by Nat Russo
“If they control the bay, they control the Orm,” Tithian said.
“Twenty-thousand people!”
“The supply routes,” Tithian said, rubbing his temples.
Mujahid hadn’t considered that. If the Barathosians controlled King’s Bay, then the meager Religarian navy would be useless.
“With your permission, Warlock, I’d like to address the Council in the archmage’s absence,” Mujahid said.
Tithian nodded. He wasn’t a stupid man. He’d realize what was necessary now. For the love of Shealynd, Mujahid prayed the Council would realize as well.
The thought of Shealynd together with the tragedy of such great loss of life, brought back a memory. A memory he’d buried in the sands of the Religarian desert on the road to Dar Rodon. There’d been a great tragedy then as well, and the weight of it had threatened to turn him into a monster. Only Shealynd’s wisdom had stopped him. Perhaps he should seek the goddess’s wisdom as he had on that day.
“I need some time to gather my thoughts,” Mujahid said. “I’m going to visit the shrine.”
“I’ll have the main bell rung when the Council convenes. Be prepared, though. It won’t be long. Not with the situation as it is.”
Mujahid nodded and walked out into the courtyard, wishing he’d had the presence of mind to take the ale with him.
The shrine was a short walk from the building, on a secluded hilltop overlooking the sea to the north. Large paving stones guided Mujahid over the lush lawn to a twenty feet tall statue, which was nestled within an arched enclosure.
The statue of Shealynd had eroded from millennia of strong northern winds carrying saltwater mist, but the form remained; a shrouded woman with open arms, holding a rose in her left hand.
No sooner did Mujahid see the stone rose than the sweet scent of the real thing reached him. He glanced around for the telltale blossoms with hope. Roses of Shealynd were mystical in nature, blossoming only when the goddess herself was present. The last time the scent had been this powerful was at a sacred wadi in the Religarian desert, on the road to Dar Rodon.
Shealynd, you gave me great hope that day. You changed the course of my life, and in doing so saved thousands of people. Please. Grant me your wisdom. Help me save thousands once again.
The rose scent overpowered the smell of saltwater, though the wind remained. In fact, the wind had picked up considerably, and with it came a soft resonance in the air, as if a woman were humming a tune nearby but out of sight.
A burst of golden light, and with it a wave of heat, struck the bottom of his chin.
A Rose of Shealynd materialized at his feet. But something was wrong.
Mujahid covered his nose to shield himself from a foul odor of decay and human waste. The enormous blossom turned black and flaked away in the wind, taking the heat and light with it. When the last spec of black disappeared, a small ivory figurine stood where the rose had been.
Mujahid picked it up and spun it around, but he didn’t need to see the figurine’s face to know who it represented.
The figurine depicted Malvol—the god of hate—as a man with a sinister grin and hands clasped behind his back. It was the grin of pleasure in another’s misfortune. The few who pledged themselves to Malvol followed a path of animosity, sowing discord wherever they traveled.
There had been a cult of Malvol for as long as Mujahid could remember, but he’d never heard of any miracles being associated with the group. The cult and its priests were capable of all the evil mortal man could wreak, but never anything mystical.
So why would Shealynd give him a figure of Malvol?
The workmanship impressed him. Such attention to detail. An object of this quality should be in a museum. He should get Tithian to convince the Council to display it in a prominent location. After all, it came from the goddess Shealynd herself.
The Council. On second thought, maybe he should become more active in the Council, as Tithian had suggested earlier. Perhaps he’d become an official Council Magus. Surely a Mukhtaar Lord would be a great representative of…
Of where? Council Magi were elected by local governments to have a voice in religious policies that could affect the administration of secular law. But with Mujahid’s connections, it shouldn’t be difficult to rig an election in his favor—
What am I saying? Rig an election?
His face grew cold as realization dawned. This figurine wasn’t carved from ivory at all. But he had to be certain.
