《Thresholder: The Six Worlds of Morgan Lim》 Prologue: The Sixth World "We live in an age in which there is no heroic death." ¨D Yukio Mishima Prologue: The Sixth World Phospiach, Dominion of the Gods This is a story that begins with grain. Not the relentless monoculture of the agri-domes, with the modern advantages of genetically-modified feedstock and colossal production zones controlled by gigantic macro-processors. No antibiotic treatments or dispatch flyers for crop-dusting, no harvester leviathans prowling the grey fields with whirling blades and dirigible-drones for mass extraction- But grain, all the same. Sheathed in inedible husks, pounded by pestle and mortar - Great hollowed-out tree trunks, higher than the pounders themselves. Imagine: Raising the pestle. Letting it fall, catching it after it crushes the gritty covering, but before it smashes the grain. Over and over again, day and night. World without end. Hard work. Backbreaking work. Grinding, pounding: Some of the heaviest tasks that could ever be undertaken, in this age. But necessary, all the same - For the mills belonged to the nobles, and the fees charged were as high as they could make them. Since time immemorial, that was a peasant¡¯s lot. Come rain, or snow, or sun: Watching the rise and fall of the pestle, between threshing and tossing the seed, splitting logs and drawing water. Feeding the scabby animals, silently praying that the wheat would rise in time, for the alternative was starvation. Hard years, unrelenting and monotonous. Working the soil, until one joined it. There were gods, too, in those days. Gods of the harvest, of the hearth, of the changing seasons, of prosperity and famine. Not grand, like the deities that resided in the great temple-cities, with thousands singing paens to their glory: Small gods, brought forth from the wishes and hopes and fears of villagers, made to work the soil like those who paid homage to them. Pa¡¯quan, God of Grain, was no different. His priesthood, the Tillers and the Strawmaidens, claimed that He was spun into existence on a day as dark as night. When the village of Squall¡¯s End had faced famine - Addressing the heavens with their desperate prayers - He¡¯d emerged from their fields, like a farmer returning after a hard day¡¯s labour, their withered crops surging with new life where He strode. And the people rejoiced, for they had their miracle. For a time.
No one knows what makes a god, not truly. For centuries, the priests of a thousand cults have debated the nature of the divine, and the circumstances that bring it into being: Yet, none have ever found a conclusive answer. It has never been clear why some desperate prayers are answered, and others ignored - Only that the events surrounding a god¡¯s birth, in some fundamental way, defined their purpose, their panoply, the very core of their existence. Consider, for instance, Vairocana the Frenzied and Rastuvia, the Brother of Accord. Both are gods of war - But while Vairocana is a bloody-handed slayer, whose warrior-prophets preach personal enlightenment through relentless struggle, the scrolls of Rastuvia teach that battle is the crucible in which a man is sublimated into a greater whole. In the Brother¡¯s words, immortality is found in common purpose, in the shield-wall and the levelled spears: Those who fight alone, die alone and bereft. Their doctrine is matched by their gifts, too. In each foe struck down, the faithful of Vairocana find renewed strength and momentary clarity: Fragmentary insights, leading the aspiring adept further down the path of inspiration. Many-eyed Rastuvia grants men spines of iron, the endurance to stand and fight in the face of hideous wounds and impossible odds - For the line is everything, and to allow it to break is the gravest of sins. Both espouse radically different views of war. One exalts the warrior, the other the many: And yet, both were born on the same day, from the same battle, when the legions of the empire of Tash¡¯ro met the myrmidons of the Daelic Hegemony at Jackal¡¯s Bluff. They hate each other, of course. The way only siblings can, a great, deep hatred with no end in sight. By divine edict, Rastuvia¡¯s priests are bound to reward any man who presents them with the flayed scalp of one of Vairocana¡¯s apostles - In return, Vairocana offers divine boons to those who would sack one of the Brother¡¯s temple-monasteries. Personally, I favour Vairocana. Not because he¡¯s more agreeable, but because he¡¯s right: In the end, we are all alone. There are many causes, but you only get one life - When that¡¯s gone, you¡¯re gone, and there¡¯s nothing more to be said. But then again, I¡¯m hardly an unbiased source. Just ask the priests of Rastuvia.
Whatever their domain, whatever their nature, all gods seek two things: Followers, and apotheosis. To the gods, the first is their meat and drink. Without a steady supply of worshippers, without their faith to batten on, a god is a puny thing, a nothing - Insubstantial as a wisp. As such, all work to expand their influence, to swell the ranks of the faithful. Through faith, they can move mountains: Not as metaphor, but in truth. In return, the gods reward their followers. They heal their wounds, sweep aside their foes with reeking plague, ensure their children grow tall and strong and well-favoured, grant them powers beyond the ken of mortal men¡­All this and more, an eternal and ever-perpetuating cycle, world without end. And when the time comes, the gods harvest them. When one of the faithful dies, part of their essence joins their deity forever. Some say this is the closest a mortal can get to divinity, to be a mote of flame within a great blaze. To me, it sounds more like being fed to the fire, as kindling - But perhaps I¡¯m too cynical. Perhaps being fuel for something greater is the best anyone can really expect. I don¡¯t know when the covenant between man and god was first sealed, not really. The deep past is a strange place, and further back you go - on this and on any other world - the truth gets blurrier, more obscure. But Phospiach is the world they shaped, more than any other. Gods exist as long as enough people believe in them. And by ¡®believe¡¯, I mean believe - As gods age, as they swell and bloat on the souls of the faithful, they need ever more faith to sustain them. Grand ceremonies, feast days, pageantry¡­They become essential, not just displays of fervour, but like a long draught of water to a man dying of thirst. Few can sustain such appetites for long: Eventually, the demands of divinity become too much, and their cults implode under their own weight. At the first signs of weakness, jealous rivals and opportunists close in, like sharks drawn to blood in the water¡­ And what comes next is as awful as it is inevitable. But for those who would seek it, a way out exists.
All roads lead to Adrijanopolj, say the Godbinders. Adrijanopolj, the First City. The Sacred Capital, where the air itself smells of incense and sacred oils, where the smoke of burnt offerings rises in an eternal haze. Fabled, fantastically rich, the inner sanctums of some of the most holy priests of the powerful temples adorning the main broadways like bejewelled rings on a noble¡¯s hands. Adrijanopolj, City of Beginnings. Home of the Platinum Spire. The stories say that Adrijanopolj was raised by the first god to achieve true apotheosis, the centrepiece of a complex, centuries-long ritual to transcend the limitations of his own divinity. His name is long forgotten, but the Spire remains. It¡¯s the first thing a pilgrim sees, at the end of a long, gruelling journey - A great silver needle, piercing the skies. Set at Adrijanopolj¡¯s very heart, the Spire rises from the dark waters of the Well of Void like a jewel from a ring¡¯s bezel, glittering with silent majesty. No one knows for certain what lies within the Spire itself. Entire tomes have been written about the traps, challenges and guardians that lie within: Ever-shifting, ever-changing, an infinitely self-renewing puzzle box. The city¡¯s faith feeds the Platinum Spire, fueling its great mechanisms, the complex alchemies necessary for it to fulfil its truest purpose. Once every few centuries, when critical mass is reached, the Spire sings. It is a call, a paean, as unique as it is indescribable - Once it has its hooks in you, you never forget it. According to legend, men and women born while the Spire sings sometimes speak of hearing it in their dying moments, regardless of where they lie breathing their last. For seven days and seven nights, the Spire¡¯s eternal song reverberates through the streets, the cathedrals, and the high holy places of Adrijanopolj: A promise, a warning and a call to arms at once. It is a time of great, and sometimes frenzied, celebration. The Festival of Ascension, they call it - A jubilee of feasting and dancing and general excess. Food and drink flow freely: It is said that any child conceived during this time is blessed to live a long and lucky life. No surprise, really - For the Spire¡¯s awakening is a prelude to a birth of sorts. As the city convulses in paroxysms of long-repressed joy, the chosen of the gods make ready. Some have been waiting for this their entire lives, armed and anointed by the theocrats of the great temples for just such a day. Others hail from distant lands, knowing nothing other than the touch of divinity and the harrowing trial ahead. The goal is the same, to one and all: To ascend to the very height of the Spire, through its horrors and wonders, where the Purificapex awaits. That final, eternal vaunt bears many names - The Intrinsic Gate, the Exigence, the Flame of Unbinding, amongst a hundred others. Most know it by its purpose: God-maker. Only a mortal, acting of his own free will, can set the gears of that great engine in motion. In that one place and no other, the hand of the divine falters. The tales hint at the dire consequences for trying and failing, like the cataclysms of the Great Sundering and the Wrack, lost in the deep past. When the chosen champion crosses that last threshold with his god¡¯s name on his lips, he brings about his patron¡¯s ultimate triumph - an end to the games of petty politicking and grasping for followers that the gods play, and a rebirth into a truer form of divinity. Swept through that final gate, the victorious god ascends into the waiting firmament, shedding all limits, all restraints, in one glorious moment of ascension. What comes next is a mystery, known only to the gods themselves. Perhaps they dwell in the true heavens, amid gilded pleasure-domes. Maybe they¡¯re set free to roam the stars, infinite and unbound at last. Or perhaps they become one with the primordial essence of things, forged into a fundamental part of the cosmos itself. Personally, I don¡¯t think the gods know, either. Perhaps, in their own way, they¡¯re taking a leap of faith. Isn¡¯t that funny?
There are rules, of course. Even a game of death has rules. No Chosen may be barred from the Platinum Spire, but each god may only have one champion daring the gauntlet. In truth, few divinities would anoint more than one: When a god yields power to a mortal, it can never be taken back. Most are wary of diminishment, doling out their gifts sparingly and to their most trusted, like a miser with his purse. Armies have attempted to force the gates before, and each attempt has always ended in disaster - In many ways, the Spire is a mind as well as a place, and it recoils at the presence of too many intelligences. The bronze-armoured praetorians of the Vushka stand ready to repel all such defilers, pledged to the Spire¡¯s eternal defence. The ruling pantheon of the Hundred Great Gods supports them, as a matter of practicality. Better to have an even playing field, rather than to lose their prize forever. By ancient law, no Chosen may shed the blood of another, during the Festival of Ascension. Those who announce themselves before the Court of the Palatine are - in theory - bound and protected by this rule. That doesn¡¯t stop a flurry of assassinations and sabotage from playing themselves out, all the same. Man has ever been willing to shed the blood of another, after all. Seven, frenzied days of rejoicing - Seven nights of murder and knives-in-the-dark, world without end. There are other rules. Many, in fact: A cavalcade of them. All serve to provide some measure of protection, some thin veneer of civilization over a seething cauldron of greed, power-lust and zealotry, one that could - at any moment - spill over into all-out war. And then, the followers of Pa¡¯quan - In the name of their murdered god - came along and broke them all.
It began with a scourge of invisible fire. A dancing plague, amid the revellers - Convulsions and spasms, the sense that every nerve in one¡¯s body had been set alight. Few knew it for what it was, at first: Some thought it was all part of the frenzy of the crowd, too much wine, or even some divine visitation. The presence of a new God, or many, making its presence felt. But when the skin lesions and the weeping sores appeared, the first horrified whispers came: Poison? A curse? And then the hallucinations, the psychosis, spreading like wildfire. Visions, terrible visions, daylight horrors: Limbs blackening and going gangrenous, like a damnation-swarm of locusts blighting a field. Plague, someone had said at last, and all hell had broken loose. Blind convulsions of panic, the gurgle of wine replaced by the gurgle of blood. The sick had been murdered in paroxysms of horror, or left to roam in growing mobs of half-blinded madmen, seeking succour or at least an end to their suffering. The temples had been besieged, heedless of the soldiers sent to restore order - With thousands sick and dying, the toll rising by the hour, the streets of Adrijanopolj rang with screams and pleas and prayers alike. From a certain perspective, they were one and the same. Some said it was in the water, others in the wine. Others blamed impiety, the corruption of the priests, the wrath of the gods high and low. They were all wrong: It was in the bread. For Pa¡¯quan had been a god of grain, of rye, of the harvest, and His followers were familiar with its blight. They knew it as the sight-blinder, the fire-bringer, the red flesh of demons. We call it ergot.
They must have been planning this for months. Labouring on in the name of their murdered deity, through seasons of patient toil - The Strawmaidens and Tillers of Pa¡¯quan¡¯s priesthood, nurturing not just the grain, but its opposite. The same blessings that made the crops grow tall, lush and true fed their weapon, evoking in it an extraordinary potency, a lethality, that few expected. It had been in the city¡¯s daily dole of bread, in the stews and gruel that so many subsided on. The onset of the burning had come within mere hours of ingestion, and thus had begun the reckoning. Had it been Alistair¡¯s idea? When I¡¯d met him - With three worlds under his belt - I¡¯d marked him as a romantic, a dreamer, a well-meaning bumbler who survived through luck rather than skill. Then again, maybe there was a steel to him, after all: Whatever the reason, I¡¯d misjudged him, and badly. No. It had to be Eulisia. Strawmaiden Eulisia, the inheritor, heir to Pa¡¯quan¡¯s legacy. Holder of the last few fitful sparks of divinity that remained after his death. For that was their plan, you see. Their last, great hope: That the Spire could fan those last, fading embers back into a roaring flame. When the followers of Pa¡¯quan - the cult dedicated to his memory - stormed the gates of the Spire, great scarecrow effigies raised like banners, sickles and scythes gleaming like a forest of steel as they hewed through all in the way, they knew it was their own chance to make recompense. To save the God that had given all, for them. Don¡¯t misunderstand. I lived amongst them for a season - I could relate, even sympathise with what they were doing. When I went to kill them, it was for reasons entirely my own.
Beyond the Spire¡¯s walls, the city burned. The first silo had caught light, without any warning at all. A great volcanic plume of flame lurching skyward, a tiny flash becoming wider and brighter and more intense, expanding outward and upward. The percussive crump of the explosion had rippled across the doomed city, the concussion bending the air, bending sound- And in the long, breathless moments that followed, it had rained fire. Burning debris had hailed down from above, plunging down out of the twilight. As a grey dust cloud had rolled outward from deep within the district, the sizzling deluge had given rise to a rippling wave of new fires. Hungry tongues of flame leapt and danced and crackled, spreading with a greedy will; As if at the perverse whim of the God of Wind, the breeze had fanned the blaze higher still. The ramshackle tenements and wooden shacks had been the first to ignite. Thick smothering coils of black smoke twisted towards the night sky, visible against the lurid glow of the distant blaze. Far, far below, I could hear shouts and screams could be heard - Distantly, like the echo of someone else''s war. Everything ached. It felt like I¡¯d been fighting for hours, making my reeling way through the Spire¡¯s cyclopean halls, its winding corridors. Around every corner was a new horror, every floor a new nightmare vista. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. I¡¯d lost the Furstenburg three floors ago, when gilded skeletons had lurched from the intricate maze of frescos etched into the walls, pinpoints of crimson fire burning in their eyes. They came at me with scimitars and spears, always shields, and - my ears ringing - I hadn¡¯t heard their chattering teeth and mumbling bony rattles until it was almost too late. I turned, just in time, and a swinging blade ripped the pulse rifle out of my arms before I could get off more than a single burst. It tore right through the silicate and plastek of the barrel, gouged through the recoil dampeners, and ruptured the power cell in a bleak fzzk of malfunction. All the way from my fourth world. Gone, just like that. Furious - incandescent, almost - I hurled myself into the onrushing undead, laying around me with gauntlets of black jade. Made wrecking balls of my fists, bashing back swords and ripping through shields. Sometimes, it¡¯s good to work with just your hands. Every blow shattered skulls into dust, but the lurching warriors kept coming: Even through the satisfying crunch of gleaming ribs giving way, the feel of bone crunching beneath my fists, I¡¯d known that staying to fight was a losing proposition. There were just too many, capering forth from the depths of some painted hell, and every moment spent was a moment lost. I fled, heedless of the spear-thrusts and blows that had rained down upon me from behind - The ice-white scales of my armour took the worst of it, though the acid-etched runes had glowed with fell light for long minutes after. I only stopped when the Spire¡¯s architecture shifted again, with a deep, tortured groan - One of the omnipresent hexagonal doors slamming down behind me, panels of carnelian and mother-of-pearl sliding in every direction at once. I was still trying to catch my breath when the carved gargoyles had come swooping down. They were hideous things, goat-headed, features of grey stone locked in fright-masks of scowling rage, stinking of old blood and new gore. I caught the first one, tore it in half with a single punch, but there were a half-dozen of the squalling, shrieking horrors: Yellowed fangs clamped down on my arm like a vise, as raking talons caught me across the face. Ever since Unity, I¡¯ve been tough. A less resilient man would¡¯ve had his flesh flayed to the bone - Instead, they drew shallow gouges in my flesh, missing my eye by a hand¡¯s-breadth. I jerked my head back, swearing aloud: The dry, bloodless wound would heal in hours, the way a smile slowly fades, but I took things like that personally. It was time to cut right to the chase.
I¡¯d wanted to save my store of spintriae for what came next. It¡¯d taken two seasons, as the people of Phospiach reckoned time, to accumulate my trove. Two seasons of running favours for the small gods, the up-and-comers and the fading stars. Fighting in their petty wars, for a soul full of this, a skin full of that. ¡°Always pick the underdog, boy,¡± Oloin had said, half-drunk on kulosa. Between swigs of sap-beer, the old Godbinder had stared into the distance, scowling at something only his milky eyes could see. ¡°The desperate pay better. Skins off their back, if you can believe it - But make sure they pay up-front.¡± I¡¯d taken his words to heart. Time and time again, I¡¯d married my cause to the weaker side, and profited from it. The salamander-leather pouch I carried was half-filled with tokens of bargains given physical form: Splinters of ivory bone, perfect black pearls, shards of rusted weapons and glassy teeth, each one a debt-marker yet to be called in. I would¡¯ve had more, but I¡¯d traded some in, bartering for other gifts - Seeking information, above all. A respite from the eternal hunger that gnawed at my gut, the power that was slowly killing me. It¡¯s funny. Being activated was agony: I remember the fever, the spasms, the smell of my flesh burning each time they applied the catalyst. But that had been nothing compared to the pop of my bones expanding, the ache of referred pain that coursed through my limbs, over those long and awful weeks. After that, however, as I contemplated my new self in the mirror - a full head taller, skin drawn tight and glossy over corded ropes of new-grown muscle - I¡¯d considered all the pain and suffering worthwhile. I was a different man, a new man, from the wan and faintly nebbish office drone I¡¯d been all my life. A man reforged. A man remade, ready to seize adventure by the throat. To crush the jewelled thrones of a dozen worlds beneath my sandalled feet. Yes, I¡¯m ashamed to admit that was - in fact - what I really thought. Me, Morgan the Destroyer. Master of the obvious, reaver and conqueror extraordinaire. Power goes a long way, even in this mad life we lead: Give a man a little, and it goes right to his head. You¡¯ll indulge me, I hope. Sometimes, I embarrass even myself. But there were drawbacks, too. Not just the physiological and hormonal changes, or the looming specter of cellular degeneration, hanging overhead like a sword of Damocles. Those, I¡¯d known and accepted from the very beginning: Wracked by activation sickness, it wasn¡¯t like I¡¯d had much choice. No, it¡¯s the smaller things that I miss. For one - No matter how much I eat, I¡¯m always famished. Always. I can¡¯t get drunk. I can¡¯t even remember the simple pleasure of a full stomach, a sated appetite. Back on Unity, enhanced humans subsisted on a myriad of elixirs like Quench, Cascade and Molt - Liquid food, fermented and chemically distilled, calorie-dense and nutrient-rich. It looked like aviation fuel and tasted like it too, but it beat the constant, nagging feeling that you were just on the edge of starvation. On Phospiach, I ate five meals a day. Steamed fish in black sauce, spiced oysters, litres of the salty beef extract known as raab, crisp-skinned meat birds heaped atop each other, bowls of pickled greens, wedges of soft local cheese and haunches of roast mutton. Steak, dumplings smothered in oil and pepper, medallions of honeyed ham¡­Nothing worked. No matter how I gorged myself, it all went through me like spring water, and I would rise from the table feeling like I¡¯d eaten nothing at all. It was maddening. It¡¯d never been this bad before, not on Dolor or Cradle. Back on Unity, where enhanciles were a known quantity, there were measures that could be taken, specialists that could be consulted. Here, the most common form of healing was the laying of hands. Golag the Monger, master of the Soul Market, couldn¡¯t cure me. But his merchant-priests knew someone who could. And so I entered the service of Tauruskhan the Horned Conqueror, Bull-king of War and Cattle, and my path had turned - inevitably - towards Adrijanopolj and the Platinum Spire.
When I crushed the shard of fulgurite in my fist, lightning struck. For a moment, I saw it - arcs of crackling electricity gathering in a single, brilliant point, blindingly bright - in the heartbeat before it lashed out, uncoiling like a whip. The jagged bolt struck the first gargoyle with a vindictive clap of thunder, garlands of charge crackling across the barbed protrusions of its stony form. It howled, briefly. Convulsing, thrashing as the awful stench of burning flesh choked the air. Before its limp form could collapse, a second blue-white bolt leapt from the gargoyle¡¯s corpse, jumping to the next victim. Then the next. And the next, a seething chain of power that linked them, just for an instant, in a crackling web of discharge- I was moving past them, even as their charred bodies crumpled, heedless of the copper taste of ozone in my mouth. Running full-out now, the polished ebony and etched silver of the walls blurring past. Boots scuffing against the black marble of the ground, knowing I had to be close, now¡­ There was a flight of stairs ahead, spiraling up to a landing. I took them three at a time, my heart pounding in my chest as the rising halls gave way to a towering archway, then to the cyclopean chamber - scarred columns standing silent vigil - beyond. I saw the blood, first. Blood on the floor, bloody footprints on the marble, bloody handprints on the walls. It scummed the light-orbs that illuminated the carnage, reduced everything to agonized shadows. Corpses, strewn like fallen leaves. Weapons scattered across the scarlet ground. A hand, severed at the wrist, still gripped the sundered haft of a spear. Things crunched beneath my feet, hard but brittle, as I looked down¡­ -Teeth. Dimly, I wondered who the dead were. Who they had been, in life - The nature of their deaths stole all identity from their remains. Cut apart, dismembered and unmade, reduced to slabs of sundered meat, they barely seemed human: To my eyes, they seemed like mock-ups, mannequins, taken apart and left to rot. But the walls rang with the dying echoes of their screams, like a palpable force. The air was choked with smoke, with miasma, with the unutterably foul stench of death. Caught on the cusp of a premonition, I felt every muscle tighten at once. Felt the tang of nausea at the back of my throat as something vast, something huge, moved in the firelit gloom. Their killer had been waiting nearby, hunched like a ghoul over the fallen. Headless, iron limbs articulating with a cackling werewolf growl, it rose up. Four metres tall and half as wide, chased with gold, it was a towering giant, armored in the style of the Vushka, except for the haunting absence of a head. Badged with gore, the dullahan¡¯s bronze cuirass shone like a mirror, the finish undimmed by the filth that clung to its surface. ¡°Fucking hell-¡± Seeing it, I lost a step, as my gut twisted itself into knots. For one frozen instant, I could see myself reflected in the gleaming surfaces: Dark-eyed, dark hair cropped brutally close to my skull, hunched frame warped and distorted. I looked startled, desperately afraid, out of my depth- How did I get here? How did I¡­? The giant¡¯s sword - the blade fully eight-feet long - stabbed at me, and I hurled myself to the side as it hissed past. Threads of ocher lightning sizzled along the pale edge: I felt every hair stand on end as I made myself step inside the thing¡¯s reach, hammering my fist down on the thing¡¯s arm- I was a delta-grade enhanced human, strong enough to lift upwards of six tons, tough enough to wade through low-caliber gunfire. With my gauntlets, I could crumple an iron helm into tinfoil, shatter stone with my fists. The dullahan was made of sterner stuff than I expected. The thunderclap of the impact rang in my ears, the shock reverberating through my bones as spell-scored iron rang beneath the blow, but the limb held. Held, in spite of everything. My hand vised down, fingers digging into the gleaming metal of a burnished vambrace- The dullahan kicked me aside. There was a crunch, a bang. A full-body impact: Not my ribs or my limbs or even my skull. It struck me in all of me, my entire body smashed back by the all-encompassing force that lifted me from my feet, and sent me tumbling. I crossed the ground on my back. The breath whooshed from my lungs I slammed into a column, half-folded against it, the world spinning end-over-end. Dazed, I think I made a sound like: ¡°-¡± The great sword whistled round, and nearly cut me in half. Somehow, I managed to scrabble away on all fours, a taut hiss wrenched from my throat as the pale blade hacked a smouldering gouge where my head had been. Close, too close, that could¡¯ve been me- The backswing cleaved clean through a pillar without stopping, obliterating centuries-old carvings of the torments of the damned. With a deep, grinding groan, stone scraped against stone, toppling with a crash that shook the ground as I staggered to my feet¡­ Beneath my coat of scales, the tattoos on my skin writhed, sensing the imminence of death. In my mind¡¯s eye, I could see them: The barbed and thousand-legged ahtitlak, mandibles clattering as it squirmed over my flesh. The raiton, beating four wings as it soared through an inky sky, seeking escape. Even the thysser - Equal parts snapping turtle and armadillo, fully as large as a small tank - had to be stirring uneasily in the endless darkness of its burrow, roused by some distant sense of danger. I¡¯d had them for more than a year now, and they still felt raw against my flesh. No wonder, of course: A friend had gifted them to me with his last breaths, and they¡¯d grudgingly settled in their new home. To hell with it. If they could live on me, they¡¯d fight for me all the same. The dullahan¡¯s sword rose, ready to descend with the force of an avalanche. In the heartbeat before it came hurtling down, I took a single lunging step forward, one arm leveled straight and true- Thyssers are big, strong and stupid. Traditionally, they tunnel through hilly areas, sensing prey walking above them. When roused, they lunge upwards to devour their unfortunate targets whole - But when driven by hunger or fury, they can put on a surprising burst of speed. Force slammed out. There was a hurricane of wind, a wrenching tug on my flesh. The burrowing leviathan - A half-seen, almost-real shape of ink and shadow - burst from the churning air. It hurtled forward with the fatal velocity of a speeding bullet, and smashed into the armored giant like a wrecking ball. The splitting boom of impact eclipsed all sound. The air-shock pummeled me, the recoil wrenching my arm back. Their thrashing forms slammed into the wall, hard enough to send cracks skittering across the surface: I heard the scream of tortured metal against stone, the dullahan momentarily pinned by the great bludgeoning weight that tore at it with digging claws and rending teeth. In the wild, an adult thysser bull could mass anywhere between eight to twelve metric tons. They feasted on ore deposits, in order to grow fangs and claws capable of churning through stone - The crushing strength into those great jaws could crush armor plate. Shards of enchanted bronze flew like buckshot, crumpling with a scream of tortured metal. But the dullahan¡¯s blade flashed out, hacking a gash into the behemoth¡¯s hide: Ink, black as night, gushed from the wound as a great, outraged howl tore from the thysser¡¯s maw- I charged. Low, fast, half-running, half-stumbling. Shouting wordlessly, lungs burning with the need for air. Through flailing limbs, ducking a blind slash as bronze armour ground against the stone of the wall. Given a moment¡¯s respite, the giant would have torn free, but I was too close, moving too fast. ¡°Tauruskhan!¡± The words came in a bellow, a roar, as the sword carved the thysser open, from gut to flank. The beast fell back, substance unraveling in swirling lines of ink, drawn to me like iron filings to a magnet. I felt my skin burn as if branded anew: Wounded, it was burrowing back into my flesh, seeking the only home it¡¯d ever known. ¡°Tauruskhan, be with me now!¡± For a moment, nothing. Then a surge, a flood of power, shooting up my spine and into my limbs, making them sting with strength. I felt my muscles bulge, my vision hazing to red. A single great bound closed the distance, as both fists came crashing down against the joint in the dullahan¡¯s long arm... This time, something crunched. This time, something tore. The headless knight¡¯s sword-arm went limp as metal crumpled inward, hammered out of alignment. Blade-tipped fingers clawed for me all the same, raking across my shoulder in a vicious swipe- But by then, I¡¯d wrenched the sword free from its mangled hand. Worms of yellow lightning danced across my spined knuckles, the giant blade as heavy as an anvil. Even with both hands on the hilt, it was an unwieldy thing, and I staggered back as the peerless edge carved a shallow groove in the black stone. The weapon was so huge and heavy, just being strong wasn¡¯t enough. The sheer mass of it meant that there was no riposte, or feint or parry to be had: If you committed to any blow, you¡¯d better follow it through, or it would pull you from your feet. Fortunately, I had only one blow left to make. I torqued, dark clouds billowing in my field of vision from the effort, and drove the blade¡¯s point in beneath the lip of the dullahan¡¯s breastplate. The tip punched home, with a crunch of brutal impact - Then the rest of the blade followed, metal screeching on metal, right through the giant and the wall behind it. Ichor gushed forth. A great spray of it, squirting out around my hands. It stung my skin where it touched, like battery acid, hissing and smoking as it pooled on the ground. The bitter stench of it made my nostrils twist, made me wince as I gritted my teeth, twisting the sword in the wound¡­ The giant jerked, stricken. The one remaining arm fell to its side, a deep, damned groan echoing from the hollow confines of the armour. Vapor coiled from the gorget, twisting and squirming in odd shapes, as if fighting to cling fast and survive- It swayed, and fell with all the tragic majesty of a centuries-old statue being toppled. The weight wrenched the great sword from my hands. I staggered back, just in time, before that giant, leaden titan crumpled on top of me: The headless knight¡¯s armour tolled once, like a doleful bell being sounded, as it struck the ground with a ringing crash. Bruised, panting, I doubled over. Hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath. The strength that had flowed through me was draining away, my ribs and back aching abominably from the kick. I coughed once, again, then spat - No blood. A good sign. The lychgate loomed before me, at the end of the hall. It had the faint gleam of tarnished silver, an intricate lattice stretching across obsidian-black stone like the geometry of a spider¡¯s web. Six-sided sigils, the angles never quite true, defied the eye as I limped forward on shaky legs. I had my coat of scales, my gauntlets, and slightly over a half-dozen spintriae remaining. And, of course, Oneira¡¯s gun - that sleek, lethal lancet of a weapon - was a familiar, comforting pressure against my thigh. All this time, all the way from my first world, and I still carried it the way she did. It¡¯s good to remember your roots. If nothing else, it teaches you not to make the same mistake. Some rebel impulse told me to retrieve the giant¡¯s sword. I ignored it: This close to the end, I¡¯d use what I had on hand. And if it wasn¡¯t enough, well¡­I¡¯d just have to make do. Not much further now, I told myself. Not much further at all.
It got bad. It got bad, and fast. The Platinum Spire was less like a single, discrete structure, and more like a shared hallucination. To venture into psychetecture of the great silver building was to yield to the peculiar logic of the place: Many could enter through the same door, but each would emerge alone. Some sages say that the Spire¡¯s interior held the nightmares of a slumbering God, stirring uneasily in its sleep. That one day, it will wake, fuelled by centuries of worship, and began remaking the world to its will. Who can say? They may be right. At the very least, I know that the place is constantly shifting, constantly changing. Altering itself to best fend off invaders, reconfiguring for better defence or simply to provide a greater trial. I¡¯m sure there were plenty who seized this chance for glory - Those who weren¡¯t reeling from the plague of invisible fire, I mean. From my count, there were at least a score of temples with Chosen, all absolutely champing at the bit for the chance to fulfil their life¡¯s purpose. A little thing like mass poisoning and fear-fuelled riots couldn¡¯t have stopped them all.
I¡¯d run into a few, on the way up. Like Selah Swift-Arrow, godsworn of Ull the Silent: She¡¯d rained bolts of seething bloodlight down upon me from a balcony, firing relentlessly as I sprinted for cover. All the while, she¡¯d been weeping, her mouth straining against the stitches of fine violet thread that fastened her lips together. I never did find out what happened to her. Kamal Farag had been worse. All four of his arms had been bloody to the shoulders, when I ran into him. He¡¯d nearly got me with a thrown adze, before I¡¯d shot him full of holes - the damn thing had knocked me on my ass, and I¡¯d squirmed away on my back as I fired again and again. His roars had blitzed the air, deafening over the zap-spit of the Furstenburg on rapid: I¡¯d shot him in the legs, shot him in the chest so many times I could see light through his grey flesh. Utterly mad, frothing at the mouth, he¡¯d kept coming until the last, desperate burst blew half his skull away. I couldn¡¯t even pronounce the name of the god he¡¯d sworn himself to, but he¡¯d been a good man. By the standards of Phospiach, at least - He honoured the spirit as well as the letter of every bargain, accepted surrender whenever it was offered, and he¡¯d freed his father¡¯s male and female slave-concubines upon the six-armed patriarch''s death, rather than having them ceremonially strangled (as was the custom for the Tzieke) as part of the funeral sacrifices. I suppose, by the laws of his people, he was something of a saint. ¡°One death is enough,¡± he¡¯d said, watching the last flames from the pyre smoulder out. ¡°It is a shame, but my father¡¯s spirit will find others to warm his bed. Life is for the living, after all.¡± He¡¯d nudged me in the ribs, all companionable now. ¡°-And I like my lovers a little younger, eh? Eh?¡± I nearly told him why I was appalled, but he would have never understood.
I emerged to the cold bite of the wind, the sudden awareness that only comes with a vast, open space. It took me a moment to realize where I was, a moment longer to make the mistake of looking down- Beneath me, I saw an intricate scale model of Adrijanopol, rendered in miniature. Tiny blooms of fire rose from matchbox dwellings and the chalk lines of streets - Until perspective kicked in, and vertigo seized me in its dizzying grip. The very top of the Spire was a perilous expanse, a sweeping plateau of flawless platinum open to the skies. It was cut into tiers, each one ending as abruptly as they began, like the teeth of a key. Gently-sloping walkways connected them, spanning that yawning plunge. There were no walls or railings, nothing to take away from the finality of the waiting drop on all sides. Held upright at the very centre of the final platform, the dazzling blue-and-silver arch of the Intrinsic Gate awaited. Even from here, I could see it was open. Could see that the gate was slightly ajar, swinging back and forth in its frame as if blown by the wind, dark figures milling around it. Too late, I thought, my heart sinking. I¡¯m too- Then the first screams reached me, across the distance, and I realized that there was everything yet to play for.
The faithful of Pa¡¯quan had suffered horrific losses, on their way through the Platinum Spire. Even now, I don¡¯t know what artifice, what magic they used to enter as one. Perhaps they felt that there was strength in numbers, or simply company in death. It was a feat of extraordinary desperation, and the Spire had punished them for it. It had responded to their numbers in kind, I believe - Whatever opposition I¡¯d faced on my way up was nothing compared to the horrors they¡¯d been forced to wade through. Yet somehow, they¡¯d persevered. Maybe they¡¯d thought that they had come as conquering heroes, united in faith. In truth, Alistair and Eulisia had sacrificed them: Not literally, not the way an offering goes under the knife, but the way ammunition is expended for the purpose of the kill. Or maybe they knew it was a one-way trip, a straight ticket to Hell, and they¡¯d gone ahead anyway. I¡¯ll give them credit for their courage, at least. That, I can¡¯t deny.
It¡¯s funny. On Earth, I¡¯d never considered myself to be particularly religious, mostly because of the sneaking suspicion that God wasn¡¯t really real. That all the sound and fury was just so much wasted breath. When I¡¯d first set foot on Phospiach, I¡¯d had my pick of gods - In the end, however, it¡¯d simply made more sense to engage with them on a strictly mercenary level, favours offered for favours given. Trust me: If there was even one that was worthy of my wholesale worship, I¡¯d have committed myself utterly and without restraint. A true believer, a ready-made zealot, born anew. Unfortunately, none could give an answer I liked about the big questions - the afterlife, or the fate of one¡¯s soul - and I¡¯d grudgingly settled for more material benefits. On Unity, Ryan Trent had accused me of being one of nature¡¯s born lapdogs, that there was no boot I wasn¡¯t ready to lick. We¡¯d been trying to murder each other at the time - Concussion mace versus Zerite glaive, disruption halo versus telekinetic wrath - but I¡¯d taken it to heart all the same. Then again, I¡¯d just killed his best friend, so I can forgive him for being hurtful. He won, by the way. It was my second loss, two worlds in a row, and all the more shocking for that. I distinctly remember the sound Ryan¡¯s freezing blade made as it slid from my chest - The way the world went grey and hollow, as I began the swift and involuntary process of bleeding out. He would have finished me, but he had a revolution to win. I¡¯d crawled, hand-over-hand, through the portal meant for Ryan while the fighting continued to rage. No clean escape for me, not this time: I left Unity much the same way I¡¯d arrived, painted in my own blood. It was the flesh-ward that kept me alive, though I was weak for days after. He hadn¡¯t known about that, I think - Some secrets, I like to play close to the chest. It¡¯s funny. Two worlds later, I¡¯d fought to bring down an empire¡­But Ryan wasn¡¯t wrong, not really. I like to think I¡¯m not ideological, but - if I¡¯m honest - I¡¯m all for authority, all for the status quo, as long as I¡¯m on the winning side. To my mind, unfairness is a basic principle of the universe. In all the worlds I¡¯ve been to, I¡¯ve seen nothing to shake the foundations of that belief. Fundamentally, men are not equal: Some are raised high and others are brought low through no fault of their own, and all you can do is to play the cards you¡¯ve given, the best you can. They say a rising tide lifts all boats, but there are always those who - inevitably - drown. According to some schools of thought, ideals are everything. Even if you fail, even if you fall short - Well, at least you tried. I don¡¯t agree: Vae victis, as the saying goes, and you can best believe I¡¯ve done all I can not to be among the vanquished.
Take everything you¡¯ve read, up to now. Me, reaving my way through the Platinum Spire as the Sacred Capital collapsed in blood and fire. Alistair, Eulisia and all the others, fighting their way to the top of the Holy-of-Holies in the name of a murdered god. Murdered, mind you, because He just wanted the greater pantheon to lower their tithes. To give His people, the ones He considered His own sons and daughters, a better life. Even when His own fane was put to the torch, the last act of Pa¡¯quan¡¯s immortal but all-too-brief existence was to heal His own mortally-wounded priestess, to save one more life before the flame of His being flickered out. In truth, I don¡¯t think Pa¡¯quan had what it took to be a god. If you¡¯ll forgive me for the blasphemy, He loved His people too much. Sure, He loved Eulisia most of all, but He can hardly be blamed for that. All men must be allowed their weaknesses. Given how Pa¡¯quan was Man writ large, we must forgive Him for His trespasses. For if not us, then who else?
So, their cause was worthy, their efforts heroic, their leaders just. You might be wondering why, then, I was coming to kill them. As with all things, as with every crime of passion, my reasons were myriad. As you¡¯ve probably already guessed, I was Tauruskhan¡¯s champion. His ringer, anointed in the blood of the hecatomb, brought in to do what his ever-loyal followers amid the Twenty-Six Tribes of Tulgar could not. He promised me power, vitality, an end to the hunger that devoured me from within. To get him across the finishing line was to save my own life. More, I liked this world of Gods, great and petty. It was the most fun I¡¯d had in a long, long time: A fever dream of swords and sorcery, world without end, amen. There¡¯s nothing more gratifying than being secure in your own strength, than fighting those who - Generally speaking - have no way of fighting back. Does that make me a coward? A bully, even? Maybe, but I¡¯ve come to terms with it a long time ago. In truth, I don¡¯t enjoy causing harm - I¡¯m no butcher, no sadist. I spared nearly (all right, there were accidents) everyone I fought in the arenas of the Sacred Capital, partly because everyone deserves a chance to limp away, but mainly because I don¡¯t like killing. Not even when I profit from it. Especially if I profit from it. Sure, I like the easy win, the flawless victory, the big knockout¡­But then again, who doesn¡¯t? That part, I enjoy. But actually killing someone, hand-to-hand, close enough to kiss - It changes something in you. Not for the worse, necessarily. Maybe even for the better. Either way, it doesn¡¯t mean I have to like it. On to the other reasons: I¡¯d been on Phospiach for a year and a half, and I had a feeling I was beginning to overstay my welcome. I¡¯d been a novelty when I¡¯d arrived, but even before this, there had been¡­mutterings. A good guest knows that It¡¯s better to leave than to be shown the door. Alistair was one of the two (or three, as you¡¯ll see shortly) ways out, but my already-scuffed pride wouldn¡¯t allow for another loss. In a way, a fight between us had always been inevitable - It felt natural, felt right, for things to end the way they always would. Besides, he had a sword I wanted. Yes, I can be greedy, too. Speaking of greed, the Monger had offered me any one item from his trove, in return for Eulisia¡¯s head. Two, if I brought her to him alive. He was fascinated by her, I think: It¡¯s almost unheard-of for a god to surrender all they have, all they are, for a mortal. And whatever others held precious, Golag craved. There¡¯s something attractive about being able to name your price to an anonymous genie, even if - especially if - you have to do something dark to get paid. I guess it¡¯s that fantasy we all have: To murder, and be rewarded for it. To be the hard man, cold as ice, ruthless as a prowling shark. I wouldn¡¯t have done that to her, of course. But I¡¯ll be lying if I said that thinking about it, knowing I could if I really wanted to, wasn¡¯t tempting. Or maybe, just maybe, I still couldn¡¯t forgive Eulisia for choosing Alistair over me. Maybe that¡¯s what it comes down to, in the end. Spite. Jealousy. The eternal, grasping envy of the loser, married to the intoxication of power. You could say that he was the better man, here. I say: Better at what? TO BE CONTINUED Chapter 1: Death in Phospiach "If the truth shall kill them, let them die." ¨D Immanuel Kant Chapter 1: Death in Phospiach Quantity has a quality all its own. That¡¯s an old quote, one that I¡¯ve never forgotten. Before all this, it¡¯s safe to say that I had a romantic¡¯s idea of fighting, the eternal fantasy of being an army of one. Mowing relentlessly through hordes of faceless enemies, accounting for them with precise sword-swipes, surgically placed bullets or lightning-fast blows that downed them like the scythe of Death Himself. In those fantasies, they always died neatly, too. Artful sprays of blood, or dramatic, arm-flailing death-dives¡­Each one a marker of another victory, another opponent I never needed to deal with again. Suffice to say, the reality was different. Far different.
The first time I ever killed someone, he was helpless, bound. Even then, it took nearly a dozen stabs to put him out of his misery, and he wept and bled like a stuck pig the entire time. Words cannot express the stench, the foulness, the terror and (perhaps worse of all) the odd sense that I was making a mess of it. The thing I remember the most was a deep and abiding shame. Like I¡¯d turned up for a formal occasion under-dressed and under-prepared, and I was letting everyone down. I couldn¡¯t even keep hold of the knife - When my hand slipped, I cut two fingers to the bone, and I was whimpering every bit as much as he was by the time I made an end. All this, in front of his weeping wife and the wailing children, clinging to each other. Not wanting to look, but knowing they had to. Marquis ¨¦ighir had loved every moment of it, of course. I remember that fey, beautiful face, those thin lips ever-so-slightly parted, savoring every moment like a fine wine. The way his pupils dilated, as if drugged or aroused. It wasn¡¯t the killing, you see. It was the low drama of the moment, knowing what he could make me do. That''s the Gentry for you - To them, everything is entertainment. And the best kind of entertainment was watching what someone would do to save his own skin. I would have fled, but the wolf-masked huntsmen stood silent witness, watching me shake from the adrenaline. Hands slick with my own blood, not really knowing what I was doing to begin with. Stabbing over and over again, both eyes shut, just wanting it to be over- But we¡¯ll get to that in time. Believe me, we will.
There are no sureties in fighting. When your life¡¯s on the line, everything can and will go wrong. Maybe you lose fingers. Maybe a blade nicks an artery, and you bleed out in a matter of minutes. Maybe you get a gut-wound or an infection, and you die slowly and painfully over a week or two. And that¡¯s when you¡¯re fighting a single opponent. As their numbers go up, the odds against you increase exponentially. They only need to get lucky once, after all. After that, well, you can count yourself lucky if you make it out in one piece. Anything can happen when enough people are swinging blades and bludgeons, especially if they¡¯re all trying to get you at once. That¡¯s what armor (and a good helm) is for, incidentally. Delaying the inevitable. Thresholders live violent lives. Get in enough fights, and - at some point - the law of averages turns against you. Sometimes, even what appears to be an overwhelming advantage isn¡¯t enough, and all you can do is to take your best shot and pray you get a chance to make a break for it. Which is why I drew up short, when I saw what I was facing.
Just over a score of Pa¡¯quan¡¯s faithful remained, outside the Intrinsic Gate. They were, without a doubt, the toughest and the luckiest: Somehow, they¡¯d survived the worst fighting of their entire lives, years of carnage crammed into the span of a few hours. Let me remind you, these were peasants. Had been peasants, I mean - I have no doubt that, between Alistair and Eulisia, they¡¯d been forged into an army. Most were wounded, some seriously. I glimpsed rough poultices over chest wounds, the stumps of arms bound by tourniquets or seared shut, a woman with a red-spotted bandage over half her skull. About half were Tillers and Strawmaidens, the orphaned priesthood of their god. The rest were a motley band of guerillas from a half-dozen villages, so far from everything they¡¯d ever known that they couldn¡¯t imagine a way back. But they were all armed, and determined to see things through. Heavily armed, in some cases, with exotic and mismatched weapons salvaged from the horrors of the Spire and dead champions alike. Gleaming flamespears, ritual tabars, gilded prayer-maces and the howlite saif blades favored by shuras of the Vushka¡­The flails, war-scythes and reaping-hooks wielded by the few remaining purists looked positively mundane, by comparison. What I¡¯m saying is, they made for a tough crowd. I could probably have fought my way through them - probably - but things are never sure when angry blades are approaching from all directions. I¡¯m not at my best when dealing with groups: I¡¯ve learnt how to fight on four worlds, but even after all that time, my fighting style is generously described as ¡®thuggish¡¯. Generally, I prefer a single, weaker opponent I can safely brutalize. But don¡¯t we all? The problem, however, was the wicker man. Now, language is a strange thing. They didn¡¯t call it that, of course: I think the best approximation would be Sentinel-Who-Walks-Behind-the-Rows or Basket-that-bears-the-fruit-of-the-harvest. The tradition of wicker men was an old one, one that went back long before Pa¡¯quan, to a more atavistic form of worship - I¡¯d never thought that Eulisia would bring back the old ways, but I suppose that she was desperate. They all were. The basket-bearer was a towering three-meter tall effigy of twisted reedwork, like a stylized soldier or warrior. It was a living totem, woven from dried reeds and tall grasses, held upright by a wooden frame. Limbs and eerily featureless head stuffed with straw, to add bulk and kindling. The thing¡¯s gut, however, had been left empty. That was for the fires of faith that burned, furnace-hot, within its form: A constant blaze, fueled by the offerings heaped into the vigilant¡¯s hollow core. I¡¯d never asked, and they¡¯d never told me, but I knew enough that no magic came without price - It must have taken a lot to get something this large moving, to make it withstand everything that had been thrown at it. I had a nasty feeling what the offerings, what the sacrifices, must have been. From a distance, the wicker man looked fragile and gangling, but it strode with the sure tread of a titan, long, large arms ending in burning fists. Long streamers of prayer-papers, perpetually alight, trailed from its limbs in time to its lumbering motion, arms rising with a kind of ponderous unstoppability- In a word: Terrifying. It would have a controller, I knew. Some Fieldswarden or Sower, tasked with holding the straw doll that impelled the lurching horror into motion. It wasn¡¯t enough to simply be a believer: You needed a spark of sorcery, or some innate divine gift, to order the giant wooden automaton around. Deal with them, and you dealt with the wicker man...Well, for a certain value of the word, of course. Left to their own devices, the towering effigies had roughly even odds of grinding to a halt, or going on a rampage. Frankly, given the choice, I would¡¯ve much preferred to run away. Fortunately, it was currently occupied. Unfortunately, it was also the source of the screams.
The approach to the Intrinsic Gate had been guarded. Less heavily than I¡¯d expected, but guarded all the same. The air stank of blood and smoke, of smashed-open bodies and everything they held. Dead men lay everywhere, tangled and torn apart. The signs of battle were everywhere. Scraps of bloody cloth, buckled pieces of armor, ruined weapons¡­Given the bloodstains on the gleaming battlements, the defenders had held on long enough for one hell of a desperate last stand. From their scowling silver masks and mail of vitruvian glass, my guess was that they were Shuja, blessed supplicants. According to the sages I¡¯d consulted, they were a sect within the Vushka, veteran warriors lessened by crippling wounds or advanced age. Their reward for faithful service was to dwell, eternally, within the shadow of the Intrinsic Gate. This close to the physical subject of their charge, the accumulated devotion sustained the Shuja, somehow. Lent strength to withered limbs and failing forms, soothed minds riven with trauma or the encroaching mists of age. Theirs was a honored role, albeit a ceremonial one. They were expected to hold their post until death came to claim them, as much a part of the Platinum Spire as the mosaic-guardians and stony horrors were. At any time, there were about a dozen of them, standing eternal guard in stiff postures of ritual defense, marking only the passage of time until the end of their watch. All things considered, they¡¯d made a good accounting of themselves. Their executioner¡¯s axes and fullblades had reaped a hungry toll of Pa¡¯quan¡¯s faithful, before the Shuja had been overcome in a desperate rush. Not that the outcome had ever been in doubt, not when they¡¯d been up against a world-hopper and a putative demi-goddess...Or whatever Eulisia was, now. Alistair must¡¯ve led the charge from the front. His conscience wouldn¡¯t have allowed for anything else, wouldn¡¯t have let others do the dirty work for him. That was good: It meant he¡¯d be weakened, exhausted, possibly even wounded from the brief, brutal fight that had raged before the serene opal-and-silver gate. It probably didn¡¯t count for much, not with that fancy sword and that amulet of his. Still, it was something. And, to be frank, I needed every advantage I could get. Assuming I survived the next few minutes, of course. Because the wicker man- The wicker man was eating the fallen.
Not all the Shuja were dead. Not yet, at any rate. As I scaled the Holy-of-Holies, as I began to sprint across the knife-blade walkway, I saw the immense effigy take hold of a flailing figure - the way a glutton seizes a prey-bird, perhaps - shoving the broken-limbed form into the raging inferno located in the center of its chest. There was a terrible buzzing, a sound like a thousand trapped hornets. Smoke belched from the reed golem¡¯s back, burning paws already reaching out to snatch up another almost-dead morsel. But perhaps the worst thing about the monster was its eyes, or the burning holes that passed for its eyes. There was something horrific in that unchanging, fiery gaze, the unmoving carved slits were fixed in a semblance of cold concentration. Like it would crush you, immolate you, rip you apart, without the slightest show of outward emotion. It was hard to look away from that. The transition from life to death, where someone went from a person to kindling, to something to be devoured¡­It was mesmeric. There, but for the grace of the Gods, go I, or so they say.
The first heads swung towards me, before I¡¯d made it more than a quarter of the way across the gleaming platinum plane. No surprise, really - I¡¯d arrived at the tail-end of the fight, their blood still running hot, the din of battle still ringing in their ears, but it was never going to buy me more than a few seconds. Good thing that was all I needed. For in each hand, I gripped a spintriae. My footsteps pounded on the tapered bridge below, a khoom-khoom-khoom that echoed my pounding heart. Even as the first shouts came up, I hurled the blood-warm token - a scoured and scarred silver coin, mirror-bright beneath the ugly runes scratched into the surface - into the churning grey skies. ¡°Korakka, devour this carrion!¡± Something heard. Something answered. Smoke-black sigils tumbled in the spintriae¡¯s wake. High, hungry cries cracked the air, as a black tide of feathers, curved talons and cruel, flashing beaks boiled forth. Crows. Dozens of them, thousands of them - all the crows in the world - came swarming down, a seething, lightless mass. Beaks open, claws reaching, wings spread, they swooped and dove as one, surging towards Pa¡¯quan¡¯s followers in a charcoal-black cloud, as inevitable and unstoppable as the fall of night. I saw a Tiller cry out as he was engulfed. His scythe, marked with god-runes, sliced the air - Once, twice - flashing in the dark as he staggered backwards. Clammy-skinned bodies tumbled away, but the blood only fed the feeding frenzy of the rest. He was a brawny man, hardened by years of toil, but there was no resisting this wind-driven fury: The sheer force of them drove him back, back, over the edge of the platform, and I heard his blind shouts turn to a high, despairing wail as he fell. I kept my head down. Kept moving, kept running, even as the sonic sea of hungry caws split the air. Mangy feathers rained down, their eyes black oblongs of ravenous animal indifference. Jabbing, pecking, tearing as they mobbed the ragged survivors... Their prey, now. Carrion for the feast.
Somehow, I¡¯d made it halfway across. Arms swinging as I ran, my lungs beginning to burn, I bulled forward. Sprinting flat-out now, blood pounding in my ears, fighting the urge to look to either side. The bridge was wide enough for three men to cross abreast, but the drop that waited beyond that silver span- There was no arguing with that. No amount of toughness, no amount of grit, could save you from a plunge like that. What¡¯s that they say? That it¡¯s not the fall that kills you, but the landing? It wasn¡¯t something I cared to find out for myself, not now. Not ever. My steel-toed boots felt impossibly heavy. They¡¯d felt like an excellent investment, two worlds ago - You won¡¯t believe how hard it is to find proper footwear, let alone footwear that can change the course of a fight. I can¡¯t count the number of times that a single stomp or a kick to the ribs proved decisive, as deadly as a knife up the sleeve or a slide-away rig. It¡¯s always the one you don¡¯t see, the one you haven¡¯t prepared for, that gets you in the end. It is the nature of things to break, to fall apart, to be expended. All you can do is to accept that nothing lasts forever, and to use what you have while you can. People, too. In a fit of profligacy, I¡¯d had them enchanted at the Soul Market, had glyphs stitched into the worn leather for resilience and comfort. It¡¯d seemed like a good idea, at the time: Now, my every stride felt as clumsy as a giant¡¯s, the ground underfoot as slick as frosted glass. Don¡¯t look down- Don¡¯t look- Don¡¯t- The swirling ball of wings and talons - a murder to end all murders - swirled around the final, spiral vaunt of the Exigence. The black, churning swarm had grounded itself like a dust-devil, scouring the platinum-capped terrace in a dense storm of bodies. Dimly, through the billowing, tearing flock, I could see men and women flailing, fighting, falling¡­ Maybe it would be enough, after all. I just needed Korakka, Old Eye and Talon, the Scavenger, to favor me just a little longer. If I could just get close, just get my hands on them, no force on this world or any other could stop me from getting through that gate. Tempting fate as always, Morgan. Tempting fate. ¡°Kill him!¡± A raw, ragged scream, over the rush of black wings. I glimpsed a tottering figure - half-flayed, skin peeled back from glistening red flesh in wet ribbons, one eye put out - pointing at me, lank hair streaming as she clutched a tattered bundle to her blood-soaked chest. She was convulsed with agony, half-crumpled with pain, but the wounded Fieldswarden still had enough strength to give a final, spiteful order: ¡°Kill the unbeliever!¡± Shit, I thought, and put on one last burst of speed- The wicker man got there first.
The ever-burning effigy strode through the blizzard of crows, creaking as it bore down on me. It was impervious to the beaks and talons that tore at it, the many-eyed storm of cruel knives that could shred a man to nothing. In a way, it made a terrible kind of sense: The hollow giant was, after all, a scarecrow writ large. Smoke trailed from its woven crown, still-living sacrifices writhing within the hungry furnace of its core - It covered the distance to the bridge in long, steady strides, huge paws flexing as it reached for me. If it seized me, I¡¯d be kindling for the blaze. If it struck, a single lashing blow would sweep me from the silver span, sending me plunging to my doom. Already, I could feel the heat that radiated from it, felt something knot in my gut as it barreled towards me. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Focus. It lunged. A great arm swung in, left to right. Focus. I dove towards it. Towards the wall of burning wood. I dove towards death. But I dove low. I felt my hair crisp, as the great arm lashed out. Saw the air around it ripple, as it was whipped and heated. Flames licked across the narrow space, filling my vision, as the great fist came hurtling towards me. And then I was under the arc of the swing, the blow whistling overhead with a plosive whoof of displaced air. I went skidding beneath the effigy¡¯s outstretched arm, my dive carrying me through its shadow. And as I dove, my fist clenched down on the sharp bone of the token I held, till the edges scraped dully against the black stone. It was an ugly thing, a crude scrimshaw almost-star¡­But then again, the cannibal followers of the Osseous King cared little for pretension. Only power. For a moment - Just a moment - I was in line with the wicker man¡¯s tree-trunk legs, beneath the open cage of its core. The tiny ivory carving left my hand, as light as a child¡¯s toy. It seemed so small, so fragile as it spun through the air. But like a trick of perspective, it grew as it hurtled forward, gaining a momentum unlike nothing natural. Grew grotesquely- When it struck, it was a whirring blade of twisted bone, chopping through the air with the lethal velocity of a propeller. Nothing about that knurled, ridged shape - at once humerus, ulna, radius, metacarpals, phalanges, and all the rest - seemed even remotely aerodynamic or even mobile, but it flew as if guided by the hand of God himself. Which God, I wouldn¡¯t like to say. The golem¡¯s knee exploded when the great anchor of bone smashed into - through - it, with the brutal crunch of impact. A flurry of splinters, a cloud of sawdust kicked into the air- I heard the brutal snap of a limb being shorn in two, the living effigy listing violently to the side. Suddenly clumsy, it flailed, arms lashing the air in a silent parody of human distress - Fighting to stay upright, fighting the alien, lurching absence where a leg had been¡­ But the wicker man¡¯s bramblewood frame had already been fatally undermined, and there was no coming back from this. I heard the snap of its latticed frame giving way, breaking, pulling apart- With one leg reduced to flinders, the hideous thing¡¯s own weight completed the work I¡¯d started. All at once, it overbalanced, cords snapping taut in protest, as - with a final, creaking groan - it finally succumbed to gravity¡¯s pull. Burning fingers grasped at the empty air, the towering figure of woven reeds and branches tipping - further, further - over the yawning abyss. And then, with a thunderous crash, it fell, plummeting downward in a flurry of flames and splintered wood. There was an eerie grace to its descent, its form twisting and turning in the wind like a macabre dancer. The only sound it made was a symphony of rustling and creaking, the dry strands of wicker protesting against the forces that pulled it downward. I heard it strike an outcropping, to the accompaniment of snapping bones. Heard it bounce, flung wide by the impact - But I never heard the impact. Still, the echoes of its plunge reverberated from the Platinum Spire¡¯s walls for long, damned moments after, like a poignant farewell. I ground to a scraping, squealing stop. Senses still reeling, teeth clenched so tightly I feared they would snap. All I really wanted to do was to lie there, sprawled on the cold metal, for the next few hours¡­But I got my hands beneath me, heaving myself - shakily - to my feet. Adrenaline had me in its grip. Acid washed the back of my throat, my pulse pounding so hard it was all I could hear. Dimly, I sensed something had changed: The screams coming from within the damnation swarm of crows had stopped, lost in a swirling vortex of jet-black feathers and piercing beaks. The deafening cacophony of their caws reverberated through my skull as I staggered upright, the air thick, choking with the metallic tang of blood, the charred stench of burning. I couldn¡¯t imagine how it must have felt, to be swept up in that frenzy. To feel beaks tearing at your flesh, ripping away skin and muscle alike. Knowing that you were being devoured, an inch at a time, even as you fought for your life. Surely, surely, they were all dead no- The black cloud burst apart, the mass of it exploding away in every direction at once. It spilled out across the terrace, dissipating, disintegrating - No longer a single, murderous entity, but thousands of individual crows, cawing confusedly as they flapped away. What? The murder-to-end-all-murders left thousands of dead or dying birds in its wake, their fallen forms carpeting the gleaming platinum plane like autumn leaves. And more than a dozen of Pa¡¯quan¡¯s faithful, still standing. Their clothes were ripped and torn, their flesh covered in scratches and cuts - Gaping wounds weeping crimson rivers of pain - but they were still alive, still defiant. Still entirely capable of killing me.
