“Some folks prefer priests, but no all religions train their priests to heal.” He glanced back at her. “You know of clerics?”
“No.”
“Those are the most devout folk, the ones that get a bit of power from their god. Now, most clerics can heal, but like I said, no all religions are focused on that. Your people did no have a religion with clerics?”
“We have a god,” Madger answered. She came up with the best word she could to match the mountain giant one. “The Ancient. But I never heard of a cleric.”
“Huh. Maybe no all gods have clerics.” He continued on, naming the shops and what they sold, until they reached the cloak shop. Madger stared at the door begrudgingly for a moment before ducking in after him.
Kharick made the introductions to Varik and asked him about a cloak for her.
“Black,” Madger said before the question was asked. If there was one thing she could do for her family, it was to continue honoring the Traditions. Though, there was little she had to do in deference to other species.
“Black,” Varik muttered with a sidelong glance at her. “I’ll have my boy bring it by Gerran’s when I finish. Shouldn’t be more than a few days. I’ve got some black oilcloth made up already.”
Kharick handed off more coins and led Madger out of the building. She managed to avoid hitting her head again. The walk back to Gerran’s was difficult, she hadn’t realized how weak she had gotten from starvation and being sick. Kharick would patiently wait for her to catch her breath before continuing, understanding without words that she was struggling.
“What sortta of a name be Madger?” Kharick asked as they walked.
“My brother named me when I bit him. It means badger.”
Kharick roared with laughter and had to stop to catch his own breath.
Merion had thought he was clever calling her that. The name had stuck, and she wasn’t used to being called anything else.
***
The next day Gerran worked with Madger on her magic. She sat with her back against the wall next to his fireplace, and he sat facing her in his thickly padded chair.
“Just feed a little magic into the spell. If you lose control of it, the less magic that breaks free the better. I can help the spell, so long as you don’t use more magic than I can handle.”
Madger was familiar with the light orb spell, having discovered how to craft it on her own. She made one, and it floated between them. The softly glowing orb moved at Gerran’s prodding with his magic.
“See how I can manipulate your spell? You could stop me if you used more power, outmatching me, but don’t try just yet. I can’t stop a release of the magic if you use that much.” Gerran leaned forward. “Now I am going to show you what it is like when another mage breaks your spell. It will hurt, give you a headache, but I want you to understand what it is. But don’t fight me. I can’t break it if you fight me. You have too much power at your call.”
Madger gained a worried frown, but nodded. She didn’t think Gerran would hurt her unless it was important. She felt a pinprick at the base of her skull as she saw Gerran’s magic reach out and pull at her weaving that made the light orb. Then he grabbed hold of the spell and ripped it apart.
Madger gave a cry and clutched at her head.
“I’m sorry, little rabbit. But you understand what it is now.”
Madger nodded with a grimace, slowly lowering her hands.
“The larger the spell that is broken, the more pain and the longer that pain lasts. Some battle-hardened mages can push past it. I, however, never wanted to practice.”
Madger rubbed at the bridge of her nose, she could understand not wanting to practice. The sharp pain had quickly ebbed away, just leaving her with a throbbing ache that radiated out from the center of her skull.
“I’ll show you how to spark a fire, like you were asking. Fire and light are the easiest things for mages to make, but far from our limitations. For instance, we can’t make life, but we can help things grow. Some farmers hire mages if their crops are weak. But we can’t help the plants if they are diseased or attacked by bugs.
“If you are versed in how to make cotton clothing, you might be able to weave a spell to make some. But it takes a lot of magic to create a mundane object.” Gerran shrugged. “It keeps most mages from making their own money and if a mage is discovered making coins, at least in Teranack, his hands are removed.”
Madger nodded, she understood harsh penalties keeping order. “The fire?” She liked the old man, but he could get side tracked easily.
