Alec would have been lying if he said he wasn’t nervous, or rather he had lied, repeatedly. The fourteen year old boy was carefully triplechecking the contents of his pack with Holly’s (somewhat exasperated) help.
When he’d arrived in Circulus Seruatis he’d had nothing but the clothes on his back, and even they had been torn, worn and bloodstained. Now that he was leaving it was almost hard to believe the amount he had, and all of it of the finest quality the retired warriors, magicians and craftsfolk of the Protected Circle could devise.
His backpack alone was incredible, a black-leathered construction in the necromantic style, with pockets on the side, a large belted main pocket with a Mori-oak bottom, bespelled by runework in the stitching to drastically reduce the weight. If the bottom was removed by an inquisitive soul they’d find an extradimensional space that had been linked to the pack that was twice again its volume, and he needed that space. For all the incredible largesse the pack represented it hadn’t been his only gift.
“Flask.” He demanded, extending a hand to his roommate who, with a weary if indulgent sigh, handed it to him as if this wasn’t the third time they had done this, with the teen carefully unpacking and repacking everything each time some new gift made its way to the soon-to-be departing teen’s humble abode.
“Flask.” Holly echoed, handing him the overengineered water receptacle, the wooden container damn near glowed with barely supressed spell backlash, less a flask than a grenade that hadn’t decided if it wanted to explode yet.
The cap had been bespelled to siphon water out of the air and into the flask and to glow a particularly eery red in the presence of poisons, dangerous bacteria or other undrinkable contaminants whilst the flask itself was enchanted to neutralise and purge the same. Should the lid be lost he could have pressed any rock of sufficient size to the top and it would be shifted to a perfect fit. Curiosity meant he now had fifteen different lids.
Additionally it was bespelled to resist sharp and blunt trauma, to contain twice its volume in water and, after much discussion by the enchanters, to offer a variety of twenty-five flavours of water, changing at random each time the lid was removed.
Now if only Alec could persuade them to remove liquorice from the rotation he’d have declared it perfect.
With the flask safely stowed in one of the side pockets Alec would glance down at this list for the next item, “Rations.”
Two weeks worth of hard tack and trail mix tightly wrapped in leaves were handed over to be placed in the bottom of the bag where they would hopefully never see the light of day again. It was only then that Holly handed over what Alec would have described as ‘the real food’. At first glance and empty wooden lunchcase that would, every midday and evening dispense a still hot meal from the dimensional stasis it had been stored in. Agh’zak Skullcrusher, former orc warlord and now professional chef for all of Seruatis, had provided six months worth of food as well as the loathsome trail mix in case the box malfunctioned. There were some things even a master of the art could not improve.
“Firelighters.” Alec declared, echoed a moment later by the soulbonded dryad. Twelve small alchemical pods, meticulously sealed and magically hardened to only be openable by mortal touch, were placed in the bag alongside the more traditional flint and steel.
“Clothes.” A surprisingly large number of articles of clothing were put into the very bottom of the bag, Dus, the Seruatis librarian had rather gone overboard, the ancient gorgon seldom got the chance to exercise her more motherly instincts and had tried to make up for lost time. They wouldn’t be winning any fashion contests, Dus’ fashion sensibilities so out of date they’d not only come back in and out of fashion but in and out of retro as well, not that he’d ever tell her that.
“Utensils.” A collection of steel cups, bowls and cutlery were put in, nothing too esoteric, for all that Seruatis was obsessed with magical artifacts they’d drawn a line at putting them in their mouths… mostly.
“Jacket.” The Jacket deserved the capital letters, body armour more than a method of keeping warm and fending off rain though it would serve in that capacity as well, thick leather with a silk lining (for catching arrows), it was enchanted against flame, lightning and, unusually, entropic strikes, with a series of small strike plates stitched into it to protect his vitals. All in the classic black of the necromancer at Alec’s request – there had been discussion of using shadowweaving to really make the fabric dark but it had been vetoed by Dus. It was alas rather heavy though, and Alec was still adjusting to walking around in it for any length of time, it wasn’t an excessive weight but more than a teen would find comfortable. There had been an even heavier jacket, without the enchantments, for him to train in these last two weeks as the eve of his departure had grown near.
“Sword.” Now the sword was a surprise, in that it was more or less just a sword, specifically a spatha, the near metre long double-edged blade outdated by modern standards with a handguard rather than a full crossguard but the living relics that had done the forging had been insistent, it had runes engraved into the blade to keep it sharp without a whetstone and to be very hard to break but nothing further.
