Chapter 41 – The Last Battle
Thirty-six hours later it was over.
It was a slaughter. The combination of surprise plus magical reinforcement was more than the other Forsaken were prepared for. Even the last fight, where they had some minimal warning, was a foregone conclusion. Whatever they lost from a lack of surprise was more than made up for by the familiarity Arnhvatr's troops gained with gate transitioning and magic in the first two fights.
The field was littered with broken Forsaken bodies and insubstantial wraiths howling insults at them as they fled back to the Black Hole. Winter walked through it all, a bit numbly. His Tritons stared about unfocused, both from the horrors they had seen and the several freshening spells Devonshire had cast on them to keep them awake during the extended fighting.
But the Forsaken they passed raised their fists in salute to him. Even though he had done little other than stand, dramatically, above each battlefield. He felt their focus on him and their gratitude. Yet, somehow, there was still something hanging in the air. They had a sense of accomplishment, but not finality.
“What a pity Ainia wasn't here”, said Devonshire. “She always liked a fight where the odds were stacked heavily in her favor.”
“It isn't over yet”, said Winter.
“Eh?” said Devonshire, caught by surprise. She looked around the field. “There's no one left to fight. Is there some other breakout we didn't know about?”
“I'm not sure”, said Winter. “The new moon is close. I'm sure that has something to do with it.”
“Well”, said Devonshire. “There's the big A. Let’s go ask him.”
They crossed the field to where Arnhvatr and his officers were inspecting the troops. Devonshire snapped him a salute when he acknowledged her presence.
“I hope you are satisfied that I kept my side of the challenge as your god”, said Winter.
“Yes”, said Arnhvatr. “It is the first time in a very long time I've had anything good to say about a god.”
Winter nodded his head in acknowledgement.
“We certainly busted some heads together”, said Devonshire. “They're all ghosts now. Pretty pissed off ones. Are they set to come back like that after the new moon? Do we have to do this all over again or do you have a plan for that?”
Arnhvatr looked disapprovingly at Devonshire. But he answered anyway. “The next battle will be the hardest yet. The more so because it will be fought with words for the minds and souls of those we have defeated.” He waved his hands over the troops. “We move out in a few hours and follow the ghosts back to the Black Hole. We should get there before the return.”
“You said that lines of command are changed every new moon”, said Winter. “Is it traditional to fight for the person who defeated you?”
“If your leader lead you to victory in the previous month, it is typical to follow him”, said Arnhvatr. “If someone you respect defeated you, it is typical to offer to fight for them. Since we defeated everyone, I will make the case that they should all unite under me.”
“Has that ever happened before amongst The Forsaken?” asked Winter.
“No”, said Arnhvatr. “I am the first.”
“Yet you said it will be a hard battle”, said Devonshire. “Seems pretty cut and dried to me.”
Arnhvatr smiled thinly. “We are The Forsaken because the gods have forsaken us. It is commonly held that we, too, have forsaken the gods. Yet my victories were aided by a god.” He nodded at Winter. “There will be those who are contemptuous of that.” His look turned shrewd. “I think the point can be made that when a god truly represents the wishes of his peoples, then it is ill advised to forsake the power that represents. We have clearly demonstrated that power, but we may have to bash some more heads together to emphasize the point.”
“There is unease amongst our people” said Winter.
Arnhvatr nodded. “We'll calm their fears soon enough. Once we're on the march their training will kick in and everything will be better.”
“No gate then”, said Devonshire.
“No gate”, said Arnhvatr. “This march is more than just getting from one place to another. It is a reminder of who we are, where we've been, and where we can go.”
After a few hours of accelerated sleep, they set off. Arnhvatr moved amongst the troops. Talking to them, reminiscing with them, and cajoling them, in his own way.
Winter moved too. Not so much to talk, but to feel. It was like he knew each of their names, but not as specific. The sense of uncertainty amongst them was strong. And, despite Arnhvatr's assertion, it only grew as they marched further. It was their prison they were marching on.
