Chapter 152: Coronation

“We cannot let the rule of law apply subjectively. The people must fear it, or they will stop respecting it. The more exceptions you create and the more fragile justice will become until judges believe they can get away with helping their ‘friends’. I have seen it happen.”

 

Lady Azar glared at Viv, testing her resolve and her values. Viv glared back.

 

It was a mess.

 

Being seen as a place of second chance meant that a lot of people came to Harrak. The problem was that those who needed a second chance had wasted their first shot. Sometimes, it was due to external factors. Sometimes it was because they were idiots. In a few cases, it was because they were irredeemable assholes. The end of week was hanging day in Kazar now.

 

The person in question was not an asshole.

 

Abe reclined in his seat. Contrary to Lady Azar, he had accepted Viv’s invitation to sit. He was still wearing his judge robes.

 

“I already had a discussion with Kerra. She bitterly regrets her actions and I believe her when she insists she wasn’t aware of the temple’s assistance program. She was starving, Viviane. She is still scarred by her treatment at the hands of her husband. Executing him meant she had no income. We cannot flog people for stealing food when the alternative—”

 

//That statement is untrue.

 

“When the perceived alternative is starvation for her and her two children. The purpose of justice is to make the world a better place. Sometimes, mercy is the best answer.”

 

“Mercy is extremely subjective, Viviane, and you do not want a slider on the sword of justice.”

 

//I agree with the Lady Azar.

//What is good for that starving woman is not good for society.

//Let her atone for her sins.

//Then the temple can help, if it wishes.

 

Viv traced her chesplate’s engravings with the tip of her finger. Intense arguments seldom happened. When they did, they referred to philosophical arguments on the nature of good and justice that she could not answer. There was also the question of jurisprudence or ‘case law’, laws set on precedents. She could create a precedent that stealing while starving could not be punished but, honestly, she wasn’t sure how it would all work.

 

Viv wasn’t a lawyer, or a philosopher, but she was a politician.

 

“Abe will condemn this woman according to the law but with the lightest possible punishment, then I will pardon her at the end of the coronation ceremony along with a couple of other prisoners with, let’s just say, strong attenuating circumstances. The temple can take it from there.”

 

The three considered the result. The law would publically prevail then the sovereign would show mercy in her day of ascension, thus preventing a starving mother from being flogged which wasn’t anything anyone with two brain cells and a heart actually wanted to see.

 

“That sounds like a good compromise,” Lady Azar begrudgingly agreed. “and it would cement your reputation as a ruler of the people.”

 

//I approve of the manipulation of fleshbag scruples.

 

“Thank you, Viviane. Kerra will repay this kindness in her everyday life.”

 

“Excellent, now, where were we?”

 

Abe excused himself as the servant of Enttiku still had much work to do. Lady Azar stayed.

 

“Abenezigel has become a pillar of the community. Commoners flock to him for advice. His fame grows. Are you sure he will not become a threat to you in the future?” she asked.

 

Viv didn’t have to consider the question.

 

“Abe is too dedicated to peace and recovery to pursue power, even if it were offered to him on a silver platter. I doubt his goddess would tolerate a coup.”

 

“If you say so. I still believe he is too kind for a judge.”

 

“He hangs people, Azar.”

 

“He cries when he has to do it.”

 

“Tears don’t heal broken neck bones. Now, what about the coronation?”

 

“The Temple insists that you should spend the night before the ceremony in prayer.”

 

“Fine.”

 

The prim Baranese countess blinked, one of her stronger reactions.

 

“I expected resistance. You are not… the most religious person.”

 

“Neriad is not just our patron god, he’s a force of good. Being religious has nothing to do with it.”

 

“Wait… He spoke to you?”

 

“Yes. Great personality. Didn’t let his power get to his head. I’d fight by his side without hesitation.”

 

“I… I… the gods do not simply talk to people!”

 

“Hmm. I am not people. Don’t mean to brag, of course. And if Neriad has never spoken to you…”

 

“He has not.”

 

“Have you considered waging righteous war?”

 

Viv enjoyed her short gotcha moment while Lady Azar simmered in her seat. Outside, the view was clear of revenants. She’d yoinked all she could in preparation for the coronation when thousands of people would gather below the cliffs to celebrate. That much vitality in a single spot would attract any undead in the vicinity if she kept any alive. They were all set. She was almost there.

 

She was going to become royalty.

 

That was admittedly pretty fucking cool.

 

The French in her conjured the image of a guillotine. She was not an absolute sovereign so it would be fine, right? Also, no one needed a guillotine when the average headsman had strength in the thirties. Maybe she should introduce it just for the clout.

