“You’ve gone completely mad, is what you mean,” snapped Rethbrin.
“He did that a long time ago,” said Mithris, stepping forward to stand at the grandmaster’s side.
“Enough!” Eaganar glowered at them a moment, then turned to Grimball. “Throw them over the side!” he bellowed.
Strong hands gripped Mithris from behind.
Chapter 64
They threw Rethbrin in first, and there wasn’t a thing Mithris could do. He felt numb. Was this how his journey would end?
They seized Melendra and dragged her to the edge in turn. She screamed when they threw her over. He gritted his teeth in anger. He was helpless to resist.
Then it was his turn. Mithris didn’t struggle as the spearmen forced him to the edge.
As he tumbled through the sweltering heat toward death, Mithris thought back over his short life. He was amazed at how calmly his thoughts proceeded.
He saw Deinre again in his mind’s eye, over and over. Deinre in his Arcanium. Deinre tearing into a steak and kidney pie. Deinre shouting at him to keep practicing those wards.
The events of the last two years replayed themselves in his imagination. The flight from Deinre’s tower, Ileera’s betrayal, the mercenaries, the foundation crystals, mad old Zerto, the Chaos Lord, all of it. He’d done so much and come so far. And now it was over.
The only comfort Mithris had was Eaganar’s wheezing, hacking cough. His nemesis might have won, but Eaganar was dying. He might last another decade, but his end was coming and there was nothing the evil wizard could do. If there was no magic here for Mithris to save himself, nor was there any for his bitter enemy.
Mithris splashed down into the molten lava and sank instantly beneath the burning surface.
***
The villagers knelt on the stone ledge and whispered a prayer to their Great Master. He stood before them in his ancient glory and accepted their praise, their supplication. He exulted in it.
Lothar knelt with the others but he did not pray. He had fallen to his knees with an anguished cry when they hurled his sister over the edge. He remained there now, but his eyes were not lowered. He held them fixed on the Great Master and his stare was more keen than his best spear.
He saw the Great Master and it was as though he saw him for the first time. The Great Master did not look like a god. Instead, he looked remarkably like a man. An elder, most definitely, but a man at that.
Had this man really ordered Melendra’s death?
Had everything always been a lie? What if his sister had been right all along about Mithris and the other stranger? Now they were dead, all three of them. And all of it only because this wretched creature said so.
Lothar gripped his spear tightly but did not yet lift it from the stony ground. He did not lower his eyes, and they burned. He was betrayed. It gnawed at him like a tiny raktar in his gut. The venom stung him as it spread coldly throughout his body. He glared his newborn hatred at the man his people had worshiped for generations. The man who had surely lied to them.
Behind Lothar, the people finished their worship and rose silently to their feet. Lothar heard the rustle of their garments and knew that Elder Grimball made ready to lead them back down the mountain, back to the village.
He could not go with them. He doubted he would ever see the village again, because he had to kill the Great Master. He knew he would not survive that.
Lothar wondered which of his own people would strike him down, and whether it would be the spear or the long fall and Inferno.
The Great Master paid no attention to Lothar as the lithe young spearman rose to his feet and brought his spear up to hold with both hands.
The god of Lothar’s people turned in toward the radiant heat and gazed longingly over the edge. He seemed to see something down there, something more than the surging lava of the Inferno. His withered arms lifted at his sides, palms cupped open and turned down facing the blazing lake of fire and liquid stone.
Lothar gritted his teeth and adjusted his grip on the haft of his spear. The Great Master’s head lolled back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth hanging open as if in sheer bliss.
“I can hear it,” the Great Master hissed, and then louder: “I can feel it!”
Lothar did not know what the ancient creature was talking about, and he did not care. But he knew the moment was now. Whatever was happening, Lothar must strike now or he would lose the chance forever. He had to do this.
For Melendra. For his sister.
He shouted it, he roared it. As he sprang forward, charging down on the Great Master with the spear held braced and level and aimed for the heart, Lothar howled it like a beast wounded and dying: “Melendra!”
The tip of Lothar’s spear sank into Eaganar’s side, perhaps a hand’s width above the hip. The wooden shaft slid deep before it splintered near the middle. Lothar released the spear with a final shove, coming to a halt even as the Great Master was hurled back by the force of the piercing blow.
Eaganar staggered and fell back, throwing out one hand to catch himself. The brittle bones of his wrist shattered when the hand struck bare stone, and he screamed in pain as he rolled over on his side. Blood seeped rapidly from the savage wound of the broken spear impaled through his gut.
The ancient wizard stared balefully up at his killer. Bubbling blood frothed at his lips and he spit viciously to one side before he spoke. His every word dripped with hate and venom.
“It’s too late!” The Great Master sneered. His excitement never waned, though he had to cough and hack his way through the next words. “It worked! I can feel it. After all these centuries, it finally worked! The magic is returning.”
A fit of coughing wracked him then, and he doubled over—grinding the spear agonizingly in his belly. A small torrent of blood gushed over his lips. But Eaganar laughed through it. His eyes blazed with triumph.
Chapter 65
It’s about time you got here.
Mithris was not dead.
