Chương 34: The Black Angel

With each step, Swyllev's prophecy weighed heavier on Cinnabinathi. Death was close. As foretold, Maro was gone. He was the sweetest of the Hawkmoon, a gentle spirit forced into the war. In better times, Maro had practiced Tardasavas. This aspect of a crystallus focused on growing crystals and gourds together in harmony to create beautiful cups and bowls instead of weapons. A single piece might take centuries to complete. Maro was the steward for many works begun generations before.

The war came before he could begin a family of his own. When he died, the line was severed. Perpeta-eta. The Reconciler's Tomb was a perilous place. The Black Elves were gone but their weapons remained. As the party crept through the Throne Room, an awful rumble checked their steps. The Dwarves looked up, afraid of a cave-in. They were all caught off guard when a statue came to life and attacked. Maro was closest. The Golem surged from its niche and seized Maro with inhuman strength.

Maro kicked his legs and cried out as he was lifted from his feet. Cinnabinathi lunged with Fahflets and slashed deep into the golem's obsidian arm, but she was too late. The golem crushed Maro's head, like a chick in the egg. Cinnabinathi would never forget that wretched sound. Poor Maro! He was only the first. The golem set upon the expedition with wordless fury. A kick snapped Bhloki's ribs. Hilg shielded Bobbert from a blow and was thrown against the wall and knocked senseless.

Seeing his blade was useless, Yureg tipped over the throne and threw an ancient candelabra at the Golem. The vandalism drove the construct mad. It forgot all about crushing Hilg and chased after Yureg. The Windsworn tore around the chamber and tipped ancient treasures into the Golem's path. Only the Skymetal Scimitar could scratch the construct, but the wounds grew molten and its glassy skin fused over. Cinnabinathi attacked from the rear and leapt free before it could retaliate. It was a perilous dance.

A single misstep was death. It was Bobbert who realized that the Golem drew power from the ebon obelisks at either side of the throne. With a nullifying sigil, the Apprentice severed one of the arcane links. The golem slowed to half-speed. Hilg was back on his feet, he smashed his Silver-Headed Hammer into the second obelisk. With an inhuman roar, the obsidian monster exploded and blasted shards across the Throne Room. They were all peppered and bloodied. There was nothing they could do for Maro but grieve.

Cinnabinathi sobbed as they pressed on. For all her sorrow, the troops at the barricade paid more. Every step they took was paid in blood. They had to succeed. The party pushed into The Hive Crypts. The air within was cold and still. The ancient walls were carved with inscrutable runes and strange gargoyles. This was a forbidden place. Stone coffin vaults were stacked in honeycomb rows, sealed by graven discs.

The Black Elves recorded the lives of their dead in spirals of script that began at the center of each seal. A few of the vaults had been looted, but most were sealed. Cinnabinathi dared to hope the Reconciler's Tomb was intact. Disappointment hissed from their lips as they reached the final rest of Abaxios Oslune. Two Black Elves carved in obsidian stood guard on either side of a massive stone door. The great portal was cracked open, just wide enough for a thief to slip inside. Cinnabinathi churned with regret.

It was all for nothing. She'd led Maro and Sindermann to their deaths. If the prophecy held, she was next. Fahflets glimmered in her grip, alive in the presence of strong sorcery. The party eyed the statues from a careful distance, justly worried they might come to life. The Black Elves had a sinister beauty. Cinnabinathi felt an unreasonable urge to smash them.

"Hilg, lend me your hammer," Yureg bid, thinking the same. The old Dwarf's eyes were raised to inspect the ceiling.

"Don't. There's old magic here. It's terribly strong," Bobbert warned. His eyes flickered. When the cantrip faded, he was afraid.

"Stone's wrong," Hilg warned. He tiptoed closer and pointed out a thin, rusted shim wedged into the slab beneath the doorway arch. It was a pressure plate. If they had stepped on it, the stones above would have buried them all.

"Bless you, Hilg. I'd have never seen it," Cinnabinathi said.

"Few would. No matter how far we roam, our feet are rooted in stone. Back away, all of you. If I fail, the trap will flatten everything within twenty paces."

"Why bother? We can just hop over," Bhloki suggested. His face was strained, every breath pained him.

