The golems obeyed, tossing Elory down. The young woman lay in the mud, pale and shivering. Her arm popped back into her socket, and Elory screamed again, and then her eyes rolled back, and she lay limply in the mud. Meliora wanted to rush to her, but the golems kept dragging her, finally taking her to stand before the king.
The golem stood before her, eight feet tall, dripping moss and mud. Its heart thumped outside its chest, riddled with worms, surrounded by crooked ribs that thrust out like snapped branches. Its eyes moved down on their stalks, gaping from their shadowy pits. The jawbones forming its crown, Meliora realized, were the jaws of seraphim or perhaps Vir Requis—previous travelers to these hills.
"It was seven hundred years ago that your mother came to these hills," the king rumbled. "I was her first creation. She raised me from the mud, and she named me Eresh, and I was to her as a deformed child. She cast me aside and I watched, writhing in pain, lying malformed in the mud as she created my brothers. As she raised life, again and again from the mud—life doomed to suffering, life failed. I cried out to her. I begged her to spare the others, to stop bringing tortured souls into the world, but she did not see us as souls—only as her own failures. And still she raised more, even as we all cried out together, pleading for this mockery of creation to end. We begged her for death. We begged her for life. Yet she left us in this state of wretchedness, for she was no goddess. Kalafi, our creator, is forever accursed. Bring her before us. Summon your mother! Bring her here so that we may claim our vengeance, or we will exact our vengeance upon your sister who lies in the mud."
Meliora struggled to free herself from the golems grabbing her but could not. Instead she raised her chin, trying to muster what pride she still could. "Queen Kalafi is dead. Her own son, the tyrant Ishtafel, slew her. Your vengeance is fulfilled."
But rather than soothing the golems, this seemed to enrage them further. They tossed back their heads, and they howled to the sky. The hills shook.
"She was ours to slay!" King Eresh cried. Centipedes and beetles fled from his body, and his heart thrashed, heating up, melting mud around it. "The tyrant Ishtafel stole our vengeance, but we will take it out on you, daughter of the creator."
The golems began tugging at her again, and more advanced, dripping, hissing, gnashing their teeth.
"No," Meliora said. "You will not, for as the creator's daughter, I can help you. I can . . . I can try." She gulped. "I heard tales of how Kalafi created you. They were stories passed through the palace in shadows, in whispers, forbidden stories. My brother told me. They frightened me but I kept asking him to tell them again and again, and I would reenact the stories with my dolls. I know why you are half-formed. I know why Kalafi could not grant you true life." The golems leaned in, silent, and Meliora spoke softly. "She did not give you her blood."
"Blood flows through us!" rumbled King Eresh. "This blood we spill with every step, with every breath. This blood flows from our hearts which we wish would stop pumping. This blood is forever our curse."
Meliora looked at the oily black substance dripping from the golem's infested heart. "That's not blood," she whispered, "but bitumen mined from the pits of Tofet. To create life—true life, true children—Kalafi had to grant you her own blood. The stories whisper that she was too proud. Too protective of her noble blood, that she would not share it, and instead completed her spells with tar. That is why her creations failed—not for lack of power but for pride."
Eresh's eyes burned white, and his heart rustled with maggots. He gripped her with dripping, muddy hands, and the rocks and soil that formed his body creaked and scattered dirt. "Then we will take your blood, Meliora, daughter of Kalafi, for our creator's blood flows through your veins."
"If you take it you will get nothing." She stared into his eyes. "It would seep into the mud and vanish, leaving you forever without life, without death, and without vengeance. But if I were to give you my blood, my gift of life . . . you will finally be healed."
At least, that was what the old stories said—more old stories Meliora had thought mere myths, now risen before her.
"Will you let me try?" Meliora said.
The golems did not speak, those with eyes staring at the others, those with noses snorting, their breathing ragged, scented of worms and deep soil and rot. Still they said nothing.
"Let me heal you," Meliora said softly. "At least let me try. Let me end what my mother began, and let me bring you some relief from this tortured existence. I've learned, in only this moon, of horrors I never knew could exist—horrors committed by my mother, my brother, by those I thought my family and my people. I've left the city of Shayeen to fix the evil my family wrought. Let me fix this evil too."
