In their high heavens, in their caverns deep, the gods had grown bloated and complacent. And though the creatures of the mortal world grew resentful of their decadence, none dared to raise complaint until Tysil the warrior took up his sword and challenged their rule. His friends were afraid for him, for divine power was terrible and immeasurable and nigh impossible to beat. For Tysil to succeed, he would have to defeat…
Tartaure, on his deep and earthen throne
Thalassina, the long-drowned queen of the sea
Ixhara, the prismatic fire
Lucifray, the hurricane moth of the north
And last of all the Monarch, who bound them all together and held a piece of each inside its core. To harm it, the others had to be separated and killed off one by one, and for it to remain alive meant the sure return of the other gods.
With this impossible task, Tysil set off.
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His first target would be Tartaure, the most concrete of the gods. For a creature of the physical world, Tysil’s best chance would be against the lord of the earth. The warrior traveled far to reach the god’s cave, and farther still through the foul depths of the earth. When he reached the god’s domain, he was a haggard creature, battered and harassed by the minions of the god. But his resolve had never been stronger.
Tartaure leapt from his perch, less a throne than a nest, and set himself upon the warrior. He was as massive as a mountain and when his horns gored the top of the cavern, they brought earthquakes to the world above. Tysil was cruelly outmatched. On and on they fought, with the man ever retreating upwards. The cave grew narrower but Tysil battled on, ever on the edge of death, ever just a blow away from annihilation. He fought, ever goading his foe towards victory, until snap!—the god’s horns were stuck in the rock above. Though he bellowed and raged, he could not free himself, and at last Tysil began to strike. Hot rivers of ichor bled back into the earth and rocks entombed the warriors. At last, the god was still.
For a minute, Tysil panted. That his trick had worked brought no end to his amazement. But still, the god remained motionless, and when prodded, only a chip of horn fell from the ceiling. Tysil picked it up and found it to be sharper than his own blade, and just as wieldy. He took it as a blessing and continued the long journey upwards, back into the world of light.
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The next to fight would be Thalassina, mistress of the waters. Against Tysil’s better judgement he hired a boat, for the goddess would meet on no turf other than her own. He sailed far from the sight of land before he finally stopped. His crew whispered, but they feared him more and did not stop him as he let the gold, gems, blood, and other things the goddess could not resist plunge into the waves. Cautiously, she emerged.
“I know your purpose, warrior.” The waves spoke for her; her mouth did not move. “I, too, was once a mortal, and I had such a quest. The old god of the sea had drowned my lover and I sought revenge. Slaying him, I took his crown and his throne. I have ruled this realm for so long that even the memory of a time before has been washed away by the waves.”
Her seaweed hair drifted in the waves, obscuring her face. At last she looked up, and hers was the bloated countenance of the drowned. “Do as I did and be content with the death of one god,” she beseeched. “Both of us will find more happiness that way.”
But Tysil shook his head. “Nay, witch. I shall have your life, and the lives of the others. My quest cannot be abandoned!”
“As you wish,” she said. “Though I warn you, you should have stopped here.” Quick as a fish, she moved to cleave the boat in twain and send the souls upon it to the breathless depths.
But Tysil had not come unprepared. While his crew screamed and prayed, he unsheathed his point of horn and swiped at the sea queen’s hair, cleaving it and cutting into her face. She cried out, twitching back from the blade. Her blood was water and the guts of fish. “You’ll regret that, wretch,” she snapped, diving to destroy the ship from below.
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Tysil, bravest of mortals, realized her intentions and plunged into the waves after her. She hadn’t expected such recklessness, and was thus unprepared when he sliced the back of her neck. Her head twitched back and she looked up, but only water passed through her lips. Her shock faded to resignation, and then it was over.
Gasping, Tysil hauled himself back onto his ship. The waves were calm. As the bewildered crew tried to believe their good fortune, Tysil picked up the sheared lock of the goddess’s hair, all that remained of Thalassina. Though it was thin, he sensed a strength in it, and when he wrapped the enormous piece around his shoulders he could feel its protection. It would make a fine cloak.
