Threads of Amarion

by Todd Fahnestock

  “Don’t recount our history like I wasn’t there. You broke my heart when you turned evil. You enslaved an entire kingdom. How much did I beg you to stop? To turn from that path? How much did I—”

  “You abandoned me!” Zilok said. “You gained your god’s powers, your hero’s status. You stood on the corpses of Vitrio and Cuinn. You stood on the shoulders of Bands and Saraphazia. You stood on my shoulders, accepting the accolades of an entire generation, and then you left us all behind without a backward glance. All save her. You went gallivanting around the countryside on the back of your dragon lover, imposing your brand of butchery and calling it justice.” Zilok shook his head. “And everyone loved you....”

  “That’s not how it was.”

  “Tell me again the story of the Deitrus Shelf.”

  It was as though Zilok had punched him in the stomach. Uncounted hundreds had died at the Deitrus Shelf, all because Medophae lost Oedandus’s temper. Both the army that Medophae had come with and the army they’d come to fight had all been buried under an avalanche that Medophae had accidentally started. “That was an accident. That—”

  “More ‘accidents’, more sweet lies.”

  “I lost control! I would never do that on purpose. Not like you. You’ve murdered innocents with cold calculation.” He didn’t know why he was arguing with Zilok. This creature was insane; he’d lost his sanity centuries ago.

  “Are you saying, then, that you’re not responsible? That you flung your giant’s fist about, smashing, destroying, and that it’s not your fault?” Zilok’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh, you cried every time you killed an innocent. I know you did. But then you got back up, and you did it again. And then, four hundred and thirty-seven years ago, your arrogance finally felled someone you do care about: Bands. Only then did you feel the horror of what you are. Only for her...” Zilok shook his head. “It’s time to stop believing the minstrels’ breathy tales, Medophae. You’re a false hero. You’re a murderer.”

  The words slashed at old scars. This was how Zilok tormented his victims, by twisting their minds.

  “You’re a foul beast from beyond the grave,” Medophae growled. “You wear the face of someone who was once my friend, but you’re an abomination. I won’t listen to your acid accusations.”

  Zilok laughed. “Acid. I like that. The words do burn, don’t they? But it’s not acid you feel. It’s truth. That’s what sizzles in your heart.”

  “Then why am I sitting here still?” Medophae asked. “A threadweaver with half your power would have peeled and cored me by now. What are you waiting for?”

  Zilok nodded. “It’s a good question. I’ve been pondering it, but now I think I know.”

  Medophae waited for the inevitable strike.

  Zilok watched Medophae. Finally, Zilok said, “I loved you, Medophae Roloiron. I want you to know that before I pass my judgment on you. I loved you more than my parents. You were the brother of my soul. You were my hero. I wanted to walk the world by your side, help you accomplish great things. I drove myself to exhaustion learning threadweaving so I could be worthy to work with you, at your mighty level. I married Kondra de’Lar because it gave me what you had with Bands, or at least I thought it would. I would have died for you, and you abandoned me. You took your immortality and your dragon and you left me behind like an autumn leaf fluttering to the ground, spent. And when I chose the course of my life without you, when my power rose, did you return to congratulate me? Did you clap me on the back like a brother should and tell me my kingdom had been hard won? No. You passed your righteous judgment, and you stabbed that crackling sword through my guts.”

  “You had gone too far,” Medophae said. “You...slaughtered hundreds, just to install yourself as king of Ostern. It was horrible.”

  “It was war. Do you know how many men King Harrelith’s grandfather slew to make Ostern his kingdom before me?”

  “I would have stopped him, had I been there,” Medophae said. “It doesn’t make it right for you to do the same.”

  “I was your friend,” Zilok said. “That’s what matters. That’s what should have mattered.”

  “You don’t just get to kill those in your way.”

  “Like you do?” He shook his head then, holding up a hand as Medophae prepared to reply. “I have decided what to do with you. I’m going to abandon you like you abandoned me.”

