Hidden in the charred ruins of Idrllian, the Makii watched as the battle between the Holy One and Sevron unfolded. Initially, they believed Sevron would meet a quick end (as did all who stood against the Holy One).
They should have known better.
When the battle turned to Sevron’s favor, they nearly stepped in to aid their sworn enemy, Anon, so certain were they that Sevron would destroy even him. But, as ever, Anon proved himself to be blessed.
In the end, it was the power of a child that finally took down the mighty Lord Sevron.
At last, the Dead God’s rampage of madness was no more.
They waited until the Holy One left, and his deadly white fire had burned its course, then they crept from their darkened shelters to see what was left of Sevron, the Servant of Death.
Anon succeeded in clearing the altar of bodies and blood, in their stead rested a thin layer of black soot. As for Sevron, the Dead God remained, but his body had been baked into a fragile black lump of charcoal, vaguely humanoid in shape. The butt of the horn still protruded from his skull, glowing like a red-hot coal.
A boot of black leather landed on the fallen Dead God’s neck.
“This time, I will not squander the opportunity to put an end to you, Sevron,” the Makii said, applying enough pressure to crack Sevron’s crusted flesh.
The speaker’s face had smooth, soft features that one could easily have mistaken for kind – had his eyes not been glassy black orbs, or his flesh ashen and lifeless. Through the ages, many had made such an error, thought his easy charm and tender face equated with weakness. Imorbis had sent all such fools to their deaths.
“I know you yet live, but can you hear me, Sevron?”
As if in response, blood started oozing from his cracked neck.
“If so, know that your reckless disregard for the welfare of your brethren cannot go unpunished.”
“With my own eyes I have seen what becomes of the Makii arbitrarily chosen to satisfy his wicked desires,” another one of the Makii interjected. Known among his brethren as Mastecus, Death’s Creator, the being had a long, grey beard and lean, withered features. Typically, his familiar, the imp Galimoto, would be fluttering around him, spouting gibberish in his musical voice. But the magical being had a nose for evil, and couldn’t stand to be anywhere near Sevron.
“They were flayed alive, their muscles, flesh and organs taken and posed in grotesque mockery which he had the nerve to call ‘art’. And through it all they live. He keeps them from death, dousing them in the blood of the living the moment they weaken,” Mastecus continued.
“I too had the misfortune to have witnessed this ‘art’ of which you speak,” Imorbis replied. “A more clear representation of insanity I have never beheld. For that transgression alone we should end him. But as vile and senseless as those actions may be, I believe Sevron’s greatest injustice against us is that he wishes to let the universe burn in chaos, and the Makii along with it,” Imorbis continued. “But I for one rather enjoy my existence, and would prefer to maintain it. And to do so we need the Treaty. We cannot allow him to run rampant, despoiling the worlds on a whim. As much as we hate to admit it, there are rules now to what we can destroy. No longer can we indulge the Hunger – nor should we – for as of late, feasts were few and far between. We feed to sustain our lives -- that is all. As much as we would love to feast upon the Elder Gods, the truth of it is that we need them . . . need their power. Once, we too had the power of creation. But with it, we chose to create the Plague. Now, we forever must be stuck with that decision . . . and the many consequences that accompany it.”
Imorbis stood silently over Sevron, his cape of black silk flowing wildly around his body.
“Enough, I grow weary of this. Destroy Sevron, and let us be free of him once and for all,” a lanky and exceptionally tall Dead God said. Even his eyes seemed stretched, more oval than round.
“If only it could be that simple,” Imorbis replied, his hand wavered, rippling like water. It transformed into a shiny obsidian blade. “There is a new power among the Elders. One that none of us can stand against . . . none except Sevron.”
“Anon . . .” the lanky Makii said.
“Yes, the Holy One. For now, he allows us to live. But make no mistake; one day he will desire our deaths. And when that day comes, who among us can stop him?”
