~~
Nephilim knocked at the Summoning Room's door an hour later. She had brought her emotions, the mixed shame and anger, back in line by this time and was able to talk.
“Come in,” she said, no more than a slight quaver in her voice.
He entered and found her sitting on the floor, staring at him. Without comment, he stepped inside and sat in front of her. He wore his Woodsman's outfit, and his hair shone as though recently washed. But his eyes were red-rimmed and the skin under his eyes was drawn tightly against his cheekbones.
“You and Applekill worked it out then?” he asked.
For a moment she doesn't know what Nephilim meant. Then it clicked. Her mind had been so occupied by her encounter with the... with him that she'd forgotten all about showing off to Nephilim. And apparently he could tell just by looking at her anyway, ruining the surprise. So she simply said, “Yes, we did.”
“Good,” Nephilim replied. “Then what would you like to know?”
She frowned. “Excuse me?”
Nephilim shrugged. “I promised we'd do things a little differently, and I've not given you any opportunity to ask questions. So ask one. I'll tell you as much about a subject as I feel I can.”
This was surprising but pleasant. There were a great number of things she'd been wanting to ask, mostly about Nephilim's history. But he had refused to tell her about his past, and she doubted he'd break that pattern this morning.
Instead, she decided to ask about something she and Applekill had debated a few times. “Explain elements to me, Nephilim,” Maya said. “You said that Warmth changed my element. So what does that mean?”
The question surprised him, but he smiled as though she'd passed some kind of test. “Elements? The elements each Spirits displays indicates how its human controls Cyrus Force. So someone with the water element works by directing its flow like a cardiovascular system. Sorry, your heart, blood, and veins. But the metal element signifies someone who works in separate pieces of concentrated energy. There are a great many elements, perhaps an infinite amount. And they can reveal a lot about a person.”
She coughed, clearing her throat. “What about fire? What does that signify?”
“Wildness, barely-controlled power, and... passion.”
Maya frowned at this. The tone was odd, wistful perhaps.
Nephilim noticed her confusion and coughed. “Anyway, not everyone has a recognisable element. It could be happiness, or red, or an animal. You could have only one element or several. They are the manifestation of how you manifest your Cyrus Force.”
“Is that why you have so many Spirits?”
He blinked and shook his head. So she tried a different question. “Then why did Warmth change my element?”
“Because you now have an... unnatural element,” Nephilim said. “From Applekill's form, I'd assume your element was going to be her: a partner, maybe flesh. But now your energy has a discordant frequency, which makes your Cyrus Force more powerful.”
“Discordant?”
“Discord, it means the opposite of a chord, of a musical note. Music is made up of pleasant tones, but discords are...”
“Unpleasant?”
Nephilim took a moment to phrase his answer. “Not unpleasant, no. Rough. Jagged. Instead of being a nice, even blade, your energy is now barbed and vicious and it will deal more damage. It's disruptive. Do you see?”
Maya looked away from Nephilim and considered this. “Yeah, I do see. It's like having a jagged tip to an arrow. It does more damage coming in and a lot more coming out.”
“Exactly. It gives you an advantage.”
She nodded to herself and turned back to Nephilim.
As she did, a Spirit appeared on Nephilim's shoulder. Small, dark, it had a human body and a jagged approximation of a turtle's shell on its back. She stared, fascinated. Every inch of it was straight lines and definite angles, there wasn't a single curve or smooth arc to it.
And it was strong as well. The power of the Cyrus Force within it was oppressive, like steam in a busy kitchen. It was nothing like the bird Spirit. This must be one of his combat Spirits.
But it wasn't just the power it gave off that held Maya rapt: she had to wonder what its element was after their conversation. The bird could have been any of a number of things but this one was so... definite. Was it vectors? Shapes?
“Nephilim,” it said, firing out its syllables like deep, burning arrows.
Nephilim turned. His eyebrows rose. “Render? What's going on?”
Render's octagon eyes darted towards Maya, hexagon pupils widening at the sight of her. “We thought you should know that Peace has manifested herself in Aureu.”
“What?! Do you know why?” he asked, jumping to his feet.
“I don't. She's not answering my communications.”
He rubbed his hands through his long hair. “She’d only do that to protect Aureu. That means...” He turned to Maya. “Are you certain there were no signs of an invasion when you left? No, why am I asking, of course there weren't, you'd have told me if there were. They must have attacked in the last few weeks...”
She nodded, thinking of Chain, her parents, Seed, the people of the Axe... They could all be dead. All of them. Dead. Maya put her hand to her sword, balled her other fist, and Applekill appeared beside her. Anger twisted her Spirit's face.
Nephilim stopped and put his hands on his hips. “I'm left with no choice. You both must go today. Peace will not last long. You'll have to go now.”
“Both?”
“Yes. Thank you, Render. I'll wake him and explain the situation.”
Maya didn't mean to sound so surprised. She felt herself colouring at his matter-of-fact tone. But she wouldn't have expected him to send a sick person into battle. His recovery must be further along than Maya had thought. Perhaps he'd been taught to sustain himself with Cyrus Force, which Maya felt was theoretically possible. Or maybe Nephilim had healed him.
Render nodded and shrank until it disappeared from sight. The room felt lighter without the pressure that so dense a collection of Cyrus Force emanated.
“Follow me, Maya,” Nephilim barked then sprinted away. The Summoning Room door opened for him quickly, and he ran into the Arboretum.
Maya followed at a sprint. “Where are we–?”
She stopped asking her question when one of the Arboretum's immaculate walls slid aside and revealed a new room. Of course! That explained a lot about Nephilim's absence... Though it also raised other questions about this home of Nephilim's.
These questions were silenced when she stepped into the new room. What struck Maya most was the difference in lighting: the Arboretum was warm and inviting but this room was sterile, clear, as though someone had boiled sunlight and kept only what actually lit the world in this room. The strange devices, jars, and tables were lesser shocks to her – her only frame of reference for them was knowing the Bureau would consider them blasphemous – but the contrast between this light and the Arboretum's shocked.
“Oh my...” Applekill said, tugging on Maya's robes.
Their eyes met, three healthy, one charred, and the Spirit pointed to a table where the man she shouldn't call drunkard lay. Maya hadn't spotted him initially, again had ignored him. Guilty, she approached. He was attached by tubes and wires to a machine that Nephilim fiddled with. What was it? Maya wanted to ask but wouldn't. If she didn't deserve to know his name, how could she expect to have the right know this?
Whatever it was, it must explain how he could come with her.
“Nephilim?” he asked. The lighting robbed him of his colour and drew him as a pale ghost. A well-groomed ghost, one who looked healthier even than he had this morning, but a ghost nonetheless.
“Morning. You're heading out. Aureu is under attack.”
The drunkard nodded, then looked Maya up and down. “Is Maya ready?”
Nephilim stopped fiddling and examined Maya. Applekill did the same, so all three of them were staring at her. Th
e weight of their attention made her blush. How could she be the liability with her Contegon training?
“And you, will you be ready?” she asked him.
“There is no need for you to worry about me.”
“Yep, he's cured.” Nephilim stood away from the machine and the wires and pipes disengaged from his body, leaving only bruised welts. “And to answer your question, she's ready enough. There's a lot you'll learn through doing.”
“And you, Spirit? What are your thoughts?” he asked Applekill.
Applekill grinned. “Oh, she's ready.”
He nodded, so calm.
“Why the sudden urgency, Nephilim?” he asked. “What's happened?”
“Years and year ago one of the First Thoughts stashed herself in Aureu. She was hidden amongst the people to protect the city in case it were in danger. She did this as part of the Agreement. And now she has manifested herself, which means she has cause to protect Aureu from something. Probably Brya's forces.”
The drunkard nodded.
“Who's Brya?” Maya asked. The name had been vaguely mentioned, but never expanded upon. It irked her that the drunkard knew more than she did.
“Details,” Nephilim replied. This had been his standard response when she'd asked something about the past he didn't want to share.
