Chapter 39 - Ziegb鰈t reforged (Pre-final Evolution arc)

　　Slamming the old-forged hammer down, Gorkon gave an anguished look—he was all-in involved, striking chords that echoed and clung to the air, weighing it down with a hard tone between reverence and irreverence.

　　Each fell swing sent gold sparks scattering; they drifted up high and hung still, like motes of divine dust, suffusing the room with a bright flood of light.

　　The prince looked up in awe, eyes flitting past the vacant walls to the magnificent ceiling—the pantheon of the forged gods were depicted there in masterful fresco; it was almost like heaven, with the soaring sparks from the anvil serving as the star-lit scenery.

　　The drawings had the four lesser gods make up the outline, hovering idly and shoved off to the circular sides; they were shown in subdued shades of blue and green: Yulvolde, Eteraenem, Maienexis... and Faruikis, the one goblin-god truly present.

　　Nearer to the centre, the three greater gods were pictured, two of them in vibrant hues of yellow and orange, Reduvex and Paldufaer, taking up warlike stances, wielding Dicebolg and Caladbrinn respectively; both encircled and accosted the fallen great god at the centre. Kageru.

　　The mighty devil was oddly lifeless; his was the pale hue of death. He was half-man and half-goblin, illustrated as both saint and sinner, holding two swords still, though his body was nailed to a cross, and... oh god.

　　The illusion of sanctity promptly broke, and a terrible truth imposed itself on the prince, who stood sombrely staring up—he could avert his eyes no longer from this haunting tableau, knowing now what he was seeing.

　　Blurring the lines of art and afterlife, the figure of Kageru was not merely painted but physically part of the structure, a three-dimensional relic plastered into the scene. It was his half-decayed true form, affixed to the ceiling. The corpse of the devil, partly decomposed and partly divine. There for all to see. The brutal line between the immortal and impermanent. The fallen god that could come back—with Ziegb鰈t the rot could be shorn from his heart and mind, and he would live. And then all the world would fall dark. Creatures of death would swarm up and reign above as below. Hell on earth was never far off.

　　"Hell is here," said the prince, knowing full-well the multitude of times he had uttered the words... but now was different; there was no getting closer to the core of hell than standing there, staring up at the starlit corpse of the devil that was due to revive.

　　"It begins," said Artisan, alerting the prince to the present moment, the motion of living bodies and the evil they brought.

　　Holding a glyph-locked wooden box, the hooded figure near the stairs strode forth as the seers on the floor above sang—a hymn of war and death, the prince thought, for the tone was strident. Not at all serene like the chants he had known.

　　And as the hooded man bent before Gorkon, a high-ranking goblin raised his sword to command the rest, storming up the stairs with the might of dozens.

　　"A token resistance outside," Artisan said. "The weak king Alaric, son of the great king standing broken before us. Have you not wondered why he is called interloper? He has lied to his banners and summoned them, claiming Dicebolg had been stolen by a fiendish cult, devil-worshippers hiding in Landsbury. But it was all Rodrich`s plan from the start. And the weak son handed the sword to his goblin father. All that so that armoured men can die in a pointless siege—they do not mean to take the town. How is that for a lesson in lost history?"

　　The prince took it in but did not respond—his eyes were glued to the box, the glyph lock cracking open at Gorkon`s behest. Two great swords were revealed and a handful of minor shards: Ferignost and Truor鷖t; the shards were nameless now, splintered from the god-blade Ziegb鰈t.

　　"There is my bane," Artisan lamented. "The red blade Ferignost. But see how it pales in the light of the two—Dicebolg and Caladbrinn, the master swords. To be held only by the hands of the worthy; they cannot be contained like luggage. Hurling flame as they singe through skin, so do the god-blades exert their living will."

　　"Why does he not take them?" the prince asked, noting Gorkon did not reach out; he demanded the blood-runed woman rise and take the two swords.

　　"He cannot or will not; I do not know which." Artisan paused. "I think the latter—he is a coward above all. Hiding still in the shadow of his brother."

