by Demi Harper
In an eyeblink I summoned three forrels from the Passage and another three from each of the two branching tunnels that remained within my SOI; the third was already lost, its trio of guardians winked from existence in a puff of smoke, as were my forces in the Heart and the Sinkhole.
The outer edge of my Sphere was halfway across the Lake cavern, and before it cut off the room completely I called for the boulderskin that dwelt there. The whipfish, sadly, were gone.
The first forrels bounded into the cavern and immediately hared toward the floodplain. They plunged straight into the murky water without hesitation, their size and sturdiness making them less susceptible to the currents as they made for the struggling gnomes.
After lifting the terrified stragglers from the water, the forrels formed a chain from the base of the muddy ramp to the summit. With their aid and Graywall’s tireless encouragement, one by one the members of the orange group made it safely up to the surface.
Ris’kin gratefully left them to it and went to help Gneil. My high cleric was obviously torn between urging Bruce into the water and risking the chariot, or turning around and taking Coll’s convoluted route out via the Passage. But the latter would likely mean taking my SOI away from the rest of my denizens—since I was tethered to my gem in the ark—and I didn’t want to risk any possible repercussions from that.
Ket was thinking along the same lines.
“If you took your Sphere away from them, they’d still be waiting when you got back, right?”
“I don’t know. Probably. I’d rather not find out.”
A flash of Divine Inspiration reassured Gneil that help was coming, and his shoulders relaxed a little, though his face was still lined with trepidation. Behind him, in the chariot, the five acolytes were braced against the sides of the vehicle, clinging protectively to the ark lest the currents tear it from the chariot.
Tell them to hold tighter. You as well, I conveyed to Gneil.
My high cleric gulped, but he obediently pulled himself atop Bruce’s silver-furred back.
Just in time. Lightning flashed as the boulderskin came barreling in from the Passage, and for an instant everything was reduced to shades of blue-white and black. The boulderskin balked at the sudden light but continued on its trajectory, and by the time thunder rumbled out, it was skidding to a halt beside Bruce.
The badger snorted an uneasy greeting. Gneil waved from Bruce’s back. The boulderskin raised its head in acknowledgment of both. Perched atop the chariot, my acolytes gibbered and shook—the typical reaction of denizens within the vicinity of unfamiliar god-born. That was fine, though. All I needed them to do right now was hold on.
More of the wall crumbled away, more water surged in through the growing gap. What used to be a small crevice was now a gaping hole, yawning like the mouth of a great beast.
At my mental nudge, the boulderskin—a formidable mixture of amphibious olm and armored millipede—slipped into the water. Flattening its body as much as possible, it positioned itself in front of Bruce. Every part of the boulderskin was submerged, apart from the stony-gray carapace of its back, waiting invitingly like an enormous stepping stone.
Gneil gulped again, then urged Bruce onward. The badger tossed his head once in protest, as if to say “On your head be it, two-legs”, then crept tentatively forward. I heard my acolytes’ teeth chatter as the wheels of the chariot rolled over the carapace’s bumpy surface.
It’s either this or drowning, I told them.
It was a matter of moments for the boulderskin to transport them across the floodplain. Its clawed feet walked smoothly on the waterlogged ground, and by the next flash of lightning it had deposited them safely on the muddy ramp. The acolytes let out a collective sigh of relief as Gneil guided Bruce back onto firm(ish) ground.
Two of the forrels there tied the safety ropes to the yoke, and the gnomes waiting above were able to take most of the weight from Bruce, allowing the badger to scramble up while they hauled the chariot behind him. It was Longshank’s group, I realized; the hunter had stayed near the exit to make sure everyone made it out safely.
I commanded the forrels and boulderskin to follow us. Bekkit had told me my Sphere would stop contracting once it reached the size it had been at tier one; maybe if the god-born stayed inside it, they’d remain in existence.