Fights are a funny thing. They have a pitch, a rhythm, a life of their own. An ebb and flow, almost, like the rush of blood in your veins. Sometimes, time slows. You observe. The sutras of Vairocana call this the Law of the Flesh. The teachings say that the beginnings of wisdom lie in blood and bone, in the substrata of your own body, on a level the conscious mind can never hope to reach. These moments are to be treasured, for the epiphanies they hold. Profound insights can come in the heat of combat, in the spaces between each breath. When life meets death, so the warrior-prophets of the Frenzied preach, all is made clear. I believe that, as much as I believe in anything. The unexamined life, as the saying goes, is not worth living. As I contemplated that macabre tableau - the wounded and the bloodied, struggling to stand - I saw the determination that had brought them this far. How their love for Pa¡¯quan, for his departed shade, had carried them all the way from their humble villages to this most sacred of places. How, even at death¡¯s very own door, they endured. Even through the loss of those who stood beside them, through the pain of their own torn and bleeding limbs. It was something more than faith, more than the currency in which gods petty and greater trafficked, that let them brave the Platinum Spire and all the horrors it held. There was something achingly, profoundly human about that. I took them all in, at a glance. Saw them, knew them: Young and old, male and female, weather-beaten and fresh-faced. All with the same hard eyes, made old by all they¡¯d seen and done. Perhaps, in the grand scheme of things, they deserved to win. But what does deserve have to do with it?
One of the women - a rail-thin village elder, leaning on her scythe like a crutch - was shouting to the others. Blood was pouring from her scalp, one hand clamped to the side of her throat, but she was shouting all the same. Not anything I understood, but the meaning came through even without words: She was trying to rally the others, to get them up and at me, to put fire back in their bellies and steel in their spines. To drive them all forward, in that one last effort. We¡¯re so close, she was saying. Just a little more. Just a little more, and we¡¯re done. Not everyone heard. A grey-faced Tiller had sunk to his knees, arms wet with blood. He¡¯d gashed them with his own sickle, fuel for the desperate invocation that had turned the crows away. It¡¯d cost him, badly, and two of the faithful were tending him - One to prop him up, another to bind his shaking limbs with strips of linen. But that left a full decade of them, still ready to fight. The oldest hung back, wary. At the crone¡¯s call, a number of young men shuffled ahead, arrayed in a rough battle-line with blades and scavenged spears. Those who had shields hunched behind them, like they were the very promise of salvation itself. They made for a motley lot, teeth gritted too tight, sharp edges forward as each step crunched on the small, feathery bodies of dead crows, some already dissolving to protoplasmic mush. They were balanced, you see, right on the knife edge between fear and bravery. After all, they¡¯d seen what I¡¯d done, and knew what they had to do. Their best bet was to advance, steady and slow, a single united shieldwall. Keep me at bay with spears and battle-scythes, until I could be driven over the edge and down the waiting, ever-hungry drop. It would have to be a relentless, unified effort. If the line broke, if it faltered, it would all come apart. The tragedy of it was that I didn¡¯t want to fight them, not really. They were in my way, and that was all. I could have waded into them, hacking and slashing, clearing a path - But I was wary of their salvaged weapons, some still charged with divine power, fuming with sick light. I had a very clear and unsentimental idea of what could - would - happen to a man who tried to charge a line and failed. I¡¯d seen it happen, seen five or six swords punching into the unfortunate repeatedly, his body jerking and twitching beneath the rapid-fire stabs, swift as a back-alley shanking. It was a bad way to die. One of the very worst. Unless-
At this point, you may be wondering: You know I can shrug off gunfire. Sheathed in my shirt of gleaming scales, what did I have to fear from swords and spears? The problem was, toughness is a matter of degrees. You think you¡¯re invincible, right up to the moment you¡¯re categorically, demonstrably not. Like all things in life, that realization usually comes as a sudden and deeply unpleasant surprise. This is especially true when magic, that perpetually-unknown quantity, is involved. Phospiach was lousy with it, in ways both small and large, particularly when it came to weapons. Gods and spirits great and small loved imbuing the manifold panoply of war with some sliver of their power, investing their might in relics that harmed rather than healed. Some say that this is because violence is a way of life, a reflection of some fundamental, cosmic truth. Others say that the Gods hunger for blood and souls, and they provide us mortals with the means to feed their eternal appetite for carnage. Personally, I believe the real reason is pettier. After all, when mortals are hurt or desperate or suffering, they have a tendency to pray. They pray for succor, for deliverance, or just for an end to their pain. Most of all, they pray for something that can never be granted: Make this not have happened. As with all worship, their faith feeds the Gods. The Gods, in turn, work their miracles and put their sacred treasures in the hands of those best placed to use them. And sp life''s tragedy repeats unending.
I had options. I had a handful of spintriae left, and there was always Oneira¡¯s gun. Other things, too - the tattoos and the disruption blasts. But they all cost, and there would be a time when they were needed. Instead, I put my hands up. Open and empty, palms extended with a smile. As if saying that I¡¯d tried my best, and they¡¯d got me. That all was fair in love and war. That I¡¯d shot my shot and all the other old chestnuts. I sensed their confusion, then. Glimpsed the sideways flicker of their eyes, the surprise and the relief. For the waiting had been unbearable, and the gesture of surrender was all the proof they needed that I would die like a lamb going under the knife. None had wanted to be first, but now all they needed to do was to get just close enough for those spears to run me through. To hold me in place while the swords did their work¡­ And in that deep, silent place within me, I thought: Now. I felt Tauruskhan¡¯s power swell within me, His breath filling my lungs- At the last moment, I remembered to cover my ears. When the roar came, when it boiled out of me, there was nothing human in it. It was too vast, too primal, to be called speech. It was the bellow of every bull that had perished in the hecatomb, hideously amplified: The death-cry of a god-auroch in full blood-rage. I saw faces contort in agony. At least two youths fell down, clutching - too late - at their bleeding ears. The line buckled as they faltered, and with the echoes of that vast, horrid sound ringing in my ears, I charged.
Borrowed strength drove me forward. It hurled me across the narrow distance in a blurring shoulder-rush, power churning around my limbs in a heat-haze shimmer. I could feel the vapor boiling from my open mouth, a red mist gathering at the edges of my vision as the shield-wall loomed before me- I struck, and felt the impact shudder through me. It was like a missile fired into a crowd, the impact hurling men into the air, on either side. Metal screeched, the line bending backwards, and then I was pushing into the opening gap. My hand snapped out, grabbed the top of a buckled shield, yanked it down. For an instant, I saw the pale, scared face behind it, staring up at me in utter terror- My gauntlet pistoned forward, and obliterated it in a spray of red pulp. Headless, the body crumpled, grip going slack. A scream of terror and despair rang in my ears, but I was still moving, still striking, giving them no chance to recover. My boot cracked into a knee. I felt bone snap beneath the kick, heard the blank chuff of the sharp exhalation that comes before the pain begins. Another punch, another head snapping back. A sword slashed at me, but I wrenched the shield in the way and it careened from the edge with a grating squeal. Focus- There were more of them, but I was right in their midst, now. I saw a man crawling away, two more dragging a corpse by the arms, another sobbing as he clutched at his missing jaw- And one more, the bravest. A wild-eyed youth, who let out a ragged, exhausted war-cry - because he knew it was just him - and charged anyway. Determined to be brave, his eyes narrowed to slits, face slathered in ocher paint. He clutched his heavy flamespear like it was worth more than his entire life, putting all the strength of his broad back and arms into a single lunging thrust- And as he did, the leaf-shaped head of the thundering polearm flared blue-hot, like an arc-welder¡¯s torch. Hot enough to shear through iron and stone alike, I knew. Hot enough to carve through me. It was a good thrust. Fast, lethal and aimed right at center mass. He¡¯d have skewered me, given the chance...But I was fast, too. I was no Mercurian, but activation had accelerated me, all the same: Not just muscle power and bone density, but speed and senses too. To me, his lunge seemed telegraphed, over-emphatic. As if all the world was a stage, and he wanted to look good more than he actually wanted to hurt me. I twisted aside, just ahead of the searing arc, then drove at him. Before he could readdress, before he could swing the barbed and wicked spear back in line, I was right in his face, a hand on the spear¡¯s haft. To his credit, he let go. Fumbled for the dagger on his belt, mouth working like he was trying to say something- I caught him by the throat, and hurled him from the ringed platform. It was abrupt, awful. I saw his eyes bulge with astonishment as his feet left the ground, arms windmilling for balance. He still had that half-brave, half-startled look on his face as he pitched over the edge, too shocked to scream. Like he couldn¡¯t believe it was over for him, now and forever. That his life had changed, utterly and for the last time. I caught a glimpse of it, that final and profound revelation dawning on his sun-burnt features- Torn garments flapping, he fell away like a stone down the open drop. Gone, just like that. You never think it¡¯s going to be you. Not until it¡¯s your turn. ¡°No-¡± A boy on the left cried out - a desolate wail of absolute, soul-blighting horror - and I knew I¡¯d just killed his brother. Face all scrunched up in a convulsion of grief, he lurched forward, ready to kill or die, the zirconite blade of his stolen scimitar rising to hack down into me- The sound rang in my ears, as I rotated the unfamiliar weapon in my hands. The blue-hot point had cooled to a sullen red, and there was no time to find the trick of it. Instead, I thrust. The spear flickered out, faster than a snake¡¯s tongue, the shaft sliding through my grip. It plunged in through the boy¡¯s right cheek, and the tip came out of the back of his head with the sickly hiss of quenching metal. He crumpled without a word, his body slumping with the profound surrender of a child going to sleep, and he was off to join his brother long before his knees hit the ground. The unbloodied scimitar slipped from his unclenching hand with a hollow clang, as I jerked the flamespear free in a puff of pink steam. Metal grated on bone, the stench defying words as I swept the polearm in a clumsy half-arc, an arterial spray of gore lashing the gleaming floor like a whip. That broke the spell, I think. All of a sudden, they were scrambling back, one and all. All coordination gone, confounded by the immediacy of death. For it was one thing to die down there, in the nightmare halls of the Platinum Spire. It was another thing entirely to die here, beneath the storm-wracked grey sky, with freedom just close enough to touch. I knew that feeling, too. One man was limping away, clutching at his mangled shoulder as he dragged his bad leg behind him. My right arm drew back, the left extended before me, till the heavy spear hung horizontal in my hand- In the span between one breath and the next, I let fly. The spear flew. Not straight and true, like an arrow, but with extreme force. It struck, with the choookkkk of a skewer being driven into meat, punching into his back. The blade erupted from the man¡¯s chest, the dully-gleaming metal black with blood. I saw him arch, one hand reaching, clawing, trying to understand what had just happened to him- He staggered two more steps, then fell with an odd, gagging noise. Like he was choking, or there was something in his throat that he had to get out. Gore drizzled from his open mouth, fingers scraping against the platinum ground as the air sighed out of him. Somewhere in the welter of blood and horror, I fought to catch my breath. Shreds of flesh clung to my spined knuckles, gore drizzling down my chest, a foul copper taste in my mouth. I knew I needed to get after them, to finish this, but I just needed a moment- The first sling-bullet struck me dead-on, and erupted in a mad tangle of vines.
As I¡¯ve said, Phospiach was lousy with magic. Some of it was sealed forever within artifacts of different make, but most came from the miracles of the Gods. The living Gods, mind you - each time a theurge invokes a deity, he calls upon their might anew. It doesn¡¯t belong to the invoker, not really, no more than a river belongs to a stream. He¡¯s a channel for the divine, the instrument through which they make their power manifest. But Pa¡¯quan was dead. While the last embers of His powers still smouldered within His faithful, it was a precious resource, one to be spent sparingly if at all - For once it was gone, it was never coming back. All their fervor, all their devotion, went to His inheritor, and it was all she could do to keep the dying flame burning a little longer. Eulisia had always been special. But that special? No. No-one was. I knew it¡¯d taken a lot for them to get here. Fighting their way through the Platinum Spire, perverting the spell that separated each would-be champion from another¡­That took power, and lots of it. Slaying the Shuja, forcing open the Intrinsic Gate, had taken even more. I¡¯d been counting on it, actually. That they were nearly out of gas in the tank - Otherwise, who knew what they might unleash upon me? Apparently, they¡¯d held something back. The sling-bullet was made of molded clay, the kind used to hunt birds and small game. But unlike those, this one was hollow. Hollow, and filled with seeds. Having been a god of the harvest, Pa¡¯quan had command over the plants of the soil and the beasts of the field. Through prayer and ritual, His priests could make a seed sprout, grow and attain unnatural size. All in a matter of seconds, though the cost of the boon was great. Such a seed would grow with its usual strength, a strength easy to ignore when it was patiently pushing up a boulder, an eighth of an inch a year, or cracking a stone cliff over the course of centuries. But there was an earth-breaking power in every seed. And these had been enchanted further, reworked to flourish briefly, wildly and without restraint. So when the first bullet shattered against me, scattering its payload, I had all of a moment to think - What? - before thick green creepers surged to life. They burst forth, blind and wriggling and questing for dirt. Instead, they found me, lashing at me, fighting to dig into my flesh, to cling fast and to bind. I dug armored fingers into their green flesh, ripping chunks free, but they grew with frantic life, coiling around my limbs, grasping, choking¡­ Fuck, I had time to think, hopelessly snared. It was a thicket, and I was right in its grasp, swelling faster than I could rip it away. With a snarl, with a surge of effort, I wrenched my legs free, managed a single, staggering step forward- Then the second bullet struck me. Thorn-vines, this time - Openly carnivorous, their bright fruit lured small animals into their clutches, before their lashing creepers grabbed and crushed them, spines drinking their blood. Animated by Pa¡¯quan¡¯s magic, they grasped at me in a spiny tangle, tightening around my arms like a garland of barbed wire. I could feel the jagged spines scraping my skin, trying to gouge into me, to drain me from within. I let out a wordless roar, swearing as I struggled, doing my level best to stop the vines from closing over my head. I still needed to breathe, and I had a nasty idea of what would happen if that patient strength seized my throat, and squeezed. Tauruskhan wouldn¡¯t help me again, not so soon. Despite the number of souls I¡¯d just sent to Vairocana, his blessing wouldn¡¯t be much help, not here, not now¡­ ¡°Now!¡± someone shrilled, and I looked up to see the woman from before, the one who¡¯d tried to rally the others. She was hobbling forward now, her face twisted in pain - But she wasn¡¯t the one I had to worry about. An auburn-haired Strawmaiden had snatched up a ritual fuscina, holding it like a pitchfork. Grey robes smeared with blood, she took a stumbling step towards me, raising the weapon high. I could see the frantic calculation in her eyes, as my muscles bunched, as I tore my left arm free in a spray of sap - Could she get to me in time? Where to strike? What would happen if she failed? ¡°Don¡¯t-¡± a raw, exhausted voice rasped out. ¡°Esmi, don¡¯t - Get away from him, girl¡­!¡± There was the gun, but there was also one more thing. One more thing I really didn¡¯t want to have to use. I reached deep within myself, as my gaze locked with hers. Finding the trigger point, the beginnings of a migraine clawing at my temples. The head. She would go for the head. Another step, and my eyes flashed blue. A crackle like static, like ozone, spiderwebs of lightning playing across my field of vision as the disruption charge built. A flicker of hesitation- ¡°Da, he¡¯s-¡± she began, her arms drawing back, ready to drive the bladed trident forward. A thunderclap split the air, and a winged man fell from the sky.
He came out of the storm, as bright as a shard of the sun itself. Gold were his gauntlets, and gold his shimmering greaves, his helm fashioned in the image of a great bird-of-prey, visor hooked like the beak of a falcon. Even at a glance, it was clear how baroque, how ornate, the surface of his gilded armor was. Every inch of it swarmed with glyphs, with sacred script, with heraldry and symbols of all kinds. Signifiers of the pacts he¡¯d struck, of the Gods who¡¯d chosen to favor him. But it was the wings that stole your gaze. They were full, huge, black as the void between stars - Beating as living things, an extension of his broad back. Except you could see that they weren¡¯t part of him: They were ethereal, with bones of burnished brass, lit from within by a cold silver radiance. They were sharp, though. Sharp as nanocarbon swords. He came down right in the midst of Pa¡¯quan¡¯s faithful, stave-spear spinning in his hands, and carved them apart. Most never even knew what hit them - I saw blood, black and arterial, puff into the air as two Tillers were shredded by that first impact, too startled to even raise their weapons. Those around them cried out in dismay, whirling to take on the demon. But he was already among them, his weapon cutting around him in great sweeps. It was a vicious combination of spear and mace, one stabbing and slashing, the other breaking, shattering. The few shields that remained couldn¡¯t stop or even slow him. His wings sheared through brass and iron like a hot knife through butter, his spear lancing with pinpoint precision into hearts and eyes as the mace swept round to deal the coup de grace. I heard the plosive, splitting bang as a man took the maul right between the eyes. His smoking corpse hurtled back as if fired from a cannon, limbs still jerking and twitching with electric discharge as he hit the ground. Worse than that, I think, was the golden man¡¯s complete invulnerability. The tongues of swords cracked as they rebounded off him, the hafts of spears snapping. He didn¡¯t feel them, not in the slightest: They didn¡¯t even slow him down. He swept through them at that same brisk pace, doling out death in exacting magnitude, even as the few remaining fighters scrambled away from him in sheer panicked flight. It didn¡¯t save them. Nothing could. ¡°Look upon me, demon!¡± It was the elder from before, her hair wild like a prophet of doom¡¯s. There was something implacable about her, as she brought the curved blade of her scythe to her own throat. Hatred shook her rusty voice, etched deep in every syllable. ¡°Let this be the last thing you hear: Pa¡¯quan prevails!¡± She slashed, and her blood spurted. Even as she fell back, clutching at her severed throat, a buzzing darkness deeper than midnight spewed forth from her open mouth. It was a haze of flies, insects and disease, a charnel wind sweeping it towards the golden figure faster than any man could ever hope to run. It engulfed him with the droning of flies¡¯ wings, a vile miasma of plague meant to blight him, to poison him, to strip the flesh from his very bones. Black magic, fueled by her death-curse. I hadn¡¯t expected that. I hadn¡¯t even known they could do that. A golden gleam from within the cloud- The winged marauder swept out from the cloud of death, rune-etched collar glowing as if fresh from the forge, and cut her cleanly in two. Already rotted from within, the crone¡¯s body split like sailcloth, and neither half made a sound as they fell away from each other. The last Strawmaiden¡¯s stricken cry - a low, whispered denial - hissed from her lips, the trident in her hands nearly forgotten. Mesmerized by that glorious, awful descent, she¡¯d watched, open-mouthed, as her kin had been butchered. As almost-victory became utter, gory defeat. The elder¡¯s death had broken the spell. I saw her expression change, gone bleak, gone hollow, as her father¡¯s ruined corpse hit the ground. Saw the cold fury that drew the lines of her face taut. She had to know that the life remaining to her was measured in seconds. That death was here, golden and relentless. But she would slay at least one demon, first. The fuscina¡¯s bladed tines rammed forward, but she was already too late. The not-quite-fire, not-quite lightning of the disruption blast speared from my blue-burning eyes, and she ruptured like an overripe fruit.
I felt the spell unravel before I saw it. The grasping vines, the piercing thorns...All at once, they went slack, their brief life exhausted, withering even as I pulled free. The glare of my eyes died away, but I could feel hot tears running down my cheeks, pain furrowing my mind. There¡¯s nothing natural about my strength. The process of creating an enhanced human is very much a thing of two parts: Physical enhancement, derived from the initial activation, and the physics-warping function of the distortion effect. I was (and remain) oblivious of the esoteric science behind the distortion effect, other than a vague understanding that it has something to do with intrinsic fields. The passive application preserved the integrity of my body, gave me the trappings of durability without making soft human organs inoperable. It let me lift and swing a sword larger than I was, without snapping my tendons or wrenching my limbs out of joint. But I could project it, too, in a merciless, active form that struck with mutilating force. Or to put it simply - Kill things by looking at them. There was a cost, though. There was always a cost. I could feel blood pattering serenely down my chin as I fought the sudden dizziness, the abrupt sway to my world. I¡¯d lost count of the number of times I¡¯d used it, today. The rule was two hours of rest to every hour of operation, and I''d been running hot for way longer than that. Too long. It felt like vomit was pressing against the back of my eyes. Like my head was about to explode from overload. I''d seen it happen before, too: They''d shown us videos back on Unity, detailing all the ways things could go wrong. Burst blood vessels, internal bleeding, intracranial hemorrhage...Bad ways to die, all of them. I swayed to my feet, all the same. Fought down the nausea, the sudden, spreading wave of numb fatigue. I''d come this far, and the only way out was through. Some part of me whispered that I didn''t have much more to give, but I ignored it. I''d go all the way. Wherever that was. I''d go there.
The golden man waited without impatience, without haste. Like he had all the time in the world. I could feel his gaze on me, as I struggled to find my footing. Canting his head in a way accentuated by the avian nature of his helm, the eyes set with diamonds as black as coal. The magnificence of his armor, all sun-discs and laurels of sheet gold, made me feel grubby, distinctly shabby, like a pauper playing dress-up. ¡°-And so we meet again at last, my friend.¡± The voice was warm, urbane. The slightest trace of an accent, a frisson of culture. Friendly, without being solicitous. ¡°Here, at the end of all things. Just as it was meant to be.¡± I looked up, across the field of the dead, and met his eyes. At some silent command, the segments of his falcon helm parted like the petals of a flower, withdrawing into his gorget. His head, revealed, was noble: Copper-skinned, dismayingly handsome, with high cheekbones and eyes of deepwater blue. With his blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, the face beneath was familiar, instantly recognizable. For almost an entire year, it¡¯d been depicted in paintings, tapestries and frescos at every corner of the now-burning city below. Jeru Sinai. Chosen of the Raven Queen and Her pale sister, Moon Tempest. Champion of Adrijanopolj, bearer of the Helleron. Warlord of six worlds. Thresholder. TO BE CONTINUED Chapter 2: The Last Son of the Lion "Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye." ¨D William Shakespeare, Richard III, Act IV, Scene 2 Chapter 2: The Last Son of the Lion It¡¯s a wonder how many of us come from Earth. Or an Earth, rather - I suspect there are thousands of them, set side-by-side in the multiverse like almost-identical jewels. I don¡¯t know how and why they diverge, or what other commonalities they might share¡­Only that some are close enough to count. Jeru hailed from a world where the British empire never fell, where the European Powers continued to play their Great Game. He was a fourth-generation graduate of the Shaeffer Institute, the latest product of rigorous breeding and education programs developed by Newton and overseen by the Crown. As I understand it, the objective was to create third-line administrators to assist colonial governors. It was an important task, as high as a half-caste could ever hope to ascend, and so he¡¯d been raised under special pressure. In such conditions, nothing soft could survive: Jeru excelled, as he knew he had to. It was that or be discarded. I didn¡¯t know the grisly details, but everything about that sounded utterly horrific. Compared to that, my comfortable middle-class First World upbringing was positively pampered. All the hurdles I¡¯d had to jump through, the ones that had caused so much angst, were child¡¯s play compared to what he¡¯d endured. After that, you understand, the dangers posed by each new and alien world came almost as a relief. He¡¯d won all five of his previous worlds, and Phospiach was no exception. By the time I¡¯d made it to Adrijanopolj, he was reigning champion of the arena, marked for great things by the city-father. As I understood it, he¡¯d been smart enough to play two goddesses off against each other. Stoking their rivalries, letting them squabble over him. Getting them to top each blessing, while fending off the threats they sent his way with aplomb. Compared to him, I was a brute - All clumsy, flailing brawn - and he knew it. He¡¯d have called me out, but he wasn¡¯t done with this world. Not yet. Both of us, after all, were waiting for the same thing. In truth, I rather liked him. It was hard not to like him, despite the obvious reason not to - Well-favored, exquisitely courteous, there was a reason why his strikingly handsome likeness adorned recruiting posters and small shrines all across Adrijanopolj. It was, after all, Jeru¡¯s nature to rise to the top of things. To turn everything to his advantage, and to improve it in turn. Industrious, I¡¯d call him. Never idle, the engine of his mind always working, always curious. He was just that kind of person.
The bone-black jade of my gauntlets folded back, retracting with a series of ratcheting clicks. The armored panels withdrew into the ebony bracers that sheathed my arms to the elbow, perpetually cool against my skin. My hands felt exposed, bare - No longer extravagant, exaggerated wrecking balls - but I needed them free. For a start, I needed to wipe the blood away. It was already drying, still tacky against my skin, but that was because there was an awful amount of it, and not all of it was mine. It got everywhere, flecks of it still clinging to my face. Down my chest, dulling the gleam of my coat-of-scales. Somehow, I¡¯d even managed to get it over my belt and the holster strapped to my right thigh, badging them with finger-smears of gore. I wondered how the hell I looked. ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± I said, doing my best to remain steady. ¡°Thought you weren¡¯t going to make it-¡± Jeru chuckled, low. ¡°Oh, Morgan,¡± he said, almost fondly. ¡°-You know I wouldn¡¯t have missed this for the world.¡± He seemed content to stay where he was, but I didn¡¯t dare take my eyes off him. I knew how fast he could move, after all. Besides, I had a strong idea of what that spear might be, and I had a sinking suspicion that it could pierce tank armor. I was in no rush to try conclusions with him, not in the state I was. Even with Vairocana¡¯s singular blessing at the very tip of my tongue - For I could see his favour, in the steam that rose from the wounds of the dead, in the faint scent of sandalwood incense carried on the breeze - I had a feeling that would only end one way. ¡°You¡¯ve been keeping secrets, haven¡¯t you?¡± Jeru went on. Admonitory, like he was dealing with an errant friend or an exasperating but well-loved cousin. ¡°The Maiden of the Harvest. Her, and the¡­third one. All this time, and you never breathed a word.¡± He tipped his chin towards the blaze below, as if to say: And look what happened. ¡°They say silence is a virtue, but virtues can be taken too far-¡± I felt myself bridle, instinctively. ¡°I didn¡¯t know what she was going to do-¡± I began, but then caught myself. That wasn''t entirely true, not really. I had, honestly, underestimated her. Completely and utterly. Underestimated them, really, in every sense of the word. Softer, almost to myself: ¡°...I didn¡¯t think she¡¯d do this.¡± He nodded, quietly sympathetic. Overhead, the storm swirled, sullen and on the verge of eruption. I could see bars of lightning stabbing the dark clouds, flickering above the distant ocean. In time, the rains would come. Not soon enough to stop the fires, but they would come all the same. I let my gaze drop to the bloody, battered corpses scattered around the peerless fastness of the Spire, silently numbering the dead. It occurred to me, with an ugly pang, that while I¡¯d acquitted myself admirably, Jeru had carved his way through them far faster, and with far less effort. Not that there was anything admirable about what we¡¯d done here, of course. Especially since, most likely, I¡¯d known some of them. Not enough to remember their names, of course, but enough to remember when I¡¯d been, just for a while, on their side. They¡¯d fed me and sheltered me, and I¡¯d lived among them for months. I¡¯d sat with them at their fires, played with their children, driven off bandits and monsters, even worked the same fields. In the end, that hadn¡¯t been enough to stay my hand. It certainly hadn¡¯t spared their lives. Maybe I¡¯m less sentimental than I thought.
Back when I started out, once I began to get a handle on things, I relished any fight. In particular, against outmatched opponents who were foolish enough to cross me. It wasn¡¯t about killing: It was about winning, the satisfaction of knowing that I¡¯d bested them, the swell of pride that came with knowing I¡¯d come out on top. I think I was overcompensating, really. Back on my Earth, confrontation had never been a big part of my life: Sure, there were petty squabbles and the usual office politicking, but - by and large - your status was measured by your education, your job, the size of your bank account¡­All the usual signifiers of success. I¡¯d lived in a fog of comfortable mediocrity, with a vague but ever-growing sense of frustration. Longing, perhaps, to be someone else entirely. Someone hard-driving, relentless, powerfully masculine. Someone who knew what he wanted, with the will to take it. Except¡­I didn¡¯t know how to be that kind of man, sort of like a supercharged schoolyard bully version of myself. I didn¡¯t even know where to start. My father, the self-made man, probably did - But even asking would have been a kind of surrender, an admission of failure. I had too much pride for that. Or rather, I was afraid of what I would learn about myself, the opportunities I¡¯d squandered. How I¡¯d taken the safe, comfortable road each time, and it¡¯d led me nowhere I wanted, with nothing but a grey future ahead, featuring more of the same. I suppose, in the end, that what I¡¯m saying is: I was primed for this. In some ways, I¡¯d been waiting for this my entire life. Not like my sister, who must have seen it as the only way out of the crushing web of familial obligation and social expectation that¡¯d been woven around her - What I wanted was more than an escape. I wanted power. Not power in the sense of wealth or authority, or any one of the invisible levers that could be used - So subtly, so slowly - to sway minds and influence others. I wanted power I could exert freely, that would cut to the chase. That would be the solution to any problem. The power to inflict violence upon others. To kill, if I so chose. If, in the grand scheme of things, we were all tools - To be used and discarded as soon as we wore out - I wanted, at least, to be a tool that could smash what it desired.
Don¡¯t get me wrong: I don¡¯t consider myself maladjusted or especially bloodthirsty. I simply enjoy having options available, to know I could cut to the chase if I really wanted to. To act on impulse if the urge took me, unfettered by the countless little obstacles they put in the way. I don¡¯t just mean the obvious, of course. Do something desperate and rash and spontaneous, and you¡¯ll spend the rest of your life paying for it. Your family will suffer. You¡¯ll be black-balled, unable to find employment for the reminder of your existence. You might end up dead, or spend the rest of your life rotting in jail. More, Earth had all these barriers, all avenues to success already explored, already mapped-out, already blocked. So much depended on what you¡¯d done in the past - At a certain point, earlier than one might expect, there was very little you could do to better your circumstances in life. In my experience, the individual was oddly powerless, a spectator in his own life. Impotent to do anything other than the role he¡¯d been assigned, to toll away all his days. Being aware of great events, of the grand arcs of history, just let one know how much he was missing out on. But as a thresholder, as a world-walker, I could do what I wanted. Not in the hazy expectation of a payoff somewhere down the line, but here. Now. All else be damned. After all, what did I have to lose? Other than my life, of course. It¡¯s somehow freeing, to know that consequences - when they come - aren''t things like the loss of your job, the downgrading of your credit rating, or an indelible stain on your reputation that will haunt you the rest of your days. Dying in an explosion, dodging assassins sent to kill you, choking on the nanite poison in your water¡­Those are immediate, visceral. You live or you die, with no grey areas in-between. When a man calls you out, the winner gets to live and the loser dies or ends up humbled. It¡¯s a problem you can solve, here and now, rather than one that vanishes into an amorphous maze of bureaucracy and emails: Either way, the matter can be decided in a matter of minutes, and then it¡¯s done with. In a way, moving between worlds made it easier. You step through a portal, and - just like that - the slate is wiped clean. Whatever mess you leave behind, that¡¯s someone else¡¯s problem now. It¡¯s not like anyone¡¯s going to chase you, to enforce the law, to hand out punishments. Does it make it harder to care? I don¡¯t think so. The first flush of emotion, of connection, is always the most intense, most memorable one. It¡¯s time that withers them, understanding that breeds contempt. You care about something intensely, passionately. You give it your all. Until you don¡¯t, and then you make a clean break. You accept the impermanence of things, treasure the memories of the good times - Then you let it go, and move on to whatever comes next. You let novelty become your guide. You learn to throw yourself head-first into what¡¯s in front of you - Once your interest flags, once it wears thin, there¡¯s always the next world, and the next, and the one after. Say one thing about being a thresholder: At least I¡¯m never bored. What does that have to do with the peasant-warriors of Pa¡¯quan? It¡¯s simple. When yesterday¡¯s friend becomes today¡¯s enemy, you don¡¯t let it slow you down. Act first, then contemplate the what-ifs and might-have-beens later. You can care for someone even as you¡¯re killing them. Especially when you¡¯re killing them, in fact. You can love them up to the point the last spark of light flickers in their eyes, until their last breath gurgles from their lungs. For there¡¯s no contradiction, not really. What¡¯s past is past - The infinite now is all that matters, and the rest is just water under the bridge. I say this now, with absolute certainty: Even then, I knew I would remember Alistair and Eulisia as my friends, long after they died by my hands.
¡°How did you get here?¡± ¡°Why, the same way you did.¡± I bit back my first answer, let out a slow breath. He was enjoying this, I knew: Being willfully obtuse, winding me up. Keeping me off-balance, too distracted to find my footing. ¡°But you flew-¡± ¡°I faced the Spire¡¯s trials, just like you. The last door opened to sky.¡± In an graceful, oddly birdlike gesture, Jeru canted his head to the side. White teeth flashed in his perfect smile, a quiet glint of amusement in his calm eyes. ¡°The doors do not take you where they must,¡± he said. Leaning forward, ever-so-slightly, like a man imparting a secret. ¡°They take you where you most desire to go.¡± And I thought: There¡¯s a way out, with something that was almost a wild flash of hope. I fought the urge to look over my shoulder, the way I¡¯d come in - I hadn¡¯t come this far to turn back, not even if Jeru meant it. I half-suspected his spear would be in my back, before I was more than halfway across. After all, in his place, I would probably do the exact same thing. The wind picked up. It moaned around us, rushing across the parapets of the Platinum Spire in a low, rising whistle: I shivered, involuntarily, feeling the bite of it through my armor, through the quilted shirt I wore beneath. Moments like this - They made you realize how small you were in the face of eternity. How the world would continue to turn, no matter what happened here today. But then again, every day is the end of the world for someone. You may wonder: How could we be talking like this, in the shadow of the Intrinsic Gate? Alistair and Eulisia had a head-start - Didn¡¯t we fear they¡¯d beat us to the prize? We had our reasons. I needed to catch my breath, to fight down the pounding in my head, to ready myself for what lay ahead. Besides, the Intrinsic Gate had its own defenders. And as for Jeru- In those remarkable eyes, the calculation was happening. I could see it: His keen intelligence comparing this with that. Weighing all he knew about me, against everything he could do. Considering all the flaws, all the angles, all the possibilities. Watching it happen made me feel stupid, slow. An abacus versus a quantum computer. ¡°-Alistair,¡± I said, just to wrong-foot him. ¡°His name¡¯s Alistair.¡± A long, slow blink. As if I¡¯d confirmed something he¡¯d already known. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°Ah,¡± Jeru said. ¡°A monster, is he? One willing to poison thousands, to drive my city to madness, all so he can-¡± ''Your'' city? I thought - But it would''ve been impolitic to bring it up. Instead, I snorted. ¡°Nothing like that,¡± I said, with a heavy shrug. ¡°He thinks¡­I guess he thinks he¡¯s doing the right thing.¡± I paused, realizing how utterly inadequate the words seemed. ¡°...In the long run, I guess.¡± A thought came to me, and I looked up. ¡°Could they actually - I mean, what they¡¯re trying to do, would it¡­?¡± ¡°Who knows?¡± My look turned disbelieving, and he chuckled, low. ¡°I never claimed to have all the answers, my friend. Not even the gods do. For if they did, what need would they have of us?¡± He had a point, there. Some of the pressure in my head had eased, now. Enough that I felt the migraine pulse at my temples fade, my center - slowly, ever-so-slowly - returning. ¡°Good thing, too,¡± I muttered. ¡°-Or we¡¯d both be out of jobs.¡± My hands were at my sides. Open. Empty. I could feel matters accelerating to a conclusion, now. The moment of decision was coming, and soon, very soon, words would mean nothing. Jeru¡¯s patience wasn¡¯t infinite - And neither was mine, come to think of it. In a way, I wanted an end to this, too. ¡°Just one last thing¡­¡± I began, then shook my head. ¡°No, never mind. I guess it doesn¡¯t matter, not now-¡± Jeru¡¯s smile was infinitely kind. ¡°Go on, my friend,¡± he urged, gesturing with one gleaming hand. ¡°If not now, then when?¡± ¡°Well, if you insist,¡± I said. ¡°It¡¯s just that¡­¡± I let my brow furrow, searching for the words. ¡°I didn¡¯t see this coming. Couldn¡¯t have, not in a hundred years. But, Jeru - If I know one thing about you, it¡¯s that you¡¯re a pretty smart guy. The thing I don¡¯t get is¡­¡± My voice lowered, to just above a whisper. ¡°Why didn¡¯t you?¡±
I can''t speak for everyone, but there''s a...Shall we say, a recurring theme across worlds. Rival heroes arrive from other realms, drawn inexorably towards one another. They plunder the land, scouring it for knowledge, for power, for weapons they can bring to bear for some advantage, some edge, in their inevitable final confrontation. The world becomes their stage, the backdrop for their duel as they work wonders and horrors, armed with alien technologies and magics beyond imagining. And then comes the final battle. One dies, sometimes both do, and then they''re gone, as swiftly as they''ve come. But they leave a legacy behind. They share their wisdom with rulers and peasants alike, arm their allies with weapons from other worlds. Staves that spit fire and metal, machines that claw their way through the sky and gouge the earth, towers that dwarfed the greatest castle, martial techniques that shape the course of armies for decades to come, sciences full centuries ahead of anything the wisest sage could ever hope to conceive... I''ve never managed to do that. In fact, I''ve never even tried. Now, I''m an educated man. Was an educated man, at any rate. These days, I''m afraid, my physical capabilities are generally far more important than whatever I learned from my degree. You''ll be surprised at how little of that knowledge is useful in any way. I wasn''t a farmer, an architect, or an engineer. Mostly, my job involved sending e-mails and drafting reports, staring at endless rows of figures on a glowing screen. I made nothing with my hands - When something broke down, I threw it away and bought another, or called someone to take care of it for me. I can''t even remember the last time I changed my own oil, or even put together furniture. If anything, I was a consumer, like so many others. Just another cog in a great machine. No, calling me a cog gives me more credit than I deserve. I was a part of a part, one of the many clicking things that make up a larger component, the kind put together in a third-world sweatshop by indentured labor. That was the first shock, I guess. That basically nothing I had ever learned, that I prided myself on knowing, was useful. What does the layman have to contribute, anyway? My guess is: a smattering of half-remembered world history, an encyclopedic knowledge of pop culture, a general idea of Earth''s modern conveniences and almost no practical knowledge on how they work.
Imagine a conversation like this: "In my world," I might say, "We have these horseless carriages of metal. Cars, we call them. We''ve got thousands of them on the road, like you wouldn''t believe." "Horseless carriages!" a local would say, swept up in a vision of a far-off reality. "Incredible. But how do they work?" "Something to do with the internal combustion engine, I guess. I know they run on fossil fuels." "Fascinating! This ''engine''...How do you build one?" "-I don''t know." So you know what you want, but you have no idea how it works. No idea how to make it, or even how to make what you need to start making it. You know what that makes you? It makes you the idea guy, and let me tell you: Everyone hates the idea guy.
Maybe cars are too complicated. Let''s try something that doesn''t require about forty-thousand individual components, from the tiniest nuts and bolts to the dark mysteries of the engine block. Guns, perhaps - The great equalizer, or so they say. For a start, plenty of worlds already have guns of some kind. Take my word for it: I''ve been shot at enough times to be something of a connoisseur. Making better guns, though, is an extremely complicated process. All modern (or even less-than-modern) firearms have three basic groups of parts, namely the action, stock and barrel. Putting them together? That takes a lot of work. You''d need dedicated craftsman who, at the very least, have some idea of what they''re already doing. More, you''d need to convince someone to take a chance on your idea. And that''s a hard thing to do, especially when you''re dealing with a painstaking process that could take anywhere between weeks to months (or years) of work. There are precise proportions involved, and tolerances to be carefully measured. You can''t just go about with what feels right, you actually need to know the subject intimately. Otherwise, you''ll be lucky if you get something that just blows up in your hand. Don''t forget that physics and local resources can and will vary wildly from your assumptions. What do they call sulfur, carbon and potassium nitrate on the world you''ve just stumbled upon? Better find out, because there''s an explosive surprise if you get things wrong. My first world, for example, was one where iron was startlingly rare. The few mines were jealously guarded by the mountain folk, hoarded as a kind of ultimate weapon against their foes. What happened? The fey lords and ladies of the Gentry made it their personal playground for their games of intrigue and cruelty, for all time to come. When I left, they were still doing it, and there was no end in sight. No way for the human population to rise up in revolt against the horrors they could conjure, the flesh and souls they could twist when the whim struck them. It wasn''t a pleasant place to be, even if you''d won their hospitality. Believe me. Sometimes, though, this can work for you as much as it can work against you. On my fifth world, my opponent - Lin Qiuyun - hailed from a world known as Great Arc. From what fragments I''ve been able to gather, it was a world of supernatural martial arts, where the search for personal enlightenment at all costs translated into real, personal power. As I understand it, she was of the Second Sphere. One of the exalted, but only just. She''d got a foot on the ladder to eternity, but circumstances (and her foes) had conspired against her dream of a perfect society. There had been a brief but vicious power-struggle, and she''d been driven out of her own cabal. Which made the portal, I suppose, the answer to her prayers. A chance for a fresh start. At any rate, she''d made herself useful to the Empire of Iron, and they''d made her their Grand Provost, their Minister of Civic Order. Unfortunately, she was perpetually frustrated in her attempts to share what she knew. As I understand it, it takes a certain level of spiritual strength to rise through the spheres, one that most people can''t muster. All the more so in a world where magic was fading into a thing of myth and legend, where even the most gifted of the nobles could barely control the Zmei - the great iron dragons the Empire used to lay waste to its enemies - that was their birthright. Apparently, there were elixirs, tinctures and treatments that could cultivate such potentials, but again Qiuyun was thwarted. A lot of what she needed simply didn''t exist in that world, or existed under different names. Even subtle differences could throw off the end result, and she''d had little to show for all the resources and effort expended. And by that time, the enemy was beating down their doors, hungry for blood. I know this, by the way, because I helped bring the axe down. I''m not often on the side of angels, but the Empire of Iron needed to go. Qiuyun''s experiments were positively innocent compared to what they had done, before either of us arrived. Mind you, she never struck me as evil, just extremely focused on her goal. Even now, I can''t understand how she could be part of that. Desperation, I suppose, makes for strange bedfellows. Or maybe the allure of power just went to her head. We''ll get to that later, though. In time.
But, you might say, surely there are other things a civilized man could contribute. A working knowledge of basic hygiene, perhaps. Telling people to boil their water and wash their hands before eating. Dare I say, a little crop rotation, even? Well, for one thing - Most people already know that, and they don''t like outsiders talking down to them like they''re idiots. Those who don''t know probably don''t care, either. Unless you can make an immediate, measurable positive change to the lives of most people, they generally won''t stick with it, especially if it''s inconvenient, costly, or potentially dangerous to themselves. There''s always the option of bending the ear of a King, noble, or the local equivalent...But they''re interested in things that can help them now, too, in dramatic ways. They want your exploding powder, your earth-sundering magics, your ferocious deity that will sweep all unbelievers before Him like chaff. At the very least, they''ll settle for something that makes them even richer. What they don''t want is something that will (slowly, with constant effort) make the quality of life better over the span of the next few years, or gradually reduces infant mortality or the risk of plague. To be blunt, they don''t give a shit about that, and they never will. How about new political systems or religions, then? Spreading the word of God, Allah or Marx? Again, most worlds have gods. Sometimes, the Gods even answer prayers. That''s a pretty good incentive not to try a new flavor of things, to my mind. As for politics...I suppose if you''re in charge - or you know someone in power - you could probably make people try whatever you wanted. That, however, has always struck me as a dictatorship with extra steps. Forget about setting up an institution that will survive you, you''ll be lucky if they don''t have a big war the moment you''re out of sight. That''s assuming you can even enforce your decisions, too. Never assume you have monopoly of force: I certainly don''t. Phospiach alone had beings that could feed me my own innards, if sufficiently roused. Trust me, one man with a pulse rifle and a suit of power armor does not a ruler make. You need armies for that, and a bureaucracy, and hundreds of functionaries, and tax-collectors, and (of course) hundreds of thousands of laborers, who have no idea of your grand vision and just want three hot meals a day and maybe not getting murdered by invaders. So no, I''ve never tried it. It sounds hard, and - more importantly - it''s boring. Don''t forget, too, that you have an other in the world somewhere. Hunting you, stalking you. Waiting for you to slip up, so he can strike and move on to better things. Someone with no interest in remaking the world according to his vision, and who just wants to plunder it for all it''s worth. Someone very much like me, for example.
I''m sure you can think of ways around this. Perhaps (for example) you could find tomes of practical knowledge. Books about mathematics, physics, mechanical engineering and yes, gunsmithing. You could take them with you at all times, carry them to the next world. Bring the light of civilization and modern science to the multiverse. The problem is, as anyone with the misfortune to carry a haversack for a full day will tell you, those things are heavy. Worse, they''re useless in a fight, where every pound counts. I travel light - I might be strong, but everything that isn''t a weapon or my armor can still be a liability in a fight. I already have enough trouble keeping my hands on those. When push comes to shove, a sword (even a cheap one) is way more useful than a book on applied chemistry. ...Well, I suppose the latter could also be a weapon, if I threw it hard enough. Remember, more often than not, you''d have just won (or, more crucially, lost) a fight to end all fights when the portal opens. Alistair''s told me that it hangs around for a day or two, long enough to say your goodbyes and to resolve any unfinished business, but I didn''t know that until this world. More importantly, I rarely had the luxury of hanging around. Out of the five worlds I''ve explored so far (not counting Phospiach), four ended with an intensity of violence that dwarfed everything that came before it. In my second and third worlds, I had just enough strength left to crawl through the portal before I bled out - Leaving behind battles that were still raging as I made my escape, and it was honestly anyone''s guess how those ended. Let''s be honest. The other guy probably won. It is my fondest hope that, right after I went down, Ryan Trent got smeared across the pavement by a Gamma-class enhanced human. I wouldn''t count on it, though. No, I''m not bitter.
There''s digital media, of course, but there''s no guarantee you''re going to be able to access it wherever you''re going. I know I didn''t see a computer for three entire worlds, and even then it was only tangentially similar to our conception of one. I still have my cracked, chipped handphone, all the way from my Earth. It hasn''t functioned for five worlds, now - The battery died on my first one, and I''m pretty sure it''ll never run again, even if I did have a way to charge it. I could have asked Rhohdohr, Visage of Howling Skies, to help...But he''d probably have thought I wanted to be smote by lightning instead. So no, it might as well be a brick of glass, metal and rare earth elements, for all the good it''s done me. And what unearthly wisdom doth this digital repository contain, by the way? At a guess, I''d say it''s something like several dozen movies, a few hundred novels, and at least ten gigabytes of animated and non-animated pornography. Hardly something that could bring a dirt-grubbing civilization all the way to the stars, right?
All that aside, Jeru done pretty well for himself, considering. Ever since Jeru had slain the leader of the Ihulian Horde, ever since he¡¯d been anointed as Champion of Adrijanopolj, he¡¯d pretty much had the run of the city. And he¡¯d been busy, too, putting that fine mind to use. I¡¯d seen the new aqueduct going up, the drains being dug and the clay pipes being laid down. The intricate system of pulleys and cranes at the docks, the great pits for the disposal of the city¡¯s filth¡­ The last I heard, they¡¯d been raising a dam - a magnificent, grey-walled thing with bronze-cast water screws - to irrigate the pleasure-gardens favored by the priests of the Hundred. Normally, incipient corruption meant a project like that would¡¯ve ground on for years, but Jeru¡¯s easy charm, implacable will and obvious power had a way of overcoming obstacles like that. And then there were the informers, of course. The whisperers, keeping one finger on the pulse of the city, ready to whisk away dissenters and troublemakers. He¡¯d nipped at least one potential uprising (against the strange foreigner who¡¯d come from nowhere, and wormed his way so quickly into the city-father¡¯s good graces) in the bud like that, without fuss. They¡¯d been keeping tabs on me too, of course. Never obstructively (for I was the Chosen of Tauruskhan, after all) but enough that I made sure to drink, carouse and whore my way across Adrijanopolj until they were satisfied I was no threat. You might call it a miracle of low expectations, but I had to work hard to do that. Do you know how hard it is to keep it up for nearly a month? Especially when you can¡¯t get drunk? Let me tell you, it makes you feel like an imposter. At some point it becomes more a chore than anything else - You start going through the motions, surrounded by strangers made into absolute cretins by drink. Then, it¡¯s all you can do to keep up the facade of good cheer as you make for the door. Between the two of us, I think he was having more fun.
Speaking of fun, Jeru wasn¡¯t afraid to act swiftly and decisively, either. Call it a general program of social improvement, if you will - He certainly did. For instance, the Sacred Capital had always been lousy with cults. They were a recurring problem, abducting the occasional victim off the streets for bloody-handed sacrifices and awful rites, forever skulking in the shadows to accomplish their obscure objectives. He¡¯d come down on them like a hammer, declaring them a blight that needed to be purged. Most thought it was rhetoric, until a series of highly-publicized raids had cleared out the worst of them over the course of a few bloody weeks. Generous bounties had been raised on targets of opportunity, to encourage both whistle-blowing and independent action from mercenaries and soldiers of fortune - Hell, I¡¯d collected on a few of those, and promptly blown all that silver in a series of revels. After all, it wasn¡¯t like I could take it with me. For all I knew, the next world ran solely on barter. The genius of it, though, was that this was only the public face. Jeru¡¯s real target had been his rivals on the Deliberative, the assembly of nobles and moneyed interests that exerted outsize influence on Adrijanopolj. He¡¯d been preparing for this, you see. He knew everyone, and everything about everyone. He romanced their mistresses and bought off their servants; Given the amount of coin, of influence he had, that wasn''t hard. So when the time came, under the guise of the Breaking of the Cults, they had nowhere left to run. Hiding places. Secret tunnels. Escape routes and sanctuaries. Old debts that might just mean salvation¡­All of it useless when the moment came, because Jeru was already there, lying in wait. At any rate, in less than a month, everyone who needed to die ended up in the grave. That turned out to be remarkably few, surprisingly - Jeru was more of a surgeon than a butcher, and only cut away the most stubborn tissue. Still, that meant almost two hundred people died, most of them in the span of a single week. He¡¯d always been a big believer in following through, I guess, and once he got started he didn¡¯t see any reason to stop. By the time the dust had settled, Jeru was more than the city¡¯s champion. He was something along the lines of its First Citizen, the real power behind the throne. Sure, the priests of the Hundred Great Gods still met on the E?thic Council, and there still was a King¡­But increasingly, they deferred to him. Frankly, they were scared shitless of him. Don¡¯t think the change was for the worse, those. By the end of the year, Adrijanopolj was a nicer place to live. Crime was down, business was booming, and girls were being allowed in the temple-schools. Things were looking good, for the Festival of Ascension¡­ Until the faithful of Pa¡¯quan had fucked it all up.
I¡¯m not sure what I was expecting from him. An explanation, maybe - ¡°Ah, my friend, I was busy pleasing two goddesses at the time. Given such beauteous companions, surely a man can be forgiven for such a lapse?¡± Maybe he¡¯d get angry, and I¡¯d finally see a crack in that unflappable calm of his - ¡°Those responsible will suffer for this, I assure you. Of that, you can be certain.¡± Or he would shrug it off as an honest failure of his - ¡°If the gods failed to see it coming, how could I?¡± At this point, it wouldn¡¯t change things. But any of the three would¡¯ve satisfied my curiosity, and probably been highly amusing in the process. Instead- Silence. It stretched between us, like the yawning void on all sides of the apex of the platinum tower. ¡°What?¡± I said, into the stillness, my gaze fixed on Jeru¡¯s coolly serene face. ¡°Come on, don¡¯t leave me hanging. I thought-¡± He didn¡¯t answer. But his smile grew a little sharper, those eyes - piercing, mesmerizing - shifting subtly, ever-so-subtly, in aspect. Something, tickling at the back of my mind. Slowly, like a dim bulb flickering to life, I felt understanding trickle down my spine. And I realized- "Oh fuck," I said. ¡°You knew-¡± His features may as well have been carved out of graven stone. ¡°-I suspected.¡± The small spark of anger in my chest, the one I''d long-thought buried, flared with sudden heat. ¡°Then-¡± I felt my fingers twitch, aching to curl into a fist. A sudden hot stab of phantom pain pulsed through my skull, the words I thought I had forgotten surging up from within. ¡°Then why didn¡¯t you stop it? Why, for pity¡¯s sake?¡± Jeru¡¯s eyebrows rose, just a hair. ¡°You surprise me, Morgan. I was under the impression you lacked the capacity to care.¡± A thought seemed to strike him, then, and his blonde ponytail swayed in time to his next drawn breath. ¡°A sliver of conscience, perhaps?¡± ¡°Oh, I¡¯m full of surprises,¡± I ground out, like I was chewing rocks. ¡°Now tell me.¡± He considered this, for a moment. Doing some last-minute calculus, maybe, about how this might tip the balance in his favor. Once Jeru had (I assumed) added up the numbers, made the correction to his mental spreadsheet, he said, very simply: ¡°The E?thic Council would give anything to save the city.¡± A pause. ¡°-They did.¡± ¡°Jesus.¡± I said, as I took a step back. ¡°Jesus, and I thought I was a bastard.¡± I¡¯d half-turned to my right, like I couldn¡¯t resist taking another sidelong glance at the city below. At the rivers of flame spilling across the vast, dark field of the Adrijanopolj. This high up, you couldn¡¯t make out any details, but you could still get a sense of the chaos of it¡­A kicked ant-hill, a model city driven mad and set alight. The flamelight flickered across Jeru¡¯s impassive features, washing across his burnished, mirror-polished plate. He sighed, lightly, and the stylized bestiary that adorned his armor seemed to move with him. Serpents writhing, birds swept aloft, the great beasts of land and sea locked in primal combat. ¡°I thought you, of all people, would understand,¡± he said. ¡°This world is but one of many. We are but transient guests, at best.¡± The jeweled bangles affixed to either side of Jeru¡¯s helm - beaded strands, almost like earrings - chimed, faintly, in time to his words. ¡°Surely you didn¡¯t think you¡¯d be alone in your plunder?¡± ¡°No, no. I get that.¡± I shook my head, still disbelieving. ¡°It¡¯s just that¡­You were building the city back up, and all that. I thought you were re-¡± A rushing like breaking waves, a surge of wings- I drew Oneira¡¯s gun, smooth and fast, the barrel coming up in the same swift motion. The gun¡¯s heft and balance was intimately familiar, down to the tiny digits blinking 04 on the digital display. Jeru was already airborne, already swooping across the narrow distance with speed beyond measure. Each titanic wingbeat churned the air, void-edged pinions moaning as they swept him forward in a furious surge of motion. Even with Vairocana¡¯s blessing, even with His boon of surety and perception, Jeru was almost too quick for the eye to follow. A speed-distorted phantom, visible only by the rippling wake of his passage. For one frozen instant before impact, I glimpsed his helm closing over his head like a golden casket. That great spear snapped out, just a blur, flickering into invisibility as it drove at me- Lightning blasted the clouds, and lighting blasted the world away. TO BE CONTINUED Chapter 3: The House of the Brother "In a power-hungry, power-worshipping society, men label themselves atheist." ¨D Ernest Hemingway Chapter 3: The House of the Brother The temple-monastery of Rastuvia, one year ago: They were skinning the priest, and they were skinning him slow. From within the sacristy, I could hear his gurgling screams. His face pushed down into his own blood, his skin flayed away one strip at a time, I had no idea how the poor bastard was still awake. Lit by crackling flame, the warrior-dervishes of Vairocana seemed like howling apes, dancing and punishing, capering in frenzied victory. The flashing edges of their obsidian knives rose and fell in delirious arcs, plied against soft flesh. The grunts and squeals of pain they evoked were hoggish, mindless, barely even human- If I cared to look closely, I might have identified the trophies they were taking. I didn¡¯t. The meditation-garden of the monastery¡¯s cloister had been made into a cage, of sorts. The long shafts of spears and pole-arms had been stabbed blade-down into the earth, each a hand¡¯s breadth from the next. Chains of brass had been lashed around them, midway and at the top, to keep them true. Together, they staked out a circle roughly thirty feet across, open to the swirling storm-clouds. Within, the hollow space was packed with a mound of bodies: the priests, guardians and acolytes of the Brother, those that hadn¡¯t been butchered out of hand. Bloody, filthy, most of them unconscious, they lay in a jumble where they had been flung, like some grotesque tapestry of tangled limbs. Some of them, the less fortunate ones, were awake. Like trapped animals, they clung to the bars, their eyes bright with mortal terror. For they knew what was coming, and that it wouldn¡¯t be long. Outside the makeshift cage, the ground had been reduced to churned mud and broken stone. The careful symmetry of the garden, tended over decades, had been destroyed, deliberately and with distinct relish. Vile improvements had been made to the statues of soldier-heroes and exemplars of the Rastuvian faith. Serene stone visages had been hacked off, to be replaced by gaping, silently-staring heads. Wretched offerings, bouquets of orphaned limbs and offal, rested in carved hands, dyeing robes arterial-red. The great marble statue of the Brother himself had been desecrated, in a determinedly thorough way that left no doubt as to intent. In his guise as the Leader-of-All, Rastuvia¡¯s magnificent figure towered over a host of lesser worthies. Three times life-size, his bronze sword was thrust forward in his own fist, as if directing a mighty army to sweep forth and destroy his enemies. A body had been impaled on the forlorn deity¡¯s verdigris-encrusted sword. It had taken significant effort. The sword was not sharp.
