“No!” A ragged beast appeared from the darkness. A length of broken chain trailed from the collar around his neck. Grija vaulted the invisible wall, teeth bared. As he flew he took on his full aspect-at last strong and fearless.

His white fangs snapped shut.

On air.

Nessagafel caught him by the throat. Grija struggled, trying to bite, trying to scratch, but Nessagafel tightened his grip.

The wolf whimpered.

“Grija, poor Grija.” Nessagafel slowly shook his head. “You were my first child, so I shall do you the honor of letting you go first again.”

The ancient god stroked the wolf’s fur. It shimmered as his hand passed, then slowly evaporated. With each caress, more and more of Grija disappeared.

Worse yet, Jorim found it more difficult to recall Grija. Fresh memories dimmed. Old memories faded. Jorim found himself wondering how the wolf had gotten into Nessagafel’s hands and by the time he realized he didn’t know, the wolf had vanished and Jorim was uncertain what he’d been wondering about in the first place.

The ancient god turned to Jorim. “It was easy with him because I knew him so well. With you it will be more difficult, Wentoki, but you will be forgotten soon enough.”

Jorim stood, drawing back. “I won’t go easily.”

“Fight all you want, it won’t matter.”

Jorim’s flesh tingled hotly before he’d even begun to grasp the mai. Bits and pieces of his memory began to dissolve. Things he needed went missing. Words lay on the tip of his tongue. He saw people staring in horror, but couldn’t remember their names. He raised his hands, trembling. He wanted to ask for help, but who and how eluded him.

“You could have joined me, Wentoki, but all is lost now. As you unravel, I learn it all. I know everything.”

Jorim staggered and fell, suddenly having forgotten how to stand. He struggled to rise. “There’s one thing you don’t know.”

“No? Intrigue me, and perhaps I shall let you linger.”

“I didn’t make the Fennych to kill the Viruk.”

Nessagafel’s eyes narrowed. “Then why…?”

“I made them to kill you.”

Shimik squeezed into the circle, having shifted his shape to get under the wall. He coiled like a snake and, growling, launched himself. Nessagafel spun, his right arm coming up. He deflected the Fenn.

Shimik’s serpentine body coiled around his arm and tensed. The limb snapped loudly. The Fenn’s thick fur blunted the Viruk’s slashing claws, while Shimik’s claws dug in at the shoulder, shredding bony flesh. The Fenn lunged again, his neck growing longer. His serrated teeth sank into Nessagafel’s throat. He tore most of it free with a jerk, then burrowed back in. He clung tightly even as Nessagafel went down.

He didn’t stop gnawing until the ancient god’s head rolled free.

TheNewWorld

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

First Year of the Restoration of the Imperial Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Zhangjian (The Place Between)

Cyron rolled to his feet, staring at the severed head. “Is he really dead?”

Tsiwen, having regained her color, nodded. “As dead as it is possible for him to be.”

Pyrust stepped forward as Shimik slid from the body and wriggled to Jorim’s side. “But there is no god of Death. I know this. There never has been.”

Tsiwen opened her hands. “Death, just like life, appears to operate independently of a patron god.”

The Viruk nodded. “Death existed before Nessagafel. A god of Death, were one to exist, would be the harvester of souls, arbitrating who is allowed to return to the world.”

Cyron frowned. “Then without such a god, Nessagafel could return.”

“As long as there are those who worship him, he could return. Only a god of Death could prevent it.”

Nirati crouched beside the body. “You needn’t worry about his returning. I won’t allow it.”

Cyron shook his head. “You can’t just appoint yourself a god.”

“I didn’t have to. Nelesquin created the Durrani and they worshipped me. Even now, if I listen, those fighting in Moriande offer prayers so they will not disgrace themselves.” She stood. “I shall be the goddess of Death. Nirati the fox. And I shall keep Nessagafel in a grave until the last of his followers comes to me.”

Tsiwen turned to her. “This is not a pleasant choice you are making.”

“You don’t understand, sister.” Nirati smiled easily. “All my life I sought my talent and never found it. Yet the one thing I did well was die. Death is my talent, and rebirth is the gift I can give to those who deserve it.”

Pyrust nodded. “I trust, in time, you’ll find I deserve it.”

“I find you already do. Rebirth, and an even greater reward.” Nirati waved a hand and Pyrust vanished.

Cyron stared at her. “You have taken to your powers quickly, Nirati. A talent indeed.”

Nirati bowed her head, then gestured again and Nessagafel’s corpse disappeared. “If you will excuse me, there are a few things to which I must attend. It would help me, brother and sister, if you could do something about the war.”

Nirati faded and Cyron stared after her. His eyes narrowed. “She said ‘brother and sister,’ but looked at me, not Jorim.”

Tsiwen linked her arm through his. “He is still her brother, and so are you, now.”

“What?”

“How is it that you came to be here, Cyron? Only a god surrendering a mortal sheath can appear here upon death.”

“I am no god.”

“People worship you. They attribute miracles to you.” Tsiwen led him toward Jorim. “You saw the offerings they left in your name, incense burned, relics displayed in those shrines. To those people, you are a god.”

“But what am I the god of?”

Her laughter came softly to his ears. “You are the god of your talent. You are the god we need. Nessagafel created his children to amuse him, but as it is on earth, so it is in the Heavens. We became a bureaucracy beneath him. You reformed the bureaucracy. You are Cyron, Prince of gods. You unite us and rule over us, bringing order to Chaos and paradise to the world.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“That’s the joy of being a god. You don’t have to believe. Others already do. Just listen.”

Cyron paused for a moment, and the voices did come to him. Prayers of thanks, panicked prayers asking for help, desperate prayers, and grieving prayers. Hundreds of thousands of voices, and not just human, but Viruk and Soth and creatures that Cyron never even knew existed.

And one desperate voice, coming from a few feet away.

Nauana knelt there, cradling Jorim’s head in her lap. She stroked his forehead, wiping away her own tears. Shimik sat beside her, holding Jorim’s hand. The bleeding had been stopped and the gashes healed. Jorim breathed steadily, but stared up blankly.

Cyron crouched and took his other hand. He patted it. “Jorim. Jorim Anturasi. Wake up.”

Tsiwen squeezed Cyron’s shoulder. “He doesn’t hear you.”

“I don’t understand.”

A tear rolled down Tsiwen’s cheek. “Nessagafel started to unmake him, but Jorim fought. He gave up little pieces of himself to protect the core. He’s in there, somewhere. Only he doesn’t have the words to communicate. He’s a child again, an infant.”

Nauana wiped her eyes. “But he can learn?”

Tsiwen nodded. “Yes, he can learn.”

Shimik grinned with a mouthful of golden teeth. “Jrima, Shimik learna, learna big.”

The dark-haired woman again stroked Jorim’s brow. “I shall take Tetcomchoa back to Nemehyan. I shall teach him. We all will. We will give him back his mind.”

Anaeda Gryst glanced over at Cyron. “I will take them back on the Stormwolf, if I have your permission, Highness.”

“It is no longer mine to give, but I think it is an excellent idea.” Cyron nodded. “Please take Nirati’s army with you and leave them on Anturasixan.”