One winged angel
The Garvem Redband was alerted to the first body at three hours before dawn. He was unprepared for what he found. He had read of the atrocities of the Red Vanguard, and the stories of the horrors of Pallia and Caelum, and he had seen murders before. His first warning was the three Garvem that guarded the body; one of them stood vomiting over the drain. “It’s bad,” one of them said, “and it’s signed.”
Only the Red Vanguard signed their kills, and they were five hundred years dead, destroyed by the Garvem that served them. He pushed his way past. It was a statue of Queen Aeka, the queen who reigned through the Red Vanguard’s life, the queen who had destroyed them. She wore a crown that the murderer had pushed two feathers through, one was black and one was white. She stood with her arms outstretched, in one hand she held a sword and in the other a small bird, she stood in the same pose as the ancient Goddess, but unlike her she wore no veil. Draped across her open arms was the body.
It had been de-boned and flopped like fabric between the two stone arms. The murderer had marked red handprints around the statue’s neck and another over her eye, black lines had been put over her mouth like it was stitched shut. The body was a boneless bag; all its internal organs had been removed. It had been elegantly gentled and the head removed. There was no blood on the statue at all.
Written in black paint across the base, over the name Aeka D’Morda - Queen of Dathyl 621 - 667, were the words First of the Fifteen. At that the Garvem Redband felt his stomach quiver. The Red Vanguard had been slaughtered to a woman, and this body was dressed like a Red kill. Someone had taken the time to do this and some of the gestures the Redband didn’t recognise but he assumed the Seraphim would. It was not a Seraphim gesture.
The Garvem pulled down the body, it had been opened like a Seraphim heart strike, but the rough edges of the wound suggested that rather than the elegant Seraphim greave someone had used a sword point to do this, then the ribs had been removed and then, one by one, the organs. Traditionally in gentling, the last thing to be removed was the head. A long thin wound ran along the back where the spine had been jerked out. The genitalia had been removed with what might have been an axe blow. There was a strange level of attention to the corpse. A black snake tattoo circled one ankle. “He was Garvem, “ he said, “he was one of the Halcyon guards.” Only they had that tattoo.
“Who would do this?” A Garvem sword asked him.
“Only the Red. Find where this happened, find who did this.” There were no other words. Someone had taken hours for this.
“First of the fifteen, what does it mean?” The Garvem asked.
He was learned; he knew things. He had been promoted as much for his knowledge of Garvem history as his skill. He didn’t want to accept what it meant, he had seen it before, in woodcuts and lithographs of battlefields, he had even seen it on an ancient flag in Sidi, a number one over a number fifteen. Only one person could have claimed that title, the First of the Red, the Worst of the Red, Avili Verif, a woman six hundred years murdered.
The air swirled about Deakon like a coriolis as the golden ball within him exploded from out of his pores. The golden light pouring out of his eyes and from his fingertips blinded him. The sea smashed into the outer wall carrying ships and sailors with it. There was screaming he was aware of it on some levels. He thought for a moment, with a strange distance, that it might have been his. The light burned like white metal.
He could feel nothing but the light. His body arched back with it as it vomited from his mouth- his eyes- his ears. He was aware of the sand and the wind, but almost as if he was watching someone else.
The ships in the harbour were smashing against the wall he hovered over, floating as thunderbolts fell from a clear sky, blowing holes in the courtyard. He was beyond them now. There was blood. He knew that.
A pair of golden wings sprouted from his back with pain and light, stretching out behind him, where he lay in the air, hips thrust up as if to a lover and feet stretched apart as the golden light poured like molten metal from him. The ball had exploded. Someone was calling his name. Someone was shouting. Someone was screaming. The wings beat once, twice and then shattered in a shower of metal feathers.
Still the blood dripped, once, twice, into the pool on the floor of the ancient castle. He could not shake the dream or the taste of blood in his mouth. All else was irrelevant.
“Someone stop him!” He didn’t recognise the voice as he felt the death of a nation, born again, the golden ball was punctured, sucking and pushing all the power near him.
“Cadacus!” He didn’t even know he was screaming.
Maerian was forced back by the rain of metal feathers.
The second body was found in the Plaza dell’Agua. It was laid across a stone anvil in the centre of the plaza. Like the first it had been completely filleted, in the time it took to travel across the city he had learnt the technical name for this manner of execution was “gentling” and it was done on the living. There were some signs of a struggle on this body; the boneless wrists were badly chafed, as if struggling against a bond of some kind. It also showed some signs of practise, where the first body had been slit open to remove the bones. This one was, for the most part, inside out from the waist down. He had been skinned like one would skin a rabbit; the bones had been taken with one hand and the skin with the other and pulled.
The anvil was painted. There were no references to the Red Vanguard this time. There were references to something. He just didn’t know what they were. All over it words had been written in Darin, quick thin slashes of black paint. He couldn’t read it. He had to find someone who could. It was a song, “Gomen na sunao ja nakute”. He didn’t recognise it. There were also Seraphim wings carved into the flaps of skin on the man’s chest.
