Elder Shadow (The Reminiscent Exile Book 5) Page 8

  I was years out of Ascension City at that point, years from knowing her ins and outs, feeling the pulse of the grand metropolis, where the loyal and disloyal met, which taverns and barracks raised secret toasts to the rightful king Declan Hale, and which wanted my head skewered on a pike for the crows to shit on out front of the Fae Palace.

  But Arbiter Vrail Corban of the Knights Infernal wasn’t out of the loop.

  Hell, he was the loop. If not for Vrail, Oblivion’s proxy-grab for the throne would have been a whole lot bloodier and, in the end, have left Ascension City a smoking, war-torn crater.

  An argument could be made that I wouldn’t have done much better on my own, but that was dangerously close to giving Oblivion credit, and I’d vowed against such empathy.

  Vrail was a friend as well as an ally. We had trained together at the Infernal Academy, served together in the Tome Wars, and I had commanded him in the Cascade Fleet during the Battle of Voraskel. More recently, we had taken Scarred Axis’ prison together in the storm clouds of Jupiter. His sharp face and clear, intelligent eyes had managed to retain some measure of happiness after the Tome Wars, which was rare.

  Some brains were just wired to weather the storm, some drowned, and what most didn’t realise was that the ship was sinking either way.

  Oblivion, who had scoured my mind for the best point of attack against Ascension City, had found more memories of Vrail. More memories than I could conceal (and more than a small part of me didn’t want to conceal those memories, wanted to see Jon Faraday fall, which again was dangerously close to aligning my goals with Everlasting), and summoned Vrail to a secret meeting in a dimly lit basement bar. Our face hooded and cloaked, Vrail arrived with his shoulders wrapped in a heavy purple cloak, concealing probably about thirty various weapons hidden about his person.

  He was a boy scout, was Vrail.

  “Good evening, Vrail,” Oblivion said, and his tone was so smooth, so light, that any ideas I had that Vrail would rumble the Elder God and draw his sword were squashed. Oblivion could have won an Oscar, pretending to be me, even without wearing my face. It was… well, it was supernatural.

  “It is you,” Vrail whispered, cradling a mug of heavy ale as he sat down at the table and peered into the depths of my hood. “Rumour had it you’d died in the past. Atlantis finally got you, in the end.”

  ‘Not just me, Vrail!’ I thought as loudly as I could, but of course he didn’t hear it.

  He chuckled. “Dangerous times to be in Ascension City, Declan. Rumour has it your brother is turning against you again, considering exiling you once more—or making it look like you had a nasty accident.”

  That was news to me, but damn. Thanks, Jon.

  “Rumour has a lot of things, it seems. And that’s why I’m here,” Oblivion said. “Vrail, did you mean what you said before the battle at the Atlas Lexicon against the Emissary Dragon?”

  Vrail took a long sip from his mug, foam on his upper lip, and laughed without mirth. Though, to his credit, he did not waver. “Yes,” he said. “Always, Declan.”

  Another memory surfaced, one I hadn’t deemed worthy of the vault, because Oblivion had it first. He was scouring my mind at all times, it seemed. Anyway, before the battle at the Atlas Lexicon—the train station, not the city in Switzerland—Vrail and I had a chat…

  Vrail hung back and regarded me for a moment. “Am I free to speak in front of… Annie, wasn’t it?” he asked me, and offered my young detective a gentle smile.

  ”As if we were alone, old friend,” I said.

  He nodded. “Sentiment in the city may have been twisted against you, Declan, by your brother and his court, but more than a few remember who it was that ended the century of madness and slaughter.” He paused and inclined his head toward me, pressing his knuckles against his brow, a mark of significant respect among the Knights. “I hesitate to speak of this in front of more ears, even ears belonging to Dessan and Garn, but hesitate I must, you ken?”

  ”Indeed I do.”

  ”You could split the Knights down the middle, you know? If you raised a banner, a certain number, a not insignificant number, would flock to it.”

  ”Vrail,” I said with half a grin, “that’s dangerously close to treason.”

  ”You killed Morpheus Renegade in Atlantis.”

  Annie stared at me.