  Medophae was barely able to comprehend what he was hearing. It was like facing a volley of arrows that had thunked into the ground at his feet. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

  “I believed you were a hero, Medophae, but you’re not. You’re ordinary. There is nothing special about you except the accident of your birth. On Amarion, you were the great Wildmane. But I want you to end your days as you should have been. I want you to dig ditches for your food, convince others to take care of you without your glamour. I want you to grow old, and wrinkle, and then I want you to die. I want you to feel the vigor slip from your body.”

  Medophae felt a sliver of hope then. Was Zilok just going to leave him here?

  Zilok made a curious face then, and he looked down at his right foot. It was slowly disappearing, as if the boot had been formed of mist that was evaporating. Medophae couldn’t remember a time that Zilok’s illusion had ever done that.

  Zilok paused, perhaps concentrating on making his foot return. It didn’t. He frowned, then the expression vanished, and he focused on Medophae.

  “Here is my parting gift for you, a memory of our friendship.” He gestured, and an invisible blade chopped through Medophae’s wrist.

  He screamed as his right hand spun away, thumping onto the flagstone floor. Blood spurted from the stump. He sucked in a breath, doubled over, and tried not to scream a second time, but it came out as a muffled whimper. He pushed the stump against his armpit, trying to stop the blood.

  “Even as a mortal, you’re an excellent swordsman,” Zilok said. “I don’t want you earning your living from your centuries of unfair experience. I want you to start over. I want you to start with less than nothing, just like you left me.” Zilok stood on one good leg and one leg that had faded even further. “I would say farewell, but instead I will say: Fare poorly, Medophae. Spin in a cesspool of your own mediocrity. I’ll return in fifty years to see what has become of you. Until then, for the first time in a millennium and a half, I plan not to think on you at all.”

  Zilok Morth vanished, leaving Medophae bleeding.

  8

  Medophae

  Medophae wasn’t a stranger to death. He’d seen hundreds of men and women fall in battle, too many to count. He knew pain. He knew wounds. The cut was clean and razor sharp. No blunt trauma, no cauterizing fire to stanch the wound. There was nothing to stop his life from leaking away in a matter of seconds.

  He took his wrist away from his armpit and yanked his tunic roughly off his head. More of his life drained onto the floor. He put the now-bloody tunic into his teeth at the seam and ripped it, yanking a strip away from it. It was long, misshapen, but it would have to do. He didn’t have time to make a perfect cord.

  Quickly, he twisted the cloth into a makeshift rope, wrapped it around his wrist and cinched it tight, creating a tourniquet. The blood flow slackened to a drip, and he bound his wrist with the rest of his tunic.

  His vision swam, and he was already beginning to feel cold. That was a bad sign. Many warriors who died of blood loss talked about how cold they felt just before the end.

  He staggered to his feet, pressing his poorly bandaged hand against his side to keep the pressure on it, and stumbled to the door. He needed to find help. If he passed out, he was done for, and sparkles already appeared at the edges of his vision. If he couldn’t stay awake, it would be the end of him.

  The door opened to lush trees and a path directly ahead, leading down to the black ocean, sparkling with moonlight. The boughs of the trees formed a dark canopy overhead. He lurched down the steps and down the snaking path. His vision became l
ike a tunnel. It was so cold, and he was having a hard time feeling his legs now. Five steps. Five more...

  He emerged from the trees onto a beach. He blinked at a campfire not too far away, burning low against the waterline. Three figures huddled around it, and a fourth stood ankle-deep in the water a short distance away.

  “Who goes there?” The sarcastic voice came from beside him. Medophae whirled to see a man standing at the edge of the trees. Medophae must have staggered right past him without noticing. The man had short hair that pushed up in ten different directions—like he’d slept on it and had just awoken—and a patchy black beard. He wore sailor’s clothes—brown pantaloons and a dirty white tunic open at the front. He pointed a short sword at Medophae’s chest.

