Pantheon

By Grant Costello

THE BEGINNING
The Arch Empress has fallen, and a devil that nearly brought a world to its knees, banished forever. It is a time of rebuilding lives and tilling the ashes of war. For the brave few who fought for their right to exist, it is a bittersweet peace. So when an ancient vision returns to Nathiel and his people, once again warning of a future in peril, he is tasked with finding the one enemy that still threatens them all.

OF THE END
Among the Great Halls, where an army of battle-ready angels awaits, the hour of reckoning approaches. Hell’s forces stir from below, bent on rising up and destroying everything in their path. The gods know that they cannot stand alone, and their salvation may come at the call of the mightiest mortals alive. But not all gods want peace, for when evil begins its march, humanity may be sacrificed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grant Costello
• Release date: Dec 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9780987466341

Grant Costello

Grant Edward Costello was born in Western Australia (1980), before moving to Queensland where he began his education in Bundaberg. Avidly fascinated with all things otherworldly and make-believe, film and literature was a mainstay throughout his earlier years, and art quickly became the output for a growing wealth of inspiration and blossoming ideas. In the closing months of Grant's schooling, he put the paintbrush down in favour of literature, for within the written word he found a limitless playground, one where he could expand from static imagery to a broader medium of expression.Grant's first story took the form of 'Aconite', a screenplay script that was faithfully recreated into a comic book format, and was then depicted in a short film at the Morningside Institute of TAFE. Grant's second project; 'Winter Realm', was his first ever novel, and it was a young adult science fiction/fantasy that was a collaboration of genres mixed into a post-apocalyptic epic. During the writing of 'Winter Realm', Grant experienced his first taste of Fantasy and its limitless potential. Hence came 'The Demonthrone', a story that was sadly never completed, mainly due to the emergence of a more vivid and ambitious idea, one involving deeper characters, fast-paced action sequences, and a narrative that contained a strong socialism theme, and also dealt with issues like autocracy and prejudice. That story was 'Brokentide'; a bold first chapter in the upcoming 'Legend of Shadows' series. With a passion for Fantasy driving his every written word, Grant's ultimate desire is to contribute something truly original and noteworthy to the world of storytelling.

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PROLOGUE

FATE'S CANCER

In the quiet hours of morning, at the precipice of sunrise, Nathiel's strong chest rose and fell like waves of an ocean. Beside him was Valaria, peaceful, her bare body entwined amidst thin sheets as she slept.

Their intimate contest the night before had left them surrendering more easily to slumber, and even Valaria had managed to exhaust Nathiel Maudin, who typically could not be fatigued.

All seemed well with the world. Life had become mundane and carefree, something Nathiel and Valaria had not become accustomed to before. This was normality in its purest incarnation, and although it felt unusual to a pair of warriors long driven by survival, it was not unwelcome.

Close by and stacked atop a chest of drawers was their weapons - one was a mithral dagger forged long ago, enchanted with runes gifted by the gods, and the other two items accounted for a worn shortsword and a small holdout arbalest, crafted from salvaged pieces from a much larger crossbow. These weapons had not moved from their solitude for two blissful months. A layer of dust was steadily claiming them as each day chased the next. Indeed, the threat of immediate enemies had ceased the day the Arch Empress had died. Life had become quiet.

Nathiel involuntarily rolled onto his back when the curtains of the room shifted upon a subtle breeze. His turning drew the bed sheets towards him, to which Valaria then twisted against them in protest. She unconsciously draped herself across his body, pinning him beneath the weight of an exposed leg, with an arm atop his chest. She breathed softly into his neck, still very far away, oblivious.

Blue shadows were cast by the curtains, reaching across the bed and curling over skin and the ripples of disheveled sheets. Every so often, an eyelid would flutter upon their faces, and perhaps a toe or finger would twitch. The unsynchronized movements of their bodies soon aligned, and their dream-induced twitching mirrored each other, as though the images they saw were one and the same.

The gentle throes of their sleeping soon became erratic, unsettled. Fluttering eyelids quickened, and incoherent murmuring broke the silence of the room. Valaria was the first to begin kicking her legs, and with a hand atop Nathiel's chest she clawed at his skin, etching a red mark.

Nathiel descended into fitful thrashing as well, tangling the sheets into clumps and knots. He was hardly aware when a mewling cry escaped Valaria. She rolled away from him, clawing at the mattress, and Nathiel was no less distressed as his strong fingers raked the soft fabric of their bed.

His eyes sprang open in the dark, and a startled growl escaped him. There was a moment of profound dread that washed upon him, precipitated by a flood of subconscious images rushing back from a... a dream?

A nightmare.

Nathiel gyrated across the bed and landed feet-first on the wooden floorboards, though he stumbled as his momentum carried him farther, before he rebounded from the room's wall with a shoulder.

He was barely aware of his movements as he began staggering involuntarily, and it was a lopsided path towards the front door. Somehow, he managed to collect his trousers from the floor along the way. He stabbed his legs into the dark holes of those trousers, one after the other, though the first several attempts missed entirely. Eventually, Nathiel managed to get the pants up and secure, before tumbling through the front door and into the open air.

With his head still spinning as images and sensations encroached upon his mind, Nathiel flopped heavily onto the wooden railing of the porch, where he slumped pitifully, eyes adjusting and his thoughts churning to find focus.

The sky was bruised blue at this hour, hinting at the approaching sunrise. Nathiel found himself looking upon familiar houses from one end of the street to the next. They were simple dwellings decorated in eccentric tapestries and gaudy colors, and Nathiel had almost forgotten that he had come here to Shade Walls a month prior to help rebuild the battered city. Although it bothered him, Nathiel was now accustomed to calling Crayethon home, and no less of Brokentide. But this was Shade Walls, where he had spent the happier years of his youth, living with his parents and enjoying the company of friends.

Shade Walls was his true home. And yet... it seemed so distant now... unfamiliar...

Nathiel inhaled deeply to calm himself, before raking a hand through his dark hair, which was now shortened since Valaria had clipped the ponytail he had worn for much of his gladiator life. Nathiel had never once given Valaria the satisfaction of knowing that he liked it short now. The ponytail used to pull on the back of his head, and its absence was indeed noticeable. Though it did not feel lighter at this precise moment... far from it.

Nathiel let his hand linger as it touched upon his scalp. There was a dull throb hammering inside his brain, and the meaning of it all was slowly returning. He had suffered a nightmare, but not just any nightmare, the worst kind. The prophecy kind.

