The Scythe and the Seer, Book 3 of the Enchanter's Cycle

“General Nobuyuki has failed...” Yamato said with a scowl, not even waiting for the field messenger to inform him. The dejected look told volumes on its own...

He sighed; reorganizing his forward army would be a difficult, time-consuming process, and he could ill-afford to waste it against Fusestu’s walls now that their defenses were in place for a siege.

No matter; he needed not take Hitorigami City by brute force. A covert assault would suffice. All he really needed to do was make it to the throne room and challenge his useless brother.

With the Skraul menace not yet resolved, he couldn’t suffer waiting. And he was already within five miles of Hitorigami City, thanks to the laxness of patrols. He would have his throne, and his land would again find its greatness. It was just a matter of time...

She woke with the taste of blood in her mouth and a peculiar itching inside her head.

Illuthien groaned, stirring from her bed, which was in fact a floor of hard wood paneling. Farcia was beside her, unconscious, her bones knitting back together where her arm had been cruelly twisted.

Searing fury at the sight of her lover and servant in distress nearly sent her into a berserker rage, but she coiled those emotions deep inside her for a later time.

Kaileena was gone, as was Arteth. Nu, the little eccentric girl, mended two of their mortal allies, while the massive wolf paced to and fro, a platter of raw meat nearby and completely unnoticed.

Before she could utter a word, Illuthien started as she realized that the itch in her head was not brought on by her injuries; it was a silent, instinctual warning, recognized by every Djinn. Nu’s hesitation to leave her charges behind left her cradling her arms to herself and shivering, so great was her distress in resisting such a call. Moonshadow was under attack!

“Farcia!” she snapped, “Get up. We need to get back to Moonshadow, now!”

Rel’Gaarmathar bellowed his delight as his Oni legions, backed by powerful elementals, stormed through the breach of the Ashlands’ portal and into Moonshadow.

He stood at the helm of his mighty chariot; a stone throw wide and taller than a small hill, covered in titanium plates and lined with hundreds of ballistae and gleaming mortar barrels. Twelve Oni pilots, each one whipping a trio of Rolok; a dim-witted cattle native to their home world, led the craft forward.

Teams of attendants loaded the weaponry, and at his command the mortars fired, lighting the skies and peppering the surrounding landscape.

Slim, three-headed avian Elemental Lords, the larger, clumsier Elemental Thralls; a combination of boar and insect features upon a palette of living energy, and masses of shapeless Elemental Husks, all surged through the portal, bathing the grounds with fire and electricity and shifting rock.

“The four elements of change; fire, water, air, earth!” He screamed, waving his Ransuer menacingly, “Tame this land by driving it mad! Burn, drown, asphyxiate, shatter! Revel and pillage!”

He sent his divine power upward to the heavens, warring with Surthath’s control of his own realm.

With no hegemony to challenge him, his will prevailed. The sky burned with ash, and gusted with winds strong enough to strip flesh from bone. In other places the air froze, leaving crystallized flora in twisted caricatures.

But the atmosphere did not dissipate, as he’d intended. Nor did gravity reverse. Oh well.

Tens of thousands of his red elves followed after the roiling energies of the Elemental’s attacks, brandishing kanabo, curved swords, and spears, yipping and snarling like feral wolves.

The Djinn retaliated almost the moment they crossed the breach. Thousands of armored Djinn warriors; living fortresses with glassteel and titanium shells and massive double-edged swords, appeared form nowhere and struck from either flank of his host.

Hundreds of Arcanists teleported into the surrounding air, their eyes burning red, their many wings casting wide shadows over his army. Bolts of fire and crackling spears of electricity, burst of telekinesis and reality altering energy, rippling distortions in space, all manner of light and color and force rained down from the sky.

He swept aside their pitiful spells with a wave of his hand, preventing the killing wave from descending.

The Elementals did battle with the ground troops, burning and wailing and causing chaos wherever they could. He ignored them, concentrating on the spell-casters.

One shouted his name, and as one they directed their power towards him. He laughed as his flesh burned, froze, dissolved, rearranged itself, exploded, imploded, and winked out of reality in small pieces. Every wound healed before the collective damage could in any way harm him.

“You dare to combat an Old One?!” he jeered, snapping his tusked jowls, “Fools!”

He picked a few out, one at a time, and overwhelmed their link to the collective consciousness of their species. Separated, vulnerable, he slew them instantly with one of his thirty-seven mantras as scribed onto the holy book, burning their insides out, searing the air in their lungs, or voiding their very soul, banishing them for a hundred years in his personal realm of torment.

Every few seconds another Djinn would clutch at their chest, gasp, and plummet to the ground, their deaths ending in an explosion that would have killed many Oni were the Elementals not shielding them.

Given a few weeks he could wipe out every Arcanist among the Djinn, but that was not his purpose here. His initial attack would serve to gather Surthath’s most powerful Djinn.

And with Dur’Artoth and his R’yzthaek set to arrive shortly they would massacre the lot of them, the better to sack the great floating cities and the hosts of mortal souls among them, lessening Surthath’s sway over mortals and reducing his armies for the inevitable time that all the great hosts of the Veil and Beyond the Veil would do battle. Endless, unceasing battle, where only the strong triumphed, and where the weak cowered and begged for death.

Chaos, endless chaos. Endless war. His dream...

Arteth sat at the foot of his bed, their bed. His body was still. His heart, however, was a vast tumult of pain, confusion, and terror. He had to do something, that he knew...but what? What?

This...thing, that Kaileena had become...

She had, quite inadvertently, inherited his rigid sense of right and wrong, the one that had perverted his other self to become the Tyrant of the Dreadborne.

Now Kaileena, too, was building a mindless army, this time of golems and constructs. She was unwittingly imitating his darkest qualities, and that was a horrible thought.

“I have remained silent too long.” he stated, drying his tears, “I will fix this travesty that you have permitted, Father. And then I will come calling for you. I swear it by my blood, my power, and my heritage.”

His decision made, for he was forced to ignore his own home world and its plight to do so, Arteth set himself to do the very thing he should have found the courage to the moment Kaileena had returned to him from Aurummn Calca...

“Well, Rel’Gaarmathar sure has been gone for a long time.” the Old One of Madness whispered, smugly amused, “What should we do to entertain our guest? I say rock, parchment, blades.”

