by Colin Taber
Baruna smiled.
“Anton told me some things of note.”
Sef asked, “And you trust him?”
“Whether he meant to help or not, he told me some truths thinking I’d soon be dead. I’ll tell you the details of it later, but the core of what he said was why they want me destroyed and the consequences if they failed. He also told me of the only other to survive their hunt.”
Sef asked, “Another avatar?”
“No longer an avatar, but awakened.”
“Who?”
“Dorloth of the Gargoyles.”
Both of them stared.
“I don’t know how, but maybe she can help.”
They looked to me, too stunned to answer.
“Anton also told me that I’m not a power like those above, I’m something new. Schoperde birthed me, and others like me, to replace the old generation who’ve been overcome by their greed for souls. I’m part of a second chance.”
Baruna asked, “What second chance?”
“Life’s second chance – and its last.”
Sef’s eyebrows arched.
I explained, “Schoperde birthed the old gods to look after the races of man, but they’ve become addicted to feeding on the souls of those they’re supposed to protect. Together they’ve grown so strong that they’ve blocked her attempts to raise new gods, gods that won’t succumb to that same addiction. It’s a battle that’s gone on for thousands of years and left her drained.”
The coach slowed as we moved deeper into the slums. The afternoon and much of the night had passed since the Inquisitor’s men had mounted their raids. Some of their fires burnt on, but the smoke wasn’t as thick. The bulk of what now drifted about was being blown from the growing inferno raging across the river in the Loyalist district.
The streets of the slums held a scattering of traffic and also some crowds. True, it was late, but there were relatives to check on and also news wanted of the chaos unfolding across the river. An undercurrent of fear, bitter and sharp, also haunted the night; it came from the rumours concerning Kurgar.
The road only grew narrower the deeper into the slums we went. Soon enough we had to leave the comfort of the coach and take to the dirt lanes on foot. All about us people hurried, many openly wearing the symbols of their true faiths; those first subverted by the Church, and then by our own guild.
Taking in the atmosphere, I imagined that the Flets living in Old Wair-Rae had once also gathered in such a nervous air on the eve of Def Turtung. Then, the Lae Velsanans had turned against their former slaves after a generation of granted freedom, scared by my people’s growing wealth and success.
For all of us, either living two centuries ago in the Fourth Dominion or today in Ossard, we stood at the cusp of our judgment. It was time to stand for our truths.
We hurried on through the slum’s alleyways heading through the maze. After passing a few more turns we'd be at the tower, and I could feel my power rising with my expectations.
We were so close!
My concerns also rose. I couldn’t communicate with Marco; his soul felt wrong.
I led, then came Sef and Baruna, and behind us walked a dozen of my followers. Unlike the streets we’d just passed through, the deeper we went into the heart of the slums the more deserted they’d become. The dark ways narrowed more and more to stand tall and ominous.
I whispered, “Let’s be careful.”
The alleyways lay quiet, even the open sewers dared not sound a trickle or gas a bubble.
I slid my perception into the celestial to search for Marco.
His soul was there, yet something was wrong. It glowed alive and beaming, but from it stretched a luminous trail that raged like billowing smoke in a gale-caught fire. Sparks also leapt after it to add to his shed soul-stuff, all of it burning off into Oblivion.
I hissed, “Wait!” And we stopped only one turn from the tower.
Nothing seemed to be lurking about his soul, and it didn't seem to be ensnared by any kind of casting. I also looked to the tower where its celestial presence loomed dull and lifeless. I reminded myself that it’d looked that way before, no doubt masked by some kind of magic.
Sef asked, “What's wrong?”
“I can't see them.
“They may be hidden.”
I shrugged as I resumed our march. “Perhaps.”
“Is Marco there?” asked Baruna.
“Yes, but something's wrong.”
After another turn we entered the small square, it now occupied only by shadows and the echoes of distant riots. We passed through it to ignore the tower, and turned down the alleyway opposite.
“Where’s Marco?” Sef asked.
In the dim light it was hard to see anything in the alley except that it lay thick with rubbish and filth. The refugees who’d huddled in it were gone.
I slipped into the celestial to look again. There his soul was glowing with life right in front of us, but still shedding energy. It didn’t make any sense.
“Sef, look into the celestial, he's right there.”
He looked and cursed, “By the gods, what’s happening to him?”
I took a hesitant step forward, to where – in my perception's view of two worlds – his soul lay. That glowing sphere of life, the seed of his being, seemed to be right before me, yet all I could see was a pile of dirty rags. I stopped in the dim light, finally recognising the robe we'd bought. It lay there tattered, twisted, and heavily stained. I reached down and drew it back to unveil his bloodied remains.
Sef hissed, “The bastards!”
Poor Marco, he lay there twisted and torn with meat spilling through his shredded clothes. He was dead.
Baruna gasped, “Oh, Marco!”
Sef said, “But his soul, it’s as if he lives?”
Baruna began to cry.
I slid into the celestial to try and connect with him. “Marco?”
He was waiting for me. “Oh, Juvela!” he sounded desperate.
“Marco! What have they done to you?”
