The New World

Chapter Fifty-five

4th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Zhangjian (The Place Between)

The trek across the last of Chong-to was accomplished with a minimum of effort and few losses. Warring bands crippled their enemies, then held them in thrall, enjoying their pain. It was hardly conduct that would win release, but this new consolidation of power occupied the bands enough that they let Jorim’s army travel unmolested.

Jorim passed first through the shimmering veil that separated the First Hell from Zhangjian. The Place Between served as an entryway to the realms of the supernatural. It lay parallel to the physical world, and was everything it was not. Dark and empty, without form or substance, it proved unsettling for everyone. Something supported their feet, but no one could tell what it was. Shimik tried to dig in it but didn’t get very far. Riders had to dismount to lead reluctant beasts, and the Nighfor found it too disorienting even to attempt to fly.

The gateway to the Heavens awaited in the distance and this made Jorim suspicious. “There is no reason for the perception of distance, save that someone wishes us to feel far from our goal.”

Talrisaal nodded. “Nessagafel.”

Pyrust did not let the plane’s featurelessness daunt him. He formed his army up, using the Naleni and Amentzutl troops as his center, with the hart-cavalry split on each wing, and the lizards flanking them. The Nighfor waited in reserve, along with the hammer-headed apes.

Something glimmered ahead in the darkness. Jorim started to run, but reached it in two steps. Crumpled in a bloody robe decorated with bats on the wing, Tsiwen lay largely still. Pinpoint wounds from ant bites covered her visible flesh. Her throat and face had been raked with thorns. Her robe covered her belly, but she’d clearly been disemboweled.

Jorim dropped to a knee and felt her throat for a pulse. The gesture was ridiculous. Tsiwen had no more need for a pulse than she did a physical form. Talrisaal appeared on her other side.

Jorim looked up. “You wanted to know why Nessagafel didn’t know I’d escaped him? She took my place. I can’t imagine…”

“Magic works here. I can help her.”

“Please, do.” Jorim caressed her cheek. “We’d not have gotten even this far save that she fooled him.”

“But not for long enough, Wentoki.”

A young man materialized past Talrisaal. He was the child Nessagafel had been, now grown. He stood naked save for a black ring around his little finger. “You have been quite audacious, my son. I have not had time to fully assess the damage you’ve done. But it matters not, since I will unmake all of this. When I start over, I’ll bring you back and make a special Hell just for you.”

He raised one hand and Tsiwen twitched. Her eyes jerked open. She flew upright, limp as a puppet, her intestines tangling in her legs. With every finger Nessagafel flexed she danced-at times clumsy, others seductively, all the while her head lolling and jaw bouncing open.

“I told you I gave you compassion because I did not need it. I lied.” His other hand came up and Nirati appeared, hanging by invisible strings. “I gave it to you to cripple you.”

Bones cracked. Nessagafel doubled in size. He sprouted a second pair of arms and raised those hands as well, bringing Nauana and Anaeda Gryst into his dancing troupe. The ancient god laughed, his fingers flicking. The women capered through farcical dances, then dashed against the ground like discarded toys.

“That is it, isn’t it? You’re just a child.”

Nessagafel’s head came up. “This, from you? You clothe yourself in flesh and play among mortals. You are the child wishing he could fight alongside his toy soldiers. All you ever sought to do was imitate me, but you never could. You never allowed yourself to set compassion aside. You hoped it would make you superior when you clearly were not.”

“I’ll set it aside now.”

“You, fight me? Here? Now?” Nessagafel’s puppets disappeared. “You are a man. I am a god.”

“But you are limited.” Jorim stood. “By the ring. By your fear.”

Light flashed for a second, blinding him. When vision returned he found his companions arranged in a circle around the two of them. They watched horrified, hands pressed to an unseen barrier. He took heart in Tsiwen’s appearance-her entrails had been replaced. This gave Jorim hope.

Nessagafel leaped at him, all four arms wide, his fingers sprouting claws. He roared soundlessly, yet vibrations thrummed through Jorim’s chest. The murderous fires in his eyes flared, licking up over his forehead, and he descended.

Jorim pushed panic away and grasped the mai. The key to working magic had always been to find the truth of something. He gathered the magic and, clapping his hands, launched a sizzling sphere. Argent lighting wreathed the ball. It blasted into Nessagafel’s chest and exploded. The god flew back, slamming into the invisible wall. The lower pair of arms burst into flames and fell away.

The ancient god crouched at the circle’s edge. “You want to see what I truly am? Your mistake.”

For the tiniest part of a second, too small to measure, Nessagafel revealed his true nature. His physical form became transparent-nothing more than a vessel for his essence. Sounds echoed in colors, light dripped, textures sang. Emotions, hundreds of thousands of them, vibrated like plucked bowstrings, each a needle scraping over his consciousness. Nessagafel was the stuff of hopes and dreams and fears and hatreds, of love and lust and despair. Understanding even one strand of his being would take eternity, and yet uncounted strands coiled in him.

Then Jorim was down, his robe shredded, his chest bleeding.

Nessagafel, wearing the form of a Viruk, stood over him and raised a clawed hand. “All you need to understand of me, Wentoki, is that I am the one who has destroyed you.”

His hand fell.