He knew he was out of his league. He called in the Seraphim’s help. “You’ll need to see Sir Cameron,” the chapterhouse guard said, “we will send for him, he will arrive from the academy come noon. Record everything, no matter how unimportant it seems. If the murders are to be solved, he will solve them.” He knew of Sir Cameron, the butcher of the Northlands. He also knew the Seraphim was right, if anyone knew the details of these murders, it would be Sir Cameron.
In the courtyard of Muchine Saaraphine of Melc guided her people under cover by shouting and waving her short sword. Every now and again she looked up at the small body that floated a good ten foot over the sea wall as the waves smashed into it, carrying boats. It was hard to miss him. He glowed like a second sun. Half of her people were cowering away from him like he was some creature escaped from hell, and the rest wanted to fall their knees and worship him. She, herself, was terrified.
Lightning smashed into the courtyard leaving smoking holes.
The wind whipped through the manor bringing furniture and glass with it.
Her skin burned like she had been dipped in hot oil.
If she thought for a moment that she could hit him she would have taken a bow and shot him. She was crying, she was that scared, but she would not give in. Her people needed her.
“Cadacus!” The boy screamed and it was as if everyone screamed along with him.
It was then that she heard the scritch-scratch under her feet, and the heavy scream-screech of stone scraping on stone as the doors to the mausoleum were pushed outward.
That was when she screamed as the ancient dead pushed their way out of their stone houses, dragging useless limbs behind them. The glowing child that hovered over the walls of her manor brought to him an army of the dead. Their eye sockets were empty and for the most part they were just skeletal remains, some of them wore shreds of cloth, one had been dead less than a week, she remembered burying her, the gown between her legs stained red and black with blood and ordure, the flesh of her fingers pushed back from the bones where she had fought her way free. Her jaw was broken off and the golden light on all of their foreheads burnt a triangular symbol. They all turned to Deakon, whatever he was. Then they screamed.
A statue of the “Divine Wind” wore the third corpse like a mantle. It had been slipped over the open arms of the statue. A long thin chain dropped from the hands of the statue and care had been taken that the hands were carved to allow it. Someone had bandaged the statue’s eyes, and underneath they had been painted bright green. The boneless skin and meat of his arms had been pulled over the statue’s hands, over the sword. Someone had taken great care when doing this, so as not to damage the body. The statue in this case was irrelevant. He didn’t even know whom the statue was of. A velvet bag of feathers hung under the bloodless, headless corpse. Someone was telling him something, he just didn’t know what.
Deakon screamed, over and over, pushing out the light with the sound and the blood that bubbled in his throat. He could see the slow dark spread of blood across the floor, the broken crown of the princesses of Honeybourne as they lay murdered in their own home. He screamed and screamed.
“Enough!” the Cadacus said clearly. He stood on the wall despite the crashing and the smashing of the water about him. His clothes were pressed to his skin showing the terrible mark on his stomach, where he had taken his sword and dragged it the length of his gut, pushing out the intestines and pushing them. “Enough!” He repeated.
“You’re killing them.” Deakon turned his head as Maerian tried to show him, but he sent her away, the golden feathers shattering out again, embedding in the walls, in the broken boats he dragged to the shore. They were as sharp as razors.
They were screaming, he could hear them, a dull raspy roar. “You’re calling the dead.” If the Cadacus could have reached him he would have slapped Deakon, but he couldn’t reach. Deakon was over man height above the wall. “You’re scaring them.”
But Deakon was beyond reason.
Sir Cameron was once the greatest of the Seraphim until he had decided that he would best serve the goddess in study. When his request was denied he had killed fifteen people to make his exile good. He was lucky they hadn’t’ hung him. He was the greatest historian in all of Aatoria, but he was built like a Seraphim. He wore a gravy-stained jerkin and his red beard was matted. He wore an eye patch over his left eye and there was a twitch in his right hand. He wasn’t allowed near weapons but his hands were stained with ink and lumpy with pen calluses. Another Seraphim, with short black curls stood beside him. He introduced himself as Sir Cameron’s errant, Sir Gereint.
“Sir Bedivere denied your request for my help.” He said brightly, shaking the Redband by the hand, “but word was received from Prince Jored overruling him. So I am here.” His voice was a deep grumble. He was almost everything the Redband had expected. “I understand there have been two murders you need my help for.”
“Three.” The Redband corrected. “We have since found another.”
He laid the sketches of the scenes on the table along with detailed descriptions. “We had to open the plazas for the city,” he said, “we couldn’t let you see them properly. The three Garvem were all of the Halcyon guard, we have ruled out Seraphim involvement but if someone attacks the Garvem he will attack the Seraphim.”
Sir Bedivere sat down and looked at the charcoal sketches and read the description of the scenes. “It will not happen again.” He said. “This was in retribution.”
