It's been 12 months since I updated this, so I'm just going to open with a recap for everyone's sake. Skip it if you remember what's going on.
THE STORY TO DATE:
Act five goes as canon, but Celica stays dead. Eighteen months later, Alm is the Emperor of Rigel. He never got over her death, and he is nastier and fixated on wiping out the Duma Faithful. He is still recognizably the old clown Alm in his good times. But he has become possessed by Duma's lingering spirit, and isn't far from going completely insane.
Celica, weeks prior to this chapter, was resurrected by Jedah. She is pessimistic and misanthropic - she sees humans as weak and violent, the gods as unquestionable. She has agreed to help Jedah's plan resurrect them, despite making some effort to never learn about the details, ignoring a warning from Mycen hinting at a massive human cost. But Celica is also clearly too powerful for the Duma Faithful to control, and none too fond of them.
Jedah's plan has come together, grabbing the gods' skulls for a ritual. Alm, Lukas, and others pursued him. He cornered them in a cavern for an ambush, but sabotage by some double agent (Mycen) caused his ambush to fail. Alm pursued Jedah, Celica, and the rest of their party, becoming cut off from Lukas and his followers, who climbed through a water pipe to get deeper into Duma's Tower, in order to find and assist Alm.
Characters present:
Celica, Jedah, Marla, Hestia, Duma Faithful: in Duma Tower's great hall, headed inside to a central chamber
Alm: possessed and berserk, presently smashing down the gate into the great hall, behind which stand several hundred Duma Faithful fighters in a defensive position, armed with two "napthem" (think greek fire) spewing hoses
Lukas, Sonya, Forsyth, Tobin, Gray, other knights: in a supply room several floors up, exhausted and dosed-up on "avcen" (think speed), ready to be the adults in the room
Note:
"-" centered indicates a scene break. Some jump ahead in time a bit, others swap between POVs, but what's going on should be clear.
"Almost there, almost there, almost there…"
Jedah wouldn't stop repeating the line as he walked forward, head hanging. With a mechanical growl, the doors to the ritual chamber lurched open, and Celica followed Jedah through, Hestia and Marla coming after. "Almost there, almost there," Jedah continued to repeat. The sound of Alm pounding on the gate had faded from the distance, and as the doors groaned shut, almost disappeared - Celica could only hear it when she focused. But in the center of her mark, she felt every strike, with each one a solid squeeze in the center of her right palm.
"Almost there, almost-"
"Shut up!" Celica screamed. It came out louder than she meant. All eyes were on her, less Jedah's.
After a moment, he too snapped to attention, his head whipping left and right, before he turned around. "W-where…" he trailed off.
Celica stared at him. His bewilderment faded. He lifted his head back slightly to emphasize how he looked down at her. "Anthiese. Come this way, child. Everything is in order," he stated, back in the present. "Marla, Hestia. Get to your positions."
Celica dragged her hand over the royal sword's hilt at her right, resting it on the handle and crossguard. She narrowed her eyes, tilted her head down in disapproval, as if she was about to say something. Jedah pursed his lips.
Sending off the last one I can trust...
Yet, there was something Celica had long been waiting to do. Their absence would make it far easier to carry out.
"Of course. You ought to make best use of what resources you have left," Celica said. She slipped her hand off the blade, as though only resting it for a moment. Jedah's brow furrowed at the barb, but he made no issue of it, likely happy for her concession. Marla and Hestia warped away. Marla appeared nearby, with knights guarding their entrance. Hestia landed far on the other end of the platform, and continued walking, to a smaller gate, passing through it out of sight.
On their left lay the staircase, steep, running clockwise along the rounded wall. The climb was unpleasant, the stairs seeming too high for a human's step. There was a railing only on the wall, and Celica could shake neither the fear of falling over, nor the impulse to jump over the two-hundred foot drop. Jedah struggled yet harder than her, breathing heaving and wheezing his way to the top. It took a minute to climb; they emerged out onto the upper floor, an area perhaps the size of a tennis court. Celica couldn't tell its purpose - it was unfurnished, with no railings, such that one could wander straight over the edge.
Across it, at the opposing wall, a door was hanging open. After a moment to catch his breath, Jedah headed towards it.
"Almost there, almost there, almost there…"
Within, thirteen thrones stood in a U-shape, a cantor or arcanist sitting in all but one in the very center. Between the thrones was a flat circle of purple crystal set into the floor, connecting to each throne through a narrow vein, and through a much thicker one, to a stone podium at the room's front. Jedah approached the room's front, and gestured that Celica join him. The room looked out over the Tower's interior chamber - standing at the waist-level railing, she could see all the way down to the platform which held the Gods and the pit surrounding it.
"Finally," Jedah breathed. "Finally, the hour has come. A glorious day, truly! For all to have come together that the ritual may be completed - it took no small bit of genius and fortune," he smiled, baring sharp white teeth. The pounding in Celica's brand ended with one final, hard strike. Seconds later, rumblings of distant spell explosions down in the great hall began, with just-audible screams following as battle was joined.
"It is not finished, Jedah," Celica said. "We would best start before Emperor Albein bursts through this second gate and kills us. What must I do?"
Jedah's left eyelid began twitching - he seemed not to notice the noise. ""A light will appear in the stone," he said, gesturing to the stone object, "Place your brand upon the podium for a moment, and remove it. That is the sum total of your duty."
Celica looked at the podium. It was of pitch black stone, partly reflective, like obsidian.
It cannot be just that simple. I have one brand of two, but wielding the Kingfang is beyond me - it must be the brand that is needed for the ritual. And what other price? My soul? Nothing comes free…
Jedah raised a circular device before his face, activating it, emitting a blue light. "We are set to begin the ritual," he spoke into it. "Move the tributes into place."
From the bottom of the pits came a dull, mechanical rumbling noise. As it ended, human figures spilled out into the grounds at the pit's bottom, running outwards, confused, pressed by those from behind them. There must have been six, perhaps eight gates opened deep in the basement - the chamber's central platform obscured Celica's view of the pits on the other side. For minutes, the people kept coming, streaming into the pit from the unseen entrances. Celica couldn't count them. The pit circled all around the central platform in a wide radius - it had seemed a massive, empty space before, but was filling rapidly. There must have been thousands within.
