God of Broken Things
Page 19
I shuddered inside the vision. I knew this creature. It was the Magash Mora, the beast that devoured all magic. It fed on their magic, engulfed the ogarim and absorbed their flesh and Gifts into itself.
The Eldest’s pain was raw despite the passage of millennia. Formed from a seed taken from their god-beast and grown in a pit of flesh and blood.
How did you defeat it? I asked.
We could not. We destroyed that world by pushing it closer to its sun. All life burned.
Sweet Lady Night. They had that kind of power?
Yes. Which is why the Scarrabus desired to possess our flesh at all costs. With our magic they would reign unopposed for all the tomorrows yet to come.
With their greatest breeding pits destroyed, the long war among the Far Realms was all but done and won, and what few Scarrabus remained were scattered and in hiding, slumbering in the deep dark places beneath minor and forgotten realms. Without the Scarrabus their great god-beast was lost, blind and starving in the void between realms. The home of the ogarim – here – was finally safe. Nine tenths of the ogarim race had left their home to wage war in alien worlds, but after centuries of battle only two broken remnants of the nine returned alive, expecting to experience an age of peace and rest, and to rediscover the joy of dancing under the stars with their innocent kin who had never known that abomination called war.
What they found waiting for them was… us. Humans. Broken Ones.
The infested Eldest they left behind to die had mastered their magic and somehow slowed its inevitable death. It had broken free, with only younglings and a few decrepit guardians to oppose it. Ogarim did not kill ogarim, but the Scarrabus had no such compunction. It slew the guardians and used the younglings as raw material in vile flesh-crafting experiments. It broke them apart and bred a lesser form of being, one with a more restricted access to magic that the parasites could safely tolerate. That Scarrabus queen had succeeded in creating their perfect host. And then it had hatched its eggs.
We humans thought ourselves so vitally important and so very unique. We were the rulers of this world, the strongest and most intelligent of beings ever to grace any realm. Hah! It turns out we were made things, mere hosts designed by a perverse Scarrabus mind. The Arcanum and the pompous priests would love learning they were originally naught but tools.
My world rocked only slightly – after all, had the great Archmagus Byzant himself not interfered with my boyish mind to serve his own needs? Had my beloved old mentor and father figure not twisted my personality into this bone-headed sarcastic fool that I was, with an aim to getting me killed before I ever achieved any real power? However, as any parent knows – look at my old friend Charra and her daughter Layla for example – children do not always follow the path their parents lay out for them.
What then? I asked.
Magical war like we had never experienced. Beyond a few other powerful but isolated races pitifully few in number, notably the ravak, what you call daemons lack that connection to the sea of magic. We were exhausted and not prepared for… you, and your enslavers. It felt reluctant to elaborate on its interactions with those ancient humans. But that was not what broke the spirit of the ogarim.
I could suddenly see the second moon in the sky, a baleful red weeping wound that was growing larger with every second that passed. The ogarim’s fear washed over me, never forgotten and never to be diminished. The surviving Scarrabus had called their starving god to our home to eat and to breed more of their disgusting kind.
I gasped aloud from shock. “What did you do?”
I watched through its eyes as they threw the moon at the godbeast of the Scarrabus. What is now the broken moon, Elunnai, slammed into the red stain in the sky, and the last of their magic exploded through it in mind, and body. A magical apocalypse was unleashed that shattered the moon and turned the night red as blood. The spirits of this realm screamed; most perished.
The Scarrabus shrieked in rage and pain all over the world as their god-beast fell to earth, burning and unconscious, its vast mind a fragmented thing drained of all magic. The elder spirit fell with it, forever chained to the enemy. They slammed through the skin of the world and its fiery blood spewed into the sky.
We had thought to kill it. We failed. It cannot be killed and would rise again in time.
I watched as seasons flickered passed and molten rock solidified into a great plug of black rock, a scab sealing the beast deep below the earth – this then was the birth of my home, Setharis.
What of the infested Eldest? I asked.
The ogarim shrugged. Legend suggests it was slain by its own spirit-bound weapon, turned upon it by a mere human free of
Scarrabus control. I think it did not foresee danger from their own slave race as a possibility.
Their queen on this realm destroyed, the Scarrabus were thrown into disarray until another could be hatched. Much to the parasites’ shock, their tools, their pit-bred hosts, rebelled en masse, and turned magic upon their masters.
This was unexpected, the ogarim commented. Never before had we witnessed a creation of the Scarrabus exercising free will. They had built you too well. Or perhaps it was due to magic affecting your twisted minds. We shall never know for certain.
I had to ask. I had to know, and would likely never get another chance. “The thing, the idea, we call the Worm of Magic – is it real? Is magic alive? Why does it twist us?”
As alive as all life is. Magic is life. You question the changes wrought upon your human minds and bodies, the corruption as your thoughts call it. The Worm of Magic is not at fault. Your bodies are. Your Gifts are not natural, and they still remember that which was ogarim. Magic does not corrupt you – your Gifts flail to blindly fix that which was broken long ago.
