They reached the building in the shadow of the mountain. It was a huge dome, with an arched doorway before them. They walked through a long tunnel; Corban gazed about in wonder, his hand touching a column that the doorway was attached to. It seemed to pulse, almost as if it were living, breathing. He lifted his fingers away, shaking off a mucus-like fluid. The whole building was carved from the same material. The walls were thin — the diffuse glow of light passed through them — with thick curving columns bracing the tunnel like huge, membranous ribs. The columns throbbed, as if blood were passing through them.
They stepped out of the tunnel; a domed roof made from the same material arched high above. A wide space opened before them, punctuated by great pillars rising high to the roof. About them were more of the winged creatures. They fell silent as Corban and his captor passed by, a pathway opening amongst them.
They came to a set of wide steps that stretched across the entire room. They climbed them; with each step a mounting dread grew in Corban.
At the top he stopped, Rhin walking forwards a few paces. She knelt before a throne and the creature seated upon it, then abased herself, arms outstretched, palms flat on the ground. Corban just stared. The throne looked to be carved from the same fabric as the rest of the building, its legs and back looking like the looping coils of a great snake, like the white wyrm Corban had seen in the tunnels beneath Dun Carreg. He did not want to look at the creature sat upon this throne — everything in him trying to look away, to turn and run — but fear held him tight. Against his will his eyes rose.
Upon the chair sat a great winged man. He wore a coat of mail, black and oily. His skin was pale, like all the others of his kind, flaking like the scales of a snake. Dark veins mapped his alabaster flesh. A sword lay across his lap, the hint of smoke rising from its blade. All this Corban saw in a glance, his gaze drawn to the man’s face. It was as pale as milk, all sharp bones and chiselled angles, coldly handsome. Silver hair was pulled tight into a warrior braid that curled across one shoulder. But it was the eyes that drew and held Corban — black as a forest pool at midnight, no iris, no pupil, just a pulsing malice. Something lurked beneath those eyes, something feral, a barely contained rage.
He regarded the woman and Corban with those black eyes. Corban felt a cold fist clench deep in his belly.
‘On your knees,’ a voice said from behind him, and a blow hit the back of his legs. He dropped to the ground.
‘What have you brought me, faithful servant?’ the creature on the chair asked.
‘A great prize, my lord,’ the lady said. She kept her eyes down. ‘I believe I have found the enemy’s avatar. The Seren Disglair.’
The creature leaned forward, eyes boring into Corban. He took a deep sniff, a black tongue flickering from his mouth, tasting the air.
‘Yes. I recognize his stink.’ He laughed. ‘Rhin, your reward will be great indeed for this.’
‘Who are you? What are you?’ Corban asked, the words coming out as a whisper. Deep down he knew, a name surfacing like a fist from water.
‘We have met before. Do you not recognize me?’ the creature asked. It rose and stepped from the throne, sinuous and graceful, the ground rippling with each step. With the wave of a hand its shape changed, shimmering and blurring. Then a man was standing before Corban, the wings replaced by a travel-stained cloak. Old, handsome, a neat beard and lines of laughter about his eyes. Yellow eyes.
Corban did remember him. ‘I saw you, at the oathstone in the Baglun.’
‘Yes. I offered you my friendship once. My patronage. The chance to side with me. That chance has passed now. I have found another.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Yes, you do. You just do not want to. You humans are all the same. Willing to live a lie, any lie, as long as it is prettier than the truth. It’s one of the few things that I love about your race.’ He held his sword loosely in one hand.
‘Who are you?’ Corban repeated, more a last denial than a question.
‘I am Asroth, Lightbearer, Fallen One, Death of Nations,’ the man said. ‘Death of you.’
He reached out and laid a broken-nailed hand upon Rhin. A shiver ran through her body.
‘Stand,’ he said to her. ‘You must go back to your world of flesh, and slay him. Cut his heart from his body. I shall keep his spirit here, and talk a while until you do the deed.’
‘As you command, my lord,’ Rhin said.
A noise filled the dome, a long, eerie note, a horn blast.
‘To arms,’ a voice rang out as the horn faded. There was a great cracking sound, as of a thousand whips struck at the same time, the wings of all the creatures in the hall spreading. The Kadoshim, thought Corban. The host of angels that fell with Asroth.
A noise sounded above, high on the dome, a concussive boom, and a hole appeared, shards of whatever the building was made of exploding inwards. Figures poured through the hole, warriors with great white wings. One threw a spear and it pierced the ground between Corban and this creature that named himself Asroth. It stood quivering.
The man before Corban blurred again, his shape changing, cloak spreading, transforming into wings.
‘You dare to come here,’ he snarled, pointing his black sword upwards, then with a scream of rage launched himself at the invading warriors. The sound of it hurt Corban’s ears.
Battle erupted all around as the new winged arrivals fell howling down upon Asroth’s host. They were clearly outnumbered, but surprise and the advantage of height helped to drive them through the first waves that rose to meet them. Before Corban had time to move, a handful of them were alighting about him, forming a ring of shield, spear and sword.
He felt something tugging on his arm, turned to see Rhin trying to drag him back down the stairs by the red cord that was still attached to him. One of the warriors about him saw and struck the cord with a sword. There was a cracking noise and the cord detonated in a spray of blood. Rhin fell backwards, toppling down the stairs, disappearing amidst the conflict. Corban dragged in a juddering breath, felt new energy fill him. Before, he had felt terrified, frozen by that fear, but now the urge to fight rose up in him, coiling in his limbs. He saw a spear fallen on the ground, the white wings of its owner twitching as it lay there, a deep hole in its chest, something dark and slimy oozing from the wound.
He grabbed the spear. It was lighter than he expected, the shaft smooth and warm. Air beat down upon him and he looked up, saw one of Asroth’s Kadoshim above him, wings beating hard. It reached out to pluck him from his circle of protectors. Corban stabbed up with the spear, pierced the outstretched hand, the blade carrying on, raking a line across the creature’s ribs. It screeched at him and pumped its wings, rising quickly. Corban yanked the spear free, something wet splattering his face.
Screams and battle-cries filled the room, echoing about the dome, so loud that Corban wanted just to curl up on the floor and cover his ears. Everywhere was furious battle. More of the white-winged warriors were streaming through the hole high above.
They are the Ben-Elim, the angels of Elyon. Am I dreaming all of this?
For a dream it seemed real enough — he could touch, hear and smell the violence surrounding him. Figures filled the air, striking at one another, grappling, spinning, many falling to crash into the ground. The circle around him was hard pressed, blades clashing, limbs being severed, dark ichor that seemed to pass for blood spraying in great fountains.