“We just finished burying Janiah.” The Swordsman informed the residents of the Seruatis infirmary as he closed the door behind him in something that was not quite a slam.
Three of the building’s four occupiers turned to face him. Despite the brutality of the assault on the town, or more accurately because of it, there was only one patient in the infirmary. There had been a plethora of minor injuries but they’d been cleared out days ago, and pleased to leave given the hostile conditions.
The woman on the bed was gravely wounded, despite the most powerful healing spells the mages of Reath had invented being used with desperate abandon upon her, the only thing keeping her intestines from spilling on the floor were the bloodsoaked bandages tied around her middle. And what a blood it was, a treacly golden crust dried upon fine silks. It didn’t quite look real, but that was normal for godsblood.
She was one of the few survivors of the battle with Tza’rahlitzek, teleported out of the battle while the imperator had been elbow deep in her guts, hand reaching up to pull out her heart and her divine spark with it.
Her wounds had been grievous and despite the incredible magics available to them it was fully possible for a god to bleed out if their divine spark wasn’t able to produce mana enough to make godsblood. It had been a close run thing but she was at least stable now, a feat in itself.
A feat made all the harder by the spear still held in a white-knuckled deathgrip despite the fact she had not woken once since she’d gotten here. It would have been easier to remove her fingers than to make her let go, breaking them wouldn’t be enough.
It was a simple enough spear, a shaft of ash with a long speartip fitted to it. At some point the spear had been broken in half and repaired with some sort of golden resin but beyond that it was one of the most unremarkable weapons any of the ancient creatures in the infirmary had ever laid eyes upon.
That fact alone was enough to send shivers down spines and raise goosebumps upon skin. Magical weapons that were grandiose and gaudy could be dangerous, but it took a genuinely deadly magical weapon to be so perfectly unremarkable. A fact reflected by the spear’s simple name. The Rocking. Or in the language it was originally named Gungnir.
The enchantment upon it, older than Reath itself, was not flashy or evocative. It was simply the one thing anyone holding a spear really wanted from it. Gungnir did not miss. It mattered not the skill of the person holding it, how clumsy the grip or even if the wielder had their eyes closed, Gungnir would go where they wanted it.
What they had not known about the enchantment was that it even worked when the owner was unconscious, Pheus had come damn close to being skewered when he’d tried to give medical attention and had refused to come within ten feet of her ever since.
The only person who could even touch her without having to fight for their life was the god that had arrived alongside her, and who hadn’t left her side since said arrival. Maybe Erebus could have done it, saving someone’s life tended to endear a person. That really would have been the ideal, the necromancer was a master healer amongst his many other talents, a solution only slightly undermined by Erebus not just being dead, but extra-dead.
What that had meant in practice was that The Swordsman and Nem had, with some help from her companion, had to hold her still enough that aid could be rendered. Even for a god of vengeance and a multi-millennia old, nigh unkillable blademaster it had been hard work.
The new god was a shaggy, red haired bear of a man, broad enough at the shoulders he had to go sideways through doors and just shy of seven foot, his skin the weathered hues of someone who spent most of his time outdoors. And that was about all they knew about him.
He’d been almost completely taciturn since arriving at Seruatis, the only subject he’d been prepared to elaborate on was treatment for his companion’s injuries. He was also jumpy.
The Swordsman couldn’t blame him for that, under most circumstances a god alone on Reath would find their divine spark harvested in short order, even he’d been surprised by how untempted Seruatis’ trio of divinities had been and he was as close to a friend as Pheus, Jay and Nem would allow themselves to have.
Ironically, and inevitably, all attempts to assure the nameless young man that he wasn’t being lulled into a false sense of security had done quite the opposite.
At the immortal’s announcement, Nem merely sighed, rubbing tiredly at his eyes, “Who?”
The Swordsman resisted the urge to hit the weary god, it really was possible that the god of vengeance really had no idea, or memory, of Janiah’s sacrifice. Since returning from the battle with Tz’arahlitzek the ancient being had been darkly changed.
Of the three it was Nem who had not let his claws grow blunt, lest disaster, or more accurately Dus, fall upon them in exile. He had been uniquely suited to do battle with the imperator, and it had not mattered. Only Erebus’ intervention had saved his life, an act the god could never forgive and now would never have the chance to.