The air had become a soft blackness, tinged with red. Soot and sparks billowed up from the burning buildings on all sides, the distant screams of the harrowed and the triumphant cries of the victorious rolling out of the dark. With the last defenders overcome, the true horror was only just beginning in earnest. By the time the Ihulian Horde moved on, no stone would stand on stone, and only charred ruins would mark their passage. The mercenary bowmen of the Ral Partha were looting the dead. Worshipers of Golag the Monger, they revered wealth above all else. They¡¯d been the ones to introduce me to the wonders and horrors of the Soul Market, where the essence of deceased debtors were traded like grain. According to their esoteric faith, the goal of life was to gather slaves to serve them in the After-Death. After all, you only live once, while death is forever and all-consuming. From their view, it was best to claw and scrabble for what wealth you could now, because you had all of eternity to enjoy the fruits of your labour. Or lack thereof, as it might be. And so polished silver armor was stripped from the limp bodies of the fallen, the lining of boots slit open for hidden coins. Rings were cut from fingers, gold fillings prised from teeth, as the sounds of plunder and destruction echoed hollowly in the distance. I¡¯d done some looting of my own, of course. My belt-pouch was filled with gems, pulled from the resplendent sarcophagi and reliquaries of the ancestor-shrines. Vairocana¡¯s followers had exhumed the honored dead, to scatter their bones to the wind or to burn them anew on pyres. They cared nothing for gold and jewellery, which they¡¯d tossed aside or trod underfoot, even as they fed the flames with scrolls and illuminated manuscripts from the sacred Library of Ikaroi. All things considered, I felt like I¡¯d earned it. I¡¯d used the last of my grenades in the final assault, and there was (of course) no hope of ever getting more. Without them, the horde would¡¯ve lost hundreds more whilst storming the fortress, giving victory a distinctly Pyrrhic feel. Then there were the Reversi to consider. The protectors of the monastery¡¯s last redoubt had been living nightmares, towering head-and-shoulders over the bandit spearmen fighting desperately to bring them down. Two-headed, four-armed monstrosities, the Reversi were conjoined twins, endowed with all the blessings of Rastuvia. According to legend, their mothers were fed a steady diet of elixirs and drugs to ensure that they were spawned with the sacred symmetry so beloved by the God of Accord. With their faces hidden behind painted masks, one contorted in fury, one serene, their limbs bristling with thrice-blessed weapons, the sanctified horrors had stood firm against nearly eight times their number. In the span of a few furious minutes, they¡¯d hewed their way through dozens of men, curved blades reaping a vicious tally of lives. All the while, javelins, arrows and sling-stones had ricocheted hopelessly from their god-forged armor. Curses and invocations to the Horde¡¯s petty gods had fluttered from them, harmless as petals, even as their hissing blades cut limbs from torsos, bodies from shoulders, heads from stumps¡­ -Until I shot them, of course.
The Furstenburg was a tried-and-tested gun, a hefty double-barreled squad support weapon. Developed from the ubiquitous pulse repeater favored by the Alarian Commonwealth, it was the heaviest firearm that could be legally owned on the frozen hellscape of Dolor. Mass-printers had churned them out in their thousands, to deal with (at first) the planet¡¯s viciously hostile biome. Later, the threat of the unquiet dead and the Cold Ones had brought the decades-old design back into fashion. While the assault rifle and carbine formats were more popular, the Furstenburg¡¯s reliability and ease of maintenance spoke for itself. Pound-for-pound, solid-ammunition weapons (particularly the impact rounds developed by Munzer Arms) had greater stopping power, but pulse munitions were exceptional at shredding the reanimated corpses of Dolor¡¯s dead. It was, of course, at least four thousand years ahead of anything the greatest armorers of Phosphiach had ever imagined. I was staggering, delirious with exhaustion and the blood-red haze of battle, by the time I got close enough to open fire. Covered in blood and grave-dust, ears ringing with the clash of iron and the screams of the dying, I remember seeing my own spit drooling out on dusty red marble and brick as I lurched into the fight. My arms had felt like twigs, as I pointed my gun at the nearest of the Reversi and squeezed the trigger. It didn¡¯t matter. The relentless pummel of one thousand rounds a minute cut the first one in half. It fell, still smoking from repeated impacts, and I emptied the rest of the magazine into the second before the charge ran dry. The cone of death chewed through scripture-etched armor, ripping through the four-armed giant¡¯s guts, coring it out from within. I was shaking so badly, it took me almost a full minute to fumble in a fresh charge pack. Longer, to start firing again. It was well worth the wait, though. I unloaded so hard on the Reversi, they turned to nothing but flying body parts and bloody spray, torn apart by the roaring storm of shots. That, I think, was enough to break the few defenders that remained. Not just the death of two of Rastuvia¡¯s most-favored sons, but the awful, abrupt nature of it. They knew, with the surety of soldiers fighting for a lost cause, that they couldn¡¯t fight that. That the day was lost, and their lives were lost with it. In the face of the blaring gun, the fiery bolts of cyclic pulse fire searing through the night, they faltered¡­And then the berserker-saints of Vairocana were upon them, laughing as they killed. The rest of the Ihulian Horde found new strength, surging forward with the momentum that leads to overwhelm, and- Well, you can guess the rest. Suffice to say that it was a vision of violence fully-realized, of point-blank savagery I hoped never to see again. Within the nave of the holy-of-holies, the blood was literally ankle-deep in places before it could drain away. Sometimes, I¡¯m surprised by how alien other worlds can be. Not just in the obvious sense, of course, but in how utterly atavistic they can be. As a wise man once said, the past is a different country. But, more than anything else, the presence of countless Gods had deformed Phospiach. It had grown permanently, violently out of sync with anything resembling the sensibilities of the Earth I knew, in ways both subtle and gross. Sacrifice had become a virtue. The murder of heretics, a sacrament. Humanism in its most fundamental form had been replaced by the need to please one¡¯s patron deity. Anything, and I mean anything, could be justified by that single imperative, the rewards of divine favor overriding all else. Phospiach. Great place to visit, not so great to live.
Skakoan the Wayward was the first through the breach. Gore streaming from his great axe, he sang paens to the Frenzied One as he tore down the bound-arrows banner of Rastuvia, brandishing the ragged flag like a trophy. Wild-eyed, possessed by furious mirth, Skakoan was laughing so hard he wept, tears tracking down his cheeks. There was something almost childlike in his glee, his face twisting in a great leer as he trampled over the dead. ¡°Brother to none!¡± he jeered, lifting the severed head of a centurion-theurge by the hair. ¡°Where is your God now? Where is your God now?¡± Cheers greeted his words as he flung his arms wide, bull chest heaving. ¡°Burn this place!¡± Skakoan roared, his hulking silhouette badged with scars. ¡°Burn it all!¡± The half-beast warriors of Dora and the axemen of the Wutrim streamed past him, hungry for plunder, drunk on blood- And in all the confusion, I limped away.
The pool that lay before the tall statue of Rastuvia was clear, the waters sparkling aquamarine. In His aspect of the Loyal Companion, the god looked down from above, carved lips curved in a benevolent smile. No weapons, this time: Instead, His hands were open and empty, extended in the universal symbol of peace. I splashed water onto my face and chest, sluicing bloodstained hands through the blessed font, until I was as clean as I was going to get. Once the rush of adrenaline had died away, I¡¯d been heartily sick in a corner of the temple. Even now, I could still taste the vomit at the back of my throat, my head pounding with the beginnings of a migraine. That¡¯s what happens when the fighting stops. The magnitude of what you¡¯ve survived, what you¡¯ve done, catches up with you. It¡¯s like a hangover, like the scratchy comedown after a high, and it churns in your gut like battery acid. Sometimes, it¡¯s all you can do to get it out. I¡¯d like to say there¡¯s no shame in that, but I think there is. Despite my reworking, despite the many worlds I¡¯ve crossed, there are times when I feel like a pretender. Someone soft as putty, trying his best to be hard. I¡¯ve never been brave, not really. In the heat of the moment, with my blood pumping and my fists flying, I can forget that. But after¡­After is another story. After is when the doubts creep in. The terrifying sense of dislocation, the frantic voice that comes from that deep, dark place inside. How am I here? What am I doing? What now? Sometimes, it¡¯s hard to remember the life I once had, before all this. The life of steady, stultifying monotony, the trajectory of my existence defined by the eternal orbit of work, home and family. As predictable as it was suffocating. Like drowning, ever-so-slowly, in body-warm water. Was I unhappy? I don¡¯t think so. There¡¯s a comfort in the familiar, the mundane, that we take for granted. We don¡¯t realize what we have, until it¡¯s gone. But I had wanted more, or at least something else. Nothing and no-one forced me through that first, all-important portal. In fact, I had every reason to stay. After all, I wasn¡¯t fleeing debt or disaster or heartbreak. I wasn¡¯t the one facing the impossible choice between living a lie or the apocalypse of the truth. This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there. Not like my sister. The portal was meant for her, really. Even now, the thought fills me with a kind of weary resentment. She¡¯d always been smarter, more hard-working, more gifted. Like Dad, the man who¡¯d hauled himself up by his own bootstraps, May had been the driven one, seized by the need to make the most of her life. As for me, I¡¯d been content to coast. To take the path of least resistance, knowing that I always had the security of family to fall back upon. Only to realize, too late, that wasn¡¯t what I actually wanted. By the time I found the portal, it looked wrong. Wavering, on the verge of dissolution, it was a fading bloom of rose fire, about to collapse upon itself. It hurt to pass through, hurt enough to make me wonder if it was all a terrible mistake- But I¡¯d made it. I¡¯d made it, and I would never, could never, go back. That¡¯s all it takes, really. Each time I falter, every time I feel the sickening lurch of doubt, I tell myself: This is what you wanted, Morgan. Don¡¯t be a pussy. Over and over, as long as it takes. Until all uncertainty fades in a haze of dimly intuited rebirth, and I am myself again. The version of myself that I¡¯ve always, in my heart of hearts, have always wanted to be. For a time.
¡°-What troubles you, infidel?¡± That voice, like flint scraping steel, froze me in my tracks. I turned, exaggeratedly casual, wiping my hands on stained leggings. Caked with dried gore and the unspeakable filth of the battlefield, it did nothing at all except to make them dirty all over again. ¡°Nothing at all,¡± I lied, as I seated myself on the lip of the font. The cold stone felt good beneath me, something solid to cling to after the day¡¯s feverish excesses. There¡¯s nothing like a little death to make you feel more alive. I made a show of stretching, rolling my shoulders to work out the ache. ¡°Just wondering if we were done here, that¡¯s all,¡± I said, like it didn¡¯t matter. As if everything I¡¯d seen, everything I¡¯d done, was just another day at the office. ¡°After all, I¡¯ve held up my end of the bargain, haven¡¯t I?¡± I forced a bluff, easy confidence into every word. The conquering hero, atop a pile of the dead. ¡°More than that, even. But then again¡­Isn¡¯t that always the way?¡± It sounded false, even to me. But then again, I¡¯d never been truly comfortable around Vairocana¡¯s apostles. Kayla was no exception. Her family¡¯s farm had been put to the torch by soldiers from the army of Vash¡¯ro, during one of the countless brushfire wars fought between petty warlords. Apparently, it was all a tragic misunderstanding: Their target was actually a village ten miles over, which had declared for the other side. Still, the soldiers had been thorough. Kayla had seen her parents and her younger brother hanged from the trees of their orchard, her neighbors and friends put to the sword. As for her, she¡¯d been pretty enough to warrant a stay of execution. Long enough, at least, to entertain the men for a few hours. When they were done with her, they¡¯d slit her throat and left her to die in the burning farmhouse, marching off under their bound-arrows banner. Against all odds, Kayla had survived, even if she hadn¡¯t really wanted to. For weeks after, she lived like an animal, blank-eyed and clothed in rags, driven beyond the limits of human sanity. What remained of her was a tabula rasa, a soul upon which nothing was written. Seac the Raven, Enlightened of Vairocana, had found her. Emptied out by all she had endured, it was easy enough for the Raven to reforge her in his image. She never found the ones who ruined her life. But tormenting those who marched under the flag of Rastuvia, who fought in His name, was sufficient to give her some kind of peace. Over the course of four years, Kayla had killed almost three hundred people. She¡¯d done for most of them with the jagged swords she favoured, but she¡¯d accounted for a distressingly large number of them with her bare hands. Can you imagine doing that? No pulverizing gauntlets or enhanced strength. Just her scarred and calloused hands, gouging, choking, strangling. Watching limbs thrash, faces going first purple, then black, from slow suffocation. It takes hate to do that. True hate, as rare as true love. She called me ''infidel'', because I could never believe, not truly. My faith could only ever be transactional, mercenary, as much I may have wished otherwise. I lacked the capacity to truly open myself to the Gods, to cast myself into their hands, to be reshaped like clay according to their whims. Like the greater mass of humanity, some instinct, some deeply-buried urge for self-preservation, would always hold me back. Faith, true faith, meant absolute surrender. To give up one''s agency, to become a tool, an extension, an appendage of a greater being. To accept another will subsuming your own, and all that came with it. Well, I''d seen what true faith could do, in a world of Gods. And I wanted nothing to do with that.
I won¡¯t mince words. Kayla was a hideous thing, her skin webbed with the residue of near-fatal burns. The scars that had come after were layered on top of the earlier damage, but it was the aftermath of the great, throat-opening slash that drew the eye, that captured the imagination. You could see how deep the cut had been, how close it¡¯d come to beheading her. Somehow, she hadn¡¯t lost her faculty for speech. But her voice was and would always be an ugly, rasping thing now. Like some ancient hide-scraper of a knife, being whetted on leather. The worst part was, it didn¡¯t trouble her at all. You could see it in what remained of her broad, dark face, a face that was never angry or sad. Nothing phased her, not any more: She laughed easily and spoke freely, and could kill as easily as she breathed. In her line of work, that was a quality to be cherished. It marked her as most favored in the eyes of the Frenzied One, blessed in His sight. And no, that wasn¡¯t a metaphor: In a world of gods, such things were nearly always to be taken literally. There was no hesitation to Kayla, no capacity for fear or doubt, and she could commit the most atrocious acts of violence without warning. She never killed without reason, mind you. Sure, Kayla looked like a monster, but she wasn¡¯t one. Not quite. Or at least, not yet. She scared the shit out of me, all the same. I was fairly confident I could take her in a fight. She was, after all, only human¡­ But I went out of my way to make sure there was never, ever a reason for one.
¡°Hmmmm.¡± At my words, her gaze fixed on me. Weighing me with those dark eyes, as I fussed with my rifle¡¯s sling and tried to look at ease. The silence stretched between us, for a long, dreadful moment. Too long, almost, as Kayla¡¯s unblinking eyes bored into me. There was a faintly distracted, distant air to her, as if listening to some voice only she could hear. I was half-afraid that if I tried, really tried, I would hear it too. Abruptly, she smiled. Yellow teeth, flecked with blood, set in glistening pink gums. ¡°The God approves,¡± Kayla said, whisper-soft, as her eyes resolved back into full focus. ¡°Vairocana the Culler, Eater-of-Weak-Meat, is pleased by what we have done today.¡± There was a subtle edge to her words now, working under my skin like a dagger between ribs. ¡°-What you have wrought, infidel.¡± Now I had to look away, from that knowing gaze. For the Frenzied One¡¯s apostles, you see, the act alone was never enough. It wasn¡¯t just about what you¡¯d done, they wanted you to consider why you¡¯d done it. To be perfectly, entirely aware of what you¡¯d been a party to. Vairocana can be a bastard like that. ¡°Yeah, well¡­¡± I said, keeping my voice carefully level. ¡°I¡¯m glad He¡¯s happy.¡± There was no point, after all, in rising to the bait. After all, Kayla didn¡¯t care, not really. I don¡¯t think she had the capacity to care about anything, not any more, other than doing Vairocana¡¯s will. Slaying His enemies. Getting His truth out. Preaching, in word and in deed, of the enlightenment that could only be found at the heart of carnage. Everything else had been burned out of her, a long time ago. ¡°So service is its own reward?¡± I laughed, involuntarily, the sound scraping at my dust-dry throat. ¡°Don¡¯t tell Oloin that,¡± I said, with a wince. ¡°He¡¯ll never let me hear the end of it.¡± If anything, Kayla¡¯s smile widened. She¡¯d always found the venal old Godbinder amusing, for some reason. I think he must have reminded her of someone, I suppose. A beloved uncle, maybe, or some crotchety grandfather. ¡°-True,¡± she conceded. ¡°You are resolved, then?¡± I shrugged. ¡°Now¡¯s as good a time as any, I suppose. Tell me.¡± She shut her eyes. Just for an instant - But when they opened again, something in them made my hair stand on end. ¡°The Eye of Vairocana opens,¡± Kayla said, in her rasping whisper of a voice. ¡°The Frenzied One holds you in His gaze. Certainty is His to bestow: Look to Him when life meets death, for all shall be made clear.¡± She pressed her scarred hand to her chest, making it a heart-truth. ¡°When the dead lie broken before you, when the savor of their last breaths rises like mist, know that surety shall be yours. Your hands shall be sure, your heart unwavering, your strike as absolute as His own blade. So speaks the God, and so shall it be.¡± No great visitation came to me, no rush of otherworldly power. No crack of thunder; No single, gazing eye. All I felt was the weight of her words descending, laden with a significance that blotted out all else. I waited, until the last echo of her words died away. A moment, then a moment more, until I was certain that nothing else was forthcoming. Into the looming silence, I said: ¡°And¡­the other thing?¡± Right on cue, I felt my stomach cramping, reminding me that I hadn¡¯t eaten in hours. The sensation of perpetual hunger, of being hollowed-out from within, was a near-constant companion now. Puking my guts out had only made it worse. Kayla¡¯s face was as serene as a graven statue¡¯s. ¡°Vaircona will not help you. The sickness that devours you from within is your burden to bear, not His.¡± Fuck, I thought, acid churning in my guts. Fucking Vaircona. I knew it couldn¡¯t be so easy. That the one thing I¡¯d wanted above all else wouldn¡¯t come cheap. Fucking Gods, they¡¯ll screw you over every time. Story of my life, really. One step forward for every two back. ¡°Great,¡± I said. ¡°That¡¯s great. Really, it is. Praise Vaircona, and all the rest. Now if you¡¯ll excuse me-¡± I heaved myself to my feet, fighting the urge to spit. All that blood and thunder, and I was back to square one. No closer to a cure, with no idea where to even start. It wasn¡¯t a complete waste of time, I tried to tell myself. I was walking away with Vaircona¡¯s blessing, a pouch full of purloined jewels, and a coat of lamellar scales stripped from the mummified corpse of Lord-Prophet Vukyelt, first and greatest warlord of Accord. But all I could taste was bitterness. For I was dying, and that was all there was to it. Kayla watched, as I stood. Looked on without a word, as I scraped my boots clean against the intricate mosaics detailing Rastuvia¡¯s birth and greatest triumphs. It was a petty thing to do, but given the screams and wails that rang through the fire-lit night, I¡¯m sure she appreciated the sentiment. A thought struck me, as I shouldered my pack, tucking my battered helm under one arm. ¡°What¡¯s next? For you, I mean.¡± She blinked once, solemn, as if contemplating the question. Then- ¡°Adrijanopolj,¡± Kayla said, at last. Her hands settled on the hilts of her saw-toothed sabres, her fingers tracing the kill-markers on the notched grips. ¡°For too long, the Hundred have believed the Sacred Capital to be their own.¡± The firelight glimmered, on her scorched-clean teeth. ¡°The God has tasked us with disabusing them of that notion.¡± I whistled. That sounded like a long-shot, at best. Adrijanopolj was a Rome, a Constantinople, the temporal home of at least a score of war-gods. On that count alone, they had the Horde outnumbered by at least ten to one. Man-to-man, the actual odds were even more appalling. Eulisia had told me as much: How the stalwarts of the Jackal Legion and the remorseless cataphracts of the Mourners had taken less than a week to crush Pa¡¯quan¡¯s failed revolt. Men and women fleeing, screaming, ridden down by cavalry, falling beneath a rain of merciless black spears¡­ They¡¯d been going easy on the peasants, focusing on chastisement over decimation. After all, someone was needed to plough the fields and raise grain. It didn¡¯t take much imagination to see what would happen, once the Ihulian horde ran head-first into the armies of the Hundred Great Gods. ¡°You know it¡¯s suicide, right?¡± I said, frankly. ¡°Attacking the Sacred Capital¡­You¡¯ll lose thousands, and that¡¯s if you win. You probably won¡¯t even-¡± I stopped, mid-sentence, silenced by Kayla¡¯s look. Her expression was patient as stone, ever-so-slightly puzzled, like she couldn¡¯t understand why that was a problem. ¡°You are a strange man, infidel,¡± she said, quietly. ¡°You tell yourself that you were made for this life, for conquest, for war¡­And yet you fear it, with every fiber of your being. It is fear that rules you, that has always ruled you, the way a rider masters his steed. Why, then, do you persist?¡± The full weight of her regard was a palpable force, enough to make my skin crawl, my gut clench with an abrupt unease. For it felt like there was someone else looking out at me through Kayla¡¯s eyes, and I knew that might even be true. All of a sudden, the quiet of the sacristy felt suffocating, like the walls were closing in. I didn¡¯t have an answer. Not for her, and certainly not for Vaircona. Instead, I simply shook my head, trudging down the aisle towards the distant flames. Absently, I wondered where Oloin had gone off to: While he¡¯d have given the assault a wide berth, I had no doubt he¡¯d be first in line when it came to picking over the spoils. I was about halfway to the door, when Kayla spoke. ¡°There are other Gods, you know,¡± she said, low. Thoughtfully, as if contemplating distant possibilities. ¡°Soon, it will be summer on the steppes. Tauruskhan, the Horned Conqueror, stirs. His blood runs hot: The spirits whisper of war and worship.¡± I didn¡¯t slow. After the Grand Guignol I¡¯d just survived, I had no intention of plunging headfirst into another brushfire conflict. I¡¯d had my fill of fighting, at least for now, and more than enough treasure to squander magnificently over the next few months. Maybe Alistair was right, I thought. There¡¯s no end to this shit, is there? ¡°The Iron Hoof is more than just a god of battle,¡± that rasping, charred voice went on. ¡°His people call upon him for fortitude. For fertility.¡± Flickering orange light dappled the flagstones underfoot. ¡°-For healing.¡± I stopped, mid-stride, rifle slung over one shoulder, my pack the other. ¡°The steppes,¡± I said, carefully, ¡°-are a long way away from here.¡± ¡°Your life is measured in months rather than years, infidel. For a man in your circumstances, you seem remarkably reluctant to grasp at what hope is offered.¡± Kayla shrugged, as if it was of no matter. ¡°Oloin has kin, there. Enough, perhaps, to grant you an audience.¡± She had a point. I turned it over in my head, weighing what was against what might be¡­ No-one¡¯s as smart as they believe themselves to be. In fact, many people are flat-out dumb. Of course, I don¡¯t exclude myself from that category. The difference, I like to think, is that I know how stupid I can be, on occasion. Or maybe I¡¯m just fooling myself. ¡°What¡¯s your angle?¡± I said, and she frowned, uncomprehending. ¡°I mean, what do y - Does Vaircona stand to gain from this?¡± There was a moment¡¯s pause. A contemplative silence¡­Or the deadly stillness of a snake, before it struck? It was hard to tell. The long-ago fire that had claimed Kayla had obliterated any warnings of such. I felt the silent pressure of her gaze on the gun. Not the solid weight of the Furstenburg, but Oneira¡¯s gun, the one I¡¯d carried with me from the very beginning. And at last, she said- ¡°Who knows? Every man has but one destiny.¡± I waited, to see if she had more to say. But when I turned back, Kayla had put me out of her mind entirely. Her gaze was fixed on the great statue of Rastuvia, her scarred and burned features upturned, like a penitent in prayer. I wondered what she saw, when she looked upon Him. The architect of all her suffering? The web of cause and effect that summoned her here, to this holiest of places? Perhaps all she saw was the idol of an enemy god, ripe for defilement. For in the end, what else mattered?
That was the last time I ever saw her. The Ihulian Horde, as you know, came to a bloody end at the Battle of Zemrun Pass. Just like I¡¯d predicted, the assembled army of the Hundred Great Gods massed against them, a wall of iron that thousands of men broke themselves against. By itself, that would probably have been enough. But what tore the heart out of the Horde, that put a brutal end to any hope of bloodlust and weight of numbers carrying the day, was something they couldn¡¯t possibly have expected. It was Jeru Ogai who slew High-Warlord Zarrak Warbringer, as well as his sons Brakka the Scarless, Vorgul Death-clutch, and Lokar the Pitiless. He accounted for all four of them in a single bout of accelerated combat, a feat made more complicated by the hundreds of men all trying to get at him. Jeru made it out, of course. He was just that kind of guy. During the Triumph held for him, he rode at the head of the army, in a chariot pulled by white lions. No slave to whisper ¡°Remember, thou art mortal¡± in his ear, not here. The only voices he heard that day came from the gods Themselves. I was in the crowd, of course. I hadn¡¯t announced myself as Tauruskhan¡¯s champion, not yet, but I¡¯d wanted to get a look at the competition. We would meet a few weeks later, once I¡¯d sorted things out, but even then he¡¯d seemed invincible. I remember thinking, even then: He¡¯s going to be a problem.
I never looked into it, but I know Kayla and all of Vaircona¡¯s apostles died out there. Locked in mortal combat, as life rushed out and death rushed in. Hands around necks. Teeth in throats. We weren¡¯t friends. We weren¡¯t even close. At best, we were aligned in the same direction, like two arrows in a fusillade. After all, Kayla was an awful thing, an empty vessel filled by the whispers of a remorseless God. By the standards of Earth, she would be considered insane. On Phosphiach, however, she was enlightened on a level that few could ever hope to match. Not that it did her much good, in the end. Vaircona cared nothing for His tools so long as His will was done, and so He¡¯d sent His apostles to the slaughter.
I wonder about that, sometimes. I wonder if the purpose of Kayla¡¯s life, the torment, the horror, the trauma, was to position me with the cold calculation of a piece being moved across a game board. To ensure that, on the Day of Ascension, I would scale the heights of the Platinum Spire itself. That I would one day, with hands made steady by Vaircona¡¯s own calm, fire a gun from another world directly into Jeru Ogai¡¯s face. No, we weren¡¯t close. But I think of her, sometimes. The Gods rest you, Kayla Born-of-Flame. Whatever you were looking for, I hope you found it. TO BE CONTINUED Chapter 4: The Horned God (Part 1) ¡°Anything can become excusable when seen from the standpoint of the result.¡± ¨D Yukio Mishima, The Temple of the Golden Pavilion Chapter 4: The Horned God Then: At the start of the new year, at the foot of the sacred Firepeaks, the prophets of Tauruskhan had brought forth the Word to His people. The time of living history is upon us, the shamans of the Iron Hoof had decreed. Long has Tauruskhan sheltered the seed of Tulgar, in His Own land. Is He not Good? Has He not made your lands flourish, your herds thrive? When the roar of ritual affirmation had died down, they went on. The Horned Conqueror calls, and the Twenty-Six Tribes must answer. Know the will of the Supreme Herdsman! The tribe that offers the hecatomb shall be first amongst equals, so the People shall know who stands tall in Divine Chief¡¯s sight. Those of their blood shall flourish, until the sons of their great-sons have fallen to dust! It was then that the first troubled murmurs had gone up. The hecatomb called for a sacrifice of one hundred of the finest oxen, a display of both incredible piety and staggering largess. No one tribe could afford such a sacrifice, not without facing the ruination of their herds. And so, mightily troubled, the chieftains of the Twenty-Six Tribes, blood-heirs of Tulgar the Invincible, asked: Great is the Master of the Grazing Lands, and holy is His Word. But how can such a sacrifice be made, without bringing about our own ruin? In this, their voices were joined as one. They knew of the blessings and feared the punishments. Yet, the will of their God had set them an impossible task. And the Custodians of the Divine Horns answered: Tauruskhan cares only that He receives what He is due. Render unto Him what is His! Imagine the silence. All those minds working very, very quickly. Sorting through the implications, coming up with a plan of action. Then looking around, and realizing that everyone else was thinking exactly the same thing. Less than a day later, the war began.
All along the veldt, there had always been some level of internecine conflict between the tribes. Nothing too serious, of course. There were always minor disputes and clashes, mainly along the lines of personal feuds and clan grievances. It was nothing organized, with no formal declarations of hostility or clashing armies. Most of the tribes were, in some capacity, nomads. The eternal search for grazing land and water precluded all else. Only the most reliable wells and watering-holes, as well as sacred sites like the gold-horned city of Jal, allowed for permanent habitation. That ruled out outright conquest, and left raiding as the most viable way of seizing enough cattle for the hecatomb. Of course, gathering that many oxen in one place made for an irresistible target. I¡¯ve heard it said that, in a conflict, the defender has the advantage. I don¡¯t know if that¡¯s true, to be honest. All I know is, choosing when and where to strike is a potent weapon of its own. It meant that the prizes kept changing hands, potentially several times in the same day, which kept the constant low-intensity tribal conflict going. That was Tauruskhan¡¯s goal, of course. Through his proxies in the priests and shamans within each tribe, he could watch his people hone their warrior skills, sharpening each other the way steel sharpens steel. More importantly, he knew the complex web of blood-ties and obligations that bound the Twenty-Six Tribes to one another would keep things from getting too far out of hand. While there were fatalities, each clash was usually resolved by hostage-taking and the payment of ransoms, both in silver and in pledges. Many would-be champions would live, albeit somewhat battered, to fight again another day. Some would even learn from their mistakes. The problem was, after the first brisk frenzy of raids and counter-raids, a kind of unstable equilibrium was reached. The advantage, naturally, swung between the largest tribes, those best positioned to withstand loss and capitalize on opportunity. But as soon as someone was clearly in the lead, their rivals would team up and mount multiple strikes in rapid succession, too many for any one tribe to see off. Usually, the attackers would get away with at least some of the prize. Of course, that left them vulnerable to assault, too¡­And then they were back to square one. This is where I enter the picture, incidentally.
The Summertime War, as it came to be known, was (by and large) a private affair. The chieftains shunned the idea of hiring mercenaries, and for good reason. They were an insular people, and approaching outsiders was widely regarded to be against the spirit of the thing. Besides, they knew the destruction that could be wreaked, if outside powers were brought into their holy conflict. Fortunately, Kayla had been right. Oloin had an in. His grand-nephew was a herdsman in the tribe of the Graven Star, a distant relative he hadn¡¯t seen for almost two decades. The creaky, perpetually mercenary Godbinder was hardly a reputable figure (I believe they saw Oloin as a somewhat distant, ignoble branch of the family tree, tenuously related at best) but blood was blood, and it was enough for them to hear him out. Or at least, it got them to listen to his sales-pitch. In brief, he was selling me. Or rather, he was selling what I could do for them. As it happened, the Graven Star had fallen upon hard times. They¡¯d lost half their herd during the Summertime War, but their fortunes had already been on a steady downward slide in recent years. There was no one specific incident to be blamed, just a general diminishment over the last decade or so. The loss of their house-of-spirits to the resurgent tribe of the Crimson Branch. The destruction of the great hammer Hearthshaker, forged by Rythul the God of Quakes, after a valiant but unsuccessful attempt to defeat a rampaging spirit of earth. The nasty bout of bone-fever had wiped out the entire line of a well-beloved warrior family, from patriarch to youngest son¡­ And so on, and so forth. So ran the roll of calamities large and small, far longer than one might reasonably expect. They needed Tauruskhan¡¯s blessing. Craved it, for they felt it was their only chance of turning things around. Of course, they had little hope of delivering the hecatomb by fair means, which meant that their chieftain was open to¡­unconventional solutions. You¡¯d think that marrying into the Graven Star was the easiest way to become part of it, but that wasn¡¯t an option in this instance. Even if someone had been willing to bite the bullet, to give up a daughter to a complete outsider, the priests would never have stood for it. So that left the hard way, the one I hadn¡¯t been looking forward to. Joining the tribe¡¯s warrior-lodge was the swiftest way of being adopted into the tribe, or (at least) the one the spirits were most likely to accept on such short notice. In a way, it was my audition. Initiating a stranger like myself required calling in many favors, with substantial sacrifices to lesser gods and spirits alike. By the time the Chieftain Shahin¡¯s shamans were done, his tribe would be facing significant spiritual debt. It would take months of rituals and chiminiage to pay those off, longer still for them to get back into the black. It wouldn¡¯t be a problem if they won. But if they lost¡­ As such, the warrior-lodge had every reason to put me through the wringer, to make sure that I was the real deal.Given that they were staking everything on me, they wanted to make sure they hadn¡¯t been sold a false bill of goods. Measure twice, cut once, as the saying went, and you bet they knew all about measuring. Frankly, I¡¯m surprised that the tribal council was willing to take a chance on the old bastard, in the first place. I guess they really were desperate. And so it was decreed that I would undergo the trials of Seora, a gauntlet of suffering through which all aspirants had to pass.
Say one thing for the Graven Star, they weren¡¯t easily impressed. The trials were many, varied and thoroughly brutal, to the point I had to wonder how anyone survived. They forced me to drink poisonous spider blood. Buried me alive for a full day and night in a coffin full of white scorpions. Strapped a wooden pail full of vampire ants to my chest and set them on fire. They lashed me to poles and suspended me upside-down from a racra tree- Now, I¡¯ve never quite been able to prove it. But I¡¯m fairly certain that they made up most of these trials just to fuck with me. Fortunately, there were two factors in my favor. The first, you already know: As a delta-grade enhanced human, I was faster, stronger than I had any right to be. Just as importantly, the tests ahead were defined by what lay ahead. I was here to fight, and that meant the more esoteric trials had been pared down or almost entirely eliminated. The lodge gave me a run for my money, that was for sure. Felling a tall tree with a single well-timed blow and the requisite hoisting of heavy objects had brought murmurs of reluctant admiration from the Graven Star¡¯s warriors, more so when they¡¯d made me do it all over again. To show them, y¡¯know, that it was no fluke. That I wasn¡¯t some charlatan with a handful of one-off miracles and a mind for profit, like Oloin. As you might have guessed, they didn¡¯t trust the old bastard at all. Sure, the Graven Star lived like Mongol-era steppe herdsmen, where the stirrup and the composite bow were the height of technology, but it didn¡¯t mean they were stupid or primitive. Moreover, they had a low tolerance for bullshit, and knew that it was the mettle of the man that mattered, not the toys he brought with him. I was going to have to earn the right to fight for them, and if I couldn¡¯t make the grade, I would just have to fuck right off. No pressure. Hard eyes, set in unsmiling faces, watched me the entire time as I walked barefoot over hot coals, only to receive a ritual pummeling from a gauntlet of the Graven Star¡¯s best warriors. More than once, I got the feeling they wanted me to fail, to show myself as weak, unmanly and utterly without worth. Like I said, it was a tough crowd. Still, I was proving myself exceedingly hard to kill or break, which went a long way towards establishing my worthiness. The problem was, my patience was rapidly running out.
¡°-This is bullshit.¡± Two weeks in, and I was just about done with all this. My mood was exceptionally foul, made worse by the six-on-one bout of ritual combat I¡¯d just limped away from. The horrid aftertaste of the foul concoction they¡¯d drugged me with clung to the back of my throat, and I knew it¡¯d be all I could taste in the days to come. The fight had been a brutal affair, where men with klar hide-shields and raken maces had battered me from all sides. The blessed weapons had sent a stunning jolt through me with each impact, and my nerves still felt like hot coils of barbed wire. Worse, I wasn¡¯t allowed to return the favor. It was supposed to be a re-enactment of one of their myths, where the masked hero known as the Storm Crow had borne the wrath of the mountain-spirits with unflinching stoicism. In effect, it meant that I had to endure the onslaught for minutes on end, half-blinded from the feathered helmet strapped to my head. Long story short, they beat the shit out of me. They¡¯d laid into me like they bore a personal grudge, and I had my hands full trying to fend them off. If I wasn¡¯t an enhanced human, I would probably have been pissing blood for days. Even now, I could feel black clouds of fatigue blooming at the edges of my vision, the scar-ward carved into my flesh burning hot, then cold, as it worked to repair the damage. Oloin was waiting for me, in the (relative) privacy of the yurt we shared. Sitting cross-legged on his ratty old pelt, he¡¯d raised his eyebrows at my bedraggled appearance as I sank to the ground with a groan of pain. The tetza on my skin were agitated, the living tattoos squirming about my bruises, and they itched like nothing else on earth. ¡°Did you think it would be easy, boy?¡± he said, cocking his withered head to the side as his gimlet eyes narrowed. ¡°Did you think you¡¯d just¡­brandish that devil-weapon of yours, and bring them all to their knees? Second coming of Auros Shatterhand Himself, and all that-¡± ¡°That¡¯s not the problem, and you know it,¡± I said, shortly. I wasn¡¯t in the mood for his goading, especially since I¡¯d been thinking that very thing. On some level, I¡¯d been hoping that big muscles and a bigger gun would be enough, but they¡¯d been the subject of polite admiration, at best. The Graven Star had mystics who could summon lightning, and had fought the spirits that roamed the veldt. Even if they were on their way down, they weren¡¯t easily cowed. ¡°Then what is? Meat too tough for you to chew?¡± the old Godbinder snorted, taking a swig of kumiss from his flask. Made from fermented milk, it was apparently an acquired taste, though I always thought it stank like old socks. ¡°Size of a steer, balls of a qu-¡± ¡°The problem is that they¡¯re trying to fucking kill me,¡± I said, grinding out the words. ¡°Just look at the bastards! They hate my fucking guts. They¡¯d rather lose without me than win with me. That¡¯s just stupid, and you can¡¯t beat stupid.¡± I kept my voice low, but Oloin¡¯s gaze flicked over my shoulder anyway. He¡¯d scratched sigils of warding and concealment into the bone frame of our yurt, but word had a way of spreading. Especially in a place like this. Every bone ached as I leaned towards him, my voice just above a whisper. ¡°-I¡¯m done with this. Is that enough for you, old man?¡± I paused, mostly to let the words sink in, but also because I hated sounding petulant. ¡°We¡¯ve wasted enough time here. I say we ditch them, find our own way to Adrijanopolj.¡± ¡°Mmmmmn.¡± He blew out a breath, and went silent for a long moment. The air felt stifling, all of a sudden. I needed to be somewhere else, anywhere else. With a creak of stiff joints, I hauled myself to my feet. My stomach felt hollow as a drum, and I felt hungry enough to devour a horse, tack and all. Just when I¡¯d made it to the door of our shared yurt, Oloin¡¯s raspy voice froze me in my tracks. ¡°Tell me, boy. How¡¯s the hole in your guts?¡± He took my silence as his answer, curling his fingers into a gnarled fist, shaking it for emphasis. ¡°Tauruskhan can make you whole. Whatever¡¯s eating you, whatever¡¯s hollowing you out¡­The Iron Hoof can cure you. Men have spent their entire lives praying for a miracle like that. After all you¡¯ve been through, you¡¯d spit in His face and walk away? Over a little pain?¡± Oloin shrugged his scrawny shoulders, reaching for a handful of jerky. ¡°That¡¯s your problem, Morgan. Quitting as soon as things get tough. Why not try sticking it out for a change, eh? What do you have to lose?¡± He was right, and we both knew it. More than he thought, actually: I¡¯d been offered power on Caldera, and I¡¯d turned it down. My opponent had not. That had been a bad fight, one of the worst. Worse than the final, cataclysmic duel with Yanxue, worse than being bested by Ryan Trent. Caldera had been my first loss, and had been all the more dire for that. Beaten to a pulp, the laughter of demons ringing in my ears, it had nearly been the end of me. I¡¯d been more than half-dead when I fell through the portal. If it hadn¡¯t been Unity on the other side¡­ -Well, I don¡¯t like to think about that. I sighed. Shut my eyes for a long, long moment. ¡°You¡¯d better be right, you old bastard,¡± I said, as I turned back. Oloin smiled, his gnarled, leathery face haloed by scraggly grey hair. Ancient as he was, there was something peculiarly vital about the Godbinder. Not just some pact he¡¯d made, but a sense of momentum that belied his hard-traveled and generally weather-beaten form. Something that, in a certain light, could almost be mistaken for wisdom. ¡°Look on the bright side,¡± he said, his face splitting in a toothy grin. ¡°You¡¯re already halfway there, at least.¡± ¡°How hard can the rest be?¡±
He was lying, of course. Everything I¡¯d suffered through so far had simply been the prelude, but Oloin had convinced me to stay the course. Over the next week, I (variously) scaled a crumbling cliff, wrestled a bull drunk on ko and sheer bovine rage, and went naked and weaponless into the mountains to kill a teigar. The night spent out on the cliffs was the worst one. Forbidden from sleeping or starting a fire, I¡¯d spent hours clambering over jagged stone, hunger gnawing at my guts. It¡¯d been getting steadily worse, the sense of being half-starved nearly constant, now. Each night, I wondered how much worse it could get, and decided that I didn¡¯t really want to find out. If I¡¯d held onto any doubt before, I now knew that something had gone wrong with my body, something I had no way of fixing. I¡¯m not, and have never been, a man of science. I¡¯ve always found magic more interesting, certainly, but I¡¯ve never had any particular faculty with it, either. Back on fey-haunted Arcadia, my very first world, I learned all of two spells: A shouted invocation for quick-and-dirty defense against hostile sorcery, and a lengthier, more elaborate incantation for making things cold. I¡¯d been so proud of myself, so proud of the fact that I could do magic, it took a while for me to realize that the Gentry considered such petty charms to be toys. Or worse, tools - For Marquis ¨¦ighir¡¯s wolf-masked huntsmen used such spells to run down their prey, at the behest of their master and his beautiful, cruel daughters. I¡¯ve got some mileage out of the former, but the latter has only ever been useful in a handful of circumstances. Magic requires focus, you see, a certain state of mind that must be maintained at all costs. And in a fight, there¡¯s just too much going on to do anything but react. If I have to make a crude analogy, it¡¯s like composing poetry while trying to win a boxing match. Try as hard as you like, but getting punched is going to blast every thought you¡¯ve ever had right out of your head. At any rate, the closest thing I had to magical healing was the scar-ward, and I was beginning to suspect that it was part of the problem. After all, it was the rendered-down essence of devils, their vitriol diffused through my body via channels scored into my flesh. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Even through the narcotic haze of black lotus, it¡¯d burned like acid. Fortunately, the twice-damned demonlogists of the Dolmian school knew their work, and had a vested interest in keeping me alive. Ever since then, my torn flesh would reknit itself within hours, broken bones becoming whole within days. Useful, as you can no doubt imagine. It may, however, have been the very thing that was accelerating my degeneration. It¡¯d never been clear exactly how long an enhanced human could live. When the end came, however, it came swiftly and without mercy. I¡¯d seen the pictures of men and women in the last stage of decay, and the images still haunted my dreams. If I had to guess, some unfortunate interaction between them was slowly but surely killing me. How long I had, I couldn¡¯t begin to guess. Kayla had told me that my life was measured in months, but she¡¯d been irritatingly obtuse. Sure, she could have meant death by cell degradation, but that didn¡¯t rule out a faster, more visceral death at the hands of my next opponent. Or it could have been something else entirely, of course, something I wouldn¡¯t see coming. Prophecy can be a bastard like that. With grave misgivings, I¡¯d trusted Oloin with my gear. He¡¯d sworn a solemn oath not to abscond with my worldly possessions or mess with them, but I was constantly worried that he¡¯d find some way to blow himself up with my Furstenburg. Still, sometimes you need to have (for want of a better word) a little faith. In the end, it was almost a relief when the teigar attacked. Two meters of fanged, sickle-bladed death, the mature female must¡¯ve been desperate. My guess was, it¡¯d just whelped, with a clutch of ravenous hatchlings waiting back at its lair. I didn¡¯t find it, by the way. It found me, pouncing from an overhang. The first I saw of it were its long and low jaws, parted to reveal a nightmare of dripping teeth. By the time I got my hands up, backward-swept claws were already reaching out to rip off my choicest bits, to turn my guts to ribbons. It was, of course, unpleasantly surprised to find that I was tougher than I¡¯d looked. It had tried to disembowel me, then started wailing when I got it in a headlock and broke its limbs one-by-one. All the while, the teigar¡¯s reptilian hide swirled with mad ripples of color, trying to confuse me as it mimicked the voices of its previous victims, a jumbled mishmash of death-cries and pleas to uncaring Gods. That shook me, let me tell you. Over the course of six worlds, I¡¯d seen and heard plenty of strange and disturbing things. Something about that, though, would stay with me for a long time. It took me until morning to drag my burden back to the tribe. A good thing, too: It gave me all the time I needed to cool off. The mood I was in, I¡¯d probably have kicked down the chieftain¡¯s door and wrung his neck, for all the trouble he¡¯d put me through. As it was, with Oloin to smooth things over, there were no more questions about my ¡®worthiness¡¯. The chieftain of the Graven Star knew a good prospect when he saw one, and - at long last - he was willing to seal the deal. All that remained was setting our price.
That summer was a long and, for some, a bloody one. The weather was fine and warm, the landscape lush and green. In other words, it was the perfect opportunity for the tribes to get to grips with one another. I suspect Tauruskhan had a hand in it, His shamans bullying or bribing a host of lesser gods and weather-spirits into playing along with His designs. I wouldn¡¯t put it past him, for the stakes really were that high. For if He missed this chance, who knew when it would come again? Gods feared death as much as any mortal. More so, even, since they had so much more to lose. Tauruskhan wasn¡¯t the first God of the Twenty-Six Tribes, or even their greatest. He was simply the now. One day, like all those who had come before him, He too would go in the willful darkness of forgetting- Unless He seized the day. No matter what it cost. His people would be the ones who did the paying. It was a time of nightly raids and casual banditry, of watching the horizon for fear of what might come. A time of battered bodies and broken bones, of wounds that would be long in mending. For while the Gods could soothe hurts, few would deign to heal those who failed to please them. A time where the strong could do as they pleased, and the weak had little choice but to endure. For others, it had been a time of glory. The swiftest, bravest and most fortunate had found much favour in the eyes of Tauruskhan. Herds had been won, lost and generally changed hands, and new legends had been forged amid the People. As for me, I¡¯d been having the time of my life. I can¡¯t say the same for everyone, but I found cattle-rustling to be amazingly fun. After riding with Ihulian Horde, this was almost a vacation. For one, it certainly involved far less bloodshed. Generally, there were two kinds of raids: Stealth raids, involving a few men aiming to find poorly-guarded livestock, or raids in force, involving larger numbers with plans for direct combat. Most of the time, we were on the attack. Riding in like furies, either as the main force or a diversion, making as much noise as possible to draw down attention. Usually, the outmatched defenders would flee for reinforcements, or put up a brief, sharp fight before surrender. Then it would be a matter of rounding up the herd and escaping with the loot, covering our getaway with a flurry of arrows and javelins. It¡¯s strange to think that horses are about as ubiquitous as humanity. Part of me will never be entirely comfortable with them, but I usually didn¡¯t get a choice. On most worlds, you rode or you walked, and that was the end of the story. I¡¯d learnt how to ride on Marquis ¨¦ighir¡¯s estate, all the way back on my very first world. The second had kept me in the habit, and the fifth had been something of a refresher course. I¡¯d never ridden a steed into battle, however, and there was no time for the horsemen of the Graven Star to teach me the trick of it. Oloin, bless his greedy soul, had thought of a solution. He¡¯d presented me with a bridle of harpy¡¯s hair, god-worked to keep a mount from panicking or bolting. When I asked how much I owed him, he¡¯d merely cackled. ¡°Think of it as an investment, boy,¡± he¡¯d said, patting me on the shoulder as he did. ¡°It wouldn¡¯t do either of us any good if you fell off that nag of yours, eh?¡± The old man had winked as he¡¯d said it, trying to pass it off as a joke. I could tell he was worried, though. A prize like this didn¡¯t come by often, and getting past the trials was merely the first step. If I couldn¡¯t deliver, if I couldn¡¯t bring the Graven Star the victory they so desperately needed¡­ Well, I had a feeling that Oloin would be persona non grata for many years to come. It was nice to know that it wasn¡¯t only my ass that was on the line. Still, his part in things was mostly over. The heavy lifting to follow would be entirely my responsibility.
On that front, at least, Oloin had nothing to worry about. As I¡¯ve said, the warriors of the Twenty-Six Tribes were no strangers to magic. However, even in a world where gods spoke with men, the powers I could draw upon quite eclipsed their own. Something about the high, shrieking wail of my pulse rifle, or the electrostatic burst of a disruption blast, utterly panicked horses and men alike. Often, a few bursts into the air was enough to send most would-be fighters fleeing. They might not have known what I¡¯d unleashed, but they knew enough that getting in the way was a bad idea. Occasionally, someone especially brave or well-armed would choose to make a stand. This was usually when things would get interesting, because it was often some tribal champion, and that meant single combat. It was generally agreed that a duel, sometimes to first blood but more often to incapacitation or surrender, was the best way to go about things. I suppose it meant less collateral damage. Less flailing around, where amateurs could get seriously hurt. Besides, the purpose of the entire exercise was to find a worthy vessel for Tauruskhan¡¯s power, and ¡®the mightiest warrior of the tribes¡¯ made for a good yardstick. Needless to say, that was my field of specialty. Sure, there was occasionally a surprise or two, but it was rarely something that I couldn¡¯t handle. For instance, Braze Jai of the Cloud Riders had (of all things) a lok as his steed. Eight-legged and jewel-eyed, with venom-dripping fangs, it was an arachnophobe''s worst nightmare made manifest. When it came scuttling towards me, sword-like limbs articulating furiously as Braze brought his lance up to spit me like a pye-dog¡­Well, let¡¯s just say I¡¯ve had better days. I won, obviously. I can¡¯t fly, but I can jump higher than anyone might reasonably expect. It was worth it just to see his jaw drop, his face go pale when I came hurtling towards him. A single punch took us both into the dirt, and then it was just a matter of yanking his limbs in ways they were never meant to go until he cried uncle. Then there were the Kubah twins, who (rather unfairly, to my mind) felt that doubling-up was their best option. They were one soul in two bodies, they claimed, and so it was only just that I fought both of them at once. I couldn¡¯t see that holding up in any court, but I agreed, mostly because it was the only way to get them to fight on foot. That turned out to be their mistake. On horseback, they¡¯d have run circles around me. But man-to-man, even their wrackwhips couldn¡¯t save them. Two right hooks and a left straight brought down Sabet the Elder, while a single haymaker and three steel-toed kicks to the ribs (one to keep him down, two to grow on) did for Maka the Younger. You might say that wasn¡¯t very sporting of me, and you¡¯re probably right. But they¡¯d kept going for low blows, and I¡¯d felt those. Still, both of them would fight again, with the only long-term damage done to their pride. Well, Maka would walk with a limp for the rest of the season. He¡¯d gone for my eyes, and I¡¯d really taken that to heart. Still, the twins were rich men, even by the well-to-do standards of the Emberwind tribe, and they didn¡¯t dwell on their loss. They even paid their ransoms in hacksilver and amber with good grace and a minimum of fuss. In fact, the practice of ransom was my favourite part of the whole thing. Most warriors paid well to avoid the humiliation of capture and imprisonment, with the canniest having their soul-price close at hand. You might think that it would mean storing up trouble for the future, but it worked surprisingly well, all things considered. Generally, after their first defeat, most tribesmen weren¡¯t eager to repeat the experience. Few were willing to double-down, and a serious loss was good enough reason for one to remove themselves from hostilities. It was all in the spirit of things, I suppose, though the subtleties of it escaped me. It might amuse you to learn that I was effectively a pauper all over again. Sure, I had a small fortune in gems from the sacking of Rastuvian¡¯s temple, but the Twenty-Six Tribes placed little value on such things. A good fur and a saddle, a decent lance and stirrups¡­Now those were things of value. Regardless, a few successful fights soon improved my circumstances immensely. Most of it went to food, the rest to plying the local spirits and gods for their favor (and believe me, that cost), but there was still enough to make me nouveau riche by anyone¡¯s standards, even after Oloin took his cut. Especially after he took his cut.
We¡¯d agreed on an even split, right down the middle. Oloin had wanted to make it sixty-forty in his favor, but I¡¯d put my foot down and he¡¯d let it go. In truth, I didn¡¯t really mind: I had more than enough to meet my whims, and that was all that mattered. It¡¯s funny. Back on Earth, money was a constant consideration. My family was well-off compared to others, but it was forever a yardstick of measurement. What do you do for a living? How much do you make? How much can you make? What¡¯s your plan for making more? Don¡¯t get me wrong. I left college behind a long time ago, and even then I was never really political. I fully accepted, even welcomed, the paradigm our world revolved around. I¡¯d carved out a comfortable niche for myself, and had a long, steady (if slightly under-cooked) career-track to look forward to. Every time the upward climb seemed too difficult, I could always look down and tell myself: At least I¡¯m not one of those losers. Sure, I may have been something of an underachiever compared to my sister, but I made enough to be respectable. In every sense of the word that mattered, I was a fully-rounded, functional adult, capable of standing on my own two feet. As I¡¯ve said before, I wasn¡¯t unhappy. Rather, I¡¯d say I was unfulfilled. Bored, stagnating, eager for something new, but not ready to take the plunge. Until the portal, of course, but we¡¯ll get to that later. Needless to say, my priorities changed as soon as I crossed worlds. On Arcadia, as an honoured guest of the Gentry, I had absolutely no need for money. One world later, the brutal, demon-haunted land of Caldera taught me to appreciate how swiftly and violently life could end, and how all the gold in the world couldn¡¯t change that. I¡¯d taken those lessons to heart. Now, I spent money as soon as I got it, guided by a simple principle: It wouldn¡¯t matter in the next world. For all I knew, the next fight might kill me stone dead. In the face of that, what was the point of hoarding? I¡¯d spent my entire adult life finding ways to make ends meet. Throwing money around, spending vast sums with no thought for the future¡­There was an odd, reckless kind of freedom in that. That thought stuck with me, during those long nights spent guarding the livestock. The tribe¡¯s cattle grazed the plains during the day, but were corralled at night to keep them out of trouble. Of course, this proved an irresistible temptation to raiders, their ingenuity long since honed to a razor¡¯s edge. With a Summertime War still raging, there was a new urgency to take every chance, to seize opportunity as it arose. Even a few heads of cattle might be just enough to tip the scales one way or another towards final victory, which meant that every beeve, cow and ox mattered. You¡¯re probably asking yourself: Hey, how hard can it be to hold on to a hundred cows? So did I, at least at first. But that was because I had no idea what it took, not really. There was far, far more going on behind the scenes than I was privy to, ferocious rounds of wheeling and dealing that made the actual fighting look tame. As the Graven Star¡¯s stock rose, so did the clan¡¯s commitments. Lesser tribes had to be bought off, pacts of non-aggression signed and consummated, grazing rights secured for the ever-growing herd. This wasn¡¯t limited to the mortal realm, either. The fetches and lesser gods of the steppe wanted a piece of the action too, and that called for elaborate rites in their honor. Of course, the shamans and seers had to be compensated for their time and effort, and Gods help anyone who kept them from their due. It was a racket, all the way to the top. Looking back, I¡¯m frankly in awe. But all good things have to come to an end. And so, the word had come down from on high, through the Horned Conqueror''s ever-vigilant priesthood. The curtain, Tauruskhan said, is to be lowered. The Summertime War was, at long last, to come to a close. Divinations had been made. Spirits had been consulted, and on one thing they all agreed: The omens were propitious. Long had Tauruskhan awaited his sacrifice, and come the new moon the hecatomb would at last be delivered unto Him. And so, as the seasons shaded to autumn, the twenty-six tribes of Tulgar came together for the last time.
Beneath the great shadow of the sacred Firepeaks, the tribes had assembled in great numbers. Vast camps had sprung up, the pitched standards of scores of individual warbands fluttering in the wind like kites. At night, the perimeter fires lit the darkness like rivers of flame, black smoke breathing into the air. The beating of kettle drums and the rolling murmur of voices blended with sounds of industry, for there was much work to be done. Through the effort of many hands, a great, circular platform - at least thirty feet tall, and twice as wide - had been raised, positioned for maximum exposure. The sacred icons of Tauruskhan, as old as the memory of the Twenty-Six Tribes, held the place of honor: A brazen bull, the ox-tail banner that was His personal standard, the stave of petrified wood with which His prophets had worked their miracles. When the time came, the cattle would be driven up the wooden steps to their final destination. Adorned with garlands of flowers and crowned with straw, their hides bore the sun-and-horns brand of the Iron Hoof Himself, for they were destined for His own herd. There, the final slaughter of the hecatomb would take place. Their blood would run along channels cut into the stone, rolling down into the basin below like a crimson waterfall, filling it with their lifeblood. Then, at last, the greatest warrior of the Twenty-Six Tribes would make his descent, to commune with the God Himself. If Tauruskhan found him worthy, he would arise as the Champion of the Horned Conqueror, sanctified through devotion and sacrifice. In theory.