Selevus, his expression blank, lifeless, did not respond, and Surthath scoffed, “You will find no humor from him. The Dread Hammer has done something to his mind.”

Tu’Narcuteth sighed, “And all of my effort in making a party for us all, wasted. Dur’Artoth is gone. Rel’Gaarmathar is gone. And even Anima is still gone. When is she coming back?”

“She already is back.” Surthath replied, staring at the board with weary hopefulness, “And has nearly come to her station. With luck, she can heal the Second, if my son fails.”

Kaileena’s piece had long ago rejected his touch, and now it rampaged across the board. In time, she could become a greater threat than Dur’Artoth himself; the Dread Hammer’s power was immense, but known. Surthath could expect his son’s power to match, or slightly surpass, his own.

But Kaileena had become an entirely unpredictable aspect of the battle; the Phoenix Stone was something entirely new. Synthesized divinity. Its potential was nearly unlimited.

Kaileena had surpassed his expectations of the Second, indeed, risen beyond the strength she should have possessed.

That was the problem. With such a powerful random element the board was in disarray. He could no longer determine the possible outcomes, or the moves that would determine the match.

“Did you have something to do with this?” Surthath asked, his sonorous voice hard, and Tu’Narcuteth giggled, now in the form of a lusty Human maiden, “Now that would be telling. But no, I will not tell. I want everything to be a surprise.”

At that word, Selevus, who had been silent this entire time, burst into bubbling, childish laughter, doubling over as if in pain.

Tu’Narcuteth smiled to his confusion, “Were you surprised? Were you, were you? I bet you never expected that, huh? That I would help you? I got you good.”

Surthath watched Tu’Narcuteth’s smile become a thoughtful frown, “Well, are you going or not? That spell won’t last long. Better hurry if you want to try and do something.”

Needing no further incentive and wanting to be gone quickly, lest the Old One change his mind, Surthath teleported from Veln Rh’k, determined to fix the damage done...

“Greetings, Honored Third.”

Ryū woke with a start, to the sight of a winter sunset, the sky painted in red. The wind carried across the land, rustling his cloak. A Human woman, slightly different than those native to Teikoku; with pale skin, a longer, bonier body, and eyelids lacking the distinctive slants, appraised him.

She was dressed in a grey gown in a different fashion than those of the natives, as well as a brown cloak and a pair of slippers.

“You are the one, then?” he asked, calling back to the memories implanted into his mind when Enshi had been slain; the beginning stages of his ultimate destiny. The woman smiled, offering a shallow bow with a peculiar flourish of her flowing skirt, “Aye. I am Tenri, Seer and Guide to the Five. I am here to take you to the Scythe.”

Nodding, the vampyre still found himself puzzled, “Will it reject my touch? Am I not-”

“You are a chosen hero of Surthath’s prophecy.” Tenri replied with a comforting smile, “He claims you as his own, not Dur’Artoth. The Bloodline Seal will not recognize you as a vampyre.”

Properly assured, Ryū offered his hand, “Show me then, milady, what I must do.”

Tzruga had done well. It hadn’t been easy to cow a R’yzthaek...but the Dread Hammer’s butchery of most of his own Djinn had shaken the creature’s already transient loyalties.

He had fulfilled his task; bringing the Honored Third to a specific place, her agreed upon place. Now, there was only one thing left to do.

Acquiescing to the Honored Third’s wishes, Tenri teleported them to the vault wherein Dur’Artoth had deposited the Scythe of Argosaxx.

She smiled, remembering the decades of experimentation that had been necessary to predict its location; all of the spatial anomalies she had inadvertently created which warped space and time and had altered the Honored Second’s hound, were in fact primarily attempts to divine this single location.

Her entire purpose as Surthath’s Seer had been to locate the Scythe...or more accurately, where it would be at this exact moment in time, where the bloodline seal would be in place and it would be outside of Argosaxx’s temple; thus, where it could safely be claimed by the one destined to wield it.

Her experiments, wholly devoted to witnessing and interacting with the future, had eventually revealed this hidden place, this secret place, somewhere within the faded Veil.

And so, right before her expectant eyes, was the Scythe, in all its terrible glory.

It hovered, suspended in nothingness, in a large crater, itself part of a large cavern, its roof collapsed, revealing a starless sky of inky shadows and writhing viridian light.

A thousand shards of rock, tipped with glimmering crystals, mostly amethyst, ringed the outer edges of the cavern, like the teeth of a shark’s opened maw. Darkened tunnels formed a rough network in all directions, a sunken maze.

“What is this?” Ryū asked, his fiery trident drawn, both body and weapon emanating an inner crimson glow.

“A Crossroads.” she explained, “A fold in time and space, created near the end of the Dreadborne Invasion. When Dur’Artoth, then Dur’Arteth, struck Aurora’s surface with an asteroid infused with raw necrotic energy, this particular crossroad had been created.”

“But why?” he asked, “How? What is a crossroad?”

“Simply put? A glitch in the workings of the Multi-verse. An anomaly that should not exist. More specifically? My entire life I have wondered, but my studies were more specific, and sadly I never learned for sure. I needed this crossroad, for this is the one that was destined to contain the Scythe. Dur’Artoth did well to hide it here, for not even Surthath could find it.”

“But you could.” he added, visibly impressed, and Tenri allowed herself a moment of pride, “I have seen both the future and the past. I knew that Dur’Artoth alone would know of this place, for he himself created it, albeit inadvertently. Crossroads, or so I theorize, are created during the release of incredible energy in the Veil, warping reality and splintering it into several sub-realities. Pocket dimensions, if you will, wherein only the spatial radius of the released energy is preserved. This is Dur’Artoth’s Crossroads, and it is the one place he feel safe to leave such a dangerous item.”

Wasting no more time, Ryū approached the Scythe, looked back to her, and with her solemn nod, he lifted Iki-o-Korosu and struck the scythe with its three-pronged head.

Illuthien, being the senior Arcanist on site with the deaths of the five before her, led the counterattack on the invading Oni.

In Moonshadow, the full scope of her powers was available; she felt as capable as she had when hale in the mortal realm. Perhaps more.

