“Moloch,” Toman said. No one gainsaid him. Everyone knew the dark mage was behind this.
“It couldn’t have been long before dawn that he’d…finished,” Toman said, his voice tight. They hadn’t missed him by much.
“There’s nothing we could have done anyways,” Esset said, but quietly, so quietly he wasn’t sure his words even reached his companion’s ears before being snatched away by the winds.
“Look for survivors,” the sergeant ordered.
“I doubt we’ll find any,” Toman said bitterly.
“You survived,” Esset said. Toman stared at the rubble before answering.
“Sometimes I think he left me alive on purpose,” Toman said. Abruptly, his bird dove and began flying at a low altitude to survey the ruin. Esset and Sergeant Warthog joined him, searching and calling out for survivors, but there was only death.
Finally Toman landed his bird and placed his hands on the earth; it was time to bury the dead. The earth slowly began to shift beneath his fingers as Sergeant Warthog landed beside him.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Making something to bury the dead. I don’t just animate; I can also create. It just takes longer,” Toman replied. The earth swelled, promising to take shape but still amorphous. Sergeant Warthog watched for a time before speaking again.
“What happened here is terrible, but can we be sure this was Moloch?” she asked.
“Yes,” Toman said. The silence waxed long and the earth shaped in accordance with Toman’s will, rising up and beginning to form four legs and the bulk of a body.
“How can we be sure?” Sergeant Warthog finally asked.
“Have you forgotten? I’ve seen his aftermath before,” Toman replied, his voice emotionless.
“You were just a child then. A very small child, if memory serves,” the sergeant said.
“Yes,” Toman agreed. “But you don’t forget something like that.” The earthen form lengthened to include a head-like protrusion, and the legs narrowed. Toman concentrated on the figure for a few moments before continuing. The shaping of earth paused as he pointed.
“Do you see that scorch mark?” he asked.
The sergeant nodded. It was a couple paces from a prone, bloody body.
“I can tell you how that scorch mark came to be. I can tell you exactly what happened. Moloch was here,” Toman said, pointing, “and black lightning arced from his fingers to that spot. He was aiming at that woman, the woman now dead on the ground. She thought he’d missed, and she’d felt an irrational, futile surge of hope as she fled. But, you see, the black lightning entered the ground and shot through it, arcing back up with fingers—claws—of glass to impale her in two dozen places at least. Her own weight snapped the glass tendrils, and she fell back, but she didn’t die right away. No, she laid there for some time until she bled to death in agony.” Toman could see it happening as he spoke, for he’d seen it before. The face of the newly dead simply painted over the blurred faces of distant memory.
“And that man?” Toman pointed now at a red, mangled corpse that even the sergeant had paled upon witnessing. Even had they known the man in life, there was no recognizing him now. There were no features left to recognize.
“That man was skinned alive. One strip at a time, as he was held immobile by magic. He could only move enough to scream as his flesh was stripped away. The two bodies by that nearby structure would have been his family, and Moloch would have forced them to watch before he burned the child to death in its mother’s arms and then killed her with a stroke that laid her open from pelvis to throat.
“I know what happened because I survived the horrors that befell this village. I may have been young, but I’ll never forget. I can’t.”
The sergeant stared at him, her face only neutral from long practice. Toman turned away and resumed shaping his new animation. It slowly took shape as a massive dog; Toman didn’t bother putting any details or finishing touches on it—he just sent it to start digging in a field next to the town. They would need many graves.
The sergeant left to do another sweep for survivors as he started on another.
Toman stood back and watched wearily as a roughly human earthen-animation picked up a corpse. The golem tucked in the brutalized body’s limbs before sliding its “hands” underneath it and lifting gently. Toman wanted to ensure that at least in death, everyone would be treated with the utmost dignity. The golem plodded to the field where one massive grave waited.
Esset descended on a fiery bird to land beside Toman. Once his own feet were on the ground, the summoned creature vanished in a small spray of sparks and ash. Esset looked at the sun, now high in the sky, marking how much time had passed. He had a dead rabbit in his hand, dangling by the ears.
