“We must not promise what we ought not, lest we be called on to perform what we cannot.”

― Abraham Lincoln, Speech Delivered Before the First Republican State Convention of Illinois

Chapter 6: All the Powers of Earth

I’ll be honest. I was afraid, and deathly so.

Thinking it over, I had no reason to be. A significant effort had been put into bringing me here, in preserving and maintaining my existence. If the priests of Tauruskhan had intended to dispose of me, there were far easier ways of doing so.

But the fear remained, and it would not go away.

A large part of it, I think, was the very nature of Tauruskhan Himself. There’s a part of us that never forgets the primal terror of being in the dark, and hearing the monster breathe. Being in the God’s presence was overwhelming, the weight of His regard beating against me like a palpable force.

It didn’t help that I could intuit, dimly, that I only breathed at His sufferance. For the Supreme Chieftain was not merely the great, horned shape that loomed before me. He was the flames in the firepit, the shadows on the stone, the very existence of the cave itself.

I was at the very heart of His power, in a place utterly and completely possessed by the God. It felt like the only sane option was to beg for His mercy, to grovel and plead to be spared.

Fortunately, I’d been over this with Oloin. The old Godbinder had an idea of what to expect, and, between swigs of fermented ko, he’d coached me on what to do. He’d been far more straightforward and forthcoming than usual, offering remarkably down-to-earth advice. I suppose that, with our goal in sight, he saw no reason to keep secrets any longer.

First and foremost, Oloin had been keen to impress upon me the limits of both gods and men alike.

There’s only so much divine power that a mortal vessel can hold. Too much, and the vessel warps, or ruptures from within like an over-full balloon. It’s the reason why priests pray for miracles, rather than a permanent infusion of godly might. It’s simpler, and some would say better, to have a god’s might pass through you and out of you, rather than for it to remain.

The touch of the divine leaves a mark. Always. Becoming Tarushukan’s champion, being anointed by Him, would change me in ways both subtle and gross. At the very least, I would find myself more prone to impulse, to emotional variations I hadn’t known before. Rage, anger, covetousness, lust…They would become my drives, more so than they already were.

There was a price to be paid, you see. In return for the devastating power that would be bequeathed to me, I would become less like a man, and more like the God.

“-I’m not going to grow horns, am I?” I’d asked, half-seriously, and Oloin’s bushy eyebrows had drawn together.

“Be serious, boy. We’re talking about the state of your soul.”

That had sent a chill through me, but I’d played it off as nothing. Never let them see you sweat, or so the saying goes.

“So I’ll go from - what - male, to alpha-male? What’s the downside?” I’d said, and immediately regretted it. The nature of my words had eluded Oloin, but the meaning hadn’t - He’d given me an especially dry look, and rapped my knuckles with his staff.

“Stupid boy,” he’d rasped. “What’s the point of power if you’re not the one wielding it? Why come all this way to be a slave?”

I’d nodded, more sober now. I knew what he meant: I could play at bravado, at being the hard man, but I didn’t really believe in it. Deep down, I think, my perception of self was inextricably linked to the nebbish, somewhat put-upon failed intellectual and office drone I’d always been.

I’d never been able to embrace all the sweaty macho bullshit that was, back on Earth, swiftly going out of style-

The thing is, I’d always wanted to.

It’s what I’ve longed to be, in my secret heart of hearts. ‘A black-haired, sullen-eyed reaver and slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth’, to quote a writer far better than I’ll ever be.

To shed my previous, cowering conception of self, to cast away my insecurities like worn-out clothes, and become-

What?

Even now, I don’t know.

But I’m getting there, slowly but surely.

Of that, you can be certain.

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At any rate, Oloin’s point was a simple one. I would be filled with power, but it would fall to me to define what form that power would take. The Iron Hoof’s sole objective would be to ascend, but winning was only half of the equation.

The other half would be what I would receive in return.

Gods love to overawe mortals. They can’t help themselves, for that adulation, that worship - that heady mix of disbelief and wonder - is something they crave. Not just as a metaphor, mind you: It actually gives them strength.

For a warrior of the Twenty-Six Tribes, service would indeed have been its own reward, as Kayla had said. He would have fallen to his knees, grateful for the chance to serve. It would be enough for him to see Tarushukan’s essence become one with the God-Maker, to join the Greater Game or whatever awaited Him beyond the horizon.

Our hypothetical tribesman probably wouldn’t even have cared about his survival. He’d have given the entirety of his soul away, let himself grow bloated on Tarushukan’s power until all that remained was the God’s will. With his clan’s future assured, it wouldn’t matter if he fell over dead as soon as Tarushukan crossed the finish line - In fact, he may even have been counting on it.

To die as the Horned Conqueror’s champion would be a glorious thing, one that would be remembered forever in myth and song. It would most assuredly mean an idyllic afterlife, or so the priests said.

But my priorities were different. The Graven Star weren’t my clan, not in any way that mattered. They’d certainly made it clear that they bore no particular affection for me, other than as a useful instrument in reaching their goals.

Well, fuck ‘em. Once I met the God, I would no longer had any use for them, either.

At any rate, a bargain had to be struck. Boundaries would have to be set - Lines would have to be drawn. Either way, unless something went drastically wrong, I would walk away with a soul (however temporarily) full of power…

But I had to be sure that power would serve not just the God’s ends, but my own.

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A face peered down at me, from the wall at the end of the cave. I could have sworn that there had only been a blank expanse of rock before…But Tauruskhan had raised His huge open hand, and it was simply there. As if it’d been painted a thousand years ago, and some trick of the light had kept it hidden all along.

There was something oddly familiar about that face, something I couldn’t quite place. It took a moment to click into place, but - when I did - I felt my gut clench like I’d been punched.

For, daubed in crude strokes that nonetheless conveyed a startling realism, was my own likeness.

The vague curve of my jawline, the dull black hair cropped close to my skull, even the timid eyes that looked ever-so-cautiously upon the world…It was me, unnerving in its accuracy.

Not as I was now, but as I’d been.

How I still saw myself, in my secret heart of hearts.

“Holy shit,” I murmured, disturbed in spite of myself. The torchlight flickered again, casting shifting shadows over the chamber, as the Horned Conqueror rose. Instinctively, I scooted back…But He merely lumbered towards the portrait, which I now saw was only half-complete.

The outline of my own form was sketched in faint lines upon the cave wall, like a canvas awaiting its painter. Everything beneath the neck was blank, yet to be filled in.

