The Newt and Demon - Chapter 4.65 - Hallowed Realm of the Dead

Foul odors didn’t seem to carry as well in Tero’gal. That was a good thing, considering the amount of bodies crammed in the small cottage. Benton, Theo, Tresk, Fenian, Khahar, and Belgar all sat at a round table. The Elf let out another frustrated breath, then tossed his cards across the room.

“I don’t care for this game.”

Khahar’s lips twitched, hinting at a smile. “You have the best poker face I’ve ever seen. I don’t understand how you’ve lost this badly.”

“Deception in the real world is easier. This game is a farce.”

Fenian was frustrated, but not from the game. The longer he sat in Tero’gal, the more Theo understood the extent of his plan. That plan held more facets than just killing the king of Qavell and claiming the Throne of the Herald. Khahar hid those pieces of the plan perfectly within the realm, but the Elf wasn’t so skilled.

“Might as well get going,” Theo said, standing to dismiss the matter.

Everyone filed out of the cottage. Tresk cracked her knuckles and rolled up her sleeves. They bunched up, then rolled down her scrawny arms immediately. But she wasn’t a Marshling that cared for ceremony. She steepled her fingers before sending her senses through the realms. Theo could feel it, like an itch in the back of her mind, as she quested. Khahar nodded with approval.

“She’s frighteningly good at this,” he said. “I can’t sense an ability… hmmm.”

“If she’s hiding an ability,” Theo started, smiling at his companion. “She’s hiding it well. Could it just be aptitude?”

“I doubt it,” Khahar said. “It must be a hidden ability.”

“I’ll never tell. Alright. Are you ready, Elf-boy?”

Two rapiers appeared in Fenian’s hands. The silver-blue one for Parantheir, and the shadowy one for Uz’Xulven. “Khahar knows what to do if I don’t return. Send me to the dead realm, you angry little Marshling.”

It took only a snap of her fingers for Tresk to send Fenian away. Space didn’t warp around him. There was no visible indication that he had gone, but he was. A cold silence settled in over the bright landscape of the realm.

“Well, this is awkward,” Belgar said, folding his ghostly arms in front of him. “I expected an explosion.”

“Hmmm. I must go,” Khahar said, vanishing without another word.

“That’s not ominous,” Benton grunted. He turned to regard Tresk. “Any insights, little savant?”

“Meh. He zorped back to Khahak, and I can’t see that far.”

“You’d tell me if you had a hidden ability. Right?” Theo’s feelings for and with Tresk shifted by the day. They were mostly synchronized now, leaving no room for lies.

“No ability. But I don’t want Khahar knowing that. Heh.”

It made more sense that Tresk had an innate ability to command the realms. It fell in line with Theo’s thoughts on Khahar’s long-term plans. The grand scheme involved him, but it was in a supporting role. Tresk was the genuine star of the show. Like most things with the long-lived people, there would be more twists and turns before the end. So long as the walls held firm, both in the mortal realm and Tero’gal, everything would turn out fine.

Belgar cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous. But the spirits here spend a lot of time without you. I’ve been giving them tasks.”

“Not a bad idea,” Theo said. “Are they getting bored?”

“Bored? No, but they’re restless.”

“What’s the difference?” Tresk asked.

“We’re mapping the realm. Most of us haven’t been in a heavenly realm, so we don’t know what we should be doing. Benton has been helpful in that regard.”

“Oh, do go on,” Benton said.

“Tero’gal isn’t like the other heavenly realms. According to Benton,” Belgar nodded at the bear god.

“Right. Normally, they’re a reflection of your station. Mine is cold and without life. Khahar’s is a fortress—or so they say—and so on.”

“Uz’Xulven has a bridge,” Tresk said, giggling.

“Right,” Benton said. “She formed her realm into the concept of a bridge, which links realms. But Tero’gal? This is just a place. Like a different version of the mortal realm.”

This wasn’t news to Theo. Tero’gal was described as a mortal dream realm in some system descriptions. His theory was that it was the manifestation of their Dreamwalk ability. A way for Khahar to bypass some rules in the monitor system’s ‘coding’ to allow them to own a heavenly realm. The most accurate description of the realm was that it was a dream made manifest in the heavens. The alchemist wasn’t eager to share this information with anyone. Not because he was afraid they would abuse the knowledge, but because of the implications.

Watch this! Alex shouted into Tresk and Theo’s minds from afar.

They heard wings flapping in the distance, then the slap of webbed feet on packed mud. The group swiveled their heads to spot the goose taking off into the sky. She soared high, then off into the distance.

“She finally learned to fly,” Tresk mused, watching as the goose became little more than a speck against the sprawling sky. “Once she’s big enough, I’m gonna ride her.”

