The Veiled Prophet

X

They would reach the walls of Kehjan come the next day, and yet neither Serenthia nor the other edyrem could sense, much less contact, Uldyssian. Mendeln, who shared a different sort of link with his brother, thought that he could vaguely note Uldyssian’s presence in the city, but that was the extent of it.

He had a theory on that troublesome point, and it focused on the mage clans. They considered the capital their domain, and the closer Mendeln got to it, the more he felt the saturation of magical energies that had built up over generations. There were spells upon spells, and many of them had likely been designed not only to shield the work of the mages from one another but also to keep the prying eyes of the Cathedral and the Triune from learning too much. How successful the spellcasters had been in doing that last was debatable, but they were certainly causing consternation among the edyrem. Many feared that their leader was either captured or dead, and neither he nor Serenthia could prove otherwise.

More and more, it appeared likely that Uldyssian’s army would attack the capital if they reached the gates without learning anything contrary about his fate.

Mendeln did not even want to imagine the bloodshed should that happen. Caught between the edyrem and the mages, the innocents would surely die by the hundreds.

But there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

The nearby villages had again emptied out in advance of their coming. The shells that had once been homes seemed more eerie to Mendeln than a graveyard, for they were supposed to be inhabited with life. This was all wrong…

There were soldiers farther ahead, most of them hiding in preparation for the assault that they thought would come tomorrow. As many as Mendeln sensed there were ahead, they were not nearly enough even to slow the edyrem. What magic he could sense among the city’s protectors was minimal.

Serenthia sought to maintain order over the edyrem, but even with the aid of Saron and Jonas, it was becoming more and more difficult. Aware that his own presence would be more detrimental than helpful, Mendeln had finally slipped away from the throngs and entered the nearest village. He knew that he should not have separated from the others, but it was always easier for him to think in solitude. It was not as if he were alone, either, for there were always a few shades trailing him, in this case random deaths from the vicinity of the capital. He had already questioned them and learned nothing of value. They were all simple people who had worked hard just to stay alive for as long as they had.

Undisturbed by the night, Mendeln wandered from one empty house to another. He did little more than peer through the occasional window. It was not that he was interested in the lives the locals had led, but he missed his own past.

That made him smirk at himself. There had been many times in Seram when Mendeln had dreamed of becoming more than a farmer, many times when he had wished to travel to the exotic places on the maps and charts Master Cyrus had often let him peruse.

His boot kicked up something. It rolled a few yards from him. Mildly curious, Mendeln retrieved it. A girl’s doll. It had dark hair and was dyed a deep brown, no doubt so that it would resemble its owner. He thought of his youngest sister, dead these many years from plague. There had been times since Mendeln had learned his skills that he wondered if it was possible to summon her spirit. Each time the notion had occurred to him, though, revulsion had immediately followed. She was dead. His parents were dead. He wished them to remain at peace.

He did not wish them to know what he and Uldyssian had become.

Mendeln put the doll back where he had found it, in the hopes that, should violence somehow be avoided, the child who had lost the toy would someday be reunited with it. However, as he straightened, Mendeln sensed that he was not alone. He glanced among the empty homes…and saw Achilios, notched bow in his hands, stare back at him.

Uldyssian’s brother reacted instinctively. The ivory dagger came out with a swiftness that apparently caught even the undead hunter unaware. Mendeln muttered some of the words Rathma had taught him.

Achilios leapt into the shadows just before a series of toothy missiles struck where he had been standing. Mendeln cursed, then barreled his way into the nearest house. He sent the ghosts flanking him out into the village to locate Achilios’s position.

But as they left, the archer saved him part of that trouble.

“I mean…no…harm…Mendeln,” rasped Achilios from what seemed the other side of the wall against which Uldyssian’s brother leaned. “Come out…and we’ll…talk.”

Inverting the dagger, Mendeln whispered another spell.

Before he could complete it, something shot just past his ear. It struck a wooden beam in another wall with a resounding thunk.

The arrow had come through a window only a few feet from Mendeln. Uldyssian’s brother dropped to the dirt floor, then moved toward the back of the building. As he did, he began a different spell.

The front wall—including the window through which Achilios had fired—exploded outward.