Tauruskhan had turned His back upon me, His shaggy mantle mounded like a bison’s winter coat. In one hand, He held a hollowed, upturned human skull, the inside of the head layered with gold. Oily, viscous fluid swirled within it: Even from here, I could smell the petroleum reek of paint.

The Iron Hoof stared at the mural, for a long, long time. Contemplating the work ahead, I suppose. The low, bass growl of the God’s voice began at the base of my spine, reverberating through my bones.

By the time it reached my brain, it became:

You ask much, for a mortal.

Let me tell you - I felt my bowels clench at that. But I’d come this far, and I wasn’t about to back down now.

“You want me to fight for you. More than that, you want me to win. Okay. I can do that. But there’s only thing that matters to me, and-”

A chuff of breath, almost dismissive. That great, horned head shook, like the branches of a centuries-old redwood in a gust. Thick fingers dipped into the bowl, and the viscous substance immediately responded to the God’s touch. It slithered across Tauruskhan’s fingers, until it coated His massive hand in a sanguine glove.

The Lord of the Sacred Herd pressed His hand, palm flat, to my hollow likeness. Darkness spread from the mark He’d made, filling the outline with a black, writhing mass. It seemed alive, almost, pulsating with a malevolent energy that sent tendrils of itself creeping across the wall.

Like it was trying to escape its confining borders, to tear free of me.

This, the bull-god rumbled, His voice resonating deep within the cave, is the sickness that devours you from within.

I stared. You would have, too.

The seething mass continued to writhe and pulse, as if in time to the beat of an unseen heart. There was something deeply unsettling about the almost-glow it shed, flickering with hints of crimson and midnight blue. The walls seemed to absorb the darkness, to feed it with each breath I drew.

I felt a chill crawl up my spine. For the longest time, I’d suspected something was wrong, of course. But to see it like this, to see barbed filaments unfurling from that grotesque black mass…In that moment, the cave felt like a prison of shadows, the bull-god’s words echoing like a curse.

“Fuck,” I whispered, low. “-Fuck.”

What do you even say to that?

With an idle gesture, Tauruskhan wiped His hand on his furs, the dark smear invisible against the pelts that draped His form. The Bringer of Fertile Fields turned to face me, across the shifting light of the flames: He hunkered down, His hands clasped and His elbows resting on His knees.

It should have been an acutely human gesture. Instead, it reminded me of a bear or some rearing beast, weary of standing on two legs, dropping back down to fours.

The power to heal you must be drawn from the lifeblood of My beloved children. Their strength will wane, their lands will wither, and they will succumb to sickness and death.

Faint echoes whispered off damp stone, as Tauruskhan’s words reverberated through the chamber.

You have walked among them, lived amongst them for two seasons.

His eyes, gleaming like hot coals, fixed upon me with animal curiosity.

Could you truly countenance their suffering?

Silence descended, broken only by the faint drip of water echoing in unseen crevices. I could feel the bull-god’s gaze boring into me, a silent challenge amidst the glow of the inconstant flames.

I could smell earth, hear the distant roaring of underground rivers, as I lifted my gaze to meet that unblinking stare-

And I saw.

Images flickered, in the dimness. Verdant plains turning barren, once-thriving villages reduced to husks. Once-great herds reduced to a few sickly yearlings, lowing in distress as they staggered beneath a bone-burning sun…

For a second or two, I could actually feel it. The weight of all those lives, piling on my back like a specter of consequence. What my choice would mean, for the Twenty-Six tribes. For the blood of Tulgar, for the Grazing Lands themselves.

But I’d played this game before, and I knew what it was.

It’s called Who blinks first?

When someone’s trying to get one over you, they’ll do anything. Say anything. They’ll have a myriad of reasons why you should give a shit about the Cause.

Why it’s the right thing to do as they tell you, without asking too many questions.

Why you should go easy on them, just this one time, now that it’s your turn to put the boot in.

The secret, as with most things, is not to care.

I made myself shrug. Shoulders straightening, my hands spread.

“I guess they’ll just have to live with it,” I said, giving a sigh right from my guts. “I’m a simple man, you know? All that big picture stuff - I won’t pretend that I understand it. Makes my head hurt, actually. I want something, I follow through…”

I cocked my head to the side.

“-Or did you think I’d work for free?”

A low, guttural sound. Like distant thunder, or the seismic turmoil of a quake. I heard stone shift on stone, the air vibrating at the tumultuous noise. It echoed through the cavern, filling the vast space with a deep resonance that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once-

Tauruskhan was laughing.

The laughter of the bull-god was hard and dark, like slow machine-gun fire. It made my teeth ache, made pinpoints of pain flare in my bones as I endured it. The noise was so loud, my blood pounded in my skull - For a moment, I thought my ears were bleeding. That my head would burst.

But then it stopped, as abruptly as it had begun, and the silence that came after was somehow worse.

For silence could mean anything.

I smiled and made myself keep smiling. A hearty, bluff smile - The kind of smile a hard man, a mercenary, a reaver should have. I felt my fingers twitch with the urge to fidget, but that would have been fatal. Instead, I simply waited, holding myself still.

Thinking: Come on, come on, you bastard-

And at last, the Supreme Herdsman said:

And that is why I chose you, Morgan.

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When you got down to it, Tauruskhan was a practical-minded God. He had His pride, but He also had a firm grasp on the realities of his circumstances. He didn’t even try, the way Rastavia probably would have, to convince me that it was an honor to serve His will.

Sure, he’d tried to appeal to my conscience, but that was only to be expected. A shot across the bow, if you will. It may have worked on Alistair, but Alistair was young and full of fire, still imagining that he could leave the world a better place than it was before. Also, he wasn’t fucking dying, which shifts your priorities somewhat.

No, Tauruskhan’s foremost concern was the cost.

For there are rules, even for Gods. They prefer to move subtly and in mysterious ways, for it takes power to perform miracles. The power that comes from faith, accumulated over years of devotion.

Momentary miracles, like a sudden surge of strength that turns the tide of battle, are as easy as they’re fleeting. The same goes for bursts of flame or lightning, there and then gone - Such things are possible when a priest makes himself the channel for a God’s power, letting it flow through him in a single flare of destruction.

Healing is a different story entirely. To reach into someone, to make whole what is sundered, is already a monumental effort. But fixing me, saving me from the flawed process that was eating me up from within…That was a feat few Gods could perform.

Most wouldn’t even bother to make the attempt.

It would have been easier, far easier, to strike me dead where I stood. Simpler, even.

But Tauruskhan smiled upon results, and He wanted the best man for the job.