Of course, before that could come to pass, there were a few last details to be hammered out. Eight tribes had the capacity to make the hecatomb, but only one could receive Tauruskhan¡¯s blessing. Eight tribes. Eight champions. At any other time, perhaps, a full nine days of games and trials would have been held, with the losers to be celebrated and f¨ºted every bit as much as the ultimate victor. But this year, the stakes were far higher. Not just for the clans of Tulgar, but for the God Himself. To challenge the Platinum Spire was a singular opportunity, one that would never be repeated. Ascension was the prize that Tauruskhan, like all gods, cherished over all else¡­and the one who delivered it to His waiting grasp would be honored above all others. In the end, it would come down to the force of arms and the sweat of toil. But mostly force of arms. And so the shrine of Tauruskhan would become an arena, for the blood to be shed in the coming days would be as much an offering to the Supreme Herdsman as the hecatomb itself. There were rules, obviously. Only the most fundamentalist or belligerent of the tribes wanted matters to be settled ¡®as on the battlefield¡¯. While an eight-way, free-for-all deathmatch was certainly a definite way of resolving things, the aftermath would mean trouble. The champions that had made it this far were, to a man, individuals of great puissance, political standing or both. Most were oldbloods, claiming direct descent from Tulgar himself, or one of his myriad descendants. Given how far and wide the legendary warlord had spread his seed, they may even have been right. Every death or maiming in the ring would be a great loss to the clans. These were the leaders and heroes of tomorrow, and none truly wished to risk having that shining future cut short. Me too, of course. But I didn¡¯t count. There would still be fights, but (to the disappointment of many, I¡¯m sure) it wouldn¡¯t be mortal combat. Submission was the name of the game, with the pummeling continuing until one side cried uncle. Alternatively, unconsciousness would do, which would at least spare the loser the shame of declaring defeat. In the end, it was all about counting coup. Keeping score, if you will, of where each clan was on the totem pole. Not that different from the combat-by-champion fights I¡¯d been fighting this whole time, but the stakes were far higher, now. In addition to the blessings offered, it was a singular opportunity to serve Tauruskhan in a personal capacity, to be declared the One-Above-All. Men would kill for that. Would die for that, even. The difficulty was in making sure that they didn¡¯t. Given the circumstances, I was expecting every dirty trick in the book to be leveled against me. The thing was, every clan thought the same way, which largely cancelled each other out. The bargaining, the clawing for advantage, would¡¯ve made for an epic tale of its own, but that was hardly my problem. For I had resources the others couldn¡¯t hope to imagine, and could never anticipate. The purists of the Altai thought they¡¯d secured a certain victory in the first round, by insisting on a cage match with spiked cesti and no armor. They further stacked the deck by putting me up against Ganezzar Man-Killer, the biggest bastard in their entire clan. Eight and a half feet tall, he was the size of a barn, with a frame to match. Even at rest, he towered head-and-shoulders above me, his rumbling laugh like an avalanche as he cracked his knuckles and squinted down at my (to him) puny frame. Apparently, giant blood ran in Ganezzar¡¯s veins, the result of a long, sordid story that would take too long to relate. Suffice to say, it was the result of an unwise bargain, and his line still struggled under the shame. ¡°Fear not, outlander,¡± I remember him saying, as we squared off. ¡°-there is no shame in defeat.¡± ¡°You¡¯re wrong,¡± I answered. ¡°There¡¯s nothing but shame in defeat.¡± That got a smile out of Ganezzar, which made me like him a lot more. There was a sense of humor to him, a soul. Sure, we were about to mangle each other, but there would be no hard feelings after. He was a tough bastard to try conclusions with, but I had the edge. Ganezzar was strong, but his strength was the product of his lineage, not deliberate engineering. Besides, I had Vaircona¡¯s blessing and a disruption charge to draw upon, and that meant I hit him far harder than he had any right to expect. His first blow nearly took my head off my shoulders, his fist ploughing through the air like a battering ram. But in that single, perfect moment of absolute clarity, I slipped inside his reach - looking for all the world like I¡¯d planned it - and shattered Ganezzar¡¯s lower mandible with my counterpunch. I still remember his look of utter surprise as my fist cannoned into his face. He was, after all, intimately familiar with the degrees of strength and toughness that he could hope to expect. This was something beyond all that, and I could actually see his certainties crumbling as the hinge of his jaw broke under my spiked knuckles. Oh Gods, his expression said, clear as day. This idiot is actually going to kill me. A brutal crunch, and Ganezzar fell the way a statue falls, with no bending or crumpling. He was rigid all the way to the ground, as if his bones had turned to stone. The sound his body made when it hit the ground was like an entire slab of frozen beef being hurled to the abattoir¡¯s floor. There were no cheers, as he went down. Just the frozen silence that came with pure, unalloyed shock. I remember my hand aching like fire as it swelled, shreds of his flesh clinging to my cesti as I shook the sting away. Looking up, chest heaving, at the thousands of cast-bronze faces peering down from the rows of seating carved into the stone. Thinking: Are you not entertained? Is this not why you are here? That dates me, I¡¯m sure. If it helps, I promise never to do it again. The crowd only started shouting (roaring, really) when the tusk-bedecked priests scrambled into the arena, to do what they could for Ganezzar¡¯s broken face. The half-giant had been a favorite to win, and his utter, abrupt defeat (at the hands of an obvious outsider, no less) had soured the mood. I suspect that, sacred ritual or not, they were a hair¡¯s-breadth away from throwing things by the time I made my exit. That¡¯s showbiz for you, I guess. Everyone loves an underdog, right up to the point that the wrong man wins.
To my surprise, the rules worked for me as much as they worked against me. Less than a day later, I was against Shahmat Varro, ritualist and willworker of the Twilight Veil. The fifth daughter of Chieftain Yerhirch, himself a fifth son, she¡¯d been marked (or was that cursed?) for sorcery since birth. It was well known that the Twilight Veil were only barely observant followers of the Bull-God¡¯s cult. They trafficked with spirits and other entities, took counsel with the host of lesser gods that called the steppe home. Normally, that would have been grounds for persecution, but Tauruskhan Himself had decreed that they were true to the blood of Tulgar. This wasn¡¯t mere compassion on His part, mind you. Rather, the Iron Hoof was shrewd enough to know that the shamans of the Twilight Veil could be a useful asset. By all accounts, He was right. Thanks to their assistance, He was able to give potential rivals a good slapping before they could gather enough of a following to challenge Him, and all it took was a minimum of tolerance on His part. It didn¡¯t mean that the Twilight Veil was popular, of course. The general mood towards them was a kind of wary distrust, given how far they¡¯d strayed from the other tribes. In truth, most of that suspicion was justified, with the Veil¡¯s reputation for manipulation, double-dealing and overall underhand dealings being well-known. Their current chieftain, Yerhirch, was a forward-thinking man. He didn¡¯t just want to bring his tribe to prominence, but also to restore its good name. To rehabilitate it in the eyes of the others, by showing they could hold their own in a straight fight. As such, Shahmat had to endure certain limitations with good grace. She was barred from bringing her singing-staff, the goad of spirits, to the fight¡­But then again, that meant I couldn¡¯t bring the Furstenburg, either, so maybe that was just good sense. I remember how it felt to face off against that slight, almost doll-like figure, her flesh caked in a chalk-white layer of sacred ash. They¡¯d swathed her in the grey robes of a shaman, ropes of shell-beads and finger bones looped around her limbs, but it only emphasized her lack of stature. At fourteen, she was exceptionally young for a shaman, and that was one of the reasons for her remarkable power. Children are an irresistible lure to spirits, who see them as easy prey. Gods see them as much the same: The young are impressionable, easier to sway, and don¡¯t expect as much for their faith. And so Shahmat was surrounded by a constant, roiling cloud of almost-there presences, right on the edge of perception. Shades, sprites and almost-gods, imploring, weedling, commanding. Doing everything they could to attract her attention, her devotion. Most would have folded, beneath the perpetual assault of hissing, whispering voices. In fact, plenty of spirit-talkers and shamans spent their time either in meditation or doped-up to their eyeballs for some respite. The constant presence of the invisible world could and would grind your sanity down to nothing, unless you had a will of iron or some seriously hardcore drugs. It¡¯s why I never even tried to learn their brand of magic. It was less of a profession and more of a calling. A curse, even. Some things are better left alone, and I can¡¯t imagine how my life would be improved by having a dozen extra voices in my head. But relentless training had taught Shahmat how to command the host of spirits. How to bend them to her will, the way starved dogs could be driven by the promise of meat. A gesture was enough to unleash them, boiling across the distance in a torrent of phantasmal horror. I remember the sound they made, like the cycling buzz of crazed cicadas, as the flood of half-real faces and limbs surged towards me. Giant shadows, tall as men. Bestial specters that howled into the night as they loped forward, talons and claws bared. Fortunately, I had magic of my own. During the Summertime War, I¡¯d held back on the use of my tetza. The warriors of the Graven Star knew they were more than just tattoos, of course, but that was as far as it went. My fists and pulse rifle had been enough to deal with whatever threats I¡¯d faced, and so no-one had any idea of what they could do. Not even the Twilight Veil. When I called upon the ahtitlak, it was like I¡¯d scored a home run. There were cheers, gasps, shouts of disbelief as the segmented horror tore free from my flesh, still trailing the ink that had spawned it. Coal-bellied and venomous, winding like a serpent, it scythed right into the churning mass of spirits, mandibles working furiously with single-minded hunger. Ahtitlak are omnivores. They¡¯ll eat anything, but they prefer meat. Usually, they¡¯ll feed on carcasses (It¡¯s less work) but when they¡¯re angry or gravid, they¡¯ll actively hunt down prey. Now, I don¡¯t know whether it was the long exile or the urgency of the moment, but this one was ravenous. Blade-tipped legs ripped astral flesh into tatters, pincers spearing choice morsels as the ahtitlak ate its way through the phantom swarm. It tore into them, tore through them, like it had a grudge, gobbling up anything it could reach. There were even more cheers, when I sent the raiton at Shahmat herself. Even as I sprinted forward, even as she chanted frantic invocations to keep the four-winged predator at bay, I could sense the edge of mockery to their adulation. Sure, I may have been an outlander, but I was also brawny, muscular and male - the very image of a warrior, albeit an unorthodox one. And I was beating the Twilight Veil at their own game. When you got down to it, really got down to it, they wanted me to win, not her. Better someone like me, the general mood was, than some witch-spawned freak. No, it wasn¡¯t fair, but that was simply how things were. In the end, it proved to be decisive. You can feel it, deep in your gut, when the crowd turns against you. It¡¯s not just the noise; it''s the energy, the hostility, the sense of being singled out and attacked by a large group. Of being the enemy of all. Shahmat may have been incredibly gifted, but she was still a child, and I could almost see her wilt under the jeers and boos aimed her way. Never mind that she¡¯d worked an incredibly complicated ward to hold the raiton at bay and scourge it with whips of lightning. Forget that she was putting every iota of her focus into mustering the whirling tide of spirits, keeping the ahtitlak distracted as she summoned power for a banishment. In the end, it was the disdain of her own people that did her in. A single kick sent her sprawling, and I planted my boot on her chest before she could rise. Not too hard, mind you. Just hard enough to let her know the fight was over, and to give her a chance to do the sensible thing. And, you know, I saw the damage I was doing. How the humiliation of this moment, the shame of her failure, would dwell within Shahmat forever. It was another degradation, heaped on top of the ones she¡¯d already endured - For her father had been merciless in her training, as he¡¯d forged her into the weapon he needed. His wrath, as severe as an austere god¡¯s, was the only thing she feared. She never spoke, but her eyes told the entire story. Kill me, they said. For that way lies peace. I could have obliged her. I didn¡¯t, even though it would have been a mercy. I can be a coward, like that. Still, as the men of the Graven Star flocked around me with back-slapping, shoulder-punching camaraderie and manly congratulations, I spared a glance for that crumpled figure, suddenly too small for her robes. She lay there, silent and unmoving, until the bull-masked priests closed in to take her away. I wonder what happened to her, after.
Now and again, I think of the what ifs and the may have beens. I¡¯ve heard it said that we live in the best of all possible worlds. For me, at least, I think that may be true. If I¡¯d never followed in May¡¯s footsteps, if I¡¯d never stepped through the portal, my hypothetical life would have been a far lesser one than the one I have. Lesser, but also calmer. ¡®Less cataclysmic¡¯ seems like a safe bet, too. It¡¯s a pattern I¡¯ve come to notice, across the many worlds. I usually arrive at the point of decision, right when things could go either way- And inevitably, I tip the scales towards chaos. I don¡¯t think it¡¯s on purpose, mind you. It¡¯s just that I have a habit of getting into fights, and every fight isn¡¯t just against someone, it¡¯s for something. Maybe it¡¯s the nature of Thresholders in general, but we have a tendency to make things spin out of control. If I¡¯d never arrived on Phospiach, history would look very different indeed. My guess is, Shahmat would have seized the right of the hecatomb for the Twilight Veil and taken on the mantle of champion. After more than a century out in the cold, her tribe would have finally - finally - won the acceptance of the others and redeemed their good name, such as it was. I don¡¯t think she¡¯d have survived the Platinum Spire. Jeru was, after all, one of the hardest bastards I¡¯ve ever known. Most likely, she¡¯d have died on the point of his spear, after doing her level best to claim victory¡­But the Twenty-Six Tribes would have endured, and the Twilight Veil would have remained foremost amongst them. A new era would have dawned. One lived in greater harmony with the spirits, where mysticism was as important as iron. Tauruskhan would have continued His guardianship of His people into perpetuity, His chance at ascension having come and gone. There would have been peace of a sort, under His watchful eye. Life would have continued, much as it always did. Thanks to me, however, all bets were off. The last I heard, open war raged on the endless steppe: With the Iron Hoof¡¯s attention elsewhere, there was nothing to stop long-held hatreds (made raw by the Summertime War) from boiling over. Foreign mercenaries were brought in on all sides, cults of new and alien gods taking form as faith in the Great Herdsman began to falter- All because the hecatomb went to the Graven Star, and Tauruskhan¡¯s blessing descended upon my shoulders. The little I heard about the fate of the Twilight Veil was less than encouraging: The conflict was an ideal time to deal with idolators and borderline-heretics, and certain enterprising tribes had taken full advantage of the opportunity. None of that would have happened, if not for me. But that¡¯s just how life is, sometimes. It¡¯s a bitch, and then you die. Could I have done something? Maybe, if I''d cared enough. I had the power: All I needed was a reason to use it. To spare a thought for anything other than my nemesis, and the sickness eating away at me from within. Then again, I never claimed to be any kind of hero. To thine own self be true, the saying goes, and I know what I am. For how could I ever hope to be anything else? TO BE CONTINUED Chapter 5: The Horned God (Part 2) ¡°It is folly for a man to pray to the gods for that which he has the power to obtain by himself.¡± ¨D Epicurus Chapter 5: The Horned God (Part 2) At this point, I was everyone¡¯s friend. No surprise, really: The Graven Star was one fight away from becoming first amongst equals, and it was enough to attract a host of hanger-ons and brown-nosers, all seeking to curry favor. Their thinking was, not inaccurately, that I was basically guaranteed to win. After all, I¡¯d bested the strongest warrior of the Altai through brawn alone, and defeated the greatest shaman of the Twilight Veil in a duel of sorcery. Unless my final opponent could somehow match them in both, he was shit out of luck. In a way, I felt kind of bad for my final opponent. Rarga Kul was of the Jarrow, the Clan of Kings, and he had the weight of legacy riding his ass the entire time. You see, the Jarrow (also known as the Storm Walkers, the Firstborne, the Burning Crown) were said to be the tribe closest to Tulgar, the true inheritors of his will. Through relentless effort, prenatural strategy and accumulated momentum, they had made themselves pre-eminent amongst the Twenty-Six Tribes. They were the wealthiest tribe, boasting the greatest lands and herds of the clans, and it showed. You saw it in the strength of their limbs, in the coal-black steeds they rode. Their wargear, too, showed a level of craftsmanship unmatched by the other clans. The Jarrow favored polished bronze and gold, where pitch-coated brass and iron was usually the norm, their armor and harness swarming with runes and set with carved gems. More, most of them were god-blessed in some way. It lent a dangerous edge to their already-fearsome prowess: Pound for pound, one of the Jarrow generally held the upper hand against a warrior from another tribe, and they knew it. Relied on it, in fact. Only the sheer weight of numbers had kept them from absolutely dominating the Summertime War. They were such a shoe-in for victory, alliances were made against them, for even they couldn¡¯t be everywhere at once. Anyone hoping to take a swipe at their herds had to have a distraction, or several, on hand. Otherwise, the raid would come to a sticky and embarrassing end, when the Jarrow replied in kind. Rarga Kul had distinguished himself in the fighting. He was from one of the ruling family¡¯s subsidiaries, which made him effectively nobility. You could see it too, when you looked at him. He had a profile that could have decorated an ancient coin, with an aquiline nose, strong brow and square chin. The kind of profile I wish I had, though even the Gods probably couldn¡¯t have helped me with that one. There was no doubt that he was born to both bow and saddle. At seventeen summers of age, Rarga had nine (five metaphorical, four actual) scalps under his belt, and had the distinction of taking down a teigar with a single well-aimed arrow. Even in light of his family¡¯s advantages, it was a pretty impressive feat. All things considered, it was only natural that he ended up as his tribe¡¯s representative. He was the very embodiment of how the Twenty-Six Tribes had risen to rule the steppes, a romantic embodiment of their warrior past. Through Rarga, one could see the unbroken lineage that led all the way back to Tulgar the Invincible himself. Surprisingly, he never let it go to his head. Rarga was a modest lad, one who always seemed faintly embarrassed by his outsized reputation. He was a rising star, but his feet were firmly planted on the ground: He had no thought of his own glory, only the greater good of the clan. In other words, he was leadership material, chieftain material even, the kind of canny, level-headed soul you wanted in charge. The problem was, he¡¯d met his match in me. Now, I don¡¯t want to play down Rarga¡¯s abilities. Up against anyone else, I¡¯d have given him even odds of winning¡­But the Jarrow had seen the writing on the wall, and they didn¡¯t like their chances. They didn¡¯t know what I was, not really, but they knew enough to see that I was some kind of unholy terror, with a giant¡¯s strength and a shaman¡¯s magical firepower. Maybe Rarga could¡¯ve taken me. A well-placed arrow through the eye, for example, might have done the job. But it would mean he was actually, genuinely trying to kill me, and I would have responded in kind. You see, the Clan of Kings really didn¡¯t want to lose Rarga. He was the future of their tribe, and no-one wanted to see that future¡¯s brains smashed right out of his skull. At the same time, he couldn¡¯t back down. The Jarrow, surrendering? Without a fight? That would¡¯ve been a death knell for their street cred. It takes centuries to build a reputation, but you can lose it in five minutes if you don¡¯t have the stomach for a fight. But the Jarrow, the Riders of the Storm, had one last card to play.
The final trial was the Trial of the Fire. The concept is simple. You take long irons, the kind you¡¯d use to brand cattle. Heat them in a brazier, until the tips are red. Have the combatants, stripped to the waist and absolutely sweating testosterone, face off- And then they take turns burning the shit out of each other. This goes on until one side surrenders, or collapses from third-degree burns. It¡¯s machismo in its purest form. You see, either combatant can stop at any time¡­But that means you¡¯re leaving a slight unanswered. That your willpower wasn¡¯t strong enough to see things through. That makes you the winner¡¯s bitch, unable to match his steely-eyed, masculine tenacity. In some ways, it¡¯s the purest test of willpower I¡¯ve ever seen. A willingness to inflict harm and be harmed in turn, all in the name of coming out on top. This wasn¡¯t as insane as it sounds, mind you. The Jarrow were absolutely certain that, when you got down to it, Rarga was simply better than I was. That he had a higher tolerance for pain, that pride and love for his clan would keep him on his feet while I folded like a house of cards. More, this wasn¡¯t a public affair. It wouldn¡¯t take place in front of thousands of tribesmen, roaring as one stood and one fell. No, it would take place in the mountain fane of the Bull God Himself, who would surely favor His people. Unfortunately for them, the Bull God smiled upon results.
I remember the sweltering heat, as we stood sweating on the floor of the temple. All around us, the chamber rose in majesty, the walls hewn from the living rock. It was too regular to be a natural cave, too makeshift and imperfect to have been planned in one piece. Light-orbs of burning oil and bands of emerald minerals shed their eerie glow over the proceedings, as we braced ourselves for what was to come. As ritual dictated, there were just over a hundred witnesses. Four men from each tribe, picked at random, so that each clan would be represented. They made for a motley lot, but the eyes of every one gleamed with anticipation. Anticipation, and maybe a little relief that they weren¡¯t about to get branded. Or was that envy? Honestly, it was hard to tell. Rarga Kul was tall for his age, just a hand¡¯s-breadth short of lanky. There wasn¡¯t a piece of spare flesh on him, his frame lean and whipcord-tough from the perils of life on the steppe. I was taller, significantly heavier with vat-grown muscle, my flesh swarming with the ink-black vistas that my tetza called home. An athlete versus a bodybuilder. In the awful red light of the brazier, he looked young. Young, determined and more than a little afraid. I didn¡¯t blame him: It¡¯s one thing to wade into a fight, knowing that you might be hurt. It¡¯s another to know that there¡¯s no possibility of escape. To see it coming, and to look into the eye of the inevitable. It was High Priest Praya himself who officiated the proceedings. He was a big man, heavy-set, built like - if you¡¯ll forgive the obvious comparison - a bull. There was white in his hair, but his frame bulged with muscle, standing straight-backed despite more than a century of life. Praya was living proof of Tauruskhan¡¯s power, a walking miracle in his own right, and his presence was a testament to the supreme holiness of the rite. Once he started talking, you could see why the Iron Hoof had preserved him. It was his voice, stern but somehow motivating. A pillar of patriarchal strength, in every sense of the word. ¡°A warrior must have strength, but strength alone is never sufficient. It is will that forged the twenty-six tribes, will that made Tulgar unconquerable. All men feel fear: To conquer that fear is to be made holy.¡± He waited for the reverent murmur to fade, before he went on. ¡°By right of blood, these men have chosen the trial of fire. One shall rise, and one shall be humbled. That is the way of things, and may it ever be so.¡± Praya fixed us with his unblinking, dark-eyed gaze, like we were sacrificial cattle and he was considering where to put the knife. ¡°Know that His eyes are upon you. Hear His roar, in these ancient halls. Feel His own might course through your veins¡­And through Him, become indomitable.¡± He grasped the first of the brands, and pulled it from the waiting flames. Even the dark end he held made his hand stiffen, the red-hot ember of the point glowing like a shooting star. ¡°To the younger goes the first,¡± Praya said, and placed the brand in Rarga¡¯s hand. Son of a bitch, I thought. It was then, right then, that I realized that I¡¯d been set up. This was the kind of game where getting the first shot in was everything, and of course the fix was in. More, the only thing I could do was grin and bear it. This was going to suck. The weight of the iron settled in the boy¡¯s fist, and he seemed to hesitate, as if made aware by the gravity of what he was about to do- Then he laid the brand against my chest, and pressed it into my flesh. Fuck- I heard the sizzle, the wretched smell of burning hair and roasting pork rising into the heated air. Every muscle in my body went rigid, as the breath rushed from my lungs like I¡¯d been kicked. I could feel sweat pouring down my skin, feel my jaw lock at that unspeakable sensation, as the searing heat coursed through me in an almost liquid ripple- Years passed, in a thermite blaze. Rarga ground the iron against me until the heat faded, until the last wisps of smoke rose from the brand. When it drew back, I could see the brown welt it¡¯d raised on my skin, the pale fluid that leaked from the wound, as I took in a deep breath, steadying myself. I may be tough, but it doesn¡¯t mean I don¡¯t feel pain. And let me tell you, that hurt like a bastard. Worse than getting swarmed by venomous demons, worse than Ryan¡¯s glaive. Those had been in the heat of combat, with my blood pumping hot and adrenaline running high, and I¡¯d barely felt them until later. This was something else entirely. Every second felt like a subjective eternity, the relief just as bad, because you knew the next one would be soon in coming. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Two things, and two things alone, saved me. The first was surety. I knew I could and would heal from this, given time. It wouldn¡¯t be pretty, but it was only for now. Without that, I don¡¯t think it would have been endurable. The second was: I¡¯d suffered worse. This didn¡¯t hold a candle to the lasting agony of the human-enhancement process, where I¡¯d writhed and screamed and foamed at the mouth. It had been so bad, I¡¯d begged the flesh-workers of Unity to put me into an induced coma, to make it stop- They¡¯d refused. Drugs would have interfered with the activation process, and I¡¯d already agreed to endure. All I could do was ride it out, until my reforming body stabilized enough for them to put some military-grade opiates into my spine. Compared to that, this was nothing. A very significant ¡®nothing¡¯, but nothing all the same. Through the roaring in my ears, I heard the faint clang of the iron being returned to the brazier, heard the susurration of voices from the audience. They were impressed, in spite of themselves. I¡¯d stood my ground, with no flinching or shirking. Taken it like a man, and all the other cliches. And now - Now, it was my turn. I didn¡¯t make the mistake of grabbing for the iron. Instead, I merely held my hand out, made myself wait as Praya placed it in my palm. The high priest¡¯s hard-bitten features were set in a careful frown, one that gave away nothing¡­But was that a moment¡¯s hesitation I detected? Maybe. After all, every second wasted spared Rarga a fraction of the brand¡¯s wrath. As my fingers wrapped around the handle, I felt an electric shiver of anticipation crackle through the air. There was a hunger in it, a lust to see someone tormented, to bask in someone else¡¯s suffering. It barely mattered who. Praya hadn¡¯t been lying, when he said that the trial was all about will. It could only end when one man refused to touch the other. Branding your opponent meant that you¡¯d get branded in turn, and it made you the architect of your own torture. Men could stay standing for an extraordinarily long time, as burns heaped on top of burns - Ultimately, it was the spirit that would decide the winner, not the flesh. I held Rarga¡¯s gaze, as I raised the glowing iron. His entire body tensed, lips moving in a silent prayer for strength, for fortitude. You never know what you can take, not really, until it¡¯s your turn. The terror of something is usually so much worse than actually doing it. There was a hiss. Skin cracked, the stench of charring flesh and quenching flame filling the temple once again, steam rolling upward in threads of white vapor- And through a crimson haze, I heard the first gasps, the oaths of disbelief and surprise. Blood ran over my lip, but I made myself smile at Rarga through red-flecked teeth. Even as the grizzled warriors of the twenty-six tribes looked on, craning their necks like rubbernecking matrons, I ground the brand against my own chest, arching my back so they could all see. Rarga¡¯s eyes had gone wide. He¡¯d stepped back, involuntarily, as I fought down the scream boiling in my throat. I could feel the tremor shooting through my gripping hand, and clamped the other over it to keep it steady - Until the iron cooled to dark orange, smeared down one side with smoking black ash. With a gasp, with a brain-bursting surge of will, I tossed it back clattering into the coals. The breath bubbled in my lungs, my bladder clenching as I prayed I wouldn¡¯t piss myself. It took everything I had to stay on my feet, my field of vision darkening at the edges as the room jerked and swayed¡­ But it¡¯d been worth it. I saw the look on Rarga¡¯s face, as I nodded to the waiting brands. ¡°Your turn,¡± I said, even as beads of sweat glistened on his brow. I kept my biggest, most shit-eating grin on my face, willing myself to believe it. Mind over matter. You don¡¯t mind, it don¡¯t matter. His eyes flicked to Praya, as if looking for aid or succor. To the waiting audience, ferociously present in that eternal moment. Rarga had known how it was supposed to go, but what I¡¯d done - It¡¯d thrown him for a loop. He reached for the next iron, but his hand was already shaking. Too fast: The high priest swatted his hand away, and Ragra flinched back, chagrined. A ripple of nervous laughter circled the room, and it must have felt like a whip. His mouth opened, his breath coming harshly as he dragged a fresh iron free from the flames- He burned me again, of course. But this time, he was the one who shook.
I had to burn myself three more times for it to count. Can you believe that? Sure, once may have been a fluke, but three should¡¯ve been enough to convince anyone that I was willing to go the distance. Four was just spiteful. Let me tell you: Rarga Kul may have been the very best of the Jarrow, but he was also a vicious, small-minded, spiteful piece of teigar shit. All excellent traits to have in a warrior, mind you, and don''t let anyone tell you different. As it happened, I had historical precedent on my side. According to Oloin, even the great Tulgar had stood only eight to become King-of-Tribes, four hundred years before. The absolute greatest number was nine irons, and the winner had died a long, agonizing death afterward. So had his opponent, incidentally, because that¡¯s what happens when you play chicken with red-hot irons. A bad omen, that. Especially since the next few decades had been particularly rough ones for the clans, and it was widely believed that they¡¯d lost Tauruskhan¡¯s favor. You have to see things from Rarga¡¯s perspective. To him, I was either crazy or possessed of an iron will, and no matter how many times he scorched me, I kept on ticking. More, he wasn¡¯t stupid enough to start burning himself in retaliation, though that would¡¯ve made things way more interesting. He was acutely aware of his limits, you see, and he knew better than to tempt fate. By the time we got to six, the Storm Walker scion was looking decidedly green about the gills. I didn¡¯t look like I was about to keel over and die, and by that point, it barely mattered. If he seared me again, I¡¯d burn myself the next time I got an iron in my hands¡­And then word would spread about the outlander who¡¯d endured the torments of Tulgar at the hands of his unburnt foe. Very embarrassing. Poor form, even. He didn¡¯t make it easy for me, of course. The presence of the priests kept Rarga from dealing low blows, but it didn¡¯t mean he couldn¡¯t make them count. When he held the blazing iron against my nipple, I nearly threw up. I felt the vomit clawing against the back of my throat, breath wheezing and shuddering deep in my chest as I fought the urge to take his head off with a single punch- But the best revenge is a life well-lived, as they say. By that point, I felt like a steak that had been too long on the fire. I was just glad they were using the smaller coin-sized brands, rather than the big ones used for cattle. While I was doing my best to put up a strong front, my eyes were watering, my chest a mass of burns - Still, one thing kept me going, through it all. The warriors of the Twenty-Six Tribes were cheering. Cheering for me. Now, don¡¯t be mistaken. Rarga was still very much the favorite to win. But the sheer balls of what I was doing had definitely struck a chord, enough that it was worthy of acknowledgement. I don¡¯t know who started it - Stamping his feet, slapping his thigh in imitation of victory drums. Sure, maybe the Graven Star might¡¯ve kicked things off, but this was a sacred rite. Given how the audience was supposed to be impartial, cheering for your own team was potentially grounds for censure. What I¡¯m saying is, it took an inordinate amount of balls to even try. For a moment, it sounded oddly hollow, a single hand clapping amid all that vast space¡­But then others were joining him, and soon the sound boomed through the chamber in a roll of thunder. I remember the sound it made, like waves breaking against the surf. It made the air reverberate, a rhythm that matched the hammer of my pulse. Where I would have faltered, it drove me forward with each resounding beat, as if I couldn¡¯t possibly lose. Not after coming this far. It made every moment of the suffering feel noble, somehow. Like I was doing something truly significant. Enough that I felt light-headed, drunk on adulation, never mind that I was more than half-dead. Somehow, I remembered to let go of the iron, let it tumble back into the flames as I spread my arms wide. When the red-tipped brand came out of the coals, part of me flinched, wanting to squirm away from the bright fiery pain that was coming. It wanted to flee into the dark pit of unconsciousness, the void that was sucking away at my strength. I didn¡¯t know how bad it was, not really, but the edges of my vision were less red and more black now, and that was never a good thing. Instead, I stiffened my back. Beckoned, invitingly, as curves of unearned muscle rippled under the tattooed skin of my bare chest and shoulders. The slight motion sent waves of agony rippling through me, made it feel like my flesh was burning anew as my eyes came perilously close to watering- Even breathing hurt, now. ¡°Bring it,¡± I said, even as the tiny voice in the back of my head screamed and begged ¡®no more¡¯. I told it to fuck off, and made myself smile so hard it hurt. I heard the hiss of Ragra¡¯s indrawn breath, and knew - just knew - in that moment, he saw me the way I always wanted to see myself, in my sweatiest, most macho fantasies. Unstoppable. Invincible. The hardest bastard to ever walk this or any world. It''s moments like those that make it all worthwhile.
Did it matter to me that I was, technically, cheating? After all, it wasn¡¯t just willpower that kept me on my feet. Nothing, absolutely nothing, about my capacity for punishment was remotely human. Without the enhancile surgery, I¡¯d have folded like a house of cards at the first kiss of the iron. I didn¡¯t care. The very concept of ¡®fairness¡¯ is for suckers. It¡¯s what winners tell themselves after the fact to feel better¡­Even though they know, in their heart of hearts, that nothing is fair. Ever. If you¡¯ve got an edge, use it. I guarantee that the other side absolutely will, if given the chance. Win first, because there are no second chances in life. Just ask Rarga Kul.
¡°-No more.¡± The dull clang rang in my ears, and I opened my eyes. Rarga had thrown down the iron, his face twisted in weary defeat. Unmarked, unburnt, he looked oddly shrunken, his sweat-sheened chest heaving as his hands fell to his sides. No more. It was over. It took a moment for that to sink in, to penetrate the haze of exhaustion and wretched, bone-deep pain that fogged my mind. My burns throbbed like white-hot phosphorous, all the suffering I¡¯d thought I¡¯d left behind returning at once. Beneath me, my legs turned to lead. I wanted nothing, nothing more, than to lie down and never get up again. I¡¯d reached the absolute limit of my endurance, and my body simply refused to go another step further. I felt like I was going to pass out. But I couldn¡¯t, not yet: Not before I¡¯d made my victory complete. I don¡¯t know what I said, as I extended a hand to Rarga. Well fought, maybe, or Good game, better luck next time. Something puerile but manly like that, I¡¯m sure. For a moment, he stared at my outstretched hand like it was a scorpion, those keen eyes boring into me. Willing me to keel over, maybe. Willing me to die. Like he realized that taking my hand would collapse the waveform and make his defeat real, that there would be no going back. No eking out a win on a technicality. It could only have been an instant, but it felt like an agonizing eternity before his hand clasped mine. He was a good sport about it, too - No knuckle-grip, no bone-crushing squeeze, just a surprisingly firm grip, before he raised my hand overhead, in a gesture older than civilization itself. The funny part is, that nearly did it for me. I staggered, almost fell¡­But then Praya was there, reaching out to steady me. Draping a sacred auroch-fur robe around my shoulders, like I was a prizefighter who¡¯d just gone the distance. ¡°Victory!¡± he called, beard bristling like a thundercloud. ¡°Victory to the Graven Star! Witness, sons of Tulgar! Witness, and rejoice! Behold God¡¯s champion!¡± A roar went up. They were on their feet, now. Howling, yelling, in a tremendous release of tension. The cheers, the shouts¡­In the firelight, the faces of more than a hundred men blurred together, until they seemed a single many-limbed, many-headed beast, baying in triumph. I¡¯d done it. Somehow, I¡¯d done it. There were hands on me now, sheathed in intricate gauntlets of brown leather. The masked acolytes had come from everywhere and nowhere at once, as silent and inevitable as the fall of night. Fearsomely anonymous in their ceremonial robes and regalia, their touch was surprisingly gentle. Working as one, they steered me out of the burning light, guiding me into the waiting twilight. I remember capering figures, shaking bone-wands and sistrum, leaping with a vigor that seemed more than merely mortal¡­ The cheers followed me for a long time, until the cool darkness swallowed me whole.
When I woke, a fire was burning. The first, fleeting impressions came to me, then. Thoughts gathering, coalescing, like the awakening that came after a coma or a decades-long sleep. Like I had been dreaming for a long, long time. Quiet. The smell of stone and earth. Stillness. Copal resin, smoking into the air. As I stirred, my eyes opened to the warm and muffled blackness of a deep cave. I could hear the patient drip-drip-drip of water on rock, wearing away at the stone with the glacial patience of deep time. There was a thick, furred pelt beneath me, smelling faintly of damp. Bison hide, maybe. I could feel the crude but confident stitches beneath my fingertips, laced together with thongs of sinew. Other smells, carried in the air, made themselves known. Roasting meat, liquor, the musk of some large animal¡­ The glow of the fire seeped into my field of vision, as I eased myself up. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I took in my surroundings. The cave was small, but had been enlarged over years of patient toil. First with stone axes, then with tools of bronze and iron, carving and dressing bleak grey stone. Imposing order, with each and every stroke. Smudged lines of ochre and charcoal adorned the walls, worn smooth by falling water and time. Abstract as they were, I could make out the vague shape of them. Men, or things that were almost men, bows and spears in hand. Hunting boar, antelope and auroch, each animal rendered side-on, mid-leap. In the sanguine fireglow that filled the cave, the prey-beasts seemed to move, to writhe. As if they sensed their fate, and were trying to break free from the stone. Behind me, the wind moaned, stirring the hide-curtain draped over the mouth of the cave. Through parted strips of cured leather, I glimpsed a strange, surreal netherworld - A mosaic of low-lying grasses, tough shrubs and scattered boulders, all shrouded in a spectral haze. The mist rolled across the landscape like a living entity, the dense, swirling fog obscuring all things. It was the steppe, I realized. Not as it was now, but as it had once been. Dark and filled with primordial terror, a time when the distant ancestors of the Twenty-Six Tribes had cowered in their caves. For there were things out there, I knew. Hungry things. A low, guttural growl here, the ominous snap of a branch there¡­ They were waiting, for they had all the time in the world. Waiting for the fire to gutter out, for the darkness and mist to rush in. That thought made ice-water run through my veins, as I cast around, looking for my gauntlets, for a knife, for a sharp rock. If I could just- And then, right then, I knew I wasn¡¯t alone. There was something - someone - on the other side of the fire. I couldn¡¯t see it, couldn¡¯t see Him, not directly. No matter how I turned my head, the blaze in its ring of stones contrived to remain between us, as eternal as the space between stars. All I made out was a great, dark shape, too large to be truly human, with the hunched bulk of a hibernating bear. But I could see His shadow, crowned with sweeping horns, cast up the cave wall by the crackling flames.
¡°-It¡¯s you.¡± My voice sounded so small, so frail, that I barely recognized it as my own. The two words, just above a whisper, scraped my already-dry throat raw. I winced, expecting the pain of my burns to flare up - But when I looked down, my flesh was whole, unmarred except for the ink that swirled against my skin. The figure stirred, like some elemental giant roused from slumber. It growled something in a language I didn¡¯t understand, so deep it made my diaphragm vibrate. Yet the meaning unfurled itself within my mind, all the same. Welcome, world-walker, Tauruskhan said. You are far from home, indeed. Ask. I exhaled. Slowly, carefully, releasing a breath that I didn¡¯t remember taking. I felt an instinctive fear, all the way to the very core of my being - the clean, simple terror that an animal feels, in the presence of something far stronger, far greater. It¡¯s not every day that you meet God. A hundred questions swirled in my mind, but I ignored their phantom babble until I settled on the only one that mattered. ¡°Can you cure me?¡± The answer came in a growl of animal directness, straightforward and uncomplicated. Yes. Relief, cold and sharp, slid through me. Something unclenched in my gut, like a coiled spring being unwound. I was going to live. I could have wept, but I made myself smile instead. A wan smile, but a smile all the same. ¡°Well,¡± I said. ¡°Well, then.¡± ¡°-Shall we make a deal?¡± TO BE CONTINUED Chapter 6: All the Powers of Earth ¡°We must not promise what we ought not, lest we be called on to perform what we cannot.¡± ¨D Abraham Lincoln, Speech Delivered Before the First Republican State Convention of Illinois Chapter 6: All the Powers of Earth I¡¯ll be honest. I was afraid, and deathly so. Thinking it over, I had no reason to be. A significant effort had been put into bringing me here, in preserving and maintaining my existence. If the priests of Tauruskhan had intended to dispose of me, there were far easier ways of doing so. But the fear remained, and it would not go away. A large part of it, I think, was the very nature of Tauruskhan Himself. There¡¯s a part of us that never forgets the primal terror of being in the dark, and hearing the monster breathe. Being in the God¡¯s presence was overwhelming, the weight of His regard beating against me like a palpable force. It didn¡¯t help that I could intuit, dimly, that I only breathed at His sufferance. For the Supreme Chieftain was not merely the great, horned shape that loomed before me. He was the flames in the firepit, the shadows on the stone, the very existence of the cave itself. I was at the very heart of His power, in a place utterly and completely possessed by the God. It felt like the only sane option was to beg for His mercy, to grovel and plead to be spared. Fortunately, I¡¯d been over this with Oloin. The old Godbinder had an idea of what to expect, and, between swigs of fermented ko, he¡¯d coached me on what to do. He¡¯d been far more straightforward and forthcoming than usual, offering remarkably down-to-earth advice. I suppose that, with our goal in sight, he saw no reason to keep secrets any longer. First and foremost, Oloin had been keen to impress upon me the limits of both gods and men alike. There¡¯s only so much divine power that a mortal vessel can hold. Too much, and the vessel warps, or ruptures from within like an over-full balloon. It¡¯s the reason why priests pray for miracles, rather than a permanent infusion of godly might. It¡¯s simpler, and some would say better, to have a god¡¯s might pass through you and out of you, rather than for it to remain. The touch of the divine leaves a mark. Always. Becoming Tarushukan¡¯s champion, being anointed by Him, would change me in ways both subtle and gross. At the very least, I would find myself more prone to impulse, to emotional variations I hadn¡¯t known before. Rage, anger, covetousness, lust¡­They would become my drives, more so than they already were. There was a price to be paid, you see. In return for the devastating power that would be bequeathed to me, I would become less like a man, and more like the God. ¡°-I¡¯m not going to grow horns, am I?¡± I¡¯d asked, half-seriously, and Oloin¡¯s bushy eyebrows had drawn together. ¡°Be serious, boy. We¡¯re talking about the state of your soul.¡± That had sent a chill through me, but I¡¯d played it off as nothing. Never let them see you sweat, or so the saying goes. ¡°So I¡¯ll go from - what - male, to alpha-male? What¡¯s the downside?¡± I¡¯d said, and immediately regretted it. The nature of my words had eluded Oloin, but the meaning hadn¡¯t - He¡¯d given me an especially dry look, and rapped my knuckles with his staff. ¡°Stupid boy,¡± he¡¯d rasped. ¡°What¡¯s the point of power if you¡¯re not the one wielding it? Why come all this way to be a slave?¡± I¡¯d nodded, more sober now. I knew what he meant: I could play at bravado, at being the hard man, but I didn¡¯t really believe in it. Deep down, I think, my perception of self was inextricably linked to the nebbish, somewhat put-upon failed intellectual and office drone I¡¯d always been. I¡¯d never been able to embrace all the sweaty macho bullshit that was, back on Earth, swiftly going out of style- The thing is, I¡¯d always wanted to. It¡¯s what I¡¯ve longed to be, in my secret heart of hearts. ¡®A black-haired, sullen-eyed reaver and slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth¡¯, to quote a writer far better than I¡¯ll ever be. To shed my previous, cowering conception of self, to cast away my insecurities like worn-out clothes, and become- What? Even now, I don¡¯t know. But I¡¯m getting there, slowly but surely. Of that, you can be certain.
At any rate, Oloin¡¯s point was a simple one. I would be filled with power, but it would fall to me to define what form that power would take. The Iron Hoof¡¯s sole objective would be to ascend, but winning was only half of the equation. The other half would be what I would receive in return. Gods love to overawe mortals. They can¡¯t help themselves, for that adulation, that worship - that heady mix of disbelief and wonder - is something they crave. Not just as a metaphor, mind you: It actually gives them strength. For a warrior of the Twenty-Six Tribes, service would indeed have been its own reward, as Kayla had said. He would have fallen to his knees, grateful for the chance to serve. It would be enough for him to see Tarushukan¡¯s essence become one with the God-Maker, to join the Greater Game or whatever awaited Him beyond the horizon. Our hypothetical tribesman probably wouldn¡¯t even have cared about his survival. He¡¯d have given the entirety of his soul away, let himself grow bloated on Tarushukan¡¯s power until all that remained was the God¡¯s will. With his clan¡¯s future assured, it wouldn¡¯t matter if he fell over dead as soon as Tarushukan crossed the finish line - In fact, he may even have been counting on it. To die as the Horned Conqueror¡¯s champion would be a glorious thing, one that would be remembered forever in myth and song. It would most assuredly mean an idyllic afterlife, or so the priests said. But my priorities were different. The Graven Star weren¡¯t my clan, not in any way that mattered. They¡¯d certainly made it clear that they bore no particular affection for me, other than as a useful instrument in reaching their goals. Well, fuck ¡®em. Once I met the God, I would no longer had any use for them, either. At any rate, a bargain had to be struck. Boundaries would have to be set - Lines would have to be drawn. Either way, unless something went drastically wrong, I would walk away with a soul (however temporarily) full of power¡­ But I had to be sure that power would serve not just the God¡¯s ends, but my own.
A face peered down at me, from the wall at the end of the cave. I could have sworn that there had only been a blank expanse of rock before¡­But Tauruskhan had raised His huge open hand, and it was simply there. As if it¡¯d been painted a thousand years ago, and some trick of the light had kept it hidden all along. There was something oddly familiar about that face, something I couldn¡¯t quite place. It took a moment to click into place, but - when I did - I felt my gut clench like I¡¯d been punched. For, daubed in crude strokes that nonetheless conveyed a startling realism, was my own likeness. The vague curve of my jawline, the dull black hair cropped close to my skull, even the timid eyes that looked ever-so-cautiously upon the world¡­It was me, unnerving in its accuracy. Not as I was now, but as I¡¯d been. How I still saw myself, in my secret heart of hearts. ¡°Holy shit,¡± I murmured, disturbed in spite of myself. The torchlight flickered again, casting shifting shadows over the chamber, as the Horned Conqueror rose. Instinctively, I scooted back¡­But He merely lumbered towards the portrait, which I now saw was only half-complete. The outline of my own form was sketched in faint lines upon the cave wall, like a canvas awaiting its painter. Everything beneath the neck was blank, yet to be filled in. Tauruskhan had turned His back upon me, His shaggy mantle mounded like a bison¡¯s winter coat. In one hand, He held a hollowed, upturned human skull, the inside of the head layered with gold. Oily, viscous fluid swirled within it: Even from here, I could smell the petroleum reek of paint. The Iron Hoof stared at the mural, for a long, long time. Contemplating the work ahead, I suppose. The low, bass growl of the God¡¯s voice began at the base of my spine, reverberating through my bones. By the time it reached my brain, it became: You ask much, for a mortal. Let me tell you - I felt my bowels clench at that. But I¡¯d come this far, and I wasn¡¯t about to back down now. ¡°You want me to fight for you. More than that, you want me to win. Okay. I can do that. But there¡¯s only thing that matters to me, and-¡± A chuff of breath, almost dismissive. That great, horned head shook, like the branches of a centuries-old redwood in a gust. Thick fingers dipped into the bowl, and the viscous substance immediately responded to the God¡¯s touch. It slithered across Tauruskhan¡¯s fingers, until it coated His massive hand in a sanguine glove. The Lord of the Sacred Herd pressed His hand, palm flat, to my hollow likeness. Darkness spread from the mark He¡¯d made, filling the outline with a black, writhing mass. It seemed alive, almost, pulsating with a malevolent energy that sent tendrils of itself creeping across the wall. Like it was trying to escape its confining borders, to tear free of me. This, the bull-god rumbled, His voice resonating deep within the cave, is the sickness that devours you from within. I stared. You would have, too. The seething mass continued to writhe and pulse, as if in time to the beat of an unseen heart. There was something deeply unsettling about the almost-glow it shed, flickering with hints of crimson and midnight blue. The walls seemed to absorb the darkness, to feed it with each breath I drew. I felt a chill crawl up my spine. For the longest time, I¡¯d suspected something was wrong, of course. But to see it like this, to see barbed filaments unfurling from that grotesque black mass¡­In that moment, the cave felt like a prison of shadows, the bull-god¡¯s words echoing like a curse. ¡°Fuck,¡± I whispered, low. ¡°-Fuck.¡± What do you even say to that? With an idle gesture, Tauruskhan wiped His hand on his furs, the dark smear invisible against the pelts that draped His form. The Bringer of Fertile Fields turned to face me, across the shifting light of the flames: He hunkered down, His hands clasped and His elbows resting on His knees. It should have been an acutely human gesture. Instead, it reminded me of a bear or some rearing beast, weary of standing on two legs, dropping back down to fours. The power to heal you must be drawn from the lifeblood of My beloved children. Their strength will wane, their lands will wither, and they will succumb to sickness and death. Faint echoes whispered off damp stone, as Tauruskhan¡¯s words reverberated through the chamber. You have walked among them, lived amongst them for two seasons. His eyes, gleaming like hot coals, fixed upon me with animal curiosity. Could you truly countenance their suffering? Silence descended, broken only by the faint drip of water echoing in unseen crevices. I could feel the bull-god¡¯s gaze boring into me, a silent challenge amidst the glow of the inconstant flames. I could smell earth, hear the distant roaring of underground rivers, as I lifted my gaze to meet that unblinking stare- And I saw. Images flickered, in the dimness. Verdant plains turning barren, once-thriving villages reduced to husks. Once-great herds reduced to a few sickly yearlings, lowing in distress as they staggered beneath a bone-burning sun¡­ For a second or two, I could actually feel it. The weight of all those lives, piling on my back like a specter of consequence. What my choice would mean, for the Twenty-Six tribes. For the blood of Tulgar, for the Grazing Lands themselves. But I¡¯d played this game before, and I knew what it was. It¡¯s called Who blinks first? When someone¡¯s trying to get one over you, they¡¯ll do anything. Say anything. They¡¯ll have a myriad of reasons why you should give a shit about the Cause. Why it¡¯s the right thing to do as they tell you, without asking too many questions. Why you should go easy on them, just this one time, now that it¡¯s your turn to put the boot in. The secret, as with most things, is not to care. I made myself shrug. Shoulders straightening, my hands spread. ¡°I guess they¡¯ll just have to live with it,¡± I said, giving a sigh right from my guts. ¡°I¡¯m a simple man, you know? All that big picture stuff - I won¡¯t pretend that I understand it. Makes my head hurt, actually. I want something, I follow through¡­¡± I cocked my head to the side. ¡°-Or did you think I¡¯d work for free?¡± A low, guttural sound. Like distant thunder, or the seismic turmoil of a quake. I heard stone shift on stone, the air vibrating at the tumultuous noise. It echoed through the cavern, filling the vast space with a deep resonance that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once- Tauruskhan was laughing. The laughter of the bull-god was hard and dark, like slow machine-gun fire. It made my teeth ache, made pinpoints of pain flare in my bones as I endured it. The noise was so loud, my blood pounded in my skull - For a moment, I thought my ears were bleeding. That my head would burst. But then it stopped, as abruptly as it had begun, and the silence that came after was somehow worse. For silence could mean anything. I smiled and made myself keep smiling. A hearty, bluff smile - The kind of smile a hard man, a mercenary, a reaver should have. I felt my fingers twitch with the urge to fidget, but that would have been fatal. Instead, I simply waited, holding myself still. Thinking: Come on, come on, you bastard- And at last, the Supreme Herdsman said: And that is why I chose you, Morgan.
When you got down to it, Tauruskhan was a practical-minded God. He had His pride, but He also had a firm grasp on the realities of his circumstances. He didn¡¯t even try, the way Rastavia probably would have, to convince me that it was an honor to serve His will. Sure, he¡¯d tried to appeal to my conscience, but that was only to be expected. A shot across the bow, if you will. It may have worked on Alistair, but Alistair was young and full of fire, still imagining that he could leave the world a better place than it was before. Also, he wasn¡¯t fucking dying, which shifts your priorities somewhat. No, Tauruskhan¡¯s foremost concern was the cost. For there are rules, even for Gods. They prefer to move subtly and in mysterious ways, for it takes power to perform miracles. The power that comes from faith, accumulated over years of devotion. Momentary miracles, like a sudden surge of strength that turns the tide of battle, are as easy as they¡¯re fleeting. The same goes for bursts of flame or lightning, there and then gone - Such things are possible when a priest makes himself the channel for a God¡¯s power, letting it flow through him in a single flare of destruction. Healing is a different story entirely. To reach into someone, to make whole what is sundered, is already a monumental effort. But fixing me, saving me from the flawed process that was eating me up from within¡­That was a feat few Gods could perform. Most wouldn¡¯t even bother to make the attempt. It would have been easier, far easier, to strike me dead where I stood. Simpler, even. But Tauruskhan smiled upon results, and He wanted the best man for the job.
A pair of bone racks supported a long spit above the flames. I could have sworn it wasn¡¯t there before, but there was a joint of meat turning savoury red, with bread and salt and oil in small wooden bowls. It was a little too sweet and too soft to be beef, but I didn¡¯t mind. After the disorientation of my awakening, the awe and dread of being in Tauruskhan¡¯s presence, the hunger had come back in full force. It was the glimpse of my own deterioration that had done it, I think - A reminder of how much more I had to lose. As I¡¯ve said: There¡¯s nothing like a little bit of death to make you feel alive. The Horned God had turned back to His work, the shifting firelight lingering on His stony canvas. Now, I could see the skull-cups He used as His vessels, each one nearly full with pigment. He had been preparing for this for a long, long time. I took small mouthfuls from my bowl, scooping food with my fingers. It was good, the meat rich and dripping with juices, but it wasn¡¯t enough. Not even here, in the God¡¯s own house. That was deliberate, I think. Perhaps Tauruskhan could have taken away the perpetual sensation of almost-starvation, at least for a time¡­But He didn¡¯t, so I would remember what I stood to gain, and all I had to lose. The bull-god used His fingers as brushes, dipping them into a skull-pot of shimmering pigment. The paint seemed to glow, to pulse, squirming as if alive. For a moment, I wondered where it¡¯d come from. What, or who, it¡¯d been. For everything eats and is eaten, you see. Eulisia had taught me that: In her words, Phospiach was less the kingdom of the Gods, and more their granary. They held themselves above mortals, but they needed them too, the way a shepherd needs his flocks. And when the time came, they would harvest them. Use them, as thoroughly as a tribesman would employ every part of a slaughtered auroch, ensuring that nothing went to waste. The idea and image of the cave was more than a metaphor, more than merely vision - It was real, in every way that mattered, the domain of a singular deity. It was the place where He did He work. With a stately, deliberate grace, the God began to trace the outlines of my figure, each stroke leaving behind trails of a faint, half-glimpsed iridescence. As that great hand moved, the lines on the stone began to glow, to ripple, as if infused with a vitality of its own. As I looked on, I felt a tingling sensation course through my veins. Tauruskhan filled in my outline with swirls of color - Vibrant blues, deep greens, fiery reds - that seemed to shimmer and shift, like sunlight on running water. There were strange patterns daubed into the stone, runes as graceful and smooth as brushstrokes. They twisted and squirmed and crawled, sucking light from the air¡­ Watching, I understood this was magic, possibly of the oldest, most primal kind. I had been delivered into the Iron Hoof¡¯s hands, and with power carefully hoarded over the years, decades, centuries, He was opening the way. Sealing the pact between us. Sanctifying me, in a sense. I looked down at my hands, as the fire sputtered within the low ring of stones. Still stained with grease from my meal, they looked the way they always did. Scabbed, scarred and rough with callus from a hundred fights on a half-dozen different worlds, hard as brick. Once, the only thing they¡¯d touched was a keyboard. Now, they were the hands of a brawler, a fighter, someone who hit. But, despite the trembling heat that pulsed in my blood, they looked the same as always. Not for the first time, I wondered where I really was. I couldn¡¯t remember anything, after the priests had guided my lurching steps into the dark. There was a gap in my memory, one raw-edged and tender like a missing tooth. I wondered- Be still, came the rumbling growl. Stop your twitching and wriggling. With an effort of will, I curled my hands into fists. Settled them on my lap, balled against my knees, as I tried to ignore the sense of tiny sparks of fire prickling beneath my skin. I waited, clenching my jaw. It¡¯s something that has never come easy to me, even after five worlds and the years between them. On some level, at least, the need for instant gratification, for stimulation, never really goes away. Still, I fixed my gaze upon the distant point where shadows danced, focusing on the sound of Tauruskhan at work. In that dim, cavernous hollow, time lost its meaning: There was only the scrape of flesh-on-stone to break the silence, the bull-god¡¯s motions deliberate and measured. Each stroke felt like a whispered promise of something vast and untamed, something beyond mortal comprehension. It was strange to see something so large move with such delicacy, such precision. Like seeing a stainless-steel surgical tool gripped in the fist of a primate, or a diamond-cutter in the mouth of a wild dog.
Long minutes, stretching into an eternity. There was something timeless about this moment, like a splinter of frozen time. The dark within this carved fane, the fog-engulfed landscape outside¡­It could have been a thousand years ago, for all I knew. It could have been a million. I tried to focus on my rest cycle. Two hours of rest for every one of activation, they¡¯d drilled into me, back on Unity. An enhancile is less like a superhuman, and more like an expensive piece of equipment. Push the limits too hard, too fast, and you would break down. Hence, the need for rest and hypnotic auto-suggestion. If I did it right, I could maintain my blood pressure with biofeedback, nudge my endocrine system to adjust my hormonal balance, and engage the regenerative capabilities of my altered metabolism. Normally, a half-dozen para-physiologists would be on hand to monitor my stress levels. To administer the right complement of nootropic drugs and supplements needed to lull me into a meditative state. But since I¡¯d left them behind three worlds ago, I just had to make do with what I had. Clear your mind. Let calm wash over you, like a wave. No thoughts, just the infinite now. Well, I was thinking, all right. Mostly about my own mortality. Wondering how long I had left, wondering if this was the magic bullet I¡¯d be seeking. What form it would take, after I- The sounds had stopped. I waited a beat, just to be absolutely certain, then looked up. Tauruskhan had ceased His labor. His emberous eyes, like smouldering coals, remained locked on the dressed stone. The abstract figure, the one that was me, had been half-covered with intricate, spiraling designs. The contrast between the decorated half and the still-bare walls was oddly distressing, made more so by how they framed the seething, many-lobed blackness at my very core. ¡°Are you-¡± I began, greatly daring. Afraid to ask, but knowing I had to. I have barely begun. ¡°What?¡± Against all odds, I felt a sharp flare of impatience. What had He been doing all this time? The God snorted, like He¡¯d read my mind. A finger as long and thick as a truncheon pointed at the many-colored mosaic, drawing my eyes to the riot of ocher, crimson and azure. Strength, He said, tracing the single swipe of gleaming red that angled across my graven form. Unbidden, the flames danced, forming themselves into crackling images of raging bulls and fleeing, flailing figures, half-glimpsed and faceless. Fury, and the fires became an auroch in full rampage, trampling foes beneath thundering hooves. Will. A dozen buffalo, arrayed in a circle around their calves. Wickedly sharp horns pointing outward, locked in postures of ferocious and unwavering defense. Such are My blessings, made possible by the hecatomb. And yet- Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. A long, damned pause. It was, I realized, with a distant pang of unease, hesitation. Tauruskhan, despite all His puissance, didn¡¯t know what to do. ¡°Go on,¡± I said. Carefully, like I was on thin ice. ¡°-What is it?¡± Against him, it may not be enough. ¡°¡®Him¡¯?¡± Instantly, my mind went to Alistair. But it couldn¡¯t be, could it? I¡¯d left him behind, almost a year ago. Even then, I thought I¡¯d taken his measure. ¡°Say what you mean.¡± I was wrong, of course, but that would come later. Another unpleasant surprise waited in the wings. A sudden flare of flames threw the cavern into sharp relief, and in the harsh light, I saw. Saw the mighty figure, resplendent in armor, painted upon the other wall. It gleamed, adorned with silver and rippling gold. Seams of crystal glittered like gems upon the etched curves of cuirass and greaves, lines of stylized light radiating from a great spear like the rays of Phosphiach¡¯s sun itself. But mostly, I noticed the wings. Oh, I thought, as my heart sank. Oh, he¡¯s going to be a problem.
The funny part is, I never even considered that there could be three of us. It¡¯s not actually uncommon, or so I¡¯ve heard. The further in you go, the more worlds you cross, the stranger things get. How something like this could happen, though, I have no idea. Maybe it was a fluke, with metaphorical wires getting crossed somewhere. Or maybe it was meant to even things up, to turn a one-on-one fight into a free-for-all. My guess is, Jeru Ogai must have arrived around the same time I did. I know Alistair found his own way to Phosphiach a little earlier, giving him something of a head start¡­Not that he¡¯d used it wisely, I suppose. But Jeru was already causing quite the stir. He had big moves to make, after all, and he was just getting started. The destruction of the Ihulian Horde hadn¡¯t gone unnoticed. Word had traveled fast, carried not just by mortal messengers, but also by the spirits of earth, sky and war. Desperate to curry favor, more than a few had brought the unwelcome news to Tauruskhan. That, I think, was why I¡¯d been granted an audience with the Horned Conqueror. I¡¯d done my best to be discreet, but after the slaughter at the Temple of Rastuvia, it was easy to put two and two together. Oloin had known, after all, and it must have been easy for the truth to have been weaseled out of him, when he was deep in his cups. Hell, he probably spilled it himself, just to get a higher price from the Graven Star. At any rate, you could see the Supreme Herdsman¡¯s line of reasoning. Use a world-walker to fight a world-walker, and hope they cancel each other out. Tauruskhan, however, had quickly intuited a truth that others had yet to grasp. Thresholders aren¡¯t built equal: We are, each of us, the product of our experiences. I do a bit of everything, but I¡¯m mostly a strongman. Put me up against someone who can match my advantages, and I¡¯m in trouble. There was no doubt that Jeru would have a god on his side, too. Against that, mere strength would never - could never - be enough. You may be wondering why the Iron Hoof cared whether I lived or died. Why not take His chances, roll the dice, and write off His losses if he failed? Better still, why not consider this round a wash, and wait for His next chance? For a start, He was making a huge investment in me. It wasn¡¯t just the accumulated faith from decades of ritual, prayer and sacrifices, it was that Tauruskhan would have to put a part of Himself in me to seal the deal, a part that He would never get back. Like hacking off a hand. Sure, you can live without one, but you¡¯re going to feel that loss for a long, long time. And it¡¯s not like you have a lot of hands to spare, you know? More, He knew that this could very well be His only chance. After all, there had been gods before Tauruskhan, and there would be gods after. For centuries, He had the strength and cunning to fend off rivals and challengers, but the cult of the Divine Chief was becoming a bloated, unwieldy thing, hard to stir into action. It lacked the sheer dynamism of a younger god¡¯s following, one that had yet to fully calcify into endless rounds of ceremony and bureaucracy. If Tauruskhan¡¯s champion failed to reach the apex of the Platinum Spire, if He failed to Ascend¡­That could very well be the end of the Iron Hoof. Not at once, not in the near-present, but a slow, lingering descent into decrepitude and irrelevance, over the span of the next few decades. And to a god, that was no time at all.
