by Tam Chronin
She put a burst of energy into one last attempt at freedom.
Davri was ready, absorbed it all, and threw it back.
"The age of gods is at an end."
Nalia began to tremble in fear, for the first time in her existence.
She wouldn't win her freedom in time to stop death.
She, who had created death.
She looked at Davri helplessly.
She knew what he was going to do.
She knew she was powerless to stop it.
Davri looked into Nalia’s eyes, and she looked into his.
"Scream for me," he whispered.
She did.
Naran rubbed at his wrists, staring at Byrek in shock. "I thought I was dead," he whispered.
"The night is young," Byrek said, slipping his knife into its sheath.
Frighteningly ominous. Just what he needed right now.
Naran's fingers were itching with returning circulation. He winced, rubbing them together, shaking them, and his feet joined in.
Byrek uttered a hasty spell, touched Naran on the forehead. "We need to get away from here as quickly as possible."
"Back to Raev's house," Naran nodded. The pins and needles feeling faded quickly, thanks to Byrek's spell.
Byrek was looking him over, brow furrowed. "We can't go back," he said finally. "Where are your shoes?"
He was dressed only in a rust-red robe that left his chest and back bared. He'd been tied by his wrists and ankles for hours. Threatened. Beaten, though not severely. The goddess of magic had stopped her minions, telling them Naran was hers, not theirs.
No.
Now was not time to have an emotional meltdown, no matter how badly Naran felt the need. "I don't know," he said. "They took everything. I couldn't move, so I don't know where they put any of it." He tried to keep the fear out of his voice. He really did. "What do you mean we can't go back?"
"It's not safe."
Naran waited for more, but Byrek didn't say a word. He was looking around the tent Naran had been left in.
There was nothing.
The elf scowled and sliced some canvas from the side of the tent with his knife. He tied the canvas to Naran's feet.
"They were going to kill me," Naran said.
"I know," Byrek whispered softly. "Hush now. We need to sneak out and find safety."
"I won't say a word," Naran whispered. "I've done this before."
Byrek paused. Smiled. "So you have."
He cast his spell and they left. Within minutes he had brought them to an enchanted path.
Naran hesitated, looking at Byrek in alarm. Davri had told him, so many times, what the paths were like. The mysterious pops and bangs in the distance that could kill. The lifeless, dusty smell of it all. The shadow monsters that lurked within the stark boxy buildings that turned the landscape into a lifeless maze. When he'd been curious, Davri had warned him never to seek out such places. The shadows there wouldn't just eat you alive. They'd devour your soul.
Byrek paused. Looked at Naran questioningly.
Sighed heavily.
"We have no choice," Byrek answered the unspoken concerns. "The enchanted path will be safer than the real world tonight."
That wasn't at all reassuring, but Naran had no choice. He followed Byrek.
Krecek could feel it when Nalia died.
The night had been filled again with the sounds of war. Fighting and screams of terror, gurgles and gasps, moans and curses saturated the chill air with their cacophony. The gods had descended upon them to free Nalia.
They had failed.
He felt freed, and bereft. He'd loved her as much as he hated her. There were tears on his face as his own magic was released and flowed through him again.
Giddiness replaced his grief. A net had been erected to hold the gods within. He extended his will to add his power to the magic, and it felt glorious.
Without his magic, he'd stayed at the edges. He'd felt vulnerable, small, and weak.
With his magic returned, he felt invincible.
He looked into the eyes of the gods fighting around him. He saw the shock and alarm as they tried to process what had happened.
"That’s impossible!"
The words were music to Krecek's ears.
"Find her!" Fotar, the god of fire. was looking around. He was frantic, not five paces from where Krecek stood.
A distance swiftly crossed.
Krecek grabbed the god and threw him to the ground. "She’s dead. There’s nothing left to find."
"We’re gods!" Fotar protested, summoning flame around them.
It was a mere show of force and intimidation.
That wouldn't be enough.
Krecek didn’t flinch.
Didn't hesitate.
Davri had taught him the spell already.
The words came to him as if he had practiced them for a century. He wove his magic into the spell as if it was what he'd been born to do.
The god’s death was swift.
The spell was done in three parts.
The first, to trap the god in physical form.
The second, to kill that form.
All the power remained within Fotar's body. It would heal him over time if left at this point.
Not a true death.
Not yet.
The last step of the spell was the most imperative.
Krecek used further magic as a blade to slice open the body before him.
It brought him back to the night he had killed Porrellid. The warmth of his life slowly cooled. The thick blood slickened his fingers.
This was like that. The difference was the heat. It was intense and did not fade as Krecek plunged his hands into the open chest to pull out the heart.
Before he could think about what he was doing he began to devour the heart.
Don't think about the taste.
Don't think about how it burned.