“Are you suggesting we let Sevron live? That we endure his twisted lust so that he may battle your so-called ‘Holy One’? Please, Imorbis, tell me you do not actually believe that ‘Anon the Illusionist’ has somehow tapped into the power of the Maker? And to think, after all these years I thought of you as intelligent,” Mastecus fumed.
Imorbis replied by chopping through Sevron’s neck with his black blade.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Mastecus. But yes, with my limited intellect I do entertain the possibility that there is a true Maker. One who has the wisdom and power to create greater forms of life than even you, Death’s Creator, have achieved with your imp,” Imorbis replied, grinning as he reshaped his hand and grabbed Sevron’s head.
“If there exists even a chance it is so, then we need him . . . just not all of him. His body we dump into the Darkbridge – may it forever drift in the Void. But the head we keep.”
Imorbis studied the burnt skull, rotating it around in his hands.
“This . . . I bury. I promise you all, I will find the deepest hole in the most desolate planet and there it shall stay . . .
. . . until the day comes that we need Sevron once more.”
Imorbis wasn’t entirely sure the Maker existed, but even so, he prayed to him that such a day would never come.
∞
Time passed, the Dark Army moved on. Imorbis kept his promise, burying the head of Sevron in the cold, barren edge of the universe – the place where all matter goes to die. There Sevron stayed, in the center of a dead planet’s frozen iron core . . .
Meanwhile, the living worlds died. Life itself neared extinction. Only the Treaty between the Dead Gods and the Elders kept it from fading entirely away. Because of the Treaty, the Dead Gods could feed, and the Elders could propagate and create. For a time, one might have even called the situation peaceful.
Then, on the elven home-world Ki'minsyllessil the Treaty came to an end. The young goddess, Alana, refused to abandon the elves to the hunger of the Dark Army, choosing instead to stay and fight alongside her love, Prince Adros. She fell in love with his people and his world as well, and would do anything in her power to save it.
Together, they stood valiantly against the Plague, and very nearly succeeded in saving Ki'minsyllessil. But the Dark Army would not be denied their world. Led by Imorbis, the Dead Gods also forfeited the Treaty. No matter what the cost, Imorbis was determined to possess Ki'minsyllessil and the god-like entity that dwelt there . . . the Graelic, a giant tree that towered to the sky, filling the horizon with its vast canopy. In all of the worlds he had conquered he had never seen such a thing – a living world. The powers such a life-force could bestow were infinite.
Imorbis hoped to feed off of the Graelic, and by doing so, end the Hunger for all time. But the elves wouldn’t give up so easily . . . Imorbis faced the Elf Prince in combat, and for the first time since his conquest began, he knew defeat.
Broken, drained and near death, Imorbis wouldn’t give up so easily either. As he dragged his damaged body to the Darkbridge, Imorbis decided the day had finally come . . . he entered the Rift, returning to the edge of the universe to resurrect The Servant of Death . . .
∞
Imorbis looked up – high up. He couldn’t take his gaze away. The Great Tree towered high above him, its canopy swallowed by a mass of rapid moving dark clouds. The Plague moved quickly up the massive trunk; the infection blackening the bark as if it had been scorched by fire.
He was still up there, the Elf Prince. The being had fought bravely but his world had fallen. His Great Tree, the Graelic was dying. Imorbis watched as the leaves withered and fell, raining down from the sky.
He was unable to shake the feeling that he was the one who had lost.
“So, are you satisfied, Imorbis? Was the victory worth the price?” came a voice at his back.
Imorbis changed his focus, looking at the remnants of his body -- he had no hands. He could manipulate the demon wind to recreate them, but to do so was taxing and drained energy from other, now vital, resources. To simply maintain his shape was nearly impossible. He could mold himself into a humanoid form, but only by covering himself in a constant cloak of demon wind. If he failed to do so, his body would simply dissipate; drift off with the planet’s wind.
This victory has no meaning . . .