For all the good it did; each Djinn, a fragment of Surthath’s divine essence, was no more than a candle against the roaring blaze that was a true Old One’s power... It would be a desperate ordeal without Surthath.

Farcia she commanded to remain near the back of the defense, much to her displeasure. But Farcia was loyal, obedient... In spite of the flush heat that she felt in battle, she would obey her wishes.

How had this happened? How had that bastard Dur’Artoth gotten this sort of advantage? When was a principality, the private realm of an Old One, in danger?!

“Damn you, Dread Hammer...” she cursed, hurling her double-headed axe at the massed Oni. As it struck, the device detonated outward into a pillar of fire, immolating hundreds of red elves, before reforming and returning to her hand, whereupon she threw it a second time, at the largest collection of water elementals. They burst into clouds of steam, swiftly reforming.

She altered the hydrogen-ion concentrations of their bodily composition in retort, effectively dissolving them into the ambient atmosphere.

Her necklace of burning gems separated into its many component stones, each containing a powerful destructive spell. Illuthien shrugged at her wounded vanity at the loss of such a beautiful piece, and sent each fragment careening into the army, again bypassing Rel’Gaarmathar’s attentions.

The tens of thousands of red elves were reduced by almost a quarter in those brief flashes, when each powerfully enchanted stone detonated, creating whirling cyclones, thunderstorms, and volcanic eruptions.

Her satisfaction was short lived, as the Old One’s boar-headed body swiveled in her direction, and a furious pair of eyes settled on her.

Illuthien reacted quickly, casting her most powerful telepathic wards, using her seldom-appreciated skill in mindbreaking. He shattered her defenses instantly, and the Arcanist smiled distantly at his rage as she waited for his next deadly spell to strike her. As it did, she screamed.

Surthath took the full force of the spell, wavering in midair, supported by the buffeting of his feathered wings.

Illuthien stared at him, wide-eyed, and he smiled warmly, “Oversee the defenses, my darling daughter. I will handle him.”

Nodding, scowling, and then cursing as she directed her attentions to the battle, Surthath smirked as he noticed the heavy blush of her cheeks, though she appeared to be attempting to cover it with her brandished weapon’s violent motions.

“How did you escape?!” Rel’Gaarmathar snarled from below, his eyes wild, “No matter. I will slay you as well.”

Looking down to Rel’Gaarmathar, who stood upon a great war chariot, he scowled, “You have violated the pact. You have invaded my home, my realm, and so it is you that will perish on this day.”

Rel’Gaarmathar chortled, “I fear you not, you sniveling, weakling scholar. Knowledge? Wisdom? What has Destruction to fear from such things?!”

Illuthien yielded to her father and supervised the battle against the Oni and elementals...but she couldn’t help but watch as the two gods clashed.

Left hand on the ivory handle of his namesake blade, Surthath inverted the hourglass amulet about his neck with his other hand. Thirty seconds; that was the amount of the sand based off its incremental descent.

Instantly drawing his sword, Surthath crossed the distance between them in a single stride, the titanium blade parried by Rel’Gaarmathar’s ransuer in a hail of sparks. The wooden planks under Rel’Gaarmathar’s feet splintered, so great was the impact, and the whole battle platform began sinking into the soil.

Watching via a spell, even as she parried the thrusting spear of an Oni, ducked, and jabbed the red elf in the nose with the butt of her axe, Illuthien watched as the Old Ones exchanged weapon strikes, each attack overlapping the previous.

Surthath emitted an aura of shifting blue light, which warped the air around him, compressing and expanding ambient space into a hovering constellation of spheres. A foolish Oni attempted to attack Surthath’s flank, only to brush against a sphere the size of her palm to be sucked in with a whoosh of air and a cut-off scream.

Illuthien cursed as she shifted her attention to an Elemental Lord who had cornered a younger Djinn, its serrated claws descending to deliver the final, fatal blow.

Crossing that distance by outstretching her wings and flying with a burst of summoned wind, the Arcanist buried her axe in its spine, wincing as its blood, akin to magma, poured from the wound.

The Elemental, a winding, sinuous body propelled by a serpentine tail, twisted at a seemingly impossible angle, wrenching the head loose as its three avian heads breathed fire onto her. Protected by her wards, she endured and assumed a defensive stance, blocking its melee attacks with some difficulty.

Sensing its next move, Illuthien hardened a particular patch of her mail just in time for it to deflect the stinger at the tip of the Elemental’s Tail, shattering it on impact.

The Elemental Lord shrieked in pain, leaping atop of her and ferociously digging its fangs and nails into her skin. Illuthien gritted her teeth, accepted the pain, and cast a powerful evocation, surrounding her body with a single sphere akin to her father’s, one which distorted and compressed light and matter.

The Elemental sensed its peril as she neared the spell’s completion, redoubling its efforts, but Illuthien was not about to submit to something as petty as physical discomfort. She gasped out the final words of power and the Elemental shrieked in fear as much as rage.

Displacing her body into raw magicka and reforming a few steps away, she watched as its body collapsed into the spatial distortion akin to a black hole. As its crushed head slipped into the void, she sought her next target, only to be nearly overwhelmed as two dozen Oni charged her.

A surge of magicka swept over them, courtesy of the Arcanists still on wing, and she began to again observe the battle between her father and the enemy.

Rel’Gaarmathar, his boar-head surrounded by a mane of crackling embers, roared as spires of molten rock burst from his flesh, thrusting forward like a thousand blades.

Surthath ceased to occupy the same space as the oncoming attack, and re-appeared several paces behind, then again, to the right, then again, forward into an optimal position to strike at his flank. His curved sword slicing the very molecules of the air, her father snarled in frustration as his rival Old One spun his ransuer like a quarterstaff, striking the tip of the sword and forcing it downward.

His feathered wings spreading, Surthath took to the sky, leaving his destructive spheres as they surrounded and struck the Old One from multiple angles.

Screaming, his blood burning the very air, Rel’Gaarmathar took the brunt of the attack and remained on his feet as the damage regenerated. Surthath attacked again, but was rocketed away as a single pillar of molten rock struck him in the underbelly, impaling him and carrying him higher with its momentum.

Again she lost her view of them as she led her fellow Djinn in a combined telepathic attack on the Elementals, isolating and slaying them in the very same manner that Rel’Gaarmathar had used. One by one, they reduced the numbers.

