The Shattering: Omnibus

by Van Allen Plexico

  The man regarded her with what appeared to be scarcely- contained rage. Then—saying nothing all the while—he reared the horse back, wheeled it around, and spurred it forward. Horse and rider disappeared into the woods.

  “What did you make of that?” Mirana said to no one in particular, once he was gone.

  “I have no point of reference from which to draw a conclusion,” Madalena said, dusting off her glass armor and silk-like cloth clothing. “But I did note that he did not ride toward the City.”

  “Then perhaps they do not know we are coming,” Mirana said. “Perhaps we can continue the mission.”

  Madalena looked at her. “Mirana. If there is anyone in the City—even one single god—our mission will be over the moment we go inside. And we will likely spend the rest of our lives locked in the dungeons.”

  Mirana considered this, then nodded. “So,” she said, turning toward the gleaming citadel in the distance, “onward, then!”

  Madalena reacted with a touch of surprise at this. She inhaled deeply and exhaled, then nodded. “Yes. Onward!”

  Together, the six Dyonari turned and continued to march toward the Golden City of the gods.

  Behind them, a horn sounded again. And then another, from a slightly different direction. And then a third.

  They glanced at one another, then walked faster.

  6

  Horsemen had emerged from the woods and harassed them on four occasions since they had first met the man in scaled white mail. Each had been different, with different armor and a different color of horse. Each time, they had managed to drive the horseman away. To their great disappointment, they had confirmed very quickly that their technology no longer worked; their energy rifles and other gadgets had become fancy paperweights. But they always had their swords, and the mastery of them that long hours of practice over centuries of life had provided. Against six long, curved, transparent, razor-sharp blades wielded by high-ranking Dyonari warriors, even a god would have reason to hesitate; whatever the horsemen were, they exhibited little interest in testing their armor or their skills in such a manner.

  Thus eventually the six Dyonari arrived at the front entrance to the Golden City of the gods.

  “Where is the knob?” Co-Commander Mirana asked as she stared at the massive, golden gates that barred their path.

  “The knob?” her comrade, Co-Commander Madalena, asked.

  “The knob. The latch. The lever. The button. The something, to activate it. To open it.”

  Madalena gazed at her shorter comrade and offered her a very thin smile. “There is no knob,” she said. “No knob, no latch, no lever, no... What was the other thing?”

  Mirana scrunched her eyebrows and looked away, thinking. “Button,” she said at last.

  Madalena brightened. “Button. Yes.” She shook her head. “No button, either.”

  “But then—how will we enter?” Mirana stared at the tall gate and towering walls that curved around away from them. “Can we not fly over?”

  Madalena half-bowed. “Be my guest.”

  Mirana eyed her co-commander suspiciously for a second, then dropped into a crouch and mentally activated the antigrav units in her glass-like boots.

  Nothing happened.

  Madalena, arms crossed and expression conveying the sense of great laughter being barely contained, asked, “Something wrong?”

  Mirana reddened. She crouched and waited again. Still nothing happened.

  “To answer your earlier question,” Madalena said, “it would appear that, no, we cannot simply fly over.”

  “How can this be?” Mirana wondered aloud. “Faulty equipment? Sabotage?”

  Madalena shook her head. “Ages ago, the gods willed that such technology would not work in their realm. And so it does not.”

  Mirana considered this, appearing extremely annoyed. Then she looked up again, eyes sparkling. “I know,” she said. “We could pole-vault over.”

  Madalena took this suggestion in, eyes widening. She pondered it for a few seconds before turning back to her comrade. “If your goal is to place me in sole command of this mission,” she said, “then by all means, pole-vault away.”

  Mirana blinked at this, then gazed back up at the wall, towering over them some unguessable height. “You’re saying that won’t work, either.”

  “I am.”

  “Then how did the gods open it?”

  Madalena smiled again. She had accessed all the data files available on the subject while they had been en route. “As near as I can tell,” she said, “they touched it. And wished.”