That had been probably the biggest surprise, with options to have it ignite whatever it touched, to wrap roots around a foe’s ankle with the right gesture, to turn the air itself into a cutting weapon, to make the blade phase, glow or even fight for itself they had settled on just the basics. Or rather his swordteacher Saiko had, the former mercenary going into verbal battle against dragons, liches and simply retired legends to insist that Alec wasn’t ready for that kind of responsibility and that given the people he was most likely to fight, paladins with their magic neutralizing nullsteel, it would be pointless as well. Saiko had, to universal shock, won the argument on enchantment though his argument for an estoc, longsword or some other variant of knightkiller had gone unheeded.
The scabbard though had a sting in its tail, made of the supernaturally hard Mori-oak the forest surrounding Seruatis was famous, or perhaps infamous, for, Alec’s recent lessons had included how to bring the sheathe into play as a second weapon, primarily defensive. Saiko knew there was no way in just a couple months of practice he’d be able to get Alec to a standard where he’d be able to stand toe-to-toe with trained knights, soldiers and, given the company he kept, potentially, assassins, but he hoped that the obscure style of fighting would be able to wrongfoot them enough to give him a chance.
“Staves.” They weren’t technically his, belonging to his mentor Erebus, now suffering in durance vile, at least as far as Alec was aware, in truth the worst the necromancer had had to face was isolation and loneliness and those were practically friends to the centuries old monster. One was Erebus’ travelling staff, a length of ebony, starting to get a bit on the thin side where the runes, so thick and small it was hard to believe they’d been carved by hand, had been replaced over the years, capped with an obsidian skull (a perfect replica of its intended owner’s) and with a springloaded blade in the other end to turn it from stave to spear at a moment’s notice. It was a magician’s equivalent of a multitool.
The other staff however, for all the craftsmanship of its partner, was something special. A simple Mori-yew staff, unadorned and without a focus, though there was a nestling of tendril-like branches at one end that would eventually hold one. It practically thrummed with necromantic energies, so thick and strong that even Alec could feel it like a static charge in the air.
Lady Yew, the dryad who had bestowed it, had been old, and not rise and fall of empires old, but the ‘I remember when those mountains weren’t there’ old. In revenge and hate she had given it to Erebus to kill Lutan, the slayer of Von Mori, the great dryad of the forest itself, the heartwood of such an ancient dryad was a rare material indeed, it could only be given, never taken as such a dryad would sooner destroy their tree than let it be harvested by mortals.
Von Mori, it had turned out, wasn’t dead, merely captured, but by the time that information had emerged it had been far, far too late to take the staff back.
It was with utmost care that Alec would tie both staffs to his travelling pack.
Finally ready to go he’d shrug the pack on, glancing over at Holly, “You know you could carry something right?”
The dryas shrugged, “I’m hoarding my strength, unless you somehow learned how to cast spells in the last half hour.”
He was pretty sure Holly was bullshitting him, and if he’d wanted to he could have opened the bond between them to check but they’d both been working hard on boundaries since she’d woken from her coma, partly to try and be kinder to one another after a rough start and partly to prevent a repeat of the events that had necessitated it. “Fine. Then any chance of casting a spell to make this stuff easier to carry?”
“Afraid I don’t know any.” The prickly dryad said smugly as they left their home of the last month, heading for the outskirts where their escort was awaiting. Well not technically their escort.
Erebus was a lot more haggard than Alex remembered him, a month’s worth of beard doing a bad job of hiding where a pale and thin face had become near translucent and sallow. The necromancer’s hands were cuffed and his legs were manacled, not null, the standard method of mage restraint which could be overcome by sheer power, but runes of binding and dispelling, an order of magnitude stronger, and multiple orders more expensive.
The Swordsman was there, shadowed by Saiko, ostensibly the two were there as guards rather than to say farewell to a friend and enemy-turned-cordial-acquaintance respectively.
The paladin, Janiah Vorthame, clad in just her armour, each piece polished to a mirror finish, rather than her usual drab and discreet chainmail and robe ensemble, was present to ensure nothing untoward happened in the transfer from Seruatis to Paladin authority. The silver-haired and apparently teak-hewn veteran soldier, now permanent ambassador to Seruatis, looked like she was trying to chew a wasp-and-nettle sandwich, her own choice of escort for Erebus had been declined by her superiors and she’d made no secret of the fact, especially after a few beers.
It was an open secret she was the catspaw of someone high up in the paladin order, though, with how difficult correspondence between New Pax and Seruatis was, no one had actually managed to figure out who. Perhaps all those letters had been lost in the mail, or the fireplace, one or the other.
