by Chris Fox
“Good to see you, man.” I clapped Pickus on the shoulder as we followed him into the flow of foot traffic. Quite a few passersby stared, but not at Pickus. At…me.
There were speculative whispers as they watched Briff and me march up the corridor, and as we entered the promenade where I could see dozens of levels, I noted many people had a camera trained on me.
“Did the other dignitaries get this much attention?” I called over the hum of conversation, adverts playing, and other distractions in the busy marketplace.
“No.” Pickus began to laugh, then shook his head as we threaded past shops, toward the lift on the far side. “Man, you have no idea how other people see you now. I get that in your head you’re still just a kid playing at relic hunter the same way in my head I’m just a grease monkey from New Texas. I’m a mechanic. I don’t even have training as a real engineer, and I certainly don’t have any administration experience.”
I considered that. I mean…objectively my crew and I had done a lot in a short time, but it also felt like we lost as much as we won. And when you were surrounded by people who’d killed planet-sized gods it made everything you did look a little paler by comparison.
“Well, I’ll take it.” I glanced around and realized I missed Miri shadowing my step. Not only did her presence make me feel safer, but she’d have a one-liner to ease the tension, and then she’d steal something and get us in trouble. “How did we get around the prohibition on demons in this system?”
“Nara, of course.” The way Pickus smiled suggested there was more than just affection there. Of course, he’d known her before she became a demon. “She pointed out that our laws only cover up to ten light hours from a planetary system. Technically the demons are never entering Yanthara since we’re eleven hours out.”
“I’m a huge proponent of loopholes.” I laughed as we stopped outside of the lift, which opened at our approach.
Briff pushed past me first and scanned the elevator like he was security, then shot me a draconic wink when he thought it was safe. I stepped inside, and Pickus followed as the doors closed.
The lift whirred into motion, and I breathed easier. Having my helmet on helped when facing crowds, but it didn’t banish the anxiety. Only part of it was the human fear of public speaking, or the attention of crowds. Last time I’d been here I’d been shot, and while I’d recovered quickly, mentally the fear that it would happen again would not be banished.
The lift opened into a short golden corridor, which emerged into a tremendous amphitheater that could easily seat fifty thousand people. Perhaps many times that as I’m not really good at estimating crowds.
A handful of people had gathered atop the stage, and stood in a loose half circle chatting informally. I recognized Xal’Aran from the hangar bay where he and Crewes saved Highspire. He still appeared mostly human, if you didn’t count the dark skin and baby horns on his forehead. The fallen hero of our sector.
Crewes stood a half hand taller than Aran, and boomed a laugh as the magma-skinned god slung his steaming spellcannon over one shoulder. Behind me Briff mimicked the gesture and I could hear him mouthing the same lines, in the same accent.
“I’ll introduce you.” Pickus headed to the gathering, which also included Davison, a blond officer from Ternus, Voria, and a Wyrm I recognized, in shifted form. Kahotep waved a clawed hand in greeting as we approached. “Hey, all, this is Jerek and his buddy, Briff. You all know who he is. Jerek, this is everybody. We don’t do titles for informal meetings. Anyone want some coffee? With or without Irish cream?”
“With.” Davidson raised a hand.
“Without.” Xal’Aran raised his clawed hand.
There were no other takers, and Pickus headed back the way we came to fetch refreshments. It surprised me he didn’t leave that sort of thing to a drone, or waitstaff. It could be paranoia, but I thought it more likely he just really enjoyed seeing to the needs of others.
Voria rapped Ikadra’s golden butt against the stage with a ring and a sparkle. “Thank you, all, for coming.”
I moved to join the end of the line next to Crewes, who offered me a bro-nod that I did my best to return. Inside I was totally fangirl-ing. Behind me Briff perfectly mimicked the fire god’s stance.
“One of our number has fallen.” Voria rapped the staff twice more, and bowed her head.
I did as well, and closed my eyes as the gravity drove away any sense of fun. Frit was dead, and I wasn’t a kid any more. I needed to focus.
