by J. F. Lewis
Flowing nimbly from a sphere into a mass the same shape as the dead area in miniature, right down to the cracks and crevices, Irka sent the excess bone-steel through a series of rough shapes: a pyramid, a series of pyramids, an irkanth, two figures standing back to back, three figures holding hands in a line, the same three figures in a rough triangle.
“I like that one,” Yavi said. “But I wish you could make them look like—”
“Kari, Hashan, and Warrune?” He closed his eyes, muttering words under his breath, eyes glowing brightly enough beneath his eyelids that the light shone through as the suns began to go down.
Kari changed first, one of the figures shrinking, features becoming more distinct, refined, then exact.
“You should see how discombobulated I make other Aern.” Irka winked. “I did help kill the god of knowledge, and the new one is my uncle.”
Shortly, Hashan and Warrune appeared as Vael rather than as trees, like tiny pearlescent statues, holding hands with their Root Wife-to-be.
“Fabtacular.” Yavi’s ears wiggled and tears welled in her eyes. As little details sprang to life, vanished, and reformed to suit the artist’s eye, she felt the back of Dolvek’s hand on her shoulder.
A fitting monument, Dolvek thought. It will be . . . bigger, though. Won’t it?
“So, I’m thinking we’ll make the whole thing out of metal and stone . . .” Irka said, oblivious to the ghost’s confusion.
“Of course,” Yavi said to both of them. “Of course.”
*
Far from Fort Sunder, in the Sri’Zauran Mountains, a dragon’s shadow fell across the white-capped peaks, announcing the arrival of guests. The three most powerful mortals (if an Aiannai, a dragon, and an Armored Aern could truly be called such) and the dragon’s designated speaker (a Zaur named Kreej) circled a stone abode. From a distance, it blended in with the peaks around it, but the view from above shone true.
They are expecting guests, Bloodmane thought to Rae’en.
All well back at Fort Sunder? Rae’en asked.
I would have told you if it were not.
General Kyland did an excellent job on the place, Kazan cut in. In Rae’en’s mind’s eye, he highlighted cunningly concealed lookout spots manned by autonomous sentries of purely elven artifice.
Glinfolgo waved up at them from the back of the manse, as he closed the door to the pump house he’d come up to take a look at and help repair. Really, he’d just wanted to check if Sargus had been keeping up the maintenance on the place without any trouble.
A wide spot on the west side of the property had been cleared away, and they set down in the middle of it, Kreej scurrying down from his precarious perch at the dragon’s breast. Rae’en wondered where the dismembered head of Kilke, which had hung there during the Battle against Coal, had gone, but she knew better than to ask Tsan’Zaur again. All answers on the topic had been met with baleful glances, disdainful snorts, or dismissive retorts.
Queen Bhaeshal waited for Rae’en to dismount the dragon before the two of them set out for the front door in unison, Kreej trailing along behind. Sargus met them halfway, wearing a warm coat that obscured anything else he might be wearing except for a pair of leather boots. He walked upright, without his disguised pack or the array of lenses that he had once worn camouflaged to make his skull appear distorted. He carried a massive tome under one arm.
He offered a brief bow to Bhaeshal and Rae’en, aiming a deeper one toward Tsan’Zaur, who gazed with half-lidded eyes in their general direction.
“Please tell Tsan’Zaur,” Sargus said, “that, per her request, I have devoted my writing time to an account of the creation of the Sri’Zaur and the twisting of the Zaur to Uled’s purposes.”
Kreej tapped and scratched his words in Zaurtol, and, though the dragon plainly understood what Sargus had said, she waited politely for Kreej to finish before responding in a mixture of Zaurtol and Zaur to Kreej.
All a part of the Zaur need to appear superior, Joose thought.
She’s a dragon, Glayne thought. And Warleader of the Sri’Zauran empire. She has to maintain—
It was the least-objectionable solution to resolve their perceived disrespect in her lowering herself to speak directly to those below her, Rae’en thought. Stop hunting after that spoor!
All of the Overwatch tokens in her head lit up gold in acquiescence.
