The River II 18/5/22 Sorrel kicks it over

London calling to the far away towns
Now war is declared, and battle come down

A lot of people running and a hiding tonight
A lot of people won't get no justice tonight
Remember to kick it over
No one will guide you
Armagideon time

London Calling/Armagideon Time
The Clash

In the pavilion, Ophanim sat, a glass of wine in his hand, his eyes fixed on Zola. Behind him, Rahmiël her gaze supremely indifferent.

Standing apart, and staring at Marto, was Adhyël. For a second, hope blossomed in Sorrel’s heart. Just three of them.

Then she looked closer at the stone table. Rholor’s body was laid out on the platform as if part of a ritual, a white light connecting his unconscious form to a floating globe above a low cairn a few feet away. An'Ahkrim leered at them from beside his head.

Sorrel scanned the valley, looking for the tactical advantage. Two bridges. One right before them, one some distance away but unguarded.

And then she saw Zah'Ranin on a rise just a short distance away, leathery wings and savage teeth spreading out beyond the possible. Zah'Ranin was on their side of the river. Every approach covered.

Suddenly Ophanim slammed back his wine, stood up and walked out towards them, a weapon in each hand – one shining sword and one duller blade. He held them up in a warrior’s salute to Zola and cried across the valley ‘it’s going to be beautiful!’

Zola drew her new longsword, the mighty Castor, pointed it towards Ophanim and called out ‘this is what you want? Who am I to deny you?’

Zah'Ranin unfurled their tongue obscenely and took to the skies, swooping towards them with savage, hungry eyes blazing.

Rahmiël’s gaze swept Sorrel and Silvia, standing side by side at the edge of the low cliff.

“So, this is the manacle girl,” Rahmiël leered across the blazing river. “She’s adorable.” Her eyes met Sorrel’s. “I’m going to burn her alive as you watch.”

Behind her, the pavilion burst into flames which writhed and coiled around each other. Something was forming within them. It was like a great shadow, in the middle of which was a dark form, of man-shape maybe, yet greater; and a power and terror seemed to be in it and go before it. Its streaming mane kindled and blazed behind it. In its right hand was a blade like a stabbing tongue of fire; in its left it held a whip of many thongs. The shadows about it reached out like two vast wings. It raised the whip, and the thongs whined and cracked. Fire came from its nostrils.

“A Balrog!” Zola cried. “A Balrog is come!”

"A Balrog," muttered Gandalf. "Now I understand. And I've used up my level seven, eight and nine spell slots... Marto, you and the chaps are fine with this, I think. If anyone wants me..." and he tiptoed off.

You know what they said? Well, some of it was true.

Adhyël took two steps towards them, vanished into the fog and smoke of the blazing river, a crashed back into existence beside them, his left arm extending out beyond sanity with the claw of a nameless creature at its unholy end, grasping a serrated longsword pointing at Marto’s heart.

“Make me an offer, lover,” he rasped.

Beside Sorrel, Silvia spoke, rage filling her voice as she spat at Rahmiël “I hate everything you stand for.”

The fury seemed to pour from her mouth and take shape, rolling into a sickly grey shadow that grew long tendril legs and endless arms with a long face that ended in a gaping wound of a mouth that lolled open, and eyes that wept pure darkness as the creature stalked towards Rahmiël.

Silvia turned as Zah'Ranin, slender, with membranous wings and an obscene smile, alighted beside them saliva pouring from its slavering tongue. Silvia muttered eldritch incantations and her hand became midnight, the emptiness, and she plunged its void into the demon who howled with pain. Silvia cursed – her powers had stuttered, and the summoned shadow vanished back into the void.

Velania moved forwards, radiating concern. “Keep calm, hold yourselves together,” she urged. And Khaos sounded in their heads. “Remember the objective.”

“It’s no good,” Sorrel warned as Zah'Ranin closed in, the Balrog closed off the river and Adhyël rose above them. “I can’t manoeuvre.”