“No survivors. Nothing at all alive for quite a ways. Even the wildlife is dead. I figured being harvested for death magic wouldn’t impact its edibility, so I picked this guy for dinner.” Esset waved the rabbit in front of Toman, who just stared at it blankly.
Esset looked away. “Or we could just leave it, if no one’s hungry. It was dead anyways.”
“Esset…” Toman said.
“Yeah?” Esset had to wait a bit before Toman could articulate his question.
“How does blood magic work? I mean, I know it comes from death and pain and blood, but how does it work?” Toman asked. “You’re the scholar, you’ve studied this, right?”
“A bit,” Esset admitted. “Honestly, we don’t know a ton about magic in general, just that it works, and sometimes a bit of how. Blood magic… Well, it seems to be based in life energy. Whenever blood is spilled, energy is released. The amount of magic that’s produced is related to the amount of blood spilled and the amount of pain generated.
“Death magic is just a kind of blood magic. The strongest kind. There’s a predictable burst of magic that’s released in the moment when someone dies. Even people who can’t sense magic can still find ways to capture and use that energy.” Esset paused before adding, “It’s an easy kind of magic to do.” He sounded sick and disgusted when he said “easy.”
“Do you think that’s why he does it?” Toman asked.
“Moloch?”
Toman nodded.
“I dunno. Evil is just…evil, sometimes.” Esset shrugged.
Toman waited.
“Well, I mean, the Book of Bright Hyrishal says that all men can be redeemed, and it’s not like Moloch’s a vampire or something, so technically he shouldn’t be one hundred percent evil.” Esset paused briefly. “Although with everything he’s done with blood magic and everything else… It is possible he’s sold his soul to the Darkfires. Why, what are you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” Toman confessed. “I just… I guess I don’t understand how someone gets from being human to being…whatever Moloch is. I get wanting to be stronger, I do, and I can even imagine desperation driving someone to use blood magic. And I guess things could snowball from there.”
Esset studied Toman for a few moments.
“But that’s not what’s bothering you,” Esset said.
“No. It’s something I heard once. I heard he was the son of a nobleman, rich and comfortable, and that they cast him out because they caught him torturing a child. He didn’t need power, he had it. He just…wanted to. He enjoyed it,” Toman said.
“Moloch’s blood magic has kept him young, so he’s too old for anyone living to have been around when he came into his power. We can’t know if that’s true.” Esset shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“But that concept bothers you too,” Toman said.
Esset shrugged, but his face betrayed his discomfort.
Sergeant Warthog strode up, interrupting their conversation.
“Well, I think we’ve done all we can here,” she said. “As soon as your animations are done burying the dead, we should leave. We’ll have to stop and spread word of this on our way, so we’ll want to use as much daylight as we can.” The two young
men just nodded. All three stared at the destruction of the village, disinclined to move despite their agreement with the sergeant’s sentiment. Finally the sergeant broke the silence.
“Do you really think you can take this on?” Sergeant Warthog waved an arm towards the annihilated town.
Toman looked at the sergeant, her words galvanizing him with energy. “You think we can witness this and not try? We’re strong in our own right, Sergeant. With your help and resources, and a good plan, we can take him,” Toman said.
Sergeant Warthog shook her head and stared grimly at the dying fires.
Toman waited, but when it became clear she wasn’t going to say anything more, he stood in front of her and met her eyes. “First Moloch killed my parents, and then Animator Eldan Atrix, after he took me in. Moloch is the reason why I was all alone before Esset’s family took me in. Moloch has been destroying lives, destroying entire villages, for a couple centuries at least, and he will keep doing it until he’s stopped. Someone has to stop him.”
Sergeant Warthog met his gaze and didn’t flinch.
