God's Last Breath

by Sam Sykes

  He looked at her again. Something changed. The vestiges of humanity that had shown themselves, he shed like a cloak that pooled upon the floor. His eyes grew large. His mouth grew small. His body became a stain on the world that light and darkness avoided.

  “This is not feasible. Not without drawing further wrath.”

  “Wait!” Asper said. “It’s not enough. I need you to tell me more. I need—”

  “Your necessity is something we will remedy, in time. I cannot tell you what will happen, nor tell you what to do. But I can tell you this …”

  He disappeared. He was at the road, among the corpses.

  “What we have set in motion cannot be stopped. The war Qulon has engineered will not end what we have created. Who we have summoned shall not turn away.”

  He disappeared. He was on the cliffs, staring down at her.

  “Though the price was heavy, the result was valued. We are guilty, then, of our own exchange. If that is to be the last, then so be it.”

  He disappeared. He was in the desert, miles away.

  “When the time comes, I advise you to recognize it. I advise you to see what can be accomplished, what he can accomplish.”

  He disappeared. He was across the world, his voice still in her ear.

  “We have saved this world, priestess. We have done what gods could not. We have listened.”

  He disappeared.

  And she was alone.

  THIRTY-THREE

  THE LEARNED MAN

  I saw my first Librarian when I was about eleven.”

  Dreadaeleon canted his head to the side as he walked, considerate. His eyes lingered on the orderly hedges of the tower grounds, cut to complement the concentric circles of the stone paths that led up to the tower gates.

  “Or was it twelve? Funny, I used to remember it so clearly.” He smiled. “I still remember her, though. She was tall, powerful, statuesque. Beautiful, if I’m being thorough.” He paused, his mirth turning to a frown. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. That she was beautiful does not diminish her power or the respect I had for her.”

  He paused to kick some ash from his boots. He carefully picked his way across a patch of ice, vapor still rising from the red-stained icicles jutting up like a macabre shrubbery.

  “She came to visit my mentor, Lector Vemire. He was on solitary study, took only a few apprentices. Did you know him?” He waved a hand, smoke trailing from his fingertips. “I’m getting off-topic, sorry. The Librarian … she was amazing. I remember the flawless black of her mantle, the perfectly rigid brim of her hat, the way her eyes always seemed to glow just slightly, as though she were perpetually calling up traces of Venarie.”

  He saw something moving out the corner of his eye. He turned. He inhaled. He spit from his lips a dagger-long icicle. There was a squishing sound. It stopped moving.

  “Her poise, her knowledge, the power she had to spare … I wondered if I, one day, would have that kind of strength.” He came to a halt before the tower doors and cast his frown downward. “Sometimes, I admit, I wondered what it would be like to face one in a duel, to fairly pit my skills against theirs.”

  He knelt down. The man leaning against the doors, breathing heavily, looked up. Blood trickled into his eyes from a gash in his head, yet the hatred burning in his eyes was still quite clear.

  “I never imagined it’d be this easy,” Dreadaeleon said.

  “Fuck …” The Librarian gasped, taking a ragged breath. “You.”

  Dreadaeleon stood up, frowning. The Librarian had good reason to be angry, the boy supposed. He had just seen three of his comrades cut down by fire, by frost, by lightning. He had lasted only a few breaths against Dreadaeleon before the boy nearly decapitated him with an icicle and used the subsequent distraction to hurl him against the doors. He imagined that most of the Librarian’s bones were pulverized now, if the bloodless way his limbs lay around him were any indication.

  Of course, that was still no reason for profanity.

  “She had a wider vocabulary, too.” Ghostly frost vapor coiled from Dreadaeleon’s lips with every word. “I won’t waste your time by telling you I’ll spare you. But I’ll give you the opportunity to do the right thing by telling me where Shinka is.”

  “Fuck … you,” the Librarian gasped.

  Dreadaeleon let out a sigh. The frost condensed on his breath. A frigid blade of ice formed before his lips and hovered expectantly in the air. He raised a single finger.