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Third to reckon with would be Ixhara, a being of pure fire. He followed whispers, and then rumors, and then warnings called in terror. His quest led him to a lightless cave in which a woman lived. The blindfold that covered her eyes was filthy, and old blood still stained it red. “You cannot unsee the Light,” she mourned, but still she told him where to go.
What directions he gleaned from her half-mad ramblings, he followed, and when they ran out, he relied upon his own senses to lead him. Always there was heat, always a fleeting mention of light. And at last, he caught up to it.
The goddess was beautiful—a swirling, twirling funnel of colors and lights, as mindless and thoughtless as a newborn soul. She danced, scorching as she went, bringing all who saw her rapture before they were burned. But Tysil was wearing the cloak of the sea queen’s hair, and the light could not penetrate that shield.
Tysil, realizing his opportunity, attacked without hesitation. He swiped and slashed, but the horn blade passed through the fiery goddess. She danced on, oblivious, as he spent his strength. Panting, he was close to despair when he remembered the cloak. With a new strategy in mind, he unclasped the garment and threw it upon the goddess. It descended upon her like the hungry night.
The surprise of the goddess was almost childlike. She flared up into colorful fury, but it was too late. The smothering cloak covered her completely, and Tysil held it down until Ixhara was extinguished.
All that remained was a small, rainbow flame, burning pitifully beneath the cloak. It was the heart of the goddess. Tysil picked up the little fire and held it aloft, and it burned him not. Instead, it spread around him, a warm and colorful searing shield. It was beautiful, but appearances meant little to Tysil. He had a quest to finish.
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Lucifray the windlord was waiting for Tysil. His demesne was one of ice and desolation, and ever did the cold wind blow across the frigid land. The god himself rested against the snow, bright as ice, and the light against his white wings was blinding.
The moth wasted no time in taking flight before his challenger. Tysil raged on the ground, but Lucifray hovered high above, sending icy winds with each wing flap. Tysil would have been frozen had Ixhara’s heart not kept him warm. Still, he bellowed his challenge.
Hissing with anger, Lucifray dove. He streaked across the landscape, a bullet of ice and wind, and Tysil struck with his sword of horn. A gash opened in the moth’s side and he shrieked in pain. Still, he dove again, a falling glacier. Tysil stood his ground. Ixhara’s fiery heart protected him, and before the moth had a chance to rise again and flee, the sword had struck again.
Lucifray wobbled, his wings struggling under the gash that Tysil had opened in them. Bound to the ground, he had no chance but to fight on Tysil’s turf. His fight was furious, but he was not built for that type of battle. It was only a matter of time before his strength failed him.
By themselves, the dead god’s wings fluttered. Tysil watched the tear repair itself, but the moth did not stir. Instead, the wings detached themselves and shrunk. As though commanded, they attached themselves to his back and he gave them a test flap. Small though they’d become, he felt all the power of the north wind raging within them. He was ready to face the Monarch.
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The Monarch’s realm was of sky and clouds. Having risen to such a lofty height, Tysil gazed around. The divine palace was empty, its throne a vacant husk. “I challenge thee!” he shouted. But none would meet his call.
Tysil leapt forward and cut the throne in half. Wisps of cloud coiled around the wreckage. “Coward! Wretch!” he bellowed. “You leave your throne unattended and your realm ripe to be despoiled!” But the Monarch did not appear. Only the wind replied, the wind that spoke with Lucifray’s hiss. Tysil turned, prepared to fight, but the sunlight only laughed with Ixhara’s brightness. The clouds whispered Thalassina’s omen and the earth below rumbled with Tartaure’s cavernous laughter. And at last he understood.
The peerless sword of Tartaure’s horn
The shielding cloak of Thalassina’s hair
The blazing fire of Ixhara’s heart
The glorious flight of Lucifray’s wings
He’d bound them all together and held a piece as his own. He and the Monarch were one and the same, and for him to remain alive meant the sure return of the other gods.
His throne was waiting.