"The Arthegnii can get one thing right," Jedah scoffed. "Now it begins. Get to your station."
He turned on the spot, and walked to the empty throne at the far end of the room, accompanied by the handful of Faithful knights who escorted them upstairs. He passed one cantor, who was fast asleep, and swung a fist down into the man's knee. "Wake, Konstantin, you damned halfwit!"
Konstantin jolted up. "Ahh? Jedinka, what is the matter? And where are we?"
"The ritual!" Jedah screamed, "The ritual, you cursed idiot!"
"Ah... Of course, Archbishop," said Konstantine, sliding into a serious expression, a firm grimace, hands gripping the orbs on each arm of his seat. Jedah returned to his throne, and Celica walked to the black stone. She pulled the long glove off her right forearm - the brand was a flaring bright green, warming the air around it.
What would happen, once she placed her hand upon the stone? Nothing could come without cost. But Jedah never said. She didn't know.
There are thousands of people down there.
It wouldn't be her fault. There was a prophecy, divine will, placing her there that day, Celiva knew. Jedah's plan and the Gods' bidding. She was just one tiny, witless cog in a grander design. It was hardly Celica's place to question her duty.
There are thousands.
Celica had no choice, she decided. But she felt sick to her stomach. She wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear, for nothing to have been real, for this to just be a nightmare dream of a drifting soul. But what she was about to participate in was never in any real doubt.
"In the name of the War Father!" cried Jedah. From behind Celica came a crackling noise, of magic energy charging.
"Most blessed Duma!" they chanted, voices blending into one.
The spell grew in power, filling the room in a purple glow.
"Marvellous, genius Duma!"
Still charging, the room began to rumble.
"Mighty, unconquerable Duma! Great Mila! Draw breath once more!"
A shining white imprint of Duma's sigil appeared in the black stone. Celica felt a horrifying, certain lurch in her stomach, raised her hand, and placed the mark over Duma's.
When this is done, I have but one act left to carry out. And then…
Do what you must, Alm. I'm so sorry.
Celica focused on her brand, channeling her magic into it, through the stone. From the core of her brand she felt a dull, weak vibration, over in the blink of an eye. She removed her hand. Duma's sigil glowed green, a deep, vibrant color, matching Mila's hair. Celica was about to turn to Jedah when the room - the entire tower - rattled and shuddered as the spell took its course. The chamber outside filled with purple light, as the energy pressed out and across it, shining out from gleaming pathways, flowing downwards to the pit and platform through perfect, straight channels. After half a minute, thousands of screams erupted from the chamber. Celica shut her eyes, and muttered a prayer to Mother Mila under her breath. They continued - she wasn't certain how long - then in an instant, their noise and the ritual ceased at once. In their small corner of the tower, there came silence, the only noise was from the platform, action Celica couldn't see from the podium.
Jedah stood from his throne, to approach Celica. A second after, the orbs exploded, blasting out sparks. The cantors and arcanists jumped from their seats in panic, two more orbs detonating as they scrambled away. Celica didn't flinch at any of them - the fire seemed no great danger to her. The Faithful stumbled about, yelping at minor burns, sweeping away what handful of sparks had clung to their robes.
Senile men who can barely tell where they are, cowards routed by a few can hardly be the best the Duma Faithful have to offer, can they? Perhaps they are merely the best they can muster. The war, Duma's death, and Emperor Albein's persecutions must have killed most, and sent those with any sense fleeing to the eastern continent. Leaving just Jedah and the dregs to do their duty.
Celica looked out over the railing. The sacrifices were all dead. All the thousands of them. On the platform, artifacts ringed each god's corpse, and channeled beams of purple light against them. The salts scattered were rising as clouds, though Celica couldn't tell what purpose they served. An odd, rotten stench rose up from the depths of the chamber below.
"The land cannot be cleansed of the blood that is shed therein, but by the blood of him that shed it," Celica murmured, barely audible. A fragment of an obscure book of Mila's scripture, which Celica couldn't shake from her mind. She had known nothing about the ritual. It was Jedah's sin to bear.
Jedah stood next to her, gazing down over the chamber, grinning at his work. The others stood back, giving them their distance, keeping quiet. A dozen Faithful stood at each end of the platform, watching, waiting for the gods' return. All were silent. The only noise came from the magic's humming on the platform, and the continued noise of the battle in the main hall.
A race, of sorts. Which will yield its fruit first?
"Is that all, then?" Celica asked.
Jedah didn't say anything for a second. Celica turned to him - his smile had turned.
"All?" he asked, taking issue. "For you, Anthiese, it has been days since the day I brought you back from death. For which you have never thanked me, once. For me, it has been eighteen months moving pieces into place one-by-one. Do try and see this from outside your own eyes," he growled.
"I think I have it all together," Celica said. "You waited for Emperor Albein to begin purging the Faith in Rigel. While the remaining imperial armies were occupied, you sold off Duma's silverware to the Arthegnii, so that King Zekstriss could gather an army and drag back the Rigelians you needed as fuel for your ritual. Then you resurrected me, so that my brand could begin it. And so, as you said, all your pieces were in place."
Jedah stared her down. "You speak of each step as though they were simple processes. But in essence, you are not wrong. And, to answer your original question… yes. Our victory is complete, and we need only wait."
Pain seized up in the center of Celica's brand. She flexed the hand, rubbed her palm to work at it, but to no avail. It was hot, almost burning to touch. Some odd premonition came over her.
Alm...
"I only worry you have run short on time, Jedah," she said.
The noise of an explosion - or two, in short succession - rumbled from the great hall, the floor and ceiling shaking. The mechanical doors rattled from the blast wave, while dust fell from the ancient ceiling. It drowned out the noise of the ritual. Then screams came, louder than before - what could only have been hundreds of men burning, shrieking as they died. Her brand cramped, and for a heartbeat, her mind drifted.
She - he - smelled smoke and the harsh, acidic tang of napthem. She was tall and bone-thin and strong, dressed in fifty pounds of steel plate. Blood was on her hands, in her hair, her mouth. The air on her face was hot enough to burn, and flaming debris drifted through the air. She was laughing, ecstatic, unstoppable
And then it ended. Celica was back in her body. Short, soft to the touch, fragile. Men always leered at her wherever she went. Celica despised men. She was unsure what came over her in that odd moment - but laughed just as he had. It was a chuckle at first, but grew deeper, louder, as she laughed so hard her stomach hurt, and she had to shut her eyes, leaning over the railing, unable to keep it in.
