Zachary Jernigan - No Return

Through the agony, he sensed the casting of a second foreign spell.

Like iron shavings adhering to a lodestone, fragments of voidstuff stuck to his skin, covering him completely, numbing him from the outside in. Trapped, he struggled for control over his body, and lost.

The pain faded to nothing while his mind raged.

The spell moved his limbs. He strode forward, though his feet did not touch the ground. He bent, took Adrash’s head in his hands, and lifted the limp body. The god’s sigil flickered off every few seconds, reappearing slightly dimmer, slightly smaller each time.

Pol pulled him in close and kissed him at the exact moment the sigil fluttered off.

The moon disappeared. The universe flooded with sunlight—

—and he found himself on a field of blue flowers.

Three figures stood before him. A muscular man clothed in black from head to toe. A warrior-woman covered in freckles. A giant man composed of brass spheres. Adrash’s body lay at their feet. The man in black spoke harsh, alien words, and Adrash’s divine armor began to smoke, blistering and charring upon his body.

The perspective lurched, and suddenly Pol was flying at great speed over Knoori. Desert. Water. The domed island of Osa in the distance. Land. Pine forests. Finally, the Aspa range. He floated above a mountaintop valley with a lake at its center. Scattered everywhere were ruins, and among the ruins lay thousands upon thousands of elder corpses, naked to the sun. Men gathered around these, hacking them open with stone blades.

The perspective lurched again, and once more he was flying eastward over the continent. His speed increased so that he could not make out the details below. Then he was over water again: Jeru, the Great Ocean. He flew into a wall of cloud and just as quickly was out of it, descending into the alien landscape of a new continent. Glass and steel spires, entire cities of them, rose from the forests, plains and immense lake platforms. Roadways that stretched like ribbons of black silk crisscrossed the ground, and everywhere corpses lay.

No, not corpses. Living elders, glowing with life—merely sleeping. A spear of sunlight shot down upon one, and it lurched to its feet. It turned and stared at Pol with liquid eyes the color of dried blood. A sound built in the space between Pol’s ears, rising steadily in volume.

The howl of a wolf.

A hundred thaumaturgical engines churning.

The crumbling of a mountain into the sea.

The elder screamed, and Pol saw no more.

‡

He woke, sprawled on the moon’s iron soil. A yellow-white glow faded from his eyes. The spells were still upon his body.

Above him, the Needle was broken, its twenty-seven spheres spread across the sky. One hung stationary only a few thousand miles from the moon’s surface. At the limits of unaided vision, another spun so rapidly Pol could not see its rims without quickening his perceptions.

The sight filled him with fear greater than any he had experienced since childhood—the kind of fear he had forgotten he had ever felt. For a thousand years, the Needle had stretched straight and true. Fifty generations of men had stared into Jeroun’s sky, reassured or made fearful by the nearly unvarying sight of it. If they did not look too closely or were simply unobservant, they probably believed it did not change at all—that Adrash had no intention of using the spheres as weapons. Pol considered with what horror men would greet the following evening, knowing how wrong they had been.

And you will still be wrong , he thought. This is not your god’s doing. He turned his head. Adrash lay on the ground where he had fallen. His chest did not rise or fall. Though whole, the divine armor had taken on a dull, greyish cast.

Pol stood, swaying on unsteady legs but otherwise unharmed. Understanding that a decision must be made, he nonetheless struggled to bring his mind to bear. His thoughts swam in a thick stew, making it difficult to concentrate. He had not killed Adrash—of this he could be sure. That would not be so easily accomplished. Furthermore, why would the armor still cling to the god if no life moved within him?

The best thing would be to flee, Pol reasoned. Too exhausted to cast another spell, he stood no chance against Adrash if he were to wake. Still, Pol did not move. Already, he felt haler than he had when he woke. He resolved to wait a few moments, gather his strength.

A little time , he thought, and I will be able to cast again.

He did not have the luxury of rallying his reserves. Adrash twitched, and slowly began to rise. He fell twice, and rose again. Shaking with the effort, he finally lifted his head. He opened his eyes and light spilled forth, growing brighter until it pushed at Pol.

Pol braced his legs and pushed back, but to no avail. The force of the god’s gaze buffeted him like a strong wind, and then began relentlessly propelling him backwards.

I would go , the god said. He fell to his knees, but kept his eyes on Pol. You have done better than I imagined, Pol Tanz, but you have not killed me.

Pol no longer sensed amusement behind the words, which burned through his mind and constricted the hearts in his chest. He wilted under the force of Adrash’s anger. He struggled against the light, all the while knowing he would be a fool to stay.

Run while you can , the god said. You will not get the opportunity again.

PART FIVE

VEDAS TEZUL

THE 27 thOF THE MONTH OF ROYALTY, 12499 MD

THE CITY OF DANOOR, THE REPUBLIC OF KNOS MIN

The dirt floor of the ring had been raked and salted, but the smell of blood and sweat lingered in the huge arena tent. Large, smokeless alchemical lamps hung from oak crossbeams and steel wire far overhead, illuminating the restive mass of attendants.

The light did not reach through the press of bodies to where Vedas sat in the east corner of the tent, however. His black suit and dark features blended with the shadows, and people left him alone. Of course, they knew he was there. They stole glances in his direction, whispered his name. Black Suits of one hundred orders, holding glasses of red wine or yellow lager, sharing joss and eating ostrich rinds from oily bags—the high and the lowborn, master and acolyte, speaking his name, pinning hope upon their champion.

He had killed seven White Suits before dusk. The day before, he had killed eight. Due to the great success of the Black Suits in the tournament, and despite the creative shuffling of the brackets, he had also been forced to kill four of his brothers and two of his sisters. The final bout, after all, could not occur between siblings of the same faith.

It had not pleased him to take any of their lives, but he had done so just the same.

And though it might have been useful to analyze their fighting styles, glean something from his successes, he shied away from these memories. He centered his thoughts, burying the past under a tonnage of mental static as best he could. It was a challenge to sustain this state, despite the practice he had put into it. For two long days, he had not allowed his mind to wander or speculate uselessly. He had not followed the other fights or counseled with anyone about the standings. He had simply fought whoever stood before him.

Grey, his final opponent, was only a name, a faceless rival on the other side of the tent, just as the others had been before dying by Vedas’s hand. Undoubtedly, this approach could be seen as dangerously careless.

And yet, only Vedas and one other remained.

Clearly, ignorance had not hampered him overmuch.