The battle shifted from a desperate struggle to an evenly sided conflict, one Illuthien was certain she could win.

“Farcia.” she projected telepathically, “Command from the rearguard. Make sure the enemy does not subdivide and skirt our forces. I will not have the mortals imperiled by this.”

Her handmaiden acquiesced, eager to join the battle in any way, and Illuthien leapt into the fray once more, attacking with axe, tooth, wing, claw, and mind.

A lesser Elemental Thrall, twice the size of a male Djinn, lumbered her way, scattering her subordinate warriors. Invoking Surthath’s name, Illuthien screamed with savage delight and charged...

Ryū looked down to his trident and frowned thoughtfully, sensing its elation at its new form.

Iki-o-Korosu’s shaft was now a shifting, pearly ivory substance, and its three-pronged head was akin to volcanic glass but with a prominent metallic sheen. The Scythe itself was gone, its essence consumed by his vampyric weapon, its properties absorbed and passed to him.

“With this...” he breathed, “...I can draw the power from an Old One.”

Tenri nodded, “One Old One. One particular Old One. And, unlike doing so with the Scythe itself, it will not be absorbed into the weapon, but into you. You will become the Old One, the proper aspirant to that Principality.”

Smiling wearily, knowing this would be the act that would safeguard his people, his love...he accepted the loss of Ryū, who desired only a mortal life and the peace that came at its conclusion.

He would not die. He would never die. He would be an Old One, a new Old One.

One of Five.

“I accept my fate.” he said wearily, and sensed Tenri’s approval, “And I await my fellow chosen.”

The Old One of Destruction matched weakling Surthath’s attacks, a seed of doubt worming its way into his stony resolve. Where was Dur’Artoth? What was the bastard doing?

Surthath was technically weaker than him...but based in his realm, his power was magnified. Had they been fighting in the Ashlands that same advantage would have allowed him to crush Surthath.

As was, they were nearly evenly matched...but that would change as Surthath’s troops would replenish, and his would not. He needed Dur’Artoth to tip the scales...

He thrust his ransuer, and felt it bite into flesh, but snarled as the illusion wavered, revealing an Oni warrior, staring at him with horrified incredulity.

All around him, Djinn Arcanists savaged the lines of elementals, overwhelming even the greater lords. They fought valiantly, with wild abandon, but one by one their essences were overwhelmed and banished. That was the price of his own strength; he had never desired such powerful minions, and had conserved much of his vital essence for the purpose of consolidating his personal reserves of magicka.

Surthath appeared, his curved sword descending. Parrying, and delivering a brutal jab with the spiked tip of his weapon, Rel’Gaarmathar followed up with a series of expert thrusts, each one searing the air with noxious acidic fumes. Every time Surthath blocked or parried, the ground shook in protest.

Screaming with frustration as he prepared his trump card, the Old One cursed the Dread Hammer and his trickery...

Surthath let his righteous fury focus his attacks, roared his pain and grief at the death visited upon his realm, upon Aurora, upon Carthspire...upon everything that he loved.

Rel’Gaarmathar, Dur’Artoth’s patsy, turned his flesh into raw elemental magicka, and he replied in kind, taking on his own true form; which could warp the minds of mortals should they behold it. They fought not with tooth or claw or blade but with sheer willpower, their essences clashing beyond the realms of the purely physical.

All the while, his beloved children, his greatest pride, turned the tide of battle fully.

The Oni did not lose heart, and showed no quarter. They were slain to the last. The Elementals lost heart, crying to their father and god. They were slain to the last.

As one, the remaining Arcanists linked their minds and power with his own, Surthath felt his enemy quake at the sudden rush of newfound strength. He pressed his advantage mercilessly.

“This...” he replied telepathically, “Is...”

Their attacks slowed, again entered the realm of the physical, their blades ringing a deafening chorus.

“My...” he continued, now audibly, bringing his curved sword down again and again upon Rel’Gaarmathar’s ransuer. Its previously pristine surface began to crack.

“Realm!” he bellowed, taking his namesake sword in an executioner’s grip and bringing it down in a devastating strike, slicing the ransuer halfway down its haft, then through Rel’Gaarmathar’s arm and halfway into his kneecap.

The Old One grunted, kneeling, and Surthath lifted his chin to look right into his eyes.

“You chose the losing side, brother.” he replied coolly, re-assuming a two-handed stance.

Rel’Gaarmathar spat, digging his claws into the soil, “A temporary death and no more. The Ashlands will welcome its god in mere hours. I will burn you, and Dur’Artoth, to cinders. Your world will be mine!”

“I think not.” Surthath said, his smile hardening, “Time dilation; very difficult to pull off, but I am the Old One of Magicka, hmmm...? To you, it might only seem like a few hours...but it will take aeons for your essence to return home.”

Rel’Gaarmathar blanched, his serrated mouth opened wide, “You...you cannot.”

Surthath roared, brought down his sword, and beheaded him, his neck pumping burning blood.

“I just did.” Surthath replied simply, completing his spell and teleporting away the Old One’s body, lest his death throes damage his realm further.

“Rel’Gaarmathar.” he stated, cleaning the blood from his sword, “I hereby separate you from the natural flow of time. When you finally return to the Ashlands, your followers will have forgotten your very name.”

His task complete, Surthath projected his attentions outward, to Aurora. His son, his first son, was in grave danger...

He found her in the villa study, recently converted from Takauji’s harem, beside several of her clay constructs.

Nearly a dozen of her new “palace guards”; golems that had once been Human pirates, circled the room, and hundreds more were now policing the village in place of its standard soldiers.

She eyed him, surprised, then returned to her work.

“My love.” Arteth said, again drawing her attention to him, “I would ask something of you...”

“Yes?” she asked, and his wounded heart surged with renewed distress.

She caught that, and set aside a small glass orb, inside of which was a lump of preserved flesh taken from Don’Yoku.

He approached, then threw himself into her, holding her small, frail body, hands on her shoulders.

“Let us leave.” he said, his eyes blurry, “This place. This war. All of it. I love you, Kaileena...and I cannot allow you to fight any longer. Fate has asked too much of you; let someone else assume the burden! Come away with me, to a place where nothing will pain you again! Come away with me...”

