For five hundred years he had served both
as the unofficial regent and military strategist of Oltheil. The roles had not been bequeathed to him by a
former ruler or by Crel the Wizard; he had assumed the positions when no one
else would. His brothers had always been
a little more timid, a little humbler, a little quieter—but he had never
feared the need to be outspoken or to exercise authority when it was
required. Thus, he had been responsible
for commissioning the construction of Oltheil as a city whose sole purpose was
the protection of the pyrmum; he had demanded citywide fealty to the Greater
Gods, down to the last man, and had charged Virrod with the daily lifting of
songs of praise before the people; he had led mages into battle across the
nearby plains and fields to ward off approaching rublins and imps. Although he had always respected his brothers
enough to request their approval of his decisions (and in the eyes of the
citizens, the three men were co-leaders), eventually they had come to defer to
his judgment, and very rarely had they ever dissented. Possessing the support of the ones he loved
had ever served as additional motivation to do what needed to be done.
But Virrod is gone, he thought, and it is likely that Xizsk and I are taking our last
breaths. He glanced at his brother
as they stepped out into the harsh sunlight that blanketed Oltheil. Many of the stone buildings that had once
dwarfed the average man thrice over were reduced to piles of bricks. Homes that had once housed families were
presently private battlegrounds. The
grassy paths wending through the city, once mottled with multicolored flowers,
were littered with the bloodied bodies of humans and scaldrons. He dared not permit his eyes to linger long
on any single individual, but his stomach turned when he caught a glimpse of a
dead man who had recently fathered a child, of a fallen elderly woman who had
served the community by handing out delectable meals, of a slain hunter who had
recently passed from youth to adulthood.
All had been killed without discrimination, whether they had been
fighting or fleeing.
The
eternal punishment of the Gods awaited the fiends who had enacted such crimes
against humanity, Ilivor knew, but he also believed that exceptionally wicked
deeds should be met with justice in this life.
There was no great judicial court such as that in Svilgaard present to
address the scaldrons and their misdeeds, but he was present, and if no
one else was able to bring judgment upon the wicked, that was a role he must
fill. He tightened his fingers around
his curved green-brown staff and climbed atop a broken pillar to examine the
sprawling city. Some of the citizens had
managed to scurry away from the carnage, and of those who had remained behind
to defend their homes, few remained alive.
There was no hope of their survival now.
It would be better to fall quickly at the hand of a friend than slowly
at the hand of a scaldron.
“Is
it time, brother?” Xizsk asked him with wild eyes.
“It
is time,” he answered, keeping his countenance as emotionless as possible.
“All
of them, Ilivor?”
He
nodded. “All of them. Leave none alive.”
Xizsk
released a long sigh before squinting, placing both hands on his own staff, and
dashing several feet through the air in the blink of an eye; the next
half-second, he was standing at the crest of his own broken pillar and
summoning his power. The air around the
man turned grey-white, a manifestation of the purity of his motives mixed with
the unavoidable stained will that had hounded humanity ever since the sin of
Argetheil. He had always secretly envied
his brother’s general sense of innocence and purity of thought. As he began to summon his own power, he was
reminded that his motives had never been as clean—and even now, as the air
around him turned white with streaks of black and purple, he knew that his
heart was longing for vengeance over justice.
“I
love you, dear brother,” he called out to Xizsk.
The
man was unable to reply, for before he could unleash his spell, he warped over
to the top of a building and just barely avoided a scaldron’s arrow. It was then that Ilivor realized someone was
barking orders; yes, it was Rulisce herself, the goddess fallen from grace, who
was demanding that her scaldron adherents take down the wizard. Her eyes met with Ilivor’s, but she did not
tell the creatures to attack him.
It was a curious fact, but he did not have the time to dwell on it. He sensed the power rising from within,
filling his chest, his head, his fingers.
Xizsk should have completed his own spell but was far too occupied
evading the barrage of arrows that, thankfully, only managed to find themselves
buried in the grass or deflected by stone.
Ilivor took his eyes off his brother and allowed his magic to surge forward,
out into what had been a beautiful and thriving city just hours before. A blast of white and grey and blackish-purple
passed through the remains of buildings harmlessly but tore through flesh like
shears through wool. Scaldrons and
humans alike were killed instantly; if he could estimate an exact figure, it
was perhaps eighty or ninety, humans being the minority. He fell to one knee, exhausted and frustrated
that his spell had not reached Rulisce or the ring of a dozen or so guards that
surrounded her, but grateful that there were fewer scaldrons in the world.
