The New World

Chapter Forty-three

32nd day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Wandao (The Sixth Hell)

Jorim’s quest to win through the Nine Hells almost ended in Wandao, the Sixth Hell. It had been given over entirely to the torment of bullies-from the abusive father and spouse, to the aging shrew who emotionally tortured and manipulated everyone she knew. They had all been regressed to the age of nine-the point at which they should have grown out of such behavior-though their voices and vocabularies betrayed the age at which they died.

In this Hell of children, the copper ants and thorned vines with which Nessagafel had tortured Jorim abounded. Again and again, the children kicked over the anthills. When the ants erupted in copper geysers, the children would run screaming through nettles, brambles, and the vines. Thorns would tear at them and burrs would thicken their hair. Eventually they would stumble and fall. Screaming and thrashing, they would sink beneath a wave of ants.

Clean piles of bones dotted a landscape which-aside from these grim monuments and the abundance of anthills-appeared quite pleasant. Plants would arise from amid the skeletons, flower, then produce a strange fruit that resembled a cocoon. It would fall to the ground and a child would emerge to begin the cycle anew.

Seeing the ants and vines stopped Jorim. He dropped to his knees and hugged arms around himself. “There has to be another way around.”

The Viruk hunched beside him. “What is it?”

“Nessagafel.” He looked up. “He used the ants and vines on me.”

“I understand.” Talrisaal nodded. “Even his kindnesses were tinged with cruelty. Our priests said it was to toughen the Viruk. Our philosophers thought it a reflection of the world we grew up in.”

“What do you mean?”

Talrisaal laughed and Jorim took pleasure in the sound. “How do I say this to a god? You, your brothers and sisters, were long acknowledged as Nessagafel’s creations. Even when he manifested himself and became the God-Emperor in Virukadeen, he reinforced this thought. It was a core precept of our religion, but there were heretics among us. In fact, until the day you saved me, I was one.”

The Viruk got his hands under Jorim’s shoulders and hauled him to his feet. “Wentoki, I have been watching. If we do not anger the ants, I believe we will pass unharmed. Look, over there.”

Two children played together amid the grasses. They laughed and plucked blades of grass. They held them between their thumbs and blew, making funny sounds. This increased the laughter. The children slowly regressed, shedding years, and when they reached the point where they could no longer stand, they vanished altogether.

Jorim arched an eyebrow. “You think they are off to be reborn?”

“Thus is the cycle of life completed.” Talrisaal urged him forward. “We will get out of here soon enough.”

“You’re right.” Jorim walked on, placing his feet carefully. “I want to go back to something you said. What did your heretics believe?”

“I don’t know that it was belief, really, as much as a point of discussion. People wondered why cruelty existed in the world. If Nessagafel was a perfect and generous god-as he claimed-and creation was a reflection of him, then cruelty had to be part of him or something he introduced consciously. Why would he do that? No one could answer, and he remained silent on the point. So some began to wonder if he was a flawed god. When that was taken a step further, we wondered if he was a god at all.”

“How could they question his being a god? He was there in Virukadeen.”

“Actually, that was the source of the question. There was no way to tell if he had discovered magic and it had made him as powerful as a god or-and here is the heretical bit-if the very discovery of magic made us believe there had to be gods. That belief, perforce, led us to create a god-either of whole cloth, or by channeling our belief into a Viruk who claimed he was a god.”

Jorim stopped. “But if he wasn’t the god who created everything, then how is it here? How am I here?”

“Two separate issues and, believe me, your existence caused me no end of sleepless nights. The existence of reality could imply a god, but does not require one. Our creation of a god could have imbued him with the power to create you and his other children, as well as other bits of creation you all claim. Some have suggested, in fact, that we created a god to be a mechanism for working magic before we understood how it worked. We invest power and belief in a god, we ask for boons, and when they are granted, we rejoice. What this means, ultimately, is not that Nessagafel created us in his image, but we crafted him in ours.”