Maya ignored her annoyance at being dismissed. Instead, she thought of Chain. She hoped Chain would go down fighting for Sol if she were to die today. She hoped that her life would end the way she'd always hoped for.
“When do we leave?” she asked.
“As soon as possible. Get your stuff, both of you. There's one more thing I want to do before you go.”
The drunkard stood and walked away. Maya remained.
“What's the plan?” she asked Nephilim.
“You two will leave to fight the Disciples,” Nephilim said, abandoning the machines he had been toying with. He looked at her, though he wouldn't meet her gaze. “Together, you'll defend Aureu and then lead a war against Brya's forces, the ones you call the Disciples. It will be a long war, perhaps decades, but you'll beat them.”
“You talk like you won't be seeing us again for a while,” Maya said slowly.
Nephilim put his hands behind his back. “I won't be seeing you again at all.”
Maya took a step forward. “Excuse me?”
He stepped back. “I've interfered too much by training you and... and him, Maya. I can do nothing more. Or, more accurately, I will not do anything more. It's bad enough that I formed this Woodsman legend out of a need for... but anyway, Geos needs to grow before I... before you're all ready.”
This was not what Maya had expected.
Nephilim then took a step forward and held her shoulders, lowered himself to her eye level. “There's so much you don't know, Maya, so much I can't talk about. There is this... history, one which must wait hidden until its lessons can be learned. And I've still got a lot of grieving and penance to do.”
“That sounds pretty self-indulgent.”
Nephilim surprised her by laughing, an odd and bitter sound. “If you think that spending as long as I have in isolation is self-indulgent then you truly have no idea about the world.”
Maya watched him for a moment. “I'm sorry. You're right, I don't know the context.”
“Thank you. Now go, we don't have much time.”
She waited for a moment, watched him stand tall and proud with his hands behind his back once more, and then ran to the Summoning Room.
After collecting her weapons and possessions, she ran into the Arboretum and stood beside her partner in the fight against the Disciples. And she would think of him as her partner now, it was the least he deserved.
For some reason, he wore loose trousers and nothing more. His body, so well-toned for a man his age, was white and hairless.
“Aren't you going to wear... something?” she asked him.
“No,” he replied
“I want to review everything before I go.” Nephilim interrupted, appearing from that secret room. His eyes darted to her partner. Maya suspected that Nephilim wouldn't be reviewing everything. Her annoyance at the secrecy washed over her: she was on a mission, had a purpose, and her conditioning had taken over. Her place was to save Geos, save everyone... and to make Nephilim proud.
“The attack on Aureu was expected, but it has come sooner than I'd thought. There will be a lot of Cyrus Force flying around, so you might find yourself swamped when you start defending the city. So act obviously and loudly, leave no mistake that something beyond the norm is happening, and make sure to purge any Cyrus Force which attaches to you. Showing yourselves as miracles of... Sol... will help this as the emotional energy won't seek you out. It's... complex, and I have no time to explain why but trust me on this.”
“Got it,” Maya said.
“After defending Aureu, your plan remains the same: teach others about Cyrus Force and Spirits, but do so in a way which attaches the... glory to Sol. This is key, as you in particular know Maya. Do not break this rule unless all would fall apart, and I mean all.
“Finally, lead Geos to destroy the Disciples, every single one of them. None must remain. Understood?”
They both nodded, almost in harmony.
“What about this Brya? Do we need to know anything about her?” Maya asked.
Nephilim shook his head. “By that time you need to deal with her, you should have enough combined strength to defeat her.
“This is your fight now. I cannot get involved or else... Things may escalate further than anyone can handle. Don't get complacent as Brya has the knowledge and power to destroy this entire planet. Never forget that. ”
His tone indicated this was a direct order. “I'll never forget that,” Maya replied.
“Good. I know you don't have a lot to go on, but I have faith in you. Both of you. Now, I have one thing I want you to take before you go.”
Nephilim raised his hands, and green jumbles of Cyrus Force appeared in each palm, metallic in places, wooden in others, but also liquid and fire and colour and taste. Their potency made her eyes water and almost choked her.
As she forced her lungs to take in air, overriding her shock, Nephilim balled his hands and the energy vanished. No, that was wrong: it concentrated, hiding within his fingers.
“Give me your hands.”
Her partner extended his languidly. Maya put her less-favoured hand out.
“Take this, it's some of my Cyrus Force. I don't know if you'll need it, but it'll certainly help make things flashy.”
His hands fired out and grabbed theirs. Maya's reactions were too finely-honed to allow this: she moved out of the way without even thinking. But he tried again and slapped the compressed energy into onto her hand at the second attempt.
Her world then became a spectrum of emotions tinged with Cyrus Force green. What he had given her was more than energy: it was thoughts, feelings, and memories. In some ways, it was a part of his soul. She understood his love for her, strange though it was from someone she would never have thought of romantically, and how proud he was of her. She knew he trusted her to do the right things and he believed in her.
He had tried to give them not just power, but the confidence to use it well. But this was just the surface, what he wanted her to feel. Maya could sense his entire person in that moment: rage, depression and self-loathing, mountains of bile compared to the placid hills he presented. He hated himself, felt so guilty... for something he could barely comprehend.
Through this boost, she could tell that Nephilim was constantly close to suicide, that the thought came to him regularly. She could almost taste his despair. And it stemmed from a secret, an act so dark that it consumed him. Which must have been the Woodsman's inherited guilt.
How... how did he cope? How could he live with this inside him, ripping his mind and heart to shreds like wet paper?
The colours faded, and she saw Nephilim, straight and proud, fighting everything inside him. Maya grabbe
d him, held him tight, sick with every emotion of his still pouring through her, but needing to comfort him.
Nephilim seemed confused at her sudden attention. He broke the embrace and held her at arms' length to look into her eyes. “Are you... are you okay?” His words were plain as before, but he soon saw the truth and couldn't keep the charade up.
His eyes widened. He looked away.
“I'm fine.” Her words were surer than she was. “I'm just going to miss you. Nephilim. Remember that.”
Silence. He didn't want to let go of her.
“I hate to break this moment, but I assume this boost has a limited life-span?”
Maya looked at her new partner and offered him a guilty smile. “Good point, we don't have time for... protracted farewells.”
She stepped away from Nephilim. His arms dropped to his sides, and he sighed. “The... boost... will only last a few hours, yes, so I suggest you get going. I won't wish you luck: you don't need it. Just win, okay? Win.”
“We will,” he partner said.
“We will,” Maya repeated.
“Good. Then go.”
They went.
41
Chain felt embarrassed at having broken down. And as she'd sobbed, as she'd poured out her pain, her sadness was replaced by anger. By fury. The Heretic had done this to her: if she had stayed then Chain would have never been alone and in an odd state of mind at that luncheon or at the Ten Days Ball. She would have seen Wasp for who he was. The Heretic had knocked her off-balance with her selfish heresy.
Sol would have still made Chain a stay-at-home to protect Geos. She knew that now. But the wrenching, scything pain in her chest would never have come to pass. A bright, brilliant ball of rage burned in her now for that monster, one that would grow with every passing day.
Aureu was morbidly silent, and it stank of fear as she ran to the Cathedral. Her footsteps echoed between the empty streets. The city should be full of life, smell like breakfast and endeavour, but not that morning. Everyone who usually made the elaborate and mouth-watering breakfasts Sol's Greeting was accustomed to now hid.
As Chain approached the gate into Sol's Haven, she finally found noise, activity, as a crowd surrounded the gate. They were demanding entry, screaming at the Guards and Shields keeping them at pike's length from behind hastily-erected barriers. It was chaos.
She was in no mood to deal with this. Marching into the throng, she ordered people aside. Those at the back of the crowd realised what was going on, who she was, and parted. Again, her Station was carrying the weight it ought to. It felt gratifying to watch the rich, the well-born, and their Servants do as she ordered.
