Chapter 42 - To break a god (Final Evolution arc)

　　Gorkon stepped aside as he swung his head under, evading Dicebolg by a hair and hardly ceding ground; he rotated with the prince as the latter spun into a follow-up strike, sweeping in low with the dark blade. Another minimal movement in response— Gorkon dodging to the back but staying close. There was no retaliation. The taskmaster was playing with the prince more than anything. Taunting him so as to show the boundless gap. That between god and man.

　　But even gods can be deceived.

　　The scheming prince stormed inside the church, having just forced Gorkon away from the entrance. "Gendrin!" the prince shouted as he rushed to the antechamber past the altar... the ceremony participants were hiding close by, so why not there? It was worth a shot—the chance to eviscerate Gendrin. That would rouse his spirits to the utmost.

　　"STOP," Gorkon yelled after, his aura and commanding voice rippling the air.

　　And the prince felt his movements jerkily draw to a halt—the taskmaster`s order caused his body to freeze up, as feared and as expected. Resisting slightly, the prince tried to gauge the strength of the command, to assess whether opposing the taskmaster here and now would work. But the bind was like iron, inescapable save for with more-than-mortal effort. And so the prince relented, electing despite his fury to be mindful. His chance would come. Later, when the taskmaster was spent from forging.

　　"It pleases me, prince," said Gorkon as he entered. "You wield the sword with such ease." He walked over to where the prince stood rooted, sought his stare to further the humiliation. "It will hurt less if you just give in."

　　"Do... it," said the prince, concentrating hard to squeak out the words.

　　"No foul-mouthed distractions? You disappoint me. But have it your way." Gorkon drew in breath, held it for a moment as he channelled his raised aura—allocating all of his force to the command he and the prince both knew would come. The air cracked electric as the taskmaster spoke. "LEND ME YOUR MIGHT AND DICEBOLG`S SO I MAY REFORGE ZIEGB諰T."

　　Wholly spellbound now, the prince felt his eyes glaze over, the world growing dim. He was there still, in some deep-down recess of conscious presence. He was now, himself, like a far-off memory. Retrievable only with great and enduring strain.

　　The church bells tolled, and the seers sang. Then the darkmage appeared, silently, her features unobscured—she was almost beautiful. The haunting blue eyes that could kill a man and had. She had on the same conical hat—it was part of her attire like the scowl she always wore. In her hand was Caladbrinn, not the staff variant of her preference but its runesword form. Perfect for a sinister ritual.

　　Four hooded acolytes came rushing after, all emerging from the antechamber, their heads bent in pre-emptive reverence. Though a man he loathed was likely among them, the prince stayed too far down in stupor to reflect... exerting only such force as strictly necessary to maintain his sense of self—the fallen god would not lay claim his identity; this he had sworn and swore now again. Never would he fade as the lady he thought of no longer.

　　The procession commenced, a perfect copy of the one in memory. The four hooded figures went first down the stairs; then the darkmage followed, and then the entranced prince. Last of all came Gorkon, shutting the door behind him.

　　Observing the untold gravitas of the moment, the ground-dwelling goblins made way, scattering to the sides. They were the mostly unwitting spectators to the devil`s resurrection... or to something else entirely.

　　To start the proceedings, Gorkon slammed his fist into the broken pillar, overriding the concealment-spell and revealing the forge of the gods.

　　He brought the hammer down and produced the divine lighting, same as before—the scattering sparks of gold that hung windless in the air. The room was bright from hexed floor to ceiling, the macabre display that overlooked them all.

　　Three of the hooded figures disrobed, baring the runes blood-hammered deep into their skin. Two males and a female. One of them familiar. The oath-breaking cur, Gendrin. It entered the mind-space of the prince, penetrating past the surface level of sensory input. There was a flicker of rage that danced through to the core, but no more than that.

　　The prince and the darkmage moved to one conduit hex each, ready to stand vigil and lend both their own magic force and the might of the god-blades.

　　Then the hammering stopped, and the fourth hooded man came forth and bent respectfully before Gorkon, presenting a glyph-locked box that snapped open immediately—the taskmaster had no desire, it seemed, to draw out the ceremony.

　　The box housed the treasures of old: the two major shards of Ziegb鰈t, Ferignost and Truor鷖t, along with not three but five minor shards—they had all been located. All seven constituent shards. Ensuring that Ziegb鰈t, once reforged, would be less liable to breaking.

　　"Now," Gorkon called on a blood-runed servant to come and do what must be done. It was the other man, not Gendrin—and though he did not speak the goblin tongue, it was clear what was required. He grabbed hold of the two swords and grimaced; smoke rose from the palms of his hands. This one seemed ill-attuned to the godly blood, less suited to wield the mighty weapons than the woman in Rodrich`s time. Though for one in the room, the result was the same.