  “I always wanted to say that,” the man continued, smiling a lopsided smile. His eyes took in Medophae’s condition, and the smile widened. “What’s in the pouch, friend?”

  Medophae glanced at the coin pouch at his side, and he backed down the beach. The sand made his footing unstable, and he almost fell. He blinked and tried to stay upright, trying to keep the man in his sight as he glanced to his left. The figures around the fire rose and began walking toward him.

  “What ya got, Kendrin?” one of them called.

  “Not sure yet,” Kendrin said. Then, to Medophae, “Give us the pouch, big man, and you can be on your way.”

  Medophae fumbled with the ties on his belt, pulled the pouch free. He held it up. “It’s yours,” he said. “As payment.”

  “Payment?” Kendrin said. His friends had almost reached them.

  “Food,” Medophae said. “And a new bandage. Help me, and it’s yours.”

  “I have a better deal, friend. How about I gut you, and then keep the pouch? Less effort for me. And I get the money quicker.”

  Medophae swayed, staggered back a few paces, then forced his legs to stay put. Water skimmed up the beach, splashing around his boots, then withdrew.

  “Better yet,” Kendrin said. “I just leave you standin’ until you fall. Then I take the pouch anyway.” Kendrin’s friends arrived, fanning out behind him. There were four altogether. Medophae looked for the fifth, the smaller figure that he’d seen standing in the water, and spotted him.

  No, not him. It was a young girl. She wore the same kinds of clothes as the other ruffians—blousy tunic and pantaloons—but she’d worked her way up the surf to stand behind him, the waves rolling softly up to her knees.

  Medophae narrowed his eyes. These people were predators, looking for the weak. The only language they understood was strength.

  “Come for me, then.” Medophae growled. “I’ll be on my feet long after you’re dead.” He held his arms wide. There were three bare-handed methods of taking a weapon away from someone. They were all dangerous, but effective if the weapon wielder was taken by surprise. Medophae was pretty sure this man didn’t know any of those techniques.

  The man lunged, and Medophae pirouetted to the left. The sword whispered past his belly, missing flesh. Medophae aligned his body with Kendrin’s, hip to hip, and curled his left arm under Kendrin’s, grasping the thumb of his sword hand. With a hip check, Medophae launched Kendrin forward, stripping the sword and breaking his thumb. Kendrin cried, pitching headfirst into the shallow surf. His sword spun up into the air, end over end. Medophae reached out to snatch it with his right hand—

  —except Medophae didn’t have a right hand anymore. His stump passed through the air, and the sword splashed into the water.

  Kendrin’s friends shouted with alarm, drew their swords and ran at Medophae.

  He crouched, grabbed the sword with his left hand and stumbled to his feet. The quick bob made him light-headed. He saw the first sword coming at him, and he thought he saw his own sword raised to deflect it...

  ...then he was falling. His vision went dark. There were shouting voices. His back slapped the shallow surf, and salty water splashed into his nose and mouth. Slender fingers closed over his temples.

  Then there was nothing.

  9

  Zilok Morth

  When Zilok realized he had lost control of the illusion of his body, it unsettled him, but he assumed the problem was with the island of Dandere. It wouldn’t do to show weakness in front of Medophae, so he left Medophae with his first challenge and left the hut, floating through the trees down to the beach.

  Since the destruction of Daylan’s Fountain, the GodSpill in Amarion was thick and plentiful. Every thread of the great tapestry was soaked with it. But not on Dandere. Here, the GodSpill was diffuse and weak, and that made threadweaving more difficult, even maintaining the illusion of his body. After all, Zilok used GodSpill to keep himself alive, to tie himself to the crown so he wouldn’t float up through the Godgate.

  He needed to return to Amarion where the GodSpill was plentiful. And while he hadn’t planned to leave Medophae quite so soon, he wasn’t concerned. Oedandus could not reach Medophae here, and hundreds of miles of ocean separated him from Amarion. No humans sailed farther than a mile from any coast on the True Ocean. Only the bravest pirates even tried to “jump the teeth,” the straight between the south and north peninsulas of The Jaw, a daring jaunt that only put a ship on the deadly waters of the True Ocean for half an hour, yet still only one out of three ships ever made it.