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A pair of bone racks supported a long spit above the flames. I could have sworn it wasn’t there before, but there was a joint of meat turning savoury red, with bread and salt and oil in small wooden bowls.

It was a little too sweet and too soft to be beef, but I didn’t mind. After the disorientation of my awakening, the awe and dread of being in Tauruskhan’s presence, the hunger had come back in full force. It was the glimpse of my own deterioration that had done it, I think - A reminder of how much more I had to lose.

As I’ve said: There’s nothing like a little bit of death to make you feel alive.

The Horned God had turned back to His work, the shifting firelight lingering on His stony canvas. Now, I could see the skull-cups He used as His vessels, each one nearly full with pigment.

He had been preparing for this for a long, long time.

I took small mouthfuls from my bowl, scooping food with my fingers. It was good, the meat rich and dripping with juices, but it wasn’t enough. Not even here, in the God’s own house.

That was deliberate, I think. Perhaps Tauruskhan could have taken away the perpetual sensation of almost-starvation, at least for a time…But He didn’t, so I would remember what I stood to gain, and all I had to lose.

The bull-god used His fingers as brushes, dipping them into a skull-pot of shimmering pigment. The paint seemed to glow, to pulse, squirming as if alive. For a moment, I wondered where it’d come from.

What, or who, it’d been.

For everything eats and is eaten, you see. Eulisia had taught me that: In her words, Phospiach was less the kingdom of the Gods, and more their granary. They held themselves above mortals, but they needed them too, the way a shepherd needs his flocks.

And when the time came, they would harvest them. Use them, as thoroughly as a tribesman would employ every part of a slaughtered auroch, ensuring that nothing went to waste. The idea and image of the cave was more than a metaphor, more than merely vision - It was real, in every way that mattered, the domain of a singular deity.

It was the place where He did He work.

With a stately, deliberate grace, the God began to trace the outlines of my figure, each stroke leaving behind trails of a faint, half-glimpsed iridescence. As that great hand moved, the lines on the stone began to glow, to ripple, as if infused with a vitality of its own.

As I looked on, I felt a tingling sensation course through my veins. Tauruskhan filled in my outline with swirls of color - Vibrant blues, deep greens, fiery reds - that seemed to shimmer and shift, like sunlight on running water.

There were strange patterns daubed into the stone, runes as graceful and smooth as brushstrokes. They twisted and squirmed and crawled, sucking light from the air…

Watching, I understood this was magic, possibly of the oldest, most primal kind. I had been delivered into the Iron Hoof’s hands, and with power carefully hoarded over the years, decades, centuries, He was opening the way. Sealing the pact between us.

Sanctifying me, in a sense.

I looked down at my hands, as the fire sputtered within the low ring of stones. Still stained with grease from my meal, they looked the way they always did. Scabbed, scarred and rough with callus from a hundred fights on a half-dozen different worlds, hard as brick.

Once, the only thing they’d touched was a keyboard. Now, they were the hands of a brawler, a fighter, someone who hit. But, despite the trembling heat that pulsed in my blood, they looked the same as always.

Not for the first time, I wondered where I really was. I couldn’t remember anything, after the priests had guided my lurching steps into the dark. There was a gap in my memory, one raw-edged and tender like a missing tooth.

I wondered-

Be still, came the rumbling growl. Stop your twitching and wriggling.

With an effort of will, I curled my hands into fists. Settled them on my lap, balled against my knees, as I tried to ignore the sense of tiny sparks of fire prickling beneath my skin.

I waited, clenching my jaw. It’s something that has never come easy to me, even after five worlds and the years between them. On some level, at least, the need for instant gratification, for stimulation, never really goes away.

Still, I fixed my gaze upon the distant point where shadows danced, focusing on the sound of Tauruskhan at work. In that dim, cavernous hollow, time lost its meaning: There was only the scrape of flesh-on-stone to break the silence, the bull-god’s motions deliberate and measured. Each stroke felt like a whispered promise of something vast and untamed, something beyond mortal comprehension.

It was strange to see something so large move with such delicacy, such precision. Like seeing a stainless-steel surgical tool gripped in the fist of a primate, or a diamond-cutter in the mouth of a wild dog.

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Long minutes, stretching into an eternity. There was something timeless about this moment, like a splinter of frozen time. The dark within this carved fane, the fog-engulfed landscape outside…It could have been a thousand years ago, for all I knew.

It could have been a million.

I tried to focus on my rest cycle. Two hours of rest for every one of activation, they’d drilled into me, back on Unity. An enhancile is less like a superhuman, and more like an expensive piece of equipment. Push the limits too hard, too fast, and you would break down.

Hence, the need for rest and hypnotic auto-suggestion. If I did it right, I could maintain my blood pressure with biofeedback, nudge my endocrine system to adjust my hormonal balance, and engage the regenerative capabilities of my altered metabolism.

Normally, a half-dozen para-physiologists would be on hand to monitor my stress levels. To administer the right complement of nootropic drugs and supplements needed to lull me into a meditative state.

But since I’d left them behind three worlds ago, I just had to make do with what I had.

Clear your mind.

Let calm wash over you, like a wave.

No thoughts, just the infinite now.

Well, I was thinking, all right. Mostly about my own mortality. Wondering how long I had left, wondering if this was the magic bullet I’d be seeking. What form it would take, after I-

The sounds had stopped. I waited a beat, just to be absolutely certain, then looked up.

Tauruskhan had ceased His labor. His emberous eyes, like smouldering coals, remained locked on the dressed stone. The abstract figure, the one that was me, had been half-covered with intricate, spiraling designs.

The contrast between the decorated half and the still-bare walls was oddly distressing, made more so by how they framed the seething, many-lobed blackness at my very core.

“Are you-” I began, greatly daring. Afraid to ask, but knowing I had to.

I have barely begun.

“What?” Against all odds, I felt a sharp flare of impatience. What had He been doing all this time?

The God snorted, like He’d read my mind. A finger as long and thick as a truncheon pointed at the many-colored mosaic, drawing my eyes to the riot of ocher, crimson and azure.

Strength, He said, tracing the single swipe of gleaming red that angled across my graven form. Unbidden, the flames danced, forming themselves into crackling images of raging bulls and fleeing, flailing figures, half-glimpsed and faceless.

Fury, and the fires became an auroch in full rampage, trampling foes beneath thundering hooves.

Will. A dozen buffalo, arrayed in a circle around their calves. Wickedly sharp horns pointing outward, locked in postures of ferocious and unwavering defense.