Dus, the gorgon librarian and by all accounts one of the eldest of Seruatis’ living relics, was there in her eyeless mask, and with how Saiko and Erebus carefully weren’t looking at her neither were sure she wasn’t going to attempt a prison break. Janiah had tried to ban her presence but The Swordsman hadn’t backed it, and without some form of overwhelming magical firepower she wasn’t liable to listen.
“Ah, you took your time child.” She chided as Alec trudged across the moist grass and mud that consumed the outskirts, the teenager looking decidedly ill this close to the barrier, if anything Holly looked even queasier. There was a lot of null in the waist high wall that surrounded Seruatis and the poor dryad was enduring what amounted to a light radiation bath. With Alec to draw energy from she’d be fine in a few hours but right now the only reason she wasn’t throwing up was that dryads didn’t eat.
“Sorry, I was busy packing.” He said, looking down at his feet in embarrassment, cheeks turning crimson as Holly chimed in, “For the third time today.”
“Well you’re here now. We can finally get this sad little affair over with.” She declared, amusement dancing behind her voice.
“Not quite.” Noone had seen the three approach, perhaps they’d teleported, perhaps they’d been invisible, but they were there now and the centre of attention as, in their minds, should always have been the case.
The reactions were varied, Holly, Saiko and Alec damn near jumped out of their skins, though only Saiko went for his blade, as did Janiah, though Saiko stopped himself from drawing it once he’d realised it was a Seruatis resident, forsworn of violence.
Dus’ reaction was probably the strongest, the gorgon had her fingers on her sightless domino mask and had even removed the strap, practically vibrating with rage as Erebus moved to interpose himself between them, though for who’s protection was heavily debatable.
The Swordsman, the titular protector of Seruatis, merely sighed, “Pheus, Nem, Jay.” He acknowledged each in turn with a quick nod of the head. “I trust there is a reason for this melodrama besides boredom?”
“I have been having bad dreams lately.” Pheus informed him, voice soft yet terribly tired, as if the act of staying awake was a herculean effort. “And Jay finds himself… indecisive.”
Shockingly Dus calmed, reattaching her mask as The Swordsman nodded at the trio to continue, Pheus clearly their spokesperson. Pheus, as Alec understood the matter, was a retired archmage specialising in the rare discipline of oneiromancy, the magic of dreams, though he’d never met the man in person he was apparently the mage who had roused Holly and himself from the shared nightmare that had threatened to kill them. The other two he wasn’t even passingly familiar with, though the family resemblance was striking.
Something about that last thought nagged at him, though he wasn’t sure why.
“We require the necromancer.” Pheus said, and it wasn’t a request.
The Swordsman glanced at Erebus who nodded his acquiescence, expression grave, then at Dus, who did the same. There was no love in the eyes the two directed at the trio, hate was in fact quite mild, but there was also respect there, they weren’t the sort to hold vendettas lightly and they were the sort to settle them swiftly, that Pheus and his brothers still walked to be hated spoke volumes of their power and competence.
Janiah, unfortunately, missed the interplay, or more likely regarded it as merely an obstacle between her and her duty as she roared, “Absolutely not, this mage is a prisoner of the-“ And stopped. Not shut up but stopped entirely, no breath, no pulse, just held in a moment of such perfect stillness that for a moment Alec feared that Dus had turned her to stone until he realised that her skin had not turned grey.
Slowly Alec turned his gaze to Erebus, following his mentor’s shocked gaze to the true culprit: Pheus.
“What have you done?” The Swordsman whispered, disbelief and a hint of fear behind his words.
“Nothing. If we agree I have done nothing. This is not a matter for children to interfere with.” He practically sneered his defiance, “That includes you.”
“What if I decide to interfere?” Dus asked sweetly, moving to confront the arrogant archmage mere inches from his face, chin raised in defiance. “Or am I a child too?”
“No. If you interfere… then we’ll throw down, here and now, just like you’ve always wanted.” He stated calmly, not unmoved by her threat but not prepared to back down.
“Let’s say I agree to let this pass… why the necromancer? You said this isn’t a matter for children.”
“The necromancer is not a child.” As always when he said it he managed to make ‘necromancer’ sound like a particularly venomous swear word.
“He’s barely two hundred!” Dus protested.
“He has seen three faces of the enemy, that’s two more than you. If the boy there had seen as much I’d give him the same consideration.”
“I have a condition.” The gorgon compromised, “I’m there as an observer, to make sure the man that walks in is the man that walks out.”
Pheus glanced at Nem and Jay, conferring without words, “Agreed.”
The Swordsman took a deep breath, gathering his calm, “Let’s say I agree you didn’t just violate the one rule that makes this place function, what am I meant to do with her?” He indicated the lifeless paladin, still locked in place.
