Sun shined brightly in the sky, not a cloud in sight to mar the pleasantly warm day; there was even a cool breeze. The perfect climate to lounge about, which Foy was doing plenty of. A shame such a comfortable moment was being tarnished.
Echoing around her, at volumes that were making infants weep. Foy listened to the endless ensemble of vows being proclaimed. The noise mingled with hordes of casual conversation. To say her ears rung, was an understatement. Even with them pulled down, she couldn’t mute the noise, nor flee to a tolerable napping area.
She, like so many others, was stuck. Sitting as cozily as one could next to a follower, she waited within the confines of a caravan, her own hooded wagon moving slower than a snail. All because, it appeared half the city was trying to leave at once.
The reason for this most bothersome outcome?
Gods, and their pestering priests.
Echoing louder than all the other buzz in the air, their preaching stabbed into her eardrums.
“Malan refuses to release his grip,” they chanted to the hordes of people. “But fear not followers of Wargain, for his time draws near. As I speak, our mighty gods, and their faithful, are striking down the Ruiner’s lairs, removing his corrupting influence from the land.” People cheered, believing soon, or near enough, that their children would be saved.
It was hard not to give a mocking smile, or laugh at their expense. ‘The young, the young, so naive and blind,” she hummed in her mind. It was clear as day, that the curse taking place, had nothing to do with her god. Malan never harmed the innocent, personally, that was what she and Bronduff were for. Nor would he use his power on something so… ineffective.
But the masses needed someone to blame, and who better than the source of all their troubles.
At least, that is what they’re taught from birth. Few knew how inactive her god had been for the past three hundred years. Planning some great work, while she, and her fellows, maintained his religion as best as they could.
‘All that work,’ she mused. ‘Poof, up in smoke.’
How much? She was unsure, but from Malan’s personal warnings, and his order to embark towards a location burned into her mind. It revealed enough for her to accept what the priests were shouting had tokens of truth. The gods were at play, and Malan’s shrines were being desecrated.
She would know to what extent once she got out of the city. With its wards up, casting out the dead, the Shadows among them. She had ended up blind to the affairs taking place. ‘Got complacent,’ she thought, chiding herself. The centuries of hiding in the dark, unnoticed, and unbothered by the Pantheon, had caused bad habits.
Now she was paying for it; stuck in her wagon, with hordes of heretics in front of her.
“This is unbearable.” Screamed a hulking Kolune, though nothing compared to Bronduff’s size. “Father please,” said a younger one, half the height of his parent. If she were to guess, he was one or two years old. “You can’t expect the guards to get this line organized, just look how many of us there are.”
“You think me blind boy,” snapped the father. She saw a number of scars lining the man, likely a warrior that had been in Wargain’s army, and low enough rank not to receive proper healing. “These people need to get out of the way, only trained warriors through.”
“Father not so loud,” the young man pleaded, already wiser than his parent. From the corner of her left eye, she saw the loud mouth was already drawing attention. Regardless of the fine weather, and the preaching of evil meeting its end, tempers were rising. Everyone wanted their chance of glory, to somehow find and skewer a heretic. As if Foy’s brethren would setup a base right outside a stronghold.
‘Why would we do that, when there’s a perfectly good city to house ourselves in.’ Shame it was all ruined now. Too many miracles being worked, too many eyes open. She, nor the three followers with her in the wagon, could risk making offers to Malan. That, and with their Shadows removed—thanks to god empowered wards—it was time to find new lands to settle. At least, that had been the idea, before Malan’s vision.
Now her plan was to head north. ‘Why god, why the north?’ She didn’t actually send that question to him; she kept it to herself. ‘God I hate the cold.’ She didn’t have the fur for such climate, which meant wearing the skin of others. She was going to have to procure a Kolune coat, or end up making one herself.
‘Maybe I’ll get lucky and end up running into a fool hunting in the wilds.’ If this stronghold was so up in arms with righteous zeal, then others had to be doing the same. The lands filled with stumbling city folk braving the wilderness. Believing, quite foolishly, their gods were watching over them.
The thought comforted her, and alleviated some of her ill mood.
‘Couldn’t they have waited another week,’ she justly complained. Everything had been ready for a great offering to Malan; a night of poison within a mead hall. Now it was all for naught. She couldn’t risk forming a shrine, not with so many priests, and their gods paying attention.