"Suppose we knock something inside over, or some foe follows after us. When we're all sealed inside, what then? We'll have to eat each other. Lazy churl," Hilg chided. Bhloki lowered his eyes in shame. They backed away and watched. Hilg knew his trade. He worked at the mechanism, drove three spikes at different heights, then swung his hammer at the bottom one. A loud PING! made their bones leap. Afterward, Hilg stomped on the plate, sure of his work. The trap was dead.

"Let's see what's inside. Give us a better light, Bobbert." Hilg's voice was sure, but Cinnabinathi did not miss the way the hammer trembled in his grip. Bobbert conjured a brilliant sphere and sent it floating inside the tomb. They waited a ten count and Hilg followed it in.

"Bog's beard!" Hilg cursed. He searched for traps and was shaken when he backed out of the chamber.

"A queer place. Impossible to say if it's safe to enter." Cinnabinathi peered inside. The Reconciler's Tomb was a hexagonal shaft of black, volcanic glass. The flawless walls soared up for thousands of paces. The floor was a sheet of solid quartz, clear as water. No wonder Hilg looked frightened. The drop seemed bottomless. At the center of the room was the Reconciler's crystal coffin. A winged statue loomed over it. The Black Angel's lance and armor were onyx, a style like none Cinnabinathi had ever seen.

It was a strange symmetry that stung her thoughts. The face and wings were a rich sable that drank in the orb's light and gave nothing back. Cinnabinathi stared at the angel's face and a feeling tugged at her. It was something dangerous, seen in some half-forgotten dream. The thief lay face-down in the chamber, just six paces in.

"Sorcery?"

"None that I can understand," Bobbert winced with discomfort. The Apprentice was far out of his scope. Cinnabinathi was about to offer to go in first, this was her expedition after all.

"I will go," Yureg volunteered before she could. Cinnabinathi did not argue. Humans could be replaced. Bold Yureg stepped onto the quartz floor and stamped his foot. He walked all the way around the border. All was still.

"The floor is strong. Shall I search the coffin, or the corpse?" Cinnabinathi winced at the thought of a barbarian rifling through the remains of Abaxios Oslune.

"I'll look. Come, Bobbert and Hilg. Bhloki, Runagir, Guard us." Cinnabinathi ordered.

"Aye," the Dwarves agreed. On shaky legs, they stepped into the tomb. Cinnabinathi checked the thief first. She was long dead, but her body had not decayed. From her face, she seemed a half-breed between Black Elves and Moon Elves, a terrible sin. No one could recognize the clothes she was in. The crystal casket was still sealed. They found their courage and edged closer. Inside the casket, the body had crumbled to dust. There was no relic. No staff, no sword, no scepter, not even a signet ring.

There was nothing they could rally an army around. Cinnabinathi choked back a cry. This was all her fault, they'd lost so many friends for this. Fahflets flashed from her scabbard without thought. Distraught, Cinnabinathi did not know if she meant to smash the casket, or fall upon her sword. In the sudden blue light, she saw the others were all stuck in time like flies in sap. Each moment creaked past a thousand times slower than it ought.

Her glance to see if Bobbert was all right felt like it took minutes to complete. His eyes were wide with horror. Bobbert's arcane orb of light died and there was nothing but the sorrowful shine of Fahflets. Through the walls, distant stars shone. This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

"NO!" Cinnabinathi tried to scream, but the word rumbled in her throat, so slow. The Black Angel's eyes cracked open and burned like molten gold. The eyes did not see; they revealed. The onyx armor was every color at once; a blinding interplay of resonant prisms. The sable of her skin was the space between the stars. Her stare was a merciless ray of flame that burned away all pretense. This was a force they could never defeat. The expedition had intruded on a celestial being.

Cinnabinathi's empty lungs cried for air. The thunder in her ears faltered, fainter by the heartbeat. Spasms of desperate prayer screamed through her mind and disappeared like pebbles cast into a lake. There was nothing she could do or say. The Black Angel knew her. Under the golden, unforgiving gaze, Cinnabinathi and her warriors had been weighed in the balance and found wanting. Every lie, blunder, and shortcoming was laid bare. Hilg stiffened in agony, crushed under centuries of mistakes.