“The question,” Voria continued after an appropriate interval, “is where we go from here. I’ve confirmed that Necrotis told the truth. Yanthara is infected. My followers are helping to contain the spread, with a great deal of success, but we can do nothing to stem the social damage. No one will trust food that comes from this world, whether it is tainted or not.”
Xal’Aran folded impressively muscled arms. “She’s left us no choice. We need to hunt her down with the entire Vagrant Fleet, and then put her down. We need to do it swiftly. Every day she gets stronger, and we get weaker. And…Nara isn’t going to accept anything but overwhelming force. If the Confederacy won’t deal with this, then we will. No one wants that kind of political fallout.”
Davidson tensed, as did Crewes. At first I didn’t get why, but then I realized political fallout was code for all out war. Ternus hated demons. Shaya hated demons. Yanthara hated demons. They all hated the Krox.
“Then let’s get our shit together and head into the storm.” Crewes shook his head and gave a lopsided grin. “We are way overcomplicating this. We’ve got the tools. Frit’s gone, but we got her ship, right? Use the Web of Divinity to do your scrying crap, and then we teleport in and ride Aran’s wake as he rams the Bulwark up the Wrath’s tailpipe. Kid can take a couple potshots at anything that’s left using that big gun he flies around.”
“Yeah, about that.” I finally joined the conversation, and surprised myself when my voice was calm and even. “I can’t cast disintegrate. I’m not a god. I’m not even a demigod. But I’ve gotten stronger. All I need is a bit more training, and access to another source of void magic, and then I’m ready to put her down.”
I looked Aran dead in the eye, and not looking away was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do.
Aran cocked his head, and then nodded. “I like it. We bring the Word of Xal back to the god who forged it. Jerek studies with my people, and learns to master disintegrate. When he’s ready, the fleet gathers and we wipe out Necrotis once and for all.”
There were nods all around. They made it sound so easy, but I had a feeling Necrotis had plenty of surprises left.
Epilogue
Necrotis lowered her hood and stared up at the immense statue, taller than the numerous mountains dotting the range. An earth dragon, the spawn of the Earthmother. She’d known the Earthmother well during her time as an Outrider, because the Earthmother had sponsored Inura’s ideas.
Every time he’d wished to obtain some Catalyst, or deal with some threat, she’d brought her forces to his aid. She’d loved her youngest brother, and his children. The Earthmother had loved so fiercely, and the woman Necrotis had been had loved her just as fiercely.
She could feel the skeleton under her feet, and knew the statue had been carved from one of her ribs. Quite artfully done, that, and a better effigy than she’d have expected given how monumentally Nebiat had failed.
Every scrap about her in the war suggested the Wyrm cum goddess had been utterly incompetent. She’d failed to overcome the Confederacy. She’d failed to overcome Nefarius. She’d failed to overcome Voria, though she had managed to kill Shaya’s tender and to rain destruction on their home world.
Nebiat had a long history of blunders, yet the artistry before her suggested that the woman was not without talent. That was to the good. If the tales were true, then Necrotis wasted her time here.
“Who are you?” A shade appeared before her, a human woman with dark skin and long white hair. Beautiful enough that all
would lust for her. So basically an average Inuran, if a tad more exotic.
“My name is Necrotis.” She traced the edge of her ivory mask with a single finger. “I fed my old name to my mask, and wear it as remembrance. Like you I once believed in my leaders. Like you I attempted to make my father happy, and like you I eventually realized my father to be both mad and incompetent.”
“Your father is Inura.” The shade of Nebiat narrowed those perfect eyes. “Why have you come to my world? You must know my followers will defend me, and that Frit’s followers will stop at nothing to destroy you. Even the Earthmother’s pacifistic children will stir themselves to battle if they learn you are here.”
Necrotis nodded through Nebiat’s posturing. All a part of the game. “I have come to grant your fondest wish, mighty Nebiat. You constructed that statue with the intent of animating it, did you not? It was to be your new body, stronger than any Wyrm, and harkening back to the Earthmother herself. Is that not so?”
