Darmon Corrande rode his mottled grey-and-black stallion along the nearly empty center boulevard of Surra, the large trading city on the coast of the Grey Sea, right at the edge of the Rift. Positioned as it was, it was the primary entry point for goods from the northern portions of the Ithan Empire into his province. His father’s province, he supposed. Though it didn’t feel much like it belonged to either of them, now.
Surra was a city unlike any other he had seen, and he had seen a fair few. Most of the buildings were of stone—the buildings that mattered, at least. There was plenty of tarred timber and red mud brick down in the rougher parts of town, the slums near the docks in particular.
Stone buildings weren’t distinctive in and of themselves, of course. But every stone in the city had been quarried from the coarse black granite found in the cliffs at the northern point of the Great Rift where it met the sea. Dull black streets, black buildings, and all too often, a cloud-darkened sky to match. Though it was quite beautiful in sunlight, Surra was often depressing and ominous.
Black suited his mood that day, and certainly fit his companions well. A black-robed Malithii priest rode to either side of him, an “honor guard” that felt more like a prison detail.
They arrived at their destination, a worksite in the hills above the city where the Malithii were building a huge pyramid of the same black stone as the city center, though the stones used here were huge blocks as tall as a man. Darmon and his two Malithii guards stopped their horses on a bluff overlooking the enormous project.
Thousands of manacled slaves, either Provincial prisoners or men the Malithii had captured in the Ithan Kingdoms, toiled at the building site below. They dragged thousands of black stone blocks, hauled them up to the top of the structure via large chains, pulleys, and elevators to scaffolds where stonemasons laid them in place. His blood ran cold when he spied giant figures among the throngs of slaves, half again as tall as the captives they patrolled. Malithii masters directed the slaves, but these giant sanja’ahn kept them in line just with their fearsome presence. Darmon had seen one of the monsters tear a defiant slave in half with its bare hands once, weeks ago at an encampment of captives near Brugg, the capital. Seeing that was enough to quell most thoughts of fighting back against these oppressors, though Darmon figured the Malithii only had perhaps two hundred of the giants at their command.
The pyramid was very impressive, but Darmon didn’t understand it one bit. Why had he and his father been dragged out of their capital, away from the looming war with Emrael Ire, just to see this? Why was the Prophet so obsessed with this pyramid, out here in the hills near the Rift?
One of his Malithii keepers gestured toward the structure and grunted, “Come,” and kicked his horse down the hill toward the unfinished pyramid. The second Malithii stared at Darmon and clucked at him until he moved.
To his surprise, when they arrived, the Malithii dismounted and went inside. Darmon didn’t see any alternative—he certainly wasn’t going to try to escape now, not with those damned sanja’ahn on the loose.
The inside of the structure had its own crews of workmen, but all of the workers here were Malithii priests in their dark robes. Standing on ladders and scaffolds, they worked at the walls with hammer and chisel, while others hammered copper into the chiseled-out spaces, creating a giant interconnected mural of angular script.
Darmon and his guards wove their way through the bustle to the center of the floor, where rare noon sun made a square of light as it passed through the unfinished peak of the pyramid. There waited his father, Bortisse, and Savian, the self-proclaimed Prophet of the Fallen God of Glory. There was a time when Darmon would have scoffed at such a claim, but that was a time before he had seen the sanja’ahn giants, the pens of humans enslaved and turned into raving soulbound beasts, and before he had seen his father cowed by Savian and his mage-priests. He didn’t know what he believed anymore.
Just a year ago, Darmon wouldn’t have fathomed fearing anything more than he feared his father, but now he only felt pity and contempt when he looked at the man. His father had changed these last few months. His tall, strong frame was now stooped, his eyes perpetually haunted. Once, Darmon would have been glad to see the man suffer. But not like this.
As he drew closer to the two men, he could hear Savian speaking loudly through the din. “It will be magnificent, dear Bortisse! You will see! Our master will be most pleased, most pleased.”
His father just nodded despondently.
His curiosity piqued, Darmon stayed quiet, hoping to hear more, but Savian turned to greet them.
“Ah! The boy is here, good good.” He rubbed his hands together and giggled gleefully. Such an odd man to have completely subdued his father, to have cast a blanket of fear on their entire province. “I have a treat for you both, I do.”
Darmon watched curiously as his father glanced at him, grimaced as his eyes touched on Darmon’s pinned sleeve where his sword hand should have been, then looked away. He would have suspected that Savian had used one of those awful mindbinders on his father, but it didn’t make sense. The elder Corrande was fully lucid and had brief flashes where Darmon could see the old anger behind his eyes. Savian must have done something else, something worse.