“Stay on target.”

“We’re too close!”

“Stay on target.”

And Khaos was gone.

“Gold Five, lost Gold Leader,” Sorrel called to Velania.

“Different story,” Velania sighed.

“Get him Sorrel!” Marto screamed and flew at Adhyël, his axe crashing home only for the fiend to melt into smoke and reappear behind Silvia.

“Hammer and Ghost,” Kavel called. “Zah'Ranin or Adhyël?”

Sorrel’s mind raced. What was the greater threat? The Balrog was crossing the river and could head her off. But Kavel could protect Silvia and Velania.

Her eyes met his, patient and kind. She swallowed. Silvia and Velania were so precious to her that it was all she could do not to haul out her shield and fall on the foe with the Wolf Pack battle cry. But she had a job to do. And if she didn’t do it, none of them were getting out of here for the rest of eternity. Which was a long time by anyone’s watch. The objective was Rholor.

“The Balrog…” she paused. Looked around at her friends. “Hold the line, Kavel.”

And she ran.

The battle is getting hotter in this iration

As she leaped from the low escarpment she invoked the Ghost Protocol – the House technique learned in brutal classes taught by Ilvi, the Shadar Kai mistress of shadow. You could bend the light around you and step between its beams if you knew how to step at right angles to reality. It was a risky move in Hell. Most devils knew the trick. But it was the only edge she had beyond her speed, and though she sprinted until her muscles screamed the loose shale, searing air and hours of struggling through the beating heat of Hell made her feel she was wading through syrup while the heavy sky mocked her.

Suddenly a searing pain bit into her side and she recognised the shape of the first brand eating into her skin. She blessed all the wise women, from the goddess to the queen of witches and touched the Crystal Queen’s gift, handed to her when that monstrous Jangston was defeated. Trusting in the Queen’s magic, she called to her and felt a jolt of power course out of the crystal and through her veins, catapulting her into the sky. She span and turned, holding on to her trajectory in her mind - to Rholor, to the High Diviner – and the magic heard her, lifted her and carried her across the blazing river.

“Your first wish,” she felt the Crystal throb. “Use the others wisely.”

Sorrel scrambled to her feet on the stone table beside Rholor’s unconscious form. “I’m pretty impressed with the wisdom of this decision if it’s all the same to you, your majesty,” she whispered, then stepped into the light connecting Rholor with the floating orb, blocking it with her body, hauled back her bowstring and let three arrows fly in rapid succession right into Rahmiël’s corrupt flesh as she lurched towards the table.

“Back off bitch,” Sorrel hissed. “Rholor’s body, like Silvia’s, is not yours to play with – they are under my protection, and you shall not pass.”

Rahmiël reeled and Sorrel caught a flicker of fury in her eyes.

Out of the corner of her eye Sorrel saw Zola thundering across the distant bridge, bringing her blades down on Ophanim, who parried desperately, but gazed at Zola with what seemed like devotion.

She could see Kavel lamping the Balrog with a massive right cross to the face, a left hook to the body and a thundering overhand right. Each punch buried itself in flames that licked up Kavel’s powerful arms and he seemed ecstatic as the third blow crashed home.

“We might actually win this thing,” Sorrel let the thought enter her mind even though she knew it spelled doom. And of course, that’s when everything fell apart.

A lot of people running and hiding tonight

She could feel Zah'Ranin attacking Kavel and Silvia, the Balrog crashing a flaming fist down onto Kavel, Adhyël dodging Marto’s blows and taking chunks out of the halfling’s body. Velania’s agony was palpable – protect the vulnerable or save Rholor… Sorrel hip swerved An'Ahkrim once, twice then staggered as the brand sent its needles deep into her soul and her eyes went black for a second then snapped open as she trained her bow on Rahmiël and tried to work out how to wake Rholor.

“Old man,” she hissed. “Wake up.” And she kicked him. Nothing happened.