“It is.” Nebiat disappeared then flashed into existence ten meters closer. Her spectral form glimmered in the light, the effort of manifesting clearly costing her. “Are you implying that you can complete the ritual, and free me from this prison?”
“That is precisely what I am saying.” Necrotis enjoyed a long musical laugh. “Completing your spell is trivial, and I can infuse enough divinity for you to animate it. From there I trust your followers will provide the worship to accomplish the rest of your goals.”
“And what would this cost me?” Nebiat’s gaze held greed, but also the shrewd caution her soulcatcher lacked. This woman would not be duped, though perhaps she could be bargained with.
“Allegiance.” Necrotis gave it honestly, without preamble. “You serve me. You join my pantheon. You, as a dead goddess, join a pantheon of death. You help me murder our enemies, and then we rule over the sector together, with you at my right hand, and Tuat at my left.”
Nebiat blinked at her with draconic eyes, the only concession to her ancestry. “You know I will do anything to be free of this place. You know I will offer my allegiance. But the question is do you wish it because of a bargain, or do you wish it because I genuinely serve you?”
Necrotis cocked her head and studied her would-be ally. “I’d much prefer you serve me because you believe in what I seek to accomplish.”
“They why? Why did you give up your old life?” Nebiat lowered her voice, and glanced around as if to ensure they were alone. “Why did you choose spirit? Why death? And what does murdering the sector get you? Do you really wish to rule over a land of death?”
“Of course not.” Necrotis shuddered and made no attempt to hide the gesture, so that her ally could see her fear. “During the war that tore the dragonflights asunder one question burned me. As my people fell, as worlds burned and our gods fled, I asked why Nefarius had turned on us?”
She shook her head and began to pace as memory overtook her. How quickly those tens of millennia fell away. “I began to learn more about her, and eventually about her minion Talifax. I learned that they serve darker powers. Powers trapped in the Umbral Depths. Powers that seek to free themselves.”
Necrotis raised her arms expansively and turned in a slow circle to indicate the cosmos above her.
“All of this,” she explained, “is their battlefield. They fight in reality. In the life realm. We are losing that battle. Galaxy by galaxy our universe is going dark. The Gorthians are emerging. They are devouring all magic. All life. But they cannot touch the cycle itself. Our kingdom will be rooted here, it’s true, but we will be ready to move to the spirit realm, to fall back to the one place where our power is absolute. I create a kingdom for the dead, because that is the only place we will survive. Those souls who follow the natural cycle will be reborn into a universe enslaved, while we will endure.”
Necrotis hadn’t so succinctly explained her motivations to anyone, not even her own children. But if this woman was to serve her then she needed the truth. Nebiat had committed to her father’s plan for decades, presumably because she thought she understood it. She didn’t seem to crave ultimate power so much as adulation and the acceptance of other gods.
“Very well.” Nebiat sank to both knees, and bowed her spectral head. “I hereby pledge my fealty to you, Mighty Necrotis. I will serve you in all things as your faithful servant. I will enact your will, so long as you pursue the kingdom you have described. But if you falter, or prove false, then I will be the one who destroys you. Count on it.”
Necrotis gave a throaty laugh, and after a moment Nebiat joined in. Necrotis gestured at the statue, and began sketching furiously. That sketching wasn’t necessary, but Nebiat valued spellcasting, and she enjoyed showing off.
Her ritual came from the Greatest Path of Creation, a path that only a handful of gods in the sector knew even existed, much less could command. She wove Nebiat’s essence, her soul, into the bone itself. The original ritual would merely have anchored the soul, which would have left it vulnerable to counterspells.
Necrotis fused Nebiat into the effigy until the goddess was one with the body she inhabited, not a soul shackled. The act required immense power, an incredible act of divinity, and one that consumed nearly all the recent worship she had acquired. All of it spent for a single act.
