And then he could make the world right again.

  Thunder rumbled overhead and all around, a threatening warning rather than an angry lashing out. Maeltore had gone still, neck low, head tilted, the white eye in a bloody socket fixed steadily on Harah. Harah glared back, settled into his stance, waiting. Blood and darkness dripped from the fighters, but neither seemed to feel their injuries any longer.

  Chyren forced his fingers to loosen and let the sword droop to his side. "Harah!" he called, and his old f– his opponent allowed his gaze to be drawn away from Maeltore's. "I surrender."

  The Isler's eyes widened, but he did not move. Doubt flashed across his expression, so Chyren swung his leg over the saddle and slid to solid ground. He dropped Maeltore's reins and, at the horse's displeased snort, held up a hand to pacify him. Harah straightened, keeping one eye on Maeltore as Chyren slowly crossed the torn, broken ground.

  Trampled plants ground into the dirt, and broken rock dark with rain.

  Harah opened his mouth, a question in his throat never to be asked, for at that moment Maeltore stamped a hoof and called in a favor. The conquered god responded promptly, almost as if eager to prove loyalty to its new master. The ground folded and heaved like a shaken sheet with a roar of anguished earth, and cries rose all around them as the armies toppled or struggled to keep their feet.

  Despite the chaos, Chyren's footing was sure. Not even a pebble danced between him and Maeltore. Harah, though… Harah fell. And Chyren didn't hesitate. He had his opening. He lunged, sword leading.

  It wasn't an opening.

  Harah wasn't off balance. He hit the ground with one hand, the other still firmly gripping the spear, and spun, sweeping Chyren's legs out from under him with an outstretched foot. For half a heartbeat Chyren thought he could catch himself, and then white lightning filled his vision.

  Burning pain charged through his chest where the spear touched, and he felt himself flying. The impact against the ground was nothing compared to the fire of the storm goddess, but it still knocked the air from his lungs and cracked something in his shoulder where he hit rock. He twisted, trying to gasp for breath, as a horrible numbness spread out from the place where Harah's spear had struck him, like a quarterstaff, across the chest.

  Maeltore's furious neigh might have been an attempt to warn him, but Chyren still froze when Harah entered his narrowed, hazy eyesight. The Isler stood over him, that dreadful spear aimed at his chest… the spearhead, this time. The killing part.

  I tried to kill him twice. I killed Qie.

  And yet, Harah hesitated, the heat of the spear burning hot against Chyren's light chestplate. The numbness is starting to fade, then.

  "Who are they?"

  Chyren stifled a groan as he tried to look up, but Harah's gaze told him all he needed for clarification. The Fallen had rushed off in one direction, pushing against the United Front, but now Harah was looking back where they'd come from, towards the warcamps.

  Towards the others. They had to be advancing by now. Slow, but determined. Bloodthirsty.

  "You know," Chyren rasped, slowly twisting his ragged cloak around his right hand as he did.

  "No more games, Chyren! Tell me."

  The words felt hollow, a last excuse to hesitate. Chyren clenched his fingers into a fist, then relaxed them. Good, they still function. He licked his lips, braced himself before replying.

  "You said it yourself. The cities are empty."

  There. That look of horror, the same one as before, that preluded fury. Chyren took the moment of distraction and snatched the spear, right below the head, with his cloth-bound hand. The heat and anger of it set his skin on fire even through the cloth and his leather glove, but he only needed a moment to yank it sideways, away from his chest. Then it was his leg knocking Harah's away, though his muscles screamed at the sudden movement.

  Harah didn't quite fall, but perhaps he would have fared better if he had. Maeltore slammed into him from behind full-charge, tossing him forward so he flipped before hitting the ground several yards away. The spear tumbled freely and landed off to one side, outside anyone's immediate reach.

  Thunder cracked, and lightning danced in the air overhead. She was angry. All of them are angry.

  Maeltore stopped next to Chyren and stamped his hooves, a stationary dance of impatience. "Finish it!" His influence chased away the worst of the pain of the burns, fractures, and breaks, but that awful sense of slowly-fading numbness remained as Chyren pulled himself up onto the horse's back. He found even breathing strangely difficult.