Such are My blessings, made possible by the hecatomb. And yet-

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

A long, damned pause. It was, I realized, with a distant pang of unease, hesitation.

Tauruskhan, despite all His puissance, didn’t know what to do.

“Go on,” I said. Carefully, like I was on thin ice. “-What is it?”

Against him, it may not be enough.

“‘Him’?” Instantly, my mind went to Alistair. But it couldn’t be, could it? I’d left him behind, almost a year ago. Even then, I thought I’d taken his measure. “Say what you mean.”

I was wrong, of course, but that would come later. Another unpleasant surprise waited in the wings.

A sudden flare of flames threw the cavern into sharp relief, and in the harsh light, I saw.

Saw the mighty figure, resplendent in armor, painted upon the other wall. It gleamed, adorned with silver and rippling gold. Seams of crystal glittered like gems upon the etched curves of cuirass and greaves, lines of stylized light radiating from a great spear like the rays of Phosphiach’s sun itself.

But mostly, I noticed the wings.

Oh, I thought, as my heart sank.

Oh, he’s going to be a problem.

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The funny part is, I never even considered that there could be three of us. It’s not actually uncommon, or so I’ve heard. The further in you go, the more worlds you cross, the stranger things get.

How something like this could happen, though, I have no idea. Maybe it was a fluke, with metaphorical wires getting crossed somewhere. Or maybe it was meant to even things up, to turn a one-on-one fight into a free-for-all.

My guess is, Jeru Ogai must have arrived around the same time I did. I know Alistair found his own way to Phosphiach a little earlier, giving him something of a head start…Not that he’d used it wisely, I suppose.

But Jeru was already causing quite the stir. He had big moves to make, after all, and he was just getting started.

The destruction of the Ihulian Horde hadn’t gone unnoticed. Word had traveled fast, carried not just by mortal messengers, but also by the spirits of earth, sky and war. Desperate to curry favor, more than a few had brought the unwelcome news to Tauruskhan.

That, I think, was why I’d been granted an audience with the Horned Conqueror. I’d done my best to be discreet, but after the slaughter at the Temple of Rastuvia, it was easy to put two and two together. Oloin had known, after all, and it must have been easy for the truth to have been weaseled out of him, when he was deep in his cups.

Hell, he probably spilled it himself, just to get a higher price from the Graven Star.

At any rate, you could see the Supreme Herdsman’s line of reasoning. Use a world-walker to fight a world-walker, and hope they cancel each other out.

Tauruskhan, however, had quickly intuited a truth that others had yet to grasp. Thresholders aren’t built equal: We are, each of us, the product of our experiences. I do a bit of everything, but I’m mostly a strongman. Put me up against someone who can match my advantages, and I’m in trouble.

There was no doubt that Jeru would have a god on his side, too. Against that, mere strength would never - could never - be enough.

You may be wondering why the Iron Hoof cared whether I lived or died. Why not take His chances, roll the dice, and write off His losses if he failed? Better still, why not consider this round a wash, and wait for His next chance?

For a start, He was making a huge investment in me. It wasn’t just the accumulated faith from decades of ritual, prayer and sacrifices, it was that Tauruskhan would have to put a part of Himself in me to seal the deal, a part that He would never get back.

Like hacking off a hand. Sure, you can live without one, but you’re going to feel that loss for a long, long time. And it’s not like you have a lot of hands to spare, you know?

More, He knew that this could very well be His only chance. After all, there had been gods before Tauruskhan, and there would be gods after. For centuries, He had the strength and cunning to fend off rivals and challengers, but the cult of the Divine Chief was becoming a bloated, unwieldy thing, hard to stir into action.

It lacked the sheer dynamism of a younger god’s following, one that had yet to fully calcify into endless rounds of ceremony and bureaucracy. If Tauruskhan’s champion failed to reach the apex of the Platinum Spire, if He failed to Ascend…That could very well be the end of the Iron Hoof.

Not at once, not in the near-present, but a slow, lingering descent into decrepitude and irrelevance, over the span of the next few decades.

And to a god, that was no time at all.

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“If you healed me,” I said, into the warm and muttering darkness. “If you cured me, first, I could-”

Not until you stand before the God-Maker.

I squeezed my eyes shut. So much for that, then.

“...May I ask why?” I said, keeping my voice carefully level.

A deep, hollow snarl came from the gloom. The god paced forward, the ground trembling beneath His weight, right up to the flames. It was so sudden, so unexpected, I shrank back from that looming figure, never quite illuminated by the ruddy firelight.

The bass rumble in Tauruskhan’s throat conjured primal fears - Being trapped, alone, with something huge and dark and hungry.

Do you take Me for a fool, mortal? You are a venal soul, Morgan. A murderer, traitor and oathbreaker.

A great fist thumped against the stony ground, like a thud like a falling anvil.

You fear this man, as you fear all things mightier than you. Given the choice, you would do anything except face him.

Even from here, I could smell the charnel stench of Tauruskhan’s breath. Hear the deep, heaving pants of a huge animal filling its lungs.

To pact with Me is to bring about My Will, or perish in the attempt. Let this be your goad: You will share in My triumph, or burn with Me in defeat.

There was no arguing with that.

Still, I held Tauruskhan’s gaze for as long as I could. Unaccountably, as heart-hammering fear receded, I felt a sour pang of resentment.

Because I knew what I was, really. Murderer and traitor…Fine. I could live with that. I’d always done what was necessary to survive, and I’d come to terms with that a long time ago.

But oathbreaker? That stung.

For I knew what the God meant, and the memory still rankled.

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The Fifth World:

Beyond the walls of Castle Marzvak, the capital burned.

Last night, a thriving city. This morning, Bahr Madina was hell made real.

Even here, I could hear the shuddering crash of siege engines at work, the clash of steel on steel. The hiss of arrows, the curses of the living and the cries of the dying…

And faintly, in the distance, the great wingbeats of the Zmei. Far too few, now, to make a difference…For the armies of twelve nations assailed the capital, and they numbered in hundreds of thousands.

Forget pride and valor. Forget a martial tradition that stretched back two hundred years: This was the end of the Empire of Iron, and even their vaunted tagmata elite couldn’t hope to stem the tide.

The mamluks of the Verthandi and the janissaries of the Seran fought alongside their erstwhile masters, the way they always had. After centuries as the Empire’s enforcers, they had no illusions about the fate that they faced-

For there would be no quarter, not for them.

No mercy.

This had been a long time coming, and today was when all debts would be paid.

