn’t seem right to let it all end for the benefit of some dumb beast…

            Again, that clawed hand was raised. Darius’s hand, grasping the hilt of the flawed shortsword, shook with indecision. Now was the last moment. If he did nothing, then the Reaper—Hunter—would die.

            His future, his path, who he was; it all hinged on this moment. This choice.

            Again, as it had to end his life, those claws plunged downward…

            And with an enraged scream, another creature slammed into the side of the demon. Cirrus, in his true form and nearly the size of the demon itself, was ripping into it with fangs. Somehow, his natural weapons seemed to succeed where enchanted steel had failed; sizzling black blood streamed from the wounds the nightmare was inflicting. Cirrus did not escape unscathed, though. When he finally released the demon and settled into a poised crouch on the hard-packed dirt with hooves steady, he was bleeding freely from a gash on the side of his neck and favoring one rear leg slightly. Still, the nightmare’s eyes burned fiercely.

            The demon rolled to the side and climbed to its feet with considerably less ease. But nonetheless it was far from beaten. Its bony jaws parted to let out a venom-filled hiss. That deadly, bloodstained tail lashed back and forth as it flexed its wings threateningly.

            With matching, alien shrieks, the two fighters lunged at one another again. Both nightmare and demon seemed to move faster than should be possible, twisting and feigning attack after attack with no blows actually struck. But after a second, Cirrus mistepped. One hoof landed on a smooth stone, skidding and putting the creature off-balance. The demon was quick to exploit this, darting ahead and kicking out with a back leg. Those deadly hind claws lashed out, slamming into the nightmare’s ribs and sending Cirrus flying. He hit a tree and slid to the ground, where he lay unmoving.

            Darius stood in the trees, watching. His indecision had melted into the viewpoint of a cold, impassive observer. The critical moment had come and gone, and he had not moved to help the Reaper. He felt… in a way, he felt complete again. The uncertainty of the emotions that had been dragged back out into the light over the past month was gone once more. He was a Seraph, after all. Now he would wait, let the Reaper’s death come and let that chapter of his life draw to a close.

            The demon reared up on its hind legs, wings spread for balance and pale jaws spread wide. It would seem that it had had enough of attacking with claws. Now it would bite downwards, undoubtedly tearing the life from the Reaper. Darius, basking in his newfound detachedness, was pleased to find that he truly did not care. Yes, it would have been better if he had instead been able to capture the Reaper, restore his own standing as the leader of the Seraphs. But he could not defeat this demon alone—it would seem that he hadn’t been able to defeat it even with help—and so was content to let it end the existence of his people’s greatest enemy. Some demons were said to consume souls. Perhaps this one would end the Reaper line when countless generations of Seraphs had not been able to succeed.

            He looked away though, unable to watch as the demon made the fatal strike. And then turned back only seconds later, frowning, as his ears picked up a sound that was quite unlike the one he had been expecting.

            The demon was bent down, frozen in the motion of attacking with its gaping jaws just inches from Hunter’s face. But it was not moving, not attacking, not finishing the strike that would have ended it all.

            The Red Blade was buried up to its hilt in the roof of its mouth.

            A second later, the demon was snapping its body upright and keening its pain. The dagger was ripped free of Hunter’s hands. It remained lodged firmly where it was, undoubtedly piercing straight through into whatever served as a brain in demons. At that moment the Reaper was probably defenseless, stunned and bereft of any weapon, but the creature was much more concerned with the invisible agony that must have felt as though its skull was splitting—quite literally, as it were.

            Darius noted with some interest that it was beginning to grow hazy and indistinct. The demon was defeated, would be dead if it was on its home plane. Over the next few minutes its body would fully dissipate and return to wherever it had been summoned from, presumably the deepest depths of the Nine Hells. Whatever the case, the fight was over. Through daring and luck—and desperation—Hunter had won.

            He couldn’t help but sigh with relief as the creature collapsed to the ground. Its skeletal jaws gaped wide with the Red Blade protruding from them, now more black than red covered as it was in demonic blood. Darius was sure that, had the creature eyes, they would be glazing over. After a moment’s pause, he stepped out into the clear area again. But it was not to play the role of the ally. Fully the Seraph once more, this was Darius’s prime opportunity. With Hunter—the Reaper—still in the process of healing from a near-fatal wound, he would be able to capture the Reaper at last, would be able to return home in victory and be restored to his rightful place as Huntlord. Any shadow of doubt, of suspicion, that had lingered from the days of his life-debt would be fully erased. He would be trusted by his family once more.

            Treading carefully, he widely skirted the fading carcass of the demon and walked to stand near Hunter, who was still lying on the ground with a gold-streaked hand pressed to his chest. Darius didn’t feel any guilt about the betrayal he was about to commit. After all, it was the culmination of his destiny. Betrayed and betrayer. Reborn from the ashes—as a Seraph, the flawed creature he had become burned away by purifying flame. This would prove it.

            He would become the man he had always been destined to be.

            Reaching into the folds of his sash, Darius smiled as his fingers ran over the slight seam in the cloth that marked the opening of a hidden pocket. From inside he pulled out a slender crystal vial and pried the cork loose with his fingernail. The contents were worth more than anything he owned, but no Seraph would ever sell them. This vial contained pure truesilver; the most precious of metals, strong, beautiful to look at, and priceless for its unique property to nullify all magic. Any Seraph of status would once have carried weapons forged out of this metal, but almost all the reserves of it that the clan had possessed had been used up nearly ten years ago, when Darius’s father had died. Now even this tiny amount of truesilver had become infinitely more precious.

            With a quietly intoned incantation, the pale teenager passed his free hand over the vial and pinched his fingers together as though pulling string or gathering fabric. In a slender, wire-thin stream, the incandescent metal flowed in a liquid line up at his command. This was unique; only one spell could manipulate truesilver in such a manner. Nobody understood why. The answer to that quandary was one of the great mysteries of the magical world. However, it was more the mystery because only the Seraphs knew how to use it at all. The spell was one of their most carefully guarded secrets. Darius had often wondered if anyone not of the clan had learned how to cast it, but had never cared enough to try and learn.

            What mattered was that it worked and he could use it to render Hunter completely helpless.

            He spent a moment admiring the mercurial substance’s movements as it twined and spiraled through the still air. In the back of his mind a memory tried to surface, of another time when he had watched water like liquid crystal in this aerial dance, but he refused to recognize it and it soon subsided. Then he looked down, willed the metal down to twine around Hunter’s neck, and—

            Screeeeeaaaaaaa!

            Darius jerked back, nearly losing control of the truesilver in his surprise. From the side he saw a dark shape hurdling towards him and a second pale blur of movement from near his feet…

            Then there was another scream from the nightmare, but this one in pain rather than the challenge the first one had been. Darius, a safe distance away, only then realized what had happened. Cirrus, still bleeding from the gashes that had seemingly taken him out of the fight earlier, was now lying on the ground. The demon’s yellowed fangs were sunk deeply into the nightmare’s left foreleg.

            His mind, startled, began to put together what had happened, the images that had come in too fast for him to process. As he had begun to direct the truesilver, the supposedly dead demon had jerked partially upright. It had meant to attack Hunter. He had been between the demon and Hunter.

            It would have probably been him. Those immovable jaws would have closed over his leg; he would have been dragged down, likely killed in the first few seconds before he could react. Then the creature would have gone for Hunter.

            Cirrus had attacked then; somehow the gravely wounded nightmare had found the strength to move. Not to attack him, as Darius had assumed, but to defend its master. By doing so it had inadvertently saved him as well.

            A second later, the demon went limp again; Darius believed that this time it was truly dead. Sure enough, a moment later its rapidly fading body became a smoky outline, then vanished altogether. But to his surprise, the nightmare did as well. It would seem that it had been carried along back to the plane that was home to the hells-spawned demon.

            He knew that it would be back within a few days. The demon was banished for a hundred years, by the unbending laws of the universe, but Cirrus had not been banished in a similar manner and wasn’t a demon to begin with. In a day or two it would find a way back to the Prime Material Plane. It was a pity, Darius thought. Cirrus was the only witness, the only creature that could bear testimony to his treachery, and he had no doubt that its first action would be to let the others know of what had occurred. That thought upset him more than he liked.

            On the other hand, perhaps the nightmare would behave more like the dumb beast others might think of it as. Perhaps it would make its first task to seek out its master, in which case it would be killed upon discovering the Seraph compound. In many ways Darius hoped that the nightmare would do this. He wanted it dead; another link to his shame that would be far better buried.

            But now was not the time to think of that. He had made his choice, seized his opportunity, and now was the time to seize the reward for his success. But still, the Seraph was not utterly heartless. Or perhaps instead he saw the benefits of keeping Hunter in relatively good health. Either way, he did not immediately use the truesilver to eliminate the Reaper’s magic. He crouched down, moved Hunter’s motionless hand aside, and watched as the amazing healing ability that was part of a Reaper’s innate abilities caused the blood flow from that potentially lethal blow to slow, then stop all together. Clean, unmarred skin formed over where the ugly wound had been. A moment later, he saw the other teenager’s eyes flicker behind closed eyelids.

            It was time. With infinite care to avoid contact with the compound himself, Darius put a hand behind Hunter’s head and lifted it up so the truesilver could fully encircle the Reaper’s neck. The metal formed itself into a perfect circle around Hunter’s neck, too tight to be removed without being cut, and then glimmered once before solidifying and falling against the Reaper’s skin. Instantly Hunter’s face seemed to pale. His breath rate increased. Darius guessed that he was suddenly feeling the effects of the wound as much as a normal human might. The damage probably wasn’t fully healed internally.

            He didn’t have any misgivings about this; in fact, the Seraph had engineered it on purpose. The weaker Hunter was—to a certain extent, he did have to walk, after all—the less resistance he could offer.

            Darius didn’t wait for Hunter to wake up fully on his own. He prodded his old enemy in the ribs with the toe of his boot none too gently. “Get up. I know you’re not unconscious.”

            The Reaper groaned softly. Darius nudged him with his foot again, harder. “Reaper!”

            Hunter’s eyes—eyes that, the Seraph was interested to note, were still golden—slid open. He stared up in confusion at Darius’s scowling face. “Darius? What’s going on… what are you—?”

            His hand weakly reached up to the cold metal on his neck, and suddenly his eyes were wide and alarmed. The Reaper tried to sit up, but wasn’t strong enough. But he still was not too weak to talk. “What?! Darius, what—?”

            He halted, and Darius saw understanding and despair spread across his face in a flash of revelation. Hunter knew that he had been betrayed. Not waiting for the questions, the Seraph grabbed hold of his enemy’s arm and dragged the teenager to his feet. Instantly he was behind the Reaper, holding him up and pressing a knife to his back at the same time.

            “Keep moving, Reaper. You know where we’re going; it’s not far away. Don’t offer me any trouble on the way, and I won’t have to kill you.”

            Hunter’s shoulders slumped. “I understand.” Darius waited, almost hoping for something past that single, quiet statement, but none seemed to be forthcoming. He should have known. This was—he didn’t want to say Hunter and humanize his prisoner, but saw no other choice—Hunter. He knew that the Reaper wasn’t afraid of death, but he also knew that Hunter wouldn’t ever fight against someone he considered a friend. It was a ridiculous ideal. It was the kind of ideal that would lead to his death.

            Darius growled, then shoved Hunter slightly to get him moving. Soon the two were moving at a somewhat decently paced walk through the trees. If the Seraph’s sense of location was at all correct, they should come across a road leading to the clan home within a mile or two. From there it would be a simple matter to bring the Reaper to Ak’har. A night after that, the Reaper would be sacrificed, Darius would be Huntlord once more, and all would be right again.

            A little while later, they were still walking. The Seraph was lost in his own dark thoughts. Hunter was silent. And so Darius was caught by surprise when Hunter quietly commented, “I trusted you.”

            “Then you’re a fool.” The three simply spoken words irritated Darius. They were the exact sort of blind idealism that had gotten his father—

            Momentarily, the part of his mind that blocked memories too painful to remember jumped in to cut off that line of thinking. He stopped it though, gave himself the chance to examine the memory fully. Yes, idealism had gotten his father killed. Blind love and self-sacrifice were good qualities for the heroes between the pages of a book and on the movie screens, but in real life they got you killed. Darius might somewhat admire them in those fictional characters, but he had learned through brutal demonstration that they had no place in a Seraph. Not when the enemy was as deadly as the Reaper. Or, in Hunter’s case, as deadly as the Seraphs.

            Picking up his statement, Darius continued, “What reason did I ever give you to trust me? I’m not your friend. I’ve tried to kill you more times than I can count.”

            Hunter turned his head to look at Darius—or at least tried to, before the pale teenager halted the action by prodding the knife tip into his back a little more forcefully. Undeterred though, he replied, “Because there is a part of you that deserves that trust.”

            “Any part of me that was ever like that died a long, long time ago, Reaper.” The Seraph spat to the side in disgust. His enemy assumed too much. Hunter assumed that there was some flaw of compassion left within the Seraph to exploit. He was dead wrong. That flaw was gone. It had been purged from Darius, leaving him a true Seraph; ruthless efficiency, ready to do whatever it took to make this kill.

            “Just keep moving.”

            The two continued into the shadows, moving deeper and deeper into the darkness. Somewhere out there was the house that served as a home to the Seraphs. Somewhere out there was a place where the Reaper would be sacrificed, the line ended forever.

            Somewhere out there was a place where, very soon now, their destinies would be achieved.

            Thus it was prophesized: one would die, one would live on.

            There was a power to that that could not be denied.

           

*     *     *

 

CHAPTER FOUR: HOMECOMING

 

            The sky was still dark, but beginning to show the faintest tinges of the coming dawn. The stars glittered faintly overhead. In the back reaches of a wooded valley somewhere in Marin, a pair of figures walked slowly up the dark road. Both were of males of similar height and built, long-haired; one wearing light clothing, the other dark. The more somberly dressed of the two had large, feathered wings sprouting from his back. A ring of gleaming metal encircled his slender neck.

            Hunter kept his head down, watching where his feet were treading and trying not to stumble. In most cases, his perfect balance and poise would let him avoid tripping, but now, with a knife to his back and his arms tied behind him, he couldn’t afford to fall. The darkness of the late—or early—hour was another obstacle. The young man was used to seeing at night as well or better as any owl, but the thin band of truesilver around his neck blocked all of his magical power and innate abilities. His uncanny vision was gone, leaving him as blinded as Darius.

            Behind him, the Seraph was not faring much better. As a result, the pace was slow; had Darius been able to see, he would have forced Hunter to move faster. He didn’t want to be caught on the road after daybreak. Most of the time it was deserted—the Seraphs were solitary, preferring privacy and secrecy over social interaction—but there was occasionally a car that drove up full of hikers intending on exploring the untouched habitat in the area. Ak’har had decreed that they shouldn’t be deterred, for fear of arousing suspicion, and so they continued to come.

            No matter, the Seraph thought, fully alert and awake for the first time in a month, the cold, creeping poison fully purged from his system and his wounds completely healed. If a car came, if humans saw, he could always kill them. He wouldn’t chance letting the Reaper escape.

            As the shuffling pair rounded a curve in the road, a welcome sight—for Darius, at least—came into view ahead. The Seraph felt a burden he hadn’t known he was carrying lift from his shoulders. Relief quickened his pulse, and he started walking faster, giving his captive no choice but to keep up.

            The steady light of the Seraph home shone ahead like a beacon in the night.

           

*     *     *

 

            As they approached the gate, Darius carefully scrutinized the familiar scene. Guards standing to either side of the door, their long, flowing white robes undoubtedly concealing a multitude of weapons. Hung on a beam directly above the gateway itself, sheltered beneath the eaves of a roof, a delicately crafted lantern shed a circle of warm radiance over the immediate vicinity. The sight of his home, a place he had not been sure that he would ever see again, stung Darius’s pale eyes, and he angrily blinked away the sudden moisture that blurred his vision. It felt so good to be home; now he simply had to gain entry.

            He prodded Hunter forward into the circle of light, one hand tightly grasping the Reaper’s shoulder and the other holding a knife to his back. When the guards saw the sudden movement, they drew long swords, but fell back slightly in shock as they realized who this intruder was. Hunter may not have been wearing the trademark skull mask of his profession, but the wings were a clear enough indication. In addition, the young man’s resigned eyes smoldered the molten gold that betrayed Reaper blood running through his veins.

            One guard hesitated, looking unsure of whether to hold his post, attack, or run. The other, however, charged forward with his sword drawn back for a blow that would probably part Hunter’s head from his shoulders. Darius noted that his captive tensed momentarily, but didn’t try to run or break free to defend himself. The Reaper seemed prepared to meet his death calmly, and the Huntlord couldn’t help but wonder whether he should admire or despise this. But that fleeting question didn’t matter so much as whether Hunter was about to die or not. The Reaper couldn’t be permitted to die, not just yet.

            In what might have seemed a reckless move, Darius stepped confidently forward, placing himself between Hunter and the attacking Seraph. His white robes—ones he had purposely worn in anticipation of some sort of challenge, ones that he had not given up once in the past month despite everything—almost glowing in the light, Darius held out a spread-fingered hand with cold authority. “Halt, in the name of your Huntlord !” he said coolly, with the tone of one who expects obedience.

            The Seraph skidded to a halt, instantly regaining his balance and settling into a fighter’s crouch. He looked at Darius, so obviously in control of the situation, and his face assumed an expression of confusion. “You are one of the clan?”

            Darius gestured to his white robes and crimson sash; though torn and somewhat bloodied, they were clearly the traditional garments of a Seraph. 

            “I cannot know that you are one of us by your garb alone, stranger.”

            The Huntlord looked out from beneath the concealing cowl of his cloaking robe. The shadows truly did hide his face well, if even a full initiate did not know him on sight. But then, there was also the factor of his supposed ‘death’ at the hands of the Reaper. He would be, in a sense, returning from the dead.  

           Darius considered revealing his face, but decided against it. He would wait until the effect would be greatest, when his miraculous resurrection could most greatly influence the other Seraphs and he could draw the greatest crowd of supporters. Of course, he would probably win all the support he needed when he led a bound and captured Reaper into the compound for the sacrifice.

            “By the power of the Immortal Flame, creator and ruler of all, may my enemies fall before me. May their weakness be my strength, and may their defeat be my triumph. Great one, may this unworthy one be granted your blessing this day, that by your power I might better know your will and bring power and glory to this house. This one honors you, father of the Seraphs, those who are one with the flames; I honor you with the offering of a life. Grant me the strength to defeat my enemies in your name.”

            With his free hand, the Huntlord made a gesture known only to the initiated among the Seraphs, those who had mastered the art of fire; one that, coupled with the powerful ritual prayer he had just recited, clearly validated him as a high-ranking member of the clan.

            The guard immediately bowed low, sheathing the bared sword. “My apologies, brother. I did not know you for a Seraph.”

            “I have been… traveling.”

            “Brother, forgive me. I required proof that you were truly one of us, especially when you come with… him.” He gestured to Hunter, who was watching the exchange silently. “That is truly… the Reaper?”

            “Yes,” Darius couldn’t keep a small smile from his face, knowing that he had done what none other could ever do. He had captured the spirit of death itself. But in a corner of his heart, the slightest gnawing tinge of uncertainty questioned his smile. Was this right?, it asked quietly. Darius ignored it. “I have captured the Reaper; I come so that the prophecy may be fulfilled.”

            The guard shook his head. “You must have been traveling for a very long time, my brother. The prophecy will never be fulfilled, not in our lifetime, at least. Huntlord Darius is dead. That one—” an accusing finger pointed at Hunter “—treacherously murdered him over a month ago.”