Here's the one thing you can't do, Alm.
Celica let out a shuddering breath, the sigh forcing herself to composure. She stood and turned on Jedah, who stared, still perplexed by her fit.
"My Alm is coming for you, Jedah," she said. She fought back against a smile.
"He will not get in," Jedah scoffed. "That gate, this whole structure, was constructed thousands of years ago, by men who took orders from Lord Duma Himself. Their work is perfection itself."
"Like the first gate?" she asked.
Jedah didn't answer.
"Alm tore King Zekstriss' head off with his bare hands. Will he do the same with you?"
"No-"
"Was he not clear?"
Jedah opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"When he is finished with your band of imbeciles, he will tear your body apart, limb by limb. The gods only know how long he will spend on you. You will die screaming, regretting every last crime you've done to us." The words came to her unplanned, only as she said them. Her fingers tingled with anticipation.
Jedah took an almost-imperceptible step to the side, away from her. "But you will stand with us. He will not reach us," he squirmed.
"No, he won't reach you." Celica said, giddy as the payoff approached. "You're mine."
Jedah's eyes went wide. He backed away, towards the other faithful, all as terrified as him, scattering to put space between him and themselves. Celica matched every one of Jedah's steps, smirking as she followed him.
"Put her down!" Jedah screamed.
The mages threw their spells. Celica didn't even raise her barrier. Fireballs, bolts of lightning, ice shards, miasma and death spells smashed into her, in one massed volley, that struck her with all the force of a thrown handful of sand. The room went blazing hot, darkening from the dark magic even despite the bursts of lightning and fire. The purple clouds settled, and Celica stared out of it at Jedah.
Celica tightened her right fist, channeling power through her brand, and evoked ragnarok. Jedah's amulet flashed white, and his barrier came alive, her fireball sliding around it to the back of the room, exploding over the lesser barriers of the other Faithful. The unshielded vanished. Celica growled, stepping forward, then raised another and threw it; it crashed into Jedah's barrier, exploding, the fire washing over it and onto the others. Theirs flickered and died, the cantors within were engulfed in flame, but Celica hissed with frustration.
"DIE!" Celica screamed, casting a third. It struck his shield again, the fire blowing through the room, all the remaining cantors, arcanists, and most objects in the room bursting into flame, the men thrown around the room, screaming. The high-pressured air carried waves of burning paper through the room like fiery projectiles, while the thrones and artifacts adorning the walls melted and burned. All except for Jedah, who stood behind his faltering barrier. He cast again; his spell hit Celica, but with force this time. She staggered back a step, almost losing balance, her eyesight clouded and blackening.
But when she looked up, it was not Jedah who looked back. Lima stood in the flames, his chest bared, ribs sticking out painfully against his flesh. He smiled with hollow cheeks, his head at an angle. Hatred and wrathful energy filled her.
"Burn! Burn, father, burn!" she shrieked. She conjured ragnarok once more, and charged. Celica hit the barrier and reached through with her left hand, grasping around his bony throat, and plunged ragnarok forth with her right. It hit the field and their magic shrieked as it clashed, before her fist shot through, melting through his skin and bones, smashing into his chest cavity. He was hollow, naught but air within him. Then he was Jedah again, for a moment. They looked each other in the eye, Celica grasping him by his neck, her fist inside his torso. She grinned, and detonated ragnarok.
The force blew the two apart. Celica staggered back a step, while Jedah was lifted into the air and thrown into his throne at the back of the room. He fell forward, a foot-diameter hole blown in his chest, fire engulfing him. Jedah did not scream, but he thrashed, flailing on the ground as the fire consumed him. Every man and object in the room was burning, yet the flames and heat faded out a few inches from Celica. She turned to the console. The purple emblem shone.
I can stop it all, if I choose. It can all be turned back.
Celica gave it thought. But there was no way back for her now. Celica's life was spent in duty to the gods. They were Valentia's cornerstone - without them, there was nothing. Whatever was the price of the gods' resurrection, it had to be paid.
And I hadn't known. How was I to?
Celica looked back at Jedah. He spasmed on the floor, consumed by the fire, purple smoke burning off of him. She turned away, and left the ritual room, the fire and smoke bending away, not touching her. She slammed the door shut and walked to the ledge, sitting with her legs dangling over the long drop.
In the pits surrounding the central platform, thousands lay motionless, as purple lightning bolted between bodies and dark, thick fluid filled up over them. A breeze was winding clockwise around the chamber, lifting from the ground and scattering them in the air; light runes on the platform grew in power, changing color from dark purple to white. Each God's corpse had a ring of magical artifacts surrounding them, absorbing energy from the platforms, focusing and projecting it against the bones with a tight purple beam. The salts gravitated towards the skulls, settling down into clouds obscuring them, before the clouds expanded upwards like a canopy a few dozen feet below where Celica sat. Suddenly, a blinding beam of white energy erupted through each, extending straight upwards, out of the tower. Heat washed against Celica's face, with a hideous rotting smell reaching her seconds later. The energy crackled, as the two beams inched closer to one another. She sat, her legs dangling over the edge, and waited. It took some time - perhaps a quarter of an hour - before they jolted the last thirty feet, becoming one with a thundering clap that shook the chamber.
Staring into the white light blinded Celica, and she could see little else of what was going on within the platform. The few dozen Faithful sergeants, knights, and witches still in the chamber stayed well clear, by the front doors, transfixed by the ritual. They had not noticed her slaughter of the leadership, or they paid the noise no mind.
Celica felt a burning in her right hand, and looked down at it. Mila's brand still burned, a dull cramping pain, and glowing bright green. It felt as though it was pulling her, towards the great hall. Between the ritual and finishing off the Faithful, her magic was drained to almost nothing, leaving her armorless in her dress, armed with just the Zofian royal blade. She doubted she would win, if she fought Alm. But the prospect was oddly comforting.
Perhaps I will not long outlive Jedah. How fitting.
A shriek sounded from the platform, drowning out all the other noise. A dragon's shriek, agonized, gurgling, and wrathful. For a moment she forgot the stench.
And yet, the Gods return to Valentia.