“Right,” Gerran chuckled. “I’ll show you how it’s done, then we can get supper cooking.” He raised a finger. “That’s another thing, if you are desperate for food, once you learn how, you can probably make some, since you’re so powerful. But I’ve never known a mage be able to make food that tasted any better than wood pulp.
“Get the kindling, this is the easiest and smallest spark I can show you to light a fire.”
Chapter 5
309 Br. winter
“There are multiple planes of existence; the seven planes of the Hells, the Mortal plane, and the countless realms of the dead, and the theorized myriad others that we have yet to be enlightened of. There is no clear text on where or how these planes exist, but there are at least documented accounts of incursions of demons onto the Mortal plane. When interviewed, those that worship the denizens of the Hells claim the seven planes are each ruled by an archdevil.”
-A study of the planes – Tor Fren, Chief Cleric of the Church of Yewl
L it from within, the vats cast a ghastly hue across the laboratory. Arkhed kept his prized subjects here, suspended in the sour, mucoid chemicals. He crossed the room to the table where the book waited. His steps were slow and dragging, joints swollen and twisted.
For centuries, Arkhed had thought there was no record of where the mirrored swords were kept. That no one had been foolish enough, that the Sisters hadn’t been stupid enough, to have it recorded.
But then, how would anyone find them if needed?
Arkhed’s clawed hand curled around the Titan’s Tome. The pallor of a corpse, much of his fur missing, the decrepit icren appeared more decayed than a living creature. The Sisters had entrusted that knowledge to their First Children on the Mortal plane: the titans. They recorded what they learned from the Sisters, observation and prophecy, distilled into one tome. With the arrival of Adam the titans chose to evolve, become other species. And the singular species of titans became extinct; their knowledge lost. The tome had slipped under the currents of time’s river and disappeared.
It hadn’t been until Arkhed had started delving into a kadmoni Seer’s mind that he’d learned of it. Then it was a simple manipulation of the archdevils to retrieve it.
Arkhed caressed the tome, dragging his claws over the embossed white leather before opening it to the page describing where the Sisters hid their swords. It had been a long time since he’d needed to read Titan, the language as dead and extinct as the people it was named after.
He knew of the swords’ creation. He was there when his master, the Shadow, the Dreamer, the Dark One, Shaitan had been bound in slumber. He was there when the people he’d once called family, gave up their lives to create the twin blades. The weapons of the Sisters would try to destroy him, as an agent of Shaitan, but he was prepared.
A suit of armor, crafted to fit his bent body, would shield him from the swords when he wielded them. He’d always known he’d need protection from the swords when he found them. It was perfect save for one gauntlet, slightly off-color, made after the rest of the suit. The original had been lost, stolen, during the Second Limbo War, when the sarpand brothers had ransacked his labs. Asmodeus had the gauntlet now.
He skimmed through the passages until he found the information he needed. His jaundiced eyes drank up the script.
The Alisande, Life’s sword, was hidden on a plane of Her creation. The Maze. Only mortals could cross to it, and they needed a key to do so. The Coin of
Whispers was the key, but it would take another long search for him to find it.
The NecroKwar was in Death’s plane, where only incorporeal souls could walk.
He needed a creature from the Mortal plane to reach the swords. Someone who could walk in both Life and Death’s realms. He would need both swords to wake the Dreamer.
His eyes lifted from the tome to one of the vats of chemicals built into the walls. Yellow mucous wept from his eyes as he stared at the elf suspended in the bubbling concoction behind thick glass. The only mortal he’d bothered to capture, who’d come to his realm by accident while fleeing the Hells.
His other creations, the cirKad, had always been enough for his tasks. He’d never needed to pull from the peoples beyond Limbo. The kadmoni had been sufficient to sate his alchemical needs.
Arkhed stood and hobbled to the vat, the glass tinted green from the years of holding back the chemicals. His cane tapped unsteadily against the stone floor until he could place a hand against the elf’s prison. He reached through to her mind, his thoughts sinuous and slick. He slipped into her dreams, slurping at her desires. He needed her broken, but not mindless. Not a beast like the cirKad. He needed her to think while beyond his reach in Death’s realm, but still in his thrall.