You didn’t think we’d let that happen, surely?
It took him some time to put it together. He wasn’t dead. That was Vapor speaking to him. He heard—no, he didn’t hear Vapor. He had never heard the foundation crystal. The words materialized in his head, silent as his own thoughts. But they were not his thoughts, and neither were these.
Even Vapor could not speak to you until you came to us, said a new voice, one that Mithris had never heard before.
Mithris was still trying to figure out how he wasn’t dead. He remembered falling, and then he’d hit the lava’s surface. Now, he was…nowhere. It was not the same dark abyss through which he had fallen before. It was warm. It felt safe and comfortable. But Mithris saw nothing, felt nothing, and heard nothing save the voices in his head.
He realized the second voice must belong to one of the other foundation crystals. But they had never been able to speak to him before.
We can all make ourselves heard to you now, said a third voice. Mithris had no idea how, but somehow he knew that was Absence. The second voice had belonged to Terra. He could hear them now.
Did that mean…
You won’t be able to use magic here, said Vapor before Mithris even decided to try. But look on the bright side, Mithris. You don’t need to use it. We have you.
But where was he?
This is not a place, nor even a time. Hearing it for the first time, Mithris recognized the voice of Ember. But…he had been thrown into a live volcano. How…
The volcano is me, Ember explained. At least for the time being. It won’t be so, not after this. I’ve been waiting for you, Mithris. Waiting for you to brave yet another inferno to reach me.
And through Ember, the rest of us as well, added Vapor. The airstone sounded impatient, as though it did not appreciate the others being able to talk to Mithris as well. Mithris realized he did not seem to have a body; otherwise, he would have smiled.
Then he remembered Rethbrin and Melendra, and Eaganar the would-be god triumphan
t at last. His humor vanished.
Eaganar thinks he has won, said Vapor. It was a cryptic statement, but for once Mithris did not have to beg the crystal to explain further.
He has been here for eight thousand years, said Tempus.
And the magic in this plane has dwindled away to nothing in that time, added Depths. We have been shutting it out of this reality.
Eaganar believes the magic is returning, added Terra. What he feels, however, is only us. We are using our power to bring you to us so we may speak.
Soon, whispered Absence, the magic will be gone forever from this new foundation.
The Eighth Foundation, said Ember.
The Final Foundation, corrected Tempus.
The foundation with no magic, concluded Vapor. It sounded even more irritated than before.
Mithris didn’t understand. Then, suddenly he did. He was not sure if his own mind had made the leap, or if the foundation crystals had somehow planted the awareness into his brain. But he understood.
United at last, the foundation crystals had combined their powers to create a new plane of existence. The Eighth Foundation. And they had sealed the wounds of its birth, the ley lines that existed in all realities. The tears in creation which allowed magic to bleed through into the realms. It had taken them thousands of years, but Vapor would have been quick to remind him that time had no meaning for the crystals.
The wonder of what they had done astonished him.
What he did not understand was why. Why had they done it?
Why create a realm without magic? Vapor sounded amused. Mithris, it was pretty much your idea.
***
Something was wrong. Eaganar snarled, clutching at his laid-open side with one hand and grasping at empty air with the other. The magic wouldn’t come. He summoned its power in vain. But he could still feel it, awesome power, all of the power he had missed these eight thousand years.
It had driven him mad to lose that power, and now it drove him mad once over to feel it tantalizingly just out of reach.
What was happening?
He looked back up at the bloodied youth who’d slain him. Lothar glared at him, eyes burning with hatred, as his own brothers, the other young men and hunters, grabbed him from behind and bore him down to the ground.
They would cast him in the pit, but so what? Eaganar would die all the same, unless the magic answered his summons.
Why would it not answer his summons?
He was dying.
Then he died.
Eaganar’s eyes glazed over and his lifeless body slumped limp on the ground. His spirit drifted free of its broken container and floated a moment.
Many things could happen to a slain wizard’s spirit. They were not like the souls of most men, which were only energy which dissipated a short time after death to be reabsorbed into the cosmic balance. A wizard’s life-force could endure.
If only that life-force could cast a spell, a single spell, Eaganar might endure forever. But even he would fade away in time unless he found a way to anchor himself to this plane. It meant he would be trapped in this foundation for all time, but at least he would continue. It would not end here at a primitive’s spear tip.
Dimly, that energy which was all that lived of Eaganar sensed a shimmering, humming presence nearby. It emanated from below, from the heart of the mountain. It resonated everywhere, though. It was all connected. The earth and the sky and the rain and the sea and the raktar and the people of the jungle and the jungle itself were all one piece, and at its heart was the greatest power Eaganar had ever felt.
If he could reach that power, he knew he would triumph yet. He could become the god of this plane in truth. He stretched toward it eagerly.
Chapter 66
Mithris was in a place that was not a place. He had not moved, not gone anywhere. He knew he was still in the nowhere place, in the power of the foundation crystals. But now there were…details. They were vague, but they were there.
In the distance, the suggestion of a horizon. A division between land and sky. He had a body and he could feel the air on his arms. He was not alone. Rethbrin and Melendra stood before him. They were both stunned, and they stared at him in wonder.