A shiver rippled up my spine. Sweet Lady Night…
Indeed. Time marched on and black pyramids and soaring towers rose from the rock of Setharis. We could not kill it so we built a prison, and then the remnants of my people left this realm of pain and regret to find a new home elsewhere. Some few stayed on as wardens, however the task has proven beyond our ability to endure for eternity. The very first gods of Setharis… the hair on the back of my neck rose as I studied the five raising vast towers and found I recognised one of their number: a slender human woman in a silver mask: Lady Night.
Not human. Not ogarim. Its thoughts were filled with shame and abject gratitude. An elder spirit now eternally chained to this place by our magic. Never again will Elunnai watch over us from the night sky with an eye of shining silver. Weep for her broken one, weep as we do.
Tears rolled hot and heavy down my scarred cheeks. With her assistance, the ogarim wardens ripped the half- digested hearts of stars from the belly of the Scarrabus’ godbeast and placed them within their own breasts, granting them inconceivable power. With it came chains that bound them to their captive, most of that power used to keep the thing drained and deep in slumber.
And one of those crystals had only recently been sitting in my coat pocket…
I felt its curiosity piqued at why I had turned down my chance for greater godhood. There is so much more. Let me show you–
I pulled away. “Blah blah blah. I don’t have time for history lessons.” It was all very fascinating, if totally beyond me, and currently pointless. “Why am I here?”
It reeled back, shocked at my shortsighted attitude, though to my mind the sands of time were running far too low to dally with this sort of thing. Your hand, it said. It consumes you. Angharad has foreseen that you will die unless
you form a binding pact with the Queen of Winter. Though I have not her foresight, I have seen enough signs of the coming danger to sense the truth in her words. You will die if you do not gain the power of being greater than yourself, and in your failure loose the imprisoned upon all realms once more.
I licked dry lips. “What choices do I have?”
Form the pact. Or all will die.
It abruptly stood and walked away. “Wait! I have more questions.”
Then find one that can offer something other than history.
Snow swirled and it was gone, leaving me alone on a deserted hillside with a wet arse and a sore head. Just… what the fuck had I just seen? I… fuck. How could I even begin to wrap my head around seeing the entire history of my world spread out before me? I had witnessed the birth of my race.
The answer was simple. I couldn’t. I had to ignore it. Prepare to fight. With two useless hands, a dodgy back, and wounds that would take at least another day or two to heal I was no good to anybody. Not without help.
I rubbed my chest, where I still bore silvery scars from my grandmother’s nails. After witnessing the enormity of what would be unleashed if we failed, I had no choice but to bite my tongue and beg her to work that damned ritual again. I supposed that was the whole fucking point of the Eldest’s history lesson, that manipulative hairy arsehole.
CHAPTER 22
I had plenty of time to think as I limped down the hill, my back on fire from the movement. Dwelling on serious topics and coming up with detailed plans was not my strong point, I was far more of an on-the-fly kind of guy.
Those stinking bard’s tales all featured a wise old mentor spouting cryptic nonsense to manipulate the brave young hero of the story, but this was just taking the piss. That history lesson had been about as much use as knitting gloves for a fish. Was I supposed to be so dazzled by the big hairy fucker’s age and knowledge that I threw all sense into the sea and did exactly what it advised? Probably; it did call itself the Eldest, and the old always thought themselves so much wiser than the young. Nah, I was too cynical for all that gullible shite. I knew something it didn’t – a truly wise person had to change with the times, not grimly clutch onto the past. Which begged the question of why of all folk I knew that.
I also knew that we pitiful few stood almost no chance against what was coming for us. And just where was that bastard army promised by the Free Towns Alliance? Not that I held out much hope there; however well-armed they were, they would only be mundane humans with a few relatively untrained Gifted to provide magical muscle. Against an elder tyrant infested with a Scarrabus queen they would either die or be taken over and forced to serve in their army.
All I could do was wait for Eva to return, and my prisoner with them. Then I would have to make some hard decisions. I glared at the rocky snow-capped peak of Kil Noth and shivered. The last thing I wanted to do was allow my grandmother to get her claws into me again. I wanted nothing to do with her bloody spirit.
Then a thought struck. Yes. YES! The druí dealt with spirits, which would be immune to the enemy tyrant’s powers. Sweet Lady Night, this could be the answer to everything! The druí would have to use them or die. But knowing my grandmother as I did, it wouldn’t be easy. If the worst came to the worst then I had the leverage needed to force them into it, but I really, really didn’t want to have to deliver myself up on a platter to her.
I tore down the hill… briefly, then slowed to a limp again when I ripped my stitches and the back of my tunic grew wet with blood. Great. Could that great hairy heap of ancient history not have sat and had a chat right there in my tent? Sod it and its nostalgia trip. I was a magus. I could do this. It was only pain.
I limped downhill with all the stubborn determination of a cat fleeing a bath.
Jovian stared at me in confusion as I wandered towards my tent, blood-soaked and drenched in sweat. As far as he had known I had been safely sleeping inside. He scampered over and grabbed my arm, guiding me in and back onto the furs. I groaned with relief as I lay face down and rested my aching back.