The more I think about it, the more I like the idea. I can convince King Donal to appoint me Ambassador to the Council. That would ensure— No!
He had to drop the figurine, but he couldn’t take the chance someone else would stumble across it. If it could alter the character of a Mukhtaar Lord this quickly, another person wouldn’t stand a chance.
But my ambitions aren’t great enough. Tithian was right all those months ago. There is no better person to serve as Nicolas’s Prime Warlock than a Mukhtaar Lord. Nicolas is a fledgling priest and archmage. He needs a strong hand by his side.
In a moment of clarity, Mujahid reached inward, past his symbols of power, past the diaphanous fog that surrounded them—the enigmatic, crackling fog that appeared the day he ascended—and seized the necropotency in his well. When he ignited the symbol of ascension—the symbol of the Mukhtaar Lords that existed at the center of his well of power—his thoughts were his own once more.
But for how long?
The statue of Shealynd stood several yards away, and the pedestal it rested on was blessed by a priest of Shealynd. But could he make it in time?
Each step he took was labored, as if the figurine equaled his weight.
What if this thing takes control while I’m holding the power? I can’t allow that to happen!
He opened a channel from his well of power to the skull symbol, and more than eighty years passed in an instant while he relived his penitent’s life. When the skeleton appeared, he leashed it with necropotency and sent an order through the necromantic link.
With enhanced strength, the penitent lifted Mujahid and threw him toward the statue of Shealynd.
Mujahid dropped the figurine on the pedestal as he flew past it and released his hold on the necropotency. When the figurine left his grasp, a wave of clarity rushed over him, and he landed on his back, staring up at the statue.
He stood, dusted himself off, and approached the figurine. He had to know for certain.
It reeked of innocence, resting on its side next to the Statue of Shealynd, almost as if a child had left a cherished toy behind as a sacrifice.
He leaned closer, embraced the power, and ignited the symbol of ascension. For what he was about to do, he’d need the help of his new friend.
Mujahid turned inward toward a thin sphere of energy surrounding his symbols of power. The mindless presence of the hellwraith—the being that had nearly taken control of him during his frightening transformation at the battle for the Pinnacle—remained in the recesses of his mind, waiting to serve.
Mujahid opened a channel from his well of power, but this time he didn’t make it flow into a symbol. Instead, he channeled it into the sphere, imbuing the hellwraith with energy.
The figurine began to glow in Mujahid’s mystical vision. As he poured more of his energy—and the hellwraith—into the figurine, telltale striations appeared. And they pulsed with a fiery orange light in time with the beating of Mujahid’s heart.
His worst fear was confirmed.
Hellstone!
The figurine had come from the sixth plane of Hell.
But how?
Certainly the god of hate was not a real entity? Sure, people invoked his name. Mujahid was guilty of that from time to time, though it was usually under blasphemous circumstances. But in all his time serving Kagan as Prime Warlock, no such being ever came forward during the Rite of Manifestation—the day on which the gods manifested in human form in the sanctuary. There had never been so much as a mention of Malvol’s name.
Whatever the state of Malvol’s existence, Mujahid wouldn’t solve the mystery here and now.
He cast the hellwraith’s presence forward into the hellstone and a void opened, surrounding the figurine. As the figurine fell into the void—a channel that would lead it straight to the seventh plane of Hell—Mujahid stepped back when he sensed the presence of another entity in the void. A malevolent entity. And it was trying to get out.
Every time he tried to force the entity back, horrible images would flood his vision; Nuuan being disemboweled by animate blades, the Pinnacle overrun by hellwraiths he couldn’t control. It was like an Awakening gone horribly wrong.
He released the necropotency and the void slammed shut with a thunderous clap.
Whatever this was, it wasn’t good. Only a Mukhtaar Lord could open the seventh plane of Hell, and Mujahid was acquainted with every twisted intelligence on that plane. There weren’t many, to the credit of Zubuxo’s power and mercy. But this was something else. This wasn’t a soul undergoing the ultimate purge. This was a being of power.