She grimaced, stunned, and for moment...he saw her cold exterior crack. He drove home the chisel that could shatter it, “Let us start our family, like we talked about. We can sever you from this curse, take away the numbness and replace it with warmth. We can raise a child together, or maybe two...give them everything they ever want or need. I love you, Kaileena, so let me take the weight from you, pamper you as you deserve, protect you as you need to be!”

“I no longer need protection...” Kaileena said, looking away, and he turned her face towards him, brushing the tip of his nose against hers, “Maybe not...but I am your husband. It is time I treated you proper. Come with me, my love...let us try for a second chance. Let others do the fighting for once.”

“I cannot abandon what I fight for; the rage in my heart will not allow it.” she replied, and he shook his head, in a moment of inspiration, he struck again, “The Kaileena I know does not fight out of rage. Neither of us do.”

He knew he had erred immediately...

“Then what do we fight for?” Kaileena asked, her expression hardening, “What grand cause have we served this whole time? What did I sacrifice myself for, again and again? Justice? Goodness?”

She swept her hand, scowling, “No! We fight for nothing. An illusion, as are many of the constructs we fashion to derive meaning from our short and meaningless lives. I have poured my attention and my effort into the pursuit of good, only to be rewarded with one calamity after another! One does not wisely engage in petty battles against evil, nor does one wisely celebrate petty victories. A true victory is an absolute one. And everlasting one!”

Kaileena disentangled herself from him; for one so small she possessed surprising strength.

Her eyes burned with their own inner light, “I will not continue to halfheartedly wage this campaign; I will not score a minor footnote in a greater battle against evil. I will exterminate evil, in all its incarnations; great and small. I will rid this world and all others of injustice by undoing the unjust, one by one, purging their evil until all that remains is the potential for good. It is my destiny!”

A surge of power filled the room, great and terrible. An Aura of palpable dread and magicka flowed outward from her. He knew that a mortal hand touching it meant death.

But he was no mortal...

“Kaileena...” he breathed, touching her face, grimacing as the skin of his fingertips was pulverized by the flow of energy, “Do not force me away. I beg of you.”

“You have aided me...” she said sadly but with grim determination, her eyes locked with his, their irises rounding and revealing their faceted depths like a finely cut gem, “And you try to aid me still. But this cannot be. You should know that by now. How can I experience love...if I cannot feel your touch? If I cannot feel anything?”

Arteth stared blankly at this person, who contained Kaileena, his love, somewhere deep inside, and felt her crying out to him.

Stifling his fear, Arteth committed himself fully to his course, then forced himself bodily through her magicka. His flesh curdled as it flayed apart, bones breaking and rupturing the organs around them, but, unmindful, he pressed himself against her, choking on blood, gasping.

“All of this hatred has twisted you, Kaileena! What of your ideals of peace? Of balance?! You fought for the preservation of this land, this world, your home! You fought for your love for Teikoku, for your love of your family, alive and deceased, Human and Silkrit. You fought for Love!”

“Love? What is love but a cruel joke; a consummate deception?” Kaileena spat, her eyes wild, “So long as there is love there will be loss, and hatred, and conflict. Fate demands it, and those like the Dread Hammer feed upon it. Each cannot exist on its own; to never experience hatred one must exist without objects of affection.”

Then, “No, beloved...you cannot protect me, for I do not need protection. Synthesis will purge these unruly emotions from the minds of all those in the veil, will allow everyone to live forever as the Kamiyonanayo do; as a new race of living machines. I will create a verse of unceasing peace without hatred and conflict, without illness or sacrifice or loss or pain. With my newfound powers I will elevate those who are worthy into this pristine, endless state of being, and all others who are not will serve it in their ignorance. Never again shall nations wage war upon each other, never again shall blood be spilled, on the battlefield or in a courtroom! Never again will a lost, terrified girl weep for her father and her crushed hope, alone, in the dark! My cause is just! Do you not see this?!”

His course was set; attack with anti-magicka, all the while pressing her telepathically with every ounce of his mental acuity. With luck he could breach her mind just long enough to-

“You cannot defeat me.” Kaileena snapped, somewhere behind him. Turning, he saw Kaileena, the real Kaileena. Looking back, he saw that the being he’d addressed was molded from clay.

“You can switch places with your constructs.” he said warily, half-drawing Verlangen. Its illusions might prove effective...just long enough to immobilize her.

Kaileena frowned, unresponsive, though her left index finger twitched. That was all the warning he would receive to being casting.

Blurring his actual position with an instant illusion, Arteth summoned a menagerie of shifting lights that would distort and confuse one’s perceptions, all the while surrounding himself with his aura of flame. She didn’t fall for his bait, didn’t even seem to notice it, and Arteth cursed as she cast a spell he didn’t recognize. Nothing tangible happened.

Creating illusionary copies as he attacked, the room seemed to fill with two dozen duplicates, reflections of his image, each one thrusting a sword towards her from a different angle. She caught his sword with the back of her hand, a series of roping, blood-red tendrils bursting from her flesh to enwrap its edge. How could she see through his illusions?

Looking into her strange, faceted eyes, he had his answer. Fine then; his greatest strength had no effect on her, at least in the visual spectrum of possible attacks. His flames struck her, even passed through her Spell-Eater Strain. If she was troubled by her skin blistering, she didn’t show it.

Lunging forward, Arteth gasped as Kaileena’s necklace; the one with the crystal teeth, came alive, expanding to the size of a constrictor snake, its jagged charms slashing across his chest. Before he could pin the thing down it snapped back into Kaileena’s hand, scratching her deeply enough to draw blood that mingled with his own.

Cursing, for he knew enough about proper blood magicka to fear a link being made between the caster and the target, Arteth rammed the pommel of his sword against Kaileena’s temple, feeling it crunch.

She didn’t even blink, and showed no signs of fainting.

“My anatomy is now unlike that of a Silkrit.” she said calmly, waving her hand in a mystic pass, “Like a sponge; there is no locational damage, at least none that matters. All that is, is a part of the whole.”

His world exploded in pain. Arteth spat blood, his limbs numbed, twitching. He fell onto his back, unable to move. It felt like every muscle in his body had been peeled off his bones.

Activating a ward about his person, his wounds healed instantly, and he teleported to the space behind Kaileena, sword ready. So be it; he had no choice but to cripple her in order to save her.