Lukas' doubt in their plan grew with every step.
The plan, if it deserved the title, was to find their way to Alm, or Jedah, or the central chamber, or anything important, under the guise of being a squad dispatched to search for Emperor Albein's wretched companions. It was a poor plan, put charitably, but they had no other. Adding a shade of credibility to their plan were the disguises left by their benefactor, and the presence of a witch among them. Whittling away at their passing for Faithful were their Rigelian and Zofian accents, that they had no clue where they were going, and were making no effort to search the rooms they passed, instead stomping down the corridor in a quick march.
A cause of the latter was that most all of them were also clearly under the influence of avcen. Lukas was twitchy, swivelling his head about in search, and jumping at everything that moved. He wanted to put Duma's Lance through something.
The end of the corridor neared; to the left, the stairway led down, to the right, up. "Left," he ordered. They had started underground, crawled upward some length, and now there were windows on the walls, implying they were above ground. The main floor was most likely then downwards, if the Faithful followed similar rules of architecture to every other building Lukas had seen in his life. In his theory's favor, the sound of the explosion had come from slightly below them, and Lukas doubted the Faithful had the intent or ability to drag the gods' enormous skulls much higher than the ground. The assumptions were not unimpeachable, but made some sense. Down they went.
As Lukas' feet touched the next floor, the building rumbled, vibrating. A second later, there was a muffled shrieking noise - not a person's voice nearby quieted by the walls, but a much more powerful cry, further away. It sounded like it originated on their level.
"Correct floor, then…" Lukas mumbled to himself. He turned to the others, frozen on the staircase behind him. "Maintain the ruse until the last second, once we meet the Faithful. Follow my lead. Attack only once I do."
They nodded. He exited the stairwell into a hallway, and turned right. They must have entered the main core of the tower; the hallway was round, curved towards the left. The rumbling grew louder as they approached it. Lukas wondered where Alm was. Dead? Captured? Neither seemed likely. But he couldn't be reached, for the time being, and neither could they expect his assistance. As they followed the hallway, Lukas heard other noises over the rumbling - the sound of men moving in armor. He glanced back; others nodded when he gestured to his ear and forward. They were all grinning, and seemed much too happy for a group of Faithful troops. He felt it too; in his head and face, Lukas felt cheery, like nothing could go wrong. In his gut was nauseated horror. Lukas was used to the inverse. He only hoped Sonya's presence would cover them.
As they rounded a corner, Lukas spotted a man pacing back and forth. Others were with him; fifteen lightly-equipped Faithful soldiers, and a tall witch with short purple hair. The man pacing wore plate harness and strode about making a racket, seeming uneasy. His men lounged about a gate Lukas presumed they were to be guarding, their helmets off, spears leant against the walls. The witch's gaze fell on Sonya immediately, who looked back, while the Faithful knight ran to Lukas.
"You there! You! What are you doing?" the knight shouted, putting a hand to his blade, approaching Lukas, the witch following him. "Up, you swine, up!"
The soldiers reluctantly rose. They were all whitefaced, not blue as the cantors and proper Faithful knights. Some put on their helmets, but they held their spears lazily, loosely moving to meet Lukas.
"I see you have your position quite well guarded, sir," Lukas said.
"Ah - yes. Sir… Titus?" the knight asked, looking at the name stitched into Lukas' collar. "What are you doing? Why are you not with the others in the great hall?"
Sonya and the witch were staring at each other, uninterested in the conversation.
"We were searching for the rest of Emperor Albein's party. Did you not know? It is feared they have infiltrated the Tower."
"Infiltrated? Damnit…" the knight muttered. "None have passed into the chamber through our gate, that much is secure. In spite of their indiscipline," he said, gesturing to the men. "I can see why these loathsome things weren't picked for the ambush, even for the great hall. Did you find the rest of the emperor's followers?"
"No, we-" Lukas began.
"Hestia," Sonya said.
"Sister," the witch replied.
Neither she nor Sonya spoke in the distorted whisper of a mage - Sonya's voice had changed since Lukas had met her. But it had been just by bits each time. It was only now, speaking with another witch, that he realized.
The knight looked over. "What do you mean? Marla is inside the-"
The witch reached her hand up, without a word, and fired a magical blade through his throat, throwing his head off in an instant, splattering Lukas' face with warm blood. The knight's body collapsed to the floor, his head bouncing off the nearby wall and rolling a bit. No-one moved.
"How long it has been, sister," Sonya said. "You still live."
"Indeed, if that is the word one would use. Sonya, what came of you? Father never gave you to Lord Duma. You escaped… Was our sacrifice in vain?"
"I attempted an experiment. A ritual to end this curse. It went wrong. Half-wrong, perhaps," Sonya said. The witches seemed to share their laconic style of speech.
Lukas glanced over, to the spearmen standing behind Hestia. So surprised at learning the witch's identity, he had forgotten the impending combat. But so had everyone else - the Faithful stood hesitant, eyeing one another, each hoping another would make the first move.
That would come to be Forsyth. "Drop your weapons! Put your hands on the wall!" he shouted, barging past Lukas, poleaxe leveled at the men. They obeyed. A dozen-or-so spears clapped against the floor. The others followed up with Forsyth, busying themselves finding a room to lock the spearmen into. Lukas remained with the witches, too intrigued to leave and inferring Forsyth had things under control.
Hestia looked at him. "You intend to disrupt this ritual, do you not? You are one of Albein's."
"That would be correct," he replied.
"Good - you will have my aid. Lord Duma's hold upon me is breaking. I shall be a slave no longer, and will not suffer His return to our world."
"What of Marla?" asked Sonya.
Hestia frowned. "I cannot say the same for our sister, and I know not of her curse. It may be she is bound to Lord Duma, or chooses Him of her own accord. She always held great faith in Him. But I will not yield my grasp at freedom should she stand in our way."
"Of course…" Sonya said.
Lukas wondered how he would feel about killing his own brother. The thought wasn't so bothersome in that moment, or most.
But, then, no two families are quite alike.
Stupid thoughts. Is the avcen leading my mind astray? Focus!
"Hestia. What lies inside?" he asked. Lukas could hear one roaring noise - an enormous spell, it could only have been - with the hissing of winds and a dull crackling - but what it all meant was beyond him.
