"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.