From beyond the explosion came a growl and a curse. At the same time, Mendeln burst through the back door and out into the nearby jungle. Two ghosts, a young man stricken with pox and an older woman who had perished of a weak heart, needlessly informed him that Achilios had not been brought down by the explosion.

As he caught his breath, Mendeln cursed his own hesitation. There were spells he knew that were far more effective in permanently dealing with something like his former friend. Yet the black-robed figure could not bring himself to speak them. This was Achilios, after all, and even though the archer hunted him with the obvious intention of slaying Uldyssian’s brother, Mendeln held out some vague hope of freeing the undead.

A noble thought…and one that was certain to get the younger son of Diomedes killed.

Another ghost, a comely noblewoman who had taken poison rather than continue her arranged marriage to a much older and somewhat violent man, materialized just in time to point out the direction from which Achilios was coming. Mendeln tumbled into the thick underbrush behind the wooden house, and although he did not hear the hunter’s pursuit, he knew that his former friend was not far behind.

Indeed, not a breath later came the familiar gasping voice. “Mendeln…I come to…talk…there is no…no need for this! Let us both step out—”

In response, Mendeln drew a pattern in the air, then directed it toward Achilios’s voice.

“By the…stars!” grated the archer from where he hid. At the same time, there was a rumbling sound, as if a small quake had begun.

Although unable to see the results of his spell, Uldyssian’s brother could imagine them. The ground around the undead Achilios should have risen up, seeking to engulf him and thus return him to the grave. It was a spell that Mendeln himself had created based on something Trag’Oul had shown him. Mendeln was sickened by the notion of doing such a thing to his old friend, but he dared not give Achilios the opportunity to fire a second time.

As the churning of dirt continued, Mendeln ran toward the distant encampment. He did not like taking the chance of drawing Achilios back to Serenthia, but the hunter was less likely to try that attack again…or so he hoped. In truth, Mendeln was at a loss for exactly the best option. He only knew that he had to keep moving.

That point was made particularly well a moment later, as a second bolt cut past his arm. Not only did it sink into the trunk of a nearby tree, but when Mendeln felt his arm, he discovered that the arrow had ripped open the fabric. Another half inch, and the head would have been buried in his arm.

That made him think of Serenthia again and what might happen should Achilios decide that he had to try to slay her once more. That the archer had escaped so readily Mendeln’s last spell spoke of the powerful force behind him.

Against an angel, Mendeln very much doubted his chances, but he decided that he was willing to take the risk rather than put the merchant’s daughter in more danger. Gritting his teeth, the son of Diomedes veered off into the thicker areas of the jungle. The wild might be Achilios’s domain, but the dark was Mendeln’s.

He went several yards farther away from both the village and the encampment, then pressed himself against a wide tree. Clutching the dagger against his breast, he started molding a spell to his specifications. Despite his care for Achilios, Mendeln forced himself to see the hunter as what he was: a walking corpse. There were spells that could animate such; Mendeln had used them against Inarius’s innocent dupes. To stop animating those, he had merely ceased his incantation. For a thing like Achilios, though, Uldyssian’s brother hoped that by actually reversing the animation spell, he would send the archer back to the afterdeath.

In theory, it should work. In reality…

He sensed rather than heard Achilios approach. Mendeln was struck by the utter silence with which his friend moved. Even as good as he had been in life, surely then Achilios had made some slight noise, especially the intake of breath.

Mendeln finished assembling his spell. He would have one chance, and one chance only, to use it. It would require him stepping out to face the hunter, but Mendeln was willing to chance that. This had to end. Achilios had twice missed slaying his targets, but it was doubtful that he would keep missing. His master would not permit that.

For Serenthia and Uldyssian—assuming that his brother still lived—to survive, Achilios had to die…again.

I raised you from the ground, and to the ground I will send you again…and may you forgive me for both!

There was something to his right. He noticed only now that none of the ghosts was nearby to help warn him. Achilios’s master wanted no failure this time.

A shadow broke from the darkness.

Mendeln stepped away from the tree, thrusting the downturned dagger toward that shadow. In its pale light, he saw Achilios’s grit-covered face. The archer’s expression was passive…lifeless.

And much to Mendeln’s dismay, Achilios had just finished firing at him.