            Darius did not speak. Instead, he slowly reached up with his free hand and drew back the hood that concealed his face.

            Both guards gasped. The angular, pale face and misty gray eyes that stared back at them could belong to no other. The long, snowy white hair that framed the face, the characteristic headband that always looked like a splash of fresh blood when seen from the corner of the eye; unmistakable. But more than any physical qualities, the air about him, the spark in his eyes proved who he was; there was a power there, an aura of fierce, unbending pride and dignity that was so personified in no other. Beyond any doubt, Darius—Huntlord Darius, leader of the Seraphs—was back from the Darkness Beyond.

            The guard who had kept to his post fell forward until he was groveling, his face pressed to the clean-swept flagstones. “Huntlord!” The other guard immediately followed the example.

            Darius was forced to resist the impulse to snap at them. It wouldn’t be any great crime; no Seraph should so debase themselves to anyone, especially in the sight of the Reaper. But he sighed. Where was the point in reprimanding them?

            “Rise,” he commanded, the façade of complete calm and imperiousness in place once more. With uncertain glances up at him, the guards cautiously rose to their feet and stood at attention. “I wish to enter, brothers,” Darius said coolly. “Will you allow passage for me and the prisoner?”

            With more deep bows, one of the lesser Seraphs—the one who had stayed near the gate—closed his eyes in concentration and gestured towards the gate. With a creak of protest, the doors yawned open, yielding up the same serene, carefully tended garden that Darius remembered so well. Nothing had changed… and yet, everything had.

 

*     *     *

 

            As the two walked slowly forward across the courtyard, Darius could hear the gasps and whispers around them as the few Seraphs up at this hour of the morning realized who they were. A being—or the present incarnation, at least—that had never been captured, and a Huntlord who had thought to be dead; it was hard to say who the other Seraphs would be more shocked to see.

            “It’s Darius…he’s alive…and the Reaper…he’s caught the Reaper!”

            More and more white-cloaked figures were coming outside into the courtyard as word of the arrival spread. Darius recognized familiar faces; close-cousins, his aunt, relatives who had been his closest—and only—friends as a child. Every one of them was gaping at him in awe and disbelief. But he did not see the two people he was looking for. Ak’har had not come outside yet. Neither had the traitor, Eryn.

            Preoccupied, he didn’t notice that Hunter had slowed down until he nearly ran the young man through. As it was, his knife’s tip dug a shallow groove into the Reaper’s back, and Hunter flinched in pain. “Keep moving!” Darius hissed angrily. But despite his harsh tone, he did move the knife back the slightest bit. Its tip was stained a bright gold.

            On either side, the crowd was thickening. Worse, Darius noted, the assembled Seraphs were beginning to murmur more ominously. “Damned Reaper!” Someone yelled from back in the crowd. Hunter didn’t even look up, kept his face turned to the ground. But he did jerk upright in shock and pain when a rock came whistling out of the mass of humans to impact at the crux of his right wing.

            “Demon! Murderer!” Other voices picked up the cry, and more rocks came flying through the air. Most struck Hunter, hard; every Seraph here over eight years of age had at least rudimentary battle training, and they hit what they aimed at. Stones slammed into the Reaper’s head and shoulders. One, jagged and skillfully thrown, drew a line of blood across Hunter’s cheekbone.

            As the vulnerable captive drew in his wings to try and protect himself—and thus presenting an even larger target for his attackers—Darius realized that he had to stop this before the scene became a riot. Everyone there had a reason to hate the Reaper, whether it was a dead father, mother, uncle, aunt, sibling or son or daughter. Unchecked, they would take enjoyment from stoning Hunter to death. Even now, he knew it was only a matter of time before one of the rocks pummeling the young man broke one of the fragile feathered wings.

            It was time for him to take charge. Darius raised his voice, trying to make himself heard over the roar of the crowd. “Stop this!” Instantly silence fell. He felt a momentary surprise—it had been a month since he had commanded this sort of unquestioned authority. But he continued as though he had expected nothing less. The Seraph’s voice, though lowered to a normal level once again, cut through the night air like a knife. “This shameful lack of discipline will cease now! I have brought the Reaper here to sacrifice him to the Flame, and now you will kill him and allow the inheritance to continue! Have you all lowered yourselves to the level of commoners in the single moon I have been gone?!”

           At this severe reprimand, most of those in the front of the crowd averted their gazes in shame. Upraised arms, stopped in the act of throwing stones, reluctantly lowered. Darius, gazing sternly out over his clan, didn’t see the fleeting look of gratitude in Hunter’s eyes as the angelic young man cautiously lowered his wings. But then a voice somewhere in the back of the crowd shouted out rebelliously, “Huntlord, why give him the chance to escape? The Reaper is treacherous, we all know this! Let us kill him now, here, that he may never again murder our kin! It is better than he deserves!”

            The mob swelled ominously at this. Darius did not falter however, casting his eyes across the crowd to try and identify who had spoken out. A young woman, clearly an expectant mother, met his eyes defiantly.

            “Dahlia, we all know your feelings on this subject. We know that the previous Reaper killed your husband.” Darius gripped Hunter’s shoulder with his free hand, noticing as he did that the tension in the Reaper’s shoulder eased slightly at this supposed comfort. His face hardened, and he roughly dragged Hunter around to face the woman. “But tell me, do you wish this one killed now? Now, when his spirit will be free when it leaves this body, when it will quickly find a new body to inhabit; one that will return to slaughter our people once more?”

            Hunter was shaking, though not from fear. Darius knew that his former friend wasn’t afraid to die. But what emotion the young man could be feeling, he could not guess. Not that it mattered. What Hunter felt as he looked out over a crowd of people, all thirsting for his blood, Darius neither knew nor cared. So he continued, “Wait a single day for his death. Then, you will know that a Reaper will never again threaten our people… Or your child.” Dahlia instinctively pressed a hand to her stomach. “As the moon sets tomorrow, this one’s blood will stain the sacrificial altar, and your husband’s spirit will be satisfied knowing that the Reaper’s soul will reside in eternal torment for all eternity.”

           The young woman smiled viciously. “Truly you are wise, Huntlord. This is the better way.” With a slight bow, she turned and made her way back to the far edge of the crowd.

            Hunter cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Darius, his face a picture of terrible sorrow and a sort of disbelief. The Huntlord didn’t bother to even respond. Hunter should have realized that if Darius had betrayed him, than the Huntlord was Seraph to the core. Darius would wield the sacrificial dagger with pleasure in the knowledge that he was ridding the world of evil. He shoved the Reaper back in the direction they had originally been traveling in, the winged captive falling back into step woodenly.

            Darius snorted in contempt. The Reaper would give into his fate without any struggle? His respect for his enemy fell another couple of notches. Now that they understood one another, the qualities he had once tolerated out of necessity in his old friend seemed to be glaring flaws, imperfections that made Hunter weak. In the deadly game they played, weakness was translated to an unworthiness to live.

            As Reaper and Seraph continued forward, a ripple traveled through the crowd. It was not visible or audible, but palpable nonetheless: a change in attitude, as the focus of the courtyard immediately shifted to the double doors in front of the two, which had just opened. Without any sort of fanfare or introduction, Ak’har, the Patriarch of the Seraph clan, stepped out into the lesser shadows of the walkway.

            Instantly, the Seraphs bowed respectfully. Darius, too, lowered his head. When he saw that his prisoner was not doing anything, he quickly drove his foot into the back of Hunter’s kneecap. The unexpected strike threw the young man off balance, and he stumbled forward a half step and fell to end up on his knees before the ancient Seraph.

            “My son, you have returned to us.  You have not been lost to the Darkness Beyond.” Ak’har’s voice sounded the same as ever, Darius thought, as strong and commanding as it was in his memories. “And you bring the Reaper to us as a bound captive.”

            Darius looked up, feeling that he had shown enough respect to his equal in the initial lowering of his gaze. “An offering to be sacrificed to the Immortal Flame, lord,” he answered levelly, unable to keep a note of pride out of his voice.

            “Well done,” the patriarch responded softly. His cold, hungry gaze locked on Hunter, who was staring back with the same sort of horror-filled fascination of a sparrow who has looked into the eyes of the snake. Ak’har’s face was a mask of anticipation and malice, promising pain.

            After a moment or two, the ancient Seraph looked back to Darius. “The ceremony shall be tomorrow. Until then, the Reaper will be put in the holding cell.” At a gesture from Ak’har, two of the more alert Seraphs cautiously approached, weapons bared. Darius stood passively while the pair yanked Hunter to his feet and roughly led him away with a sword resting on his collarbone, pressed none-too lightly against the side of his neck. The Reaper didn’t fight against them. Either he had realized the foolishness of resistance, or he had simply lost any will to try. The crowd parted before them, and Hunter was led away into the home of his kind’s deadliest enemies.

 

CHAPTER FIVE: NEZ’HARA

 

            When they were gone, Darius stared his grandfather straight in the eye. “My lord, I also have another matter of great importance that I bring to you. From what I have heard so far this night, you and the rest of the clan thought me to be dead this past month, fallen at the hand of the Reaper during the failed assassination one moon ago.” Ak’har nodded, as did many others around the court. “This is not true.”

            Ak’har nodded gravely, but with some impatience evident in his tone. “We can see this, my son. What is there that is so vital that it must be told here and now?”

            “I was cut down one month ago by treachery, it is true,” Darius said with cold anger in his tone, “but it was not the Reaper that felled me. It was one of my own kindred that traitorously stabbed me in the back when the fight was over, to further their own ambitions, and then abandoned me to the Reaper! My lord, I claim the right of accusation against Eryn Winter Seraf, on the grounds of cowardice, deception, and high treason!”

            The silence erupted into shouts of disbelief and fury. Even the patriarch was stunned for a moment, his old face twisted with astonishment. This was unprecedented; in all the history of the Seraph clan, never before had one of their own deliberately tried to murder their own Huntlord! This crime was of equal seriousness with the unforgivable sin of aiding the Reaper. The sentence could be nothing other than death.

            From the crowd, a single figure fought their way forward—helped along by several painful shoves—until they were free of the mass. Eryn ran forward, throwing himself to his knees on the paving stones before Ak’har. “My lord, he lies! I swear, I did not leave the Huntlord to be killed by the Reaper! I thought him dead in the battle, beyond any chance of saving!”

            Darius’s tone was pure venom and fury. “You thought me dead, but at who’s hand?”

            Eryn looked up in abject terror at the vengeful Huntlord, and then turned back to groveling before the clan patriarch. “I beg you, my lord, do not listen to the deceptions woven by the traitor! I wish only to speak the truth— so I admit my deed: yes, I tried to kill him, but only believing that he had purposely allowed the Reaper to drive us away! My lord, I committed no treason that night. The fault is not mine; I do not deserve to be sentenced to death!”

            “Your words contradict those you spoke upon returning at the head of the assassin band,” Ak’har noted coolly. At his feet, the cringing Eryn looked up with a wild, panicked look in his eyes. His mouth formed protests, explanations, but no sound passed his lips other than a wordless, high-pitched whine.

            “Be silent! My mind in this matter is already decided,” the elder declared. Two gazes, one a dull hazel and one a pale grey, turned to him. Ak’har paused momentarily, as though he was mentally confirming his decision. “There is too much confusion and inconsistency in the facts for me to pass a death sentence in this matter.”

            At this proclamation, Eryn collapsed with relief, gasping out his thanks. Darius, on the other hand, looked as though he was about to protest. With supreme force of will, the Huntlord managed to bite back his words. But rage and disbelief were written plainly on his face.

            Ak’har took in both responses, waiting until there was silence once again. Then, as calmly as though there had been no interruption, he continued, “But it seems clear to me that you have both had your honor challenged. Therefore, you will settle this in the traditional manner. Darius Nightwalker Seraf, Eryn Winter Seraf, you will battle one another in nez’hara. The duel will begin as soon as the courtyard is prepared.”

           At this, a thin wail burst out of Eryn’s throat. He clutched at the hems of Ak’har’s robe frantically. In disgust, the patriarch kicked him away none too gently.

            Behind this scene, Darius smiled grimly and bowed his head. “Thank you, my lord. As always, your wisdom is flawless.” Without a further word, he turned and settled on the ground, assuming a meditative posture. He closed his eyes, mouthing what seemed to be the opening lines to a ritual prayer before battle.

            Eryn, having risen from his humiliating slump, stood before Ak’har. He had regained a semblance of composure, but a slight tremor in his voice revealed the true fear beneath the façade. “My lord, I ask only the postponement of this duel until tomorrow night. I have not slept, am not prepared…”

            “Silence,” the elder Seraph said sternly, “there will be no postponement. I am sure that your opponent—” he gestured towards Darius “—has had no more rest than you have. The nez’hara will take place in approximately fifteen minutes. I suggest that you make yourself ready.”

            At the edges of the courtyard, the other Seraphs had pressed back until they were all in the relatively safe zone of the porch. Mages and those with the correct amulets and wards stood at the appropriate spacing, prepared to raise shields around the arena. The courtyard was left clear, other than the motionless Darius, Eryn, and Ak’har.

            The patriarch looked up imperiously. “Who here will bring Eryn his weapons?” Immediately several small children, infected by the excitement of the challenge and not yet comprehending the consequences, raced off into the house, presumably competing to be the first to retrieve the objects.

            When they returned, nobody had moved. One child, a small blond boy with a proud grin on his face, reverently handed the Seraph patriarch a folded bolt of scarlet cloth. The bundle clinked softly as it changed hands. As the little boy scampered back to his mother’s side, Ak’har passed the bundle to Eryn with a cold, impassive expression on his lined face. “Use your time well. You have ten minutes to prepare.”

            Dismissively, he walked out of the court to settle comfortably in his throne-like chair. Left in his wake, Eryn sat uncomfortably and began inspecting his weapons. Unlike Darius, he did not meditate or pray.

            Overhead, the night sky was clear and serene, lending a surreal calm to the gathering. The sun had not risen yet; within the house walls, time was skewed, often moving more slowly than it did in the outside world. What time it was often depended more on Ak’har’s will than the actual cycle of days. This night could last for hours still.

            Ten minutes passed, and an expectant hush settled over the throng gathered under the eaves of the great house. Under the flowering tree, Darius opened misty eyes that now burned with focus and determination and stood. His hands quickly checked the many weapons he had hidden in various folds and creases in his robe. His touch lingered longest on the worn, polished pommel of his favored sword.

            Across from him, Eryn, too, stood. The fear was not entirely gone from his face, but it was now overlain by the familiar mocking smile of self-assurance that he normally wore. He, too, made sure of the correct placement of the various knives he carried, along with a thick hand-and-a-half sword thrust through his sash. He smirked at his opponent, who met the mockery with only a level glare.

            From his seat on the throne, Ak’har called out, “Let the nez’hara begin, and may the one who fights with justice in his heart prove the victor.”

            Without warning, Eryn lunged forward, his empty hand suddenly filled with a long, serrated knife. Darius danced back just in time to avoid being eviscerated in the first seconds of the fight. But he drew a longish knife of his own and met the continuing attacks with grace and fluidity, skillfully deflecting each blow as it came. Darius could afford to defend without counterattack, at least for the moment. Later in the fight he would strike back with this saved strength.    

            Not that it seemed that he was saving any energy yet. Eryn continued to attack, but he did not seem to be playing out his momentum as fast as Darius had anticipated. The Huntlord knew that he had to change tactics, at least for the moment; if he continued on this current course, it was always possible that his opponent might manage to land a strike. Darius was the Reaper’s equal in fighting, Eryn considerably inferior to this, but accidents happened.

            In a distant corner of his mind, the Huntlord was more than a little shocked by how dramatically his despised cousin’s skill had increased. Eryn had always been a passable swordsman, a required talent for one of the Seraphs whose skill with arms was all but legendary. Still, Darius had always known he was far above Eryn’s level of ability. To be pressed this hard in a fight was unthinkable, and he inwardly cursed not practicing more frequently during his recovery. If his treacherous relative had improved so much, then he himself should have been able to improve an equal amount. He had been lazy. But still; this was a fight he was confident in winning. Eryn would die, must die, no matter the price. Darius knew that, and the bright blaze of his fury only fueled his already extraordinary talent. He would succeed.

            He blocked in the same pattern that he had just been following, then suddenly turned his knife inside the path of Eryn’s. With a twist and yank, the traitor’s weapon was suddenly flying free. Darius could have followed up his attack to kill his enemy there and then. But he didn’t, pausing just long enough for Eryn to twist and dodge out of harm’s way.

            With a growl, Eryn jumped back, sliding his heavy sword from its place at his waist. Likewise, Darius exchanged his knife for the longer, more familiar shortsword. Almost in retrospect, he pulled several smaller, more expendable knives from his sash and flicked them at the traitor. Eryn managed to deflect the first two, dodged one, but then the fourth and final knife slipped past his guard to slice a clean gash through the shoulder of his robe, cutting a thin line across his skin.

            He didn’t get a chance to counter, though, for without pause, Darius was charging in, his sword weaving a complex design of shining steel. Eryn just barely managed to catch the attack, his own larger sword flashing as he desperately blocked each lightning-fast strike as best he could. He couldn’t counterattack; the initial momentum of the Huntlord’s charge was too great. But Eryn did manage to hold his own.

            Then he was backed up against the invisible arcane barrier that had been raised before the start of the fight. Darius’s press weakened for a split second as the movement stopped, and that was just enough for Eryn to brace himself against the support at his back and lunge.

            The Huntlord quickstepped back in perfect balance. Eryn didn’t hesitate to press his newfound advantage, and suddenly the battle had been joined for real. The dueling warriors, both Seraphs born and raised, were into the course of action completely. Short dark hair and long white hair twisted and spun past one another, as blows were exchanged too fast to be considered or planned. The ebb and flow of battle was pure instinct now, years of warrior’s training and an innate talent for battle coming together in a fight that was nearly as spectacular as those Darius had fought against Hunter. Amazingly, Eryn was managing to hold his own against his more skilled opponent. He had indeed grown faster and stronger over the past month, though he was still by no means the Huntlord’s equal. But now his continuous attacks of earlier were beginning to tell. Though Darius too was breathing hard, the lesser Seraph knew that he himself was beginning to tire faster. Darius’s momentum seemed to be building rather than decreasing.

            Then, abruptly, Eryn drew out yet another weapon: his assassin’s dagger. Immediately Darius backed off, eyeing the innocent-seeming blade with considerable respect. If it was still treated with poison, the slightest scratch could mean defeat and death. He couldn’t risk hand to hand combat while Eryn was fighting with that dagger, and he knew the traitor would know this, use it to his advantage. He had to destroy the dagger. Only one option presented itself.

            With a sigh of frustration, he dropped his shortsword to the ground. Eryn’s eyes widened, and then narrowed in suspicion. He had reason to be suspicious, for in another moment Darius’s lips began moving as he recited an incantation, one that was very advanced, dangerous, and one that the traitor would almost certainly not know the counterspell for.

            Eryn, realizing what was happening, charged in with a roar intended to break his opponent’s concentration, to make Darius forget or mispronounce a key word.

            But Darius didn’t falter for a second. With calm, unshakable determination, he spoke the last few words perfectly and whipped his hands through a complex motion. For a moment, it seemed as though nothing had happened. But then the sword and dagger grasped in Eryn’s hands wavered, seeming to become faded and indistinct. The traitor skidded to a halt, eyeing the weapons uncertainly. As Darius’s spell took hold, both blades rapidly faded into mist, and disappeared altogether. All other weapons within the warded area did so as well. They would return to their owners, hours later, but long after the nez’hara had come to its fatal conclusion.