“Juvela, I’m trying to hold on, but I can’t for much longer!”
“What happened?”
“They came, cultists, I didn’t see them approach, but they attacked...” his voice broke, trailing off in a mix of anguish and disbelief.
“Marco?”
“...they killed me!”
“Oh, Marco...”
“Wait Juvela, I don't have long.”
And I could see what he meant: It was taking an immense effort for him to hold out against his soul's urge to rush back to his god.
...to rush back to me.
The realisation distracted me, stirring my deep hunger.
I could feed again!
He said, “They taunted me, saying that they were going to take them away.”
“Both Pedro and Maria?”
“Yes, and others, including the Lord and Lady.” His soul began to shiver.
“Was there any clue as to where they were going?”
“Nothing for certain. I tried to connect with Maria, but I couldn’t, – and then... then the cultists started to... to...”
“Marco?”
“...to cut at me.”
I shivered. “It's alright Marco, you've done well to hold on.”
My hunger was growing...
Soon!
“I wish I could’ve done more. I wish I could’ve stopped them or got word to you. I tried, but I mustn't have been strong enough.”
“Marco, it's alright. When did it happen?”
“Not long after sunset. They teased me, saying the ritual was set for daybreak.”
I would’ve been unconscious when he’d tried to send his message.
He moaned with pain.
And the thought of him dying made me shudder. I could let his soul return to me on its natural path, coming home to roost, from where one day it would be reborn, or I could snatch it up to feed upon, absorb the power, and deny him his future.
I tried to c
alm myself: He trusted me. He’d have his time of peace, and when ready, his rebirth. “Marco, it's alright. You've done well and I’m grateful. You can rest now.”
“Wait; the cultists became frenzied when they attacked, and I could see things as if they were thoughts spilling from their minds. There were visions of them rallying at Market Square. I think they needed to take it, that they’d been ordered to.”
That made some sense, for where else should the sanctity ritual be completed but at Ossard’s heart and seat of power?
After all, Lady Death had been there...
And with that thought my hunger grew, beginning to give me deep quaking cramps. So pained, I became impatient. “Thank you Marco, but you can rest now, please.”
I sensed him relax.
He said, “It’s been a joy.”
I almost snapped at him, wanting him to let go and end my agony. I restrained myself. “Rest, Marco, please.”
And then he let go.
I knew that I should let his soul rest, it was my intention, but my hunger roused so painfully that I worried I’d not be able to resist.
His soul began to break into a glowing trail of soul-stuff, finally free to begin its race home.
Its race home to me...
I braced myself. This would be a different sensation, part of a natural cycle, as he was one of my own. I doubted it’d feel as intense as soul-feeding, but nonetheless my hunger for it and the power it would give me saw me oblivious to all else.
And then, just as I thought I had myself under control, my dark hunger bucked. It cut through me strong and vicious, each extra moment drawing me further into its agony.
I yearned to feed, to end the pain – and to take the high it would give.
And what was left of his soul flared and rushed for me.
I tensed and waited, bracing myself.
I should let him rest, but I needed to feed...
I needed the power...
I needed...
Then, just before he reached me, something blue and spectral passed between us in the void. It flared with new power, crying out in triumph before circling away.
It had taken Marco!
I cried out in anguish.
I needed that soul!
I turned my perception to search for the thief.
And there she was; my grandmother.
The dark pits of her eyes lay cold, but somehow smug upon her pallid face, and about her floated hundreds of skulls in her macabre halo.
Back in the real world, I slumped into the filth of the alley while crying out. Sef and Baruna both reached for me, thinking I’d been overcome by my mourning for Marco’s passing.
I realised then how much I’d already come under Death’s sway. I had to stop it, to resist the addiction – while I still could.
If I could...
I also had to break the bond between my grandmother and me.
Steadying myself, and aided by Sef and Baruna, I rose out of the alley’s dirt, muck, and Marco’s blood.
A cool chuckle then sounded from the shadows.
Sef's hand tensed on my shoulder, for we both knew who stalked us. “Easy, Juvela.”
Tears ran down my face to fall into Marco's ruin. I was disgusted with myself: Marco had died serving me and suffered afterwards, and all I’d been able to think of was gorging on his soul as if I was at a banquet. He deserved more than that; at the very least respect, love, and my own service. I vowed to save him, not just from my failure, but also from my grandmother.
If being a god meant I received people’s faith, surely I had to give something in return. My disgust at myself saw my need to feed fade, yet the hunger remained, but was no longer so urgent.
A voice again drifted from the darkness, cool and smooth, “The hunt isn’t over. You may have beaten Mortigi’s lady, but we’re many and still coming to claim you!”
Damn them and this plague of madness!
Angered, I growled, “Don't bother, I'll come to you.” And I stepped over Marco's body and deeper into the lane. “I'm coming, and I hope you, your fellows, and your filth-eating god are ready!”
And all about me the darkness opened with surprised eyes. Some of them gasped, others hissed, the lead calling, “How dare you!”
“You won't believe how much I dare!” And I offered my hands as power surged through them to flare as though a dozen suns had risen in the alleyway.