Don't think, just do.
As the power began to course through him he cracked open the skull.
The brain had to follow the heart.
He was a feral animal, doing what he must to survive.
Around him the fighting continued.
He paid it no mind.
The world changed around him.
No.
His awareness of the world changed in myriad, indescribable ways.
He was only the second. He could feel it.
Davri, then him, and around him he could feel the fighting going on as his awareness expanded.
He didn’t—couldn’t—follow everything. There was too much. But the things that mattered glowed like embers within his mind. If he focused, he knew what they were.
It was greater than any magic he had ever known before. He felt it when Aral succeeded in killing Bogradan, the god of wind.
It wasn't over yet.
It was a start, but not enough to win.
He had to fight.
He had to help.
He opened his eyes and caught sight of Raev.
No one had taught the spell to Raev. He was a merchant, not a mage, despite his talent with magic.
With a surge of his newfound power, Krecek was at Raev’s side, and he talked Raev through the spell so that the larger man would be able to help them. It was a spur of the moment decision, but in a flash of knowledge he knew it had to be done.
They were about to need all the help they could get.
Because, if a god could be killed, so could a wizard.
Davri sat within the tent, alone. Blood seeped through his clothes to stain his skin. Visions flooded his mind and magic coursed through the entirety of his being.
He was aware of the fight going on outside.
He was aware of the armies of angels, of demons, of priests and their allies stirring again to action.
He was aware of those rebels who followed orders and ran.
He was aware of those who stayed and chose to give their lives to give the mages more time.
&n
bsp; There was a temptation to intervene.
To save them all and fight.
Instead, he sat within the tent, alone.
It was Aral who brought calm to the chaos. She looked around at everything that happened. She encouraged, she guided, and she used her newfound power to diminish the influence of the gods and their minions. It was subtle at first, but with every god that fell she felt her influence grow.
She had one thing in mind. One driving goal that had to be met.
Aral had to see Garatara die for what he had begun.
For what he had done to her and her family.
When she did come upon him, she didn't realize it at first. The humble man before her didn't seem at all godlike.
He knelt, bandaging the wounded. Like any other healer, he said prayers and gave blessings. It didn't matter which side someone fought for, he saw to the injured.
It was only when Aral saw Garatara's eyes that she knew him for what he was.
"You are hurt," he said, reaching out to her. "Let me help you."
Daichen hesitated.
He'd watched gods and mages fall around him in horror.
The gods were torn apart in the bloodbath necessary for the spell's conclusion.
The mages were cast aside like bits of trash.
Somehow, the corpses of the gods outnumbered those of the mages.
Mages that Daichen knew. Studied with.
Fought beside when Anogrin fell.
Three of them lay the foot of the same god.
Baedrogan.
The god of death was practically roaring at those who came near. "I shall be last!"
Daichen watched, wary.
Tried not to look at the faces of the fallen.
Failed.
Donab Gratu, the youngest of them at just nineteen.
Agrad Merok, who had been Daichen's roommate their first year.
Shaia Taden. Her sweet face now bereft of what had once been an ever-present smile.
Something within Daichen shifted. His friends were dead. He knew there was something, an important thing he'd been told, but it slipped away. It was as if some outside force pushed him in the direction of his revenge.
The only thought on his mind was that this god, this creature, must pay.
And Daichen knew how to do it.
His heart was pounding with anticipation and fear as he took a slow step forward.
He clenched his fists.
Stilled his mind to begin the spell.
That's when it struck him. There'd been a plan.
What was it?
"I thought you were on our side," Daichen shouted. Pleaded.
Something didn't make sense.
Hadn't that been the crux of the plan? That two gods were on their side?
Hadn't Baedrogan been one of those gods?
Obviously, he'd been mistaken.
Daichen's resolve solidified. He couldn't hesitate.
He couldn't become the fourth body at death's feet.
They stared into each other's eyes. Mortal enemies.
Only one could survive.
"I am on my own side," growled Baedrogan. "And I will be last."
Chapter Seventeen –
The Arcane War
Deeg stared at the gloves on his hands.
The moisture seeped in, staining his hands red.
There was no light. His hands were covered. But he was aware of the color of the blood on his skin as he'd never been before.
The gods had blood.
And he was drenched in it.
"What have we done?" he whispered in horror. "I'm not a mage."
"Yet now you are a wizard," Raev said beside the dwarf. He had to bend over to pat Deeg on the shoulder. "I could not let her kill you."
Deeg nodded.
Raev's intentions were commendable.
But he was wrong.
Ceraan had been the mother of memories. The keeper of history.
She wouldn't have killed Deeg, or anyone here.
"Do not think of who she was," Raev said sharply. "Only what she was. A god. The enemy. They all must die."
