The Arcane War

by Tam Chronin

  He would have laughed if he had known of even half of them, but he kept himself aloof as he adjusted to this new paradigm. He couldn't believe he had gotten away with so much. No one protested. No one even cared that Porrellid had been killed. When the mourning period had ended, he was elevated officially to his new rank within the temple. Like all ceremonies at the temple, the goddess appeared.

  Nalia gave him an appraising look and a knowing grin, but everything else was exactly as ceremony dictated. His chambers were larger, his robes more ornate, and his duties and responsibilities were fewer but more important. His days were longer, but that didn’t matter to him. He had no one left to spend time with. Most of his free time was spent in study and magical practice.

  Aral had disappeared. Naran, Davri, and even Byrek were gone. Occasionally he talked to Arlanz. The only news shared was that their mutual friends were safe and alive.

  He was afraid to ask for more than that.

  One of the first things he had thought to do was reverse the death sentence on Aral and find out how to reverse the mark on Naran. It was something he had killed a man to be able to do, after all. Aral’s sentence of death could possibly have been overturned in time. Once public outcry had died down. If he did it quietly enough.

  Unfortunately, people loved a spectacle. After her disappearance, a fear of magic and the abuses of magic had reached a zenith. If he pursued the matter, he was putting every mage, and most priests, at risk.

  When Krecek asked what those risks were, one of the high priestesses smirked and used Porrellid’s fate as an example.

  Mob justice could be more brutal and effective than a priest’s whim. What Krecek had accomplished, an angry and fearful crowd could trump in the beat of a heart.

  Another of the high priests gently suggested that he set aside the idea entirely and simply let events unfold.

  It was an idea that did not sit well with Krecek, but he seemed to have little choice. Aral and Naran were safe for now. That was the most important thing. He would sometimes close his eyes and wish for their continued safety, but he didn’t dare to pray for them.

  It was one thing to tell Porrellid that the gods hadn't sentenced Aral to death. It was another to ask the gods to keep her safe.

  "You look sad."

  Krecek’s eyes flew open and his heart felt frozen in his chest. "My goddess," he breathed, falling to his knees before her.

  She was...beautiful. Stunning. Ethereal. Her hair was the night sky, dotted with glimmering stars. Her skin was flawless, glowing with health and life. Soft, curvy, sensual perfection.

  "You’re not enjoying yourself the way I thought you would. Especially not after such a spectacular rise to power," Nalia said, leaning over him. "Do you feel well? Are you ill?"

  "I miss my friends," Krecek slowly looked up. He met her eyes and fell into them. They were haunting, revealing power barely restrained.

  "You have me, now." The goddess smiled, and Krecek’s heart lightened instantly. It was the most euphoric feeling he’d ever experienced, seeing her like this. "Put them from your mind."

  He slowly stood, drawn to her. Nalia’s pure power was intoxicating, and the magic within his blood hummed in resonance to her presence. "I thought you would be angry with me. For...Porrellid. For what I did."

  Her laughter was light and carefree. "I am the mother of Death! If I didn’t appreciate that sometimes people need to die, I would never have given birth to such a monster. You did what you wanted, to get closer to me. You do want to be closer to me, don't you?"

  "With all my heart," he vowed. While in her presence it wasn't even a lie.

  "Come closer and know me, then."

  That was all it took to lose himself completely. His only thought was to please her, in any way he could. The touch of her skin, even as light as letting his fingertips caress her cheek, erased every other thought from his mind. When Krecek kissed her, he was drowning in a sea of her, the sensation of magic all around him. In him. Through him.

  Time lost all meaning. There was only her. Him. Them. Together.

  He would do anything for her. All that he had. All that he was.

  Nalia rewarded his devotion with power. Demanded nothing but his adoration.

  With all of his heart, he gave it.

  Chapter Seven –

  Escape

  "How long has it been?" Aral sat up, groggy.

  "Lay back down," Byrek said, immediately at her side. "It's been a day and a half, but you're in no shape to move yet."