  “What?” Mirana looked at her in surprise and befuddlement.

  Madalena merely shrugged.

  Mirana walked up to the gate and raised her right hand before her. She pulled the thin glove off and brushed her incredibly long, thin fingers against the cold, gold surface. She closed her eyes.

  “It will not work for you,” Madalena said.

  Mirana opened her eyes and looked up at the gate. It was still closed.

  “It did not work for me,” she said.

  “Indeed.”

  Mirana consulted the same data file her comrade had. The other Dyonari continued to stand at attention, awaiting further orders.

  “The gates will only open at the touch of a god,” she said at length.

  “Yes,” her comrade agreed, exhibiting what she felt was enormous self-restraint. “I thought I had made that quite clear.”

  Mirana reluctantly nodded her head. “Are we defeated, then? Before we’ve even begun?”

  “Not at all.”

  Mirana looked up at her. “No? Why not?”

  “Because our High Commander anticipated that we would encounter this obstacle,” Madalena said, “and took steps to help us overcome it.”

  “Oh? And that would be—what?”

  Madalena removed the white satchel from her shoulder and opened it. A pale light emanated from within. A not-quite-audible ringing sound echoed from every nearby surface.

  Puzzled and somewhat disconcerted, Mirana moved closer, trying to look inside.

  Madalena reached into the satchel and grasped what it contained. She drew it forth.

  Despite their great military discipline, all of the others gathered around and stared at the grisly object Co-Commander Madalena was holding aloft.

  “Our great and wise leader knew that we might need a hand,” she told the others, “and so he gave us one.”

  7

  Co-Commander Madalena stood before the gates of the Golden City of the gods and held aloft a hand. A severed hand. A severed human-looking hand.

  The other Dyonari commandos gathered around her and gawked.

  “What in the name of the seven realms and the seventeen pathways is THAT?” asked Co-Commander Mirana, eyes wide and nose wrinkled in disgust.

  “It is our way inside,” Madalena replied smugly.

  “That?” Mirana simply shook her head. “How can that possibly be so?

  Madalena smiled back at her co-commander. “Allow me to tell you the story,” she said, “as it was passed along to me by the seers.” And she began:

  Thousands of years earlier:

  The battle—if such it could truly be called—was over, and the few remaining gods had been liberated from the threat of Vorthan.

  Now, all that remained for the survivors was to gather up the bodies of their fallen brothers and sisters, and dispose of them.

  They returned to the Golden City from all across the realms of the multiverse. Many of them had not set foot within its walls in centuries, if not millennia. Others had only recently fled, fearing they would be the next victim of the mysterious murderer of the gods. But now, heeding the call of Karilyne, among others—she of the silver and black, the sword and the axe, the grim demeanor and the well-earned respect of nearly all her fellow gods—they had come. If only to pay their respects to the last of the fallen, to see their remains properly tended to, and in some cases to make one last visit to the h
ome of their kind, they had come.

  “I never thought to gaze upon this realm again,” said Lohandar—he of the red and gold, the dark hair and darker skin, the sparkling green eyes and, until recently, jovial demeanor. He gazed at the bodies, all still clad in the black outfits that had been forced upon them, laid out in a row along the near arc of the central plaza. The geyser-like eruption of the restored Fountain at the center of the square cast a pale light over everything. “Of course, I never dreamed so many of us had met the final end. It is almost inconceivable.”

  Beside him, Moranna of the white-blonde hair and pale blue eyes nodded slowly. Her diaphanous robes swirled about her, all pale green and aqua. “Scarcely two dozen of us remain, if Karilyne is to be believed,” she said.

  “And why should I not be believed?” the ice queen asked, her words carrying across the distance from the far side of the square, despite the roaring of the Fountain. “Do you dispute my account of what has befallen us?”