“Oh she’s fine, just trapped in a moment of time, if we put everyone back where they were standing we can end the spell and she won’t even notice. No harm no foul right?”
“Fine. But I’m not happy about this.”
“I didn’t expect you to be.” The oneiromaster admitted, “But tempus fugit, I come to you all bearing the gift of prophecy, at great cost I might add.”
“You could have led with that.” Seruatis’ patron grumbled, not entirely soothed. “What is the prophecy?”
Pheus took a breath, closed his eyes, and began to speak in a voice that wasn’t his. It wasn’t male or female, but it was melodic and strangely haunting with harmonies dancing behind the cadence as if an entire choir were giving voice in support.
“The last of the first shall come to sun’s aegis to weep her final tears.
The mother of statues shall be reborn by the blood of the dreamer.”
“Yes! Oh sweet martyr yes!” Dus was practically jumping with joy just to be shushed from all sides as the prophecy continued.
“All doors shall shut and all foes forsworn as the new blade shatters.
Then the chains shall tremble, the chains may break, for they were doomed in the chainbreaker’s death.
When the painting slew the painter and their legacy became liars duty
Yet should the last chain fall then darkness shall rise
Eternal enemy, annihilator, corruptor, the siblings of the first gods shall have their silence.”
The chorus of voices faded and Pheus opened his eyes, looking thoroughly queasy as he looked around owlishly at the drawn faces surrounding him, “I hate doing that.”
“Well that was ominous and obscure, as prophecies go a solid nine out of ten.” Erebus declared, trying, and failing, to lighten the mood.
“Not entirely obscure.” sang a still jubilant Dus, the gorgon quite literally dancing, shimmying her shoulders and waving her hands skywards in wildly exaggerated circles. “Oh I’m happy to say no rules were broken on this one. So these dreams… are my hands around your throat or do I just rip it out with my teeth?”
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Pheus rubbed tiredly at his eyes, “Neither, I’m going to take the necromancer with me now.”
For a moment Erebus looked like he was going to argue just on principle but he stamped down the urge, walking surrounded by the three ‘archmages’, Dus keeping a polite distance, still flying so high on the prospect of future vengeance she was prepared to play nice.
*
Inside the small house the three archmages dropped their act, Jay’ face splitting in two entirely separate half-visages, one caramel skinned, brown-eyed, full cheeked and smiling whilst the other was pale, sunken, sallow and scowling, the eye nothing but an empty pit. Nem’s transformation wasn’t half as dramatic, his expression twisting into an inhuman rictus of rage and hate, eyes literally burning with it as the three stopped pretending to be anything other than what they were, the last of the gods, their power waned, their dominion broken, but still even now something beyond mortal ken and mortal strength.
Pheus was hardest to look at, not because he was particularly hideous, he wasn’t, if anything he was the most beautiful of the three, ephemeral and almost diffused, dreams afterall were not a particularly solid concept. He was also the only one talking even now, away from prying eyes. It was a fact that put Erebus on edge, he’d met them before, knew their nature and their personalities and none of them had ever been timid about expressing themselves. Dus and Nem’s shouting matches had once been legendary in Seruatis.
The lord of dreams directed a contemptuous glance at his brothers before speaking, “The situation is… well dire frankly doesn’t cover it, apocalyptic comes pretty close.”
“I take it you’ve got suspicions on what the prophecy means then.” Erebus observed softly, taking a seat opposite him whilst Dus remained standing.
“How much do you know about my kind, necromancer?” Pheus inquired, keeping his voice stern as he could manage, though that forcefulness was a tell in itself, usually when talking to any necromancer that same mellifluous voice would be flowing with unconcealed hate, rage and any other invective he could find room for and Erebus himself tended to get a second helping just for good measure.
“More than most, but I suspect not as much as you’re about to tell me.” The necromancer hedged, “You’re gods, or at least claim to be. Ancient beings with dominion over aspects of reality.”
“Yeah… that’s mostly propaganda.” Pheus admitted, the vaguely humanoid cloud managing an impressive shrug.
“The ancient secrets privy only to the few able to uncover them are propaganda?” Erebus managing to put a shocking amount of doubt into that question.
“Well yes, we were ruling the sapients of the world with an iron fist, do you really think we were just going to straight up reveal weaknesses?”
“Now that you say it out loud… no. No I don’t. So much for artifacts from a bygone era. So if you don’t have absolute power of parts of the world, what can you do?”
“They can influence a single aspect of the world, influence but not control, abstract as you like, but each of them only gets one.” Dus chimed in from her spot leaned against a wall, earning her a sharp collective glare from the three gods. “What? You three suck at explaining things. I probably just saved us ten minutes of our lives that despite being an eternal being I still would want back.”
