Chp. 1 The Dead

  A man stood in the throne room of Occasus Solis, the capital building of Agor. His skin was as white as bone, and he had no hair. He was tall and thin, although not frail, and rippling with light muscle. His eyes burned with a fire made by a mix of immortality, ambition, and a deep loathing for everything they landed on. He would be handsome, if not for his gaunt features and the marking on the back of his head, the only blemish on the man. It looked as if his skull had been smashed with a rock and glued back together. There were spiderweb cracks and several notches and divots. This spread down his neck and across his back, ending about four inches from his waistline. He leaned on a halberd, his elbow in just the right position not to be cut. This man’s name was Axes, and he was here to slay Death.

  “You’re late,” he said, his voice like a cold winter’s wind blowing over a field of ashes. As he spoke, a man approached, seemingly stepping right out of a nightmare.

  Standing almost ten feet tall, he was a strange mixture of different creatures. He had the rib cage of a human, for instance, but the head of a dragon. He had ram’s horns instead of dragon’s, however, and his lower body was that of a horse, like a centaur. He had the feet of a human, though, and no tail. Furthermore, his arms, all six of them, were long and thin, resembling giant insectoid legs. He also had two more arms sprouting from his back, but these were massive tree-trunk limbs that looked to belong on a polar bear. They ended not with hands, however, nor even claws, but long eagle-like talons. An undead amalgam, Axes knew, and the Lord of the Dead.

  “When you’re king, you can show up when you want,” replied the Lord of the Dead.

  “When I’m king, I’ll have much more on my mind than timing,” Axes replied with boredom.

  “Yes. Apparently, however, you also don’t have wisdom on your mind. To challenge the Lord of the Dead is to die. But then again, you have been a thorn in my side for some time now. Getting rid of you would be quite gratifying,” the king said. He smirked at his foe. “I suspect this shall be over soon.”

  Axes’ retort was cut off by the king charging forward, his powerful legs thundering on the ground. Axes crouched, lifting his pike to impale the creature.

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  On the morning of the third day, finally, the king made a mistake. He stumbled, and Axes capitalized on his lost balance with a series of punishing attacks. Finally, Axes brought his halberd down on the king’s head, watching in pure delight as he – no, it fell.

  “I am king of the underworld!” Axes bellowed victoriously. “And I’ve been waiting to do that for a long time,” he remarked anticlimactically.

  ***

  Axes reclined in a throne made of dark, cold stone. The room around him was likewise dark, such that the creatures that sometimes appeared therein were blind, and cold, for the sun gave no light – not here. Likewise, it was damp, and moss and mushrooms grew in the corners. These were neither cultivated nor killed, rather simply being there for their own natural decor, and occasionally snacked on by hungry servants. The poison did very little to the Dead.

  Three figures entered the room, two armored, one in chains and leg irons. The soldier on the left threw the man in the middle down at the feet of Axes.

  “Servant,” Axes addressed the man. “You do serve it, do you not?”

  “The Iris will have its due,” the man warned, in place of an answer.

  “I’m confident it will,” Axes said. “But that’s for later. Right now is what I want, and what you’re wise enough to give me. Tell me about the Aetherian.” The man laughed in Axes’ face.

  “You think you have it in you to read the book of the Maker?”

  “No,” Axes said, unsmiling. “But you do. Tell me what it says. Tell me what it says about me.”

  “You think,” the man said between laughter, “that the Aetherian would specifically reference you? I am awestruck by your audacity.”

  “Alright,” Axes said, and nodded to a man in the corner. “Barzlemek.” Barzlemek stepped forward, placing a hand on the top of the other man’s head. The man immediately began to cry out in agony, twisting to escape Barzlemek’s touch, but to no avail. Several moments passed before Barzlemek removed his hand from the man, who slumped to the ground, spent.

  “It regards the wood folk,” he said, his voice soft, defeated.