by Chris Fox
“Hey, uh, what did you say your name is again? It occurs to me we never got introduced.” I walked boldly in her direction, slowly crossing the forty or so meters as I continued to babble nonsense. “Necrotis…hmm. I’m really good at linguistics. What would a mother who named a son Utred name her daughter? What’s ancient draconic for Beer Goggles? Is that your name?”
The joke was pretty bad, and you’d expect an ancient death goddess to maybe be able to prioritize kill targets and take out the fire god who was an actual threat instead of the kid with the spellpistol and the mouth.
I shot her with a void bolt, just to be annoying, but she’d already turned her murderous single eye in my direction. The other was covered by a spirit lens, which was probably looking at my soul right now. Could she see the mark the city had put on me?
That was it!
“Yeah, that’s right.” I thumped my chest with Dez, right over the heart. It hurt since I wasn’t wearing armor. “I know you can see it, and you’re wondering what it is. What stopped your ability to eat souls. How come I can smart off to you and make jokes about my name? You know you want to rip my heart out and look at it.”
She abandoned Crewes and clanked her way in my direction. I spared a single glance at my friends, but the fight with Jolene wasn’t going well. They had her on the defensive with Seket having engaged in melee, but she was a true archmage, and now enhanced with necrotech. They’d yet to breach her wards, and every few seconds she erected another defensive spell. Soon she’d be able to go on the offensive. They needed me.
I’d created other problems for myself, though.
The Devourer stalked toward me with her scythe dragging a line of sparks along the deck. “You aren’t wearing your armor. Where is it?”
“I lost it.” I heaved a fake sigh. “I took it off to go to the bathroom, and someone walked off with it.”
She nodded slowly, as if that made all the sense in the world. “And you decided to oppose me anyway, even knowing that for me to become captain of this vessel I’d have to kill you? Before I do so I have to ask. Why would you sacrifice yourself like this? The prudent move would be to flee where I could not reach you, after locking this vessel down so that even after I take the trials I cannot usurp control.”
“Well.” I tried not to glance at Crewes, who still strained against his chains. He’d made progress, but he needed a lot more time. Time I didn’t know how to give him. “I guess I thought that the mark might protect me. I guess it can save my life, and will until whatever purpose it has in mind for me is served. I don’t think I can die.”
That was a lie, but she seemed to believe it.
I took her in, then, and noted that her harness had taken a lot of damage. Crewes had snapped off several legs, and bent off most of the useful bits. Her wards had stopped the magic, but it hadn’t saved her toys. The only things functional were five of eight legs, and that scythe. All of them had been blackened by flame.
“I can’t take your soul, but I can wound you.” She clanked her way toward me, and I forced myself not to run and somehow managed to keep eye contact as she loomed over me, a meter away now. The scythe hummed, and within the blade dozens of screaming souls clustered, eager to add more to their number. “That means I can torture you endlessly. I can keep you imprisoned, and in a decade or three I’ll break you, and you’ll run this vessel for me. You’ll do it gladly.”
“It would take decades to break me?” I made the most derisive snort that has ever been snorted. “I’d think you’d have more professional pride. Why would it take decades?”
The Devourer leaned down close, close enough to kiss. I could make out the tiny sigils on her spirit lens, but was more focused on the murderous intent in the actual eye. “Because I would want to enjoy it a long, long time after you agreed to help me. At first you’d agree merely to spare yourself pain. I’d push until you wanted to do it to please me. Until that was the whole of your reality. Then, you’d give me your name whatever that infernal ward wishes.”
“It’s celestial,” I corrected, as snarkily as I could. Why was I antagonizing a goddess? And why hadn’t Crewes killed her face off yet? “Infernal refers to demotech, and demons in general.”
“I. Hate. You.” Her eye narrowed, and the scythe came up.
Where was my divine interven—oh, right there.
A golden nimbus of light exploded around me, and a golden staff swept up to intercept the scythe. Magitech met necrotech, and the pair clanged off each other like some cosmic gong. Lady Voria stepped before me, her confederate blue the most gorgeous color in existence.