Pheus sighed, “You know I actually thought your good mood would last at least a day. But she’s right, influence not control. I can see any dream I choose, even through the Seruatis barrier, only a few highly trained and disciplined minds can keep me out, and I can alter the dream to my will. Nem sees the links between people, specifically their enemies, and can inhabit and embody the mind of them though he can’t alter them. And Jay sees choices… don’t ask me how, that one’s abstract even for us and frankly a curse given it has more or less blackjacked him into decision paralysis his entire life.”
He paused to let all that sink in before ploughing on further, “But none of that is actually important beyond providing you a frame of reference, the point is that we’re fairly weak gods, our predecessors were a lot, lot stronger, and a lot less personable. And I don’t mean that in the sense they were hard to get along with, I mean they were literally less like people and more like forces of nature that happened to have senses of self. We called them the titans, the fomor, the progenitors, a host of names.”
“Before them were the primordials, beings like the earth-mother, sky-father, night-queen and afterlife-king each with a thousand names and members of a thousand pantheons, a thousand people at once and just one. Now they physically were their aspect and were the second generation of divine being alongside the elder gods. Now for the bit we’ve never told anyone. But… given the prophecy… now’s the time.”
“When we talk about the earlier gods as being primeval forces that happened to be people, that isn’t true of the first gods. They were just ideas that happened to be alive, a few became people down the line as the nature of what they were altered.”
“So they were the first.” Erebus said, “You think the first line of the prophecy is about the first gods, specifically the last one, whichever one that is. But where the hell is sun’s aegis?”
“Not just the first line, but we’ll get to that. And sun’s aegis can wait too, what matters is who the last of the first is.” Pheus explained, voice lowering in trepidation, that was when it hit Erebus what was so different about the three, why two were silent and the third was opening up with secrets that they’d sat on for longer than recorded history. They were afraid.
“Most of the first gods happened at the very moment of creation, or so we were told, more accurately they were that first moment. But two… two followed later, after the first stars ignited, the first planets had formed… Life formed… followed inevitably by… the other one. The last of the first.”
“Death.” Erebus said, surprised as all three of them shushed him.
“Don’t say it as a name.” Pheus hissed, “She hears you. If you want to call her anything call her the lady with the scythe.”
“So De- the lady will come to this sun’s aegis and cry her final tears…? Well I was right about it being ominous.”
“Well that moves us on to what makes this prophecy so very concerning on a personal level, to the best of our knowledge there’s only two places that could qualify as sun’s aegis. The grand temple of the Tonalteuctin and Seruatis itself. Going from other clues in the prophecy we’re inclined to believe it’s Seruatis.”
“Why?” Erebus demanded, leaning forwards in his seat for the rest of the exploration.
“I’m not going to tell you that.” The retired god told him sternly, “As much as I dislike sharing family history that is what it ultimately is; history. Seruatis’ secrets are still very much alive and well. The point is that she will come here and weep her final tears.”
“What could make the lady cry?” The necromancer asked, keeping it simple and direct as he accepted the explanation, and implied rebuke, without further comment.
“Many things, there’s a dozen here who’s passing would move her, but none that would be her final tears. People die, that is the nature of all that lives, for her to stop caring entirely would mean she no longer has things to care for.”
“You’re talking-“
“Apocalypse. Ragnarök. Armageddon. The End Times. The Closing of the Ledger. Call it what you will, I have prophesized the end of all things and the inciting event happens here.”
“Surely there’s wriggle room? There always is with a prophecy.” Erebus too stunned to even try and conceal his aghast expression, jaw hanging loose as he pondered the implications, mind running through the chorused lines of things to come for some glimmer of hope.
“Precious little… the only other way for the lady to never cry again would be if she were… taken off the board.” Pheus managed to force out, choosing his words carefully, in the hope the thin pretence would avoid the awareness of the youngest primordial being. “Which would prove paradoxical.”
“Can’t any of the other first gods do anything?”
“She visits all things in time, only two remain to our knowledge and they… are of little use. One’s so devoted to non-interference they might as well not even be sapient and the other is frankly too fond of interfering.”
“Do these two have names?” Erebus asked, apparently determined to pull this particular tooth.
“Call them the old man with the hourglass and the one with green eyes.”
The necromancer took a few moments to parse that, the hourglass was obviously Time but the one with green eyes could be a number of possible entities.
“Can’t the green eyed one help?” He asked, playing a guess, “They tend to be good at playing long odds.”
Pheus gave him an approving nod, “Yes but they’re also the one who sets the odds, and they can get pretty tetchy if you try to cheat. Who’s voice do you think read out the prophecy?”
