Scar Night Page 0,39

him would be spared Iril after death. The god of chains was building a new army with which to storm Heaven.

Balthus had been so shaken by this revelation, he’d shed his old life, as easily as a cloak, to join the pilgrims constructing the temple.

Now, outside the Herald’s tent, he lifted his gaze past the Tooth’s river-wide tracks, up its pale hull to the scorched funnels rearing hundreds of feet above, where smoke from its lungs poured into the desert sky. This thing was a fortress, Balthus realized, and more than that: it was a weapon. For the last four decades, the relic’s massive cutters had bitten deeply into the slopes of Blackthrone, gouged that strange ore from the flesh of the mountain, and brought it to Deepgate to forge the temple’s chains.

Fifty thousand men?

They might as well be fifty.

Yet Balthus had failed to consider what this machine could mean to them in battle. The Tooth had become as much a part of the landscape as the abyss itself. How often does one really notice the ground beneath one’s feet or the roof above one’s head? Had he changed so much that he could take such a manifestation of the god’s power for granted? Balthus walked over to the edge of the abyss and knelt in the sand to beg forgiveness from his lord down below.

All work had halted since news of the advancing horde had reached them. The walkways zigzagging from the perimeter in to the hub were deserted. A deep silence hung over the abyss itself. All ninety-nine foundation chains were now in place and the main skeleton of the temple was beginning to take shape. Balthus let his gaze roam over the vast scope of the construction: Mesa’s chain, Perpaul’s, Simon’s; each as mighty as the legend of its namesake. They were Ulcis’s greatest warriors, survivors from the war in Heaven. Forty years ago Balthus would not have believed mortal man capable of building such a thing.

Truly, he was grateful.

Preparations for the battle were made in earnest. The pilgrims loaded what supplies they had into the Tooth’s holds. Men, women, and children were housed in temporary quarters within. And Callis summoned the Ninety-Nine.

Ulcis’s angels rose from the abyss to join their commander, their armour wreathed in death-light, their swords glittering under Ayen’s furious sun.

Balthus shivered at the sight of them. “Are they dead?” he asked Callis.

“They have given up eternity for us,” the angel replied. “In this world they cannot survive. Ayen’s light will destroy them, just as it destroys men.” His eyes narrowed. “But while alive they will burn brightly.”

At the Herald’s command, a bottle of black liquid was brought forth.

Balthus gave Callis an inquiring look.

“Angelwine,” Callis replied. “A gift from our lord.”

“A potion?”

Callis laughed. “Of sorts. It will bestow great power, strength, and longevity upon those archons who drink it. A magnanimous god, Ulcis, to share his divinity for a time, don’t you think?”

Balthus eyed the angelwine. Could this elixir really contain the power of a god? The liquid boiled like smoke, and it seemed to him he heard whispers within the glass.

“It is alive,” he gasped.

Callis held up the bottle. “This wine,” he said, “contains the souls of many men.”

“Human souls?”

“Enemies of Ulcis.” His tone warned against further questions.

Balthus watched as each of the Ninety-Nine supped the angelwine. He watched their eyes turn black and the death-light darken around their armour. And when the Herald himself had taken his share, Balthus could no longer contain his desire. “Might a loyal servant be permitted to drink too?” he asked.

Callis seemed in the grip of a murderous fever. He wheeled savagely, face contorted, and for a heartbeat Balthus feared for his own life. But then the violence left the angel’s eyes and he looked upon his servant with pity. “Balthus,” he said, “this elixir is too potent for man. It would drive you insane.”

On the dawn of the day of battle a great sandstorm rose, as if the god of chains was beating his wings beneath the earth. Balthus Brine watched from the Tooth’s bridge, with Callis at his side. Throughout the battle, the Herald did not speak. His rage had faded and he gazed down at the slaughter with an expression on his ageless face that might even have been regret.

“Do you mourn them?” Balthus asked.

“They are savages,” Callis said.

Balthus nodded, and his white teeth split his brown lips.

“Like us,” the Herald said, and he shared his servant’s grin.

The storm raged and the Tooth ploughed