The Shields spotted her pushing through the throng and frank relief crossed their faces.
Wordlessly, Chain climbed onto the barricades. A swirl of hopeful and confused faces greeted her.
“People of Aureu,” she started. “Good, honest, Sol-loving people. Return to your homes. If there is trouble, we will protect you, all of you. Your presence is understandable, but it pulls vital resources away from efforts... elsewhere.”
The crowd listened cowed, humble. Chain felt she was doing Sol's will again, and it made her heart swell. “I know of the rumours you've heard, but so far they are just rumours. If there is any news, you will be amongst the first to know.”
They stared at her blankly. Chain found her patience with them eroding: they were her people, people of wealth and class, so they ought to know better. No one should have to guard this gate. The people of Sol's Greeting should find it easier to trust Sol having been so blessed by him. It felt like they were committing heresy, but, and she tried very hard to understand this, they were just frightened.
“I also know that you're scared, but don't be. Sol will protect you. Go home. You have families and friends to look after. If you must do something, join the Militia. Thank you.”
Chain stared at them expectantly. Under her gaze, the crowd eased away, returned to their homes or to act like the people of privilege and Station they were. Some asked the Shields about joining the Militia, talking over the length of a pike, though they were probably Servants.
Chain stepped off the barricades then knocked on a small door within the great gate they protected. Built into the door was a tiny hatch, which slipped aside to reveal nervous eyes: most likely a Shield. He eyed her for a moment – and it was a he from the brow and thick eyebrows – and his eyes widened when he saw her robes. The door opened.
Chain stepped through, dignified, unruffled.
The Shield slammed the portal behind her, and then barred it. They were serious about keeping Sol's Haven safe. He turned, bald, freckled, scared, and acquiesced.
“Contegon, you're all meeting at the Cathedral's entrance.”
Chain nodded as though she hadn't been told. “Thank you, Shield. May Sol be with you.”
He blushed. He was maybe forty, and he blushed at her. Chain marched away, unable to look at him.
Dozens of Contegons ran between quickly-erected tents when she arrived at the Cathedral: some took messages for the Bureau; others brought documents; many joined conversations with insights gained from other groups. This constant flow was a full War Council, a microcosm of the divine Bureau, writhing like a bag of snakes. Designed to filter battle plans through collective wisdom and training, such events were usually held once a year, but the Bureau must have called an emergency War Council.
Seeing this activity, this holiness, Chain knew deep in her gut that she was where Sol wanted her to be. Quickly she was spotted and approached by a middle-aged Contegon, one with a worry-worn face and knee-length hair.
“What's your name, Contegon?” she asked, her voice exasperated and her face red. She was a stay-at-home who had never expected real work. Why else would she have been given a simple job like checking names and find it so stressful?
“Chain Justicar. Which group am I assigned to?”
The stay-at-home looked down at maybe fifty names and followed her line of sight with her finger, reading with painful difficulty. “Chain Justicar, Chain Justicar, Chain Justicar,” she whispered, then prodded the document hard with a triumphant laugh.
“There you are. Chain Justicar, you're... Hang on...” The stay-at-home checked the list again. Twice. “It says you're with Councillor White in the Overall Strategy Tent. It's number four.” She gave Chain a withering look, must have recognised her tainted name; then went back to her own tasks with an exaggerated dash, wanting to look busier than she was.
Chain sighed, and then went to find Councillor White's tent. There were dozens of them erected around the Council, and it would take a moment to orient herself. Especially amongst all this activity: the atmosphere was filled with the frenetic lightning of creativity and quick-thinking. Walking across the Cathedral's cobbled square, the War Council's frantic atmosphere infected her as she sweated, breathed heavily and felt Sol's own urgency in her blood. Truly, this was a holy time.
As she sought tent four, Chain wondered if the Solaric Council had retained discretion to veto plans. Or had they forgone that right? It was customary for them to have the final say but Chain hoped for the latter as political meddling would be counter-productive at this point.
Like the other tents, the Overall Strategy Tent was just thick canvas held up by a metal exoskeleton, designed for quick deployment rather than aesthetics. Chain thought it looked like a Disciple's soul, a stretched form hanging limp from a cruel frame.
With a deep breath to rid herself of such hysterical thoughts, she stepped inside. An enormous model of Aureu, rough wood and ancient brass with a white marble Cathedral watching over it, dominated the tent. Fifty model Disciples, an incredible number, stood before the Planted Forest, opposite the miniature Journey and north of the ocean. Their gold was the only shine and shimmer on this dull day.
Here, the battle was being envisaged; their victory planned. They could not win the battle at this planning stage, but they could certainly lose it.
&
nbsp; She entered in time to hear the tail end of a thought.
“...telling you that they must have some method of crossing the Journey. They must still suffer in water: it's unthinkable that they'd be so improved,” said an elderly Contegon, her hair grey, short and wiry.
“That's just not right, Zip. They will attack us from range. Destroy everything, absolutely everything. That's how this will go. The Disciples will try for easy, organised annihilation,” another Contegon replied. Much younger, maybe a recent Advanced Class graduate, she too had short hair, but it was styled into sweeping curves, making her far more striking than her arguments.
They both gesticulated at the wooden model as though it were proof of their logic. It was then that Chain noticed that Councillor White stood off to the side, listening intently to both. At least, that's how she tried to look. Maybe she was just holding her tongue.
No one noticed her arrival, so she had to announce it. “Contegon Chain Justicar, reporting for duty, sires,” she said, then acquiesced and awaited a response.
The bickering stopped. The Contegons looked at her. “Are you sure?” the younger asked. “Aren't you... Yes, I think you are...”
Chain blushed, but stayed quiet. She must be here at Councillor White's request. Until addressed by the Councillor, she would wait and bear the shame. Maybe this was a test set by the Councillor, of her and of the other two, and she would not be the one to fail.
“Oasis, she's obviously lost. Were you maybe supposed to go to the Placement Tent?”
Councillor White held out a hand to Chain, her expression morphing into a smile. “Zip, that's harsh. I added Contegon Justicar into this group.”
Chain walked across the tent and helped the Councillor to stand, despite the fact that she knew Councillor White needed no such help. When she was stood, her back to the other Contegons, White rolled her eyes. Chain squeezed her hand in reply. The Overall Strategy Tent wasn't where the bright torches shone. The Councillor must already have a plan, but was probably bowing to Council pressure to hold a War Council.
Politics... Chain hated politics.
The younger Contegon stepped forward, unabashed. “Contegon Justicar, I'm Contegon Oasis Slice. What are your thoughts?” She gestured to the model. “How will the Disciples attack?”
Chain turned to miniature Aureu, and the models menacing it. Snow's testimony came to mind as she considered the situation. There was only one conclusion, one she had to keep at arm's length as the enormity of it threatened to crush her.
“I agree with Oasis. The Disciples will bombard Aureu, hit us until nothing is left. They will destroy Aureu. But I also think you're right, Zip, that they must be able to cross the Journey because they'll want to capture surviving civilians, as they did on the Western Front.”
“How did you hear such things?” Councillor White asked, her voice clipped.
Chain looked at Councillor White and swallowed. There was no point in lying. “I heard the testimony of Snow, Shield-General Scar's grandson, who helped refugees escape Call. He was of the opinion that the Disciples are following pre-Cleansing rules of war, mentioned 'philosophers' from the before and had some convincing examples.”
The other Contegons looked at Councillor White, who flexed her fingers sharply. “I had not realised you were the one who rescued him.”
“Councillor, I'm sorry if I–”
Councillor White ended Chain's sentence with a sharp stare. “This doesn't leave the tent, but yes, we think this Second Invasion was designed to conquer, not destroy. Lun only knows why, but that's the theory.”
Contegon Slice coughed. “In which case, they'll bombard... here. Us. Sol's Haven and the Cathedral.” She looked at the model, nodding. “That makes the most sense. Remove the leadership, sever the lines of command. If they wish to conquer, then we're the bombardment targets. We need to evacuate the Solaric Council and the Guardian.”
