‘Move aside,’ he muttered. He wheeled his chair to the side of the bed and looked down. Salazar’s eyes were closed and his face was the colour of an old bruise.
‘I’ve tried every remedy I know,’ the physician whined. ‘The poison refuses to respond to any of them. Perhaps his lordship should be taken somewhere more comfortable?’
The Supreme Augmentor shook his head. ‘I don’t want him moved. We can’t allow anyone to see him in this state. There may still be assassins within the tower. This is the safest place for him.’
Eremul doubted there were any more of the White Lady’s pale servants around. The would-be killers were most certainly the three he had encountered several nights past. They had come close, so very close, to succeeding. They still might.
‘Begin,’ the Supreme Augmentor ordered, placing a gloved hand on the hilt of the longsword at his belt. Eremul swallowed. No easy choices.
He touched the Magelord’s neck, feeling for a pulse. It was there, but it was incredibly faint. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and plunged into Salazar’s mind.
The stench of death filled his nostrils, so strong that he thought he might retch up his breakfast. He could feel the sludge crawling through the Magelord’s arteries, could hear the rattling of the tyrant’s heart as it fought to pump fouled blood through his body.
Then he sensed it. A third presence besides himself and the subconscious mind of Salazar. It was unnatural and cold and full of malign intent. He reached for it and it recoiled. It felt dead. He clenched his teeth together and probed deeper, grabbed hold of the presence and began to thought-mine…
He stood upon grey wastes of ash and bone and watched the robed figures scurrying to meet him. They dared challenge him here, in his domain? Humanity’s hubris knew no bounds!
With a thought he raised a thousand thousand corpses from the dead wastes, sent them lurching towards the invaders in a wall of clawing limbs and snapping teeth a mile deep. A handful of wizards were torn apart, but then magic flared from the intruders, arcing up and back down to erupt in a wave of explosions that obliterated his army. Fragments of bone exploded into the air, a cloud of white dust so thick it momentarily blotted out the monochrome sky.
He snarled, skull visage twisting in anger. Then he exhaled mightily, and from his mouth issued a billowing darkness that swept towards the invaders. Three of them were caught up in it before they had time to raise their magical barriers, dancing in agony as the flesh was stripped from their bones. Their naked skeletons eventually toppled to the ground, breaking apart in the places where even their sinews had been consumed.
The rest of the insects had evaded the cloud, surrounding themselves in globes of energy or miniature whirlwinds that dissipated the pestilence before it could reach them. One of the wizards stepped forwards, an old man wrapped in scarlet cloth. The interloper raised both hands and a gigantic web of glowing energy shot from his outstretched palms.
He roared as the web landed on him and burned through his rotting flesh. He tried desperately to pull it off, but something massive hit him from the side and sent him crashing to his knees. It was a mammoth, as tall at the shoulder as he was at the thigh. It shifted shape and became a man, naked from the waist up and rippling with muscle. The wizard shifted again, and suddenly a huge eagle was before him, clawing at his eyes.
Missiles of the brightest energy struck him from all sides. The barrage of magic poured endlessly from his assailants as he struggled to free himself. He swatted at the eagle, and then saw movement below him. He raised one foot and crushed a man beneath it, felt bones crunch and bodily fluids splatter around his ankle. Even so, the pain was overwhelming…
Eremul gasped. He was witnessing the final moments of a god. But how? He felt the Magelord’s consciousness beginning to stir. He reached out to it and was immediately assailed by a hundred thoughts and memories. One thread was brighter than the others, so he latched onto it…
The Reaver was on his knees. They had lost Raurin, and Zayab, and countless others, but they were winning. The god was unable to shake off the snare he had thrown. Mithradates clawed at the Reaver’s eyes, tearing a gaping hole in the left orb with his talons. Foul pus welled out and the god screamed in pain. He saw Balamar crushed by one of those massive hoofed feet, leaving a broken pile of gore beneath.
He glanced to his right. Marius watched the carnage with his hands clasped around his corpulent waist, his eyes fixed on the face of the ailing god.
‘Marius,’ he snarled. ‘We almost have him! What are you doing?’
The other wizard started as if surprised. He wiped at the sweat on his brow, smoothed his robe down over his paunch. ‘Catching my breath,’ he replied. ‘Let’s finish this.’
Snaking tendrils of blue light erupted from the big man’s palms and enveloped the Reaver, twining around the golden web that had entrapped him. The reinforced weave began to constrict, tugging tighter around its victim. Skin split and bones cracked as the god was compressed. With a final scream, the Reaver exploded in a torrential shower of black blood and whirling energy.
As the carnage settled, he noticed that Marius had a small smile on his face.
Eremul’s head swam. He had just beheld the death of a god. And not just any god, but one of the thirteen Primes: the Reaver, Lord of Death himself. At that moment, he suddenly understood the nature of the poison afflicting Salazar.
He opened one eye and peered at the Augmentors waiting anxiously behind him. ‘He needs to be bled,’ he said. ‘Open his wrists. I will do the rest.’
The Supreme Augmentor looked as though he was about to protest but then his mouth set in a grim line. He nodded and walked over to the bed. Then he drew his longsword in one smooth motion and placed the edge of the blade over the Magelord’s left arm.
‘If you are lying,’ he said, ‘you will hang in the Hook. You will be fed and watered to ensure you do not die quickly. I trust you understand this.’
Eremul rolled his eyes. ‘Just cut his fucking wrists,’ he said. The Supreme Augmentor bent to his work.
He summoned all the magic he could muster. He felt it blossom within him. Now I must decide, he thought. I can save a tyrant and damn a city… or I can save a city and condemn myself.
He was a double agent who had deceived a great many potential allies to maintain the fallacy that he was a loyal servant of the Magelord. He had ratted on the foolish, the desperate, those who never had a hope of bringing about any real change. They were the scapegoats that needed to be sacrificed to give him an opportunity like this.
To pass up that opportunity now would be the greatest betrayal of all — a slap in the face to all those he had sentenced to death.
He frowned. No one in the city cared a damn for him. He wasn’t loved. He wasn’t even respected. He wanted Salazar dead — but after a lifetime of suffering, the prospect of a drawn-out, agonizing death was not appealing. No, the Tyrant of Dorminia would die, but on Eremul’s terms. He would not sacrifice himself. Not here. Not now. He wasn’t a hero.
Coward, his brain screamed at him, but he ignored it and focused on the corrupted presence within Salazar. He poured his magic against it. Magic was life, the potentiality of creation, and it was anathema to supernatural poison flooding the ancient Gharzian wizard’s veins.