“Then what can we do if we can’t stop it?” Erebus demanded, trying to etch his defiance into each word as if he could speak with such conviction that the universe itself would have to take note, “You don’t talk like someone who’s lost all hope, and I certainly don’t believe that the universe will just roll over and die because a particularly old ghost said so.”
“We find other avenues of attack, the prophecy was more than just one line. Go through it, bit by bit, we’ve got some ideas of what it means, hence why my brothers are staying quiet, the cowards.”
“Well the second about the mother of stone and the blood of the dreamer… the only way I can read that is that Dus kills you.” Erebus stated, “And yet you don’t seem terribly concerned.”
“Oh that’s certainly what it means, and going by the reborn bit she’ll find it every bit as cleansing as she hopes.” Pheus gave Dus an amused glance, the glowing orbs in what passed for the cloud-person’s head literally twinkling with mirth and the gorgon’s smirk was wide enough it had to hurt, only then did he let it fade, literally, from his eyes, “We were killed a long, long time ago necromancer, your kind broke us, we’ll never rise again and we persist out of little more than habit. I won’t miss this place, this life, if this is the end of us then I’m fine with it, and if by some fluke we survive I am fine with that also.”
“The next line… Jay and Nem get killed…” Erebus parsed, running it through his head.
“There’s wiggle room, hence their silence, they still hope to survive this.” Pheus agreed, “though none of us have much of an idea what the new blade is, best guess is some kind of weapon we aim at the one with the scythe will fail catastrophically, but that’s pure guesswork. But the fourth line is what we find interesting… want to take a crack at it?”
“Then the chains shall tremble, the chains may break, for they were doomed in the chainbreaker’s death.” The mage repeated slowly, “Well you’ve got a may, not a shall, in there so I’m guessing it’s a weak point. No idea what the chain it’s talking about is, just too broad to be useful, same with the chainbreaker.”
“The chainbreaker is you.” The god informed him, “You’re the only person to destroy three of the aetheric chains.”
“You can’t be sure it’s the aetheric chains, and surely someone’s broken more? The Ascended Martyr for Veil’s sake!”
“Your precious martyr only ever broke the one chain. An important one true, but just one. And it has to be the aetheric chains, the stakes are far too high for it to be anything else, it’s not going to be some guy who’s paid to stress test an apprentice blacksmith’s shoddy work. You’re the chainbreaker, and your death apparently dooms all of us. Which on a personal note is a huge disappointment given I’d been looking forwards to it.”
“Oh… oh that’s precious.” Erebus noted, “You’re about to try and protect me aren’t you?”
“Given your death will be the trigger for the end of days… it would be churlish not to. And whilst I’d like to think I’ve elevated petty spite to an art form there are limits.”
“I’d point out that this glorious edifice of a theory is built on a lot of assumptions. Far too many for you to be giving out power.”
“I’d have thought you’d jump at the chance for some real divine relics, you may not covet power like so many of your order but you’re not one to refuse a useful tool either.”
“Power that can be given can also be taken.” Erebus pointed out evenly, “The world has forgotten about divinity, better it remain that way than be brought back into the world.”
“Not even to save the world?” The god pressed, the cloudy form moving to a chair and apparently sitting down.
“I…” The words were slow and halting, “I don’t trust myself with it.” It was bizarre really that only here, surrounded by three of his worst enemies, and the silent and watchful Dus whom he respected more than he could put into words, he could express that particular insecurity.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to offer yet. What we’re going to offer.”
“You really think this is it don’t you?” The necromancer mused, as it was finally starting to settle in. About as accomplished as a battlemage could get, he was used to dealing with high stakes, even before his apprenticeship in the hells he’d seen off a full fae incursion on his own; mostly through bluffing and brinksmanship but he’d done it all the same, but the sheer enormity of it was taking a while to sink in.
“We do. We paid a heavy price to get that prophecy. Two thousand years of work in flames for it.”
“And this work was…?”
“Complicated, I’m just trying to contextualise the importance of this prophecy.” Pheus told him.
“Technically it was twelve thousand years of work.” Jay chimed in, breaking his silence at last, “Given we’ve had to abandon the project altogether.” The god of choices paused before continuing at Erebus and Dus’ questioning gazes, “No point having a project that stretches towards eternity if there’s a deadline on the entire planet.”
Pheus opened his mouth to silence his brother then thought better of it, “Yes. Ugh this whole thing is a mess, and frankly you’re not qualified to do the heavy lifting on this but you’re all we’ve got.”
“Thank you.” Erebus replied dryly, doing his best not to snark back at a comment like that, if only because he suspected that for once it wasn’t snark.