Gilead’s blood clung to the articulated plates of my eufibre armor, black against bone-colored polymer. His clammy, shaking fingers pressed to the great, gouting wound in his side, huge inhuman eyes gone hazy, fixed on something only he could see.

The Esaal’s exposed skin was a tangle of crawling serpents and spread birds’ wings, his tattooed face a painted mask. The living ink of his tetza writhed against his flesh, trapped in their painted world. They squirmed against the geometric lines of oceans and skies, endlessly searching, searching, for sanctuary.

For they knew their host was dying, and they were desperate for a way out.

But it wasn’t pain that twisted Gilead’s taut, high-boned features - too drawn to ever be human - in sculpted anguish.

It was shame.

“The insult,” he kept saying, his breath hissing between serrated teeth. He’d been stabbed in the thigh, a great notch hacked from his pointed ears by a swinging sabre, but he barely seemed to notice.

“-the insult of it-”

I had the Esaal’s arm over my shoulder, half-dragging, half-carrying him. The wards of Gilead’s luck-woven jerkin had dulled to a dim, sullen glow, their potency exhausted. They’d been proof against spears, arrows and flame, but against the lethal bite of a shivered blade, they’d failed him at last.

Behind us, I could hear the Effrit cadre closing in. Given the conflagration engulfing the city, given the sheer number we’d torn through, I didn’t think there were any left - But clearly, some had survived, and they wanted our heads.

Let me tell you, I hated those goggle-eyed freaks. Their First Sphere acrobatics were bad enough, but the Minister of Civic Order had seen fit to dope them to the gills with alchemical elixirs of her own devising.

I had no idea what was in their inhaler rigs, but it made the Effrit utterly fearless and near-impervious to pain. You had to take them apart to make sure they stayed down, and of course they didn’t make it easy for you. They’d keep slashing at you with those barbed hooks of theirs, while the rest of their cadre stuck you full of quarrels from their airbows.

Case in point: They were using those damned impalers again, firing blind through the smoke. The coughs of the launcher mechanisms, the cracks of bolt impacts, grew distressingly closer by the moment. I’d seen the flightless darts pierce iron at close range, and I didn’t feel like testing mine against another fusillade.

Personally, I was just glad the damn things had never reached mass-production.

Shafts flashed past us, their lethal whistle echoing in my ears. Two zipped overhead, the next one ricocheting from the wall with a brittle clang. Swearing, I swung round, shielding Gilead with my own armored bulk. Raised the Furstenburg, one-handed, aiming from the hip-

Pulse rifle fire hosed the colonnade behind us, columns crumbling and exploding beneath the thunderous pummel of the weapon. I held the trigger down, arm locked against the strain, as the cone of shots sliced through the smoky air. In the distance, I saw a half-glimpsed figure stagger, lurching back, falling…

The incoming fire slackened, and I kicked open the door into the banquet hall. Someone had been here first: Mangled bodies lay twisted amongst the overturned chairs and banquet tables, most in palace livery.

Two of the palace guard - the polished magenta of their silver-trimmed armor now sheeted with gore - had been done to death here. Like the rest, their corpses were rent and torn, as if by the claws of some great beast.

One of Gilead’s guerillas had come this way, I knew. Kairus, most likely. He had a bitter hatred for the Empire after what they’d done to him, a hatred second only to Gilead’s own. Shunning the rest of his warband, he’d gone off alone to wreak havoc, to sow terror and confusion amongst the castle’s defenders.

Distantly, I wondered if he was still alive. If any of the Esaal commandos were still alive.

Probably not. For him, and for so many others, this would be a one-way trip.

“Hold on-”

Carefully, I eased Gilead to the ground, his back to the wall. He made no sound, but his features, already pale, went white. Blood trickled down his chin from where his teeth had sunk into his lip, like an echo of the hideous wound he’d taken.

The Prince-Imperial, Ramas Dar-Isun, had been of the Second Sphere. It made him more than merely mortal, his blade as swift as lightning and as venomous as a serpent’s fangs.

How the fuck did that even happen?

I’d used my last canister of synthskin to stop the bleeding, but it hadn’t worked. The false flesh simply dissolved, refusing to cling fast and adhere. Gilead was bleeding out, and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do for him.

With a grunt, I dragged a chair to the door, shoved it under the doorknob to hold it fast. The Furstenburg swung on its strap, heat-sinks glowing cherry-red as I changed charge packs, replacing nearly-empty with almost-full.

God, but I’d burned through a lot of them today.

I kept my head low, letting my hands move by instinct. Reconnecting the power feeds, watching the telltales go from yellow to green as charge trickled into the induction core. Stowing the empty packs in my chest-rig, making sure I’d left nothing behind.

Even then, I knew that the ones I carried were all I was ever going to get.

The whole time, I felt a desperate helplessness gnawing away at me. For Gilead was dying, one slow, agonizing inch at a time, and I was utterly helpless to save him.

He’d been born nearly three hundred years ago, for God’’s sake. From my twenty-eight-year-old perspective, anything that old should have been indestructible.

How could someone like him even die?

And if he did, what did that mean for the world?

“...Neloiala…”

A papery whisper, so soft I thought I’d imagined it. I looked up, as a tremor coursed through the Esaal’s pale form. His blackened eyelids flickered, revealing eyes sunk like glittering chips of ice in deep, hollow orbits.

“-Morgan…?”

His voice rattled, trembled with the word. I was no medic, but I knew a pierced lung when I heard one.

“Don’t talk,” I said. “We’re getting you out of-”

He shook his head, the silver charms knotted into his ice-white braid chiming in time to the motion. There must have been a dozen of them, and I’d only ever known them to make noise when Gilead willed them to.

The eerie, almost funeral music they made…I didn’t know what it meant, only that it was a bad sign.

“No…” he wheezed, between words. “...too late…waited too long…too late for anything-”

His long, many-jointed fingers spasmed, as a convulsion racked him. Gilead coughed, once, then again, bringing up a gout of bitter black blood that stank like ammonia. He’d been holding something against his side, in his six-fingered fist.

I looked, saw it was a tattered scarf. The intricate embroidery, too fine to be seen with the naked eye, had been obliterated by his blood. It was little more than a sodden rag now, but I placed my hand over it, kept it pressed against his wound, as though simple pressure alone could keep it closed.

“Neloiala…the horror…that abomination…”

“-It doesn’t matter,” I said, through clenched teeth. “Just hold on. We’re about to have guards crawling all over us. I can’t carry you and fight them at the same time-”

Muffled shouts, on the other side of the door. Pounding footfalls, closing in.