“Oooh,” Ikadra’s sapphire pulsed. “An evil nemesis staff. Do you have a name? Can I call you curvy?”
Everyone ignored the staff, but I thought the joke was hilarious. Scythe? Curvy? I needed to hang out with Ikadra more. I returned my attention to the conversation between Voria and the Devourer.
“I’ve dealt with your incursion.” Voria gestured behind her, and a life ward sprang up around Highspire, protecting the wounded and those who needed its shelter, while allowing those who could fight free exit. “That’s not the news I came to deliver, though. I have terrible news.”
“Oh?” The goddess raised an ivory eyebrow, then scuttled closer toward Voria. The life goddess stood her ground. “Please, do tell. Have you killed my mother?”
“It’s on my list.” Voria rapped Ikadra against the deck with a hollow boom and a sparkle. “To anyone who’s listening who might care. This staff is far more powerful in the presence of its twin.” She cleared her throat and took a step closer to the Devourer, then leaned in close and dropped her voice. “That trade moon you worked so hard to retrofit is about to be cracked by the sector’s largest hammer.”
Message received. She needed Ardaki. I was captain again. I could have Kemet teleport it to me right now. Should I?
The Devourer leaned back on her harness, and howled with laughter. She thumped her staff against the deck, as an Outrider would, in answer to Voria. “I like you, Lady Voria, and I will enjoy devouring your name. Please, elaborate. What magical hammer are you going to drop? I am still overfull from the meal I made of my grandfather, and the Heka Aten armor is already in my office, on that moon. Safely ensconced among millions of unliving, and thousands of necromancers, guarded by my very best necrotech.”
“Oh, shit….” Crewes’s amused voice came from behind them, and everyone’s attention shifted in his direction. He’d gotten an arm free, but three limbs and his cannon were still bound in chains. “I know you think you got the upper hand. Question you gotta ask yourself, spider lady.” He tore another chain loose. “Why did I come into a team fight without a team? You brought some scrubs, which our scrubs are going to wipe the floor with. But now you got a pantheon to deal with. And here’s what you missed. I don’t blame you, ‘cause I missed it too. I was a little butthurt, in fact. Where is my buddy Aran? He wouldn’t leave his old sarge in the lurch. I taught that wipe to…well, he pretty much already knew how to fight. Anyway, where is he? So when Lady Voria comes walking in here and asks what kind of hammer is gonna drop on that moon you know what I gotta think? The demonic kind.”
Why were these people so much better at smack talking than I was? Maybe Crewes could teach a class.
Interlude XII
Aran rested Narlifex on his shoulder as he surveyed the countless demonic legions filling the largest hold within the Earthmother’s Bulwark. Countless demonkin, the truebred demons who most resembled humans, brutes, bonecrushers, spinerippers, and every other breed stood in clean divisions.
In years past they’d been an untrained horde. Now they were disciplined, and had a Confederate officer been present they’d have noted that the demons moved with their crisp precision. Aran had trained them as Crewes had trained him.
They were ready to kill, but kill with discipline. And now they’d finally have a chance, an enemy that no one would mourn, the unliving, and the necromancers who created them. Satisfied t
hat his troops were ready, he turned from the balcony back to the ship’s pilot, the earthen whose arms he’d lopped off.
Kazon’s gleaming silver replacements now adorned Osaka, providing all the functionality that she’d lost when Narlifex had claimed the originals. If the replacements bothered her she certainly didn’t seem to hold a grudge.
“We are inbound.” Osaka intoned. “Secure all hatches, stow all gear, and take your positions. May Osmium bless the memory of those who we slay today.”
Aran tapped into his divine senses and scryed outside the vessel. He watched as the largest of the Great Ships, a giant jagged arrowhead, revved to life and blasted through the battlefield debris that had accumulated around it over the millennia.
They gathered speed as the prow of the ship angled toward the Inuran trade moon. The necromancers reacted with surprising agility, and hundreds of fighters intercepted and peppered the hull with spells. Aran neither felt nor saw any impact from their efforts, and the Bulwark simply sailed through their pitiful fleet as it accelerated toward the moon itself.
