A. F. Kay
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Divine Apostasy Book 5 - Prologue
🕑 Added 2021-08-14 07:21:44 +0000 UTCPrologue
The jagged surface of the stone floor offered more proof the Fetid Clan had not lived in these caves for long. They appeared to move often, and Jagen counted himself lucky it had only taken two days to find them here in the Infernal Realm’s ninth ring.
Izac, as he created the portal here with his Divine power, had reinforced the importance of finding the truth. The god desperately wanted to understand the Infernal Realm’s connection with Jagen’s escape from the Spirit Realm. Specifically, if Lalquinrial, the god of the Infernal Realm, had provided any aid.
While Izac seemed pleased that Jagen had returned, he was furious that his sister Uru had regained four Champions. Worse, Jagen’s memories had either been wiped or destroyed, and he couldn’t offer any explanations for what had occurred.
One of Lalquinrial’s seven Aspects, the Scarecrow, had traveled with Jagen and the other Champions in the Spirit Realm, or so the Blood Vicars had told him. Izac hoped Lalquinrial’s enemies in the Infernal Realm would know why.
How Lalquinrial, in his own Divine Realm, could have enemies, made little sense to Jagen. It meant Lalquinrial was so weak he couldn’t defend his own Realm, or so strong, that their disloyalty posed no danger.
A Clan Elder approached Jagen, and he stood to meet them. The Clan’s armor consisted mostly of bones and gave them a tribal appearance. Their long wolf like snouts dripped mucous, and they periodically snapped at invisible prey. They stood hunched but remained upright, although Jagen had seen the Clan run on all fours.
“Come,” the Elder said.
Jagen understood the creature thanks to a temporary tattoo of Infernal Parley,that the Inklord Numarrow had provided. It allowed Jagen to communicate and understand the beasts here in the Infernal Realm.
They entered a larger cavern, two hundred feet in diameter, with twenty tunnels leading from the room. Guards stood near the tunnels with their short swords drawn, as if prepared for a fight. The ceiling fifty feet above had rock pillars shaped like spears, and the ground had smaller versions, although the Fetid Clan had shattered most of them.
Jagen refrained from using any abilities or spells to inspect them. He didn’t want to give the impression he wanted to fight. The point of this mission was information, not mayhem.
A stone table shaped like a semi-circle had ten robed Fetid Clan Pack Leaders. None of them sat, but instead used their long front arms to lean on the table, as if they meant to pounce on Jagen.
The Elder faced the table, rubbed his face across the rocky ground, and then stood. “Jagen of Izac, from Grave in the Material Realm, has the honor to address the faithful Fetid Clan.” The Elder turned to Jagen. “Fortunate are you to speak with our leaders. We offer few such a blessing.”
Jagen nodded and bowed from the waist. “Thank you for speaking with me. My lord, the greatest of those that came before and whose name I am unworthy to utter, has placed me here to speak with you. Honored are you to hear his words.”
Six of the Pack Leaders snarled at Jagen’s remarks, but he ignored it. His lord could destroy them all with a thought, and it would only harm the negotiation if they thought they’d intimidated him.
Jagen continued. “Recently one of Lalquinrial’s Aspects aided a group in the Spirit Realm.”
“Which one?” the Pack Leader near the middle asked. The tip of his snout had a large scar that pulled his lip back in a perpetual sneer.
Jagen faced the speaker, who he mentally named Scar, and replied. “The Scarecrow.”
Whining from the tunnel guards filled the cavern, and many of the Pack Leaders grew agitated.
Scar barked loudly, the sound echoing around the cavern. The whining stopped immediately, and he turned back to Jagen. “A powerful and fearsome Aspect.”
“Why would the Scarecrow help a group from the Material Realm?” Jagen asked.
“You promised us information on a valuable ally,” Scar said.
Jagen pulled a dagger from his belt and sliced his palm, letting the blood drip to the floor. “I swear on this blood to tell you once my questions are answered.”
Scar looked at the other leaders, who all nodded. He faced Jagen again. “The Scarecrow is Lalquinrial’s closest confident, only the Aspect of Death rivals the Scarecrow’s power.”
