“Come with dignity,” he intoned. “Go with dignity. Die with your honor intact.”
The men and women with torches lifted them straight up at arm’s length. Those with spears lifted the butts an inch from the ground and slapped them back down all at once.
Rethbrin arched one eyebrow.
“Really?” said Mithris. “That’s it? You didn’t have something longer prepared? I mean, you knew this was coming, right? Isn’t that what you said?”
Grimball’s stoic mask slipped, but held for a moment before he discarded it. Scowling, the elder strode forward until he was only just outside the door of the cage.
“There are children like you,” he said, contempt dripping from the words. “A sharp tongue and no seriousness. No strength in them. They do not make good adults. Often enough, they do not make adults at all. Their own wit distracts them when they should have been vigilant.”
Mithris drew back, bemused. “Are you…giving me a lecture? Seriously? Before you throw me in the volcano, you’re going to lecture me? This can’t really be happening.”
Rethbrin cleared his throat and pushed Mithris back. Drawing himself up to his full height, the ancient wizard locked eyes with Elder Grimball.
“The boy may have a sharp tongue, and he may belabor under the fool notion that the worlds owe him something better than this, but he is a Wizard. And a powerful one at that, hmm!
“I am Rethbrin of Orranhall, Grand Master Wizard. This is Mithris, who carries the very stones of Creation. They speak in his mind and he knows their will. We are wizards, and wizards always die with such dignity as is not yours to question.”
Mithris dropped his jaw in surprise. He felt a sudden surge of pride for the old man, and found himself grinning at Grimball.
The village elder looked from Rethbrin to Mithris and back again, scowling. At length, the old man shook himself and replied.
“I don’t care who you are,” he said, spitting in the dirt. “The Great Master will see you consumed in his Inferno.”
Chapter 63
Forfeit
The entire village joined the procession, passing out through the narrow canyon into the thick jungle. Young men with spears walked on the outside of the parade, their eyes constantly scanning the shadowed undergrowth for danger.
Soon enough they reached the foot of the mountain these locals called the Inferno, and began the ascent. It was a long and occasionally grueling climb, but none of the villagers stopped or turned back.
About two thirds of the way up, they came out over the level of the tallest trees. Mithris could look out over the jungle all the way to the endless sea, but that would take his concentration off the climb. Climbing to his death was momentarily preferable to falling to it.
Rethbrin struggled along beside him, falling behind when the path became too steep or they were forced to climb over vertiginous, rugged gaps in the narrow trail. The old wizard breathed heavily. His face shone with sweat.
As they neared the summit, the trail leveled off and led through an orchard of jagged rock spars. The path ended at the rim of the lowest edge of the volcano’s broken mouth, and fierce waves of heat washed up from far below. The sky was turning gray overhead. It was nearly dawn.
A broad, flat ledge extended around the volcano’s throat just below the rim. Prodded from behind, Mithris and Rethbrin climbed down to it. At one end of the ledge stood a stone hut that seemed to have grown naturally from the mountain. Cured animal hides covered its twin windows and hung also across the narrow door.
Grimball pushed Mithris and Rethbrin toward the hut, and they marched across the ledge as the villagers assembled behind them. The people would stand gathered on this shelf of rock to witness the holy execution.
Mithris examined the stone hut as they approached. These people thought their “Great Master,” their volcano god, lived in this hut. He supposed he could see why they might think that, when they discovered this naturally occurring house. They came up here to offer sacrifice, and decorated their temple with skins as though someone actually dwelt there.
He did wonder how they had discovered it in the first place. Who in their right mind would climb a volcano and stare down into its belly?
Then the door curtain twitched aside and Mithris drew up short in undisguised shock.
The stooped figure that hobbled out of the hut, leaning on a gnarled cane of blackened wood, was ancient beyond knowing. Perhaps the Great Master truly had watched over these people since the beginning of time. At least, since the beginning of time on this plane of existence. He had aged thousands and thousands of years, but Mithris recognized him even through the wild mess of white hair, the deeply creased skin, and the hobbling posture.
Eaganar pulled someone out of the hut behind him, and shoved her forward. Melendra went sprawling on the stony ground at the evil wizard’s feet as his eyes fixed on Mithris and flashed in triumph.
“Melendra!” It was Lothar, who rushed forward from the crowd of villagers and ran toward his sister. Two of the elders managed to catch him as he tried to run past them, but they struggled to hold him as he reached for Melendra.
She pushed herself up, and Mithris saw a look of utter despair marring her fine features.
“What is this, child?” Elder Grimball moved forward and extended a hand to Melendra, pulling her up when she took it. The young woman stood before the Elder with her eyes lowered in misery and shame.
“I thought this cannot be the one,” she mumbled, gesturing at Mithris. “I’m sorry Elder Grimball, but I can see no evil in him.”
The Elder’s face flushed with anger, and he grabbed at Melendra’s hand again. Seizing her by the wrist, he took his other hand and pressed up under her chin so she was forced to meet his eyes.
“Child, what have you done?”