  “Or just be useless.”

  He pointed his finger at the Librarian. The icicle flew. Red spattered his coat.

  “That’s fine, too.”

  He reached down, seized the limp Librarian by his throat, and hoisted him up. The man was a good thirty pounds heavier than him, at least, but the weight felt effortless in his grasp.

  So many things felt effortless, these days.

  Dreadaeleon felt the hunger open inside him, jaws gaping wide in some dark part of him and inhaling. His fingers slid into the Librarian’s throat, puncturing perfect holes in his skin. Wisps of gray smoke coiled from the burning wounds in the man’s neck. Blood evaporated. Bones snapped. Skin twisted. What was a man became a cloud of gray mist, dancing and twisting as though alive.

  Dreadaeleon took a deep breath. The mist filled his mouth, his nose, his lungs. It flowed through him, settled in his bones, his skin, his muscle. In that dark place inside him, the great hunger quieted. The jaws closed. And he felt stronger.

  Quicker that time, old man. He looked down at his hand, clenched it into a fist. He could feel the power surging beneath his flesh. You’re getting better at this. You consume more.

  He looked down at the twisted husk that had been a man, now nothing more than ash-colored limbs twisted like a starved and dead tree.

  And leave less. He looked over his shoulder at the other three Librarians who lay cooling in the night air; dead, but whole. Perhaps you should take the rest, as well. Wouldn’t want to be unprepared for—

  He shook his head.

  No, no, old man. No need to be greedy. Remember what you’re doing this for. The power is only there so you can make this right. Asper is counting on you, even if she doesn’t know it. And once she sees how you saved her from the Venarium …

  He turned to the doors. He thrust out his hand. A great wave of force flew from his palm. The doors burst open with a great smash, their hinges groaning to hold on to the frame. They hung limp and impotent as the forces that had tried to stop him as he came striding into Tower Resolute.

  This time, you’re the hero.

  He was expecting heroics when he entered. A battalion of Librarians assembled in a firing line against him, perhaps. An army of apprentices hurling fire and ice at him in sheer walls, attempting to wear him down by numbers. Or maybe even Admiral Tibbles.

  Admiral Tibbles would have been nice to see again.

  He wasn’t expecting to find an empty lobby. The great, circular chamber had always been sparse in aesthetic, bearing nothing more than a few chairs and a desk where the Venarium clerks had received visitors.

  The chairs and desk were still there. The Venarium was not.

  The chamber was completely bereft of life. There was no defense to be seen. No heroics to engage. To look at the chamber, no one would guess a single soul was here, let alone a cadre of wizards.

  That is, if one looked at it with their eyes alone.

  Dreadaeleon could feel electricity in the air. He could feel pressure on his temples, the fluctuating temperatures in his body. The traces of spent magic were everywhere, suffused in the very air that he breathed. The hairs on his body stood on end and his eyes burned. A lesser wizard, he suspected, might have passed out from the sheer volume of it all.

  A lot of people had used a lot of magic in a very little amount of time.

  A battle, he thought. There’s no other explanation. This much magic couldn’t have been made without it. He surveilled the chamber, frowned. Shinka has been busy.

  H
e made his way to the back of the chamber, behind the clerk’s desk. A pair of double doors hung open, a set of stairs leading to the upper levels. When he had been here last, they had been fastened securely and two concomitants had stood guard.

  All that remained here now were scorch marks.

  He ascended the spiraling stairs. With every step, the lingering traces of magic grew more oppressive. He could feel pops and sparks in the air. He felt heat and cold running races through him. The pressure on his skull became pounding.

  And in another few steps, he found why.

  A great hall stretched out before him, forking off at the end into three paths, like a great trident. One led to the libraries, another to a scribing laboratory, a third to dormitories. Not that what it used to be mattered anymore.

  It was a graveyard now.

  Great icicles bloomed from the walls and pillars, in great patches and walls and spikes. Statues and chairs and stones lay strewn about, hurled by massive forces. The floors and tapestries were seared and cut by blackened pockmarks where lightning had struck and great carpets of ash where flame had eaten heartily. The evidence of magical use was everywhere.