His fanged blade sliced across the back of her neck, enough to decapitate her. He felt a pinch, then a cloying wetness running down his back. His attack died stillborn.

“Rec..reciprocity...” he gurgled, wavering, and Kaileena turned, and in one motion, struck him with a burst of telekinesis. He blacked out, and then returned to himself a few moments later, rising from the hole he’d imprinted into the floor.

“Foolish.” Kaileena chided, kneeling beside him as his flesh struggled to regenerate whatever damage she’d caused, and, as he watched, horrified, she drove her hand into his chest, her nails piercing his bone-plated heart.

“...But I forgive you. Ever and always, you are loyal to me. I will not call upon your many oaths to serve my will, though I certainly could if I so chose. Go now, husband, to await rebirth. When you rise anew, decades in the future, you will see for yourself this world that I envision. For now, dearest...sleep.”

Knowing the cataclysmic explosion that would result from Arteth’s death throes, Kaileena teleported his body far away. The hand that had touched his heart was covered in blood, blue blood.

Shinabi loped into the room, wary, and approached her. Sniffing her hand, he whined, his large, intelligent eyes accusatory.

“He will return to us.” Kaileena assured him, knowing she would be understood. Tenri’s experimentation had produced something that was not quite an animal...

“Come, Shinabi.” she said idly, stroking his chin as the blood disintegrated, “We have work to do while my constructs labor to bring order to this land. I would confer with a fond friend and also a possible ally before we take our leave.”

Dral’rrche re-read the ending of his paper-sheet-story, “The Fair Maiden and the Hedge Maze”, in the faint torchlight in the room Kaileena had set aside for him.

He didn’t bother to pour the odd burning-wine-liquor, since the cups were too small for his hands. Instead, he drank right from the bottle, admittedly too brutish for his comfort. He liked to be more refined than that, though most around him thought it incongruous.

Incongruous...even his repertoire of words was seen as unusual for one of his race...

Likewise, honored-friend Kaileena made him uncomfortable. What had happened to her since she’d left the forests of the knife-ears, he knew not, but he was deeply troubled.

He was no longer sure exactly what she was, seeing her fight as she did; not even flinching with her flesh flaking off and her bones breaking. No mortal could fight like that and remain sane.

Or perhaps she was something more, now? He hadn’t fought ageless monsters like his ancestor, Orche...perhaps that was simply how things were outside of the New World and its endless peace.

“It is indeed.” Kaileena stated calmly, startling him.

The Ogre turned to find her sitting cross-legged in a chair in the corner, her odd not-right-eyes boring into him.

“But it need not be, my friend. I apologize for my rude entry but there are things to which I feel you should be aware.”

Dral’rrche grunted, “Odd or not, you be my friend, Kaileena. That why I want to help you. Speak plainly.”

She nodded, “You do not yet understand, not fully, but outside of your world there is such chaos. Carthspire and its fate are but the outward symptoms of a rot that exists within the hearts of all, mortal and immortal alike. The desire for war, and even the selfish desire to preserve peace, come hand in hand, as does hatred and the desire to protect those you love. These are one and the same, spawning from the same parasitic emptiness that guides us and drives us to self-destruction.”

“But I suffer no longer.” Kaileena added knowingly, “I have opened my eyes to the truth of the Absolute. Be content with this; I know a means to extinguish this emptiness and create a verse without conflict; where peace is celebrated, not sought, where wholeness is achieved, not coveted. I come to you, my friend, because I feel the hollowness within your soul; the desire for glory, to revel in the accolade and affections of others, and to shed the shame you feel at being born in a race that does not respect your intellect.”

Dral’rrche snarled, rising to his feet, “You speak foolishly, Kaileena, I do not-”

“You desire to be identified as a noble spirit.” Kaileena continued, unmindful that an enraged Ogre was standing before her, and considering her power she was probably right to be, “Yet the Humans, and many of the Elves, scoff at you, seeing only a hulking brute who tries and fails to grasp their finery and pageantry. But you are a true noble, Dral’rrche; a descendant of a legendary hero who desired peace, and you wish to take that task unto yourself and surpass his efforts.”

“...Yours is a prideful but noble path, for while you idolize your ancestor you wish to surpass him, the better to create greater peace and prosperity. I offer that path, Dral’rrche; aid me. Aid me in creating a verse without conflict, without evil. Aid me, and become the first and principal ally to the dream I envision.”

“You speak of de stone?” he asked, to which Kaileena nodded, “Alas, the stone I created for myself was the first; a mere prototype. It is powerful...but essentially defective, for I emerged a broken vessel. Yours, and those I will create for our fellow visionaries, will be an improved design; more stable, if less potent. They will be my gifts to you, in addition to the immortality that synthesis offers.”

“Take my hand.” Kaileena concluded, her hand outstretched, “Help me find myself once more, and create this perfect verse just as your ancestor had tried and failed to nearly two hundred years ago.”

Dral’rrche hesitated, tormented, then took it, for she had offered him his heart’s greatest desires; desires forced to greater, more universal heights by the horrors he had seen in the small-round-ear’s world that died in darkness.

If taking a not-life-stone would stop and abolish evil, he would take it. If it gave him everlasting life and power and glory, he would take it. If it would allow him to help his friend, this little lost girl from strange lands, he would take it.

“My arm be yours, Lady Kaileena, as be my mind and my heart and my blade.”

Larlax nudged the bottle with his foot, trying to tease it back to him. Since he wasn’t going to get up anytime soon, drunk that he was, it seemed like the best means to reach it.

His world was dead. His people were refugees, near the brink of extinction...those who were walking around and alive, that is. Damn him! Damn the Dread Hammer for all eternity!

There seemed to be little to do but get drunk. So there he was, his dignity and pride lost, even the desire for fulfilling vengeance muted by drink and despair.

It took him a while to notice he was not alone in the room. There, he saw, was Kaileena, though she looked funny. What- oh, her skin was clay. She was looking at him through one of her damnable golems. As if she wasn’t creepy enough already.

“What’sh you want?” he garbled, scowling, “I ’ish not wanting to get company, lass. Piss off.”

