“My Sisters will not answer you, my Son,” a voice rumbled out of the darkness. “They do not care for this world as I do.”
A small patch of the same angular script as adorned the walls of the temple began to glow softly near the far end of the large rectangular room, illuminating a huge man-like figure that bore those marks. The Fallen God of Glory.
How had the Fallen come to be here, now? The room had been empty before he stepped in, he was sure of it. Could this be just another vision? Did it matter?
Pure panic ripped through Emrael. His last encounter with this Being had left him shaken, nearly emotionally crippled. “Why do you call me that?” Emrael asked, his voice raspy and shaking. He was proud he had been able to speak at all.
The Fallen, lit clearly by the now-fierce glow of the scars that adorned his ashen skin, rumbled a powerfully deep laugh. “You continue to fight the truths I have shown you. You will understand, in time. Oh yes, there will be plenty of that, I think.”
Emrael regained his senses quickly, though he surmised that it might be impossible to become totally accustomed to the deep reverberations of power that rolled through him each time the Fallen spoke.
“What do you want?”
The Fallen tilted his head, peering at Emrael silently for a time with eyes that glowed with infusori.
“I want revenge. I want peace,” he said quietly, now calmly approaching Emrael with powerful strides. “I am here to make you an offer.”
The Fallen reached out his giant hand to touch Emrael’s shoulder. As before, the power of the Fallen God surged through him, threatening to obliterate him, to burn the soul clean out of his body. He felt as if he were trying to consume the entire world’s worth of infusori at once—immense, achingly deep pain intertwined with a feeling of unstoppable power. The power to shape the world however he wished.
“All can be yours, Emrael Ire,” the Fallen purred. “Submit to me, become my disciple, and all will be yours in time.”
Emrael was tempted. A better man would not have been, but he was tempted. As he grappled with his own ambition and with the unspeakable power and pain coursing through him, however, his mind flashed back to his fight with the soulbound earlier that day. He recalled with perfect clarity the agony it experienced, the putrid corruptness of the soulbound’s life source.
The Fallen had created the soulbound, had created the Craftings that enslaved humans in a never-ending state of torment. No God such as this deserved his loyalty, no matter the power he held and promises he made. Emrael would not be a part of subjugating the world for this monstrous Being, even if refusal cost him his life.
“No,” Emrael growled defiantly through the pain.
The Fallen smiled again, just as he had the last time Emrael had defied him. “It is good that you cannot be bought so easily, my Son. It is good.”
He removed his massive hand from Emrael’s shoulder. The pain, the ecstasy of the Fallen’s power ceased completely. Where Emrael had felt drained, barely human the last time he had survived such an encounter, he now felt perfectly fine—far better than he had when he had stepped in the room, in fact. He rolled his left shoulder, astonished to find it completely healed of the soulbound’s bite wound. His forearm had been healed as well—not even a blemish remained on his skin.
“Now the test begins in truth, my Son!” the Fallen crowed. “Only when you have sacrificed everything you hold dear will you be worthy of my Glory.”
Emrael had no idea what that meant, but it didn’t sound good. Before he could even think to ask the Fallen anything further, however, the chamber was flooded with blue light as the copper script in the walls began glowing with an immense amount of infusori energy. He shut his eyes reflexively against the sudden brightness, and when he opened them again, the Fallen was gone.
The door opened suddenly behind him, causing him to jump in surprise and whirl around, crouched in a fighting stance. He pulled a flood of infusori into himself in a flash, but Jaina stood at the door looking as surprised as he was.
Despite the enormity of what had just happened to him—or maybe due to relief from the intense encounter—he couldn’t help but laugh at his friend, who glared at him from outside.
“What did you do to the door?”
“Absent Gods, Jaina, he was here. The Fallen himself.” He reached up to pull the bandages from his neck, probing with his fingers to be sure that there were no longer any wounds.
Jaina now looked at him askance. “You have only been out of my sight for a second. Maybe less. The door slammed shut and opened almost instantaneously.”
“I don’t know how, Jaina, but he was here. Take a look at my neck, my wounds are entirely healed. He was talking about his sisters, then tried to make me his disciple. He offered me power.”
She took a quick step toward him, her eyes flicking to his newly healed shoulder and neck. “How did you answer?” she asked in a low, intense tone. He could see her body tense.
Emrael had to fight the urge to step back from her just as he had from the Fallen. “Glory, Jaina, I told him no. He touched me, and it felt like an avalanche of infusori, but pain—deep, soul-crushing pain—all at the same time.”
She touched his now-healed shoulder, her face pinched in an expression of deep concern. He felt her open herself to his infusori senses, and he did the same, letting her feel his life source, his soul.
