How Black the Sky

by T J Marquis

  All around the tower's wreckage they found the bodies of Underlanders. They left them where they lay. Most of the gen and werewolves were in pieces, torn by either Ess's orange orbs or Agrathor's lightning. They found a few of the garrison men's bodies as well. Here and there were dead supra-gen, jet-black skin and clothes camouflaging them in the darkness.

  They buried their dead comrades in cairns made of stone from Chasmverge, Axebourne and the First among them. Some of the stone blocks still glowed faintly green.

  Ess prayed alone over the First's grave for a long time, but Scythia had already cried herself out, and stood back with the remainder of Gorgonbane. They prayed together to the Blacksmith.

  Everyone knew that death was inevitable. It meant you were fully forged and tempered, ready to be carried along the Glorious Paths, where all evil and injustice would be vanquished with overwhelming and holy might. Axebourne was finished, and the First as well. They would be glorified. They would live with the Blacksmith and all other holy ones from now on.

  This knowledge didn't make the loss of Axebourne any easier.

  Every battle would be harder, Scythia would never be the same, and each round of jibes, tales or discussions of Gorgonbane's plans would be lacking that spice that only Axebourne could provide. Someone would have to tell Sugar, if she had survived the invasion.

  The First would be missed, but in a less personal sense. It had been good to know that someone with his great power was alive and working in the world. Pierce wondered how Ess felt about her master's death. She hadn't given away much, but he supposed she would talk to someone if she felt the need.

  There was a long period of silence after the impromptu memorial, and one by one, Gorgonbane walked away from the cairns. Scythia left last.

  When she did, there was a hardness in her gait that Pierce had never seen. It was clear that she had a plan.

  She strode up to the forgemaster first, and he looked down at her with a questioning brow.

  "Did you kill them? Were they alive when you found them?" she asked without preamble.

  Sev's brow unknitted and he looked sad for her. "I did not, ma'am. They were already dead, and cold."

  Scythia studied him intensely, gems on her circlet pulsing like a bird's heart. After a long moment, she nodded and strode away. She went to Ess next.

  "Can you fold me straight to Kash?" she asked. "Do you know where he could be? Or if the forgemaster can guess, could you do it?"

  Ess shook her head slowly. Her voice sounded weary and morose. "I cannot. I am able to fold quite far, but I cannot take anyone with me. You would have to learn it for yourself."

  Scythia nodded again. She glanced in the direction of the Chasm, then started walking straight away from it, inland. The others scrambled to follow.

  "Scythia, what are you doing?" Agrathor asked, jogging to keep up with her long strides.

  "What do you think?" she said, not looking back at him.

  "I think you're going to try and kill Kash," he said. "I love the idea, but you can't do it alone."

  "Watch me," Scythia growled.

  "We couldn't even do it together!" Agrathor shouted.

  Scythia wheeled on him. He skidded to a stop.

  "I have always been Gorgonebane's level head," she said fiercely. "I have always been the understanding sister and patient mother. With him at my side, I could spare the effort. I never minded filling that role. But now, he is gone. There is nothing left for me but recklessness and fury. I will live up to the bold memory of that wonderful man, to the fiery redness of his glorious mane. If I have to collect a thousand gems and dash my way into Kash's palace, or whatever fortress he's holed up in, I will do that. They will not see me coming, and the Underlord will be dead before anyone can come to his aid."

  She started walking away again. Pierce, Ess, and Sev had caught up.

  "If I have to torture and interrogate every last one of his minions," Scythia continued, "I will do that. Let the blood flow, let their bruises pulse as their hearts beat fear into their veins. I myself will send them to be trod upon the Glorious Paths, and when I meet the Blacksmith, he will congratulate me."

  Even in a calm state, there was no arguing with Scythia, so Agrathor fell back with the others and gave them the closest thing he could to a bewildered look. His flame eyes went round and dim.