Over on the high ground she could see Zah'Ranin, Adhyël and the Balrog raining blows on Kavel, Silvia and Marto. In fury, Sorrel nocked another arrow and searched for Rahmiël’s throat, but the fiend was heading for the river.

She searched for Silvia and felt panic rising when she saw her staggering under the flurry of blows. Zah'Ranin’s claws raked her, and she fell.

She fell.

It was happening again.

The night flashed before her eyes – ten years ago, the sages, the old wizard who’d given the team potions if fiends arrived, Sorrel liking the old man and taking his word, the others dismissing him, and then through a mist strange creatures - scales, claws and teeth on human forms, armed with jagged weapons and wreathed in fire… her companions fighting to the death… Sorrel locked in a misty sanctuary… Sana’s soft skin in the claws of unspeakable things… the mist dropping and Sorrel carving her sword through every beast then stalking from the Master’s command to seek out those who planned this all by herself.

She had to save Silvia.

But she had to protect the High Diviner.

Her legs felt like stone. She heard the voices of friends vanished and gone, the blood in her veins just as black and whispering as the rain. This job ripped the skin from her back – it was a death trap, suicide, jammed with broken heroes. And still at the end of every hard earned day people found some reason to believe, despite the greedy fiends who came around and ate the flesh of everything they found… Whose crimes have gone unpunished…

And then Kavel crashed his fists into the Balrog, turned his back on Zah'Ranin, more fire in his eyes than in the heart of Hell, and strode towards Silvia’s fallen frame, scooped her up in one strong hand and stormed across the bridge as Velania let the echo of moonlight call Silvia back from that long, dark road that leads to a bleak, windswept moor from which few return.

He walked through the fire like the first born son of the world, batting off demons like mosquitos that buzzed in his ears.

Zola raised her sword and plunged it in to Ophanium, who arched his back in perverted ecstasy. Sorrel saw Zola swing again, gutting Ophanium at a stroke, moonlight dancing on the tip of her blade as she thrust it deep into his chest, then dragged his flailing form towards her, tears in her eyes as she kissed him, hard, on the mouth.

Ophanium said something, but it was drowned out by the roar of the battle. For a brief second Sorrel thought she heard: ‘finish it.’

Then Zola’s voice rang out as pure as a crystal bell. “I understand now,” she was holding Ophanium in her arms, and weeping. “It is beautiful.”

And after all this, won't you give me a smile?

A beautiful death is the highest ambition of The House. Alo-Eddelin founded it in a beautiful valley between two lofty mountains. He created a garden, with every delicious fruit tree and fragrant shrub that could be procured. Palaces were built around the grounds, ornamented with gold, fine paintings, and furniture of rich silks. By means of small conduits, streams of wine, milk, honey, and pure water flowed in every direction.

Alo-Eddelin selected youths from the age of twelve to twenty years who showed a disposition for martial exercises and appeared to possess daring and courage. At certain times he caused opium to be administered to ten or a dozen of them and had them conveyed to the apartments of the palaces. Upon awakening, their training began. By its end, all deemed themselves happy to die in service of their Master. None felt terror at losing their own lives, which they held in little estimation, provided they could execute their master's will.

As the years passed, new Masters took Alo-Eddelin’s place and new princes paid for the service. But the training remained. When Count Henry of Ulgarth, returning from the border kingdoms, spoke with Grand Master Rashid al-Kahf the count claimed to have the most powerful army in Faerun. Rashid replied that his army, small though it may be, was the most powerful, and to prove it he told one of his men to jump from the top of the castle in which they were staying. The man did. Surprised, the count conceded that Rashid's army was indeed the strongest.

Sorrel met people who thought this death senseless. No, Sorrel would explain, it was a beautiful death. The House was his family – the family that fed him and gave him a home, that gave him friends who would die for him. The Count was testing Master Rashid. His boast was a threat. If Master Rashid had not countered his move, the Count would have attacked – perhaps not that day but soon. The man died so that his brothers and sisters would live, that the House would stand, that others would join the family. He died because he belonged.