“That’s a sight I’d pay to see,” Belgar said. “Combat goose.”

Theo wasn’t eager to get back to the mortal plane. Instead, he consulted the maps that Belgar and the souls had drawn up. They had already estimated the size of the world in halms, but the alchemist converted them into miles because halms sucked. If they were right, Tero’gal was larger than the continent Broken Tusk rested on. It would only continue to grow. But would it wrap around like a spherical planet? Or would it just go on forever, like some weird flat plane in the void?

Alex flew overhead as Tresk and Theo met with the various souls of the realm. They held less reverence for him than the people of his own town, which felt like a relief. There was something about being a lost soul that made one independent, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. Some complained of listlessness, but Belgar promised to give them more tasks. There were too many questions to give anyone solid answers, so they settled on an open promise of excitement.

They hiked through the land, following the various maps to find points of interest. Dotting the landscape were the structures generated by the system upgrades. The towers here reminded him of those on the walls back home. But the natural landmarks were nothing like the swamplands. Clear streams ran from the snow-capped mountains, emptying into massive lakes. Like everything in the realm, there was no wildlife. Just an endless sprawl of Earth-like plants and open fields. Those plants grew at a normal rate, though. Unlike the trees outside of Broken Tusk, the dream plants had nothing to feed off of. Or the pseudo-physical forms they took weren’t entirely adapted to absorbing magical power.

Theo and Tresk watched Alex swoop down into a lake, plunging beneath the surface. She honked with excitement, flapping her waxy wings to remove the water. Belgar lingered nearby with a group of souls. All who followed the group had an appreciation for nature, and Tero’gal was happy to provide.

“I wonder where this turn leads us,” Theo said, pulling Tresk close.

“Nowhere good,” she grumbled.

“I don’t know,” Belgar offered. “You’ve already saved some lost souls. Count that as a victory.”

“Yeah!” one soul shouted, pumping their spectral fist in the air.

Let’s just hope this isn’t the end of Fenian’s journey, Theo thought, eyes locked on the goose in the lake. Let’s hope he didn’t rush into this like last time.

Traveling to a dead realm was nasty business. Fenian didn’t want to do this. He wanted nothing to do with Balkor’s power, but every turn of his life had shunted him closer to the damned demon god. Khahar had reassured him it was all part of some large plan, and that the dead Dronon was part of it. Only, he had to do all the heavy lifting. Luring the king into a false sense of security, then into the dead realm. The unveiling of hidden powers locked away for a century.

“I’ve gotten myself into it this time, haven’t I?” Fenian asked himself.

Balkor’s dead realm offered no response. The act of being interdicted into Tero’gal, and then into the unpronounceable realm of Ho’ch. It was a sprawling place that contained nothing but rot. Semi-organic structures loomed high into a pale green sky. The scent of death carried on a stagnant breeze, blowing nothing but a stomach-churning odor into the Elf’s nostrils. His steps squelched underfoot as he pushed forward. To the place where the god had fashioned himself a spire.

Like Khahak, Ho’ch contained a massive tower in the center. In the early days of the first ascendancy war, the Dronon God of Necromancy had carved a niche for himself. A place where no other god would dare attack, lest their servants be turned against them. Scholars of the time had done their best to document the fight, but those records were mostly lost. All that remained were ruined realms that none could see. It hadn’t even been that long since he died. 873 years. A blink in the grand scheme.

“Ah, there you are,” Fenian said, surmounting the last rise.

King Karasan stood, back against the seething green stone. His elegant Elven countenance was locked in a permanent grimace. His mage’s robes swept the ground behind him as he pushed off, black hair streaked with white trailing as though driven by the wind. “I see you’ve had enough time to recover.”

“How is the old home?” Fenian asked. “Infested with Balkor’s cast-offs yet?”

“Almost,” Karasan said. “Should I die here, my son has a plan to destroy your pets.”

“Otherwise, you’ll be the one to wipe the Southlands Alliance off the map. I have to say, I’m impressed you haven’t dropped a city-sized fireball on them.”

“Bringing errant towns to heel is nothing new, Southblade. Or fallen Tarantham houses, for that matter.”

“Oh, please. If you define the slaughter of a people as obedience, you’re a fool.”

Karasan sighed, then shrugged. As always, he treated this as a matter that bored him. “They were all like you. All craved one thing. Death. The desire to rejoin lost loved ones. You held back in our last fight. Why?”

“Put it together, my king,” Fenian sneered. He tightened the grip on both of his rapiers.

