Chapter 180: Setting the Table

Chapter 180: Setting the Table

Without checking the Skoeticnomikos, Tenebroum was uncertain exactly how many years it had labored to erode the bulwark that was the All-Father. The God was a craggy edifice of pure tradition and willpower, so any normal effort to do what the Lich was doing might well take a millennium. It was certain its plans would come to fruition much faster.

Gods weren’t immortal, though. Tenebroum had proved that already, and this had already been going on for more than a decade, so it was sure that it would bear fruit soon. Of course, it had believed the same thing about that cursed Lunaris until recently, it thought with rising bitterness.

Then, just like that, his whole plan had been apparently undone, and she was whole once more. The moon had apparently recovered seemingly overnight from the terrible poison it had injected her with. Its Queen of Thorns could devour a thousand lesser nature goddesses, and it wouldn’t be worth half what it might have been to bring the moon down. So, now, the Lich was redoubling its efforts. It would not allow another of these troublesome gods to slip through its fingers.

So, now, instead of basking in the prayers of its worshipers and priests as it had done while it watched her slowly fade to nothing, it stormed around the catacombs at the heart of its lair like a dark storm, causing terror and exaltation in its worshipers by turns. Now, it was focused. Now, it was monitoring the progress of every major effort. The Lich sent messengers to every corner of its dark empire with demands for updates and new, more ambitious orders. The Lich did not know what happened, but it would find a way to have its revenge.

The only plan that had born fruit, in recent memory, were the efforts of its huntress and hound. They had located what was very probably the third part of this dark godling it had sought for so long. That was tantalizing, and Tenebroum was sure that it would learn much before it devoured them.

The find was being transported night by night under guard. So, it would yet be weeks before the seal sarcophagus arrived, but that was acceptable.

The Lich would use that time to prepare a secure area for study. It was imperative that it understand those three strange divinities and the way that their broken souls fit together. That said, it was equally imperative that they not join together until or unless it decided that was the correct move. Layers of binding runes and wards would be prepared. Each cell would be ringed with all the names it knew for these little monsters so that it could experiment on them as long as it wanted.

Until that good news was received, though, things had been quiet. The Voice of Reason was still on her way back south and had claimed a new island of primitive worshipers for its growing religion, and its armies to the north were making only limited headway against the humans they faced off against there. It would seem that they learned from the slaughter of their cousins to the south. There had not yet been any reports of light-eyed Templars, but the men of the north had their own magics that were proving to be quite formidable. Tenebroum was looking forward to learning those as well.

None of that was as important as the news that the All-Father was on the verge of cracking, though. That report had caused it to drop everything and rush to the giant storehouse where it kept the trove of dwarven artifacts that it had sacked and stolen during the endless guerilla wars that Krulm’venor was engaged in.

In almost all cases, weapons, armor, and jewelry were melted down and put to work in other, more important projects. That was both because they had no apparent effect on the God and because it could get such rare metals nowhere else. Mithril was scarce, even to a dwarf, but their tombs were full of the stuff, and the Lich would put it all to use.

The crystalline skulls of the honored dead, though, those had a higher purpose, and of the hundreds of thousands of such things it had stolen so far, nearly a hundred thousand had been tainted and then placed in the ever-growing cathedral that Verdein had been constructing for some time now.

Tenebroum no longer restlessly passed through its lair looking for answers regarding the moon or status updates for other projects. Instead, it haunted those dark and spacious rooms, watching for more signs of stress that indicated that its long-planned schism was imminent.

The avatars of the All-Father had taken the field on more than one occasion. They were mighty if temporary things. Soon, though, that cosmic craftsman wouldn’t have enough power to enchant a sword or an axe, let alone channel a spell like that to his priests.

For weeks, the only thing that it did beyond lurk and watch was to order Krulm’venor to prepare to assault the Iron City itself. Such an attack would be suicide, even for its fire godling. The same might be true if it sent a dozen armies, though. The giant city buried hundreds of feet below the ground was a fortress that was utterly immune to any conventional attack it could think of. That was why it was going to kill their God to distract them.

It was distracted by these thoughts when it happened, but only for a moment. The first indication that something monumental was about to happen was the way the skulls began to dim in unison. Whole sections of the piles began to flicker and fade out as one. Then the screaming started.

Tenebroum had never wondered what half a million crystalline voices screaming out in pain would sound like, but now it knew. The Lich instantly ordered its terrible tome to document that in musical notation as best it could. Suddenly, High Priest Verdenin’s cathedral would have another use now, once its primary use was completed. They would put on an opera voiced solely by the dead: The Death of the All-Father.

For generations, dwarven society had been unified by a single idea. There was only one way to live a good life. There was only one way to contribute and be remembered, and anything less fell short of that idea and, therefore, of contributing to divinity. What the Lich had done was shatter that. Now, their God was splintering under the weight of darkness and insanity it was directing into the dwarven afterlife, and it doubted very much that their culture would survive any more than their God would.

. . .

Krulm’venor had crouched in the cramped airshaft a dozen feet above the market street for weeks now, basically unmoving. He didn’t mind that. He had found a way into the city without drawing the Lich’s attention, and he had waited for further orders.

It was as pleasant a command as he’d had in years. For the first time in a very long time, the normal noises of a dwarven city were enough to block out all the terrible whispers and deranged howls that echoed through his soul.

The sound of merchants hawking their wares and housewives haggling for every last copper was a balm to his soul. He knew he would have to move when the ratcatchers came through this area or when the Lich gave its command, but for now, he just lay there, staring out of the iron-barred grate at the street far below him, idly fidgeting with that damn button as he tried to remember what it had meant to be a dwarf.

He might have done that forever, but when the Lich whispered to him to be ready to begin his assault, he knew that perfect moment was all but over. What he did not expect, though, was for the world to go insane.