“Tsan’Zaur honors you with the assurance that she will read it soon, noting the many errors she will no doubt find in the work.” Kreej said.
Rae’en rolled her eyes.
“I am honored and grateful.” Sargus bowed, handing the book to Kreej, who set off directly to his mistress to stow it in his seat or assemble her reading apparatus, if she so desired.
“How is he?” Bhaeshal asked, her metallic eyes making it unclear whether she was studying Sargus or watching Kreej struggle to assemble the mass of rods and gears that allowed the dragon to turn the pages of books too small or delicate to handle dragon claws.
“Not that way,” Glinfolgo bellowed, stealing a quick kiss on the cheek from his niece as he passed. “Let me do it, you daft lizard.”
“Your assistance would be quite acceptable, master Dwarf.” Tsan’Zaur shifted into a more comfortable position to wait, shooing Kreej away with a wing.
“Much better, highness,” Sargus answered Rae’en’s earlier question.
“Well enough for visitors?” Rae’en asked.
“He had a rough night,” Sargus warned, “screaming about trignoms not stacking, but he’s been up for several hours now, and he’ll likely be clearheaded until bedtime as long as we steer away from troublesome topics . . .”
*
Inside the house, Rae’en marveled at all the artwork. Re-creations of statues or paintings that had been lost in the destruction of Port Ammond were displayed next to other genuine objects that had been rescued by refugees when they fled to Fort Sunder. An oversized Dwarven Hearthstone poured heat into the room. Kreej promptly positioned himself next to it, hissing his pleasure. Rae’en recognized it as one of the fancier ones that cast light as well as heat, noting a rune that might allow it to mimic the appearance of flame. The Dwarves were grateful to the Aiannai whose plans had helped end the feuds between Zaur, Aern, elf, and Vael.
The former king, one of the few who bore both the names Oathkeeper and Bone Finder, sat in a chair before the hearthstone, stacking trignom tiles on a board.
“Your turn, Sargus,” Rivvek called. “Did you know there is a Zaur in here?” He looked over his shoulder, eyes questing, and smiled when he spotted his guests.
“My queen.” Rivvek hopped up and crossed to hug her, then, “First of One Hundred,” he said to Rae’en, accompanied by formal nod.
“Bone Finder.” Rae’en nodded back. “Or would you prefer Oathkeeper?”
“Rivvek.” He laughed. “I prefer Rivvek.”
“As you say, Bone Finder Rivvek,” Rae’en said formally, a hint of mirth in her voice.
Bone Finder.
The solution still made her smile. What to call a group of elves who had trekked into the Never Dark and accomplished the impossible? The answer had seemed obvious, and Alysaundra had talked Zhan into accepting it, though that had been a near thing. Zhan did not appear to appreciate the irony of having elves as part of his Ossuary.
She studied Rivvek as he offered Bhaeshal some tea or soup. He’d lost weight. His eyes were hollow and ringed with the dark bruises of constant insomnia.
At least his hair looks like it is growing back, Amber thought to her.
Rae’en let Sargus lead her through the tour of improvements since the most recent of her annual visits, while Bhaeshal and Rivvek visited. Most of the house was taken up by a library that looked out onto an interior garden.
A pleasant enough place, Joose thought to her, for an elven home.
Not everyone loves combat drills and forge work like we do, Rae’en thought back.
“How are you, Sargus?” Rae’en as
ked. “Everyone who matters lauds Rivvek for his contributions. Being officially dead seemed to do a lot for public opinion of him, but you are the one who helped my father adjust the Proto-Aern so Uled could be trapped by it. Without you, Wylant may not have been able to slay him in the first place back at the Sundering.”
“She would have found a way.” Sargus led them to a cozy lab, handing her a thick square of bone-steel the size of her thumb. “I’ve inscribed another seven books and the one I wrote for Tsan’Zaur on it.”
“Seven?” Rae’en slipped the tile into her saddlebags. “Last time it was only three.”
“I’m getting better at it with Glinfolgo here to help me.” Sargus shrugged. “Eventually, I hope to be able to create an automata to do the encoding for me.”
“Your own pace is more than sufficient.” Rae’en patted his shoulder.