As instructed the pilot bore toward the cannon, and the tip of their jagged hull rammed into the mouth of the barrel. Their ship tore into the cannon, and then punched through the moon around it. Over a third of the artificial planet detonated on impact, sending debris, necromancers, and who knew what else spinning into the void.
Now that he’d ensured that the cannon couldn’t fire on the Spellship again it was time to end the threat once and for all. Aran rose into the air and amplified his voice for all to hear. “You have trained for months. You are ready. These unliving believe they are predators. That the Confederacy is doddering humans in antiquated craft backed by a weak goddess and her weaker tree-world.” He didn’t like denigrating Voria, but there was no love lost between life and void, and besides…it was true. “Today we teach them that Xal is a member of the Confederacy, and that we are not toothless. Go. Take no survivors. If you find the living they are not to be harmed. Recover them and bring them to the Bulwark. Move out!”
Legions turned on their heel, and began marching even as the hold’s tremendous doors rolled open. Unlike the other ships, which used magical membranes, this ship had a true armored door, of an alloy that had proven hard enough that Narlifex barely scored it.
Aran teleported into the sky above his new flagship, and watched as his legions moved out. Each headed for a specific target zone, and all overlapped with each other to offer support. In addition, each command post would open a Fissure back to Xal, and summoners would bring through reinforcements.
Within an hour they’d have over twenty million demons on the surface of what remained of the moon. Kazon had begged him to bring the new armored divisions, but Aran had refused. Many eyes were on this battle, and while Ternus was eager to show off, Aran didn’t want his opponents seeing their new tanks or fighters. This would be enough.
Should he take part in the battle? He could wipe out their strongest necromancers, leaving little resistance. No, that wasn’t the demon way. They needed to fight, and the survivors would grow stronger. Survival of the fittest was a religion, one Aran had readily embraced. Callous, but terribly effective when your troops were immortal.
Aran glanced at the sky, and wished that he could intervene in the battle between the necromancers and Voria’s forces. Every time he’d watched the Talon leap into battle he’d wished he were aboard. She’d always feel like his ship, even if she belonged to Crewes now. He didn’t begrudge his old friend the ownership, and from the bits of battle he’d observed, the new captain was easily as effective as the old.
But…he didn’t see the Talon now. Where was Crewes? If he’d left the orbital theater, then that meant a god needed killing. Had Necrotis or one of her kids made an attempt? He reached for the Word of Xal. Because the vessel was of Xal, Aran could perceive through its senses.
“You in there, you messy bastard?” he muttered to himself as he searched. It only took a few moments to locate the combat in the hold where they’d stashed the pyramid the kid had saved.
The crew had retreated to divine wards, which Aran recognized instantly as Voria’s handiwork. Sure enough, the Lady of Light stood wielding Ikadra, and warded off a scathing array of spells from a necromancer on the same sort of scuttling harness the ones on the moon used.
This was no mortal necromancer, though. This was one of Necrotis’s children, which his briefing from Voria had classified as of unknown strength.
Crewes had pulled himself inside the wards with his one free arm, but the rest of him was covered in chains that hurt to look upon.
Aran hesitated. If he intervened he’d be breaking the law. The Confederacy had not called for his aid. But Crewes could die. Voria could die.
Yeah, screw Confederate law. They could sue him.
Aran translocated into the hold and appeared in the air a few meters above and ahead of the necromancer lady, well within her field of view. She stared up at him in defiance, but said nothing as she cradled her scythe and awaited his attack.
“Hi there.” Aran drifted down to the deck, and rested Narlifex’s tip against the deck. “I see you’ve been busy. When you get some time you might want to take a glance at your—”
“I already told her,” Voria snapped, stealing his thunder. “She’s aware you’ve done for her moon. Less talk. More beheading. There are countless people that need healing, and if Jerek doesn’t deal with my mother I will have to.”