It was a vision of the future, revealing pure chaos and limitless destruction. It heralded some sort of cataclysm, though it proved unspecific and vague. This was not the first time that Nathiel had experienced this kind of dream. In light of recent events in the world, it made perfect sense. And then again... it did not.

A bloodcurdling shriek split the air behind him, though Nathiel was expecting it. He could sense Valaria flailing about in the bed, and through his divine power he could feel her every movement as she stumbled from the mattress, crazed and terrified as she was with no clear distinction between the two.

From the open door, Valaria came stumbling out onto the wooden porch, dragging sheets that were wrapped around her otherwise naked form. She collapsed unceremoniously next to Nathiel, hands shaking and her eyes wide with fear. She took note that Nathiel was already out here, no less rattled.

By the gods! she croaked, barely able to form the words. What... what is all this about? She pawed at her forehead as though a nest of insects were crawling beneath the skin, itching and sowing unbearable discomfort. A bad dream?

This one's real, said Nathiel grimly. It's the Vision. I've seen it before.

The prophecy our people saw all those centuries ago?

Nathiel offered a slow nod, and it broke his heart to see Valaria's face turn pale.

Why? she hissed, to which Nathiel could only shrug.

With considerable effort, Valaria rose from the porch railing, taking care to keep the bed sheets covering her all the while. She stared at him unblinkingly with two aqua eyes behind strands of auburn hair. The heat in that look made Nathiel whither. It was a mix of accusation and judgment.

We were supposed to be fine! Everything's supposed to be just gushingly wonderful! Lailgora is dead... we sent the devil back to its hole!

That wasn't enough, so it would seem, Nathiel whispered, trying not to sound guilty about something he did not actually do. We merely delayed the inevitable.

From a house on the other side of the street, a man stumbled through an open door upon shaky legs, clutching his head and maddened with distress. Elsewhere, a woman's scream sounded from another dwelling, and all across the city of Shade Walls, the nightmarish vision wrought its ill.

Children and infants began crying, and even birds and dogs awoke in terror, scattering to escape the sudden horrors visited upon them.

Then there was a woman wailing as she found her way beyond the confines of her dwelling, and then more residents spilled into the open air, similarly haunted. Some looked at Nathiel and Valaria pleadingly, as though the two illustrious heroes could somehow alleviate their trauma. They soon discovered that there was no comfort from the nightmare, and Nathiel and Valaria certainly could do nothing to help them.

From farther along the street came a lone man. He was a night watch sentry, and the disturbance in the city had caught his attention. Having already been awake, the nightmare had spared him. But encountering the tradesmen and their families in such turmoil elicited its own sense of dread in him. Nothing like this had ever happened before, surely not in his lifetime.

The sentry made haste along the street, turning in circles as he beheld citizens and their fractured emotions on the porches. He arrived outside Nathiel and Valaria's dwelling, where he paused to regard the famous pair.

Am I missing something? he asked. Everyone looks like they saw a ghost.

Valaria laughed mirthlessly to herself, enjoying the irony in the man's words. This, of course, only added to the man’s confusion. So it was Nathiel who answered instead.

Not ghosts, he said. The future.

CHAPTER ONE

ORPHANED EMPIRE

Hadoric squinted in the darkness as he entered another unexplored floor within the palace spire. The gloom had no business being here at this hour, as it was early in the morning and the sun was already in the sky. But the curtains inside the spire were drawn tight, and each floor was the same.

Lailgora had been particular about keeping the spire private, to the extent that she had forbidden anyone from entering it. A mélange of magical wards in every section of the palace had been scoured and removed by Thista beforehand, though Hadoric was still uneasy, especially when in the spire. This place was not just the personal retreat of a powerful runewriter, but the lair of a devil that had controlled her.

And now Lailgora was gone, so as to leave a thousand secrets unchecked.

Hadoric decided to prioritize the curtains first, and so he traversed the small distance needed to reach the outer window in the dark, before parting the fabric left and right, exposing the leadlight glass panel behind. Light speared inside like a resplendent beam, highlighting swirls of dust and awakening the room to full view.

This was the third floor on Hadoric's systematic journey towards the top, and the task of sorting and cleaning each room was not getting any easier. The spire was ten floors high, and Hadoric was queasy about the notion of what he would find once he reached Lailgora's bedroom, situated at the spire's zenith.

With a sigh, Hadoric took in the scene before him. The third floor was littered with clutter and dust, though he guessed that it had once served as a store room for Lailgora's possessions. Shelves and cabinets adorned the circular space, and each piece had been custom made to slot together to form the round shape of the room.

Hadoric prayed that Thista had been thorough in her dispelling of arcane traps. It had only been two days since Hadoric had accidentally triggered one such ward inside the central citadel. The trap had paralyzed him for an hour, and his first assumption was that it had been a mechanical trap, yet he had found no dart to prove it.

Later, as Thista had explained - rather unhelpfully - that certain dweomers were returning even after she had wiped them clean. And a day after that, she had guaranteed that the progenitor of the magic code had been found and removed. Hadoric was still haunted by a shiver coursing his spine every time he opened a new cabinet or chest. The unknown and unexpected forever had him on edge.

Kneeling low, Hadoric positioned himself in front of a miniature cheval mirror, and from its reflection he was greeted by his bald head and his clean shaven face.

He looked better now since escaping imprisonment inside the palace dungeons. Indeed, he felt healthy physically, but Hadoric could not advocate for his emotional state and the many scars incurred upon his soul. Watching Lailgora die on that throne was the worst experience he had ever endured. A little piece of him was gone now, and he had not understood that piece of his heart until too late.

In the days following that fateful night, Hadoric had personally seen to Lailgora's funeral. She was now alongside her mother in Brokentide's royal crypt, with naught but her troubled legacy remaining in this world. The empire of Fellenock was in tatters, and there was no better example of this than the imperial capital of Brokentide.

The city was still devoid of population. Hadoric had nurtured hopes that its former citizens would return. He had organized a widespread delivery of writs to all the towns and villages in Fellenock, informing them of events in Brokentide, and that it was now safe to reclaim abandoned homes and lives. The task of delivering these writs had fallen to Rendilus and his soldiers. To this moment, Hadoric was anxiously awaiting the General's return, which was due any day now.