The cultists screamed as they ran, half-blinded and dazed. One of them stood frozen in terror, his eyes melting to leak from their sockets while the skin on his face reddened to peel as his clothes smouldered.
I hurled the light from my palms, it flaring as it flew. It split as it chased them, each blazing ball finding dark robes to burn through and flesh to quench them.
And then I was done.
“Juvela?” It was Sef.
I lowered my hands and what remained of the hot light died away.
“Juvela, such power, where has it come from?”
I nearly laughed, but this was no time for mirth. Still, I wasn’t going to admit that my newfound strength came from feeding on the soul of Lady Death. Instead, I said, “I must get to my family.”
Baruna stared, until finally she said, “We’ll come too.”
“No, please, you must lead the people out of Ossard before sunrise.”
“She will,” Sef said, “but I’m coming, and there’ll be no argument.”
I smiled. “You know what you’re going up against?”
“I know,” and his voice wavered. If he intruded on the rituals of the Reformers, he’d be working directly against the wishes of Kave.
In the celestial, I could feel the perception of a god looking our way, noticing something of what happened here. Quickly, I set layers of soul-stuff about my life-light to hide its glow. My soul, as powerful as it threatened to become, was still no match for the likes of Mortigi.
Sef asked, “Can we stop the ritual?”
“Too many stand against us, and they’ve too many souls to feed it. The city is lost, and nothing can stop that – but we can weaken it.”
Hope lit his eyes. “Let's go then!” He began to turn.
“There are quicker ways.” I spread my arms, my hands beginning to glow, but this time with a softer light. “Come to me, Sef. Baruna, please, see to the innocents and get them out by sunrise.”
She nodded, smiling at my blooming power.
With just a thought, Sef and I rose from the blood-soaked dirt of the alley and up into the night. Sef laughed, a sound that became louder as we climbed to pass above the slum’s uneven rooftops. The blue light from my hands mixed with the amber and gold of the city’s fires to expose Mortigi’s cultists as they fled across roofs of shingle, slate, and tile.
Sef lashed out at one with a sword as we passed. “And that’s for Marco!” It seemed only a flesh wound, but the cultist slipped from his perch on the roof’s ridgeline to fall to his death on the streets below.
And from our vantage point, as we rose higher, we beheld the doom of the city – the very fall of Ossard.
The rooftops about us ran alive with the followers of Mortigi. The black clad murderers swept across the heights of Newbank like a plague of rats centred on the slums, but not exclusively; they were everywhere. They numbered close to a thousand, the only things more common the roofs themselves and the fires eating the city.
Below, someone called, “Get Mortigi’s marked!”
Darts, throwing knives, even arrows and crossbow bolts flew at us, but nothing struck. I refused them all.
The missiles slowed as they neared, only to stop and then be returned with greater force. Cultists screamed and cursed as their fingers were sliced and their bodies pierced by their own weapons. Some died instantly, while others slid from rooftops unable to grab onto handholds with now fingerless hands. And in the celestial, I reached out and burst each of their souls, remembering Marco as I let their essence dissipate and sent them on to Oblivion.
S
uch action denied them an afterlife, and their foul god a feeding.
I refused to take them despite my aching hunger. I had to be strong; for that was the path to Death’s addiction.
We rose above Newbank, all of it illuminated by spreading flames. Along the roofs moved packs of thieves and cultists, and in the streets below Flets, Reformers, and Kavists. They banded together under many banners, fighting for their newfound or – in some cases – long-hidden faiths.
Loyalists also attacked on several fronts, both in the city and now in a freshly established beachhead in Newbank. They marched, charged, and died under the Inquisition’s black and gold, pushing on despite their losses as they surged into Newbank to claim revenge. Behind them, down the main avenues of the city, I could see Heletians fighting each other; Loyalist against Reformer.
Slipping my perception between worlds, I could see the reptilian eye above the city. Power grew there; a dark dream of what was to come.
I shivered.
We were high enough now that we’d cleared the tallest rooftops and towers, and passed over the heart of Newbank to head towards the river. To the east, at the Newbank Gate, I could see a gathering of coaches, carts, and people.
Our people!
The sight lifted my spirits.
There were so many, thousands and thousands, and they hadn’t gathered for me, but for hope and life.
I sent a thought, it not something they’d understand in a word-for-word way, just a sense of what they needed to do to survive.
Get beyond the wall to safety!
Beneath us, the Loyalists continued flooding across the river. They’d advanced from their landing to reach the steps of the Guildhall and work their way into the district’s streets. With flaming brands, they pushed into Newbank’s main square, the area of my own home and that of my parents. Two forces fought in that open space, Flets and Loyalists, and behind them I could see my own people still heading for the gate.
In the celestial I warned, “The Loyalists are in the square!”
And fires sprang up in the surrounding buildings.
My parents weren't at home – I could sense it – yet I still felt sickened to watch the first signs of flames. By their flaring light, I watched looters spill through their house and courtyard, trampling the rose garden I'd planted during my season of shame. I knew I could stop it, but as soon as I moved on it would only start again. It was pointless. Like the city it had grown from, its fate was to be razed.
