God of Broken Things

by Cameron Johnston

  In the endless darkness beyond the stinging swarm a vast consciousness took notice. It opened a single burning eye to study me, then dismissed my presence as a mere fly not worth the effort of swatting. That eye closed and another, smaller and more human, opened.

  Disbelief and derision filled the realm as a potent human mind touched my own, scouring the surface of my thoughts before I forced it back. “Our intruder calls itself a magus? How very grand these crude little dabblers think themselves,” he said in Old Escharric, every word perfectly formed as if he’d spoken it all his life. He even included the superior status inflections that had fallen into disuse by Arcanum scholars centuries ago.

  I probed him and was slapped back, mind stinging. It was enough to realise that this was the host of the Scarrabus queen talking, the mental links between them pulsing with ropes of obscene power. My action seemed to enrage him as he rushed towards me.

  I suddenly felt like a sandcastle standing before a tidal wave of magic, knowing full well that once it hit I would be shattered and spread all across this alien mindscape.

  I fled back through the Scarrabus flesh and tore myself free from Rikkard’s skull as they struck at me through him.

  Back in my body I yelled and flung myself back from the bound magus, taking Cillian with me. Seeing my panic she caused a curved shield of stone to burst from the floor. It took the brunt of the explosion. Chucks of flesh spattered the walls and waves of fire rolled across the ceiling, then died off to greasy spirals of black smoke. We peered around the shield to see a pit filled with molten rock and blackened bone where Rikkard had sat.

  I slumped and caught my breath. Shite, Cillian had really been practicing her geomancy. For somebody whose natural Gift was for hydromancy she had come far, indeed she was well on her way to becoming a full-blown adept. That massive potential was what had landed her a seat on the Inner Circle.

  She stood and looked at me with shock. “In the name of the gods, what did you do? We needed him alive.”

  “You think I turned him into a fireball? Are you cracked?” She hoisted me to my feet. “What then? Suicide?” “Er, not exactly.”

  Martain and a squad of wardens burst through the door, all bristling with steel. She cursed them to leave and they quickly retreated in a confused mass, glancing at the mess behind them.

  I explained all that happened as best I could given other magi’s almost complete ignorance of how I did what I did. In some ways it was like describing flying to a worm.

  “So, that quip about locked in darkness – that was referring to you being locked in the Boneyards beneath the city as a child?”

  I swallowed. “Yes, and it used the exact metallic noise that has plagued my nightmares for all those years. It could only have known that from Heinreich’s memories. Even if you don’t believe what happened to me, if you add that to the comment about Old Gerthan and his knives…”

  “A hive mind,” she said. “With a queen of some sort hidden inside a magus host.”

  I licked dry lips. “That thing is more like a god, Cillian. And I should know. Its host seemed ancient, likely an elder magus. It adds up to bad news for us.”

  She paced the room, head bowed deep in thought, chewing on her bottom lip. Minutes dragged past in silence. Then the door burst open and Martain appeared in the doorway again.

  “Leave us,” Cillian snapped. “I am not to be bothered.”

  He didn’t move, forcing her to look up. “My apologies Councillor, but Archmagus Krandus has summoned all magi to immediately attend a conclave in the auditorium.”

  “Ah shit,” I said. “Today just gets better and better.” What had gone wrong now?

  CHAPTER 6

  We gathered for conclave in a repurposed lecture theatre at the heart of the Collegiate, dawn’s ruddy light only just creeping through the highest windows. Gone was the gaudy glory of the great hall of the Templarum Magestus with its marble steps and golden thrones, the crystalline art and exquisite moving statuary – now we all sat at old benches scarred with the names, sigils and graffiti of generations of bored initiates. I admired some of my own handiwork, the lines of a hairy cock and balls smoothed and darkened over the years by hundreds of sweaty palms.