  “No—certainly not,” Moranna stammered, shocked that she had been overheard. “I simply—”

  “What has befallen us?” Lohandar interrupted. “My dear Karilyne—nothing has befallen us. That is why we are able to be here at all, tending to the bodies of those who did have something befall them.”

  The woman in silver and black rose from where she had been inspecting the body of a slain god. Lines of anger marred her usually ultra-reserved features. She strode regally around the perimeter of the square, her dark eyes locked onto those of Lohandar. “We are all diminished by the loss of so many of our number,” she asserted.

  Lohandar made a show of shrugging. “I have lost nothing,” he said, “and do not feel diminished in the least.”

  Karilyne looked to want to punch him. Or worse. Her fingers twitched on the hilt of her axe.

  Moranna had quickly stepped out from between them the moment the goddess in silver had approached, but now she raised a hand and interjected, “Please! Both of you! Show some respect for those who have fallen.”

  “That is precisely what I am attempting to do,” Karilyne hissed. She regarded Lohandar with contempt. “If only everyone here felt that way.”

  “Being told how to feel and how to react to events is precisely why I left the City in the first place,” Lohandar said.

  “And attitudes such as yours are why I never plan to return here,” Karilyne retorted.

  “That and the fact that Baranak no longer walks the halls of power.”

  Quick as a flash, Karilyne had her sword out and against the throat of Lohandar. “Think carefully on your next words,” she growled, “lest you discover the joys of growing a new body for yourself, from the neck down.”

  Lohandar glared at her but kept his mouth shut; clearly Karilyne’s reputation remained sterling with even the most obstinate of the gods.

  After a few seconds Karilyne released him and he stumbled back, coughing and furious but still silent. She gave Moranna a quick glance and seemed to conclude that the slender blonde goddess represented neither threat nor insult. Turning, she stalked back in the direction from which she had come.

  “Karilyne,” Moranna called suddenly, impulsively. “One question.”

  Karilyne stopped in her tracks but didn’t turn around. “What?” she asked over her shoulder. Her posture made clear the unspoken line, “And it had better be a good one.”

  “What of Lucian?”

  Now Karilyne turned around and peered back at Moranna. “Lucian. That’s who you’re curious about?”

  “I had assumed he would be thrown into the dungeon—or the Fountain—at the conclusion of events.”

  The lady in silver and black shrugged. “Circumstances merited a different outcome.”

  “So he has walked away free?”

  Karilyne considered this question for a moment, then said, “In a manner of speaking. Not entirely.”

  “Was he not the architect of this catastrophe?”

  She looked at Moranna quizzically. “You said one question.”

  “My apologies. Do you not wish to answer that one?”

  “I will answer. He was not.”

  Moranna appeared to be considering this. “So he did nothing wrong, then, after all?”

  Lohandar turned to her, hands on hips. “Did you not hear Karilyne’s words?” he asked crossly, clearly trying now to curry favor with the ice queen. The mark on his throat still shone red. “She said Lucian is innocent.”

  “I have never described Lucian as innocent in any way,” Karilyne said quickly. “He was not, however, responsible for this particular set of events.” She looked away. “That does not, of course, mean that I approve of him, his past actions, or—most probably—anything he is likely to do in the future. And that is yet another reason why I am taking my leave of this place.” She looked the two of them up and down, contempt clear upon her face. “Now—if you will allow me to get back to work. The sooner we are done here, the sooner I can take my leave.”

  As Karilyne stalked away, a frowning Moranna turned back to Lohandar. “I had another question,” she said, clearly disappointed.

  “What is it?” the other god asked, apparently still in a helpful mood after his brush with the ice queen.

  She gestured toward the row of bodies. “Should we remove the black clothing from them? It seems rather disrespectful to send them to their eternal rest in...these outfits.”

  Lohandar shook his head.

