Make sure to re-read the end of part 2! I added a bit that you kinda have to read to understand this.
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Ishmael stared at his grandfather.
It was enough, he thought, just to see him. Strange how much you can miss a face, the expression, the voice; it washed over him, almost to the point of drowning out the words being spoken. Almost. It was an incredible story, perhaps too much so. The Other Side was widely believed to be a myth, a fantastical land of make-believe. But then, so were demons for that matter and there was one, standing right before him. Balthor’s eyes glittered like twin suns.
‘Do you recall the old stories? Some you may have heard from me, some from others, no doubt,’ Cornelius said, his aged voice at odds with his youthful appearance.
Ishmael nodded. ‘About the fox-spirits? Yes, I recall some of it. They always were your favourite.’
‘What is missing from my tale, then?’ he asked.
‘A price.’
Cornelius smiled. ‘Indeed. And that is because neither I, nor the spirit in question, knew there would be one. But, of course, there was and it was most terrible.’ He shook his head, long unbound hair spilling in silken waves. Only the King could wear his hair so, and Ishmael had always admired it.
‘Why are you telling me this, grandfather?’
‘Because you must know. Someone must know why.’ He trailed off, eyes losing momentary focus. ‘Balthor, our guests have arrived. See that they are properly attended to, would you?’
Balthor smiled. ‘Of course.’
The demon waddled off, small legs pumping furiously. Ishmael shivered – such an unnatural creature; polite as it seemed, he wouldn’t want to be the arriving guests.
‘There is a reason bargains were made,’ Cornelius continued. ‘A price exacted to balance out the exchange – no one side received more than the other, what was taken, was replaced.’
He paused as he said this, grabbing a thick sheaf of rolled up paper from the table. It was tied with blue silk. He placed it reverentially in a leather satchel, handing it to Ishmael silently. His equilibrium seemed to desert him as raw grief pooled in his eyes.
‘We did not know what we did, that day. We could not have foreseen it; you must know that before you read this.’
Ishmael felt alarm stir, as he accepted the odd parcel, slipping the strap over his shoulder. ‘What happened? What did you do?’
Cornelius shot to his feet, began pacing, frenetic energy suddenly animating him. ‘There was a reaction, you see – you cannot enter the Other Side, cannot partake of it without it partaking of you; you and it are forever tied. Don’t you see boy? It was magic they gave me. It is from the Other Side! That spark of magic originated from me. ‘
‘I don’t understand, what are you saying?!’ Ishmael shouted, mind racing. He found that he too was on his feet.
‘I never gave it back. We never gave it back. I spread it like a cancer, through the ages, taking and taking and taking ever more still, like a voracious cancer!’ He was shouting now, anger and grief warring on his face as spider-thin wrinkles sliced through his skin and he visibly aged, accelerating through the process, dark hair becoming snow white.
A distant concussion rocked the building. Ishmael staggered, nearly falling to the ground.
‘What is happening?’
‘WE KEPT ON TAKING, DON’T YOU SEE?’ Cornelius whirled, snatching up a staff Ishmael hadn’t noticed before and running to the large, open windows. He leapt out in a single bound, Ishmael’s sudden cry halting mid-way as he saw the air carry his grandfather as easily as the ground did. He fumbled quickly for his glasses, putting them on with trembling hands as he approached the window. Below, at a dizzying distance, figures milled. Sorcery raged, but that was not what held his attention. A network of delicate spells traced a series of roads in the sky.
He gasped. The wonder of it nearly undid him. Gingerly, he stepped out on to the nearest road, marvelling at the power and the skill of the sorcery. Ahead, robes flapping about him, Cornelius thrust the staff up into the sky. ‘You are too late,’ he said. ‘What was given, must be returned. As it was, so shall it be.’
Light bloomed.
*
Balthor smiled at the surprised look on the three men’s faces.
‘Why, Brahn, it’s good of you to arrive on time. I do so hate when dinner is late.’ Balthor licked his pointed teeth.
Brahn, the tallest of the trio, sneered. ‘Run away, little fish. I don’t have time for games.’ His blonde hair fell about his head in an unbound mane, a clear and arrogant declaration.
‘Oh, how fun. That makes two of us.’