  ”Yes, yes I did. He killed me, too, but that’s semantics at this point.”

  Vrail waved away my words. “There are some, the same folk who remember the end of the Tome Wars, who believe if you were in command then Morpheus Renegade would never have gotten the better of us on the Plains of Perdition, would never have almost seized Atlantis for himself. You stopped him—not Faraday. You averted catastrophe yet again. Declan…” Vrail hesitated, and cast a nervous glance over his shoulder. “My king, you belong on the Dragon Throne.”

  I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, but there was an edge to my voice and a glint in my one good eye. “My friend, that is treason.”

  ”Then slap me in star iron and chop my head off!” Vrail clenched his fists and sighed, frustrated. “At least think about it…”

  ”Think about overthrowing my brother and claiming the greatest seat of power in existence? Annie, what say you?”

  She held up her hands. “Oh, leave me out of this mess.”

  ”You have a duty, Declan,” Vrail said. “And that’s the last word I'll say on this matter.”

  “Yes, I see you remember well,” Lord Oblivion said to Vrail Corban nearly two years after that conversation, in the dark and dreary tavern of Ascension City’s dark and dreary cheap side docks along the dark and dreary Farvale River.

  Vrail nodded sharply.

  Oblivion grinned and sipped the last of his scotch, already a skinful and more that fateful day. “Gather those loyal to me, Vrail. We march on the Fae Palace before week’s end.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MARCH ON THE FAE PALACE

  ‘And if I return half-broken, will you still love me anyway?’

  I honestly think Oblivion acted so swiftly and so decisively during that week not to win the Dragon Throne, but in order to prove Dusk that he was the superior commander, that despite the might and strength of the Peace Arsenal (that fucking mutually assured oxymoron), Lord Oblivion was the superior Elder God.

  Sibling rivalry, pure and simple.

  And I don’t think he saw just how well Dusk had strung him along again in that regard. For Dusk, the bet hadn’t been about who could seize Ascension City the fastest, or the cleverest, it had been about making Oblivion do what he wanted. Either way, whether he succeeded or failed, and he would succeed—Vrail had ensured that, almost as if my old friend had been waiting for this day—Dusk got something he wanted.

  I considered explaining all that to Oblivion, but he was busy usurping the King of the Knights Infernal and I couldn’t pretend any longer that I didn’t want him to do so.

  From the brig in my mind, those cracks in the wall worsening all week—the water dripping in had taken on an oily sheen now, as if slick with grease. I wondered on the integrity of my mind, and whether after all the abuse over the years—the booze least of all—it could take two of us in the one space. Oblivion had possessed Tal for six years, yet here I was barely a week in and already cracking. Oblivion didn’t seem concerned, I wondered if he knew, so I kept my thoughts to myself, treating the information as a possible ace in the hole.

  The cards I’d been dealt so far were fairly shit, and the dealer kept pulling aces and face cards, almost as if the game was rigged, so I clung to whatever thin advantage I could make. It didn’t feel like winning.

  The day Jon Faraday lost his throne dawned bright and early, summer blue skies, Monday morning back on True Earth, and Oblivion had commanded his resources into ruthless position across the city—he had Knights loyal to me, to Declan Hale, stationed at the garrisons where Faraday’s reinforcements would come from, sabotaging the shuttle craft and changing the locks on the
armouries, poisoning the mess hall rations to debilitate and cripple the resistance.

  Again, I begrudged Oblivion any compliment, but the Elder God knew how to scheme and how to plan. He made it look like accidents, at first, then warnings went out of a possible infection sweeping the city, a sort of Will-flu (such things had happened in the past) targeting those most proficient in the mystic and knightly arts. An edict came down from the king himself mid-week, advising those so afflicted (so poisoned) to head off world to the healing centres in the inner territories for treatment.

  Oblivion had made Faraday send half his army away without firing a single shot.

  Not to say there weren’t casualties.

  I knew of at least fourteen men and women that had died because of me that week in Ascension City, yet I had barely poked my head out of my hood. Vrail and my allies, thinking they were acting on my orders—are they not?—weren’t treating this as a rehearsal. Any breach, any possible trickle of what was happening, was mopped up with ruthless efficiency.