Above all other concerns, Hadoric needed citizens here in Brokentide again, because without population, the city would remain dead in the water. What was the point of acting as Steward of an empire if there was barely an empire left?

Hadoric was surprised when he heard footsteps echoing upwards from the spiraling stairs of the spire, so he rose to his feet and continued to examine and sort through items inside the room, with more than a little feigned detachment. After all, he had spent much of his adult life as a secretive man, and he did not want to appear so curious about the things Lailgora left to his inheritance. It was not the value of the baubles that seduced him, but their meaning and the unspoken history behind them. The mirror on the floor, for example. Why was it so small? What was it used for?

What was it really used for?

The footsteps became louder, until their dry timbre reached full clarity just within the stairwell. Hadoric turned and offered a welcoming smile to the new arrival, which was sincerely returned, even from a man that rarely showed much emotion at all.

Making progress? asked Jorenis. He entered inside and lifted an old tome from a side table. With drawn lips, he blew the dust from the cover.

Less than expected, I fear, said Hadoric in all honesty. "I have a million things to do, and there seems to be no end to it all. I'm waiting for Rendilus and his soldiers to return, that they may begin repairs on the Reception Hall and other parts of the city. But they're soldiers, and we need real stonemasons and sappers… tradespeople."

They'll come, aye, promised Jorenis, which of course was more optimism than foresight. What of the Ministers?

Slain... all but one, revealed Hadoric. Slain by undead creatures that were set upon them. It was a systematic culling. Only Togeron Alkora survived, and Rendilus confirmed that the Minister fled Brokentide in all haste. I received a writ from Togeron stating, in no uncertain terms, that his tenure in office has ended forevermore.

Jorenis winced at that news. He had grown rather fond of Togeron. The man had become a pragmatic ally, and Jorenis owed him dearly for his support in Brokentide. He knew, too, that Togeron had family hidden away somewhere in the empire. It was a fitting and well deserved retirement, if little else. The Minister for Transport would be missed.

Hadoric carefully opened another cupboard and inspected its contents. Inside was an assortment of vials and jars, each distinguishable by varying colors, for lack of legible labels that had long since faded. What function each potion performed, Hadoric could only guess.

One thing was certain, however. He was destined to find nothing but mysteries on his way towards the top of the tower. The first floor had been mercifully empty, save for a bed and a thin rug. The second floor had contained an assortment of materials, some of which had been plant matter long since spoiled, and varying blocks of wood from numerous species of tree. It had taken Hadoric the better part of the previous day to tidy the second floor and dispose of anything rancid. Indeed, it was going to be a long week, he realized forlornly.

I'll need Thista to take a look at these, said Hadoric.

Jorenis offloaded the dusty tome back to the table, before scrutinizing the open cabinet in front of Hadoric.

They look like potions, he said dubiously. Hardly Thista's craft. You'll need an alchemist for those. I'll get a message to Crayethon to have Pegus assist us here.

Pegus?

A lanky young lad, explained Jorenis, almost dismissively. Scruffy hair, a rat tattooed on his back. Disturbingly knowledgeable.

Hadoric gave a slight nod, but was too perceptive to miss a look of worry etched upon Jorenis' expression.

That’s a grim face if I ever saw one. What’ve you left unsaid?

Pursing his lips, it was Jorenis' turn to nod. He entered the room more fully, as though the gravity of what he needed to say compelled him closer.

I received word from Valaria this morning, he said. They experienced some sort of nightmare as they slept... all of them.

Hadoric looked at Jorenis as though he had grown a second head. You make that sound significant.

Aye. They had the same nightmare, at the same time, said Jorenis. And not just those in Shade Walls, but Crayethon too. But only Nirenese saw it.

It took a moment for Hadoric to digest that information, but when he did, his eyes widened. He collected himself from the floor and stood.

Are you insinuating that it was another vision? Like what happened during Nathiel's time?

Aye, regrettably, replied Jorenis. Valaria's description of it was too precise.

And what did she see?

Flashes of chaos and ruination, said Jorenis. Never anything specific, but invoking emotions of terror and despair during the dream.

Hadoric sighed deeply. He began pacing the room, hopelessly lost in thought. You trust Valaria's estimation of what the dream was?

I didn't need to, Jorenis answered. Nathiel experienced it as well. For the second time in his life, no less.

After a long moment of contemplation, accentuated by more pacing back and forth across the room, Hadoric came to a stop along a wall and leaned heavily upon it. He eyed Jorenis wearily.

Where does all this end, Jorenis? Hadoric whispered. How long have we cowered at the mercy of a future we cannot avoid?

We have an old saying in Nirenia, said Jorenis. Trouble grows, lest the roots are pulled.

Hadoric groaned. He was afraid that Jorenis was going to say something like that. Hell is the cause of the problem, but it's the very place none dare tread.

Aye, said Jorenis. But the day may come when the choice is no longer ours. The question is; how desperate will we become?

*  *  *

On any normal day in the empire of Fellenock, two imperial men on horseback might have seemed perfectly commonplace. Their path took them across the countryside, astray of common roads and well-visited landmarks, and instead, over grassy swards and tumultuous knolls.

Forestry soon closed in around them as they delved deeper south, to the lower regions of Fellenock - an area mostly ignored, save for a city known as Whistleshine two days ride from this location.

Whistleshine was a hub of perverse indulgences. It was a city nearly as rich in splendor as that of Brokentide - an appropriate city for the tastes of these two horseback riders, indeed. But alas, for fear of the many well-paid guards in that city, never would the bandits known as Block and Onion go there without good cause.

Above them, the quiet canopy of thickening forestry helped to hide them. Block regarded Onion with a sidelong glance, as though in celebration to the fact that the wilds had not yet killed them this day. This was a region of many threats, after all.

The boss won't be pleased to hear what we’ve got to say! warned Block. Not a nothin' nice to report, and don't be denying it!

Onion swallowed a growing lump in his throat.

Truly, he wasn't cut from this cloth. He'd spent much of his life as a poet, keeping his nose clean and his affairs cleaner. Oh how things had changed! And despite the nefarious new life Onion had come to know, the coin was irrefutably better, as was the quiet locale of the southern region.

Onion didn't look much like a highwayman either. His curly blonde hair sat atop a thin face, which also had a curly blonde goatee hanging at length at the bottom. Unlike his companion, Onion wasn't built for fighting, but he could still hold his own if the moment was forced upon him, as it often was.