Kill or be killed.
It's what this had been reduced to.
It was grim work, but they'd been given no choice.
Sweat rolled down Davri's cheek despite the cold air.
He hadn't moved since Nalia's death.
A death he now felt as if it had been his own.
Nalia had almost won free of her wizardly prison, despite the spells.
Hadn't Agruet once said, she flinched away from what he had seen within the void?
Davri had but to think of it and it appeared around him.
The void embraced his mind and unfolded the visions no other wizard was prepared to face. Everything Agruet had known assaulted his senses.
This...this madness...was the only thing that might keep her in check.
The void was pure chaos. Davri watched it, and it watched back. It waited, acting, about to act, but it could not touch him.
Could not affect him.
Within the void, Davri was a sole constant, and that sent ripples through it.
Visions from the swirling chaos accosted him.
He saw centuries of death and destruction that would be his legacy.
A child with hair of dark curls like the blackest of night.
Wide brown eyes that hummed with power.
Sweet innocence that would end it all.
Would end the world.
It was Davri's doing.
Davri's failing.
Davri's fault.
Davri’s soul was this boy’s soul.
The chaos around him grew bolder and clutched at his feet.
"I don’t know this boy," he said. "He is a figment of the future."
More visions assaulted him.
Death.
So much death.
Undead horrors that had never before been called forth on this world.
Skeletal children with their skeletal parents reaching up through the ground, seeking more company in their ranks, filling the world with their empty stares and empty graves.
"I won’t have it. I will not let this come to pass."
The visions did not stop.
In them, magic grew stronger, but so did the ingenuity of mere men.
War was declared on the secrets of the elves, the dwarves, the merfolk.
Humans with their plethora of children demanded more and more land, even reaching their towers to the sky, until they choked the very world of all its resources, and it was the wizards who allowed this to happen.
Without sacrifices to the gods, nothing could contain this plague upon the world.
It would die.
Humanity would be its end.
"There are other ways," Davri said, determined to see it through. Somehow.
Every choice he made he saw the world ending in fire, starvation, plague, disease.
Every shift of his thoughts only changed the when or the how, but never the what.
"There’s a way! I know that there is one!"
Chaos stood before him, and she grinned a sadistic grin.
She was the reason he would fail.
"You will fall. You will die. Nothing will stop me."
"Don’t touch him!"
The air crackled around the god who had run to Garatara’s side. Lightning danced across his skin, and the very atmosphere around him was heavy and oppressive.
Garatara looked at the other god in surprise, shaking his head.
"I’ll see you both dead," Aral growled, advancing.
"Kedaran, no," Garatara said. He reached out to Aral, palms open, empty. "She needs help. I’ve hurt her somehow. I must fix this. I must heal—"
"Shut up!"
Kedaran deflected the blast Aral sent their way.
Staggered.
Shook his head.
That had hurt. Had actually hurt!
This stranger, this unknown, had inflicted actua
l pain!
This Aral Tennival was supposed to be a mortal. Not this.
Kedaran frowned. Shielded Garatara with his own body and will.
"You will not hurt him." Kedaran advanced upon her, despite the risk.
Two more gods appeared beside them, flanking the god of healing.
Thar and Brinn, the gods of war.
Their presence permeated the entire battle field. They gained strength from the fight.
Kedaran grinned. These two would turn the tide.
"He started this all!" Aral screamed, pointing an accusing finger at Garatara. "Every bit of this is HIS fault, for demanding the life of my brother!"
Garatara looked up at her, shocked. "I did?"
Aral attacked.
Davri blinked and the chaos was gone.
Fire still glowed from the other side of the tent walls. That was the first thing he noticed. He heard the fighting going on. The acrid scent of blood assaulted him next, followed by the stomach-churning flavor of it coating his mouth. Underlying it all was the oppressive weight of magic in the air, gathering to a bursting point.
Nalia’s mangled body lay in a useless heap before him. He stared at it, almost disbelieving that he’d done such a thing. He knelt beside her, covering her with the heavy blanket still resting on the bed.
Someday, this would be him. Impossibly powerful, but subject to death.
The weight of what he’d done pressed upon his shoulders, stilling his breath.
He, Davri, had done this. He had killed the goddess, the guardian, of magic.
The world would never be the same, and his hands had wrought this change.
He would pay for this. Would suffer for this. There was a gaping hole in the fabric of reality that he now had to fill.
"I had no idea." The words were a rough whisper.
Nothing can make up for what you have done.
Davri bowed his head, accepting harsh reality of those words.
"Davri?"
Krecek was panting, covered in gore and sweat, green eyes glowing with power, skin flushed from exertion. He stopped in the doorway staring a moment while Davri rose to his feet. As soon as Krecek caught his breath he took two steps closer.