Necromancer Falling: Book Two of The Mukhtaar Chronicles (42 page)

Mujahid sat in the chair, and Mordryn did the same on the bed across from him. She never let go of his hands.

“Help me understand,” Mujahid said.

“What you think you know of us…of the gods…is flawed. Your knowledge is based on the words of an ancient man with good intentions but poor foresight.”

The
Origines Multiversi
formed the beginning of the
Mukhtaar Chronicles
, and was written by the prophet
Habakku
, one of the holiest men in Erindor’s history.

“The
Origines
forms the basis of all theological wisdom. If what you’re saying is true…” Mujahid couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. “But what does any of this have to do with Kaitlyn?”

“Malvol needs her.”

“But why?”

“The God of Hate has accelerated her Awakening,” Mordryn said. “Beyond that simple fact, I cannot say why. Cognitomancers are a rare breed.”

“The girl is an enchanter?” Mujahid asked.

“She’s much more than that. But she’s Awakening to her cognitomantic powers now, and Malvol will seek to use her. There is much you don’t understand about the nature of
deity
, Mujahid. You’re familiar with the concept of
apotheosis
, I’m sure.”

“Are you suggesting Malvol wasn’t always a god?” Mujahid asked.

“I’m not merely suggesting it. I’m stating it as
fact
. Such is the nature of
all
of the gods. It is my contention Malvol needs her to complete his transformation.”

Mujahid’s pulse quickened. The fundamentals of everything he had been taught, everything he
believed,
was crumbling around him.

“The
Origines
is a lie?” Mujahid asked. So often had he read the
Origines Multiversi
that he remembered the words as if they’d been imprinted on his mind. “‘The Power reached into his being and pulled the gods from within. The first he named Arin, for Arin was his exalted firstborn. The second he named Shealynd, for Shealynd emerged from his Love. The last he named Zubuxo, for Zubuxo was last in all things
.
’”

Mordryn squeezed his hand. “Please, Mujahid—”

“Shall I continue?” Mujahid asked. “The Power
created
the gods. You suggest some other beginning?”

“Does the Origines reveal
how
The Power created the gods?”

Mujahid sat in silence. If anyone in the multiverse understood the truth of the Origines, it was Mordryn, yet she spoke as if this lunacy were objective truth.

“You stopped your recitation too soon,” she said. “What are the first words attributed to my brother Arin in the Origines?”

Could Mordryn be right? All those years of scholarship. All those years of studying the sacred text. How could he have missed something so crucial?

Mujahid closed his eyes and recited the words. “‘Why have these great and terrible powers manifest themselves within us?’”

Mordryn chuckled. “That’s far more poetic than what he
actually
said. But ask yourself; why would he ask that question if his powers were always innate?”

“I…” Mujahid couldn’t fathom it. “Everything I thought I knew…”

“Malvol was once a man,” Mordryn said. “In many ways, he still is. He used his considerable influence in life to gather a following of devout worshipers. Their faith fed him until his powers became godlike. But it wasn’t long before he discovered that wasn’t enough. The final step, deification—
complete
deification—requires the intervention of a god.”

“And Malvol intends to use Kaitlyn for that purpose,” Mujahid said.

“Kaitlyn is merely a demigod, so she cannot serve in my place,” Mordryn said. “But as my daughter, she will eventually have physical access to me.”

“Which means she’ll be able to compel you with cognitomancy,” Mujahid said.

Mordryn stood.

“We call Malvol the
God of Hate
, but that name is incorrect. He thrives on
chaos
, not hatred. He feeds off it. The more chaotic the world becomes, the more people believe in his influence. The more people believe in his influence…”

“The more powerful he grows,” Mujahid said. “The more powerful he grows, the more chaotic the world becomes.”

“And on and on it goes.”

“Who is he? If he was once a man, where did he come from?”

“Your brother seeks that answer at this very moment.”

Mujahid stood and squeezed Mordryn’s hand.

“You’ve answered my questions,” Mujahid said. “But I…need some time. And there’s a portal I need to relocate. I’ll return shortly.”

“We will see each other again, but it will not be today,” Mordryn said. “Multiple threads of reality converge, but I cannot see the outcome. The decisions that would collapse potential reality into objective reality have not yet been made. And
you
have some role to play in this. There are decisions
you
must make. But promise me one thing.”

“Name it.”

“Promise me you’ll keep Kaitlyn safe. Until she takes her rightful place at my side, she’s vulnerable.”

Mujahid nodded. “Of course.”

Mujahid left Mordryn in his chambers. But he didn’t need to glance back to know she was no longer there.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

In the year 1180 BCE, Yusef Mukhtaar stepped over the threshold, becoming Yusef Lord Mukhtaar. He ascended during a time of great famine in northern Religar (1181 BCE - 1175 BCE). Clans Catiatum and Zerubula sought to take advantage of him, demanding unreasonable amounts of gold and salt in exchange for grain. Clan Ezeki, however, demanded nothing in return except goodwill. Clan Ezeki rationed itself and its surrounding villages and shared half its grain with Clan Mukhtaar, bringing everyone through the famine.

- Coteon of the Steppes, “The Mukhtaar Chronicles: Coteonic Commentaries” (circa 680 BCE)

The alliance between Clan Mukhtaar and Clan Ezeki spanned more than a thousand years, but Tycon Mukhtaar destroyed that as well. The evil of that man knew no bounds.