  And so was the blood.

  In greasy streaks that stretched across the floor from one door to the other. In great, red blossoms that spattered the walls. In thick, glistening chunks that painted the stones, the broken pillars, the ceilings. The battle had been fierce and messy, no restraint practiced.

  Whatever rules wizards applied to their interactions with the rest of society, it seemed, did not apply to themselves. He would have wondered what could cause such destruction.

  “Try to be reasonable.”

  But that, too, was an answer he was soon to receive.

  He followed the sound of the voice to the end of the hall. Around a corner, he spied three wizards. Concomitants, by the look of their coats and spellbooks. One of them lay against the wall, breathing heavily as he clutched a burn wound in his arm. Two others, their hands stretched out and ready to cast should he move, spoke to him.

  “There’s no need to drag out this violence,” one of them, a woman, said. “Wizards fighting wizards is madness. We swore oaths to avoid this kind of insanity.”

  “You seem to have no problem violating oaths these days,” the wounded man laughed bitterly.

  “That was insanity,” the other concomitant said. “Do you not see the reason in the Lector’s words? We could have spared this city so much suffering with our powers. The Khovura, the Jackals, the foreigners … we could have handled them all.”

  “And do what afterward? Lord over them all?” the wounded man scoffed. “We are wizards. Our calling is higher than even kings. Your Lector would have us violate centuries of protocol for the adoration of the ignorant.” He gestured out over the carnage. “And look what’s happened.”

  “It only happened because you refused to see reason,” the woman said. “But it’s not too late. Let us help you. You can still be a part of something great here.”

  “I was already part of something great.” He sneered. “You and your Lector would seek to use our power to rule over the barknecks. And you’ll draw the attention of their armies, their kings, their priests. How long do you suspect you can truly last against the entire world?”

  “The Lector has sworn that we’ll use our powers only for the good of the world.”

  “Well, swearing oaths that don’t mean anything is rather in style these days, isn’t it?” The wounded man’s laughter turned to an agonized screech. “Just fucking kill me like you killed the others.”

  “If you want.” The woman sighed. Flames danced along her palm. “Such a fucking waste, though. You’re going to—”

  She paused. Maybe Dreadaeleon had stepped too close, breathed too hard. She suddenly whirled, along with her fellow concomitant, eyes wide and mouth gaping open.

  “You!” she gasped. “How in the hell did you—”

  “Like this,” Dreadaeleon answered.

  He flicked his hand. Force rippled across the air and struck her like a brick wall. She flew into her companion, both of them hurtling against the far wall. The rippling force crushed against them, the sound of their bones popping overwhelming the sound of their screams, for the brief moment they lasted. They fell to the earth, broken and unmoving.

  He glanced to the wounded man, who slowly staggered to his feet. A sneer was plastered across his face as he looked at Dreadaeleon.

  “And so the heretic comes back to feast on the scraps,” he said. “It’s almost enough to convince me the gods exist. Who else would send us this much trouble?”

  “It appears your trouble comes from closer than the gods.” He glanced at the carnage. “Things are not going as smoothly as Shinka anticipated.”

  “She would violate everything we hold dear,” the wounded man said. “She wishes to use us to interfere in the affairs of the ignorant, use our powers for meddling.” He spit on the floor. “But then, I suppose violations are of no particular concern to you, heretic. I survive her purge only to be finished off by you.”

  Dreadaeleon blinked. “I take it your mood wouldn’t be improved if I told you I have no idea who you are.” He sniffed. “Let’s spare each other some awkwardness and you can just tell me where Shinka is.”

  “Obvious, isn’t it?” the man asked. “She’s the sole Lector in the tower now. She is at the very top.”

  “That is obvious. I suppose I could have thought of that myself.” He offered a nod. “But it’s nice that we got to chat, at least. Have a good day.”

  He had taken three steps when he heard the crackle of electricity. He glanced over his shoulder. The wounded man leveled his one good arm at Dreadaeleon, lightning dancing on the tips of his fingers.