“She sought to intercede on behalf of Mithris.” Eaganar’s voice was thin and weak. It hissed and rasped like a dying snake slithering for cover. The dark wizard coughed then, and Mithris knew Eaganar was dying. Even the most powerful of wizards could not live forever. How long had he been there? Why hadn’t they all arrived at the same time?
Elder Grimball’s face fell. “Child,” he whispered sadly. Then he released Melendra’s wrist. She stared at him open mouthed. Tears sprang to her eyes as he turned his back on her.
“Elder!” she cried.
“Her life is forfeit,” hissed Eaganar.
“Her life is forfeit,” agreed Grimball.
“What? Melendra! No!” Lothar broke free of the old men who struggled to hold him back. He ran to his sister.
“Lothar, no!” she shouted. “Stay back!”
The spearman drew up short, his expression pained. He hesitated, barely a pace from his sister. If he took that final step, he would probably be condemned along with her. It was obvious he wanted to go to her anyway.
Mithris decided he may have misjudged Lothar.
“Eaganar.” It was Rethbrin. He took a step forward, commanding attention. The old wizard got it. He drew himself up and glared at his wizened rival with contempt. “You always did fancy yourself a god, did you not?”
“I am a Wizard,” countered Eaganar. He did not raise his hissing voice. He sneered at Rethbrin and Mithris in turn. “In this foundation, I am the only wizard!”
“There’s no magic here,” said Rethbrin. “You are master of nothing.”
“Oh, but there is magic,” argued Eaganar. He took an eager step forward, glancing over the ledge into the burning abyss below. “It is faint and far away and we cannot reach it, but I’ve heard it whispering to me. For millennia have I waited for this day. Each night, they whisper in my dreams of this day.”
“You’ve gone completely mad, is what you mean,” snapped Rethbrin.
“He did that a long time ago,” said Mithris, stepping forward to stand at the grandmaster’s side.
“Enough!” Eaganar glowered at them a moment, then turned to Grimball. “Throw them over the side!” he bellowed.
<
br /> Strong hands gripped Mithris from behind.
Chapter 64
Betrayal
They threw Rethbrin in first, and there wasn’t a thing Mithris could do. He felt numb. Was this how his journey would end?
They seized Melendra and dragged her to the edge in turn. She screamed when they threw her over. He gritted his teeth in anger. He was helpless to resist.
Then it was his turn. Mithris didn’t struggle as the spearmen forced him to the edge.
As he tumbled through the sweltering heat toward death, Mithris thought back over his short life. He was amazed at how calmly his thoughts proceeded.
He saw Deinre again in his mind’s eye, over and over. Deinre in his Arcanium. Deinre tearing into a steak and kidney pie. Deinre shouting at him to keep practicing those wards.
The events of the last two years replayed themselves in his imagination. The flight from Deinre’s tower, Ileera’s betrayal, the mercenaries, the foundation crystals, mad old Zerto, the Chaos Lord, all of it. He’d done so much and come so far. And now it was over.
The only comfort Mithris had was Eaganar’s wheezing, hacking cough. His nemesis might have won, but Eaganar was dying. He might last another decade, but his end was coming and there was nothing the evil wizard could do. If there was no magic here for Mithris to save himself, nor was there any for his bitter enemy.
Mithris splashed down into the molten lava and sank instantly beneath the burning surface.
The villagers knelt on the stone ledge and whispered a prayer to their Great Master. He stood before them in his ancient glory and accepted their praise, their supplication. He exulted in it.
Lothar knelt with the others but he did not pray. He had fallen to his knees with an anguished cry when they hurled his sister over the edge. He remained there now, but his eyes were not lowered. He held them fixed on the Great Master and his stare was more keen than his best spear.
He saw the Great Master and it was as though he saw him for the first time. The Great Master did not look like a god. Instead, he looked remarkably like a man. An elder, most definitely, but a man at that.
Had this man really ordered Melendra’s death?
Had everything always been a lie? What if his sister had been right all along about Mithris and the other stranger? Now they were dead, all three of them. And all of it only because this wretched creature said so.
Lothar gripped his spear tightly but did not yet lift it from the stony ground. He did not lower his eyes, and they burned. He was betrayed. It gnawed at him like a tiny raktar in his gut. The venom stung him as it spread coldly throughout his body. He glared his newborn hatred at the man his people had worshiped for generations. The man who had surely lied to them.
Behind Lothar, the people finished their worship and rose silently to their feet. Lothar heard the rustle of their garments and knew that Elder Grimball made ready to lead them back down the mountain, back to the village.
He could not go with them. He doubted he would ever see the village again, because he had to kill the Great Master. He knew he would not survive that.
Lothar wondered which of his own people would strike him down, and whether it would be the spear or the long fall and Inferno.
The Great Master paid no attention to Lothar as the lithe young spearman rose to his feet and brought his spear up to hold with both hands.
The god of Lothar’s people turned in toward the radiant heat and gazed longingly over the edge. He seemed to see something down there, something more than the surging lava of the Inferno. His withered arms lifted at his sides, palms cupped open and turned down facing the blazing lake of fire and liquid stone.
Lothar gritted his teeth and adjusted his grip on the haft of his spear. The Great Master’s head lolled back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth hanging open as if in sheer bliss.