“Wake, Sadria. I have use of you.”
Arkhed used a spell to lift her from the vat, the slime dripped from her body and he worked his magic to remove the tubes from her arms, neck, and the last from her mouth. He could not use his magic and mentalisim at the same time, and she gagged and spat without his mental control to keep her still. He laid her on a stone operating table and took control of her mind again. His bony hands secured her with leather belts. Her eyes were wide and watched him, trembling in their sockets, but she could do nothing else.
Arkhed leaned in close, inhaled as she exhaled, taking in her breath. His claws tickled across her skin, like a spider dancing over her. He wiped a tear from her eye with one contorted finger and touched the moisture to his pustule covered tongue. Her desire to scream, to squirm away and escape, was a tantalizing tingle on his tongue. He drank in her terror, tasting it with a satisfied relish. All of Sadria’s hair had fallen out while suspended in the chemicals, even her eyelashes, and he caressed the top of her smooth head. Her bronze skin had paled and taken on a sickly green tint. She was gaunt, malnourished, but he’d kept her alive, never releasing her to Death.
He whispered in her mind, close, intimate, “You must be dead to reach the ethereal realm, to pick up the NecroKwar. But I will preserve you. I will keep your soul from Death. Shaitan’s gifts are great and wondrous.” His voice trailed to a hiss, left to lurk inside her.
***
Khain paused outside the only room in the whole of Asmodeus’s temple he couldn’t fully explore. All of the archdevils knew about him now, but none could control him. He was no demon, he had no soul; he was a creation, crafted in Limbo. His loyalties lay with whom he chose. The one he served, or at least an aspect of Her, resided in the center of the room before him. No one in the Hells realized he was loyal to anyone besides DraKar and Armagon, even the two sarpand themselves.
The chamber was constructed with white stone, and the corruption of the Hells was kept at bay by Asmodeus. The vile wickedness of the Hells that permeated everything else on the seven planes was barred by the pact Armagon had made with the archdevil. The room glowed with a soft radiance that kept demons from entering, but it wasn’t the glow that stopped Khain.
While Khain could walk all around the interior perimeter of the white room, the center was cut off from him. A curtain of water poured down from the ceiling on all sides and barred his path. The center of the room was flooded and a phylactery floated in the middle of it. The small, pearlescent box stood only a foot tall, with six-inch sides that had runes carved on them.
That Asmodeus had learned his weakness still frustrated Khain, but he could still speak to the Lady. He didn’t know how Asmodeus had found out how water affected him. Perhaps Arkhed, his creator, had told the archdevil. So far, none of the other archdevils had employed similar tricks to bar his path. Secrets were a precious commodity to be used as bargaining chips if the need arose between the devils.
He gave the curtain of water a serious frown, it was the only thing that could block him, even hurt him; pure, fluid water.
“I see you frowning out there, Khain.”
Khain chuckled. “I’m frowning at the water.”
“I know,” answered the gentle, feminine voice.
“Armagon will be on this plane again soon. I could lead him here,” Khain offered, not for the first time.
“Not yet.”
“But when he thinks he’s alone, he gets such a pitiful expression. If I try to talk to him, he gets upset and tries to look gruff again. I try not to laugh at him, but it isn’t easy,” Khain said acerbically.
She answered with a poorly stifled giggle. “I’m sure you do your best.”
“He misses you, Selien,” Khain pressed, suddenly serious, trying a different tact.
There was a longer pause. “I know.” The ghostly visage of Selien walked through the fluid curtain, undisturbed by its ever-flowing waters. She still looked like the elf Armagon had fallen in love with, black hair, pale skin, and dark eyes seemed to beg to reflect starlight. She wore a simple white silk dress that left Her arms bare and pooled around Her feet. She made no sound as She walked over to Khain, She was simply light and shadow.