‘One day I’ll return to this place,’ she thought, mind roughing out a plan. ‘And I will poison every priest within it.’ Maybe even start a raging fire out of spite.
“It’s going to be a long wait princess.” The follower next to her—one of her kids—who currently controlled the pack beast, said. While at the same time, petting the top of her head. “But papa promises, we’ll get out of here by night’s end.”
She puffed up her cheeks, and huffed out a breath, playing a well-worn role. “But papa,” she said in a sickeningly sweet voice. “You promised by noon.”
The son, posing as her father, sagged his shoulders. “Papa’s sorry princess, the gods have deemed otherwise.”
She huffed again, long ears going half straight in mock annoyance. “That’s not fair papa, how am I to complain when gods are involved.”
The follower smiled: “You already are darling.”
She stuck her tongue out at him, he doing the same a moment later, then playing the role too much. He placed an arm around her, pulling her into a half hug; the perfect sight of a bonding family.
None of the heretics around them aware of who they were, or how lucky. Staying pressed against her son, who dearly wanted children of his own. Foy watched the slow-moving caravan. The hundreds of souls whose Devotion could have been drained, if circumstances had been different.
Truly, it wasn’t fair, all those sacrifices dangled in front of her. The wagon held plenty of poisons, once mixed properly. She could start throwing components about, while her few remaining followers formed a shrine; the power collected would be a worthy sacrifice.
Alas, she and those with her, would be cleansed from creation not even half-way through the act. If not by the miracles of priests, then by a god. She, and anyone with a hint of sense, could feel the attention of the divine. Someone was watching, who? She couldn’t tell, given her nature and occupation. Being noticed enough to get a feel for a god, wasn’t something she wanted.
To her relief, the attention wasn’t focused on her, it felt broad, all encompassing; someone on high watching for a spot of mischief.
‘They’ll be disappointed.’ She was no young bun, regardless of her appearance. Not a hint of trouble would find this lucky stronghold; they would get to live under their tyrant in peace. Maybe in a century or two, that would be different, but for all those around her, they would be long dead.
“Can you feel it, blessed followers of Wargain,” a priest shouted. “The glory that is our pantheon watching over us.” People shouted praise, bellowing the names of their gods. “Malan has no influence here, his ilk, and Shadows gone,” more zealous worshiping followed. Foy fought down the raging urge to both roll her eyes, and promptly throw a dagger into the priest’s eye socket.
“The time of Wargain’s fallen brother is at an end, for our Pantheon is striking throughout the lands.” The priest laughed, a dim aura of light radiating from him. “He runs from shadow to shadow, but he won’t escape this time.” Hands clasped together, then raised in a sign of devotion, the priest uttered: “This is a blessed time, brothers and sisters,” voice booming. “Let the people through, so they too can aid in this final push to rid our holy lands of its last shadow.
Cheers erupted, deafening her. Pulling her ears down passed her shoulders, Foy forced a girly smile on her face; hiding the scowl that wanted to form.
“Blessed day, blessed day,” her son said. “See princess, the gods provide.”
“They sure do papa,” she replied sweetly.
‘It’s settled,’ she thought as the mob began to move faster. ‘When I return, I’m going to burn this place to the ground.’
***
Huffing out of reflex, rather than need. Derrin scampered up another slope, his notes, and neatly rolled scrolls, shuffling about in his body sized pack. “Why now god, why now?” He shouted to the empty air. The vision burned into his mind, and pushing most of his thoughts to the side, was disrupting his work. “I can’t categorize like this, can’t think.”
He was in fact thinking, a great deal of it, but that’s not the point, the vision was hampering him. Malan wouldn’t normally do this, which meant the words of warning, and vision, were important. Enough that his understanding god was being forceful.
Something very much unlike him.
“Damndable pantheon, and their constant meddling,” he rambled. “Can’t they stop destroying for a few decades at least.” He already knew the answer, given they were a thick-skulled lot; a group of thugs mostly skilled at breaking things. Anything else required too much concentration on their part. The ruins around him voicing that truth. Another society smashed apart, and its god withering away to nothing. All that remained were the skeletons of a civilization; the structures, and preserved pieces of parchment.
A common tale, and most living in these uneducated times, were clueless to the fact. Only he, and his fellow devotees to Malan, knew the truth.