Though he'd lived only a fraction of their spans, Yureg suffered the worst. Black deeds rippled across his frame in arcs of well-deserved torment. Cinnabinathi feared it would go on like this forever. They would atone, frozen in this timeless space, and burning in the golden gaze until every debt was paid. They would die on their feet, just like the thief. It might take centuries. What was time, to an Angel? Movement broke the spell. Bobbert was free and dared to defy the Angel.

With Hilg's Silver-Headed Hammer drawn back, the boy dashed forward to smash the casket. Swift as a kingfisher, the Black Angel flew forward with her lance. Cinnabinathi had no time to think. From instinct, she hurled herself into Bobbert and knocked him aside. Fahflets flashed high for an impossible parry. The Angel was faster. The point of the lance slipped over her guard and stopped, a finger's length from her face. Cinnabinathi waited to die. The Angel pressed no further.

The golden glare cooled to a soothing silver. Cold understanding flowed into the wordless space between them. The Black Angel had waited a thousand years for this moment. Divine judgement could not touch Bobbert because his soul was clean. He'd never sinned, never taken a life. His spells floundered not because he was inept, but because at his core, he did not want to harm. His brave charge at the casket had not surprised the Angel, nothing could. It was all a test.

When Cinnabinathi sacrificed herself to save the boy, her old self died and she was reborn. The prophecy was complete. As the heroes gazed upon the Angel, each received as much of the truth as their mind could bear. Only Cinnabinathi had the experience to grasp it all. The Angel was old when the world was a cooling ember. It had watched a thousand gods squabble in the wilderness and strangle each other like weeds. Never before had it needed to intercede. But now, the end drew near.

There was a hole through the world. Lured by the Black Princes, evil men had gnawed through the warp of the real like rats. Chaos flooded in and twisted all it touched. The true war had just begun. Behind their present foes was a river of wickedness, wider than the horizon. Order was betrayed, the stewards grew weak and corrupt. If nothing checked the flow, the forces of Chaos Manifest would flood into the world and rage until it was a barren wasteland.

When the last drop was drunk and the last ember cooled, they would perish with the land they'd ruined. The Void would reign over another dead world. When the Devourer smiled, Her empty grin ripped through the weave of fate. Each victory brought Her closer to the true goal, the end of everything. To thwart destiny was Her greatest delight. Now, the hour was very late. The Angel needed Cinnabinathi to explain for her. Bobbert was too small a vessel to contain this sublime understanding. He had to make a choice.

The sacrifice could not be compelled. With halting words, Cinnabinathi tried to translate.

"The Reconciler is gone. Another must take his place. This Angel offers you a chance to surrender yourself and become the new Reconciller. If you accept, you will raise a great army and fight in the final battle to save the world."

"I…I'm just an Apprentice," Bobbert sputtered.

"What if I fail?" They looked to the Angel for guidance. She gave none.

"I accept," Bobbert decided. A distant chime sang in their ears and a shiver ran through Cinnabinathi's being. She could see no outward change, but somehow everything was different. There was a new gleam in the Apprentice's eyes. A great presence walked with him. The Angel closed her eyes and came apart. The sable skin broke into fine black dust. Those motes split, again and again, until she was divided by zero. The black-winged armor and ebon lance remained. They were all silent, stunned by what they'd seen.

"You will not go alone. I too, am called," Cinnabinathi realized. *"This is epic!" Sandy breathed. The boys leaned back from the final scene. The Crystal Casket was a prism of clear cellophane over a frame of silver wire with runes 'etched' in hair-thin lines of white paint. The Reconciler's 'ancient remains' had come from the ashtray outside the store. For the quartz floor and bottomless pit, Duncan had used a real sheet of glass on top of a mirror.

On the back of the glass, he spray-painted a vignette, masking the lines so they were razor sharp. Duncan was so clever with the terrain. It made a lot of sense that he wanted to be an architect.

"You could have told me I was hoarding Shriek Shots for nothing," Chuck needled Vlad.

"Awesome encounter, though. What happens now? Are Bobbert and Cinnabinathi out of the campaign?"

"They're still in, just changed indelibly by their brush with eternity," Vlad explained." Wicked. Here you go, Robin." Duncan gave him the Resplendent Valkyrie figurine he'd painted as the Black Angel.