  We all pretended to ignore the gaps between the various cliques and factions. Even in times of war the magi of the Arcanum nursed their petty grudges. Me, I had a whole end of the back row to myself and a free space in front to put my feet up, which suited me just fine. The spaces only emphasised a sobering realisation of how few magi there were left in the Arcanum: a few hundred at most in a room built to house triple that, with perhaps two dozen more of us spread out through the other towns and villages all across Kaladon, and another hundred south across the Cyrulean Sea leading our legions in a war to preserve the last Setharii colonies in the vast Thousand Kingdoms archipelago.

  Most of us had been too busy to note everybody who had died during Black Autumn, even if there had been a definitive list of those confirmed dead. Many others couldn’t stomach searching the lists for those they cared about, but in my case, apart from Cillian and Old Gerthan, nobody I liked or respected could still be alive so why bother. Heads turned to and fro, searching in vain for a certain face that they were sure they must have missed during the last three conclaves. Many bore livid burns and permanent scars from the fighting.

  At the front of the room sat the seven members of the Inner Circle in their finest dress robes encrusted with protective wards crafted from thread of gold: Krandus in pure white with his ridiculously handsome face and perfect blonde hair. Git. Cillian in silken blue and Old Gerthan in plain brown joined by… joined… I winced as my thoughts scattered around damaged sections of my memory. I had to work through it, trying to link faces to names via different mental routes. Stern-faced long-bearded man in green – Wyman? Crimson-robed woman – Merwyn? Yes, I was almost sure I had those two correct. The other two I had no idea about; though I knew what they were I couldn’t retain who they were. I grimaced, but some damage is to be expected when you are forced to burn out part of your brain.

  Krandus waited a few moments until the last bleary-eyed stragglers arrived, then launched into a series of updates on reconstruction of the city. I yawned and sat back, mind drifting off as he went through the tedious minutia of city administration. The prominent emotion throughout the room was boredom, and it had been a long night devoid of sleep for me. My eyes drifted ever lower. I rested them, just for a few moments…

  A spike of danger woke me. “…accepted a request for aid from the Clanholds.” I blinked and sat up, rubbing my eyes. What was that? The mood of the room was deadly serious and deeply worried. Shite. What had I missed?

  “We cannot afford to allow the Skallgrim and their daemons passage through the mountain passes of the Clanholds. It is an open door to the undefended heartlands of Kaladon. As such, Setharis has agreed to send seven coteries to delay the enemy forces advancing westwards from Ironport. The Free Towns Alliance has also pledged to raise an army to aid this effort. The rest of us will march on Ironport from the south leaving only a skeleton force behind to guard Setharis until our legions return from the colonies. The Skallgrim will undoubtedly strive to reinforce their only foothold on the shores of Kaladon before our legions can return so it is imperative that we crush them before that happens. When their wolf-ships make the hazardous voyage across the Sea of Storms they will find us ready and waiting. They will find no safe anchorage on our shores.”

  Krandus took a deep breath. “The Arcanum will now ask for volunteers to defend the Clanholds.” Many arses stirred on seats, ready to stand, eager for some payback. Mine was firmly planted on wood. It was still deep winter up north, and it was a death sentence to battle Skallgrim madmen and a Clanholds winter at the same time. I also had my own problems with the Clansfolk to consider. Krandus continued, “However, the Clanholds have requested that one specific magus leads this expeditionary force, and the Inner Circle has acceded.”

  Cilli
an’s eyes sought me out. By the Night Bitch, don’t you dare! Krandus pointed straight at me. His gesture stabbed me in the pit of my stomach and pushed it down into a black abyss. “Magus Edrin Walker will lead this force.” Arses thumped back down on seats with enough force to rattle the benches. I started to sweat as disgusted faces turned to glare at me. “Do we have any volunteers to join him?”

  Silence.

  Ah, it was nice to feel so loved. Or feared; there was always that more enjoyable option. I was quite literally the stuff of childhood nightmares. A big bad tyrant come to enslave them all. I regained my composure and met their gazes. They quickly turned away. Slimy cowards the lot of them.

  A hooded figure stood. The magus was dressed all in black, and wore plain trousers, shirt and cloak rather than traditional robes. I thought them a woman from the hips and body shape, but broad shoulders cast some doubt on that. They glanced back at me, and whoever it was wore a plain steel facemask beneath a deep hood to hide their scars. How vain; you didn’t see me hiding mine. The magus said nothing.

