“You wished the Steersmen's Guild abolished?” Mephistophilis asked. “Your tribe restored to their elder power? All may have come to pass had not wrath clouded your judgment. What are such trifles to me?”
Jaren spat blood and smiled. “Probably not much to a god,” he said between heaving breaths. His arm had ceased throbbing and was going numb.
“You are deluded,” Mephistophilis said. “Even were the tales true, the Words would hold no worth for me. What would I gain to rule the final breaths of a dying cosmos?”
“Then what do you want?” Jaren asked.
The baal pointed across the square to the high temple with its three closed doors. “I wish only to pass the temple's threshold,” he said.
“What's on the other side?”
“The point from which creation sprang,” Mephistophilis said. “And beyond that: another universe? Countless others? Nothing at all? None know, though it matters not. I wish only to be quit of a world run down like a neglected clock.”
Jaren glanced to the side and saw Teg rise into a crouch, his arm nearly whole. The mercenary signaled with a curt nod.
Jaren strove to keep their foe distracted. “Is that all?” he asked. “How many lives did you sacrifice—ten; a hundred thousand?”
The baal scowled. “Such as you claim to lecture me on life’s value? Tell me, what man authors his own life, or holds it in existence? We are but shadows of Zadok cast by the light of the Well. If any have worth, it is set by him alone, and on that account he is silent.”
“I may not know what life is worth,” Jaren said, “but I doubt you have good intentions for where you’re going.”
“Such matters are above your concern,” Mephistophilis said. “You’d have escaped this lowly end had rashness not led you on a fool's errand.”
Jaren made ready to spring but found himself facing empty air. He spun to see the baal standing behind an oblivious-looking Teg. Jaren’s confusion left him unable to give warning, but others weren’t so inhibited.
“Hey shithead!” Nakvin cried out. “You tore hell a new asshole, but you can’t open a wooden door. What’s wrong—blow your wad early?”
Mephistophilis stared at the woman in spotless white who’d announced her arrival with alehouse slurs. Nakvin closed her eyes, gathered her robes to her knees, and ran straight toward the baal.
Teg lunged. He collided with Mephistophilis, sending the blurred shaft that streamed from his foe’s breastplate flying wide. The line of distorted space passed over Nakvin to carve the dome from a palace.
The baal loosed an inhuman snarl. His sharpened gauntlets clutched at Teg, striving to tear him apart. But a second, lupine growl echoed across the square, and a grey-brown form leapt at the demon with jaws gnashing.
Mephistophilis struck like a serpent, grasping the hellhound in both hands and wrenching them in opposite directions. The beast gave an agonized yelp as it was ripped in two.
Nakvin hadn't sacrificed her familiar in vain. No sooner had the dog's ragged remains struck the pavement than Teg was on the baal—landing a torrent of furious blows with his steel-plated fist and his new bare hand. Jaren was astonished to see Teg striking with the same lethal speed as his illusory double had.
A savage cry escaped Teg's throat. He elbowed a gap in the baal’s armored gut, landed a solid blow to his face, and finished by stomping his foe’s knee with what looked like enough force to split a log. Mephistophilis faltered, but Teg leapt back as Jaren aimed his rodcaster at the demon's chest and squeezed the trigger.
The steel eye loosed another wavering line that met Jaren's shot a split second after he fired. The force of the sundered Working curved and warped. Jaren felt himself lifted bodily and hurled backward as white light filled his vision and thunder deafened his ears. His back struck something hard and sharp, and he was falling.
Teg lifted himself from the ground, unsure if the warm metallic tang in his mouth was blood or gold, and eased into a sitting position. Seeing an impression of his face and chest in the half-melted bricks, he gave a hoarse chuckle. He’d left his mark on Tzimtzum.
Teg saw no sign of the baal; just a steaming molten pool. Jaren, too, was absent. But across the square, the middle pane of a tall mullioned window stared empty from a golden wall. Shards of glass littered the street below, intermingled with scattered gems and objects wrought from precious metals that had to be highly Worked. The building was the gods' version of a child's clay bank, and something had smashed it open.
