"Be ready," Rhapthorne said.
The throne room trembled slightly, the floor to either side vanishing, replaced by lakes of fire. Their attackers would have no choice but to approach head-on along the narrow bridge of stone which remained.
No choice but to face him.
He left his place beside the throne and strode out to the narrowest point, midway between the door and his Lord. The flames on either side had already made the room oppressively hot, the air hard to breathe, but he could not let such minor annoyances distract or deter him.
He drew his sword, and waited.
The closer they drew to Rhapthorne's throne room, the less obvious the damage to the Black Citadel became. It would have been eerie, had she not been so aware it was Yangus behind her, rather than Angelo.
"Rhapthorne's the only one who's going to know where Angelo is. If Angelo was important enough for him to take prisoner, he might even be keeping him near the throne room." Eight had sounded confident, but she had seen the worry in his eyes, and his expression had been grim when he'd said, "If nothing else, the easiest way to take this place apart is to kill Rhapthorne."
It wasn't as if they had much choice. Too much of the Black Citadel had been rendered inaccessible, even if they'd had the time and energy to search top to bottom. Rhapthorne was their only hope.
Outside of the massive doors to the throne room, they stopped, and Eight used some of his carefully hoarded magic to heal them all. "Everyone ready?"
Yangus grinned. "Born ready, guv."
Jessica simply nodded.
Eight threw his shoulder against one of the doors, while Yangus took the other. With a shriek of misaligned hinges, the doors slowly slid open.
The throne room, like the rooms immediately before it, was nearly the same as the last time they had been there, a narrow path to the throne illuminated by a solid floor of flame below, the air oppressively hot, shifting and shimmering and making visibility less certain than the brightness of the room would indicate. Rhapthorne sat on the throne and watched them, a sneer on his inhuman face.
Indeed, the only immediately obvious difference was the dark figure blocking their way to the throne.
At first, through the heat-distorted air, she mistook it for a new variety of shadow, then she realized it was a man, standing motionless, his clothing, gloves and boots the same light-swallowing black as the short cape he wore. Even the sword he carried was black, a slender, curved blade that spilled its darkness like poisonous smoke.
Yangus's hands tightened on his axe. "Want me t'take care of 'im?"
Eight shook his head and drew his sword. "Stay to the back. If this is a trap, we'll need you to take care of anything Rhapthorne has come up behind us."
He strode confidently forward, Jessica following a few feet behind. The path was too narrow for them to do anything but walk single-file; her first sign that something was wrong was the choked sound Eight made as he abruptly stopped.
"Guv, you all right?" Yangus demanded, and didn't - quite - shove past her to reach Eight. "Cor blimey!"
Jessica leaned sideways to see around the men, and went cold in spite of the heat from the flames below.
Angelo stood facing them, still motionless, though he had lowered the sword - Dear Goddess, that was the Shamshir of Light - so that the point was leveled at Eight's heart. His hair was loose, partially concealing his face, but even so she could see there was no recognition in his expression.
"You are not welcome here. If you turn around now, you may survive long enough to leave."
"Angelo." In contrast to Angelo's detached tone, Eight sounded like he couldn't get enough air; he had dropped his sword until the tip nearly brushed the floor. "Angelo, what are you doing?"
"This any way t' go treatin' your friends?" Yangus demanded.
Angelo's lips curved into an ugly smile. "I have no friends. And if I did, they certainly wouldn't be the enemies of Lord Rhapthorne."
"Angelo, it's us," Jessica pleaded. She tried to go to him, but Yangus shifted, refusing to let her pass. "You have to recognize us."
His gaze flicked to her, and dismissed her. "I grow tired of this," he said, his gaze once more on Eight. "Either leave immediately, or try to get past me."
Eight's sword came up, and though Angelo didn't seem to move, his stance suddenly went from dismissive to deadly. "Please don't make me do this," Eight said softly.
"You've made your choice," Angelo said, and attacked.
Yangus caught her arm, propelling her back, out of the way, as Eight and Angelo's swords clashed together. She heard him chanting one of his few spells under his breath, a defensive spell to ward against enemy blows, and hastily cast a spell of her own to increase the strength of Eight's attacks, a second to make him just a little quicker, better able to match Angelo's speed.
After that, all they could do was watch, and pray.
His opponent was quite skilled, and determined to maneuver their fight so that the fat man and the woman would be at his back, able to attack him.
He, of course, was better, faster, his blade nothing but a blur of shadow and trail of smoke as he blocked, thrust, went on the attack again. The heat shimmered in the air, gluing his hair to his face and neck, making his opponent pant and, at last, falter.