  Krandus smiled, dazzling us all. Slimy git. “A knight. Excellent. Your strength will be sorely needed in the mountains. Do we have any others?”

  A man sporting a bushy red beard stood: Cormac of House Feredaig if my faulty memory was correct, and a skilled geomancer. “I’ll stand.” His tongue held a mere hint of Clanholds accent, long submerged beneath the Setharii. “I have kin in the holdfasts and you’ll need one of my sort in the mountains.”

  Krandus inclined his head, then waited again, his eyes sweeping the benches.

  A slender young woman I didn’t know, wearing unusual black and white hooded robes, rose to join Cormac.

  Krandus smiled and nodded. “An illusionist will prove most useful in warfare.”

  Nobody else stood with us. I wasn’t surprised in the least – who would want to head off with the likes of me to die on frozen hills protecting heathens. They would much rather take their chances with the Archmagus and the rest of the Arcanum. We would be outnumbered and facing the worst magics and daemons that their accursed halrúna shaman could summon up, but it was me they feared and distrusted the most. Gods, even I had no intention of going if I could weasel my way out of this midden of a situation.

  Krandus sighed and shook his head. “We are disappointed. The Inner Circle will deliberate and appoint three of you to join them. For the rest of you, report to your coteries if you have existing assignments. If not, you will each be assigned ten wardens to serve you later this evening. This conclave is now broken, be about your work.”

  I sat and ground my teeth as the other magi filtered from the auditorium. It took all my self-control to hold myself back from storming down and demanding answers or telling them to fuck off and find some other pitiful sacrifice. This was just another attempt to get rid of the vile tyrant in their midst and I wasn’t about to die for them, or for anybody. Burn them! I’d suffered more than enough for our oh-so-precious Arcanum. If they thought they could compel me to go then they would be in for a very nasty shock.

  Cormac exchanged a few words with the Inner Circle and then left without so much as a glance in my direction. The magus in black turned to regard me and her single green eye glinted behind the steel mask, the left likely lost during the conflict. Great, I was landed with a crippled knight. I was no great weapons master, but even I knew enough to realise that her depth perception was scuppered. Why had she even stood? Just as well I had no intention of going.

  That eye scrutinised me with such intensity I almost felt violated. I itched to open my Gift and find out why, but unless in self-defence I was strictly banned from using my power on another magus without permission from a councillor, and somehow I didn’t think my writ would hold much water here in the Collegiate itself. The knight lifted a gloved fist to her face and then slashed it downwards. It took me a moment to realise it was a salute – her sword was mine to command.

  I nodded gravely in acknowledgement. Whoever she was, she deserved that much. The magus in black turned on her heel and stalked from the auditorium, leaving me alone with the seven members of the Inner Circle. They expected me to come to them. I let them keep on expecting, ignoring furious glares from Cillian in favour of picking at a hangnail.

  “Magus Edrin Walker,” Krandus said, his voice like gravel. “Would you be so kind as to join us.”

  I took my time about standing up, stretching my arms back and yawning. They were forced to wait on me as I ambled towards them. Who said petty acts of spite are overrated? Cillian’s eyes burned into me, warning me to bite my tongue. I honestly considered it. It would be the sensible thing to do. But when had I ever been accused of an abundance of that commodity? I was too angry to care what any of them thought.

  I looked Krandus in the eye and sneered. “How stupid do you think I am? This is just another way of getting rid of me.”

  “Ward your tongue,” he snapped. “Or I will remove it.” “I wouldn’t recommend it,” I replied. “If something happens to me, well, bad things will happen to all of you.”

  He grabbed the front of my coat and hoisted me off my feet with ease. “And just what do you mean by that? Was that a threat?” I just smiled, showing how unafraid of him I was, and let the git’s own imagination run riot. I could kill with my Gift but that wasn’t what worried the Arcanum, oh no, it was my ability to manipulate minds and twist thoughts that people truly feared.

