Konrad

The floating island of Mir emerged from the heavy mist in the ocean like some great titan of the sea. Next to the mighty citadel of legend, the granite stronghold of Helgan's Rest looked like a playfort built by children.

Half a dozen row boats struck out from land towards the island, transporting the guests that would join them on their final leg of the journey to the Coldest Mountain. More people joining them to help execute his plan; more people placing themselves in danger; and more responsibility to make sure he was strong enough to succeed.

The last time Konrad had been to Helgan's Rest was on the ship Elena, when he and his companions had been sailing towards Avram's quest. Konrad remembered sitting on the bow of the ship long before he discovered the truth about the gods and champions, wishing that he could sail on forever with his companions.

Little did he know he had a powerful destiny that had been long in the making, the course of his life engineered by a mysterious entity powerful enough to somehow hide him from the fates. It didn't matter if this entity was working for good or evil; he wouldn't be led anymore; with the help of his friends, he would chart his own fate.

“If you’re quite ready, let’s get on with this. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to,” Casovan snapped.

Lyran and Casovan stood nearby, watching him expectantly, and he willed the Cold Bite to his fingertips.

“Stop with the gestures. Why are mortals so theatrical? Do you just feel a need to physically control something?” Casovan asked.

“How about you tell him what to do instead of insulting him?” Lyran suggested.

Over the last few days while they had trained on the island, Lyran had been understanding and helpful. He wasn’t sure what had initiated her change in attitude, but she was going out of her way to help him, and he had reached the point where he had to put his apprehensions about her aside. He needed her ancient power as much as Casovan’s.

“It’s an ancient power, it doesn’t come from inside you, so why are you flapping your arms like that? It’s wind, its everywhere, so just control it everywhere.”

Leaving his hands by his side, Konrad instructed the Cold Bite to blow in the direction of a small grove of trees. The sudden impact of the shrieking wind shattered the calm of the island and left the grove a collection of frozen tree trunks.

“That’s incredible,” Konrad admitted. Normally, when he used the Cold Bite, it seemed to run through him, scouring his spirit and leaving him out of breath and energy, but not this time. “What else can your ancient power do? And don’t mention creating an army of ice warriors again, it’s not going to happen.”

“A tactical mistake, in my opinion, but very well. Use the Bite to inhabit an illusion.”

Konrad immediately formed two images of ice wraiths and fed the Cold Bite into it. The creatures flicked through the air, hissing and snapping at each other, and Konrad felt a welling of pride at his new-found control.

“Weak,” Casovan spat, and the wraith exploded in a puff of snow.

“Well, let's see you do better,” Lyran countered.

Casovan gave the kind of cold smile that came so naturally to him. “You’ll have to let me in.”

Konrad tried to empty his mind as Casovan took control of his body, the sensation was like a highly localized brain freeze.

The small god sighed and stretched, and Konrad heard his joints crack even though he couldn’t feel them.

“You only think on a mortal scale. See what the cold can do over time, glaciers, icebergs, and the thundering power of an ocean storm can be trapped, frozen in ice. You have the power to harness this, shape it.” Casovan spoke, but the words came out of Konrad’s mouth, and he raised Konrad’s arms like the conductor of an orchestra as the island trembled and a giant hand made of ice surged out of the ocean.

“Now who’s being theatrical?” Lyran muttered.

A seventy foot tall titan in human form, made entirely of sea ice, emerged from the ocean. Water cascaded from it’s body, falling in sheets of cold rain, and shouts of panic rose all around the island as fireballs were loosened from dozens of places, arcing through the air and pounding chunks of ice away.

“I can do that?” Konrad asked, reclaiming control of his body. He could feel the Cold Bite inside the titan, but where before the power usually raged and howled, now it was a focused, inexorable force of nature.

“On a smaller scale, certainly,” Casovan responded.

“It’s not the only power you have, Kornad, if you will allow me,” Lyran said.

Reluctantly, Konrad made space for Lyran to occupy his mind. She moved more delicately than Casovan, but the feeling was more unnerving, like a plant’s root system exploring his head.