  He wasn't lying. Aral was so sore her hair hurt. She almost asked what happened, but as soon as she had the coherence to think the question, she remembered the answer. The room looked familiar, though it had never had a bed before. It was the storeroom in the back of Arlanz's café. She'd spent many hours in here, with Krecek.

  The wards looked updated. Probably Byrek's work. "I can't stay here," she said, though she curled up further under the soft blanket surrounding her. "I'll be trapped in the city. Being here will put Arlanz and Bretav at risk."

  "We have some time. Concentrate on recovering, first. You're safe here."

  It felt good to have someone else be in charge and looking out for her well-being. She was too tired, too heartsick, to muster the strength not to trust him. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For bringing me here. How did you know?"

  "Hush. No more questions." He placed a hand on her forehead. "You're still running a fever. Too much magic will do that. I'll ask Bretav to help you with bodily necessities. Then, sleep."

  Her first thought was food, but that was as appealing as a mouth full of road mud. She did need to pee, however. As soon as she thought it, it became urgent. "Please hurry," she said, even as he left.

  Bretav was a strong girl, and nimble as well. No nonsense, just helped Aral with her business, then carried her back to the makeshift bed. It was over and done before Aral thought of how fatigued she was.

  "I've got some broth, and I've got some tea. Which one do you want?"

  Aral's stomach roiled. "Neither," she moaned, curling up around herself.

  "Try the tea, then," Bretav said, reaching for one of the cups she'd brought in with her. "There are herbs to settle your stomach, and help you sleep. Here you go..." Bretav arranged herself on the bed behind Aral, propping her up on Bretav's ample breasts.

  It wasn't entirely uncomfortable, Aral realized. "I'm too tired to drink," she said, relaxing against Bretav and closing her eyes.

  "Come on, we'll get this over with. A dehydrated body doesn't heal. Even with magic."

  They worked in concert to bring the cup to Aral's lips. Some part of her lurking behind the exhaustion was mortified that she couldn't hold a cup of tea without help, but Bretav didn't make anything of it. As soon as the cup was empty, that was that. No small talk. No irritation. Bretav sang something soothing, and Aral fell back to sleep.

  Many days passed in a similar vein, with Aral gaining a bit more strength each time.

  Usually Byrek was the one watching over her when she woke up. He could still move about town freely, but he said he was keeping that to a minimum. The elf wasn't suspected of anything, but he was planning on accompanying Aral once she left.

  "You don't have to do that," Aral protested. "I'll find Davri and Naran, and we'll hide together. I'll be fine."

  "I've already resigned from the university," Byrek said. "It was time for me to put it behind me. You've handed me the perfect reason to go. I want to help."

  "Help me what? Help me hide for the rest of my life? I appreciate the help, but why waste your time on me?"

  Byrek gazed at her without a word.

  "I'm serious—" she started, upset by his silence.

  He cut her off with a shake of his head.

  "You are more important than you think." Byrek sat next to her and patted her on the arm. "You proved teleportation is possible for mortals, not just for gods. Ill-advised, but possible. On top of that, you've become a legend overnight. Your defiance is
inspiring stories beyond the gates of Anogrin. It's been a mere week, and bards are singing of you in the forests of Shalysalaianleth and the deserts of Sadarenti. That's just among my people. I imagine you're more popular among humans."

  "My defiance had me humiliated and sentenced to death," she said, choking on the words. "If not for you, I'd be a shining example of why defiance needs to be quashed, teleportation or no."

  "Now you'll be a shining example of the fallibility of the priesthood. They're mortal mouthpieces, not the gods themselves. If they overreach, they must be stopped. If the gods won't do so, it falls on us."

  It was too much for Aral to think about. "I have to escape Anogrin, first. That means getting strong enough to walk again. All things to worry about another day."

  "True enough," Byrek said with a gentle smile. "One problem at a time. First, regain your strength. Next, we find a way out. Everything else can wait."

