Paul Kemp - The Godborn

“You all right?” Vasen asked.

“I. . think so,” Orsin said. “Is it over?”

“It’s over,” Cale said, and he and Vasen pulled Orsin to his feet.

“Where’s Riven?” Orsin asked.

Cale half smiled, the shadows swirling around him. “Riven is. . gone. He’s Mask. Or Mask is Riven. I don’t know.”

Orsin clutched his holy symbol, murmured a prayer to the Shadowlord.

Cale, Magadon said. I’m not going to make it there. The Source is almost gone. Sakkors is coming down.

It’s all right, Mags. You did enough. Get out of there. It’s over.

But it wasn’t over.

A moan from behind turned them all around. Rivalen stood on wobbly legs, the nightseer no longer a god, but just a man. His golden eyes looked at the tiny, withered, shrunken distortion that was all that remained of Shar’s eye.

“It can’t be,” he said.

It struck Cale then. No shadows spun around Rivalen. Vasen’s light had stripped him of them, at least for a time.

Gerak nocked and drew. Orsin assumed a fighting stance and shadows formed around his fist. Vasen and Cale stalked toward Rivalen, Cale holding the jagged remainder of Weaveshear.

Brennus is coming for Rivalen, Erevis, Magadon projected. Don’t interfere.

What?

Magadon didn’t respond but Cale took him at his word. He held up a hand to stop Gerak from firing.

“I’m still the nightseer,” Rivalen said, glaring at them with his golden eyes.

The shadows darkened around Rivalen and a second Shadovar stepped from the shadows and took Rivalen. He was shorter, slighter of build, with steel-colored eyes.

“No. You’re a murderer. And you belong to me.”

“Brennus!” Rivalen said.

The shadows swirled and both of them were gone.

The Source was barely cognizant of Magadon. Its light was almost out. They were somewhere within the Maelstrom, over Ordulin. When the Source was gone entirely, the city would plummet from the sky.

I have to go now , Magadon said. Thank you for everything. Rest well, my lovely.

The Source did not perceive him.

Magadon sent the Source feelings of comfort, of affection, drew on its power for the last time, and transported himself to the plaza he’d seen through Cale’s eyes.

“Mags!”

The half-fiend had let his hair and horns grow long. His asp eyes, white but for the pupils, crinkled in a grin.

“Erevis!”

They embraced.

“You let your hair grow,” Cale said to him.

Mags eyed Cale’s bald pate. “You did not. And we need to go. Right now.”

“Aye,” Cale said.

Past Mags, through the shadowed sky, Cale saw the mountain of Sakkors plummeting earthward. Ordulin would be pulverized.

Orsin dragged his staff on the ground, scribing a line on the plaza’s stone. “A new beginning,” he said.

Cale nodded. “Let’s go see what it brings.”

He drew the shadows of maelstrom around all of them, and took them from there.

Brennus stood behind Rivalen, holding his brother’s arms against his sides. He had his mother’s necklace in his hand, too, pressing it hard into Rivalen’s flesh. Both of them looked up at Sakkors as it fell toward them. Rivalen struggled, but he’d been weakened too much. He could not shake Brennus’s grip.

Brennus put his lips to Rivalen’s ear. “We raised Sakkors from the sea, you and I. And now we’ll stand under it as it falls. Think of mother as you die, Rivalen. She was the instrument of your downfall.”

“Don’t, Brennus. Don’t.”

Brennus smiled as Sakkors fell. Shadows swirled around him. “It’s done,” Brennus said. “Your bitterness is sweet. . to me.” Rivalen shouted defiance as the mountain crashed down on them. Brennus only grinned.

Gerak walked the cobblestone streets of Daerlun, head down against the rain. Soldiers were everywhere, tramping through the streets, filling the inns. Sakkors may have fallen, but Shadovar and Sembian forces were still on the march, and Daerlun was readying for an attack.

He hadn’t been in a city for long time, and the close confines made him uncomfortable. He’d promised to meet Vasen and Orsin there, but it had been the better part of a tenday and still no word. It might have been better that way. He didn’t know how much more appetite he had for any of it. The things he’d seen. .

Rumors ran like the trots through Daerlun’s populace, fed by charlatans and diviners and those who sold information for coin.

“Something terrible had happened in Ordulin,” some said. “A second Shadowstorm was coming, this time for Cormyr.”

“Sakkors had fallen.”

“Shar is walking Toril,” others said.

“No,” said others. “Mask has been reborn.”

“No, you’re wrong,” said still others. “Mask was never dead.”

Gerak never bothered to correct anyone. Hells, he’d been there and he still wasn’t entirely sure what he’d seen. He just knew he’d seen too much. He’d spent his days since in various common rooms around Daerlun, drinking and trying not to think about what he’d seen, where he’d been. He had a feeling that what he’d seen in Ordulin was merely the beginning, that Toril had hard, painful days ahead.

He had painful days ahead himself. Fairelm was gone, Elle was gone, their child was gone. And he. . didn’t know what to do. He had no family, no home, no anything save the next ale cup and the next drunken, dreamless sleep. He considered Vasen and Orsin comrades, friends even, but the two of them shared a unique bond, and he knew he’d always be on the outside of it.

The rain slacked to a light drizzle. He plodded through the mud, picking his way through the wagons and hooded pedestrians of the city. Ahead he saw a painted wooden sign swinging in the wind: The Bottom of the Cup , it read. His kind of alehouse. He needed a shave and a bath, but first he needed another drink.

He reached into his trouser pocket, took inventory of the silver and copper coins there. Enough metal jangled to get him through another few days. He picked up his pace, heading for the tavern.

A voice from the alley to his right stopped him short. “Gerak.”

Gerak turned, blinked, his flesh growing goose pimples. Riven stood in the mouth of the alley. He wore his cloak, his sabers, his sneer and goatee, and his presence crowded out everything else on the street. Behind him, the alley was cast in deep shadows, so dark that Gerak could not see into it.

Riven regarded him with one knowing eye and one empty socket. “Where you headed?”

Gerak looked around. No one else seemed alarmed at the presence of a god on the street. He walked up to Riven, cautiously, the way he might a dangerous animal.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“You don’t look good.”

“I’m fine. Just about to grab a drink, is all.”

Riven sneered. “You look like you’ve already had a few.”

“Maybe I have,” Gerak said. “What’s that to you? A god has come to lecture me about my habits?”

It occurred to him in passing that he was snarling at a reincarnated god; Mask stood before him.

“That’s because I know those habits,” Riven said. “You just did a big thing, saw wonders, right? But now it’s over. And you got no family or home to come back to. You’re feeling alone, kind of empty. Not even anyone you’d call friends to visit with, or at least not good friends.”

Gerak started to protest, but Riven silenced him with a raised hand and a nod.

“Oh, I know. You want to say Vasen and Orsin are your friends, and you’d be right. But you know how things are. Those two, they’re like brothers. You, you’re just a sometime cousin. They welcome you, but you’re not necessary. Is that about it?”