Chapter 38 - The king and the god (Pre-final Evolution arc)

　　The two trod silently into the void, Artisan`s memory taking shape. Swirling away, the loss of tactility. All senses gone as the world reformed.

　　Visionless, the first thing restored was sound, the thronging of a savage horde. Heavy breaths and goblin feet, a long windless march.

　　"We are as ghosts here, my prince," Artisan said as he limped along, one among the many. "My mind`s recollection in your inner world. They cannot perceive our presence."

　　"Thanell could," the prince rebuked, thinking back to the single speck of joy in the hard lonely stretch, living in the egg.

　　"Aye, but she was divine."

　　"So is that other one, the fiend I am to slay."

　　"The same damn word should not apply," Artisan glowered, trekking on. Relenting. "But it does."

　　They were inside the mines, past the rookie quarters and the arena, the familiar hell of old. Through sprawling hallways where a man could get lost, they travelled as two and as dozens—perhaps hundreds. Goblins flocking in from every which way, led by some unseen warchief or other, whoever it was at the helm of this force. Some had on rags of armour, swaying in step with a mace or sword, the rusted-over relics that would serve for a final time. The gloom that set in was of a death mission—most would not make it back. The fact floated with them; it was left unspoken. Better that way, giving room to deny.

　　"Whereto?" asked the prince, believing he knew but the truth seemed uncertain. He was reeling inside, pulled from realm to realm, shuffling along through his own dogged past. And now another`s.

　　"To the wretched plains of destiny, as you doubtless have gathered. Though I am not one to judge—we all need the odd bit of assurance." A mirthless tone took hold of the old man`s voice. The weight and the fate of the world.

　　"Landsbury," the prince completed the thought.

　　"Aye. The place of eternal unrest, where many a man and the greatest of gods have fallen. Most of it scoured from history—a grave mistake, I find, no matter how nobly contrived."

　　"Who by? Tell me their minds, those well-intended that have paved the road to hell."

　　"Not minds, dear prince. One man set it all in motion. The great king who came close to killing a god."

　　"My own line," said the prince, incredulous. "What a timeless affront to be thwarted by the very blood that flows in my veins."

　　Artisan did not respond, save by nodding curtly as they filed onward into seedy corridors, a lightless maze of mineshafts left half-abandoned. Studded by timbered guards at the crumbling edges, the length of it braced with an old-forged metal. The halls of the underground. Groaning now from the heat of green bodies, the weight of hell and the earth above.

　　Some of the goblins seemed at length to defect, stalking off down other corridors to enact either well-impelled plans or personal savagery—there was no telling which. Even the proudest warband could splinter at the slightest hitch.

　　But the prince moved with the pack, striding forth as a unit. Artisan`s pace began to dwindle; it was his own fleeting past, and he could not quite keep up. Might he not have skipped to the meat of things, the god and the king waging war? But the prince thought it wilful—the old man relished the hurt. Stretching his back and the failing limb, dragging ever on. There was no reprieve.

　　The march ended abruptly; they came to a broad reinforced chamber, wooden beams to buttress the walls and a coat of iron—the bulwarks were physical, yet some worn essence clung to these halls. It was felt; the goblins were restless, knowing not why but the fact remained.

　　At the far end, three ladders stretched high into the void—climbing up, there was no light, and it was by feel alone that they reached the next rung.

　　There was sound up there, waves of a wingless chant—the seers sang like angels. It rode out to meet the climbers, beckoning them to ascend. The prince and Artisan foremost among them. A momentous occurrence not far above, its balancing on the verge, close to unravelling... the prince could sense it, a clairvoyant instant. He was not one to bend in prayer, not before and certainly not now, knowing the gods and their all-too-human failings.

　　Where the ladder ended, emergence into a vaulting chamber began—the hordes of goblins funnelling in through the hatch for the fight and spectacle. Sweat and a death-fearing unease, those were the scents permeating the languid space. The prince felt it, and Artisan too. This grand and encompassing force that bade both of them yield. Awe does that to a man. But the prince would not bow to a mere feeling of godliness—no, let the bastard beat that out of his lifeless body. Gorkon. The prince gnashed his teeth, a bite of supreme royal resolve.

　　They clambered onto a slate tile floor, stood clustered around a broken pillar at the centre of a large and hell-dark room, circular in design and unembellished, at least as far as the prince could see.

