Michael Manning - The God-Stone War

“I haven’t felt well for a long while now. I couldn’t be sure at first, but I’ve done a lot of research into this…,” he started, but I interrupted.

“Research?” I mocked. “You’re no physician, and you haven’t the first idea what might be wrong.”

He drew a patient breath, “I have a very good idea what is wrong. Let me finish.”

I sat back and glared at him. “Alright, I’m all ears. Let’s hear your diagnosis.” Even as I spoke, I was refocusing my senses, searching within him for any sign that something might be wrong. Given my anger, I wasn’t at my best, but I could easily rule out any major problems immediately. His heartbeat was steady, respiration normal, all of his innards were in their proper places and there were no large abnormalities, like growths or tumors. I couldn’t be entirely sure though. It would take at least ten or fifteen minutes, and a calm mind, before I could dismiss the possibility of more subtle problems. Even then I could never be perfectly certain. One thing that did bother me however, was his vitality, his aythar itself; it was noticeably dimmer than that of most normal people.

“It’s called the ‘grey wasting’,” he said carefully.

I narrowed my eyes, “Did you invent the name yourself?”

My needling finally roused his ire. “Would you stop acting an ass and listen to me!?”

He was right. Taking a deep breath, I answered, “Alright, tell me what makes you think you’re dying.”

“I didn’t have any specific symptoms at first, just a general malaise. There was never anything specific I could point to as the source. I thought perhaps it was just a normal part of getting older.”

I suppressed a laugh. We were only twenty seven, so I wondered how long that theory had lasted.

He went on, “While she was searching through the archives, Marissa came across a physician’s textbook that documented a case similar to mine. The physician was a priest of Karenth, and his case revolved around a fellow priest, a man who had once been ‘chosen’ by their god, much as I was by Millicenth. On this occasion, the chosen vessel had been occupied by his god for over ten years before Karenth decided that he was no longer needed. In effect the priest was retired from his direct service to the god. Unlike me, he was not declared a heretic and cast out; he simply was no longer needed.” Marc paused and took a long sip of his wine before continuing.

“He died a year later at the age of forty two. His friend and physician carefully documented his decline. No cause was ever found. The priest simply grew weaker until one day his heart no longer had the strength to continue beating.”

I broke in as he paused, “It has been almost eight years since you and Millicenth parted ways, and that is beside the fact that your story shows no definite connection between the god leaving him and his eventual demise.”

Marc lifted one eyebrow and I knew he must have more. “True, by itself that story would be nothing more than an isolated anecdote, but after his friend’s death the physician began researching similar cases.”

“What was this physician’s name?” I asked.

“Thomas of Cantley,” Marc replied, “not that it matters.”

I didn’t know much about medical history and the name didn’t stir any memories, so I nodded for him to continue.

Marc began again, “He found three cases of similar circumstances over the previous century, and going even further back he found many more, though they were too remote for him to get much in the way of firm information. Eventually he named the condition kaltrin atrophie , which were simply his words for ‘grey wasting’.”

I drained my glass and stood up to pour another from the bottle. I picked up Marc’s glass and topped it off without waiting for him to ask. Turning back I addressed him, “In spite of all that… it has still been nearly eight years, and yet you are still among the living, my friend.”

His face took on a sad smile. “One of the cases he documented lasted almost ten years. It bore a striking similarity to mine. The ‘host’ had only been blessed by the god… in this case Celior, for a period of a few weeks before he was cast aside. In fact, in most cases there was a direct relation between the length of time the person had hosted their deity, and how quickly they died.”

Despite my strong urge to rail at him, to deny his argument, I could not help but feel the resonance of truth within his words. As I suppressed my emotions we locked eyes; and in that moment, I saw the degree of his conviction. We had been friends since a very young age, and we sometimes communicated more in a glance than an hour long discussion. He had been studying this for a while, trying to find a way to dismiss what he had found. He had already gone over all the arguments I might present.

“None of those men who died before had a friend that was an archmage,” I stated simply.

“Several had friends who were wizards,” he replied, “and one of them went so far as to form the bond with the man that was dying.”

That surprised me. “Why?”

Marc raised his glass and took a slow sip. “It was a case not long after the Sundering and the man that had been put aside by his god was close friends with a wizard named Samuel Mordan. Apparently, they developed a strong kinship during the war against Balinthor and the shiggreth. Samuel was a notable healer, and his theory was that while the god had occupied his friend, it had somehow damaged what he called the ‘wellspring of vitality’.”

“I can only assume you mean his body’s means of producing aythar,” I commented. All living beings produced aythar in varying degrees. It was also the main reason Moira Centyr’s living shadow was slowly fading, if indeed she still existed at all. When the original Moira had created her copy, she had given it a fixed amount of aythar and over time it had dwindled. When I had first met her, I had unwittingly provided the ‘source’ she needed in order to manifest; she had already become too weak to act on her own.

Marc nodded. “If what Samuel, and later Thomas of Cantley, had theorized was correct, the occupation of a living human body somehow damaged the aythar source of the human occupied. Over time, depending upon how severe the damage, the person would gradually weaken as they used up their remaining aythar and were unable to replenish it.”

Now I understood the reason Samuel Mordan had formed a bond with his friend. A wizard and his Anath’Meridum shared their aythar through the bond. Samuel had hoped that the bond might provide the vitality his friend needed to survive. “So what happened with Samuel and his friend after they formed the bond?”

Marc’s eyes bored into my own. “They both died a few weeks later.”

“I have a better idea,” I began, but he stopped me before I could finish.

“It isn’t your decision, Mort.”

I waved my hands dismissively, “I won’t risk myself. Listen, I’ll create a bond with the earth. That will provide more aythar and even if it fails, no one else gets hurt. There’s no reason not to try at least. Hell, I might be able to repair the part of you that generates your aythar. That Samuel person you spoke of was only a wizard. I can go deeper. If I enter your body, as I did with Penny, it might be possible for…”

“No.”

“I don’t understand.”

Marc lowered his head a bit, as if speaking to a child. “You damn well ‘do’ understand,” he said, emphasizing the word ‘do’.

“You’re worried I’ll get myself killed?” I suggested.

“No. You should know well enough that I respect your freedom to do stupid things and get yourself killed if you want to, even though you have a family and children and a hundred other reasons not to take idiot chances with your own life,” he answered.