“So much lost.”
Humming a note of power, Derrin jumped over a large gap in the cave floor, easily bypassing the room sized hole. Its sight meant he was almost back to the surface. How long had it been? A month, three? Or was it a year? No matter, time was a meaningless thing to him. Though his followers might be a tad worried if he’d been gone too long.
“They’ll understand.” They always did, since they were fellow scholars.
Slowing his pace, he came to a small gap, that had a cool breeze hissing through. He shivered as his stone-dusted clothing rippled from its touch. The season had changed, which meant more than a month had passed.
“Can’t blame me, there’s no light down here, how am I to track time?” Sure, he could have asked his god, or checked the surface occasionally. But oh, how he’d gotten so distracted.
“Maybe a small amount of blame then.” Placing a hand on the rock, voice rising with power, he spoke: “I am the will, and I command thee, part.” The small gap became a well-formed opening. Wind howled through, but he was ready this time. Voicing protection, the wind never touched him, colliding instead with a transparent wall.
Stepping into the light, his eyes adjusting quickly thanks to a minor miracle, and his body encased within a warm bubble, Derrin stared out at the open landscape of small mountains. Snow blanketed everything, the forest asleep for winter, and the many animals in hiding. But those were meaningless details, what truly grabbed his attention, and caused his eyes to widen, was the large monstrosity in the air.
High up, above the mountains themselves, and guarded by an army of Blazors. Flew a thickly feathered creature—its shape vaguely resembling an owl—with black unblinking eyes. It was surveying the area, and obviously searching for something.
Derrin—a living reliquary of arcane knowledge—spoke one of particular usefulness in situations like these. “I will it to be, so it is the truth, I am, unseen.” The incantation rendered him unseeable to most senses. Considering himself safe, he openly watched the spectacle.
As a scholar, aware of the nature of enemy gods, he deduced the creature before him, was in fact one of Lisoe’s pets.
Interest taking him, he tracked the flight of the creature, and warped stone to gain better leverages as he moved higher up. All the while, Malan’s vision pulled at his conscience. The location he was to head for, calling him. But he persisted, not only because of the sight, but its heading.
Recalling Malan’s warning, the need to flee away from his shrines. Derrin watched as the creature headed directly towards one. A certain one that he, and many followers, had built in the region. A place full of notes, bound books, and great scholarly works, that were to one day enlighten the people under Malan’s rule.
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“No no no no,” he said at the howling wind, and pulled at his droopy ears; horror taking him. “Don’t you do it, by Malan’s wrath, don’t you do it.” He already knew in his heart what was to take place, and the fact he couldn’t do anything to stop it.
No amount of arcane knowledge could change the fact he didn’t have the stored Devotion to fight such opposition; nor his fellow scholars.
Powerless, he began to pray to his god, request aid. ‘Send them warning,’ he pleaded as he felt Malan link with him. Through him, his god saw the force; understood the situation.
‘They are already fleeing, and have moved as many scrolls as they could,’ echoed Malan’s voice within his mind. ‘But your vision has been sent.’
He sighed in relief, not all was going to be lost then. Some would be saved; the rest would have to be rewritten from memory.
‘Thank you,’ he sent, and offered what Devotion he could.
‘Keep it Derrin, your journey is a long one, and our enemies prowl the lands.’ Malan’s presence heightened, and pressed on his shoulders. ‘Make haste, the time of my great work is at hand, and I need you five together.’
‘Of course, of course, I haven’t forgotten,’ he bowed to the empty air. ‘I will not tarry god, I will be there.’ The sensation of a hand, resting on his scalp, and a feeling of thanks, announced Malan’s departure.
The vision pulled at him; the urge stronger than ever. Yet he remained there, standing on a peek. Long enough to see, and hear, the flying beast let out a shrill, then descend. Its mass slamming into distant hills, razor claws tearing into the ground as it dug a hole into his home.
“One day, it will be your lots turn to face ruin.” Words of power on his lip, Devotion flowing through his veins, he pushed from his perch, and hurried down the mountain; heading towards the lands his god had chosen to be an altar.
***
Running through a forest that was quickly being trimmed away, thanks to Wargain’s army of fortune seekers, and laborers, using it for raw resources. Rimean focused on the vision in his mind; the pull guiding him. The journey was going to be long. He would have to use Devotion to maintain his body, while he continually ran, since he didn’t have time for rest, or a meal.