Some of them feared a trap. That some unknown Romitu magic would leap up and seal them in again. But, oddly enough, when they looked to Winter, who had brought a Romitu agent into their midst, they felt reassured. As if he, pathetically weak god that he was, would be proof against a millennia old curse wrought by the strongest gods who had ever lived.
Others, pragmatically, just felt it was another fight. Possibly a complicated one, with four sides. Their thoughts were of the comrades they had fought with and against over the centuries and what they would do when presented with this unique situation.
And there was a solid core that had fought with Arnhvatr for decades, and saw this as a pinnacle of everything they had worked towards. High stakes, for sure. But they were excited at the thought of bringing it all to a conclusion.
And, as the Black Hole loomed before them, that is where everyone's thoughts converged. What would be the conclusion? Would this be the end of it? Despite their undying and horrific nature, Winter felt them as very human just now. There was terror, desperation, anxiety, anticipation, excitement; the whole spectrum of emotions. He caught sidelong looks from his mother and realized he was getting misty-eyed and caught up in the waves of emotion.
As they crossed the border and the skies grew dark the ghosts started to appear. These, Winter did not feel as strongly. But some of the burning animosity they had came through. More, Winter felt his people react to them. They closed ranks reflexively and turned more towards one another. The universal hatred expressed made them bond together.
Not far in they reached the position Arnhvatr had been aiming for. It was a mesa with high walls around most sides. Devonshire offered to adjust the fortifications with landscape magic. But Arnhvatr refused. They all knew every nook and cranny of this spot of land. Perturbing that would not be to their advantage.
The sun set in a bloody pool. It felt to Winter like it was going down for good. That he would never see it again. As the last beams of light receded the ghosts started becoming solid. They advanced on the mesa. Hatred burned in their eyes and they clutched rocks and whatever other weapons they could find menacingly.
Arnhvatr stood on a promontory at the edge of the mesa. He officers stood by him. Winter, flanked by his banners stood to one side. The ground at the base of the cliff started to become thick with Forsaken.
Arnhvatr addressed them. Winter caught most of it. At least the bits that used words from the Norslander language. But much of it was in the mishmash of pidgin spoken by most of the Forsaken.
He made his points. He claimed his rights. He derided their commanders. He proclaimed his vision.
Winter watched closely. Everyone did. The hatred didn't go away, but he could see a grudging acknowledgement in the way some stood for which his points rung true. But, by body language and venomous looks in his direction, it was clear that there were cadres that were not listening to anything. And, in the nucleus of those knots of discontentment, were what Winter didn't have to be told were the leaders of the other three armies.
They began shouting their own answers back. They were not, so much, playing to the audience, but launching a personal attack on Arnhvatr. He, however, did not dignify them by answering them directly, but by continuing to address the rank and file.
And then it happened.
Winter's focus suddenly
was grabbed and zeroed in on Arnhvatr. He didn't know what signal was given, but warning bells rang out in his mind as he saw one of his officers, directly behind him, swiftly draw blade. A plant! It should have been obvious, amongst people who have been fighting each other forever, that there would be intrigue. But it has seemed so unthinkable until it happened. Like recruiting a god.
Everything moved in slow motion. The blade was clear and rising just as others were starting to notice. Winter already had Gungande in his hands. The blade reached its apex, and started the downward stroke towards Arnhvatr's back. But Gungande was already hurled. It shot through the air with a crack of thunder and obliterated the treacherous officer. The blade went wide and sailed, end over end, into the space in front of the mesa.
But the damage was done. Arnhvatr's appearance of invulnerability was broken. The mood swept through the assembled Forsaken. He may have done well militarily, but if he couldn't spot a traitor in his ranks, it was all just fancy magic, not real leadership.
Winter watched, his mind working in overdrive. He saw hearts waver, confidences shaken, enemies grow elated, and hope slip away from the base of the mesa like a receding wave.