Block was the true muscle of the duo. Never in Block’s life had there been a time when he’d been small in stature. Through every moment of his journey toward a height of seven feet, Block's solidity stayed with him, notably solid fat more than lean muscle. Block had worn his name all his life. It had been so long, in fact, that he couldn't actually recall his birth name, and he had no remaining family to tell him.

Onion, on the other hand, was only Onion because Block had named him so. And it was in no small part due to Onion’s emotional outbursts, for he was often prone to weeping openly in front of others, or succumbing to excessive empathy. Block figured all this had something to do with the fancy poetry the man often spouted at inappropriate times. But that was okay too. Block was not fond of words, so he was quite at home to Onion's longwinded recitals that, indeed, made no coherent sense to Block.

Not a denial to be had, muttered Onion. We saw what we saw.

Then we're to be tellin' it straight and true?

Onion gave Block a perplexed expression, and the burly man waggled his bushy monobrow, which was something Block did when potential mischief was afoot.

Cutthroat needs to hear what we discovered, said Onion sternly, referring to their bandit leader colloquially known as ‘Cutthroat Dog'. "He needs to hear all of it."

That's stealin' the fun, suren enough! said Block, with another waggle of his monobrow.

Don't care.

Bah! Block said, with a flick of his hand.

And so the duo rode hard for a location deeper within the woods, not at all slowing, but cautious enough to make sure they were not followed.

After all, strange things were happening in the empire of Fellenock, though the various bandit clans in the area had no idea what.

Cutthroat Dog had since heard rumor that the Arch Empress was some sort of monster in disguise. But without direct contact with the outside world, notably someone from a city, the riddle of Brokentide was a tale months old. Cutthroat Dog wasn't even aware that the Arch Empress had died, nor were the bandit clans privy to knowledge that she'd been under possession by a devil from the lower planes. There just wasn’t enough information and reliable sources to confirm the rumor.

Forestry began to thicken on all sides of the two riders, rendering the air cooler under the unrelenting shade of the tall trees. Flowing water could be heard nearby, and some of that activity was from channels deliberately dug at strategic points, so that tracks could come to dead ends. Cutthroat Dog had spared few tricks to remain hidden in his hideout, because he was a wanted criminal, after all, and not only did imperial authorities seek his head, but rival bandit clans as well. That was the way of Cutthroat Dog's world. That was the quintessential life of a bandit.

Arriving at a deep, man-made stream, Block and Onion steered their mounts along the water, and for several minutes they splashed with every hoof-fall. They then veered onto an embankment far removed from their original point of entry. The disjoining of the path was there to throw off pursuit, and the water served to erase tracks. Indeed, few bandits were as clever as Cutthroat Dog.

Block and Onion continued along their route, until reaching a destination in the forest where they dismounted and walked their horses the rest of the way. This was because the ground was not as wet here, and the fall of hooves would be heard more distinctly at distance. The last fool that noisily galloped on his return to the hideout was made to clean the camp cauldrons for a month.

Silently, and unannounced, Block and Onion entered an area that they knew was watched by hidden sentries. They knew all the little nooks and crannies used by Cutthroat's crossbowmen, because this area, known as Brown Ogre's Belly, was well guarded. This was Cutthroat Dog's territory.

Farther along the path, Block and Onion tethered their horses to a tree, near a trough of water and a healthy copse of grass. They then proceeded through a tunnel formed by thick foliage, before arriving at a cavern entrance partly sunken beneath the ground.

Brown Ogre's Belly was so named for this very cavern, though very few actually knew it existed. To the wider inhabitants of Fellenock, Brown Ogre's Belly was simply the area, distinguished by little more than a fertile wilderness at the southern edge of the continent. The cavern itself was not an easy thing to find, unless one knew where to look, or whose footsteps were lucky enough to accidentally stumble upon it.

Brown Ogre's Belly cavern consisted of two hollow areas - the first of which was the entrance; a vast clearing beneath a dome of rock, whose roof was pocked with many holes where the sun's rays speared through. Deeper into the cavern was a smaller area, though no less important. It wasn't exposed to the elements like the entrance, and this suited Cutthroat Dog perfectly, since he'd chosen the inner cavity as his hideout. Until recently, the inner cavity was the only section of the cavern that had been inhabited. Oh how that had changed!

Slowing to a stop just inside the entrance to Brown Ogre's Belly, Block and Onion were greeted once more by something that they could still barely believe. A sea of tents and haphazard dwellings filled the vast cavern now. Smoke wafted from numerous small campfires, and the area was alive with imperials milling about, mostly still clothed in city attire. Few among them were familiar with surviving in the wilds, and less harbored an affinity for a life simplified from what they'd known. But for all of them, it was either the devil at Brokentide, or the dirt of the outside world. The choice had been clear enough.

Awww, just look at them, lamented Onion. Imagine what they're going through. Forced from their city, even the young and the old. It's a tragedy.

Block scoffed at Onion. Don't ye be get'n all teary on me now. We got us enough crybabies down among those newcomers as it is. If they be a'whinging, they be a'leaving, suren enough! Cutthroat got nothin' but problems since taken the folk of Brokentide in.

He stabbed a thick finger into Onion's chest.

And don't ye be avoid'n tellin' Dog about everything we saw!

Block stormed off, leaving a very confused Onion scratching his head. Wasn't it Block wanting to keep details... discreet?

When a thousand tired eyes turned towards Onion, as though accusing him for their hunger and boredom, he prudently scampered off to catch up to Block on their way towards the inner cavern. Those many eyes broke Onion's heart, appealing to his deepest sentiments. Hunger and hopelessness was something he'd known intimately, long ago. He'd penned poetry on the matter, though he doubted anyone had ever read his words, or known from whom those words had come. To Onion, the world was simply not fair.

The lack of food at Brown Ogre's belly was pure miscalculation on Cutthroat Dog's part. Living a life of solitude had distorted his perceptions of city populations, particularly that of Brokentide. When word had come of Brokentide's mass exodus, Cutthroat had seen opportunity in taking the cityfolk under his wing, for reasons known only to himself. His apparent generosity had not factored logistics or sustainability into the equation, for he'd assumed that a city’s-worth of people would be much smaller. Despite the plentiful supply of food in the region and the collected stores of Cutthroat Dog, Brown Ogre's Belly just wasn't accommodating enough for a thousand mouths.