To say the god had been singleminded since his return was like saying zombies smelled a touch musty. Every single moment that hadn’t been spent guarding the wounded goddess, or overpowering Gungnir so her bandages could be changed, had been spent training. Be it at skill at arms or simply focusing his divine intent.
That last one was a terrible sight to behold, as the Drake-Eater Clan had been learning for the last month. The god of vengeance had taken the assault upon his home very personally and if The Swordsman focused on the scrying orb he could just make out the form of a Drake-Eater ghoul writhing, scaly form almost entirely obscured by the ants that were merrily pulling them apart.
It was a particularly grisly death for a ghoul, as an undead there was no heart to be stopped by the acidic venom the ants’ stings injected, they’d be aware and conscious of what was happening until the ants started in on their brain.
The Eternal Swordsman let his gaze drift from the orb back up to Nem’s searching gaze, “The paladin ambassador.”
Nem’s face twisted with rage, “A bad business when a diplomat dies under your watch and you don’t plan to destroy their nation.” The scrying orb flickered to a new Drake-Eater, a vampire this time. “I name you the enemy of crows.”
Normally that sort of pronouncement would have slowly escalated over days if not weeks, yet The Swordsman could only watch agog as within seconds a black-feathered missile crashed into the unsuspecting vamp and began pecking, starting with the eyes. Blinded, the vampire’s death was a foregone conclusion as more of the birds descended.
He suppressed a shudder, Nem was vindictive as a matter of course but the hate he managed to instil into each word had been something new. He knew why of course, they all did, and Nem’s hatred was all the stronger for their knowledge.
A battle between gods (or god and imperator) was not so simple as mere skill at arms, though that was still a facet of it. A god embodied, to varying degrees, an aspect or aspects of reality, and in the fight against the exhausted and severely depleted Tz’arahlitzek, Nem had directly pitted his aspect of vengeance against her aspects of shadows, and lost utterly.
“I think that’s enough killing for today.” A cold feminine voice declared, reaching out to take the scrying orb from Nem. For a second it looked the god would argue but he stilled under the final occupant of the room’s gaze.
Dus, progenitor of gorgons, could not turn a god to stone with just her eyes but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Typically she’d have covered her face to protect those around her, but here, amongst her oldest and direst foes there was no need.
“Don’t tell me you pity them?” Nem sneered, staring unflinchingly at the orb as his will was made manifest in a literal murder of crows.
“No. I pity you.” The gorgon told him flatly, “Enough Nem, I will not stand by and watch my dearest enemy warp themselves into a grim shadow of the man I wish to kill.”
The Swordsman had often thought, in the relative privacy of his own head, that in a perverse way Dus was the finest devotee Nemesis had ever had, and was perhaps singlehandedly the reason he had not faded as much as his fellow gods.
Still Dus’ words worked, Nem forcing himself to look away from the scrying orb, “I would have thought your time better spent getting reacquainted with your niece.”
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“Ariadne’s a big girl, she knows duty takes priority. Still if you’re so concerned for our reunion you could always stop moping like an overindulged child.”
That was another big change that had been thrust upon Seruatis, Ariadne, first daughter of Ariadne, the line unbroken all the way back to the progenitor of the species, the original Ariadne, had come to visit, after tens of millennia imprisoned in the Underreath.
There had been so many upheavals in the last month but this one alone made him bitter. His failures he could handle, that foes attacked in a moment of vulnerability was merely what foes did, that yet more gods survived was a boon to Reath, but Ariadne’s arrival, just a week after the disaster and with her entire Great Web in tow, tasted like ashes.
The Archmage of Weaving was not quite a power on the level of the gods or The Swordsman, or a nigh-unkillable ball of hate like Dus, but outside of the Primordial and Old War there wasn’t a single battlefield across time where an ancient divinely-curse archmage lich wasn’t a tide-turning killing machine.
It was purely irrational to blame Ariadne for the slaughter, and The Swordsman knew it, but that didn’t mean he could just stop feeling it. He’d met mages who could control their own emotions like that, and for a time he’d envied them until he’d realised they inevitably became empty shells or axe-crazy killers.
Nem it seemed also shared an antipathy towards the undead spider, “The last thing we need is two god-cursed conspiring against us, if my ‘moping’ as you call it spares us that fate then let there be nought but tears and gnashing of teeth.”