Councillor White nodded. “Do you both agree?”
Zip approached the model and rubbed her hand across the rough surface, the undulations of Geos. “I am forced to concur that they will destroy Sol's Haven.”
“Chain?”
“I agree too.”
All eyes were now on the model as they each imagined Aureu without Sol's Haven, without the Cathedral, the Chamber, all the beauty both held. The Contegons' first priorities were to the Guardian and the Council, and evacuating them without causing panic would be tricky, but leaving these symbols, these ideals, to die... It would feel wrong.
“I'm glad because that's what I thought. The Council will be... happy we came to a consensus,” Councillor White said. She then reached into her robes and pulled out a document and a few pencils, which she offered to each Contegon in turn.
Chain took the paper first. It was a declaration that stated that the Overall Strategy Tent agreed with the 'radical and unprecedented' evacuation of Sol's Haven, to the Contegons taking command of Aureu until the Council and the Guardian were safe. Then, when the Disciples attacked, Aureu would be evacuated. The survivors would become nomadic, live in the Gravit Mountains, and defy the Disciples to the last.
Sol, it was painful to even read such a thing. It was the miserable demise of her people forecast in shorthand.
It then struck Chain as to why Councillor White had brought two dense Contegons and young, tainted Chain into her Overall Strategy Tent: she wanted to cow them into agreeing with her. She must certainly have known that Chain had taken Snow to the Chamber and had hoped she would divulge what she'd heard.
Instead of feeling used, Chain grinned. She had to admire that kind of planning.
A quick signature and she passed the declaration to Oasis, who signed and passed it to Zip. The eldest Contegon raised her eyebrows, but signed anyway.
“May Sol have mercy on us,” she whispered.
“I can't imagine that he wouldn't,” Councillor White replied. She took the document from Zip, read it over, and then stashed it back in her robe again. “Thank you.”
With that, the Councillor burst from the tent, running well for a woman her age. All conversations in the War Council hushed. Each footfall echoed, bouncing from wall to person to wall in the silence. Everyone knew the Overall Strategy was set. Councillor White would announce it from the steps of the Cathedral, hence the quiet that greeted her.
She never got the chance to announce it though: the Disciples' assault announced itself first. Distant though the creatures were, the burst of their weapons was discernible over the bustle of the War Council.
Everyone ran from the tents to look to the sky, and Chain was no different. She looked west and saw smoking incendiaries soaring like burning eagles. They were burning death and they were coming right for her.
Someone pointed at the bullets and screamed, their training forgotten. Panic ensued. The disciplined Contegons, like Chain and Councillor White, stood their ground. Others fled into the Cathedral. There was no point in doing so. No one could escape Sol's Haven in twenty seconds and even the Cathedral would fall under Disciple bombardment.
This was it. Chain was about to die. Everyone and everything she'd ever known flitted through her mind, roaring past her senses. She breathed out heavily. It was not her destiny to save Aureu, but to die with it, to be spared seeing it fall. Sol had given her the mercy of not watching His people slowly descend into decay. She felt grateful for that at least.
“I'll be with you soon, Sol,” she whispered.
But the words weren't hers, felt strange on her lips. No, something wasn't right... She was too calm, peaceful. Her fate was incoming, propelled by abomination technology, and she just... accepted it. That wasn't like her.
Suddenly, she didn't trust her emotions. She tried to summon back her rage, her fury at the Heretic, but she couldn't. Calmness and confusion were all she could manage. She wasn't the only one either: placid and relaxed, everyone faced the oncoming fire with rational acceptance, even those who had previously been fleeing.
That was the firs
t sign of the 'miracle.' The second was not as subtle. Gently, a sphere of green glass grew around the city, meeting at the very top of the Cathedral. There it knotted and poured back onto itself like bathwater onto a child's head. It was unlike anything Chain had seen before. Glittering and gorgeous, it was a bowled helmet over Sol's city.
But it was also wrong in some way. Chain felt a shriek rise in her throat, but it lost its urgency as it reached her tongue, becoming an apathetic sigh at the back of her mouth.
This shield appeared just in time. A moment later, the Disciple's bullets exploded with astonishing force against it. Hideous, illicit chemical reactions bit into the glass but none broke it. Even where they struck several times the surface was unharmed, the thin veneer endured.
Another barrage shot through the air but Chain knew they would not break through either. Aureu's protection was too strong. Then two forms appeared, shooting across the sky. They rose above Aureu and emitted great beacons of light, one in the shape of Sol, the other a book, presumably the Sol Lexic.
It was a miracle. Sol had rescued them. She ignored her concerns, so delighted at their survival, and roared, viciously and victoriously.
Chain pushed Contegon Slice in glee. “Sol! He has rescued us. Sol has rescued...”
She stopped. Slice wasn't paying attention, even as she was jostled and shouted at. Neither was she looking at the rest of the Contegons, in various states of prayer, joy or both. No, she was looking up at the Cathedral.
Chain looked up too. And then she finally found herself able to scream.
42
Her ascent from Nephilim's home was not as quick as it should have been. In truth, Maya felt scared. Not of the battles to come, they thrilled her, but of how she would react to the outside world. All of her flight, her journey to date, had been driven by reactions to the way the world worked, and she did not know how she would feel when she walked Geos' surface again.
At least now, she had Applekill. There was someone on her side, someone who understood her and would protect her from herself.
Maya's partner was stretching, preparing for their exertions, when she got to the surface. She joined him, purposefully ignoring the grass hatch as it closed and permanently separated her from Nephilim. He had more stretching to do, having only just apparently recovered from the ravages of his alcoholism, so Maya finished first.
A thought struck Maya, panicky and obvious. She couldn't wait for him to complete his stretching before she voiced it. “How can we get to Aureu before the Disciples have taken it? It'll take weeks to walk...”
“Come on, Maya...” her friend – she resolved to think of him as such from now on given how much time they would be spending together – said. He then clapped, and two enormous Cyrus Force wings spread from his back, watery and thin but solid enough to function. “Just use your imagination.”
She grinned but the grin soon faltered: his Cyrus Force seemed off, had a vibration which felt... broken. Maya considered it for a moment then dismissed it as a side-effect of Nephilim's 'boost.' Hers would probably be a mess too.
Maya's training had mostly centred around the aggressive use of Cyrus Force. She was used to bringing Applekill's energy forth in burning blasts. So instead, she concentrated on Applekill and extracted her energy slowly.
“Concentrate, care, you win if you dare,” she whispered.
The energy came in a trickle, and Maya shaped it into burning wings. Wings she could control as if she were a bird, wings of fire that one would associate with Sol. Soon they appeared, attached to her back and a part of her. She wanted the left wing to stretch out as she funnelled the energy into it and it did, fiery feathers spreading like the pages of a book. Then she wanted her right wing to furl and it did. She had wings. Maya had wings.
After a few test flaps, she ran, jumped and started her ascent into the heavens. Flying didn't come naturally, but applying her will to the world did and that was more important with Cyrus Force wings. Gaining height took time and concentration, but soon she was high enough to dive and gain speed.
Her friend joined her in the sky and then they flew together to endangered Aureu.
They flew. Maya couldn't help but whoop. She was the first person to soar above Geos like this, to feel wind buffeting her face like a solid object, to mimic the wing movements of a bird from memory.
“Hey!” she shouted.
“What?” her friend replied. His flying was sedate, much calmer than hers, but he too wore a euphoric smile that lit him up.
“Where was Peace hiding?”
He pointed ahead of them. Aureu had just appeared over the horizon, surrounded by a thick, intense wall of Cyrus Force. Inside it was Peace and the answer to her question. She laughed. Even when she spotted the Disciples this side of the Journey, and they started their campaign against this terrible enemy, she still laughed.
How could she not have known?