“How…” he began, then shook his head and thought better of asking as he stripped off my sodden tunic. “Have you fought cats once again?”
“A know-it-all giant ape this time,” I replied.
He sucked air through his teeth and prodded the wound. “You heal as fast as you drink.”
“Not fast enough. I need to get to Kil Noth with all speed.” My belly chose that moment to rumble.
He eyed my wounds and my shaking hands. “You need food and wine and more rest. A man who was dead to the world this morning is fit to fight nothing greater than mice. Or perhaps small, slow, and especially stupid children.”
“Being dead will hamper that somewhat, which is exactly what we will all be if I don’t get back there.”
“Vaughn has his pony, Biter, and a small cart,” he said. “Travel as glorious as a sack of grain perhaps, but you shall get there all the same.”
I nodded and he stepped outside to have a word with Vaughn. The big man whooped with joy. “Bring me my war pony!”
Jovian returned bearing a water skin and a lump of hard cheese. “He should have been a stablehand instead of a murderer. A happier life for all, I feel.”
I unstopped the skin and smiled at the unexpected sour aroma of cheap wine instead of water. “I’m more afraid of that evil pony than I am of him.”
Jovian’s expression was entirely serious as he made his way back outside. “As you should be.”
A deep swig of wine warmed my belly as I waited for them to gather the pony, cart and pack up our weapons and supplies. Coira and Nareene helped me up and settled me down atop furs on the back of the cart. Nareene was oddly tender about it. She leaned in close to whisper in my ear, “Thank you for Vincent.”
I took a peek inside her mind and found it a pit of flaming death and overly-sexual dancing. Everything burned in there, everything but our resident pyromancer who was naked and, well, engorged. Whatever this was between them, it would likely explode in our faces. Or perhaps the enemy. Gods help that poor boy if he ever decided to leave her and shack up with somebody else.
We were off, and as I passed Secca, who seemed to be heading for my tent, she looked up in surprise and caught my gaze. She paled and a conflicted and unreadable range of emotions flickered across her face. “Where are you going?”
“Eva is in trouble. The Scarrabus queen is here and it inhabits the body of an elder tyrant. I go to fetch help.”
She stared at me open-mouthed. And then a few moments later the cart turned and she was out of sight. It was a lot to drop on somebody but there was nothing any of them could do but wait for Eva to return – it wasn’t like they had any defence against an elder tyrant.
I suffered a half-day of bone-rattling as Biter pulled the cart along the rutted track heading back south towards Kil Noth, my coterie walking alongside. I could swear that the vile creature took us over every single bump it could possibly find. And if it farted one more time I would not be held accountable for my actions – I’d have Vaughn hitched up to the cart instead if needs be!
It was mid-afternoon when we finally trundled into the town that squatted below the ancient holdfast and I found Angharad and seven druí there waiting for me. Unlike how the pompous Arcanum might have done it, there was no formality here – they were sat around a table outside a tavern with horns of honey-scented mead in their hands and bowls of gnawed chicken bones in front of them.
“I knew ye would be here,” my grandmother said, taking a gulp of mead. “Have ye made a decision?”
I shrugged. “You must summon your spirits and set them on the enemy leader. He needs to be kept away from the battlefield at all costs.”
“No.” She took another drink, taking pleasure in my shocked expression.
“You must be mad. They will kill you all and destroy this place just as they did with Dun Bhailiol.” My coterie spread out and their hands settled on the hilts of their weapons.
She ignored the implied threat. “So? It is just death. You Setharii may not believe that humans becomes spirits after the flesh dies, but we druí do.”
I looked to the other druí to knock some sense into her. “Are you really going to sit here on your arses and do nothing when you could all be aiding the defence of your own people? How many of your children will be slaughtered if you don’t act?”
An old woman met my challenging gaze with a pitying look. “Angharad of the Walkers speaks fer all o’ us on this matter. She has the second sight and has foreseen the need fer a great spirit to tread this realm in the flesh. You will have no aid without following the true path laid out before you.”
“Are you all cracked in the head?” I demanded. “What makes you think I won’t just walk away and leave you to die of your own stupidity?”
They declined to answer. “Don’t make me force you to do it,” I said, changing tack. “Ye may be able to control them,” Angharad said. “But ye cannot control the spirits they have a pact with. The spirits will know what ye have done and will refuse ye.”
I ground my teeth and reached out for her mind. I didn’t know enough about spirits to know if she was telling the truth. Her mind was open and brimming over with ironclad certainty.
I pulled back with great reluctance. It would have been so easy to break in there and mess her up.
“Then fuck you all.” I turned and walked away, stewing in anger at the depths of their stupidity. Why would they refuse to save themselves? It made no sense to me.
“Ye will be back by dusk,” Angharad spat at my back. I glanced back to see her staring at my tainted hand hidden within its glove. “Ye will bow to the wisdom o’ the spirits.”
I stalked off, too furious to even feel the pain of my back. My coterie slipped into formation around me.