by Ron Collins
Ultimate power.
Treachery.
A battlefield of pure magic.
The Saga of the God-Touched Mage includes:
Glamour of the God-Touched
Trail of the Torean
Target of the Orders
Gathering of the God-Touched
Pawn of the Planewalker
Changing of the Guard
Lord of the Freeborn
Lords of Existence
Other Work by Ron Collins:
Five Magics
Picasso’s Cat and Other Stories
See the PEBA on $25 a Day
Chasing the Setting Sun
Four Days in May
Links to these and more of Ron's work
Follow Ron at
www.typosphere.com
or his twitter feed: @roncollins13
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Copyright Information
Lords of Existence
Saga of the God-Touched Mage, Volume 8
© 2015 Ron Collins
All rights reserved.
Cover Art by Rachel J. Carpenter
© 2015 Ron Collins
All rights reserved.
Cover Images
© Nomadsoul1 | Dreamstime.com - Praying Medieval Monk In Dark Temple Corridor Photo
© Xneo | Dreamstime.com - Space Nebula Photo
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialog, and characters are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Skyfox Publishing
http://www.skyfoxpublishing.com
For Tim, Mike, Jackie, and Ken. And of course, for Lisa.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Existence
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Existence
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Existence
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Existence
Existence
Chapter 16
Existence
Chapter 17
Existence
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Appendix
Acknowledgements
About Ron Collins
How You Can Help
Prologue
There are those who attack the scholars who write of the Thousand Worlds. They call them, at best, storytellers. At worst, liars and cheats. The critics say stories of Existence and the webs of magic rumored to be therein are good only for children. They say those stories are nothing beyond parables.
Of course, such suggestions serve merely to make the manuscripts and tomes these historians create that much more lucrative. And, regardless of what one thinks of the moral strengths or failings of these scholars, it is clear that these stories resonate among the people of Adruin. And the truth always matters in the end. So perhaps it is important to listen to these scholars. Perhaps it is important, for example, to consider whether the Thousand Worlds actually do lie in the haphazard sprawl across the many-space that the storytellers describe, connected to one another by that flow of energy that is both everywhere and nowhere at all times—the “glue” of All of Existence, as they call it. And if it is All of Existence that forms the universe as it is known, as they argue, then it is All of Existence that exchanges energy between each of the Thousand Worlds, and in doing so creates the very root of life itself. For without All of Existence, those scholars say, there would be no flow, and without flow there would be no magic, and without magic there would be no Thousand Worlds upon which to live.
If the storytellers are right, it is All of Existence that is responsible for the sulfur worms that inhabit Gallata, and it is All of Existence that allows for the ice floes of Kanna to be a breathing species. It is All of Existence that allows for the crystalline architecture of Fallaj, and it is All of Existence that gives life to the photon painters in the realm of Gaslight.
Amid the flow, they report, live creatures known by many names.
Talla. Flow Masters. Yahli-at-ba, to some.
Gods, to others.
And, yes, planewalkers.
Yet, for all these names the scholars give, nothing is really known about these creatures, or even about All of Existence itself. This is because no other being, no man or woman from the planes—no sage or storyteller, no liar or cheat—has ever seen the world of the flow. Those who attack such scholars can do so without retribution because no other creature has ever seen Existence and returned to tell of it. No man or woman has ever been to the homelands of the creatures who these scholars argue have controlled the lives of every living creature across the Thousand Worlds since the time of Starshower itself.
No one, that is, until Garrick.
Existence
Braxidane knew the exact moment Hezarin died.
He’d been in his node, absorbing energy and considering whether to visit his future champion on the plane of Rastella. The youth there was the last of his champions, and was destined to become the most remarkable. She would grow in power as the rest grew in experience, and when she was ready Braxidane would make his play. He sipped at the power around him, and was letting the electric tingle of a pristine future unfold before him when he felt the pulsing aftertaste of his sister’s death.
A sense of pure disbelief came over him. Then one of absolute fear.
He flashed red with discontent. Then he gave a deep streak of purple resentment. His node became uncomfortably warm.
What had Hezarin done?
Why was she on Adruin to begin with?
It was only a matter of time now before All of Existence would learn of her death, and when that happened it would be only moments before Joint Authority would focus on her. They would discover her links, which would lead them to his links, which would then lead them to the rest of his champions. So, it was now only a matter of time before Joint Authority, and therefore All of Existence, would know what Garrick was capable of.
He let go of his connection to Adruin and dashed into the scouring flow.
He had little time to lose.
This was going to be bad.
