37

  Destroyer, the fated sword, had now gone utterly dark. Edged in cold, rippling void, the blade had become a negation. A hollow. A curse. It had been seized by Chaos, ripped from Ildarion’s chest in one shocked, painful heartbeat. Torn free to wreak havoc.

  It was brandished above them all now by a writhing black tentacle, whipped high in the air over Magister Serrio’s rapidly emptying fair. Most of the crowd screamed, ducked for cover and ran. Most, but not all.

  Like the drained, fading gods who encircled the plaza, Serrio found himself locked in place. He was forbidden to act by the edict of Fate. Of the great ones, only She-once-a-goddess was able to move. She'd made a bargain with Fate, discarding divinity for love and dooming all the linked others to lose their power and status, as well.

  “No!” cried the former goddess, looking wildly around at the dwindling shapes of Lord Oberyn, Lady Flame, Father Ocean, Hyrenn, Frost Maiden, Firelord and his grim, silent twin. “I never wanted… I only meant to…”

  But her protest didn’t matter, coming too late to do any good. Of the elves present, Alexion was armed with his childhood blade, doing his best to stay between the Destroyer and its target. With him were She, Korvin, Nalderick, Filimar, Neira and the young ship-captain, Hallan Gelfrin. There were mortals and half-elves as well, including the wizard Murchison, three paladins, and the crew of the Falcon.

  For beasts there was Sawyer the griffin (though distant roaring and screeches and rattled bars promised more on their way). The unwilling focus of all that protection was Valerian, who did not want anyone’s help. After all, the threat was only a single and terribly fragile sword; made from two sacrificed gods, but able to strike only once before shattering.

  Lure it over, then duck out of the way, Val figured. Let the thing bury itself in a pillar or tent-pole. Dead simple… right? The work of a moment, then home and dry.

  Only, something else came out of the rift between worlds. That fiery portal spanned the gulf separating Magister Serrio’s fair from the heart of reality. Inside churned a fearsomely complex machine whose output was manna and a tangle of worldlines. The mechanism was stuck, according to Murchison, who thought he could break its unending loop with something that he called a “patch”.

  But a darksome, oily figure trickled like smoke through whirring gears, sliding past thundering pistons and weaving out through a forest of massive cables. It was this shadowy thing that had launched a tentacle, claiming Destroyer while everyone else debated.

  Now, that flickering silhouette ported most of its essence out of the rift, leaving only a withered husk to shore up the heart of reality. A sweetish-foul grave stench came with it, billowing out of the gate like dank, chilly fog.

  Once free (as elves, half-elves, mortals and griffin rushed to confront it) the shadow gathered more substance and took on a physical shape. Tall, hunched and spiky, with taloned hands, a face that was mostly fanged mouth, and long, oddly bent legs, the monster hauled in its commandeered sword.

  That wizened head bubbled and popped like boiling mud, sometimes forming recognizable features, seeming now like a fierce and powerful wizard, or a dark eldritch goddess, then shifting to Arvendahl, still hissing a final curse. The creature was Chaos itself given flesh, possessing the form of Val’s former master, Sherazedan.

  It scanned that on-rushing crowd, ignoring most of its would-be assailants. Soon found what it wanted and laughed. The monster moved lightning-quick by extruding another long tendril, then pouring its body into and through the newly formed limb. Just like that, the creature came to loom over Valerian, having dodged all his protectors.

  “You,” it grated, “have balked my will long enough. The sword is mine, and now you and your variants will feed the rise of Chaos.”

  The dark figure leaned nearer as Val’s unwanted defenders leapt to protect him. But their attacks couldn’t touch it, for each thrust and blow was met by a lashing tentacle or vile, muttered spell.

  “Amusing,” mocked the corrupted entity. “But futile. I am the one in control here, not the gods, not Serrio and not Lady Fate, for all her tricks and cheap ploys.”

  That seething dark head shot forward on a long and rubbery neck, halting inches away to glare at Valerian. It spoke again, teeth gleaming slick and sharp in the magical light.

  “My mistake was allowing you to live, boy,” it snarled, less Sherazedan than a hideous mock-up; a possessed, leering shell taken over by Chaos. “You should have been drowned at birth like a kitten, but the portents spoke of tremendous potential.”

  Right. Val edged sideways, putting some distance between himself and the ruined husk of a once mighty wizard. There was an advert pillar nearby; the same one that his exiled great-grandfather had backed up against, earlier. The returned prince stared at him from a few yards away now, as if trying to communicate. All at once, Alexion’s green eyes narrowed, and Val found himself whispering,

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  “Keep moving, boy. Don’t let the dark one get a clear shot with that sword.”

  It was Alexion, speaking through Val, somehow, just loudly enough for the startled young elf to hear.

  “Watch out for the girl, too. She’s trying to get behind you, and Chaos has claimed her, as well,” added the prince, using Valerian’s voice.

  Girl? Sheraza, probably. Dressed like a rogue, she was creeping around to his left, dagger in hand, seething with hatred and rage.

  “Yes, Sir,” he whispered back, uncertain whether the process worked in the other direction, and soon too busy to speculate.

  Valerian sorted through his faerie-pockets in a hurry, managing to haul out his dueling sword, Nightshade. He felt Magister Serrio’s fighting-ban lift, freeing him (and everyone else) to defend himself.