“Roots grow deep, Konrad, and from a certain point of view, they are all connected. Control one, and you control all.” Lyran’s words came out in Konrad’s voice as bubbles erupted around the ice giant.

The monstrous titan appeared to look around uncertainly as the ocean around it thrashed as if in the grip of a tempest. With an explosion of water, slimy green tentacles whipped out of the ocean, their sinuous grip winding around the arms of ice. In mere moments, the organic clutch of the ocean bound the ice giant and pulled it back down into the depths.

Konrad regained control of his body and felt a final pulse like the slow heartbeat of a continent. Everything was connected.

“That was uncalled for,” Casovan said, glaring at Lyran.

As much as Konrad had been wary of using Lyran's powers, the things he had been able to do over the last few days had been far beyond any power he had seen from Athir, or his Brother.

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“Most of your success will rely on your creativity to tap into the fundamental aspects of each power,” Lyran said.

Konrad eyed the grove of trees that had been shredded by the Cold Bite and he willed them to regrow. New shoots emerged from the earth, and he poured more power in. Years of growth occurred in seconds, and the grove resembled an ancient forest, still he poured in more power, sensing an empty vessel that demanded more and more, it was like a hunger, and he expelled more of the ancient power.

“Konrad,” Lyra cautioned.

Konrad ignored her, watching as the trees reached the pinnacle of their life cycle. There was a snap, and one of the trees cracked open to reveal a core made of dust, drained of life.

“Stop,” Lyran commanded, and Konrad’s power was somehow limited, as if someone were tugging on the other end so he couldn’t take it.

“What did you do that for?” Konrad demanded.

Lyran was little more than a faint image before him, and she disappeared without a word.

Casovan’s eyes narrowed as he stared thoughtfully at the space that Lyran had occupied, before he too disappeared.

Despite the strangeness of Lyran’s behavior, Konrad felt quite satisfied with his progress. If he was forced to fight again, he would be more than a match for any opponent.

Avram was standing directly behind Konrad, and he almost stumbled over the small god. “Konrad,” he began.

“Avram, I already told you, no,” Konrad said, heading into Rickan’s tower, where he had made his temporary sleeping quarters.

“I know, but listen, the ancient power of the Shade is much better than what those two have. It’s shadow and darkness; doesn’t that sound good? Just unlock my ancient power, and it’s all yours.”

“I don’t have time for any more quests, I’m sorry, you should have asked me to do it first.”

“You were so weak, you would have certainly been murdered. Not that it’s dangerous or anything.”

“I’m sorry, Avram, I’m not going to change my mind.”

“I’ve tried to be nice about this, champion, don’t make me do something drastic.”

Konrad heard a desperation in the shadow god's voice, and he turned to see Avram standing very still, his hand resting on Spirits head.

“Avram, step away from my dog,” Konrad warned.

“Will you unlock my ancient powers or not?”

Konrad willed Spirit to run away, but she just stood there, her tongue hanging out slightly.

“Very well, you leave me no choice!” Avram declared.

Darkness literally boiled out of Spirit's fur, and she barked once before she was engulfed. Konrad lurched forward but became lost in a fog of shadows so thick he couldn’t see his own hand in front of his face. Evil whispers filled the air, and tendrils of darkness left promises of pain as they brushed against his skin. He felt a touch on his hand and recoiled, but the darkness evaporated, and he saw that it was only Spirit, wagging her tail as she licked his hand.

“Are you okay?” Konrad asked, kneeling down and looking into her pitch-black eyes.

“Shadow hound,” Avram whispered.

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Lyran

The small gods live on the mortal plane, close to the source of their power. Lyran’s lake was to the north-east within the forest caldera of a dormant volcano. Her worshipers were ancient woodland folk who lived close to nature. Casovan had his Coldest Mountain on the island in the northern ocean, worshiped by the shimmering city of the snow elves. Avram’s home was a great chasm far to the south, a dark hole without end that brushed against the abyssal plane. His ancient worshipers were a race of dwarf-like creatures who had refused the calling of the light.