Besides, just the other day Darmon had overheard Savian complaining that he hadn’t had time in months to make more mindbinders. Likely he wanted to use them to control people close to Emrael Ire. Everything Savian did seemed to focus on that damn Ire bastard. And yet, Ire seemed to be giving this lunatic a fight, where his father had simply capitulated and ceded control of the Watchers and his own Corrande Legion. Darmon could not understand.
Savian shouted, and three of his fellow priests scurried toward one wall where the shadows were deepest, carrying armfuls of Crafted metal parts, which they began to assemble into a box nearly as tall as a man. Darmon didn’t have the faintest idea what it would do, but he recognized it as an infusori Crafting, equal to or more impressive than anything he had seen at the Citadel. Copper wires, coils of gold, and bars of silver intertwined in an impossibly complex configuration.
As the setup neared completion, Savian shouted “Silence!” and all work in the pyramid ceased immediately. Every single Malithii priest in the structure bowed immediately, hands to their faces. Even the throngs of slaves outside quieted quickly. A jitter of anxiety coursed through Darmon.
The priests that had set up the contraption now beckoned to others of their ilk, who dragged two struggling Ithan slaves toward their machine. The prisoners were pinned on their backs as the waiting priests connected a series of cables to the arms and legs of the poor men. When the cables were attached, the priests flipped a switch, and the two prisoners fell silent, backs arced so severely that only their feet, heads, and hands touched the ground. The priests stepped back, bowing to the ground and staying there. The machine began to whiz and burr as several parts glowed with infusori drawn from the captives. Darmon had never seen its like. Why had they not simply used infusori from charged coils?
After a moment, light flickered above the assembled contraption, then coalesced into a solid, crisp image of a man, taller even than the sanja’ahn, and perfectly muscled. Angular marks covered his ashen skin, scars that glowed with a light that ebbed and flowed.
The figure opened its eyes, and Darmon took an unconscious step backward as the walls of the pyramid began to glow faintly where the copper had been laid in an angular script.
“Yes,” the figure boomed in a deep voice that was not loud, but somehow reverberated through every fiber of Darmon’s being. “Yes, this will do nicely. When will the full schema be complete, Savian?”
Savian stepped forward, rapture lighting his face. “Soon, Master, soon. Our army of Servants is growing. The structure is almost complete, and the … device will follow soon after.”
“Hmmm,” the giant figure crooned. “I am not pleased with the delay, Savian, for my arrival is paramount. All that I have planned will be for naught without this.”
“Yes, Glory,” Savian said, cringing and lowering further to the floor. He began whimpering as if in pain.
The image of the figure turned, scanning those present, regarding them as if seeing stones lying on the ground. He turned back to the Prophet and waved a hand. “Rise. The work with the Ire boy. It progresses?”
“Ye-yes, Master,” Savian stammered, shaking.
“He grows strong, cunning,” Glory rumbled. “You have done well.”
Savian wept tears of joy, his teeth bared in an ecstatic grin.
Glory’s eyes now glowed fiercely, as did the angular script in his skin. “But not fast enough! I can feel my time approaching, Savian. You must hurry. Push him harder, ever harder.”
“It is not so easy, God Glory. The Ordenans still wage war on our shores. They have weapons, and ships, that we cannot match. They delay our plans.”
Glory, or the image of him, growled with rage. “The children of my Sisters have ever been a thorn in my side. I will give you what you need to defeat them.”
At that, the image of Glory disappeared. The contraption hummed and whirred, then grew quiet. The bodies of the captives used to fuel the Crafting were now shriveled, deflated corpses that looked as if they had dried in the sun for months.
Darmon looked around him, half in shock. The Malithii priests remained cowered on the ground or on scaffolds where they had been when the image of the Fallen God had appeared. Darmon no longer doubted that the Fallen was real, not after what he had just seen.
Savian turned to the rest of them, now completely composed despite the tears still wetting his face. “You heard our master. We must press harder. I cannot spare my sanya’oin, but we can use Servants. Bortisse! Send your Watchers to hound him. Hurt him, bring me those he loves. Lord Holder Paellar and Lord Holder Marol will welcome you. Go, send your best.”
An idea ignited in Darmon’s mind. “I’ll go,” he said forcefully, eyes darting to the dead husks that had been living humans just a moment before. “Let me lead them.”
His father considered him quietly with dull eyes, but Savian crooned, “Ahh, yes. The boy wishes to exact his revenge. Perfect. Just remember, Ire is not to be killed. He belongs to our master, and none other.”
Darmon forced a confident smile. “Of course.”