　　Both men let their gaze flick up but not for long—they tore away, lest their eyes become spellbound by the body of the devil. He would always be there, if not nearer still. For now, the true ceremony was here. On the ground below.

　　The blood-runed woman took a breath, then retrieved the two at once, Ferignost and Truor鷖t. The runes lit up red under her skin as her shoulders sagged; she sighed, seemingly in relief—her hands had the power to hold the two blades without fainting. Without much strain at all, it appeared, for in a single beat of her heart she stepped in close to the hooded man with the box, stabbed him straight through the stomach with both swords. A single gasp and then silence as he choked on his blood.

　　Gorkon grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him on the altar; there were muffled groans of horrid pain, but the room did not care.

　　The prince watched with bated breath as the taskmaster dug into his robe and produced a magestone, placing it on the dying man`s chest as he brought the hammer down. The clang resonated hard through the air, melding with the man`s sharp cry. Lifeless for a moment, and then he rose, his body jerking to a twisted state of readiness. His tongue lolled out as his skin shrank back, eyes fervent and ablaze with a yellow glow.The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

　　"Necromancy," the prince whispered, mostly to himself—it brought him back to where they were, the blighted grounds of Landsbury. He felt the grip of Rory, the frenzied townsman who had been impossible to shake. Until Gael intervened. Always Gael.

　　"Aye, puppets of the devil," Artisan affirmed. "His final antithesis to creation. They are dead like us, but in all other respects our opposite. Fearsomely strong but for the briefest time only—they wither and die within the day. And they stay dead. You ask me, they have it good, considering."

　　"Considering what?" the prince snapped back—the hurt and loss seemed again so raw, seeing this new-formed creature of hell arise.

　　"The other end, us goblins. We are weak even at our strongest, not a match for a well-trained man. And how we are built to endure, with some reaching a hundred years of age, still spry enough to fight... and die. And be reborn again as the same thing but worse. No, prince, I`ll take the necromancer`s curse any day over this. But w—"

　　In a roar, the forge had come alive, consecrated by the death and rebirth of the necromantic thrall sitting there with ghastly eyes and shrivelled skin. Red-golden flames spat up from the forge; it yearned for feeding.

　　Gorkon waved the sacrificial thrall away, sent him up the stairs and off to war. Then he ordered the blood-runed killer woman to commence, and she did, reaching both Ferignost and Truor鷖t into the forge, sending red and gold flares jetting forth as the blades began to melt... like did the skin of the woman; her hands blistered over, became unsightly and red as she groaned from the strain and the honour—it was a crucible to her, in her mind. A rite of passage to be deemed worthy.

　　Gorkon seemed to approve—even a curt nod in acknowledgment is a rare thing from the taskmaster, one so self-absorbed and cowardly as he.

　　By the time the swords had melted to the point of malleability, the woman`s arms had completely charred over—a full destruction of skin that could not be undone.

　　Then the three minor shards were thrown in the forge and left to simmer...

　　"Now the transfer," Artisan said. "Dicebolg and Caladbrinn lending their power."

　　"And the wielders," the prince added. "They confer their essence as well, to be left hollow after?"

　　"No, nothing quite that insidious. They are merely drained of their magic stat; both the man and the goblin f—"

　　"Because Kageru is himself half-and-half, both goblin and man still," the prince interrupted. "That`s why this satanic ritual demands one of each."

　　Then they fell quiet, the prince and Artisan—their eyes were on Gorkon, who had collected the sheets of malleable metal on his anvil, and was now pounding away, blasting the hammer down with the force of a god, and with the speed of one also—the thunderous rhythm he maintained was immense.

　　"The parts are incomplete, so it takes longer," Artisan said. "Only three minor shards and not all five."

　　A crescendo everlasting—Gorkon had this dreadful might that made the prince go pale, not in fear, but in knowing. Looking at Rodrich standing in the leftmost conduit hex, upright in body but prostrate in the true realm of mind, where things are finally decided... the prince was all too cognizant that, soon, it would be him.