  I’d been brutal before.

  Ruthless.

  Shadowless and cruel.

  This felt like dirty work, because it was dirty work. So started the noble and peaceful reign of Declan Hale—with enough throats slit in flooded back alleys to paint the town red.

  It’ll be OK, I thought with bitter irony, on the healing day…

  Meanwhile, the allies and ranks of my secret soldiers continued to swell. I had underestimated, by several orders of magnitude, just how many wanted me to lead them, how many saw my achievement and my victories against the Renegades and the Everlasting as divine right to rule. Thousands in Ascension City alone, tens of thousands more out in the Story Thread, and that was just the fully-fledged Knights Infernal.

  How have I been so blind…? The answer to that was amber and peaty, of course, about a hundred dollars of bottle, distilled in Islay…

  The Shadowless Rebellion unmasked itself and marched on the Fae Palace just after ten o’clock in the morning on a Monday. Oblivion in my body, Vrail at my side, and a handful of other chief lieutenants Void-travelled to the Infernal Academy and breached the palace from within, while the streets ran with thousands of soldiers and knights flying my banner, the old family crest from my mother’s side, twin swords crossed under a crown. Not the crest of Good King Jon Faraday.

  Alarms sounded, the alert was raised, but it was already days too late. Oblivion had acted swiftly, decisively, and all Jon Faraday could raise was a cacophony of noise and regret. I was later shocked to learn just how many civilians and their families had fallen into line behind my banner.

  From the Infernal Academy, midnight and star strewn, Lord Oblivion led me and Vrail and six others across through the portal and into the heart of the Fae Palace, and so the fight did begin.

  *~*~*~*

  First through the portal and into the upper reaches of the Fae Palace, we met little resistance, though the alarm bells clattered across the city and the shuttles not sabotaged, and those not under our control, waged battles in the sky above Ascension. But the deck was stacked in my favour, as I glimpsed out of the long commanding windows and down at the city.

  It had only taken us ten minutes to Void-travel into the Academy and return into the palace, but in that ten minutes dozens of skirmishes—as planned—had broken out across the city. Smoke and flame rose in fast curls, echoing booms reverberated across the vastness of Ascension, and I thought about being a kid, first coming to this place, and being awed at its splendour and magnificence.

  Back then, before anybody knew me, before I knew anyone, just one dumb kid with a bit of Will talent to be tested for the Infernal Academy, clinging to my father’s arm, more than a little afraid… That kid had stared up at the Fae Palace, thinking of King Morrow on the Dragon Throne as this impossible, powerful Knight. I had wanted to meet him, wanted to do my best at the academy so I could make him proud.

  And now, twenty years later, here I was leading a grand assault against the Dragon Throne, against my half-brother.

  Here I was, an agent of change and chaos, and I wasn’t even close to in control. This was Declan Hale’s fight, but Declan Hale was trapped.

  Lord Oblivion of the Everlasting was the mastermind behind the insurrection.

  It felt like he’d stolen something irreplaceable.

  We made it to the elevator banks and shot up a handful of floors, Vrail swiping his access cards to get us closer to the throne room. Our intelligence—the knights loyal to me and close to the king, had sent word via the tablet interface Vrail wore on his arm, that Faraday and his war council had convened in the grand, opulent chamber just below the summit of the Fae Palace. It was a room I knew well—I’d been sentenced to die in that room, sentenced to rot in Starhold. Last I’d been in there before the throne, Jon had been dying, the both of us poisoned by Emissary, a servant of the Everlasting, and he had granted my reinstatement to the Knights so long as I destroyed the beast.

  Destroy the beast, I had, and he had kept his word.

  I wondered, in his heart of hearts, whether he ever expected this day to come. He’d exiled a lot of my supporters, imprisoned my grandfather (the only living relative I had, save Faraday himself), and quelled any talk of my ascension to the throne at the tip of a brutal sword. But had he honestly expected this day? I wondered, and wondered again.

  “My god, that’s Declan Hale!” someone shouted as we exited the elevator banks.

