Michael Stackpole: The New World

It would allow them to become gods themselves.

Chado nodded. “You see it, Jorim. We have always found ways to subvert the protections. Nessagafel created the Viruk. They enslaved our Men. You created the Fennych as a scourge upon the Viruk, and you denied Nessagafel the right to interfere with them. I created a variety of maladies that could attack all three. This allowed for a balance.”

“But if there was a balance, how did it became necessary to destroy Nessagafel?”

“Events, one tipping into another; things unforeseen and unpredictable.” Chado stopped at the edge of the balcony and leaned heavily on the balustrade. “When Nessagafel created the Viruk, he was still proud of us, his children. He made us gods among them, and we were worshipped. The Viruk thrived, and yet their enslavement of Men came to rankle. Tension grew, and Nessagafel realized two things. The first was that the Viruk were a superior creation to his own children. Second, and far more important, he realized that in creating us, he had granted us enough power that we could stage a revolt against him. He became determined to prune all the branches from creation, save for the Viruk. He would remake everything, and unmake us.”

Jorim frowned mightily. “How do you know this?”

The god of Shadows laughed. “Through you.”

“Me?”

Tsiwen patted his hand. “You loved our father and sought his attention. Yet you remained loyal to all of us, so when the true danger manifested, you opposed him.”

Jorim laughed. “Sounds like my grandfather Qiro.”

“In many ways they are linked.” The goddess of Wisdom smiled easily. “Allow yourself to think on the name Talrisaal.”

Jorim immediately recognized the name as being of Viruk origin, but his understanding stopped there. Yet concentration unlocked deeper memories. Before his mind’s eye, a scene unfolded deep in the jungles of Ummummorar. Jorim swooped down, his vision piercing the dense veil of leaves. As Men saw color and heard sound, likewise foreign emotions resonated through him.

Below, a band of Viruk raced along a twisting jungle trail. Full-grown warriors, save for one, they fled. One crashed through the brush ahead of the juvenile, while the half dozen others constantly tossed glances back at their pursuers. The warriors mumbled prayers to Kojai, the god of War, thinking he might be more merciful than the mighty and terrible Nessagafel.

But the young one, Talrisaal, prayed to Wentoki. He sought courage so he would not dishonor himself amid the company of warriors. He feared dishonor more than he feared death, and the fervency of his prayer attracted Wentoki’s attention.

Their pursuers boiled through the rain forest. Fennych moved in a vast band, low to the ground, teeth flashing and claws rending vegetation. When he had created the Fennych, Wentoki had made them gentle-a clownish crossing of small apes and bears. He did, however, imbue them with some magic, and it allowed them to change shape to adapt to new situations. In winter their coats might lighten, or if they hunted in caverns, their eyes would grow wide to sharpen their vision.

But in the presence of the Viruk, they lost all pretense of humor and became hardy predators. Viruk magic could not stop them, at least not directly. Warriors could kill them, but not easily; Fenn claws could shred their flesh as if it were smoke.

One warrior fell, then another as knots of Fenn pounced and rent them. The furred carpet of muscular bodies would have muffled any scream had the warriors time to voice one. Blood gushed and the Fenn anointed themselves before bounding off to kill more.

The Fenn advanced in a crescent with wings extending past the lead Viruk and closed slowly. The Viruk burst into a clearing. The scout plunged on through, reaching the tree line, then stumbled back with a half dozen Fenn tearing out mouthfuls of flesh. The two in the rear guard never even made it to the clearing, leaving the last two warriors warding the youth, staring out at the luminous eyes blinking from the shadows.

Though the warriors tried to restrain the youth, he stepped forward and spoke in a clear voice with no detectable fear. He described a circle with a finger and a wall of fire burst into existence around the three of them. The flames rose to the height of Talrisaal’s eyes. The warriors hunkered down, waiting and watching.

The Fenn drew the scout’s body into the forest.

The youth stood there, not cowering, but slowly turning to stare back at the Fenn. Fear still lurked within him, but he refused to surrender to it. He sought to project courage, and praised Wentoki’s name with every breath. He wanted the Fenn to know he would not run or scream. Though they might kill him, they would never break him, and even the Fenn seemed to acknowledge that as truth.

Wentoki manifested in the clearing as a man. The Viruk stared at him. Talrisaal could not hide his astonishment at a Viruk god choosing to assume the form of a slave. The youth dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the ground.

“It gladdens my heart, oh Wentoki, that you would come see how your gift is spent.” The innocence of youth filled the words with sincerity. “I shall not dishonor your gift.”

Wentoki chose to ignore the warriors who still begged for his dog-brother’s intervention. “You’ve prayed for courage to die well, Talrisaal. You don’t need it.”

The Dragon god gestured and the flames vanished. Darkness fell, shot through with snarls and screams.

Then the flaming circle returned, smaller, with the youth kneeling at its heart. The blood of his companions had been splashed over him, but no other trace of them remained. The fire’s renewed light did not fill the clearing, and the Fennych had encroached to shadow’s edge.

“Do you test me to see if I will be unworthy of your gift?”

“You are days and weeks from home. You are alone. Have you sufficient wisdom to survive?”

The youth’s mouth gaped for a moment. “I do not even have the wisdom to know how to answer you.”

“Then you will pray to my sister, Tsiwen.” Wentoki opened both arms and the circle of Fenn parted. “You have no need for courage, but I should not hesitate to lend it to you if you did. Go now. Tell no one of our encounter; they would not believe you.”

The young Viruk got to his feet and, without looking back, began the long march to his home.

Wordlessly, Wentoki commanded the Fenn to escort him. Talrisaal traveled north in the company of forest spirits that guided him to freshwater, scared away predators, and watched over him while he slept. All of this Wentoki observed from afar.

Jorim blinked. “Talrisaal became a great sorcerer among the Viruk.”

Chado nodded. “When our father thought to remake the world, he chose nine of his Viruk to replace us. They were sorcerers all, well versed in the warping of reality. He revealed to them his plan to supplant the gods, and Talrisaal revealed the plan to you. With the courage you lent him, he rebelled. While our father was distracted fighting to preserve Viruk unity, we were able to strike and kill him.”

“But not destroy him completely.” Jorim glanced at Grija. “He was trapped in your realm, in a place of your creation, which was why he could not escape.”

“Not until your sister did.”

“How did she do that?”

Tsiwen gestured and the world spun beneath them. Out in the vast Eastern Sea loomed a new continent. “She is there, in a place called Kunjiqui, in the land of Anturasixan.”

Jorim stared down. “A continent named for my family. How?” He thought for a moment and pain radiated through his chest. “My grandfather, he has become a Mystic. He created this place and pulled Nirati into it instead of losing her.”