Me.
The voice reverberated in the cavern of Pol’s skull.
I am the voice of Noeja.
Dust lifted from the moon’s surface. The entire planet quavered with the volume of this announcement, as if it had truly issued from deep within the satellite’s heart.
Yet it was no goddess who had spoken.
The dread that had pressed upon Pol ceased. In its wake rose the unmistakable air of amusement. Pol was filled with the sense of being humored by a wise superior, of being indulged by a patient guardian.
The voice spoke again: You are a trespasser here, mage. Prepare to meet your god.
Pol smiled despite the threat, despite the insult. He had passed the test. He would stand face to face with Adrash. Let the god believe he was a child. Let the god underestimate him.
Pol descended to the moon and stood, the first mage ever to do so. None had dared set foot upon its fractured surface for fear of angering Adrash. He curled his toes into the soft, powdery regolith, soil that had never been touched by air or liquid water. When he lifted his foot, a perfect imprint remained. He walked, he hopped, he leapt forty feet at a bound. He stared up at the first and largest sphere of the Needle, which hung huge in the star-dusted sky, slowly turning.
It was indeed a rickety basket. A toy.
Pol projected his joy and his challenge into the void. He waited for Adrash’s arrival, wondering how the god would appear to him now that he could truly see.
‡
Light preceded Adrash’s arrival, igniting the moon’s edge as though it were a steel blade fresh from the forge. The stars above this curved line dimmed and flickered in response, and to his chagrin Pol found he had raised his right fist to his temple in respect. Much as the voice had nearly bent him to suicide, the light compelled him to awe.
The god rose above the horizon, a second sun. A coruscating yellow-white fire surrounded him, extending miles from his body. For a moment, the shifting corona of flame seemed nothing more than a vain display, but gradually, like snarled paint strokes resolving into an image upon a canvas, its true form became apparent.
Pol’s legs quivered beneath him as he took in the bewildering scope of the massive sigil, its lines melting and flowing in a constant state of rearrangement. No, he did not recognize a single configuration—if he spent a lifetime studying the symbol, its meaning would become no clearer. Here was magic on a scale impossible to comprehend.
Fear churned his empty stomach. Lead flowed in his veins, weighing him down, sinking his feet into the sterile ground. He stood transfixed, numbed, waiting for the inevitable: a quick death, befitting a frail, presumptuous mortal...
The inked sigils fell like ashes down his naked form, gathering upon his calves and feet.
Slowly, his knees bent...
No, he told himself. I will not allow another to do my thinking.
With great effort, he straightened his legs, swung his frozen limbs, shook the feeling back into his hands. Terror loosened its grip on his hearts, and the blood rushed giddily to his head. Thoughts spun, and then centered. Chastened for falling pray to the god’s influence yet again, he reminded himself that he possessed his own set of weapons. Awakened once more, the sigils whirled around his body like leaves in an updraft.
Another flash of amusement.
You do nothing to hide your thoughts, Adrash said. His voice was an avalanche of rocks, the rumbling of a volcano before eruption. What you have done to yourself is impressive, but you will not last long if you cannot silence that bullhorn of a mind.
Pol cursed himself. He had allowed himself to be distracted. He reasserted the thought-dampening spell he had let lag and widened his stance. The black forms of halfstags and diamond spiders ran across his torso. A reptilian seabeast slithered up his right leg and a horned snake wound up his left. A thousand wasps roiled in flight on his arms. With a shrug, he unfolded his wings of shadow, spreading them like night’s blanket across the surface of the moon. Adrash’s light did not pass through.
Better, the god said.
Magic thrummed in Pol’s veins, screaming for release. He closed his eyes against the glare and saw his opponent clearly, striding forward, feet above the ground, features serene under the divine armor. He did not appear to rush, but each step brought him miles closer.
I am ready, Pol broadcast.
No, you are not, came the reply. But you came for a fight...
Adrash disappeared.
A fist slammed into Pol’s stomach, rocketing him backwards. His body cut a deep furrow in the regolith before his foot caught on a submerged rock and sent him tumbling. Dust puffed up around him as his limbs bent and slapped the ground. His lips pulled back from his teeth. His mouth filled with dirt.
Chalked with iron but uninjured, he rose from the ground.
Heavy arms crossed, Adrash stood at the foot of the scar Pol’s flying body had created. Waiting.
Pol flung outstretched fingers forward, casting and throwing a bullet of compressed magefire at the god. With heightened awareness Pol watched it move through the void, its boiling blue surface spiderwebbed with black. As it spiraled toward its target, Pol clapped his hands together, cracking the ground at his feet. A crevice opened and shot forward at blinding speed, yet to Pol’s eyes it crawled.
The bullet hit Adrash square in the chest and exploded. He did not move as the magefire curled around his torso, writhing upon him as though it were a living thing. Had Adrash been a man, it would have eaten into his skin like an earthmover diving into sand. As it was, the fire failed to adhere and dripped from him in long, liquid strings.
The crevice halted at his feet.
Adrash unfolded his arms. These are the best of your weapons? You are a fool. Labor at your task another hundred years and maybe you will do more with your powers than nudge one of my spheres. Yes, I know you. You have ambition, but little sense. Still... He cocked his head slightly. There is something. Something more than will or talent. He closed his eyes, and it was as if someone had snuffed out the sun.
There is something, the god said again. Your voice. I know it. It is as if you wear another’s body... We have been at this juncture before, have we not? He shook his head, and for the first time an expression could be seen under the armor: a slight downturn of his lips, the faintest wrinkle between his brows.
An opportunity. Pol reacted quickly, without forethought, letting the magic speak within him. He would interpret Adrash’s words later—if he lived.
The sigils writhed upon his body. They flowed up his legs and torso, gathering together on his arms, turning his skin from mid-bicep to fingertips solid black. Drawing upon the emptiness of the void, moving by sorcerous instinct, he formed an unknown spell between his hands: A dangerous, lifeeating thing, a portion of nothingness crystallized, condensed, conforming to the shape of his fingers. Still, the spell was difficult to hold. It wanted to be free. He cupped his hands around it, pressed it into a small sphere. Throbbing in time to Pol’s wildly galloping heartbeats, the spell’s chill crept up his arms and into his chest. His teeth chattered and then abruptly stopped.
The spit had frozen in his mouth, sealing his jaw shut.
He could not hold the spell any longer. His hands flew apart and the ball of emptiness shot forward—far slower than he had hoped. It expanded in flight, wobbling like a droplet of water, contorting reality as it passed. The stars quavered through its imperfect lens and Adrash bloated into a ridiculous shape.