Something far more sinister than the Barathosian invasion was at play here. But what?
As he took a step toward the pedestal, the Council bell rang.
Mujahid glanced toward the doorway leading back to the Great Hall and dismissed his penitent.
It was time to remind those bureaucrats why they feared him.
The Council magi barely noticed as Mujahid passed the double stone doors and strode across the oblong room to the raised black throne at its center. The shrill voices of men arguing rang throughout the stone room. Six months ago, he and Nicolas had personally all but destroyed the Council and deposed the archmage. Yet these newly elected jackals fought sanctimoniously over some petty political argument or another and didn’t even show him the respect of a head bow.
Mujahid climbed onto the dais next to the Obsidian throne and faced the Council.
“Quiet,” he said.
A couple of Religarian magi glanced up, but plunged right back into shouting at anyone who would listen.
This wouldn’t do at all.
When Mujahid stepped onto the platform, he leaned close to Tithian and whispered “grab onto something.”
Tithian had no idea what Mujahid was planning, but he had the sense to hold on to the Obsidian Throne.
Mujahid ignited the symbol of ascension and released a shock wave of necropotency into the atmosphere. As the necropotency passed through the hellwraith’s consciousness, a demonic wail followed the wave into the crowd.
Well that was new.
The chamber fell silent, but Mujahid maintained his hold on the necropotency and turned in a circle so all could see his face. One by one, the magi raised their right hands to cover their eyes.
“Do I have your undivided attention now?” Mujahid asked.
The room remained silent. The gathered magi stood still, as if the necropotency Mujahid released had pinned them in place.
“Answer me!” Mujahid yelled.
“Yes, Lord Mukhtaar!” The magi responded in unison.
Mujahid released the necropotency, but he allowed a few moments to pass before speaking.
“The light has passed,” Mujahid said.
“May it bless us in its passing,” the magi responded, then uncovered their eyes.
“Sit,” Mujahid said. “And listen.”
When the magi had finished taking their seats, Mujahid continued.
“Our way of life, and perhaps our very lives, are in grave danger,” Mujahid said. “Kagan was misguided, but the Great Barrier did serve one important purpose; it kept the Barathosians out.”
“Perhaps the holy archmage was right,” Magus Kaseem of Religar said.
“Holy?” Mujahid asked. “And how do you define holy, if I may ask?”
“He spoke with the gods, face to face.”
“I know devils who have spoken to the gods face to face. Are they holy?”
Magus Kaseem lowered his gaze.
“Would anyone else like to comment on Kagan’s holiness while we’re on the subject?” Mujahid asked. “No? Good. Because if I hear one more magus refer to Kagan as holy, I’ll take that person to every city in the Three Kingdoms and have them proclaim Kagan’s sanctity to those who suffered most at his hand. I suspect it will be a short trip from which I ultimately return alone.”
Tithian placed a hand on Mujahid’s arm.
Perhaps he was being too harsh on them. Most of these magi grew up knowing nothing else except Kagan and his infernal barrier. A year ago, many in this room would have been disgusted by Mujahid’s open practice of necromancy. And no doubt, some must still subscribe to the heresy Kagan taught them…that necromancy ran counter to Arin’s will and should be punished by death.
Mujahid took a deep breath and nodded at Tithian, who withdrew his arm.
“As I was saying,” Mujahid said. “Kagan got one thing right. The Barathosians are a threat. He conveniently left out the fact he was the cause of that threat, but it is what it is, and now we have to deal with it.”
“And how do you propose dealing with a fleet the size of which we’ve never seen before, Lord Mukhtaar?” a Religarian magus said.
Mujahid recognized her as Magus Yasmine from Dyr Rahal. He’d been acquainted with her grandmother in Dar Saricon.
“I don’t suppose you have any Mukhtaar tricks up your sleeve to handle a ship the size of a palace?” Magus Yasmine asked.
“What ship are you referring to? If you know something, give it voice.”