            Now they would be forced to combat with their magic.

            Darius smiled grimly, flexing his hands to loosen the muscles and ensure they would have the dexterity to form the convoluted motions that spellcraft required. He was confident in his abilities. Now the fight would get interesting. Eryn looked less pleased with the newest development, but his face wasn’t devoid of confidence. He was pale, sweating, but still not defeated by any means. The two circled slowly, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

            Finally, Darius tired of the endless circling. He took a single sliding, pivoting step towards the center, and then brought his arms whipping across, driving before them a wave of angry orange fire. Freed from their creator and flowing like actual water, the flames flew through the air, rising up into a solid wall like a tsunami wave.

            Eryn gaped, but did not forget his training. As the wave crashed down and he turned aside from the terrifying sight, he threw up his hands in front of his face. A dim rust-colored shield sprang up around him, wavering but holding true as the fires raged at all sides, clawing at the arcane barrier with insubstantial claws of heat and magic.

            Darius stalked forward through the flames. They were of his own creation, the manifestation of the molten fire in his bloodstream, and thus could not hurt that which they were a part of. But then he jumped back as a second, separate—and much smaller—wave of dull red fire swept across the ground, igniting the trailing edge of his robe. Eryn emerged from a shell of heat and glare with a superior, mocking grin on his face. Before Darius had a chance to recover, the lesser fighter quickly pressed a clenched fist to his own chest and whispered several words that were indistinguishable over the roar of flames. A ripple in the fabric of reality seemed to pass through everything and everyone; the unmistakable sign that powerful magic had just been released.

            Darius froze.

           It was not by choice. The Huntlord’s muscles had suddenly been locked, frozen inescapably by magical force. With his immobility, his own summoned orange flames died, leaving no trace of their existence. Casually, smugly, Eryn sauntered over. Gripping a slender golden chain that had been hung around his neck, the traitor revealed a small charm that dangled tantalizingly at the end.

            “A powerful amulet with many powers; of immobility, among others,” the sly teenager said mockingly, “Familiar, dear cousin?”

            The Huntlord was unable to respond, his jaw locked by the spell. But he recognized the charm. During the raid, he had seen it lying on the desk in the Reaper’s home. Eryn had stolen it? Somehow, this didn’t surprise him. The self-serving worm would have seized the opportunity to increase his power the easy way.

            He tried to force his muscles to respond to his commands, to move once more, throwing every ounce of willpower he possessed against the invisible bonds. But it was no use. He was truly helpless, caught by an item crafted by the nearly boundless power of the Reaper. Now he was unable to speak, to spit at Eryn, to do anything. The only actions that seemed left to his were the acts of breathing and the undeniably limited moving of his eyes.

            This was it, then. He had finally lost, been defeated by one he had never really believed to be capable of causing him actual harm. Somehow, he had always thought that it would be Hunter who would one day kill him.

            Denied anything else, his eyes firmly locked on the face of the traitor, Darius began the last prayer of his life.

            Incapable of knowing what was happening behind those unreadable silvery eyes, Eryn tucked the amulet back into the neck of his robes and stepped back several paces. He sneered at his unmoving rival, the cousin whose power he had always envied and coveted, then carefully arranged his hands into an arrangement of power and began a swift, dark-sounding chant.

            Between the spread hands, a ball of rusty flame slowly coalesced. This itself was no great feat. Any Seraph with the slightest aptitude for magic could create a fireball; this, of course, being their natural element. Eryn had seemingly not even reached the point of mastery where he could summon the flames without a spoken incantation, as his foe had years ago.

               But then a murmur rippled through the crowd, a whisper of awe and amazement that shocked those who had remained silent thus far into speech, even if that speech was a simple gasp or hiss of breath. At a command from Eryn, his fireball stretched and lengthened until it was a good three feet long, perhaps as thick as a child’s forearm. At one end, a rough spindle shape formed and eyes blinked open. A thin tongue of flame flicked out, sampling the chill air.

            He had created a daemon.

            It was unexpected, to be sure. To create a construct of living flame, the maker had to utilize intense concentration and magical power. It generally took years of practice in summoning—often with disastrous and occasionally crippling mistakes—before a spellcaster could successfully make a daemon. No one there, not Ak’har, and certainly not Darius, had ever considered Eryn powerful enough to perform such a feat.

            With the snake of flame curled companionably around his neck, the traitorous Seraph looked up to Darius in arrogant satisfaction and delight. In his eyes, the reflected glare from the construct mingled with the spark of budding madness. The harsh light from below made his face appear otherworldly and demonic.

            “Victory comes from strength, Darius,” he said in satisfaction. The serpent uncoiled, dropped to the ground and slid along the flat paving stones with a hiss of scorched stone. It left a spiky black burn in its wake. This serpent existed more completely in the material plane than any conjured fire, enough that it affected the mundane objects of the world as well as its intended target. It reared languidly, turning its head this way and that. Then it struck forward, lashing itself around Darius’s unmoving feet.

 

CHAPTER SIX: DEATH AND APATHY

 

            The heat from the burning daemon’s body singed the white robe, letting off an acrid scent of smoke and brimstone and igniting small dancing tongues of natural flame across the fabric. The heat was real, and palpable, and intense enough to burn flesh. Darius, still unable to move, could feel as his skin blackened and cracked, the tissue of his legs losing any feeling other than the most acute agony he had ever felt. He knew that, if he had control of his body, he would not be able to stop himself from screaming.

            But he could not move, could not drive the daemon away. Instead, he poured his entire heart and soul into his silent prayer. Great one, I have doubted you. I have not been as devout as I should. But I beg of you now, grant me your strength that, though I die, I may bring this unbeliever, this traitor, into the Darkness Beyond with me. I ask only this. Let me be a vessel for your power.

            He felt a sudden new sensation in his brain, a pain even more agonizing than that of the fire devouring his flesh. A raw, jagged awareness was there, in his mind. It was not a voice, but he could tell that something was communing with him; that it was amused and pleased by his plea. The terrible, immense being agreed.

            Time and reality seemed to slow, reforming themselves in accordance with his wishes. His muscles were free, unbound, and an effortless, languid wave of his hand sent the daemon flying through the air to where it slammed into the barrier and was snuffed out of existence instantly. With no more than a thought, Darius’s legs were healed without a trace of the flames that had burned them to the bone. The flames flickering on the edges of his robe died.

            Eryn, gasping with horror and denial, looked on as the Huntlord grimly strode forward like an avenging god. “What? That’s impossi—”

            Darius—now sharing his body with whatever it was that was helping him—cut Eryn’s words off by grabbing him by the throat and tossing him into the air. Eryn didn’t fall, but hung suspended by some unseen constraint.

            The fear on his face was the ultimate intoxicant. Through a haze of red, Darius could only experience anticipation for the pain this worm would feel as he died.

             It was normal, this sudden rush of bloodthirstiness and sadism. He had always prided himself, in the unconscious reaches of his mind, on being more… principled, perhaps, than his kin, more like his father. He wasn’t against killing, of course, and he had looked forward to Eryn’s death at his hands for the long month of his recovery. But he hadn’t intended to try and bring as much suffering as possible to the traitor as he knew some of the more fanatical of his kin might. Now, his mind sluggish from the power coursing through him, he could think of nothing but how he could use his newfound magic to peel his cousin apart layer by layer, peeling the flesh back from bones and delicate organs while Eryn screamed and pleaded as his life was stripped away so very slowly…

            The sheer horror of that vision was enough to bring a burst of sobering clarity to his blood-filled thoughts, and Darius realized that he had to take control of this new symbiosis. With pure willpower, he forced the dark, alien consciousness to the background of his thoughts. Then he looked up at where Eryn was still suspended, whimpering and pleading like the sycophant he was. He wouldn’t suffer the traitor to live, but it would be a proper death, not this vision of torment that filled his thoughts.

            He stretched out his hand, fingers bent clawlike as power coalesced in his palm. This was his own magic, a spell he had spent years learning, and he glorified in the knowledge that he did not need the power’s aid for this, at least. It still snarled in the back of his head, sending tendrils of red creeping across his vision, but at least he was in control.

            The familiar immolation heralded the onset of the spell. This basic aura of fire surrounding his hand was a common enough spell, and one Darius often used in combat by itself, but today it was the base of something much greater. He held his focus, concentration turned inwards to the power within, and slowly the scar of flame grew more intense. In the center of his hand, a rift seemed to tear through the planar walls, and suddenly something was emerging.

            Streaming out of his hand came a seemingly endless current of fire. It flowed outwards for many seconds, stretching to easily ten feet long, then even longer. Then, as the onlookers watched in awe, it shifted and reformed into a new shape.

            It was the same spell that Eryn had cast earlier, but a million times more powerful. The traitor’s ability to produce a daemon at all had been surprising, but the result had not; a basic serpent of average size and strength. What Darius had called now was more than had ever been seen in the long memories and records of the Seraphs; not in Ak’har’s time, not in his father’s time, nor ever before. 

            The beast of flame, reared onto its hind legs and gently fanning the air with wings of molten fire, was no serpent in chill reptilian elegance. Rather, it was a dragon; formed of flames the color of liquid metal, traced through with veins of shadows. Winds of heat and ash whipped around it; fanned into being by the sudden displacement of air, for the dragon did not consume the oxygen in the air, despite its composition of living flame. The beast was enormous for a daemon—nearly thirty feet long from its slender head to the tip of its tail—but was grace and glory incarnate, a tamed inferno. It was beautiful in a terrifying way, the same cold, deadly beauty found in the most powerful of hunters.

            The dragon daemon was the physical manifestation of Darius’s will and magic. If its master was the judge and jury, then this was surely the executioner.

            The Huntlord, a pure white form in the midst of the dark hurricane winds and sultry flames, stepped forward until he stood directly before the suspended Eryn. The traitor was panicking, his eyes rolling and head tossing as he struggled wildly to free himself from the magic that held him. It was no use; he might as well have tried to fight with the air itself. A blood vessel in his nose had ruptured from the intense stress reaction, and blood streamed down his face. He was choking back what sounded like manic laughter, Darius noted in disdain; the inappropriate mirth was probably the beginnings of hysteria.

            It didn’t matter. It would be over for him soon.

            “Eryn!” he said sharply, sharper than he had intended to. The lesser Seraph looked down wildly, his head rolling forward bonelessly as Eryn took in the sight of the vengeful Darius standing cold and condemningly, the great dragon in the background looking on in silent menace. Darius almost flinched at the macabre, crazed cast to the teenager’s eyes, but continued sternly and unshaken, “You were wrong, cousin. Victory doesn’t come from strength.”

            Eryn stared in confusion, his feverish eyes betraying no glimmer of comprehension. Darius didn’t wait for an answer, not really expecting one. “Victory comes from faith.”

            With those words, he stepped back and willed the mighty daemon forward. A single quick strike and the deed would be done. He might desire some further vengeance, but Darius resisted the part of him that hungered for the pain of his cousin. He would do what was right, not give himself the indulgence of self-gratification.

            The dragon reared up high, stretched towards the sky as it balanced easily on its hind legs. Clearly it would plunge downwards from this precarious perch, instantly obliterating anything in the path of its massive jaws. That was how Eryn would die; instantly… probably painfully too, but at least it would be quick.

            That was right.

            But then, as the dragon began to throw its weight into a dive, Darius lost control for a split second. In that instant, the darkness surged forward to the front of his mind, and it commanded the daemon to turn aside. The dragon plunged down right next to the suspended Eryn but did not hit him. Then the beast stood once more, turned its great head towards Darius in expectation of a further prompt.

            Darius was in no condition to give one though. What are you doing? He screamed out mentally at the other… thing… that was sharing his mind. Humility be damned, he thought, this was his body and he would not suffer this thing to possess him without resistance, whether it was his god that possessed him or not. His fierce, unbending pride would not allow it.

            That terrible, eerie sense of laughter inside his head came and passed once again. My child, you are strong, but so terribly naïve, it said condensingly, I suppose it comes from being mortal. You do me honor in this kill, but you are going about it entirely wrong. With growing concern, Darius could feel as the consciousness gave the daemon—a creature that was partially not his creation—another order.

            The dragon’s eyes flared, the flames glowing momentarily brighter in acknowledgement. It turned, eyed Eryn, and then scythed its wings across in a movement so blurred with speed that it took the Huntlord’s brain a moment to register what exactly had just happened. It did not take him long, though. Natural flames were beginning to creep up the tattered white of Eryn’s robes, clawing their way upwards like small imps of flickering, glee-filled fire.

            They spread more quickly than seemed naturally possible. Probably magic hurried them, or maybe the continuing winds of the dragon’s creation that did not seem to be dissipating at all. But whatever the cause, soon Eryn was cloaked in a garment of fire.

            He was conscious as it happened. Darius knew that the dark-haired teenager was in the most terrible agony, having experienced a taste of this only minutes before, before the tables had been so neatly flipped.         And yet Eryn’s mind did not flee into the blackness of oblivion, of unconsciousness as his body was consumed. He was held in place, both physically and mentally, as a scene straight from the darkest depths of the Nine Hells reached up to claim him.

            Maybe the magic of the being acting through Darius held Eryn to consciousness. Maybe it was simply unfortunate chance. But no matter the cause, it didn’t stop what inevitably followed, when a creature’s mind is overwhelmed by inescapable, unending agony. The traitor writhed and jerked in the most intense pain imaginable, scream after scream erupting from his throat. It went on and on, until Darius thought that he too would be driven mad by the sheer sight and sound of it. The force within him locked his eyes opened, forcing him to watch as Eryn was gradually consumed by the ravenous, malevolent flames.

            Eventually the screaming died as the lungs that had sustained it were burned away; but to Darius, it seemed to keep going, burning an inerasable scar into his brain. The sentience in his mind laughed again, but gently this time. Do not be afraid, my child. It is with the screams that you do me honor. The Huntlord shuddered.  You have done well this night. It may seem strange now, but you will grow used to this in time. And I am pleased. You will grow to be the greatest of your kind, with my power behind you. Be glad. Then, without warning, it was gone. The daemon remained, still bright orange shot through with threads of darkness, but dissipated when Darius issued no further commands.

            The Huntlord did nothing. He simply stood, eyes closed, breath coming hard through clenched teeth. He didn’t look up at the dull, muffled thud when… something… hit the ground as the spell holding it suspended finally dissipated. He couldn’t open his eyes after what he had seen, not when he now had the power to close them by his own will once again.

            No sound disturbed the motionless air. All that could be heard was a slight whistling, but that, too, decreased until it was gone; the unnatural, infernal winds were stilled with the daemon’s passing. It was the definition of silence. And yet, still, Darius was not startled when a voice spoke from directly behind him.

            “You are victorious, my son. The traitor is dead, your betrayal avenged.” Ak’har’s voice was soft, contented. “The Flame has shown you great favor this day. The voices of even the most steadfast challengers will be stilled. More importantly, your honor is restored. You have made your family proud.”

           “Thank you, my lord,” Darius said tersely. A swift pat on his shoulder, and the presence at his back was gone. He could tell that those lining the courtyard were gone with the departure of their patriarch.

            The Huntlord was left alone in the wide space, standing with eyes closed next to a blackened corpse. Many long moments passed before he deemed himself composed enough to open his eyes. The sight of Eryn’s body wasn’t as bad as he would have expected. Yes, it was blackened and twisted, in places little more than charred bones, in places resembling charcoal from a fire. The warped, contorted form showed that Eryn had died in great pain, but it wasn’t as bad as Darius had expected. He had seen worse, much worse. The life was gone; this wasn’t a person anymore, just… a shell.

            Darius stood looking at the corpse for a long time; how long he wasn’t sure. He waited for his brain to make the connection that this thing on the ground was—had been—a living human being, his own cousin, whose death he was ultimately responsible for. The two beings refused to be linked in his mind. The charred husk and Eryn would not register as the same thing.

            So this is what happened, after so many killings, he reflected. He was becoming numb to it all. Maybe it had happened long ago. Darius had killed so many people, often for little or no reason at all, that their deaths just didn’t seem to matter any more. Only now, knowing that this had been his cousin, however treacherous, was he finally becoming aware of his own apathy.

            It had been so easy.

            Was this what the Reaper felt, he wondered. Did the faces begin to blur together, until each individual kill became indistinguishable from the one before it, and the one before that? Was the Reaper even capable of feeling the guilt of murder, did he feel it after every life he took?  Had he felt the same horror as Darius himself had after his first kill?

            Yes, he knew without knowing how he knew. Hunter… he wasn’t the same as the other Reapers. He still knew what it was to be human in the noblest sense of the word: to have compassion, love, even hope left within him. Maybe that’s what had drawn Darius to become Hunter’s friend in the first place; the Huntlord’s unconscious need to find that missing sense of true honor to fill the void in his own soul, a void that the death of his father and his own fall had created.

            The questions—and the further questions they in turn posed—were too much for Darius to answer then and there. It didn’t matter if Hun—the Reaper was still human at heart or not. He was an enemy to the Seraphs, just as Eryn had been. He would die, just as Eryn had.

            It is with the screams that you do me honor. You will grow used to it in time.

            Be glad.

            Without a word and without looking back, Darius turned and walked out of the courtyard where the twisted remains of his cousin lay.

 

*     *     *

             

CHAPTER SEVEN: THESE BROKEN WINGS

 

            Deep beneath the house on the surface, Hunter languished in chains in a small, dark chamber filled with the scent of death and decay. He could have broken the bonds, had he been in possession of his innate strength and magic, but he could not. The band of truesilver around his neck held him prisoner more effectively than mere steel chains ever could. Even if he had his power back, it would have been useless. The room was carved into the bedrock of the earth, lined with planar steel, inescapable by force or the Shadow walk.

            He truly was helpless now.

            In its entirety, the subterranean cell reminded him all too much of another. Still memories of the night when he had been Cohen’s captive would not leave him. Hunter doubted they ever would. He couldn’t forget what had been done to him there, the scars he still carried. He could still remember with perfect detail…

            This was too much like it. It was the same darkness and gloom that his truesilver-dulled eyes could not penetrate, the heavy, thick air and the foreboding silence. Even the smell of the air was the same; it stank with the sharp odors of blood and fear. Without concern—he knew that there would be no way out for him this time—Hunter wondered who before him had spent their last hours in this tiny room, who had perhaps met their end in here. He did not doubt that there had been others before him, and that there would be others after.

            When he was gone…

            His mind had come to terms now with the fact of his own death. It had always been simply a matter of time. Before he had escaped through luck, through ingenuity and skill, but no longer. This was his last day left in the realm of the living, and he could accept that. His twenty years of life had been numbered from the start; maybe he had never known for sure when the end would come, but he had known that it would and that there was no escaping it. His life had been a rich one. The thought made him smile sadly. Hunter might die, but his friends would live on. And in a way, he would live on as well; in their memories and those of the lives he had saved.

            His parents, Alysa, Elasion, Andrea most of all; these were who would live on after him, who might be given the chance to finally live in peace. After he was gone.

            Even Darius, he thought with the slightest twinge of pain. Maybe Darius would be at peace with himself after the Reaper was finally gone.

            Hunter didn’t know Darius anymore. He understood him, maybe, in that he could understand the reasoning of the Huntlord. He understood that what Darius was doing was what he had to do for his clan, what he had to do for himself. After all, the prophecy had called Darius both betrayed and betrayer. Now he was.