“I don’t understand.” The Redband said.
“This was punishment, for a rape.” He said. “All of these refer to famous rapes, even the Divine Wind, all by the Garvem or Garvem sympathisers.” He laid the sketches out, “Queen Aeka, sole survivor of the Garvem slaughter of Honeybourne, the marks here,” he pointed a sausage fat finger at her face, “are those she suffered there, where she was raped.”
He laid out the picture of the Plaza Dell’Agua. “These are all references to the Tayu Tenshiko, raped and murdered by Malchia D’Eschane who sold Medoc’Ne to the Garvem.”
He put down the third sketch. “The Divine Wind, who rose from the forest four hundred years ago and killed the serial rapists of Dathyl. Men who were, for the most part, above the law.”
“I thought that was a myth.” The Redband protested. “I used to tell that to my daughters, go to sleep or the Divine Wind would come for you and grind your bones to make his bread.”
“No,” Cameron said bluntly, “he was real enough. The other myths about him sprung up later, but he avenged those who could not be avenged by law. Whoever this new killer is he makes deft references.” He took a deep breath, “the references to the First of the Red are interesting.” He looked at them again. “Gereint, what do you make of these?” He showed the images of feathers to his errant.
“Feathers could mean three things,” Gereint answered, “One would be a direct reference to the winged Paraiko, one for the winged goddess, a Seraphim image, and the third would be the legend of the golden feather.”
“Another legend bound to the First of the Red and the Divine Wind.” Cameron agreed. “You will not find this man, nor will there be any more murders. Prince Jored in his letter to Sir Cameron said that the Star of Amitre had been brought low, I would wager the kingdom that these men did it and that this investigation is only tolerated to prove that such action can not be taken.”
“The prince is thirteen years old.” The Redband argued. “And his father is still alive. His brother serves in the Seraphim Academy. He is a child.”
“As was Queen Aeka, his ancestor.” He answered deftly. “And she saved Aatoria from the Garvem. The legend of the Divine Wind said that he was immortal, that no weapon could touch him, if it was possible I would say it was him, as it’s not, check any new arrivals at Halcyon.”
“Lord Devlin of Amitre arrived in concert with,” he raised a piece of paper, “a Sir Tobin.”
Cameron raised a bushy red eyebrow. “Then there is your murderer,” he said blithely.
“Lord Devlin?” He asked.
“No,” Gereint said, “Sir Tobin, it was the name of the Divine Wind.” He said, “there was also a Tobin who served in the court of Queen Aeka as an assassin, who was married to Avili Verif, First of the Red, who was present at the murder of Tenshiko. All of this knowledge is available in the Halcyon library. I doubt you will find this man.”
“Then why send you to help me?” The Redband asked.
“Because Prince Jored enjoys thwarting Sir Bedivere.” Gereint answered with a smile. “I imagine that Sir Tobin has gone to ground and that the missing heads will turn up in Halcyon.”
“Why there?” the Redband asked.
“It’s what I’d do, present them to the Star of Amitre as apology.” He scratched his black head. “Do you have any questions?”
“The Divine Wind…” He started, “who was he?”
“He was the Imperial Prince Tobin D’Cevni,” Cameron said with a faint smile.
A silvery figure joined Deakon in the air above Muchine, his long white hair was gathered at his knees with a silver ribbon, he wore white trimmed in grey and his eyes were as golden as Deakon’s own. He was taller than a man, with white-feathered wings that held him aloft, and his skin was silvery grey, and his eyes like metal beads, slit like a cat’s. Two sharp ears like a cat’s poked their way through the thick white hair and a long tail lashed the air behind him. He outstretched his hands to Deakon, “Hail,” he said, and his voice was as choral as Maerian’s when she used her power to speak. “I am Selestin.” He said and there was a purr to his voice, like a giant cat’s. His hands were as cold as ice when he took Deakon’s hands in his own. “Come.” He said, and they lowered to the ground. There was almost no collision when they landed and Selestin folded his magnificent wings behind him.
“What are you?” Deakon asked, terrified to touch him, but terrified to let him go as well in case it all erupted again.
“I am the last of the Paraiko.” Selestin said, throwing his long white hair over his shoulder. “I will show you how to make amends.” Selestin was clearly not human. A pair of large wings framed him, the voice was male, and his hands and feet were more like to paws. He stood at least eight foot tall, and his skin and hair were ice white, his hair was in a tail that trailed along the floor behind him. His wings were opalescent with blue sinew, and shimmered in the poor light. His face was in long, and his golden eyes reflected the sun, forming a light on their own. His feet were raised like an animal's and he walked on the toes, it looked like he was about to dash off.
He led Deakon by the hand, although Deakon came no higher than his waist to where Saara had gathered her people away from the screaming dead. They were almost all bleeding, those killed by the explosion now stood with the ancient dead, turned to Deakon and screamed.
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