- Mujahid Mukhtaar, Private Commentaries, 12 CE

Aelron pulled his cloak tight as he crouched on the roof of a three-story building. Though the coin that had once sat in a pocket in his cloak had been small, its weight had been significant. He could feel its absence every bit as much as its presence. He’d had it since he was a child. And now, a lifetime later, he had to find a way to make it through the world without it. Something to replace its incessant draw.

Footsteps echoed up from below, but he wasn’t worried about being seen.

People never look up
.

Hundreds went about their routines in the plaza below, shopping in tents surrounding the three stone fountains. Those who weren’t shopping were strolling along the boulevard between the plaza and the circular fortress at the end of the street.

Whoever had been watching him must be down there somewhere. He didn’t know who or what it was, but as soon as he climbed the building, the prickly feeling on the back of his neck went away.

He’d considered asking that cichlos priest Toridyn to lend him the help of a penitent. But he didn’t want to alarm the group. Besides, if his suspicions were correct—if Jacobson and the other rangers had decided to pursue him after all—it would be better to not involve the others.

It had to be Jacobson. Who else would want to follow him?

No. Jacobson would never go back on a decision. That’s not his way.

So who was it?

The drumming of boots on dirt mingled with the sounds of the crowd and the plaza’s cascading fountains. Dozens of soldiers formed ranks and faced the western gate.

Aelron stepped back from the ledge and ran along the roof to the next building, closer to the fortress side of the plaza. If he could reach one of the two buildings that formed the eastern exit from the plaza, he’d have a better view.

The next closest building was one story shorter than the one he was on, but foot-wide clefts in the brick architecture formed ersatz columns that could slow his descent.

Aelron hopped off the roof and spun until he faced the building. He quickly gripped the brick of a partial column with both hands and feet and entered a controlled slide.

When it felt right, he pushed away from the wall, spun, and landed on the roof below with a shoulder roll.

He was still two buildings away, but each were the same height as this one, with a street running between. An easy jog—except for the leaping across urban canyons bit.

Before he could start, a familiar sight passed below him into the plaza. Nicolas and the guard he’d left with. Kaitlyn must have spotted Nicolas too, because she left Toridyn’s side and ran down the stairs to greet him.

Aelron needed to focus. If someone was following them, it would be better if he found the follower before anything bad happened. Nicolas might be a powerful priest, but his tactical sense was shite. Kaitlyn didn’t understand her own power—whatever it was—and the cichlos priest seemed more interested in sightseeing than anything else.

No, Aelron would have to be the one to make this particular trouble go away.

He scanned the crowd as Nicolas and Kaitlyn struck up a conversation. The last time he felt those eyes on him, he could have sworn it came from this side of the plaza. That would place whoever it was right below him, if they’d stuck around.

But that was unlikely.

Commotion broke out on the western wall. An entire military camp appeared from nowhere, just beyond the gate. Voluminous tents supported by tall beams, soldiers in foreign uniforms, mounts twice the size of adda, siege towers, everything.

They simply
appeared
.

“Prepare for attack!” a soldier yelled.

Screams came from below. Barathosian soldiers appeared, ran Caspardis guards through with curved blades, then vanished. The dying guards never stood a chance.

This was no good. He had to help somehow.

Aelron ran to the ledge of the roof and peered over. A group of six Barathosian soldiers, each with wide-brimmed hats and feathers, were sweeping across the plaza in a line.

Six hells!

Climbing would leave him open to attack. He’d have to drop behind the building instead.

He gripped the side of the building and shimmied down the brick column.

A series of popping sounds echoed toward him from the gate. As he looked, several Barathosians, shrouded in smoke, pointed small objects at the crowd.

He knew what those were. They were the small metallic tubes the Barathosians used when he was hiding in the wagon.

The sensation of being watched returned, but this time the source felt much closer than before.

“You,” a woman’s voice said. It was confident. Commanding. “It’s
Aelron
, isn’t it?”

Aelron spun toward the voice.

Sharp, stabbing pain shot across Aelron’s side before he could see what happened. He reached down to check the damage and pulled back a crimson hand.

A black blur passed in front of his eyes, and the woman was gone before he could get a good look.

The sound of strangled choking came from behind. When he turned, the woman stood over two Barathosians who were clutching their throats in a futile attempt to staunch the flow of blood.

She’d been unnaturally quick.

And she’d saved his life.

She glanced at his wound. “You’ll live.”

Another black blur later and she was four paces away, staring. Though she displayed no weapons, Aelron got the impression she was heavily armed. She wore fitted material that looked like leather, but it was silent when she moved. It covered everything except her head, upon which her blond hair was tied in a top knot. Her armor wrapped up and around her neck, though the buttons were open at her collar bone. Her full-length cloak, black as obsidian, had a strange quality he couldn’t place; it bore the look of rich tailoring, and its sheen reminded him of Arinwool. But every time he tried to look at the fine details, his eyes wouldn’t obey. His glance would slide right off it. All he could see were a series of concentric black rings with an iridescence that moved as his eyes moved. He’d be willing to bet that cloak could help her disappear in a pinch. Even her sleeves, which ended in gloved hands, were exquisitely tailored.