“Would Parantheir make you his avatar here? I don’t think so. Neither would Uz’Xulven,” Karasan said, his eyes focusing on the space between them. Bored as ever. “You couldn’t beat me in the void. Or in the minor realms. You didn’t use [Parantheir’s Challenge], because you knew you would die. So, you lured me here in the hope that a dead god would help you? Maybe that would work. If Balkor rose against me—which he won’t—you stand a chance. Perhaps the alchemist has given you some anti-mage potions, which might help. If my mana pool wasn’t so vast.”

“Everyone has a weakness.”

“I’m sure of it!” Karasan laughed. “I’m content with my life. I’ll die here, if that’s what needs to happen. But perhaps you should consider the weight of the station. The system has not accepted my suggestions as Herald. But I’m rambling on. Let’s see your trick.”

Fenian sent his senses into his soul where his cores rested. Everyone saw him as the wielder of a legendary [Elven Trader’s Core], and that was true. He also had his [Parantheir Duelist’s Core], and his [Uz’Xulven Duelist’s Core]. Few might guess he got his hands on a [Planar Mage’s Core], which had done him little good. And not a living soul on the planet knew about his other two cores.

“I had to let you win the first fight,” Fenian said, licking his lips nervously. “That was the only way you would follow me here. I had to be a servant of Uz’Xulven, so she would let you use the bridge. Before all that, I needed to sow the seeds of doubt.”

“What doubt might that be?”

“Doubt that any of Balkor’s followers were left alive.”

“Your wife was the last,” Karasan said. “Not that it matters. With Balkor dead, his cores were removed from his followers.”

“Interesting thing. Balkor never died. Not completely,” Fenian said, gesturing to the realm. “This place withers, but doesn’t perish. When he was cast down to Gardreth, it was a feint. What necromancer worth their weight stores their soul in their body? Even gods.”

Fenian had never seen Karasan’s face so much as twitch. But the slight raising of his brows told him everything he needed to know. The king reached for a magical item in his possession, but the duelist activated his [Parantheir’s Challenge] ability.

[Parantheir’s Challenge]

Parantheir Duelist Skill

Epic

Challenge all surrounding enemies to a duel. No one may leave the designated area until a victor is crowned.

Effect:

All hostile persons, or monsters, are locked in a duel with you. No party may leave until the other is dead.

Walls of shimmering silver-blue energy emerged from the rotting ground. Karasan winced, holding an ornate black sculpture in his hand. The stone of the statue crumbled onto the ground, burning with green fire until there was nothing left. This was it. Either Fenian’s gamble paid off, or he was dead. The ability would last until one of them was dead on the ground of Balkor’s domain, feeding the flagging spirit of the god.

“This is it, then,” Karasan said. “Grace me with the name of the core before we fight to the death.”

“Cores,” Fenian corrected. “[Balkor Mage Hunter’s Core], and [Balkor’s High Priest Core].”

Karasan’s face twitched again. “Your wife’s?”

Fenian nodded, crouching on the spot. Karasan held his hand out, channeling his magic. The duelist kicked off from the ground with such force that pieces of fetid ground broke off, shooting back to slam against the barrier. He spun in the air, bringing both rapiers against the king’s powerful barrier at the same time. Coated in anti-mage poison as the rapiers were, they sucked away at the magical power. A shockwave of antimagical energy shot in every direction. The king buckled.

But one didn’t become the king of Qavell through idle scheming. Bolts of electricity shot in every direction, bouncing against the barrier. Fenian deflected several with his swords, only succeeding in sending them bouncing faster. Karasan twisted his hands through the air, performing complex magical gestures that brought spikes of arcane energy drilling into the duelist’s body. His mage hunting core sang, drinking the energy in and filling him with power. The pair broke their stalemate, standing apart and staring daggers.

“It seems you have too many tricks,” Karasan said, unable to hide his labored breath.

“We’re just getting started.”

The Wanderer had known nothing but rage for almost a thousand years. His mind hadn’t been his own since Balkor’s false death. He raised his head in recognition for the first time since that day, gazing up with rotting eyes. The white towers of Qavell stabbed toward the heavens, as though defying the gods themselves. A boiling mass of undeath surrounded him. Seething creatures that groaned and rattled in response to the duel. He wheezed, clearing away a thousand years of dust and mucus from his throat.

A shiver ran through the army of undeath. There were new bodies here. New vessels he didn’t remember from the fall. He wheezed, then cleared his throat again. A trickle of his old power returned to him, affording him consciousness enough to know.

“West,” he croaked. The command rippled through the undead. A word of power that drove them on.