¡°If you healed me,¡± I said, into the warm and muttering darkness. ¡°If you cured me, first, I could-¡± Not until you stand before the God-Maker. I squeezed my eyes shut. So much for that, then. ¡°...May I ask why?¡± I said, keeping my voice carefully level. A deep, hollow snarl came from the gloom. The god paced forward, the ground trembling beneath His weight, right up to the flames. It was so sudden, so unexpected, I shrank back from that looming figure, never quite illuminated by the ruddy firelight. The bass rumble in Tauruskhan¡¯s throat conjured primal fears - Being trapped, alone, with something huge and dark and hungry. Do you take Me for a fool, mortal? You are a venal soul, Morgan. A murderer, traitor and oathbreaker. A great fist thumped against the stony ground, like a thud like a falling anvil. You fear this man, as you fear all things mightier than you. Given the choice, you would do anything except face him. Even from here, I could smell the charnel stench of Tauruskhan¡¯s breath. Hear the deep, heaving pants of a huge animal filling its lungs. To pact with Me is to bring about My Will, or perish in the attempt. Let this be your goad: You will share in My triumph, or burn with Me in defeat. There was no arguing with that. Still, I held Tauruskhan¡¯s gaze for as long as I could. Unaccountably, as heart-hammering fear receded, I felt a sour pang of resentment. Because I knew what I was, really. Murderer and traitor¡­Fine. I could live with that. I¡¯d always done what was necessary to survive, and I¡¯d come to terms with that a long time ago. But oathbreaker? That stung. For I knew what the God meant, and the memory still rankled.
The Fifth World: Beyond the walls of Castle Marzvak, the capital burned. Last night, a thriving city. This morning, Bahr Madina was hell made real. Even here, I could hear the shuddering crash of siege engines at work, the clash of steel on steel. The hiss of arrows, the curses of the living and the cries of the dying¡­ And faintly, in the distance, the great wingbeats of the Zmei. Far too few, now, to make a difference¡­For the armies of twelve nations assailed the capital, and they numbered in hundreds of thousands. Forget pride and valor. Forget a martial tradition that stretched back two hundred years: This was the end of the Empire of Iron, and even their vaunted tagmata elite couldn¡¯t hope to stem the tide. The mamluks of the Verthandi and the janissaries of the Seran fought alongside their erstwhile masters, the way they always had. After centuries as the Empire¡¯s enforcers, they had no illusions about the fate that they faced- For there would be no quarter, not for them. No mercy. This had been a long time coming, and today was when all debts would be paid. Gilead¡¯s blood clung to the articulated plates of my eufibre armor, black against bone-colored polymer. His clammy, shaking fingers pressed to the great, gouting wound in his side, huge inhuman eyes gone hazy, fixed on something only he could see. The Esaal¡¯s exposed skin was a tangle of crawling serpents and spread birds¡¯ wings, his tattooed face a painted mask. The living ink of his tetza writhed against his flesh, trapped in their painted world. They squirmed against the geometric lines of oceans and skies, endlessly searching, searching, for sanctuary. For they knew their host was dying, and they were desperate for a way out. But it wasn¡¯t pain that twisted Gilead¡¯s taut, high-boned features - too drawn to ever be human - in sculpted anguish. It was shame. ¡°The insult,¡± he kept saying, his breath hissing between serrated teeth. He¡¯d been stabbed in the thigh, a great notch hacked from his pointed ears by a swinging sabre, but he barely seemed to notice. ¡°-the insult of it-¡± I had the Esaal¡¯s arm over my shoulder, half-dragging, half-carrying him. The wards of Gilead¡¯s luck-woven jerkin had dulled to a dim, sullen glow, their potency exhausted. They¡¯d been proof against spears, arrows and flame, but against the lethal bite of a shivered blade, they¡¯d failed him at last. Behind us, I could hear the Effrit cadre closing in. Given the conflagration engulfing the city, given the sheer number we¡¯d torn through, I didn¡¯t think there were any left - But clearly, some had survived, and they wanted our heads. Let me tell you, I hated those goggle-eyed freaks. Their First Sphere acrobatics were bad enough, but the Minister of Civic Order had seen fit to dope them to the gills with alchemical elixirs of her own devising. I had no idea what was in their inhaler rigs, but it made the Effrit utterly fearless and near-impervious to pain. You had to take them apart to make sure they stayed down, and of course they didn¡¯t make it easy for you. They¡¯d keep slashing at you with those barbed hooks of theirs, while the rest of their cadre stuck you full of quarrels from their airbows. Case in point: They were using those damned impalers again, firing blind through the smoke. The coughs of the launcher mechanisms, the cracks of bolt impacts, grew distressingly closer by the moment. I¡¯d seen the flightless darts pierce iron at close range, and I didn¡¯t feel like testing mine against another fusillade. Personally, I was just glad the damn things had never reached mass-production. Shafts flashed past us, their lethal whistle echoing in my ears. Two zipped overhead, the next one ricocheting from the wall with a brittle clang. Swearing, I swung round, shielding Gilead with my own armored bulk. Raised the Furstenburg, one-handed, aiming from the hip- Pulse rifle fire hosed the colonnade behind us, columns crumbling and exploding beneath the thunderous pummel of the weapon. I held the trigger down, arm locked against the strain, as the cone of shots sliced through the smoky air. In the distance, I saw a half-glimpsed figure stagger, lurching back, falling¡­ The incoming fire slackened, and I kicked open the door into the banquet hall. Someone had been here first: Mangled bodies lay twisted amongst the overturned chairs and banquet tables, most in palace livery. Two of the palace guard - the polished magenta of their silver-trimmed armor now sheeted with gore - had been done to death here. Like the rest, their corpses were rent and torn, as if by the claws of some great beast. One of Gilead¡¯s guerillas had come this way, I knew. Kairus, most likely. He had a bitter hatred for the Empire after what they¡¯d done to him, a hatred second only to Gilead¡¯s own. Shunning the rest of his warband, he¡¯d gone off alone to wreak havoc, to sow terror and confusion amongst the castle¡¯s defenders. Distantly, I wondered if he was still alive. If any of the Esaal commandos were still alive. Probably not. For him, and for so many others, this would be a one-way trip. ¡°Hold on-¡± Carefully, I eased Gilead to the ground, his back to the wall. He made no sound, but his features, already pale, went white. Blood trickled down his chin from where his teeth had sunk into his lip, like an echo of the hideous wound he¡¯d taken. The Prince-Imperial, Ramas Dar-Isun, had been of the Second Sphere. It made him more than merely mortal, his blade as swift as lightning and as venomous as a serpent¡¯s fangs. How the fuck did that even happen? I¡¯d used my last canister of synthskin to stop the bleeding, but it hadn¡¯t worked. The false flesh simply dissolved, refusing to cling fast and adhere. Gilead was bleeding out, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do for him. With a grunt, I dragged a chair to the door, shoved it under the doorknob to hold it fast. The Furstenburg swung on its strap, heat-sinks glowing cherry-red as I changed charge packs, replacing nearly-empty with almost-full. God, but I¡¯d burned through a lot of them today. I kept my head low, letting my hands move by instinct. Reconnecting the power feeds, watching the telltales go from yellow to green as charge trickled into the induction core. Stowing the empty packs in my chest-rig, making sure I¡¯d left nothing behind. Even then, I knew that the ones I carried were all I was ever going to get. The whole time, I felt a desperate helplessness gnawing away at me. For Gilead was dying, one slow, agonizing inch at a time, and I was utterly helpless to save him. He¡¯d been born nearly three hundred years ago, for God¡¯¡¯s sake. From my twenty-eight-year-old perspective, anything that old should have been indestructible. How could someone like him even die? And if he did, what did that mean for the world? ¡°...Neloiala¡­¡± A papery whisper, so soft I thought I¡¯d imagined it. I looked up, as a tremor coursed through the Esaal¡¯s pale form. His blackened eyelids flickered, revealing eyes sunk like glittering chips of ice in deep, hollow orbits. ¡°-Morgan¡­?¡± His voice rattled, trembled with the word. I was no medic, but I knew a pierced lung when I heard one. ¡°Don¡¯t talk,¡± I said. ¡°We¡¯re getting you out of-¡± He shook his head, the silver charms knotted into his ice-white braid chiming in time to the motion. There must have been a dozen of them, and I¡¯d only ever known them to make noise when Gilead willed them to. The eerie, almost funeral music they made¡­I didn¡¯t know what it meant, only that it was a bad sign. ¡°No¡­¡± he wheezed, between words. ¡°...too late¡­waited too long¡­too late for anything-¡± His long, many-jointed fingers spasmed, as a convulsion racked him. Gilead coughed, once, then again, bringing up a gout of bitter black blood that stank like ammonia. He¡¯d been holding something against his side, in his six-fingered fist. I looked, saw it was a tattered scarf. The intricate embroidery, too fine to be seen with the naked eye, had been obliterated by his blood. It was little more than a sodden rag now, but I placed my hand over it, kept it pressed against his wound, as though simple pressure alone could keep it closed. ¡°Neloiala¡­the horror¡­that abomination¡­¡± ¡°-It doesn¡¯t matter,¡± I said, through clenched teeth. ¡°Just hold on. We¡¯re about to have guards crawling all over us. I can¡¯t carry you and fight them at the same time-¡± Muffled shouts, on the other side of the door. Pounding footfalls, closing in. ¡°...The shame of it¡­the disgrace¡­¡± I slapped him. Open-handed, a stinging slap to the side of the face. ¡°Wake up! Get it together, idiot - We¡¯ve got no time for this.¡± I glanced down at the dark, spreading stain pooling against Gilead¡¯s side, shook my head. ¡°If we can''t find a healer, you¡¯re fucked.¡± His head lolled to the side, but the fog seemed to clear. Those colorless eyes came back into focus, thin lips drawing back from his teeth. For a moment, I glimpsed the fey intensity that had driven him on, the peculiar mix of hope and fury that had carried him all this way- Just fury, now. ¡°Morgan,¡± he rasped, wheezing through split lips. His eyes met mine, bleak venom in his voice - One paper-skinned hand clutching my own, gripping with all his failing strength. The tetza had squirmed down his arm and over his hand, circling endlessly in their realm of dying ink. ¡°-There¡¯s something¡­need you to do¡­for me.¡± He told me, then, and I felt my blood run cold.
I could have tried to explain myself. Could have spoken of how some oaths had to be made, yet were impossible to keep. Instead, I looked away from the looming thunderhead of Tauruskhan¡¯s presence. Away from the flames that writhed between us, and back to the half-painted rendering of myself. And I said: ¡°-Is that all?¡± I felt the shift of Tauruskhan¡¯s focus. A settling back, a slow uncoiling, like some telluric beast settling on its haunches. A grumble, from the dark. You would mock a God? ¡°Fuck no,¡± I said, forcefully. ¡°No way in Hell.¡± I wanted there to be absolutely no doubt on that front. None at all. Forget even the idea of defiance: Tauruskhan could crush me like a bug, and we both knew it. ¡°I¡¯m not trying to get out of this. I¡¯m not trying to get out of anything. But if I¡¯m going to win this¡­I¡¯ll need more.¡± If this is some scheme- ¡°No, I mean it,¡± I said, slowly. ¡°You said it yourself - Strength, fury and vigor isn¡¯t going to be enough. Not against Jeru Ogai, if he¡¯s all you say he is. Fair enough: I accept that. I¡¯ll take all you can give me¡­¡± The beginnings of an idea flickered within me, as I spoke. It¡¯d been a while since I¡¯d had to use my head. I was so used to being strong, I¡¯d almost forgotten that I could be smart, too. Sometimes. When it mattered. ¡°-But what other gifts can you bestow?¡± A pause. There was a subtle shift in the air, now. An imperceptible, but palpable, lightening of the atmosphere. I had piqued His curiosity, after all, and that warranted a moment¡¯s indulgence. Slablike fingers gestured towards the fire, and there was a crackle of splitting wood. Flames and sparks roared up, so hot I flinched back- But something was moving, at the heart of the flame. Strange, molten shapes twisted with the blaze, swipes and spirals of hungry yellow and leaping red. The steaming runes were like no language I had ever seen or read, but I knew them all the same.
It was, I suppose, a retelling and an answer at once. The tale of Tulgar the Invincible, unfurling itself before me. His life, not just as legend, but as an allegory for the divine essence of Tauruskhan Himself. For they were inextricably entwined, you see. Tulgar was no mere fable, not just a half-mythic ancestor receding into the mists of history. He had been a real man, one born from the humblest of beginnings, whose rise to King-of-Tribes had been hand-in-hoof with the Supreme Herdsman¡¯s own ascent. I saw it all. How Tulgar had lived the first twelve years of his life as a humble cowherd with a clubfoot and hunched back. Reduced to poverty after his father¡¯s death from plague, he and his three siblings faced starvation¡­Until one dark night on the steppe, he¡¯d cried out to anything that would listen, swearing eternal loyalty for a full stomach and respite from the cold. Tulgar had been desperate, dreadfully so. Desperate enough to offer up everything he was and might ever be, as long as he was delivered from this doom. Something heard. Something answered. Salvation had arrived in the form of an auroch. Old, limping, half-blind, it was still a fearful thing for a thirteen-year-old to face. Yet hunger gave Tulgar the strength he needed to triumph, and the auroch¡¯s death had meant life for his family. It meant death for others, too. Tulgar and his siblings became bandits, waylaying the weak and the unfortunate. They got away with it for the longest time, too, mostly because they sought not just plunder, but sacrifice. Whispers on the wind told of what the spirits craved, and the rewards they offered. In time, and after too many petty deaths to count, Tulgar and his kin had gathered a tribe of their own. Outcasts, criminals and heretics, mostly - the cast-offs of a dozen different clans. But it had given them the numbers they needed, to range further afield, to strike and seize what they desired. Of course, this couldn¡¯t last. The reavers were as rife with rivalries and dissension as any such group could be expected to be. More, Tulgar faced challenges of his own, too. While he was the oldest of his siblings, his deformities marked him as less¡­Especially when his younger brothers, growing tall and straight and true, began to have ambitions of their own. They squabbled, the way all siblings do. Over food, over the right to leadership, over the direction their lives would take. Only Tulgar, however, had visions of something more. Only Tulgar saw the steppe for what it was, and what it would be. When the whispers made an offer, Tulgar was all-too-happy to accept it. Promises were made, and a pact was struck. After one particularly successful raid, a great feast was thrown. The bandit clan made free with the spoils of their raids, celebrating with the abandon that comes from not knowing whether your next day will be your last. Strong drink flowed freely, too. Perhaps a little too freely, for few realized that the bitterness to their ale, as dark and rich as blood, came from more than its savor. By the time the sun rose, none remained¡­Except for a stooped, hunchbacked almost-man, one who vanished into the caves that honeycombed the Firepeaks. As if he¡¯d never been. The clubfooted boy was never seen again. But a month later, a lean, bronzed man - strong of limb and quick of eye - had ridden out of the mists. He bore with him the heads of three notorious and hated bandits, brothers all, their foul lives ended at the point of his sword. To look upon him, to see his well-made features, that frame that rippled with heroic strength, left no doubt that he was so obviously the very incarnation of Old Honor. None knew what tribe he hailed from, but the People embraced him as their own. None who resisted him possessed a fraction of Tulgar¡¯s will, let alone his cunning or strength. In the span of a single furious summer, he crushed all those who would oppose him, leading an ever-growing army beneath his standard: A great, rampant bull. But Tulgar was not just mighty and wise. He had a boundless love for his People, too - Their blood, he said, being far too sacred to be squandered. He murdered only those who needed to be murdered, turning his honorable enemies into his most loyal of chieftains. Those who stood with him, or yielded to his will, were raised high. Those who would not bend would be enslaved or broken. Yet Tulgar sought not just to become another chieftain, but to unite the Holy Steppe under his banner. To make the People one. A tempest was upon them, he claimed, and the People would need all their Sons to stand together as one. United in blood, in arms, and most importantly of all, in faith. Faith, in Tulgar¡¯s totem. In the God that had guided his steps, that had made him mighty. The Great Horned One. Tauruskhan.
My eyes burned and stung, but I kept them open all the same. Pain has and always will be the price of revelation, the mystics might say¡­ Or, as we call it: No pain, no gain. The rest of Tulgar the Invincible¡¯s life unfurled itself before me. His many conquests, on the battlefield and the bedroom alike. The slaughter of all seven of the Sons of Seathe. The triumphant siege of the fortress-city of Balian, and the terrible bloodletting that had followed. Claiming the mighty blade Therzary, a sword against which no armor could stand. The defeat of the pretender-god Ozanam and his howling hordes, the sky darkened by thousands of arrows. The People coming together as one, the ancestors of the Twenty-Six Tribes raising a mighty shout to the skies¡­ ¡°Stop,¡± I said. ¡°-Stop.¡± And all of a sudden, the visions receded. At last, I could look away from the flames. Dark spots danced in my eyes, but I blinked them away, my mind sorting through all I¡¯d seen. For it wasn¡¯t just a saga, or even the highlights of Tulgar¡¯s career as an all-conquering warlord. Everything I¡¯d witnessed was an aspect of the Iron Hoof¡¯s power, which the God had bestowed upon His first and greatest champion. Each fragment, each splinter of the past, held the key to one divine gift or another. When Tulgar had wrestled Lodenz of the Crags, when his last, desperate lunge had driven the giantkin over the edge of a cliff and onto the waiting rocks below, the moment was forever immortalized. To follow that thread was to seize the echo, to have it invested into myself as a charge that drove all before it. I made a mental note to keep an eye on that one, for later. It looked pretty promising. When Tulgar sent a thousand head of cattle stampeding into the flank of Mahesvara¡¯s faltering army, that epic victory was remembered in more than tale and song. Something of those lowing, stampeding beasts, their horns dipped in burning pitch and set alight, remained - If I chose, I could bind the wills of the aurochs and their kin to my own, just like he had. There was far more than that, of course. Tulgar¡¯s legendary ravaging of his hundred-strong harem, a long and involved process that had taken five days and nights, granted both unflagging vigor and¡­unflagging ¡®vigor¡¯, if you get my point. But it also meant fertility, and a bestowal of a certain measure of power upon all offspring sired. Not that I was going to pick that one, of course. I have absolutely no problems on that front, and anyone who says differently is a filthy liar. The moment I kept coming back to, however, was an earlier one. The first years of Tulgar the Invincible¡¯s life, when he¡¯d merely been Tulgar Club-foot, were hazier around the edges than what followed. Less colorful, less vivid, even though they¡¯d been shown in exacting detail. Perhaps it was merely the passage of time, which erodes all things. But, as someone who¡¯d done his share of shitty, awful things before, I knew it was more than just that. I knew shame when I saw it. You see, Tauruskhan didn¡¯t like remembering those days, when His existence had hung by a thread. When He¡¯d been little more than a voice borne on the wind, all too vulnerable to being ignored or brushed aside. So it went for Tulgar, whom He preferred to remember as an all-conquering hero, a steely-eyed warlord without par. A heart-breaker, a life-taker, who gripped the world firmly by the throat. But it is our origins that define us. More anything, they shape the course of our lives. Which was why that moment kept replaying itself, before my eyes. The last feast, and everything that had come after. Had Tulgar felt guilt about what he had done? Had he known, even then, that it would follow him all his days? Cain, three times over, carrying Abel over endless fields of salt. ¡°That one,¡± I said. ¡°-I want that one.¡± There was a whuff of indrawn breath, as Tarushukan¡¯s burning eyes swiveled to regard me. The weight of His gaze was crushing: He didn¡¯t speak again for what felt like minutes, and when He did- For what purpose? His voice came like the grinding of stones beneath the earth. I could understand the God¡¯s consternation - After all, it was an unlikely choice. At a glance, when you could choose between control over all bovines, vomiting flames as black as pitch, being warded against harm by the rune-marked hide of the Horned Conqueror¡¯s own herd¡­Well, the power to conceal yourself after a revel was a lot more niche. It wasn¡¯t invisibility, not really. More like being beneath notice, dismissed as a threat for as long as the effect lasted. Carousing from sunrise to sunset would ward you until the next day dawned, which meant a lot of eating, drinking and rutting to make it worthwhile. Useful in a pinch, but certainly not as good as Tauruskhan¡¯s greatest gift - The manifestation of the God¡¯s own war-form. Imagine it: A four-armed, twelve-foot tall avatar of ruin, like the Minotaur of Greek myth. Sheathed in hide as thick as steel plate, crowned with obsidian horns that could pierce stone. A near-tireless engine of destruction, ready to rip apart anything that inflamed its hair-trigger temper. I have to admit, I nearly picked that one. Tulgar had favored it, particularly in his later years, when even his God-granted frame had weakened from the ravages of age. He¡¯d grown more impatient as he aged, relying less on wisdom and more on the gifts bestowed upon him¡­And, most of the time, it¡¯d worked. That was how Tulgar had died, in fact. Nearly two centuries old, he knew that the Battle of Saurum would, live or die, be his last. And so he¡¯d called upon Tauruskhan one last time, as the men of the Twenty-Six Tribes clashed with the forces of the legendary tactician Leo Diaconis. Leo¡¯s complex stratagems had been undone by sheer maddened strength, the Sons of Tulgar suffering horrific losses as they rode down the Gorigracian phalanxes and put their warriors to the sword. Somewhere in that maelstrom of blades and arrows, Tulgar had drawn his last breath, his white-furred god-form impaled by a half-dozen spears. But he¡¯d lived long enough to see his ox-tail banner raised straight and true. To watch as Koran, son of Jarrow, had taken Diaconis¡¯ head. In the end, Tulgar had held on just long enough to see final victory, even if he wasn¡¯t part of it. Don¡¯t you love a happy ending? All I can say is, those who claim that brains beat brawn clearly weren¡¯t using enough brawn. But an idea had sunk its hooks into me, and I¡¯d decided to run with it. ¡°Call it¡­the miracle of lowered expectations,¡± I said, with all the certainty I could muster. ¡°He¡¯ll be ready for strong - So let¡¯s try something he won¡¯t be expecting. Let¡¯s try smart, for a change.¡± You think deception will suffice? Against Adrijanopolj¡¯s most favoured son? The light in His burning eyes was very far away. Remote as the faintest stars. Contemplative, almost. Like that absolute presence was turning inward, considering the weight of my words. Or perhaps He was looking upon times long-past, of the deal struck between a deformed hunchback and a God-that-was-yet-to-be. ¡°It¡¯s worked for me this far, hasn¡¯t it?" I angled my chin, smiling in a way that bared teeth. Let my voice drop, becoming softer, more intimate. ¡°You may be God of the Twenty-Six Tribes, but I know more about this than you do. More than you possibly can. That¡¯s nothing against you, Great Tauruskhan - But this is my whole life.¡± I drew a long, deep breath. ¡°This is the sixth world I¡¯ve fought my way across. This is the sixth time I¡¯ll be doing this, and I¡¯ve gotten good at it. Exceedingly good. There¡¯s nothing, nothing I know better. You¡¯re betting my life and your future on what happens at the Platinum Spire¡­Which means you need to trust me. Trust me, the way you trusted him.¡± I paused, to let the words sink in. ¡°Do this for me, and I promise you: I¡¯ll give you the victory you need. I¡¯ll put Jeru Ogai in the dirt.¡± The dark mass of huddled furs stirred. After an interminable wait, the growled answer came. Make it heart-truth, or not at all. That, at least, I could do. I raised my hand - my right hand, my sword-arm - and pressed it against my heart, to make it Truth. ¡°I swear it,¡± I said. Somewhere, there was a dull, distant rumble of thunder, as if to mark the oath I¡¯d made. I could actually feel the weight of it on my shoulders, the momentary tightness that gripped my chest. I was committed, now. All the way to the end. But wasn¡¯t that always the way? An immense arm reached across the firepit, over the crackling flames. Something gleamed, in Tauruskhan¡¯s great hand. A silver bowl, full of a liquid so dark it looked like ink. I could smell the iron in it, a coppery, earthy stench that could only be blood. Drink. I stared. Looking down at that enormous hand, those huge fingers curled around the lip of the vessel. For a moment, I wondered - distantly, stupidly - whether it was the paint He had been using. Now that I think about it, perhaps it was. I may not have been a canvas, but I would be reshaped by Him all the same. Once, perhaps, that idea might have turned my stomach. But I¡¯d come too far to turn back now. I took the drinking bowl from His hand, and drained it in a long swig. Surprisingly, the taste was nearly tolerable: A rich melange of almost-identifiable flavors, of salt and pine. It was thicker than water, full-bodied and almost mouth-coatingly dry, lingering on the palate as I lowered the vessel. That wasn¡¯t so bad, I thought, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. ¡°That wasn¡¯t-¡± I stopped. It was growing dark, all of a sudden. The flames flickered low in the firepit, the shadows at the corner of my vision pooling blacker. I felt a wave of weakness, of nausea, sweep across me, all at once, as a sickly heat spread beneath my skin. My blood thumped louder, louder in my ears. The fire was in me, now - In my guts, in my bones, like I¡¯d swallowed molten metal. What¡¯s- The bowl slipped from my nerveless hand. I never heard it hit the ground, as a sudden vise clenched around my heart. My limbs felt impossibly heavy: I tried to speak, tried to stand, but all that came out were strangled, choking noises. The world folded sideways, as I toppled. I hit the ground hard, the great, soundless impact shooting stars through my vision. The fingers of one hand scraped at the ground, digging little furrows in the stone. It felt like my skin was blistering, peeling back, shredding, as the fire ate me from inside out. Oh God, this is death, and it hurts hurts hurts- Do not fear, came the God¡¯s deep, sonorous voice, out of the looming grey fog. You suffer not the pain of unmaking, but the agony of rebirth. Go forth, My champion. Go forth, and bring Me what is Mine. And then the idea and the image of the cave folded out of being, and the howling dark rushed in to claim the place it left.
It was not a gentle awakening. It was the stench that hit me first - A vile, butcher-shop funk that stank of stale copper and carbolic. Wine-dark liquid, warm as human flesh, swirled around me. It washed over my face, entered my mouth as I floundered, limbs thrashing as I struggled to right myself. Flashes of light. Voices raised in surprise and wonder. I broke the surface coughing and gasping, sputtering for air. My hands struck out, lashing, fumbling, until they found a curving wall of smooth stone. For one desperate moment, my fingers scrabbled against it, trying to find purchase- But then I was going under again, sinking into rust-colored waters. Lungs burning with the need for air, I saw the world through blood, and then only blood as the mire closed over my head. A hand seized me by the wrist, and someone, somewhere, shouted: ¡°He rises!¡± It was only the first of many. Grasping at my arms, my shoulders, any part of me they could reach. Half-drowned, I was hauled from the pool, and cast down onto the stone beside it. For a long while, I lay there, gasping like a beached fish. My whole body shuddered from the shock of waking, as I retched and coughed my lungs clear. Horns sounded as I looked up, uncomprehending. I beheld a world lit by flickering torches, the smoke of offerings rising like incense to the midnight sky. The stone dais around me was clear and empty, but rang with the sound of thousands of yelling tribesmen. For one wild moment, I thought the baying crowd was about to charge me, to rip me to pieces¡­ But no. They were cheering, yelling. Howling in joy and wonder, the great host seized by a fever of religious ecstasy. The firelight danced on bloody, upthrust hands, faces marked by gore. Even as my breath smoked and steamed in the air, bull-priests in their fantastic raiment and bone-masks were hurrying forward to tend to me. A robe of linen (white, to show the blood) was pulled over my nakedness, as they helped me to my feet. Did I mention I was naked? Before, I hadn¡¯t even noticed. Above, the hundred sacrifices of the hecatomb twitched as they bled out. Blood pattered down into the natural pool I¡¯d just emerged from, along channels cut into the stone. There¡¯s less blood in a cow than you might think, but the flood seemed endless - Another miracle of the Supreme Chieftain, no doubt. Already, priests were ladling blood out of the stone basin into bronze bowls, to be flung into the crowd. The sight of it would have made me nauseous, but everything at that moment seemed like a fever dream. I felt different, somehow, changed in a way that made everything feel raw-edged and brittle¡­But the edge-of-starvation hunger was still there, my constant companion, twisting my guts into knots. Somewhere amid all the confusion, I glimpsed a face - a real face - and reached out to grab his sleeve. ¡°I met Him,¡± I rasped out, finding my voice at last. It sounded old and rusty, barely more than a whisper. ¡°I spoke with Him-¡± High Priest Praya did an awful thing. He smiled, his eyes glittering with some unknowable emotion. Joy? Belief? Envy? Maybe it was all three. ¡°Of course He did,¡± he said, untroubled by the red stains my hand left on his arm. ¡°After all, are you not are His greatest instrument?¡± He watched me, unblinking, as his acolytes pried my fingers free. As they half-carried, half-dragged me away, the rampant crowd parting before us like the Red Sea, back into the waiting fastness of the Iron Hoof¡¯s first and greatest temple. TO BE CONTINUED Chapter 7: The Battle of Dalat (Part I) ¡°I distrust those people who know so well what God wants them to do, because I notice it always coincides with their own desires.¡± ¨D Susan B. Anthony Chapter 7: The Battle of Dalat (Part I) You¡¯d think that being Tauruskhan¡¯s exalted champion, His anointed and sanctified weapon, would have come with a respect befitting my status. Men bowing and scraping, maybe. Women falling at my feet. As it turned out, it wasn¡¯t quite like that. At best, what I got was a kind of great and apprehensive interest. Before, my manly virtues - Strength, a certain aptitude at breaking faces, the ability to endure wholly disproportionate amounts of punishment - had bought me respect from the tribesmen. Now, however, the few I saw treated me with a mix of awe and wary caution. Not that I had a chance to meet many of them, of course. After my ordeal, the Temple of Krata, carved from the living stone of the sacred Firepeaks, became my new home. Careful divination had narrowed down the fated time to a matter of weeks after the autumnal equinox, and there was much to do in the months that remained. Even with God-granted healing, even with the flesh-ward, it took me almost a while to recover. Now, you might think that I would be feasted and feted constantly, and I was kind of hoping for the same. Instead, I spent almost the entire time getting something of a crash course in thaumaturgy, mostly under the tutelage of High Priest Praya himself. It was, to my surprise, mostly practical. Praya was a no-nonsense man, refreshingly straightforward. He knew that the task ahead was the culmination of everything up to this point, the thing Tauruskhan desired above all else, and you best believe he was sweating bullets to make sure I was up to the challenge. Obviously, I was highly-motivated. My life was on the line, after all. I was in it to win it, and all those other old chestnuts. I couldn¡¯t skate by on mere survival alone, not this time. I actually had to come out on top, or I could kiss any chance of a cure good-bye. Fortunately, the subject was a fascinating one. In brief, I now held within me a pool of divine power. Unlike a priest, who had to pray and chant and make the appropriate invocations to call upon Tauruskhan¡¯s might, I could simply channel His essence through the gifts that had been bestowed upon me. Much faster. Much more efficient. Way less waving of hands and incense-burning. Even better, with Tauruskhan¡¯s attention fixed firmly on me, the pool was a self-renewing one. I didn¡¯t have to offer up sacrifices or spend hours in prayer to renew my connection to the source. As long as I lived, as long as our pact remained intact, the Bull-God would keep on pumping me full of carefully-hoarded power, limited only by the amount I could hold at once. It would take time to replenish my reserves, of course. If too much divine fire was poured into me at once, I¡¯d go up in flames. Sure, my enhanced form meant that I could take more than, say, a warrior-priest of Tauruskhan¡­But it was better not to red-line the engine unless I absolutely had to. Still, this was a rare chance to spend someone else¡¯s money, and I intended to take as much advantage as I could. Some of the God¡¯s gifts would come easily. There¡¯s a reason why warriors pray for strength and stamina, they¡¯re so fundamental that it¡¯s hard to go wrong with them. As a matter of fact, pretty much any problem can be resolved with sufficient brute force. Others, however, would require study and instruction to unlock. The unstoppable charge, the war-cry that ruptured eardrums and shattered wills alike¡­You needed to get into a certain mindset to use them, to draw upon what lay within. Like learning to drive, or doing a trust fall. Once you figure out the trick of it, you never forget. There was, however, no way to test the gift I¡¯d chosen over all the others.
Now, if I¡¯d been of the blood of Tulgar, things might have been different. My family would have been showered with all honors, my lineage marked for greatness. Instead, Chieftain Shahin knew I wouldn¡¯t be hanging around for much longer, and acted accordingly. The Graven Star had power to consolidate, after all - They were now top dog, and a host of duties awaited. They had to plan for the future, and that future certainly didn¡¯t include me. I¡¯m told that my absence was a conspicuous one. There¡¯s a first time for everything, I suppose. More importantly, it was what my absence meant that was causing something of a stir. You see, if I succeeded at what I was meant to do, if I actually pulled this off- ¡­Well, Tauruskhan would be gone forever. If you think about it, the idea was a pretty bleak one. Sure, part of Him would remain: The Bull-God¡¯s power was a function of the combined devotion of His supplicants. His priests and shamans would still channel that power to perform miracles by praying to His image, in much the same way Eulisia and her Strawmaidens still venerated the shade of Pa¡¯quan. But the greater part of Tauruskhan would depart for greener pastures, and He would leave His people behind. His priesthood would no longer commune with the Horned Conqueror in the flesh, and His people would be denied His vigilance and protection. The God wasn¡¯t just abandoning the Twenty-Six Tribes. He was using them as¡­a kind of launchpad, I guess. Centuries of worship and careful cultivation, entire generations of the faithful come and gone, and Tauruskhan was about to cash in His chips and walk away from the table. And, to really stretch this already-strained metaphor, I¡¯d be hitching a ride on His wagon. ¡°Yet the world will continue to turn,¡± Praya said, after another lesson. He released a long, slow sigh, gazing into the distance - His eyes empty of all feeling, except a kind of bleak resignation. ¡°The People will endure, as they must. And we, the Faithful, shall tend to them as we always have.¡± I wondered about that. Would it be enough to sustain Praya¡¯s already-prolonged existence? What need does an absent God have for a high priest? I suspect Praya was thinking much the same thing. Still, even though he was very likely facing the end of everything he¡¯d ever known, the white-bearded hierophant was surprisingly sanguine about the matter. ¡°I may not have been there at the beginning,¡± he said, in that oh-so-compelling voice of his, resonant with conviction. ¡°-But I shall be there at the end. To see the Supreme Chieftain Ascend, to take His rightful place in the firmament¡­That would be my life¡¯s purpose, fulfilled.¡± And he meant it, you know. He really did.
On Phospiach, the idea of worshiping a higher being for their moral standard, as something you strove for, had never quite taken off. Men didn¡¯t worship the myriad Gods because they were virtuous, they worshiped them because they were demonstrably powerful. The cultists of, say, Rhohdohr, didn¡¯t make offerings to the Stormgod because he was a paragon of morality. They did so because He shared His lightnings with those who pleased Him, and because they were afraid He would fuck with them if they didn¡¯t. As you can guess, almost all the petty and not-so-petty deities were the same story. They demanded worship by dint of their power, and they got it by demonstrating what they could do. And, you know¡­I¡¯m okay with that. Really, I am. Sure, the Gods of Phospiach were bickering and petty at best, and outright cruel and predatory at worst, but at least you knew where you stood with them. The presumption that we worship our Gods because they¡¯re what we aspire to be¡­Well, to be frank, that¡¯s something that¡¯s never quite sat right with me. Everyone¡¯s got an angle. Everyone. If someone says differently, they¡¯re lying. That¡¯s my experience, anyway. I¡¯ve been to six worlds - Seven, if you count Earth - and nothing I¡¯ve seen has ever disabused me of that notion. Which is why Praya¡¯s words really got to me, shook me with their calm sincerity. You see, Praya knew his God was about to drop him like a bad habit. He knew that his people were going to be cut loose, that they would soon face a period of strife and chaos unlike anything they¡¯d ever known. He knew that he, Praya, was very likely going to die. Probably in great agony, as Tauruskhan turned His face from His highest of priests, and towards the waiting heavens. He knew all that, and Praya loved Him anyway. That¡¯s faith for you. Some people really do deserve a better class of God.
In the span of eight days, I was as recovered as I was ever going to be. Not fully, of course - Sure, the healers of the Iron Hoof¡¯s own fane had made free with their ointments and elixirs, and the scar-ward had done for the wounds they¡¯d missed. But they only dealt with the fleshly harm I¡¯d suffered, not the creeping degeneration that was consuming me from within. I could feel it, now. The bouts of inexplicable dizziness that swept across me, at the least convenient of times. The beginnings of a waxy, grey pallor to my skin, the prickling numbness at my hands and feet. I¡¯d been briefed on this. I knew the signs. They weren¡¯t serious, not yet. With the proper regime of meditation and beta-correctives, the damage could be limited. I would retain my faculties for a handful of years to come, more if swift and decisive action was taken. If I submitted to decommissioning and chromatin intervention, over the span of the next few months, my prognosis was even good. Unfortunately, I¡¯d left the last gene-therapy lab behind, three worlds ago. There would be no half-measures, except for the light at the end of a very long tunnel. Watch for the tremors, I told myself. When you get the shakes, you know it¡¯s getting bad. That would be the first indication that I was running out of time. The neurological changes, however, would be harder to detect: The anhedonia, the black moods, the bouts of hyper-aggression. How would that interact with Tauruskhan¡¯s blessing? I would find out soon, I supposed. Most probably after some terrible, accidental interaction between Unity-era science, divine power and infernal sorcery fucked me over in new and exciting ways.
As you can guess, despite my victory, I wasn¡¯t in the best of moods. Oh, I may have pretended otherwise, with bravado...But I was tired, soul-weary, longing for something I couldn¡¯t name. Now and then, I thought about Lyun Ri-na, whom I¡¯d left - abandoned - back on Unity. I like to say that I didn¡¯t have a choice, not really. Battered, stabbed and bleeding out, it¡¯d taken all I had left to crawl through the portal, away from Ryan Trent. Away from death, really, because they were one and the same. Had she survived the cataclysm that had descended on City Zero? Did House Hun-Du still rule from the White Point? For all I knew, she still dwelt - now and forever - at the Panopticon, doing what she¡¯d been bred to do. Watching the crimson skies, that remarkable mind forever vigilant, awaiting the slightest fluctuation that threatened an infraspace breach. I remembered that last night on Tenba, three weeks before Ryan and his insurgents made their move. She¡¯d just emerged from a two-month cycle of de-animation, wan and drawn from the stresses of communion with the city systems. Like her fellow Augurs, part of her slipped away, each time they put her under: She was never quite the same when they brought her back. The sensory deprivation of the experience made Ri-na restless, eager for diversion. But until her bloodwork was done, until it was clear that she had a clean bill of health, the medica wards would be her home for the foreseeable future. In some ways, those grey, numberless days were worse than her time on ice. She dreamed of music, of crowded streets and the wind through the trees, which made the cold, quiet walls of her confinement feel all the more like a prison. ¡°This will never work,¡± Aris Marsh had told me, softly-glowing eyes sympathetic. Like me, he was delta-class, but there was no disguising his inhumanity. The overgrown gigantism of his form made him a tragic giant, his face oddly equine from his warped proportions. ¡°You¡¯ll have weeks together, at best¡­And that¡¯s if you¡¯re lucky. You¡¯ll drift apart, sooner rather than later - I¡¯ve seen it happen. Four cycles a year, and that¡¯s not counting the time spent in fugue¡­How long will you wait for her, eh? How long before you get sick of loving from afar?¡± I¡¯d listened to him. Really, I had. Perhaps the knowledge of the obstacles, of all the barriers in the way, had made it all the more appealing to the doomed romantic in me. Familiarity, after all, breeds contempt: There¡¯s a peculiar appeal in longing for something you know is impossible, pining for someone you can never truly know. Mostly, it was because Ri-na was beautiful. Fair hair almost silver, pale skin smooth and flawless, her eyes grey like rain. That had been irresistible to me - She¡¯d seemed ethereal, otherworldly, impossibly exotic. Like one of Marquis ¨¦ighir¡¯s daughters, I suppose, though I¡¯d never had a chance with any of them. I remember how small she¡¯d looked, one of my too-large shirts draped over her form as she sipped from a cup of steaming broth. Both hands curled around the mug, her pert nose wrinkling at the taste - It was a revitalizing fluid, meant to ease the distemper of awakening, but she¡¯d always complained about the taste. ¡°Tell me,¡± she would say, her bare legs dangling over the lip of the bed. ¡°...What made today worth living?¡± It was a joke we shared, I suppose. We never talked about the future, when we were together. It was enough to take each day as it came, knowing that now was all we had. By Ri-na¡¯s reckoning, if the day wasn¡¯t worth getting out of bed for¡­Well, obviously you were doing something wrong. ¡°Can you have no regrets, Morgan? In this life? None at all?¡± Did I love her? I don¡¯t know, but I think I really, really wanted to. Part of me longed to feel that bittersweet mix of joy, yearning and despair that invariably came with true emotion, instead of the earthier, more visceral sensations of (say) punching someone¡¯s head in. I was reminded of a poem I¡¯d heard once, a long, long time ago. A fragment, really: A lightning flash... then night! Fleeting beauty, by whose glance I was suddenly reborn- Will I see you no more before eternity? At that time, it¡¯d seemed at the time like the height of sad sophistication, the confirmation of all my darkest, most dramatically adolescent ideas of myself and the nature of love. Ri-na had laughed - a low, soft laugh - when I¡¯d (in my halting, faltering way) quoted it to her. ¡°You¡¯re too sentimental,¡± she¡¯d said, chiding me, though her smile had taken the sting from her words. She was too good for me, and I knew it. The nature of her circumstances, her half-and-half existence, meant that she was (in her own way) desperate to be loved. To be valued, to be adored for herself, rather than for her role as a small but essential part of the city¡¯s defenses. Even by someone like me. On the few days we had together, we would walk through the blue twilight, listening to the babble of the crowds above the hum of the trams and cafe music. I remember beautifully-dressed people, carefree in their lingering. Men wearing suits without ties, hand-in-hand with women in light dresses of swirling colors. When the fountains bloomed, great plumes of water would swirl and dance, as if conjured by some invisible hand. And then there were the grand buildings themselves, all white marble veined with gold. Built not out of need, but for opulence¡¯s own sake. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. For the primal, human desire to create something that would last, in a universe that did everything it could - every day - to make you feel small and insignificant. With the enviro-shields up, you could almost forget that there was a war on.
In a world of red skies and ecological disaster, with half the continent lost to extra-dimensional invaders, there was little room left for sentiment. New rifts opened every day: Telemetry from the few remaining satellites had located the great, growing horror of a Hive being raised over what had once been Eastern Contana. The Maw had hewn the megastructure out of living rock. They used the distortion effect the same way we did, but with far more proficiency than any enhancile could ever hope to exert. It was, after all, second nature to them - Before the scientists of Unity stole their power, and found a way to put it in humans. The most optimistic projections predicted a ten-year period before the Instrument, with its space-time singularity payload, could be made ready. That meant another full decade of holding actions, of the indiscriminate use of weapons of mass destruction to keep the enemy from gaining another foothold. Lyun had known that she would never see the end of the war. Neither would I, but in a different sense: I simply wouldn¡¯t be around long enough to see how it ended. But an entirely different kind of doom would arrive much, much sooner, from a direction no-one had anticipated.
The work-camps had long been City Zero¡¯s not-so-secret shame. The devastation of the Central Rizia landmass had led to mass human flight, exacerbated by the collapse of the Carlyle Federation. Famine and disease had ravaged what remained, even as the campaign of aggressive terraforming by the Maw¡¯s megafauna had turned the land itself against the survivors. Near-constant atmospheric disruptions had rendered high-altitude flight nigh-impossible. Any craft that dared to venture into the upper reaches of the troposphere was doomed to be torn apart. Sometimes figuratively, by rogue meteorological phenomena, sometimes literally, by the claws and fangs of aerial predators of no known terrestrial origin. Compared to that, oceanic travel was significantly more survivable. I heard of - but never saw - rumors of great boat-cities, made from hundreds of ships lashed together into improvised rafts. Imagine: Seaborne shanty-towns, filled with thousands of refugees, all desperate for sanctuary. Each of the twelve Great Houses dealt with the influx in their own way. Some raised great walls and machine-gun towers, others conducted a relentless naval campaign to redirect or sink incoming ships. House Hun-Du¡¯s stance, to put them to work, had struck me as resolutely humanist and moderate¡­At least at first. You see, the catalyst required to create enhanciles could only be harvested once it had sufficiently matured. Like a parasitic fungus, it needed something to grow on, feasting on the host¡¯s substrata until the first hair-thin filaments of raw catalyst grew through their flesh like fur. Specifically, it needed a living host. The regular sweeps of the work-camps and ghettos, the constant search for catalyst-sensitive individuals amongst the refugees¡­It had all been in the name of cold-blooded calculation, driven by the singular need to create more high-grade superhumans. The perfect city, the house of reason where I had become my very best self, was built on human bones. I hadn¡¯t known, but I was complicit all the same. I hadn¡¯t asked questions, hadn¡¯t even considered what was being done to the families that had passed the exacting barrage of tests. Men and women had died, in great agony and by inches, to make me what I was - And I¡¯d been blissfully oblivious, the entire time. When Ryan found out, his rage had been unstinting. Unlike me, he''d lived amongst the refugees for months. He''d been part of their desperate exodus, crossing the ocean in a rotting hulk of thrown-together, barely seaworthy boats. I¡¯ve mentioned how he was telekinetic, powerfully so. He''d acquired it on his second world, where the wielders of magic battled those who channeled the powers of the mind. Ryan had picked his side, and the adepts of the Quantum had embraced him as one of their own. The gnostic tortures and esoteric elixirs of the Horizon School had unfettered his mind, empowered deep potentials. The power of the Invisible Hand was much-feared, and it''d rapidly become Ryan''s greatest asset. Sure, his telekinesis didn¡¯t work on living things - not directly - but he¡¯d long thought of ways around that limitation. With a twitch of his will, he could crush you to paste within your own armor, sweep aside bullets and blades. You had to keep him distracted, overwhelm his senses to break his focus...But doing so was no small thing. Each time I fought him, he would tear up the ground, surround himself with concentric rings of debris. They weren¡¯t just for show, or solely for defense. He¡¯d hurl them at you with tremendous force, like shots from an onager or rounds from a mortar, each impact comparable to an artillery shell. Compared to that, his Zerite glaive was a more personal kind of terror. Forged from the frozen heart of an ice dragon, it wasn''t just cold: It actually slowed down molecular activity around him, made existence a slow-motion nightmare. If he willed it, bullets became slow-tossed tennis balls, beams sputtering out as they lost power. You had to fight the inertia of your own limbs to get close, and he made you suffer every step of the way. Ryan could even fly, with some effort. He had a spell-worked cloak that let him hover, boots that let him run on air, but it was his mind that let him soar. The laws of momentum didn¡¯t seem to apply to him: He could turn on a dime, come to a dead stop at will, his mere existence mocking the very idea of physics. Worst of all, however, he wasn¡¯t alone. His previous world had been a vast boneyard, filled with the remains of long-dead titans. They were vast, incomprehensible creatures, so huge that they contained multiple souls. Even after they died, their complex, manifold spirits lingered within their corpses: First in their rotting flesh, and eventually their bones. Crushing the bones, setting them alight, released those soul-shards from their mortal remains. Breathing in the smoke allowed you to take on aspects of their greatness, at least until the effect wore off. That meant inhuman speed, unholy strength, and the distressing ability to endure immense amounts of punishment before finally expiring. You didn''t even need to be catalyst-compatible (like I was) for the soul-smoke to do its work. All you needed was the willingness to take your life in your own hands, for the aftermath would most assuredly kill you. Some people burned up in ghostly flames that shed no heat, others would hack out their last breath along with the escaping spirits...But most just fell apart, flesh sloughing off their bones, like decay in fast-forward. There were thousands of people in the camps, willing to do anything - Literally anything - to claw out a better life for themselves and their families. Even if it meant horrible, agonizing death. You can see how that was a problem.
Understand this: The refugees weren¡¯t bad men. Rather, they were desperate, made more so by the scale of the horrors Ryan had unveiled. Every man and woman who fought alongside Ryan knew that their lives were measured in hours, for the titan-souls they¡¯d breathed in would inevitably consume them from within. Yet, they fought all the same. If they could just seize the catalyst, they would have true enhanciles of their own. And, at long last, the balance of power would be readdressed. Pound-for-pound, we were stronger than the possessed. The superhuman creation process was a comprehensive one, with full activation spanning anywhere from weeks to months - I''ve yet to see anything truly surpass it. But there were a lot more of them than there were of us, and they fought like demons. When the revolt started, I saw Epilson and Zeta-class enhanciles being mobbed to death: Lions, brought down by jackals. Aris, Non and Xung did better, but the carnage was appalling. The unaugmented security forces simply couldn''t stand up to that level of violence, once it became clear that bullets didn''t stop the spirit-ridden. You had to blast them apart to stop them, or tear them limb-for-limb...And neither could be done easily, or even at all. We would learn, too late, that poisoning the host body or setting it on fire would drive out the animating spirits from the possessed. By that time, the camps had risen in general revolt, the city¡¯s entire complement of enhanciles dispatched to crush the uprising by any means necessary. That included me, of course.
I was furious, then. Furious at what was happening. Furious at what I¡¯d been made to learn, and what that said about me. Mostly, I was furious at Ryan Trent. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve ever hated anyone as much as I¡¯ve hated him. Not just because of what he''d done, but because of what he''d shown me about myself. I''d been seduced, you see. The bright dream of Unity had drawn me in, and I had embraced it in its entirety. I had dared, if only for a while, to believe that I''d found a purpose, or perhaps a kind of redemption. But now the dream was ending, and I was humiliated - deeply, on a personal level, like a bankrupt or a cuckolded husband - to find that I was the only one who hadn''t known. I''d never even thought to ask. Reeling through the convulsing streets, I bled from burst blood vessels as I hunted Ryan through City Zero, gunfire streaming through the air like horizontal rain. The indiscriminate use of flame projectors and thermobaric weaponry had done hideous damage to the arcology, but mad, confused fighting continued the entire night. When we tore into each other, I had the bleak strength of despair driving me on. I killed every single one of his men that I could find: Those who tried to stop me, those who got in my way, and finally those who were simply trying to flee. I spared no thought for the buildings I brought down, for what I was doing to myself. It felt like my head was about to split in half from overload, but I didn''t care, not even when my suppressants ran dry. I would end him, or be ended myself. I was stronger then, the way all enhanciles are strongest right after full activation. I blitzed Ryan with spheres of disruption lightning, blasted down his defenses with shot after shot from my long-barreled Dominator. The gun''s photonics burnt out after four dozen shots, and I had to hurl it away before it exploded in my hand - But I still had my concussion mace, and I broke half his ribs with a single wild blow. It was almost enough. I remember the shock on his face, the way Ryan aspirated blood as he spiraled through the air. This was the worst he¡¯d ever been hurt, I think, and the pain made him falter. You never think it''ll happen to you, and it''s always a shock when it does: I remember him rising, unsteady as a thrown rider, his jaw clenched as he muttered enumerations beneath his breath, staring down the pain for just one vital instant longer... A desperate surge of will tore my weapon away, and violet pyrokinetic flames - wild, barely controllable - set me alight. I went for him anyway, hands clawing for his throat as I bathed in raw flame. The second skin of liquid fire clung to my nanoscale armor, but I was raging, unstoppable. For the red mist had come down, and all that remained was to see it through. I think, at the moment, I wanted his blood more than I wanted to live. I would have killed him, right there and then, if he hadn¡¯t hurled his glaive into my chest. I remember how it felt, so cold it burned, all color going out of the world as I crumpled. Thinking, distantly, that this couldn''t be the way it ended. Realizing, as darkness blossomed in my vision, that I should have gone to Ri-na. That I should have fought to protect her, instead of simply to destroy. Somehow, I survived that, but I would never truly recover. Even with the scar-ward stitching me back together, seared tissue re-knitted into fresh and healthy skin, some hurts ran too deep to ever heal. Not just in flesh, but in spirit.
The funny part was, I was fighting - in my own way - to save the world, while Ryan was fighting to doom it. Without City Zero''s vast particle accelerators, constantly firing to produce dark matter in its inert form, there was a very real chance that the Instrument would never be completed. Pure chance alone determined when and how often the rare five-quark baryons were produced, one at a time, and it took trillions to make one of the antimatter reservoirs, sealed in titanium, that the bomb would require. The last I heard, at least fifty thousand would be needed for primary ignition. In the past year, the city''s entire output had produced forty-three. Not that it would have changed anything, I suppose. F¨©at i¨±stitia ruat c?lum, he¡¯d have said, with perfect sincerity. Let justice be done, though the heavens fall. Well, fuck him. After that, I think, I learned not to care as much. Not to put too much of myself in any single cause, in case they let me down at the end. To accept that I would never know how it all turned out, in the end. To live a life with no regrets, and to mean it. I like to think I can learn from some of my mistakes.
With Tauruskhan going all-in on this year¡¯s ascension attempt, it fell to His priesthood to gird me for the challenges ahead. For, in a very real way, this would be the most significant moment of His existence since the rise of Tulgar¡­And that meant the Ivory Vault. The Ivory Vault. The name itself conjured the image of a labyrinth, of burning braziers and bloodied blades, of secrets locked within secrets. Ensconced in stone, hung with doors of solid bronze, only the elect of Tauruskhan - his priests, and those they blessed with their key - were allowed to enter. No one outside their ranks spoke of what was stored within, or what went on there¡­But all knew. There was no doubt, none at all, that the Ivory Vault was where the worshipers of the Horned King kept the greatest treasures of the Twenty-Six Tribes, the panoply of war that once clad Tulgar¡¯s body and killed in his hands. Even at the campfires of the Graven Star, I¡¯d heard the legends. A bow bent from the spine of a dragon that fired arrows tipped with its teeth, the whip of spiked chain with links of living gold, the sword of purest emerald that could cleave through anything, and the massive gauntlets with which Tulgar tore down mountains and cast them at his enemies. Needless to say, I¡¯d been really looking forward to seeing that last one. Normally, I¡¯d have taken the stories with a pinch of salt, but I¡¯d seen things on Phosphiach that would have been impossible in any other world. And hey, a man can dream. Truth is, I shouldn¡¯t have got my hopes up. Weapons like that are the tools of the Gods, and generally don¡¯t outlive their wielders. Those in power tend not to appreciate it when their gifts fall into the wrong hands. After all, puny mortals can¡¯t be allowed to get ideas above their station. Lesser wonders are a different story, but something like the emerald sword? I may as well have asked for a nuclear bomb. Now, it didn¡¯t mean that I walked away empty-handed, of course. A number of useful relics were made freely available to me, and you best believe I took full advantage. For instance, consider the pouch that always held a loaf of ever-so-slightly stale travelers¡¯ bread. It wasn¡¯t the most exciting fare, other than as a kind of chewing exercise. If you ate it for too long, you¡¯d start seriously considering cannibalism as an alternative, just for the novelty. But for someone crossing the steppe alone, it was priceless. Especially for me, who could shovel down rations meant for five men in the span of a single day. There was a flask that served much the same purpose. No matter how much you drank, it was perpetually half-full of tepid but potable water. With watering-holes few and far between, it could mean the difference between a full day of travel or the beginning of disaster. Then there was the compass, ensorcelled to point the shortest way to Adrijanopolj and the Platinum Spire. Make no mistake: Without that, my trip would¡¯ve taken twice as long, and been half as fun. Between mapping apps and the ubiquity of smartphones, my sense of direction had been so thoroughly rotted, I probably couldn¡¯t have found the way out of the Grazing Lands without a guide or outright divine intervention. But it was the weapons I¡¯d come for, and Praya had some ideas about that.