Alas, even with these obvious facts, his sons were trying to follow him. Many breathing haggardly, their bodies almost at their limit; not much longer now. A minute, or two, and majority would falter, would listen to his words, and continue his work without him.
“Please father,” the closest to him cried out. A stubborn son, but intelligent and diligent. A fine student, who would spread Malan’s cult of healing to these distant lands. “A moment’s rest.”
He didn’t reply, even as he heard sons lag further behind, then disappear from his hearing altogether. This trend continued till all that remained was the stubborn son.
Slowing his stride, and finally coming to a stop under the cover of soaring trees, Rimean turned to take in his boy.
The child collapsed into the snow, and pine covered floor. He barely had the strength to remain on all fours as he sucked in air. He looked so much like his mother, covered in a mix of blond, and speckled brown fur.
Rimean remained quiet, his breathing calm as he approached his laboring son. “You have your orders, I must go alone, such is Malan’s command.” The vision was clear, it was to be only the five of them present.
No one else.
“We’re not ready,” the boy heaved out. “We need you.”
“Perhaps,” he answered. “But such is life. You all will adapt, and be made stronger by it; more dependent on each other, rather than me.” He’d planned to do this anyway, they needed to be able to operate on their own. It was the only way their cult would be able to spread throughout this region.
Leaning down, pressing his mouth close to his son’s long ears, he whispered: “Pray to Malan, he will give guidance in my absence.” With that, he left, and this time none followed. They no longer had the strength, and he the patience to delay for them.
Life coursing through his limbs, the forest blurred passed. Weaving a miracle of sound, enhancing is Heon hearing even more, Rimean listened to the heretics.
“Hurry brothers, the highway is behind schedule, and our fellows have need of it.” Calls of understanding sounded out, mingled with grunts. “This new continent has some gods with spine. A real fight, for a short time anyways. So hurry!” The overseer yelled. “Maybe we’ll get our own chance to father glory and honor,” that got cheers.
The sound of falling trees echoed around him, joined with grunts of harsh labor; a fertile ground for his cult. So many would need healing, and ultimately end up with crippling wounds, that would have them cast out. In a tide of Hundreds of thousands, the loss of a few souls meant nothing. Easily forgotten in the wave of men hurrying to garner the attention of neglecting gods.
Those abandoned would be susceptible to whispers, to follow a new path, and a god that cared.
‘My sons and daughters will have an easy time here.’ Counter to their beliefs, they were ready, he hadn’t been light on their training. They knew almost everything he did, except for key intel that couldn’t be shared.
Surveying the area, all of it still clear to him as it blurred passed. He spotted numerous herbs that would benefit his cult, allow his people to heal wounded without the need of miracles; a display that would draw too much attention.
Only those discarded, looking for a new life, would learn the truth, and receive healing normally reserved for the Pantheon’s chosen.
Countless times that had earned the faith of new initiates, turning them into loyal, unwavering, followers of Malan.
This fact hurried him, the sooner he reached his god, allowed Malan to enact a plan long in the making. The sooner he could return to this new front of war, and convert Wargain’s followers into his own.
It was always good to gain new blood, a fresh stock of people to breed with, and secretly carry on Malan’s religion. This new continent would be no different than the old. Its many villages aligned with Malan, rather than Wargain’s Pantheon. A blessing, seeing that the heretics were out for blood. Many brothers and sisters must have been lost by now.
Unlike his own sect, who never settled around a shrine to Malan; others frequently did, the act now costing them greatly.
‘I might be the mightiest of the five now.’ When it came to followers anyways. He’d yet to lose anyone to the heighten caution of their enemy. But a shrine they’d made, had been found and destroyed, so the enemy knew there was some kind of presence around these areas.
‘A test for my sons.’ The unwise and careless would be weeded out, leaving behind those fit to serve Malan in life. The rest would become Shadows, perhaps one day earning the right to be revived, or bestowed a new body to inhabit.
Either way, the visions bestowed to him by his god, were untroubling. They would continue on, a light that would never be extinguished, only dimmed from time to time. But, like life itself, it would bloom anew.
A necessity with how fate was going.
Jumping high, and latching onto a thick branch, Rimean took a moment to study the forces swarming the land. Before him, was an endless caravan fanning out over the horizon.