　　"How will I fight him?" the prince asked, reduced once more to bitter awe. "He has the strength of ten men—human elites, mind you. Not the goblin rabble we measure up against now."

　　"He can crush you with a single strike or even a blow, his fist would do you in no doubt." Artisan fell silent for a moment. "Look at him, fighting with all he has still." He nodded up at Rodrich, whose eyes were glazed in compelled obedience... but there was a fire there, too. Sweat poured off the great king and even his body shook, faintly, and only at times. "Even here he impressed me—believe me, prince. The man was a marvel. But you... you are greater still. You must be. For me and for Linaria, for yourself and for the world. One among us can stop this mad god. It is you. Only you."

　　They watched on for minutes, though it felt like hours went by, gauging the strain on the faces of the gathered—Rodrich foremost, but the Caladbrinn-wielder also: a grim fatigue clung to him now as he was drained by the hex, his magic stat fully depleting.

　　And then there was Gorkon, grunting loudly and with a grimace, looking almost mortal from the weariness and sweat—even gods were tested on this day.

　　"Watch now, prince," said Artisan, "for this is why I so revere him."

　　With a final clatter, the god threw off the hammer and sank to his knees. "AT THE READY," he roared to the three blood-runed humans, and they all came running, stumbling over one another... for cooling on the anvil lay the third great weapon of the world—Ziegb鰈t reforged.

　　"It is done," Artisan said, "But still taking in power—note the hex conduits, how they are still lit."

　　And indeed, the prince saw how Dicebolg and Caladbrinn were still funnelling their divine might into the third god-blade; it was forged but still charging.

　　"GAAAH GNYEEEE," a new fell voice cleft the silence—it was Rodrich, tearing free his mind from Gorkon`s hold. "AVENGE ME!" he pealed at the goblin horde gathered, then he lowered Dicebolg and slashed his own gut open. All spent in a second, the concerted effort of his kingly will. Not enough to kill a god. But enough to thwart him.

　　The conduit hex grew cold, and the reforged Ziegb鰈t began to rattle and crack.

　　Gorkon rose in the starkest malice, slaver dripping from his snarling mouth—he was every bit of him goblin now. And though he shattered the troops that the dead king had sent against him... plunging his green fist cleanly through the armoured torsos... the prince made every attempt to excise the moment and keep it, burn it in his retinas forever—for a god in a tantrum is not almighty, no. The taskmaster looked as mortal as ever he had.

　　Artisan rose his brow at the prince—the latter was smiling.

　　"I will fight him," the prince said, drawing himself up regal and tall. "With my mind I will fight him. There is no use for the sword. He is petulant and brash—those same slights have been levied against me, no, friend Artisan?" A broader smile now, one Artisan mimicked, seeing the prince rise to the call. "But I have pride," the prince continued, more solemn now, contemplative almost. "And that part he will not break—no man or god living can take that from me. For I am the prince of Lothrian. Vengeance will be mine."

　　They watched as the clamour intensified, goblin bodies flung limbless across the room, the taskmaster strong and wild, but like an animal. "STAND Down," he tried, and some troops obeyed, though the ones most faithful to the late Rodrich went on, breaking themselves on an impossible foe.

　　In the meantime, Ziegb鰈t had shattered, thus reverting to its base constituents: Ferignost and Truor鷖t, and the three nameless minor shards.

　　The three blood-runed humans reached in a stricken daze for the loot, safeguarding the swords and shards or attempting to—they ran up the stairs with a throng of goblins trailing, not far behind and crazed from competing instructions. Savage and wild is what they are, what they revert to when true order or its sense is lost.

　　"The blades were again lost that day," Artisan said. "It took some time to reclaim them."

　　"Am I the first since Rodrich?" the prince asked.

　　Slowly, Artisan nodded. "Aye. Some honour, no?"

　　"Fit for a prince."

　　They both laughed, partly in madness, there can be no doubt... but mostly in a strong-hearted will, as though destined to beat back against the unrelenting current. This was a belief more than anything. Not in a god or some half-baked religion. No. A belief in man. In the power to persevere. To fight against impossible odds. And win.