            But he didn’t know Darius.  He saw the logic but not the drive. What made a person betray their friend? What happens when friendship is measured against ambition… and found lacking? What happens to that person who chooses the latter at the price of the former? Hunter could never betray anyone, not if it meant saving his own life as it surely did now. He could not, would not, call Darius on the life debt he had claim to, not when it meant that Darius would be sacrificed in his stead. Hunter would rather his own life be ended than that of one who was, against all probability, still his friend.

            And so he would die broken and defeated, in the eyes of the Seraphs. They knew nothing.

            His death would be no defeat.

            Hunter’s introspection was interrupted by a distanced, echoing sound that his weakened ears nonetheless caught. It was new, and yet at the same time terribly familiar; the sound of approaching feet.

            Once, this sound had echoed in his ears in a very similar cell, when he had done his best to shield Andrea from harm. Now he was alone, and the sound was different; softer, not the marching of hard-soled boots but instead the occasional accidental scuff of a soft footstep. This was not a sound meant to intimidate, as it had once before, long ago. This was the sound of a walker trying their trained best to not be detected by any listening ears.

            The dim stream of light shining in through the small barred window set in the rowan-wood door was suddenly extinguished, blocked by some form in front of the light source. The already dim cell was plunged into darkness.

            Then there was light again as the door swung inward with a soft creak. Three or four figures entered, and Hunter’s heart sank. For a brief moment, the tiny part of his heart that was still not resigned to death had thought that somehow, someone had come to rescue him, to defy fate once more. But that hope was dashed. Nobody was coming, and nobody would be. These three were Seraphs all, two men and a woman, all a year or two older than him by their looks. Hunter thought he recognized one from the graduating class at Redwood the year before. One, the girl, wore a small glowing crystal sphere on a chain around her neck, providing a dim illumination in sullen tones of crimson.

            The looks on their faces were not kind.

            “Reaper,” one of two men whispered hoarsely, coming to stand just beyond the reach of the chains that shackled Hunter to the stone. Hunter didn’t look up or answer, instead leaning back against the stone with his head bowed, ignoring the discomfort this caused his bruised wings. “Hey!” A rough stinging blow to the side of his head nearly knocked him over, and he looked up out of reflex. The man was glaring at him dangerously. “Look up when a Seraph talks to you!”

            The fist swung in again, and Hunter instinctually tried to dodge it. But the chain tangled, he was brought up short, and the painful impact brought the iron taste of blood to his mouth. He had bitten his tongue.

            “Nar, not so loud!” the woman hissed anxiously, clutching at the radiant stone around her neck, “Someone might hear you! They can’t catch us down here; we’re not supposed to interfere with the prisoner! The Huntlord said…”

            “I don’t care what the Huntlord said!” the man—Nar—whispered back angrily, “I don’t give a damn what that little snot thinks! Besides, we’re just… teaching this scum some respect.”

            “If you’re so worried, Diana, why don’t you put a silence over us?” the second man chimed in. He sounded more collected than Nar, but no more merciful. If the first man was a jackal, this one was a viper; calm, cold, and deadly.

            With a nervous glance around, Diana clasped to her necklace even more feverishly. “We’re not supposed to use that sort of magic without permission until we’re full initiates, Cy!”

            “So?”

            She wove her hands hesitantly through a mystic pass. Nothing seemed to change, but Hunter could sense a veil of magic settling over the door. No sound would get out.

            He had a bad feeling that he knew the sorts of sound that they might be concerned of others hearing.

            The descent into the Nine Hells was beginning once again. And he wasn’t even dead yet.

            The next minutes—how long exactly, he couldn’t know—were a blur of pain. Both unwilling and, realistically, unable to fight back, Hunter tried his hardest to not give his tormentors the satisfaction of making him scream despite the abuse, but couldn’t hold back a cry when one seized hold of his wing. The tight grip only enhanced to continuing pain from the many bruises beneath the dark feathers. Unfortunately, this only gave the Seraphs a new target.

            “Grab his wings!” someone said eagerly, “stretch them out and break them!” Hunter could feel hands grasping at the sensitive feathers, tried to fold them to his back as tightly as possible. But it was no use; the ongoing tenderness kept him from bringing the wings all the way to his back.

            He lashed out at his attackers now, moving with unnatural grace and speed despite the truesilver band and his hampering chains. A few of his mostly blind attacks actually connected, one lucky strike sending Nar staggering backwards with a hand pressed to his eye. One wing was free suddenly, and Hunter didn’t allow the sudden opportunity to slip away. Ignoring the pain, he flapped it as hard as he could while continuing to struggle. Diana, who had started to move forward to grab it as Nar retreated, was now backing away slowly. If he could just keep up the fight a little longer, maybe he could drive them away…

            Then, from nowhere, the quieter—but by no means more compassionate, as Hunter had discovered—of the two men, the one called Cy, was right next to him, inside his guard. A fist drove into the desperately fighting young man’s stomach, hard, and all the air in Hunter’s body left in a whoosh. As his mind tried to gather itself, Cy calmly and impassively spun him around and slammed him into the wall face-first. For a human, he was strong.

            Still held against the stone, Hunter felt as his delicate, pain-filled wings were roughly seized once again and yanked out to their full spread. His right shoulder, already throbbing where it had been hit by a stone earlier that night, exploded into pain. Hunter gave a shuddering gasp. He knew this would soon become a million times worse. They were going to break his wings, cripple him, and with the truesilver around his neck he wouldn’t heal. Though, of course, he would be dead in less than a day anyways.

            But for all of his reasoning, he still couldn’t help but twist when he felt them start to yank handfuls of feathers out of his wings. It was like masses of needles being driven into his flesh. The pain was intense, and he clenched down on the scream that was welling up from deep in his throat.

            And then they yanked on the right wing, the one that had already hurt the greatest, and he couldn’t hold it back any more.

            “Are you sure the silence will hold?” The nervous, feminine voice had to be Diana.

            “What in the Nine Hells are you so worried about?” That voice was Nar.

            “I don’t know; we shouldn’t be here; Lord Ak’har might be awake still…”

            Nar laughed, his voice strained with both the physical exertion and the fight to be heard over Hunter’s continuing scream. “He’s not up. Besides, he wouldn’t come down here and we won’t tell him.”

            “Tell me what?”

            The pain momentarily eased for Hunter as all three Seraphs spun to see the source of this new soft, crisp voice. The Reaper too turned his head to see that Ak’har was standing calmly in the cell, his hands tucked into his long sleeves and a cool look on his lined face. Hunter wasn’t sure whether the Seraph lord’s arrival was good or bad for him. Would Ak’har prevent this torture, or turn a blind eye to it?

            Immediately Diana broke away and bowed low, her hands clasped before her. “Lord Ak’har, forgive us, we did not mean to disobey…”

            The patriarch waved her away, turning instead to Cy who maintained his hard-won hold on Hunter’s right wing. “Cyrus, what brought you here in defiance of the command that the prisoner not be interfered with?”

            Somehow, the man managed to bow without loosening his grip. “My lord, I have no excuse. I simply desired revenge for the death of my uncle at the hands of a Reaper and did not act with the discipline that I should have.”

            “And you could not wait for the sacrifice at moonset tomorrow night, knowing that all shall be avenged then?”

            “No, my lord. I have always believed that only my own hand can deliver the vengeance that is my responsibility. I do not presume to ask for forgiveness.”

            Hunter had turned his face back to the stone, leaning his forehead against the wall in exhaustion. He hadn’t had enough sleep in too long for the fighting he had been getting into. As a result of his averted face, he could not see the smile on Ak’har’s face. But he heard it in the elder’s voice as the lord of the Seraphs said levelly, “Forgiveness for what, my son?” The Reaper sagged just a little bit more. There would be no respite for him, no relief from this hell. “Finish what you have started. Break this monster’s wings.”

            “Am I the monster here?” he whispered, a bitter question to the irony of that statement that he did not mean for any to hear. But a hand grabbed hold of his long hair, yanked his head back and to the side until he was forced to look up at Ak’har. It would seem that his ears were not the only ones keen enough to pick up whispered thoughts.

            The old man’s face was serene, showing no sign of anger. “What was that you just said, Reaper?” he purred in the smooth voice like that of a cat that toys with its prey before moving in for the kill, “Do you deny that you are a monster, one who takes pleasure in murdering innocents who have done nothing to deserve your ire?”

            When Hunter did not speak, he received yet another hard blow to the back of his head. Someone—either Cy or Nar, he couldn’t tell; whoever held his head up—hissed in his ear, “Answer him, wretch!”

            He turned his head and spat bright gold onto the stone before speaking. It wasn’t an intended insult, just a need to be rid of the blood that had welled up once again, but it earned him a vicious twist of his wing that caused his stomach to churn and him to cry out. When the nausea subsided, Hunter looked up with the scraps of his dignity that were all he had and said, “I don’t deny that I kill. But I take no pleasure in what I do. I am not the monster here.”

            Ak’har stepped in closer, until Hunter could have attacked him if he were unrestrained, and stood face to face with the captive. “Are we, then?” His hand came up to stroke the young man’s jaw. Hunter held back a shudder of revulsion. This could, in other circumstances, be a forerunner of something much worse than any beating. At least he didn’t have that to fear; no Seraph would ever… do such a thing to one as ‘unclean’ as a Reaper.  “Are we… monsters?”

            “More than I ever was,” he replied evenly, ignoring the chilling touch of the Seraph patriarch. Let it earn him more pain; he would not lie in order to try and bring an end to the suffering. He would not mask the truth between sugar-coated, pleasing untruths.

            The gentle hand became rending claws. Ak’har’s jagged nails ripped into his face, opening several bloody tears down the side of his face. Liquid gold fell down to the floor and splattered there unnoticed.

            “We destroy evil,” Ak’har said harshly in a voice that was low and intense with cold anger. “We destroy those that ally themselves with evil and those who allow themselves to be seduced by its dark glamour. Anything that is a part of this is sanctioned by the Immortal Flame; we are no more damned by bringing justice to you than you are pardoned for your sins.”

            “Who are you to judge what I do?”

            “I am the grandfather of the one who will bring about your end.”

            So, thought Hunter, there it was. Ak’har was not only Darius’s liege lord—if by choice, rather than by rank—but he was the young man’s grandfather as well. No wonder Darius’s loyalty was so unbreakable. “And thus you and yours are justified to kill and torture without consequence?” He looked to the side, pointedly turning away though he knew it would lead to more pain. “You are no better than the monsters you believe my kind to be.”

              He expected the next blow, braced himself for it. But nothing came. Hunter looked back to see the Seraph lord lowering his upraised hand with a cruel smile on his face. “You are not afraid of me,” Ak’har stated levelly, “So like your grandfather. But we will break you.”

            Once again, Hunter was forced to stop and wonder at the seemingly careless statement that had been thrown in there. His grandfather? What…

            An audible crunch echoed dully through the small room. For a split second, he wondered what it had been. And then the pain came, unbearable, rolling into his core in waves of agony and nausea. Hunter couldn’t help but scream out in protest and pain. The world seemed to swim before his eyes, standing first normally, then wavering, then blurring completely, and he knew that that muted snapping sound had been one of the thin hollow bones in his left wing being broken cleanly in two. Another sharp crack, from the same wing, and another bone was snapped.

            As the Seraphs continued, slowly and methodically shattering every bone in both of his delicate wings with obvious enjoyment, his screaming became purely instinctual as he fell to his knees and the world began to fade into blackness. Hunter knew that this blackness was different from that of unconsciousness, somehow far more permanent. He was dying. The Seraphs, skilled in the craft of bringing a victim to the edge of death itself and back, didn’t seem to realize just how weakened he was already from both the earlier torment and the truesilver band circling his neck. If this continued, he would die here and now. The Reaper line would continue, but he would not survive. And for all of his acceptance of his death, the deepest part of his being wanted to live.

            As he sank into darkness, Hunter tried to hang onto something. At odds with his rational thoughts to let himself be sacrificed in order to bring peace, his instincts told him to live, to not let it all go despite whatever it might mean. And as death closed in about him, the memory of Andrea came to him. Hunter remembered her, so clearly that it seemed he was there beside her. He could feel her lying beside him, could sense every breath she took and the sound of their hearts beating in unison. He could feel her hand holding his in the night. And that same hand reached out to him now, and he clasped onto it and held on with all of the strength left within him.

            That hand of warmth and love drew him back from the darkness.

 

*     *     *

 

            When he fully regained his conscious, the first thing Hunter was aware of was the pain. Twin blooms of agony were all he could feel of his wings; he could not move them, no matter how hard he tried. He was almost afraid to open his eyes and look at them, but it was that very fear that eventually caused him to look. It was worse than he had imagined.

            To begin with, he was lying sprawled brokenly on the ground. The chains around his wrists had rubbed the skin there raw during the struggle, but the raw-meat appearance there and the other cuts and bruises on his body were nothing compared to the ruin of his wings. Hunter had fallen forward, rather than onto them, but as he opened his eyes he could see only black and gold and white. Black feathers, torn and ragged, missing in many places. Gold blood; that was everywhere. And white…

            White splintered bone protruded through the skin and feathers of his wings in many places, too many. From this and the general misshapenness of the dark, bleeding masses of feathers, Hunter knew then and there that he would never fly again. Not when he couldn’t heal himself. Even if he had been able too, he would never be able to set the bones into the correct position and alignment for healing by himself. A broken arm or leg bone, incorrectly set and then magically healed, would make even the most agile human or elf clumsy and stumbling. For a flier, an incorrectly healed wing meant an eternal exile from the light realms of the air.

            Not that it mattered. He would live out the last day of his life with broken, mangled wings, and then he would die. Terribly. For peace.

            Hunter tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but failed. The pain was too much. Even through the pain, he could feel the rough edges of broken bones grinding and splintering together. Defeated, he allowed his head to sink back to the floor and worked on keeping Andrea’s face in his thoughts to keep away that deadly oblivion.

            It was dark again. The Seraphs—Ak’har and Nar and Cy and Diana—were gone. He could only be glad, but wondered how they expected him to fight Darius. He could only assume that the final battle between Reaper and Huntlord would occur the next night, along with his inevitable sacrifice. Inevitable indeed.

            The only way that he even had a chance of living was to be the victor of the ritual duel. If he won his fight, there was a chance—a chance—that the Seraphs might hold to the warped honor of their ancestors, the honor that Darius still held to, and grant him his freedom. But again, Darius seemed to be the only Seraph who lived the codes of his forefathers. Ak’har and those he commanded were ruthless, pragmatic, and treacherous to all those outside of their own circle. And if Hunter won the fight, Ak’har and his own would be the only ones left to offer him mercy.

            Somehow, lying broken and bleeding as a tortured, helpless prisoner, he wasn’t too optimistic about his chances if that came to pass.

            Weakened and hazy as he was, it took Hunter several minutes to realize that there was still someone in the room with him. In the almost pitch dark, he couldn’t see anything beyond grey on black, but he could sense another presence. “Whoever you are, I know you’re here,” he croaked out. Even his voice was jagged and harsh. “If you’ve come to kill me do it now.”

            Soft laughter greeted his words. A dim light blinked on, and Hunter saw the trailing hem of a long white robe cross his field of vision. He looked up, as much as he could, but the figure’s face wasn’t visible from the extreme angle. But when they spoke, he knew who it was. “Still defiant, I see,” the cold, flat voice said nonchalantly. “Even now, on the brink of death, you cling to life. Why is that? The only future you have is one last day; the only end you will meet is that of the sacrifice. What makes your heart ask for life, even though your words ask for death?”

            The Reaper hissed in pain at a fresh wave of pain from his injuries. When it had passed, he said, “I have something to live for still.”

            “Vengeance? The killing? The chance to kill another of our kind?”

            “No. I don’t live to kill.”

            “You kill to live.”

            “No… sometimes. But only when I have no other way out.”

            “Soon you will not. But tell me, Reaper, what is it that drives one such as yourself? I wish to know.”

            Hunter remained silent. He would never give this Seraph another way to hurt him, another target to hunt after… after. Even if it cost him even more torment.

            “If it is not your thirst for the blood of Seraphs, then perhaps… Ah. The mortal girl, could it be?”

            Without meaning too, Hunter flinched. It was too close. How had the Seraph even known about Andrea?

            And that slight tensing, though nearly invisible, proven to be too much.

            “It is her then… Why? You truly believe you love her? Do you perhaps think that you are dying to protect her? How sentimental.”

            “I don’t love her,” he lied, trying his hardest to protect that which mattered most. If it would lead this deadly enemy away, he would say whatever they would expect to hear.  “My kind would never love the lesser races; we love no one, not elves, certainly not the worms that call themselves humans. They are mensch… scum, like you and yours. How dare you imply tha—”

            A booted foot slammed into his face, followed again by that same menacing quiet chuckle. “Don’t even try to lie. She means something to you; whether a means for you to satisfy your physical lust or something else, I do not know, but I will find out. And when we find her, she will wish she had never been born. As will you.” A rustle as feet shifted on the hard floor.

            “But first…”  With an intense crackling and perhaps the worst pain yet, Hunter’s wings were suddenly spread out by some magical force. He prevented himself from making a sound, despite the fact that the effort filled his mouth with coppery blood as he bit through his lip and nearly caused him to black out. But the painful movement proved beneficial. Through the action, his shattered bones slid back into place beneath the skin as they were forced to slot into place. When his wings fell down to the ground again, they were more or less in the right shape again.

            A rough hand tilted his head until it was level to the floor. Suddenly some sort of potion vial was being forced between his teeth.

            Hunter considered trying to refuse the liquid. He had no way of knowing what this was, whether it would help him or simply cause further pain. But after a second or two of futilely twisting his head to the side, he gave up the useless effort. There was no way that he could prevent his captor from forcing him to drink. Besides, did it make any sense for a Seraph to poison him when they could so easily kill him by another means?

            Resignedly and not without some trepidation, he allowed the Seraph to tip the vial towards the ceiling. The lukewarm, slightly bitter liquid flowed through his mouth and down his throat. At first nothing seemed to happen. But then, eventually, he felt a slight tingling, soft at first, then increasingly more insistent.

            A sort of warmth seemed to stream through his body, starting at his center and gradually spreading to the tips of his fingers. With it came renewed strength and vitality, enough to drive back the pain. Hunter could feel as the cuts and bruises closed over, as cracked bones fused back together seamlessly. The hurt was gone, utterly and completely. Even his wings felt fine.

            His wings felt! They felt fine! Anxiously, Hunter began to flex and fold them, reassuring himself that all the correct bones and muscles had reconnected; then he stopped, remembering that the one he now realized was his real greatest enemy was still there. Stiffly, he folded the wings flat to his back—exuberant that he indeed still could—and raised himself off of the ground with a rattle of chains. Only when he was on his feet again did he look to the Seraph, standing half in and half out of shadow with their arms folded. Their face, perhaps symbolically, was shrouded in a mask of darkness.

            “You must live until tomorrow,” the Seraph said coolly, “You will fight, and you will lose remembering that I gave you back your life. And then, only then, will you die.”

            There was a burst of light as the door was opened. Then, as quickly as it had come, it receded without a sound. There was the slightest click as the latch fell into place. But for Hunter, that small sound could as well have been as loud as a jail door slamming shut.

            Regardless of time, of place, of jailer or prisoner, the sound of captivity is the same.

            As the slightest whisper of footsteps drifted away, Hunter heard a soft voice floating back on the tainted air.