  Harah grunted from where he'd been thrown and tried to get to his feet, too, but he barely made it to his knees before buckling and collapsing again. One of his legs… he'd broken something when he hit the ground, Chyren guessed. That makes this easier.

  Was that Maeltore's will or his own forming thoughts in his head? Not that it mattered.

  Chyren clenched his hand and realized something. His sword… he'd dropped it. He didn't bother looking for it. There was a better choice closer at hand.

  "You are a monster."

  Harah's voice was low and pained, a shudder making that last word tremble. It gave Chyren pause, but Maeltore kept walking.

  "To think, I once called you 'brother'. Gods forgive it."

  Chyren felt that lump in his chest, that tight, painful knot of emotions, as he forced himself to dismount again besides the dropped spear. The pain was less when riding, but it seeped back in so quickly.

  "They won't," he replied, raising his voice so Harah could hear but not looking at his old friend. "Gods are fickle. They don't remember, and yet they don't forget. Grudges and impressions, once formed, last longer than any truth they may have been built on."

  "Drag you, Chyren, straight to Punishment. Forcing civilians to fight…"

  Harah couldn't even finish the thought - he didn't have words harsh enough. Chyren bent down, his heart pounding with anticipation from remembered pain, and just barely brushed the shaft of the god-spear with his fingertips. She screamed at him.

  "He promised! We had a deal!"

  "He lied," Chyren whispered back. "He cannot end this. Only we can. Maeltore?"

  "Seize her."

  Chyren flexed his fingers, bracing for the fire, and grasped the spear.

  Chapter Six: Knife to the Heart

  The Imperians knew when to fall back. They allowed the Fallen to push them up the line of hills, slowing and stalling the advance by careful deployment of god-vessels to cover that retreat, only to reform the shield-wall further up on the steeper slopes. And that was where they had their warmachines. Strange, bladed contraptions of a dozen designs, built and perfected to tear through armies.

  Further along the battle to the west, the Jyun and Lach drew a blood-soaked line in the dirt, the Lach bombarding Fallen soldiers with arrows behind the heavy-armored Jyun warriors who had barely budged since the battle began. Alas, those were the only places the United Front seemed to be holding back the tide. The Kyres, bereft of their horses (and, therefore, their greatest military strength and vitally important mobility) had suffered more than any, scattered by the stampede and then torn to shreds by the Fallen army. And the Islers, the smallest of the five main United armies, had been forced back almost beyond their own camps, resulting in a frantic retreat by the camp-followers who hadn't gotten out in time. No one had expected the Fallen to engage this early.

  La crouched to catch her breath on a small hillock, off to the west of the main battle, where a number of the smaller clan and tribal groups had clustered together. Some of them were already charging off to hit the Fallen from the side while they were concentrated on the warcamps ahead, but most seemed to be fully prepared to wait for a more advantageous opportunity. La couldn't blame them. If only we hadn't lost the Kyres' cavalry…

  Her own horse's cowardice was the only reason she hadn't gotten caught up in that massacre. He'd fled, with her on his back, minutes before the stampede reached them, whereas the Kyres' horses stood their ground until the last moment. Then they'd broken, and the riders thrown in the chaos didn't stand a chance.

  And now… another unknown approached. Another unexpected.

  The second Fallen army had finally begun their march.

  ~

  His men were doing poorly. The demon's will drove them forward, consumed by the desire to see victory, but Chyren knew the armies they were up against too well not to see the truth. The Imperians were drawing his men into a grinder formation, and there would be no help from the west where the Jyun and Lach had joined forces. They covered each others' weaknesses too well, the Jyuns' stable inflexibility and lack of ranged proficiency perfectly balanced with the Lachs' devastating but oft reckless ferocity.

  He did not go to join them. Maeltore did not push him to - they had other plans, now.

  Blue-white lightning shriveled the delicate hairs on his arm, burning jagged lines into his skin. Vyla'akah, goddess of overland storms, did not go back on her deals, and the man who'd dealt with her was still alive.

  For the moment.

