Areyn shed his mortal body, gathering what little power remained to him. The demons would be destroyed. The Eltar and Silren would fall back—no longer under his control. But, he would have the strength to release the deadly eternal fire from his realms. With a shudder, he felt the slender flames slip through his grasp as he released the fire.
Thunder rolled across the plains, and violet lightning streaked across the sky in a pattern that unmistakably caught the filaments of the Wyrd threads. Areyn grinned, feeling his link establish to Tarentor and his other worlds again. The dead’s energy strengthened him once more, and he looked up at Rhyn’athel’s troops in satisfaction.
Let’s see how you handle the Fyr, Rhyn’athel.
83
Demon warriors charged Lochvaur and his Chi’lan. No longer Braesan, the Chi’lan attacked the demons in fury. Their bodies, now from Athelren, made them immortal, and they could not be killed. The demons fell to their swords and spears.
Thunder rolled across the plain, stained black with demon blood. Fialan looked up to see instead of stars, dark clouds with violet lightning shimmering across them.
Lochvaur finished impaling Flayer on his sword and looked up. Dread crossed the godling’s face as his silver eyes darted from one end of the horizon to the other.
“What is it?” Fialan asked.
“I’ve seen skies like this once before,” Lochvaur said. “Can you see the Wyrd filaments or the branches of the World Tree being shaken?”
Fialan stared into the sky. The violet flames licked the stars and coursed along in a spinning fashion. Ethereal and beautiful, yet altogether sinister, the fire seemed to arc across the sky. “I see something, but I can’t describe it. Like a dance of fire, only woven…” He shook his head.
“Damn demon!” Lochvaur said. “Areyn is releasing the Fyr—I thought we had weakened him enough.”
“What does this mean?” Fialan asked. When he heard no reply, he turned to Eshe. “Eshe—what is it?”
“It’s our destruction,” Eshe said, her face pale. “Unless Rhyn’athel can stop it.”
“You knew it was a possibility,” Ni’yah said as the flames raced across the sky. His voice was as hard as his brass eyes. He met his brother’s gaze. “I can’t stop it—you know that.”
Rhyn’athel gazed at the fire. “I know,” he said. “It is something I must do.”
“What is it—the Fyr?” Lachlei asked, her terror creeping into her voice. What had Rhyn said about the Fyr? She tried to remember, but none of what she could recall would help her battle this power.
Rhyn’athel turned to her. “Stay with Ni’yah—no matter what happens to me.”
“What are you doing?”
“What I must do, Lachlei.” Rhyn’athel reached over and caressed her cheek. He met her gaze. “I love you.” He drew Teiwaz, clapped his legs against his warhorse, and rode forward.
Rhyn, no! Lachlei shouted in mindspeak, but she heard no acknowledgment. His form glowed as he rode forward and faded on the wind.
She turned to Ni’yah. “Will he live through it?”
Ni’yah turned to her, his brass eyes filled with worry. “I don’t know.”
Rhyn’athel rode forward, his eyes focused on the flames of the Fyr. They swirled ahead of him, dancing like the Northern Lights. Yet, unlike the Auroras, Rhyn’athel could see a pattern and a purpose to them. They ran along the World Tree’s trunk and through its branches; across the filaments that wove the great Web of Wyrd—the Web of Fate. He stared at the flames, both beautiful and deadly.
Rhyn’athel had used the Fyr when it was contained. Like the Wyrd, the Fyr was the power of creation and destruction. Like the Wyrd, an Athel’cen could only affect it, not fully control it. He and Ni’yah had used it to create life.
Areyn had used it to destroy. It would destroy again if he did not stop it.
As Athel’cen, the higher gods believed nothing could destroy them, but Rhyn’athel had long wondered about the Wyrd and the Fyr. Even the higher gods were beholden to both: the Wyrd controlled the Athel’cen destinies and the Fyr gave them life. But could they destroy the Athel’cen? Rhyn’athel and Ni’yah had argued the philosophical points, but to no avail. They simply did not know, and neither wanted to find out, even though Ni’yah wryly suggested they try its powers on Areyn Sehduk.
Rhyn’athel stared at the flames as they spread across the fiber of the Web. Areyn did not care if he destroyed all in his quest for power. He would rather destroy all than give into Rhyn’athel. The warrior god concentrated, but the power of the Fyr was too great for him to simply control. There was only one way, and that was to transmute into pure energy and join it. Only then, Rhyn’athel knew he might be able to control it.
But at what cost?
The god stared at the Fyr. He might lose himself to the Eternal Fire. He would not be dead, but he would be trapped for eternity. Without him, the Eleion would not survive, even under Ni’yah’s protection. Areyn Sehduk was too powerful for Ni’yah to defeat alone, and the death god would gain the upper hand in this battle for power. His sons would not survive, and Areyn would finally have control over all the worlds, save perhaps Athelren. But, in time, even Athelren would fall, regardless of the other gods and goddesses. Areyn was too powerful to be held at bay for long.
But the Fyr would destroy all.
Rhyn’athel closed his eyes. He knew what he had to do. He shed the corporeal shell he had so carefully constructed. Areyn must not win now.
Without a body, he was free to sense the Wyrd and its patterns. It gave him no hope—no answer to his questions. It merely stopped at his decision point. The future was completely unknown. His destruction would shake the World Tree at its very foundations.
Perhaps there would be another Athel’cen; another warrior god created from his own energy.
Perhaps; perhaps not.
His thoughts were of the Eleion, the Lochvaur, his son, his unborn sons, and Lachlei before he leapt into the Fyr and was consumed…
The foundations of the Nine Worlds trembled. Tremors ran across the Darkling Plain causing the battle to halt. Demons and Eleion stared into the sky as the Wyrd strands streaked across it. Dark lightning coursed across the filaments.
Fialan turned to Lochvaur, who watched the patterns of the Wyrd race through the sky. “What does it mean?” he asked.
Lochvaur gazed at the sky stoically and shook his head. “I don’t know, Fialan. I hope my father knows what he is doing.”
Farther up the battlefield, Areyn Sehduk smiled.
Rhyn’athel was no more.
Lachlei hung her head and began to weep. Rhyn’athel was gone—she could feel it as the Wyrd shifted. Why, Rhyn? Why? she silently asked. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up. Ni’yah’s brass eyes glittered in concern.
“He’s gone, isn’t he?”
The wolf-god shook his head. “I don’t know, Lachlei. I can’t see into the Wyrd with this. The path isn’t there…”
Lachlei wiped her tears and met his gaze. “Is there a chance he might survive?”