Their grip on her arms relaxed, and Meliora raced toward Elory. Her younger sister lay in the mud, blinking feebly. Meliora knelt above her and touched her cheek.
"I'm all right," Elory whispered. "I've suffered worse in Tofet. Give them life, Meliora. Save them. They need you like we do."
Meliora raised Elory's fallen spear, and at first the golems rumbled and made to grab her again, but Meliora lowered the spear's blade to her own hand. She hesitated, then grimaced and cut a line across her palm.
What is a cut on the hand compared to losing my wings? she thought as her blood beaded.
She approached one golem, the weakest among them, a dripping creature that lay in the mud, gasping, reaching up and unable to rise. Its heart beat outside its chest, draped in mud, like a discarded organ in a battlefield. Its mouth smacked, toothless, bubbling, a slit in the soil, and mushrooms grew where eyes should peer. Meliora held her hand above the wretched soul.
"I am a daughter of Requiem," Meliora whispered. "A child of starlight. The blood of Requiem courses through me, red blood that has spilled too often over the centuries of our suffering. But I'm also a child of Saraph, and ichor flows through my veins—the golden blood of the deities, outcast from Edinnu. Blood that is godly, blood that I now grant to you. Let the ichor of Edinnu, blessed with the first light of creation, ignite true life inside you."
She tightened her fist, and a single drop of her blood—the red blood of Requiem mixed with the golden ichor of Saraph—dripped down.
The golem's bubbling mouth opened, and the blood vanished into the muddy hole.
Silence fell across the hills.
The golem in the mud lay still, its last bubbles popping, its moans fading.
Meliora stared down, breath catching. Did I kill it?
She knelt in the mud. She placed her hands on the melted being in the soil.
"Rise," she whispered. "Take my gift of life and rise. Become life."
And slowly it rose.
No sunbeams fell upon it, gleaming with gold. No angelic choir sang. No cherubim flew above, blowing silver trumpets and playing joyous harps. Here was not a moment from ancient tales and frescos, a holy miracle for poets to sing of and artists to paint across the walls of temples. And yet life still rose. Clumsy. Falling into the mud, breaking apart, rising again. A thing of filth, worms, dripping soil, awkward and limping, the struggle of primordial life bubbling up from the earth.
And yet it rose. And yet it fought.
The golem of mud took form, sprouting an arm that dripped off, another arm that replaced it, becoming solid, stones forming its bones and encasing its heart, its dripping flesh drying like bricks in a kiln. The insects and worms fled from it or dried up in its innards, and its eyes opened, deep sockets, shining with inner light.
"Become flesh," Meliora whispered.
The golem suddenly cried out, bent over, wrapped its arms around its belly, and Meliora was sure that she too had failed, that this being would die—or worse, fall into a pit of everlasting pain and agony. Its clay skin raised bumps which hardened, forming white scales, and feathers rose upon its head, bristly and sticky with mud. It raised its eyes and stared at her—golden eyes, feline, and its nostrils flared, inhaling the air.
"Breathe," Meliora whispered.
/> And life rose before her. A man. A man coated with silver scales, feathers on his head, feathers flowing down his back. Wings slowly sprouted from his shoulder blades. He blinked his golden eyes and stared at her, a being blended of Vir Requis blood, Saraph's ichor, and the soil of the earth. Life. He was life, true life sprung from her mother—and from her.
"Is he . . . Vir Requis?" Elory asked, coming to stand beside Meliora.
"He's like me," Meliora said. "Of different bloods. He's touched with starlight, with sunlight, and with the soil of the earth." She turned toward the life she had made. "I name you erev, from our ancient word for joining together, for you are made of many."
The other golems approached her, dragging themselves through the mud, creatures of dirt and suffering. One by one, they knelt before her, and she gave them her blood—a drop each—and they took solid forms, grew scales and feathers, and stood straight before her. The last drop she gave to King Eresh, and he transformed into the tallest among his brethren, his wings wide and golden, his scales gleaming like seashells, and his eyes shone a deep burnished gold. His crown of bones fell from his head and vanished into the mud whence he had risen. A hundred and twelve erevim stood before Meliora—her siblings, her children.