He moved for the opening, and found his sword deflected by magic.
The other's blade was oddly cold as it slid into him.
Jessica nearly held her breath as Eight and Angelo fought. Even with the aid of magic, they weren't quite evenly matched; Eight was stronger, and his sword had the benefit of length, but his fighting style was more straightforward. Angelo was faster, more cunning, and used his speed and the lack of maneuvering room to rob Eight of the advantages of strength and reach.
He was also quite unhindered by the fact he was facing a friend.
Periodically, she would tear her eyes away from the fight to look at Rhapthorne, but he seemed disinclined to interfere. Indeed, he watched avidly, as one might watch a monster arena battle, and she'd swear the expression twisting his inhuman features was one of amusement.
Movement, something her mind identified as wrong even caught from the corner of her eye, drew her attention back to the fight in time to see Angelo strike at an opening in Eight's guard. She cried out, even as the blade was deflected by the spells Yangus had wrapped around Eight at the start of the fight.
Off-balance and desperate, Eight brought his sword back up in a two handed blow before Angelo could recover. Steel bit into Angelo's arm, then continued upward in an arc that buried the blade deep between Angelo's ribs, revealing he was protected by neither armor nor magic.
Angelo shuddered; his face, which had been flushed with exertion, went white and blank with shock. The Shamshir began to slip from his fingers; his hand convulsed, held stubbornly on to the blade, though he clearly didn't have the strength to raise it again.
Eight caught him when he collapsed, and lowered him carefully to the stone floor. For a moment, Angelo gasped for breath; one of Eight's hands closed around Angelo's arm, just above the wound, while the other settled on Angelo's shoulder, and Jessica could tell Eight's every instinct - like her own - demanded he do something.
Then the moment passed, and Eight shoved himself to his feet, face set. "We have a time limit now. Jessica, cast bounce on the body; I don't want to risk Rhapthorne doing anything to him."
"Guv, we're just..."
"We finish this. And when we leave, we take him with us. So let's not waste time."
His voice was harsh, almost unrecognizable, and Jessica hastened to obey him. They couldn't protect Angelo, not really, but they could prevent Rhapthorne from bringing him back as their enemy, and, hopefully, from destroying his body from spite.
She just prayed they could be fast enough for it to matter.
This is wrong.
Rhapthorne didn't look angry or worried, despite Angelo's defeat. He wasn't raising defenses or preemptively attacking. He wasn't calling on his monsters to block their retreat. He was just...waiting.
We aren't a threat, Eight thought, in the few moments it took them to cross the remaining length of the throne room. Why aren't we a threat?
Behind and to his left, he heard Jessica casting one of her strongest spells, and nearly called her off, fearing Rhapthorne had some new defense against their magic. But the rain of fire struck cleanly, not deflected, not even slowed by a magic barrier.
And Rhapthorne laughed.
"You think you can defeat me?" he demanded, raising his staff. "You three? You do not know what you face!"
No more time for thought, just attack and defend, steel and magic and a part of his mind always tracking the others, trying to fill the role Angelo had made seem nearly effortless. A role he couldn't fill, his magic slipping away too quickly, his spells not strong enough, Jessica barely healed before a fresh attack dropped her back to her knees, Yangus bellowing in pain and rage as his axe fell from a shattered and useless hand, and he snatched his boomerang from his belt and threw it, desperate to buy a few seconds to heal one of them and pray they could provide a distraction while he healed the other.
Somehow, the metalwing flashed past Rhapthorne's attempt to deflect it and sliced deep into his neck.
A heartbeat of silence before Rhapthorne howled in fury and hurled the boomerang to the ground, shattering it with his staff. Time for Yangus to scoop up his axe and charge, time for Jessica to cast a spell from where she lay, her magic wrapping around Yangus so that when the axe came down, it was very, very final.
Then, just as the first time they had won this battle, all hell broke loose.
The castle trembled, stone rained, dust choked the air. They broke into a run, pausing only long enough for Yangus to hoist Angelo's body over his shoulders.
Angelo's hand had stiffened around the corrupted Shamshir of Light, dragging it along when he was lifted.
No, Jessica begged. Dear Goddess, no, it can't have been that long, we can't be too late. Don't take him from me again.
She didn't look at Eight; she didn't want to see the truth in his eyes. Instead she begged silently, while they ran, while they fought the handful of monsters they encountered, the desperate litany taking the place of the tears she couldn't afford to shed.
And then they were outside, in the very spot where Angelo had been taken from them, the godbird's soulstone in Eight's hands almost before they had cleared the doorway. Magic flared and wrapped around them, changing, joining, until the godbird's borrowed form lifted them in a blaze of light.
