by Nat Russo
The magistrate smiled and waved at a nearby guard. “Take the prisoner back to the cell. We’ll reconvene shortly.”
The guard saluted and escorted an elderly woman from the court room. When the door closed behind them, the magistrate spoke once more.
“Archmage, please. While your very presence here is enough to convince me that miracles are possible, I’m not dimwitted. I have scouts traveling all roads coming in and out of Caspardis for more than a hundred miles in each direction. If I needed a list of every man, woman, and child on the road between here and Blackwood, it would be placed in my hand within hours of requesting it. Caspardis is safe because there is no army on their way here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a city with a particularly high crime rate to govern.”
“I’m the archmage,” Nicolas said. “Does that mean nothing to you?”
“Certainly,” the magistrate said. “I have the utmost respect for your position as shepherd of humankind. And when you become the duly elected Chancellor of the Shandarian Union, I’ll be more than happy to take orders from you on secular matters. Until then, please confine your concerns to religion and leave state matters in the hands of state officials.”
Nicolas took a deep breath. Frustration was clouding his thoughts when he needed clear thinking the most.
Kagan, why isn’t the magistrate following my orders?
Why should he? He answers to the Chancellor, not you.
And the Chancellor answers to me, right?
Of course not, Kagan said. You’re the archmage.
Then would you kindly tell me what authority I do have? How did you get everyone to do what you needed them to do?
Forging the words of a god was particularly convincing.
This was getting him nowhere. What good was being the pope of a new world if—
That’s it! The pope!
Popes throughout history wielded two of the most powerful political weapons of all; interdict and excommunication. If a king refused a pope’s request, interdict would prohibit priests from performing the sacraments in that king’s country. And if the king remained stubborn, the pope would threaten excommunication.
And no one liked the idea of burning in hell, particularly a bunch of rich men who’d grown accustomed to their lifestyle.
I do control the religious orders and temples, don’t I?
You do, Kagan said.
“Magistrate,” Nicolas said. When the old man looked up, Nicolas turned and started walking back up the sloped aisle. “You will order your men to the walls, and you will do it within the hour.”
“I’ve already told you—”
“And if you do not, I will close every temple in the Shandarian Union effective immediately. I will recall the Orders to the Pinnacle and expel the Shandarian ambassador. I’ll leave it to you to explain the reasons to your chancellor.”
Nicolas left the room and Corporal Bennet caught up to him.
“Are you really going to close the temples?” Corporal Bennet asked.
Nicolas glanced at her. She was staring at him.
“Is the magistrate a religious man?” Nicolas asked.
“Very.”
“Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Nicolas walked back out into the courtyard with Corporal Bennet behind him. It was time to head back to the wall.
By the time Nicolas and Corporal Bennet returned to the west wall, three detachments of soldiers stood in the plaza in formations of six columns each.
Fortunately, the magistrate had taken Nicolas’s threat seriously. Nicolas had no idea how he would have gone about closing the temples had the magistrate called his bluff, but at the very least it would have involved a quick trip back to the Pinnacle to chat with Tithian.
Thoughts of Tithian reminded him of the topic of their last conversation.
Protoforge fragments. Tithian was supposed to be testing them for use in the war effort. Nicolas offered a silent prayer to Arin that Tithian was correct and the fragments would help.
Realization struck him.
Did I just do that? Did I just pray to Arin?
“Nick!” Kaitlyn called from the wall. Toby followed her on his leash.
Nicolas was grateful for the interruption. He didn’t want to deal with that particular theological quandary yet.
She hurried down the stair on the inner side of the wall.
He caught a glimpse of Toridyn on the wall, and the necromantic link told him Kagan was about thirty yards to his left. But where was Aelron?
Nicolas took a look through the portcullis that served as the city’s western gate.
Nothing but a dirt road heading toward the horizon.
“Looks like everything went well,” Kaitlyn said, nodding toward the soldiers.
“There was some give and take,” Nicolas said. He glanced back up at the wall. “Where’s Aelron?”
“I don’t know. He mumbled something about being watched or followed, then ran off.”
Watched?
When Nicolas approached the fortress earlier, he’d felt like someone was watching him too.
“He can take care of himself, I suppose,” Nicolas said.
“And I’ve felt this strange presence around me,” Kaitlyn said. “It’s hard to describe, but it’s like someone’s following me too. Or watching me.”
“A presence?”
A collective gasp went up among the soldiers on top of the wall.
“Prepare for attack!” a soldier yelled as he ran down the stair.
What?
Nicolas looked back through the portcullis and his face grew cold.
The western horizon was no longer visible. A entire Barathosian military camp—tents, hitching posts, siege weapons, soldiers with wide-brimmed hats, and mounts—had materialized less than one hundred yards beyond the gate.
But the most troubling new arrivals were six cannons, and they were aimed directly at the wall.
“Get everyone away from the wall!” Nicolas yelled as he ran back into the courtyard. “Away from the wall! Now!”
Soldiers scattered back toward the boulevard as the detachments broke apart, but some of the guards presented a more stoic front. Probably veterans.