  Hand white-knuckle tight on the hilt of his weapon, Val stared that boiling figure straight in its loathsome face. Controlling fear, hate and disgust, he tried using reason, for once.

  “I cannot speak for what another self may have done to ruin your scheme, but…”

  “Scheme?!” the creature shrieked, producing a forest of sudden new limbs. “I do not scheme, wastrel! I have feasted on gods… reigned amid shadows… commanded a fiend of the pit! I do not merely scheme!”

  Those sharpened limbs thrust violently outward, stabbing in every direction at once to pierce Nalderick, Serrio, Sheraza, Korvin and all of the withering gods. Even Ildarion’s corpse was skewered and raised like a puppet. Val backed away as Chaos burned through the former emperor’s body, making the flesh swell and forming an awful mockery head.

  The others were pierced where they stood, thrust through the lungs and heart. The monster’s victims struggled briefly before going terribly limp. They were covered with oily Chaos, becoming a part of the creature. Enslaved, they came forward; dropping black clods with each lurching step. Val lunged aside. Got his sword up between himself and the zombies.

  They didn’t attack him, though. Just gathered together, knelt and bent down to form a sort of table or dais, onto which the champion of Chaos leapt. The paladins, and Alexion, Filimar, Neira and Val rushed to confront it, while Hal and his crew (with a pair of undead assassins) worked their way ‘round the back. Of the ranger, there was no sign, but Cinda had always preferred to strike unseen, so Val wasn’t worried. Much. As for the human wizard…

  “Yeah, no!” snapped Murchison, leveling a shiny brass staff. “I didn’t ask to be dragged here again, and most of you people deserve each other, but my chances of getting home again drop like a concrete balloon with Winkie the Evil Sock-Puppet running things. Sorry, pal. You gotta go.”

  Manna was fading, making it harder to formulate spells, but two of the gods tipped the scales, pouring all they had left into Murchison. Frost Maiden and Firelord sent their last dregs to the mortal wizard, who summoned a hailstorm of glittering throwing-stars to chew through the creature’s dark tentacles. Severed its link to Korvin and Nalderick, letting them drop to the marble plaza like a pair of discarded shoes.

  Meanwhile, the paladins leapt to attack. Two humans and an orc thundered forward, conjuring blessed, holy light. The darksome creature recoiled, but it wasn’t their target.

  At Nadia’s signal, Vorbal the orc lifted and threw her into the air, flinging her up at that hovering sword. She’d meant to seize the dark blade or impale herself on it, while her brothers-in-Oberyn kept the monster busy, below.

  High in the air she soared, tucked into a ball, right at the shining black blade. Only, Chaos surged through a lashing tendril to form a second body right in midair, blocking Nadia’s flight.

  “You cannot win. You cannot fight to a draw, and there is no way out of the game, once started, wench!” sneered that oily mock-up, flashing the faces of those it had taken. Then it hissed out another spell.

  Nadia… Sister Constant… possessed a talisman of invulnerability. The golden sunburst jewel was all that saved her as a volley of razor-sharp spines launched themselves into the sky. None of them struck her, though she caught one to use as a weapon.

  The dark-skinned paladin came out of her roll, great sword in one hand, holy shield in the other. She ought to have fallen then, but a teasing voice whispered,

  “I do love brave and beautiful women.”

  Mandor the vampyre appeared with a wink, raising a staircase of floating rock for her to land on. “Please allow me to assist, fair one.”

  He was undead, and only is head was visible, but there was a much greater threat at the moment. Nadia grunted.

  “Thanks,” she said, as she landed, flailing for balance on floating stone. Didn’t fall off by Oberyn’s grace, as Brothers Humble and Arnulf bounded upward to join her. All they had to do was strike that terrible blade with a weapon, a shield, a rock or themselves, and the danger would vanish. But Destroyer stayed out of their reach, avoiding collision as more stones floated up from the plaza beneath. The fated sword was tossed from one writhing-black tendril to the next, going briefly grey when not being held.

  Down below, Valerian was sick and drek tired of being protected. His fight, his enemies, his problem figured the northerner.

  “Filno,” he whispered to his dark-haired friend, who stood with his crossbow, Joker, cocked and ready. “If we can get into that rift and attack the body this thing has left there…”

  “We could slay or dispel the sending,” enthused Filimar, turning to flash a smile. Then, sobering slightly, “But can we survive in there long enough to dispose of its shell?”

  Val shrugged, edging away from the distracted half-elves and griffin. He still had a bit of the sea potion’s supernatural power left in him, and maybe that was all the edge that they needed.

  “Only one way to find out,” he said. “And if I die in the rift, my own way, Chaos will fail in its strike.” Good plan, but then something invisible delivered a ringing clout to the side of his head, slapping hard.

  “Whatever stupid-fool thing you two are plotting is going to need cover,” said the ranger, suddenly visible once again. “I can make doppelg?ngers and call up a mist to hide you, but I’m going in, too.”

  Valerian stiffened. He started to forbid that maddening, ungovernable female from risking herself… then nodded, instead.

  “There is no one I’d rather take a stupid-drek chance with than you two,” he admitted, finding a bit of a smile. “One time for all. We succeed or we meet again on the other side.”

  “Just like always,” replied Cinda, clasping his shoulder. Then it was time to go.