　　Silence reigned among the green brutes gathered, all standing solemnly at attention.

　　"There I am," said Artisan, alerting the prince to a tall and broad specimen, some third-grade beast shifting in place to arrange his spine, the slight hunch in his muscle-bound frame. "I was strong then. But not like Rodrich. Never li—ah, it begins!"

　　The Landsbury church bells clanged hard in that mournful tone, more a wail than the graceful start to a service.

　　Rumblings came from the floor upstairs, a creaking shuffle atop the weathered floorboards—the prince could picture it well, the sound. This house was alive like an old castle, grumbling in protest as its denizens went about their own sheltered existence.

　　Then the sudden snap of magic high above, a glyph-locked door coming unsealed. It squealed eerily, swinging open, letting in slivers of light that lit up the room just enough. In a flash of instinct, the prince jerked back as he saw the conduit hex, a rune-inscribed circle hammered cleanly in the slate, right beside where he had been standing. It was mirrored by a second circle of the same might and proportions, one at each side of the broken pillar. They were perfect works of horrid dark magic—two spellfields to channel the force of one`s aura to a suitable vessel. Enhancing one mage at the cost of another.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

　　The church bells tolled on, the clamour resonating through the room and the bodies in the room—this was the basement floor, the prince intuited. Or some hidden hall deeper down still. The unholy grounds of Landsbury, where prideful men faced their destined fall.

　　Through the opened door, four hooded figures emerged, descending into the room from the far end, a spiral staircase leading down. Behind them, a fifth shadow entered, a tall male lurching in with lengthened step, featureless in the dark but hardly concealed—the gleam of his mighty sword said it all, hues of purple and red, shifting with the light or its lack. Caladbrinn. Here was one of Feldirk`s line.

　　"Here he comes," said Artisan, peering up with a furrowed brow.

　　And the prince had no need to ask for clarifications—the sixth descending someone was a goblin, taller than all but the taskmaster, though his step seemed forced. He was fighting and failing, the subject of mental control. The great king Rodrich, a third-grade goblin holding Dicebolg—the dark blade glowed clearly like Caladbrinn, though in counterpoint. Its shine had a singular shade, carved from night itself, the void-like black, deeper than the darkest shadow.

　　"It is hard to see him like this," Artisan said in a bitter tone. "The great king so reduced."

　　"So you came late?" the prince queried. "The war has been fought and lost?"

　　"Aye, in a way. The scuffle with steel and spell. But the true fight is the mental one, the god and the king vying for total control."

　　Before the prince could reply, a seventh figure entered, shutting the door behind him. It was the final fiend himself—the dreaded taskmaster treading down, holding nothing in his hands save for the will to end things. First Faruikis and now Gorkon, a god gone goblin, yet still a servant in truth. Seeking only to revive his lost brother. Great and wicked Kageru, highest of the fallen.

　　"They are all the same," Artisan mused, eyes still locked on the captive Rodrich. "All kings think their rule transcends, that the land they control is the core of the universe." He looked at the prince now, a direful stare that cut through to the heart. "By nothing but luck, the kings of Lothrian are right. Theirs is the land where the gods roamed. What a hard fact to learn, that the ego of the crown is justified. Rodrich knew, and look at him now."

　　In silence the seven descended, all the ground-bound goblins making way, pressing in tight to the edge of the room—they were here to fight or witness. Not to take up space.

　　The first four hooded figures split off, three of them moving slowly towards the centre, where the broken pillar stood. The fourth one lingered near the foot of the stairs, a pace or two removed so the final three could pass—the two god-blade wielders and the god.

　　"Have you pierced through to the truth?" Artisan asked as his gaze drifted, from Rodrich to the descendant of Feldirk, from Dicebolg to Caladbrinn. "There was no time, as per your own decision, to consult the Ancient Blood tome."

　　"My free will, you say—to get my head bashed in by the groundskeeper`s fist?" The prince seemed stricken, but soon relented. There was no sense in acting aggrieved. "The blood means more," he offered then. "It is not just a claim to nobility in the realm of man." He swallowed hard. "Am I from the line of Rodrich... and from a greater heritage still? My furthest forefather a god—the creator of Dicebolg?"