A blur of white appeared in front of Nicolas. By the time his eyes had a chance to focus on the twelve-inch blade thrusting toward his neck, Kagan had knocked the man to the ground, retrieved the blade, and twisted the man’s head until it was facing the wrong direction.
A rush of necropotency entered his well.
Nicolas looked around the plaza and saw the same event playing out at random intervals, but Toridyn was the only other person lucky enough to have a penitent of his own.
Gunfire echoed through the plaza. It was enough to send even the veterans scattering.
The Barathosians were teleporting into the city itself! This defense, whatever it was, wasn’t going to work.
Kait!
Kagan pointed to Nicolas’s left and Nicolas turned.
Kaitlyn was face-to-face with a Barathosian, who was aiming a pistol at her head.
Nicolas ordered Kagan forward, but before he could act, the Barathosian dropped the pistol, screamed like someone was skinning him alive, and ran head-first into the wall.
Kagan, how strong are you, now that you’re dead?
Kagan picked the Barathosian soldier up in one hand and lifted him off the ground.
Send them a message.
Kagan threw the soldier up and over the wall, leapt toward the corpse of the Barathosian he’d killed, and repeated the feat of strength.
Moments later, the Barathosian soldiers in the courtyard vanished.
“I bought us some time,” Nicolas said. “Minutes if we’re lucky. No more.”
He picked up the pistol the Barathosian dropped.
It looked and felt like a solid piece of brass. A metal lever, forward of the trigger guard and slightly above, held a slow-burning cord in a clamp. The cord was lit on both ends, and a small bowl
, no larger than a quarter, protruded out from the barrel.
Nicolas’s adoptive father, Dr. Murray, had taught him about guns like this. It was a matchlock pistol. When the shooter pulled the trigger, the lit cord would strike the flash pan—the small bowl that held priming powder—and ignite the larger charge inside the barrel through a small hole in the side.
Nicolas released the burning cord from the clamp. The priming powder had already scattered into the dirt, but he still aimed the gun downward. He felt inside the barrel with his small finger.
No rifling.
That meant they’d only be accurate at close range. Very close range. Without rifling, the projectile would tumble through the air instead of remaining stable enough to travel in a straight line over a long distance.
Tithian needs to know about this. He’ll know who can best use the information.
Tithian.
The protoforge fragments.
That was the answer!
Nicolas tucked the gun into an inner pocket of his robe.
“Kait, we have to go,” Nicolas said. “I think Tithian has something that can stop these Barathosians from teleporting wherever they want.”
Kaitlyn looked toward Toridyn, who was standing halfway across the plaza. And from the looks of things, he’d summoned another penitent. When Kaitlyn looked back, her face held a somber expression.
“You’re not seriously considering staying here, are you?” Nicolas asked. “This is a war zone!”
“I’ve been thinking a lot,” Kaitlyn said. “This has to have happened to me for a reason. And you saw what I was able to do. That soldier couldn’t have shot me if he wanted to.”
“And what about his friend? The one twenty yards away that you couldn’t see because he was hiding behind a merchant tent?”
Kaitlyn shook her head. “There wasn’t anyone else.”
“There could have been.”
Kaitlyn took his hands in hers. “I know you worry about me. But I have a gift that I need to use. I don’t have any illusions about saving the day. But I can do something.”
“Kait, there’s no time to talk about this,” Nicolas said. “They’ll be back. Soon. And they’re going to hit us with everything they’ve got.”
“I know. You need to leave.”
“Kait.”
“We’ll talk when you come back.”
Kaitlyn handed him Toby’s leash and took several steps back.
“He’ll be safer at the Pinnacle,” Kaitlyn said.
Kagan, you protect her, dammit! Do what she tells you!
“I’ll be back as soon as possible,” Nicolas said. “I’m going to get one of those protoforge fragments and come straight back.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Nicolas retrieved the translocation orb from his robe and allowed a small amount of necropotency to flow into it.
Caspardis receded in front of him in a small pinprick of light.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The gods have interacted with the world since the earliest period of recorded history, and they continue to do so during the Rite of Manifestation. But we would be ignorant to think they are somehow constrained by this ritual. It should no more surprise me to learn my walking staff was the god Arin than it would to see the sun rise in the morning.
- Coteon of the Steppes, “The Mukhtaar Chronicles: Coteonic Commentaries” (circa 680 BCE)
“Why?” Mujahid asked. It was the only complete thought he could form.
Forty years without a single message, and now Mordryn sat before him, looking no older than the day she disappeared from this very room. Her flowing red hair rested on her shoulders and draped over her crimson dress. Her skin was the same smooth porcelain he remembered. In some ways he expected it. She had always been more powerful than he, and he was coming up on one-hundred and seventy years old. She might not be a Mukhtaar Lord, but she held some secret of longevity.
Her blue eyes bore the look of wisdom. But they also showed a measure of concern.
“Your suspicions are correct,” Mordryn said. “It’s time to relocate the portal.”
Mujahid stepped between the bed and a simple wooden chair next to the dresser.