Jorim followed the Viruk around a silken pouch that was just beginning to open. “But why would your god, your vessel, then create us?”

Talrisaal nodded grimly. “Here is where it gets very odd. If we created Nessagafel in our image, and if his very life depended upon our worship of him, then our growing understanding of magic and how to control it became a direct threat to his existence. If you can work miracles yourself, how or why do you need to worship something that no longer seems so powerful? Nessagafel was, in effect, a parasite. By creating you for Men to worship, Nessagafel was guaranteeing his continued existence. He creates nine of you, he waits to see which is the most powerful or well liked, then allies himself with you or supplants you.”

“Then why the plan to destroy all creation and start over?”

Talrisaal shook his head as they neared a shimmering lake. “There was not much time to discuss this as the end came, but the idea was advanced that one of you, his children, might bestow magic upon Men. Tsiwen had gifted foresight to the Soth, and you allowed the Fennych to shift shapes. Magic for Men was but a matter of time.”

“Which would put him in the same situation all over again: losing power because Men would become miracle workers.” Jorim frowned. “But the vanyesh and the Cataclysm ended that problem. Magic is feared, and the power is limited.”

“But limited only by the minds of those who wield it.”

“If he had influence over the vanyesh… ” Jorim shook his head. “All of this is predicated on his ability to influence affairs in the mortal realm, but he was destroyed with Virukadeen.”

“He may have been destroyed, but his worship was not.” The Viruk sighed. “No matter how horrible something may be, there will be those who refuse to see its reality. Change terrifies them, so they refuse to acknowledge it. They cling to the old ways, repeat the old rituals, and through that imbue new life into an old evil.”

Jorim rubbed both hands over his face. “What you’ve said makes a dreadful sort of sense. Among the Amentzutl, the pantheon has undergone contractions and the channels for worship have been merged. For instance, Tsiwen and Kojai have been merged into Tlachoa, a monkey god which, in more recent representations, has sprouted bat’s wings.”

“They shape the gods to their needs.” Talrisaal shrugged slowly. “If the gods do for us that which we cannot do ourselves, it makes sense that we reshape them and their aspects to address our current needs-for good or ill.”

Jorim looked down at himself. “Then am I being reshaped?”

The Viruk flashed bright teeth. “You are courage, and it is forever needed and lauded.”

“The ants tested that courage. Thank you for helping me.”

“I have returned a favor you did me.” Talrisaal waded out into the lake. “And now to Quoraxan, to repay the demons who had been tormenting me for their kindness.”

The Viruk dove beneath the water and Jorim went after him. They both swam down, going deeper and deeper until a current began to draw them along. It picked up speed and suddenly sucked them into a tube.

Then a heartbeat later, Jorim shot out of a tunnel, free of the water. He flew into Quoraxan, a world of red lands that had been scoured and scarred by savage winds and volcanic flows. Lava erupted and burning lakes lit the landscape. Even the water burst into flames halfway down its nine-hundred-foot descent.

Jorim began falling and falling fast. His companion had suggested that worshippers shape gods to their needs, and Jorim sorely needed wings. He reached out, finding magic and shifted its balance. His robe ripped as wings thrust out and beat hard. He took heart in the fact that they were bat’s wings, and he came to hover just above the tallest of the pool’s licking flames.

Talrisaal, on eagle’s wings, hovered beside him, riding the hot air.

Jorim laughed. “My bat’s wings are for Tsiwen and wisdom. But you? Eagle’s wings for Sisvoc and love?”

“I love not being burned.”

“Good point.”

The two of them looked down. The pool had collected in a bowl-shaped depression, the edges of which eclipsed their view of the surrounding area. Demons, tens of thousands of them, in a variety of colors-some dotted with warts, others striped with ulcerating wounds oozing pus and maggots-packed the shores. Some bore tridents, others studded clubs, but the nastiest just gnashed serrated teeth and flexed claws.

“And I think, Wentoki, I love flying above them.”

Which is when the demons all sprouted wings and launched themselves into the air.