“...The shame of it…the disgrace…”

I slapped him. Open-handed, a stinging slap to the side of the face.

“Wake up! Get it together, idiot - We’ve got no time for this.” I glanced down at the dark, spreading stain pooling against Gilead’s side, shook my head. “If we can't find a healer, you’re fucked.”

His head lolled to the side, but the fog seemed to clear. Those colorless eyes came back into focus, thin lips drawing back from his teeth. For a moment, I glimpsed the fey intensity that had driven him on, the peculiar mix of hope and fury that had carried him all this way-

Just fury, now.

“Morgan,” he rasped, wheezing through split lips. His eyes met mine, bleak venom in his voice - One paper-skinned hand clutching my own, gripping with all his failing strength. The tetza had squirmed down his arm and over his hand, circling endlessly in their realm of dying ink.

“-There’s something…need you to do…for me.”

He told me, then, and I felt my blood run cold.

----------------------------------------

I could have tried to explain myself. Could have spoken of how some oaths had to be made, yet were impossible to keep.

Instead, I looked away from the looming thunderhead of Tauruskhan’s presence. Away from the flames that writhed between us, and back to the half-painted rendering of myself.

And I said:

“-Is that all?”

I felt the shift of Tauruskhan’s focus. A settling back, a slow uncoiling, like some telluric beast settling on its haunches.

A grumble, from the dark.

You would mock a God?

“Fuck no,” I said, forcefully. “No way in Hell.”

I wanted there to be absolutely no doubt on that front. None at all. Forget even the idea of defiance: Tauruskhan could crush me like a bug, and we both knew it.

“I’m not trying to get out of this. I’m not trying to get out of anything. But if I’m going to win this…I’ll need more.”

If this is some scheme-

“No, I mean it,” I said, slowly. “You said it yourself - Strength, fury and vigor isn’t going to be enough. Not against Jeru Ogai, if he’s all you say he is. Fair enough: I accept that. I’ll take all you can give me…”

The beginnings of an idea flickered within me, as I spoke. It’d been a while since I’d had to use my head. I was so used to being strong, I’d almost forgotten that I could be smart, too.

Sometimes. When it mattered.

“-But what other gifts can you bestow?”

A pause.

There was a subtle shift in the air, now. An imperceptible, but palpable, lightening of the atmosphere. I had piqued His curiosity, after all, and that warranted a moment’s indulgence.

Slablike fingers gestured towards the fire, and there was a crackle of splitting wood. Flames and sparks roared up, so hot I flinched back-

But something was moving, at the heart of the flame. Strange, molten shapes twisted with the blaze, swipes and spirals of hungry yellow and leaping red. The steaming runes were like no language I had ever seen or read, but I knew them all the same.

----------------------------------------

It was, I suppose, a retelling and an answer at once. The tale of Tulgar the Invincible, unfurling itself before me. His life, not just as legend, but as an allegory for the divine essence of Tauruskhan Himself.

For they were inextricably entwined, you see. Tulgar was no mere fable, not just a half-mythic ancestor receding into the mists of history. He had been a real man, one born from the humblest of beginnings, whose rise to King-of-Tribes had been hand-in-hoof with the Supreme Herdsman’s own ascent.

I saw it all. How Tulgar had lived the first twelve years of his life as a humble cowherd with a clubfoot and hunched back. Reduced to poverty after his father’s death from plague, he and his three siblings faced starvation…Until one dark night on the steppe, he’d cried out to anything that would listen, swearing eternal loyalty for a full stomach and respite from the cold.

Tulgar had been desperate, dreadfully so. Desperate enough to offer up everything he was and might ever be, as long as he was delivered from this doom.

Something heard. Something answered.

Salvation had arrived in the form of an auroch. Old, limping, half-blind, it was still a fearful thing for a thirteen-year-old to face. Yet hunger gave Tulgar the strength he needed to triumph, and the auroch’s death had meant life for his family.

It meant death for others, too. Tulgar and his siblings became bandits, waylaying the weak and the unfortunate. They got away with it for the longest time, too, mostly because they sought not just plunder, but sacrifice.

Whispers on the wind told of what the spirits craved, and the rewards they offered.

In time, and after too many petty deaths to count, Tulgar and his kin had gathered a tribe of their own. Outcasts, criminals and heretics, mostly - the cast-offs of a dozen different clans. But it had given them the numbers they needed, to range further afield, to strike and seize what they desired.

Of course, this couldn’t last. The reavers were as rife with rivalries and dissension as any such group could be expected to be. More, Tulgar faced challenges of his own, too. While he was the oldest of his siblings, his deformities marked him as less…Especially when his younger brothers, growing tall and straight and true, began to have ambitions of their own.

They squabbled, the way all siblings do. Over food, over the right to leadership, over the direction their lives would take. Only Tulgar, however, had visions of something more. Only Tulgar saw the steppe for what it was, and what it would be.

When the whispers made an offer, Tulgar was all-too-happy to accept it. Promises were made, and a pact was struck.

After one particularly successful raid, a great feast was thrown. The bandit clan made free with the spoils of their raids, celebrating with the abandon that comes from not knowing whether your next day will be your last.

Strong drink flowed freely, too. Perhaps a little too freely, for few realized that the bitterness to their ale, as dark and rich as blood, came from more than its savor.

By the time the sun rose, none remained…Except for a stooped, hunchbacked almost-man, one who vanished into the caves that honeycombed the Firepeaks. As if he’d never been.

The clubfooted boy was never seen again. But a month later, a lean, bronzed man - strong of limb and quick of eye - had ridden out of the mists. He bore with him the heads of three notorious and hated bandits, brothers all, their foul lives ended at the point of his sword. To look upon him, to see his well-made features, that frame that rippled with heroic strength, left no doubt that he was so obviously the very incarnation of Old Honor.

None knew what tribe he hailed from, but the People embraced him as their own. None who resisted him possessed a fraction of Tulgar’s will, let alone his cunning or strength. In the span of a single furious summer, he crushed all those who would oppose him, leading an ever-growing army beneath his standard:

A great, rampant bull.

But Tulgar was not just mighty and wise. He had a boundless love for his People, too - Their blood, he said, being far too sacred to be squandered. He murdered only those who needed to be murdered, turning his honorable enemies into his most loyal of chieftains.

Those who stood with him, or yielded to his will, were raised high. Those who would not bend would be enslaved or broken. Yet Tulgar sought not just to become another chieftain, but to unite the Holy Steppe under his banner.

To make the People one.