To his right, Teg saw Nakvin staring at the treasury in desolate awe.
“Jaren went through the window?” he asked.
The lady Steersman blinked; then nodded slowly.
“Thanks for helping,” Teg said as he stood up. “Come on. Let’s go see if he's alive.”
Nakvin woke from her trance. “Wait!” she said. “The rodcaster didn't work last time!”
Teg gave her a pensive look. “It didn’t?”
The molten pool erupted in a golden fountain. Mephistophilis stood on air an inch above the surface. His breastplate was a mangled ruin; his face a stern mask. Boiling metal rained down on Teg and drove him back to the ground. His consciousness dissolved in a flood of pain.
Nakvin looked into the baal’s yellow eyes and tried not to tremble.
“You are Zebel's bastard,” Mephistophilis said. “And the priestess of Elathan is yours.” The baal threw back his head and roared with laughter. “I should have known. My betrayer was not Despenser, but your whorish get's father.”
Mephistophilis strode forward. “The motherless daughter of a fatherless mother,” he mused. “Thence comes Thera's second advent. What was the arrogant fool's ambition? For his daughter to rule this dying cosmos—or perhaps to destroy it?”
More than fear, disgust at Vernon’s plan froze Nakvin’s mind.
“The dead keep their secrets,” said the baal. “But now I have my key. Shall we see how much pain you must suffer before she shows herself?”
The fragile chimes of breaking glass dispelled Nakvin’s stupor. Her eyes followed the sound and saw a blood-soaked figure crawling from a shattered window.
Jaren's left arm hung limp at his side as he hobbled to meet the baal, but his bloody fist clenched a slender rod of silver and gold. His right hand still gripped the rodcaster. Jaren stooped, wiped crimson hair and blood from his eyes, and planted the gleaming cylinder between his feet, grimacing with the effort. He jammed the big gun's muzzle into his left hand, released a hidden catch, and pulled with the right. The barrel telescoped to twice its original length.
Jaren slammed the extended barrel onto the filigreed rod, which protruded a few inches from the end. He raised the gun with visible difficulty, but when the muzzle was aimed at his target, he held it straight and true.
“Jaren,” Nakvin cried. “Run!”
“I’ve been running for a long time,” Jaren said. “Whenever I took a stand, someone beat me down until I ran again. Now I know why. The Guild; the baals—I thought beating them was a matter of strength. Men gave their lives for me, but I wasn’t willing to give my own.”
Mephistophilis crossed the square in a blur of motion. He towered over Jaren: an iron stronghold defying a beaten invader.
“Predictable,” Jaren chuckled. He winked at Nakvin and pressed the trigger.
Nakvin heard the hammer ring before Jaren and Mephistophilis were lost in a scintillating hemisphere. She shielded her eyes against the tiny sun that blazed where the baal and her captain had stood. Her body tensed in anticipation of searing heat and crushing pressure that she never felt. The searing globe lingered for a few seconds, attended by a bass growl like distant thunder. Suddenly both light and sound ceased, leaving a perfectly smooth basin carved into the surface of Tzimtzum.
All time and feeling seemed to stop. The enormity of the place where Nakvin stood and the tragedies she’d witnessed weighed down on her. She felt very small and absolutely alone.
“A little help here, please,” Teg
shouted from somewhere to her left.
Nakvin rushed to help her friend. He'd sustained burns that would have left a normal man with disfiguring scars, but his skin was healing rapidly. “I think you'll be fine,” she said.
“I know,” said Teg. “I just wanted to take your mind off things.”
Nakvin’s voice faltered. “You saw what happened?”
“How could I not?” Teg exclaimed. “The Gen Resistance only front-loaded their rodcasters as a last resort. I never thought he'd be crazy enough to do it.”
“How can you sit there waxing technical when you just saw Jaren die?”
“I've seen lots of people die,” Teg said softly.
“None of them were like Jaren,” Nakvin said. “He took us in when no one else would. He gave us a home.”
Teg wrapped his arm around Nakvin. “Jaren’s not the first family I’ve lost,” he said. “The important thing is, we're still alive. And so is she.”