“You seem perfectly well,” she murmured. “He did not affect you as he did last time.”
Emrael nodded, distracted by his connection with her. “I feel great, but he said something about a real test, and sacrificing everything I care about—”
He cut off the conversation and his connection with Jaina to leave the room at a run. “He’s going after Ban!” he called over his shoulder. “That’s why we haven’t seen any of them since we holed up here. We need to get the men ready to move now!”
Emrael left the room at a jog, digging the infusori coils from his large pouch and charging them with the energy he pulled from the natural infusori that flowed through the temple itself.
“Here, take these,” he prompted Jaina, shoving half a dozen glowing coils at her as they ran together back toward the temple entrance. She looked at him like he had lost his mind but took the coils in her arms without complaint. She knew they’d prove handy in the coming battles, and he had his Crafted armor that he had already charged.
“Why are you suddenly so sure they’re going after Ban?” she asked.
“He—the Fallen—said something about me sacrificing everything I care about,” he said over his shoulder as he ran. “Kept calling me his son. I think he’s playing some kind of game with me, and that game apparently involves trying to kill everyone I care about.”
Jaina stopped dead in her tracks. “He called you his son?”
Emrael slowed to a stop to look back at her in confusion. “Yeah, but we can figure that out later. We’ve got to get to Ban.”
Jaina started jogging with him again but as they neared the stairs that led back up to the outer chamber, she stopped again. “Emrael,” she began hesitantly, “the Malithii believe that men are not destined to inherit Glory’s power to join the Silent Sisters, but rather to join Glory in waging war against them. The artifacts our Order has found in the Westlands all have one thing in common: they refer to the Sons of Glory who will liberate the Fallen and fight the Silent Sisters with him. Most Imperator factions assume that it was the Malithii referring to themselves, but one faction of my Order believes that the phrase ‘Sons of Glory’ refers to something else.… There are ancient records that mention such figures, but the accounts don’t provide any clear conclusions.”
“And which are you?” he asked, meeting her green eyes briefly.
“I do not know, not anymore. The Fallen could almost certainly control you directly if he wanted to, but seems to want your cooperation. You are clearly not giving it to him. Beyond that … I believe we have no choice but to fight. I am still with you, Emrael. To the end, if needs be.”
Emrael stepped close to her, and as both of her arms were full of brightly glowing coils, he grasped her shoulders and leaned down to settle his forehead against hers. “Thank you, Jaina. You have no idea how much that means to me.”
They stood together for a time; how long, he could not have said.
“Enough of that,” he said with mock gruffness and a smile as he straightened and took a step back. “Let’s get moving.”
They emerged from the temple to find Darmon, Captain Second Vaslat, Timan, Captain First Worren, and many of their Iraean Captains Second and Third, perhaps two dozen in all. They stood in loose ranks, and most had looks of uncomfortable surprise on their faces as Emrael emerged from the temple, scars glowing brightly, Jaina with an armful of glowing coils. They hadn’t had time to get used to all of the oddities of a commander who was also a mage, let alone Emrael’s other quirks. They would learn.
He addressed his gathered officers unceremoniously. “Get everyone who can fight ready to move in one hour. We can’t wait until nightfall.”
The room was silent for a confused moment before his officers erupted in protests.
Emrael held up his hands and was pleased when the room quieted quickly. “I’ve just learned that the Malithii are going to attack our friends south of the river. They may have already.”
“Your brother’s Crafting?” Timan asked, glancing at the pendant still hanging around Emrael’s neck.
Emrael wasn’t about to tell his officers that he had just spoken with the Fallen God. Half would think he’d lost his mind, and the other half would think he had been fooled, tainted by him. And he might have been fooled, he had to admit, but it was a risk he’d have to take. They had planned to move by nightfall anyway, and he couldn’t let Ban and his other men face the full Malithii forces alone.
He shook his head and walked to the doorway rather than answer. He scanned the sky and sure enough, a faint haze of dust to the south was just visible in the afternoon sun. Men were on the move, and the dust-caked streets of Trylla betrayed their movements. If he hadn’t known what to look for, however, he might have missed it entirely.
“Look for yourself,” he said cryptically.
Timan gave him an odd look, but his officers murmured their surprise when they saw the haze of dust.
“I’ll be damned,” Worren grunted, squinting. “It could just be a stiff wind kicking that up, but I think you’re right. How in Glory’s dark name did you know? You’ve been down in that dungeon for the better part of an hour.”
Emrael again ignored the question. “Send scouts right away. Cover half a league in all directions, make sure we aren’t running into an ambush. We’re leaving in an hour. Go now.”