Fruit on trees had dwindled, and the radius of animals to hunt was widening. The one true solution was agriculture, but Cutthroat Dog had forbidden it. Farms and crops were large and visible. And in a region ruled by bandits, that wasn't a good idea.

The descent of a winding tunnel saw Block and Onion arrive into an area below ground. It wasn't as vast as the encampment above, but it was considerable... and defensible. There was only one way in, and any enemy that invaded this cavern would be bottlenecked on their way down.

Cutthroat Dog was right where they expected him to be - reclining back in a chair with his polished boots perched atop a desk. The man was busy toying with a dagger, spinning its point upon a finger. Upon noticing his two right-hand men return, Cutthroat Dog slipped the dagger back inside a sheath at his hip, next to his signature weapon, a cutlass.

Thou hast news, I expect? said the bandit leader. As always, his accent was broad, noticeably Andresian. He waved the two men in, bidding them closer.

Aye, we did yer scouting, as ye said, answered Block as they arrived at Cutthroat's desk. We found deer north west o' here, at Pine Winter Gorge. Plenty to hunt, have no doubt!

Cutthroat nodded. The gorge in question was three hours on foot. A little far to be hunting deer, but things were getting desperate. He nodded to Block. What else?

A smile stretched across Block's face. Them imperial lookouts ye wanted us to be peeking on... well, they be empty, the lot o' them. Not a one manned.

Cutthroat tilted his head curiously. The imperial lookouts were dotted throughout the countryside, chiefly to keep bandits and highwaymen away from main routes leading into the various towns and cities. In Cutthroat's territory there were four, and never once had those lookouts been neglected. What it could mean? He had little idea.

Any other activity? he asked Block and Onion.

Block thought real hard, or pretended to. And after taking a rather long time to come to a conclusion, he said. Nope.

Onion rolled his eyes and issued an elbow to Block's ribs. The bigger man grunted uncomfortably, but stubbornly held his tongue.

Yellow Stripes were about, Onion reported to the bandit leader. Block wanted to groan again, but was held frigid by Cutthroat's sharp stare.

In what capacity? asked the bandit leader, with a severe edge to his tone.

We noticed them on the move, and they didn't look to be farming the roads, Onion reported. To a bandit, ‘farming’ was the act of watching roads and setting up ambushes for merchant caravans.

Cutthroat sneered. What then?

Onion could only shrug, as did Block.

With a profound sigh, the bandit leader stood from his desk. He cut an impressive figure for a man in his thirties. Much of his athletic body could not be seen beneath the green-dyed leather trench coat he wore, nor the many hidden trinkets and weapons within. Cutthroat was a handsome man, with dark back-swept hair and thin sideburns that ran to his jaw line, coupled by a thin moustache and goatee. There was a perpetual look of danger and warning in his eyes, such that kept other men on edge… and women on the verge of undressing.

Onion had always come to suspect that there was more to Cutthroat Dog than a troubled upbringing, which led to the type of bandit leader he was today – firm, sometimes ruthless, but always a leader.

Onion and Block had never been told of Cutthroat’s origins, despite his accent revealing him to be from the land of Andresia, the same place to which Gwynvilla, the first empress, had come from. It was one of those details that had been buried under a thicker history more present and quantifiable. To simple bandits, the past was not as important as the present, and Cutthroat had not led them astray thus far.

Yellow Stripes? Cutthroat mused thoughtfully to himself. "What are you up to?"

The Yellow Stripe clan was Cutthroat's greatest rival in the region, and without question, the most threatening. His men and the Yellow Stripes often clashed on sight, though for Cutthroat's men it was survival that guided their actions, whereas the Yellow Stripes it was a foundation of animosity that Cutthroat didn't yet understand.

For the Yellow Stripes to be so active in the area meant that something was afoot. It didn't bode well, either, that the imperial watchtowers were abandoned. If Cutthroat didn't know where Lailgora's swords were, then he couldn't predict and avoid them. That didn't sit well with the ever-strategizing man.

Look lively, boys, he said to Block and Onion. It's time we had a chat to one of the Empire's finest.

Block and Onion fell into line behind Cutthroat, and together, they ascended the winding tunnel leading to the outer cavern.

Upon entering the vast area, a sea of eyes turned towards them - expressions divided between gratitude and resentment. Some of the refugees were pragmatic enough to value the safety and hospitality of Brown Ogre's Belly... others, however, were too spoiled and entitled to forget the baubles and decadence they had left behind in Brokentide.

Cutthroat paid the encampment little heed as he navigated his way towards a specific section inside the cavern. He sought a man that he'd met only briefly among the refugees - an imperial guardsman, no less. This revelation had almost cost the man his life, though Cutthroat was now thankful that he had spared him. The questions Cutthroat needed to ask could not be answered by peasants and cityfolk. And he was certain now that the guardsman posed no immediate danger.

Greetings, Tylum, said Cutthroat stiffly.

In front of a pot of stew over a small fire, the man known as Tylum flinched. He eyed Cutthroat cautiously, as well as Onion and Block. Proof again that he trusted these men about as much as they trusted him.

What can I do for ye, Cutthroat Dog? he asked curtly. His stare did not stray from the three men. Very carefully, he returned his wooden spoon to the pot, stirring slowly.

Cerevus, if thou wouldn't mind, said Cutthroat Dog. My highwayman name never suited me anyway, since I've never actually cut anyone's throat before.

Tylum gave a distant nod, as though he hardly cared either way, which of course he did not. Ever since his arrival here two and a half months prior, marking him as the newest refugee from Brokentide, Tylum had stayed at the suffrage of Cerevus and his band of questionable associates. He'd been blunt and honest about his former station as guardsman, sparing one small-yet-important detail: Tylum had been a Night Seeker before they had officially disbanded.

Tylum didn't know much about Cerevus, or the bandit leader's criminal portfolio. But the last thing Tylum wanted was to reveal his true training as one of the empire's elite. The Night Seekers had an illustrious track record of capturing thieves in the night. If Cerevus had a chequered history concerning Brokentide, Tylum doubted he'd live long if discovered for who he truly was.

Cerevus sat down uninvited, which prompted his two iconic goons to recline next to him.

Tylum avoided gritting his teeth in case they noticed his abundant irritation. The only reason he was among these criminals was because his alternative was far worse. Quite simply; surrendering himself to serve in the ranks of Lailgora's nightmarish army was not possible as far as Tylum's conscience was concerned.