Mithris looked down at himself. He no longer wore the ragged robes he’d had on when he’d been thrown to the volcano.
Instead, he wore a rich robe of velvet and silk in deep burgundy red trimmed with gold and silver filigree. The soot and dirt were gone from his exposed skin and he gleamed as though freshly bathed. He felt stronger than he had before, his weakness and exhaustion rinsed away.
The crystals, he realized. This place was nowhere, and nothing in it was real. It was a pocket of existence created by the crystals, and they had granted him these clothes. He wondered if there was any particular reason for it, but he would not complain.
Melendra, in particular, seemed impressed by the sight. Mithris felt himself blush.
Was it not your wish, Mithris? Vapor sounded amused in his head. Did you not wish to rid yourself of magic? To find a place where you could dwell, away from your enemies and those who would hurt you? In the Final Foundation, you can even settle down to grow beets if that is still your desire.
Mithris drew in a sharp breath, and at last he understood. For a moment he was overcome.
“You did this for me?” he whispered.
“Eh?” snapped Rethbrin. The old wizard took a step closer, peering at Mithris. “What’s that, lad?”
“The crystals,” Mithris explained. “They’re here. Speaking to me.”
“Ah, splendid!” Rethbrin clapped his hands. “I take it you’ll have this all sorted soon, then, and we can be off back home.”
Melendra’s head turned slowly, carrying her eyes back and forth between the two wizards. She did not know where she was or what was happening. She more than half believed she was dead, and this was the afterworld.
“Erm,” said Mithris. “Well. Let me ask about that, actually.” Rethbrin scowled at him, but Mithris shook his head and turned half away from the ancient mage to concentrate on communicating with Vapor and the others.
We can hear you just fine, said Depths, sounding amused.
Yes, agreed Vapor. If you wish to return to the fifth foundation, we can transport you there. But you must decide now. The final cracks are closing, and this reality will be shut off soon.
Mithris nodded. The course seemed clear. He turned back to Rethbrin. “Get ready,” he said. Rethbrin nodded, but there was really nothing else to do to prepare.
“Wait.” Mithris held up his hand. He had forgotten Eaganar.
Eaganar’s body has died, Tempus informed him.
But his energy has not yet dissipated, added Absence. Mithris thought that sounded ominous. He considered. Was there some way for Eaganar to be reborn?
But even if that could happen, the dark magician would be trapped in another dimension, a plane of reality where he could not use any magic. What harm could he do then? What would it matter to Mithris, safely back home?
But then again, Vapor was right. He had wished for this. A world without magic. He could truly be rid of wizards if he stayed. But what was there in this world for him?
“What now?” groused Rethbrin.
“I’m…not certain.” Mithris did not mean it as an answer to Rethbrin’s question. Rather, he spoke to Vapor and the rest of the crystals.
You must choose, Mithris. We can only send you back if you choose…
Melendra screamed. Mithris whirled in time to see a cloud of misty shadow swooping down out of the indistinct sky. As it descended on her, Melendra beat at it with her hands and backed away in fright. The smog coalesced, forming the shape of a man. Details resolved themselves and suddenly Eaganar stood before them.
The evil wizard seized the girl by the shoulders. She struggled and squirmed but he pulled her close and wrapped one arm about her neck, choking her from behind. He held here there, half in front of him like a human shield.
&n
bsp; “So this is where you’ve been hiding!” he spat.
This is very, very bad, said Vapor.
Mithris didn’t need a foundation crystal to tell him that. He stared at Eaganar in horror.
Chapter 67
“How?” Mithris shook himself, disbelieving but unable to deny the evidence of his eyes. Eaganar was here, in this nowhere place. His foe was not defeated. Angry resolve growing, spurred on by the look of terror in Melendra’s bulging eyes, Mithris stepped forward.
“How many times will you devil me, Eaganar?” he demanded. “How many times must I defeat you before you admit yourself bested?”
“You think I will ever bow to you, whelp?” Eaganar cackled with the dry laughter of a corpse. “Never!”
We don’t know how he did it. Vapor’s voice was urgent. But he’s managed somehow to…grab hold of us. Not the crude protrusions you have seen and carried, but the raw and ethereal essence which is our true form. He is somehow able to…to shape the energy.
Mithris felt his blood run cold. Master Deinre had worked his whole life trying to shape energy. Mithris himself had an inborn talent for it and even so it had taken him many months of practice to be able to do it intentionally, or with any degree of actual control.
Eaganar could not do it. He had never been able to, and Mithris had been certain the vile sorcerer would never master the trick.
In death, his spirit was freed from its restraints, said Tempus. We can resist him, but only for a time. Mithris! Stretch yourself out to us!
“I notice the way you stare at this girl, boy,” taunted Eaganar, who of course could not hear the silent conference only Mithris was privy to. “You’re going to watch me kill her. I’ll deal with you after.”
Rethbrin surged into motion, hurling himself at the evil wizard. Eaganar’s free hand shot up and a bolt of crackling energy shot forth, taking Rethbrin in the chest. The ancient grandmaster was flung back off his feet to sail through the air.
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