¡°How will you kill him?¡± The High Priest¡¯s voice was mild, as though he was asking for my opinion on the weather, or what was for lunch. I looked away from the Vault¡¯s stony shelves, from the wall of weapons before me. There were swords and blades of all kinds, for sure, but there were also maces, morning-stars, hammers, polearms, bucklers, bows and devices that combined sharp edges and points in ways that I¡¯d never seen before. Every one of them held some cultural or occult significance, and it wasn¡¯t always clear which was which. Moreover, Taurushukan¡¯s faithful hadn¡¯t believed in writing anything down. Like all cults, they were firmly in favor of obfuscation, which was all very well until you needed to get something done. Fortunately, Praya knew every weapon here. His expression was relaxed, dark eyes focused on what was in front of him, as he paused to rest his hand on a blade or grip. He¡¯d been quick to explain the provenance of whatever caught my eye, in a clipped, measured tone quite at odds with the Old Testament speech he¡¯d given at the Trial of Fire. And you know what? I think he was actually enjoying himself. I¡¯d got my hands on a heavy, fork-tipped sword once wielded by Koran son-of-Jarrow, and was testing its balance. Even as the weighty edge whistled through the air, I could see - immediately - why the Jarrow ancestor had given it up. It was the kind of weapon that needed years of practice to master, and I had nowhere near the time or patience to make that happen. You see, I¡¯ve always, always wanted to use a sword. Who hasn¡¯t? Sure, it¡¯d been out of fashion for longer than I had actually been alive, but something about it - the romance of it - had remained fixed in the collective unconsciousness. In my very first world, when the Marquis had offered me the use of any weapon in his armory, I¡¯d made a beeline right for the swords. Iron was poison to the Gentry, but just meant their craftsmen had to get creative, turning glass, crystal and wood into the keenest blades. I¡¯d had my eye on a hand-and-a-half sword of the purest moonsilver, so baroque and ornate it looked less like a weapon and more like a piece of art¡­Until ¨¦ighir had suggested, in his subtle-yet-condescending way, that I start with something simpler. He¡¯d been right, of course. The gauntlets of black jade had fit like they¡¯d been made for me: More importantly, they made my flesh as hard as stone, which was the only thing that had kept me alive in my first fight. Even then, it took me months to unlearn a lifetime of bad habits, to figure out how to use them at their fullest potential. I¡¯ve seen men keep fighting with wounds that you wouldn¡¯t believe. The best way to kill someone is to make their skull a very different shape. Flatten it, shatter it, punch holes right through it. There may be someone who can live without a head, but I haven¡¯t met him - or her - yet. Anyway, swords had a tendency to bend (sometimes at right angles) or snap, in my hands. They were surprisingly delicate instruments, and ¡®delicate¡¯ isn¡¯t something you want when you¡¯re fighting for your life. ¡°Champion-¡± I blinked. Shook my head to clear it. ¡°Sorry - Just thinking,¡± I said, as I placed the sword back on a waiting rack. ¡°By ¡®him¡¯, you mean¡­?¡± Praya didn¡¯t quite sigh. His patience had no limits, which probably came with two centuries of continued existence. Good thing, too: In his place, the constant need for explanation would probably have driven me nuts. ¡°The hero-champion of Adrijanopolj,¡± the High Priest said, as steady and unperturbed as the fall of night. ¡°The one that stands in your way. He who would bar the Iron Hoof from ascension.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± I said, then ¡°Ah,¡± again, just in case he thought I hadn¡¯t been listening. I chewed my lip, furrowing my brow as that calm, unblinking gaze speared into me. ¡°-I can¡¯t say,¡± I said, at last. ¡°In fact, it¡¯s better if I don¡¯t.¡± The corners of Praya¡¯s mouth drew up, in the ghost of a smile. ¡°You don¡¯t have the faintest idea what you¡¯re doing, do you?¡± he said, sounding amused rather than annoyed. ¡°In a way, I pity you. To strike at the enemy at the God¡­That must be a daunting task, indeed.¡± He stared into the middle distance, gaze fixed on something only he could see. ¡°Tauruskhan¡¯s wisdom, His word, has long steered the Twenty-Six tribes. Through His faithful, His will is made manifest. To be bereft of His guidance, to know that your choices alone determine victory or defeat - It is a burden that would weigh heavy upon any soul.¡± I winced, despite myself. I knew very well what he meant. ¡°Tell me about it,¡± I muttered, with a distinct feeling. ¡°Well, I¡¯ll find a way. Believe me, I will.¡± After all, I was a dead man if I didn¡¯t. I fought down the little voice that whispered You¡¯re dead either way, turning my attention back to the relics on display. ¡°What about this one?¡± I said, lifting a rough-hewn shield from the wall. It was heavier than it looked, the wine-dark wood telling the story of countless trials: Fire and acid had mottled it, the relentless blows of axe and sword gouging both the petrified surface and the brass-tipped horns that crowned it. Momentary emotion flickered across Praya¡¯s graven features. For a rare moment, he looked almost pained. ¡°That is Tulgar¡¯s own shield,¡± he said, gesturing to the silver boss at the shield¡¯s center. I looked again, closer this time. Beneath a layer of tarnish, I glimpsed the engraved image - the shape of a blowing storm-woman had been cut into the metal, her lips forming a pouting ¡®O¡¯, her brow furrowed. ¡°-There is thunder in the wood, and lightning in the metal, or so the legends say. The King-of-Tribes took it with him into a hundred battles: as long as he bore it, the spirits of the air spared him from the slings and arrows of the battlefield.¡± He fell silent for a long time. Contemplating the weight of history, perhaps. ¡°It will be hard to see it go,¡± the high priest said, at last. A kind of quiet followed his confession, as I turned the shield over in my hands. It was heavy, the kind of heavy that was freighted with significance. You needed to be strong to lift this, stronger still to raise it against harm. To my surprise, I could do both. It wasn¡¯t even hard. For a moment, I felt a kind of pity for Praya. The high priest, despite his faith, was a man torn between two loyalties - His people, and his God. To serve one was to defy the other, where before they had been one and the same. It¡¯s hard, watching things change. Hoping that the world as you knew it would stay the same, knowing that it could not. ¡°As the Iron Hoof wills,¡± I said, and he speared me with a swift, sharp glance¡­Until he saw my expression. Like he¡¯d been expecting mockery, and received sincerity instead. I¡¯d meant it, of course. There are no coincidences when a God¡¯s involved, and I had a distinct sensation that this was Tauruskhan moving in mysterious ways. There¡¯d been nothing to distinguish Tulgar¡¯s own shield - Last Breath, they called it, after the sylph that had been murdered in its making - from the dozen-odd other bucklers, targes and roundels of lesser renown that had been lovingly preserved in the Ivory Vault. ¡°...Perhaps one such as you might be permitted to use it,¡± Praya said. Some of the deep lines to his face relaxed, as if the concession let him breathe a little easier. ¡°For the God¡¯s glory, of course.¡± I grunted at that, taking a practice swing with Last Breath. After I¡¯d confirmed that, yes, it would hit like a brick wall studded with spikes, I slung the shield on my back, the horns rising over one shoulder. The long strap of the guige wasn¡¯t leather, but a woven rope of something as fine and smooth as silk. Maiden¡¯s hair, I suppose. With the matter concluded, Praya turned and strode towards the doorway, and I followed. I could have stayed, of course: Given sufficient time, I could probably have found Tulgar¡¯s sword, his spear, his armor, and maybe his old jockstrap in the bargain. But, champion or not, it never pays to wear out your welcome. Besides, with the Horned King¡¯s power coursing through me, like it or not, I was already a weapon mightier than all the rest put together. Perhaps that was the lesson Tauruskhan had wanted to impart. That He would have my back, as long as I upheld my end of the deal. That I could trust Him to act in my best interest, as long as I did the same for His. As we trudged back the way we came, a thought came to me. Not from the God, but from somewhere rather closer to home. ¡°I need a favor,¡± I said, as I walked with the priest. Praya gave me a level look. ¡°You need only ask, Champion,¡± he said, in a way that suggested indulgence had limits. Not that he¡¯d have been overt enough to say that out loud, of course. His opinion of me may have been less-than-flattering, for he knew that strong arms and big muscles alone did not make a hero. But Praya would be true to the end. It was his way, and he would not, could not, change. Not now. ¡°Good to hear,¡± I said, and made myself smile. ¡°If I¡¯m off to do God¡¯s will, the least He could do is throw me a farewell party first.¡± For sometimes, all you can do is to cherish each moment. To live as fully and vividly as possible. So that when your time comes, you can tell yourself: I regret nothing.
Tulgar the Invincible lived on only in myth, legend and the Supreme Herdsman¡¯s eternal memory. His shield, however, was a rather more substantial existence than that. I carried Last Breath all the way to Adrijanopolj. Across the Grazing Lands, the Great Mire and the Desolation of Istofar, it sheltered me from blades, javelins and yes, the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. Like so much else, Last Breath met its end at the Platinum Spire. Lightning-kissed wood and thrice-blessed brass would shatter beneath the pounding hammer of Tor Gagaroth, as I fended off the howling ghula with fists, dagger and a scavenged axe. But in death, the shield would avenge itself. A last, desperate effort drove both brazen horns through Gagaroth¡¯s throat, distracting the Wormgod¡¯s Chosen long enough for me to split her skull. Even then, the grinworms within her lashed and snapped at me like angry snakes, fanged mouths yawning open to bite as I hacked them to pieces. It was a worthy end to that most hallowed of relics, saving its master one final time. Letting me seize victory from the jaws of defeat, as a point-blank disruption blast put an end to her cursed existence. And yet, no tales would be sung of the venerable shield¡¯s destruction, and all mention of it would vanish from the sagas of the Twenty-Six Tribes. For a great many lives were about to end, both by my hands and those of others, at the Battle of Dalat. TO BE CONTINUED Chapter 8: The Battle of Dalat (Part II) ¡°Belief in a cruel god makes a cruel man.¡± ¨D Thomas Paine Chapter 8: The Battle of Dalat (Part II) I¡¯ll tell you this: No-one, no-one, threw a party like the Twenty-Six Tribes. Imagine the scene - Thousands of tribesmen, their cookfires lighting the night like stars. The great totems anointed in blood, the symbols of countless warbands fluttering on the wind besides the sacred banners of the Horned Chieftain. Hundreds of oxen went beneath the knife, spilling their blood for the God and His people. At any other time, it would have been an unthinkable extravagance, the cost of countless seasons of careful tending¡­But Tauruskhan¡¯s champion had been anointed, and no expense was to be spared. Sure, the Graven Star was now top dog. But it didn¡¯t mean that the others were walking away empty-handed. This would be a feast to end all feasts, a time for bonds to be renewed, for allegiances to be made. For hatchets to be buried and bad blood to be purged. Alcohol - Ko, kumiss and ylang - flowed like water, as well as other, more exotic intoxicants. As you may have guessed, the priesthood of the Iron Hoof had the best drugs: Usually, they kept the good stuff to themselves, but were more than happy to share it out on an occasion like this. High Priest Praya, bless his soul, was shrewd enough to make sure that everyone went home drunk and happy. Not just to take the sting out of losing, mind you, but because it meant less trouble in the near-future. For bad times were coming. Very bad indeed, for the folk of the Twenty-Six Tribes. You see, the feasting, the drinking, the music - It wasn¡¯t for them, really. It wasn¡¯t even for me, never mind that I¡¯d earned it. No, it was for Tauruskhan¡­Because this was the God¡¯s going-away party, and He wanted to make it a bash to remember. One way or another, their world was about to change forever. Either Tauruskhan was about to take His rightful place in the stars, as a Greater Power of the firmament (incidentally leaving His people behind forever, as I¡¯ve mentioned) or He was about to be diminished forever. To accept the truth of His impermanence, and to settle down for the long, slow slide into decrepitude and oblivion. Oh, it wouldn¡¯t happen today, tomorrow, or even in the next few years. But the die had very much been cast, and the Great Horned One was going all-in, now. All that remained was to see how His gambit played out. No pressure, right?
I won¡¯t lie - I had the time of my life. The food came in a series of beaten copper pots, each one so full it had to be carried crosswise on bending poles by pairs of straining men. Steaming stews of oily fish, poached in grease and mare¡¯s milk. Great haunches of roasted beef, seared dark on the outside, pink on the inside. Beans and pulses, cooked in boiled stock. The ¡®lesser meats¡¯ of poultry and mutton, served with farls of fresh, warm unleavened bread, the ovens roaring night and day to keep up with the demand. There was so much of it that, for a time, I could pretend that the hunger had relaxed its grip. That I could enjoy the simple pleasure of a full stomach, copious amounts of drink, and good company. That I wasn¡¯t dying. I know, I know - It was a grim thought. But surrounded by happy, flame-lit faces¡­Hearing their laughter, as they drank toasts to the future and cheered past glories¡­I¡¯d never felt further from home. Oh, I could fake it, easily enough. Raise a mug with the best of them, swigging down near-poisonous quantities of kumiss to cheers and hooting. Except¡­I wasn¡¯t one of them, and I would never be. They didn¡¯t know me, not really, and I didn¡¯t know them. Soon, I would move on, and the sons and daughters of Tulgar would remain. That¡¯s the curse of being an educated man, I suppose. Try as I might, I¡¯ve never been able to just¡­let go, like that. To lose myself in the moment, to go with the flow of things. It was then, right then, that I told myself: I can do this. I will do this. I¡¯d already come so far. If I had to claw my way to the top of the Platinum Spire, over a mound of bodies - By the God, I would do it. I would claim what I deserved, and nothing and no-one would stand in my way. That¡¯s what I told myself, at any rate. If I kept at it long enough, I was sure I would begin to believe it.
For three days and three nights, the Twenty-Six Tribes feasted all together, with a great din of singing and boasting and laughter. The days were filled with rough good company, with tests of riding, archery and wrestling. The exceptionally brutal ball-game khar - like rugby, but it involves a live (and extremely angry) game-bird as a ball - was a highlight, too. Men slammed into each other in clawing, grappling impacts, lashing out with elbows and knees (blows with the fist were forbidden) as they fought their way to the goal. Riotous cheers went up, each time someone was felled. Those knocked unconscious in the scuffle were dragged away by their heels, tended to by their fellows or the waiting healers. It wasn¡¯t just about winning, mind you: It was about proving one¡¯s strength, cunning and valor, as well as your ability to withstand severe head trauma. For the priests of the Great Horned One were watching, hard-eyed in their judgement, and this too was a test. It never happened in the open, or even in the full light of day - But rewards awaited the quick and the brave, further separating the wheat from the chaff. At night, during the traditional drinking games of ¡®hurling axes at a target until one sticks¡¯ (the winner being the one split another¡¯s hatchet in half) and ¡®stab a knife between your fingers, as quickly as you can¡¯, the womenfolk of the Sacred Fane made their presence felt. The youngest and most comely of them, to be specific. In their robes of white and gold, they moved amid the feast-tables, serving wine and distributing food. Their attention would linger on those who had distinguished themselves in the day¡¯s contests, the men who fought more bravely, more fervently than the others. Now and again, the priestesses would take a likely-looking tribesman by the hand, leading him away into the cool embrace of the mountain. Each occasion was marked by the cheers and applause of his brethren, or (more rarely) a kind of congratulatory silence. For the priesthood of Tauruskhan was an unusual lot, you see. They didn¡¯t marry amongst themselves: It was a sacred prohibition, I believe, so that they would remain impartial arbiters rather than a clan in their own right. Their population was kept alive by breeding with the best of the warriors who came to the Firepeaks, the children of such unions raised as part of the priesthood. To me, that hardly seemed like a healthy upbringing, and I¡¯d said as much to Oloin. ¡°-It¡¯s their way,¡± he said, with a shrug. ¡°The God demands it, see? Keeps them under His own thumb. Less chance of a disagreement, that way, particularly if the father takes issue with it. He gets no claim, even if he wanted his child back. Wouldn¡¯t even know where to start looking, in fact.¡± The shadow of some emotion passed across his features, and he spat out of the side of his mouth. Like he¡¯d tasted something bitter, and only a swig of ylang could wash it away. For a moment, I nearly asked why. Who¡¯d he been, before he¡¯d taken up the life of an itinerant Godbinder. What great tragedy had led him to leave the tribe of his birth, and strike off on his own. Instead, I merely grunted in acknowledgement, and demolished another great bowl of simmered beef and long-grain stew. Everyone had their own cross to bear, I supposed, and knowing wouldn¡¯t change a thing. After all, I already had enough on my plate. More, Oloin¡¯s usefulness was rapidly coming to an end. Soon, I knew, there¡¯d be a final parting of the ways: I just hoped that the venal old shaman wouldn¡¯t find a way to stab me in the back on the way out. In that, I would be disappointed. But I find that life is a lot easier to bear if you¡¯re an optimist.
I know what you''re thinking. And no, I didn''t indulge. Not because the idea didn¡¯t appeal to me. It did, but it was the consequences that held me in check. It''s a relic of my life on Earth, I suppose. I like my relationships to either be meaningful, or to be strictly transactional. There are many ways to fuck yourself over, and heartbreak is one of them. Even though the priestesses would''ve been happy to bed me, knowing their intent killed any lust I might''ve felt. Now, I''m not naive about such things. I may - may - have sired a bastard or two, here and there, though I usually made an effort to avoid it. But wanting to conceive a child, to be raised in the shadow of the Bull-Cult...I don''t think I was callous enough to do that. Not when I had some idea how fucked-up things could get. How much worse they would get, if I succeeded in my task. The weird thing is, I don''t even like kids. Not particularly. I''ve never felt ready to be a father - Too self-absorbed, I guess. But even I know that it isn''t fair to punch someone''s ticket, before they''ve had a chance to see the show.
It can be funny, how some things are the same across worlds. Not repetition, so much as recurrence - Similar patterns, things that line up in ways that are almost but not quite the same. In my fifth world, the Esaal - In their own language, it meant ¡®the Pale¡¯ - lived much the same way. Their graceful, delicate females were confined to their great Manses (mountains made hollow over the course of centuries, with room to house thousands), set to the eternal task of Shaping their home into ever-more-deadly, ever-more-elaborate configurations. They were the keepers of memory, the weavers of the impossibly intricate tapestries that marked the living history of their people: While their males endlessly prowled the adjoining forests, seeking out and destroying material threats, their concern was for the spirit of their race and the endless erosion of time. Every few decades, the Vrasa (males of mature age) would make the long and dangerous pilgrimage to another Manse of the Pale, for the purposes of breeding. The mechanism by which they chose their destination was obtuse, almost deliberately arcane, but I understand that the intent was to prevent inbreeding. Not every union led to offspring, of course. The Esaal were never a particularly fecund race, and with lifespans spanning several centuries, I suppose they didn¡¯t feel the need to rush. More, they had a tendency to pair off for life, though the Easria (mature females) never left - were never allowed to leave - the Manse in which they had been born. Oh, did I mention that the Vrasa had to fight their way into the Manse? Some might call it survival of the fittest, I call it insanity. The couples parted when the breeding season ended, of course. That meant a long, slow wait of anywhere between decades to centuries for their next meeting. It seemed like an incredibly inefficient way to go about things, but it was their way. Gilead had tried to explain it to me, when we¡¯d been hiding from the Empire¡¯s janissaries. There¡¯d been five of us in that garret, taking turns to stand watch - And believe me, the place would¡¯ve been a tight fit for two. Before I left Earth behind, I never realized how addicted I was to instant gratification. I always had my phone to distract me, to while away the long periods of dead time. I¡¯d shaken the instinct somewhat, but like every recovering addict, the urge never went away. Having to wait, actually wait, was anathema to everything I¡¯d ever known. Oscillating between boredom and nervous energy, I¡¯d been sweating bullets, expecting the Seran to bust down the door and pump us full of crossbow bolts. Letting him go on about the life and times of his people was a somewhat-welcome distraction. To him, it made perfect, poetic sense. So much of Esaal culture was tied up in yearning, in longing - A perpetual mourning for what once was, but would never be again. They had epic song-cycles about lovers parted by fate and providence, forever dreaming of each other, forever striving to reunite. Hell, their creation myth was about how their people had once been far, far more than they currently were, only to be severed from that exalted status and left to wander the world. The Esaal knew their race was dying: They just couldn¡¯t seem to muster the energy needed to save themselves. Therein lay the seeds of disaster, of course. But wasn¡¯t that always the way? By the standards of the Esaal, Gilead was a young firebrand. He¡¯d pledged himself to Neloiala, the first and only love of his life, and had honed himself into an absolute killing machine. He wasn¡¯t about to let anything get between him and his true love, and God help anything that tried. At any rate, Gilead and his followers (for it was a team effort, and he was smart enough to make sure that everyone was pulling their weight) had been on the long pilgrimage to the Manse of Azastari, ready to take a crack at the deadly forest that warded it. He¡¯d been training for this for decades, and probably thought that this time, this time, he was going to get lucky¡­ When they arrived, they found that the Empire of Iron had got there first.
Since time immemorial, the Empire of Iron had ruled the known lands of Calaria. In their tongue, the name meant ¡®Cradle¡¯ - For in their hubris, the potentates of the Empire thought that the world existed solely for them, to nourish their legions and give succor to their bloodline. There were a myriad of reasons why the Empire¡¯s dominion extended across the entire continent. The main reason, however, were the Zmei: Great, winged serpents of lightless black stone, bound eternally to the will of the Imperial bloodline. They were massive things, larger than a house, with fangs, claws and a great barbed tail that could devastate entire phalanxes of men at once. Also, just to make things even more unfair, they could breathe petrifying mist too. Some property of their breath turned matter to stone, then blasted the stone apart like ash in a gale. As you imagine, that made them an utter terror on the battlefield. Entire armies would surrender, when faced with the prospect of taking on one of the Zmei¡­ But all was not well in the Imperial household. With each generation, it became harder to command the carved serpents. You needed the right stuff to get them to do anything - If the would-be scion lacked the nameless, ineffable properties required, the Zmei simply lay in place like¡­Well, like rocks. No amount of orders, entreaties, threats or sacrifices could get them to budge. Without someone to command them, they wouldn¡¯t move, not even to defend themselves. After all, they weren¡¯t truly alive, and lacked any sense of basic self-preservation. Given sufficient time, a score of men with sledgehammers and picks could reduce a Zmei to rubble. That, of course, was a serious problem: There were only ever so many of the serpents, and it wasn¡¯t like the Empire could make more. Some of the ones they did have - truly ancient things, rocky carapaces scarred and chipped from countless impacts - had suffered substantial damage over the centuries, with no apparent way to repair them. What magics that might have sufficed, if any, had long been lost. Between the ravages of time and ever-hungry War, it was all beginning to add up. The imperial bloodline, despite careful shepherding, had thinned with each generation. Less than three hundred (at a guess) men and women still possessed the capability to command the Zmei, and the prospects for the next generation looked even bleaker. Three hundred, across an entire continent. Let me tell you: That¡¯s a drop in the ocean. It was clear that something had to be done, or the great, tottering edifice of the Empire would soon come to a bloody end. The serpents were the very symbol of Imperial might, and their power had to be preserved by any means necessary. ¡®Any means necessary¡¯ is rather understating it. I never got a full picture of the dark, dire lengths they were willing to go to, but the fact was that nothing worked. There was no magic bullet, no miracle cure for the grinding erosion of time. And then some bright spark got a truly awful idea into his head: Why not breed magic back into the Imperial line? After all, the first Emperor had wed a purportedly-divine bride, who had worked miracles in support of the Empire¡¯s relentless conquest of the known world. The legends weren¡¯t just superstition, either - Magic might have been a fading force on Calaria, but it had existed, once. As it happened, the Esaal were well-known for their sorcerous ways. Their workings, great and subtle, featured prominently in the histories. Some were exaggerations, but it didn¡¯t change the fact that they did have magic, even if they weren¡¯t keen on sharing it. You can probably see where this is going. The Pale had centuries to defend their mountain homes from intrusion, and they hadn¡¯t spent that time idle. The forests surrounding each Manse were a nightmare of weaponized flora and fauna, shaped by generations of careful manipulation into a deadly labyrinth: If an army went in there, it wasn¡¯t coming out. But the Esaal hadn¡¯t - could not have - accounted for the Zmei. Three serpents were sent, but even one would have been sufficient. Bearing two-score of the vaunted Kalandar life-wards, they swept over the mountain¡¯s defenses and into the Manse itself, with the singular purpose of pillaging the greatest treasure of the Azastari¡­ -The Easria themselves. Every female was carried off, at sword-point. I would like to say they went kicking and screaming, but in truth, they must have been too terrified to resist. Armed men invading their sanctuary, their world, shouting orders and brandishing weapons¡­ It must have been shattering. It must have been like Armageddon. Then there was the Prince-Imperial himself, Ramus Dar-Iseun. Striding like a conqueror, sizing up the women he¡¯d seized. Checking their teeth, possibly, like a herder evaluating livestock at the market. These ones for the harem. Those ones to be divvied up among his allies, all eager to get their hands on the rumored beauty of the exotic Easria. For they wanted magic-blooded heirs too, you see, and promises had been made. This one for his own bed. Did he drag Neloiala away, kicking and screaming? Did she go willingly, knowing that all hope was already lost? My guess is, there was no show of defiance, other than a few desperate prayers to the uncaring ancestor-spirits. The implication was enough. The males of the Azastari were slaughtered. Most were honored elders, truly antediluvian creatures that had seen generations of mortal lives blink past like mayflies. I can¡¯t imagine the horror they must have felt, knowing that the outside world had beaten down their doors, and was coming for them. Some of the Vrasa survived, to their eternal shame. Enough to tell the Pale of the Qhoxul of the appalling offense, beyond all notion of sanity, that had been committed against them. It was Gilead who rallied the shattered warriors of both Manses. Gilead, who led them in a blood-oath of dark and terrible vengeance. He vowed he would never rest, not until the Empire had been brought to its knees. Until the damned souls of every member of House Dar-Isun was driven, screaming, into the howling darkness that lay beyond life. The insult would be repaid, at any cost. Honor would be avenged. This Gilead swore, on the living tetza of his ancestors. All would be made well: He would find Neloiala, the light of his life, and deliver her from the dread prison she languished within. He would take her in his arms, and all that was ruined would be restored.
Later in the feast, as the merriment slowed with drunken torpor, the time of pledging began. You see, this wasn¡¯t just about celebration and renewing the bonds between tribes. It was also a chance for many aspiring warriors to find employment, or for hard-bitten veterans to commit themselves to a new campaign. Alliances could be fluid, in the Grazing Lands. While clan affiliations were the ultimate decider of loyalty, the horsemen of the Twenty-Six Tribes had a fearsome reputation as premiere light cavalry: It wasn¡¯t uncommon for warbands to venture beyond the steppe, to sell their skills with horse, lance and recurve bow for a significant sum.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit. Those who covered themselves in glory, or at least plunder, tended to find much favor in the eyes of their clan - And, of course, the God. It was a great way of ensuring that the men of the tribes retained their edge with ever-renewing experience of modern warfare. Moreover, it prevented any one clan from becoming too isolated, which was always good if you wanted to know what your neighbors were getting up to. Given the Graven Star¡¯s recent windfall, I wasn¡¯t surprised to see a near-constant stream of supplicants. The process was simple, comparatively: Petitioners would present themselves before Chieftain Shahin or one of his lieutenants, recounting their bona fides, explaining their earnest desire to fight beneath for the Graven Star, and negotiating the terms and conditions of their service. If their pledge of loyalty was accepted, a shrine-priest would officiate the swearing-in. There¡¯d be a manly hand-clasp, a round of toasts, and the new warrior would get a place at his war-leader¡¯s table. That way, it was easy to see who was especially desired as an employer, and who might drive a hard bargain. After all, there were only so many places at each table, and things could get competitive. I had my own table, of course, beneath the banner of the God Himself. The sun-and-horns standard was an old one, one of the many designs workshopped by Tulgar the Invincible - It was the one the tribes had fought under while the nascent cult of the Horned Conqueror was still finding its footing, and held a certain place in the hearts of many. At some point, it¡¯d become associated with the priesthood, the clan-that-was-not-a-clan. It was symbolic, more than anything: A reminder of the compact between Tauruskhan and the legendary progenitor of the clans, one that bound them to His worship to this day. It was considered something of a faux pas for a warrior to make pledge to Tulgar¡¯s own banner. The Father-of-Tribes had been Tauruskhan¡¯s own avatar, personally appointed by the Iron Hoof: Any warlord who took up his banner was, implicitly, claiming the same. Back on Earth, claiming to be God¡¯s own Chosen isn¡¯t especially hard. It just requires a certain degree of self-belief (or self-delusion), the charisma to pull it off, and the panache to see it through. After all, it¡¯s not like there¡¯s going to be any definitive word from On High, is there? In the end, it usually comes down to a popularity contest. Failing that, it¡¯s all about who holds the bigger stick¡­Though the same could be said On Phosphiach, however, where the Gods were very much real, one needed huge balls or blithe stupidity to openly defy them. As such, most aspiring war-leaders went to great lengths to avoid accidentally adopting elements from Tuigar¡¯s own flag. Just in case someone saw it, and chose to take offense. I¡¯ve worked in intellectual property before. Preventing the dilution of one¡¯s brand through terror was certainly something I¡¯d never seen before, but I couldn¡¯t deny it was effective. All that being said, I was content to simply sit and watch the going-ons, with only Oloin to share my table¡­ -Until Ganezzar Man-Killer decided to drop by.
In his gold and bronze wargear, the giant Altai tribesman was an exceptionally impressive specimen. His heroic proportions dwarfed even my own enhanced frame, and the feasting crowd parted before him like the waves before a ship¡¯s prow. He¡¯d shaved his hair down to the stubble, except for a single dark topknot - It rose from his head like a great plume of horsehair, jet-black and bound with iron trophy-rings. Each one represented a victory over a prominent foe, and such a collection spoke for itself. ¡°Look alive, now,¡± Oloin muttered, as Ganezzar strode towards us. The old Godbinder looked a little nervous, and I could guess why: I¡¯d broken Ganezzar¡¯s jaw in our brief, abortive fight, and it occurred to me that he might still be a little upset over that. If it came to it, I¡¯d beat his ass again. But I would much rather not - I¡¯d gotten lucky with a sucker punch, but I had a feeling that he was the kind of man you couldn¡¯t fool twice. ¡°-I see him,¡± I said, under my breath. Sizing him up, as he drew close. Even for a man of means, it must¡¯ve cost Ganezzar a small fortune to set his jaw to rights. His kind healed fast, but it¡¯d been less than a month - Only a minor miracle could have let him sidestep a long, agonizing convalescence, in favor of the shorter but rather more intense suffering of Tarushukan¡¯s healing touch. When you got down to it, war-gods were all the same. They¡¯d heal you, certainly, but they¡¯d make sure you remembered it. Either to remind you to do better next time, or because they just wanted to watch you squirm. One way or another, you didn¡¯t get to walk again unchanged. In fact, I sensed the hand of Praya at work. After all, who else could have arranged something like this? For a moment, I met - and held - Ganezzar¡¯s level gaze. His face was set in a careful mask, revealing nothing. Around us, a silence gathered: The sounds of revelry and rough good humor faded to a background hush, to be replaced by a different, sharper kind of intensity. You could hear a pin drop. I felt the instant stretch into infinity, as I said- ¡°Lo-¡± ¡°You beat me,¡± Ganezzar rumbled, rubbing ruefully at his chin. He grinned, wide, smiling without the slightest bitterness. ¡°-Fair and square. No man has done that, not since I was a whelp.¡± He nodded his big head, a low chuckle in his throat. There was a gravelly quality to his voice, like he¡¯d been chewing rocks. Then again, given what he¡¯d been through, I suppose it was better than the alternative. I felt my chest unclench, the invisible vise of tension ebbing. An approving hum rose from all sides: Everyone loved a good sport, after all. ¡°As the Iron Hoof wills,¡± I said, lifting my tankard in salute. ¡°What brings you to my table, Ganezzar-son-of-Torak?¡± With the weighty thump of a falling axe, Ganezzar dropped to his knees. Caught off-guard, I blinked: This, I hadn¡¯t seen coming. ¡°I pledge to you, Morgan Graven-Star,¡± he said, low but firm. ¡°I would ride with you. Fight for you, in the God¡¯s name.¡± There was a frightening earnestness to his tone, as he stared up at me. ¡°My axe is yours, sulde. Wield it as you will.¡± Now that got heads turning, as the whispering began. Normally, a reaver seeking employment would recite a litany of his deeds, going over the highlights of his career. The battles he¡¯d fought in, the foes he¡¯d triumphed over, the times he¡¯d cheated death. But someone of Ganezzar Man-killer¡¯s calibre had no need to present his bona fides. I mean, his appearance spoke for itself: His fists were fully the size of my head. There was absolutely no doubt that he¡¯d be one hell of an asset in a fight- The only thing I couldn¡¯t figure out was why. Big bruisers like Ganezzar held a special place in the Altai, as they would in any warrior society. Being able to crush a man¡¯s head like a grape meant that he was overqualified for the role, and he¡¯d been rewarded accordingly. Respect, position, his pick of women¡­Everything a full-blooded clansman of the Twenty-Six Tribes could ever want. Anything he could want, because the world was his oyster. So why set it all aside to- I followed his gaze, as those dark eyes stared right through me. Past me, really, to the banner that fluttered in the warm breeze. Ah, I thought, as realization dawned. -So that¡¯s how it is.
It should have been obvious, really. Ganezzar wanted something more, more than just being the greatest warrior of the Altai. Like all fools and heroes, he longed to be part of history. For his name to live forever, far beyond his allotted span of days. To do something that mattered, to play a part in the shaping of history as it was struck out - hot and hard - on the anvil of fate. For I carried the Bull-God¡¯s most keenly-held desire with me, and anyone - anything - along for the ride would become part of that last and greatest of all tales. Sometimes, it takes a moment for things to snap into perspective. To me, Phosphiach was merely a stepping-stone to something greater. After all, I¡¯d been to other worlds before, and I knew - with rock-solid certainty - that there would be worlds yet-to-come. New worlds, with new magics, new adventures and yes, new Gods. More than anything, all I wanted was to save my own life. Becoming the champion of Tauruskhan was just a means to an end - The pageantry of it, however, I could do without. The world would keep turning, with or without me, the same way the other five had. But to Ganezzar, Phosphiach was all he knew. It was all he would ever know, barring a miracle. This mattered to him, in a way I could never, ever hope to understand. It was a cause he¡¯d give everything and anything for, like the countless generations before him. The way Kayla, the Ihulian Horde and the sons of Rastuvia already had. For a moment, just a moment, I felt the crushing weight of it all. The burden of expectation, the hopes of untold thousands, of history. All of it, riding squarely on my shoulders. The grand finale of a centuries-long epic, filled to bursting with swords, sorcery and mighty oaths. A star-studded cast of warriors, conquerors, priests and kings, give or take a few thousand spear-carriers. And me. The perpetual understudy, thrust into the title role at the last minute. Wondering how I¡¯d got here, and whether I was - in any way at all - ready for the challenge ahead. That shook me, believe me. All I could think, right then, as Ganezzar knelt before me was: You poor bastard. You have no idea what you¡¯re signing up for, do you? It was customary, at this point, to give a speech that would capture the spirit of the undertaking. To proclaim how we would crush our enemies, see them driven before us, and hear the lamentations of their women. Instead, all I said was: ¡°Make it heart-truth, or not at all.¡± A murmur rose, from the gathered crowd. It was no small thing that I was asking for: It wasn¡¯t uncommon for petitioners to claim that they¡¯d ride with the warband through thick and thin, only to make an exit when the odds got bad. In a way, it was even expected - Every man had his limit, and a half-decent sulde would know when to cut his losses before things went too far. What was uncommon, however, was holding them to it. A heart-truth meant that you¡¯d be there all the way, unto the end and the death. You swore it on your soul, and breaking that oath invited a terrible and agonizing doom. To his credit, Ganazzar hesitated for mere moments. Then he raised his right hand, his axe-hand, and brought it to his heart. ¡°-I do pledge,¡± he said, his features as solemn as a graven mask. I accepted his homage with a nod, extending a hand for him to clasp. Closing his great paw around mine, Ganazzar rose: Upright, he towered over me, but my enhancements meant I could support his weight without flinching. ¡°For the God, Morgan,¡± he rumbled, grey teeth bared in a smile. ¡°For the God,¡± I said, with all the bluff, hearty poise I could muster. His grasp tightened, pulling me close. Our arms locked, bicep-to-bicep, in the brief but highly-symbolic test of strength known as the Bull¡¯s Horns. Like a handshake, but with far more machismo. For a moment, we clinched - Muscles tensing in silent effort, sinew popping as our arms strained. Ganazzar was an old hand at this, but Praya himself had taught me a few tricks of positioning and grip to make a good showing: I dug my feet into the ground, joints creaking alarmingly, and held on for dear life. It made all the difference, believe me. Just as my arm was beginning to go numb, the first vein pulsing in my temple, the Man-killer¡¯s mighty thews ceased to flex. Blessedly, that bone-crushing vise eased, merely becoming the iron grip of a farrier¡¯s tongs. I was, apparently, worthy of his service. Around us, the crowd cooed and muttered, recognizing the moment¡¯s import. Once again, honor had been satisfied: Two mighty souls had found their new places in the totem pole, with one firmly above and the other squarely below. Same as it ever was.
There¡¯s a saying I learned on Caldera, one that I¡¯ve become quite fond of: Measure is unceasing. The demon-haunted infernalists of the Wrack knew, better than anyone, that it¡¯s not sufficient to prove yourself just once. The tests never end, not really: If you¡¯re in a position of power, you can expect to have to show your mettle over and over again. Don¡¯t get me wrong - They didn¡¯t consider that to be a bad thing. When it came to sorcery or high ritual, getting careless or sloppy meant disaster. The consequences tended to be immediate, horrific or fatal. Most of the time, it was all three, and that was if you were lucky. Then again, considering the ultimate fate of all sorcerers, I suppose ¡®lucky¡¯ was never part of the equation. All of them, every single soul who¡¯d ever polluted the fabric of Creation by uttering a spell, were doomed to spend an eternity burning in the Thousand Hells as soon as they shuffled off the mortal coil. As you can guess, this meant that they had a vested interest in staying alive. They took exacting care in whatever they did, and were quick to point fingers when they suspected someone wasn¡¯t quite up to snuff. What I¡¯m getting at is this: You know the little testosterone-fueled display above? That wasn¡¯t the first time I had to do it, and it wouldn¡¯t be the last. For even though the issue of Tauruskhan¡¯s champion had been settled, there were plenty of people who wanted a piece of me. Either to knock me down a few pegs, or to carve out a place in history for themselves. Ganazzar was the first man to pledge his sword, but he wasn¡¯t the last. A day later, I had a dozen men sworn to my banner - And that was after turning away scores. As you may have guessed, once word got around that I was hiring, there was something of a rush to sign on. There were several fistfights and at least one stabbing that I knew of, all from men eager to jump the queue. No-one died, but it was a close-run thing: At least one man would walk with a perpetual limp after, and the seeds of more than a few grudges were sown. Fortunately, the shrine-priests were on-hand to turn it into a more formalized competition. Think of it as a cross between an equestrian event and a series of bare-knuckle fistfights. A kind of ¡°You must be this tall to ride¡±, if you please. You¡¯re probably wondering - How did I draft my picks? Well, it was easier than you might expect. I recognized a few faces from the Summertime War, some of whom I¡¯d bested before, and those I favored over all others. Mostly, I wanted men whom I knew could take a punch, and who were good sports about the whole thing. If someone was willing to go through all that and still swear absolute loyalty¡­That was good enough for me. Interestingly, the Graven Star took no part. I suspect it was an order from on-high: I may have fought with them, but I was the God¡¯s, now. They had other, more worldly concerns to worry about, and they couldn¡¯t risk weakening themselves further. That, or they just didn¡¯t like me. Part of me expected to see Rarga Kul amid the petitioners, but he never showed. None of the Jarrow did, as a matter of fact. The Clan of Kings had decided to give me a wide berth, and I honestly couldn¡¯t blame them. It must¡¯ve stung to have been knocked off their perch, after so long. For their chance at eternal glory to be snatched away, at the last moment, by some outsider. But that¡¯s life. One minute, you¡¯re on top of the world - the next, someone¡¯s taken a baseball bat to your kneecaps, and you never even saw it coming. All you can do is to grin and bear it, and roll with the punches as best you can. At any rate, I didn¡¯t discriminate. In short order, I had the Kubah twins (of the Nhaji) and Braze Jai of the Cloud Riders in my service, along with Zisithras and Kalich of Clan Mayank. Vorth of the Accomi was a late pick - I didn¡¯t know much about him, but Maka the Younger spoke highly of the bronzed, taciturn archer and I wasn¡¯t about to turn him away. Who else? I didn¡¯t know Layak, Uclid and Mowynk as well as I¡¯d have liked to, but they¡¯d distinguished themselves in the ceremonial games and I¡¯d have been a fool to turn them down. All three were young and bright-eyed, almost painfully eager to please, hardly believing that they¡¯d made it this far. I could sympathize. Rodo was an old hand at reaving. Too old, in fact: He¡¯d seen nearly fifty summers, and - let me tell you - on the veldt, that was a long time. He gave his alliance freely, almost cheerfully, for he didn¡¯t expect to live much longer and wanted to give a good account of himself before he reported to Tauruskhan¡¯s halls for his eternal reward. I didn¡¯t have the heart to tell him that, if we succeeded, Tauruskhan wasn¡¯t long for the world. My guess is, he already knew, and he didn¡¯t particularly care. And then there was Nilquit. He was young, for a shrine-priest, but extraordinarily talented. According to Praya, he was one of the most gifted acolytes of his generation - To me, he seemed young and fierce, more like a warrior than a witch-priest, and disquietingly devout. He¡¯d gone so far as to tattoo his face with sacred script, a harrowing task he¡¯d accomplished through careful application of a mirror, a hot needle, and extremely steady hands. It was as appalling as it¡¯d been impressive, and it¡¯d marked Nilquit for greater things. After all, a man who could do that was capable of anything. I say ¡®man¡¯, but in truth, he was little more than a boy. I¡¯d have put him anywhere between fifteen to eighteen, but it was possible that he was malnourished or stunted. Still, he was steeped in the ways of the priesthood, and knew the rites, the catechisms and the litanies like the back of his own hand. More, he could recite the tales from memory, and that was a useful thing to have. I¡¯m not much of a leader, but even I can recognize the importance of morale. All-in-all, that made thirteen of us. At that time, I didn¡¯t even consider the symbolism of the number: That was just how things shook out. But it was an omen, and I probably should have seen it coming.
Another thing I should¡¯ve noticed: Oloin got grumpier as the day went on. By nightfall, he was positively curmudgeonly, swigging down sap-beer like water. It may as well have been water, for all the effect it was having on him - He was deep in his cups, but he spoke like he was stone-cold sober. ¡°Quite a crew you¡¯ve put together,¡± he said, taking a hit from his pipe. ¡°You sure you have what it takes to handle them, boy?¡± I gave him a sidelong look. It was late, enough that most of the revelers had retired for the night. I¡¯d sent Rodo and Nilquit off to ensure that we were amply-supplied for the long trek ahead, though it¡¯d be a day or two before everything was in order. The Cult of the Iron Hoof was footing the bill, of course. The God demanded nothing less. ¡°What¡¯s it to you?¡± I said, my curiosity piqued. It wasn¡¯t like Oloin would be joining us, of course. After all, he¡¯d been amply rewarded for his service: I fully expected him to take his cargo of furs, amber, drugs and ivory to some far-off city, where he could make a tidy fortune. He was well set-up for a comfortable retirement, his every whim catered to¡­but the prospect didn¡¯t seem to please him in the slightest. If anything, it seemed to have pissed him off. ¡°You know how far it is to the First City, eh? With His own brand on your hide? Further than you think, boy. Pah!¡± He narrowed his eyes, the crows-feet on his wrinkled features more pronounced than ever. ¡°You¡¯re leading them to their deaths, boy. You know that, don¡¯t you?¡± I did. Believe me, I did. Even then, I knew - with a cold, quiet certainty - that none of us would ever see the Grazing Lands again. Just getting to Adrijanopolj would be a tall order: Thanks to Praya, I had a very good idea of the dangers that lay ahead. Being filled with Tauruskhan¡¯s own power made me a target. It was like lighting a signal fire, one that could be seen for miles in every direction. Predators great and small, would be drawn to me like a beacon, made ravenous by the chance to gorge themselves on His essence. If I wanted to do right by Ganazzar, Kalich and all the rest, I¡¯d tell them to fuck right off. Their lives would be immeasurably better for it. If nothing else, they¡¯d be a lot longer. Quality may beat quantity most of the time, but a few more years are always nice. But there was safety in numbers, or - at least - company in death. ¡°They know the risks,¡± I said, shortly. ¡°We all do. Getting to the Spire? That¡¯s worth anything. It¡¯s worth everything.¡± I cast my gaze skyward, where stars shed their fitful light behind great banks of cloud. ¡°It¡¯s what He wants, after all. If you¡¯ve got a problem with that¡­Well, I guess you¡¯ve got a problem with Him.¡± Oloin didn¡¯t answer, not right away. He was silent, long enough that I began to wonder if something was wrong. When I looked back, the old Godbinder was chewing his lip, a strange expression on his face. His pipe hung loose in one hand, scrawny fingers curling around his battered staff. ¡°Maybe I do,¡± he muttered. ¡°Maybe I do.¡± He fixed me with a gimlet eye, withered lips pressing together in a thin line. ¡°Maybe He should be held to account, eh? All those centuries spent ruling His people, making them follow His laws, taking their children to raise as His own¡­All that, and He just walks away? Ha!¡± Spittle flecked the corners of Oloin¡¯s mouth, running down to his chin. ¡°Off to better things, too. In His mind, He¡¯s already up there. Conquering the stars, and getting up to Gods alone know what. Never a thought for the mess He¡¯ll be leaving behind.¡± He thumped his staff against the ground, as if the weighty thud lent strength to his argument. ¡°And none of the People can see that. They love him for it, fools that they are. All He¡¯s done is take and take from them, and now - now He¡¯s bored of the games - He¡¯s going to drink them dry, and throw them aside. Like a sot with an empty cup, I don¡¯t doubt.¡± I stared. This was the first time I¡¯d seen Oloin like this, over something that wasn¡¯t wine, gold or his craft. I wasn¡¯t sure I liked it: This outpouring of emotion was actively unnerving, a world away from the sly, venal old charlatan who always seemed to have one more scheme, one more grift, bubbling away somewhere. ¡°That¡¯s just the way of things,¡± I said, trying to calm him. ¡°I think you¡¯ve had too much to drink-¡± ¡°You think I like living this way, boy?¡± Oloin said, his lips twisting in a sneer, and I thought: Oh shit. ¡°Forty years. Forty years, and I remember it clear as day. All because I wouldn¡¯t bend the knee - Wouldn¡¯t let them take our daughter! They said it was against His will, that she belonged to Him¡­After all we¡¯d done for them!¡± His scrawny shoulders heaved, gnarled hands twisting his staff so fiercely I feared it would snap. ¡°Tell me: What kind of God does that, eh? What kind of God punishes a man and his wife, for-¡± The old Godbinder¡¯s words caught in his throat, as he fumbled for his flask. He took a long draught, a desperate pull, like it held the elixir of forgetfulness. ¡°It killed her, you know. They let us go, but not knowing¡­It ate her up from within. She withered away, day after day. She never ever stopped asking for our little girl.¡± He wiped his mouth with a shaking hand, staring into the distance at something only he could see. ¡°What kind of God does that to His own priestess?¡± I winced. Now, there was a lot I didn¡¯t know about the faith of Tauruskhan. Praya¡¯s crash-course in thaumaturgy had been focused more on the practical aspects of the religion, rather than the esoteric ones- But I was pretty sure this was blasphemy. And while I knew Phosphiach¡¯s Gods rarely took a direct hand in things, I was beginning to wonder if I should keep an eye out for imminent thunderbolts. ¡°You can¡¯t blame yourself for-¡± I said, trying to calm him down. For we were veering into dangerous territory, now, and I wasn¡¯t sure I wanted to know the rest.
Over time, that had become my guiding principle: If I didn¡¯t need to know, I didn¡¯t want to know. For me, professional apathy was more than just a way of life. It was a carefully honed skill, as essential to survival as knowing how to throw a proper punch. It took work, believe me. When I¡¯d started out, I¡¯d learned - very quickly - that my comfortable, thoroughly mundane white-collar existence had not prepared me for the realities of my new career. Across the vast span of the cosmos, I¡¯d seen more human misery than I¡¯d ever imagined possible. Not just the obvious, mind you - cities on fire, armies on the march, the sound a gut-shot man makes - but smaller, more personal horrors. A famine so extreme, vermin ate other vermin for sustenance. Men selling their children into slavery, to spare them death by starvation. A brothel staffed by the walking dead, all-too-aware of the indignities inflicted upon them as their bodies and minds rotted away. The bleak despair in the eyes of lamed slaves, left limping from the tendon-severing cut that would mark them all their days. Things like that stayed in my mind, no matter how much I tried to push them down. I¡¯d tried to grow a thicker skin, but even that had limits. No matter how inured to it all that I wanted to be, that I told myself I was, each world still found new ways to rattle me. Everyone¡¯s got problems. Keep that shit to yourself, and we¡¯ll get along fine.
I¡¯d known Oloin for nearly a year, now. He¡¯d taken life as it came, with a kind of cynical good humor: Like he didn¡¯t have a high opinion of anyone, and they rarely let him down in that aspect. This, however, was different. This was deeply personal to him, and had been gnawing away at him for some time. More alarmingly, I was getting the feeling that he expected me to actually do something about it. ¡°Blame myself? Why, by the ten thousand names of Yarra, would I ever do that?¡± There was an ugly, flat note to the old Godbinder¡¯s voice, his nostrils flaring. The carved-bone charms that hung from his headdress glowed with ghostly blue light, lending a ghastly pallor to his features. They were the same ones he¡¯d hung up in his yurt, as a ward against prying eyes. ¡°He¡¯s the one I blame, boy. Not just Him, but every one of His rancid ilk. They feed on us, you know? Those bloated fuckers gorge Themselves on our blood, like a tick on a cow¡¯s ass-¡± Here it comes, I thought, as Oloin scowled up towards the distant fires. There was a purpose in him that I hadn¡¯t seen before, something that made the hairs on my neck stand on end. ¡°They¡¯re Gods, old man,¡± I said, putting a hand on his shoulder, right on his ratty, worn-out old pelt. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about your daughter. Really, I am. But getting mad isn¡¯t going to help matters.¡± Especially not mine. ¡°Look, I know you¡¯re angry. But there¡¯s nothing to be done, and-¡± His fingers dug into my arm, his eyes suddenly wide and bright. ¡°But there is,¡± Oloin rasped, a kind of eagerness in his rusty voice. ¡°You could do it, boy. You could beat Them all.¡± And here it came. ¡°-I¡¯ve seen you fight. I know the things you can do. The champions of all the Gods, every one of those rotting bastards, think they can beat you? Pah! You¡¯d tear through them like a wolf through sheep!¡± I could have pulled free from Oloin¡¯s desperate clutch, but it¡¯d have meant breaking his arm. I tried to ease him back, but he kept his grip - Dragging me into an awkward hug, his booze-heavy breath hitting me like a squall, as he hissed into my ear. ¡°You could do it! Burn the Exigence! Put an end to all this!¡± My blood ran cold. He¡¯d been planning this right from the beginning, I realized: This was what he¡¯d been hoping for, all along. He¡¯d seen in me the potential for a weapon, one that could deliver his vengeance unto the Gods - The Ihulian Horde, the sacking of Rastuvia¡¯s temple, the long trek to the Grazing Lands¡­ He¡¯d been testing my mettle. Making sure I was the right tool for the job. And I could do it, I knew. The God-Maker was likely protected against every harm that could be found on Phosphiach, but I had powers that came from worlds beyond. I¡¯d yet to meet anything that could withstand a distortion blast at full charge - Hell, Oneira¡¯s gun might be able to do it. In one fell swoop, I could snatch victory from the Gods. Put their prize beyond their reach, forever. Leaving them wailing at the threshold, doomed to eventual diminishment and oblivion. If enough of their champions died, it would happen even faster. They¡¯d put so much of themselves into their Chosen, every death would mean the loss of centuries of carefully-hoarded power. There was just one problem. ¡°And then what?¡± I said, prising Oloin¡¯s hand free. ¡°What happens when Tauruskhan realizes I¡¯ve fucked Him over? What happens when He decides to take it out of my hide?¡± ¡°Why do you think I chose you? You¡¯re a world-walker, boy! You could be beyond His grasp, before-¡± ¡°And I¡¯d still be dying,¡± I shot back, and shoved him off, so hard he stumbled. It took more care than I¡¯d expected: If I¡¯d used my full strength, I¡¯d have crumpled his chest like a drink carton. ¡°Piss off every God at once, including Him? Save everyone but myself? Great plan, you old fool. No wonder you waited ¡®til now to tell me. If I¡¯d known before, I¡¯d have laughed in your fucking face-¡± Picking himself up, Oloin leaned on his staff, clutching at his ribs. ¡°So? You¡¯d still have a skinful of His own power. He can¡¯t take that away from you. You¡¯d be no worse off than when you started, and you¡¯d have done the right thing. You could stop all this! You don¡¯t even like the bastard!¡± ¡°I like being alive,¡± I said, thumping a fist against my chest. ¡°You think I care about anyone on this shit-heap? You think anyone will give a fuck about me, once I¡¯m dead?¡± That gave him pause, like I¡¯d slapped him in the face. For it was reasonable to struggle, to suffer, perhaps even die, in order to see a great wrong righted, for justice done. But only - only - if one had a stake in what was to come. I had no kin on Phosphiach. No clan. Nothing to tie me to this place, and no interest in its future. Nothing, at least, that was worth a slow, agonizing death from cellular degeneration. ¡°-I would,¡± Oloin said. Sullenly, like I¡¯d forced the confession out of him. ¡°I would, boy.¡± You know, I think he meant it. But he¡¯d lost me, and he knew it. I could see him shrivel up from the realization, right before my eyes. On some level, he must have known that it had always been a long shot, that there¡¯d never been more than the slimmest chance. But, for a time, he¡¯d dared to hope. Now hope, however faint, was gone. He¡¯d thought he knew me, only to find that I wasn¡¯t the man he¡¯d thought I was - Which, I suppose, made it more bitter, not less. The question was: Now what?
We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, still in the flame-lit dark. Each waiting for the other to make the first move, knowing that it might mean the end for one of us. Oloin¡¯s eyes gleamed in his wrinkled face. They slid down to my hand, resting on the grip of my gun. ¡°You going to kill me, boy?¡± I¡¯d be lying if I said that I wasn¡¯t considering it. I certainly couldn¡¯t trust him, not any longer: While he didn¡¯t know all of my secrets, he knew enough to cause trouble later down the line. More, Oloin was a shrewd rat-terrier of a man, tough as an old boot. Who knew what he might get up to, if I let him run free? Death solved all problems. Death was certain. A dead man ceased to be a complication. And yet- ¡°No,¡± I said, and moved my hand away. ¡°-But I might just tell the High Priest.¡± A short, sharp hiss of breath. ¡°Tell him what, exactly?¡± I bit back my first reply, keeping my voice carefully level. ¡°You want a list, old man? Or just the parts that matter?¡± ¡°Huh.¡± A pause. ¡°I don¡¯t think he¡¯d like that very much.¡± Nor did I. ¡°That¡¯s why you should start running,¡± I said. ¡°I¡¯ll give you a head-start. Best I can do, and it¡¯s better than you deserve.¡± ¡°¡®Deserve¡¯? What¡¯s deserve got to do with it?¡± His snarl bared teeth, lips peeling back from his gums. ¡°You¡¯re a real piece of work, Morgan. After all I¡¯ve done for you-¡± I shrugged. Let the sting of insult roll off me, like water from a duck¡¯s back. I knew what I was, after all. ¡°You¡¯ve got until dawn,¡± I said, but Oloin was already backing away - one foot after another, keeping me in view the entire time - until he was half-lost in the gloom. Then he turned, and bounded down the stony slope with the spryness of a much younger man. He ran with the absolute abandon of a man being pursued by wolves, who knew that a moment¡¯s hesitation meant an awful, flesh-ripping end. I could have killed him, then. I could have shot Oloin in the back as he turned his back on me, as the old Godbinder fled into the looming dark. I didn¡¯t, despite the temptation: I didn¡¯t have it in me to kill him, not yet, though I had the distinct suspicion I would wish that I had. For even then, I knew that I would regret staying my hand. The warrior-saints of Vairocana teach the importance of totality. That when the moment of decision comes, you strike. Swiftly, ruthlessly, and utterly without remorse. Everything that you have, everything that you are, must be bent towards the singular goal of victory. Mercy is a luxury. Mercy is cowardice. Instead, I said - ¡°You¡¯re welcome, you old bastard,¡± and strode off into the night. TO BE CONTINUED Chapter 9: The Battle of Dalat (Part III) ¡°Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius.¡± (Kill them all, for the Lord knows them that are His.) ¨D Arnaud Amalric, Abbot of Citeaux (apocryphal) Chapter 9: The Battle of Dalat (Part III) Dalat was one of the many wonders of the Grazing Lands. A great, free-standing arch of carved diorite, it stood tall and proud amid a field of shattered statues. Like the last survivor of some war of golems, casting a long and hungry shadow across the veldt. Even from a distance, the barren plain was a sight to inspire awe or dread. Within two miles of the arch, nothing grew: The ground, sterile as clay, was littered with the broken heads of the ruined sculptures. There was no sense of proportion to their sizes, no common meter. Some were as small as the circle thumb and forefinger makes, while others were as large as wagon-wheels. No-one alive knew who had carved the faces in so many contrasting scales, or why each and every statue had been decapitated. It was just one of those things, I guess. Across other worlds, I¡¯d run into plenty of one-off miracles and oddities that wouldn¡¯t - couldn¡¯t - be fully explained. Most of the time, the locals would simply shrug, accepting them for what they were, and go on with their lives. For that was the way things had always been, and it held no particular wonder for them. But Dalat was the first step on the path to Adrijanopolj. It marked the end of the Grazing Lands, and the beginning of the Desolation of Qadarnai. Beyond that lay the fever-swamps of the Great Mire, then the brief reprieve of Pahaar Shahar, the Unsleeping City. If you made it past all that, the rest was comparatively simple. I didn¡¯t think much of the place, at the time. It was simply a name on a map, a marker en route to our destination. The cult-priests of the Horned God assured me that the shortest path to the Platinum Spire lay through Dalat. Their divinations had confirmed that it was a most propitious route, one laden with the weight of destiny. They were right, of course. Just not in the way they expected.
I¡¯ll be blunt: I¡¯ve never been much of a leader. The main reason for it, I think, was a general lack of interest when it came to being in charge. There¡¯s something reassuring about having someone else give the orders, to tell you where to go and what to do. It allows you to pretend that there¡¯s a greater plan, that someone knows what they¡¯re doing. In my old job, I was simply a cog in the corporate machine. I had people I reported to, and staff who were firmly under me - There was a surety, a clarity, to it which I found refreshing. Makes things a lot simpler, you know? I¡¯ve heard it bandied about that Asians, especially the Chinese, are inherently conformist and submissive to authority. That¡¯s nonsense: It¡¯s down to the individual¡¯s capacity for initiative and willingness to assert oneself, I¡¯ve found. Those who want to lead will inevitably find ways to place themselves in positions of leadership. Those who don¡¯t will forever remain followers of those who do. Case in point: As Marquis ¨¦ighir¡¯s guest, I was pretty much a prisoner in all but name. I was mostly oblivious as to anything outside his estate, because Arcadia was a horrible, awful place where only the Gentry could travel unmolested. The Everforest was filled with all kinds of unspeakable terrors, like it¡¯d been purpose-made to devour mortals - In fact, I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if it was. I don¡¯t think I¡¯d have made it more than a day before I was dragged back by his huntsmen, or (more likely) murdered in some unspeakable way by one of the many denizens lying in wait. More, after the massacre at the village - the first time I¡¯d ever killed anyone - I knew I could hardly expect a warm welcome from the human slaves who scratched out a desultory existence amid the choking greenery. Technically, they were ¡®serfs¡¯, but why mince words? The Gentry held absolute power over them, in every sense of the word, and I¡¯d aligned myself with their oppressors. Not that I had a choice, mind you: I had to play along if I wanted to keep my skin in one piece, and so I had. Even though it¡¯d meant betraying them all. Sometimes, it can be an awful shock to learn what kind of man you really are. In my case, it was more of a dull, half-cohered realization. A sort of Oh, so that¡¯s how it is, I guess that doesn¡¯t horrify you so much as leave you moderately bummed. Anyway, that had led to my first fight with another thresholder - Oneira, whose gun I still carried with me - the first woman I¡¯d ever killed. Two milestones. That¡¯s a lot of firsts, for one world. Technically, she was the second woman I¡¯d killed¡­But while I¡¯d sealed Elise¡¯s fate by spilling the beans of her plot to the Marquis, I hadn¡¯t had to do the dirty work. I¡¯d beat Oneira to death. Blow after hammering blow, delivered with all the desperate strength I could muster, high on terror and adrenaline. Trying to keep that wicked sword from gouging away my stone-hard flesh, as shreds of her flesh and blood clung to the knuckles of my gauntlets. The very same gauntlets I wear now, as a matter of fact. I¡¯m not proud of that. Really. But if I valued my pride over my life, my corpse would be rotting in some gutter somewhere. There''s no prize for second place, in our line of work. Kill, or so the saying goes, or be killed. Isn''t that always the way?
