James West - Shadow and Steel

“And what are you,” Leitos said, resuming his cautious retreat, “if not a man with those same powers?”

Laughter boomed. “I am a god.”

“A god?” Leitos glanced over his shoulder at his father. Ulmek now tottered along at Adham’s side, keeping one hand on his shoulder for support. The Throat waited not far ahead. He turned back. “Kian Valara, my own grandfather, a god? Long years I spent grubbing in the sand and rock of Geldain, all the while listening to tales of your deeds. Only one story my father ever mentioned spoke of a god-in it, you destroyed the one who named himself so. Is it not strange that you now take that mantle for yourself?”

The many-armed figure drew up short. “Prince Varis Kilvar was a petty fool who did not know his proper place. He thought his gift greater than it was, believed he could challenge and rule over all, even the makers of the world. His pride and ambition destroyed him … as will yours.”

“What pride can a former slave have?” Leitos retorted. “I have no wealth, no station, and no desire for either.”

The fiery shape of the Faceless One leaned near in a posture of curiosity. “Then what do you desire?”

Leitos frowned. The voice was still Kian Valara’s, but the tone had changed, a subtle difference-

“Hurry!” Adham cried.

Leitos looked around. His father waved frantically from the threshold of the Throat of Balaam. Ulmek had already stepped through.

“Tell me the longing of your heart,” the Faceless One urged, as Leitos turned back to face him. “Tell me, and I will bless you with those wants. Tell me….”

Leitos’s smile hid the tumult building within him. Powers beyond reckoning surged, an instant from breaking free. It was all he could do to keep his voice from shaking. “In all the world, only your death matters to me.”

He said it so calmly, so quietly, that the Faceless One did not respond. Leitos filled his mind with an image of the obsidian throne, and upon it the Faceless One, and then imprisoned both within a pillar of black-

Where the demon had been, now only what Leitos had pictured stood before him. Muted shrieks filtered through the opaque cage.

But it was not finished. Not yet. Leitos feared that what he had done, all by means outside his understanding, could just as easily be undone. He must erase the Faceless One from Creation. But who do I destroy … the creature, or my grandfather?

His hesitation did not last long. He made his choice and focused on creating a vision of Kian Valara sitting within the pillar. His grandfather, a man he had never met, until now. Despite the worthy deeds of his youth, he must have fallen to the lure of power at some point, and become the betrayer of all the world. And upon him, upon that throne, upon the chamber in which it sat, Leitos unleashed all the dark powers caught inside himself.

In a single, focused blast, the Powers of Creation, those never intended for the hands of men, turned all in its path to dark, smoking glass. At the same instant, Leitos swooned drunkenly, for a moment his mind and body seemingly in two different places-

When his mind caught up to the rest of him, the darkness of the Faceless One’s chamber fell swiftly away, as if a curtain had been torn back from a window that opened on a world of pure white.

Squinting against the sudden glare, Leitos fought to stand against a screaming gale, its breath colder than anything he had ever known, cold enough to turn tears to ice. Wind-driven snow stung his cheeks, pricking his skin like ground glass.

Where am I? The thought filled him with terror. He did not know if what he had done to destroy his enemy had failed. And if he had failed, then the Faceless One, the Bane of Creation, had won.

“No,” he murmured in disbelief, his voice swallowed by the white storm. Louder, a shout of outrage and regret. “NO!”

Then, straight ahead of him, carried on the back of the shrieking wind, he heard a dwindling shout.

He bent his head against the storm and struggled forward, each step sinking to his knees in feathery snow. He avoided thinking about the white cold, about where he was, and about how he had gotten there.

Out of the storm materialized a sprawled shape. A man, facedown, clad in leathers and furs. Beyond him, almost lost amid the shifting white gale, stood a black stone tower of graceless construction.

Of their own volition, Leitos’s feet slowed, and his hand sought his sword. A memory flitted through his mind when he touched the hilt, of how the weapon had looked while in the Faceless One’s throne room, black as the demonic souls of its forging.

But this was not that accursed blade, and the power to forge it had fled him.

He yanked at the hilt of the blade given him by Ba’Sel, and found that ice had welded it into the scabbard. He tried again, but it was no use. It did not matter. He would not need it.

Leitos halted above the still figure, working his cold, stiffening fingers to keep them supple. He kicked the figure onto his back, and found that he was again just a man. Kian Valera.

Leitos stared into the unconscious face of his oppressor, a face so like his own, and thought of Zera’s sisters, Belina with her visions, and of Nola, who looked so much like Zera. He thought of his father and the pain of revelation that must be, even now, crushing his spirit. He thought of Ulmek and Ba’Sel, of Sumahn and Daris, of Halan and Ke’uld, of all his lost brothers and dead Yatoans. And he thought of all the lands and peoples this man before him had crushed under his heel, slaying and enslaving, simply because it was within his power to do so. For those who yet lived, and for those who were not yet born, Leitos passed his silent judgment upon the Bane of Creation.

Teeth bared in a rictus snarl, Leitos knelt in the snow, wrapped his fingers around his grandfather’s thick neck, and began to squeeze.