"I was not permitted any details of the ritual. What I do know, I expect, matches what you hoped was not the case. Jedah has planned some sort of resurrection spell, powered by means unknown to me. Princess Celica is needed, but again, I do not know what for." She frowned, sadness, disdain, and perhaps amusement, mixed into one. "It is folly," Hestia continued. "One cannot toss dead flesh and bones into a barrel and strike it with lightning, and call it a living man. For all their talk of the fallibility of our race, and the perfection of the divine dragons, that the Faithful believe they can try the same and resurrect a god is a yet greater hubris than that of man."
Lukas nodded. "I know little of magic. But if the ritual comes to nothing and the effort is wasted… that may be the best case we can hope for."
"We can only hope it is nothing he makes. This chamber was used for human sacrifices in the Empire's early days. To do any blood magic is to play with fire - but I believe Jedah is courting a holocaust," Hestia said.
Lukas' avcen-addled mind had a thought.
"Hold, hold a second. Princess Celica, you say? Princess Anthiese, of Zofia? She died over a year ago. Alm himself killed her, he was quite certain. This could not possibly be her..." Lukas trailed off, growing less sure of himself with every word.
Of course, Princess Celica is back. Why not have that too? Perhaps next Rudolf and Lima will ride in on an elephant.
"But it is. Jedah recovered her body, not long after Albein struck her down. The flesh was dead, but her soul remained intact - Jedah had her body preserved. In his preparations for today, he spent months perfecting a smaller ritual, and resurrected her just days ago. She was with us at the first contact - did you not see her?"
"I... " Lukas recalled the red girl, with Jedah's mages. "Now… yes, there was one with you, neither witch nor cantor. I had never met her. I thought the woman just another Faithful mage. And she works with Jedah, willingly?"
"Quite, it seems. Princess Celica had a note, from an ally of hers within the tower, offering to help her escape. She turned him down. She despises Jedah, perhaps more even than we do, yet is complicit in his crime."
Lukas sighed. It seemed yet worse than confirmation of the ritual.
Alm's beloved is alive, and yet our enemy. The knife twists again.
"Shall we expect her to fight us?" he asked.
"I can hardly understand what goes on in that girl's mind. But Celica will not take kindly to us disrupting the ritual. She is as fixated upon her gods as she is upon her Alm, and would throw all away for either. From when she turns her magic upon us, it will be a short affair."
The others returned, the Faithful spearmen locked away.
Lukas introduced Hestia, and what she knew of Jedah's plan. Most seemed unfazed. Expectations were merely confirmed. The second witch was accepted with less shock than the first.
"And… it would seem Princess Celica is not as dead as we had thought. Jedah resurrected her not long ago. She is aiding him, and likely will be hostile to our intervention." It wasn't the most sensitive way to explain it, Lukas realized a moment too late. The less-fazed among the group went wide-eyed. The more fazed spoke up.
"No, uh, no, that can't be it," Gray chuckled nervously. "You've had a bit too much avcen, Lukas…"
"WHAT?" demanded Tobin.
"Princess Celica is alive and aiding Jedah," Hestia stated, tone unchanged. "There is no difference if you believe me, or believe the fire she will rain down upon us as soon as we give up our act."
"I…" Tobin mumbled. "I don't know how to… Alm will… oh no. I need time to think about this…"
"We have none," Hestia stated.
Tobin's face jumped between expressions - confusion, anger, sadness. There was no time to make sense of it. He said nothing, but fiddled with his bow, drawing the string back to flex it. He would manage.
Lukas approached the door. It vibrated against his touch, the latch shaking as he turned it. The hinge was not mechanically-assisted, but it was unnaturally smooth in the way ancient construction always vastly exceeded anything built in the last centuries. It glided open, the sound of the ritual doubling in noise, and a gust of horrid, rot-smelling air blowing over them. Lukas almost gagged, but continued, pushing the door fully open.
The chamber was a horror.
Over the ledges, in the pits beneath, lay thousands of bodies, floating or submerged in pitch-black liquid. Runes shone throughout the chamber, the color a deep purple, with a distortion in it, appearing to be flowing around the sides of the chamber, towards the center platform before Lukas. Light shone upwards out of the tower. Within it…
Something was moving. In a shaky, unnatural, throbbing way, without purpose or direction. It took up just the center of the platform, leaving wide space around the sides to walk, were there not stone artifacts, white energy flowing up from the runes into them, being directed to the center as sharp, thin purple beams.
"Hestia!" he shouted. "What do you know of this? How can we disrupt it?"
She pointed towards the nearest one of the stone beam-casters. "Destroy those!" she screamed in his ear, still just barely audible. "The magic is channeled through them."
Lukas nodded, then gestured that the others approach with him. He looked up around the chamber - on the upper levels there were several viewing points, but he couldn't make out anything on them. The light was too bright, and the winds were carrying around clouds of white gas; seeing much higher into the chamber was a difficulty. They reached the nearest beam-caster, emitting vicious heat, hotter than a bonfire when he stood near it. He prepared the Lance for a strike, glancing at Hestia for confirmation. She nodded, and he plunged it in.
It smashed through, as if the artifact was made of thin wood. As the lancehead passed through, Lukas felt a sharp, piercing noise pop deep in his ears, and he winced in pain, all the others matching him. But the beam had stopped - and when he withdrew the Lance, it remained pristine. The ritual magics weakened, just noticeably. Lukas moved quickly, and smashed through the next nearest, to another popping noise, and the witches destroyed another. As Lukas was about to destroy a fourth, it blinked out, followed by all the others. There were three seconds' of calm, with no sound in the building, the rune lights dimming, before they all surged far beyond any level before. Blinding beams shifting between every color tore out of the artifacts, piercing into the being at the platform's center, the light burning into Lukas' sight. The shrieking of magical energy hurt like a lance driven into each of his ears, and the ground shuddered, nearly throwing him from his feet. Others fell, shrieking voicelessly and covering their eyes or ears, curling on their sides, but Lukas planted the Lance into the platform and leaned his weight against it, lowering his head, shutting his eyes.
