Chapter 2.58: Servant of Khahar

Chapter 2.58: Servant of Khahar

Zankir threw a log into his fireplace, breathing life into the dying embers and sending a sweltering wave of heat through his home. Night had fallen over his adoptive home, a fitting end to the progress made by the small village. This heat was the one thing that reminded him of home. The swirling maelstrom of power over the town was the only other thing that gave him a sense of nostalgia. That same maelstrom prevented long-range communication by the normal means, sending him into a flurry to find reagents.

Zansal padded over, cooing at her child before coming to rest near the fire.

Ziz says he has it, Zankir said, smiling.

Assuming Ziz doesnt know what it is, Zansal mocked. She wasnt supportive of the plan, but it was their duty. Their sacred charge. Surely we can delay.

Hell know.This chapter made its debut appearance via N0v3lB1n.

He hasnt found out so far.

That we know of.

Zansal wrapped her arms around herself, letting out a slow breath. She stood, walking away without another word. Zankir nodded to himself, rising to find and wear his cloak. He secured his scimitar to his side and left into the oppressive humidity of the night. Most citizens of Broken Tusk were asleep by now, but as he ascended toward the quarry he heard the raucous laughter of the stoneworkers. They were a strange group among strange people.

Ziz greeted the Khahari near the edge of a ring of light, cast by a roaring bonfire. The Half-Ogre pulled him into a hug, free of suspicion and willing to share whatever liquor they were drinking.

Doing alright there, Zankir? Ziz asked.

Quite fine, Rotgut.

My boys were talking, Ziz said, withdrawing a yellow gem from his pocket. We never took you for gem work. Did you get a new core?

Zankir raised his head slowly, locking eyes with the progenitor of all Khahari. The living ancestor god of all Khahari. Khahar was striking. Even under shaggy fur, and through the distorted image of the spell, he was magnificent. Zankir froze for a long moment before his patron cleared his throat.

Apologies, Zankir repeated.

Better. What have you found?

He lives, as you predicted, Zankir said. In the body of a Dronon.

Soul-sharing? Khahar said.

That is beyond my knowledge, oh great one, Zankir said.

There was a long pause after that. Khahar remained in the center of the circle, a ghostly bust that flooded the room with yellow light.

Theo Spencer, Khahar said, trailing off. Youve done well, Zankir. Well meet soon, with any luck.

The image cut out suddenly. The winds of the sacred desert faded in an instant, and Zankir was left alone near the fire, shaking. Even through the communication ritual, his power was overwhelming. It was like standing naked against a sandstorm, buffeted by the wind and scoured clean of all doubt.

At the door to the bedroom, Zansal stood, her eyes wide.

Hes coming? she asked, fear dripping in her voice. What have you done?

Not all Khahari believed Khahar should remain on the mortal plane. No living mortal should have that much power.