"This is yours now. On the house. You can mod this figure to be Cinnabinathi in the Black Angel armor."

"Oh man, awesome! Thank you! Do I need an Abaxios Oslune, too?" Robin asked. He didn't have enough birds to afford one, yet.

"Eventually! Maybe we can say it takes a while for Abaxios to train him up. You can use your Bobbert figure until then."

"It would make a lot of sense to gate his power a bit. The Black Angel is SO good with your Hawkmoon, you have no idea," Vlad looked at the Black Angel with envy.

"With this and the Sharddrake Plate, The Heartbroken Brigade will be a nightmare. If Robin plays smart, he can make his way into second place."

"Second?" Robin joked. He threw a Dedo al Aire (We're #1 gesture) at the drop ceiling like he was Enrique Borja. Everyone laughed.

"Pride goeth before destruction," Vlad warned.

"Isn't it 'pride cometh before a fall?'" Chuck corrected him.

"No, you're misquoting Proverbs. 16: 18, Pride goeth before destruction, a haughty spirit before a fall."

"Is that right, Amsler?" Chuck asked.

"Don't ask me. I forgot my entire Torah portion after my Bar Mitzvah. Is Proverbs even in the Torah?"

"It isn't," Vlad confirmed.

"You guys should read up on this. Pretty much all fantasy stuff that isn't borrowed from mythology is just a direct rip-off of the Bible. C. S. Lewis, L'Engle, even Tolkien robbed everything they could.

"Pass." Sandy shook his head. Duncan and Chuck chuffed with disinterest.

"Your loss," Vlad shrugged. It had been an awfully religious day. Robin looked down at the Black Angel. Her wings were fanned and her lance was raised in triumph. Duncan had painted her with a gleaming coat of piano black with dry-brushed highlights and golden eyes. The gloss paint looked cool but Robin had no idea how to remove it so he could paint the face to be Cinnabinathi.

"How do I get the gloss off to paint it?" Robin wondered.

"Brake fluid," Sandy and Vlad answered at once, and nodded to each other.

"If I don't have brake fluid, will alcohol work?"

"Maybe. You can try oven cleaner too. If I were you, I'd just remove the head from your Hawkmoon champion and transfer it to the Valkyrie instead," Sandy suggested.

"Cut the head off?" Robin fretted.

"Desperate times require great sacrifice," Vlad used the Swyllev voice.

"A head swap is easy. Come by my place, I can lend you my coping saw. Maybe you can give me some chess pointers."

"That'd be cool!" Robin agreed.

"Don't bother trying to teach Amsler chess. His sisters got all the brains in that family," Vlad jabbed.

"And the looks," Chuck piled on.

"Beset by both sides, that's how you know I'm right," Sandy smiled.

"Ignore these goofs. Come through, it'll be great. I live in Hoffmantown."

"Watch out for his mom, she'll bite your head off like that Golem," Duncan warned. Sandy rolled his eyes. There was some joke there everyone got except Robin. He started to ask but broke into a yawn. It was after nine.

"Oh man, time got away from us. Maybe you should call your grandma," Duncan suggested. There was no need. The Falcon was parked outside the store.

"Oh no," Duncan and Robin groaned. Robin slunk outside.

"Sorry Una, I was just about to call—!" Una was already out the door.

"I need a word with that Duncan. Wait in the car," Una said. Robin knew better than to argue. She was inside for a while. Robin squirmed, imagining Tita chewing Duncan's ear off. She came out with the tupper he'd forgotten and then tossed it in his lap. She had a strange energy, like she wasn't even mad, just anxious.

"Sorry!" Robin said.

"Put your seat belt on. Did they like the cookies?" Una asked.

"Oh yeah. Sandy said they're the best he's ever had."

"Smart boy."

"He also asked if his mom could get the recipe."

"¡Ja! ¡Ni en sus sueños! (Ha! not even in his dreams)" The Falcon slid onto Lomas Boulevard. Robin felt robbed. Goofing off after playing was almost better than the actual game. All the guys were cracking jokes and laughing in the War Room and all he had to look forward to was Dr. Suarez tomorrow. He wished he never had to go home.