            “Tomorrow…”

 

*     *     *

 

CHAPTER EIGHT: CHAR

 

            A soft knock on the door alerted Darius that he had an unexpected visitor. With a sigh, he set down the small notebook he was writing in down on the table and gracefully rose to his feet. Who would be seeking him this late at night? It was past midnight, certainly, with the night continuing to endure. He guessed that—in the natural span of a night, the time was somewhere around one or two in the morning. Through the thin paper screens of the door, he could only see a dim form; it could be anyone. The flowing, sheer robes worn by both male and female Seraphs made the visitor unidentifiable.

            He made his way to the door unhurriedly, unobtrusively palming a newly acquired knife from the house armory that he was carrying in an arm sheath. With Eryn, the open traitor, having died horribly, would any other be daring—or foolish—enough to make an attempt on his life? But reflection aside, Darius felt little hesitation as he slid the door open.

            Outside, the dim golden light from his room shone outward, illuminating a familiar lined face and close-cropped steel gray hair in the folds of a hood. “My lord,” Darius said with some unintentional relief, “what brings you here so late?”

            “May I enter?” Ak’har said dryly, his expression one of wry amusement at the fact that Darius, ever defensive, was unconsciously blocking the doorway with his body.

            The Huntlord quickly stepped aside, allowing Ak’har to step inside, and then followed after sliding the door shut behind him. When his grandfather unassumingly sat on the matted floor, Darius did the same. He only then noticed the cloth-wrapped bundle that Ak’har was carrying.

            He must have been staring, for the old man immediately held out the bundle to him. “Here,’ the Seraph patriarch said simply, “this is yours.”

            A little confused, Darius took the rectangular object, noting that it was not as heavy as he had been expecting. The white cloth covering whatever lay inside was smooth and silky on his fingers.

            “Open it.”

            Carefully, he slid aside the cloth. Inside, the object that gave it its rectangular shape was… a box? Darius looked closer, realized that the box was crafted from what seemed to be a single piece of highly polished wood, dark and lustrous. Beneath the surface, shapes seemed to move and twist within the grain of the timber. Each corner was covered in a simple yet elegant piece of golden scrollwork. The lid itself was held shut with a metal clasp.

            He carefully set the box down in his lap, running a hand over the smooth wood. Then before he could reconsider, he flicked open the clasp and lifted up the lid. Then he paused.

            Inside the box, nestled into an indent in plush crimson velvet, lay one of the most beautiful swords that Darius had ever laid eyes on. It was longer than his old shortsword, with a slightly curved edge on one side of the blade; slender, elegant, liquid steel given shape and form. The silvery metal glimmered faintly with the reflected light from his lamp. Through some technique of how the blade had been shaped, the soft radiance tricked the eyes until it seemed as though pale fires danced under the metal’s surface.

            Reverently, Darius reached into the case with trembling hands and drew out the exquisite sword. It was impossibly light, perfectly balanced; so ideal that it felt as though the sword had been made for him. It rested in his hand comfortably, like an old friend.

            He looked up at Ak’har with open awe in his eyes, asking a silent question through his incredulous gaze even if his mouth could form no words. The old Seraph nodded with a small smile. “It is yours now. I know that you preferred the shortsword, my son, but this one was made to be yours. It has known no wielder for thousands of years.”

            “It is… beautiful.” Darius’s voice, normally so haughty and proud, was soft and almost overwhelmed now.

            “Its name, fittingly, is Seraphim; angel of fire. That is what brought it into our hands. But it has another name too, a more common one: Char.”

            The name sounded right. Now that he looked closer, Darius recognized the stylized shape on the hilt of the sword to be a wisp of flame. “Char. A good name.”

            Ak’har’s voice was almost amused. “Ironically enough, this was forged as the sword of a High King of the great elven nations of the past. Now that it is yours, you will wield it against the race that created it.”

            “The elves?”

            “Yes. I have been given a command by the Immortal Flame.  After the Reaper is sacrificed at moonset tomorrow, we shall begin to plan our war against the elves. We shall not rest until Darkmere has fallen, its people enslaved or put to the sword.”

            Darius did well to mask the surprise—and perhaps dismay—on his face. The city of Darkmere was the last great stronghold of the elves, the last place in all the world where the magical races convened. And when Hunter’s friends and family realized that Hunter was dead, that’s where they would flee to. Before his mind’s eye flashed Andrea, Hunter’s parents, and…

            Black hair like dark flames shining in the sun. She trusted him, enough to turn away without anyone to guard her back. “I thought that you were the same as the Seraphs that murdered my family. It seems I was wrong about you, Sera—Darius.” 

            Then the moment of memory was gone, as abruptly as the flash of reflected light as Darius angled Char’s blade this way and that. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, regaining his composure. For a moment, he could have sworn that he smelled the faintest hint of lavender…

            “Of course, my lord. If that is your command, then I shall lead our people to war and destiny.”

            Ak’har smiled again. Darius could never remember a time when he had smiled so often; not even in those rare moments when his father and grandfather had actually agreed on something. But that had been so long ago. Before his father died.

            Those times were long gone.

            With a soft rustling of robes, the old man stood. “I should not disturb your rest, my son. You will need to be perfect tomorrow when you fight the nez’hara once again. Do you plan on sleeping?”

            “Eventually,” Darius answered. He stood as well, the bared sword in his hand though not in any sort of threat. “The Reaper is secure, correct? He must be treated with respect, even if he is an enemy and a demon. I trust that my orders that none of our family should interfere with him or try to take their own personal vengeance have been made clear.”

            The smile on Ak’har’s face was sly, secretive, or so it seemed to Darius. “Of course,” he responded. “The orders have been made… perfectly clear.” He turned, lightly stepping out into the corridor and sliding the door shut behind him. “Rest, my son,” he said, his voice muted through the door. “There is nothing in this house that you need fear anymore. Tomorrow you shall defeat the Reaper with the sword that bears our name. And then by the blade of flame the dark shall fall.” 

            He was gone without a sound, leaving Darius standing with sword in hand. After a moment or two of stillness, the young man bent down and set Char back inside the ornate case, marveling again at the fabulous craftsmanship before he flipped the lid shut and hid it from view. He picked up the box, setting it down carefully on the low table in the corner of his room, and then paced back over to sit cross-legged on the thin folds of blankets that served as his bed for the moment. He couldn’t avoid the uneasy feeling that something was not right.

           His grandfather never smiled that much; hadn’t done so in twenty years. Or at least, not in genuine happiness. He had seen Ak’har smile at accounts of victory, of the slaughter of the fey races. But in happiness?

            Briefly, the impulse to go check on Hunter flitted across his mind. But the idea was promptly discarded, almost as soon as it entered his conscious mind. He knew, knew from the satisfaction on Ak’har’s face and the elusive wording of that careful answer, that something had happened, was happening to the young man, but what did that matter? Whatever happened to the Reaper was none of his concern, Darius reminded himself angrily. What of it if something happened to him between now and the nez’hara tomorrow? The only reason why he had ordered that the prisoner not be overly mistreated was to preserve some sort of order, to ensure that the Reaper would live until the set time of the sacrifice, which he would face regardless.

            Between now and then, what difference did pain make? The black oblivion of death would come soon enough for Hunter. Darius just didn’t care. They had been friends, but…

            That, too, had been a long time ago. Those times had been a lie, as the Flame had revealed to him.

            Those times were gone.     

            He lay back until he was stretched out more comfortably on the thinly padded bed and stared up at the ceiling. So they were going to war. Wasn’t this what he had always dreamed of? He was the Huntlord of his clan, the one whose coming had been foretold over a thousand years ago. He was already a hero among the Seraphs, in the highest favor of the Flame, and soon he would lead his kin to victory against the elves. All he had ever wanted was here.

            Wasn’t it?

            Not allowing his thoughts to continue, Darius rolled over and buried his face in the rolled blanket that was a pillow for him. Then, almost as an afterthought, he sat up straight again and shrugged off the singed robe that smelled of ashes and blood. Wadding it up, he threw it as far away as he could. The stained cloth hit the wall with a soft thud, falling to the floor to lie in a crumpled pile in the corner.

            Darius didn’t look over at it. He didn’t ever want to touch it again; it seemed soiled, somehow unclean. He would find a new robe when he woke up.

            Picking up a scrap of cloth, he tossed it over the softly glowing orb that was set in a wrought-silver stand. As the fabric settled in place, the light was extinguished as surely as if swallowed by some creature of the night.

            The night that did not end, not here. A line from a book he had once read danced through his mind. This is the hour of pride and power, talon and claw. The words hadn’t seemed to make sense then. Now he understood them, understood a whole new meaning to the word darkness.

            And he had to wonder; which was the greater evil? What was the greatest darkness?

            Without prompt or knowable cause, a thought popped into his head.  Am I the monster here?... Darius tried to grasp the thought, but it slipped away immediately leaving him with the vague feeling that he had heard it somewhere, spoken by a familiar voice.

            He tossed and turned, trying to sleep, to leave these troubling thoughts behind. At last, sleep came on velvet wings, bearing him far from this twisted world where nothing and no one were as they first appeared. He slept, troubled by dark dreams, far from the envisioned peace that he longed for.

            There was no peace for betrayers.

            There was no peace for murderers.

 

*     *     *

 

CHAPTER NINE: THE LAST BATTLE?

 

            One day later, Darius Nightwalker Seraf stood silently behind the closed shoji doors that would be opened to the courtyard. This was the day he would fulfill his destiny, he realized, the day that he would ‘destroy the ancient darkness forever’. It had been foretold, and now he would make it reality. All doubt or hesitation was gone, replaced by a surreal calm; he had betrayed the Reaper who had saved him, he had killed the traitor, Eryn, and now he would fight his rival one last time to prove himself worthy. Then he would wield the sacrificial dagger—the blade of fire—and offer his enemy’s heart to the flame.

            A pair of young initiates robed in pale white approached him respectfully, moving forward to either side of the door. Nervously, one looked up at him, and said, “Flame guide your hand, Huntlord.”

            Darius accepted the well-wishing with a simple nod of thanks. One time he would have scowled at the youngling; the spoken words were a breach of conduct during the preparation for nez’hara. But Darius had changed, he realized, and now it didn’t seem so important. Then the doors slid open, and nothing else was important.

            He stepped forward with trained, easy grace, silent and deadly. The perfect assassin, the ultimate killer. The doors slid shut behind him. The Huntlord of the Seraph clan stepped forward into the courtyard. His greatest enemy awaited him.

            Hunter was standing passively in the center of the courtyard, unbound and in possession of his weapon. It seemed that he was free to leave, to attack, but Darius knew better. The courtyard was ringed by silent rows of the Seraphs. These were some of the most powerful human spellcasters left in the world, gathered and in view of a common enemy. If Hunter made a move, he would die.

            But his neck was adorned only by the Reaper amulet, not by a bond of truesilver.

            The Reaper raised his eyes as Darius stepped forward. He looked calm, resigned to his fate, not angry or judgmental. His eyes were still the color of the night sky.

            Darius couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt, but buried it in anger. This was his battle, his moment to redeem himself for his weakness in the past. Behind Hunter, Ak’har watched him with an unreadable expression.

            “Reaper.”

            Hunter didn’t respond.

            “This is it. This is the day I fulfill my destiny. I won’t apologize to you.”

            “You don’t have to.”

            “Will you fight me?”

            “I will not.”

            Darius’ hand flashed out, the knife in his hand slicing a shallow cut across Hunter’s left cheek. The Reaper didn’t flinch, didn’t say anything at all. Golden blood flowed slowly down his face.

            “Then you will die.”

            “If that is what it takes to stop the killing, then yes, I will die.”

            The Seraph snarled in anger. “Damn it, I’m the only thing between you and your escape! Fight me, the one who betrayed you, who has brought you here to sacrifice to the Flame; kill me, and you win your freedom!”

            “There is more between me and freedom than you will ever know,” Hunter answered sadly, “in a way, I am closer now than ever before. The life of a friend is too high a price to pay for the mere illusion of being free.”

            “I’m not your friend, you b*****d!”

            Hunter’s eyes showed no emotion.

            “Andrea will die too.”

            That jolted the Reaper, brought his head snapping up.

            “You are bound to hide her!”

            Darius mentally winced. Another point against him; someone would have heard that. It did not matter, he reminded himself, would be insignificant after he killed the Reaper.

            “It is out of my hands now. If you allow yourself to die, than she will be hunted down and killed as well.” Calculatingly, Darius brought his knife hand across again to gash the other cheek.

            With a clash of weapons colliding, the Red Blade halted it. Darius smiled. “So.”

            Hunter didn’t respond in anger or counterattack, instead simply holding the blocking dagger in place despite the considerable force his opponent was putting on it. He lowered his voice. “I will not fight to kill you, Darius. That is a crime I will not let myself commit.”

            “Now seems an odd time to develop a conscience, Reaper.”

            The barbed comment was recognized with a slight wince. But it did not deter Hunter. “If I win, you will not die. But I will fight because—” His voice broke off.

            Darius frowned, baring his teeth in a snarl as he tried to press past the iron block. “Because what?”

            “Because you reminded me of everything I have to lose.”

             Suddenly, the dagger faltered and slipped ineffectually low; too low to be a useful guard. With a cry of victory, Darius lunged forwards… only to find himself attacking thin air. Hunter was gone.

            Knowing how his long-time enemy fought, the Huntlord immediately looked upwards. The move probably saved him from an instant defeat—if not death, for all of Hunter’s words of mercy—and he instantly threw himself aside in a reflexive roll to the side as a dark comet of ebon feathers plunged to earth directly where he had been standing.

            Darius was on his feet instantly, already in motion with two knives in his hands, attacking within seconds of the sudden strike. Had he been fighting Eryn once again, the fight would be over; after a full day’s rest, he was fighting with the best of his prodigal abilities and was once again the perfect warrior. But this was Hunter, the Reaper, his full equal if not his better. Hunter met the lightning attack with his own unnatural speed, twisting and maneuvering to let Darius’s momentum play itself out. Somehow, despite his one weapon to his opponent’s dual knives, he was still holding his own and blocking or turning aside every strike.

            The fierce combat seemed to drag on and on, tens if not hundreds of attacks and counterattacks exchanged in mere minutes. Neither seemed to tire or slip; both Hunter and Darius were masters of their craft, both focused until they were fighting by pure instinct and reflex. No lesser fighter could have hoped to keep up this sort of speed and intensity for long.

            They moved across the courtyard, quickstepping in perfect harmony with blazing footwork and balance. Neither seemed to recognize the gathering that watched them. They were oblivious to anything other than their own struggle.

            But suddenly it became clear how Hunter was turning aside the blows from two weapons. For a moment, he faltered, and his block was less than perfect. There was a wet sound; a splash of bright gold was flung across the paving stones.

            Darius was hesitant to follow this up, paused just long enough for Hunter to dance back. The dark-haired young man had his left hand cradled to his chest. Golden blood steadily streamed from a bone-deep cut on the outer edge of the palm.

            The Seraph could have—perhaps should have—attacked there and then. His opponent was clearly off-balance, an easy target with his injury. But something held him back, and he instead circled slowly as Hunter used the thumb and index finger of his other hand to pinch the wound shut. After a moment or two, Hunter let go; the skin was whole again, closed over with only a faint hairline scar from the clean cut.

            He looked up, eyes burning a fierce molten hue. The look on his face was inhumanly calm and detached, the look of a determined killer. The Reaper was awakening within Hunter.

            Darius smiled, replacing both knives at his belt and drawing his new, most prized possession. Perhaps it was a trick of his mind, or of the light, but he could have sworn that Char’s blade burned just a little brighter as he held it out in front of him, then brought it up in a solemn salute.

            “Come on then!”

            Seeming to need no further invitation, Hunter was charging in, following a wide, curving arc that would bring him in at the left. If he had been anyone else, there might have been time for Darius to turn, but this was the Reaper. With his inhuman blood responding to the challenge, Hunter’s already incredible skill was brought up yet another level. He ran without a sound, his feet moving so quickly that his steps were impossible to trace.

            Caught off guard by this further heightening of skill in his opponent, Darius barely managed to block in time. As it was, the block was an awkward one, off to the side and not as strong as it might have been. Before the strength of Hunter’s strike, Char was driven back until the blade collided with the side of Darius’s leg.   

            Luckily, it was turned so that only the flat and not the edge of the blade collided. The only damage was caused by the point, which ripped a thin tear into the fabric of his snowy robes. It barely nicked the skin, but it was enough to cause a trickle of blood that blossomed like a crimson flower across the white fabric.

            With a growl, Darius summoned his strength. Maybe he would be killed in this battle with the Reaper, as so many of his kin had been over the millennia. It would be a noble death. He could accept it. But by the Flame, he would be damned if he would be disemboweled with his own sword! He let the anger, the rage build, making a wall of white-hot fury within his mind. This was the only defense he had against Hunter when his Reaper blood was fully awakened.

            With fire coursing through his own veins, Darius let the frenzy mount until it seemed he would be consumed by the sheer intensity of it. Then, summoning his strength, he slowly pushed Char out against Hunter’s strike with a snarl of fury.

            The angle of the blades slowly shifted; metal screamed, and suddenly slipped. The Red Blade shot forward as it slid past Char with a shriek of steel on steel.

            Darius had expected this, and had in fact engineered it. He knew exactly where Hunter would halt when he checked his momentum and instantly launched into his next swing. The blow would halt Hunter, probably injure him, and would certainly mean Darius’s victory. Or at least, it would have, if Hunter had been there when Char swung through the thin air where he should have been.

            Instantly the Huntlord realized what his clever opponent had done. Instead of trying to halt his forward motion, Hunter had gone with it, neatly taking himself out of harm’s way and putting himself at an advantage at the same time. Now he was to the right, behind Darius’s turned shoulder, with a perfect opening for his opponent’s unprotected throat as the Seraph had to follow through with his misguided swing.

            It was too late. Silently, Darius congratulated his foe’s cleverness and tensed in anticipation of the blow that would end his life. But to his surprise, it did not come.

            He didn’t stop to think. He could still sense the presence of the Reaper there behind him, and seamlessly reversed the flow of his strike. Char shot back in a reverse blow, and connected with the dull sound of steel biting into flesh.

            Silence. Then a dull thud of a body hitting the ground.

            Darius held his position for a long moment. He wasn’t sure what to expect, and in a corner of his mind was slightly afraid he might have killed Hunter with that single mighty swing. If Hunter was already dead, then all of his work would be in vain; the Reaper spirit would be freed to seek out the next host in the inheritance and they would be left with nothing but an empty shell.

            He turned slowly, bringing the bloodied Char back down towards the ground. Behind him, exactly where he had known Hunter would have been, a great spray of gold was splashed across the ground. Ten feet back, a dark body was sprawled limply on the paving stones where it had landed after being launched into the air by the blow.

             Darius walked over without hurry, numbed by the moment. His booted feet made no sound on the hard stone. The golden blood was smeared and distorted by his steps; his feet picked it up and made further bright prints on the ground.

            No sound disturbed the silence.

            Hunter wasn’t moving.

            He wasn’t dead, though, not yet, though he was very still. The great slash of the sword had cut open his side, parting skin and flesh alike until white ribs showed clearly, glimmering ghostlike in the gloom. Blood continued to pour from the gory wound, slowing now as the heart that kept it flowing slowed in turn.

            Darius looked down apathetically. The Reaper was dying. Dying. The word seemed to become lost within the mist that numbed his thoughts.

            But then, finally, when it seemed that Hunter truly would die then and there, the Seraph knelt on the stones at his side. Darius paid no mind to the pooled blood that his robes were thirstily absorbing, staining their snowy white a dull gold. With one hand he dipped his fingers into the pouch at his belt, brushing them against a smooth stone amulet that had been a gift from a friend long ago. With the other, he reached out and placed his hand over the slashed flesh, pulling the edges of the wound together until they met.