“Sergeant, you’ve seen us fight and you know what we’re capable of,” Esset said, stepping in, trying to be reasonable. “We’re not suggesting that we rush off and challenge him to battle. You know that too. We’re strong enough to take him, but not like that. We need a plan, and we need resources. We need your help. You know Moloch needs to be stopped—just look around. And you know we can do this.”
“No, I don’t know that,” Sergeant Warthog said, her gaze shifting to Esset. “You boys have amazing gifts, I’ll grant you that, but this? I don’t know.”
Toman gritted his teeth and held his tongue.
“Let’s not make any decisions right now. We’re exhausted and I, for one, am soul-weary,” Esset said, voicing Toman’s thoughts, albeit more politely. “You’re right, Sergeant, let’s be on our way.”
Toman and the sergeant stared at one another for a few moments, tension present but soon giving way to exhaustion.
“Let’s go,” Toman finally said. Their mounts came to them, and they departed.
The loft of a barn was sufficient for sleeping quarters, especially given that the sun had set a while ago now.
“At least we notified the surrounding area. It might be pointless as a warning, but at least they’ll know what happened,” Toman said, sitting leaning against a bale of hay.
“Mhm,” Esset agreed, but he said nothing more.
Toman looked over at his brother, who was staring at the ceiling. “I’m surprised you’re not trying to jot down everything that’s happened in a journal. Normally you don’t wait this long.”
“Too tired,” Esset said, but his tone said “too preoccupied.” Silence curled around them, but neither one could fall asleep.
“So, do you think she’ll help us with Moloch?” Toman asked.
“I don’t know. Helping us is a big risk, especially if she’s not confident we could win. If we failed, and he discovered we had help, he’d go after her too. At least waiting will give us a chance to get stronger yet.”
For a moment, Toman’s eyes were angry, an anger directed at Esset, before he looked aside in frustration. Why did Esset always have to be so aggravatingly reasonable? “I know. It’s just… Every moment he’s alive is a moment when he’s inflicting suffering.”
“I know…” was all Esset could say.
Toman suddenly plowed his fist into a hay bale. “I just wish there was something I could do. All this power, these gloves give me…” He shook his hands in the air. “All this power. I could make armies—I have made armies, but I know that against Moloch, that won’t be enough. We’ve planned and trained, but we both know we could easily just die before we could even get to him. Sometimes I just wish that there were some simple way to kill him. I would give my own life in a heartbeat if I could guarantee that Moloch would die in the same instant in exchange.”
Esset just stared at Toman. “Don’t say that—”
Toman cut him off. “Seriously? You signed up for this too—you know that one or both of us could die trying to stop him, whether we succeed or not. How could you tell me not to say that? A trade like that? To save everyone between then and now that he would torture, maim, or kill?”
“Yes, I can say that,” Esset returned forcefully. “Because there’s a difference between fighting and dying and giving up your life, no matter what giving up will get you. We fight, Toman. Don’t you ever just give up, not for anything.”
“Of course we fight,” Toman replied, a bit of defeat in his tone. He’d suddenly deflated, anger gone. “There is no ‘magical’ option.”
Esset looked away. “What about my life?” Esset asked quietly.
“What?”
“What about my life?” Esset repeated. “If we came face to face with Moloch right now, would you trade my life for his death?”
“Esset, you’re—” Toman began to shut the conversation down, thinking that it was a pointless distinction to argue. Why debate the impossible?
“I’m being serious, Toman.” Esset raked his fingers across his scalp. “Today, when we saw what Moloch had done, a summon came to me. There’s a summon called the phoenix. And it could do…well, it could do something like that. Like a trade.” Esset said.
“Phoenix? But you can already summon fire birds—”
Esset cut him off, his frustration making his speech clumsy. “Not the birds—eagles, raptors—whatever you want to call them! A phoenix. Not just a fiery bird, a phoenix. Summoning it would give me the power to do almost anything. Standing face-to-face with Moloch, I could kill him. But the cost of that summon is my life.”