The Puregods, not having a physical link to the mortal realm, crafted a new home on a divine plane. The great city was a shimmering marvel of divine power forged into physical shape. Every imaginable aspect of architecture found in the mortal realm was represented here: the high towers of the arcanists rose above domed Faelen buildings of impossible size, linked by soaring bridges, and above all, towered a central palace, impossible in size.

The gates of the city were a hundred feet high, with thick doors carved with frescoes of the Father, Mother, and Brother in all their glory. It was through these gates that Lyran walked, her dark, bark-like skin stark against the glowing white all around.

The streets were full. Each follower of the Puregods was represented here as an unliving surrogate, created of the same shining white power as the buildings. But unnervingly, these replicas moved slowly and made no sound, parting like a silent sea as Lyran passed. She had expected more of them, and even as she watched, some of them winked out of existence. The flock was thinning.

At the top of the palace, a vast terrace stretched out to the horizon. Geometry didn’t matter here; if they wanted an infinite terrace on a finite building, then who was going to stop them?

Looking down, Lyran saw the mortal realm laid out like a patchwork quilt, the clouds gently swirling across the seas. Underneath it lay the abyssal plane, a dark replica wrapped in shadows, and below that was a tortured, half-finished echo world, bathed in a red light. Lyran’s eyes hurt even to look at it.

“Why have you come here?” The Father commanded.

Three thrones appeared; two sat empty, and one of them had been cloven almost completely in two; the other was occupied by the Father, who was currently about twenty feet tall, he could have made everything smaller, but he didn’t and Lyran pursed her lips.

“I came hoping to win favour,” Lyran replied, focusing past the Father to the small volcano on the mortal realm. If she made it back there, she would stay forever.

“You bound a mortal, but you are too weak to hide him from the fates; tell me who did.”

“I do not know; I only regained access to the fates recently. We were lost for a long time.”

"You were not lost; you were weakened as punishment for your schemes. Now you continue to conspire, and the threads whisper with plans against me. Why should I trust you?”

“I seek only power; see the fate of those who once followed me, and you will see the truth.”

The Father couldn’t read her mind, or the minds of anyone but his own champions if he inhabited them, but he could read the past like an open book.

“I am not surprised to see such actions from your kind, ruthless, to be sure, but lacking in subtlety. Very well, what do have to offer for my favour?”

“The one they call the Prior, I know who he really is.”

A deep red pulsed in the heart of all that had been created around her, and the silent followers paused in their work, all looking directly at Lyran.

“How?” The Father’s voice was the whisper of death.

“We share the same champion, I think you know his brother.”

Lyran could practically feel the fates being battered by the will of the Father as he searched for the truth in her words. Konrad was still hidden from sight, and so the most the Father could do was follow the path of Konrad’s brother and fill in the blanks, but it would be enough.

“Your followers abandon you,” Lyran stated.

“Only lost, I will shepherd them back.”

“Here is my offer. I will give you the champion and convince the Prior to come here. In return, I want to take the mother's place.”

The Father’s glance rested for some time on the two thrones next to him. “This realm has known but one master since the sword was brought here by the Faelen assassin. It is time to regain control; you will be a suitable replacement. Now, tell me where to find the Prior and this champion.”

“The Prior is in a place that you cannot reach, but he is willing to come to an understanding. He has followers; he seeks the same deal as me.”

The Father digested this information, stroking his pointed beard. “Then we will be three for the first time, a pleasing irony. I will receive this Prior. What of your champion?”

Lyran nodded. “He has allies, elven arcanists, and witches. They are going to the Coldest Mountain to establish a base of operations from which to challenge you.”

“Cut him off.”

“I would be a fool to give up my champion before our deal is complete.”

“I will send my champion to kill him. When he is dead, you may return and claim this.”

The third throne warped, and an intricate network of branches and creeping vines appeared, carved out of the white divine light, and all around them, the shining followers bowed low to Lyran, their foreheads touching the shimmering floor.

It was, Lyran thought, a very tempting offer.