  The rain had stopped. The heavy clouds and thunder remained, but somehow the air had gone dry. Chyren licked his lips again, his jaw tense against the pain searing through his right arm, and turned back towards Harah.

  The Whisperer was still on the ground, glaring at Chyren and Maeltore but carefully prodding at his injured leg. Blood had begun to soak through and drip to the ground beneath his boots; Chyren guessed a shard of bone had pierced skin.

  "Yyle believed in you," Harah spat as Chyren met his eyes. He was flushed with anger, or perhaps pain, or both. It doesn't matter. "Are you going to execute her, too?"

  Yyle…

  "She surrendered to me," Chyren whispered, and hoped she was still where he had left her - back in the warcamp behind lock and guard. "You could have done the same."

  "How long before you have her dressed in black, then? If you'll drive innocent civilians into war against the bloody Tchek Imperium grinder, why not her?"

  Chyren didn't reply, and Maeltore laughed. The horse walked leisurely at Chyren's side as the latter approached Harah.

  "We're done playing, hero," the fallen god said, and Harah glowered as he made the title a mockery. "You never had a chance."

  Chyren clenched his hand around the spear, gritting his teeth against Vyla'Akah's resistance. He looked at Harah, lying there on the ground, twisted awkwardly, leg broken… and he had to look away. This wasn't the same as Qie. He could say no this time.

  "Do it."

  Maeltore's voice was a dark pressure trapped inside his chest, pushing him to act. At least Vyla'Akah's sparks of rage burned clean on a surface level. Maeltore's will resonated with the remnants that remained deep inside, the stains on Chyren's soul.

  "I'll never be clean of it," he murmured to no one, and raised the spear.

  A sudden shrill chirp broke the dense air and Tili dove in front of him, talons extended, enormous wings spread back. Chyren jerked back, but the osprey was faster. Fishhook talons dug into his cheek, his shoulder, and the sudden force of the bird knocked him back, away from her soul-bound master.

  "Accursed bird!"

  Maeltore hated birds.

  Chyren screamed as Tili's talons ripped free, a scream that faltered into a grunt and a groan as a sharp point dug into his side, below the rips, aimed upward. Harah. He always carries a fish-knife. Chyren had gotten too close.

  Vision tunneled as pain overwhelmed him… and then he felt those awful harmonies in his bones. Maeltore wouldn't let him die. It was part of the deal.

  The horse reared and lashed out at Tili, but the osprey soared out of reach, still chirping her loud, repeated alarm cry. Chyren knew what Maeltore was doing, even as his head drooped towards the ground, barely able to see through the haze of pained tears. He knew when Maeltore stamped on Harah's arm, and not only because the impact drove the knife down through Chyren's flesh. His body felt every agonized moment of it, but his mind was elsewhere… carried along by Maeltore's fury… riding the rage.

  Harah had lunged forward on his ruined leg to get that fish-gutting knife in, but now there was no last surge of strength to save him. Maeltore reared up with an awful roar beside Chyren's slumped body, over Harah's broken one, and came down–

  Bones broken. Blood spilled. Oaths betrayed. Meaningless death… meaningless…

  Chyren blinked away tears.

  "Trust me," he whispered as the ferocity of the storm goddess abated in his loose hand, her alliance ended. "We have to finish it, no matter how awful it becomes. 'Death conquered.' That is the promise. The final enemy to be conquered will be Death. That's what he said."

  Harah's sea-green eyes stared sightlessly up towards his circling, screaming bird and the storm clouds beyond. He could not reply.

  Chyren pressed a hand against the bloody knife still lodged in his chest, and pain came creeping back.

  He had to finish it. No matter how much it hurt, he had to finish it. Only by conquering Death itself could he bring them all back. Make the world right again.

  Maeltore stamped his bloody hooves in the dirt, triumph glowing in his white eyes.

  "To victory."

  ~ Three ~

  "All these things shall be, for it is the Will, but beware, those by whom and in whose days these things shall come. Resist the evil one's command and flee before the fields of blood, for in the day of the final victory, they and all thereon shall become as crushed bone and ash. All life that would be spared, in the name of mercy, flee. Shava ek."