  No one had any words for her, but they were still Gorgonbane. They would march forward together, though the dark remained deep, and they had no idea where they were.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  As Expected

  Kash had folded back up to Testadel after ordering the sacking of Chasmverge. Ugrata had suggested sending a squad of her elites to make sure the job got done, and he had agreed this would be prudent.

  Everything had gone as expected.

  Even the First Grand Master had not the power to both repel a direct assault from ground troops, and defend himself from the unprecedented attack of the ultra-Monstrosity from below.

  Kash laughed. He would have loved to see that thing in action, but he hadn't wanted to be in range of revenge. The day he'd discovered his faithful giants' elder brothers, well, it had been a real turning point for his plans. So much had been made possible by the ultras.

  He stood on the balcony of a high minaret overlooking the fortress and the ruined city outside it. Gen and humans were working together to clean up the wreckage and rubble, carting anything that could be reused to various staging areas, and the rest to designated dumps and pyres. So far, most of the humans were cooperating, and for this Kash was thankful. The ones that resisted incorporation were sent to the prisons and isolated. He much preferred their willing assistance to anything compulsory, like slavery. If all continued to go well, a new city would be built where Grondell had once stood, with Testadel as its heart.

  He really only expected pushback when it came to the worship of their Blacksmith god. That, too, would be straightened out with time. Kash's advisors had recommended a policy of syncretism, to which the Underlord had reluctantly agreed. Anything was worth it to get everyone working together for a common goal.

  They had to be ready, all of them, for what was coming next. Divided, they would certainly fall to the powers of falselight rising from below. United, however, they would have a chance not only to resist and survive, but thrive in the new world that was coming, and expand the light of the known world into those dark regions as yet unseen.

  Kash sighed. If the First had listened, things might have been easier. If he had listened when Kash had visited him... Well, it wasn't worth dwelling on. Things were done that could not be undone. The Second might come for him, but he thought not. From what he knew of her, she was fairly impassive in her old age. Most likely she would continue to keep her own counsel, plumbing the depths of the Theory and the Chasm until she was satisfied with the powers she discovered, or until death finally came.

  The rest of Gorgonbane - they would come for certain, those who survived the ultra-Monstrosity's attack anyway. He wouldn't know who had lived through the long fall until they were seen by his forces, or they simply showed up on his doorstep. When that happened, though, Kash would be ready.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Glorious Path

  Axebourne awoke in a field of crystal-clear grass. It bent and swayed in the wind, refracting the light of the white sun, shedding rainbow glints of light into the air like physical things. He couldn't even name all the colors he saw. The sky here was blue, and for a moment he thought that the First's grand enchantment must have succeeded, that it had done something to fundamentally alter the world, far beyond simply coloring the sky.

  Then he remembered his death.

  He recalled the fierce pain of asphyxiation, and a feeling like his body was being bruised everywhere at once. He saw again the bright explosion, felt again the shock at Eff's failure a moment before. He saw the face of the supra-gen who had murdered him. A face with no name. The face of the First beyond it, contorted wi
th the same pains Axebourne had been suffering. He had failed to protect Eff from assassination, and now the First was likely dead as well. He might even be around here somewhere.

  He saw and felt all these things, but he felt no anger, or remorse, or fear. It had happened as it was meant to, and he knew that when he looked, there would be a new path before him.

  Axebourne sat up and looked around himself. He'd been lying in the shade of a tree, a glorious thing with bright pink leaves and a pure white trunk. Scythia would have loved it, to recline against his chest in its shade.

  Scythia. He felt the memory of sadness at the thought of the sorrow she must be feeling. Yet he smiled slightly. She would take his death far better than he would have taken hers. He might very well have cast himself into the Chasm if she died. He didn't know how time flowed here, compared to the world of first life, but he wouldn't be surprised if his murderer was already dead, avenged by his wife of so many years.