Teg pointed upward. Nakvin raised her eyes and saw Elena descending.
The girl looked almost translucent at first. She alighted upon the gold-paved square as softly as a fallen leaf. Though her body regained its substance, the cords still trailing from her back gradually faded to transparency as they rose into the sky, where Elathan circled like a grossly bloated and denuded vulture.
Nakvin ran to embrace her daughter. Her anger, sorrow, and joy emerged as a single question: “Where were you?”
“Elathan called me,” Elena said in a voice heavy with shame. Tears rimmed her rose-colored eyes. “I had to go. I'm sorry.”
“It's all right,” Nakvin said. “You're back, and I'm never letting you out of my sight again.”
Elena gently pushed free of her mother's arms. “I came to say goodbye,” she said. “Elathan is leaving this world.”
“I don't understand,” said Nakvin.
Elena's face was placid, but emotions warred in her eyes. “My body can’t contain Thera’s soul without Elathan,” she said, “and he won't need me anymore once I open the door for him.”
“Then forget the damn door!” Nakvin raged.
“He might kill you if I defy him,” Elena said.
Nakvin cupped her daughter's face in her hands. “Let him,” she said. “Fight for yourself.”
Elena lowered her mother's hands. “The Well can’t sustain me now,” she said. “Only the Words can keep me alive, and if I read them, everyone dies.”
“If the Words are a Working,” said Teg. “Can’t someone else use it on you?”
“Only a necromancer,” Elena said.
“Can’t help you there,” said Teg.
The thought of losing Jaren and Elena on the same day rent Nakvin’s heart like a bullet.
Elena brushed away her mother’s tears. “I have to die so you can live,” she said.
Nakvin turned at the sound of footsteps crunching on gold bricks. Deim stood in the ruined street, his face streaked with blood and soot. “No,” he said. “You don't.”
“I’d say better late than never,” said Teg, “but only if you can stop a god.”
Deim held Elena in a look of fierce devotion. “Do you trust me?” he asked.
The girl looked from Deim to Nakvin, who could only nod silently.
Elena gestured toward the great temple, and the middle door thundered open.
A flicker of motion under the columned porch caught Nakvin’s eye. She saw a pool of blackness bleed from the shade of a pillar and start slithering across the plaza. “It's Vaun,” she said through clenched teeth. “He’s after the Words!”
“The Last Working can only be used once,” said Elena.
In an instant, Teg was on his feet and running after the shadow.
66
Teg chased Vaun’s shadow across the square. He'd nearly caught up when another dark pool split off from the first. Both veered off at right angles to each other. Knowing that time was critical, Teg chose a target at random. Yet his quarry divided every time he drew near.
“Which one is it?” he called out.
White radiance filled the square at a gesture from Elena, banishing the myriad shadows.
Teg stood alone near the southwest corner of the plaza, desperately scanning the golden expanse for signs of movement. “He's not here!”
“There!” Nakvin shouted, pointing toward the great temple.
Teg's eyes darted to the soaring structure. At first he saw only Deim, who’d just begun mounting the steps. Suddenly a dim figure came into view. The vaguely human shape emerged from the side of the building and moved along the columned portico toward the doors.
Teg cursed himself. The necromancer had skirted the square while he’d literally chased after shadows. Now Vaun was about to succeed where Mephistophilis had failed.
Deim started for the temple as soon as Elena gave the word. The young man sprinted wildly—a champion racing for his beloved. For his god.
Blood pounded in Deim's ears as he reached the temple stairs. The door had seemed a world away when he'd begun. Now it stood within reach. He had only to climb the steps, and Elena would be safe.
A grey shape lurched from the shadows to the right of the door. Though it was farther from the entrance than Deim, the dark figure moved with a swiftness belying its manlike form.
Terror seized Deim's heart. He vaulted forward, rising three steps at a time, but his spirit sank as the dark shape vanished through the middle door. Defeat pressed down on Deim's soul like all the layers of the ether.
No! He thought. I can't give up—even if I lose all hope, and my life.