43
Babbage watched in rising horror as an energy field covered Aureu, protecting it from his assault. Green and thin, the Disciples' incendiaries exploded impotently against this field. His 'heart' fell. It couldn't be, could it? Without the ability to analyse the energy, Babbage couldn't decide if it was Cyrus Force or not, but he hoped it wasn't.
If it was...
The Disciples fired another volley. Babbage stopped thinking and watched their arc, hoped they would damage this barrier... but he was distracted from it when the construct manifested.
It was... well, everything in him roared that it was impossible, that such forms were gone or had never existed, had been a hallucination... that he had to have been wrong.
But his emotional intelligence weave told him such feelings were denial. This insolence, this outright denial of what Babbage wanted to be true, annoyed him more than he had ever thought possible. And then the emotional intelligence weave robbed him of this annoyance, left him cold and as infuriated as he was allowed to be.
It was a mass of vines, like the animated remains of a jungle set from an old movie. Curling around the towers were shoots, pulsing and green, that held the central body aloft. Two improbably large flowers, one lurid purple, the other delicate orange, sprouted from this central knot and looked around like heads, pointing their stamen at the Disciples.
“Fuck!” he managed before his emotional intelligence weave calmed him.
He returned to his General Suit and concentrated the Disciples' fire, decided to compromise this shield by hammering away at a single point. Babbage also made the Disciples stagger their shots, ensuring a constant stream of explosions. This construct, regardless of how strong it was, could not withstand such fire-power for long.
Oh but he seethed. Again, that bastard had thought ahead and had made this harder. With limited power, the Disciples would not be able to keep this up forever. If... If the construct could last for a while...
Thankfully, this fear died quickly, which was one of the few benefits of his emotional nanny. But even that was too much. Babbage had had enough. Yesterday, his research thread had posited a way of fooling the emotional intelligence weave – and Brya – and had taken the liberty of developing it for him. So he started it up, producing a set of false data for them both to read.
He laughed and felt a vicious victory as the program began in earnest. A victory that would not be taken from him by the emotional nanny. It had been a good idea and one that he might consider revisiting once the world was back how it should be, but his execution of it had been poor.
Unlike his execution of this city.
After minutes of relentless punishment, the field began to buckle: it was slight, but the semi-sphere sported a tiny dent. Babbage ordered the Disciples to redouble their efforts, made them maintain a dangerous rate. This construct would not last long at such a pace, even if the Disciples' weapons had to end up useless. They couldn't give it chance to recover.
The field continued to bend, but several Disciples stopped firing as their weapons experienced critical errors.
As time wore on at this crippling pace, more and more lowered their arms. Simple repairs would restore their functionality, but it wasn't imperative. When this construct was dead, they would take Aureu without ranged weaponry.
A crack appeared in the dent. They were winning through. Its flowers swung violently as the construct strained, but there was nothing it could do: if it shifted the field, strengthened a certain point, another weakness would be created and the Disciples would attack there instead.
Babbage laughed. His General Suit echoed the sound, as did every other Disciple under his command.
With each shot, the number of Disciples capable of firing reduced. Only fifteen were active when the barrier shattered and crumpled like a rotten fruit. Babbage roared as it fell and ordered those remaining to break all their safety protocols and destroy the construct.
They kept firing, guns now white-hot. The construct had to bat away the shots with its tendrils but it wasn't fast enough to protect itself, and several incendiaries burst against its green skin, tearing it apart.
The construct would die. Babbage would win. This final trump card had proven useless. Babbage continued to laugh maniacally, heedless of his emotional spoil-sport, as the Disciples hammered at the construct, repaired their cooling weapons or simply pulled their now-useless guns from their hands. Soon, they would take Aureu.
He continued to laugh. He couldn't stop laughing, especially when he realised that the false emotional state he was displaying was stoic determination.
44
As they approached Aureu, Peace's screams filled Maya's mind like acid. They seemed to affect Applekill too as her Cyrus Force wells felt disturbed, itchy somehow. The First Thought was dying.
Though this was a horrible thought, Maya's duty to Aureu came first: it would be better to let the poor creature die than to let Aureu fall.
“Remember,” her friend called, “this has to be spectacular.”
“Let's make a scene then!”
So instead of attacking the Disciples, she and her friend soared over them and ascended. Without speaking, their flights intertwined and they made their Cyrus Force visible. They trailed Cyrus Force behind them, fire and water dropping from the sky, a dazzling spiral of green energy.
A sudden influx of alien Cyrus Force meant that Aureu had noticed them. Heady and alcoholic, their emotions saturated her. Hope, fear, prayer, need... Aureu's feelings poured through Maya and made her feel sick and strong. Her throat felt raw as she flew up and tears dripped from her cheeks. There was so much strength, so much power, but it was cruel and wretched and overwhelming.
Her friend groaned and his wings shimmered out of existence for a moment.
Maya could not have imagined the storm of emotions that Aureu's Cyrus Force gave her. She had to be rid of it quickly.
With an effort much like aiming vomit, she shaped Aureu's Cyrus Force into the image of Sol and projected it into the world, making it visible, strong. She funnelled Aureu's energy until the city thanked Sol for their intervention.
At first, Maya worried that the feeling would never pass as more and more emotion was piled onto her. But after thirty nauseating seconds, the barrage of Cyrus Force suddenly fell to a trickle. Aureu was praising Sol. She was safe.
Maya relaxed, though her eye twitched and her neck felt bruised. The irony of having to rely on Sol to protect her was not lost on her as she gathered her thoughts and reconnected herself with Applekill. Her Spirit was still out of sorts from Peace's death screams but she soon focussed.
“Concentrate, care, you win if you dare,” they both whispered, sealing their partnership once more.
Her friend had funnelled his portion of Aureu's Cyrus Force into an enormous book, one that looked like the Sol Lexic. Quick thinking. She approved. When he was finished and the book had disappeared, she dropped down to his side.
“How are you feeling?”
“Ready. By Nephilim, I'm ready.”
Maya hoped he was joking. After a second, she realised he wasn't: he meant to swear on Nephilim's name. Somehow, she thought he would be horrified if he knew this.
“Are you ready?” he asked, looking across at her. He looked scared and tired.
A hail of bullets came at them before she could answer. Maya looked down. The Disciples were attacking them now, not Peace. Their weapons had a long range, she had remembered that, but she'd thought they would be safe so high in the air.
Her friend protected himself with a waterfall of Cyrus Force. Maya went for a sphere of fire, copying the structure Peace had been using. A second round came at them and two exploded weakly against her defences. But she was surprised to feel that each impact and subsequent explosion drained her Cyrus Force. Applekill must be turning her energy into physical resistance at a cost of the energy expelled.
Maya thanked Peace for running the Disciples dry of their more powerful attacks.
“You're welcome,” something said, female, light, happy but weak.
“Peace?” Applekill whispered.
The First Thought disappeared then, perhaps knowing that the fate of Aureu was in good hands. Or, maybe, she simply wanted to die in privacy.
But Peace was not important right now. Her friend knew this better than she as he started fighting back first. He arced great jets of water at the Disciples from behind this defence, counter-attacking. His shots were wild, gave the creatures time to dodge. But some Disciples could not move in time and they were pressed flat by his and Nephilim's power.
They were the first casualties of a new war, the battle of Cyrus Force users against Disciple technology. First blood went to her friend. Maya liked that: he deserved the accolade.
So Maya and Applekill joined the fight. And they were more accurate, more devastating. The Disciples scurried around, strafing and weaving, but they still burned, were exploded, had their arms melted from their body. Nephilim's energy surged within them as they streaked fire across the Disciples' battle lines.
Her friend fell into her rhythm, filling the natural gaps or moments of reflection with his own sporadic attacks. But he seemed to be getting worse: more often than not his assaults missed or even displaced her attacks.
For her part, Maya was aiming at the Disciples who were firing at them. Most didn't seem to have the capability to fire back, having drained themselves on Peace's defence, so she wanted to eliminate them first and pick off the rest of the Disciples at will.