The grey mage was under no illusions as to his abilities, he hadn’t been a prodigy for the first century of his life, above average yes, possibly in the top five percent of mages of his generation, both in power and versatility, and that had earned him trust enough to tackle major threats to the world (as part of a team), demonic incursions, rogue mage cults, a Wild Hunt in his youth.
Then had come the failure at Maltz, four dead officially, two souls burned to nothing and a third damned to a fate so dark that oblivion was regarded as a kindness. The two survivors had reacted oppositely to each other, Karatas, young and untempered, the obvious weak link, had thrown himself into his fresh cause with an adamantine determination. Erebus, the veteran, the survivor of a hundred battles, slayer of daemon, elemental, mage and mortal man… Erebus had shattered. Made mistakes that were costing him even now, namely abandoned a child who had lost their father.
It had seemed so small at the time, so… not unimportant, he’d wanted to do it but it had been so small compared to revenge. In madness and in pain he’d summoned a demon. That was to undersell it, he hadn’t just summoned an archdemon, or a demon lord, but a demon king. An entity more powerful than any that had walked this world before.
She had been terrifying but Erebus had planned exquisitely, the binding was perfect, he had her true name, not a single rune was a millimetre out of place, he’d used materials inimical to her nature (shadow and madness) and in his devastated state his will was utterly implacable. It had taken her about three seconds to break all of it.
The worst had happened, he’d unleashed, unwittingly, a monster upon this world that even the Immortals as a group would struggle to put down, that the surviving gods, diminished as they were, were no longer an equal to. Her rampage would likely end the world as people knew it, the smoking craters of the nearest nations testament to his folly.
There had been no rampage, no reforging the world in her image, her coup, such that it was, had been bloodless, for after destroying everything in place to hold her back she had calmly sat down and bargained with him, entranced at the temerity of the mortal before her. And so their contract had been made.
When he’d returned after an eternity, or six months from an outside perspective, for all that he was still made of mortal flesh his power and knowledge were beyond such a shell. He’d extracted his vengeance and laid low a demon lord for good measure, the most powerful mortal mage on the planet.
And Pheus knew all of that and was telling him he was too weak for the task to come, because that had been the horrible realisation, that being the most powerful mortal mage was little different from saying the most powerful cockroach. All he’d achieved by becoming more powerful was trade his old foes in for new ones.
He could probably kill Pheus if he tried, it would be a project of years and he certainly wouldn’t do it alone, allies were in that respect merely another expression of power, but it was something achievable to the point that before this morning’s prophecy, and had the god ever made the mistake of leaving Seruatis, he’d have added it to his busy schedule.
“So tell me what I’m facing.” He demanded.
“A bard.” Nem told him flatly, “I am sorry.”
“Shit.” The word was the sharply barked expletive of a condemned man. There were few magics he hadn’t delved into in his apprenticeship in the hells, but bardic magic was one of them, the magic of narrative, able to manipulate reality in ways that often resembled advanced – and highly illegal – temporal magic as events rewrote themselves to seek out a desired result.
His master had known it, he was sure, but if there had been even a whiff of narrative upon him on his return he’d have found every force in the world turned against him, a united front from paladin and mage, lich and lycan, undead and unicorn, dragon and draugr, god and goblin, all turned upon a single man. That was how dangerous bardic magic was.
There were few magics banned, the mages of the world believing in carefully controlling the more dire branches of magic, but there were a few. Those with the power to affect causality such as temporal and narrative magics, those that could cause wounds in the world itself such as annihilation, and a few other even more esoteric arts.
Of all of them narrative magic was the one Erebus least wanted to face, he’d been taught how to fight it, at least as much as a person could fight the world actively choosing to attack them at every turn, but that knowledge was cold comfort in the face of such a foe.
“You’re certain?” Erebus asked, expecting the god of vengeance to look affronted at the implication.
He wasn’t, even Nem himself would probably have asked that question, because some things even gods feared. “I embodied Lutan myself, he may have had the memory removed but he can’t hide it from me.”
“Can you tell who the bard is?” The necromancer asked, sounding, if not quite bloodthirsty, then enthused to cut the problem off at the source.
“If I knew that we wouldn’t even be having this conversation.” Nem chuckled darkly, “And I should know. Something’s obscuring my vision, that or even Lutan does not and never has known his pawn’s identity.”
“Not impossible.” Erebus mused, “But he must have a method of contact?”
“A cutout man, now cut out.” Nem told him with a tight-lipped smile, “First thing I thought of.”