Sorrel was of the House but not of the House. She belonged nowhere. She loved rarely and killed often. But she heard in Zola’s cry some echo of the Master’s voice. She heard the glory and the horror of love, the death that saves lives. And she realised how weak these devils were. They fought without love. They fought alone.

And she knew they had a chance at last.

With her eyes on Kavel as he carried Silvia through the flames of Hell, she stood on Rholor’s stone table and loosed two arrows at the orb that she now recognised was dragging its light from his body. They ricocheted into the distance. So, she turned and knelt beside the priest, took a healing bead from the necklace of Selune and poured the love of the goddess into him.

Just for a second, the flow of light stuttered and failed and Rholor’s face twitched.

Marto came to rest on the table beside her. He grasped at once what Sorrel’s healing had done and forced the cleric’s lips apart to pour the potion Sorrel had given him down the priest’s throat.

Again, the light faltered. This time Rholor’s eyes seemed to flicker.

An'Ahkrim was watching them, eyes wide with wonder. He looked up at Velania as she swooped towards them, and he muttered an arcane incantation but held back its power.

Rahmiël strode from the river, made whole by its fire, and energy poured from her fingertips, sending Sorrel sprawling once, twice.

Velania reached out her arms to An'Ahkrim, love lighting up her face, just as Khaos winked into being and slid a blade into An'Ahkrim’s spine. Khaos spoke in Sorrel’s mind: it is draining his soul.

Kavel’s punches drove Zah'Ranin back towards Zola, who picked up Ophanium’s blade Pollox, Castor’s mighty twin, and power surged through her as she severed the Balrogs head and fire burst from its corpse, enveloping them all.

Just as Sorrel’s let Selune’s healing touch Rholor’s form yet again, however, she felt the needles slice into her soul from the brand.

Her hands moved in front of her terrified eyes, no longer in her control.

She watched in horror as they plucked arrows from her belt, drew back her bowstring and let them fly at Velania, Silvia and Kavel.

Her soul was screaming no, it is not this way, but the hands kept moving, mechanical, relentless, like a flesh golem trained by the finest assassins in history.

She could hear Rahmiël calling An'Ahkrim a traitor – “slay the angel, now!” She could hear Adhyël scream in cold fury and hurl himself at Marto howling “this is not how it is supposed to end, you must die!”

Then Velania landed, reached out her healing arms to Rholor and blessed him.

His eyes opened.

Then time.... just.... stopped.

A lot of people sitting down by the light

The silence was deafening.

It roared in Sorrel’s ears like an absent hurricane.

The light was suddenly cold, and Hell held its breath.

Then the sky cracked open and pure brilliant moonlight poured through, scattering the blood red rolling clouds like insects running from a broom.

There was a shape in the sky hurtling down towards them, falling from the heavens like stone, with vast wings outstretched that were borne on light and banished shadow.

Rholor’s eyes flickered again and watched as his goddess sent her messenger to answer his call.

The creature flew at the pedestal, faster than the beating of a heart, and it’s feet met the stone with a thud so deep and heavy Sorrel felt sure the table would shatter under them.

And then she gasped and hid her eyes.

For revealed before them was an archangel, awful in countenance, shining with the power of creation. It stood a thousand miles into the sky and its sword was built of light and fury. The sanctity of the Heavens poured from it, and everything withered in the path of its gaze.

With her hands covering her face she fell to her knees and knew the angel would speak some dolorous word of power to shatter the foundations of Hell itself. She tensed herself for the mote of creation when it came.

“Fuck this,” the angel said.

She knew that voice.

She opened her eyes. Jackal stood before her, the same height as he ever was, his battered plate armour and battle-scarred face complete with raised eyebrow and weary sigh. The only difference was the wings that spread from his back, beating slowly as he surveyed the struggle.

“I am not doing this shit again, it has got to stop,” he said.