“How are her subjects taking it?” Sargus asked.
“As much as some hated him, others loved him.” Rae’en looked about the lab, recognizing some of the tools and equipment as elven or Dwarven. “General Kyland helped there, too, singing his praises. With the Lost Command backing him up . . . Well, I don’t think they will ever come around completely, but most mourned his ‘death,’ and the monument only gets defaced about once a month now. Even so, his brother’s is more popular.”
“Thank you again for arranging all of this.” Sargus gestured all around him. “He really is doing so much better. He eats. He reads. Some days he laughs. Maybe this will heal him.”
“I hope it does.” Rae’en clapped her hand on the elf’s shoulder. “You both accomplished the impossible and kept your oaths in the process. We respect that.”
Most beings are simply ill-suited for the level of death the former king encountered, Bloodmane thought. He did well to bear up under it until the task was completed. We saw elemancers suffer as he does after the Demon Wars.
Will he recover, do you think? Rae’en asked.
Your uncle might know, Bloodmane thought. I do not.
“Let me show you the gardens,” Sargus said.
*
“It’s not so much a secret.” Three-Headed Kilke strode through the heavens in robes made of shadow and lightning, his strides so long, Vander had to double-time it to keep pace with him. “But I still cannot tell you. The Artificer could have, in the old days, but I am bound by time, as are we all–and, having given mortals the right to govern their own minds, no god may determine how any one of them may act in future with complete certainty.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?” Vander asked.
“To repair a mortal mind? We could remove the troublesome memories, let Sedvinia massage the ones we leave behind,” Kilke said.
Kilke led them into the Throne Room of the Gods. Vander had never been there before. He hated it on sight. Grand pillars and nonsensical physical laws made it the essence of everything he disliked about the way the old gods acted. “But Kholster objects to that sort of manipulation rather strenuously.”
Gromma and Xalistan lounged in a shared bit of jungle that jutted into the room through a section of crumbled wall, as if time and decay had collapsed a portion of the hall, granting access to the wilds without. They chatted to each other in animal tongues, aloof as if the other gods were unimportant.
Sedvinia, goddess of joy and sadness, waved at Vander from her seat upon the edge of a marble fountain through and around which flowed the elemental deities of water and air.
Clemency stood casually next to Kholster, flaming helm giving evidence of Wylant’s presence within. Vander sought about for Vax, covering his surprise with a cough when instead of an answer he hit the word: secret.
Jun’s seat (a throne in the likeness of an anvil) sat empty, as did Shidarva’s seat on the throne raised above all others, as befitted her station as Ruler of the Gods.
“Kill him.” Minapsis spoke from a throne of the souls of her worshippers. “Give me his soul, and in time I will heal it. He will be punished as he feels he should be and then, once his guilty conscience is assuaged, he will be rewarded as befits his deeds.”
“When in the natural course of events—” Torgrimm (in Harvester, helm clutched under one arm) shifted from foot to foot next to his wife’s throne. “—Rivvek dies, I will decide whether his soul is to be placed into your capable hands, or reincarnated, Minapsis.”
“No one suggested otherwise.” Minapsis’s second set of eyes opened a bare fraction, pure white light shining out from behind the lids. “And my congratulations on the return of your third head, brother. How did you arrange that?”
“Simple.” Kilke grinned with all three mouths. “I won.”
“Won what?” Wylant’s voice asked from within Clemency.
“This game.” Taking a position against the wall opposite Shidarva’s throne, Kilke sat, the shadows gathering into a throne beneath him. Swelling with the swirling dark, he grew to over two kholsters, the deity’s central head purring all the while. “Perhaps the final game we are allowed to play with the lives of mortals, given our dear Kholster’s opinion on the topic.”
“He’s only one,” Xalistan roared. “One voice against many. He—”
“—is the Arbiter, the birth and death of gods,” Kholster said firmly, his voice commanding and loud. “I do not like the idea of gaming with mortals as if they are tokens or dice in some Guild City game room or Midian back alley.”
