One of the archons looked up, a lung still clenched between its teeth, and pointed a short distance away. Fresh blood dripped from its finger.
Ceryneia set off again without deigning to offer thanks. “For all I know, he is not even here,” he muttered. “Especially with Khimaira missing too...”
It was not unusual for the Demiurgos to vanish for varying lengths of time, but Khimaira’s absence was more concerning. The look in the primozlosta’s eyes as he had regarded his master in recent days set Ceryneia ill at ease. That said, to an extent, he sympathized. He himself was beginning to question the Demiurgos’s command.
“Surely he would not turn against our Lord, but even so...”
Hoping his fears were unfounded, Ceryneia entered the center of the yaldabaoth camp. The bonfires cast his shadow across the ground. A second dark shape stepped closer, even greater in size.
“Ceryneia,” a low voice growled. “I thought I recognized your stink.”
“A pleasant reprieve from the stench of corpses, I’m sure.”
Before Ceryneia stood a large, dark-skinned man swathed in intricate sigils—the chieftain of the yaldabaoth, an individual named Null. Once, in his human days, he had been poised to become high general, yet ultimately the position had proven beyond him. He had fled in shame, but rather than concede defeat, he had sought greater power, leading him to become the monstrosity he was today. Most yaldabaoth had walked a similar path. They were robbers whose misdeeds had caught up with them, deserters who had fled the battlefield, ruined nobles swearing revenge, clergymen who had been ousted in power struggles—a veritable pack of beaten dogs coming together to lick their wounds.
Ceryneia regarded them all with contempt. They had failed in everything, even in following Mars’s example. Given the choice, he would not have fought alongside them. Yet they were endowed with a certain intelligence and a strength in excess of common monsters, not to mention that the Demiurgos had fashioned them with his own hands. In light of that, he was forced to tolerate them.
“But you have not come here to smell corpse reek,” Null said. “State your business.”
“My Lord is nowhere to be found. I wish to know if you have seen him.”
It was perfectly possible that the Demiurgos had passed this way. Ceryneia could not read his master’s mind. The Lord’s thoughts were a mystery to him. All he could do was search everywhere he could think of, even places that made his nose wrinkle in disgust.
“I have not, but you know his ways. I am sure he will return before long.”
“And what of Khimaira? Do you know where he is?”
Null’s lips pulled back in an unpleasant smile. “I know very well what you twelve... Oh, but forgive me. There are only two of you left, are there not?”
Ceryneia’s eyebrow twitched. “Watch your words, half-made creature.”
Null chuckled. “Khimaira despises us just as you do. He would not come here. But mark my words, weakest of the zlosta. You will not look down on us forever.” A note of anger entered his voice. “Perhaps I might slay you now, so I may no longer have to watch you hide behind Father’s robes. I have spared you thus far for fear of his anger, but he is not here.”
More yaldabaoth stepped forward, gathering around Ceryneia. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he sensed their hostility. He was not the warrior he had been a thousand years ago. If they did decide to fall on him, he would not be able to put up much of a fight. He cursed his foolishness in telling them of the Demiurgos’s absence. Now they had no reason to fear laying their hands on him. Nonetheless, his pride remained stubborn, and it would not permit him to beg forgiveness from these misbegotten failures.
As his mind raced, trying to find a way out, a change rippled through the crowd. The yaldabaoth and their archons began to back away. Even Null retreated, looking suddenly uncertain or perhaps intimidated. Ceryneia’s faculties were honed enough to sense what he sensed, to realize what had prompted this reaction. Indeed, he had detected the uncanny new arrival even before they had, but it had been so strange and so overwhelming that its presence froze him in place.
“What is this commotion?”
The voice struck dread into the gathered crowd. The dull-witted archons, the proud yaldabaoth, and even Ceryneia trembled in fear as they fell to one knee, sweat slicking their skin.
“Null. Ceryneia. Explain yourselves.”