Fenian’s body and spirit felt broken. He drew ragged breaths through one ruined lung. Both Balkor-aligned cores rested somewhere nearby. Somewhere near the corpse of a fallen king. The realm shivered around him, filling with new unlife. The fight had gone on far too long. It was a flash in the pan compared to the heavenly scale of time, but to a mortal? He had spent years fighting with the king in that box. With nowhere to run, they were forced to fight with abandon.

That barrier had fallen, bringing with its demise a rush of stinking air. After evacuating the bile in his stomach, Fenian had collapsed. The next thing he felt was the collapsing and rebuilding of disparate powers. Gears turned somewhere, then locked into place. To own the Throne of the Herald was an honor. And a curse.

“That’s sorted, I suppose,” Fenian wheezed.

“Yet,” another voice said, wheezing from all around him. “You cast away gifts.”

“I have no interest in serving you,” Fenian said. “Just used you, didn’t I? A means to an end.”

“Hmmm,” the voice hummed. “Did you figure out my phylactery on your own? You drew it so close to the Qavelli settlements—you must have known.”

“Balkor, I don’t know the extent of your madness.” Fenian gazed up at the green sky above. Even the putrid clouds above made him sick. “What I know is that you’re needed.”

“Life to life, undeath to death,” Balkor said, his voice bright.

“The scholars of old thought you were too smart to move against the other gods. They figured you had a plan. You were close with Drogramath. So, I figured why wouldn’t you hide your soul away?”

“Indeed. But you’re dying, Elf. I’m happy to accept you into my realm… Or perhaps I could grant you eternity.”

Fenian shivered. He expected to be able to walk out of the realm. All his tricks should have brought Karasan low in moments, but the old man was crafty. Now he was bleeding out in the realm of a risen god. He obtained the throne, only to accept a leash. How fitting.

“We’re not that desperate,” Fenian said, pulling a healing potion from his inventory. The first few he drank only dulled the pain. Maybe this one would work.

Balkor laughed. “Fine. I had to try, you know.”

“What happens with the undead on the mortal plane?”

“They’re headed west.”

“Why?”

“Hah! Impetuous. Fine. I suppose the Herald ought to know.”

Balkor revealed his plans to the prone Elf. Perhaps the throne wasn’t worth the price.

The Watcher stood on the surface of Antalis. Iaredin spread before him, a blue-green gem floating in the vastness of space. Things hadn’t gone the way he expected, but they were interesting enough. Fenian had proved to be more capable than any of his other candidates. And he was born here. That was the most interesting part. His feathers ruffled as he turned, spotting the two men that had hounded him from the start.

“We’ve done all you asked for,” the grumpy paladin said.

“Every single thing,” the wizard added.

“Service doesn’t guarantee my compliance,” the Watcher said, shaking his head. The corners of his beak-like face rose to something resembling a smile.

“We’re never ascending, are we?” the paladin asked.

Both had lost their cores in the coup. The Watcher could flick a single feather and send them back to the planet. He could do the same motion and turn them into living gods. He could do anything he wanted. But he wouldn’t. Because rules existed for a reason. If he stomped around creation, meddling with the systems, they would grow out of his control. Both men reminded him of the people he seeded on this world. They were too greedy for their own good. Too eager to abuse the power given to them. Next time, he would employ a tighter leash.

“Ascension was never guaranteed.”

“Yet you allowed that Khahari to do as he pleased,” the wizard said, snorting a laugh. “Hardly fair.”

“He has operated within the rules. You were too weak.”

“What other options do we have?” the paladin asked.

The only option they had was ironic. “Can you see the realms from here? You’re ascendant, aren’t you Sulvan Flametouched?”

Sulvan shifted uncomfortably in place. He kicked up a cloud of white powder, sending it drifting over the desolate landscape. The pair always refused to mingle with the peoples that lived on Antalis, thinking them weak. The system’s rules said that anyone over level 100 could sense the realms. If they were strong enough, or wise enough, they could even ascend to godhood. Whatever that meant for the ants on this world.

“I am.”

“And you, Uharis Banetouched, are on the cusp.”

“Yeah,” Uharis said, grimacing.

“There is a new realm. A thing that grows in power by the day. You know the owner.”

Sulvan clenched his fist, gritting his teeth. The Watcher chuckled.

“Beg him, and he may accept you. You have the means.”

Because there was no greater irony than begging the man they attempted to control for help. And Theo could do it with the help of Tresk. That Marshling girl had surprised the Watcher at every step. No one, either brought here or born here, had the aptitude that she had at controlling the realms. Soon enough, she would realize her full potential.

On the mortal realm below, the First Prince of Qavell sensed his father’s death. The city of Qavell rumbled, unleashing magical energies that had been dormant since its construction. The Watcher nodded with approval.