Chapter 1
Garrick stood at the gates of the shattered wall that had once protected Dorfort’s government center, and looked at the planewalker’s devastation. It was the dark of nighttime, but raging fires exposed the wounded men and women who lay scattered across the open yard. They called to him with desperation. He felt each of them somewhere in the recesses of his mind.
The wall, once considered impenetrable by the public and by the leaders of this great city, was in rubble. Its masonry was broken and craggy. Its ironwork frames were rent and exposed, and its stone slabs were cracked open like eggs to reveal insides that gleamed with chalky brilliance against their weathered exteriors.
The smell of burning buildings mixed with the blood-laced residue of Koradictine magic. Voices rang out, men calling for water brigades, women giving orders as they pulled the injured from danger. It was cold, the time of year still on the edge of the winter months. The people fought against the elements as well as the flames. Hooves clattered and pounded as h
orses and mules raced through Dorfort’s rutted streets, taking wagons and men to places they could best serve the fight. The whole of the city was working to save what they could, and he was glad to see members of the Torean Freeborn working alongside them to quell the flames.
But Garrick could not focus on these things.
Hezarin was gone—at least her body was nowhere to be found. Garrick had bested her. He had consumed her here in the manor yard of Ellesadil’s government center. Her power remained behind, though. It remained inside him, struggling against him, twisting and causing Garrick pain. He choked on it as it rose against his control. He concentrated on her, pressing her power deeper inside him to where he could better staunch it.
The planewalker was dead, though, and that meant the lords of Existence would search him out. It meant he would pay a price.
Yet now the injured would not let him be, and Hezarin’s life force pulled itself toward them as certainly as it struggled to be free of him.
The heat of flames warmed him, and the sounds of their panic pulled on him like the moon pulls the tides.
Their moans were low and pain-filled. Their screams were piercing. They gasped and they cried with despair-riddled callings—they were both the city’s guard and its common citizens, men and women who had taken up weapons against Neuma, the Koradictine sorcerer, and then against Hezarin herself. They called through the night. Some pounded the ground beside them as they lay bleeding out their lifeblood before their very eyes. Some merely writhed in agony. But all of them stank of the same fear, the same anger, and the same despair. They made accusations (What have you done?) and clear calls to the Powers of Justice and Freedom and of All That Is Right. Their voices carried bitter, bile-filled screeds that demanded correction of whatever foul deed had been done to them. Their pleas were laden with the demand that the hourglass be turned back, that things be returned to times that did not include whatever ruinous wounds had befallen them.
Help me! they called. Heal me!
Their screams brought Garrick memories of Sjesko, of Arderveer, and of God’s Tower. He thought of the mobs of Rastella, and of Karasacti’s prisoners. He remembered them all, even the first boy at the tavern where everything started.
And Arianna, of course. He remembered her, too.
There were rosters of them—hundreds of common people who paid the price of the planewalkers’ frivolous games of court and double-jest. Thousands, he was sure, perhaps millions over the cast of time itself. The thought of such wanton disregard for life brought bile to his throat.
Something had to change.
Braxidane and the rest of the planewalkers had to be stopped.
The voices of the injured broke through to him again.
And Garrick, now filled past bursting with the planewalker’s power, felt this yearning as if each calling branded his very core.
Power welled inside him, and he strode forward to flow life force into one man’s torn limbs. The wounds closed, and Garrick felt the strength of the man’s beating heart before he moved on. Next was a woman whose leg had been crushed, then a man—a shop keep by trade, but a man who had leapt to Dorfort’s aid when Neuma rampaged, and had paid a price of fire. Garrick healed his burns, leaving barely a scar behind.
With each healing the pull of desire from the masses became stronger, and with each of his touches more voices came his way.
Garrick! they called. I’m here! Heal me!
He moved among them with such single-minded focus that time seemed to stand still. His touch released Hezarin’s life force with a rush that tore at the sinew of his body. He bathed in the marvelous burn of giving, and he wallowed in a sensation of wonder as each of those he touched rose again. But in that rising, it seemed that more voices came from the sea of pain that welled across the city. They came to him in masses that formed in the streets. They reached toward him, wanting to touch him, and wanting him to touch them.
Hezarin’s voice was husky at the back of his mind. Do you feel the power, Garrick? You know you want it.
Her voice broke his mindlessness.
He healed a man, then tried to wrest control of his magic. There was a deeper thing here, an important truth he was forgetting. A truth that said the vacuum of this need was endless, and that even the vast energy of a planewalker would not be enough to save everyone. This thing inside him was cunning, though. It gave him his sway. It would let Garrick save the wounded and the dying until he was too drained to fight, and then it would raise its dragon-vile head.