Then there were only two capable of shooting left. Maya launched a heavy attack, a twirling ball of fire, to kill them both but a shot of her friend's water bounced into her attack and knocked it off-course.
Not daring to turn her attention away from the Disciples, Maya shouted, “Control your attacks! You're doing more harm than good.”
“I... I'll try!” He sounded uncertain, unwell. Maybe he didn't have Maya's flair for war but... he sounded like he had before Nephilim had treated him. “I shall endeavour... to choose my targets... more carefully.”
As though to punctuate his point, he fired a pulse of water into the Planted Forest. Maya cursed. In that moment of distraction, the remaining thirty or so Disciples had disappeared beneath the deep cover of the forest. They couldn't fight the enemy whilst they were in cover, it would waste time, energy.
Maya checked on the reserves Nephilim had given her: they felt atrophied, as though only a sliver of the energy remained. They had to change tactics.
“We need to go into the forest! They'll just make us waste energy under those trees.”
This shout, this command, distracted her friend. It seemed that he'd needed to concentrate to maintain this defence: her words caused him to leave a small gap in his defence and allowed a bullet's explosion to rip through the waterfall. Flame struck and rolled over his face. A horrible smell filled the air as his head was burnt away, taking most of his neck and torso with it.
The waterfall stopped, but his wings continued to flap, an automotive response. The sizzling of burning flesh gently hissed at her.
Her friend was dead.
Maya screamed, the sound guttering from her throat like bile. Applekill screamed in tandem. They flew across to the corpse, still flying gently in the air, and Maya grabbed him. She was still wailing as the warm flesh pressed against her robes and she felt the heat of his wound.
The corpse convulsed and then her friend's Spirit appeared. It was a creature with a long, slender body, small wings and two fanged teeth. The energy in it was sick, dying, but not because the host was dead. Maya remembered that a Spirit goes dormant when its owner died and remained so until the next person owned its item. No, the Spirit seemed like Peace had, like it was dying... which was impossible.
Bullets continued to explode against Maya's shield. They went unnoticed. Even Nephilim's promise left her. All that mattered was her dead friend, whom she owed so much to, and this poor dying Spirit.
“What's happening to you? What the fuck is happening to you?” Applekill sounded hysterical. Maya didn't blame her. Even if she weren't part of Maya, didn't share her guilt, seeing one of her kind dissipate like leprous condensation must be awful.
“Maya... take his... his ring.” The Spirit started to fade but returned, so thin, so frail.
Maya didn't hesitate. She pulled the ring from her friend's dead index finger.
And then she wasn't Maya: she was the alcoholic from Seed dragged into these events by a careless, thoughtless, and selfish girl. She/he stood before Nephilim, weak and dying, and listened to him condemning them.
“There's nothing I can do. I wish I could, I wish I had more medical equipment, but regrowing liver cells is complex, especially after it's been punished like yours has.” Nephilim paused. “The... the make-up job you've done to hide the jaundice is excellent.”
“Worry not,” he/she said, “I've always known I was drowning myself into an early grave. This is my own doing, my own failure, and you have remained true to your legend by forcing me to deal with the consequences of my lack of character. I... I shall leave and finish myself over the coming months... Thank you, sir.”
They turned to walk away, but were called back by Nephilim.
“Wait,” he said.
They stopped and took a deep breath. Hope grew under the sunlight of that word. “Yes?”
“I can't save your life... but how about your death?”
“You pique my interest, my friend. Tell me mo–”
The rest was a blur of emotions and information: Nephilim altering her friend's external physiology to hide the effects of his illness; the daily medicinal courses to fight the degradation of his liver; Nephilim and the Hive holding everything together; and Nephilim bequeathing her friend a Spirit to fight with him. Hydra, it was called, which was a joke of some kind.
Then, just for a moment, there was a dull bass tone and utter darkness.
With a deep breath, Maya returned. Bullets bounced off her shield, which Applekill had reinforced whilst Maya was inside what remained of... of this brave man. He had been doomed to die, his body was shutting itself down, so he had chosen to avenge his sons and his family. Nephilim gave him enough energy to make a difference, to matter, but not enough to ensure his survival and eventual decline. How... how brave this man had been, how noble. He had fought his addictions, his nature, and given his life to protect Aureu.
And then there was Hydra. “You're dying because Nephilim gave you up, aren't you?”
Applekill continued to protect them, eking out the last of Nephilim's energy. She knew everything Maya did, understood why this conversation was important, so she didn't remind her master of the battle they faced.
“I... am. This man's... energy was so... spoiled. He had to take everything from me, to take all my Cyrus Force. I knew what... I was... what... Maya. Never forget–” Hydra faded again, spluttering away. There was one final kernel left though, and he appeared on the very cusp of non-existence.
“No! What shouldn't I forget? Stay, there must be something we can do, you shouldn't die! It's not fair!”
“Fair? Nothing's... fair. It just... is. But he's given you... something. The ring. Keep it. From death, comes... life...”
Hydra died. The ring emptied of Cyrus Force. Hydra faded completely and was gone. Like Maya, he had been cast out by Nephilim, and he had done his duty. What a horrible world. How unfair. And there was surely only one fate awaiting her too.
Her mind filled with questions, unprompted answers and fluttering and bloated emotions that vied for supremacy. And her throat became a chamber of agony, as though something were tearing at her neck like a wild animal. But only one thing mattered: this man deserved a burial. It was the smallest of many acts of contrition that she owed him.
And there was only one place he could be buried.
She gripped the corpse and span in the air, using her wings to build up momentum. Dizziness came first, but she overpowered it. Then nausea, again overpowered. She struggled to grip the limp body with its dying, watery wings but she would not let her fingers fail. There could be nothing but success here.
Maya now knew that Geos' safety had always been trusted to her, that Nephilim had always thought that she and she alone could save Geos... and she would start by giving her friend a burial at sea.
When she'd gathered enough speed, she let go and his body went careening south, racing across the land. Maya watched it leave Geos and land far off in the ocean with a tsunami-inducing impact. She didn't care that boats would be affected, shops flooded, harbours put into disarray: this needed to happen. That damage would be his watery tombstone, carved into the memory of everyone in Aureu. They would see the risen water and think of him. Future generations would note the flood marks and think of him. Children would be told about the defence of Aureu and this was how he would be remembered.
Though he would remain nameless. Maya had not deserved to know his name.
“I'm sorry,” she whispered.
And then another flood of Cyrus Force came. Aureu had seen one of their saviours die, so doubt, fear and anger poured into her. The energy felt like strychnine under her skin. She tried to control it, tried to force the energy out in a grandiose display as before, but it wouldn't go. She might as well try to pull her nerves out. Something was holding it back.
Another deep tone rang out. Maya frowned.
“Maya! Hold on, I'm going to try–”
Maya didn't hear the rest. A coughing fit swelled within her and what looked like blood splattered her hands and simple robes. She lost control of her body. All she could do was cough. Bent double, she hacked out more blood.
Aureu was to blame. Its energy was too much, far too much. The negativity, the burden of failure placed on her by thousands upon thousands. Every attempt to rid herself of the Cyrus Force almost made things worse, like ripping holes in a boat to let water from a leak out. The coughing abated for a brief moment and Maya used the time to grip her head and scream through her agonised throat. Nephilim hadn't prepared her for this.
Applekill was concentrating on trying to stem the flow of Cyrus Force whilst all this happened. She wasn't even looking at Maya. Maya tried to reach out to her Spirit but couldn't touch her. Why didn't she hear her screaming?
“I'm trying to put this into our–”
Maya blacked out, losing all consciousness. But she kept screaming and it was only when Maya was gone that Applekill heard the shrieks.
“Maya? Maya?”
Applekill turned and flinched. Black corruption covered Maya, starting from her throat and reaching across every inch of her. She was transforming. Somehow, Maya was turning into something... else.