He reached out his gauntleted hand and looked into An'Ahkrim’s eyes.

“If we do not break this cycle, it will never end,” Jackal sighed. “Millions will hope and fail, die alone and their dreams will mean nothing. We can stop this.”

An'Ahkrim reached out his arm and took Jackal’s hand and everything came rushing back – the noise, the pain, the heat, the anger.

Her hands were hers again.

“Everyone can change,” Velania’s hand stroked An'Ahkrim’s face. “I told you.”

Rahmiël and Adhyël screamed in fury and attacked, one last desperate move. Marto brought her axe down with clinical efficiency, cleaving Adhyël in two with one stroke. “A part of you will always have a piece of me,” she whispered. “Yondolla please protect and watch over us all.”

Rholor stopped breathing, the light winked out and Jackal hissed “get the orb, it holds his soul.”

Sorrel took three short steps and launched herself from the stone table, dodging Rahmiël’s shards of force, grasping the orb and rolling safely to the ground as magic surged above her head.

Then Rahmiël was torn to pieces in a blizzard of fury, An'Ahkrim leading the assault, as Sorrel staggered towards Kavel and Silvia, leaning on them as they walked up the shallow stairs to stand with Rholor’s corpse.

Sorrel watched Kavel’s face anxiously as he plucked her arrow out, but he smiled. “Sorrel you owe me a steak for this,” his eyes twinkled.

“Can we hurry the fuck up with all this shit?” Jackal sighed.

“The wings haven’t put you in a better mood then,” Sorrel observed.

“Take each other’s hands and shut the fuck up Darkfire,” Jackal barked.

Above them, Hell’s oppressive red sky had sealed itself and bore down on them with tempest of heat and power.

Jackal closed his eyes and a silver mist swirled around them brighter and brighter until it nearly blinded Sorrel and she closed her eyes.

At that moment, she was flung through the air, separated from the others and spinning alone.

When she opened her eyes she was in the Fort Ettin training yard. Her bow was no longer a weapon, it was an extension of her body. It breathed and lived in sync with her, sharing a heartbeat and a soul. She loosed arrow after arrow, hitting each target dead centre every time. The Jackal leaned against the simple fence, wearing his usual plate and dour expression, but his wings were hard to hide.

He squinted at the target and said “I’ve got really shit news for you Darkfire. Earning Her grace, being worthy of Her… It’s not about the missions. It’s not about jobs, or the targets. It’s about us. Forgiving ourselves. Allowing ourselves to be worthy. She’s not keeping it from us, we are.”

He stretched his wings a little awkwardly, uncomfortably. “And if I’m worthy of redemption, Sorrel, so are you.”

Seems like I got to travel on…

They were in Portal Plaza and Jackal was standing there, no wings, just a scowl, but Velania cried out “you are Jasathriel, the archangel who was betrayed and fell and has been lost for centuries… you have returned to grace.”

And Jasathriel fixed his eyes on Khaos on the other side of the square and something unknowable passed between them, then Khaos turned and walked away.

A halfling woman moved out of the crowd and spoke to Marto.

“Are you the party sent to hell?”

Marto nodded, unable to speak.

The woman sighed.

“Since you have not returned with the High Diviner you have failed, and he is lost to us…”

Marto pointed at Sorrel.

“That glass ball contains his soul,” her voice rasped.

Jackal clapped his hand on Sorrel’s shoulder. “I’ll bring him back. It’s sort of… It’s complicated. I’ll bring him back. The mission was a success. Well, it wasn’t as much of a failure as it could have been. Reward them handsomely.”

He took the orb, unfurled his wings and disappeared.

“A thank you might have been nice,” Sorrel grumbled.

“You will have missed the announcement,” the halfling woman spoke again. “We are about to be invaded. You need to make yourselves ready. War is upon us. There is work to be done.”

But Sorrel gazed into the sky and felt that she could not move or speak for a thousand years, even if Daring Heights were to burn to the ground around her.