Kaileena tilted her head curiously, then knelt beside him. Before he could sputter another protest she touch his hand with an outstretched finger, and his veins burned white. There was a moment of confusion, and the suddenly he lost the numbness the alcohol had given him.

“Damn you, what is it?!” he snapped, reaching for the bottle, “I have nothing to talk about, and no patience for you. Out with it!”

“I would have words for a fellow injured soul. Listen, for a time...as I speak of my dream, and yours...”

Elurra returned to Moonshadow with her tail literally between her legs, her body struggling to regenerate the wounds Kaileena had inflicted.

Ken’ichi and Vilaseth accompanied her; the remnants of their force of over thirty. There was nothing she could do to bring back Niria...that Silkrit Blood Magi was too powerful.

Not even an undead Dur’Arteth had so rapidly decimated an elite armed force. Her organic conversion was deadlier than necromancy; zombies were at least frail and took time to create. She’d created an army of hundreds of constructs in a matter of seconds...

She gasped, seeing not an empty field but a field of battle. Hundreds of dead Oni littered the plain, their blood dying the flora red. Everywhere there was rent earth, scorch marks, and liquefied flesh melted into the ground.

Djinn warriors and arcanists bandaged wounds, their blue blood evaporating into the air. Spear-wielding soldiers scrutinized the dead, occasionally driving their weapon into a writhing pile.

In a secluded meadow, Surthath stood over a fallen Djinn, Illuthien and Farcia at his side.

She dismissed Vilaseth and Ken’ichi, promising the latter they would speak soon. Taking her place by her ancestor’s side, she looked down, and saw none other than the Firstborn, sprawled unconscious, a gaping chasm in his chest.

Two rib tips protruded from the wound, and within she saw his open and exposed heart beating; irregularly, but beating. Tendrils of magicka formed a network in the pink flesh, stimulating it.

“You are healing him.” she observed, “I thought such a wound to the heart was instant death.”

Surthath shook his head, his eyelids narrowed in concentration, “Under normal circumstances, yes. But I was able to prevent his death via time dilation. Now I am slowly regenerating the flesh, for most of his strength was depleted as his body had started to collapse.”

“Impressive.” Elurra replied, though she had long ago ceased to hold any expectations as to the limit of Surthath’s power. He had changed her from a Human to a Djinn, after all.

“Kaileena...-”

“We will discuss it soon.” Surthath interrupted, closing the wound completely, “Wait. He stirs...”

Arteth groaned as pain returned to his weary limbs.

Pain, then panic, woke him fully, and he started, awakening in a field of blue grass as high as his waist. Surthath knelt over him, a weary smile marking his ancient face.

“You awaken.” he mused tiredly, “...That is good. I was worried I could not mend your heart in time.”

Rising shakily to his feet, he saw Illuthien, Elurra, and a few others. But he paid them no heed, feeling the heat rising in his chest, suffocating him. Surthath looked to him, expectantly.

Screaming with rage, Arteth punched his father, the impact snapping his head back. He struck again, feeling such immense satisfaction never before felt, and again, not even caring that Surthath wasn’t fighting back, not even caring that no less than a dozen powerful Arcanists were watching, drawing their weapons with cold scowls, not even caring that his fingers had broken on Surthath’s chitin crown.

“Damn you!” he snapped, watching Surthath right himself, blue blood dripping from his eyelid, his face expressionless, “Damn you...”

Turning away, mentally beginning the threads of a teleportation spell, Arteth paused as he felt the magicka refuse to answer him. Surthath held it in his sway...

“Release me!” he snapped, tears in his eyes, drawing Verlangen, and Surthath watched impassively as it cleared the scabbard fully.

“Not yet.”

“I must get to Kaileena at once. I can still-”

“Not yet.” Surthath replied again, “She defeated you with ease. You cannot stop her.”

Scowling, his sword shaking in his hand, Arteth felt sheer frustration threaten.

“Speak quickly.” he snapped, his heartbeat pulsating in his temples. Surthath nodded, “I have mended some of the loose threads of fate. You will have an opportunity, just one, to reclaim her. But that time is some ways distant. For now, you will have to do as I say.”

“I didn’t want Kaileena to take this path either, my son.” the Old One continued, waving away the other Djinn, “...But she has, and I need you to stop her.”

“Stop her yourself!” Arteth snapped, “You brought this pain onto her. You tortured her. You tortured her!”

He struck at his father again, but there was no strength in it, and Surthath caught it with ease, pinning his fist, “...You did this to her. You broke her spirit...her heart...all that was good in her.”

Trembling, Arteth felt the strength bleed out of him, replaced with a wrenching sadness coiling over his heart, constricting it. His eyes lowered, and he heard but did not feel the clink as his father tapped their chitin crowns together, the Old One’s hand tangled in his hair.

“I would not have given her such hardship...” Surthath replied slowly, the Old One’s feathered wings enveloping him, “Unless it served the purpose to which she believed in; peace, true peace, and the preservation of the innocent, and even, perhaps, the guilty. At Yokai’s tower she had been willing to sacrifice herself to save those she loved. Always, she has been willing to do so. But I was mistaken in how much her spirit could take, for the prophecy has and will demand a heavy price from us all, hers among the greatest...”

“Not from you.” Arteth snarled, “Never you, father.”

Surthath shivered at that, though he couldn’t see it, and then he spoke anew, “Having to watch you in pain...to watch so many of my children in pain. To watch darkness sweep the Veil and this most sacred place, my home. To watch my mate give herself freely to the Heart of Darkness...no, you are mistaken, my son, my beloved son. I have suffered greatly...and I, too, will give myself to the prophecy, in time.”

“Why?” Arteth asked, leaning against his father, referring to so many things, and he grunted, “To find more than just the perpetuation of this cycle of light and darkness, life and death. To find a state of being where all that exists is light, and peace, and love. Where there will be no weak, no strong, only fragments of the singular whole.”

What...? That sounded like...

“Argosaxx?” he asked, horrified, and Surthath shook his head, separating them, one luminous blue eye meeting his own, “No. Argosaxx wished to rule over and consume those he considered weak. I wish to elevate them to my stead. The time of Mortal and Djinn is coming to an end. It is time to welcome home our wayward siblings; Argosaxx’s children.”

Mortals? ...Becoming Djinn? The thought was preposterous, and yet...