　　Stabbed twice through the gut, the fourth hooded man buckled, yet he did not scream—perhaps he did not think it proper. A chosen sacrifice might delight in honourable silence. The privilege is only bestowed once.

　　Then the taskmaster flung the man on the anvil, hammered a magestone in his dying body as blood spouted from his mouth. The forge roared to life, emitting red-golden flames that sparked in the hazed periphery of vision—the prince felt estranged from it all. Like a ghost he was wont to drift, tethered only by the body to being; he could not move. Not in spirit nor in flesh.

　　And the hooded man jerked back to fleeting life, his eyes ablaze with the yellow light of madness. The taskmaster sent him away, up the stairs and out the door. This was a vital sign for his friend outside, the prince knew, though the thought was faint and he could not piece the whole plan together. He was reduced to simple hope—when the time comes, he should know what to do.

　　The blood-runed man inserted both blades in the forge, spasming hard and growing pale—he was weak but unfaltering. His hands ballooned to twice the size, blistering over as he wailed in agony. The runes on his skin began to bleed, and the other two hurried over, Gendrin and the woman. Both placed a hand on the failing man`s shoulder, granting him an infusion of strength... and when at last the swords melted, the man`s arms were blackened and bleeding, well beyond the point of healing. But his task had passed, and so too his purpose. The taskmaster reached up and gripped around the neck, squeezed his hand with the iron grip till the man`s eyes burst apart from pressure. Limp like a rag he was tossed to the side. No use here for the frail and fragile-hearted.If you come across this story on Amazon, it`s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

　　Then the five minor shards were added to the fire, melting and melding with the two blades in the crucible. All elements of Ziegb鰈t, soon ready to be reforged.

　　When the metal sheets were plucked from the fire, the taskmaster went to work, hammering out the pre-extant pattern of divinity—the metal would know what shape to take. Though it took a god to get it done.

　　The conduit hex lit up, and the prince felt the tug of his meagre magic draining away—a mere side-effect from the procedure. The essence was in Dicebolg`s power and Caladbrinn`s, the two god-blades giving their energy without fading; the source of their strength was evermore renewed.

　　And for a while the taskmaster beat on, settling into a frenzied state and rhythm—his chest heaved harder now than ever it did in fight. Though in a sense this was the greatest battle: a god pitted against himself; he was his own equal. No man or woman living could hope to come close.

　　The prince felt his body sway under the strain of the ritual, though jolts of cleaner awareness pressed in also—the taskmaster was weary and his control waned at interim moments, a fraction of a second each time, right after banging the hammer.

　　In those precious few lucid timeframes, the prince caught glimpses of the crowd, studied their reactions. Some were staring up at the door where the staircase ended, growling in shock or disapproval. And the prince centred his focus, sniffing out the mild soulful aura he knew so well—the ethereal scent of a packmate. Artisan.

　　Though reeling still, the prince found the strength to rouse the part of him that knew... clawing out at the plan they had concocted. The ballista. Artisan was to fire it straight at the god—not the taskmaster, no. The other god. The dead one hanging on the ceiling. Kageru. The big brother Gorkon worshiped. The shock of such disrespect would diminish Gorkon`s hold on the prince... just enough to break free. So they hoped.

　　But more moments passed and no shot was heard, and the prince saw the faces change—the crowd shifting from anger to glee. Puzzled and alarmed, the prince fixated his every attention on the sound that ought to come but did not. Worse yet, he heard an empty click and snap, be it from mechanical failure or a jammed trigger mechanism. The result was the same. The shot would not go off.

　　No intervention of the sort to frustrate Gorkon into lapsing meant the prince was in deep trouble now. How the hell would he break free if the god was not rattled from the outside? He sensed around for the aura of his friend, and found it missing. Artisan had ran following the failing, and he was alone now. Truly alone. A sick despair rose up like bile, and the prince saw himself as Rodrich, a man doomed to fade as an almost-winner in the annals of unrecorded history.

　　Still, the prince stayed with it, this disavowal of hope. He pondered what it meant to have it and to have not, analysed his emotions from before and after. A warrior-poet`s way of surpassing the fear and loss of perspective—to scrutinize the facts till true meaning is found or eroded. Thus retaining a semblance of presence, the prince readied himself for the all-or-nothing moment, when Gorkon declared the hammering complete and was at his most exhausted. Then he would break away like Rodrich and...

　　His thoughts were interrupted as an unknown projectile thudded on the ground, something large that was flung off from up high... by Artisan! The prince sensed his friend`s soul back in place. This alone was some measure of reassurance—he was less lonely already in his greatest ever trial. But now to get his bearings... and to try and grasp what Artisan`s new plan was. A backup plan by all accounts, defying Rodrich`s all-in-all-the-time-mentality. Yet the new prince sovereign of the land would abide it; Rodrich`s time had ended, and so had weak Bartold`s.