  “The Fountain will do it, now that they are dead and gone. Now that the crystal that held their lives is lost.” He stepped forward, raised his right hand toward the towering column of raw energy and gestured very faintly. In response, a tentacle-like tendril separated from it and reached out, shimmering and churning, to brush against the nearest of the dead. A flash, and all the black uniforms that covered the dead gods of the nearest row vanished. Moranna looked and saw what the Power of the Fountain had wrought—the traditional clothing of the dead had been restored—and she was pleased.

  But then she noticed something. A dull red metal chain circled the right wrist of the nearest god. It did not remotely match his outfit and other accessories. Curious, she looked from him to the goddess to his left. Same thing. Same chain, same color. Frowning now, she began to walk along the arc of the plaza, looking down at the right wrist of each god and goddess. They all wore it.

  “What are you doing?” Lohandar asked, hurrying up behind her.

  She pointed out to him what she had discovered.

  He seemed to be thinking about it for a minute. Then, “Likely some additional form of control put in place by the evil one.”

  “I agree.” She knelt beside the nearest goddess, grasped the chain and tugged at it. When it failed to slide off, and after further attempts that all proved fruitless, she looked back up at Lohandar, perplexed. “It won’t come off,” she said simply.

  “We have to get them off,” Lohandar said. “They are just as much the mark of the evil one as were the black uniforms.”

  “I agree. But what can we do? Ask Karilyne—or one of the others?”

  “No, no,” Lohandar said hurriedly, almost frantically. “I have had quite enough of prevailing upon and otherwise disturbing the ice queen today.”

  “Then how—?”

  Lohandar ran a hand over his narrow chin and thought for a moment. Then he nodded off to his right, in the direction of a row of temples and other buildings, most of which Moranna had never entered and knew nothing about. “In the nearest one there,” he said, “our late Vorthan kept certain elements of his work. Perhaps...?”

  “Why not?”

  Moranna gestured and the nearest body floated up from the smooth pavement of the plaza. She began to walk in the direction of the building Lohandar had indicated, and the body followed along obediently behind her.

  “Do you want me to come along?” Lohandar asked.

  “No—stay here. Look busy. If Karilyne sees both of us missing, she might come looking.” Moranna grinned. “If I c
an find a way to remove these things before she even realizes they exist, perhaps we can impress her— get back in her good graces.”

  “We have never been in her good graces to begin with,” Lohandar pointed out. But Moranna and already turned and was leading the floating body off towards the building. Shrugging, Lohandar also turned and strolled casually back to the rows of the dead.

  8

  Moranna entered Vorthan’s little workshop carefully, timidly, filled with trepidation. She first stuck her head in partway, looking around. It was dark and dusty. She half-expected some leftover guardian conjured by the god of toil to pounce upon her. When, in fact, nothing happened, she was relieved but also quite surprised.

  She walked the rest of the way in, her aqua dress muted by the almost oppressive darkness, then gestured to summon the floating body in behind her. The room contained three large work tables, two of which were covered with strange instruments that, upon the slightest inspection, chilled her blood. The third was clear, and she directed the body up onto it. Once that was done, she began to look around for tools that could be of some use.

  One after another, she lifted the instruments, held them aloft, and tried to discern how to activate them—and what they were for. Fifteen or twenty minutes passed with no success, until at last she picked up a small cylinder, all of silver and gold, with a jewel fitted into one end. She held aloft and tapped a stud of green crystal on the side. Instantly a swirling disc of many-colored light, about ten inches in diameter, formed at the end that held the jewel.

  Moranna didn’t move it first. She knew the stories of the potency of Vorthan’s instruments. Holding this tool very carefully in her right hand, she moved her eyes across the work surface before her and located a small gray box made of some sort of dull metal. She brought the instrument she was holding down and moved the swirling circle of light against the side of the box. There was a flash and she jumped back, shocked, then stared down in amazement: The box had been sheared completely in half.

  “Ah, yes,” she whispered, grinning down at the tool she held. She touched the stud again, deactivating the blade. Then she turned and walked back over to the body.