The gorgon rolled her eyes, opening her mouth to speak before she hurriedly turned away from her foe, eyes screwed shut as she fumbled for the mask at her belt. It was a close thing too as Saiko and Agh’zak burst through the open door.
While a gorgon’s gaze was no longer a death sentence, it certainly made conversations awkward afterwards and even Seruatis didn’t have the magepower on hand to turn a person back to flesh at a moment’s notice. They’d had mages that could do it in the past, but given most people came here to die it wasn’t a power they had often.
Nem rose to his feet at the sight of the Swordsman’s apprentice and retired orc warlord, giving them both a shallow bow. “Paragon Saiko and Paragon Skullcrusher, how can we help you?”
The Swordsman did not get whiplash turning to stare at Nem, but it was a close run thing. The closest even the most exceptional non-divine beings could manage was a sort of respectful wariness or standoffish tolerance. Seeing one of them show genuine respect to someone just felt unnatural after all this time.
The titles were also a nice touch. According to Dus the traditional title for anyone who completed a divinely bestowed quest was hero, but Nem and his brothers had taken the view that the title was so diluted now that something new was needed.
Saiko bowed back, a touch stiffly, “We’re going to need to beg a leave of absence, the Council of Mages has acceded to our request. The expedition leaves within the week, a teleport specialist will be arriving two miles south-east of Seruatis in two days to bring us to meet the scouting team they’ve selected.”
“Leave of access granted.” The Swordsman replied smoothly, “Stay safe Sai.”
“What? I don’t get any words of encouragement?” Agh’zak demanded good-naturedly.
“You I trust not to need to be explicitly told not to die.” Their patron replied dryly.
“Is that everything?” Nem inquired politely, or perhaps expectantly.
“I believe so… should there have been something else?” Saiko asked bemusedly.
“Potentially. I have guests I was hoping to arrive shortly.” The god shrugged, “Evidently they’re still struggling to pull free of the necromancer’s death and its resultant chaos.”
The Swordsman sighed, “You know it would have been polite to tell me this a lot earlier… how troublesome are these guests likely to be?”
“No more than the spider has been, at least individually. Collectively I hope they will rival the hells-forsaken necromancer for sheer chaos.”
The guardian of Seruatis sighed deeply at that, “Definitely needed more warning.”
“You liked the necromancer.” Nem pointed out, not quite hiding a smile.
“As a person. Not as a borderline avatar of entropy itself.”
“That surprises me.” The god admitted, “He barely was a person come the end.”
“On that we disagree.”
“That aside, you would approve of what I’m planning and I would share it with you if it were safe to do so.” Vengeance literally incarnate assured him.
“I hope you’re not planning what I think you’re planning.” Vengeance metaphorically incarnate interjected, Dus’ sightless mask only marginally less imposing than her actual face.
“Quite so.” Nem smiled.
The Swordsman sighed again, rubbing exhaustedly at his eyes. He might not be able to get physically tired anymore but mentally was another matter entirely. “Is the deniability I’m being given here of the political kind or the ‘people will try to kill me’ kind?”
“Political.” Nem assured him, “Though I’ve oft found the two blend together after a point.”
“And you’re doing this for a reason beyond your own sick amusement?” The immortal triple-checked.
“Definitely. As amusing as empowering a quartet of mayflies may be, I’m rather fond of myself. Giving even mediocre mages the capacity to actually harm me isn’t something I do lightly.”
”Fine. Fine. Keep your secrets.” The Swordsman declared, “Now Nem, go be useful somewhere else. Dus feel free to keep stalking him if it keeps you out of trouble. Sai, is there anything you both need for your next sojourn into the Underreath?”
“Nothing the Council won’t provide themselves. Maybe arrange a path back through Von Mori for our return? If this goes well it shouldn’t take more than a couple of months.”
“That could prove difficult. Von Mori is not a forgiving place at the best of times and I’m afraid to say likes you not at all.” The Swordsman pointed out. “Still I can at least promise to try.”
“Noone can ask more than that.” Saiko said with somewhat forced cheer, whilst the forest’s antipathy towards him was something even he would admit was deserved… well the dryad’s of Von Mori, while prepared to spare his life as The Swordsman’s apprentice, was incredibly creative when it came to producing low level misery.