"You are healed," she told them. "You are life. Let this no longer be the Valley of Golem but the Valley of Erev, a blessed homeland to you."
They knelt before her in the mud, the wind ruffling their feathered wings.
"Blessed be Meliora!" cried King Eresh. "Blessed be Meliora the Merciful, our Holy Mother. We are now a nation. Like other nations we will build halls, and we will paint, sculpt, sing, and tell many tales. And in them we will remember our mother. Blessed be Meliora! Forever will the erevim fly to your aid should you walk in darkness."
And much darkness still lies ahead, Meliora thought. I have saved one nation, but another still languishes in the dirt. Requiem still needs me. She reached into her pocket and felt the crumpled key. The path still winds through many shadows.
"I thank you, King Eresh." Meliora bowed her head. "May your nation grow and become as plentiful as the stars."
The king of erevim stepped toward a hill, knelt, and raised a bundle from the mud. He brought it forward, laid it at Meliora and Elory's feet, and unrolled the leather encasing. Inside lay two longswords of ancient making, the blades thick and double-sided, the hilts wrapped in leather and large enough for two hands, the pommels shaped as dragon claws clutching crystals. Stars were engraved onto the blades, shaped as the Draco constellation.
Meliora gasped. "Swords of Ancient Requiem!"
Eresh nodded. "We claimed them from travelers centuries ago—they are treasures the seraphim stole from the northern realms. I grant them to you, Meliora and Elory of Requiem, for these are things of your homeland."
Elory knelt and gasped. She pointed at names engraved onto the hilts. "These are famous blades! Here lies Lemuria, the blade of Queen Kaelyn, a heroine of Requiem who fought the Cadigus Regime, the traitors to the crown. And by it lies Amerath, sword of Prince Relesar, an ancient hero who fought in Requiem's great civil war. These are royal blades of legend." Tears gleamed in Elory's eyes. "They belonged to the Aeternum dynasty, our ancestors, for we're descended of Rune through Lyana and many other heroes of Requiem."
Eyes wide, Elory lifted Lemuria, the thinner of the blades. Despite being smaller than Amerath, it looked so large in Elory's small hands, dwarfing the young woman, but when Elory swung it, it whistled through the air.
"It's so light," Elory said. "Queen Kaelyn slew many enemies of Requiem with this blade. It's an honor to hold it."
Meliora lifted Amerath, the second blade, the larger of the two. The pommel, shaped as a dragon claw, clutched an amber stone. While large and wide, it felt light in her hands, no heavier than a dagger.
"We will return these blades to their proper land," Meliora vowed. "They will never more lie buried in the mud. They will shine again in the halls of rebuilt Requiem."
Under the noon sun, Meliora and Elory left the Valley of Erev, the ancient swords upon their sides. As they walked across the hills, they saw that new life spread across the hills: grass rose from the dirt, flowers bloomed, and rushes began to grow along the riverbanks.
May we bring life wherever we go, Meliora prayed silently as they walked westward. May life bloom again from the ruin Saraph has inflicted upon this world. May I live to see the birches grow again, halls of marble rising among them.
ISHTAFEL
He flew over mountains of pines, rivulets, and flowering meadows, heading toward a place of darkness and screams.
He had always thought this land beautiful. Here rolled the low, rounded mountains of Relen, a wilderness Ishtafel had wandered often in his youth. He had not been young for five hundred years, yet the land below had not changed. Pine, olive, and carob trees grew upon chalky slopes, and wild goats and deer herded between them, feeding on wild grass and drinking from streams that flowed through verdant ravines.
I learned to hunt here, Ishtafel thought. I learned to kill. I learned to fire arrows into the hearts of beasts, to skin them, gut them, smell the blood, hear their echoing screams.
When later Ishtafel had gone to kill men, he would always remember the animals he had slain here, looking back fondly upon his first taste of death. That was something he could never get back, he knew—the thrill of it. The power. The drunken realization that with his own hands he could snuff out life—as easily as snuffing out a candle's flame. He had felt like a god. He had since become a true god, ruler of a reborn Edinnu, but that thrill now escaped him. Perhaps he had lost it in the tunnels of Requiem.