Mendeln knew he was dead. This close, even a fair archer could not fail to hit him directly in the heart. Despite that, the black-clad figure tried to call out what he could of his spell. It was for his brother’s and Serenthia’s sake, for it was already too late for him.

The bolt cut past his throat, scarring the neck and continuing on. Mendeln faltered in mid-word as he grasped at the stinging but shallow wound.

Behind him, the arrow hit the tree he had just abandoned.

Achilios lowered his bow. “You should be…slain…you know that.”

His declaration caused Mendeln to hesitate. What the hunter said was true. Uldyssian’s insistence that Achilios had meant to miss came back to the younger brother. Mendeln had wanted to believe then, but the near killing of Serenthia, with its more questionable intentions, had made him think twice. And when Achilios had come for him, then surely it meant that there would be no third reprieve.

Yet there had been, and Achilios himself was able to point that out.

“I find it hard to believe,” he dared at last reply, “that you would spend so much time not quite slaying your targets.”

This earned him a dry chuckle from the undead figure. “It was by sheer will…and not a little…luck the first time. Even more so…with…with her.” If the blond archer could have shed a tear when speaking of Serenthia, he surely would have now. “And you…you only required three…three shots because you’re…so damned obstinate, Mendeln.”

“What do you mean?” It was proving harder and harder for Mendeln to bring himself to start over his dark spell. If not for the raspy voice, the hints of dirt that he could see on the face, and the knowledge that under the collar that covered Achilios’s throat was a gaping hole, the son of Diomedes would have felt as if he and the archer were just having one of the many talks they had had as youths.

“I came…to talk. You made that…very difficult. I finally fired…fired the one shot…to show you that if I wanted…to kill you…I could. You didn’t pay it…any…mind at all.”

“There were circumstances, as you might recall. The last two times you appeared, you tried to put arrows into Uldyssian and her. I remained unconvinced that anything had changed.”

The archer shook his head, unveiling part of his gaping throat wound in the process. “And so…I fired a second…a second time…to prove again…that…I could’ve killed you…or at least wounded…wounded you…if I’d wanted to.”

Mendeln lowered the dagger. “Not yet convincing enough, I would have to say.”

“No…apparently not.” Achilios’s expression suddenly tightened. “You…you tried to…to bury me…Mendeln. There was…was a moment then…that I wanted to…kill you.”

The dagger came back up. “And now?”

“It was…it was only…for a moment…and I still…I still wouldn’t have…done it.”

There was something so believable in his voice that Mendeln finally put away the dagger. “Did you escape? Is that why you are back now?”

“No…I didn’t…escape. He…he changed his…mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was…I was to kill you all…especially Uldyssian and…and Serenthia…because of what…what you were becoming.”

This was already obvious to Mendeln. “And so?”

“Now…now he wishes…wishes otherwise.”

“Wishes otherwise? I am not certain that fills me with trust! And who is he, exactly, Achilios? Other than an angel, I mean!”

“Someone who might be…our only hope…against Inarius,” the undead archer replied. His gaze suddenly shifted past Mendeln, who felt the hair on his neck rise. “The only hope.”

IF IT IS STILL POSSIBLE…came a voice that sounded too much like that of Inarius. FOR IT SEEMS THAT ONE OF THE THREE HAS NOW ENTERED THIS WORLD.

Spinning around, Mendeln faced the angel. It was not Inarius, of that he was somehow certain. There was so much that reminded him exactly of Rathma’s father, yet he knew somehow that this was not him.

But more important was what the celestial being had just said. “One of the Three?” Uldyssian’s brother blurted. His mind raced. The only “Three” that he could think of were the patron spirits of the Triune, spirits who were, in fact, actually—“No!” Mendeln vehemently shook his head. “You cannot mean—”

The faceless figure gave an almost imperceptible nod. YES, ONE OF THE DEMON LORDS HAS COME TO SANCTUARY.

This was not how it was supposed to be. From time immemorial, all had proceeded as Inarius intended. Whenever some slight trouble had reared its head, the angel had attended to it with a draconian efficiency that would have left even his brethren reeling. He had learned from that one foolish error, learned from falling prey to his lover’s false words. Since that distasteful event, Inarius had never let anything go beyond his immediate control.

Until now.