But even as I thought it, the boulderskin dissipated. No noise, no pain—just there one moment and gone the next. The nearest forrel turned to smoke, immediately followed by the one beside it, until my god-born were no more.
“Time to go, Corey.” Ket’s voice was soft. Sad. Together, we took one last look back at the place I’d finally come to think of as home.
The shroomtree field where Gneil had first found me. The piled-stone altar upon which I’d experienced my first taste of worship (and dreaded sunlight). The lumberyard, the first building I’d ever constructed, and for which it had taken the late Jack and Elwood a ridiculous number of days to fell enough trees to build.
The Grotto’s very existence was the culmination of months of effort, not to mention gnomish blood, sweat and tears. Now we’d been forced to abandon everything and embark on a perilous journey in the blind hope of finding something better.
Time remaining for Exodus: 959 hours, 32 minutes, 4 seconds
I turned my back on all we’d built, heading for the surface and into the unknown.
Twenty-Five
Interlude
Fall, 521 PC
I have failed.
Though the druidic arts have ever come naturally to me, and the storm I coaxed into existence was fierce enough to make the Storm Gods take note, it was not enough. The target has taken flight above ground rather than being driven below, and now I must await further instructions from V.
Though my wounds are healed, the agony lingers, and the loss of flesh and bone haunts me, I am no longer consumed by the raging fever. Though the nightmares of my time down in the abyss consume me in a different way, and just as viciously.
There is no longer anyone in whom to confide, and I write these things down in an attempt to structure the chaos of my thoughts and to cleanse myself of at least a modicum of the torment that engulfs me. Though I hadn’t thought to ever again find myself at V’s beck and call, yet here I am once more. If I didn’t know he served a greater purpose, I would have turned my back on his dirty work long ago. But now I only worry that I have failed in my task.
V’s vendetta against this purple Core seems somehow personal. I know not why he wants the remnants of this particular race expunged, but he speaks of this Core with far more fervor than I have seen in him before, as though it somehow holds the key to his search. And I just squandered my opportunity to drive it straight down into his ally’s hands.
I would have simply taken it myself but for the two Guild members accompanying it. Traitors. Not only did they abandon me down in the darkness, they now deprive me of the opportunity to prove myself worthy.
I’m no fool. I know what happens to agents who fail to serve V’s purposes. I myself have already felt the consequences of outliving my usefulness, though V has since denied that was his intent. I must not fail again.
I am just one agent. But I have something the others do not. My secret weapon. I discovered them. They’re mine.
I made a grave error in entrusting one to another of V’s agents. He squandered it. They all died. Killed by the Core’s minions. A tragedy, and a waste. A tragic waste.
Henceforth only I will use them. And use them I will.
I no longer trust V.. Like me, he serves the Lord of Light. Unlike me, he does so through a selfish desire for power and eternal life. A small man with smaller goals.
I desire only to serve the Lord of Light, and as V told me long ago, the Lord of Light serves the world.
It is filled with corruption, with heretical advancements and vile technology and industry. Though they call it ‘advancement’, it pollutes and corrupts, stunting minds as well as nature. The old ways—of
faith—are fading. But He will restore the world to the way it was. The way it ought to be.
For now, I will continue to help V in his search for our god. But when we find him, I will prove beyond doubt that I am the more devoted servant.
False gods and vile technology, all will be purged.
The humans will pay. They abandoned me, and they will pay. They will regret abandoning me.
They will regret everything.
Twenty-Six
Going Overground
Corey
The first time the wagons got stuck in the mud was a challenge. The second time was a chore. By the ninth or tenth it had become as much a part of our journey as actually moving, which explained why we were barely a mile away from where we’d started by the time night fell in earnest.
The gnomes belonging to the red group huddled forlornly on and around their stranded vehicle. At the fore, two children whispered with their heads together, both of them swaddled in overlarge hooded cloaks. They were sneaking food to their group’s badger, Helga, from a stash kept somewhere in their clothing. Poor Helga chomped on the treats, patiently awaiting further instructions despite looking half-drowned and miserable.