On Caldera, I¡¯d been taken in by the sorcerers and will-workers of the Cabal of the Wrack. More than the rudimentary magic I bore with me, more than my gauntlets and (looted) gun and sword, it was the prospect of escaping damnation that had captivated them. I¡¯d been an honored guest, lavished with gifts and luxury, in return for being poked and prodded and generally a subject of much debate. I¡¯d been offered the chance to learn their magic, to commune with the shadowy tutelary-demons that hovered (a constant, steady reminder of the pact they¡¯d struck) at each sorcerer¡¯s shoulder¡­ I was tempted - so terribly, terribly tempted - but I¡¯d refused. It¡¯d promised tremendous power, but the prospect of burning in Hell forever had been too much. Not as an abstraction, mind you, but actual, literal Hell. For in Caldera, Hell - or rather, Hells, for there were seemingly an infinite number of them - was a place. Becoming a sorcerer meant an eternity of torment, of violation, at the hands of ever-hungry, ever-spiteful and endlessly, maliciously inventive demons. They¡¯d respected my polite refusal, but it was clear they¡¯d thought less of me after that. You have to understand, most sorcerers came from humble backgrounds. Sure, they put on airs, but they were not to the manor born, as the saying goes. Given the swords-and-sorcery, Bronze Age brutality of Caldera, the chosen few who had the talent for magic - the ones who had the capacity to make an infernal pact - inevitably took it. It may seem insane to you. But think about it - I mean, really think about it. Take your average sickly, illiterate and dirt-poor peasant, who lives in squalor and whose state religion revolves around repeated condemnation for his human nature. He resents his life, toiling away in the dirt at the behest of his betters, with only the prospect of a pauper¡¯s grave in his not-so-distant future. Then, like me, he gets the Dream. An offer from Vuk¡¯ruluk the three-eyed, snake-headed Eater-of-Wisdom. While the details may vary, the content is always the same: Nigh-limitless power, in exchange for an eternity trapped beyond Creation¡¯s light. It¡¯s not a stretch to see why this hypothetical peasant, so miserable in life, driven by greed, hunger, lust and not-unjustified spite, would agree. More, the demons keep their word: Rather than being limited to the feeble body his parents and the cruel Gods cursed him with, he now wields - instinctively - flesh-rending, stone-shattering sorcery. Imagine the sheer excitement he¡¯d feel, in torching his overlord¡¯s fields, casting down his temple¡¯s statues. Scything down dozens of warriors with rays of hellfire, tearing through them like their bodies were made of wet clay, and their armor, straw. The rush of power would be unimaginable. He¡¯d have the time of a dozen lifetimes, and finally - finally - reap the revenge for his circumstances he¡¯d dreamt of for so long. Sure, our lucky peasant would eventually be killed by some bold, clever hero, or perish from a stray arrow (assuming his hoggish indulgences didn¡¯t kill him first) and then spend the remainder of existence boiling in liquid filth¡­But for a short time, he would indeed have it all. The question you may be asking is: Is it worth it? No. The consequences are infinitely worse than simple suicide. But is it understandable? Absolutely. There are millions, millions of short-sighted or power-hungry people on Earth who would jump at the chance. As you may have guessed, the mindset of the average warlock on Caldera was almost identical to the average modern school-shooter. The total lack of care for the very real consequences was near-identical. The only thing that keeps most people from devil-worship is that devil-worship doesn''t work. Not on my Earth, at any rate. So I turned the offer down. My opponent, however, didn¡¯t. As you may have guessed, he beat my ass. It wasn¡¯t anything resembling a fair fight: I was more than half-dead, my blood boiling with the venom of demon scorpions, before I managed to crawl through the portal meant for him. If not for the state-of-the-art medical faculties on Unity, I would have died a slow, agonizing death. Fortunately, their doctors managed to stabilize me, long enough to undergo catalyst enhancement. Still, it was a close-run thing. As close to dying as I¡¯d ever care to get. If there¡¯s anything to take away from all that, it¡¯s this: Taking initiative might suck, but it¡¯s nowhere near as bad as lethal poisoning. Too niche, you say? Well, you¡¯ll be surprised by how often it comes up.
Only a fool travels alone on the veldt. At a glance, the Grazing Lands might seem tranquil. Welcoming, even, with nothing but the rustling of long grasses and the distant caws of the birds circling overhead. In truth, it¡¯s more of a sea. Endless, ever-changing, and utterly inimical to unprepared life. An unwary or luckless man could drown in it, swallowed up forever by all that green - His death unnoticed, unremarked, except for the rukhs swarming to feed. We rode for twelve days and twelve nights. Twelve days¡¯ worth of riding, of nothingness in all directions. Nothing but the grinding monotony of grass and sky, as we crossed from the lands of the Tribe-that-was-not-a-Tribe into the plains that waited beyond. For someone like me, weaned on immediate gratification, it was a form of torture. Riding a horse is an endeavor that requires the fullness of your attention. Even with Oloin¡¯s spell-worked reins, your focus had to be both on your mount and the way ahead at all times. If your attention wandered, you could find yourself utterly lost, or running headfirst into an ambush. If your horse was wounded, well¡­Then you were well and truly fucked, if you didn¡¯t have a remount. Trying to cross the Grazing Lands on foot was suicide, and an especially prolonged and nasty form of it. The predators that lurked in the long grass loved lonely travelers, and the raider-bands were much the same: Out here, the plains swallowed everything, eventually. If your throat was slit, your body dumped in a shallow grave - scratched out by your own hands, most likely - it could be years before any trace of you was ever found. Technically speaking, these were the lands of the Ahtzira. One of Tulgar¡¯s less-notable descendants, they hadn¡¯t even made it to the final eight. Far from prosperous, they¡¯d focused on defending their herds above all else, and had made it through the Summertime War with little gains, but a minimum of losses. We saw their scouts three times. Once on the third day, then again on the fifth and sixth. Identifiable by their polished wolf-skull pommels and plumed cantles, they watched us from a distance, not daring to close. After all, we were a large, well-armed warband riding beneath the God¡¯s own banner, and a confrontation would¡¯ve been more trouble than it was worth. Honestly, I¡¯d have welcomed a meeting, even a fight, just for the novelty. There was little to look forward to, other than sunset or the occasional birds that hung in the daylight air. The compass from the Ivory Vault led us true - I found myself checking it every hour, just to make sure we were heading in the right direction. It was hard, sometimes, to believe that our success depended on something so small. The route recommended to us by the Bull-God¡¯s cult was a little-known one: Praya had suggested, and I¡¯d agreed, that we were best served by stealth until stealth lost all meaning. Better to keep a low profile, to go unknown and anonymous, while we could¡­For the moment it was made clear what I was, well, we¡¯d have problems. As Oloin had said: I had a huge target painted on my back. Given the chance, anyone with designs on divine power would be tempted to take a swing. I hadn¡¯t told the High Priest about the old Godbinder, but I think Praya had some idea what had gone down. He made no comment, however - I suppose he knew that recriminations were pointless. I¡¯d fucked up: The question was what we could do about it. For a start, I¡¯d left as soon as I could. Rodo and Nilquit had worked overtime, getting things in order with commendable speed. I supposed that being on a mission from the God helped: We had access to the full resources of the priesthood, and Rodo knew exactly what we needed. Still, the expense of it, to get all our ducks in a row on such short notice- But that was the least of our problems. ¡°Not all are pleased by the God¡¯s decision,¡± Praya had warned, his weathered face lit by the ghostly glow of the sacred fire. ¡°There is¡­unrest amongst the tribes. Some have argued for a more measured response, others have expressed their misgivings: The blood of Tulgar is unsettled. There are¡­murmurings.¡± ¡°I know,¡± I said, and he¡¯d raised a thick eyebrow. ¡°-I¡¯ve sensed it, too.¡± Not everyone was happy with the way things had played out. More importantly, however, now that this was actually happening - now that Tauruskhan¡¯s ascension was nigh - it was beginning to sink in that the God would be leaving them. For good. Honestly, I would¡¯ve been surprised if they hadn¡¯t caught on. ¡°You think they¡¯ll try something?¡± I asked, and Praya looked almost offended. ¡°To raise a hand against the Horned Conqueror¡¯s chosen is to be made apostate,¡± he said, in that magnificent pillar-of-patriarchal-strength voice he had. ¡°Cursed are those who strike against the God¡¯s own, doomed to wander the howling dark forever! Such are the very principles of the Faith!¡± ¡°Fair enough,¡± I said. ¡°But¡­?¡± He¡¯d stared into the flames, for a long time. ¡°Some would say¡­Even that sacrifice would be worthwhile. That a God is too precious a thing to be free. A God should be safely in a cage. Pacified, brought to heel.¡± A pause. ¡°The first step to accomplishing such a thing would be¡­¡± ¡°Leverage,¡± I finished for him, looking down at my hands. Thinking, for a moment, of what a centuries-old way of life meant to the Twenty-Six Tribes. What they might be willing to do, in order to preserve it. I let my hands drop, to my sides. ¡°-It¡¯s a good thing that He was generous in His gifts, then.¡±
It wasn¡¯t invisibility, not quite. Sure, I could feel Tauruskhan¡¯s blessing, when it was in effect. Like a chill breeze, cold and light as snowflakes on my shoulders, back and scalp. But I was still present, could still be seen¡­If anyone cared enough to check. Rather, it was more that I no longer merited notice. None saw me: I passed like a ghost, alone and anonymous, untouched by the activity that stirred within the great encampment. I walked past my own guards, set by the priesthood. Out from the hollow mountain, into the pre-dawn gloom. Past the flames of torch-pillars, rippling in the wind, the cages of hot coals that held the embers for tomorrow¡¯s cookfires. Countless eyes watched the ground I covered, but no-one thought it worthy of comment that the God¡¯s champion was leaving before the culmination of the feast. Their focus was elsewhere - Distracted by the haze of sleep, thoughts of the day¡¯s revels, half-forgotten aches and pains. The sky was a blur of mauve darkness, broken by the warm glow of approaching daylight. The moons, like distant fangs of fire-lit bone, were sinking to their setting places. For a moment, they looked - almost - like great horns. It would be a dawn like any other, as the sun rose above the Grazing Lands. But I preferred to think that it was an auspicious daybreak. A fortunate omen. As they say: Well begun is half done.
I¡¯d sent my warband ahead, two or three at a time, so their absence wouldn¡¯t be missed. All twelve of them had gathered, standing in the shadow of the Firepeaks. Zisithras, the standard-bearer. Kalich, the horn-blower. Sabet and his twin, Maka the Younger. Vorth, whose great bow could pierce two men with a single arrow. Braze Jai, gripping the lok totem that was his most prized possession. Layak, the dreamer. Uclid and Mowynk, just barely old enough to shave. Rodo, the grizzled veteran, old enough to be their father twice-over. Nilquit, the priest. Ganazzar, my right hand and de facto second-in-command. In the weird, twitching light that came before dawn, they looked like a proper band of villains. The hardest bastards you¡¯d ever seen, ready for anything Phosphiach could throw at them. I felt the humming eagerness in the air, their horses snorting, pawing the ground with fidgety energy. Wordlessly, Ganazzar handed my destrier¡¯s bridle to me. Silently, I nodded my thanks. I¡¯d had the beginnings of a speech prepared, but the cold stole all words from me. As my gaze swept across those pale faces - expectant, nervous, stern, knowing - I felt an abrupt dizziness course through me. Like I was teetering at the edge of a cliff, this close to plunging over the edge. Oh my God, I thought, with sudden, nauseous clarity. And I¡¯m supposed to lead them- I crushed those feelings down, into a small ball. Buried them deep, too deep to ever see the light of day again. Told myself that I was everything the band saw me as: Strong. Powerful. A man amongst men. Invincible. I drew a deep breath, as I swung myself up and into the saddle. Raised my left hand, fingers splayed, as I took the reins with my right. ¡°Let¡¯s ride,¡± I said, my words smoking in the freezing air, and a smile ignited on Ganazzar¡¯s craggy face. ¡°We ride, brothers!¡± he rumbled, as he touched his heels to his steed¡¯s sides. His horse - nineteen hands high, black as charcoal - whinnied in answer, clattering down the slope as dust scudded from its great hooves. Something about that. Something about that simple, primal gesture¡­It put all my doubts, all my fears, at rest. I felt the invisible, oppressive weight of expectation lift from my shoulders, as I urged my mount forward. ¡°For Tauruskhan!¡± I shouted, and - thank God - my voice came out strong and unwavering. ¡°For Tulgar!¡± came the answer, from a dozen throats. Cheers and whoops rose from behind me, as we rode into the rising day. Kalich blew a loud, discordant flourish on his horn, as Zisithras raised the God¡¯s standard high. Maka, his voice rusty from last night¡¯s drinking, began to sing a war-song, one his twin bawled out in full-throated chorus. It was a moment of unity I would remember for the rest of my life.
Each night, we stopped for a few hours, to rest and tend to our mounts. Riding by darkness - unless we absolutely had to - was folly, and there was only so much oil for our lamps. There was no wood, and our kindling was to be saved for later. Instead, while the older men excavated a firepit, the younger men would search for dead scrub, with Nilquit waiting in the wings to ignite the fire with a brief prayer to the Horned Conqueror. It was by such means that the Bull-God¡¯s priesthood kept their grip on the psyche of the Twenty-Six Tribes. Ritual, tradition and the ever-constant reminder that the God provided. It felt like social engineering to me, but only because I¡¯d been raised outside the circle of the faith. From within, I¡¯d never have thought that anything was amiss. Beyond the circle of the firelight, the darkness was absolute, and I mean absolute. Just pitch blackness, on all sides, as we gathered - huddled, really - round the weak, yellow flames of the fire. I don¡¯t think I truly appreciated how alone we were, how utterly isolated from all but the most rudimentary form of civilization: It made your blood run cold, if you dwelt on it for too long. The horses were never far away, for no sensible man of the tribes would sleep further than six strides away from his mount. In case of calamity or an ambush, even more than seizing weapons or ensuring that one was clad, the first and most sensible instinct was to get astride one¡¯s steed and ride like all the devils in all the Hells were on your heels. If you think that¡¯s an overreaction (I did, but I was smart enough not to say so), you¡¯re not cut out for life in the Grazing Lands. Natural selection had sorted people into two categories, the quick and the dead, and it took caution and a keen sense for danger to ensure that one stayed in the former. But mere survival wasn¡¯t enough to sustain one¡¯s mind. Constant vigilance wore even the sharpest man down, like the remorseless grating of stone-on-stone. Even the most hard-bitten warrior of the tribes needed distraction, a reprieve from his own endlessly circling thoughts. I know I did.
Whenever night fell, after what passed for dinner - Salted meat, heavily-watered wine, greens (usually leeks, or something like it), farls of hard-baked travelers¡¯ bread from my pouch - the men would talk idly. Reminisce, about times past, about places far from this one. They were necessarily thrifty with it, for their experiences were (generally speaking) in much the same vein. Interesting to hear, certainly, but not much to contemplate when you had a full day¡¯s ride ahead, and hours to be spent mostly in your own head. That was why we¡¯d brought Nilquit along, incidentally. The Cult had an extensive oral tradition, and the young priest was, among other things, an accomplished storyteller. He held in his mind an incredible five hundred and thirty-six discrete sagas, as well as the tricks of oratory and noetic techniques required to relate them to their fullest effect. They¡¯d been drummed into him through remorseless and unstinting effort, a regime of merciless training that I couldn¡¯t imagine enduring. You may think - and I certainly did - that even a well like that would run dry eventually. After all, it was only a matter of time before one heard them all. But the Iron Hoof¡¯s priesthood was more subtle than I thought: For when Nilquit spoke his verses, he told each tale from a different angle than one might expect, veering away from the orthodox. All had heard the tale of Tulgar¡¯s feats at the Battle of Saurum, when he¡¯d given himself over to the Horned Conqueror one final time. I¡¯d even seen it - part of it, anyway - through the God¡¯s own eyes. But few would expect the same event to be recounted from the perspective of a Gorigracian spearman, lost in the maelstrom of war, striving only to survive. It wasn¡¯t about sympathy. All of these accounts had an objective: A moral, if you would. To educate, to illuminate, or (at the very least) to bestir thought. To promote the virtues of analysis and evaluation, so that one could (like a philosopher pondering a koan) make a judgement, and be enlightened by it. Isn¡¯t that interesting? This world was utterly alien, utterly divorced from Earth, warped by the presence of very real, very tangible Gods¡­And this was a culture that recognized the value of critical thinking, even if they couldn¡¯t put it into words. As Nilquit told it, the Battle of Saurum had been eminently winnable by the Gorigracians. Even after Tulgar¡¯s final rampage, even with the arrows of the Twenty-Six Tribes raining down like hail, the legions held the advantage in men and training. If they¡¯d stood their ground, trusted their shields and long spears, victory would have been theirs- But instead, they¡¯d crumbled. As they¡¯d broken, men fleeing before the pounding hooves of tribal cavalry, Koran Son-of-Jarrow had seized the moment - a final, desperate surge of effort - and taken their General¡¯s head with his preposterously unwieldy sword. The very same sword Ganazzar now carried, as a matter of fact. The big bastard was the only one of us with the strength to swing it and the skill to wield it well. He seemed to loom even larger in the reflection from its blade - Taller, darker, stronger, as if all of the Man-killer¡¯s most violent qualities had been somehow distilled into pure lethality. Or maybe I was just getting my hopes up.
I¡¯d made sure that my warband, among other things, had their pick of weapons from the Ivory Vault. It¡¯d taken the last of my influence with Praya, I don¡¯t doubt, but I¡¯d impressed upon him the necessity of making sure. After all, if there ever was a time to put the Cult¡¯s vast store of relics to use, it was now. As such, each rider of the dozen bore the arms of some storied hero, or revered ancestor. If nothing else, it was exceedingly good for morale: Personally, I was expecting a rather more tangible benefit. For when - not if - it came to a fight, I wanted to make sure everyone could pull their weight. Not just any fight, mind you - I¡¯d been disquieted by my vision of the winged, golden man, and (even then) I knew it was going to take all I had to bring him down. If the warband could keep him distracted, long enough for me to get in a lucky shot or two¡­Well, let¡¯s just say I fancied my odds a lot more.
Of course, sometimes the familiar failed to satisfy. It was Mowynk who posed the question. There was an innocence about him, an indefatigable curiosity that made him look even younger than he actually was. My overriding impression of him was someone perpetually searching for what lay beyond the horizon, and then the horizon after that. You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story. He¡¯d sworn loyalty with the eagerness of someone who considered himself, personally, invulnerable. Watching me the entire time, with his big, yearning eyes - Like he saw, in me, the kind of man he wanted to be. More fool him. One night, when Nilquit¡¯s recital had come to an end, he hadn¡¯t been able to resist. The priest knew his audience: He¡¯d been telling the tale of Khalat the Wanderer, who¡¯d ridden all the way to the stars and back on a great, winged steed. As the legend went, Khalat had left the Grazing Lands as a callow youth, returning to the People as a mighty warrior clad in moonsilver. His bride, whose hair blazed with the fires of distant suns, was just the cherry on top of the sundae. The parts which detailed, graphically, exactly how he¡¯d seduced her were greeted with roaring enthusiasm: No small thing, you¡¯d appreciate, given the cold nights and the long trek ahead. ¡°To see such things,¡± Mowynk said, staring into the flickering flames of the firepit. His dreamy look was accentuated by the heavy piercing in his lower lip, as he stabbed idly at the turf with his short knife. His gaze went to me, with unselfconscious earnestness. ¡°They say you¡¯ve traveled far, sulde¡­from lands beyond Phospiach, no less. The sights you must have beheld - The adventures you must¡¯ve had¡­¡± Stab, stab, went his knife, poking holes in the dirt. ¡°-I can only imagine the stories you¡¯ve collected along the way. Come, tell us - What have your eyes seen? What dangers have you faced?¡± A general murmur of agreement rose from the others. For they were curious, too, about the kind of man I was. Oh, they knew I must have had some mettle to make it this far - But the Summertime War was one thing. The long odyssey to the Adrijanopolj was something else entirely. In a way, it would be the most significant undertaking of their lives. ¡°I, too, wish to hear of such things,¡± Vorth said, without preamble. Caught off-guard, I blinked: He¡¯d said little, over the past week or so, and actually hearing his voice was something of a surprise. I¡¯d unrolled my mat on the smoky side of the fire, to give myself a measure of solitude while the others ate. It was only fair: After all, I needed to keep one eye on the Furstenburg¡¯s energy packs, which I¡¯d - carefully, very carefully - slid into the flames. I¡¯d lost my hand-cranked charger, along with other sundries, back on Calaria. I missed it, dearly, but it wasn¡¯t my only recourse. Exposing each pack¡¯s thermal receptor to heat in a fire was a crude but effective method of recharging. Unfortunately, it shortened the life of the power-packs badly, something I¡¯d resigned myself to. After all I¡¯d been through, it was a minor miracle that they still worked. I glanced from face to illuminated face, gauging their interest. Layak was nodding, even as he gnawed at a heel of bread: Sitting cross-legged nearby, Sabet was much the same, an eyebrow raised at this new diversion. I looked to Rodo, who gave a slightly sheepish shrug, though a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. In the end, that was what decided me - I set down my drinking-bowl and stood, brushing crumbs from my lap. What the hell, I thought. Why not indeed?
Confession may be good for the soul, but it can definitely be hazardous to one¡¯s prospects. Especially if you¡¯re giving account to a dozen warrior tribesmen, whose respect you need if you¡¯re going to make it through things in one piece. I¡¯ve been through a lot. I¡¯ve done things - shitty, despicable things - that I¡¯m not particularly proud of. If nothing else, I¡¯ve always been grateful that my family, my parents back on Earth, will never know what I¡¯ve been up to. I¡¯m not sure I could look my father in the eye. Still, I¡¯m only human. It¡¯s only natural to want to unburden oneself, to share what you know. In a way, it¡¯s somewhat narcissistic - Because you¡¯re not telling it for their benefit, not really. You¡¯re telling it for your own sake, to remind yourself that all those things really did happen. That, despite everything, you¡¯re still here. Still standing, through it all.
The question was: What would I tell them? The thing about telling a story is that it has a momentum, a life, of its own. You can twist things, you can leave things out¡­But then the inconsistencies will, at some point, catch up with you. By then, all internal coherence is probably lost, and you end up with a tangled mess that makes no sense. As you may have guessed, the men of the Twenty-Six Tribes had a nose for bullshit. It would take a better liar than me to pull the wool over their eyes, and the mere attempt to do so would have marked me as unmanly, unworthy of loyalty. It makes a kind of sense, I suppose. At this level of civilization, where life and death were balanced on the edge of a knife, you had to know you could trust someone. I could have told them about my fourth world, Dolor. About how all flights off-world had become an impossibility, thanks to the void-storm that had raged for nearly a hundred years. How the mining colonies, prospectors and penal laborers, cut off from the rest of the galaxy, had become a nation in their own right. All fueled, of course, by the great Synth mines. Synth, the miracle mineral. Press it hard enough against any other material, and it took on the precise properties of that material - All the way to the molecule level. That was what made it so breathtakingly valuable, enough to hollow out that god-forsaken planet like an apple. Locked in a perpetual ice-age, the surface of Dolor was nigh-uninhabitable. The inhabitants lived in underground cities, built around the precious few geothermal hotspots that could sustain life. It wasn¡¯t like they had a choice, really. Venture too far from the cities, and a freezing death awaited. It was a precarious existence, and perhaps all the wilder for it. Most people lived each day like it was their last, and you could raise all kinds of hell provided you had the Synth. Dolor might¡¯ve been a rough-and-ready mining town compared to the civilized comforts of the greater galaxy (which I never saw), but it wasn¡¯t without its pleasures. Even in this backwater, the Commonwealth¡¯s technology was at least five hundred years ahead of Earth¡¯s. You had full-contact virtual reality, flying cars - ¡®lifters¡¯, as they called them, in the local slang - a variety of fascinating intoxicants to put up your nose and in your veins, Viralith augmetics that (if you could pay) were miles better than the limbs you were born with, nanocrystals capable of storing hundreds of terabytes worth of data¡­ And, of course, guns. For everything that died on Dolor re-animated, doomed to degenerate - Slowly, agonizingly - from the almost-life of high-frequency undeath to the shambling, lurching low-freq horrors that roamed the freezing surface in vast numbers. Eternally searching for raw, screaming meat, the only thing that could hold their degeneration at bay. Guns helped even the odds.
Of course, the tribesmen would never have understood. Not because they were stupid, mind you, but because the base of knowledge needed to bridge the gap simply wasn¡¯t there. There was simply no common ground, no shared framework of concepts or experiences that could allow them to understand the intricacies of a far-flung, technologically-advanced civilization. The very words they used were anchored in a world so different from ours that they couldn''t have comprehended what I was trying to convey. Not without a lifetime of context and education that was, quite simply, outside their reach. Give the wisest men in Rome a flashlight, and ask them how it works. They¡¯d never figure it out, not in a hundred years. Instead, I told them about the time I¡¯d spent with the Ihulian Horde, and the sacking of the House of the Brother. How - sweating, scared out of my mind - I¡¯d crawled through the gloom with a double-score of wild-eyed fanatics, as we wormed our way through the tiny, too-narrow passage beneath the pitted battlements of the temple-monastery. The whole time, we could feel the gaze of the Vigilants - Rastuvia¡¯s own hand-picked sentinels - searching for us, with insect patience. If Oloin hadn¡¯t shrouded us in shadow, we would¡¯ve been sitting ducks, utterly exposed to their inhuman scrutiny. Whatever he did, it was enough to turn those hunting eyes away, to blind them to our presence, until we¡¯d emerged in the sprawling tomb-complex that lay beneath the fortress. The followers of the Golden General interred their dead in glory, in anticipation of the day the faithful would rise to march beneath His eternal banner. Until then, they awaited His call to arms. Imagine the sight: The dead in their serried ranks, standing rigidly at attention. Bony fingers gripping the shafts of bronzed spears, fleshless faces concealed behind silver war-masks. The faint stench of ancient rot, hanging in the air. Decay on display, in all its myriad forms. It was eerie as shit, and I don¡¯t mind saying so. A silent malevolence hung in the air like a miasma, marking us as interlopers. If you listened - really listened - you could almost hear the voices of the dead, at the very edge of perception. Whispering in their eternal unrest, unwilling to succumb to oblivion. I don¡¯t know what kind of afterlife awaited the followers of the Brother, but it didn¡¯t seem like a particularly enjoyable one. They must¡¯ve had their reasons, surely: I can¡¯t imagine why anyone would consider that a reward, otherwise. If not for the old Godbinder, they¡¯d have taken out their pent-up frustrations on us. You could feel it - Something in the air, like the sense of gathering charge before a lightning strike. Covered in dust and muck from where we¡¯d dug our way in, Oloin led the way, muttering the orisons and ritual prayers needed to appease the dead. I remember the tap-tap-tap of his staff keeping time with his atonal chanting, as we hurried after him in dark, deadly files. Jostling each other to stay close, because no-one wanted to be left amongst the whispering dead. Every breath felt achingly loud, rasping painfully in my throat as I fumbled with the waterproof shroud encasing my pulse rifle. It was the biggest gun we had in our arsenal, and if things got violent, I intended to shoot first and damn the consequences. As it turned out, I didn¡¯t need to. The reavers and shadow-killers of the Horde knew exactly what they were doing. As soon as we emerged from the black maw of the crypt, they spilled through the corridors and up the stairwells, moving with silent purpose. Each time their paths crossed with the startled sentries, the slick sounds of metal punching into flesh soon followed. Pitch-darkened knives would rise and fall in abrupt frenzies of violence, to the gagging, muted cries of men having their throats slit. All the while, I stumbled along after them, wondering what the hell I¡¯d gotten myself into. I was no good at this game of hide-and-go-backstab, and knowing that there were hundreds of Rastuvia¡¯s temple-soldiers lying in wait didn¡¯t help my nerves. ¡°Leave it to them, boy,¡± Oloin had rasped, taking a swig from his battered flask. He¡¯d wiped his mouth, his hands shaking from the sheer fatigue of his recitation. ¡°Your part in this comes later, never-you-fear.¡± He was right. We made it as far as the gatehouse, before the alarm had been well and truly raised. By then, there was no time for subtlety, no time for anything but speed and overwhelming force: I¡¯d slow-rolled two grenades down the air-shafts, flinching back as the night erupted into fire and death. Even with my hands clamped over my ears, even with a wall between me and the fusion burst, the noise had been deafening. The stench of charred flesh had been worse. I¡¯d gagged on it, nausea clawing at the back of my throat. Flash-blinded, I¡¯d struggled to my feet, doing my best not to puke. Thinking, the whole time: What the fuck have I done? ¡°I¡¯ve got you, lad-¡± Oloin had said, trying to pull me to my feet. A futile effort, really - I weighed twice what he did, and he was lucky he didn¡¯t throw his back out in the process. Blinking the spots away, I¡¯d somehow convinced him to stay behind me, as I staggered towards the fighting¡­ That was what counted, you see. Getting the gate open, so the rest of the Horde could pour in. After that, it was just a matter of bloody, brutal effort - Men hacking and slashing and bludgeoning, grunting obscenities as they butchered each other. By the time the defenders were forced back from the ramparts, the flagstones were slick with blood. With the Reversi, they might¡¯ve held out for longer¡­But by then, I¡¯d made it within range, and even their god-forged armor wasn¡¯t much good against Munzer Arms¡¯ finest export. The rest of it, well, you already know.
The warband loved the story. It was, after all, a thumpingly good one, full of skullduggery, derring-do and good ol¡¯ ultraviolence. The plunder didn¡¯t hurt, either: When I unfurled Lord-Prophet Vukyelt¡¯s armor, shook it out so they could admire the intricate runes acid-etched on every one of the lamellar scales, their eyes positively lit up. The younger men made appreciative sounds, not-so-secretly glad they were riding with someone who¡¯d been there, done that, and walked away in one piece. Mowynk vowed, right there and then, that he¡¯d never rest until he returned his tribe with a treasure at least as good. Layak, caught up in the moment, swore much the same thing. As did Uclid - Not because he really thought he had a chance, but to show willing. That was cause for celebration, a good excuse for a round of toasts and general fellowship all round. Even Vorth - taciturn, close-mouthed Vorth - allowed that it¡¯d been quite the accomplishment, though he¡¯d have (of course) found a way to do better. It was Nilquit, however, who cut closest to the meat of things. ¡°This ¡®Oloin¡¯,¡± he mused, furrowing his brow. The name sat oddly in Nilquit¡¯s mouth, like it tasted of falsehood. ¡°...He brought you to the Graven Star, did he not?¡± At my nod, the cult-priest went on. "He knew much, it seems. Where did he go, after your parting?¡± I shrugged. ¡°Who knows?¡± I said, shortly. ¡°-I didn¡¯t ask.¡± To his credit, Nilquit didn¡¯t probe. He merely folded his hands on his lap, staring into the heart of the flames. In the twitching light, the script inked on his face seemed to squirm, to shift, writing itself anew. What he was looking for, I had no idea. Truth, perhaps.
Four days later, we found the first bodies. Death was not uncommon, on the plains. The Grazing Lands, in their own way, could be every bit as deadly as Caldera¡¯s sun-blasted deserts or Dolor¡¯s freezing wastelands. Now and again, one could find lonely cairns or post-tombs: Little more than piled-up stones, draped with prayer-fragments and incense bowls. Sometimes, they would be crowned with a pennant marking the clan of the deceased, left to flutter in the breeze like a lonely wing. This was the bare minimum required to placate the dead, to ensure that their souls would hurry on to the embrace of the Horned Conqueror - Like an arrow released from a bow, the priests said, but I was reminded more of a moth to flame. There were four of them, left to lie where they¡¯d fallen, settled in the positions they would spend the rest of eternity in. Sabet, ranging ahead with his brother, was the first to discover them. The twins had come across the corpses quite by accident, which was especially dismaying: There had been no sign of passage, no tracks that indicated how they¡¯d got here. It was as if the dead men and their horses had materialized from nothing, or had been deposited from a great height. The ever-ravenous scavengers had shunned their remains, wizened and desiccated as if drained of all essential juices - Something about the shrunken, dried-out husks made my skin crawl, as I made sure to give them a wide berth. ¡°What killed them?¡± I asked, careful not to touch the withered dead. Nilquit had chanted a ward against spiritual pollution, but I had rather more earthly concerns. Science had never been my forte, but I could imagine a myriad of horrors. Radiation, poison, some kind of fast-acting plague¡­Take your pick. If there was one thing I¡¯d learned from all this, it was that there was no shortage of ways to die. ¡°I know not, sulde,¡± the witch-priest said, his hands dusted with sacred chalk. He looked uneasy, out of his depth - Like he was only now realizing that all his learning hadn¡¯t prepared him for something like this. ¡°If I had to hazard a guess - These men walked the ways of twilight, between light and dark, where only shadows are known.¡± ¡°What does that mean?¡± Nilquit frowned, fussing with his medicine-bag. He was rattled, and badly: It showed in his every action, jerky and twitchy where they¡¯d been carefully composed. "The short version, or the long one?" "-The one where I understand what you mean." He looked me in the eye. ¡°These men have travelled a¡­long way. Through a place with no food, no life-giving water, and their essence - carried across their backs, the way one might carry a corpse - suffered horribly.¡± I frowned. ¡°You¡¯re saying¡­They died of starvation?¡± ¡°Yes, sulde. But it was their souls that withered away. Their bodies could only follow.¡± So it was magic, then. My mouth worked, as I chewed that over. I had only the faintest idea what he meant, but it was the implications that troubled me. I knew enough that something deep, dark and thoroughly fucked-up had happened here¡­I just didn¡¯t know what. Rodo, with less to lose than the others, had taken it upon himself to go through the saddlebags and wargear of the fallen. There was little sentiment on the veldt: As long as the proper rites were observed, there was no taboo against looting the dead. It was frowned upon to dig up a cairn, but the belongings of the unburied were apparently fair game. Or maybe he just didn¡¯t care. When Rodo returned, his deeply-lined face was troubled. He had a handful of trophy rings, stripped from the dead men. With a grunt, he threw one to me, and I caught the iron bangle out of the air. ¡°Quarsh,¡± he said, by way of explanation. Tossed me another. ¡°-Kythri.¡± A third. ¡°Adaar.¡± Minor tribes, all of them. They¡¯d been knocked out of the running in the first few weeks, with little to show for their efforts. None had ranked amongst the top eight, their champions notably absent from the great assembly at the Firepeaks. Zisithras frowned at that, resting the banner against his shoulder. The wind stirred the prayer-strips tied to the shaft, making them flutter like streamers in the breeze. ¡°Far from home,¡± he said, sounding uneasy. ¡°What were they doing here?¡± ¡°Raiding the Ahtzira, maybe?¡± I suggested, as I turned the trophy rings over in my hands. There was an unpleasant, slimy feel to the metal, like a faint patina of oil. Feeling vaguely soiled, I tossed them to the ground, wiping my hands on my leggings. My flag-bearer chuckled, at that. ¡°Not likely, sulde,¡± he said, scratching his stubbled chin. ¡°To ride here, from their lands¡­¡± Zisithras spread his hands, as if trying to illustrate the distances involved. ¡°Few would make the attempt. Richer pickings, closer to home-¡± ¡°Well, they had plenty of company,¡± I said, nudging a withered horse-carcass with my boot. I immediately regretted it: The thing¡¯s flesh was flaking away, like ash, crumbling beneath the slightest touch. ¡°Best guesses, anyone?¡± There was the unpleasant scrape of iron on bone. Mowynk had got his knife out: Greatly daring, he¡¯d knelt to examine one of the bodies, frowning as he probed away. Nilquit, leaning over his shoulder, let out a soft hiss - When I turned back, he¡¯d peeled the corpse¡¯s flesh away from his forehead, revealing a rune branded into the front of the skull. The sight of it drew an oath from Mowynk. The young warrior scrambled back, flinging down his dagger like it¡¯d gone red-hot. All color had drained from Nilquit¡¯s face, one hand clamped to the front of his mouth as if stifling nausea. ¡°What?¡± I said. ¡°What is it?¡± It took the witch-priest a moment to reply, swallowing down his gorge. ¡°These men,¡± he said, thickly. Trying not to gag. ¡°These men were marked as - Ursh.¡± At my incomprehension, he tried again. ¡°Damned, sulde. These men were damned.¡±
In a world filled with Gods, damnation - or perhaps excommunication, I suppose - was a fate worse than death. With the fate of the Twenty-Six Tribes so closely tied to the cult of the Supreme Herdsman, one of the greatest punishments they could inflict was being cast out from His sight. You see, every man of the tribes was assured of his place in eternity. There was some disagreement over exactly what that place was, but the idea was that someone who heeded the word of Tauruskhan, who fought to defend kith and home, could expect a blissful post-mortem existence. A reward for a life well-lived, as they say. Even if you were a liar, a cheat, a blood-drunk manic and an abuser of cattle - Well, there was still a place for you. It might not be a good one, but there was comfort in knowing that all was arranged. Knowing what to expect took a lot of the terror out of death. Being Ursh meant you forfeited all that. It was a sentence that could only be handed down by a chieftain of the twenty-six tribes, and only in the most dire circumstances. You were branded, all the way into the bone - How they did it without marring the skin over it, I never found it - marked as forever anathema in Tauruskhan¡¯s sight¡­Then cast out, stripped of all surety. No afterlife for your soul. Just a descent into utter oblivion, condemned to the howling darkness forever. They weren¡¯t just saying that, too. Being excommunicated meant becoming a blind spot in the eyes of the God and His Court. The lesser spirits and totems of the veldt would actively ignore you, refusing to give succor or aid, or deign to answer your entreaties or prayers. As long as you remained in the Grazing Lands, you would be alone - As utterly alone as a mortal would be, without the whispers of the invisible world to guide you. So that was a pretty fucked-up thing to do to someone. Given the rarity of such a sentence, having four men (hailing from different tribes, no less) condemned to the same fate¡­I didn¡¯t need to be a priest to see that it was a bad omen.
That night, the mood around the campfire was dark. A silence hung in the air, broken only by the crackle of the flames. Dalat loomed near, but I¡¯d called an early halt, all the same. I had a sense that trouble was around the corner, and I wanted to make sure we would be well-rested. And so, we readied ourselves for what was to come. Riding in full armor is a special kind of hell. You couldn¡¯t keep that up, not for days on end - It wasn¡¯t just the discomfort, the sense of constriction, but the added burden to one¡¯s mount. Even the hardy men of the Twenty-Six Tribes, born to the saddle, rarely did it. But when battle was imminent, out came the hauberks of lamellar armor, the coats of scales, the pauldrons and gorget chased with precious metals and scripture. And, most strikingly of all, the great black-tipped feather-cloaks, made to billow like wings when a rider set himself to the charge. For every reasonably successful tribesman, it was a point of pride to maintain a full suite of wargear. Valor in battle was the swiftest way to gain the God¡¯s favor, even if - especially if - that meant one¡¯s death. Water was boiled in the communal pot, and passed around for shaving. Heads, cheeks, chins, everything, with painstaking care, to ensure that Tauruskhan would know His own. I¡¯d always kept myself clean-shaven, but it was startling to see the others without mustache or beard. They looked younger, almost civilized, stripped of the dirt, grease and blood I¡¯d come to associate with Phosphiach - I nearly had trouble recognizing them, as Nilquit inspected each man¡¯s face for signs of stubble. Bows were re-strung, lances sharpened to razor-points. Blades were re-edged, armor cleaned, polished and re-finished. Ganazzar had an especially impressive suit of bronze plate, built for his more-than-human proportions, and it took him laborious hours to affix the prayer-strips in place. When he was done, Nilquit swung a censer of burning incense across his completed panoply, wafting sacred smoke over breastplate and pauldrons alike. The heavy, smoky musk of it made me cough: Uneasily, it reminded me of the Bull-God¡¯s sanctum, a thick, earthy smell like some huge animal¡¯s musk. My preparations were rather more secular. Back on Dolor, I¡¯d invested in a thoroughly modern suit of semi-powered body-armor, but like most of my arsenal, it hadn¡¯t survived the final conflagration of Cradle. Still, I had kept the ballistic helmet. The guidance electronics were long-dead, but it was a fully-enclosed thing, complete with visor, proofed against the scrabbling fingers and teeth of the frozen dead. Fleetingly, I wondered how well it¡¯d do against a god-blessed arrow. I hoped I never had to find out. I¡¯d been offered a wide variety of weapons, but I¡¯d scorned that all in favor of the Fursterburg. I had a score of charge-packs for it - Two in the rifle, six in my belt, six more strapped across my body in the loops and pouches of an increasingly-battered harness, the rest stowed away for another time. At full capacity, each pack held enough power for (roughly) eighty shots¡­But they¡¯d seen hard use and general rough handling, and I wasn¡¯t sure how much juice I¡¯d get out of each one. There was, of course, no way to tell. I had poor, forsaken Gilead¡¯s tetza, swarming across my skin. Last Breath, the shield¡¯s weight still unfamiliar on my arm. My gauntlets of black jade, made to crush stone and men alike. My pouch full of spintriae, bulging at the seams like a miser¡¯s purse. I had the post-human science of Unity in every cell of my form, catalyst running in my blood. Making my body swell with strength, even as it hollowed me out from within. And there was Oneira¡¯s gun, of course. For absolute last-ditch use only. If I had to use it, we were really screwed. In the end, it was Layak who broke the silence. He looked a little green around the gills, and had been restless all night. He¡¯d been chewing distractedly on a strip of dakkag - a kind of jerky, with herbs and berries beaten into dried sections of beef - before he decided to pop the question. ¡°What,¡± he asked, trying not to look too anxious. Trying not to look afraid. ¡°-What is war like?¡± Now, Layak had seen his share of raids before. Sure, death was a possibility, but a more common fate for the defeated was a beating, a humiliating imprisonment, and ultimately being traded for ransom. He¡¯d never been in a fight where death wasn¡¯t just a risk, but the entire point of the endeavour. I looked around. At Zisithras, patiently repairing the banner, tutting to himself as he mended the rips with tough twine, colored thread, and long needles. At Ganazzar, carefully working Koran¡¯s sword with a whetstone, though it was flakes of stone rather than metal that were shaved away. At Rodo, whose watery blue eyes had seen far, far too much. He met my gaze, caught my question, and nodded - Just once. Horrible, I wanted to say. Imagine your worst nightmare. Then, scream as loud as you can. ¡°Glorious,¡± I said. ¡°What else could it be?¡±
When dawn came, in the cold, almost green light of the daybreak, we rose and rode away into the grass. Towards Dalat. Towards the bloodletting to come. Call it providence, premonition or even just a gut-feeling: Somehow, we knew what was going to happen. There was, I think, a sense of inevitability to it all - A deep-seated knowledge that we had been fortunate so far, and that it couldn¡¯t hope to last. Or perhaps we had known, all along, that the God would demand His pound of flesh. That none of us would leave the Grazing Lands unchanged.
It actually took two more days of riding. Can you believe that? I remember almost nothing after that last night. Even now, it¡¯s a blank space in my memory. An interlude, maybe: The calm before the storm. It was no reprieve, believe me. Just two hard days of following the God¡¯s own banner, hanging limp before us like a corpse on the gallows. By day, we moved at a steady trot. By night, a slow plod. Some of the men slept upright in their saddles, heads nodding. Their horses moved on, all the same, drawn by herd instinct to follow the group. It didn¡¯t rain, but thunder grumbled in the distance. Like a storm was building, somewhere, ready to break. We¡¯d long since left the Ahtzira behind. All the while, their scouts had kept their distance. They¡¯d made no attempt to approach, merely watched, warily, as we made our way across their lands. I had a nasty feeling that they knew more than they let on, that we had been marked, somehow. Why, I couldn''t begin to guess. I could have forced the issue, but trying to give chase on the wide-open steppe is generally a losing proposition. We could have run them down, but the effort would have been more trouble than it was worth. Besides, we were already expecting trouble. The only question was what kind.
At last, the veldt gave way to barren ground. There was no gradual faltering of the grass, as it gave way to gravel, dust and scrub. The Grazing Lands didn¡¯t end so much as vanish, the border between lush fertility and barren sandstone plateau as sharp as the cut made by a ritual knife. To either side rose great escarpments, ramping into the hazy distances. Countless statues dotted the sterile desert like silent sentinels, their headless diorite forms canted at angles that were never quite true. Before us, the great arch of Dalat cleaved the horizon, like a bridge between the realm of gods and men. It rose unsupported, roots planted firmly in the earth, rising above the uneasy ruins like Time¡¯s own shadow. I had to admit, it was one hell of a sight. I¡¯d heard the stories, of course, but seeing it for myself like this¡­Unaccountably, I felt a chill. There was something uncanny about it, a sense that what I gazed upon was the work of inhuman hands- And if I was impressed, imagine how the others felt. Uclid and Layak were dumbstruck, their faces gone blank as they stared at the bisected horizon. Mowynk¡¯s shoulders hitched as he rode, shaking as if in spasm: He must¡¯ve been struck by a kind of vertigo, for he clutched his saddle¡¯s pommel tight, swaying atop his mount like a man at the precipice of a cliff. Nilquit wept. Silently, without making a sound, tears streaking down through the white ash he¡¯d used to badge his face. ¡°Tauruskhan be praised,¡± he kept saying, over and over again. ¡°Praised be!¡± I¡¯d never seen the witch-priest this overwrought before. Looking back, it shouldn¡¯t have been a surprise - This was the furthest he¡¯d ever been from the sacred Firepeaks, all he¡¯d ever known. To behold a vista like this, with his own eyes¡­ It must have been a revelation. His world, such as it was, had been rocked to its very foundations. I knew how it felt. The disbelief, the awe, the all-consuming sense of something that was part-freedom, past-bewilderment¡­The knowledge that you were here, now, farther from home than you had ever been- For moments like that, there are no words.
The God was kind, in His own way. We had almost an hour to enjoy the sight of the great plain, the upswelling of hope that came with the end - or a beginning - of a long trek. We all felt it, in that moment. That the first stretch of our journey was over, and hey, it wasn¡¯t so bad. How bad could the next one be? We were about to find out. As we rode out towards the plateau, dust swirled above the slopes on either side. Overhead, the slowly-turning clouds were going dark, like blood blooming in water - A dark stain, like a wash of thunderheads, was bruising the distance, widening with every passing moment. It all blended together into a kind of ominous murmuring, the feral grumbling of something laying in wait. ¡°Storm¡¯s coming,¡± Kalich said, looking up at the sky. He¡¯d cased his horn against the dust, carefully stowing it away - His expression uneasy, narrowing his eyes as he peered into the slowly-creeping dust storm. Already, it shrouded the surrounding hills in a swirling haze, like a veil had been drawn to obscure what lay beyond. ¡°We should find shelter-¡± I began. But even as I spoke, I knew something was wrong. The dust-storm was coming on too fast, moving as if with purpose. Like it¡¯d been summoned, like it¡¯d been lying in wait for all this time. Which meant- This is a trap. My head came up, as I seized my horse¡¯s reins. I was about to give the order to wheel around, to break for the safety of the veldt¡­But even then, I knew we wouldn¡¯t make it. We¡¯d come too far, ridden headlong into the waiting jaws. ¡°Sulde!¡± Zisithras¡¯s urgent shout split the air. He pointed, the banner flapping overhead: I turned to look, my guts already cramping with dread- For there was movement, in the filmy edges of the advancing dust storm. Before my eyes, it resolved into shapes, figures. A long line of horsemen, emerging from the banks of dust. They were clad in full armor - Lamellar, scale, brass, war-masks and long-horned helms. All of it caked with pitch, as if they sought to shroud themselves in anonymity. Blades, spears and axe-hafts rested across their saddle-bows, lances and javelins gleaming in the curiously-dull light. Swaying standards and totem-staves rose from the murk, worn and tattered from the shadowy paths they¡¯d taken. The meanings of some eluded me, but the others¡­ Quarsh. Kythri. Adaar. Twilight Veil. I counted tens of men, then scores. Fifty, sixty, eighty, more, forming a ragged line atop the crest of the hills. A dozen different warbands, divided by feuds that ran back all the way to the time of Tulgar¡­ Gathered here and now, for a single grim purpose. ¡°God¡¯s teeth,¡± Maka - or maybe Sabat - swore, his face gone as pale as milk. He had good reason: I counted at least a hundred tribal cavalry, ready to sweep down across the plain and rip us to pieces. Worse, with every breath, their numbers swelled further. Somewhere around a hundred and fifty, I lost count. There were just too many of them, a seemingly-endless profusion of mounted lancers, emerging from the roiling haze, taking their place in the line. They didn¡¯t hurry. After all, they had all the time in the world. The only reason why they weren¡¯t already encircling us, riding hard to cut off our retreat, was because there was nowhere for us to run. We could never hope to outpace them, not like this - Trying to flee just meant a less dignified end. ¡°Sulde-¡± Braze Jai¡¯s eyes flicked to me, his voice a dust-dry whisper. ¡°We¡¯re dead, aren¡¯t we?¡± I didn¡¯t answer, though I suspected that we very much were. Instead, I unslung the pulse rifle from where it rode on my back, resting the Furstenburg across my knees. Carefully, so very carefully, I thumbed the safety switch, felt the weapon thrum as it came to life. Tried to ignore how badly my hands were shaking, the sickly copper fear-taste in my mouth. ¡°So many,¡± Layak was saying, this close to gibbering, until Vorth growled at him to shut up. He knew the score, too: We all did. Even Mowynk, his jaw clenched tight to stop his teeth from chattering, one hand locked around his tulwar in a white-knuckled grip. In the face of imminent death, Uclid¡¯s voice was a tiny, embryonic thing. His Adam¡¯s apple bobbed, eyes gone wide as he stared at the serried lines of the enemy - for enemies they no doubt were, now - as if trying to make sense of it all. ¡°What-¡± he blurted out, all at once. Outraged, almost, like he couldn¡¯t believe any of this was happening. ¡°What do they want, sulde?¡± I could have told him, not that it would have made any difference. Praya¡¯s worst fears had come spectacularly true. The Horned Conqueror had made His choice, and He had chosen to abandon His people. As it turned out, His people had something to say about that, too. How long had they been planning this? All the way from the start of the Summertime War, most likely. The lesser tribes, those who had the most to lose from Tauruskhan¡¯s absence, had never intended to honor His will. They¡¯d come together, a desperate conspiracy of the downtrodden, to save themselves in the only way they could. Seize the God¡¯s champion. Hold His own Hand hostage. Renegotiate. It was an audacious move, one that I would¡¯ve applauded if I wasn¡¯t on the receiving end. If they pulled it off, they¡¯d have masterminded the coup of the century. Tauruskhan¡¯s schemes for ascension would be well and truly scuppered, and at last, after generations of humiliation, they¡¯d finally hold the upper hand. The Twilight Veil had provided the sorceries necessary to move their forces swiftly and invisibly, never mind that dozens (or more, perhaps) had perished from the extremity. The tribal chieftains had marked their men - those willing to give everything to preserve their way of life - with the brand of exile, to hide them from the God¡¯s eyes¡­ And while the Twenty-Six Tribes celebrated, hailing the arrival of Tauruskhan¡¯s champion, they¡¯d made their move. The trap had been set, and we¡¯d blundered headlong into it. There were only two things I couldn¡¯t figure out. Who told them the route we took? I¡¯d had the good sense to keep it to myself, taking only Praya¡¯s and Oloin¡¯s council. The Bull-God¡¯s cult, naturally, had their lips firmly sealed- And then, like a dim bulb flickering to life¡­ Oloin, I thought. Fuck. I really, really should¡¯ve killed him. It would have been so easy - I could have crushed the old Godbinder like an ant. Wiped him away like a smear. Damn me, I suppose. I¡¯d spent too much time with Alistair and Eulisia: They¡¯d made me soft, sentimental, and it¡¯d come back to bite me in the ass. Now, at last, the pieces were beginning to fall into place. Just one question remained: Whose hand was behind this? I pondered that question, even as a great carnyx, an open-mouthed trumpet of weathered bronze, blew a long, sharp note. The final standard - a truly massive auroch skull, transfixed by flaming horns - was hefted up, at the center of the line. The empty sockets seemed to glare down at us balefully, as the last of the rebel tribesmen rode in. It was the sacred banner of the Jarrow. First amongst equals, the storm walkers, the bearers of the burning crown. ¡°Heretics,¡± Nilquit muttered, his face contorting in anguish. He raked his fingers through his hair, as if he meant to tear it out by the roots. ¡°Defiers of the God! That the blood of Tulgar would fall to this¡­!¡± I couldn¡¯t help it. I laughed, then - A short, sharp bark of laughter, bleak as slow machine-gun fire. He turned, astonished, and that just made me laugh harder. Who knew the Clan of Kings were sore losers?
Right on cue, the forest of spearpoints and banners parted. The thick clot of horsemen shuffled aside, as Harnak Kul - sire of Rarga Kul - made himself known at last. The Chieftain of the Jarrow was a stark figure, tall and straight-backed on his great black steed. In his gold and bronze wargear, he was cold and proud and magnificent as a Prince of Hell. The flames flashed off the remains of the bull-headed crest on his shoulder plates, the holy emblem ritually shattered by a hammer¡¯s blows. ¡°Morgan Hollow-Born!¡± came his voice, rising above the jangling of armor and the nervous snorts of horses. Even the moan of the desert wind seemed to still, as if Harnak¡¯s presence was enough to silence it. Hollow-Born. No land. No kin. No blood-ties. It would have been insulting, if it wasn¡¯t so accurate. At my side, Ganazzar stirred, restlessly. I held a hand out, to quiet him - For some things had to be left to play out. ¡°You, and all who ride with you, are traitors to the Twenty-Six Tribes. The spirits of heroes long dead spit upon the infidel usurpers who befoul the Grazing Lands, and the false priests who give evil council.¡± He paused, to let that sink in. Even from here, I could see the grim set to Harnak¡¯s scarred features. He knew what was coming, how this had to end, and was bracing himself for what came next. ¡°I name you pretender, unfit to bear the God¡¯s essence. I brand you blasphemer, defiler of Tauruskhan¡¯s sacred name. May Tulgar, Father-of-Tribes, wither your hearts to ash. Your deaths shall feed our lives.¡± Even Rodo and Kalich, veterans both, made a sharp intake of breath at that. Given what we were up against, I honestly couldn¡¯t blame them. In the looming silence, I spurred my destrier forward. Right next to Zisithras, the standard of the Bull-God fluttering upright in his thick hands. ¡°Cover your ears,¡± I ordered, keeping my voice carefully level. He blinked at me, like a man awakening from a dream. ¡°Sulde?¡± ¡°Cover your ears,¡± I said, waiting - every nerve jangling with pent-up tension - as he fumbled the banner¡¯s pole into the flag-keeper. ¡°Morgan!¡± My name burst from Mowynk¡¯s lips, nearly a shout. Like he couldn¡¯t hold himself back, not any longer. Facing death head-on, contemplating his very last moments on Phosphiach, Mowynk no longer cared about protocol. ¡°Morgan, what are you doing?¡± I looked back at his pinched, pale face, as white as a priest¡¯s war-paint. He was desperately trying to look brave, but he couldn¡¯t fool his horse: Mowynk¡¯s hands trembled on his gelding¡¯s reins as it tossed its head, snorting. Scenting his fear. ¡°Me?¡± I said, as my destrier trotted forward. Every instinct screamed at me to run, but I knew there was no point. You can¡¯t run from the inevitable. ¡°-I¡¯m giving them God¡¯s answer.¡±
Sand crunched beneath my horse¡¯s hooves, one slow step at a time. I can only imagine how it must have looked, to the waiting army. A single rider, drawing ahead of the others, riding with the faltering skill of an enthusiastic amateur. So small, amid all that vastness. Could I really be the man they¡¯d come all this way to capture? To hold beneath the knife, for the future of the Twenty-Six Tribes? Well, I hadn¡¯t come to show off my horsemanship, at any rate. I had something rather more substantial in mind. It takes a certain mindset, I¡¯ve found, to use magic. Magic of any kind, really: You may be invoking the imperious authority of the Gentry, the sorcerous abstractions of Caldera¡¯s twice-damned warlocks, or even the bone-chilling necromancies of Dolor - But will and word need to align before the fireworks can go off, in a certain particular way. Thaumaturgy was no exception. You couldn¡¯t just chant the words and make the gestures, to call upon a God¡¯s power. You had to become the God, surrender part of yourself in imitation of Their essential and eternal essence. Then, and only then, could you work miracles. Certain things made it easier. Offerings, for one. Trained acolytes providing ritual and moral support. Insistent drumming. The old standbys: Drugs, powders and generous drink, in the name of inducing the right frame of mind. And, most important of all - Doing what the God would want you to do. I had ridden away from the others for a reason. I could feel that something was building up, and if I didn¡¯t get away, it was going into them. A slow-burning rage coiled within me, as intense as it was familiar. A father¡¯s anger at His ungrateful children. Centuries of not-so-petty slights and never-forgotten trespasses, grievances swept under the rug in the name of harmony. Long-buried resentments, coming to light at long last. Why couldn''t they obey? Why couldn''t they follow My will? Couldn''t they see how crucial this was to Me? How much it meant? Did they think I acted without purpose? Did they truly believe they could escape My wrath? I shut my eyes. Drew as deep a breath as I could. And then- I spoke with the God¡¯s voice.