A coruscating whip of raw lightning formed in Brahn’s hands, lashing out to loop about Balthor’s neck. The speed and power of it shocked the little demon, as he choked and gasped. His flesh sizzled and a look of triumph emerged on Brahn’s face as the demon began to gurgle.
‘You trifle with a Wizard of the 3rd Order, fool. Did you really expect anything less?’
Balthor’s gurgle slowly resolved into a gasping laugh, clearer and louder as his flesh sloughed away and he grew – becoming huge in size, skin hardening into a scaly black hide, giant leathery wings sprouting from his back. The whip burst away, frittering into nothingness.
The wizards stared in shock.
‘You trifle with a demon, fool,’ Balthor growled in mimicry. ‘Did you really expect anything less?’ His tail whipped out, lassoing one of Brahn’s companions up into the air, his hairy snout darting forth to snap him clean in half. Blood frothed as Balthor chewed wetly. The two remaining wizards quickly recovered from their shock and began firing spells frantically. A storm of energy spiralled about them, creating a haze. Balthor quickly darted away, moving with extraordinary speed, even as the spells bounced off his hide.
He lunged at Brahn, but was buffeted away by a blast of power, sending him careening into the other - who screamed, even as Balthor bit into his face, crunching half of the man’s skull with ease. He flung the carcass away carelessly, manoeuvring around to stare belligerently at Brahn. Whose confidence seemed suddenly shaken, confronted with a slavering, gigantic demon bathed in the blood of his comrades.
‘You will never succeed,’ he whispered. ‘You and the crazy old man must know this, an entire armada is on the way – every wizard of power will be here to stop this madness.’ Despite his words, he was pale and shaking, heaving breaths in after that expenditure of power.
‘You are too late,’ a voice boomed from above. Other words soon followed but it was lost to them, even as dazzling light burst into life above and they cried out, blinded. Balthor felt his deadly illusion wither into nothingness, returned to his usual normal state.
Finally, he smiled in joy – the gateway was opening.
*
Ishmael’s world was crashing down around him.
He couldn’t believe, could barely comprehend even, what was happening. Merely seeing his grandfather after so long was astonishing enough, but to find him here, half-crazed with guilt and fear and anger was too much. It was as though everything he’d felt in the past few decades of absence was materialising in this moment, had taken form in Cornelius. Who even now thrust his staff high into the sky; reality itself bent as though the world took in a deep breath. Ishmael felt his chest tighten as something within was gripped, then ruthlessly ripped out.
He screamed, nerve-endings blazing with pain. His favourite blue lens melted away as below, he heard an echo of his cry.
Ishmael coughed, chest heaving as blood flecked his lips. He looked up into his grandfather’s eyes.
‘It’s all ash, Ishmael. All ash,’ he said sadly. ‘You must go from here, quickly,’ he added, strain entering his voice. Even as he spoke, the air-road buckled beneath him, nearly giving way. Fighting sudden vertigo, Ishmael scrambled to his feet and stumbled back to the window. Cornelius was taking it all, he realised, suddenly, all the magic in the world. Horror clawed its way through his gut as his initial conclusion on reaching the island came back to him.
It was composed entirely of spells.
Heart pounding, Ishmael thundered down the stairs as the entire Tower shook violently.
There was a high and eerie wailing carrying on the winds that howled and lashed about the island, an outpouring of maddening sorrow and regret. In moments he was out the door, falling to his knees in bloodied grass, senses reeling at a world gone insane. He glanced up in time to see an immense, pure white portal illuminating his grandfather. Ishmael couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw a dark figure through the haze, wrapping his grandfather close.
Tears pouring from his eyes at the glare, Ishmael got back on his trembling feet. The ground heaved and shook, tumbling the nearby corpses about. Among them, Ishmael saw his cousin Brahn, staring sightlessly. He rushed forward, grabbing and shaking him. ‘Brahn?’
He slapped him quickly, seeing some awareness bleed back into his eyes. ‘Ishmael? What…?’ he gasped, retching suddenly.
‘No time for that cousin, come on,’ Ishmael urged him, tugging him forward. They stumbled toward the shoreline as shattering cracks speared through the ground. The howling raged a thousand times greater, a mindless screaming as the Earth moaned in pain and outrage. They crashed into the turbulent waves and began to struggle outward.