They soared up through the clouds which had cloaked the Black Citadel, the darkness thinning and tattering before their wings as the magic which had created it failed. They had won, and she didn't, couldn't, care, because joined this way she could feel the warmth of Eight and Yangus, and the cold void where Angelo should be.
Joined this way, she still couldn't weep.
Without warning, the world exploded around them, chunks of stone and bits of stray magic battering their borrowed form. Wings struggled against turbulent air, vainly trying to maneuver, to escape the Citadel's final destruction. Jessica wondered if the problem was Angelo, if his lifeless body was somehow weakening the soul of the young godbird, crippling its ability to dodge the hail of debris.
And then it didn't matter, because something hit them, brutally tore the transformation away, and they were four separate and equally helpless figures falling toward the sea.
He hit something hard, hard enough to hurt, hard enough to stun. For a moment, Eight confusedly thought he'd somehow hit the ground and survived, then he realized the air rushing past hadn't abated, and the surface beneath him was warm and covered with feathers.
"Empyrea?"
"When I felt the barrier between the worlds weaken, I suspected you would need my help." She banked, and he grabbed dizzily at the feathers beneath his hands, even though he suspected he was in no danger of falling. "I am sorry to find things worse than I feared."
"Wotcher mean?" Yangus demanded. "We beat ol' Rhapthorne, didn't we?"
"You vanquished the form in which he was imprisoned," Empyrea corrected, and Eight felt a sinking feeling that had nothing to do with their flight. "I fear he still has power enough to take on his true form."
"Are you saying we went through all that for nothing?" Jessica demanded.
Eight couldn't decide if her voice was closer to fury or hysteria; either way, it wasn't good, and he worked his way carefully to where she knelt beside Angelo's body and covered her hand with his own.
"You have bought yourself time. Rhapthorne would have ultimately taken on this form without your interference. By forcing him into it prematurely, you have weakened him, and delayed his reaching full strength."
"Delayed it by how long?" Eight asked.
"A fortnight, perhaps. A few weeks, at most. Hang on."
The warning was barely in time, as she pulled up to settle on the deck of the ship and nearly unseated them. Angelo slipped from Jessica's grip, reminding Eight that Rhapthorne wasn't what they had to worry about right now, making his mind race to determine how long they'd fought Rhapthorne, how long it had taken them to get outside, how long it had taken them to land.
He didn't know, and every passing moment might be the one that would make his attempt at resurrection too late.
"Yangus, help me with Angelo," he ordered, because no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't simply cast the spell, not with Angelo armed. He could wake disoriented - if he wakes, Goddess, please let him wake - or still under Rhapthorne's control, and either could be a disaster.
It was hard, though, hard to take the time to maneuver Angelo's body to Empyrea's side, hard to lower him into Yangus's waiting arms. Harder to order Yangus to restrain him before finally uttering the words that might bring Angelo back to them.
The spell settled over Angelo's body, and for a moment it seemed nothing happened. Then his wounds began to bleed, just for the few seconds it took the spell to heal them, and he drew a shuddering breath. Blue eyes blinked open, flicking around in confusion.
Eight had just enough time for a silent thanks to the Goddess before Angelo lashed out, going for Yangus's face with his right hand even as he flung himself against the bandit's grip. Yangus fell backwards with a curse; free, Angelo was on his feet and moving toward Jessica before any of them could react.
It was over before King Trode could finish demanding to know what was going on. A spell from Jessica and Angelo collapsed, asleep, practically on top of her, his grip on the Shamshir finally loosening enough for Eight to pull it away. Just touching the blackened sword made Eight's skin crawl; he wanted to toss it overboard, but refrained, knowing it was - had been - a powerful weapon, and hoping they could do something to restore it.
Still, he couldn't bring himself to hold it, and took the time to deposit it in the main cabin before taking charge of things.
"What has happened?" Empyrea demanded when he returned; she sounded as upset as he'd ever heard her.
"Yes, that's what I'd like to know," Trode said.
"Rhapthorne captured Angelo," Eight explained. "I don't know what he did, but...when we got to Rhapthorne, Angelo was defending him, and didn't seem to recognize us. I'd hoped, once we got him away from the Black Citadel..." He sighed. "But it looks like we're going to have to go after Rhapthorne with just the three of us."
"You must not." Empyrea flared her wings slightly. "To defeat Rhapthorne's true form, you must have the strength to break the barrier protecting him. I am not entirely certain the four of you will be able to do it; I know you cannot do it with only three."