　　"Aye," Artisan said, boring daggers with his glare, eyes trained on Gorkon, the white-robed goblin striding for the pillar. The god`s own gaze seemed then to lift, much like Thanell`s had, slicing past the crowd and finding the two who were there in memory alone, the prince and Artisan. Witness here what rebellion begets—this was the clear and only message in a look that lingered. Scornful but remote—he did not judge them worthy of more.

　　Artisan broke away, turned his head to look at the prince. "You get him, hear me, my liege? You break that bastard Faruikis. I cannot watch you lose like I have Rodrich."

　　The prince nodded, jaw clenched and fists balled. "I will."

　　Then the three hooded ones disrobed, looking normal from the neck up—they revealed ordinary faces, two males and one female. But when they stripped to their bare chests, the woman with sparse undergarments, their role in the ceremony was clear to the prince. The blood-hammered runes in their skin left little to wonder—the kanji for ruin and rise, bestowed by the large shards of Ziegb鰈t: Truor鷖t and Ferignost. These fools were just like Gendrin.

　　"Are they..." the prince started.

　　"The children of Kageru?" Artisan pre-empted the question—correctly, judging by the prince`s silence. "All of them, yes. Thanell told me how the gods lived among us, briefly, in the long-gone past. They... mingled, better than one might suppose. But while Reduvex and Paldufaer, master-smiths of Dicebolg and Caladbrinn, sired only one line each of godblood-bearers—the Blackroses` and of the Mires`... Kageru knew no such restraint. He fathered several bastards, five at the least, the descendants of whom ought in theory to be attuned to Ziegb鰈t... but they are all found limited in practice—wielding even both major shards has proven for most candidates to be unduly arduous, over several generations no less. Gorkon believes it is so because Kageru shared himself less fully than the other gods, imparting only a fraction and not the whole of his essence. Hence the blood-hammered marks you see before you—the candidates` bodies are brutally prepared; the marks of the major and known minor shards of Ziegb鰈t are carved into their very being, a blood magic to increase the odds of satisfactory service."

　　"One of them is to wield Ziegb鰈t," the prince reasoned, "after Gorkon reforges it... by smelting the shards... whilst using the conduit hexes to draw power from Dicebolg and Caladbrinn." His tone lilted, on the edge of a query as he sought Artisan`s eye. To gauge the truth of the matter. A brief nod in acquiescence—that is all Artisan added.

　　They watched on in silence, saw how the two bearers of the god-blades took their places—one with a dead will and glazed-over eyes, the great king and goblin, Rodrich; the other with a bold and unerring step, the man of the mire, keen eyes lined with hunger—this one was ready.

　　Feeling a clear surge of revulsion bubbling in his gut, the prince asked why. "Why did the mire-folk bend willingly to a foul-hearted goblin?"

　　"Power or its promise, I suppose," Artisan pondered. "Once routed by Rodrich, the mire-folk withdrew from the world. With the public death of Feldirk`s son, Baldirk, who was buried in boxed parts to preclude goblin-birth, they turned vile... with Baldirk`s hidden heir at the helm." Artisan inclined his head, singling out the man holding Caladbrinn. Had Rodrich as king known the man`s true blood and status... he would not be standing there now."

　　"And the Blackroses proved too proud to bend to the devil," the prince asserted, again with the air of a question.

　　"Aye, wouldn`t that be grand?" Artisan shook his head. "There is sparse evidence—goblin documents are like man`s, always questionable. No, prince, in all the centuries before, and in the time before kings... there have been Blackrose men willing to kneel. But this unholiest of rituals has sharp demands: two god-blades and two men, you may think, but you would be wrong. One man... and one goblin, because the d—ah, you will see."

　　Gorkon flung out a loose fist, cracked it hard against the broken pillar that shook and rattled—the whole room did. Then the pillar shimmered like a ghost and vanished. A high-level concealment spell that shocked the prince, or it would have, were there not a god before him casting it. Such a feat would take three or more of the greatest mages half a day, at the least.

　　What came in the unmade pillar`s place was the seat of divinity. Rising out from the magic ether, there came a golden forge and a golden anvil.

　　The godsmiths` altar.

　　This is the place where gods were made. Gods and god-blades.

　　Gorkon bent over the anvil, kneeling in shown reverence, briefly. Then he arose and took the hammer. Went to work.