  Oblivion thrust my arm forward and a wave of force punched the guard across the room and straight through the heavy glass windows, enchanted glass, which killed the poor soul instantly, his ruin of a body broken and ragdoll falling to the city streets half a mile below.

  Vrail and the half dozen Knights at my side formed a horseshoe ring around me, leaving my front exposed for me to work some dark fucking magic.

  We stood two floors below the throne room, only accessible now through the white marble and spiral staircases on the centre of this floor. A squad of Knights—full blown Arbiters, judging from the epaulettes on their shoulders—drew their Infernal blades and advanced on us in a phalanx formation.

  Familiar, I thought, and Oblivion scoffed. Even alone, Oblivion could have taken the Knights—even without Oblivion I, being one of the most battle-tested and strongest Knights in the order, would not have struggled too much.

  But I was here with the power of an Elder God—Oblivion’s mantle alone, not to mention the mantle of power gifted from Astoria. I was, perhaps, again even without Oblivion, stronger than Faraday’s personal advisor, Fenton now, who until recently was considered the most powerful Knight to have ever lived, capable of shifting an ocean of Will light.

  We’ll find out soon, I thought. Fenton was never too far from Jon Faraday. Personally, though it was a wild card Vrail had raised often to me—to Oblivion—that week, I didn’t think we had to worry.

  Fifteen Arbiters against me and my squad. Oblivion took the forward group, raising my arms and twisting my fingers into complex and intricate patterns. Will-light blazed between my fingers, harsh white at first, darkening to reds and mirk-greens, the light of death, before shooting as focused beams of energy across the space.

  But these were Knights Infernal, all of them old enough to have served in the Tome Wars, and they used their blades to effect—cutting through the oily light, severing the beams around them, diverting their course up into the ceiling, the windows, smashing chunks and shattering glass.

  On the left and right flank, Vrail and the other loyal lieutenants engaged. Spells and enchantments flew thick and fast, the air grew hot and acrid with the scent of burnt copper, and men and women began to die.

  I felt a surge of… not respect, not surprise… but something admirable from Oblivion as the Knights deflected his attack. Then he shrugged and moved faster than the eye could follow, even faster than my eyes inside my mind. I’d seen Dread Ash move like this, as fast as thought, and Oblivion covered the distance, stepping around Will-light tha
t moved sluggishly compared to him, to break the lines of the enemy. My fellow Knights.

  Time sped back up and Oblivion grasped the head of one of the Knights—a woman greying at the temple, fierce brown eyes, uniform of the honour guard, and simply clapped his/my hands together. Her head popped like a balloon between our palms, blood, brains and ichor spraying my enemies and allies alike.

  “Jesus Christ,” breathed one of the enemy Knights and took a sharp, harsh step back.

  “Wrong god,” Oblivion growled, and drove my fist through his chest, punching through muscle and bone as if it were paper. The Knight was dead before he hit the ground. Small comfort to think it would have come to this with or without Oblivion at the helm of my rebellion.

  Oblivion plucked the poor bastard’s Infernal Blade—only able to be wielded by a Knight Infernal—from the air before he fell and spun, almost in dance, to drive it through the throat of the Knight behind him, who had almost managed to do the same to me.

  Her blade fell instead, grazed my upper arm, took a thin slice out of my bicep.

  I felt the edges of the pain, but Oblivion hissed as sharp black smoke rose from the wound. He wrenched himself away.

  Knight’s bite repels the blight, I thought. A piece of an old poem, doggerel. Infernal Blades could wound the Everlasting. Wound, carve, but not kill.

  Oblivion recovered and made short work of another four Knights. While Vrail and the others had fought to kill, too, none of them did so with the ferocity they thought I was showing.

  Once the fight was over, twelve enemy Knights lay dead, three incapacitated and bound, and we had lost one of my lieutenants to wayward curse light.

  I was drenched in blood.

  I was home.

  *~*~*~*

  Time was short, so we didn’t stop for much of a headcount on our way up the wide marble staircase at the heart of the tower. We encountered shielding, booby-traps, but Oblivion’s sight—and therefore my sight—could actually see the hidden enchantments and curses, like laser tripwires, or a purple-red haze in the air.