Was that even possible? No, what was happening? Applekill didn't know, Warmth's memories didn't explain what she saw. It took a moment but then it clicked: the substance crawling over Maya's body looked like Taint.
The Spirit shivered in spite of being non-corporeal. This couldn't be. Warmth hadn't given Applekill any information on this phenomenon when she had changed her element. Her memories alluded to it but
she only knew enough to recognise it. And that it was bad news, something vicious, wrong, and, most importantly, dead.
More bullets struck Maya as she was overtaken by darkness. Applekill protected Maya with Nephilim's dwindling power. Whatever was happening, she couldn't act until it had concluded for fear of making things worse. She could only watch.
After covering her body in its painful darkness, the Taint extended further, curling its streams of hatred into spikes and blades and saws and ornate, curved fingers. The result was an enormous and vicious shape, alien and terrifying. Maya's head remained untouched though. It looked weird, her small face hanging above a grotesque mass.
“Maya... no...” Applekill whispered.
The Taint burst Maya's protective shield as the spikes and cruelty expanded beyond its confines. Bullets shot at her, but they just evaporated against the disgusting, eye-watering energy. That, at least, was a blessing.
Maya stopped screaming and awareness returned to her once-blank eyes. She looked down, all fury and rage and despair. The Disciples continued to pepper her, hiding in the Planted Forest, ensuring she'd never know if she got them all. She had enough clarity to know they'd made two big assumptions: that Maya wouldn't come down there and that she couldn't raze those stupid fucking trees to burn away each and every one of their stinking, evil hides.
“Maya?” Applekill asked.
With Nephilim's energy gone, she only Applekill's Cyrus Force and the strength of Aureu's darkness. Applekill must have been successful at controlling Aureu's emotions because Maya could feel all that pain and panic waiting for her. And it longed to burn.
She summoned that pitch and oily Cyrus Force and built it into a stream, a jet. Then she aimed to make the maximum impact on the Disciples. But before she was ready, the energy jumped from her mind and shot down like a falling god. The forest, she didn't even care to remember its name, went up in a conflagration instantly. A small grin lit her face as Disciples came roaring out of the trees, most faltering, most burning. But she couldn't trust that was all of them. The whole forest needed to go.
“What are you doing Maya? What is that?”
She swept her right hand out and the trees to the north ignited. With her left hand, the southern trees went up. Acres of woodland burned away under her destructive power. The ground would not die, especially once the flooding hit and quelled the worst of the damage. But the Disciples had nowhere to hide.
The creatures fled and formed up a safe distance from the water. Twenty remained, too many for Maya's liking. Two aimed their weapons at her.
“Maya! Stop for a moment!”
“Applekill, help me or fuck off,” she replied, unaware of how low her voice was.
“Maya, look at yourself! What's happened to you?”
Maya's face creased in fury. Then the Taint enveloped her face and formed a jagged mask inhuman in its proportions, with a dozen ruby eyes across its forehead.
“We don't know what you mean. Everything is fine.” Another voice joined Maya's, a sound that scratched and scraped the ear with its deep, wrong tones. “All is how it should be. Now, help us to destroy the machines.”
Applekill couldn't help but back away. “No, Maya, no. This is wrong I... You've been overtaken by something. By something filled with Taint... you need to open your eyes, you need to see what you've become.”
“Everything is fine. We are ready to kill them. We are ready to save Aureu.”
“But not like this! I...” Applekill panicked, tried to grab for anything that would get through to Maya. There was only one thing that would. “I hope Aureu can't see you! If they can, we've failed. They will think you're a creature of Lun, and will never accept you. Maya, you look like a monster. And you have failed Nephilim. Or you will fail Nephilim if you don't realise what's happened to you, pull back.”
The eyes across her forehead all blinked at once. “What?”
“Look at your–”
Maya's taint-draped arm gripped Applekill, held her tight. Its talons dug into her non-flesh. “Don't ruin this for us,” the other voice said. “We are feeding.”
“W-what?”
“Hush yourselves, Spirit,” the other voice hissed. The grip on her tightened. If she had bones, a few would have broken under the pressure.
“Maya, you're hurting me... Look at your arm! Look at yourself! Something has happened to you. Please!”
Maya looked away, the dark mask over her face creasing in perplexity. “We don't understand. And we don't have time for this. Those machines must die. There must be fire.”
Applekill began to feel weak. Her body felt numb. Where the Taint touched her skin, the sheen of her Cyrus Force faded to a paler shade. The thing that had overtaken Maya was stealing away Applekill's essence, feeding on her too.
“Maya, you're... you're failing Nephilim! He will hate you for it. Do you hear me?” The mask of Taint turned on Applekill. “He will hate you, Maya! And you will have failed your one purpose in this world.”
The eyelids over those ruby eyes lowered but the grip on her shoulder tightened even more. Applekill was sure that it would tear her whole shoulder off if she kept going but she had to. There must be a way to get through to Maya.
“Maya! Just look at yourself. Please!”
“Okay. For you, Applekill,” Maya said.
The ruby eyes opened again. Maya turned this new head downward and actually saw herself.
Straight away, her head snapped back up. “Damn you, Spirit!” the other voice screamed. “You should not have done this.”
Then the world shuddered, a deep bass noise filling the air. The Taint rippled across Maya's body and then disappeared with a thunderclap. Once more Maya floated there, fiery wings flapping gently as she held Applekill. She didn't look scared, or relieved. If anything she looked confused.
Applekill's shoulder reasserted itself, filled back out, but she had lost more than half of her personal energy. This would be so difficult now...
“What? There's nothing wrong with me Applekill. Am I wounded?” Maya asked.
“No. Don't you–”
Another hail of bullets came at them. Maya used the last of Aureu's twisted energy to protect herself, formed another Cyrus Force shield. It took her a moment to process what she saw below her, the destruction and the fire.
Maya turned back to Applekill. “What the hell happened to the Planted Forest?”
“This isn't the best time, Maya,” Applekill said, taking Maya's hand from her shoulder. Maya couldn't remember putting it there. “You need to concentrate, we're still fighting for Aureu.”
“Okay, you're right,” Maya said, knowing something was wrong but just unable to recall what. She shook her head. It couldn't be important. Or, at least, it couldn't be important enough to halt the battle. “Are you ready to finish this?”
Applekill nodded.
“Then let's go.”
45
Chain was not the only one to scream at the strange creature above the Cathedral, the plant-like thing of a hundred swinging tendrils. But she was one of the few who didn't acquiesce to it within moments of noticing it.
One of the kneelers was Councillor White. “Sol must be saving us!” she exclaimed, pointing an old finger up at the strange sight above them.
The other Contegons gasped in awe.
“All we need is faith,” Councillor White continued. “Faith in him and in this new form he presents himself in, and we will be saved. Praise Sol!”
“Praise Sol!” other Contegons shouted. Then they cheered. Some had tears running down their faces.
Chain didn't cheer. Perhaps she wasn't as simple as other Contegons. Or maybe she was too simple. Either way, she did not agree with her fellow Contegons.
Firstly, the... the thing on the Cathedral didn't look... Well, it didn't look Solaric. Sure, plants need sunlight and so it was fitting that something enacting his will was a flower. Someone like Contegon Zip would probably suggest that it must have fed on Sol's magn
ificence much as Geos did. But Chain didn't like this; they were not waiting for the Lords to consult the Sol Lexic and rule one way or the other. People were jumping to conclusions, weren't truly trusting Sol.
After all, this creature could be Lun tricking them: he could have created this invasion and then deposited false saviours amongst them to weaken Sol. It could be anything.
“What is this thing then, Councillor?” Chain asked.
Councillor White frowned slightly. “It must be an... I'm trying to think of the old language word appropriate for it...”
“An Acolyte?” someone offered.
“Yes, an Acolyte,” Councillor White said with a snap of her fingers. Her braided hair danced with her in excitement. “A Servant of Sol, a creature devoted to him. All of us should pray to this creature, thank Sol for sending it.”