Deim burst through the temple door with reckless momentum, but the alien mystery waiting inside gave him pause.
Only the solemn glow filtering through stained glass windows pierced the darkness within. Sublime in beauty and esoteric in design, they rose in tiers to the vaulted ceiling. Two striking images caught Deim’s eye. One showed a couple standing naked beside a tree with a snake wrapped around its trunk. Another depicted a conical tower whose winding terraces reminded him of the snake. The spire ended suddenly, appearing half-finished. He dismissed the strange iconography and focused on his appointed task.
Deim saw that the temple consisted of two long, straight galleries that met in the middle. The great tower stood directly atop the intersection, hollow and capped by a massive dome. A raised circular platform lay directly below, and a shadowy figure stood upon it. The steersman watched helplessly as the dais began to rise.
“Vaun!” Deim cried, twisting the name into a curse that echoed in the sepulchral gloom. His lungs burned from the frenzied effort of the chase, and his heart ached with the knowledge of his failure. She gave the honor to me, he thought bitterly. I was supposed to rescue her, but Vaun snuck in like a thief.
The mad chase reminded Deim of a nightmare in which his goal outpaced him no matter how hard he ran. He leapt toward the platform—which now floated nearly twice his height above the floor—and caught the edge with his fingertips.
Deim raised his head and saw Vaun’s emotionless mask looking down at him. “You forget yourself, Deim Cursorunda,” he said in a voice as smooth and hard as obsidian. “The power you seek can serve only one, and never one so fragile.”
“I’m not doing this for me,” said Deim. “I need the Last Working to save Elena’s life!”
“A pity,” said Vaun. “Know that I shall raise an everlasting memorial to her sacrifice when my kingdom is established.”
The platform quickened, hurtling upward at speeds that stretched the stained glass windows into featureless blurs of color. Deim thought he glimpsed a final image: a crowned elder enthroned between two winged men in white. He recognized the figure at the king’s left from icons of Zadok, but the vision passed in an instant.
The walls of the tower warped and bent, forming a dark tunnel punctuated by intermittent points of light reaching into unknown heights above. A howling wind beat down on the rising stone disc, and Deim needed all of his strength to keep his hol
d on its precarious lip.
Suddenly the shaft opened into a vast silver sky. The cityscape dominated Deim’s view, and it was moving. Though the twisted loop stayed in place, its streets and buildings made a vast procession from right to left.
Another movement caught Deim’s eye. He turned and saw Elathan, small now compared to the vast golden loop. The lord of storm and shipwreck swam through the mirrored firmament, mocking Deim with the hideous gleam in his single eye.
Wrath overcame the steersman’s awe. This was his final chance. Overruling his agonized arms, he pulled himself onto the platform. Vaun stood at the far end with his back turned, as if mocking him.
Deim lurched toward Vaun. Though his lungs felt ready to burst, he cried out like a prophet of woe. “You betrayed us all, Vaun—especially Elena. You deserve to die!”
Silence ruled the skies over Tzimtzum. Vaun remained still as the cityscape wheeled past him. Intricate lines of script blazed across the streets and rooftops. Vaun turned, and Deim knew that something had changed behind the white mask.
Vaun flowed toward Deim like a black wind. A resounding vibration like two worlds grinding together split the sky. Deim stumbled backward and stopped just short of toppling from the precipice.
A deafening hum resounded inside Deim’s head. Seeming at first like meaningless noise, it was, he realized, a flood of information forced upon his mind in a single thought. All but the most basic impressions escaped him.
“You should not have followed me to Tzimtzum,” the wordless voice thundered. “Nor can you grasp the power that dwells here. The baals led you into the pit like cattle just as the Guild enthralled mankind, but my coming is the culmination of ages.”
Deim groaned and cupped his hands over his ears in a vain attempt to banish the silent cacophony from his mind.
“You know well that the cosmos has been sliding into a cold, silent end since Zadok stood here,” the quiet voice boomed. “But I will throw down the Guild with my left hand, and with my right I will usher in an endless age of waking death.”
Nethereal (Soul Cycle Book 1) Page 45