“Up until she created the Phoenix Stone...” Surthath whispered somberly, his tired, ancient eye moist, “You have feared for Kaileena; for her safety. For her happiness. But beneath this fear...was a silent despair in your heart, for Kaileena was a mortal, and all mortals are destined to eventually die.”

The Old One smiled sadly at that, “All mortals eventually die. But why is that? Why is that, when we know they are born from Argosaxx, who was indeed an Old One; the most powerful Old One to ever manifest in physical form? I know how they die, and my prophecy will remove the culprit. My prophecy will bring about the re-unification of the principalities; Moonshadow, Ashlands, Everbloom...all the realms of the Old Ones...including The Veil; the Prime Material Plane, Principality of Argosaxx. That is what I fight for, my son.”

“I am not your son...” Arteth snapped, sick and furious and exhausted, “It was Kaileena that gave me life, not you. Without her...I would have been no more than a shade; a lost fragment of a being beyond light or love or joy. And you have given her more suffering than I could have ever known. I cannot forgive you for that.”

Surthath’s eye glistened, and great, crystalline tears rolled down his cheek.

“I understand.” the Old One replied, his voice steady, “We will not be able to speak again after this moment. Please...offer me this boon; embrace me as your father, one last time...”

Arteth slowed his breathing...bottled his anger. His hands shook, but his sword provided a comfortable weight, a familiar weight.

He dropped it, losing the last of his assurances.

He embraced Surthath, hands locking near one of the Old One’s ivory back spikes, head buried into his furred chest, weeping, “So be it, Father. But know you do not make it easy.”

Surthath shivered again, then locked his own arms, chin resting over his shoulder, “Whatever your faults, my son, know that I love you. Know that I chose you because only you could have weathered the burdens of prophecy. Only you could have found such complete redemption. Know that you alone are the hero that can save Kaileena. Only you can save the Veil, the Principalities...everything that is, and can someday be.”

The words struck like hammer blows, wrenching his heart and mind. Impossible...impossible! Redemption? Hero?

He was Dur’Arteth, the fallen Firstborn! He who had ruled the Dreadborne Horde and become the Dread Hammer. Thousands of souls screamed for his death...and yet...

And yet... That being, that legacy, had passed to Dur’Artoth; the true perpetrator. He, Arteth, had been severed from that fate during his long period of slumber in the phylactery. He was his own being, a Djinn Arcanist of and yet not of Moonshadow.

“The chosen members of Prophecy...” Arteth muttered aloud, “Elurra, Kaileena, Ryū, Anima...and...”

“And...” Surthath finished for him, “...You, my son. You are the Fifth; who is Dur’Arteth and Dur’Artoth, the mixed blood of my seed and the energies of the Veil. You, the trickster, whose powers dwell in the magicka of the mind and warping the minds of others, whose heart hides the deepest shadows. The Circle is primed, my son. Each of you has the potential to become an Old One, though one knows it not. It falls upon you to be strong for Kaileena, to stop her from destroying herself exactly as she has feared, and to complete the circle. If will fall to you to decide the fate of all things.”

Gods...

“You really lay it on heavily.” he mused, sarcastic despite himself, and he chortled. Unable to stop, he fell into a bout of deep belly laughter, which Surthath duplicated. He couldn’t help it; the sheer absurdity of it all was too great.

He laughed until every breath pained him, then disengaged from Surthath.

“Where do I go, then?” he asked, all seriousness once more, “What do I do?”

Alcharon stared blankly at this woman...this...outsider, as she sat calmly at the opposing end of his table.

His subjects, restored through necromancy, gnashed rotten, jagged teeth, their bodies mostly restored but their minds hazy from the long rest. Each of them were repositories for his ancient plague, which was to say nothing of their physical prowess or inherent magickal abilities.

If he wanted to he could have set them loose with a thought...but something in this woman’s eyes gave him pause. Rage; burning, all consuming wrath. He knew that feeling well.

“Why are you here?” he finally asked, tapping his gold-banded fingers on the table, “This is no place for any of the lesser races.”

The woman smiled, though the expression was cold as death, “I recently divined Tenri’s location and could not help but stumble onto your activities as well. Restored souls have a certain feel about them. As to why I am here, it is quite simple; you seek Botsu, the Grand Matriarch.”

Hissing at the very sound of that title, Alcharon rose, his fingers digging into the stone, “That I do. What is it to you?”

The woman, some manner of feathered blue lizard, blinked, her forked tongue flickering, “I would offer you the location and status of this person freely, as a show of tribute. In return, I ask only that you consider the offer I propose to you now. Let me explain...”

...Alcharon gasped as she finished, seeing the full scope of a mind more calculating and cunning than his own.

“You are mad.” he retorted, crossing his arms and taking his seat, “No such thing is possible. Not now.”

“That is where you are dreadfully mistaken.” she replied, “What I now am is capable of such a feat...but I cannot do it alone. You will aid me in this, and you shall claim your reward; something far greater than mere revenge.”

“You must truly hate them...” Alcharon mused, his undead body shivering, “Not even an eternity as a ghoul would be so terrible.”

She shook her head wearily, “Hatred no longer has a hold over me. Though it saturates my being it no longer dictates my actions. All that guides me now is the principal and pursuit of justice, true justice. This is my form of justice, one that will benefit all others who have proven themselves worthy.”

“Yes.” he replied, “But to go to such lengths...can you possibly bear such a burden?”

She nodded grimly, and he started at a realization, “Forgive me, milady, but my manners have degraded poorly by my long period of death. I never asked your name, nor offered my own. I greet you as friend and ally, as Alcharon the Accursed, Lord of the Vol’garla, Avenger of the Vol’garla, God King of this Hall, though it has found itself...lessened, as of late.”

“I greet you as well, as one who was once Kaileena Kazeatari, Champion of Teikoku and Lord of the South District. Now, I declare myself Anathema, founder of what shall soon be known as The Conclave. Your allegiance brings our number to four, for I also count a Carthspirian Wizard and an Ogre Rune Magi who were not able to attend this meeting. There will be yet more, very soon.”

Alcharon nodded, feeling lightheaded despite himself, “Where then, shall our work begin? I am eager to get started.”

To be continued in Book 4 of The Enchanter’s Cycle, “The Will of the Conclave”