“The Barathosian flagship was spotted in the Bay of Relig,” Magus Yasmine said. “Even if we somehow manage to defeat thousands of armed naval vessels, that flagship is larger than the imperial palace itself.”
Could such a thing be possible? How could an object the size of a palace float? These sorts of questions often came down to the properties of matter, but Mujahid wasn’t a natural philosopher. And he certainly wasn’t a shipbuilder.
He waved her question away. “I don’t have an answer yet—”
The crowd erupted in derision and shouting. He was losing control.
“But I know this,” Mujahid said. “If we engage that fleet in battle, then we’ve already lost. Worse, that fleet isn’t the only threat the Three Kingdoms faces.”
Judging by their looks, he had their attention.
“Magus Kelley,” Mujahid said, facing the Tildem section. She was sitting in the front row. And by her expression, he gathered she bore the entire burden of the tragic news of King’s Bay. But not for long. “May I convey the news you brought to me and Prime Warlock Tithian?”
Magus Kelley nodded.
“Magi,” Mujahid said, sweeping his gaze around the room. “Credible reports indicate a terrible tragedy has occurred in Tildem. The Barathosians have destroyed King’s Bay, slaughtered every soul who lived within its walls, and now move north toward Rotham. For all we know, Rotham has already fallen.”
Mujahid’s last words echoed off the chamber walls and faded into silence. No one moved or spoke.
A sob from the Tildem section caught Mujahid’s attention. The strong facade that had kept Magus Kelley’s emotion in check had fallen. Magi nearby comforted her as best they could, but Mujahid knew better than to think the inconsolable could be consoled.
“And so I ask you,” Mujahid said. “Will you stand together, nation next to nation, and repel this threat from Tildem’s lands?”
The Tildem magi were politicians, but they did little to conceal the hope on their faces.
“They killed tens of thousands of people,” a Shandarian magus said.
“How do you repel a force that large?” Magus Kaseem asked.
“Lord Mukhtaar,” Magus Yasmine said. “You ask us to commit resources to assist Tildem when we have the bulk of the Barathosian armada sitting within a catapult’s reach of the emperor’s home. Who will assist us?”
“You have the largest military in the Three Kingdoms!” A Tildem magus shoute
d.
“A fact you’d do well to remember,” Magus Yasmine said.
“Now you threaten us?” the Shandarian magus said.
“Us, you say?” Magus Yasmine asked. “The Treaty of Three Banks is null and void. There is no us. Unless, of course, you have a secret alliance with Tildem of which we are unaware.”
This was exactly what Mujahid had feared. He’d allowed himself to hope, but he should have known better.
Magus Kelley stood and faced the Religarian section.
“‘From whom the gods give much, much shall be taken,’” Magus Kelley said.
“Try quoting the Origines to the Barathosians and see how much they give.” Magus Yasmine said.
Shouts of “Blasphemy!” intermingled with racial slurs hurled at the Religarians.
“Concede Arin’s Watch and East Bank to the emperor and we’ll consider some military support,” Magus Yasmine said.
Magus Kelley sank back into her chair.
“Maybe we’ll consider taking Dyr Agul,” a Shandarian magus said.
“You can try,” Magus Yasmine said. “And we’ll hold Agera within a fortnight. Caspardis within a month.”
Mujahid couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Not in his worst cynical imaginings did he expect this.
“Your doom approaches, yet none of you see it,” Mujahid said.
“You have no power over the emperor, Lord Mukhtaar,” Magus Yasmine said. “You’ll not be able to force his hand.”
“The emperor,” Mujahid said. “A paper king in a field of fire.”
A Shandarian magus cheered, and Mujahid rounded on him.
“You’re backed against an ocean with an enemy approaching from two directions, and you cheer the defeat of your front line?” Mujahid asked. “Will Shandar defeat an enemy the combined forces of Tildem and Religar could not?”
“There are political realities you’re refusing to consider,” the Shandarian magus said.
