Firebrand

When Martel woke up, he felt no trace of the curse upon him. Was he dead? That would explain why all ache and discomfort had left him. He looked around, seeing himself in his home in Archen. Was the afterlife a replica of the living world? Standing up, Martel summoned a flame to dispel the darkness. He still had his magic, at least. And he felt a ravenous hunger and more thirst than when he crossed the great desert west of Sindhu.

Satisfying both, Martel leaned towards discarding his initial theory. Apparently, he was alive and without the slightest mark from the curse. He needed to find Eleanor and tell her.

Leaving the house, Martel saw citizens walking down the street. They all stared at him. “Have you seen Eleanor?”

“No, master, not this morning.”

“I saw her last night, master, leaving your house. Going towards the square.”

Bowing his head in gratitude, Martel began walking in that direction. With each step he took, his relief began to subside, replaced by concern. Curses did not expire or lose their potency, and Nebo had been clear in his judgement; this would kill Martel within days. Yet now he felt no trace of it, and his full strength seemed regained. This could not have happened for nothing; there had to be a price to pay. And finding Eleanor absent, Martel worried how it had been paid.

Martel went to the only person who could have aided whatever course of action had led to the current state of affairs. “Nebo!”

The elderly wizard looked at him with a smile. He had expressed an interest in taking over Martel’s work and workshop, which was where the battlemage found him. “I see success was had. How nice. Have you had breakfast?”

“What have you done? Where is Eleanor?”

He frowned. “She didn’t discuss this with you beforehand? Well, judging by your agitated state, I can see why.” Martel’s jaw and fists became clenched. “Do not prevaricate. Tell me precisely what you did and where she is.”

Nebo raised one finger. “Opened a portal to the Beyond.” He raised a second finger. “In the Beyond.”

Sparks appeared, surrounding the firemage, whose eyes turned red. “Do you understand what you have done? Do you understand what I’ll do to you now?”

Despite the threat, Nebo looked calm. “It was her choice to save you. If I understand, hasn’t that always been the relationship between you? She is your protector.”

“Not like this!” he yelled. “Not at the expense of her own life!”

“She’s not dead.”

“She’s lost! She’s gone…” The fire in and around Martel subsided. “She’s gone. I’ve lost her.” As the pain penetrated his being, a spear tearing his soul, his anger returned; an easier emotion to endure than grief. “How could you allow this?”

“It was her choice.”

“It was my choice! Not hers!”

“You chose to let the curse run its course. She chose to intervene. How is your decision correct and hers wrong?” Nebo tilted his head.

“What did she do? How did she convince Moloch to end the curse?”

“A life for a life, I assume.” The old mage shrugged. “Moloch desires power above all. It has no greater expression than when people bow to your will.” New ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄhapters are published on novelFirｅ.net

“So I must destroy her. Set Eleanor free.”

Nebo, his usual conviviality gone, regarded Martel. “You don’t know anything about the Beyond, do you?”

“Obviously not,” came the impatient reply, “but that won’t stop me.”

“It is a world of pure creation, will manifest. You defeated Moloch because she underestimated you, and you had the advantage in this world. She has spent an eternity in the Beyond, bending everyone to her will. You cannot best her in her own lair.”

“Then offer me a solution I can use!”

Nebo scratched his forehead. “I suppose… You can bargain with her and try to outwit her. You see, falsehood is impossible.”

“How so?”

“Magic is will, and language is will expressed. If you can speak something, it is possible, and in the world of endless possibility, it is true. If you can convince her to release Eleanor, she will do so.”

“If she holds Eleanor captive, I’m sure I can find a way to free her.”

The old mage gave a condescending smile. “Eleanor submitted to Moloch. Her own mind is her prison. You must understand,” he spoke with a strange urgency, “there is no time in the Beyond. Eleanor has already spent an eternity under Moloch’s thumb. Shaped and moulded by her will. It may be far too late.”

“I refuse to believe that. Send me into the Nether,” Martel demanded.

“If you insist, I will honour your choice as I did hers. But if you intend to match wits with Moloch, may I suggest you first prepare?”

The battlemage exhaled. “Fine. Tell me everything I should know.”

Summoned by a runner, Atreus arrived to find the Sage of Archen and the mage of Phoenik in deep conversation. They stood in the underground chamber containing Karolos’s portal in Archen; the ring of symbols once carved by an imprisoned lich lay dormant for now. “What is amiss? Why must we meet, and here of all places?” He frowned, looking at Martel. “And what remarkable recovery!”

“Eleanor has gone into the Nether,” Martel replied curtly. “I’m going after her.”

“We just banished the fiends, and you – she did – what?” Atreus exclaimed before understanding dawned on his face. “That’s why you now stand hale.”

“I’d be happy if we didn’t call them –”

“Yes,” Martel interjected. “I have a plan. But I require aid.”

“Have you considered this?” The spellbreaker regarded him with deep worry on his brow. “Archen has already suffered greatly. The loss of one leader is devastating, but two? That will shake the very foundation of our city!”

“Atreus, she entered the Nether for my sake. I can do no less for her.”

“But what of the fiends? Their dreadful leader? How will you…” The spellbreaker fell silent upon seeing Martel unrelenting. “I’ll not waste further breath. Why did you summon me? To tell me I should prepare to elect two new members of the Triumvirate?”

“You have your part to play. If you trust me,” Martel said. “You chose us, Eleanor and me, long ago. Now that choice will be put to the test.”

Atreus sighed. “What must I do?”

“Nebo knows the plan.”

The old mage handed Martel a folded piece of cloth. “That’s ready for you. And are you ready?”

Martel took his knife, an old present from Master Jerome at the Lyceum, and cut open his hand to smear blood on the symbols that began glowing on the ground.

“Doesn’t that risk the fiends entering Archen?” asked Atreus with a concerned look.

“No need to worry. I’m making sure it only allows travel in one direction,” Nebo said dismissively, and Martel stepped into the shining circle. “No fiends here. Blessed stone, now you got me saying it.”

Martel heard no further conversation; a flash of light surrounded him, and he was gone.