Enjoying the fine splendors of the woods, I trust? asked Cerevus flippantly. He noted how adept Tylum was at setting up his own little camp. Who taught thee to bury the pot?

Tylum stole a glance at his earthen restaurant, and indeed, one pot was simmering over the open fire, and another was buried in the ground, beneath a pile of heated rocks. He knew immediately that Cerevus was testing him on knowledge he shouldn’t have had. After all, Tylum’s wilderness training was a little beyond what one might expect of a guardsman from a city.

A hobby, Tylum said with a shrug. He reached low and lifted the pot of stew from the fire, before presenting it to the three men. Care for a little repast?

Cerevus flashed a derisive grin, and Block moved to accept the offer, before his hand was slapped by Onion.

I went to the trouble of poisoning it, Tylum assured. He offered the pot one last time, before taking it back and laughing to himself.

Tylum began pouring stew into a bowl, and noticed at the corner of his eyes that Cerevus had a dagger drawn. The man was cleaning his fingernails with it, but the underlying threat was not lost on Tylum.

Thou have balls, Tylum, said Cerevus, his voice deep and measured. He pointed the tip of the dagger at Tylum for a small second. I like that. Bravado is something I understand... something I appreciate.

It was then that Cerevus noticed a metallic hilt protruding from a scabbard at Tylum's side. The man had turned just enough to let the three bandits see the pommel... and its implications. Tylum took a mouthful of stew, and chewed thoughtfully as he regarded his volatile visitors.

Cerevus was the first to break the uncomfortable silence. When was the last time thou saw Brokentide?

Tylum regarded the man cautiously, and his chewing slowed. Three months ago, as I already said, he answered. It was soon after the hellspawned thing came out of Lailgora, with the whole town watching. What of it?

Something is astir within the Empire, said Cerevus. They've emptied the watchtowers. Why would they leave them unmanned? For what purpose?

Tylum was dumbfounded by the news. As far as he was aware, there was no precedent that would justify leaving this region of Fellenock unwatched. It made little sense.

The last he'd seen of Brokentide was Lailgora's war encampment outside the palace, and the hellish force that had taken residence there. After seeing that, Tylum hadn't tarried a moment longer in the embittered city.

I don't have answers for ye, said Tylum honestly. "The watchtowers aren't meant to be left unmanned. But this land ain't exactly... normal anymore."

Indeed, muttered Cerevus. Thou hath no idea why Lailgora would do such a thing?

Tylum shrugged. If she's pullin' swords from towers these days, she must be needing 'em.

To reclaim her citizens from Brokentide? To march upon Brown Ogre's Belly in force?

Hardly, scoffed Tylum. Perhaps ye need to take a look outside ye door and see how bad the world's become.

Cerevus glanced fleetingly at Block and Onion, and Tylum believed he'd struck a chord. One of the few banes tormenting the rogue bandit group was a lack of knowledge of the comings and goings of Fellenock. They had been too reclusive, too centric on keeping hidden. That, in itself, had incurred a cost that may have been too expensive to begin with.

I think a pearl is owed to thee for such wisdom, said Cerevus with a knowing grin. He gave Tylum an appreciative nod, telling that he agreed wholeheartedly. Empires ever stir, ever change. I should know this better than anyone.

*  *  *

Jorenis was relieved to be back at Runeforge again. He'd spent the better part of the morning assisting Hadoric in sorting and cleaning the palace spire. The job was neither easy nor pleasant, and he did not envy Hadoric's newly self-appointed stewardship of the empire.

The spire was a museum of poorly kept affects and sick mysteries, which could only be explained in context to the woman's long-term possession by a devil of the lower planes.

Bodily parts had been found in various states of decomposition throughout the last three floors - the worst being Lailgora's personal bedroom, where bits of metal and gore were strewn across the floor, amidst a shattered table. Foul events had transpired in secret inside the tower, and this was the one time where Hadoric and Jorenis had sanely forsaken their curiosity in favor of ignorance. They just didn't want to know.

Jorenis was surprised to find himself standing alone in the Chamber of Wards, expecting Thista to be there to release him from magical stasis, as was the defense mechanism of this room. But he was not in stasis, and his limbs were not tethered by magical restraints. He lifted his old fingers and flexed them numerous times, just to make sure.

Something has gone wrong with the magic of this place, my dear, Jorenis commented as he entered the main chamber, to which Thista was there instead, presiding over the inert body of Casillara.

Thista glanced at Jorenis from the other side of the chamber, and there was little confusion or concern in her pink eyes. I removed some of the wards, Grandpa. We're not in danger anymore.

That remains to be seen, he muttered, before approaching his granddaughter. When Thista gave him a curious look, he waved the notion away. Perhaps nothing... perhaps everything.

Thista nodded perceptively. The prophecy that returned, she said. But why didn't we see it, Grandpa? We're Nirenese, after all.

With weary resign, Jorenis let his aching frame crumple to the floor as he sat, as only an old man could. A question too profound for the likes of us, aye.

You disapprove of me dispelling the wards?

Can you restore them, if the need arises?

Thista nodded confidently. She let her eyes wander sideways, to where her mithral stave sat perched along a far wall.

A year ago, she had created this place known as Runeforge using simple parchment paper and charcoal to render the necessary magic. But now, she had the stave, the sentient, domineering stave. With it, her magic repertoire was immediately accessible, because the stave could project glyphs into the air at the precise moment Thista pictured them in her thoughts.

Earlier this very morning, she had stripped the Chamber of Wards, leaving it disenchanted and magically bare. With use of the mithral stave, Thista knew she could secure Runeforge again in a matter of seconds.

Thista's reassurance was enough for Jorenis. He studied the unmoving Amazonian girl in the care of Thista, and wondered how long she could last like this. Thista was nursing water into the girl three times a day, and although Casillara had taken the water, food was still beyond her means whilst unconscious. When Lailgora had died, Casillara had fallen into a catatonic state. Any notions of restraining the girl were quickly overridden with a greater urgency, that of actually waking her again.

How's she doing? he asked.

Unchanged, Thista replied. I fear she'll die if she remains like this much longer.

Casillara’s condition doesn't make much sense to me, girl. With Lailgora dead, shouldn't she be free?

If this was a normal geas, sure, said Thista. But Casillara is still held by infernal magic, and the code is scrambled, as though it’s some sort of combination lock.