Eight stared at her. Is that why we weren't a threat? Because Rhapthorne knew we'd be helpless with Angelo dead, no matter how the battle turned out?
"How do we break this barrier?" Jessica asked. In spite of everything, she was beside Angelo, much as she had been on the flight to the ship.
Empyrea spread her wings fully. "I will explain when I return. Until then, you must do everything in your power to free your friend from Rhapthorne's control. The fate of the world depends on it."
She launched herself skyward, the rush of wind from her wings effectively preventing further questions.
"Hmph. That wasn't terribly enlightening," Trode grumbled as they watched the godbird vanish into the distance.
"As if we wouldn't do whatever it takes to get Angelo back."
"It may not be easy, though, Jess." Eight stared at Angelo's motionless form. "We're going to have to restrain him, somehow, before he wakes up."
"You aren't serious!"
"He's not in his right mind, and you can't keep him asleep around the clock." Eight moved closer to her, his voice dropping. "We have to do something until we can reach him."
"The guv's right. For 'is own good, an' all." Yangus scratched his head. "Seems I recall findin' a bit of chain back when I was first explorin' about the ship. An' there's plenty of empty space t' put him."
Jessica was on her feet, hands clenched at her sides. "You're going to treat him like a prisoner?"
"He is a prisoner," Eight said. His gaze locked with hers until she looked down; her capitulation didn't make him feel any less like a traitor. "As long as he's under Rhapthorne's control, he has to be."
He woke, not in a proper cell, but a windowless room, his wrists shackled and joined - to each other, to the wall - by chains which were far too long to truly restrain him.
Humiliating, to have been captured by people who were obviously incompetent.
"Angelo."
He sat up; the woman - a mage, he remembered from his escape attempt - was watching him from the far corner of the room.
"You don't remember us at all?"
He saw no harm in the truth. "You attacked my Lord, and I obviously failed to stop you."
"Nothing from before?"
Silently, he shook his head.
Jessica sat silent for a few minutes, her gaze never leaving Angelo. He stared back, wary and perhaps just a bit angry.
"I'm sorry," she said finally. "I didn't want them to chain you."
No reaction; she supposed, if she were chained up, she wouldn't be interested in chatting with her jailer, either.
"You don't belong with Rhapthorne, you know."
That got a reaction, a flash of anger and an abrupt lift of his chin - wounded pride - and he almost retorted before getting himself under control. Jessica saw her mistake at once. The fierce loyalty which had kept Angelo with them despite his complaints, which had led him to save his ingrate brother, had been given to - stolen by - Rhapthorne. She'd accomplish nothing if she set herself at odds with it.
She could only hope to sway some of that loyalty back to them, and perhaps, help him remember.
"You were our friend." A pause. "You are our friend."
They had expected recognition when he faced them in the throne room, he remembered. Perhaps they had once served Rhapthorne; if so, they were traitors, not just enemies, and he would be doubly glad to rid the world of them.
She was still speaking, trying to coax forth memories which didn't exist. He remembered nothing before Rhapthorne's mercy in healing him, nor did he wish to.
He hid his skepticism over her improbable tales, urged her to continue with interested glances, and learned more than she realized she was telling.
By the third day, Jessica realized she was wasting her time. Angelo never spoke to her, and when he showed interest in what she was saying it was distant, as if she were a minstrel spinning entertainment.
She spent that night crying in Eight's arms.
"You don't have to keep doing this, Jess," Eight said the next morning, watching her with worried eyes. "We'll think of something else. Empyrea has to come back soon; maybe she'll have some ideas."
"I'm not abandoning him again."
It was hard, though, when Angelo noted her disheveled appearance not with concern or even interest, but merely a raised brow, as if she were a curiosity put on display. More than once, she found herself falling silent before his dispassionate gaze, or fighting tears as she compared the brash, sometimes trying Templar of her memories to the detached prisoner before her.
"I'm sorry," she said finally, forcing a smile. It was much earlier than she normally left him, but she couldn't bear the silence, or the sound of her own voice, any longer. "I'm afraid I'm not very good company today. But I'll be back tomorrow, of course."
She thought he nodded, but the movement was too slight for her to be sure.
The woman came daily, bringing food and talking to him for hours, or bringing food and heated water, and giving him the privacy to wash. One day, she apologized for not being able to bring him clean clothing.
The next, all three of them came to his cell. His first thought was that they had wearied of waiting for the woman's methods to bear fruit, but the men merely stood guard while he washed and changed from his bloodied, filthy uniform into a well-worn linen shirt and trousers.
He knew their kindness was manipulation, and tried not to feel gratitude.
Part Five: Darkness Dwells