Autumn, 1210, Year of the Brood
This shall be my final entry, my final collection of thoughts. It has not been easy, this time of mine, you could never say that. It has been a time of discovery, of wonders untold, yes – magic has been a truly enlivening force in the world. It was all for the good, I thought – how could I not share it, once I’d mastered it? It would have been cruel, surely.
That day, a cheeky young fox-god wanted to stir things up – his world slumbered in forgetfulness, while ours prospered in vigorous, violent struggle. Perhaps he thought to cause our own destruction, hoped that we would end our miserable existence in one huge conflagration of power. Indeed, we nearly did, once upon a time. Neither of us were aware of the intricate balance between nature and spirit, between this world and that. I walked free from that multi-hued, ever-changing forest different, changed. I used that change. I abused it. And every time I did, a little piece of that place died.
I do not know how long it was before I noticed what was amiss. I cannot remember. Too much is lost in the annals of time, in spells used to hamper dangerous memories; I am a broken man, full of fragments. If not for Balthor, I would be even less than this. He is my last, saving grace. I think he knew from the very beginning, clever little creature. From the outset he has plucked at the strings of memory, danced me through conversation after conversation, prising one detail after another…He knew the balance was skewed and must be rectified. His are a maligned people, I’ve come to realise. One that shall remain so I fear. Perhaps his own dimension has suffered too, from this – who knows how great the damage has been?
Just how great is my sin? I fear to know the answer.
Some decades prior to this, I carved this tower out of nothingness, on the Edge of the World – to remind myself of the conceit of gods and the mistakes of the past. In so doing, in crafting the figures of the dancing Others, I was suddenly struck dumb by memory. Of what once was – after that fateful day I never saw the young fox-god again, and even now I wonder if he came to know what we havoc we caused. I think he must have, though I hope otherwise. I thought to see him again, thought to open a door into the Other Side and see that place once more – for so long I was lost in the thrall of discovery, of acclaim and worship from my people, lost in the adventure that I all but forgot from where it all came. But I feared too, in some dark secret place, that should I return to the Other Side, what was given would be taken away.
It required no great magic, no convoluted spell to go there – we were linked, after all. I simply turned, willing this place to melt away and the other to form, waiting for that sweet honeyed air to trickle down my throat and that golden sunshine, that shifting weather, to bathe me in warmth.
[i]All I tasted was ash.
I should’ve guessed what was happening, I know. My first clue came as I noticed I was beginning to age – initially, I attributed this to the creation of the Staff, such an immensely powerful object could tap into the natural energy of the Earth itself and its capabilities had been felt by all. It took a lot out of me, so too, with this tower and this island; I am a mere man, after all. The truth of course was that as it died, so too did I.[/i]
It was a barren, ashen wasteland riddled with mountains of bones. It didn’t hit me straight away, no, I was lost to myself for a time, in the horror…the shock. Even then, my mind was splintering at the seams as the truth reared its ugly head. And so I fled my kingdom, left in exile, in shame – wracked by ancient regret, by never ending guilt. I had to rectify this, had to rid myself of this terrifying, addictive force. Time and time again, I lost the will, I lost the battle; memory faded. And time and time again, Balthor picked me up and urged me on.
To him, the world owes this sacrifice. I can claim no credit for it.
Do I fear the inevitable end? Yes. I fear the moment I rip the magic, the knowledge and memory from those I’ve spawned; I fear the pain and suffering it will cause in them and the damage it will do the rigid structures of our society; I fear the pain as the Other Side exacts its righteous price and claims my life. But I fear this wasteland in my soul more than anything else.
I hope you get free, Ishmael, and I hope you do not judge me too harshly. I hope, too, that Balthor is with me at the end, that life can be given back to that wondrous place or at least the possibility of it.
Regards,
Cornelius Serano Lore,
His Royal Majesty of Illor
**
So, I just finished this, around two seconds ago. It's as raw as raw can be, from me. I'll probably axe quite a bit of it to be honest, the iffiest bit is the scene from Balthor's perspective and there are, I think, certain needlessly dramatic elements. Anyways, enjoy!
Look forward to reading more!