Prayer circles were then organised. Some Contegons did not join them, went instead to spread the message that everyone should thank Sol for his intervention. None were sent to fetch a Lord. But Chain only stood still, merely watched the strange flower creature and felt a bizarre sense of religious dread.
What worried her most was how calm everyone was: unnaturally docile, unworried for their lives. Even given their faith in Sol, there should be more trepidation and doubt. And placing his followers into such a stupor didn't seem like something that Sol would do.
Then there were the other... 'Acolytes' in the sky, one burning like Sol and the other pouring like a gutter in a storm. Again, others would consider this proof of Sol's intervention. It sounded like the whole of Aureu roared as these things fought the Disciples. Chain could understand that because even she had been taken in by them at first.
But after seeing the strange creature, Chain watched the other Acolytes and felt... suppressed fear. And it had been flattened by whatever kept them relaxed.
It was also odd that the three Acolytes shared the same coloured... 'magic,' the only word she could put to it. And magic was a pre-Cleansing heresy, performed by entertainers to debased masses. This magic was green. Green was wrong: white and yellow are Sol's colours.
These were each small things, and she wanted to accept that Sol was saving them, but her faith and her heart told her something was off. Having let her faith fail her before, she maybe felt a vigilance others might not share. But Chain held this conviction, this certainty that something was wrong here, in her heart, and knew it must be protected.
Now she just needed to pass it on to her fellow Contegons.
As she was planning how to do this, the watery Acolyte was badly wounded by the Disciples. Its defences quickly crumbled, and it seemed to die: it stopped attacking and merely floated like dust in a stuffy room.
The fire creature flew to it and remained still, probably mourning. Disciple attacks burst against it, apparently ignored.
Chain felt a small thrill, a guilty pleasure, at this. Because the Acolyte's death blew everyone's theories apart and confirmed this was a ruse. Nothing Sol blessed could die, especially not so cheaply. The flower Acolyte behind her being torn apart by vast explosions of Disciple blasphemy she understood, almost, but normal bullets had felled the water Acolyte.
So, in the hush that prevailed following its death, Chain stood on the Cathedral's steps and spoke her mind. “Everyone, listen. They cannot be, these Acolytes you've created, as one of them has died. Nothing from Sol can die. It flies in the face of our faith, of everything in the Sol Lexic.”
The Contegons looked up from their prayer circles. All their eyes were on her, the least amongst equals.
“Maybe... maybe the Sol Lexic was wrong,” said one. She was old, on the precipice of death or retirement, but she held Chain's furious gaze.
“How dare you–”
“Maybe Sol has weakened them due to our lack of faith,” someone else shouted.
“Yeah, or Lun could have cut those Acolytes off from Sol, taking the opportunity whilst he stalks the earth.”
Chain nodded, thinking quickly. She knew, she knew, that these Acolytes were not of Sol. Call it instinct or strength of faith, but she knew. However, there was no way she would convince those around her as they needed to believe they were being saved. These were stay-at-homes, she reminded herself, the weakest Contegons. Even if Lun himself came down and gave the Acolytes hugs, they would still justify it to themselves because they were scared. The time had come for them to face their mortality, and many didn't want to look it in the eye. They didn't trust in Sol.
She needed to salvage this situation. “Maybe... maybe you're right.” She nodded at the last Contegon to speak, who was in her twenties and wore her hair woven, as was in fashion.
This reminded her of Wasp. Mad, handsome Wasp who had followed fashion trends so closely. Chain found it hard to breathe for a moment. But she pressed on.
“Maybe you're right. I don't have the answers. Only a Lord would,” she said, hoping they would get her point. “But 'Sol helps the active.' We cannot sit and expect salvation, no matter how spectacular Sol's fury is. We should be there, fighting, showing our resolve to Him and the Disciples. If this is the first time that Sol has been active in the world, and not in our hearts, for centuries then we cannot rely on such rare interventions. Nor can we allow Aureu to do so.”
Councillor White, who had been listening intently, stood from her Prayer Circle, colouring slightly. “You are absolutely... right. We should be doing more. See, Contegons, this is why we have the Advanced Squad: so we do not lose the energy of youth. Thank you, Contegon Justicar, for speaking with your heart.”
Councillor White acquiesced to Chain. Chain blushed and acquiesced in return.
“You all heard her. Prepare to move out. We must join the fight!” Councillor White roared.
Everyone cheered. Then they got to work, assuming roles and organising. Cadres were created and messages sent to the Militia to form up and go into battle. The Council were informed and positive, faithful action was being taken.
Chain watched all of this and felt sick. She had not spoken with her heart, she had lied with her mouth. But it had achieved this movement, this action. Just as Ward's version of the truth had allowed her to become a Contegon, to say her part and get the people of Aureu involved in the fight, so had her version mobilised the Contegons. Perhaps Sol had to be subtle sometimes.
Chain could not ignore the irony of having finally lost her Heretic stigma by lying. When she was given a cadre of Militia to command, a front-line position, she almost screamed, “I was lying! You're all mad!”
She didn't. With an acquiescence, she joined Oasis and the Contegons who would command cadres. On the banks of the Journey, their men awaited. As did glory and servitude, death and honour. Activities to mobilise the Militia gathered pace, Contegons and Shields approached her to shake hands, thank her, and she felt worse and worse.
It was Oasis who cleared Chain's mood when they were marching through quiet and terrified Aureu. And all it took was her turning and saying “Sol truly acted through you. I apologise for earlier, for my disdain. You are blessed and special, Chain.”
These simple words made Chain think of everything she had done as a Contegon. She reflected on her training, on her tests, on Snow, and decided that her influence on Geos had been positive, even if the results hadn't been: she had brought good in her short time, with her blessings and her actions. If she died in this battle, she would not be forgotten and Sol would be proud of her. She had acted according to his design, just as Oasis had in comforting her.
“Thank you.” It was stuttered and brief, aimed at her shoes, but it was all she could manage.
Oasis tapped her shoulder. Chain looked up. The burning Acol... creature had returned from its mournful stupor and was spinning like a coin, holding onto its partner's corpse. They blurred together with the speed.
Oasis, Chain and the others stopped, watched.
The burning creature released its partner, and the corpse exploded across the dull, grey sky. They watched it fly out
of sight and then turned to each other.
“What was that?” Oasis asked.
“I don't know. Maybe there were Disciples out to sea and it used the body as a weapon?”
“Seems cold,” another Contegon said.
“Seems unholy,” Chain didn't say.
They continued towards their cadres, watching the fiery creature's reaction with interest. Everyone who had trained at the Academy could understand the rage it now acted with. The force of its anger seemed a little... excessive, though. The creature lost it accuracy and efficacy, just spewed blunt vomits of magic. There would be little left of the Disciples, or of anything within a mile of them, but Chain felt that there would still be a role for Aureu to play in the battle.
Even if it were just to defeat the Acolyte.
The Contegons noticed two things as they reached the bank of the Journey: the Journey now sloshed against their ankles, fighting against well-built, waterproof boots, and the Planted Forest was gone. All of it. They looked at the cleared earth, scorched and soaked in equal parts, and gaped. The waiting Militia cadres watched with similar shock. So did the Mariners. And everyone else.
Chain's heart raced. This time, her emotions were not muted. Full, sharp, her dread and horror energised her. “Right, don't think you can just stand around because there's a little water and a bit of a fight going on. Mariners, prepare barges to cross the Journey. Men, come to attention and prepare to fight those...”
She looked across the Journey to ensure some Disciples had actually survived and saw twenty-two forming up. “... Disciples. 'Sol helps the active,' so move it, move it, move it!”
People ran around, prepared themselves and each other, at her command. Oasis took up a similar mantle for her cadre and other Contegons mobilised themselves too. Mariners untied their barges and readied themselves for the short journeys. Militiamen lined up to board the boats. Clerics accounted for their numbers and their equipment.
Chain stood still and watched them all, the most active person there.