  The gates were being closely watched still, but they were looking through boxes and crates, searching wagons for anything being brought in or out illicitly. There were mages at every gate to dispel all illusions, and half of them would have recognized Aral. Perhaps half of them would have tried to help Aral escape, but that could have turned bad for them considering all the potential witnesses.

  Despite these obstacles, escape was simple. Disgusting, but simple. Aral dressed as an old beggar, using mud combined with urine and fecal matter to enhance it. No guard or mage bothered to check her close enough to recognize her. They ushered her out of town.

  She traveled alone, on foot, until she reached a pre-arranged meeting spot. Byrek tersely handed her a basket with clean clothing and soap, then pointed her at a nearby mountain stream.

  The rags she'd escaped in were smoldering ash on the bank within moments of reaching it.

  The water was frigid, but blessedly clean. That's all that mattered. Getting clean was more important than comfort. It was only after her fingers grew too numb to hold the soap that she thought to cast a warming spell on herself.

  "Of all the options, of all the disguises, of all the methods of escape, that’s the one she chose."

  Two men watched from the opposite bank.

  Aral was sure the surrounding area had been vacant a moment before. It hadn’t been a cursory glance. She wasn’t a mage for nothing, after all.

  "Who are you? How did you appear here?" Aral didn't shy away from their attention. Misdirection. Distraction. She stood proudly, taking just an extra moment as she stood to prepare the first spell that came to mind. "It's dangerous to startle a mage while she's bathing!"

  Flames seemed to appear, roaring toward the two through the air. It was an illusion, and it should have scared them off. The pair didn't even have the decency to flinch.

  The taller of the two men turned to the other. "I told you she would react poorly. Mortals like their semblance of privacy."

  "Nonsense," said the other one with a playful grin. "We needed privacy for this conversation, and she needed privacy to clean herself."

  She looked back and forth between them. There was something odd about them, and oddly familiar about the shorter, playful one. They hadn't been cowed by her illusion, and they showed no concern that Aral might use other magic to defend herself.

  "Give me a moment to finish washing," she said. "I'll be more open to conversation when I don't reek of shit."

  "Do you want some help with that?"

  The larger, more serious of the two punched the other in the shoulder for his question.

  Aral didn't bother to reply. She glared, arms crossed over her chest, and waited for them to walk away, or at least turn their backs.

  They seemed oblivious.

  Byrek was nearby. If she screamed, he was sure to come to her aid.

  The oddest thing to her was that they weren't staring. They weren't looking at her in any sort of predatory manner. They watched her, but with no intent in their eyes.

  A moment of recklessness took Aral. Why not? What could they do to her that was worse than what she'd already endured?

  "If you want to help, grab the soap I left on that rock, and help me wash my hair. Just promise not to rape me. I'm in no mood." Gallows humor. As if asking a promise would prevent a thing.

  "Rape?" The two of them exchanged an odd look, and the smaller one laughed. "Rape and coercion are games played by the weak and the fearful when they're convinced they must settle for scraps."

  He appeared behind her, soap in hand, and reached for her hair.

  Oh no. He was a god.

  They were both gods, come to end her.

  "Relax," he said gently, stroking her hair, soothing her. "We're not here to hurt you. What Nalia's priests decree are no concern of ours. We're not their hunting dogs."

  The other appeared on a nearby rock, settling in to get comfortable. "We have a favor to ask of you, Aral Tennival. Many favors, in fact."

  "And none of them are sex," the god behind her said, already washing her hair, separating filth-matted strands with care and patience. "If they ever are, I assure you that you'll be well and thoroughly seduced, not forced. I prefer enthusiastic cooperation."

  "Brother..."

  He cleared his throat, shook his head. "Yes, I digress. You know my name, but don't yet know who I am. Agruet, master of secrets, would-be savior of the planet. This is my brother, Baedrogan. Keeper of the dead and master of death."

  The god seated on the rock nodded as if saying hello and agreeing with everything said.

  A shiver ran down Aral's spine. "What could you want from me?"