A tempest was upon them, he claimed, and the People would need all their Sons to stand together as one. United in blood, in arms, and most importantly of all, in faith.

Faith, in Tulgar’s totem. In the God that had guided his steps, that had made him mighty.

The Great Horned One.

Tauruskhan.

----------------------------------------

My eyes burned and stung, but I kept them open all the same. Pain has and always will be the price of revelation, the mystics might say…

Or, as we call it: No pain, no gain.

The rest of Tulgar the Invincible’s life unfurled itself before me. His many conquests, on the battlefield and the bedroom alike.

The slaughter of all seven of the Sons of Seathe.

The triumphant siege of the fortress-city of Balian, and the terrible bloodletting that had followed.

Claiming the mighty blade Therzary, a sword against which no armor could stand.

The defeat of the pretender-god Ozanam and his howling hordes, the sky darkened by thousands of arrows.

The People coming together as one, the ancestors of the Twenty-Six Tribes raising a mighty shout to the skies…

“Stop,” I said. “-Stop.”

And all of a sudden, the visions receded. At last, I could look away from the flames. Dark spots danced in my eyes, but I blinked them away, my mind sorting through all I’d seen.

For it wasn’t just a saga, or even the highlights of Tulgar’s career as an all-conquering warlord. Everything I’d witnessed was an aspect of the Iron Hoof’s power, which the God had bestowed upon His first and greatest champion.

Each fragment, each splinter of the past, held the key to one divine gift or another. When Tulgar had wrestled Lodenz of the Crags, when his last, desperate lunge had driven the giantkin over the edge of a cliff and onto the waiting rocks below, the moment was forever immortalized. To follow that thread was to seize the echo, to have it invested into myself as a charge that drove all before it.

I made a mental note to keep an eye on that one, for later. It looked pretty promising.

When Tulgar sent a thousand head of cattle stampeding into the flank of Mahesvara’s faltering army, that epic victory was remembered in more than tale and song. Something of those lowing, stampeding beasts, their horns dipped in burning pitch and set alight, remained - If I chose, I could bind the wills of the aurochs and their kin to my own, just like he had.

There was far more than that, of course. Tulgar’s legendary ravaging of his hundred-strong harem, a long and involved process that had taken five days and nights, granted both unflagging vigor and…unflagging ‘vigor’, if you get my point. But it also meant fertility, and a bestowal of a certain measure of power upon all offspring sired.

Not that I was going to pick that one, of course. I have absolutely no problems on that front, and anyone who says differently is a filthy liar.

The moment I kept coming back to, however, was an earlier one. The first years of Tulgar the Invincible’s life, when he’d merely been Tulgar Club-foot, were hazier around the edges than what followed. Less colorful, less vivid, even though they’d been shown in exacting detail.

Perhaps it was merely the passage of time, which erodes all things. But, as someone who’d done his share of shitty, awful things before, I knew it was more than just that.

I knew shame when I saw it.

You see, Tauruskhan didn’t like remembering those days, when His existence had hung by a thread. When He’d been little more than a voice borne on the wind, all too vulnerable to being ignored or brushed aside.

So it went for Tulgar, whom He preferred to remember as an all-conquering hero, a steely-eyed warlord without par. A heart-breaker, a life-taker, who gripped the world firmly by the throat.

But it is our origins that define us. More anything, they shape the course of our lives.

Which was why that moment kept replaying itself, before my eyes. The last feast, and everything that had come after. Had Tulgar felt guilt about what he had done? Had he known, even then, that it would follow him all his days?

Cain, three times over, carrying Abel over endless fields of salt.

“That one,” I said. “-I want that one.”

There was a whuff of indrawn breath, as Tarushukan’s burning eyes swiveled to regard me. The weight of His gaze was crushing: He didn’t speak again for what felt like minutes, and when He did-

For what purpose?

His voice came like the grinding of stones beneath the earth. I could understand the God’s consternation - After all, it was an unlikely choice. At a glance, when you could choose between control over all bovines, vomiting flames as black as pitch, being warded against harm by the rune-marked hide of the Horned Conqueror’s own herd…Well, the power to conceal yourself after a revel was a lot more niche.

It wasn’t invisibility, not really. More like being beneath notice, dismissed as a threat for as long as the effect lasted. Carousing from sunrise to sunset would ward you until the next day dawned, which meant a lot of eating, drinking and rutting to make it worthwhile. Useful in a pinch, but certainly not as good as Tauruskhan’s greatest gift - The manifestation of the God’s own war-form.

Imagine it: A four-armed, twelve-foot tall avatar of ruin, like the Minotaur of Greek myth. Sheathed in hide as thick as steel plate, crowned with obsidian horns that could pierce stone. A near-tireless engine of destruction, ready to rip apart anything that inflamed its hair-trigger temper.

I have to admit, I nearly picked that one. Tulgar had favored it, particularly in his later years, when even his God-granted frame had weakened from the ravages of age. He’d grown more impatient as he aged, relying less on wisdom and more on the gifts bestowed upon him…And, most of the time, it’d worked.

That was how Tulgar had died, in fact. Nearly two centuries old, he knew that the Battle of Saurum would, live or die, be his last. And so he’d called upon Tauruskhan one last time, as the men of the Twenty-Six Tribes clashed with the forces of the legendary tactician Leo Diaconis.

Leo’s complex stratagems had been undone by sheer maddened strength, the Sons of Tulgar suffering horrific losses as they rode down the Gorigracian phalanxes and put their warriors to the sword. Somewhere in that maelstrom of blades and arrows, Tulgar had drawn his last breath, his white-furred god-form impaled by a half-dozen spears.

But he’d lived long enough to see his ox-tail banner raised straight and true. To watch as Koran, son of Jarrow, had taken Diaconis’ head. In the end, Tulgar had held on just long enough to see final victory, even if he wasn’t part of it.

Don’t you love a happy ending?

All I can say is, those who claim that brains beat brawn clearly weren’t using enough brawn.

But an idea had sunk its hooks into me, and I’d decided to run with it.

“Call it…the miracle of lowered expectations,” I said, with all the certainty I could muster. “He’ll be ready for strong - So let’s try something he won’t be expecting. Let’s try smart, for a change.”

You think deception will suffice? Against Adrijanopolj’s most favoured son?

The light in His burning eyes was very far away. Remote as the faintest stars. Contemplative, almost. Like that absolute presence was turning inward, considering the weight of my words.

Or perhaps He was looking upon times long-past, of the deal struck between a deformed hunchback and a God-that-was-yet-to-be.