“I. Regrettably. Agree.” Each of Kilke’s heads spoke one of the words, allowing the sentence to flow right to left then starting over with the rightmost head. “My time on the mortal plane has taught me much. Our new God of Knowledge has convinced me of things Aldo tried and failed to teach.
“The Artificer never meant for us to rule them.” He kept speaking, lightning playing across his horns, arcing from head to head, jumping to his fingertips where he let it course from claw tip to claw tip, gathering it at last into ball of lighting that he set hovering above his shadow throne. “We were to look after them, council them, teach them. Protect the Last World when they could not. What were his last words to us, Vander?”
“Be kind.” Vander folded his hands behind his back. “Love them. Care for them.” Without pausing, he reached out to his bone-steel discs, drawing them near, but not inside the hall. “Be the parents to them that I could not be to you.” He met each deity’s gaze in turn as he paced the room. “Let them flourish and protect them from all exterior harm, even undue influence from yourselves or your fellow deities.
“Let them learn from their mistakes.” Getting Xalistan to meet his gaze took longer than any of the others, but Vander got him, in the end, and by then he had all of their attention. “Guide, but never rule.
“Be stern, but never cruel. They have been through too much at my hands already.” When he stopped, Vander stood in the center of the room, his back to Shidarva’s throne. “Do not seek me, for I am already within you and you will not find me without.”
“Nonsense,” Xalistan barked. He drew himself up on his hind legs, tail swishing. “I have had enough of this. You mortals, taking the heavens by a quirk of fate and Torgrimm’s foolishness. Someone should strike you down and throw your filthy carcasses back to the Last World or beyond the Outwork entirely and into the depths of the Dragon Waste!”
A spear, cruel and long, materialized in Xalistan’s paws. Two sickles appeared in Gromma’s grasp, one rusty, the other new, both sharp.
“I abstain,” Minapsis drawled, vanishing with her husband and his armor, leaving only her own voice behind to complete the sentence. “I would fight only for my souls or for my husband.”
“Then strike!” Behind Vander in the wavering air, Shidarva appeared, a blazing blue sword in each of her four arms. He ducked one blade, took another to the shoulder, and blocked the remaining two with the alacritous arrival of two of his bone-steel discs.
Vander cried out in pain but kept moving, rolling away, covering his retreat with disc after disc as she smote them from the air
and existence, each with a single blow.
“Stop,” Kholster said softly, no sense of real urgency or emotion in his voice, as if he merely wanted to be able to say he had tried. “Wait. Don’t.”
Gromma drew back, but Xalistan and Shidarva came on.
One step took Vander to ruins of Port Sunder, but Shidarva followed.
A second step took him to the Isle of the Manitou. Shidarva followed.
Last chance for her to turn back, he thought at Kholster.
She won’t.
A third step took Vander to the Sacred Arena at center of the city of Warfare in the Guild Cities. She followed. As planned, Vander rolled right. Head down, arms out, in a sign of submission.
“I yield!” he shouted.
“You die!” Shidarva roared, “And without you, so falls your—”
Her body fell to the arena floor next to Vander, sparks of power arcing from her severed neck toward the being who held her head aloft.
“Eventually you will all learn to see that coming.” A second thrust from Wylant’s blade severed Shidarva’s spine. “If there are any of you left.”
Methodically dismembering the body (because one could never tell about some deities), Wylant did not stop until she had consumed Shidarva’s heart, and the blade Wylant had been holding turned blue with matching fire dancing along its edge.
“Kholster is a lucky Aern,” Vander said from the floor. He’d rolled over and sat up, but he showed no sign of standing. Stripes of Shidarva’s blood and his own marked his chest and his pants: red on orange. “How did he convince you to behead a second goddess?”
“Both times it was my idea, Overwatch.” Wylant threw the head into the dirt, setting it aflame with her sword. “Kholster may have set my slaying of Nomi in motion, but this one was all mine.”
I wanted to spare her, Kholster thought. Shidarva meant well once, and I think I understand her better now than I did as a mortal. I called her Queen of Leeches, and I meant it, but she was still grieving the loss of her people, her continent. In time she could have been brought back into line. Wylant disagreed.