There was a sound, that of a dozen lightning bolts, one from every one of the beam artifacts, and then silence, the lights dying out, the building coming to a rest. The ritual's noise was gone, but a shrill ringing continued in Lukas' ears. He thought his helmet was the cause, still carrying the noise like a bell, but as he nudged at it, it made no difference. Lukas groaned and rose, failing to blink spots of blue, yellow and purple out of his sight. Just he and the witches had kept their feet, and the others stood only groggily. Even Sonya was cringing in pain, rubbing at her eyes.
"Fuck," Lukas read off her lips.
"Up! Up, all of you!" Lukas shouted, though his voice sounded unfamiliar and distant.
The light from the center of the platform faded, but the runes around the rest of the chamber grew brighter, energy flowing into the walls but not releasing into the arcane contraption. The mists began to clear, and a shape became visible.
At the platform's center lay the gods.
The gods, or what was intended to pass for them. It had two heads, held by bulging, uneven, greasy necks covered in scales and loose flesh. The heads were oversized, drooping with the weight. They joined one body of mottled green and red scales and feathers, slime oozing out between each, bone exposed at the joints. It had one wing formed with a patchy, thin membrane, while the other was just a bony outline. Its tail was forked, one misformed end turning to loose mucous, the other to a dozen tendrils. From between every rib and near its limbs, tentacles protruded, long and thin, flopping about aimlessly. At the being's core, beneath the meeting of its necks, there was a glow of some sort, white light still shining through the rotten tissue. Its stench was almost unbearable, yet worse than the revolting scent already in the air.
The beast rose, awkward as a newborn foal, taking agonizing steps and groaning from both mouths. It turned towards Lukas, lifting its heads up, then both narrowing their gaze on Lukas and the Lance. It raised both heads to the sky and roared, shrieks from both mouths blending to one, echoing off the tower's smooth interior. From one head's eye it fired a red beam directly up into the sky; from the other's mouth a shrieking gust of green wind. Then it lowered back down, turning its gaze upon Lukas.
"No!" Celica screamed.
Her mouth hung open. Her stomach was clenched, her arms trembling in horror and shock.
Ruined. All lies in ruin.
The flaring lights crashed out to a halt, noise booming on the platform below. All had been working, as she understood it, until the noises and lights turned to horror. Celica knew it was wrong in an instant, but was powerless, and could only sit watching, impotent and nauseated. She contemplated pushing herself forth and plunging down over the ledge before her. A shift, a fall, the quick impact below. How simple, and yet she couldn't bring herself to do it.
The mists thinned and cleared, settling down into the pits. She shifted back and rose to her feet in anticipation, squinting through the clearing white cloud and peering upon a figure. She thought it was one, then two forms, then saw they were merged; two dragons' skulls, partially regenerated from death, fused together at the throat, all its half-made appendages flopping on the platform near it. Her fear was confirmed, the dying uncertainty replaced by horror, and she felt no different for it. She could picture no worse feeling. As the seconds passed she discerned others on the platform. Initially she could not tell them apart from the ritual artifacts. But the mists cleared more, and they became visible: a dozen or more in Duma Faithful livery. They were just the number of the Emperor's guard in the ambush chamber, plus one more. Hestia, Celica realized. Only then did the identity of the other purple-haired witch occur to her.
The dragon roared and shot energy upwards through the tower, a beam from one skull's eye and green wind from the other, a display of force to those who had harmed it. Them, Celica corrected. The gods. She could fix it all. Once the invaders were dealt with, she would study Jedah's notes and finish the ritual, better than he ever could.
So many are lost already. It would be only an insult to their memory to halt now…
Celica evoked ragnarok, forming fire around her hand again, though cramping ran from the center of her mark straight up her arm, to her neck and spine, and drew her hand back to throw it. At the height of her concentration, a voice sounded from the platform, just visible.
"Celica's attacking! Scatter!"
Tobin? It can't be…
Celica lurched, focus broken as she cast it forward. Her aim went wild, high and to the left. The ball of flame hurtled down to the platform but shot over the party's heads, detonating against the far wall. They dove down and away from each other, far too slow to have saved themselves if not for her missed aim. The dragon shambled towards them, screeching, leaving a trail of sludge behind itself on the platform, lashing out upon the party with its heads and tentacles, tearing down a knight in the first seconds of its assault. The witches warped across the platform, raking its flanks with dark magic; the knights fanned out to assault it from the sides. A group broke off to engage the Faithful with Marla - their archer loosed an arrow and Marla dropped where she stood, still uncertain at their identity. Hestia fired a volley of magical spindles into the Faithful knights, cutting down half of them, and then the Rigelians made contact. The combat was brutal, and the Faithful were of greater numbers, but disoriented, surprised, and ill-positioned, and Celica held no doubt they would fall.
Yet as cleverly as the Emperor's party fought, the outcome couldn't be in doubt. The witches' spells tore the monster's hide open, slime rolling out through gashes, and the one lead knight, carrying some enchanted lance, seemed able to cause the dragon some pain through his blows. But as the second knight fell, the third was crushed, the fourth was thrown over into the pits, the dragon was scarcely slowed - whenever it took a hard strike from his weapon, the ritual recovered somewhat, and light flowed out into the Gods, mending their form.
Celica channeled energy into her fist again, the pain sharper everywhere, piercing into the center of her skull and throbbing behind her eyes. Still, it was manageable; she could cast ragnarok once more. But she had no will to, nor the certainty of whom she would throw it down upon. She couldn't turn against her path, yet couldn't kill Tobin, Gray, Hestia and Sonya by her own hand. Celica released her hand and the energy dissipated. She slumped down to the floor, the lower platform out of sight, clutched her knees, and shut her eyes. Even with her hands on her ears, she couldn't keep out the noise of the battle; the thundering roars of the Gods, shimmering magical projectiles, and the pained screams of the dying.
Lukas' lungs were empty and his limbs heavy, as the monster roared and threw itself forth yet again. Beneath his feet, in his gauntlets and all down the Lance was the slippery, teal-colored slime the monster excreted and spat - even staying afoot was trouble enough. He threw himself to the right and it barreled past, a tentacle swinging just short of his leg, but it caught Sir Emma around the torso with a black appendage, wrapping about her breastplate and dragging her into the air. She cried out and dropped her poleaxe, kicking and flailing at the tentacle, as the monster slipped in its own muck and clattered to a halt forty feet from Lukas, shrieking in pain at a broken front leg, crushing two wounded knights.
