Dario had stared down death before. She had a much uglier visage than anticipated—too much to bear without flinching from it, and so he strayed from her kiss. Now he was mentally prepared for that homely face, and if it should come time to stare her down again, he was certain he wouldn’t flinch away this time. If he did, death might grow offended and decide to claim him regardless. She was clingy, and didn’t like being refused.
Traugott. The Heralds, as they were apparently called, had shown him countless visions of the former Magister who’d mastered walking into the Shadowlands. There was something special about that land, something that differentiated itself from this realm or the countless others beyond it. Traugott had mastered walking into and out of it at will, and had even managed to overcome the ferocity of the denizens within. It wouldn’t be easy to kill him. After all, if one shines light, shadows aren’t banished—they merely move.
“We came all this way for a bunch of spheres?” Melanie asked, drawing him from his haze.
Dario looked back from the box full of orbs just before him. “Not spheres. Cores. They powered the golems that traversed the lava. They’re empty, but Elenore gave me permission to power them with spirits.”
Melanie nodded understandingly, but furrowed her brows after she thought deeper. “Not sure if hunks of metal have the agility to catch the shadows. And you don’t have golems, do you?”
“No.” Dario sifted through them, picking one up. “I intend to ignite them.”
“Good god...” Melanie sighed. “Argrave mentioned something about them exploding. Is that what you mean? He didn’t clock you for a terrorist.” She caressed her forehead than asked, “Bombs? Against a spellcaster? Sounds like we’re asking to be buried and forgotten.”
“Powered with spirits, one of these could heavily wound a Shadowlander.” Dario looked back and tossed one, and though it was unpowered, Melanie’s face still flashed with caution after his bold statement and she caught it delicately. “One of Traugott’s wards might block it, provided he was far enough away...”
“Yet you’re still bringing them,” Melanie criticized, hefting the thing in hand.
“I said ‘one.’” He looked back. “We have more than one.”
The former mercenary’s mind worked, calculating the possible outcomes of her mission with a would-be martyr whose first instinct was to retrieve a huge load of bombs. She couldn’t say she had many points of reference to draw upon—only this lunk, and he had a poor track record.
“Set a few off near him, he’s red mist and bone meal. Ignite it, throw it into the Shadowlands... won’t even be gore, just a forgotten man and a rapidly-closing portal. If I touch him, if he comes close enough for me to grab... no matter what’s between us, I’ll end him.”
“Sure,” she answered, understanding what he asked despite the humorous way he asked it.
The others looked at him, confused.
“Alright. Let’s go, then. Let’s not forget the umbrella—it could rain.” He looked back, where the man who’d been designated to blow the horn waited, and gave the signal with his hands.
The hornblower, with one purpose in life, blew the horn. Argrave expected grand things—the man had been training his entire life for this moment. He raised it to his lips, filled those practiced, spacious lungs with air, and blew. It was an adequate blow. Perhaps the expectation made it seem lesser than it was.
As it sounded, Argrave told Elenore, “Start the march.”
With his command to her, Argrave began the long march toward heaven one step at a time. Law’s Justiciars walked ahead, folding around the leading cadre like a protective shell. Following shortly after was a great rumble as all the powers they’d gathered spurred into action. Thousands marched—thousands with great gluts of power, and countless empires worth of knowledge. They struck at heaven, striving for it as countless others before them... but would this time be different? Statistically speaking, the answer was no... but most gamblers quit just before they make it big.
As their feet moved from the loose dirt at the base of the mountain to the rough-hewn stone road curving and winding ahead of them, Argrave felt a shift in the air before he heard a noise in the sky. He didn’t stop the march, but his eyes danced upward. The enemy had a hornblower of their own, it would seem. Their horn was the sky tower, and the blower Kirel Qircassia. Exponentially larger than Argrave’s, it made a much more impressive noise.
Kirel Qircassia’s fortress of clouds—once bombarding the whole of the Great Chu—changed its target. Now, great balls of hellfire spouted into the air as a solid wave of fire, then descended downward toward the mountain as a firefall. The tower itself split open as the Qircassian Coalition finally reared its head in earnest. Deities of all stripes prepared to descend, prepared to defend the last barrier between them and the heavens. In the clouds, past all the movement, Argrave saw the barest hint of Qircassia’s body—scales as white as bone, and streaked with black. Just as the door opened, so did it close, and that hint of his presence was gone.
The sky tower was not the only thing coming to life. Beneath the earth, Argrave could feel magic coming to life, taking hold of the earth beneath them. The stone felt firmer, the air felt different. The cold steel efficiency of the Palace of Heaven was soon adorned by a glamor of its own. Arcane magics danced into the air, forming a crown above the circular stone fortress above them. The battlefield fixed into place, and the shield that had repelled gods and armies uncountable stood in their way.
People took their place on the battlements of the Palace of the Heaven. Upon first glance, they seemed to be soldiers like any other. But past the haze of chaos, one could see their misshapen forms, their monstrous figures. They were the emissaries of Erlebnis. Somewhere behind this mess of power, the ancient god of knowledge waited. His servants manned the battlements, and the deity himself commanded them, the tricks and guiles of millennia coming to bear for this final confrontation.
Erlebnis’ library, his servants... they were made of the flesh and blood of the fallen. He had engineered the Alchemist’s transformation into the Smiling Raven. He had provided the means for the ancient elven empire to fall. Countless other atrocities lost to history lined his plate, and he’d already attempted some in this millennia—trying to supplant the Bloodwoods, trying to completely destroy the Great Chu from within. Now, it was the Blackgard Union turn. They had survived his machinations, and dealt blows of their own in turn.
But if he were so easy to slay, he would’ve died countless cycles ago.