How terrifying could he be if he raged with the hunger left behind by a planewalker’s void?
In saving this city, Garrick could well destroy it.
Yes, he thought. Yes, I want it.
Hezarin’s purr felt like an engine inside him. He felt the touch of her fingernails come to his jawline, and he shuddered as she traced a path down his collarbone.
He touched a man and knit a broken arm. Power flowed into another who grabbed his ankle.
He screamed, ripping his essence from the flow.
“No!” he said. “No!” he said again, and again, and again, until he became fully conscious of himself.
But still he felt them, these people of Dorfort. They flocked to him like buzzards to a kill. The power of the planewalker burned against his chest, and he sensed the pressing wall of human need as he healed another, and another, and another.
He was panting with desperation in a sea of wounded. His muscles burned with exhaustion, and sweat flowed from his brow. His long hair matted to his forehead and cheeks. His chest heaved with each breath as he felt the aftereffects of the planewalker’s touch.
The gore-slimed hands of the injured still pawed at him.
They grabbed his shoulders and they pulled at his torn sleeves, but he righted himself and he shook them away. Garrick had no way to know what the combination of Braxidane’s magic and Hezarin’s ambition would do to him, but he knew what it would do to Dorfort.
He had to leave.
He had to get away before he allowed them to drain him of Hezarin’s energy.
“I will not give you what you want, Hezarin,” he said aloud.
Her warped laugh echoed in his mind.
You don’t know what I want.
That was probably right, he thought. Hezarin was a planewalker, and planewalkers were a devious animal by nature. This one had already duped Ettril Dor-Entfar and Neuma. You don’t know what I want, was probably the most truthful thing he had ever heard a planewalker say.
“I know you want this plane,” he said. “And I know I won’t give it to you.”
Garrick put all his thoughts into the darkness of his hunger, following it once again to its origin, setting his gates and mixing magestuff with the raw power of the planewalker’s life force.
A hand clutched at his knee, then slipped away.
A woman crawled onto his back.
He shrugged the woman away as he felt the connection open. All of Existence came to him through a shimmering doorway. He pictured a different place then, a place he had been before, and a place that might be available to him.
A place that might be safe, or at least a place that was not here.
And as more voices called his name, Garrick disappeared into the flow.
Chapter 2
Darien looked at the manacled woman being held between two guards. Just what he needed. One night on the job, and he gets a Lectodinian spy.
Marvelous.
While his city was falling apart around him, he paced before the spy, wanting nothing more than to beat her to a pulp. That was not who he was, though. That was not where he had come from.
Torchlight glowed from sconces that had been placed around the great chamber with mathematically precise spacing. They gave the ceiling a soft glow as its rounded shell rose above. A fresh crack ran down one curved side of that ceiling, a thin line that scored the masonry that was otherwise eggshell-smooth. Despite the torches, and despite the heavy skins his staff had pl
aced over the windows—all of which had been shattered by Garrick’s magic earlier—the chamber was cold.
Muffled voices came from outside. Darien wanted to be out there now. As Ellesadil’s newly appointed commander, that’s where he should be.
To make matters worse, the woman had taken great glee in giving him nothing of any value, and everything about her—the fiery glow of her cheeks, the razor sharp glare of her gaze, the way she struggled against her manacles, and the way her voice bent as she used his title—spoke of contempt for him.
It all added up to make Darien angry.
“Take her to a cell,” he said. “Stand a Freeborn apprentice as guard, then return to your brigade and help get those fires out.”
The guards turned to their tasks.
“You can’t hide me away like this!” the woman wailed as the guards tugged at her manacled hands. “You know we’re coming!” she yelled over her shoulder. “You are scum, Darien J’ravi! You are turds from the bowels of monkeys! When Zutrian finds me in chains he will not look kindly upon any of you!”
Then she was gone.
Darien raised an eyebrow as he scanned the rest of his captains.
They stood in awkward silence, uncertain of what Darien would do next..
“Such words to come from the mouth of a lady,” he said.
The crew gave a nervous laugh, and Darien took a moment to examine the chamber. How many times had he met with the Freeborn here? How many arguments had he encountered standing on this very platform?
“I don’t need to tell you what this means,” Darien said. “If she’s telling the truth, the Lectodinian order will know exactly what’s happened within the day. And despite her lack of decorum, I see no reason to doubt her.”
“And,” Hinchley Ster, a sergeant of the North Guard added, “that means Zutrian will understand that the Koradictines are finished.”