Thanks to visions from his god, and Shadows, he was informed of the heartland’s current state. The god of war had run out of foes, besides Malan, and was rapidly solidifying his domain, while ramping up his conquest to take a new continent. But from the sight, people wouldn’t expect that, it looked more like a mass migration, rather than an army.
Few warriors made up their number; most were followers of the Architect. The Pantheon’s planner, maker of great works, and unifying strongholds.
Enhancing his sight, he could already see the highway of stone being constructed. Once completed, future armies, and settlers, would have a set path to travel on.
It meant this expedition was here to stay, and what lands were taken, would never be returned. Not unless the pantheon fighting Wargain, had significate strength to do so. Unlikely, given the war god’s nature, and the millions of followers devoted to him.
Still, the local pantheon was putting up a decent fight. Far off into the distance, hidden behind hills, he saw flashes of large, and divinely guided, miracles. The most obvious to him were from Wargain. Coming from heavenly portals, each linked to his afterlife, came tides of Blazors—Souls contained within molten suits of armor—each bellowing out flames, and manifesting wings of fire that let them fly.
Their weapons, swords, axes, and spears, were of a similar make. The bladed parts glowing searing hot, and able to cut through almost anything not shielded within miracles. In Rimean’s mind, the war’s outcome was already decided. He’d seen it first-hand too many times not to know the pattern. Wargain would send wave after wave of his Blazors to attack the rival gods. Decimating their followers, while his own remained far behind the front lines, working on logistical matters.
Only the old, or those with too much independent thought, would be allowed to head forward and actually face the enemy.
From the flashes, and far-off rumblings, he knew these local gods were falling prey to Wargain’s oldest trick. Getting them to waste themselves destroying constructs, rather than aiming for the source of the problem. The followers, those millions sending Devotion daily, which empowered all of these godly works.
It mattered not if a battle was won, armies destroyed. As long as Wargain had his followers, he could simply reform all that had been lost. It was known to all under Malan’s care, that fighting Wargain on an open battlefield, was the fastest way of handing him victory.
These foreign gods would learn this truth eventually, but by then, like so many others, it would be too late. Their lands and followers consumed, and added to Wargain’s growing domain.
For the march of conquest was ever reaching.
Yet he wasn’t afraid; it couldn’t go on forever. If Wargain ever achieved his dream, and conquered the realm, it would soon bring forth his demise. A culture of warriors, raiders, and glory seekers, weren’t capable of accepting lasting peace. Wargain’s own customs, and people, would turn upon themselves. They needed something to challenge, defeat, and conquer, and if no outside force remained, then the masses would turn inward.
An empire of butcherers, would butcher themselves in turn, and order would fall back into chaos. In that turmoil, Malan would be there, along with everyone on the path of Wonder; together ready to weave something new, and lasting.
The truth brought him peace, and purpose. It guided his steps, as he moved on from the sight of gods fighting. He would continue wandering the lands of war, saving those left, and providing them a path that led to creation, rather than destruction.
***
The realm trembled under his paws, quaking by the weight of heretical might. It made navigating his escape tunnel a tad, treacherous. Portions were starting to crack and flake onto the floor. Hand resting on a wall, he steadied himself, and hurried the best he could.
Counter to what he’d preached to his sons and daughters, Ryan was afraid to die. And it wasn’t about the expenditure of Devotion needed to revive him.
It was from two fears.
The first, a common normality to his race. The fear of being left behind, that Malan, after too many failures, would replace him with another. Which in turn, tied with the second. His fear of no longer being special, just another skulking vermin in an endless horde. Thus, the fear of death nipped at him, while his children gave their lives willingly in his, and Malan’s name.
He sighed inwardly. ‘Rimean is going to lecture me over this.’ He’d always said establishing a base centered around a shrine was too much of a risk. That it provided the heretics too tempting of a target. Naturally, Ryan had refuted the claim, the danger was only to be had, if the shrine could be found. Since most were in remote places, the danger had appeared mostly imaginary.
How wrong he had been, he’d only taken into account the acts of mortals. Not the searching eyes of miracle worked beasts, and their gods.
‘It will be inconvenient, but there’s nothing else that can be done.’ From now on, he would follow Rimean’s advise, cults and shrines would be separated from each other till the time to meet was necessary.