The price to defeat the Elfin was indeed high, and Imorbis had gained nothing. Even though he was victorious, he had fed little. The victory feast of his dreams was non-existent. The Elfin blood proved vile and somewhat toxic to the Dark Army. Likewise, what he thought was a highly coveted prize, their God Tree, was utterly inedible – at least for Imorbis. He had learned that somehow Sevron found a way to consume its life-force.
It appeared Sevron would be the only true victor. And with the power he claimed he would fulfill his darkest desires – he would turn the universe into hell.
“If we failed to take this world . . . If we fail to take any world, the Elders win. I admit I was beaten. I had failed. With all my powers and resources set to the task, I yet failed,” Imorbis said, turning to the grey-bearded Mastecus and the yellow-eyed imp squatting on his shoulder. Usually, Imorbis couldn’t keep the little red devil quiet, but the creature said not a word; he eyes were half-closed, his head downcast.
“Still . . . to bring him here, Imorbis. Have you even seen what he has become?”
Imorbis turned back to the God Tree, watching as the Dark Army swarmed up the trunk. Anything with warm blood in its veins became prey, species were extinct in minutes. The multicolored canopy blackened. Everything died. Never once slowing, the black infection continued to creep upwards.
“No.”
He couldn’t bear to see him. Sevron’s capacity for evil was limitless. He believed in only one thing – chaos. The man was a horror before Imorbis had resurrected him . . . he couldn’t imagine what he had now become.
This is all my fault.
He couldn’t bear to see him – but he would have to face him, kill him if possible.
“To be free . . . that is all I really wanted. An end to the Hunger.”
“There is only one end to the Hunger.”
“Yes, death. I know it well. Over the years I’ve grown all too accustomed to the concept. But for the chance to truly live again . . . our losses would have been worth it.”
“Humph, just as I thought, you still don’t have a clue what you have done . . . what we have truly lost. Sevron controls the Army now. He’s as mad as ever – perhaps more so – and is determined to plunge the entire universe into his madness. He cares nothing for life, nor for this ‘immortality’ we possess. He will put an end to it all, starting with the Elfin. We’re leaving this place, I suggest you do the same . . . while you can.”
“I’m not leaving. Not until he is truly dead.”
“You already had your chance to rid us of Sevron. You’re no match for him now . . . especially now. He will be the death of you. Maybe it’s for the best, finally you get the freedom you so longed for. Farewell, Imorbis, I doubt we shall meet again.”
“We shall see . . .” Imorbis whispered as the Dead God turned to leave.
The imp, Galimoto, remained perched on his shoulder, tucking himself away in his leathery black wings.
Why had he brought him here? He knew what he was, what he was capable of. Was any victory worth the price for Sevron’s aid?
With the power of the Graelic I could have ended Sevron for all time.
In the beginning they had been companions. Along with a handful of other ‘talented’ Makii, they had been selected to embark on a mission to find the origin of life. They found their answer deep in the violent heart of the universe. But what they discovered became a bigger mystery than the question they started with. They tracked the origin to one planet, and there they found a myth, a giant black pillar whose presence defied logic. ‘The Pillar of Life’, ‘Heaven’s Door’, ‘Alpha’; they gave the mysterious black monolith many names, and put forth many theories to its own origins and purpose.
Where did it come from? Why was it there? How did it create life, and why? Why . . . ?
Always why . . .
The Makii had so many questions and only one answer. The one thing they knew for certain was that they had found the planet where life began.
But the Makii demanded more . . . they demanded an end to all of life’s mysteries. For so long they thought of themselves as gods (convinced those they conquered of it as well) but they longed to be gods in truth. Death was the one enemy they could not defeat, and it was coming for them. As it claimed them, the illusion they created would crumble, and the order they had brought to the universe would return to the discord found in the Age of War.
Imorbis, Sevron, and their companions were charged with solving it all; an end to death, and learning the mysteries of creation. The obelisk held the answer to every secret.