APOSTATES The sound was directed away from me, but it nearly deafened me all the same. My ears rang from the force of it - For a moment, it felt like the ground itself was shaking. I couldn¡¯t even imagine what it must have sounded like, to the heretic army. Like the end of the world, maybe. YOU COVET WHAT CANNOT BE YOURS It was too vast to be called speech. The sound reverberated through the distant cliffs, as if all of the Grazing Lands shouted its fury. DAMNED ARE THOSE WHO DEFY TAURUSKHAN The great host recoiled, like a single body. Men convulsed, hands pressed to their skulls, faces contorted in anguish. Some bled from the ears or eyes, their armor and weapons rattling from the sheer shock. ACCURSED IS THEIR SEED Confusion erupted along the line. Horses toppled, kicking - Some dropped where they stood, paralyzed by the overwhelming sound. Their bodies just couldn¡¯t process Tauruskhan¡¯s rage, and simply shut down. Like a light switch. On, then off. COME, TRAITORS The air itself vibrated, as if struck by blows. Gaps appeared in the line: A few of the tribesmen had broken ranks, utterly consumed by a nameless terror. They fled without looking back, casting off their new alliances as easily as their old ones. Somehow, I don¡¯t think they ever stopped running. FACE GOD¡¯S WRATH Shouts and screams, oddly muted now, rang from the veils of swirling dust. Half-visible in the churning haze, riders pelted past, veering wide to show that they wanted no part of this. But those were the rabble and the chaff, the late-comers and opportunists. The core of the patchwork horde wavered, but stood all the same. I saw men exchange panicked looks, struggling to calm their mounts, to regain their footing- I¡¯d shaken them. Victory, which had looked so certain before, was now in doubt. In the thick, deafening silence that followed, a ragged cheer rose from my dozen. It seemed such a small thing, in the face of the horde - But here, now, the smallest things had taken on the greatest importance. ¡°The God rides with us!¡± Ganazzar bellowed, throwing his head back. He was glaring, wild-eyed, muscles bunching with maniac strength. Foam flecked his lips, as his steed reared: He raised the Jarrow blade high, clenched in his mailed fist. ¡°To war, brothers! FOR TULGAR! FOR TAURUSKHAN!¡± Above, horns brayed. Harnak Kul roared an order of his own, inaudible amid all that chaos. It seemed like all the world was chaos - A din of voices and drums, sounding the attack. Even from here, I felt the distant rumble, hundreds of horses and men united in a single, surging charge¡­ ¡°This is the last battle!¡± Nilquit shouted, rising in his saddle. His robes flapped in the wind, his arms spread like great wings. ¡°The only battle! Fight, blessed ones! Fight now, as if this is your last stand - And it will not be so!¡± My throat felt raw. Too raw for speech. I heard myself spitting bloody phlegm, gasping for breath. Mouth slobbering around the agony of my swollen throat, wanting to snarl and bite like an animal- Lead by example. I kicked my heels into the destrier¡¯s sides, and drove my steed forward. Forward, into the field of black stone. Forward, into the uproar and the tumult. Amazingly, they followed. Every one of them. Kalich blew the charge, and the warband swept after me. Racing fast, Zisithras drew ahead of the others, the wind swooping through our banner. The swallowtails of the standard flowed out behind him, the sun-and-horns gleaming like defiance itself in the eerie light. The flood of tribal cavalry spilled towards us, the crest of a solid wave of horned shadows. I heard their wailing battle-cries, their ululating roar as they came on. The wet percussion of their horses¡¯ hooves, like unending thunder. We met in the shadow of Dalat, and the killing began. TO BE CONTINUED Chapter 10: The Battle of Dalat (Part IV) Then Abner called to Joab, and said, Shall the sword devour for ever? knowest thou not that it will be bitterness in the latter end? how long shall it be then, ere thou bid the people return from following their brethren? ¨D 2 Samuel 2:26 Chapter 10: The Battle of Dalat (Part IV) All told, the apostate army numbered over five hundred strong. Just reaching Dalat had claimed dozens, and more than a score had fled in the face of Tauruskhan¡¯s wrath¡­But enough remained. More than enough. The largest contingent, of course, hailed from the Jarrow. Close to sixty heavily-armed Jarrow cavalry, veterans all, had survived the harrowing journey. Harnak Kul, their iron-souled leader, had been pitiless in his appraisal. He¡¯d held them together, more through sheer willpower than anything else, and as such had suffered the least casualties. Still, he¡¯d lost nearly a third of his force. Some had fallen behind, lost forever in the twilight ways. Others had been preyed upon by the hideous predators that lurked within the shadowy paths, seized and devoured by things beyond the sight of the Gods. Most had simply died, when their souls - or those of their steeds - withered away to nothing. Those who lost their horses were dead men walking, doomed to stagger on until darkness and silence swallowed them. It was pure survival. A steed burdened by two riders meant two men, not one, would fall. Don¡¯t get me wrong. Harnak Kul wasn¡¯t a sadist or a cold, ego-driven pragmatist. If he were, he¡¯d never have earned the Clan of Kings¡¯ unwavering loyalty. From what I knew, he cared deeply for his men. His force included all but his youngest sons - For he would never have asked his tribe to sacrifice what he wouldn¡¯t. His youngest sons¡­And Rarga Kul, left at the Firepeaks to uphold the lie of his father¡¯s presence. Supposedly, it was penance for his defeat. But Rarga was Harnak¡¯s favorite son, and a shamed life was better than a godless death. Later, I would learn that Harnak Kul was the first to take the brand of damnation. Some tales said he wielded the iron himself, but I find that hard to believe. Or maybe not. Maybe that was what it took to be chieftain.
In some ways, we were lucky. Yes, there were thirteen of us, facing off against more than four hundred men. The enemy held the high ground, and the advantage of sheer numbers. They¡¯d lost so many just getting here, but hundreds remained- And every one of the rebels knew that they had to win. At any cost. They had cast themselves from Tauruskhan¡¯s embrace, condemned their souls to eternal exile from the Grazing Lands. They¡¯d turned their backs on their own God¡­And you better believe that He was pissed at them. That was incredibly motivating, as you can imagine. If they failed here, if they faltered, only damnation awaited them. It was a sundering, a shattering of everything they¡¯d ever known - All the rules were out of the window, and it was victory or a fate literally worse than death. Quarsh, Dhalani, Kythri, Jyamak, Adaar, Volzum, Twilight Veil, Jarrow¡­It no longer mattered. All the old rivalries, the feuds, had been cast aside. They were united, now as never before, welded into a single army through their shared fate. Win or die. Nothing else mattered. On any other world, that would¡¯ve been enough. No matter how well we fought, no matter how many we killed, our charge would - eventually - run out of momentum and space. We would be wrestled over and dragged down, man and horse alike, then hacked to death with sharpened iron blades. But the Ursh needed me alive. They couldn¡¯t just kill me - Well, they could have, but it would have defeated the point of the whole thing. If the rebel army wanted to seize Tauruskhan¡¯s own power, I had to be taken alive. There was a protocol for such things, you see. Without the proper rites, spilling my blood merely meant that His invested power would be lost. The God would be down a champion, yes¡­But then they would have nothing to bargain with. No way to forestall His wrath. Trust me, no one holds a grudge like a god. If Tauruskhan had been thwarted, He would have vented His rage the only way He knew: Through the utter obliteration of His enemies. It wasn¡¯t even a question of practicality, but principle. The loyal tribes would have scoured their heretic kin from the face of Phosphiach, with all of His might behind them. It didn¡¯t matter that He¡¯d only have been bleeding Himself dry. Metaphorically speaking, if His eyes were knives, He¡¯d have yanked them out and hurled them at the apostates. Tauruskhan was just that kind of God. So, they couldn¡¯t kill me. Not in open battle, at least. But those limitations? They didn¡¯t apply to me. At long last, I was free to go to town on them. To rip, tear and rend. To slaughter, with blade, bullet and fist. Some might consider that unsporting, but I¡¯m certainly not complaining, mind you. After all, it was my ass on the line. Every little bit helped.
And then, of course, there were the realities of life on Phosphiach to consider. As I¡¯ve said, the gods loved leaving relics lying around. Swords, shields, spears¡­If it could take a blow or deliver one, it was good enough for any one of the myriad gods. Each one, however, required the imbuer to surrender a portion of His immortal power - And gods, more than anyone else, were loathe to yield even a fraction of their essence. Tauruskhan was no exception. But in His aspect as the Horned Conqueror, He was a god of warriors¡­And it¡¯s a pretty lousy god who can¡¯t gird His followers for battle. Like the countless other martial deities that ruled over the sphere of warfare, the Divine Chief had come to a compromise. When violence beckoned, when the God called upon them to take up arms, the men of the Twenty-Six Tribes rode into battle with the priests of the Bull-God¡¯s cult at their side. This wasn¡¯t just ritual or superstition, or even moral support. Their sigil-marked weapons, passed down from father to son, could be roused by the blessings of the witch-priests. It charged them, infusing blades, bludgeons and arrows with divine power, made them strike straight and true. Like the dread Reversi of Rastuvia, or Vairocana¡¯s slayer-saints, those of Tulgar¡¯s blood bore the weapons of eternity. So long as the Custodians of the Divine Horns willed it, of course. The merciless arithmetic made itself known, and quickly. The clans that kept the faith, that worshipped Tauruskhan in word and deed, thrived. Those that did not¡­Well, you can guess what happened to them. This was why the Grazing Lands had never been conquered. A God is always strongest on His own turf - His blessings surge, while invaders'' power fades. There is power in the very rock of the Bull-God¡¯s fane, held deep under the foundations. Power enough, perhaps, for thirteen men to overcome an army? One way or another, we were about to find out. The thing was, the heretic host lacked that. No priest of Tauruskhan would ever have backed them, for it His will they deferred to above all things. In a world where the Gods were real, tangible entities, there was no room for ambiguity in doctrine. You served your patron in all things, or not at all. Even if one did, wielding a God¡¯s power against His champion is like throwing gasoline on an inferno - It only makes things worse. Immeasurably worse. The Twilight Veil had their dark magics, but hauling more than five hundred men and their mounts through the shadowed ways had drained them dry. A fortunate thing, too: If they were anywhere near Shahmat¡¯s calibre, dealing with them would¡¯ve been a nightmare. And so, the apostates rode to war, armed with nothing but dead iron and bronze. Blinded to the invisible world, they had only the strength of their arms and hardened sinews to rely on. Meanwhile, we had the God on our side. It was, at best, a silver lining in a very, very dark cloud. Make no mistake, we were desperately outnumbered, facing odds of more than thirty-to-one. ¡°Too many!¡± Rodo shouted, before the wind snatched his words away. ¡°Too damn many!¡± ¡°I know!¡± Braze Jai laughed, for his doom was clear as day. His spider-totem blazed with jeweled light, silent lightning crawling over his god-marked mail. ¡°-But what the Hell.¡±
The plan, if you could call it that, was simple. Amid the field of headless statues, one stood out amongst the rest. Fully fifty feet tall, it was a beheaded giant, surrounded by a half-dozen of its lesser kin. Time and the scouring winds had eroded their features to almost nothing, but enough remained to suggest shapes. A king, surrounded by wise counselors. A warlord and his loyal companions. A father and his many sons. Some statues had toppled over the centuries, leaving holes in their rough circle. But hey, it was the best defense we could hope for. On the open plain, we''d be swarmed and slaughtered. The great host would close around us like a throttling fist, with the outriders playing the fingers. They would hit us from the flanks, filling us with arrows and javelins at short-range. But in the shadow of these stone giants, maybe - just maybe - a few could hold off many. For a bit, anyway. That was our hope: To drag them down with us, to turn a swift victory into a dirty, bloody brawl. To ensure that they paid a high price in blood, sweat and tears for our lives. To make them suffer for their blasphemy against the God. We just had to get through a few hundred enraged tribesmen first.
The enemy surged towards us. Fanning across the slopes, riding hard. Their war-cries rifled the air, the thunder of hooves so loud I could no longer hear the ominous rumble. It was like riding headlong into an avalanche or a damnation-swarm of locusts, less an opposing army and more a force of nature. Like doom itself, rushing to swallow us whole. There was a frenzy to the approaching host, a mad anticipation of imminent violence. I could see individual warleaders whooping and howling, urging their lancers on, racing to be the first ones into the fight. The ground blurred past, beneath my destrier¡¯s hooves. The roar of the approaching host was deafening, now: They were four hundred horse-lengths away, three-fifty, three hundred and closing¡­ At a hundred, their wicked saddle-bows would unleash death. Every warrior of Tulgar¡¯s line knew this instinctively. It was etched in their blood, as sacred as any holy writ. That was the range at which they would strike. The recurve bows favored by the Twenty-Six Tribes could send an arrow over three hundred meters, but were only considered accurate at two hundred. Any target further than that was, in the opinion of most suldes, a waste of arrows. But they could draw and loose upwards, so their shafts would come screaming down from an almost vertical angle. The smooth-pulling bows, crafted to be fired from horseback, made this possible from the saddle. At this range, hitting a fast-moving target was a question of luck rather than skill. Quantity, however, had a quality of its own. We rode close, in wedge formation. A blade, plunging into the enemy¡¯s line. I led from the front, at the tip of the spear. Five men flanked me - Ganazzar at my side, Zisithras roaring defiance as he raised our banner high. Kalich¡¯s bone horn blared the charge, the razor-tip of his ivory lance gleaming like a lost star. Nilquit rode behind me, at the heart of our formation. He bore no weapon, just the burning censer of his office: A polished human skull on silver chains, red smoke streaming from empty eye-sockets and fleshless mouth. The sacred incense swirled around us, not away. It perfumed the air with Tauruskhan¡¯s own musk, the bitter reek of a god-auroch¡¯s killing rage. It clung to me like a mantle, drawn into my lungs with every breath. The witch-priest was chanting, howling his prayers into the thundering wind. Calling on the spirits of the air and the hero-ghosts of long-dead ancestors. Imploring them to come forth and extinguish the idolators, to devastate the traitors to Tulgar¡¯s blood. I felt a prickle on my skin that was more than the scouring dust, more than the ozone-heavy crackle of the storm. It was a surge, one that began at the base of my spine, pulsing down through my limbs like hot oil- Two hundred horse-lengths, now. I could see the apostate riders drawing back their bows, readying to fire. In seconds, we would be within range - In mere moments, black-fletched arrows would thatch the sky. But I fired first.
The Furstenburg lit up. Twin barrels vanished in a glare of muzzle-flash, bright and staccato: I¡¯d selected rapid-fire, waiting until this moment, where no round would be wasted. There were simply too many of them to miss. Shots blurred away, the hissing discharge of the pulse rifle rising like a scream. I rose in the saddle, gun braced against my shoulder, holding it steady as it juddered in my hands - For I was firing high over my racing steed, the destrier¡¯s neck stretched out before me, and I did not want to shoot my own mount in the head. Too high. The first volley seared over the barbarian horsemen, passing above them in a hail of fiery bolts. It drove some forward, made others duck and curse - I saw a horse tumble over, utterly unnerved, crushing its rider under its rolling back. The black wave of cavalry swept over them without slowing, the screams of man and steed lost in the mad rush as they vanished beneath an avalanche of pounding hooves. Sloppy, I thought, jaw locked, teeth clenched. Fucking do it right- I dragged my aim down, and the torrent of burning shots tore into the oncoming foe. The effect was abrupt and immediate. Armor shattered: shields broke. Flashes, sparks and sharp cracks split the air, as energy rounds punched through brass plate, through iron scales, through lamellar and hardened leather. Through meat and brain and bone. Blood sprayed. The flashing, flickering cone of fire scythed through the onrushing riders, with a sound like bells being crushed in an industrial press. The outgoing blur of fire chewed into them - chewed through them - pink mist scattering as the raging blitz of shots ripped them apart. The Furstenburg¡¯s barrel barely climbed. The weapon fired so smoothly, I had all the time in the world to observe. To see men and horses cut apart, atomizing in puffs of red drizzle, pulped beyond any semblance of articulacy. It was hideous. It was appalling. It was, in a way, beautiful. Somewhere, there were screams. Terrible, wrenching howls of soul-sick pain. The wails of men and the shrieks of horses, the latter somehow worse than the former. Inarticulate cries of agony, of terror - For this was a new horror, unknown to Phosphiach¡¯s countless battlefields, as inexplicable as it was ruinous. The flash-flicker of pulse fire lit up the world, bathing everything in a surreal brilliance. It even underlit the broken stone of the great arch far above us, invisible hands of annihilation demolishing the front line in a welter of carnage. A thick brume of atomized blood-mist boiled off the destruction, into the howling winds. I could smell it, taste it, as red filled my vision. Copper on my tongue. Charred meat, at the back of my throat. It was then, and only then, that I realized what Tauruskhan had been feasting on in His cave. The forbidden savor of the meat He loved, too sweet and too soft to be beef. I¡¯d gorged myself, then - Eaten my fill of the God¡¯s own banquet. Because I hadn¡¯t known, not then. The memory made me nauseous, even as I wrenched my attention back to the here and now. I held the trigger-stud down, sweeping the Furstenburg¡¯s blazing muzzle back and forth, the taste of roasted human flesh blotting out all else. Over the thunder of my pulse, the pounding of my blood, I willed the cone of fire to not just stay down or stay on target, but to go through the apostate horsemen. To make them dead, now and forever. Sand and dirt fountained up, statues shattering beneath the sledgehammer impacts. Sprays of black stone scythed through the air in lethal flechettes: I saw riders drop, tearing at their armor, clawing at the splinters that had found their mark. Shredded, men and beasts tumbled apart, rupturing like overripe fruit. They burst and burned, split open and gutted, ruined by the screaming shots I¡¯d poured into them. They came on, all the same. The charge had a force of its own, like a tide that couldn¡¯t be dammed. The enemy rode across its own dead and dying, stampeding on through the storm of shots. Horses ran on, riderless. Some dragged their dead riders after them, their limp corpses ploughing furrows in the blood-soaked dirt. Men had been torn down, disemboweled, thrown by their wounded steeds, but their brothers-in-damnation merely spurred forward faster. Heads down. Weapons in their fists. Riding to beat the devil. Praying to the God they¡¯d defied, so that howling Death would pass them by. It was then, right then, that I knew we were well and truly fucked. We needed to smash the momentum out of the enemy host, before the mass could reach us. To cut their legs out from under them, to sow their serried ranks with fire and terror. It was our best hope. Our only hope, really. Even with the God, this would be a descent into disaster. An adventure into catastrophe, a nightmare come to life. For there was no way, none at all, that thirteen men could ever hope to defeat half a thousand. The very idea of it¡­Does it sound insane to you? It does to me. For every casualty, for every man blasted apart by the Furstenburg, there were two more men behind to take his place, and die in turn, and be replaced by four. But we were committed, now. And the only way out was through.
The Daughters of Dhalani were an anomaly among the Twenty-Six Tribes. Over a century ago, the Red-Faced Plague ravaged their ranks, wiping out nearly every adolescent male - Seven out of eight fell to the disease, leaving devastation in its wake. Women, curiously, were immune. Whatever contagion had subjected their men to feverish, convulsing deaths - faces marked with the Plague¡¯s distinctive rash, even as their bodies writhed in bone-snapping agony - utterly failed to touch them. Only the women were left unmarked, as the seed of the contagion withered and died within them. The virulent nature of the plague defied study, but the response of the other clans had been ruthlessly practical. For more than two decades, the Dhalani had been outcasts: Any man even suspected to be of their bloodline was killed on sight, his corpse consigned to the flames to ensure that no trace of disease lingered. They¡¯d survived, somehow. Shunned by all, the once-populous tribe shrank to almost nothing. In order to survive, they¡¯d adapted, playing the hand fortune had dealt them. On the veldt, there was no taboo against female warriors. Great Tauruskhan was silent on the matter, mostly because He didn¡¯t particularly care. The exacting standards required, as well as the exigencies of life in the saddle, weeded out all but the strongest and most determined. And so, the tribe of Dhalani had become the Daughters of Dhalani, as hard-bitten as any of their kin. They rode into battle on robust ponies, relying on exacting skill and wind-swift speed over strength. Shrouded beneath death-masks of crimson mirewood, echoing the agonized features of the plague-dead, they fought like hellions, with a death-defying fury that knew no fear. Such was necessary, in order to prove their worth to the other clans. They labored under a shroud of suspicion, for - broadly speaking - there had always been something scandalous about the Daughters of Dhalani, after their rebirth. It wasn¡¯t uncommon for warriors to whisper of the dark and awful rites they supposedly conducted, pondering the fates levied upon the remaining men of their clan. There was a rumor, a recurring rumor, that the Daughters had forged an infernal pact with some bloody-handed, man-hating goddess. In return for their complete submission, so the story went, the women of Clan Dhalani had - blasphemously - found a way to reproduce amongst themselves, overturning all that was natural. I can tell you that was probably bullshit, though. According to Praya, the Daughters of Dhalani simply took in outcasts from other tribes to bolster their ranks: Women fleeing abuse, persecution, unwanted marriages, or any of the countless miseries of tribal life on the steppe. They took in men too, most likely. Those willing to brave the rumors, and who didn¡¯t chafe under the unique structure imposed by necessity. Regardless, like the Twilight Veil, the Dhalani were only nominally of Tulgar¡¯s blood. Their numbers were never very high, despite their best efforts. Only a direct injunction against their further persecution, laid down by High Priest Praya himself, had prevented their extinction. And that, I think, was why they¡¯d rebelled. It was their own hope of reversing their dismal fortunes, to ensure their survival for at least another generation to come. The Dhalani contingent, the largest after the Jarrow, represented a substantial portion of their main battle-line: Their best horse-archers and lancers, arrayed in the full panoply of war. It was, more than likely, the first time in a generation that they¡¯d numbered themselves amongst a host as great as this one - And now, more than ever, they were driven to prove themselves. The red-masked horsewomen rode ahead of the others, shrieking like banshees as they raced on. There was no pause to their headlong rush, no regard for their own survival. They knew they were riding headlong into the very jaws of death, but the clan¡¯s need eclipsed their own. In the name of Dhalani, they would fight. They would kill for the living, and kill for the dead. They took the full brunt of my pulse rifle¡¯s energy reservoir, hailing rounds pummeling their line with shuddering impacts. Rapid-fire shots tore apart woman and beast in abrupt detonations, riddling their ranks with showers of blood and meat. Nothing stopped it. Not their shields, not their armor, not the talismans of ancestors long-dead. Even the sacred mirewood masks, emblems of all they¡¯d endured, shattered under the volley like lightning-struck trees. As gunfire ripped into them, riders and steeds alike stumbled and sprawled, screaming. They had been ready for the worst of Phosphiach¡¯s terrors, but not this: This merciless, relentless punishment, disjointing and disarticulating. I can only imagine the horror of the moment, as comrades, kin and lovers were shredded - Not just killed, but pulped, so utterly destroyed that nothing remained to inter. Each shot tore great bites from heads, limbs and chests, leaving only scorched craters in their wake. Here one second. Gone the next. The rest of the heretic host went through them. Some had the presence of mind or the skill to avoid the tangled knot of the dead and dying. Others simply rode over the Daughters, heedless of their screams, trampling many beneath their hobnails. They couldn¡¯t stop, not now, for slowing meant suffering the same fate. And so the front of the onrushing line rolled over the limp and wet bodies of the fallen, crushing them to an oozing pulp. Hooves slipped on the compressed corpses, struggling for purchase. I saw mounted riders topple into the thrashing slick, even as the luckier or level-headed swerved wide around the welter of blood and flailing limbs. All of this, in seconds. The exact time it took to drain my pulse rifle¡¯s charge packs. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.
The Daughters of Dhalani never recovered from the losses sustained at Dalat. The appalling carnage would mark the few survivors for the rest of their days, the way a scar marred flesh. It wasn¡¯t just the blood and horror, or the deaths of so many seasoned warriors in hideous succession. Their conception of the future, of the shape tomorrow might take, was comprehensively smashed out of them - Not just by Munzer Arms¡¯ most famous product, but by a great and terrible treachery yet to come. For them, Dalat was the beginning of the end. When the first blows of the clan wars were struck, when the Twenty-Six Tribes turned on each other in fratricidal fury, their much-reduced tribe was an easy target. Without the God¡¯s protection, the old taboos no longer held true. Even the threat of the Red-Face Plague would do little to dissuade the maddened, the bloodthirsty and the ambitious. In Tauruskhan¡¯s absence, there would be no shortage of all three, each fighting to make the Grazing Lands their own. Like the sorcerers of the Twilight Veil, the Dhalani would tread the slow path to annihilation, until the track of their history went no further. In that, at least, they would not be alone.
At a hundred and thirty horse-lengths, the Furstenburg stuttered dry, chiming repeatedly on charge out. The alert shrilled in my ears, as I pulled the rifle tight to my chest, heat sinks glowing dull red. A cold dread settled in; it was going to end in hand-to-hand. Driving my steed with my knees, I fumbled the energy-packs free. There was no time to stow them, not now. I¡¯d never had to reload on horseback before, and with the destrier jolting along it was hard to manage. I dropped the first pack, cursing as the second slipped through my fingers. A full cell slithered away, lost for good, before I finally locked a fresh one in place. I freed another from the loops of my harness, teeth gritted as I rammed it home- The telltale lights flickered. One green, one yellow: Something had gone wrong. I shook the pulse rifle, slapped the stock, trying to get the pack to settle. All I got was a sullen click. In my growing panic, I had the vague, half-formed idea of blowing on it, like a malfunctioning cartridge. But the horse bucked beneath me, hooves scuffing against the dirt, and it was all I could do to hang on for dear life. What do you want from me? I thought. The enemy was scant seconds away, and I couldn¡¯t get the fucking thing to wor- ¡°Shields up!¡± Ganazzar bellowed, his voice made brassy by his helm. ¡°Shields up, now!¡± One hundred horse lengths. Too late, I heard the twang of a hundred bows - more - firing in unison. Again, as the second rank fired over the first. Arrows chopped the air. I ducked, instinctively, but the first one hit my pauldron with a painful thwack. It rocked me back in the saddle, as I clawed for Tulgar¡¯s shield- For one moment, the sky was thatched with black-fletched arrows. Iron-tipped darts fell like rain: I heard them glance from shields and god-warded armor, spinning away from the war-harnesses of our steeds. Rodo grunted, as a broadhead sliced his thigh. The breath whooshed from Layak¡¯s lungs as a near-miss whizzed past, so close it grazed his helmet. The rough fletching scratched his cheek and eye - He jerked his head back, overbalancing, and only his white-knuckled grip kept him atop his mount. It wasn¡¯t enough. It wouldn¡¯t be anywhere near enough. A sulde of the Arkades was racing in, the rest of his warband right beside him. They had already nocked their next flight of arrows, charging them with enough force to split stone. I had a blurred glimpse of bowstrings drawn back, torsos bent to loose again- They fired, just as I raised Last Breath. I heard the grinding cracks of the heavy arrows spitting through the air, saw a constellation of glittering points rushing towards me, impossibly fast¡­ The wind blew hard, very hard. Like a rushing squall, a surging gust that made our banner snap on its pole. Arrows tumbled away, like leaves caught in a gale - Brushed off-mark before they could land, the churned soil bristling with embedded shafts. Seeds of death, sown by war. The only crop that Dalat would ever see. ¡°In Tulgar¡¯s name!¡± I shouted, hoarse. The effort ravaged my scraped-raw throat, but the others took up the cry. The horned shield grew warm in my hands, a tingling charge pulsing through the rough-hewn wood. The bitter spirit within Last Breath was stirring, and - bound to serve its bearer - it raised the storm. A wall of wind blasted forth, at our backs. It swept the milling dust before us, like the bow-wave of a hurricane. Vapor swirled around us, like streamers or a shroud¡¯s trailing sleeves, plucking at us with ghostly fingers as we plunged on. The enemy faltered. Not just because they¡¯d failed to hit us, but because it was Tulgar¡¯s shield, the legendary aegis of the Father-of-Tribes. They¡¯d all heard the tales, but to see it coming at them, driving right toward them like this¡­ -That kind of thing can make a man wonder whether he¡¯s on the right side. It was a split-second¡¯s hesitation, but it was all we needed. Behind me, shields rattled down, bows creaking as they were drawn, even as Nilquit¡¯s keening prayers rose to a crescendo- ¡°Loose!¡± Vorth shouted, breaking his long silence. He rode without a hand on the reins, a clutch of five arrows gripped between the fingers of the hand that held his great bow. He¡¯d spurned all defense, trusting in the God - in me - to protect him: Nocked, he let fly with his gold-chased warbow, as soon as the first target spilled out of the roiling haze. Eight arrows spat forth, from our ragged line. Nilquit bore no weapon: Zisithras and Kalich had their hands full, while Ganazzar favored the Jarrow blade over all others. I had Last Breath raised, the Furstenburg on my lap, and the gale would only last for as long as I held the shield aloft. The others did pretty well, considering. Marked with god-runes, the arrows blurred across the narrow distance. They flew so fast they became lines of lethal blood-light, too brilliant for the eye to behold. This wasn¡¯t just a metaphor: What the red-burning arrows struck, they cleaved. Shafts tore through unblessed armor in searing bursts of arc-welder flame, cutting through iron helms and leather targes with contemptuous ease. Some shots overpenetrated, bearing enough force to slay two men at once. I saw a bull-masked sulde buckle and fall, clawing at the ragged hole in his throat. His standard-bearer was hit thrice - right eye, chest, stomach - and crumpled without a sound, their banner tumbling from his slack hand. His fellow riders kept firing, salvo after salvo of arrows hissing from their double-curved bows. Missiles hailed down on us, but Last Breath swept every shot away- And that made them targets. One man lost half his head, as the God¡¯s wrath tore through his skull. The warrior next to him tried - too late - to wheel his snorting steed aside, a heartbeat before two shafts cut clean through his pitch-blackened plate. Transfixed, he clattered off his horse, still trying to hold his guts in. For one awful moment, he continued to move - limbs twitching, like a half-crushed spider - before his stricken beast collapsed atop him. Layak whooped as he made his first kill, then his second. His fierce, wide-set eyes narrowed in concentration as he rode on, nearly chest-to-chest with Vorth. Their fire rate was astonishingly rapid, dispensing death without hesitation or pity: Between them, they slew six men in as many seconds, like some infernal machine made for slaughter. Fucking hell, I thought, Tulgar¡¯s shield clamped in my fist. We might just pull this off- We were barely thirty horse-lengths from the front line, now. Riding hard, the men of the warband fired at will, as fast as they could draw. Last Breath¡¯s storm had dismayed our attackers, the enemy¡¯s outriders and skirmishers parting before our charge - But the shield¡¯s protection wasn¡¯t absolute. Enough shots, and something would get through. Opportunistic shafts flitted at us, as we swept past. Something thumped me in the back, right between the shoulder-blades: It hurt, but Vukyelt¡¯s armor held, acid-etched runes shimmering with icy light. Uclid swore, as an arrow shattered his bow in his hands. He drew his lance instead, razor-tip aimed forward as he couched it in the stabbing grip. The youth¡¯s face was painted with gore, lips peeled back from his teeth in an animal¡¯s snarl. I couldn¡¯t tell whose blood it was. I didn¡¯t even know when he¡¯d taken a hit. Eyes frantic with battle-madness, Uclid looked murderous and desperately scared all at once. He needed to kill, craved it, more than he wanted to live - If only because it meant he would no longer be afraid. I knew how he felt. My hands felt very cold, though sweat stung my eyes. The view through my visor felt impossibly claustrophobic, my breath hissing through my teeth. The metal boss of Tulgar¡¯s shield was beginning to glow with heat, beginning to smolder, waves of nerve pain racing up my arm. There¡¯s always a cost, see. Nothing comes without a price, not even the magic of the Gods. Praya had warned me about this - Last Breath¡¯s potent defense was paid-for by the wielder¡¯s own suffering. More than anything, the bound spirit craved its pound of flesh. Even with Tauruskhan¡¯s power coursing through me, it hurt. I could feel my arm going numb as the shield whined and shivered, the air fizzing with distortion. Another volley of arrows tore at us, just barely swept aside. At this range, there was only so much the wind could do. Our protection was failing, but if it could last just long enough- ¡°Blades!¡± Ganazzar roared, digging in his heels. Braze Jai and Kalich were either side of me, their war-lances drawn and lowered. I had no lance - never bothered to learn - wind and mane whipping against me as I fought with the Furstenburg. The damned thing must have jammed. Head down, arm aching, I focused all my attention on trying to get it working. It was better than thinking about what was coming next. For the main body of the enemy host was bearing down on us, already horrifyingly close. I could pick out individual faces across their line: Snarling, screaming, grinning open-mouthed as they surged to meet us. Come on, I thought, reslotting the power-cell. Come on- Both lights flickered green. The rifle hummed to life, and I barely had time to lift it before the first wave crashed into us.
Impact. It¡¯s a small word, but it describes a lot. There was a series of bruising impacts and heavy thwacks, men hurled from saddles. Kalich speared a rebel tribesman right off his steed with his lowered lance, black arterial blood fanning back in an abstract spatter. A lance-tip drove at me, and Braze Jai knocked it aside with his shield-edge. He smashed the flat of his own into the rider¡¯s helmet, hard enough to dent it. There was a crunch, and the Volzum tribesman fell sideways. His horse staggered, unbalanced, shed its rider and galloped on. Maka died. His wrackwhip was in his hand, and it hissed like a serpent as it swept through the air. Charged with the Bull-God¡¯s might, the three-headed weapon was a true terror: The first man who closed with him died near-instantly, split nearly in half by a single slicing whipcrack. The second took the lash across the face, and died clutching at his splintered skull. I heard Maka¡¯s war-whoop as he circled his wicked weapon, riding free- An arrow caught him right in the mouth. Shattered teeth sprayed, his eyes bugging out in utter astonishment. Maka gagged on the shaft, choked on his own blood - Then toppled forward, thrashing, a gurgling shriek boiling up from the ruins of his throat. He was, mercifully, dead before he hit the ground. My blood ran cold. I hadn¡¯t known him, not really, but he¡¯d seen something in me that was worthy of his service. He¡¯d died for me, and I knew he wouldn¡¯t be the last. Sabet screamed his twin¡¯s name. He spurred his horse forward as his brother¡¯s corpse slumped out of the saddle, riding headlong into the fight like a man possessed. Tears of rage streaming down his face, he struck again and again, with merciless and lacerating power. The venom-dripping heads of his wrackwhip sliced limbs from torsos, sheared flesh like butter - But he¡¯d left himself open, and cried out as a sword-edge sliced him across the ribs. He¡¯d have died there, but by then I was already firing. Pulse bolts ripped into the press: No auto-fire this time, just short bursts. I hit one, two, three Jyamak reavers before they could close, the Furstenburg¡¯s weight braced against my shoulder. The last hit a horse in the forelimb, and the crippled beast wailed as it toppled. Even amid the clamor, it was an awful sound, long and full of agony. I fired again, shots throwing up grit from the ground, and a spray of violet fire silenced it forever. It was Ganazzar who carved a path to him, thundering in before Sabet could be cut off. His great steed slammed forward, the half-giant¡¯s sword swinging so fast it blurred. An Adaar rider, bear-fur across his shoulders, hacked at him with an axe - But Ganazzar¡¯s blow splintered the haft, and cleaved clean through him without stopping. The Man-Killer didn¡¯t slow. He smashed a man down with the Jarrow blade, slew another with a ripping side-slash of the fork-tipped sword, then drove the entire length of it through a third. Right through, I mean: I distinctly saw the blade punch out from the poor bastard¡¯s back. Wailing, the dying warrior clutched at him, lifted clean off his horse. Ganazzar smashed his face in with a head-butt, wrenching the blade out of the sagging body. He got the sword up just in time to meet a sweeping blow from a maul, as the intercepting rider¡¯s steed collided with his. For one frenzied moment, both men were locked. Their steeds bit and kicked at each other, the Kythri champion letting out a gurgling roar. His faceless helm showed only a mouthful of yellowed teeth, spittle flecking his lips as the maul sang down- Kalich shouted something. He hurled his lance, and the hammer-wielder toppled, speared clean through the spine. Before Kalich could drag his second lance from his saddle-boot, a big Volzum rider caught him across the shoulder with an axe. His armor saved him, scales scattering from the blow. Blood gushed down Kalich¡¯s arm, a yell of pain clawing from his throat - I twisted in the saddle, and shot the Volzum axeman before he could swing again. We were surrounded, now. The world was swirling chaos, filled with plunging steeds and flailing men. Bodies littered the trampled earth, riderless horses fleeing past like phantoms in the swirling dust. If not for Oloin¡¯s bridle, my mount would have been foaming and stamping with panic. In truth, I felt like panicking and screaming too. How many- Figures swirled around me, men shouting and horses braying. Something struck me with a dull blow, side-on, and my mount staggered. I fired into the mayhem, and someone squealed with inhuman anguish. As the burning shots stitched through the struggling, thrashing mass, something exploded, ash and sparks rising like fireflies from a brilliant crescent of flame. How many are there- I¡¯d lost count of the number we¡¯d killed, in the first frantic moments of the fight. It was all a whirling blur of violence and motion, of the absolute certainty that the entire world was trying to kill you. I shot at movement, shot at anyone I didn¡¯t recognize - The God must have guided my hand, for it was a minor miracle that I hadn¡¯t hit any of the warband by accident. Or maybe the odds were just that bad. At some point, Ganazzar and Sabet had gathered in. There was a dark, spreading stain on Sabet¡¯s side, and he hunched over in the saddle as he rode on. Ganazzar¡¯s black plate was spattered with gore, the affixed prayer-strips drenched in it. Only the Jarrow sword was pristine, shining bright as a mirror despite the sheer number of men he¡¯d smashed it through. In his hands, it seemed to almost swing itself: I saw him rise in the saddle, rearing up like some vengeful leviathan, swinging it two-handed into a horned rider who had the misfortune of getting in his way. Split asunder, broken rings raining from his shredded mail, his opponent actually lofted up from the saddle. What remained of the wretch thumped down in a death-heap, still squirting blood from his cleaved body. But from the corner of my eye, I saw a group of Quarsh horsemen turning on the corpse-strewn plain, riding down towards us. Through the dust and broken light, their blue silks and silver mail looked black. For one frozen moment, I thought Death itself - In a profusion of bodies - was sweeping in to claim us. ¡°Ride clear!¡± Braze Jai shouted, stabbing out with the broken end of his lance. He gouged it to make one last impale, before he let the weapon go. His target fell screaming, clutching at the ruin of his face: He spilled to the earth, his wails following us as we pounded on. ¡°Ride clear, sulde!¡± A hurled javelin whistled past, missing by a hand¡¯s-breadth. Jai swore copiously at the near-miss, blistering the air with curses. His warrior¡¯s braid swayed, as he drew his sword - His shield gouged by repeated impacts, scraped down to bare wood, as he glared fiercely about him. Where? I wanted to say. Ride where? I had no idea, none at all, where the others were. For a few frantic heartbeats, it felt like we were the only survivors, cast adrift amid a sea of heaving bodies and lightless black statues. But then the wind picked up and the dust thinned, driven clear for a moment¡­ And above the close-packed fight, I glimpsed Tauruskhan¡¯s standard. It waved wildly, the banner flapping, as an enemy rider crashed over for no reason that I could see. Adaar riders mobbed around it, like wolves on a bear, trying to ring the other half of our desperately embattled warband. Trying to pull them down, down to a dust-choked death. Because they thought I was there. Because they thought I fought beneath it, rather than here.
Another man, a smarter man, might¡¯ve done something insidious or cunning. They could have made for a momentary distraction, I suppose. If we¡¯d left them behind, we might - might - have bought ourselves a few more precious seconds of life. But my blood was up. I¡¯d seen Maka die, and it felt right to make someone pay for that. For once, Tauruskhan and I were in complete agreement. We both really wanted to give those fuckers something to remember us by. Like Uclid, I¡¯d gone from desperately afraid to desperately angry. The terror of the first charge was gone, snuffed out by the simple necessity of survival. There was a bitter taste of quinine in my mouth, as the anger within spiked: Images of easy and total carnage were rolling into my mind, and I let them come. I drew a deep breath. Drew the God¡¯s burning promises into my blood, my hands shaking as I swapped cells, switching mostly-empty for almost-full. I¡¯d been firing near-continuously for the past five minutes of hell, and I honestly didn¡¯t know how much longer the barrel would last. The Furstenburg was made for Dolor¡¯s freezing temperatures, not the heat and dust of Phosphiach, and I was pretty sure I was pushing it harder than I had for months. Not that I had a choice. Fuck it, I thought, and pointed. ¡°Go,¡± I rasped, through swollen lips and ravaged throat. Kalich, listing in his saddle, followed the gesture and blanched. He was spattering blood with every movement he made, face gone grey with pain, but he saw my intent and nodded anyway. Lance in his good hand, steering his charger with his knees, he blew a great blast on his horn. As the sound rolled into echoes, I spurred hard towards the waving banner - Riding through the madness, knowing only that the others would fall in line. They did. Every one of them. Behind us, the hunting Quarsh veered to pursue.
Somehow, Zisithras still had hold of the standard. He¡¯d lost his helm, a great and awful gash carved across his scalp, but he kept the banner high as his foaming steed pelted on. Divine power had invested it - had invested him - to a degree I¡¯d never seen before: It writhed with tendrils of corposant, the sun-and-horns alight with a crimson blaze. There was absolutely nothing natural about that smokeless fire. An awful heat that radiated from it, mingling with the stench of molten brass and burning bone. Like creation¡¯s own shadow, a pitch-black, half-real shape loomed above it: A great, horned head, with eyes like burning embers, glaring down on Tulgar¡¯s errant children. Small wonder they fled. I¡¯d have shit myself too, if I was facing that. Was it the God¡¯s work, or just Nilquit¡¯s? Maybe a bit of both, really. I couldn¡¯t tell, as the young priest jolted along behind the dubious cover of Rodo¡¯s raised shield. His already-pale face had gone as white as paper, censer swaying on its chain - Hands shaking as if palsied, his lips moved in silent prayers, too exhausted to shout. Swathed in a flickering halo of sickly light, Nilquit looked hollowed-out, frailer than ever. He was channeling a truly staggering amount of divine power, and Tauruskhan¡¯s essence was devouring him from within. He looked like a man lost in a desert without food or water, bones stark against dust-smeared skin. Looking at him, it was a wonder Nilquit could still stay in the saddle, let alone ride. But the witch-priest made every moment of his suffering count. Vorth, Uclid, Layak and even Mowynk¡­.All were charged with the God¡¯s own strength. They fought with ferocious courage, battling beyond themselves. Fuming with sick light, their weapons cut a swathe through their opponents, scything them down like wheat. You have to understand: The force imparted by each blow was surreal, even absurd. Mowynk was armed with a flanged raken mace - a simple weapon, little more than a sturdy club ridged with brass - and he swung it without wind-up or concern for balance, as frantic as a boy with a stick. Compared to the axes and sickle-bladed swords of the reavers thronging around him, it was a crude thing, almost quaint. But each time he connected, there was a sharp, plosive bang like a grenade exploding. Heads and limbs pulped beneath the impossible impacts, blasted away in an instant - It left craters in armor, hurling aside those it didn¡¯t pulverize. If you think that¡¯s impressive, imagine what Vorth was doing. His archery was a fluid model of perfection, his fingers a blur as he drew and fired, drew and fired without pause. Every shot left his bow in a lurid spit of killing light, bright as a shooting star. Where they struck, proud Kythri riders and their steeds crumpled like they¡¯d been poleaxed. Cut down by the hail of crimson death, they crashed over with the boneless sprawl of orphaned puppets. There was no defense, no hope of escape. Each dart struck like Tauruskhan¡¯s own hate, claiming two or even an astonishing three at a time. Those who didn¡¯t die outright were left thrashing, writhing in agonies both profound and transcendent at once as smoke rose from their thrashing forms- For the life of me, I couldn¡¯t understand what was happening to them. Not at first. Not until I realized they were melting. It was an act of extraordinary spite, made more so by the sheer amount of power it must have taken. The Iron Hoof¡¯s eye was upon us, and He was making a point. Unable to smite those who had defied Him directly, our warband had become the medium for the Horned Conqueror¡¯s message. The message being: No-one fucks with Me and lives. The Kythri tried to flank Vorth, to hit him where his lethal bowmanship couldn¡¯t hope to reach them. A lifetime of war, however, had girded him for just such an eventuality. He knew how to turn in the saddle as he rode, to shoot arrows in passing to either side, or even to the rear. Vorth¡¯s hard-trained gelding needed no spurs or even rein control. It freed his hands up, let him put the Supreme Herdsman¡¯s gift to full use. Which he did, with glee. In the words of the tale-tellers: The slaughter was great. He was smiling, through it all. Like a child, whose fondest dream had come true. I could see the joy in him, his pride at doing the God¡¯s work. His delight, at the chance to punish the Iron Hoof¡¯s foes. It would have been appalling, if he wasn¡¯t on our side. If I had to pick one moment, one image, to capture the essence of my time on Phosphiach, it would be that. A man made more-than-human by the caprice of the gods, finding fulfilment in doing their will. Slaying those he once called kin, without pity or remorse. Hell of a place, Phosphiach. Is it any wonder people don''t exactly line up to visit?
Somewhere, somewhere impossibly distant yet close, a great war-drum was beating. I could feel the seismic pulse of it deep in my chest, as we tore forward. I stood in the stirrups as my destrier gained speed, one hand to the reins, the other aiming the Furstenburg. The Adaar surrounding the standard heard the hooves drumming the sterile earth, and turned. I heard their cries of alarm and surprise, glimpsed the flash of their weapons- Pulse rounds tore across the distance. The shots smacked a tribesman off his horse, another killing a mount stone-dead. The beast collapsed, before the rider could jump free - It rolled and crushed his leg, pinning him as he howled in miserable and forlorn pain. I glimpsed at least three hits, though the burst had been six or eight in the trigger-pull. That¡¯s what firing from the hip gets you. Your accuracy goes to shit. Then we were into them, slamming headlong into the melee. In the last moment before impact, I held down the trigger, raking the Furstenburg back-and-forth. The three horses directly before me spasmed, faltering as they were shot-through, then careered into the choking dust. I glimpsed roiling torsos and crushed riders, caught a glimpse of wide, desperate eyes as a man was trampled under my horse¡¯s hooves, another flung away in a dash of red- Dirt splashed up as the others drove into the press, blessed blades hacking. In that moment, there was no room for finesse, just the frantic brutality of the charge. The howling enemy was all around, close and lethal, like a pack of wolves. I saw Kalich slash an Adaar lancer across the face, blinding him, in the heartbeat before he slammed headlong into two more. His frantic swordwork splashed blood up into the air as he shouted out, desperate for help. I drove towards him, but an axe mowed at me, and I caught it on Last Breath. The impact jolted through my arm: Denied, the great cleaver rebounded, the axe-man¡¯s thwarted shriek ringing in my ears as he reared back for another swing. I tried to twist round, tried to swing at my attacker, but I¡¯d already overshot. The rapid staccato shriek of the pulse rifle was inordinately distressing to men and horse alike - They shied away from the weapon¡¯s rapid bark as much as the ripping shots. I heard Braze Jai cursing as he stabbed overhand with his sword, the hiss of Sabet¡¯s whip as it unzipped armor and men alike. Saw Ganazzar cutting through bull-helms with the heavy Jarrow sword, splashing blood up into the air. But as the dust billowed around me and my mount, there was an eerie moment of tranquility. Somehow, I¡¯d made it past: Locked, shapes struggled and fought, but no-one was actively trying to kill me. For now, at least. Even as I tried to corral my warhorse, tried to get my bearings, Rodo¡¯s shout came from somewhere ahead. He was surrounded, his colt turning in frantic circles as he tried to shield Nilquit and himself at once. I counted at least seven men, jabbing with barbed spears and lances, one with a morning-star that he was whirling in vicious, expert arcs. With a start, I glimpsed Uclid¡¯s corpse - face still fixed in a mad mixture of smile and snarl - tangled with his dead gelding, a javelin embedded in his back. Dust had filmed his blue eyes, gazing unseeing into nothing: His rigid fingers gripped the hilt of his notched sword in a death-grip, his helm¡¯s shattered remnants clinging to his skull like a crown of shards. I hadn¡¯t even seen him die.
Uclid had been an almost-silent presence at our campfire. He wasn¡¯t naturally taciturn, like Vorth: Rather, he held his tongue so as not to betray his lack of experience. More than anything, I suppose, he wanted to prove his worth to himself as much as to any other. From him, I had the prevailing impression of someone anxious to please, who feared being caught out. He was, I think, content to watch and learn from the men he took to be older and wiser. If I didn¡¯t know better, I¡¯d have said he was shy. In some ways, Uclid had reminded me of myself - A shrinking violet, the kind of kid perpetually picked last for any team. Forever wondering how to take that last, all-important step forward. I¡¯d longed to bridge the gap between myself and others, back then. For May, it¡¯d been effortless: She¡¯d always been the personable one, the charismatic one, while I¡¯d struggled to find my way. The gap between us had seemed so vast at the best of times, never mind that I was two years older than she was. There was, of course, no cure for that other than the relentless erosion of time. But Uclid would never get any older now, nor any wiser. In the end, his first battle had been his last. I could only hope that it¡¯d been everything he¡¯d prayed for it to be.
I let go of the reins, bringing the Furstenburg up as I bore down on the Ursh. Their scale-mailed leader, head encased in a truly impressive helm crowned with great curling horns, heard me coming. He turned, bellowing an order- I shot him first. The pulse rifle¡¯s searing bolts sliced across the warlord, and blew out his chest in a spray of spalling metal. His horse came down with him, spear splintering beneath his thrashing steed. Slamming forward, I kept shooting, leaning into the gunfire, savaging the astonished men to either side of him before they could react. Rodo let out a wordless roar of approval, and hurled his lance into the nearest rider¡¯s chest. With desperate vigor, he scythed out his saddle-sword, the blade burning with bloody light as he rushed the Adaar. Charged with the God¡¯s anger, it purred to itself as the old warrior hacked through a hand, sliced a throat, whirling round to cleave a helm and the skull within- The brute with the ball-and-chain mace swung for him. I shouted, but it was too late: There was a crunch, a spray of red pulp, an abrupt chuff of escaping breath¡­ Rodo fell. He fell slack and boneless, slumping from his saddle with an untidy suddenness, limbs still twitching from the blow that had killed him. The merciless impact of the iron ball had smashed his skull to flinders, and it tore free in a whipping spray of sucking gore. No, I thought. Son of a bitch, no- I¡¯d liked Rodo. There¡¯d been something oddly endearing about the grizzled tribesman¡¯s cheerful fatalism. To lose him right after we¡¯d left the Grazing Lands, before he could see Adrijanopolj with his own eyes¡­It seemed like the worst of omens. His killer was still howling with savage triumph when I shot him. My first two shots punched into his stomach, and would have been entirely sufficient - But I kept the trigger squeezed, the next three shots punching through his gorget and then the top of his head. That was too much for the Adaar. They were fleeing en masse now, ditching shields and even weapons as they raced away. Only a few made it: I raked them with fire as their ponies scattered, emptying the rest of the magazine in their general direction. A man wailed, briefly, as my shots chopped great gashes out of his back. His terrified mount galloped on, spattered by the blood streaming from his rupturing wounds. I hit the next one enough times to kill both rider and steed three or four times over, their heat-fused corpses toppling as one. I speared the last one on the Furstenburg¡¯s sights, pulled the trigger to rake him to pieces- Nothing. Just the ping of the misfire tone. The barrel, so long punished, had succumbed to the inevitable at last. I couldn¡¯t tell if it¡¯d fused, or simply overheated: Either way, the cherry-red glow didn¡¯t bode well. I released the weapon to swing on its strap as Nilquit spurred his horse forward. Racked by the extremity of the battle, the witch-priest looked exhausted beyond words. His talismans and strings of bone-charms jangled, expression half-disbelieving as his gaze fixed on me. ¡°You yet live,¡± he rasped, lips cracked and bleeding from non-stop prayers. Tear-stains streaked his glyph-marked face, where the dust had made his eyes run. ¡°All praises to the Iron Hoof, you still live-¡± I couldn''t bring myself to tell him how soon that might change.
Gigantic spectral horns rose up from the turmoil, out of the dust and smoke. For a moment, I thought it was some great beast from the veldt, some conjured devil that was almost upon us - But it was Zisithras, with Mowynk, Layak and Vorth protecting his flanks. Together, they¡¯d fought clear of the pack that had delayed them, trampling many beneath juddering hooves. Riderless, Kalich¡¯s horse cantered after them, eyes wide and rolling as it shook with distress. Another one gone. ¡°Sulde-¡± The sheer relief on Mowynk¡¯s face was almost heartbreaking. He looked at me like I had all the answers, like I knew what came next. ¡°They harrowed Kalich to death, sulde,¡± he said, his voice hitching on the word. ¡°Like devils, they were.¡± Vorth merely grunted. A swinging cleaver had taken the little finger of his right hand entirely away, and blood was soaking through the linen wrap. Both his quivers were empty, his mighty bow silent at his side. For his part, Zisithras clung to the standard like a drowning man to a lifeline. His head wound was worse than it looked - One eye fluttered, unfocused, and there was a sickly grey pallor to his high-boned features. He winced at each breath, as if the effort physically pained him: When he met my gaze, he merely shrugged, managing a wan smile. ¡°The God knows His own,¡± he said, simply. I knew what he meant: Tauruskhan was with us, but it was becoming clear that the Great Horned One¡¯s blessing might not be enough. We¡¯d torn into them. Torn through them, dealing out wholesale havoc. Scores of men had died, slaughtered by arrow, pulse-fire, lance and blades. I¡¯d hoped - expected - their spirits to be diminished by such an event. In that, I was badly wrong. Sure, the frantic pace of combat had ebbed. The riders of the apostate host were reeling back like a spent breaker from the surf, leaving behind their wounded and dead. But they weren¡¯t fleeing, or even turning. They were recoiling as one mass, to renew their fury. With a distinct sinking feeling, I could guess who was responsible for that.
Even as the scouring winds swept across the lone and level stones, I could hear the war-horns of the Jarrow blowing, drawing in reinforcements. Harnak Kul, miserable bastard that he was, had sent forth the most expendable of his forces to face us. The Jarrow contingent hadn¡¯t moved. They were waiting for us to falter, to be worn down to nothing by the sheer number of Ursh horsemen. Then, and only then, would the Clan of Kings close in for the kill. It was exactly the kind of thing I¡¯d have done, in his position. That is, if I could¡¯ve got that many people to follow me. They didn¡¯t hurry. They had all the time in the world, even as the rest of the warband rode in. Amid all the violence, it seemed a miracle that Sabet and Braze Jai were nearly untouched. Not so for Ganazzar - He¡¯d taken the brunt of punishment, his bronze plate pitted and buckled from countless blows. Their mounts were foundering, flanks lathered and heaving, Braze¡¯s charger seemed so dreadfully bowed and hunched, limping from a spear-wound in its thigh. He kept trying to soothe it, patting its neck with a gloved hand, but I sensed that it¡¯d borne him this far and no further. The damn thing was, I couldn¡¯t figure out how to win. It felt manifestly unfair, somehow: I had powers from half a dozen worlds, but simple attrition was going to kill me. Sweat stung my eyes, as I spat to clear the bitter taste from my mouth. I wasn¡¯t stupid enough to think that this was a reprieve - It was just a moment¡¯s hiatus, part of the natural punctuation of en masse warfare. Dimly, I knew that the enemy was circling, now. When the next rush came, it would come from all sides. And then, most likely, we would all die. Or rather, the others would die first. My (eventual) death would be rather more prolonged, but every bit as final. If I was a spiteful sort, I¡¯d have seriously contemplated saving a round for myself. Cheat them of their prize, at the bitter end of things. Fuck that, I thought. The slow-burning ember of defiance, deep in my chest, flared a little brighter. Fuck suicide. Never surrender. In the distance, I could hear blades beating against shields. The sounds of hooves and voices and jingling armour, tattered standards whipping in the rising wind. Shit, already? I thought, a cold dread slithering in my gut. I¡¯d thought there would be more time. Long enough, at least, for my racing mind to think of a way out of this deathtrap. But, as I stared across the blasted battlefield - Over the jumbled bodies, the silent statues - all I could think was: -This is it.
Dying had never seemed real to me, when I was younger. It¡¯d seemed like something that happened to other people, a world away from my comfortable middle-class existence. Later, when the reality of my own mortality had sunk in, I¡¯d thought there would be some meaning to it, some poetry. Here lies Morgan, after a life well-lived, maybe. Something fatuous like that. But after Caldera, after I¡¯d nearly died for the first time, I¡¯d realized that there was no final page to a life. No neat conclusion. The ink simply gave out, and everything that came after was blank and desert-white. Here lies Morgan Lim, kicked to death in some Bronze Age shithole, more like. Fleetingly, I wondered what would come next. The pearly gates? Fire and brimstone? I hadn¡¯t lived a good life, not really. I certainly wasn¡¯t expecting Heaven. But if Hell awaited, no matter what, I had a feeling I¡¯d spend the rest of eternity kicking myself for not taking the pact. I wondered, vaguely, if my sister was still out there, somewhere. She¡¯d always been the smart one, the driven one - Like our father, the self-made man. I¡¯d been lazier, content to settle for mediocrity, to let the world drift by. I¡¯d always thought I would find her again, before the end. That at some point, amid the infinite vastness of the multiverse, our paths would cross again. It would¡¯ve been enough to know that she was alive. Alive, and - if she was truly fortunate - content with the life she¡¯d chosen. For her, I knew, the portal had been a way out: An escape from unendurable shame. I- ¡°They¡¯re coming-!¡± There was a shrill edge to Layak¡¯s words, as he stared blank-eyed at the approaching storm of men. He¡¯d bitten his lip hard enough to draw blood, his hands tight on his horse¡¯s reins. Clinging to them, like it was his only hold on reality. The others stiffened, but I could see the dismay on their faces. I counted three- or four-score riders, advancing without haste. No prayers to the God, no war-shouts or battle-cries: Instead, the Ursh were chanting, steady and slow. Reciting the rhymes of aversion and warding, the ones meant to keep evil spirits away. It was a formal renunciation of Tauruskhan¡¯s influence, a refusal to acknowledge His divine authority. For, I suppose, he was a demon to them, now. Every God is a demon to someone. I tore my gaze away from the oncoming idolators. I¡¯d reloaded the Fursteburg, for all the good it would do. If I¡¯d pushed it too far, the best I could hope for was a misfire. If I was really unlucky, it might just explode in my hands. I drew myself to my full height. Wheeled my destrier around, to face the others. I was scared, of course. Terrified, even. It felt like my heart was trying to claw itself out of my throat, and run like hell. But I had to push it down, make myself a rock - For if I couldn¡¯t get them to follow me, couldn¡¯t get them to join the headlong rush towards disaster, we were all fucked. I couldn¡¯t show fear, or doubt. I had to look like I knew what I was doing, that I was blessed with absolute certainty. To act like I was what they believed I was. The ultimate warrior. The Champion of Tauruskhan. Tulgar the Invincible, reborn. ¡°Stand firm!¡± I roared, every word scraping my throat raw. ¡°The God¡¯s own Eye is upon us. We are His will made manifest, His vengeful blade! In His name, with His strength - We will triumph!¡± Praya¡¯s words, not mine. The High Priest had recited them countless times, to incite generations of tribesmen to war and worship. I drew on them, now, as the measure of life allotted to us shrank to nothing: As always, it was easier than finding my own. I raised a fist, in a gesture older than civilization. The black jade of my gauntlet unfurled across it, dark and lightless as the stone on all sides. Heat coiled in my chest, as I swept my gaze across what remained of the warband, locking eyes with each one. ¡°Glory to Tauruskhan! Victory to the His faithful! Death to the idola-¡± Lightning blasted the clouds, and thunder drowned out my words. The dust-choked air shimmered with storm-light, yellow and frosty, as forking traceries of energy lit up the vapor-clouds like veins. I tasted the iron tang of blood in my mouth, as I turned. Even before I saw the electric discharge leaping from staves and fingertips, even before I saw the blasted standards swaying above the serried ranks, I knew what was coming. The sorcerers of the Twilight Veil had joined the battle. TO BE CONTINUED