“Jolene is here?” Aran glanced around and saw the strongest contingent of necromancers gathered in the far side of the hold. An eight-legged Jolene had squared off against a small adult dragon, a couple shooters, and one angry paladin. Not his problem right now. He turned back to the necromancer lady, a bit disappointed she hadn’t taken a shot while his back was turned. “Anyway, I guess you’re up to speed. Did you want to do some posturing before I kill you?” Aran realized he was being rude and glanced over his shoulder at Crewes, who’d nearly finished removing his chains. “Unless you want to take care of it?”
“Nah.” Crewes waved dismissively. “Have at the bitch. I’ve got work to do.” Crewes picked up the first chain in both hands, and pure magic flared in him. Impossible heat billowed outwards, instantly melting the deck to slag for several meters. The necrotech chain heated, and glowed an angry red. “Gonna take a bit I think, but I’m melting these down. Gonna make a belt buckle for Davidson that will say, ‘This is what happens when you come to New Texas.’”
Aran gave a laugh at that, then stalked forward until he was nearly in range to strike. Still she did nothing. “Are you a competent swordsman? We can settle it that way.”
“What is your name, child?” Her voice thundered around Aran, the power far, far beyond Nebiat. The binding threatened to overwhelm his will, and he desperately resisted. Something rose up within him. A power he’d not known, yet one that he recognized even as it spoke using his throat. “I am Xalegos the First. I am Xal, father of demons. I am Xal’Aran, Avatar of Xal. Come, lich, devour my name if you can. I will allow your attempt with no resistance.”
Wait, what? Panic rose in Aran. He wasn’t really down with letting anyone get a free shot in, though Xal seemed confident enough. Not like Aran had a choice, god or no. He stood and waited as the necromancer scuttled forward.
“Very well, Xalegos, Xal, Xal’Aran. Three times I savor your name.” Her jaw distended, and a mass of spirit tendrils rushed out at him. Why was it always tendrils? Had Nefarius gotten the idea from the necromancers, or vice versa? Well, the takeaway was that Aran already knew how to deal with them. As it turned out so did Xal.
Control returned as Narlifex flashed up, and the upper third of the blade burst into dozens of metal fragments. They swirled through the tendrils, devouring the magic wherever they touched it. Aran poured his full focus into that drain, and ripped the magical construct, her spirit maw, out of the spirit goddess. Then he ate it, complete with a belch afterwards.
Xal’s presence fad
ed, and Aran was once more himself. “You want to try again? Oh, wait. You can’t. Ever.” Behind him Voria’s power spiked somehow. She grew in divinity, and her wards in strength. The timing was great as the necromancer chick shrank back a step.
Her eyes narrowed, and she opened a slash in the air, which led to the spirit realm.
Aran laughed and continued to amble toward her. “Are you really going to run away?”
“Oh no,” the woman replied politely, despite the tightly held rage in her one remaining eye. “I’m merely slipping into something more comfortable. Your boorish friend, the fire one, has made a mess of my harness. So, you fancy yourself a swordsman? I’ve also heard you were an Outrider. Strange for a demon.”
“Sounds like you know more about me than I do about you.” Aran slipped into Drakkon stance. “Why don’t you go powder your nose, and then we can get started?”
A pair of pristine bone legs walked through the tear, and the necromancer lifted from her damaged harness and attached to the legs, transforming herself into a humanoid. She tossed her scythe into the spirit realm, then drew forth a claymore that hurt Aran’s eyes to look upon, like the chains, but worse.
Narlifex pulsed, a low growl like a cat warning off a rival.
“This is Nametaker.” She slashed at the air experimentally, and Aran recognized a fellow master. “I was skilled before the fall of the flights, and haven’t taken a day off since. I’m told that you bested Nefarius, just after she bested Virkonna. That makes you the god to beat. I may not be able to devour your name, but I can devour your magic, Avatar of a doddering, obsolete god.”
She flashed forward faster than the eye could track, but Aran raised Narlifex just as quickly and parried the blow. It drove him back a step, and more blows rained even as Aran was forced across the deck.
“Ah, Drakkon stance.” She smiled encouragingly. “You’re truly skilled, especially for being what amounts to a child, in divine terms. If I let you live for a century or three you’d be unstoppable. Pity you’ll never have that time.”