It did no good for Sir Emma. In pained wrath the monster clutched tight around her, crushing her body in its grasp, collapsing even her breastplate around her. She gurgled, too weak to scream. It turned, glaring at Lukas, drew her back and flung her body at him. He dove down again and she clattered past, tumbling over the platform's edge. Lukas grimaced, lying in the muck, wishing to shut his eyes. His heart was thumping what felt like four beats every second, each coming with a throbbing pain in his temples. Breathing pained him and he almost wished to give that up too; it felt as though he was sucking bonfire smoke through a straw, or swallowing rusted nails.
As he willed himself to stand, the curved white beam of energy emanated from the platforms' center, arcing down over to the dragon, its wounds slowly knitting. The ritual was disrupted yet not broken - the energy returned whenever they dealt the monster any real injury. Lukas had stabbed the monster four times - each had garnered more reaction than anything the others had done, and not much at that. Now it focused most on killing him and having fun doing it. The witches and other knights were of little interest, though it enjoyed crushing them too when the opportunity presented itself. Their numbers spoke to it. When they entered they were sixteen. With Emma dead they had lost near half that number. At the combat's outbreak Tobin and Forsyth led five others to engage the Faithful across the platform - that cost them three dead in the first minute, though they put down the disorganized cultists in doing so.
Lukas put himself back onto his feet. "Again!" he choked, "swarm it while it's dormant! We mustn't let it recover," he said, though it seemed they were in need of recovery more than the monster. Or the Gods, possibly, if the parody of their forms deserved the deification.
On his left, Tobin loosed an arrow into its left-side head, that of Duma's skull in its center eye. It shrieked at the lucky shot, nearly as much as from the Lance's blows. Lukas advanced. Forsyth, Gray, and three other knights joined him, fanning out so its beam and breath couldn't catch them all. The witches lobbed fireballs over their heads, detonating and spraying mucous where they impacted the dragon. It growled, standing shakily onto its healed leg. Lukas led the knights into a run. It reared up, gathering breath into Mila's mouth - then Gray arced a wicked bolt of lighting from his jagged blade up into its wide mouth, staggering backwards, losing its charge. But it recovered fast, roaring from Duma's mouth and swiping its tentacles out horizontally, bouncing up and down off the platform as they flew. Lukas jumped when they swung by him at knee height, just clearing the black tendrils. But a Rigelian knight was caught in the thigh, smashing through his cuisses and the leg beneath - and it lashed up vengefully into Gray's neck, tearing his throat wide open. Gray stumbled to a halt and collapsed face-down, and the knight fell near where he was hit, screaming in pain as blood surged from his legs.
The two barely registered to Lukas, but for a cold recognition of their imminent deaths. They were upon the dragon. It lashed out with its right leg in a wide arc at head height but too soon - they ground to a halt and its claws caught the air just before them. Once it passed him Lukas continued, thrusting Duma's Lance with all his weight into the monster's chest. It shrieked as the lancehead met its skin, and only louder as Lukas forced it a full foot deep. He struck with such force that he slid along the ground, halting only once his face and left shoulder thumped against its rotten scales. Lukas jumped back, dragging out the filthy lancehead, teal fluid spraying out of the gaping hold left in its hide. It hissed and raised an arm to crush Lukas, but he was faster, and thrust again into its shoulder joint. The Lance met its joint a half foot beneath its skin, and it shook in Lukas' hands as the dragon's shoulder snapped, the arm falling uselessly at its side.
Then something large and wet slapped across Lukas' back, and flung him into the ground, dragging the Lance with him. He turned his head, sludge covering his right eye, finding its right wing over him. It drew its good arm back, rising for a hard swipe to end him. But now he was spent. He heard some snapping noise behind him and a purple shimmer, but just lay still, limbs too heavy to move.
"No place to be lying down," a woman muttered behind him, grabbing his hand. The dragon's arm fell, but the air snapped again, and Lukas saw it smack against the empty ground from the other end of the platform. Forsyth and the two others raced out of its reach, unable to leave a mark without Duma's Lance.
Sonya muttered a short incantation and light flowed from her arm into his. His will strengthened. Lukas rose with her, stammering a thanks. Across the platform, behind the dragon, was the chamber entrance they had used. Near Lukas were a few of the channelling artifacts, and behind him was the other entrance. He could make out screams and cries on the door's other side, muffled by the heavy gate but sounding nearby. The dragon roared at them, and stretched out its ragged wings, beating them and standing on its three usable limbs.
"Sonya, it's me the dragon wants. Move around the sides with the others, and let me bait it in," Lukas said.
"Dead man," she muttered, but warped away even so.
The dragon began forwards, trailing its tentacles behind it, beginning into a run. It ignored the bolts of magic fired into its sides, focused only on Lukas, flapping its wings and jumping off the ground. If it meant to land on Lukas and crush him it failed, and fell short thirty feet, shedding skin and sliding along the ground, roaring in shock at its useless wings. Lukas planted his heels, and thrust into the dragon as it reached him, punching in deeper than ever before, all up to his forward hand, before it clattered into him and they both slid together. He held to the Lance for dear life, so he wouldn't fall and be crushed beneath the dragon's mass. It halted before he fell, and Lukas tumbled another fifteen feet, stunned by the impact, alive only for his armor, its sludgey flesh, and the slick floor surface.
The abomination pulled itself forward, grunting in pain and spite, placing an arm onto Lukas' breastplate and pressing down, pinning him to the floor. It lowered its heads down to him. Its Duma head was a horror - the jaw was broken, the third eye a ragged mess between Tobin's arrow and Alm's work the year before. In the gashes of its skin, the tentacles grown through it wriggled and shook, seeming to slither like snakes, dripping a sticky liquid onto him. The Mila head had a corpse's pallor, the radiance of the goddess' form but a distant memory. Its five eyes all stared down upon Lukas with hatred, at the little mortal who had dared to hurt it. It was not an animal, fighting to defend itself and kill its prey, or it would have crushed him once he was caught. But even Duma at his most decayed was capable of thought and speech - this beast knew only hatred. The Faithful plot - if resurrecting the Gods was even truly its goal - had failed spectacularly. They had spent thousands of lives and made a monster. Lukas had his hatred and spite too, and their failure amused him. The monster growled, no less deadly or fearsome for it. The failure still wouldn't save him. He wondered if he was meant to have thoughts on his life at this point, or those he loved. It had been short, and they were few. No droll or meaningful words came to him.