  He rose. He and the lovely tree stood on a high hill that overlooked the path he had expected to see. It was narrow and gold, a gold so pure that it hardly looked gold anymore, but almost like crystal. On either side of the Glorious Path grew endless fields of crystal grass. The soil beneath it all was white like snow. Hills rolled away in every direction, and between some of them there lapped little ponds or bigger lakes of water purer than any he'd ever seen. There was no hill without the crowning glory of one or more beautiful trees, and their leaves came in every color imaginable.

  Axebourne strode down the hill and onto the golden path. He followed it in the direction of the bright white sun. It was different than the one he was used to, for it had no tendrils, but was like the light of a billion gems put together, and yet without heat. It was moving across the sky, but the day felt timeless. Axebourne thought that it would never set.

  As he moved down the path, he felt a growing sense of peace. He had already been at peace, but this was like something that was already hot, beginning to burn. It was the jollity of three steins of mead flowing into the happy abandon of a seventh. More than these. It was calm upon calm, a universe of contentedness.

  A stranger crested a hill nearby, walking slowly to converge with Axebourne on the path. He was dressed in loose white clothing, and he had a golden belt about his waist. The man's skin was dark, as if tempered by an endless fire. His hair was white, and his eyes were like twin suns beneath his strong brow. He was not smiling, but his face looked joyous all the same. The man's hands were all that was not clean, for they were stained with soot, as if he had been working.

  The Blacksmith, but as Axebourne had never seen him depicted.

  "Hello, son," the man greeted. "I see you have found the path to your liking."

  "Hello," Axebourne replied dumbly. In life he might have been shocked at this meeting. Now he was simply in awe. He fell to his knees. "I never thought..." he stammered. "I mean I knew. You know I knew... believed... but I never could have imagined..."

  "Shh," said the man, and put a strong hand on Axebourne's wild red mane, father touching son. "Your awe is enough, for now. Words are not needed. Later, you will know the songs of rightful praise. Hear their melodies? They fly to me from the City yonder." He pointed beyond the hills, in the direction of the sun. Axebourne did indeed hear the sound of song, though he could not understand the words.

  "Blacksmith," Axebourne started. "It doesn't seem right. It doesn't seem like enough."

  "It is the best you have learned, is it not?" the man smiled. "Someday, I will teach you a better name. Come, stand and walk with me."

  Axebourne obeyed, and they continued down the golden path. He knew now that they were moving toward the unseen City. What awaited him there?

  "I will show it to you," said the Blacksmith, "but you will not tarry there long. You will not want to leave once you have known the joys of the Glorious People."

  "Am I to leave, then?" Axebourne asked. He wasn't worried or disappointed, merely curious. Up until now, he had never been unwilling to follow the Glorious Path. Whatever came next, he was also willing to do.

  "Yes, son," said the Blacksmith. "There is more for you to do. You will miss the peace of this place, and yet you will take much of it with you. A new time is coming upon your world, and I desire to send one back who is able to stand through it all. Yes, one, and more."

  "What must I do, father?"

  "Do as you have done, my son. You were given the gift of Surety. You were able to stand beneath the weight of giants and not lose your feet. You were able to lead men and women and yet serve them in every battle. There is but one thing you must do differently, for now."

  "What is it?"

  "Offer retreat," said the Blacksmith, looking directly into Axebourne's eyes. It was an imperative without hardness, an admonition without blame. "If your enemy listens and turns away from you, let him flee, so long as he keeps his back to you. If he turns toward you again, or off to either side, you may do whatever is necessary to send him back to me."

  "So I really will enter battle again," said Axebourne. He'd never known for sure if that teaching about the Glorious Paths was true.

  "You will," said the Blacksmith, "but not as you have seen it depicted." He laughed, a hearty sound that shook the ground and rippled the air. An immensely powerful expression of real humor.

  "I do not sweat when I work," he said, voice low and amused. "Nor do I wield my hammer so directly as the artists like to imagine. Of course I understand that it may feel that way sometimes. My ways cannot be so easily understood. Someday, you will know all, as I do. Until then, know that I do not tire, nor do I seek the harm of anyone, whether for my own ends or any other."

  "Yes, father," Axebourne said. "Am I to be a priest, then?"