Jorenis nodded. His scrutiny fell upon Casillara intently, noting the rhythmic rising and falling of her small chest, the assumed peacefulness of sleep.

The girl was atypically Amazonian in appearance - tanned skin, low percentage of bodily fat, leopard skin raiment covering her body, and barely at that. Her hair was dark brown, which was perfectly normal, though beneath her closed eyelids were colored eyes that might be considered bizarre in any known society. They were dark yellow, with no genetic history to account for them. Of course, Thista's pink eyes were unique in much the same way, though what the eye color entailed was beyond anyone's guess. Thista was a prodigy when it came to the magical arts, and although Casillara had been abducted as a Spellvixen by Lailgora, the girl's proficiency with spellcasting was limited, at best.

Do you think she's still a threat? he asked.

I know not, Thista said honestly. The Spellvixens were acting autonomously, yet they were joined to each other, and to Lailgora as well. She reached down and stroked Casillara's hair. We have to find a way to wake her before Nathiel sends her back to Amazonia.

Jorenis winced at that, for this was a subject he'd pondered tirelessly of late. It was the source of his present dilemma and stress.

Casillara's father, Oraephyn, was the human leader of Amazonia. He had set about invading Fellenock for the sake of retrieving his precious daughter. But a deal with Oraephyn had been struck by Valaria, entailing a rescue of Casillara in exchange for a cessation of the invasion by Amazonia. Oraephyn had held true to his word, but there was a caveat to all this - he'd promised also a resumption of hostilities should Valaria and the Nirenese fail.

Do what you can, and I pray in all haste, said Jorenis. "Something's not right with the world again, and it could be because of her."

Thista regarded the unconscious form of Casillara, and she couldn't deny that she held a personal affinity for her patient. Casillara's care had been entrusted to her, and whether Thista was prepared to admit it or not, she coveted the responsibility proudly.

I guess we should keep Runeforge intact a little longer? asked Thista.

Aye, confirmed Jorenis. We've had our taste of peace, and a fine taste it was. But life isn't as benevolent as that, and when it bears its teeth again, I'd rather be here in Runeforge... safe.

I don't think what Nathiel and Valaria saw was because of Casillara, Grandpa.

Jorenis was a stricken and conflicted old man when he managed to glance up at his daughter. It was in his eyes... all of it. We'll know soon enough, dear Girl. Perhaps too late, but we’ll know.

CHAPTER TWO

ECHOES FROM BEYOND

Nathiel was at the edge of his bed, absently witness to swirls of dust as they went about their weightless play. The dust filtered through intruding rays of sunlight from the slats of his window, lazily churning with the eddies and throes of the air.

The morning was at its peak, yet Nathiel had kept his windows shut, as if not yet done with the night. He had barely moved from this very spot at the edge of the bed since awakening, though that was many hours ago. And he had awakened in a fit of terror, having seen the vision again, albeit the very night after the first.

It was in his moment of dread that he had clawed his way from the sheets, only to find Valaria's aqua eyes regarding him sleepily, indeed, concerned. Evidently he'd been the only recipient of the vision this time - hardly a comfort in knowing that, yet a curiosity all the same. But why only him? Valaria had then left to investigate, to discern if any other Nirenese had been affected. Nathiel had his doubts, of course. It was a gut feeling, and that was all it needed to be.

Sometime later, the door to Nathiel's small abode creaked open, and in walked Valaria, appearing perturbed by her tour she'd conducted around Shade Walls. She offered a slight shake of her head, as though preemptively putting her next words into context.

Only you, she said flatly.

Nathiel sighed deeply, which sent plumes of dust into an aggravated spin. He then felt Valaria's warm body press against his shoulder as she sat beside him on the bed.

Are you sure it was the same dream from the night before? she asked.

Unmistakably, Nathiel said in a voice as hard as stone. It was no idle dream. I would be in error to ignore it.

Valaria rested her chin atop his strong shoulder. So... something bad is coming... or still coming? We slapped the devil out of Lailgora, and the gates to Hell were pulled down. So where does that leave us? What about the lich?

Indeed, Nathiel had pondered that very notion himself. What of the lich known as Krang? He was an Old Zephendra mage that had discovered everlasting continuance through an undead state, and he was a creature of great arcane power, more so now that he had access to necromantic magic otherwise denied to the living.

Krang had come to Nirenia to realize his ambitious designs, such that would likely see the land infested with a plague of undead, or so claims any Amazonian that had ever heard of the lich.

Has the centaur chieftain been sighted since? Nathiel asked. If Gamutas prevailed, then Krang is surely dead.

No one has reported seeing him or the Storm Archers, said Valaria. But if the beast won, he wouldn't have come back bragging about it. He's probably on a boat back to Amazonia, for all we know.

Or he's been slain, and Krang is still out there, presumably at Esillin.

Nathiel felt Valaria shrug, and she said. We'll find out for ourselves soon enough. Once word comes from Crayethon that Sorisia is ready, we'll be on the road again.

Not soon enough, Nathiel grunted dourly.

Lifting her head, Valaria turned to better meet Nathiel's eyes. She did not miss the significance of Nathiel still sitting on the bed at this late hour of the morning. And being the sponsored of Phorin and Brevon - deities of bodily purity and health - Nathiel never actually needed to sleep. He could, of course, and Valaria had come to treasure that fact during the cool Nirenia nights. But Nathiel wasn't lingering at the mercy of the sheets from any residual tiredness.

In the mood again, so soon? she purred lewdly into his ear, shifting behind him on the bed and pressing close. The harsh tracing of fingernails on his back was subdued by the softness of everything else.

Nathiel dipped his head and smiled to himself. It was almost tragic that he had to deny her with a shake of his head. I need to speak with Thaluis.

Of course, Valaria already knew he wasn't here for intimacy, but she made a theatrical show of disappointment, just to remind him not to make a habit of it.

When Valaria was finished gesticulating and sighing, she slid next to Nathiel on the bed, alongside him with her legs dangling from the edge next to his. The Great Halls?"

Yes, he whispered. My sponsors will not be pleased should they see me there, nor will the other deities, once my news has been made known.

Valaria rose from the bed and bent low in front of him, before planting a brief but fierce kiss on his lips. Just don't let me catch you playing cards with the boys up there. And with that, she lazily exited through the abode's door, closing it behind her.