“It explains a lot. Like how he found me… the sheer serendipity of things, that bloody dagger for example, Alec’s survival – for all his own talent. Everyone knows the mentor dies halfway through the story.” Erebus mused, unconsciously stroking the scar beneath his robe where the aforementioned dagger had almost killed him and even now left him a shadow of his former self.
“You got very, very lucky.” Janus told him, “Still if that is Lutan’s game then perhaps you should leave the boy behind, for both your sakes.”
Erebus gave that suggestion his full consideration, shaking his head as he reached his conclusion, “Lutan doesn’t like to repeat a trick, he’ll have something fresh set up as a contingency for my survival.”
“I don’t see why he would change it when there’s no reasonable way for you to even find out he has a bard.”
“It’s his way, and besides Janiah will have reported it either way.” The necromancer said simply. “I’ll just have to keep my wits about me. Anything else?”
“One last gift before you go.” Pheus said, “The rest of the prophecy can wait, no point piling more stakes onto you when you won’t be alive for it.”
“Very kind of you.” Erebus replied dryly, not missing a beat.
“I thought so too. Now…” He gave one wrist a theatrical flourish and a glass jar appeared in his hand, a small mote of light floating in the centre, though Erebus couldn’t have put a name to the colour. It was the colour of life, of joy, of beauty and of truth. It was the very light of creation itself and the mere sight of it provoked a slightly awed silence from the five most jaded people in the entire jaded town.
“Is that…?” The mage breathed, torn between horror and entrancement.
“A divine spark? Yes.” Pheus finished for him, “It was nearly mature too, just another three thousand years and it would have been self-sustaining. Alas, but needs must. I bequeath it to you to do with as you will.”
Dus gasped as Erebus’ eyebrows disappeared up into his hairline. “You’re joking.” The gorgon exclaimed.
“Is there anyone you’d trust with it more?” Pheus asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity.
“Well no, but there’s no one I’d trust with it at all.” She stated, the heat of her glare strong enough that the god could feel it even through the sightless domino mask.
“I’d second that.” Erebus whispered, “I don’t want it. It’s just… it’s too much power, I don’t trust myself with it.”
“Cope.” The god told him heartlessly, “You aren’t the only one who’s making sacrifices here.”
“So what can it do?” He asked the trio, half-expecting an evasion.
“Anything but not everything.” Janus began, Nem taking over to add, “It’s not stable but consider it a single spell, anything you can think off, just infuse it with your desire.”
“Or you could try to absorb it.” Pheus added, “More than likely you’ll explode, which would be good for the comedy value, but there’s a small chance you could contain it and you’ve power enough to feed it that you might even be a viable host to nurture it.”
“Because that’s going to happen.” Erebus growled, dismissing that idea as fast as he could, half-tempted to forget he’d even heard it. “So any spell I can imagine?”
“Nearly any spell, whilst I would describe its potential as world-breaking it doesn’t go as far as making that literal.” Pheus joked, trying to, rather weakly, force some levity into the situation.
“Then I desire to be healed.” The necromancer said, the three gods practically leaping towards him, too late to stop the desire transferring into the delicate little spark which flickered in its strain to fulfil that simple request.
It was probably the most subtle spell he’d ever experienced, he felt nothing, no change, no sensation, but as he prodded at his wounded heart with his more esoteric senses he found it whole and unscarred from the dagger that had so nearly claimed his life.
The three gods all but snatched the jar from him, fussing over the flickering spark as if it were a newborn infant until they were sure it was stable.
“That was reckless.” Pheus understated, the cloudy form swirling with crimson rage that he was struggling to suppress.
“I’d argue it was essential, if my life is so valuable then my health is my most valued resource.” Erebus said, allowing himself a few moments of relaxation, simply enjoying the ease of an existence where he wasn’t having to quietly maintain a delicate healing spell. Sheer bliss, but alas his life had little room for self-indulgence.
“You could have destabilised the spark.” He hissed back, the jar clutched protectively inside his chest, half-obscured by the misty flesh.
“I could have.” The mage agreed cheerily before he let the cold inside him consume his face, “But I didn’t. Now, you’ve made your desires clear, you’ve made the importance of my survival clear, it’s time I made something clear. I’m not going to change, I’m not going to live my life in fear, forever running, constantly reacting to some new threat.”
Erebus allowed that to sink in, only continuing when Nem opened his mouth to object, simply speaking over the god of vengeance, “No matter how hard you try, I will die eventually, it doesn’t matter how far down the road you kick this ball, you’re going to catch up with it eventually. So here’s what I want from you, a list of locations, every weakness in the world, every buried horror, forgotten artifact of doom, every structural aetheric chain, and the names of every devil and imperator of the second generation you can remember.”