“I can hear it,” the Great Master hissed, and then louder: “I can feel it!”
Lothar did not know what the ancient creature was talking about, and he did not care. But he knew the moment was now. Whatever was happening, Lothar must strike now or he would lose the chance forever. He had to do this.
For Melendra. For his sister.
He shouted it, he roared it. As he sprang forward, charging down on the Great Master with the spear held braced and level and aimed for the heart, Lothar howled it like a beast wounded and dying: “Melendra!”
The tip of Lothar’s spear sank into Eaganar’s side, perhaps a hand’s width above the hip. The wooden shaft slid deep before it splintered near the middle. Lothar released the spear with a final shove, coming to a halt even as the Great Master was hurled back by the force of the piercing blow.
Eaganar staggered and fell back, throwing out one hand to catch himself. The brittle bones of his wrist shattered when the hand struck bare stone, and he screamed in pain as he rolled over on his side. Blood seeped rapidly from the savage wound of the broken spear impaled through his gut.
The ancient wizard stared balefully up at his killer. Bubbling blood frothed at his lips and he spit viciously to one side before he spoke. His every word dripped with hate and venom.
“It’s too late!” The Great Master sneered. His excitement never waned, though he had to cough and hack his way through the next words. “It worked! I can feel it. After all these centuries, it finally worked! The magic is returning.”
A fit of coughing wracked him then and he doubled over, grinding the spear agonizingly in his belly. A small torrent of blood gushed over his lips. But Eaganar laughed through it. His eyes blazed with triumph.
Chapter 65
The Final Foundation
It’s about time you got here.
Mithris was not dead.
You didn’t think we’d let that happen, surely?
It took him some time to put it together. He wasn’t dead. That was Vapor speaking to him. He heard — no, he didn’t hear Vapor. He had never heard the foundation crystal. The words materialized in his head, silent as his own thoughts. But they were not his thoughts, and neither were these.
Even Vapor could not speak to you until you came to us, said a new voice, one that Mithris had never heard before.
Mithris was still trying to figure out how he wasn’t dead. He remembered falling, and then he’d hit the lava’s surface. Now, he was…nowhere. It was not the same dark abyss through which he had fallen before. It was warm. It felt safe and comfortable. But Mithris saw nothing, felt nothing, and heard nothing save the voices in his head.
He realized the second voice must belong to one of the other foundation crystals. But they had never been able to speak to him before.
We can all make ourselves heard to you now, said a third voice. Mithris had no idea how, but he knew that voice belonged to Absence. The second voice had belonged to Terra. He could hear them now.
Did that mean…
You won’t be able to use magic here, said Vapor before Mithris even decided to try. But look on the bright side, Mithris. You don’t need to use it. We have you.
But, where was he?
This is not a place, nor even a time. Hearing it for the first time, Mithris recognized the voice of Ember. But…he had been thrown into a live volcano. How…
The volcano is me, Ember explained. At least for the time being. It won’t be so, not after this. I’ve been waiting for you, Mithris. Waiting for you to brave yet another inferno to reach me.
And through Ember, the rest of us as well, added Vapor. The airstone sounded impatient, as though it did not appreciate the others being able to talk to Mithris as well. Mithris realized he did not seem to have a body; otherwise, he would have smiled.
Then he remembered Rethbrin and Melendra, and Eaganar the would-be god triumphant at last. His humor vanished.
Eaganar thinks he has won, said Vapor. It was a cryptic statement, but for once Mithris did not have to beg the crystal to explain further.
He has been here for eight thousand years, said Tempus.
And the magic in this p
lane has dwindled away to nothing in that time, added Depths. We have been shutting it out of this reality.
Eaganar believes the magic is returning, added Terra. What he feels, however, is only us. We are using our power to bring you to us so we may speak.
Soon, whispered Absence, the magic will be gone forever from this new foundation.
The Eighth Foundation, said Ember.
The Final Foundation, corrected Tempus.
The foundation with no magic, concluded Vapor. It sounded even more irritated than before.
Mithris didn’t understand. Then, suddenly he did. He was not sure if his own mind had made the leap, or if the foundation crystals had somehow planted the awareness into his brain. But he understood.
United at last, the foundation crystals had combined their powers to create a new plane of existence. The Eighth Foundation. And they had sealed the wounds of its birth, the ley lines that existed in all realities. The tears in creation which allowed magic to bleed through into the realms. It had taken them thousands of years, but Vapor would have been quick to remind him that time had no meaning for the crystals.
The wonder of what they had done astonished him.
What he did not understand was why. Why had they done it?
Why create a realm without magic? Vapor sounded amused. Mithris, it was pretty much your idea.
Something was wrong. Eaganar snarled, clutching at his laid-open side with one hand and grasping at empty air with the other. The magic wouldn’t come. He summoned its power in vain. But he could still feel it, awesome power, all of the power he had missed these eight thousand years.
It had driven him mad to lose that power, and now it drove him mad once over to feel it tantalizingly just out of reach.
What was happening?
He looked back up at the bloodied youth who’d slain him. Lothar glared at him, eyes burning with hatred, as his own brothers, the other young men and hunters, grabbed him from behind and bore him down to the ground.
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