The statue’s tremendous wings cracked, and then flapped once. A fierce gale knocked Necrotis back a step, and bowed the trees around her. Then the dragon took a step, and the ground quaked. Nebiat leapt into the air, and began clawing her way into orbit.
Her new body might not rival Tuat, but it was large enough to be seen globally. Her followers witnessed her ascension. They knew that Nebiat had been reborn.
Necrotis merely smiled as her new servant rose to fill the vacuum left by Frit’s death. Within weeks this planet would belong wholly to Nebiat, and thus to Necrotis.
The Confederacy had lost one of their greatest allies, and didn’t even realize it yet. Soon their clash would come, and when it did she would litter the sector with the bodies of dead upstart gods.
But she must be cautious. She must continue to build her pantheon. Other gods existed that bore enmity toward the Confederacy. She would find them all, and recruit them, and then spend them in battle to stop the wretched demons.
Victory was inevitable.
Note to the Reader
If you enjoyed Eradicator, we have a complete seven-book prequel series with an ending already available, and it leads seamlessly into the book you just read.
Our pen & paper RPG successfully Kickstarted and the game is live on DriveThruRPG. You can learn more by signing up to the mailing list, or by visiting magitechchronicles.com and our Magitech Chronicles World Anvil page.
We’ve got maps, lore, character sheets, and a free set of rules you can use to generate your own character, plus a Facebook group where we geek out about this stuff.
I hope you enjoy and we can’t wait to meet you! If you have any trouble finding what you need email me at [email protected] and I’ll get you sorted.
To tide you over until Disintegrate, book 6 in Magitech Legacy, I’ve included the short story Battle For Starn, told from the perspective of Sergeant Crewes, a fan favorite.
* * *
-Chris
Battle For Starn
1
Starn
Major Voria strode onto the bridge, her staff thumping the deck as she approached the command matrix. Three concentric rings spun lazily, their metallic surfaces lined with the arcane sigils that allowed mages to cast spells through the starship.
She rested her staff against the stabilizing ring, then slipped inside the matrix. “Captain Thalas, are all crew assembled and ready for combat?”
“Yes, sir.” The honey-haired officer eyed her sidelong, and the subtle sarcasm in the words wasn’t lost on her. “Our tech mages are ready to deploy, on your order.” Thalas glanced at the last matrix, which stood unoccupied. “Are you certain you don’t wish to hold back Sergeant Crewes to
assist us on the bridge? Having a full company of tech mages will accomplish nothing if we are blown out of the sky before we make orbit.” He smoothed his uniform, the navy fabric drinking in the glow of the sigils as the silver ring spun past his too-beautiful face.
Voria tapped the fire sigil on the bronze ring, then a void on the gold ring. A core of hot magic rushed from her chest, followed by a stronger burst of cool, dark power. Waves of scarlet and deep purple rolled out from her, sinking into the floor of the matrix. The vessel drank the magic greedily, and began powering the Fissure.
“I wish we could afford to have the sergeant’s fire magic, but without him to lead, the tech mages will break. We both know it.” She focused her attention on the scry-screen against the far wall of the bridge. It showed nothing but black, as it always did in the Umbral Depths.
She tapped the final void sigil, and another wave of magic rolled from her breast. A hellish crack split the black, crawling across the scry-screen until a hole in reality had appeared. On the other side of that hole lay normal space, dominated by utter chaos.
Starships filled the sky over Starn with missiles, rows of gauss cannons firing one after another as they sought to bring down their enemies. Those enemies, despite often being larger, were also far more nimble. Void Wyrms—dragons to the common people—were uniquely suited to orbital combat.
They twisted and dove to avoid enemy fire, pausing only long enough to deliver their breath weapons, or to shred vessels with their shuttle-sized claws.
Voria guided the Wyrm Hunter toward the Fissure, and the battle leapt into clarity as they passed through, back into normal space. The Confederate lines were buckling, not just in one place, but in several. The Krox had begun an enormous push, their Wyrms backed by two dozen of their fat troop carriers.