Just
then, Xizsk unleashed his own spell. The
blast swept across the land and killed ten, fifteen, maybe twenty scaldrons and
three men. But before the spell could
continue, an arrow penetrated the wizard’s left shoulder and knocked him from
the corner of the building on which he had been standing. He plummeted to the grass nearby. Ilivor tried to crawl the distance between
himself and his dear friend, but his energy had not yet returned, and he could
do nothing but clutch onto a shapeless piece of rubble for support. He was forced to watch as the remaining
scaldrons closed in on the poor wizard; thankfully, the man still had some
power in reserve, for he slew more than a couple of the fiends with a small
barrage of white-grey orbs. Those who
had avoided the second spell began to sprint toward their enemy, but they had
not gotten far before a voice rang out across the battlefield.
“Leave
him!” shouted Rulisce, who now sounded much nearer. “He is mine.”
The
scaldrons obeyed without hesitation, quitting their mad dash and parting to
make way for the goddess. She walked
into view, her robes billowing behind her, the frayed cloth blacker than the
darkest pitch. There was no weapon in
her hand, but Ilivor knew that she did not need one. Xizsk lobbed a few projectiles her way; she
sidestepped them with ease, her remaining divine power granting her greater
speed than most mortals. A few seconds
more and Xizsk was spent, the pain from the arrow likely hampering his ability
to use any magic of a pure nature. He
could, of course, tap into that pain and use it to fuel a darker magic—but was
obedience to the Greater Gods not demanded even in the direst moments? What use
was lifelong faithfulness if, in the end, one were to curse the Gods with his
final act?
Soon
Rulisce was standing over the wizard and looking down at him with some sense of
amusement on her face. “You fought
bravely, Xizsk,” she told him, “but it was futile. I will claim that which I seek, be it today,
tomorrow, or a hundred years from now.
This is something you must know.
I have been empowered by Argetheil himself, one before whom even the
almighty Crel could not stand. With the
gift I have been given, I will upend every stone until I find the keys that
will unlock the door to the secret place where the Gods have cast him
down. You have long possessed one of
those keys; now you will tell me where it is.”
Xizsk
gritted his teeth, one hand touching his wounded shoulder. Somehow, he laughed. “It will be a great honor to deny you this
important information, even in the face of my own mortality, that I might
attain a better resurrection. You may
slay my body, but I will then be with my Fathers for all eternity.”
“That
eternity will be briefer than you think,” Rulisce challenged him. “For once Argetheil returns to this land,
nothing will be safe—not even the very throne room of the Greater Gods. He will assault and destroy everything that
is precious to them.”
The
wizard continued to laugh. “Oh my, how
you have been deceived. Rulisce, your
master has lied to you! Only the Gods are all-powerful. Argetheil may have darkness in his heart, and
with that darkness a most dreadful power, but he has no greater power than that
which the Gods have allowed. They are
sovereign, and they would not decree that their child depose them. You and your ilk may find victory from time
to time, but at the end, it is the Gods and their faithful followers who will
find true victory.”
She
shook her head. “Your faith has made you
blind and naïve, Xizsk.”
“And
yet the pyrma have eluded your grasp these many centuries. If that is not evidence enough that you are
on the losing side, Rulisce, then I know not what is.”
The
woman released a short sigh. “I have not
the patience to deal with you.
Unfortunately, besides making you blind and naïve, your unwavering
faithfulness has also made you obstinate.
Let us see if your brother is equally loyal. I have no use for you, Xizsk; farewell.”
There
was not a moment’s protest in the man’s eyes, not even when black needles
materialized in the air at Rulisce’s fingertips and rushed into her opponent’s
flesh. The spark that had been Xizsk’s
mortal life for many years was gone in an instant, and abruptly it was as
though some very real portion of Ilivor’s heart was excised. There was no animation in the body that had
theretofore been his brother, no visible sign of the man he had been; but there
was a magical residue clinging to the air, a testament to Xizsk’s great
power. It would linger there for some
time, tangible only to arcanes whose minds could apprehend it. Ilivor’s sorrow was weighty, and the only
reason tears did not leave his eyes was that he knew his brother was in a place
free from pain and trespass. He hoped he
would also be so hurried into the presence of the Three.
Rulisce,
apparently unmoved by the death of such a reverent and influential man, left
the body and traipsed over to Ilivor. She
was not actively using magic of any kind, but the immensity of her power became
more evident with her every approaching step.
Also evident was her resolve—her resolve, he remembered, to obey a
deceiver. Yes, she was willing to die
for that which she believed to be true, although it was a lie; and yet he felt
that perhaps he was not willing to die for what he knew to be true. How could her resolve surpass his own? How
could he feel so cowardly within when he knew that the Gods were existent,
sovereign, and righteous in all their ways? He gritted his teeth and managed to
push himself up to meet the woman’s eyes.