Her translucent features gained a disturbed look, but he still pushed the point. “He would serve you directly.”
“I know,” Selien repeated, Her voice even and calm. “And he is, in a way.”
“Sahra might be your first cleric then,” Khain said mockingly.
Selien laughed, a musical sound that drifted around the room. “You’re my first cleric, Khain.”
Khain looked at Her in confusion, a trait he had chosen to practice, because it made communication easier with the souls he worked alongside. He said out loud what he already knew was pointless, but he hoped She would offer an answer. “I think this fragment of yourself is forgetting things. I have no soul.”
“I haven’t forgotten. You serve me. I can call you my cleric if I want.” She brushed an ethereal hand along his cheek. “I had never understood the need for the gods to have clerics, but I am beginning to understand how one can be useful.”
“Then how may I serve you, my lady?” He gave a flourishing bow to accentuate the question.
“There is stirring in Limbo. I don’t have a firm presence there and one of my Siblings seems to be plucking strings. My blade is starting to sing. I would like to know who is causing it. It is too soon for the swords to be brought into play.”
“Cryptic as always,” Khain complained.
Selien laughed again. “Go to Limbo, and figure out who might be looking for mine and Gaia’s swords. Brat.”
Khain bowed again. “As you command, my lady.”
Chapter 6
309 Br. winter
“Elves are a naturally long-lived species. Some claim they’re immortal, while others say they're ageless, but can be killed. Most everyone agrees: elves can die. If one of their kind has ever reached the natural conclusion to his life, I have not found the record. It seems most die before they become aged, either from disease or a physical calamity.”
-Chronicler Karsh of the Krad Mountain Dwarven Kingdom
T he next morning, Gerran was called out to stabilize a collapsed chimney with his magic, and Kharick went with him to help the men rebuilding it. They told Madger she shouldn’t come, since it was a blustery day and she could barely carry a basket of vegetables home.
She sat by the fireplace in her customary spot and read the book Gerran had given her. She desperately wanted to get her pack back, but they were right, she was weak right now. So she sat and sipped at some hot tea Gerran had introduced her to, relishing the taste as it soothed her throat.
Reading, during the day, without havi
ng to worry about being caught. What a wonder. Madger smiled to herself, a simple joy she never would have had at home. And that thought instantly soured her mood. The flashes of her dead, dismembered, family made her grunt as if she’d been hit. She gritted her teeth and tried to will them away.
There was a knocking at the door. Madger startled, breathing heavily, still horrified from her memories and disconcerted that someone was at the door. Should she answer? This wasn’t her house. The knock came again.
“Gerran, wake up! You old codger. It’s blasted cold out here.”
What was a codger?
Madger set aside her book and tea, and went to the door, careful to stay hunched over so she wouldn’t hit her head. She’d learned that lesson half a dozen times already. She opened the door, and the young man gave a frightened squeal.
“Gerran isn’t here.”
The boy, brown haired and blue eyed, stared up her with a gaped mouth. “He does have a giant.”
Madger frowned.
“Sorry,” the boy immediately said. He presented a wrapped package. “Dad said he’d made a cloak for you, but I thought he was just joshing me.”
“Hmm.” She reached out and took the package from his two hands. “Thank you.”
The boy continued to stare up at her.
“It’s cold. Go home.” Madger shut the door and opened the wrapping around her cloak. She rubbed her fingers along the slick oilcloth. It would send water sheeting off of it. The poncho and other leather her clan had used had needed constant care to withstand wet weather. She would need to work hard to repay Gerran for all his gifts and training.
She laid it with the rest of her meager belongings and settled down to read and drink her tea again. She got through one page before another knock drew her attention. She raised an eyebrow at the door. She didn’t recall so many visitors during the last four days. There was the baker’s boy who brought fresh bread daily, but he had already delivered at sunrise.
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