At the mention of the Aspect of Death, the whining by the guards began again, and it took multiple barks from the Pack Leaders to stop them.
Scar continued. “This means Lalquinrial’s involvement is almost assured.”
“And the reason?” Jagen asked.
Scar leaned forward. “Greed is the most likely explanation. Lalquinrial’s power has increased dramatically. Some say he has allies among the other disciples.”
“You mean the other gods,” Jagen clarified.
“There is only one True God, bless his name.”
Every member of the Fetid Clan placed their palms against the ground, clasped them in front of their chests, and then raised them high into the air. Jagen now understood one of the motivations the Clan had for fighting Lalquinrial, religion.
Jagen clarified again. “You believe the increase in Lalquinrial’s power is related to a deal he’s made with Uru?”
“We pray Eiru the Fair, favored disciple of the One True God, is not involved with Lalquinrial, the Oppressor. We did, in fact, hope that she was the ally you brought us.”
“You believe it unlikely that Uru is in league with Lalquinrial?” Jagen asked.
The Pack Leaders all nodded, their faces serious.
None of this made sense to Jagen. It appeared the Scarecrow, acting on Lalquinrial’s orders, helped Uru, a deity the Pack Leaders didn’t believe would help the Infernal god.
“You mentioned, greed,” Jagen said. “What specifically.”
“Spirit, essence, and souls so full they burst with power,” the Pack Leader said. “Things only available on Grave.”
They had used that term before, when the Elder had introduced Jagen. “Grave?”
“Your planet.”
Jagen had never heard his planet called Grave before, but he knew every god called it something different. Growing up, they’d called the planet Izacland. The Fetid Clan sounded like they knew a lot of Cultivator history, things he knew little about.
None of this fit together, and Jagen wondered if some of the basic assumptions might be wrong. “Is it possible someone else wore the Scarecrow Aspect?”
“Interesting idea,” Scar said. “Stealing and then wearing an Aspect is theoretically possible. But it would be an act of unbelievable stupidity for anyone not at peak Diamond already. Even without her Aspect, Simandreial, the dreaded Plague Siren of the Blight Clan, is so powerful only Lalquinrial can subdue her.”
The mention of the Plague Siren stirred something in Jagen’s mind, but it felt like a forgotten dream, the sunrise burning the details away. This hole in his memories felt like a wound.
Jagen rubbed his jaw. “So if someone took the Aspect, it was likely one of the other gods. Does the Aspect have the power to return people to the Material Realm?”
“No, which is more evidence a god’s involvement.”
“Would Simandreial allow this theft?” Jagen asked. “Wouldn’t she rush to recover her Aspect?”
“Normally, but she has reached peak Diamond. If she had started the transition into the Divine levels, she would not be capable of pursuit. If someone took her Aspect, even if it was a god, there will be terrible consequences. She will soon be a deity herself, and she is incapable of mercy.”
Jagen bowed again. “Thank you to the Fetid Clan for shining light on this mystery.”
Scar nodded. “Who is our ally?”
Jagen referenced Miranda the way Izac had instructed him. “The Companion appeared in the Spirit Realm, and gave the Scarecrow information that would, according to our Inklord, sabotage their plans to escape that Realm.”
The entire Clan drew a triangle on their chest with a finger, clenched their hand, and placed it over their heart. As one, they chanted. “Blessed is the Companion, the protector, the avenger, the keeper of his heart. Blessed is she.” They kissed their fists and then refocused on Jagen.
Scar whispered. “The Companion is aiding us?”
Jagen shook his head. “That is unclear. I’m telling you she directly worked to ruin the Scarecrow’s escape by giving them two books with misleading information.”
The room erupted in excited conversations. Even the guards were busy discussing the possibilities, which meant Jagen was the first to notice the fog that filled the tunnels. He pointed at the tunnel across from him, and a few of the Pack Leaders turned to look.
Immediately barks filled the cavern and the guards all collapsed to the central table, protecting the Pack Leaders.
A figure emerged from the fog, floating out of the tunnel. It held a giant scythe, at least seven feet tall, and it wore a plain black robe, the hood drawn forward casting the face in shadow. The robe fluttered as if an invisible wind touched it.