“You spoke with Nuuan,” Mujahid said, “and neither of you had the decency to say anything to me.”
Mordryn gazed out through the window. “The Barathosians cannot gain access to the crypt.”
“Forty years. Where were you?”
“If their magi get within ten leagues of the mountain, they’ll sense it.”
“Why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you say something?”
“We may be able to use this to our advantage. If you move the portal to—”
“Bugger the festering portal, woman! You owe me an explanation!”
Mordryn faced him, expressionless.
“I’ll tell you everything,” she said. “But I need you to assure me that regardless of what I say…regardless of how you feel about what I say…you’ll relocate the portal immediately.”
The thought of her asking for a blanket promise after what she’d put him through made the heat rise in his face.
But he trusted her. After all these years, he trusted her still.
“I’m listening,” Mujahid said.
“You were…you remain everything to me,” Mordryn said. “The work of the gods is mysterious.”
“I have all of the pastoral platitudes memorized, I assure you.”
“I left that day because leaving was the only way to save Kaitlyn.”
Mujahid rubbed his temple.
“You left twenty years before the girl’s birth,” Mujahid said. “Perhaps more. She’s not even from Erindor.”
“Nuuan was there when I left,” Mordryn said.
“I know that now.”
“He tried to hand me my dagger. In my haste, I’d left it here. He was concerned I’d need it where I was going.”
“And where was that?”
“The portal closed before I could take it,” Mordryn said. “Had Nuuan hesitated a moment longer he would have lost his arm. The dagger took the brunt of it. I’m sure you found the other half?”
Mujahid nodded.
“You’re wrong about Kaitlyn. She’s Erindorian.”
Mujahid’s eyes widened.
“She would have been a target here,” Mordryn said. “She had to be taken to Earth with Nicolas for both of their sakes.”
“Had to be taken?” Mujahid asked. “I don’t understand. Did you take her or didn’t you?”
“Zubuxo took them both.”
“As I suspected…”
“Because I asked him to. Before we entered Kagan’s vitapotency construct.”
Mujahid stammered. “The Great Barrier? Only the gods entered…”
When realization dawned, Mujahid had to grab the chair to steady himself. It all made sense. Her wisdom. Her perpetual youthfulness. Her intuitive knowledge of magic. Her fondness for roses.
And the timing of her disappearance.
“Shealynd,” Mujahid said.
Mordryn smiled.
“What does that make of us?” Mujahid asked. “Our past? Our future? Did I fall in love with an illusion?”
Mordryn took his hands in hers. “This is me, Mujahid. Mordryn. A woman. A real woman. The woman you grew to love.”
“Still love.”
There was someone else in this relationship, though. And Mujahid was having a difficult time accepting the conclusion his necropotency-enhanced mind had reached.
“Kaitlyn,” Mujahid said. “But, it can’t be.”
“You know it is. You sensed it when you first set eyes upon her.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“Our daughter.”
Mujahid sat in the chair, and Mordryn did the same on the bed across from him. She never let go of his hands.
“Help me understand,” Mujahid said.
“What you think you know of us…of the gods…is flawed. Your knowledge is based o
n the words of an ancient man with good intentions but poor foresight.”
The Origines Multiversi formed the beginning of the Mukhtaar Chronicles, and was written by the prophet Habakku, one of the holiest men in Erindor’s history.
“The Origines forms the basis of all theological wisdom. If what you’re saying is true…” Mujahid couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. “But what does any of this have to do with Kaitlyn?”
“Malvol needs her.”
“But why?”
“The God of Hate has accelerated her Awakening,” Mordryn said. “Beyond that simple fact, I cannot say why. Cognitomancers are a rare breed.”
“The girl is an enchanter?” Mujahid asked.
“She’s much more than that. But she’s Awakening to her cognitomantic powers now, and Malvol will seek to use her. There is much you don’t understand about the nature of deity, Mujahid. You’re familiar with the concept of apotheosis, I’m sure.”
“Are you suggesting Malvol wasn’t always a god?” Mujahid asked.
“I’m not merely suggesting it. I’m stating it as fact. Such is the nature of all of the gods. It is my contention Malvol needs her to complete his transformation.”
Mujahid’s pulse quickened. The fundamentals of everything he had been taught, everything he believed, was crumbling around him.
“The Origines is a lie?” Mujahid asked. So often had he read the Origines Multiversi that he remembered the words as if they’d been imprinted on his mind. “‘The Power reached into his being and pulled the gods from within. The first he named Arin, for Arin was his exalted firstborn. The second he named Shealynd, for Shealynd emerged from his Love. The last he named Zubuxo, for Zubuxo was last in all things.’”
Mordryn squeezed his hand. “Please, Mujahid—”
“Shall I continue?” Mujahid asked. “The Power created the gods. You suggest some other beginning?”
“Does the Origines reveal how The Power created the gods?”
Mujahid sat in silence. If anyone in the multiverse understood the truth of the Origines, it was Mordryn, yet she spoke as if this lunacy were objective truth.