Toman stared at him, stunned. “But that’s—” He cut himself off this time, and there was a long silence. He hated himself in that moment, because a little part of him wanted to say, “Do it,” even though the rest of his being rebelled against the idea.
Esset broke the silence. “I will tell you my answer: no. I fight, Toman. We fight. If we die, we die, but it’s not because we give up.”
“I’m not suggesting we rush out to sacrifice you to kill Moloch,” Toman said.
“I know,” Esset said with a large exhale. “I know. But just—” Esset’s jaw clenched before continuing. “We’re not using this thing, okay? I’m not calling the phoenix. Not ever. If we go down fighting, so be it. But we fight. If I fight, you fight. There’s no easy way out, and no giving up, right?” Esset waited until Toman nodded. “Good. Then let’s get some sleep. Besides, we’ve got nothing to worry about, right? Good guys always win.”
Toman said nothing more, but he couldn’t keep his mind from racing. “Good guys always win” was something they’d always said to each other as kids, especially after Toman would wake screaming from nightmares about Moloch. It had been something he’d clung to as a child.
But now… Sometimes it worried him to think that Esset might actually believe it.
The small group had spent the daylight traveling, and now the sun approached the horizon, illuminating both the small town on the trade road and the big city a half-day further away. The town usually bustled with trade, but with sunset approaching, it was quiet. Everyone was inside, in their own homes, or in the Staggering Tankard for the local ale and chicken pie.
“Mmm, you know, Sergeant, some might say we just come here to get jobs from you, but the truth is, I also come for the chicken pie,” Toman said with relish as the steaming dish was placed before him.
“I’m just glad we can sleep in real beds tonight,” Esset mumbled. However, he did perk up a little when his own pie was placed in front of him.
“You boys earned it,” Sergeant Warthog said with a smirk. She didn’t specify whether they’d earned the beds or the pies.
“No really, I think that the Sergeant sells her services out of this place because of the pie. It’s delicious,” Toman said, grinning and speaking through a full mouth.
Esset frowned his skepticism at Toman, and Sergeant Warthog
arched an eyebrow.
“My business attracts customers who want a place busy enough to avoid notice and far enough away from the city to be discreet. That’s why I picked this place. Not the pies,” Sergeant Warthog said.
“Ah, yes. The business of buying and selling information,” came an unfamiliar drawl from behind Toman and Esset. They both jumped and twisted in their seats to see who’d approached them. Esset felt a prickle of unease—dislike, even—before he even clapped eyes on the speaker. Seeing the man didn’t help much.
He was a tallish man, handsome and pristinely groomed. He wore his black hair in a short, tight ponytail at the nape of his neck, and his sharp grey eyes were clever and attentive. Add the goatee, and Esset thought the man’s style was both cultured and slimy. The stranger’s clothing also demonstrated his wealth; he somehow pulled off his maroon and dark grey outfit of excellent cut and extravagant embroidery.
“And connecting people who need things done with those who can do them,” Sergeant Warthog added. Her tone wasn’t very welcoming. “Hello, Erizen. What do you want?”
“M’dear lady, Gretchen, you cut me!” This Erizen character drawled his words dramatically, even placing his hand over his heart. “Can I not come by and visit my oldest and dearest friend without an ulterior motive?”
“No,” Sergeant Warthog said. Erizen grinned wolfishly but shrugged.
“Can’t win them all, I guess. Now really, Gretchen, darling, do put your knife away. My interests and yours align right now, I do think, and such a silly bit of metal would do you no good anyways,” Erizen said with a wave of his hand. Esset glanced at the sergeant, having been unaware that she’d drawn a weapon at all; one hand was under the table while the other loosely held her mug. She appeared non-threatening, but there was the soft hiss of a dagger being sheathed beneath the table.
“You haven’t changed,” Sergeant Warthog remarked as the newcomer invited himself to their table by pulling up an extra chair. Toman and Esset briefly exchanged a glance—they had each independently decided that they didn’t like Erizen much.
Calling On Fire (Book 1) Page 4