Whimpering from the guards grew louder, and Scar stepped forward. “What is your business here, Death?”
A knot formed in Jagen’s stomach as he pulled his sword and dagger from his belt. The Aspect of Death had arrived.
“You said the Scarecrow was incapable of mercy,” Death said. “But you’re wrong. It wasn’t her favorite topic, but Mother taught me the value of mercy, and when to show it.” Death’s head tilted. “Although, to be fair, I only experienced it once.”
Death’s voice surprised Jagen. He had expected a low, foreboding voice, not that of a young woman.
Jagen’s heart beat faster as he prepared for a fight. Death had called the Scarecrow her mother, and seeing the shocked looks on the Fetid Clan around him, he realized no one had known this. Casually revealing such information could only mean one thing. Death didn’t plan on leaving any survivors.
Others realized this same fact, and four of the guards dashed for the tunnels. They disappeared into the fog and a moment later, blood and body parts exploded into the cavern. They’d died before they could make a sound.
The sight and smell of so much blood proved too much for Jagen’s tense state, and he fell into a Blood Frenzy. Using the Overseer ability Blood Tithe, he tapped the blood and began buffing himself for battle.
Death focused on Jagen and tipped her scythe at him. “No.”
The debuff Death’s Embracestruck Jagen, interrupting his buffs, and freezing him in place. If he tried to cast an ability or spell, nothing happened, and it felt like his body had turned to stone.
The Fetid Clan attacked Death all at once, like a pack. Death slammed the handle of her scythe into the ground and her robe altered. The flowing cloth disappeared, contracting, and hugging Death’s body.
Death stood in skintight black cloth that seemed to absorb the light around it, making the edges hard to see. The face remained hidden behind an inky blackness that seemed to swirl with tiny stars.
Death stepped away from her scythe, and it stood behind her, jammed into the stone like a terrible flag. Jagen wanted to shake his head at the lunacy of leaving a weapon behind with a hundred enemies surrounding you, but Death’s Embrace stopped him.
Three heartbeats later, Jagen understood. Death didn’t need a weapon. She was a weapon.
Death stepped casually between the short sword attacks, weaving through the crowd like a dancer. She dodged the vast majority of the blades, and the few that made it close she used her hands and feet to deflect them, slapping them away.
After thirty seconds, the Fetid Clan had not struck Death once. Her movements, like the mention of the Plague Siren earlier, stirred something deep in Jagen’s memory, but the more he clutched at it, the fainter it became. He had only seen a handful of masters display their Step fighting skills, but he knew for certain Death matched any of them.
As Jagen admired the completeness of Death’s defense, she suddenly went on the offensive. If her defensive Steps had looked like a beautiful dance, her offensive Steps looked like a thunderstorm of blood.
Jagen couldn’t even tell how some of the Fetid Clan died. Death’s movements were too fast, and the smoothness of the attacks made it difficult to determine when the strike had actually occurred. He knew for certain, without buffs he stood no chance against such skill.
In seconds, every Fetid Clan member in the cavern died in a whirlwind of darkness. Death stood still for a moment and then stood up straight. Blood coated the cavern, dripped from the ceiling, and pooled into a lake. Her clothes, however, remained spotless.
Death strode toward Jagen and he prepared to die. He wondered if he would revive if killed here in the Infernal Realm. This might be a true death for him.
Standing in front of Jagen, Death seemed very small. She lifted her hand, and her scythe flew across the cavern, reaching her hand in a blink. She brought the blade forward and touched his forehead.
The debuff disappeared, and Jagen looked down at the small woman. He didn’t bother to cast any buffs. If she wanted to kill him, nothing in his power could prevent it. Instead, he slowly sheathed his useless sword and dagger.
“Jagen of Izac, why are you here?” Death asked.
Jagen knew from her earlier comment about “mercy,” that she had listened to his entire conversation with the Fetid Clan. Lying would be pointless. “To find the truth.”
Death reached up and pulled her hood back, and once again Jagen tried to hide his shock. The girl looked young, maybe in her teens. She had white hair that touched her shoulders, and two fangs marred an otherwise beautiful face. It didn’t look like the face of Death.
The young woman tapped her chin. “What would Mother do?”