  - Segment 34-10 of Visions of the Final Age

  as dictated by the Prophet Eka.

  Chapter Seven: Charge of the Gods

  The army of the Fallen wavered, their momentum stalled. Thousands upon thousands from both sides lay dead and thousands more wounded on the plains behind them, but against the armies on the hills the Fallen found themselves at a disadvantage.

  The Jyun wall. The Lach archers. The Tchek warmachines. They were united on the high ground with the powers of the gods to strengthen their position.

  Chyren tugged on the reins, turning Maeltore's head away from the sights and sounds of battle. He carried his new spear in his other hand, still glowing with Vyla'akah's power but now no longer burning him.

  He'd tried to warn them. The gods were worse than fickle. Every single one would turn on them. No one believed him. They couldn't.

  Well, except the Godless, or so he presumed. He hadn't spoken to one of them since– he hadn't had the chance, or dared take the risk. More than anyone else, more than he even hated birds, Maeltore despised the Godless.

  "You risk my hunger, rider. The feast has been laid."

  Chyren persisted, forcing his crooked steed back towards the second wave of Fallen troops. 'Troops'...

  "How do you do it?" he whispered instead of addressing his horse's displeasure. "How do you get them to want this?"

  Maeltore just chuckled, and obediently trotted back towards the warcamps. Chyren kept his eyes on the distant horizon, refusing to look back as his soldiers broke themselves on the United Front, refusing to look at the mass of a hundred thousand bakers, tailors, farmers, and housewives dressed in black ahead.

  Blood.

  It saturated the air, clung to his tongue, seeped down his throat, twisted in his stomach. The smell of it. The feel of it.

  I don't have a choice. I have to see it to the end.

  "Maeltore…"

  "Strength and victory, weak little rider. Do not plead, even with me. Command."

  "Summon them."

  The words came out low and quiet, his tone one of grim resignation. None of his plans had worked, none of the evil lessened by his attempts, but there was one more thing he had to do. One more desperate ploy to keep the others from reaching the same bloody end as his soldiers on those hills. The United Front would fall either way. It was only the conquered civilians he might be able to save.

  Even if doing so doomed his soul.

  Maeltore heard it all there in his command, and the fallen god laughed. Something about this war seemed to fill him with a reckless, vicious glee, almost hysteric. He burst into a gallop, then leapt into the air, twisted, pranced… Chyren leaned low and let the movement take him, his hand with the spear outstretched to steady himself.

  "Embody!" the horse screamed in both voices, his own and the nag's, as he gamboled across the battlefield. "Today is the day! Arise, fight, conquer, feast! ARISE!"

  Vyla'akah shuddered in her spear, and Chyren closed his eyes. Already, he could feel her rising anticipation, Maeltore's twisted joy as infectious to the gods as his madness had been among the horses.

  No more holding back, she whispered, a question she stated, but still expected a response to. It was a heavy response that Chyren gave, same as the order he had given a minute before.

  "No more holding back."

  The ground trembled underneath Maeltore's hooves, the conquered, unEmbodied earth god joining in the horse's laughter. A deep, dark rumble. Behind the oncoming line of Fallen, a cloud of dark dust billowed up into the air, and then with an air-splitting crack! the earth shattered.

  The gods rose at Maeltore's command.

  Two dozen had been claimed along with the conquered armies of the Fallen, and like the United, they had brought them all.

  Chyren took a long, deep breath as the dust billowed out over the army towards him. Fire glowed beneath the cracked earth, lighting the dust cloud from beneath and the army from behind with a baleful light. The burning god was slow to wake, but already his hungry sparks flew into the air on the cyclonic arms of his fierce lover. What little grass hadn't already been trampled into mud withered away as a kind of black misty rot crept over the plains, the sign of a particularly vile god coming to beat the vultures to what fading life remained in the injured who'd been abandoned on the battlefield.

  That flesh-gnawing mist whirled around Maeltore's legs and shoulders and pulled hungrily at Chyren's feet before retreating. Chyren ignored it. Maeltore would not let the others kill him that easily. His attention was focused above.

 

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