　　As the prince tried to piece it all together, Gorkon yelled a clear get him!` to the goblins, who were mostly dazed, staring in confusion at what Artisan had thrown, and why.

　　Several goblins made for the stairs, ready to fulfill the order and kill Artisan. The prince noted this, yet was rooted to the ground still, cradled by the infinite lull of the god`s command and the draining ritual. But there was no time. He had to act now and save his friend. And to do so, the prince would trust him first—in the end, it would come down to faith of all things. Faith in the decisive importance of whatever thing Artisan had hurled down.

　　With all his might, the prince fought against Gorkon`s command, though it felt futile, like trying to shift the course of the stars. A sliver of clear vision is all the prince could wrest free. But it was enough. More than enough.

　　He saw the blue robe of the frostmage, how it draped around the death of love. There was no bright blue left in the rot of her eyes—the right one gone entirely. Subject to decay or eaten by the maggots that crawled in and out of her, feasting on the liquefied flesh of her hands, her face. A single lock of frayed blonde hair still hung from the skin and blood near her open scalp, decayed now to the bone of her skull in parts. Morsels of her smashed brain seeped out from the hole.

　　The prince took it all in, processing the visual, contrasting it to the living memory of her. He wanted at first to reject it, the truth flung right before his eyes. But that lasted only for a single beat—he renounced his own disavowal and his weakness. She was dead and he was alive, emerging fully to the present now, borne on the lofty wings of unbearable wroth, swelling like a cancer within him—the prince on the point of bursting.

　　He wanted to rip every fibre out of bleak existence. Rampage against the light itself. What dark, cruel and godless world would permit the unspeakable? Better then for it all to burn, thought the prince, whether consciously or not—this was unclear, for what he felt was the fire of his and her anguish. The two of them could fight for a final time. Together. The prince and the frostmage. Together they could tear at the heavens or what remained. Beat apart this fallen god.

　　And as fate would see fit, the work had just been completed—Ziegb鰈t lay there on the anvil, freshly reforged as the final blow of the hammer rang out. Right in the metal-sounding aftermath, the prince pulled free with a hell-raising shout, rallying his every cell to strike out at injustice, for one and all, the pale hopeless sinners he had known and loved: Artisan and the lady and above all himself. He lunged out in a blue-clad mist, the blaze of his aura brought out in full, moving as fast as any mortal man with the sword behind him, dreaded Dicebolg arcing in with a wind-up strike. Here was all he was worth in one single goddamn effort... and time slowed down for the two of them locked in here together—the prince and the god, so they both might cherish it, the second that was like an hour in the moment their eyes met, the fierce look of vengeance and flame; the brittle gaze of a newfound fear.

　　Cleaving in raw and hard, the prince proved it for him and the frostmage. That a god can bleed.

　　Dicebolg ripped through the flesh and bone of Gorkon—a swing so divine it tore out half the midsection, then sheared to a stop in the broken god`s spine. He did not speak or try to. There was only the fear and disbelief, this faint glow in his eyes that dimmed.

　　The prince staggered back, likewise struck by the incredulous truth of what he was seeing—the god that had died to one man`s will and conviction. No. She had given him the strength. He looked again at her, the rotting puss that once was perfect. He shivered and collapsed, caught himself on the way down, heaving from anguish and exertion. A searing pain enveloped him; it was beyond reckoning. His body was spent in that one superlative moment, exceeding all the limits of muscle and bone. Convulsing in feral jerks, the prince tipped over, writhing in agony on the floor. He gripped at his head that seemed near to shattering—the same torment as when he had faced the groundskeeper. The cracked-skull feeling that went deeper still somehow. It was his mind, the worn-out identity he had been burdened with. Scraped together from torn pride and hate.

　　There is no man alive who cannot be broken.

　　"GAEL," the prince howled, taking in her name for a final time, or so it felt, for his mind and heart and vision... they all went dark, succumbing to a pressure too great to withstand. Victorious and spent, the prince passed out.

　　But the shout itself endured, resonating in all the goblin minds and bodies—they felt it like a curse, this hard word of command. What their new-arisen leader demanded was unclear, but that hardly mattered. Savage roars rose up to meet the prince`s dying call. And they moved like a pack, wild and unburdened, seeking chaos for its own sake. Thronging in around the outsiders—the foul-smelling humans with runes in their skin, and the one with the pointy hat, holding the sword that was also a staff.

　　Let there be blood.

　　Only thus could the horde honour their fierce lord and his first command.