            Bright light spilled out from around his hand, washing over first the still Hunter and then him, engulfing them both in an aura of shining radiance. There was peace in that light, peace, and simplicity, and…

            What was happening, Darius thought, brought back to alertness by the purging illumination. This wasn’t normal, had never happened before, shouldn’t be happening now. And yet… and yet…

            He flung his head back, eyes clenched shut and mouth opened in a silent, wordless cry. Light streamed from his mouth, from underneath his closed eyelids, from beneath his hand where he was in contact with the Reaper; brighter and brighter, until even the watching Seraphs were forced to flinch away and shield their eyes from the searing brilliance. It was like staring into the heart of the sun.

            The radiance pulsed, once, twice, and again, and then slowly dimmed. At last, not even a minute after it had began, it finally gave one last flash and went out. When the light-blinded Seraphs at last began to regain their vision a stunning sight met their eyes. In the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by a blast radius where stone had turned to crystal in response to the mysterious light, two figures lay crumpled on the ground. Darius, too, had fallen.

            Many started forward, but a sudden, quiet command cut them short. “Halt.” Raising himself from his throne-like chair, Ak’har gathered his robes about him imperiously and started forward.

            None were foolish enough to try and stop him or to speak out. This was the home of the Seraphs; with Darius unconscious or dead, he was their liege lord and they owed him their unquestioning obedience. Still, more than one wished to spring forward, to defend and accompany the ancient patriarch. Despite all their flaws, the Seraphs were a fiercely loyal people, and any there would have gladly laid down their life for the old man.

            Ak’har knew their thoughts but dismissed them as he walked slowly forward. The crystal beneath his feet was smooth and slick, but he did not hesitate, did not falter. He continued forward until he reached the center of the mysterious ring, where both his grandson and his enemy lay side by side like those dead.

            They were oddly arranged, as if by some intentional force had moved them purposefully. The Reaper had fallen from the first on his side, slightly bent in a crooked curve that was made smoother by his ebon wings, which were laid out behind him on the ground. Darius, in contrast, had originally knelt directly before the fatally wounded man. But now he had fallen to the right and was stretched out similarly, his head by the Reaper’s feet and his own feet by the head of his enemy, his shape smoothed and blurred by the concealing robes. They were opposites, arranged so that they seemed to flow through a circle from dark to light, yin to yang, Seraph to Reaper and back again. The blood around them, no longer randomly splashed, had formed into whorled patterns and sigla whose meaning was a mystery to Ak’har.

            It was too perfect to be natural. Some higher power had a hand in this, and it made the old Seraph uneasy. It was better that this unnatural business be finished as soon as possible.

            With some concern, Ak’har folded his hands together within his flowing sleeves. “My son,” he called softly. Both of the fallen combatants were alive, he could see their chests rise and fall with each breath… again in time, in perfect harmony. When there was no response, he hesitantly stepped forward over the blood runes and bent down by his grandson. “My s—Darius, awaken.”

            The white-robed body stirred. Then, as Ak’har watched, Darius carefully propped himself up and rose to his feet. He seemed confused, disoriented. “My lord, what happened?”

            “I do not know,” Ak’har responded, also standing. “You are the victor, to be sure”

            Darius nodded silently, looking down to where the Reaper lay. The young man was healed, regardless of what else had happened, with only a bloody tear in his dark shirt to hint at what had happened. Beneath the rip, smooth, unscarred skin could be seen. 

            Then, almost as an afterthought, the Huntlord bent down over his opponent, removing a small vial from his pouch. He popped off the cork, made a motion with his hand, and the silvery substance inside flowed out to twine sinuously around Hunter’s neck. It solidified at another motion from Darius, instantly becoming as unbendable as steel. The metal glimmered in the faint torchlight. It was a band of pure truesilver; bane of all magic.

            “My lifedebt is fulfilled, Reaper. I am bound to you no longer and I owe you nothing.”

            This vital task done, the Seraph rose once again. “It is done then. I have… won.”

            Ak’har inclined his head in conformation. “My son, before the final blow was struck, the Reaper was behind you. Your back, your throat was unprotected. He could have ended it there, and yet he hesitated. Why is that?”

            “I do not presume to understand what motivates one such as him.” Darius shrugged.

            “Curious.” With a final glance at the Reaper, who was beginning to move slightly as his consciousness returned, Ak’har motioned several attendants forward. The Seraphs hurried to the center, balking only slightly at the unnatural transformation wrought on the ground, and bowed low before both Huntlord and patriarch before hastening to tightly bind the reviving prisoner.

            Turning back to his young equal, the Seraph patriarch suggested, “The sacrifice will be held in three hours, at moonset. Until then, do as you please.”

            “I will pray,” Darius answered quietly. He needed the guidance of the Immortal Flame now more than ever, tonight, when he would fulfill his destiny. “When that is finished, I may return here. I wish to… prepare. For the sacrifice.”

            “As you will, my son.” Ak’har bowed his head, and Darius did the same. The two turned and walked away in opposite directions. Behind them, in the courtyard, the defeated Reaper was lifted, and then laid down on a smooth slab of cold stone. The rock had once been white, years ago. But now it was stained, turned red from the blood of countless innocent sacrifices.

            This was the way of things within the house of the Seraphs; there was no mercy. Here, life was of no consequence when compared with the irresistible promise of greater power. There was no room for compassion. Not here, in the house of death. Not anymore.

                       

*     *     *

 

CHAPTER TEN: IN THE END

 

            The dagger was a thing of terrible beauty, Darius reflected. Shaped in a graceful curve, crafted of hard, unforgiving truesilver and heated in a flame until it glowed a dull, sullen red like a live coal, it would steal a life this night. It would take the life of a Reaper.

            This was the pinnacle, the culmination of the Seraph’s work throughout the ages. With Hunter’s heart offered to the flame, the line of succession would end. The world would be a better place, with the fate of mortal men once again in their own hands.

            Darius turned the blade over in his hand, feeling the comforting warmth of it. It felt familiar, secure in his grip and soothing. This task was so simple.

            Hunter was chained down, secured to the smooth blood-tinged marble of the sacrificial altar. Darius knew he was conscious and aware of what was about to take place. Hunter knew that he would be an offering to the power that gave the Seraphs their strength. But he did nothing except look upwards at the sky.

            It was unimaginable to the Huntlord. If it were he in the Reaper’s place, Darius knew that he would fight until the last, would not give his captors his pride. Why did Hunter do nothing?

            Finally it became too much to bear. “What are you looking at?!” he snapped. Then, more quietly, he repeated, “What are you looking at?”

            Hunter continued to stare upwards. “The stars,” he answered softly.

            “Why?”

            The condemned young man shifted his head as much as his bonds would allow in order to look at Darius. “It is not such a bad sight to carry with me out of this life.”

            “Reaper… Hunter, I’m… I’m sorry.”

            “You don’t have to be,” Hunter said quietly, “You did what you thought you had to do.” Angry at his slip, Darius placed the truesilver dagger back in the brazier to heat and roughly turned away. But a voice behind him halted his retreat, forced him to stop. “Darius?”

            He didn’t look back. “What?”

            “Just do one thing for me, I’m begging you.” A tinge of emotion—of fear, perhaps—crept into Hunter’s voice at last, but it didn’t bring Darius the enjoyment he had expected. Instead, it seemed to stab at his heart. “After I’m gone… please protect Andrea. She’s what matters most to me.”

            Darius turned at that last statement. After a full moon of recovery in Hunter’s home, he had seen beyond any doubt that the Reaper, contrary to all tradition and good sense, really did love Andrea. Darius had once felt a similar attraction to her—enough to do…what he had done—and had been her friend. But could he make this promise?

            “Please…”

            “Silence, wretch!” a voice cut in, causing both Seraph and Reaper to turn their heads. From behind, Ak’har was walking towards the altar. Inwardly, Darius cringed. How long had his grandfather been there; how much had he heard? But it seemed that the old man had not been there long enough to hear anything truly incriminating. Ak’har did not address him, but rather continued straight to his side, eyeing the bound Reaper with contemptuous hatred.

            “Do not speak to him, Reaper. You are not even worthy to look upon the Huntlord, your conqueror and soon to be your killer. When the moon sets, your heart will be given to the Flame.”

            Hunter did not look away, did not even seem to hear the Seraph patriarch’s words. Ak’har seemed to take his silence as submission, though, instead of the disregard that it was. The patriarch looked over to where Darius stood, absently turning the sacrificial dagger over in the coals of the brazier and gazing into the hot embers. The glowing heat reflected in his eyes, giving the usually misty gray a reddish tint.

            “My son, I am so proud of you,” Ak’har said quietly. His old face was lit by a warm smile, a look that Darius could only remember from his earliest memories of nearly twenty years ago. “Your name will be remembered for generations to come: Darius, the greatest of all Huntlords, who sacrificed the Reaper to the Immortal Flame. You will be the greatest hero this world has ever known. I—”

            He was cut off by Hunter, who was still staring at Darius. “Promise me, Darius.” The slightest edge of desperation was beginning to creep into his voice. “Please, you have to protect her; she’s the only reason that my life was ever worth living! Promise that Andrea will not be hurt!”

            The Huntlord hesitated. “I… I…”

            In the end, it was Ak’har who made the choice for him. With a strength that contradicted his advanced age, the elder Seraph struck Hunter across the face with enough force to snap the young man’s head to the side, slamming it into the unyielding stone of the altar. Dazed from the brutal blow, Hunter couldn’t say anything further.

            Ak’har loomed over him, a cruel smile on his old face. “Trying to save the girl? By the Flame, do you actually love that pathetic wench?!” His expression hardened, the smile twisting into a terrible leer. “It’s too late for her. Once you are dead, this clan will hunt down and destroy every creature that ever called itself a friend of the Reaper!”

            “NO!” His eyes blazing with gold fire, Hunter lunged forward, straining against his bonds as if he meant to kill the ancient Seraph with his bare hands. But the cold iron that bound him held. The young man fell back to the stone hard, crying out in pain as his head cracked against the altar for the second time in as many minutes. The band of truesilver around his neck jangled.

            Ak’har laughed softly. “Weakling. With your magic gone, you are as helpless as any human.” Turning away from the victim on the altar, he looked to where Darius was watching with a sickened look in his eyes. Ak’har’s tone changed until it actually held warmth as he addressed his grandson. “My son… I am proud of you. And I know that your father would be as well. You will avenge his death tonight.” He gently patted Darius’s shoulder, then briskly departed.

            In the silence that followed in the wake of the patriarch’s departure, Darius was unsure of what to think. His mind, in its confusion, latched onto Ak’har’s parting words: your father would be proud…you avenge him tonight. His father? Proud… of this?

            His father had been a Seraph, with a proper hatred of the clan’s ancient enemy. Joshua had even died in battle with Hunter’s predecessor, died believing he was fighting evil. Maybe he had. But Darius’s father had been less narrow-minded than most Seraphs. And this, killing Hunter, who had never even known him; would this really avenge Joshua’s death?

            Darius took a last look at the person tied down to the altar. The prisoner, the offering. The Reaper.

            Looking at him, the Seraph couldn’t see the Reaper. He couldn’t see his old friend. This person was a stranger to him; bruised, beaten, crying silent tears of helplessness and fear for a friend.

             Not the Reaper, the deadly spirit of death incarnate. The Reaper would fight until the darkness claimed it. The Reaper was gone.

            Not Darius’s old friend, the Hunter he had known a year ago, before any of this had started. The friend who he had trusted, who had trusted him. That Hunter had been lost long ago in this tangled web of death and betrayal.

            Darius the Huntlord turned away, setting the dagger that would steal a life into the hungry flames to heat for the sacrificial ceremony. He had long ago chosen the path of his soul. Then he walked away from the bound stranger, passing through the open door of his family’s home into the shadows within.

 

*     *     *

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN: HOW TO SAVE A LIFE

 

            The full moon floated at the horizon’s edge, casting a shimmering haze of painfully beautiful radiance across the mountains. In the courtyard of one secluded house, it also danced over the surface of a sheen of oil that coated the paving stones.

            In the gathering place of the house of the Seraphs, a silent congregation was assembled. Every member of the family, from the most wizened elder to the youngest child, was gathered around the edges of the court, garbed in their traditional robes of pure white. Ak’har, their patriarchal leader, was seated in his customary throne at one end of the space. At the other, a pair of open doors led into a black void.

            The only lights beside the stars and descending moon were the gentle glow of candles. Each Seraph clasped a single lighted taper in their left hand. The result was ghostly, ethereal; an effect than was only heightened by the thirteen braziers that encircled the courtyard’s central point, releasing smoke scented by the essence of black lotus and snow lily into the chill night air. Together the dark aroma of the lotus and the delicate scent of the lily combined to create an intoxicating air of magic and the otherworldly.

            In the exact center of the courtyard, the thick slab of marble that was the sacrificial altar stood. Hunter was still stretched out upon it, his bonds preventing even the slightest movement. His face was once again calm and serene, with only the slightest trace of the sorrow, the despair he surely felt. Paying no heed to his surroundings, to the Seraphs gathered around him, Hunter lay quietly with his eyes closed as if sleeping… or as if he was already dead. Only the steady rise and fall of his bare chest betrayed the life that still dwelt within.

            His eyes flickered beneath closed eyelids as a foot softly touched down on the ground inside the open door. Most humans would not have heard the footstep; even for him, it was barely perceptible. But Hunter was not human. Even now, stripped of his power and his dignity, he was still the Reaper. He heard—sensed—the approach of his own fate.

            Moments later, every Seraph in the courtyard turned as one to watch as Darius entered the courtyard. The Huntlord had changed into fresh robes, as pure and white as snow. These did not show the blood and burn of the nez’hara. Char hung proudly at his side. Darius had also replaced his torn headband with another of the same crimson hue as the old one, the bright color bringing some warmth to his pale skin. His face was solemn and grave as he crossed the smooth, cold paving stones.

            As he walked, small flames rose up behind him in a discreet display of power. But as the fire spread, it touched of the oil that had been carefully poured in a predetermined pattern on the ground. In a breath, the flame raced across the highly flammable liquid, drawing out an enormous, elaborate sigil that completely covered the space. With this new fuel, the flames roared higher than a tall man’s head. And through this inferno, Darius continued without hesitation, his face cold and composed.

            It was a display designed to impress and intimidate, and it did exactly what it had been meant to. More than one of those gathered around the fire’s edge gasped or shrunk back from the sudden, roaring heat. But then, as quickly, as it had been created, the blaze disappeared as the last of the oil was consumed. It left Darius in the exact center of the yard, standing grimly at the foot of the altar. Before him, resting in the heart of a bed of glowing coals, the sacrificial dagger waited. And beyond that, Hunter, too, waited.

            Moving without hesitation, with cold purpose, the Huntlord snatched the dagger from the embers and held it high. Despite the fact that the metal was the cherry-red that, in a lesser substance, would indicate it nearly being molten, he showed no pain. Indeed, he probably felt none. Fire ran in the blood of the true Seraphs; a token of the power they worshipped. As a result heat was no enemy to them.

            “My kindred!” Darius said in a voice that, though not raised, carried to the ears of every Seraph, “This day, the prophecy will be fulfilled. By the blade of flame, the darkness will fall forever. This day, may our fate be made clear by the death of a Reaper.”

            There was no response; none was expected. In fact, anything other than silence would be an unforgivable breach of conduct. But, looking around, Darius could see the eager, hungry smiles on every face. The clan’s obvious lust for bloodshed was visible in their eyes. Within him, a part of his being scorned this; another admired and gloried in it. And yet another part of him was repulsed. Was their thirst for this sacrifice really so great that they could dehumanize the victim, be oblivious to the fact that a life was about to end?

            No, he realized. They were not oblivious. These people, his family, knew that Hunter would be the sacrifice. They reveled in the knowledge. There would be no mercy here.

            He knew that.

            With a steadying breath, Darius walked slowly to the side of the altar across from Ak’har, his hand wrapped tightly around the smooth hilt of the dagger. His feet settled in the slight indentations worn in the stone by the feet of his ancestors. He closed his eyes, letting go a silent prayer for guidance and strength. And then he opened those same pale eyes, looking across to see Ak’har’s proud smile.

            “My lord, my family, I offer this one’s heart to the Immortal Flame. May wisdom guide my hand, and justice lead this blade to strike hard and true.”

            His grandfather gravely nodded, unable to hide his satisfaction. Darius smiled half-heartedly back, and then raised the dagger high above his head in steady hands. The shield of ice around his heart held true. This would be ended tonight, and he would at last be free of this curse.

            But then he made the mistake of looking down. Hunter was gazing upwards, his eyes opened to the sky once again. But now his stare was directed, not at the stars, but straight into Darius’s own eyes. For a brief moment that seemed outside of time, an ebon gaze locked with a pale, misty one. And in that second, Darius was captivated by the reflection in those eyes, twin mirrors that pierced straight into the shadows in his own soul.

            The icy wall that encased his heart shattered, and Darius remembered.

            He couldn’t hide behind his own stubbornness any longer. The full truth of the penultimate moment was laid bare to him, presenting him with the hardest choice of his twenty years of life.

            He had a decision to make, one that would determine the rest of his life. In those black eyes, not the eyes of the Reaper but the eyes of his first real friend, he saw his past laid out like pieces of a story. He saw his childhood; adoring his father and seeing him die. Trying to transfer that same devotion to Ak’har, and realizing that he feared the old man as much as he cared for him. He had worshipped his grandfather, not loved him.

            Then he remembered going to high school as a freshman, his first journey outside the boundaries of his family’s domination. He remembered meeting Hunter and—two years later—Andrea, and the friendship that had followed. He remembered smiling, laughing; knowing true freedom for the first time. And then, even more recently, he remembered how Hunter and Andrea had freely taken him in without hesitation after he had been left for dead. He remembered his painful recovery, the unconditional support and encouragement that he had been given the entire time, by Reaper, human, even Alysa, an elf and mortal enemy of his people. All had had every reason to hate him, and little reason to feel anything else. As the Huntlord, he had painfully earned the respect of his kin. As a friend, he had been freely given that same respect, and something even more important: a care for him as a person, not as a leader. That had been the first time in his life he hadn’t fight to be treated as an equal… and, he realized, the first time he had ever been content to be anyone’s equal.

            As a Seraph, under the guiding hand of Ak’har, he had gained everything he had ever desired. Control, respect, a type of power that most humans would never know. He had won everything he had ever hoped for.

            But as a friend, he had been given everything he had subconsciously needed all along.

            Now he struggled to weigh his ambition, his desire for supremacy, against a way of life he had never valued until it was gone. Darius looked up once again; saw that Ak’har was leaning forward in anticipation of the killing blow. There was no warmth in that smile, the Huntlord saw, no smile at all. The expression on the Seraph patriarch’s face was a macabre parody of a smile, more like a death grin. Malice shone in his old eyes.

            In that face, Darius saw the creature he would become, the bared face of nearly infinite power and uncontrollable ambition. It was everything he had ever wanted, he realized. That was the way of his family, his hopes he had harbored all his life.

            Hunter’s eyes had closed, awaiting death. Somehow Darius knew that his last sight had been of the distant stars, that that was the vision his friend would carry into the next life. Not of a lost pale spirit who had sunk so far into the darkness that he would never again be truly free of it.

            Darius’s face tightened. He knew what he had to do, and knew that, in a part of his heart, he would never stop regretting it.

            The glowing dagger swung down to bury itself in its target with a dull thunk that pierced more than one heart.

            Silence fell.