The angel, still in the guise of the Prophet, stalked his sanctum as his emotions grew unchecked. Uncertainties that he had not experienced in centuries seized hold of him.

Oris had come in search of her counterpart, who she did not know was no longer even dust on the floor. Inarius had granted her no more than a minute with him but had paid her words little attention during that period. His blunt comment that Gamuel was to be forgotten left her pale, but he did not care. Human concerns were trivial compared with his own.

The night had grown old by this point, and although he was eternal, the passing of the last few hours only served to make the Prophet more anxious. In the past, there had never been a situation that had required more than a few moments’ consideration on his part. Now his mind could not function, save to repeat over and over his recent failures.

THERE HAS BEEN A MISTAKE! he insisted to himself. THERE HAS BEEN A MISTAKE! A FAULT NOT MINE!

The mortal Uldyssian had dealt with the Triune, just as Inarius had wanted. The next step should have been the simple downfall of the angel’s pawn. Inarius’s agents had turned so many people against the edyrem that in the end, the abominations would surely fall.

But Uldyssian himself could not be stopped…and he was coming for Inarius…coming for him…

Glancing up at the glorious panorama that sought, in a feeble manner, to describe the perfection of the High Heavens, the angel started. He could have sworn that one of the figures had moved. Inarius stepped back, studying the painted form.

No, it could not have moved. It had only been his own imagination—

The face of the Prophet twisted in fury. His fears melted away at the same time, melted away with little difficulty, for they were not exactly his own.

“I know you now,” he declared to the empty chamber in his human voice. “Your little games will not work on me, demon! You forget with whom you deal!”

I deal with a traitor, a liar, and a murderer, said a voice that, despite Inarius’s claim, sent a slight chill through him. It’s almost like dealing with one of my brothers.

“Insolent as ever.” Inarius sought out the darkest shadow and faced it. “So very insolent.”

The shadow moved. Within it, a figure vaguely coalesced.

Inarius showed no sign of anxiety when that figure became another winged warrior he knew so well. “You are not Tyrael, and I am not afraid of him.”

Are you not? Then why do I resemble him?

“Because you are a fool, demon.”

This brought a chuckle. Then, as the other “angel” moved forward, he shifted form again. Now he was a human, but not just any. He was Uldyssian ul-Diomed.

The Prophet bared his teeth. “Again, you are a fool. You have some reason for approaching me. Do so without the theatrics!”

The shadow in the corner suddenly spread forth, all but enveloping the false Uldyssian. As it did, his form distorted. The demon grew less distinct and certainly far less human. He became as much imagination as substance, and as he did, Inarius again felt unsettled, though he dared not show it.

The shadows now encompassed most of the chamber in the direction where the dark being stood. The angel was aware that beyond his sanctum, his followers were suddenly experiencing fears that they did not even know they had. The guards at his doors would be trembling, and there was even a good chance that some had fled their positions. More than a few of his priests would likely be on their knees already, praying that the darkness touching their souls would soon leave them.

They did not know how fortunate they were, for the demon who visited Inarius could have done much worse. It was only that he, like the angel, dared not fully reveal himself.

There were those even the Lord of Terror feared.

The thing in the shadows towered over Inarius. At times, the demon had a shape that was reminiscent of a twisted mix of man and animal. Yet it was the face that most stirred the fears within, for it kept shifting. Inarius saw a skull with horns. Out of the eyes and jaws oozed blood. That horrific countenance became a melting head whose flesh was being constantly devoured by black flies and great worms. A more reptilian face then appeared, feminine and much like that of another demon Inarius had known.

But even Lilith’s visage vanished a moment later, to be replaced again by that of the other angel. As the Prophet frowned, the demon laughed and changed again. Now empty shadow greeted Inarius, and for inexplicable reasons, this disturbed him more than any of his visitor’s other forms.

Is this better, oh Prophet?

Ignoring the mockery, Inarius quietly replied, “When previously we faced each other, Lord Diablo, it was agreed that it would be the last time.”

There are always more last times, Inarius. Although not so many as there used to be.

“And is that the reason for your coming?”

The demon’s shape continually shifted in small ways, as if Diablo had no true form of his own. Each alteration, no matter how small, touched some chord with Inarius, although he ever kept his emotions masked. Diablo fed off the slightest fear.

