Short Fiction: The Corruption of Ilivor

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.”