Nails, the group’s leader, was crouched beside one of the wagon's front wheels. Dovetail the carpenter was beside her; rain dripped from her feathery hair as she shook her head.
Here we go again. I sighed.
My avatar's fur was soaked. Her muscles were beginning to ache, and her usually bushy tail now curled sadly behind her like a waterlogged worm. Yet she trudged toward the wagon without complaint, her back straight and her shoulders set stoically.
Nails' group let out a ragged cheer as Ris'kin approached. As always, my avatar's presence lifted my denizens' morale, and the flagging gnomes drew upon new reserves of energy as Ris'kin directed them into position. With her strength added to theirs, Ris'kin and the others were able to lift the wagon clear of the mire for long enough to shuffle forward and place it down onto firmer ground.
They rolled away, wheels making wet sucking sounds in the mud. Ris'kin gazed down at the drenched, mud-splattered fur of her legs, fighting off a shiver, then followed Nails' group.
It had only been a few hours, but the shelter of the Grotto already seemed a distant memory. As soon as we left, I'd sought refuge from the open sky in Double Sight. The colossal expanse above still induced a violent sense of vertigo whenever I thought too much about it, but anchoring myself within Ris'kin's body at least helped me feel less like I was about to fall into the clouds and float away forever.
I had to admit, though, I was growing weary of the accompanying sensations—particularly that of cold mud soaking the pads of my feet and squelching between my toes. Thankfully, the darkness—perhaps because its opaque blackness could almost make me believe it was just a really, really high cavern ceiling—made me feel safe enough to finally return to my god's-eye form. I relinquished my hold on Ris’kin with some relief and looked down critically at my straggling cavalcade.
A line of bobbing illumishrooms snaked ahead, marking the gnomish convoy’s route. Glowing auras visible only to me indicated the exodus group leaders. Of the 101 gnomes that made up the tribe, the majority had each been assigned to one of six main groups.
Longshank set the pace; his group were our vanguard, a tight-knit array of green dots on my map. Close behind them was the yellow group, led by Emrys the nurse, followed by Hammer's purple group.
Hoppit's blues and Graywall's oranges mingled together; they'd joined forces when Hoppit's wagon had broken beyond repair after careening into a ditch. Now the blues' younglings shared a crowded-looking cart along with the orange children, with the supplies from the blue wagon distributed among the warriors and stronger workers of both groups.
The last of the 'main' groups was Nails and her reds. The latest delay had set them much further back than where they'd started out, though they still weren't at the very rear of the procession. That position was reserved for—who else?—Swift and Cheer.
Unlike the rest of the tribe, the two scavengers had somehow avoided being assigned to a larger group. Both appeared as gray dots on my Augmentary map, and both were plodding far behind the rest, weighed down as they were by the layers of junk they'd insisted on bringing with them. Honestly, it was a miracle they hadn't sunk into the mud beneath it all.
Bekkit had said the exodus groups were determined by social ties within the tribe. Perhaps Swift and Cheer had not been assigned to any because they had none, except to each other.
It's probably for the best, I thought, as I watched them stop yet again to readjust their luggage and fiddle with their boots. They really don't play well with others. And their constant ‘emergency’ halts would be enough to try even Helga’s patience.
Sandwiched in the very center of the convoy was the final, most important group. Gneil and his five acolytes—Gnarl, Gnorm, Gnoah, Gnils, and Gnella—were pure white. On my map, that was. In reality, they were as drenched and mud-spattered as the rest, despite their relatively sheltered position atop the chariot. The lid of the ark had miraculously stayed in place, but rain had crept into the box via the loose joins and my gem now wallowed ignominiously among muddy straw and sloshing water.
Ignoring the discomfort, I focused my attention further ahead. We were approaching the edge of a thickly wooded area, but it was impossible to tell how deep the trees went, and Benin and Coll were yet to return from scouting ahead. Assuming they hadn't decided to just abandon us altogether.