  "Oh you all are, son," said the Blacksmith with a smirk. "You all tend to one idol or another, and those that believe in the Glorious Paths proclaim them as they live their lives. You, though, shall remain a great warrior."

  If Axebourne had been capable of worry, he would have felt a great relief at this statement. As it was, he felt only the memory. There was no room for relief, for he felt more than complete already.

  "When I go back," he said, "will I feel pain, worry, sorrow again?"

  "You will feel what the situation requires, for you will be a new thing," said the Blacksmith. "Nothing about life, though, will be the same."

  "Will Scythia still be my wife?" Again, he was not worried, but curious, in large part on Scythia's behalf.

  "You will be flesh, of course, for I wish for you to be seen," the Blacksmith said. "I would not separate yours from hers, and therefore I tell you, yes, you will still be husband to the woman who has loved you rightly."

  "And the one who murdered me," Axebourne said, "shall I seek revenge?" It was an honest question, concerned only with the notion of justice.

  "You must not," said the Blacksmith. "The murderer yet lives, but must serve another purpose before they return to me. You will show them the true meaning of mercy."

  "Yes, father," Axebourne said.

  "And though your friends may still call you Axebourne, I give you this," the Blacksmith said.

  In his hand was a white stone, attached to the end of a golden chain. In the center of the stone was an engraving.

  "Read it,' said the Blacksmith.

  It said, AHNM, but the word would not escape Axebourne's lips to be heard in the wider world.

  "This is your new name," the Blacksmith said, "known only to you who receive it. Even were you to speak it to another, they would not comprehend it, nor be capable of repeating it back to you. Even Scythia will not be able to grasp it, until she, too, has come to meet me on the Path."

  Axebourne took the stone, slipped its chain around his neck, and felt the authority it granted. The Ten Great Skills ignited deep in his restored flesh, ten and more. He knew now that nothing could destroy him, unless he were to forsake the name. He didn't even think that would be possible.

  "Come, see your new self,"
said the Blacksmith. He led the way off the path to a still pond in a hollow between two hills. He washed his hands clean in the pure water so that the soot made it opaque. Immediately the water started to dissolve the soot and become clear again, but before it did, AHNM saw his own reflection.

  He'd never been one for mirrors, for he knew he was not a handsome man, but he did know his own image. Here he looked much the same. He'd kept the dignity of his ripe age, his low brow and deep-set eyes. The eyes were brighter, though, silver like the moonlight. Any freckles or moles had disappeared, and there was a glow to his skin like that of a newborn babe. His hair was still wild and untamed, but its fiery red had been purified so that it truly looked aflame. He was himself, but renewed. AHNM looked up at the Blacksmith.

  "I can only say thank you, father," he said.

  "It is only what I have promised," said the Blacksmith. "You will be a Guardian to the world, and not only Overland, but every land. Remember to let the others do their work, for though you can do many things now, you cannot live their lives for them."

  "How will I know when to act, and when to refrain?" AHNM asked.

  "You will know."

  The Blacksmith held out a hand, clean now from the soot of his forge, and drew AHNM up onto his feet.

  "Come," he said, "let us go and see the City. There is yet time before you must go."

  They walked together down the Glorious Path, and AHNM was treated to awe after awe as truths and beauties that he never had guessed at were revealed to him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Shells

  The surface of Scythia's rage calmed after an initial storming march away from the Chasm's edge. The rest of Gorgonbane had followed closely, while trying to give her space. She finally slowed her mad march and seemed to fall into a more calculating mode. What she was thinking, though, no one else could say.

  Pierce wanted to guess that it was all just as simple as revenge. Something priceless had been taken from her, and she wanted an eye for an eye, death for death. Though this was the teaching of the Glorious Path, that one wronged should be repaid or avenged, storming up to Kash in his fortress did not seem the most prudent solution. Scythia was a legend, though, a heroine among the greatest of heroes and myths in Overland. Pierce believed that she would see reason before it was too late.