‘I hope he doesn’t gloat,’ Ryan thought, before stumbling to his knees. This caused by the rock under him shifting violently. Hissing, he got back up, and wiped his robes clean of the dust collecting on the floor. “Damned Heretics,” he muttered and hurried on. ‘They will pay for this, undoing my work.’ Even if it was only a small sect in this region, loss was loss. The sons dying to keep the enemy distracted, could have been better used elsewhere; such as spreading Malan’s religion.
After all, it was theirs, and his, main responsibility. A task handed down by god himself, due to Ryan’s skills at persuasion. A task he had kept up for decades, and slowly used to build up his own personal army of followers. Unlike other gods, hoarding power for themselves, Malan shared his, and secrets.
For Ryan’s work, so his god could perform his own undisturbed, he got a small portion of Devotion each time a follower sent their faith to Malan. In terms of power, he likely had the most Devotion at his call to use.
If he had been an overly brave fool, he could have turned back around, faced the minions of Wargain, and come out on top for a time. Till greater foes arrived, or a god decided to interfere, and smite him.
But that didn’t change the fact he was powerful, special. And most importantly, needed. The vision called to him, Malan beckoning, decreeing he arrive at a valley of mountains far to the north of his location. The pull was strong, demanding, something so outside his god’s soft, undemanding nature.
It’s important, and Ryan would answer the request; Malan needed him desperately. So, despite his growing irritation of heretics smashing his hard work, he continued retreating.
Down the path he went, going deeper, and after a few more minutes it leveled off. The trembling’s gone, and the sounds of battle distant. In that dark tunnel, a portion of it lit by the working of a miracle, Ryan was met by his dead children. Shadows now, a show of faith and dedication that they were able to ignore the Glen’s pull.
He showed them a large toothy smile as they bowed.
With thought alone, rather than words, his children conveyed their happiness to see him well, and far from the danger that had taken them.
‘Malan protects,’ he sent. ‘Now show me, my children, your final moments.’
Images flooded his mind. Their once prospering village—nearing that of a stronghold—in ruins. Constructs of steel and burning flame marched as one, heading for survivors. His kin fought well, sending down miracles of water and corrosive acid. But there were too many, and his children only had so much power within themselves. It was a given that the battle would turn into a melee, and the kind his people weren’t suited for; one-on-one duels. They required superior numbers to win such acts of violence, plus, against foes that bled.
‘All of you will be avenged,’ Ryan sent to his still fuming children. Shadows were angry, wanted to continue the fight. But Malan refused to send more essence to them. They, like most Souls in the Glen, were now helpless as they watched their home be desecrated.
‘Peace my kin,’ he sent. ‘This is the heretics battlefield, open conflict.’ Shadows nodded reluctantly, some bowed. They did their best to quell the hate within their etheric hearts. ‘They will pay for this,’ he announced. ‘Villages will burn, and heretics sacrificed to Malan. But for now, we must flee.’ He sent orders to them, they were to guide the living away, and spread that order to the newly dead. This place was to be abandoned. With the area now known to the enemy, it would never be used again.
A new place had to be discovered, and it would be the dead who would start the search. Normally he would have aided, but, the pull from Malan; it kept him focused.
‘Our most divine god as called for me,’ Shadows stilled. ‘I will be gone for some time, aiding the divine with his great work.’ Excitement took his children; all had been waiting so long for Malan to act.
‘Gather our kin, and settle new lands. I will find you when the time is right.’ An easy act, since Malan would guide him to the location if requested.
All bowed once before the Shadows disappeared, leaving him to the ongoing tunnel. He embarked with haste, for his children weren’t the only ones to be thrilled. He had been around when Malan was active, a force behind him, always providing support. In those times, Ryan had little to fear, for when the fighting got tough, Malan would bolster his strength. Had provided an endless stream of varying miracles and might, to the point only the works of other gods had posed any real threat.
A squeak of joy left him. ‘It’s been so long.’ The waiting had been trying, and for it to be coming to an end? Ryan’s legs couldn’t carry him fast enough. ‘I can’t wait,’ he thought, heart racing. Not only to see what his god had planned, but for the time that came after. For them—as a whole—to return to the times before. A force pushing back the blindness Wargain spread, to free the masses from their ignorance.
To bring on the age of Wonder.