“It’s worked for me this far, hasn’t it?" I angled my chin, smiling in a way that bared teeth. Let my voice drop, becoming softer, more intimate. “You may be God of the Twenty-Six Tribes, but I know more about this than you do. More than you possibly can. That’s nothing against you, Great Tauruskhan - But this is my whole life.”

I drew a long, deep breath.

“This is the sixth world I’ve fought my way across. This is the sixth time I’ll be doing this, and I’ve gotten good at it. Exceedingly good. There’s nothing, nothing I know better. You’re betting my life and your future on what happens at the Platinum Spire…Which means you need to trust me. Trust me, the way you trusted him.”

I paused, to let the words sink in.

“Do this for me, and I promise you: I’ll give you the victory you need. I’ll put Jeru Ogai in the dirt.”

The dark mass of huddled furs stirred. After an interminable wait, the growled answer came.

Make it heart-truth, or not at all.

That, at least, I could do. I raised my hand - my right hand, my sword-arm - and pressed it against my heart, to make it Truth.

“I swear it,” I said. Somewhere, there was a dull, distant rumble of thunder, as if to mark the oath I’d made. I could actually feel the weight of it on my shoulders, the momentary tightness that gripped my chest.

I was committed, now. All the way to the end.

But wasn’t that always the way?

An immense arm reached across the firepit, over the crackling flames. Something gleamed, in Tauruskhan’s great hand. A silver bowl, full of a liquid so dark it looked like ink. I could smell the iron in it, a coppery, earthy stench that could only be blood.

Drink.

I stared. Looking down at that enormous hand, those huge fingers curled around the lip of the vessel.

For a moment, I wondered - distantly, stupidly - whether it was the paint He had been using. Now that I think about it, perhaps it was. I may not have been a canvas, but I would be reshaped by Him all the same.

Once, perhaps, that idea might have turned my stomach.

But I’d come too far to turn back now.

I took the drinking bowl from His hand, and drained it in a long swig. Surprisingly, the taste was nearly tolerable: A rich melange of almost-identifiable flavors, of salt and pine. It was thicker than water, full-bodied and almost mouth-coatingly dry, lingering on the palate as I lowered the vessel.

That wasn’t so bad, I thought, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.

“That wasn’t-”

I stopped. It was growing dark, all of a sudden. The flames flickered low in the firepit, the shadows at the corner of my vision pooling blacker. I felt a wave of weakness, of nausea, sweep across me, all at once, as a sickly heat spread beneath my skin.

My blood thumped louder, louder in my ears. The fire was in me, now - In my guts, in my bones, like I’d swallowed molten metal.

What’s-

The bowl slipped from my nerveless hand. I never heard it hit the ground, as a sudden vise clenched around my heart. My limbs felt impossibly heavy: I tried to speak, tried to stand, but all that came out were strangled, choking noises.

The world folded sideways, as I toppled. I hit the ground hard, the great, soundless impact shooting stars through my vision. The fingers of one hand scraped at the ground, digging little furrows in the stone. It felt like my skin was blistering, peeling back, shredding, as the fire ate me from inside out.

Oh God, this is death, and it hurts hurts hurts-

Do not fear, came the God’s deep, sonorous voice, out of the looming grey fog. You suffer not the pain of unmaking, but the agony of rebirth.

Go forth, My champion.

Go forth, and bring Me what is Mine.

And then the idea and the image of the cave folded out of being, and the howling dark rushed in to claim the place it left.

----------------------------------------

It was not a gentle awakening.

It was the stench that hit me first - A vile, butcher-shop funk that stank of stale copper and carbolic. Wine-dark liquid, warm as human flesh, swirled around me. It washed over my face, entered my mouth as I floundered, limbs thrashing as I struggled to right myself.

Flashes of light. Voices raised in surprise and wonder.

I broke the surface coughing and gasping, sputtering for air. My hands struck out, lashing, fumbling, until they found a curving wall of smooth stone. For one desperate moment, my fingers scrabbled against it, trying to find purchase-

But then I was going under again, sinking into rust-colored waters. Lungs burning with the need for air, I saw the world through blood, and then only blood as the mire closed over my head.

A hand seized me by the wrist, and someone, somewhere, shouted: “He rises!”

It was only the first of many. Grasping at my arms, my shoulders, any part of me they could reach. Half-drowned, I was hauled from the pool, and cast down onto the stone beside it. For a long while, I lay there, gasping like a beached fish. My whole body shuddered from the shock of waking, as I retched and coughed my lungs clear.

Horns sounded as I looked up, uncomprehending. I beheld a world lit by flickering torches, the smoke of offerings rising like incense to the midnight sky. The stone dais around me was clear and empty, but rang with the sound of thousands of yelling tribesmen. For one wild moment, I thought the baying crowd was about to charge me, to rip me to pieces…

But no. They were cheering, yelling. Howling in joy and wonder, the great host seized by a fever of religious ecstasy. The firelight danced on bloody, upthrust hands, faces marked by gore.

Even as my breath smoked and steamed in the air, bull-priests in their fantastic raiment and bone-masks were hurrying forward to tend to me. A robe of linen (white, to show the blood) was pulled over my nakedness, as they helped me to my feet.

Did I mention I was naked? Before, I hadn’t even noticed.

Above, the hundred sacrifices of the hecatomb twitched as they bled out. Blood pattered down into the natural pool I’d just emerged from, along channels cut into the stone. There’s less blood in a cow than you might think, but the flood seemed endless - Another miracle of the Supreme Chieftain, no doubt.

Already, priests were ladling blood out of the stone basin into bronze bowls, to be flung into the crowd. The sight of it would have made me nauseous, but everything at that moment seemed like a fever dream. I felt different, somehow, changed in a way that made everything feel raw-edged and brittle…But the edge-of-starvation hunger was still there, my constant companion, twisting my guts into knots.

Somewhere amid all the confusion, I glimpsed a face - a real face - and reached out to grab his sleeve.

“I met Him,” I rasped out, finding my voice at last. It sounded old and rusty, barely more than a whisper. “I spoke with Him-”

High Priest Praya did an awful thing. He smiled, his eyes glittering with some unknowable emotion.

Joy? Belief? Envy?

Maybe it was all three.

“Of course He did,” he said, untroubled by the red stains my hand left on his arm. “After all, are you not are His greatest instrument?”

He watched me, unblinking, as his acolytes pried my fingers free. As they half-carried, half-dragged me away, the rampant crowd parting before us like the Red Sea, back into the waiting fastness of the Iron Hoof’s first and greatest temple.

TO BE CONTINUED