  Old Gerthan laid a hand on the Archmagus’ arm and guided it down until I was able to stand again. “Cease your posturing, Walker. I promise that we are not trying to have you killed. This is not our doing.” I prided myself on detecting liars, noting their dilated pupils, the sweating, higher-pitched voices and a dozen other little tells. Old Gerthan was telling the truth. Or at least a truth, as he believed it.

  I brushed Krandus’ hand away, and he let me. “Fine,” I said. “I believe you. But nobody in their right mind would ever want me leading an army.”

  “That we can all agree on,” Merwyn said. “And yet it has been requested,” Cillian said. “Demanded even.” That gave me pause. “By who?”

  One of the nameless others spoke. “The druí leaders of three separate Clanholds standing in the path of the Skallgrim advance: Dun Bhailiol, Dun Clachan and Kil Noth.”

  I paled and leaned on a bench for support. “What is wrong?” Cillian asked. “Are you unwell?” “I’m far from well,” I said in strangled gasps, my hand rising to feel the ragged scars marring my cheek. They waited but I wasn’t about to volunteer anything else. I didn’t even want to think about what happened in Kil Noth six years ago. I wanted nothing to do with any of those insane druí bastards. They were every bit as mad as daemon-worshipping Skallgrim halrúna, though in a very different way.

  Krandus elaborated: “If we do not agree to their request they threaten to retreat to their holdfasts and allow the Skallgrim to march unopposed through the mountain passes. Those corrupt heathens will ravage the heartlands of Kaladon, and Setharis’ grain supply will be destroyed. A second year of famine will finish us.” Old Gerthan sighed. “Without their aid we would need to divert half our forces to contain their army in the mountains and risk their wolf-ships reinforcing Ironport before we can take it.”

  “We have no choice,” Cillian said. “You have no choice. At first light in two days’ time you will embark at Westford Docks for the Clanholds.”

  “I always have a choice,” I snarled. Before they could react I fled the room, head and heart churning with fear and anger. Corridors and faces flashed past as I ran through the Collegiate and out into the streets.

  My scars itched as I ran. I refused to go back there! What of Setharis? the ghost of Lynas’ voice whispered in the back of my mind, still acting as my conscience even in death. What of your home? Your people? I shook my head and snarled as I passed through the great gates of Old Town, running downhill for the familiar safety of the Docklands. Nobody could find me there if I didn’t want them to. What of Layla? My steps
slowed, stopped.

  Carriages and carts clopped past, and the constant stream of messengers and tradesmen eyed me strangely as I stood there, motionless and conflicted. Eventually a great wallowing gilded carriage forced me to retreat to the side of the street, and from there I looked out over what was left of my city.

  My eyes were drawn to West Docklands, passing a forest of blackened timbers to alight on the sturdy grey stone building of Charra’s Place. I’d promised Charra that I would take care of Layla after she was gone. Not that her vicious girl needed it; hard as a steel blade and just as sharp, that one. Still, I had promised my last living friend just before her death, and welching on that didn’t sit well with me. If Lynas had been my conscience then Charra had been my partner in crime, the driving force keeping me moving forward in life, to try to make something of myself. During my exile from the city I had drowned my sorrow and loneliness in cups of ale and bought affection. I would not go that way again.

  “If you were still here, what would you say to me?” Charra would cross her arms and give me one of her scathing looks. Don’t be an arse, Walker. Running away solves nothing. If there is anything left here that you love then fight for it. If not… then you won’t be sad to see everything torn down and ground to dust, will you? What’s it to be? We don’t have all day.

  Despite everything this was still my home. All the bad didn’t outweigh the good memories I’d made here; my mother and father, my friends… no, I couldn’t let an enemy destroy Setharis. I’d never been much of a fighter, just one of those slippery little vermin that only fights when backed into a corner, but rats are vicious when cornered. As I felt my resolve harden I knew one thing: I wasn’t that little gutter rat any more, and nor was I the wastrel magus the Arcanum thought I was, or the scum they had tried to twist me into becoming. I’d killed a god for fuck’s sake! What more did I have to fear?