 

***

 

The in between. Viv found herself facing the golden orb that was Neriad’s massive presence. He sort of shone around, bathing his surroundings in benevolent radiance. She started feeding him mana as part of her prayer.

 

VERY FEW ARCHMAGES EVER PRAYED TO ME.

 

“You’re more of a sword guy, right?”

 

THERE IS THAT. SARDANAL AND NOUS WERE OUR CASTERS, BACK WHEN WE TOOK OVER.

 

“Could you be a little less loud?”

 

SIGH

 

“Oh, very well, mortal. But I cannot stay for long. My attention can only divide so much. Normally, we would have a long conversation on the future of your kingdom. However, I believe we are already… mostly aligned on our values and for what we are not aligned with, such as assassinating my other servants…”

 

“I made myself very clear.”

 

“I realize that I will not change your mind. Next time, pray to me first, please?”

 

“So you can warn him?”

 

“Viv. Please stop testing me. I am a god.”

 

“Yes, yes, sorry.”

 

“And speaking of gods, I believe it’s time for the temptation part. Ugh. Good luck.”

 

“I… wait, what?”

 

Something slimy grabbed Viv’s soul and pulled it back.

 

***

 

A cavern of obsidian surrounded Viv on all sides, jagged and raw as if carved with stone and anger. She stood over a smooth expanse of nothingness that the dim light failed to penetrate. A god in black plate armor sat atop a throne of darkness, inky hair falling over a roguishly handsome face.

 

Efestar’s smile possessed a self-deprecating quality that didn’t fit the God of Scorn.

 

“Ah,” Viv said.

 

“Indeed. Please excuse the hijack. After all, this is tradition.”

 

“Wait, really?”

 

“There must be a certain balance in the threads of fate, young outlander. The light gods are more than happy to let me try my luck because otherwise, the others might get a word in. Can you guess why?”

 

“Because you used to be pals?”

 

“No. Try again. After all, we have all night and time here flows rather leisurely.”

 

“Hmm. Oh. People on the verge of coronation do not harbor much scorn in their heart?”

 

“Wrong again, though you are getting closer. I am not sought to experience scorn. I am sought to remedy it.”

 

“Kings have power.”

 

“In theory, yes. Someone who expects to gain power seldom feels like bargaining their lives for a little more. They prefer to take possession, first. So here we are, at the summit of your might, on the verge of your triumph, and I am supposed to try and convince you to give it all up while the list of people you do scorn tends to remain remarkably short.”

 

“I do try to wipe those names off.”

 

“So I have gathered.”

 

The God of Scorn sat back in his throne and folded one leg over the other. He had greaves with tiny skulls on the knee. It was kind of tacky, if she had to be honest.

 

“Hmmm. We could discuss something else if you want?”

 

Efestar’s dark eyes widened in surprise, then he laughed out loud.

 

“What? No threats? No defiant statement of belief on truth and justice? You want to talk instead?”

 

“Why not? I bet Octas isn’t a great conversationalist.”

 

“Viviane. Last time, you called me a cunt. What would we even talk about?”

 

“How about you? I’m sure you would find the topic interesting.”

 

Viv sat on her haunches. It was a symbolic gesture since she was pretty sure she was still just a soul. In the in between, symbols mattered.

 

“Why don’t you tell me about your adventures? Before you split from the group.”

 

“You mean, before they reneged on their agreement and cast me away?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Efestar looked, really looked at Viv. Having the full focus of the dark god on her felt like being flung off a mountain into the gaping maw of a titanic creature, the oppressive weight gathering around her for a ravenous, crushing bite.

 

“Woah woah woah. Please calm down.”

 

“You are genuinely asking? If this is another trick…”

 

“Yes I am genuinely asking.”

 

“Viviane the Outlander, you hate the dark gods. I do not believe for a single second that you would genuinely care about poor little me.”

 

“First, you’re not like the other dark gods because you come from the newer generation. And second, I’m just curious what turned you into such a rabid asshole.”

 

The pressure intensified until Viv felt her consciousness unraveling. Any second now, Efestar would flick her forehead, sending her back to her body with a splitting headache.

 

He didn’t.

 

His cruel face morphed into a rictus, then a jarring laugh that scared Viv more than the threats had.

 

“I can see why the others like you. It has been so long since I have felt like a person. Sole worship can become a trap that forces us into patterns, you see? Very well. A tale. A long time ago, a man decided that he wanted to be more than a tribe chief, more than a hero. That man wanted to become the greatest hunter who ever lived. He wanted to become… a legend. And that man was…”

Stolen story; please report.

 

“You?”

 

“No. It was Emeric.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Emeric had something that all other hunters lacked. You see, no matter how cunning the traps or how sharp the spear, at some point, a hunter will be caught off guard or make a single mistake. Except for Emeric.”