He hoped his cowardice did not spell the doom of the world.
“One
of your brothers is dead,” she told him casually. “I can sense the aftereffects of the other. He has fled with the pyrmum, has he not?”
Ilivor
did not answer. It was probably the
bravest thing he had ever done.
“You
are weak,” she said to him. Once she had
reached him, she squatted down and studied his prostrate body. “You tapped into every last morsel of your
power to slay some of my followers, and now you have neither the power nor the
steadfastness to resist. I have an idea
of how you may be used for the glory of Argetheil, and it is a fate worse than
death. But I will give you one more
opportunity to answer me ere I resort to such an act.”
He
did not know what she meant by that, and he did not bother to think it
through. A tear finally rolled down his
cheek. Internally, he began to beg the
Gods that his death might be neither painless nor prolonged. Fear filled his heart to the brim. He had lived a long and honorable life, for
the most part, but he did not want it to end.
Not now, and not here. Perhaps he
could save more people over the long term if he gave Rulisce the information
she desired; perhaps she would spare his life and, some years later, he could
return to her in vengeance. Yes, a
momentary failure could later lead to a final victory. He tried to summon the strength to speak, to
betray Virrod and his people and the Gods who had redeemed him.
“Very
well,” said Rulisce before a word could leave his lips. “Then a puppet of Argetheil you will be.”
She
raised her hands to the height of her shoulders, fingertips facing up, and
closed her eyes. The next moment, a
sudden emotion impressed itself in Ilivor’s heart: anger. How could the Gods, who were allegedly good
and in control of all things, force their faithful followers to undergo persecution
of this magnitude? Why did terrible things happen to innocent people? Why was
it said that the Gods loved their creation when they no longer interacted with
it or intervened in the moments that mattered? Why had they never spoken to him
in all his years of devoted ministry?
His
anger was followed by doubt. Perhaps
they never spoke to him or to their other followers because they had stepped
away from their world after forming it (assuming that they were real in the
first place; he had never actually seen them, after all). What evidence was there that the power of him
and his brethren had come to them except by their own ability? Why had they
been so insistent that the Gods had been the source of their power? It was the
Writ—the written Word, apparently delivered to the world through the Gods’
inspiration—that claimed everything came from divine hands. What good reason was there to believe that
the Writ was trustworthy? Had it not been written by mere mortals with their
own beliefs, agendas, and flaws? Why should he believe that the Gods were true,
and good, and love?
He
had felt such anger and doubt in the early days of his faith, he remembered,
but he had buried them long ago. He had
never taken the time to answer the difficult questions, and now they were
resurfacing centuries later and shipwrecking his faith. Half a millennium had been squandered in a
vain pursuit; if he had allowed himself to see his questions as perfectly justified,
perhaps he could have avoided devoting his life to Gods who had clearly never
cared for him in the first place.
“And
now it is complete,” Rulisce whispered, a small smile touching the edge of her
lips. She stood and beckoned him to
rise, as well. “I must ask again: where
is Virrod going?”
He
looked at her long and turned his head to the side. It was strange—just a moment ago he had
feared and despised her, but now he felt sympathetic to her cause. He had spent his entire life thinking she had
chosen the wrong path, but he realized that he had simply been uninformed. She wanted Argetheil to return not so that he
might destroy the world; she trusted in Argetheil’s promise to mend the
world and its injustices. She believed
he could make flawless that which was flawed, correcting the Gods’ mistakes. She wanted the divine to be present and
visible, not concealed within the spiritual realm. Her ambitions were good and pure.
“I
sent him to Gozzk,” Ilivor answered at length.
“Gozzk?”
She placed a hand on her hip. “And what,
pray, lies in that uncivilized country?”
“Nothing,
Rulisce. Xizsk and I commissioned Virrod
to head to Gozkk because of its inherent peril; we thought that minotaurs and
ogres might dissuade you and your allies from following. I am sorry for my error.”
Her
face remained unperturbed, but her eyes smiled.
“It is quite fine, my brother.
Virrod is a fool if he thinks he can find a haven for the pyrmum before
I have caught up to him. You have done
well by revealing the truth to me.”
He
bowed as low as he could, hoping to demonstrate the profundity of his
penitence. “I am at your service, dear
sister. But tell me: what now can I do
to aid you? How can I be of service to Argetheil?”
“You
can begin by helping me find Virrod,” she replied, already marching between the
ranks of scaldrons while he trailed her.
“After that, we shall see. But we
are in the process of placing our most capable allies in positions of power
across Marnon. If you serve me well, we
can discuss the country in which you might provide the greatest usefulness to
the Ambassadors of Argetheil.”