Uncounted minutes passed for Nathiel as he pondered the matter, albeit fruitlessly. He'd hit an impasse with trying to discern the meaning of the visions. What he saw in the nightmare was poignant, filled with emotion and certainty. But that was it. Nothing but a threadbare promise that a catastrophe was coming. It was driving him mad not knowing.

With determined resolve, Nathiel let the bed take him, and it was there, in that supine position, that he drew upon his divine power, and held it until eventually falling asleep.

*  *  *

There was a splitting of reality that began with disembodiment.

Nathiel found himself being reduced to nothingness, before forming into a whole again. This sensation was better defined by his human senses, which returned to remind him that he indeed existed. But his sight and smell and touch was all a translation in this realm, because he wasn't actually here.

In much the same manner that deities could project themselves in astral form across planes... so too could Nathiel.

If Nathiel could hold claim to anything a human had invented, it was the reverse-communion with The Great Halls. No sponsored before him had ventured to the upper planes, not in any capacity.

But Nathiel had found a way!

Sleeping under the influence of the Divine Gift was a back door. The technical details of why this worked was lost on Nathiel, of course, but he hardly cared. He hardly cared when seduced by the wonders he arrived to...

The Great Halls surrounded him in all its splendor!

As Nathiel floated, he willed his body to descend towards a translucent road below. His last visit had taught him how to move in this place, because there was no air or gravity here, not unless someone willed it so, which was a tricky matter. Even the white, marble-like buildings stretching from one horizon to the next were floating within a void of nothingness.

When his astral feet touched down on solidity, Nathiel could not decide what the road was made of. The material composition of The Great Halls was solid, yet viscerally artificial. The whole place was seemingly a mix of marble and crystal amidst a realm of clouds, yet Nathiel began to wonder if the clouds themselves were fake as well.

With a thought, Nathiel willed his astral form to emerge deeper towards the centre of the city, where he remembered a round platform to be. He teleported from one spot to another and arrived among a hectic scene, such that took him by surprise.

The Great Halls was alive with activity - its streets and buildings populated by an uncountable list of races that Nathiel never knew existed. Some were humanoid, with differences that removed them from any known biological reference. Others were more in tune with creatures or plants from Earth. Though to draw such comparisons was unfair and likely off the mark. In truth, the races here were far removed from what Nathiel was accustomed to, and he began to suspect that they were either from differing planes of existence, or from alternate universes long destroyed by Hell's constant invasions.

Ahead, Nathiel caught sight of the junction nestled at the centre of many interconnecting roads. He was surprised to see the circular tablet there as well, though not a solid slab anymore, but instead an interdimensional portal. Human deities were loitering about the platform, far more than Nathiel knew existed.

As he stepped onto the platform, thus drawing scrutiny upon him, Nathiel was approached by a woman with white-feathered wings, and a strange golden spear thrumming with inner power. Unease crept into Nathiel, because this was the same entity that had descended upon the battlefield at Atyrliss. She was frighteningly powerful, proven by her quick disposal of a devil known as a Grey Reaper.

Nathiel was once again struck by the beauty of this woman, whose lustrous blond hair was a flow of curls and subtle shifts, and whose face showed no age or blemish. She was, without question, human, yet she was unfathomably perfect in a way that Nathiel had come to associate with celestial beings. In other words, this winged woman was spawned, not born from a human mother.

Nathiel gave the woman a cursory nod in greeting, though she simply stared at him carefully with her pale blue eyes, like a soldier on guard duty. So Nathiel continued on his way, though he was unnerved by the fact that he could not sense the woman, thus if she chose to skewer him in the back, he wouldn't see it coming. In fact, the winged female was the only celestial he couldn't actually feel using his Divine Gift. That struck him as odd.

Ahead, Nathiel noted more winged humans, standing at attention in a row and unmoving. They paid him no heed, and likewise, Nathiel's attention was drawn elsewhere, to a deity he'd come to know far more fondly than his own sponsors.

It was Thaluis, the Deity of Language. He appeared little more than thirty in human years, and everything about him was impeccably neat. There was a sense of order and place in this God that was undeniably comforting.

It took a moment for Thaluis to notice Nathiel, but when he did, the surprise upon his wise features was evident.

Welcome back, mortal, he greeted. I... I must congratulate you on defeating Tyrexiron. That couldn't have been easy.

I wasn't alone, said Nathiel. Lailgora struck the killing blow, with help from Thista. On even terms, the devil would've killed me with little trouble.

Thaluis offered a smile, as though the particulars of that defining battle hardly mattered, only the result. He noticed Nathiel glancing away distractedly, and indeed, quite confused.

What is all this? Nathiel asked, sweeping a hand out wide to encompass the many races and buildings inside The Great Halls.

They came from the Terminus, explained Thaluis, gesturing towards the interdimensional portal. Lost races from universes long ago destroyed. They're all that's left. And the flying humans call themselves Angels. The leader is designated the title 'Valkyrie', and she seems to be the only one possessing sentience of her own. She controls the other angels, and fills her ranks with fallen mortals of her choosing. I haven't heard her speak yet, if she is even capable of that, so don't expect a better explanation out of her.

Noted, said Nathiel.

Thaluis eyed him perceptively. Again, welcome back to The Great Halls. But I suspect that you did not come at the behest of curiosity or social needs?

No, Nathiel admitted bluntly. The vision returned. We all saw it... my people, I mean.

Thaluis wore an expression as though he'd been slapped.

The implications of that are disturbing. It means that invasion is still presently within Hell's means. How is that possible? I took the precaution of scrying Earth for any remaining denizens summoned from the lower planes. There were two fiends detected in other parts of your world, and Valkyrie descended and dealt with them.

Some other calamity, then? Nathiel reasoned.

Thaluis shook his head vehemently and scoffed at that notion. Even if your race becomes extinct, and Earth destroyed, it still wouldn't reset the universe. We've come to learn that the deities here are centric to everything that occurs, and our combined structure is known as the Pantheon. Without deities, everything unravels. So it's about the gods and this place.

Would Phorin and Brevon be crazy enough to do something stupid? pondered Nathiel. His point was clear enough.

Doubtfully, admitted Thaluis. "They're radicals. Misguided and dangerous, perhaps. But they understand how the Pantheon works, as do we all. To them, the risk lies within Earth's relation to The Great Halls. They're basing their beliefs on conjecture, postulating that if all ties are severed to the sponsored, Hell would have no