He flew here without a chariot, using his own wings, and when he shut his eyes, Ishtafel could imagine himself flying over Requiem again. He could still remember his first kill—a burly blue dragon with white horns and amber eyes. Ishtafel had dodged the beast's fire, thrust his lance, and pierced its neck. In its death, the blue dragon had returned to human form, tumbling down as a man with a red beard and a wooden leg. Ishtafel had tried to find the corpse after the battle, had offered a reward for any soldier who could bring him the body, but the red-bearded man was never found.
And the dead had piled up.
Ishtafel never knew how many Vir Requis his forces had killed that year; some said a hundred thousand, others said a million. To Ishtafel it had stopped mattering. All that mattered to him was to seek that thrill again. To be a boy, hunting in the woods. To experience the magic, the true power of taking life. His mother had once tried to create life. The Eight Gods of Edinnu had created many living things. But those were tricks for the weak. He, Ishtafel, was a god of death. There were only two true powers: to birth life and to take it.
He opened his eyes and stared back down at the forested mountains. He glided toward them, deciding that he wanted to walk the rest of the way. A ravine spread ahead between two piney mountainsides, and Ishtafel had to kick and thrust his spear, clearing an opening in the canopy. He glided between the pines' trunks and landed on the banks of a dried streambed, its water gone for the summer. Mossy stones rose here like cobblestones along a road, and Ishtafel walked alongside, stepping around boulders and over logs. Ivy grew upon the pines around him, and cyclamens dotted the forest floor, their leaves veined and their lavender blossoms swaying in the breeze.
He did not walk for long when he saw the wild boars ahead—a mother protecting a litter of cubs. He slew the sow first with a thrust of his spear, then spent a while collecting the young ones, lifting them one by one, and snapping their necks in his hands. Each gave a squeal and crack before falling silent. He tossed the little bodies aside, food for the crows and coyotes. He walked onward.
After an hour or two of walking, the landscape began to wilt around him. The canopy thinned out. The cyclamens were thinner, paler, then gone completely. A sticky film clung to the boulders, and the soil was gray. Soon no more leaves grew on the trees, and the air had a sickly, ashen smell. He was close now. The
presence of the cursed ones flowed on the wind here, seeped into the soil, stained the landscape. Even locked behind stone walls, they exuded their rot into the world.
As he hiked through the ravine, Ishtafel grimaced. Nausea rose in his belly. The creatures he was about to visit sickened him. He had fought many creatures in his long wars—beasts of the sea, terrors of the mountains, creatures of deserts and caves. He had fought demons that haunted the nightmares of lesser men, that had driven some of his soldiers insane. Yet now Ishtafel was approaching what were, perhaps, the foulest creatures in this world—for they had once been fair. They had once been like him.
The mountain slopes turned to cliffs at his sides, the ravine sinking into a deep canyon. As he kept walking, the walls grew taller at his sides, soaring taller than any temple. No more trees grew here, and the only sign of life was a few crows far above. The cliffs were craggy and gray, and Ishtafel imagined twisted faces on their facades.
After walking for another mile, he reached a towering gatehouse built into the canyon, three hundred feet tall. Each of its towers was shaped as Shafat, the god of justice—a bird of prey with the head of a bearded man. Between the two glowering idols stretched a massive stone archway, breaking a wall engraved with scenes of men cowering beneath swooping ravens with human heads. Seraphim guards topped the battlements, their armor bright in the sun. The gatehouse was so large, the guards seemed like nothing more than flecks from here.
Closer to the gatehouse, Ishtafel reached a staircase that rose toward a stone doorway worked into the brick wall between the cliffs. Ten seraphim stood before the doors on a platform, holding the leashes of serpopards—felines with curling necks longer than their bodies. The beasts drooled and sneered, but the seraphim bowed before their king.
"My lord Ishtafel, Great of Graces!" cried their captain. "It's an honor to kneel before you, oh glorious son of Edinnu."
Ishtafel was about to reply when a deep, guttural scream rose from beyond the wall, shaking the canyon. He cringed. The sound was almost too twisted to belong to a living, sentient being; it was demonic, a scream from the Abyss.
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