Then something slammed into the gate. Then a second time, and a third, the mechanics in the gate's hinge groaning more with each strike, and smashing apart on the fourth, the gate flying open somewhere behind him. The beast's eyes went wide in terror and it stepped back, shoving roughly off Lukas and driving the wind from his lungs with the pressure. He idly grasped onto the Lance's buttspike, the dragon pulling itself off as it stepped back and attempted a roar. An orange glow whizzed over Lukas and slammed into the monster's chest, impaling in and deep - it shrieked, more shrill and pained than it had under any of his blows, and panickedly backpedalled as far away as it could manage without falling over the platform's edge, before collapsing in a heap. It groaned, lying low as the white light spilled over it.
Sucking air, Lukas turned over in pain, looking up at the broken gate.
Alm stood, coated in blood nearly from head-to-toe, hunched to his side and drawing ragged breaths. All around him were bodies of the Faithful - mostly knights in harness and a handful of cantors - lying broken where he had cornered them at the gate, yet Lukas suspected they were but a fraction of those he had cut through. Many were ablaze, coated in napthem. Alm too seemed to be smoking. He stepped through favoring his left leg, wincing when he put weight on his right. He had acquired another sword at some point in the fight, a fine shortsword with a gilded handguard. By when he reached Lukas, the glow had faded from his eyes. The madness was gone, for a time. He bore a sad smile on his face, red and black from blood and smoke.
"This is no place to be lying down," Alm said, grinning down at Lukas.
"So I've heard."
Alm reached a hand out and pulled Lukas up, steadying him. The others were approaching, but they were alone for the moment.
"I think this is where it all ends, a world away from where it began," Alm began, with the look about him he always had when they discussed fate. "I wanted to thank you, Lukas. You set me free. Without the impulse you gave me, I would have lingered in the village all my life. I would have suffocated." His eyes were clear and green, but showing exhaustion despite his animated words.
"I was but a cog in fate's engine, Alm. Any man could have come for Sir Mycen," Lukas pointed out.
"But not any man could have aided and counselled me as you did. If only your sound judgement had been paired with the mark, perhaps this all may have turned out for the better."
"I lack your human touch, Alm."
"You have one of your own. Only you can't see it."
That, admittedly, had never occurred to Lukas. But it was worth little. The lives and characters of the dead meant nothing. Legionnaire Arkan Valiss, Sir Karn, Sir Lavis - Sir Lukas was likely to join them soon, despite Alm's intervention putting it off a few minutes. When the dragon overpowered them he couldn't say what would come next. But Lukas would be dead then, and his memory lost to time not long after. If they had any interest in averting it, there were straws to be clutched at.
"Alm…" Lukas muttered, never wanting to say what came next. "I have to tell you. Princess Celica lives. Jedah raised her from the dead - we only just learned - and she aides Jedah in this endeavour. She attacked us after we disrupted the ritual, but only once, and hasn't shown herself since. We will have to… deal with her, as well as the beast."
"I know," Alm said quietly.
It roared at them, fearsome yet pitiful at once. They glanced back over, the others now with them. On the far end of the platform the dragon was slouched forward, hiding where the Kingsfang lay impaled to the hilt in its torso, its glow radiating out of the rotten flesh surrounding it. The others had gathered to them - the witches, Tobin, Forsyth, and the few remaining Rigelian knights. Alm looked over them.
"Where's Gray?" he asked. Tobin stared back. His quiver had run empty, but he clutched Gray's lightning sword. Alm observed it. "Gray…" he muttered, looking at the floor for a moment. "This was to be my fight, alone. It was a mistake to involve any of you in it," Alm spoke.
"Shut up," growled Tobin. "I'm tired of this from you. We're here to save ourselves, and our families, too. Quit getting off on your 'children of fate' trip for one second, and then maybe you'd see it!"
"Correct," Alm admitted. "But we need to act now, for whatever our reasons. Celica, Jedah, and the others lie above, controlling the ritual. I will stop them, halt the ritual, then return here and put an end to the beast. I need you to buy me enough time to do so."
It was a simplistic plan. But Lukas saw no other way. It had been so long since he had a range of pleasant choices, instead of one hazardous path to walk down. The ritual had to be halted for any chance at killing the beast, and none but Alm stood a chance against the Faithful's dark magic and Princess Celica's fire. Alm just needed time, and their lives could buy it for him. It garnered no argument among the others.
"Of course, Alm. We'll do it," Lukas said.
"Thank you," Alm said, sadly. "Thank you, all of you. We haven't time for much more…" he sighed. "Goodbye."
Alm raised the gilded sword, holding the ruby before his chest and the blade tip towards the ceiling, in salute. Lukas raised Duma's Lance, the others with arms matching him. Sonya and Hestia stood still. It only lasted a moment. Alm's eyes were turning back to red. His movements were shaky and unlike his natural bounding energy when he lowered the blade, turned from them, and began his ascent.
Tobin was wrong. This is all about those two, Alm and Celica, as little as we may like it. Our fates pass from the Gods' hands to theirs. Our role is but the sideshow.
The beast stirred, and it roared at them while Alm climbed, stronger than it had last. The ritual continued, energy flowing and returning it to strength. Their task presented itself. Alm wouldn't be long - they had only to last a few more minutes. Lukas lowered the Lance and walked back to position, stretching and relaxing his grasp on the ancient weapon. He would stand firm, and plant it in the beast's foul heart again, a dozen times more, if it would take that to survive. He had fought the true Lord Duma and lived; this pale imitation would not make him falter. Others had run forward to drag aside the few living wounded, clearing the stage for their final act. Once more, they spread wide, five yards between each man, and they advanced.
The story is not dead!
I had originally expected this section and chapter seven to be one, but it got too long so I pushed this back into the next one. I had expected to finish it in this chapter but again, too long. Chapter 9 should bring the story to a close, perhaps with an epilogue.
I'd say CH9 is ~50% written, but it's always the parts I don't write at first that take the longest to write. I will commit to finishing the story by the end of August, however, before math camp ruins my life.
Thank you, to everyone who has stuck with the story. The early chapters are dicey, but I think the payoff is arriving. I hope you enjoy.