Should we go around it, or through it?
I tried to rise higher but bumped the invisible barrier of my Sphere of Influence. I kept forgetting it was no larger than it had been when I was a tier one God Core. Its upper boundary was harder to judge without the presence of an actual ceiling to mark it.
It had better go back to normal when we find our new base.
If we find it.
My inability to access the full range of my powers was also proving tougher than I'd imagined. Of course I understood the logic of (for example) not being able to command the construction of new buildings until we'd found a safe location. Just because it made sense didn't mean it wasn't immensely frustrating.
Having my mana revoked was especially galling. We were already exposed, basically defenseless in unfamiliar territory. In what world was it fair to make us even more vulnerable by taking my abilities away?
"The universe works in mysterious ways," said Bekkit when I raised the question with him.
"The universe can suck my—"
"Will you stop being so negative?" snapped Ket. "And as for you, Bekkit, you cryptic turd—quit it with the vague answers. Just admit you don't know."
"That is patently false. I shall admit no such thing." He sniffed haughtily. "Ask your questions, young Core. I shall answer."
"Like I just said, this whole process seems so unfair. Why?"
"What is 'fair,' really? When you think about it—"
Ket growled.
"Fine, fine." Bekkit raised his hands and flitted further away, keeping plenty of distance between himself and Ket. "As I mentioned before, the penalties for traveling are intended as a deterrent. A nomad Core with full access to their abilities could quickly become powerful enough to overwhelm or absorb any civilization in its path. It’s all about balance. And it makes sense from a purely practical standpoint, too. Having a smaller Sphere to keep track of, for instance."
"All right, but the penalty for failure is in Faith," I pointed out. "From a 'purely practical standpoint,' why can't I access my mana?"
"Well," he cleared his throat, "I do not know the ins and outs of it, of course. There are forces in this universe beyond even my comprehension, you know."
He said this as though he didn't really believe it. Egotistic jerk.
"I have a hypothesis,” he continued, “based on my own past experiences with the ability, and it is thus: your Sphere contracts because it is working harder than it usually needs to. Exodus draws u
pon the magic of time and space—the most complicated and nuanced kind in existence. Well, besides that of life and death, of course. Fluctuations in mana or Faith—such as those caused by spellcasting, ascension, or worship—could affect its precarious balance with potentially drastic consequences."
"What do you mean, 'the magic of time and space'? I thought that was, like, portals and stuff."
Bekkit scoffed. “That’s a childishly simplistic way of thinking.”
"Then explain like I'm a simple child."
The sprite gave a long-suffering sigh. "Activating Exodus does not let us travel through time and space. Rather, it warps reality around us. It makes you—all of us—take up less room. And time travels more slowly outside of it."
Wow. The very idea left me reeling. It was—
"I hate to kill your delusions of grandeur, Kit, but nothing you just said is true."
Benin was back. He'd been sheltering beneath a tree, and remained lounging against its trunk with his arms folded as my SOI reached and encompassed him.
"I checked the map,” he said to me. “The forest runs for miles in every direction. We've picked out what we think is a safe route in, but we should probably camp soon and hope the weather clears up. The trees run down into a valley before the ground rises toward the mountains; it'll be a swamp down there."
"Agreed. We'll stop when we reach the canopy. We could use the extra shelter."
I conveyed the news to Ris'kin. Her ears perked up at the prospect of respite from the downpour, and she passed from group to group, encouraging them on and presumably spreading the good news.
Bekkit cleared his throat again. "Ah, young mage, would you care to explain yourself? You said—"
"I said you're talking horseshit, yeah."
While the sprite spluttered indignantly, Benin explained, "Coll and I have been in and out of your Sphere this entire time. I just left it for an hour and found it again easily, and I felt zero variation between the two environments. No timeslip. No warping." He shrugged. "Your theory is flawed. Guess again, Kit."