  "Recover, first." Agruet guided her chin so that he could run water through the entire length of her hair. "You've been through an ordeal, and you've used more magic than a mortal should. You're no good to us broken. We need a strong figurehead for the upcoming war."

  "I won't be your puppet." Aral straightened, pulled away from Agruet, and got a face full of water for her effort. She sputtered and wiped her face, but it didn't diminish her anger at the thought.

  "You're already his puppet," Baedrogan said. "He's made puppets of us all. Count yourself honored to be aware of it." He laughed, sardonic, with a wry twist to his lips.

  Agruet shook his head. "I have all the puppets I need. What I need from you, Aral, is to be strong. Be yourself. Be angry, be righteous, be moral and just. Be everything we gods are not."

  "You're going to make her like us." Baedrogan snorted in derision. "Telling her it's okay to do exactly what she wants."

  "I'm getting there," Agruet said. "It's only okay to do exactly what you want to do so far as it serves our designs. Otherwise, you are to serve us unquestioningly, in mind, body, and soul." He rolled his eyes. "Is that better, brother?"

  Aral couldn't help it. A giggle escaped at their banter, which she quickly covered with a hand. They couldn't be serious.

  Then again, they were gods. Perhaps they were.

  Baedrogan shook his head. "You don't know a thing about humans. Pitiful, really."

  "I know more than you realize."

  "You're making a mockery of a serious matter."

  "Which is why I am making a mockery of it."

  "Thousands are going to die."

  "If we can't laugh at death, the very presence of life is an inconsolable tragedy."

  A sobering thought, and Aral agreed. Life would be unbearably overwhelming without the ability to laugh in the face of an inescapable doom.

  "That's a crass thing to say to my face," the god of death grumbled. He didn't seem to take true offense, however. "Very well. Aral, there's going to be a war. We've worked hard to ensure that it happens. Your death sentence is a tipping point. Of course, our plans rely upon your survival."

  "If you don't, we've got a lot more work to do, and I'm tired of doing it," Agruet said.

  "You could make me immortal," Aral offered, thinking it an amusing solution.

  "No," they replied in unison.

  Well. That was an emphatic reaction to something sai
d in jest.

  Agruet laughed after a moment. "Not to stray from the topic at hand, but that's quite a bit to ask from us. You don't have nearly enough to offer in return."

  "It was a joke," Aral said.

  "That's what you say," Baedrogan said. "Everyone wants to escape death."

  "Even me." Agruet's voice was strained. "It's what this is about." He winced, shook his head. "You're sufficiently clean. Dry off and get dressed."

  Aral hesitated. Curiosity was gnawing at her. "Even you? But, you're a god..."

  "Go. This water is freezing. Get comfortable so that we can talk." His shoulders slumped just slightly. "I'll explain when you're finished."

  Chapter Eight –

  The Price of Knowledge

  "My friend is waiting for me," Aral said as she tied her boots. They were stiff and required some handling to lace up tight enough. She hadn't worn them in a while. Hadn't needed to. They were sturdy, for travel or hard work. She'd worn more stylish footwear in town.

  "Byrek won't mind the delay," Baedrogan said with an odd look in Agruet's direction.

  The other god gave a shrug. "He knows this much of the plan already. We could invite him to join us, but I think I'll spare him the tedium. I'm sure he's enjoying his book."

  "He knows?" Had they met him along the road? Why were they talking to Aral, then, when Byrek was smarter, older, wiser? More respected.

  Agruet nodded. "You'd do well to listen to him as events progress. He's told me time and again that he wants no part in leading, and I don't blame him."

  "What if I don't want to lead, either?"

  "If you don't, you and your brother will die."

  Baedrogan shook his head at his brother. "You're terrible at this whole motivation thing." He sat down next to Aral. "Death would be your easy way out of this. Your absolution from responsibility. I'm not saying this just because of who I am and what I represent. It's truth. I would take you and your brother into my arms and cherish your souls forever. I hate asking anyone to give up the certainty of that end, but I am asking it of you, and a few others."