Among the race of gods known as the Makii, Imorbis and the others were the best and brightest, their gifts of the Oneness were unique and powerful. In their mission, each one of them was in their own way remarkably successful – but there was one who surpassed them all . . . Sevron.
He actually communicated with the pillar.
At first, Imorbis thought he was slipping into madness . . . but madness was what the pillar required – madness and pain. Sevron sacrificed both to have his answers. But what he found was nothingness. According to Sevron, the exchange revealed to him that there was no life, no reality, no answers (nor even questions to be asked). It was all an illusion. There was but one reality, one truth . . . the Void.
Sevron nearly died communicating with the pillar. Only one thing kept him alive, it was Imorbis’ gift, his special talent. To create a high-functioning, multi-cellular life-form with the Oneness had proven impossible to even the Makii, but something small . . . Imorbis knew it could be done. He set about creating a virus, one that would slow cellular growth and death. He fought the battle for immortality on a small, but sophisticated scale.
Unfortunately, his ‘gift’ had yet to be perfected when he gave it to his dying friend. Sevron survived, but he had changed physically and mentally. Yet . . . he was immortal. Imorbis had succeeded in cheating death. But oh how the universe would suffer the cost . . .
As Imorbis made his way to the dying tree, he tried to remember Sevron as he was before their mission to the obelisk, as a friend. He realized so much time had passed, that he could no longer remember the man’s true face, nor his expression as he smiled. To commune with the pillar, Sevron had sacrificed his flesh – part of his offering of pain.
His friend died that day . . . no . . . he should have died that day, Imorbis should have simply let him go.
It was but one of his many failures.
How many times had he let the man live? Had he been withholding death, hoping that he would one day see his friend again? No longer, this time he would make certain Sevron was truly dead.
He paused, once more looking over his broken and frail form.
But what could he possibly do, so weak and weary was he.
Another virus perhaps?
The chaos around him dissipated as he went into a daydream, the foundations of his new ‘perfect’ virus coming together in his mind.
Maybe I have been looking at it all wrong. To keep life from death is one thing . . . but to create life where there is only death . . . that would be something to behold . . .
He was lost in the notion, fantasizing about the possibilities when suddenly the ground below him became alive. The roots of the Graelic had been stoic arches rising like hills (and often mountains) throughout the land. But now they were moving, writhing, ripping out of the earth. Imorbis was transfixed at the sight of a massive root swaying in front of him when out of nowhere, a vine wrapped around his foot. It pulled his leg out from under him, landing him flat on his back. He laid there for a moment, stunned. Far above him, he saw a battle raging in the branches. Similar vines swarmed the Dark Army, bounding them as they did Imorbis. But that wasn’t all, the vines pierced their bodies, then began throbbing, pumping forth a viscous black fluid into their victims.
Sevron no!
He felt the vine tighten, creeping higher up his leg. Then, he felt pain as it pierced his thigh. The vine swelled, filling with the black fluid . . .
Imorbis’ arm became a sword. He swung downward, severing the vine in a spray of thick blood. The remnant of the vine withered away . . . ten more took its place. He hacked and slashed as they came on, but there were too many, and he didn’t have the strength to fight back. Perhaps in his former state he could have resisted, but Imorbis had nothing left. Eventually one took hold, and then another, and another . . .
They wrapped up his limbs and dug into his body. The vines filled with the black blood, and began pumping it into him.
His entire body was wracked with pain. Surely, even his soul was on fire. Along with the pain, there was a thought, pounding his mind – “kill everything”.
The vines finished secreting their liquid then left him, moving on to seek other prey.
Somehow, Imorbis found the strength to stand, and the will to resist the urgings of his new – even more – tainted blood. He wrapped himself as completely as possible in his cloak of black energy, all the while fighting the desire to burn the universe to a cinder.
Within his mind a power was growing, threatening to overcome him entirely. It was an all too familiar presence, one he knew well.
Sevron . . .
Deep inside him the fledgling entity grew, overwriting all that formed the core of who and what Imorbis was with one thing – chaos.