  Saraphazia did not think much of humans. If she saw a boat on the True Ocean, she destroyed that boat, and she was always looking.

  Medophae wasn’t going anywhere.

  Zilok pulled a substantial amount of GodSpill from the nearly dry threads around him, then tried to replace the illusion of himself.

  It didn’t work.

  That should have had some effect.

  He investigated further and realized that his spirit was being eaten away as well, not just the illusion. Was this some kind of attack?

  He needed to return to Amarion and investigate this in the flush of his own power. It had taken Zilok every ounce of Oedandus’s stolen power to squeeze Medophae’s physical body through the threads and bring him this far without killing him. But it would only take a fraction of that to send Zilok back. One advantage of being a spirit was that he could travel the threads at will.

  He reached into the threads of Dandere and pulled more GodSpill into himself. The trees, the sand, the undergrowth, and the very air around him resisted this time. All things clung to the GodSpill, especially when there wasn’t a lot of it. The GodSpill was, really, the essence of life, and all creatures fought to hold onto a certain core amount of it. But Zilok tore away as much as he could, struggling until he felt full.

  But the GodSpill drained from him like he suddenly had a hole in his soul, as though his attempt to pull more into himself accelerated his disintegration. Icy fear grew in his ethereal heart.

  He looked overhead. As always, the ever-present swirling maw of the Godgate hung impassively over him, waiting, but now it was closer, stronger.

  What was happening?

  He reached into Natra’s Crown, the artifact he had stolen to redirect the power of Oedandus, but it was empty, drier than the threads around him and...

  Zilok realized with horror that the drain he felt was coming from the crown. Just as it had sucked the life force of Oedandus into it, it was now sucking GodSpill from him.

  No...

  He recalled the curse that had been written on the wall of Natra’s treasure room, a warning to her fellow gods and goddess, and to any who might attempt to steal from her:

  My love, my dedicated bind, take these up and all unwinds.

  Brother, leave these peaks untouched or face the fear you fear so much.

  Zetu, father, keep your place, it’s not with these to join the race.

  Dervon, if, for greed’s sweet sake, you wield my tools, your soul will break.

  Saraphazia, endless toil, touch these and your waters boil.

  Thalius, my jaunty son, dance with these, your dancing’s done.

  Those who seek, please walk away, take your
pleasure in the day

  I’ve made it, and it’s free for you. A joyous life with simple truths.

  But touch these items, flesh will rot. In decaying throes you’re caught.

  These, my children, let them be. Or lose all this that makes you free.

  If these warnings you can’t heed, if wisdom is subsumed by need,

  Then breach the threshold, do not wait, and face the horror of your fate.

  Zilok removed the crown, looked at it, and made his decision in an instant. He didn’t need it anymore. Let the crown stay here. Then, once he understood what was happening and how to counter it, he could return and claim it.

  He threw the crown into the sand and floated away from it, out over the True Ocean, until he couldn’t see the crown anymore.

  He reached into the dry threads again, pulling GodSpill into himself. This time, it filled him up to bursting, and he pushed himself into the threads of the air over the ocean.

  His perception elongated. He shrank and dove down a narrow tube of blue and white, whisking through the threads like an otter down a slippery stream. It was a long way to Amarion, but traveling the threads only took a few—

  Something latched onto him, like there were suddenly a hundred hooks in his ethereal flesh. They yanked on him, draining him, hauling him backward.

  No!

  His swift progress halted, and Zilok popped out of the thread. He felt the terrible call of the crown, though the isle of Dandere was now far away. Zilok could even see the coast of Amarion, a thin brown and green line against the horizon. He felt the strength of the greater GodSpill and pulled it into himself, but he was a leaky bucket again. There was a hole straight through him that funneled into the distant crown. For every cupful of GodSpill dumped in, most drained out.