 

CHAPTER TWELVE: CHOOSING DESTINY

 

            There was no sound to be heard within the courtyard. It was as though each and every person present held their breath for the span of one heartbeat, two…

            And then…

            “Darius! What is the meaning of this?!”

            Ak’har was standing, his face white and filled with despairing disbelief and terrible anger. Darius did not look up at him, kept his eyes lowered to where his fist tightly held the dagger’s hilt.

            The dagger that had buried itself in the stone at Hunter’s side, rather than in his heart.

            “I’m sorry, my lord,” Darius said softly. His face, too, was sad, but determined. “The prophecy has been fulfilled. I am the betrayer.”

            Hunter stared up at him, amazed to still be alive. He, too, had thought that the betrayal in the prophecy had meant what had already occurred, the act that had left him a prisoner of Seraphs, had led to this very moment. But now, doing this, Darius was twisting his own fate.

            Ak’har did not seem to be so quick to grasp this idea. “But my son, you have already fulfilled your destiny!” His voice was quiet and almost pleading now, as if he were begging the Huntlord to reconsider this choice, to take up the dagger again and finish what had been set in motion. “You won the trust of, then betrayed, our greatest enemy! You have already become the betrayer!”

            “It wasn’t him I was meant to betray.” Darius had closed his eyes to shut out the sight of his grandfather, the lord he had always respected and followed without hesitation, begging him to recant this act. “It was this family. The Seraphs.”

            Throughout the courtyard, mutters and whispers were spreading. “Traitor… Eryn was right; he is a traitor… servant of the Reaper…betrayer…Betrayer.”

            The blood seemed to drain from the already pale young man’s face at these accusations, but he stayed fast in his resolve. Carefully dislodging the knife's tip from the stone, he stepped around the altar and turned to face his lord and master with one arm outstretched like a barrier between Hunter and the roiling crowd of his people. “I will not let you kill him.”

            Ak’har stepped forward, slowly and without threat. Behind him the Seraphs strained forward, eager to attack this traitor, this enemy who shared their blood. But only the patriarch approached the altar.

            As he drew near, Darius tensed. The old man’s face was mask-like, guileless and seemingly filled with sorrow. “My son, do not do this. Do not destroy everything we have worked so hard to achieve. There is still time to reconsider.” He reached out toward his grandson. “Do as I say. Take up the dagger. Kill this…this creature; offer the Reaper, the one who took your father from you, to the Flame.” He edged closer, his hand almost touching Darius’s shoulder. “Do it now, my son.”

            His hand came closer and closer… and suddenly stopped. Darius, pale but determined, held the sacrificial dagger a hairsbreadth from the old Seraph’s throat. “No. I will not do this. Please back away, my lord, or it will be your blood rather than his that stains these stones.”

            At the open threat against their patriarch, the gathering roared in fury and surged forward. There were not so many of them, not compared to what their numbers had once been, but the thirty or so assembled there would be more than enough to overwhelm Darius and kill both him and the chained Reaper. But at a curt gesture from Ak’har, they were halted. Many openly protested this—daring, given the circumstances—but they obeyed the command.

            Ak’har stepped back several paces slowly, looking at his grandson, his failed protégé, with undeniable regret and sorrow in his eyes. Darius did not back down from that stern glance. He kept the knife up, held between them like a barrier between his newfound conscience and the bonds of his old life. “I will not let you murder him.”

            “Clear the courtyard.”

            The Seraphs started at this sudden command. Loudly voiced protests swelled, and then subsided as Ak’har continued to speak over them, his dry voice ringing with authority. “All of you! My people, clear the courtyard! Now! I do not want any of you in harm’s way. Shelter in the house until this is done.”

            He had turned as he spoke, but now he swung about to face Darius and Hunter once again. The old eyes, normally a shade of grey like storm clouds, were now narrowed in hatred and burning with a dull ruby hue.

            “I will deal with the traitor.”

 

*     *     *

 

            When all of the clan had filed out of the open space, Ak’har and Darius were left facing one another. No one spoke for several moments; both Seraphs mentally evaluating their opponent and formulating strategies within their heads, Hunter simply shifting uneasily as best he could when bound hand and foot. Neither of the two even spared him a glance. Their attention was solely on one another.

            After a long while, Ak’har finally broke the silence. “Why, my son?” He asked quietly, with that same broken sorrow in his voice that had been there before. “You were always the most loyal among us; I knew this in spite of everything that tainted your reputation. Why this, now, at the moment of your triumph?”

            “It is not my triumph,” Darius answered him. The voice had nearly made him falter until he saw that red malice in his grandfather’s eyes, remembered that he was in graver danger than the old Seraph would have him believe. Anything he heard was trickery. Now all rested on this new path he had chosen. “To kill the Reaper would not be my victory, because he was never my enemy. I would only bring glory to you, you and the liars and murderers that I called kin, by doing this.”

            “You are not listening to yourself. You speak of our family!”

            “Your family. They stopped being my family when my blind eyes saw once again, the way they did before my father died.” He gestured towards Hunter, not breaking his gaze. “He opened my eyes.”

            Ak’har’s face was somewhere between amusement and anger. “The Reaper… That demon ‘opened your eyes’? To what? To condemn others who have taken no more lives than you yourself have?”

            “No. He showed me what mercy was.”

            Darius’s voice gained force and resolve as he spoke; it was as though by speaking aloud he was confirming his own rediscovered personal beliefs, ones that until recently had lain hidden. “When I was dying he showed me mercy. He showed me what it means to forgive; he healed me when I had given him every reason to do otherwise.”

            As his grandfather’s face grew paler and more twisted with hatred, the younger of the two Seraphs raised his left forearm and drew back the loose sleeve, displaying the long, curving scar that ran from elbow to palm. The score mark glimmered palely in the light of the setting moon. “He gave his blood to save my life.”

            At that, those fateful words that confirmed perhaps the greatest betrayal in the history of the Seraph clan, Ak’har’s control snapped. “Then it is true! Everything is true! You have turned traitor, one who was most trusted! The blood of my people that runs in your unworthy veins has been tainted with that of the Reaper; you allowed that to occur to save your wretched life!”

            Darius nodded, a sad smile on his face. “And I would willingly let my blood be spilled to save him. I see that now.”

            “Fine!” the old man spat. His eyes were blazing now, as though actual fires burned within them; his hands were twisted into rending talons. “If that is your will, then may it be so!”

            He did not attack directly. There was no thrown flame, no running charge. These were attacks below the notice of a true master. Immediately he launched into the mightiest spell of the clan. Darius knew it immediately. After all, he had already heard it twice in the last day.

            Another daemon. And this was no small, minor working such as Eryn’s had been. This would be a daemon summoned by one who was comparable to an archmage of the elven nations. Ak’har was the most skilled spellcaster in generations of his people. And now Darius was to fight him?

            The chanted words twined through his mind, triggering memories, prompting him to begin a spell of his own and cut the old man down before he could finish the incantation. But something made Darius hold back. Maybe it was the idea of killing—if he even could—his own grandfather, someone he had admired and obeyed without question for over a decade. Or maybe it was something else. He listened harder, and realized what it was.

            Throughout the familiar words of the arcane spell, other phrases and snatches of speech were intertwined. For a moment, he didn’t recognize them, and then finally realized what he was hearing. The new additions were spoken in another language from the dragon speech of basic spells; the dialect that was used in divine spells and rituals, the dialect Hunter had called ‘Infernal’.

            This was no ordinary spell.

            After a moment he understood, and inwardly congratulated the patriarch on the clever ploy. This was a new spell altogether. Improvisation, fabricating new enchantments as the occasion demanded; these were marks of the master sorcerer. Ak’har was weaving together two spells, the standard spell to create a daemon along with a divine prayer for infusing a target with holy energy.

            It would be unstoppable.

            Within a minute of when the spellcasting had commenced, a dark rip tore through the fabric of reality and stretched to admit yet another unnatural creature. The daemon was the more traditional serpent that represented the Seraphs rather than the anomaly Darius had summoned, but in accordance to the power of its summoner it was immense. As liquid flame continued to pour outwards, Darius gave up even trying to estimate its size. The mighty creature was large enough to encircle the entire courtyard within its sinuous coils, as thick around as the trunk of a young redwood. Moreover, it was made of fire so dark that it almost seemed to glow with black heat. An aura of unnatural, unholy power seemed to ooze from it like a creeping mist.

            The creature turned towards Darius, revealing pupil-less glowing crimson eyes. It reared up, jaws parting in a silent hiss. In doing so the daemon revealed fangs the length and thickness of a human’s arm. Though made of flame, they would undoubtedly pierce flesh easily enough, allowing fire to finish a victim if the initial shock of the bite did not.

            Those same luminous, soulless eyes burned in Ak’har’s face. At once Darius knew without doubt that another familiar force augmented the old Seraph’s already overwhelming strength.

            Ak’har’s thin lips drew back from his teeth, as though whatever moved through him was more accustomed to having fangs to rend and tear its prey. Even his voice sounded hollow and unnatural. “You die here, traitor!”

            With a sweeping motion of his arm, the great daemon snake flowed through the air like a living whip, its head shooting forward to engulf the center of the courtyard in a sea of black flame and crush its victims beneath that massive weight. Darius, without a spell prepared, watched mutely as his death rushed forward. What could he do? What could he…

            “NO!” Without conscious thought, he screamed out his denial. His arms swept forward in a motion intended to push fire, insignificant against this creature of inferno but a last act of defiance nonetheless. But then, as his hands reached their full extension and bright flame shot out, another, brighter form swept into the air in front of him as well. Suddenly, without being called or summoned, the bright dragon-daemon was there, a flash of molten orange hovering in the path of the beast with its claws flexed and ready to defend its master.

            The two constructs collided with a sound like a clap of thunder as massive bodies collided. The snake’s crushing dive was halted; it was no longer attacking, but instead keening in pain from the dragon’s talons sunk into the flame-flesh of its face.

            A sudden snap of its head threw the smaller daemon into the air. Darius’s bright dragon, though enormous in its own right, seemed dwarfed alongside the serpent. Still, it put up a valiant fight, darting and wheeling as nimbly as a hummingbird to strike whenever an opening presented itself. Somehow it managed to avoid the immense snapping jaws that seemed as though they would shear it in half time and time again. Not long passed, though, before the snake turned its attention back to its intended targets. It ignored the fire-shot oozes of darkness that served as blood streaming down its sides; it paid no mind to the continuing attacks of the dragon daemon. The mighty creature once again rose up over Darius, who was locked in place by the mental exertion required to maintain his creation.

            The smaller daemon realized what was happening. Once again it valiantly flew into place between its creator and its foe, ready to repel an attack. But the serpent attacked with more cunning this time, darting forward so fast that the dragon could not find a purchase for its claws. Now the two struggled muscle for muscle, straining to gain some advantage over the other, to gain ground.

            There was only one inevitable outcome. Darius, already having fought one battle that night and pitted against both an elder Seraph and the unnatural force that moved through Ak’har, knew that there was only one possible outcome. He knew the strength augmenting his grandfather’s own, knew the immeasurable depths of it, and couldn’t hope to win. Already the sweat was pouring down his face from the effort of trying to hold his own, and he had to put a hand on the top of the altar behind him in order to keep on his feet. That hand gained brushed across the stone, taking strength from the chill of the marble and sending a momentary burst of energy through his veins. And then his hand brushed against something else…

            “Darius!” Hunter’s voice wasn’t afraid but filled with urgency. His wrist twisted beneath the bond that held it to the stone, his fingertips straining to reach those of his friend again. “Take the silver off my neck!”

            “…Can’t,” Darius gritted out between clenched teeth, “…if I…move… dragon’ll… break…”

            “It’s the only way!”

            “Can’t…”

            “Trust me!”

            At those two words, something inside of Darius let go. Holding as much focus as he could on the slowly weakening daemon overhead, he reached back slowly with his rear hand. His fingers touched cold stone, and then…

            Icy metal.

            He tightened his fingers around the truesilver, turning at last in a whirl of motion as the compound dulled the magic within him. Overhead, the serpent broke past the opposing daemon, roared downwards in triumph with jaws spread wide, fangs bared, and eyes blazing…

            Ak’har, too, screamed out his exultation in victory as the mighty creature lunged. The being moving through his body seethed in unholy glee…

            Darius’s grip tightened on the thin metal around his friend’s neck as death streaked downward to claim them…

            The truesilver snapped in two.  

 

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: TOGETHER

 

            At the breaking of that bond, Hunter’s magic returned in an instant, as strongly as if it had never been gone. The bright gold in his eyes flashed and the steel bands holding his wrists and ankles shattered. Immediately his freed hand shot out, gripping Darius’s wrist tightly as the white-haired Seraph turned back towards the plummeting daemon. Suddenly their strength was combined, made stronger by the mingling.

            Darius felt a surge of power roaring into his veins, hot, wild magic that demanded an outlet. Instinctively, he threw it into the closest vessel; his daemon, which had been pushed aside by the massive serpent. He couldn’t see what had happened. The serpent’s head filled his vision, immense and unavoidable in its dark glory.

            Then, when the heat that rolled in waves before the mighty creature was unbearable and it seemed they would be crushed, there was a burst of light and motion and the snake was suddenly crashing to the stone several feet to the side. Burning brightly again, its orange hues now mingled with shades of pure gold, the dragon was crouched on its neck, ripping into ethereal flesh with fierce abandon.

            The two creatures were soon locked in combat once more, each evenly matched. Ak’har’s daemon had managed to rise up once again, bleeding slowly from the fresh wounds on its neck. The dragon wheeled through the air above it, circling and strafing while searching for an opening, but it had not escaped from the daring attack unscathed. One leg dangled limply beneath it, pierced cleanly through by a needle-like fang. It was trailing a gout of fire from the wound.

            Freed, Hunter kept his grip firm on his friend’s arm, tried to get him to move to a safer spot than the center of the battleground. The Seraph was breathing hard, still straining to keep the daemon alive even though it meant pouring all of his energy into that single task. He was sagging. Without Hunter there, lending strength and support, Darius surely would have collapsed. Even so, it took both of them longer than was safe to make their slow way away from the unholy altar, eventually taking refuge under one of the ancient trees that occasionally dotted the edges of the courtyard. Smooth, carefully arranged and polished black pebbles made soft grating noises as the two stepped onto them. Hunter saw that the focused Seraph’s eyes were glazing over as his gaze remained locked on the two daemons. He moved over, putting the trunk of the tree at Darius’s back for added support.  

            This couldn’t continue much longer, the Reaper realized. Too much longer, and it would not matter whether or not they won. It would be irrelevant if Darius couldn’t run. He could see all too well the faces inside the gaping doorways around the courtyard, dimly illuminated by reflected glare. There were Seraphs waiting just inside those doors, eager and ready to attack at the first opportunity, only just restrained by the command of their ruling lord. Hunter wanted to put up a magical barrier to seal off the doors closest to him and Darius, but didn’t dare take the energy from the steady stream he was sending into the concentrating Seraph.

            But then a thin, whispering scream caught his attention, sent his head snapping up to where the behemoths battled. At last, a finishing blow had been made. The dragon, flaming hotly still, had caught onto the back of its foe’s head and dug in with razor-sharp talons. The smaller daemon’s wedge-shaped head turned, shot forward to clench jaws into the fiery flesh of the serpent’s neck. The mouth clamped down, teeth piercing through the scales and buried themselves in whatever lay beneath.

            Those powerful jaws tightened, squeezing with bone-crushing force. The snake’s piercing death cry went on and on as it twisted and convulsed, and then a dull, muted crunch echoed through the space. The massive head crashed to the ground with a force that shook the earth. Whatever bones it possessed were crushed by that vice-like grip; its neck had been broken cleanly in two.

            A shard of pale, red-tinged stone shot by his face, and he heard others whizzing past. A sudden burst of pain at his shoulder signaled that another had hit. Next to him, Darius convulsed sharply. Hunter looked down to his own shoulder, realizing that a needle-like shard of rock had cut a thin line across his skin. He looked over at Darius, saw that a more sizable piece was embedded in the Seraph’s leg. The stone projectile had pinned the snowy robes to the white-haired young man’s leg in a macabre fashion.

            Darius reached down with a shaky hand, pulled the shard free. Blood began to flow steadily. Concerned, Hunter started, “Do you need—”

            The Seraph cut off his question with a shake of the head. The color was beginning to return to his face and he stood straighter. Belatedly, Hunter realized that his grip had not loosened, and that he was beginning to weaken himself as his power continued to pour into his friend. “It’s closing over by itself fast enough,” he said in a hoarse voice that sounded as though he had been yelling. “Let go of me and save your strength. You may need it still.”  

            Uncertainly, Hunter let his hand drop to his side. The fingers ached from being locked in a clenched grip for so long. Almost as an afterthought, he turned his head to look for the source of those stone needles. The fallen serpent—dissipating in a haze of rising heat now—had fallen in a very particular place, its head slamming down in the exact center of the courtyard.

            The ancient altar, as old as the Seraphs themselves and the only tribute to countless sacrifices over the millennia, had been shattered.

            Taking in that fact, Hunter was instantly looking on, searching the area for the major threat. Ak’har may have been drained by the summoning as much as Darius had been, but he knew that whatever dark force was behind him would surely restore the patriarch’s strength. Unfortunately, through the smoke and haze, he could see little. Behind him, voices cried out in anger, and then were silenced as he threw up a wall without thought. For now, at least, the Seraphs were shut out of the courtyard. Still, he could feel the pressure against his barrier. Sooner or later, when enough strong mages attacked it at once, the magical wall would give way. Until then, all they could do was be done with this quickly.

            He touched Darius’s arm. “Come with me, if you can walk. This isn’t quite over yet; we still need to find—”

            “I know,” his friend said flatly, “my l—Ak’har. He isn’t dead, not yet. I know it.” Without the slightest hint of pain, he determinedly stepped out from the shadow beneath the tree. Side by side, they walked forward into the roiling smoke. In the cloudy darkness, the air was thick and stifling; a miasma of ash and glowing sparks.

            The smoke was hard to breathe and stung their noses and eyes. Both Hunter and Darius held back their coughs, forcing breath to come regularly and silently, but they could do nothing about the irritation. The two stumbled blindly forward, still somehow making no noise. After all, it was in their nature to be silent.

            Hunter finally gave in to frustration. He spread his hands before him, and used his magic to literally tear a path through the smoke. Both of them gulped at the clean air thirstily. Ahead, a form moved through the passageway in a flicker of light color. Hunter and Darius instantly were on their guard. Whatever it had been, it had moved too quickly to identify. The smoke suddenly became an unfriendly force, concealing and ominous.

            The Reaper frowned. The thing that had moved through the thin area of clear air was flickering at the edges of his consciousness. He could almost identify it with his ability to sense the lifeforce within all living things. But this, this was strange. It seemed almost as though it wasn’t alive… and furthermore, it felt… familiar. As though it were himself out there, or Darius or…

            He sighed in slight relief. “It’s the daemon.”

            Sure enough, the bright flaming head suddenly illuminated the haze beside them, seeming to look at them with oddly calm eyes. The twin orbs were unusual; one was burning gold, the other faint silver. Two eyes for two lifeforces. The head regarded them for a moment, then bowed downwards once. And then it was gone, shredding apart in some imperceptible wind.

            With its passing, the smoke melted away until the air was all but clear.

            Instantly, Darius pointed. “There.” He started forward, his step slightly skewed but still balanced. Hunter followed, looked forward.

            A white shape glimmered in the gloom, sitting with its back to a beam.