My reason for coming is simple. His name is Uldyssian.

“Ah, of course. You and your brothers spent so much effort creating the Triune! I did warn you that it would fall.”

Through no effort of yours.

Now it was the angel’s turn to mock. “Are you so certain? You would do better to take a closer look.”

He sensed the demon’s fury and felt a wave of fear seek to take hold of him. Aware now, though, that it was Diablo’s effort, Inarius shielded himself against the dark lord’s power. The effort proved quite a strain, but Inarius succeeded.

Yet had both he and Diablo been human, their hesitation during the moment that followed might have been seen as two exhausted adversaries needing to draw a breath and recover.

Inarius was aware how powerful the demon lord was and knew that part of his own success came from Diablo’s need to shield himself from other eyes. That, at last, revealed to the angel just why he had been visited so suddenly.

“So…that is it,” the Prophet murmured, more confident now. “You are afraid of losing everything. The Lord of Terror is afraid.”

I fear nothing! the emptiness that Diablo currently used as his face retorted. No more than you, that is!

“All goes as I desire—”

Taloned paws scraping across the immaculate marble, the demon moved closer, the vast shadow swelling with him in the process. Somehow, even lacking eyes, he managed to stare into Inarius’s mind. I tasted your fear, angel. There would have been nothing for me to devour if what you say is true. This mortal, this Uldyssian, he has become more than any of us would imagine. He risks all that either of us desires of Sanctuary!

Inarius could not prevent a frown. “Two different desires, I might point out.”

But with one overriding link. Diablo leaned close. There was a hint of that other angel’s countenance before the emptiness returned. Neither of the destinies we fight for will happen if this mortal continues along his path.

The Prophet turned away from his unwanted guest, but not because of fear of Diablo. Rather, he saw too well the demon lord’s point and could not help but consider it.

As often as Inarius had threatened to wipe clean Sanctuary and begin anew, in truth, he did not wish to go to such an extreme. He had molded the world to his liking for far too long. He had grown too…comfortable.

The demons, of course, sought Sanctuary and, especially, its humans, for another, more base reason. They saw in humans the warriors that they needed to tilt the struggle in their favor.

And as Diablo had said, if Uldyssian managed to keep raising his people beyond what even Inarius had imagined their limits, then very soon neither he nor the demons would have say over man.

THAT CAN NEVER BE! Inarius thought angrily. He turned back to the demon, who had stayed silent during his considerations. “You are offering an alliance.”

The Lord of Terror laughed harshly. You make it sound as if such a thing were unthinkable, angel! I recall that you have made pacts with my kind more than once.

Inarius could certainly not argue with him there. As in those other times, though, he intended that the advantage would be his. He had learned from his one mistake, learned from Lilith.

And against the cunning of Lilith, even Diablo paled. A pact could be manipulated. Diablo would certainly try it.

With practiced ease, the Prophet went to his favorite couch and settled there, as if the figure before him were a supplicant, not a master demon. He sensed Diablo’s anger at this insult but knew that the Lord of Terror needed his resources, his Cathedral of Light, for whatever he planned.

Still, Inarius was curious about what Diablo had to offer this alliance. “I will listen.”

Clearly restraining his powers, the monstrous being explained, Through a minion of mine, I have learned of one who would be eager to help us. Indeed, he is near and already eager for Uldyssian’s blood…or body, that is.

“Body?”

Yes…and for it as his reward, he will be the key to eliminating the threat this mortal makes.

“Of what use is another demon?”

Diablo grunted at what apparently was Inarius’s ignorance. He is not demon, though his mind is worthy of one. He is a man…or, rather, was. Alone, he will fail, but with both of us to guide him, he cannot but succeed.

“A mortal against another mortal?” It made an ironic sense to Inarius, and if a mortal was Diablo’s pawn, he would be that much easier for the angel to manipulate later. “And who is this man who no longer is?”

You knew him well…so very…when he was the high priest of Mefis.

Mefis. Mephisto. Yes, Inarius knew very well of whom the demon lord spoke. “Malic?” The Prophet allowed a slight smile to grace his mortal countenance. “Malic.”

Yes. Diablo allowed a face of his own—a less disturbing one, of course—to shift into focus…and with the angel shared another smile.