It can't be too late! Just as a battle can be turned around at almost any point with the right tactics, this could be regained. He could do it. He was not just a battle god, but a great orator. It was time to step in, to play his hand. But the time slowed seconds ticked on as his mind raced to put the right words, the right gestures together. He was on the cusp. He knew it could be done, but it was coming to him too slowly.
“Othr could do it”, came Conscience's calm voice in his head.
Winter knew this to be true. His own intuition came directly from Othr. He would be able to think faster, apply the right gravitas, motivate or intimate them. That's what he did.
“Just think of the lives saved”, urged Conscience.
These poor pitiful creatures. Doomed for over a thousand years because of god squabbles. Othr had done his best, and Othr would do his best for them given the chance. And, given the complete lack of other serious gods, he could. This damn cycle of eternal fighting would be done.
But, no. Othr was a battle god. He might stop them from one another, but he would seek other battles. Romitu. The other gods. As Arnhvatr sought to be sole leader over all the Forsaken, so Othr would seek to be sole ruler over all of creation. Winter knew this in is soul.
“No”, cried Winter. “It has to stop.”
“But...” started Conscience.
“STOP” commanded Winter. A ball of blue crystal engulfed Conscience and he fell to the ground. Winter stared at him, wide eyes. He had done that. He had willed it, and it was done. It was god magic! It wasn't something learned. It wasn't something he had to give another piece of himself to Othr to master. It was just will.
“STOP” commanded Winter, louder. “STOP” he shouted, and rocks was shaken loose from the sides of the mesa. “STOP” he screamed from the promontory Arnhvatr had been standing on, growing to twice his normal height and with Gungande held over his head. “THIS HAS TO STOP” he boomed.
The waste grew quiet. Everyone was riveted by his manifestation.
“You have been unjustly cursed for over a thousand years”, said Winter. His voice cleaved the air. He did not know how he spoke, but he knew all could understand him. “Now you are free. The only curse that remains is the curse you place on yourselves.”
He looked to each of them. And looking back to him, he could see into each of their souls. He knew them as he had known his own.
“You do not have to repeat the pattern anymore”, he said. More gently, but no quieter. He felt stirrings amongst them. Desire, disbelief, and hope.
“Those who want their life back, come with me. Help me raise my lands back above the sea. Plow the fields, rear the horses, and just be normal.”
He turned to another quadrant. “Those who have had enough, and just want the peace of forgetfulness, come to me. I have a brave and noble people.” He gestured with his arms to the Tritons. The banner they carried made by the woman who loved him. “Because of the indifference of their creator they are bereft of Souls. Give yours to me and, like new born children, I will rest it within them as Othr's soul resides in me. You will give them mastery over their destiny and you will have peace.”
Winter gestured to the other banner. “Those who have lived for fighting. Who have devoted their entire existence to fighting. Who have striven for perfection in their fighting and who truly want to fight for eternity, enlist with me.” A light shone down on Devonshire, surprised, blinking and wearing her official Romitu armor. “Romitu has fought the demons. Romitu has fought the gods. They have their sights on even bigger enemies. I will sponsor you as an Army of Romitu and you will have fighting like you never imagined.”
“You all have the potential to achieve what you want. I ask for nothing in return. I place no obligation on you. This is not about me. It is about you. Let me help you.”
There was silence for a moment longer. And then Winter felt it. They turned to him. First in ones and twos, their hearts opened up to him and they released themselves to him. Then more cascaded, and then in a tidal wave. Winter closed his eyes and let it all wash over him. Like floating in heavy surf. Their emotions pummeled him, but did not hurt them. He saw them as individuals, he counseled them, held them, wept with them, and encouraged them. Even the most bitterest, the most crazed, and the most vengeful sought him in the end. Because as he felt them, in that moment, they all felt each other. They gave comfort to one another in the ordeal they had all shared. They forgave one another and presented themselves, ready to move on.