For a moment, Ceryneia doubted his ears. He had heard the voice before—from Surtr’s lips. Yet he sensed just as much of the Demiurgos as Surtr in this entity. The two were so closely intertwined that he could not tell where one ended and the other began, becoming something that was not quite either.
As Ceryneia reeled, the archons shrugged off their fear and rose to their feet, shrieking battle cries. Null bellowed at them to be quiet, but a handful were too heated to listen. They lunged toward the Lord, and the rest quickly followed suit.
“No!” Null roared, but they did not hear him. A wave of archons bore down on the newly appeared Lord, ready to tear him limb from limb...
And blood rained from on high.
A single stroke. A single stroke was all it took. A gentle breeze rolled through the archons, carving them limb from limb, painting the night sky crimson. Unpleasant smacks rang out in the night as viscera rained down. With peerless strength and a sword stroke as soft as a caress, the Lord reduced the archons to so much flesh.
Ceryneia sensed the Lord approach beneath the rain of blood, but he could not move for fear. Nearby, Null pressed himself against the ground, his breathing loud in Ceryneia’s ears. He was so terrified that he was not taking in sufficient air.
“Null.”
The yaldabaoth winced as a pitiless gaze fell upon him.
“Your troops lack discipline.”
“Gaaah!”
The Lord placed a foot atop Null’s head and put his full weight upon it. The yaldabaoth screamed in agony as his skull began to creak.
“Forgive me, Father! Mercy! I beg you, grant me a second chance!”
He apologized as best he could through the excruciating pain, waving an arm wildly from his undignified stance to order the archons back to their positions. As Ceryneia watched the exchange unfold, he knew beyond a doubt that the Demiurgos had finally claimed the vessel he sought. His heart danced with joy to see absolute power in his master’s hands.
“Congratulations, my Lord,” he said. “At long last, your vessel is yours.”
His joy was sincere, but the Demiurgos did not reply. He lifted his foot from Null’s head and sat down, using the yaldabaoth’s prostrate form as a chair. His callousness only proved his identity further. It was not out of character—he had always treated his servants with the same indifference. Ceryneia would have been more suspicious to hear him greet Null with praise. As such, it only seemed right to address him as if nothing had changed.
“Khimaira is missing, my Lord. Do you know what has become of him?”
“He turned his blade upon me. I disposed of him appropriately.” The Demiurgos sounded as if he were speaking of swatting a fly.
Ceryneia had suspected as much. Khimaira’s attitude toward his master had shifted in recent days, and he had become distrustful and paranoid. It had seemed only a matter of time before he did something rash. Nonetheless, the news left Ceryneia conflicted. One part of him wanted to berate Khimaira for his foolishness, while another felt a rush of solitude to learn he was the last of the primozlosta. He silenced them both. There was no time to indulge in such sentiments. All he could do was serve the Demiurgos as best he could, as the last of his brethren.
“I would beg a boon of you, my Lord,” he said.
“Speak.”
“I fear that I may not have the strength to serve you in the final battle. Please, allow me to wield Ipetam.”
It was a craven, presumptuous request, he knew. Regret filled him even as he asked it. Still, Ipetam could not be much use to the Demiurgos now. He had claimed his vessel. His power was complete. Surely he no longer needed the Fellblade. With sweat beading on his back, Ceryneia awaited his master’s answer.
“Very well. It is yours. Serve me well.”
The Demiurgos tossed Ipetam away. It landed point down in the ground before Ceryneia. The primozlosta trembled with joy. As easily as the Demiurgos had given the weapon up, it was a priceless gift, and it proved that Ceryneia still had his master’s confidence.
The Demiurgos stood back up, gazing up at the night sky. “Null. Ceryneia. Gather the chieftains.”
Neither needed to ask what for. They nodded and set about their task. As their footsteps faded into the distance, the Demiurgos stretched out a hand to where the half-moon hid behind the clouds.
“Now none remain to stand in my way.”