The last time he’d left Seruatis he’d been kept up all night by branches scratching on his tent, water being actively funnelled into the ground beneath him, or, in one particularly vindictive instance, waking up to find his tent had been moved half a mile away during the night. Every roots in the forest had tried to hit him, every branch had somehow been at eye level, and every single one had been wreathed in brambles or poison ivy.
The return journey had not been half so miserable, even the Forest Von Mori it seemed has a small unnurtured flame of sentimentality deep within its cold, collective heart, at least where returning heroes were concerned. It was a poor tale indeed where, with the foe vanquished and a people free, the malnourished and half-crippled hero died of hypothermia a couple days from home.
Saiko nodded respectfully to his mentor before leaving yet Agh’zak remained, the orc getting a curious glance from the departing ex-mercenary before he simply decided it wasn’t his business.
The Eternal Swordsman took the time to consider the orc warlord-turned-chef, silence stretching between them.
Agh’zak was big even for an orc, now just over seven feet tall. He’d been just a hair under that when he’d left, the grievious injuries he’d sustained in his quest apparently had started another growth spurt in its arduous task of healing him from what The Swordsman had been told had been a collapsed lung at minimum.
While the wound had healed well, the scar it had left was impressive, still red and puckered, and almost perfectly erasing the tattoo on his chest that had marked him as the warchief of the Tundra Boars tribe. If The Swordsman had been inclined to believe in such things he’d have suspected the hand of Fate itself had guided the blade that had done it.
It wasn’t Agh’zak’s only scar, most of them faded with time now and mostly ritual scars on his arms to denote a kill on the battlefield. There were enough of those he’d run out of room at some point, the only scarless section the large red tattoo of a flame that marked him as a berserker.
Most people upon finding out the jolly orc was officially a berserker laughed about it. The smart ones got very quiet and very respectful very quickly. The really smart ones just kept treating Agh’zak however they’d already been treating him, if the orc was liable to explode like an overconfident fire mage after their second pint then he’d have already done so.
The Swordsman had never seen Agh’zak in the grips of rage, but he suspected it was a terrible thing. He’d met many masters of fury in his long life, some who’s bellow had shaken Seruatis and who even his magical enhanced strength could not restrain, in those circumstances Dus had often had to turn them to stone to stop their rampage.
He’d seen worse than that, his friend Erebus had been gripped so tightly by rage that sometimes it had been hard to see the person behind it. A cold, creeping fury at a world that every day disappointed him in its callousness and cruelty.
Privately the old immortal suspected that Agh’zak was likely the former type, and that when his fuse finally ran out it would take an army to kill him.
It was that final thought that told him why Agh’zak had stayed behind.
“I’ll miss you too.” He told the orc softly.
Agh’zak’s wiry black eyebrows rose halfway up his forehead at that pronouncement. “It was that obvious?”
“I knew when you arrived here that you would leave us one day.” The Swordsman told him simply, “You’re a little ahead of schedule and I’ll certainly miss food I can taste but this day was always coming.”
“How is it that you’re so sure about this when I’m not?” The orc mused with a bemused shake of his head, “When I came here it was in disgrace, to go home now… I’m not sure how I’ll be received.”
“Like a hero I would imagine. People love tales of valour, and there are few quite so gladdening as one who leaves in disgrace to return in glory.”
“Hard to prove though. People won’t notice the difference for decades, and the Questing Beast left no body.” Agh’zak noted.
“The scar’s pretty convincing.” The Swordsman noted dryly, “And I’m sure Sai would happily tag along to convince people. He has a certain affable charm I am told. And your current project certainly will add some weight to your words ‘Lifegiver’.”
Agh’zak winced, “He really is determined to make that title stick isn’t he?”
“I rather like it. History has more than enough killers.” The Swordsman shrugged. “Either way…” The old monster offered his chef of two decades his hand, “it’s been a pleasure.”
“Likewise.” Agh’zak sighed, shaking the offered hand before making for the door.
“Oh and Agh’zak…” The Swordsman said abruptly as the massive orc began to cross the threshold of the door, “if it does go badly, you’ll still have a place here.”
“If it goes badly the only place I’ll be going is be going is six feet down.” The orc laughed. “And thank you.”