 

“He never ran out of luck.”

 

“So it was,” Efestar said as he reclined in his seat.

 

The God of Scorn’s voice took in a strange intonation, as if he were a poet declaiming stanzas and this despite the fact they were not actually talking with their voices. The uncanny sensation did little to distract her from the tale. An image superimposed itself on the sitting god, speaking from his lonely throne.

 

Emeric was handsome, cocksure, and genuinely competent. He wore a leather cape made from the skins of a hundred beasts, going from tribe to tribe to search for more prey to pursue and more women to ravish. As his skills and power grew, so did his legend until bears and triffids and giant turtles were no longer enough. He needed to hunt the genuine tyrants of the plains and forests, those the tribes feared and avoid like natural disasters. No human could do so, at least not alone, so Emeric listened to the offers of the gods… and he liked none of them.

 

The gods were jealous things who reveled in sacrifices. Only those who pledged themselves to them would receive their costly blessings. What saved Emeric was his incredible arrogance.

 

Because Emeric, the blessed, the one of many kills, the one of many amorous conquests, the man whose luck never ran out, wanted to become a legend on his own merit.

 

And so, with the magic of the world behind him, he set out to gain power. He found allies. Neriad was the first, a famous warchief himself who rushed into battle using a shell as shield. The twins were next. Maranor used a short spear to devastating effects while Maradoc scouted with great talent, a whisper of a shadow under the boughs. Sardanal was found on a drifting ship off the northern coast. Nous was an isolated hermit dedicated to the development of the magical arts, especially runes. Efestar was an assassin, settling blood debts with the poison of his darts. There were many more but most died during the journey and their names faded into obscurity.

 

As Emeric’s people slew more beasts, their fame rose until it rivaled the gods themselves. Nyil’s magic fed them and gave them unnaturally long lifespans so they cleared more land and the tribes thrived in their wake. The hunters were cunning and deadly, patient and implacable. They could seemingly not be stopped. It was not enough. Emeric knew they could do better if only they had better tools.

 

“Tools?” Viv interrupted.

 

For a moment, the image faded and Viv was back to being a small soul in the in-between. Efestar was a dark shape covered with hypnotic shiny dots of light. Behind that distracting shape was a terrible stinger of stellar proportions.

 

The vision reappeared. It centered on a fierce contest. Emeric’s band fought against a shelled creature with unusual wolfish features. Their javelins and bolas smacked against the beast’s flanks to no effect until they finally managed to overwhelm its defenses by hitting the eyes. Emeric cried over the corpse of a long-haired amazon of a woman, her quiver empty of silex arrows.

 

Tools. They needed better weapons. And Nous knew where to find it.

 

Someone had made a sword out of meteoritic iron.

 

His name was lost to the fog of history but his work remained. Now, Emeric had tools the likes of which this world had never seen and the knowledge on how to make them spread across the tribes like wildfire. Bronze. Iron. Enchantments. Nous taught his spells to every shaman willing to listen. Safe grazing grounds and fields grew in number over decades until the influence of the priests waned and, in the bowels of the lone mountain, they plotted their revenge. One fateful night, killers came after the heroes during a feast.

 

It was a slaughter.

 

The heroes might have been disarmed but they had followers and skill aplenty. The families of those slain that day paved a path of death and vengeance that created the first, the very first, true human war. Not skirmishes. Not raids. War.

 

Years of merciless battle followed.

 

Those who worshiped the gods who had protected humanity for eons fought against Emeric’s band, the legends who wanted to usher mankind into a new era. Those who feared they might lose everything faced those who wanted more. Their enmity could not be reconciled. The fights were to the death. Roving warriors wiped entire tribes to the last child. Hatred and resentment built until only one side would remain and, slowly, that resentment united the survivors behind Emeric, for the servants of the god burned with fanaticism, and they stopped at nothing to succeed.

 

Slowly, the balance of power tipped in favor of Emeric.

 

The heroes fought with their own power, using mighty tools while the gods fought through their servants. After countless trials, Emeric’s army finally reached the fortress sanctuary of Lone Mountain for one decisive battle. They stormed the complex and slaughtered the priests, defiling the altars and casting down the holy statues. They broke the power of the gods that day. There was a great celebration for mankind was wary and weakened, and the tribes longed for peace. Emeric would not have it. He knew it could only end one way. He knew the gods would fight back from the bogs and deep forests, whispering tender lies in the ears of the unfortunate. So he devised a plan.

 

Maranor would slay the gods with her meteoritic iron sword turned artifact: the Slayer. A weapon to kill the unkillable. In her hands, it could pierce through any defenses.