  “Whatever oaths she violated,” he said, “Shinka is a lesser evil than you, heretic. And whatever oaths we have left, I still hold dear. And so long as I still draw breath, I shall not let you defile our—”

  “Holy fuck, I get it, already.” Dreadaeleon whirled about, flicked his hand. “Last good man in a world gone mad, willing to die for his principles. Yes. Fine. Whatever.”

  Flames roiled from his hand, washing over the man like a tide. He went down screaming, swallowed whole by red, cackling jaws. He fell to the ground in a smoldering heap of embers and ash. Dreadaeleon shook the sparks from his fingers.

  “Fucking hell,” he muttered. “Everyone’s got to be so fucking dramatic these days.”

  Through the halls, up the stairs, on every floor of the tower, it was the same.

  Sometimes, the scenarios were slightly different. Occasionally, it was wizards surrendering to wizards, locked in chains with their heads bowed. Now and then, there was an actual battle going on, lightning and rubble hurled through the air. On one floor, Shinka’s rebels attempted to break down a door by hurling an immense stone at it while loyalists on the other side tried to reinforce it.

  But they all spelled out the same story: Shinka had failed. Her coup had not gone as smoothly as she had hoped. Wizards were killing wizards. And he dealt with them the same way.

  Those wise few that had fled from him, he didn’t bother pursuing. Those loyal to the Venarium who saw him as a heretic and those loyal to Shinka who saw him as a threat, he made no attempt to tell apart. When he was done with them, they all tended to look the same.

  And yet, for all the ash and carcasses he left in his wake, he felt no different. The magic he had expended should have been enough to drain him dry, yet he didn’t so much as breathe hard. The power flowed effortlessly from his head to his hands.

  And soon enough, as he ascended the tower’s stairs to the very top, the sounds of carnage grew faint enough that he could hear something else.

  “There are only a few holdouts remaining.”

  Voices.

  “But the purge is nearing its end.”

  He came before a pair of immense doors. He could envision the meeting chamber beyond it, the circular room he had entered twice be
fore: once as an accused criminal, again as a condemned one. He took his time approaching, savoring the moment he would arrive as a hero.

  “Please don’t call it that.” Shinka’s voice was weary but still elegant and proud. “I’d rather not remember this day as anything but a tragedy.”

  “Inevitable.” The first voice, a male, spoke. “We knew some would cling to backward views. It’s the entire reason that Annis had to go.”

  “Most of the bodies have been recovered for harvesting.” Another voice, a female’s, added. “And only a few Librarians turned against us. It’s not ideal, but it’s not unsalvageable.”

  “Then why does it feel like there’s a war going on down there?” Shinka let out a long, agitated sigh. “Does no one else feel those fluctuations of magic?”

  “I can’t feel anything in this shit.” Another woman muttered. “The air is so thick with magic I can barely feel my own face.”

  “That’ll pass, too,” the first female said. “In the meantime, we’ve got another problem. We continue to receive requests from the ‘Prophet’ at the front line for assistance.”

  “It’s worth considering,” the man said. “The tulwar numbers are reportedly immense. And we sighted even more coming over the deserts. If we don’t aid her, we stand the risk of—”

  “I did not pull this city from the clutches of a grasping, ignorant fool just to hand it to another one.” Shinka’s voice was cold and firm. “It’s bad enough that we’ll have to deal with Teneir and her cult. I don’t relish the idea of contending with two delusional fanatics. To aid the Prophet would be to insult every life we were forced to take here.”

  “Ordinarily, I’d agree. But the number of tulwar is not insignificant …”

  “How many are there?”

  “A few thousand, at least.”

  “And how many Librarians do we have at our call, ready to fight tonight if we were to ask?”

  “Perhaps fifty.”

  “That would mean … what? Perhaps a hundred tulwar killed by every Librarian?” Shinka said. “Upon last observation, the most advanced weapon the tulwar had was a really big spear. Taming them should be well within our abilities.”