            When they got closer—instinctively slightly apart, less of a target for a single spell—both realized that Ak’har was no threat to them. The ancient Seraph was in no condition to fight. He was indeed seated, looking more like he had fallen than willingly seated himself, and propped upright only by the wood at his back. His head was bent forward.

            Both Darius and Hunter stopped several yards from their mutual enemy.  Neither said a word. But yet, somehow, Ak’har heard their approach. He looked up.

            His face was a ruin. When the altar had shattered, the shards had hit the two young men slightly. Ak’har, closer to the origin of the explosion, had fared worse. A long, wickedly pointed sliver of stone protruded from his face.  It was driven deep into his right eye, pinning it shut and leaking a terrible river of blood—so dark as to seem almost black—down his face and the front of his white robe. Somehow, he was still alive, still aware of the world around him.

            “It deserted me,” he croaked, his voice no longer so commanding. “The power… gone. The Flame said I had failed… that I should die for it…”

            “Your ‘god’ is not a merciful one,” Hunter said softly. Despite everything, he could only pity this wreck of a man.

            Ak’har spat weakly at him, his single eye still hate-filled. Then he turned to Darius, reached out with trembling fingers. “My son… it is not too late…”

            Darius looked down at the old man. The expression on his face could no be defined. At last, he shook his head. “I am not your son. Your son is dead.”  He turned, looked to Hunter. “Let’s go.”

            There was an unspoken question in Hunter’s eyes. He recognized the old Seraph as a powerful enemy, weakened but not defeated. He remembered his broken wings, restored now but not the same. But at the same time, he did not want to kill this helpless old man, no matter how dangerous he might be. There had been too much killing already.

           Darius’s eyes flicked back towards his crippled grandfather, though his head did not turn. His face tightened. And then, after a long moment, he sighed. “Leave him.”

            Hunter nodded, inwardly pleased by his friend’s choice. He knew that for too long, Darius had killed for the slightest offense, often with little or no reason. The Huntlord was not used to leaving enemies behind him. But now this; this wasn’t purely for familial reasons, and it wasn’t a moment of impulsiveness. This was genuine change within the often ruthless Seraph.

            He had come a long way. They both had.

            He turned and followed Darius until the white-haired young man stopped. They were in the center of the crystal ring, the epicenter of whatever had occurred earlier that night. The Huntlord—former Huntlord—paused, then looked up to where the stars still gleamed faintly in the vast dome of the heavens overhead. Then he looked back, meeting Hunter’s gaze with grey eyes that, for the first time in years, shone with hope once again. He smiled faintly.

            “To the sky.”

            Hunter bowed his head, feeling the lightness of freedom fill his body. That sensation purged the last remnants of his captivity from his body; shed the heaviness and responsibility of self-sacrifice at last. His wings unfurled, springing from his back as slashes of ebon feathers against the lightening indigo of the night sky; restored and whole once more. He glanced over at Darius, who was slowly gathering a swirling current of air into a vortex at his feet. The Seraph nodded, and they both leapt skyward.

            As the ground fell away beneath them, Hunter couldn’t help but look back. Tiny figures were pouring out of the house to fill the courtyard. They would curse, and rage, recover their losses and their pride and then begin planning anew for the hunt. Now there would be a new quarry besides him for them to chase; and he knew that they would hunt him and Darius until the ends of time. Somehow, that didn’t seem so bad now.

            There would be a new Huntlord to lead them. Maybe it would be Ak’har once again, if they could save him before he died from loss of blood. It would be hard, even for Seraphs; the old one was nearly dead already. Hunter had been able to tell that when they stood beside the patriarch. But still, he sensed that Ak’har would live on, would live with scars, perhaps, but perhaps also with a little more wisdom concerning the Flame. The old man would devote the rest of his life to killing the renegade and the one who turned his prized grandson.

            Perhaps Ak’har would live. Perhaps not.  It mattered little. There would always be someone out there hungry for their deaths.

            It didn’t seem to matter so much any more.  

            The house, home to so many memories of fear and pain, grew smaller and smaller, lost to the night. And then they passed over the tree-lined ridge into the open sky and it was gone.

            Darius and Hunter flew onward, borne on wings and magic. Together, allies and friends once again, they would be stronger than they ever had been as enemies.

            Together.        

              

            *     *     *

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: PATH OF THE BETRAYER

 

            It was a long flight to where the valley’s secret—not so secret anymore—entrance was. In a state of near exhaustion, neither could make it in one stretch. After several miles were between them and the Seraph house the two landed in a secluded area of the forest.

            Hunter in particular hurt all over. Magical healing could only do so much; despite it all, his ribs and wings ached with remembered pain. The moment they touched down, he hobbled over to the shadows beneath the trees and sat, letting the feathers melt away into smoke. Darius sat down too a moment later, slightly away from the Reaper and in a spot where he could get up easily.

            Old habits died hard.

            The sun was rising, sending faint beams of light dancing through the trees. In this state of half light, the two both instinctively moved into the remaining deep shadows.

            Old habits…

            Overhead, birds were beginning to flit about from branch to branch. Their noisy squabbling filled the forest with life and sound. The old oaks raised their vibrant green leaves to the sun; wildflowers bloomed at the bases among the tall, crackling and sun-bleached meadow grass. Overall, the atmosphere of warmth and security was soothing.

            Darius broke the silence between them first. “They won’t come searching today. Not yet. Probably not for a long time, several days. We’ll be safe until then.”

            Listening but not saying much, Hunter settled more comfortably in the grass. The dry chaff prickled his back. “Will you come back to the valley, then?”

            “Maybe. Only for a day or so, at the most. Then I’ll leave.”

            “Where will you go after that?” Hunter raised his head, looked over to where his friend was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest. Darius glanced at him sharply.

            “Somewhere. Anywhere. I can survive no matter where I go, and I will have to run far to escape my family’s vengeance.”

            The dark young man sat up fully, gave Darius a significant glance. “You don’t always have to be on your own. You may survive, but you won’t really live.”

            “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

            “I know you didn’t,” Hunter persisted stubbornly, “but you should listen anyways. There’s more to life than surviving. Join us. We’ll be leaving anyways, the valley isn’t safe anymore. You can come with us.”

            Darius didn’t look at him. “I don’t want to. None of you can replace what I gave up.”

            “You still have a family, Darius.” The Seraph looked up with a tired expression on his face as Hunter continued, “You may have lost the Seraphs, but me and Andrea, Alysa and maybe even Elasion; we’re your family now, whether you want it or not. We all care about you, one way or another.”

            His voice softened. “Please. Come with us.”

            At those simple words, Darius turned his face away. “Maybe.” He settled down in the grass, seating himself in a nest of crushed stems. “We should sleep through the day, rest for more flying after nightfall. I’ll keep watch for the first few hours.”

            Hunter wanted to protest. If anything, his friend needed the sleep more after the magic he had been channeling. But at the same time, the idea of sleep sounded so appealing to him. He lay down in the grass, feeling the prickly stalks poke at him through the wispy material of the tunic he had formed of shadows while they were flying. Magic or no magic, nothing could replace simple material made of physical thread. But soon all thoughts were leaving his head as the calming peace of sleep swept up over him. He would just close his eyes for just… one… minute…

            He was asleep.

 

*     *     *

 

            Darius sat uncomfortably in the grass, waiting and watching as the minutes turned to hours and the forest around him came to life. Animals passed, either unaware or unafraid of the two motionless intruders. He sat still and silent as a stone.

            Looking over at the sleeping Hunter, he considered again that freely offered invitation. We’re your family now; we all care about you one way or another.

            You could come with us.

            But could he? Could he really abandon his old life that completely? He wanted to say yes, thinking of the brief time of peace he had known in that valley with his friends, but also had to wonder.

            All his life, he had been taught that the Reaper, the elves, anyone who aided either were evil. They offered him friendship now. Could he return it? If not, then why not?

            After all, he was the Betrayer, outcast from kin and Clan. What did it matter if he broke the laws of his people now?

            He had to consider seriously this offer of unconditional friendship. To decide the matter, he drew on a part of him that had been buried for years, one that had only recently started becoming heard again. It was that part of him that had wanted someone to miss him when he was gone, that part of him that had looked into Hunter’s eyes and seen the truth. That part of him, the long-ago buried empathy and humanity he had known as a child, said not to reject this offer. This was his chance to start again, to release the old mistrusts and guidelines of his life as a Seraph.

            He was Darius, now. Not the Huntlord, not the Seraph. Not even the one of the Prophecy, not anymore. He had changed fate, chose his own destiny.

            He was Darius Nightwalker. Nothing more. Free of anything else he had once been.

            He looked over at Hunter, his friend through it all. Not once had the other teenager ever judged him for what he was or what he did, and now he was beginning to understand why. When he looked at Hunter through the eyes of one who knows what it is to live the darkness, the eyes of a caring friend, he didn’t see the monster or the specter of the Reaper. All he saw was another kid, so much like him; slightly bedraggled after all that had happened, his face a little worn and tired but still young. Hunter wasn’t a monster. For all that he had been through, all he had done, his face still held an untainted innocence in sleep.

            Darius had to honestly wonder whether anyone could ever see that quality on his own face, even in that unconsciousness. He had murdered and tormented other humans, hated and killed his own kin, taken pleasure in the misery and pain of others. For all he had done in the past night, could anyone ever see innocence within him again?

            His eyelids drooped, and he realized that the sun had climbed nearly to its zenith. He needed sleep badly. Climbing to his feet, stiff from his long period of stillness, Darius carefully stepped out of his nest and walked to where Hunter was lying. He carefully shook the other young man’s shoulder.

            “Hunter…” his words turned into a wide yawn. “Hunter. Wake up.”

            After a moment or two, the Reaper’s eyes flicked open. He blinked sleepily, rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, and then looked up at Darius’s bright silhouette with a squint. “Time for my watch?” he asked.

            The Seraph nodded stiffly, trying to hide his weariness. “I just need a few hours of sleep. Wake me up an hour or so after midday; that’ll be enough sleep for me.”

            Hunter sat up, his back comfortably against the tree. “If you say so.” Just waking up, obviously still tired, he seemed more like the carefree high school kid he had been just a few years ago than he had in a while.

            Too exhausted to give this a second thought, Darius wearily walked back to his hollow in the grass and settled down. After all he had been through, the dry grass felt as soft as a featherbed. He couldn’t keep his eyes open for more than a second or two, just long enough to unbuckle Char from his belt and set it at his side, within easy reach. Then he curled up tightly and sank into the most restful sleep he had known in years.

            There were no nightmares this time.

            Maybe some evil was redeemable.

             

*     *     *

 

            The sun sunk low, the air cooling with the first slight chill of autumn that lay between the end of true summer and the onset of Indian summer in California. Somewhere in the grass, a cricket began to chirp noisily. The sound provided a melodious counterpoint to the sound of a slight breeze in the trees. Before long another tiny musician joined the sound, then another and still more until the entire forest was filled with the night music as the last fingers of golden light poked through the branches.

            Hidden in the tall grass, Darius twitched in his sleep. Hunter could hear the rustle of the slight movement.

            He was hidden well himself, though not trying to. In fact, he should be clearly visible; sitting upright and openly with his back leaned comfortably against the sloping trunk of an oak tree. His dark shadowstuff shirt was dark against the pale nutmeg of the rough, gnarled bark and should have been obvious.

            And yet, somehow, he was not. There was an unconscious sense of secrecy and concealment to him, one that prompted the young man’s actions and caused him to sit slightly differently than the average human with his body subtly attuned to the flowing contours of the tree. His very being seemed to radiate concealment, some sort of aura that deflected the eye. Had someone walked by, not looking for him, he would have been invisible to them.

            Still, it was not a conscious action and Hunter was focused on nothing more dire than appreciating the delicate beauty of the nighttime forest coming awake. When Darius twitched again, he only pricked his ear at the noise; then, after a moment’s consideration, glanced over towards the concealing grass, set in motion slightly now by the hidden Seraph’s slight movement.

            He couldn’t even think of Darius as a Seraph now, he realized with a faint, bemused smile. His friend wasn’t one of them anymore. Hunter sighed, then gracefully rose. His limbs all moved as smoothly as though he had been sitting for minutes rather than hours. He stretched briefly, extending his hands as though he would try and catch hold of the distant, rose-hued sky, and then walked over to where Darius was still curled. If they were to make the valley relatively early tonight, then now was the perfect time to depart.

            Darius sat up instantly at the sound of his approach, cocking his head to the side at the sound of crickets and the fiery sky. Then he looked at Hunter accusingly. “I said to wake me just past noon!”

            “I didn’t need the rest,” Hunter said. He stood impassively as Darius got up and strapped that distinctive sword around his waist once again, and then the Reaper walked out from under the trees into the open, waving grass of the meadow, his wings unfurling from the shadows at his back. He looked up, closed his eyes and let the breeze wash over him, and then brought his gaze back to earth. “The wind blows towards the valley. We should make good time.”

            “Then let’s go,” the white-haired teenager said decisively, the hem of his robe starting to whip about as the familiar breezes began to pick up around him. He rose into the air, slowly at first, but then began to pick up speed as the stronger wind above the trees caught him and began to push him along. Hunter turned into the moving air, jumped forwards and felt the usual sudden shifting of weight as his wings extended. Then he brought himself around in a tight turn and shot after his friend with a single flap of black feathers.

            With the added advantage of the wind at his back, he caught up with Darius in a few powerful wingbeats and shot ahead with a laugh. The magic-wielding human was up to the challenge; soon the two were mischievously racing, pulling ahead of one another in sudden bursts of blinding speed. Though the effort tired them, it paid off. Less than an hour after they had set off, the towering massif of stone that marked the outer boundaries of the valley loomed ahead, darker than the night sky.

            Hunter smiled at the sight of home. Already both were descending as they came around in a great wheeling circle that brought them to where a sheer face of smooth stone marked the hidden entrance.

            Both fliers set down lightly in the clear area around the door, breathing hard from their competition but grinning. A year or two ago, they had often held similar contests, although it had usually been arm wrestling or sprinting or something equally mundane. The Reaper grinned as he remembered one particularly pointless contest. Both had licked the wrappers from cinnamon gum and stuck them to their forehead. Typical stubbornness had prompted them to leave the burning wrappers there until they both had pounding headaches and bright red marks on their foreheads.

            He saw that Darius, too, was smirking as though he remembered similar competitions between the two. They still had their memories in common to prove that coexistence between Reaper and Seraph—ex-Seraph—was not an impossibility.

            After a second, the pale young man stepped forward to where the masterfully crafted illusion concealed the entrance. He walked through the seemingly impenetrable stone without a second thought and Hunter quickly followed.

            The passageway was the same as it had ever been; a warmly illuminated tunnel through the mountainside. Ahead, the peaceful dimness of the night beckoned them forward. Both Hunter and Darius walked side by side here, their booted feet making no sound on the dusty stone beneath their feet which had been worn smooth by the passing of countless feet. After a moment or two, they were emerging into the valley.

            Hunter sighed, unable to hold back a wide smile of welling joy. He looked to his companion, who was gazing around with a similar if more muted expression on his face, then turned his face to the trees. Deep inside the forest, he could see the dim glimmer of lamplight. Andrea had not given up hope for him. She was still waiting.

            “We’re home.”

 

*     *     *

 

            The trees were dark and filled with shadows. As Hunter and Darius passed underneath the spaced roof of branches dark shapes seemed to flit overhead, creatures of the night recognizing two of their own. Neither was edgy. This place was safe for them. As Reaper and Seraph, they had both learned to blend with the darkness and feel at home there. The night was their time.

            When they got closer to the small trees that served as houses, they could see clearly that one light was still burning. The illumination wavered through the windows with the unmistakable guttering light of a candle. Finally, Hunter could wait no longer. He broke into a run. “Andrea!”

            A shadow passed over the light, and momentarily the tapestry hung over the door was pulled aside. A familiar face looked out, filled with an expression of mixed hope and disbelief. “Hunter?” Andrea said incredulously.

            Then she saw the figure running out of the night towards her. The girl’s face shone. “HUNTER!”

            She ran to meet him, ignoring the twigs and stones beneath her bare feet. The two came together at the edge of the clearing, embracing one another as though nothing else in the world mattered. Even from where he was, Darius could see the tears of relief and love pouring down Andrea’s face and knew that Hunter’s would be the same. The two lovers were speaking softly to each other, words of caring and hope. They were truly blessed with one another.

            He continued his slow, quiet walk back into the ring of candlelight. There would be no one waiting for him.

            Amazingly, there was. At the edge of the trees, another form detached itself from the shadows under the canopy and moved out to meet him. Alysa. His stomach roiled. Of all of them, she was the one he had most dreaded explaining himself to. He turned his head away in shame and said nothing. There was nothing he could say that could possibly justify what he had done.

            But to his surprise, the elven woman did not deliver an icy condemnation as he had feared she would. She didn’t hit him, didn’t judge; did nothing that he might have expected. Instead, she placed a gentle hand on his cheek and turned his face to look at her.

            The elf’s beautiful features were smooth and clear of any suspicion or doubt. Instead, she spoke simply and plainly. “I do not know what has happened over these last three days,” Alysa said quietly. Darius flinched aside, but had to look back when she continued, “But I do not need to know here and now. You will tell me when you can and I will respect that. For now…”

            Her voice trailed off, and she glanced at Hunter and Andrea who still held onto one another, standing together like one. After a moment, Alysa turned back to the one she stood before. “…You have brought Hunter back alive. That is all that matters.” Standing tall, she brought his face close with that same gentle hand and kissed him tenderly. “I am glad you are back, Darius.”

            She would forgive him for what he had done. Forgive him, even after the depth of his deception; even after how she must have felt, knowing what they had shared between them and then he had turned around and betrayed them all. His heart, shielded and hidden away from the world for so long, felt a twinge of pain at the realization of that.

            But at the same time his mind was whirling; in part from that precious kiss and in part from this forgiveness. Maybe she did feel something for him. She loved him, in spite of it all, and he…

            Maybe he loved her too.

            He gave her a tentative, almost shy smile. She smiled right back. “Are you here to stay this time?”

            Was he? Could he live here in the knowledge of what he’d done, the pain he had caused to his ‘friends’? This issue was far from resolved, he knew; and his story was not nearly over yet. The ghosts of his past would haunt him for the rest of his life. Could he ever find comfort in the company of others or let his old life go?

            Darius hesitated, and then spoke quietly but confidently. “I think so.”

            She smiled, and to him that was the greatest gift of all.

             

*     *     *

 

…But the darkness shall not be what is assumed.

 

And only when twin angels of fire and night achieve balance

And see through the chains of their ancient heritage

To rise above and master their own fates

Can the true light drive back the first darkness

As the burning torch banishes the shadows.

And one great destiny shall be fulfilled.

And the first of the immortal ones shall fall.

And the eighteenth moon of the Age of the Raven shall be over and done.

 

 

END

 

 

Author's Note

A note for reviewers: well, see the description. This is a few years old, and written in a few brief all-nighter frenzies of writing a month or so removed from one another. It came to being in chunks; I wrote some near the middle, then the end, went back and filled the gap, and then wrote the beginning.
This said, I'm sorry if things don't make a ton of sense here. It's entirely in its raw form--editing this thing really requires me having let people read it--and I'm frankly terrified to post it, but... well, the die is cast.
Do with it what you will.

Reviews

[sorentense]

Darius' character development is excellent, and I loved Hunter's unusual personality. You've got quite a story built up here, one that I would definitely love to read in its entirety. Some of your phrasing gets either awkward or redundant, but a careful rereading would fix that. You've done a fantastic job creating a complex world and a fairly intricate plotline. Congratulations!