Tithe of the Saviours

by A J Dalton, A Dalton

Genres: Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

The gods will see you brought down...
The spirits of your ancestors will have their revenge upon you...
The Saviours will drain you of your very soul.

In claiming a place in the world, mortals have won many enemies for themselves. The ancient gods are jealous and conspire against them. The King of the Dead looks to lead his armies into the land of the living. In their own realm, the mighty Declension watches and waits, as events begin to unfold precisely as they had always planned.

Jillan and his companions are beset on all sides, yet are plagued by self-doubt and internal division. When the final battle for survival begins, both they and their gods face extinction. They are easy prey for the warriors of the Declension, who are intent upon stripping Jillan of his magic and raising up their empire once more.

His friends and beloved Hella taken from him, Jillan is captured and tortured. He is ultimately broken and condemned to work in a mine, to see out his days labouring in misery for the enemy he has fought against his entire life.

He is a man without hope.

Release date: April 17, 2014

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group

Print pages: 452

Sample

Prologue

The crow flapped tiredly onwards. There was precious little air movement in the desert, meaning the bird had to labour fitfully through the sky. Its dark feathers absorbed the ferocious heat of the sun. It knew it wouldn’t be long before it simply dropped out of the sky. It knew it shouldn’t be there. The land of the sun god was no place for a creature of blood. It was a blasphemy of sorts to venture uninvited into the kingdom of the Court of Light, a blasphemy that would all but guarantee the bird’s death. After all, the crow was not only a creature of blood, but also black in colour – and that was anathema to the glorious sun god. Only those who reflected Sinisar’s glory were truly welcome here. All others were punished by the hot and waterless environment until they overheated, their blood boiled, their flesh withered and was destroyed, and all that was left was white glistening bone, bone that would shine in the sun and be another jewel in the sun god’s crown.

Yet the crow continued to flap on. It had come too far to have any hope of going back. And the force that had possessed it would allow it no other choice but to continue, even unto its end. Images of clouds and a water valley somewhere in this vast emptiness were imprinted in the mind’s eye of the crow. The force insisted all would be well if the crow could but keep going. It would reach Haven. It would never want for anything again. It would be like coming through death and finding paradise. It but had to keep its mind and eye fixed on Haven. It must see all, watch all. Nothing in Haven must escape its gaze. The force would spy on all that went on.

Flap. Flap. The ground was a meaningless maze of broken boulders. Flap. Were its eyes misting over? Those couldn’t be low clouds. Not here. The sun god would never allow such an occlusion of his majesty and bright heaven. Flap. Flap. There must be an imperfection in its eye, yet everything seemed clear when it looked away from the clouds. Flap. A false image born of being forced to hold so obsessively to the picture of the valley in its mind? Flap. They came closer. Then it was above the clouds. It descended rapidly, stretching its beak wide to catch blessed drops of moisture.

The crow tried to go into a long spiral to slow its descent, but it caught a downward draught and was suddenly tumbling, wrapped up in its own wings. Utterly exhausted, it did not have the strength to save itself. Yet where it should have slammed into the ground and been undone, instead it fell into the very valley it had envisioned the entire way across the desert.

Now it caught a thermal and righted itself. It desperately flared its wings and tail, but it continued to tear through the air at an alarming rate. Several feathers were ripped free and it screeched in panic.

The crow tried to pull itself up and away from the ground hurtling towards it. It was impossible. It tilted forward and went into a swoop, spearing downwards even faster so that it could then pull up gradually in a smooth arc. It feared it was too late. It was going to drive its beak and head straight into the ground and turn itself into the sort of wreckage other crows would come and pick over.

It skimmed between two rocks, the tips of its feathers brushing perilously close to the rough surfaces. Up! Yet it was still in the downward part of its arc. It stuck to the trail towards the valley floor, so that it had a better chance of levelling out. Nearly there! The ground raced up towards it, stones like teeth looking to tear out its guts. At the last it despairingly flung itself to the side and bounced twice on the surface of a fast-flowing river, before being dragged under.

It flailed back up and was swept round a bend and into a shallow. It thrashed and hopped, one damaged wing making it pirouette in the wrong direction for a moment, before it finally clawed its way up onto the relative safety of a flat rock.

It cawed in anger and pain as the force demanded it get moving again. The crow wanted to take its time drinking and lunging for a few of the water insects here. It needed to nurse its wing. But the force would not relent, and drove it up the riverbank.

This young human. See him, crow! Find him. Bury your beak in his eye. Mix the blood you carry with his. Drink his blood. It will restore you more than anything else can. Then you will return to me, crow, and bring me that blood. Move, crow!

The crow knew it was being ruined by the force. It hated the force but had no way to fight it. The crow wanted to die now, but was denied even that choice. It held its wing awkwardly off the ground and skipped towards the place that had the scent of humans. It would find the young human and hopefully be killed by it. Humans liked to kill, didn’t they? They killed each other in huge numbers upon battlefields. So much carrion for crows and their ilk. Better to come near a human than to be captured again by the terrible thing that had created the force that commanded it. The thing had eclipsed the heavens so that the crow had been unable to tell up from down. It had plucked the crow from the sky, forced blood into the crow’s mouth and then drawn blood from the crow in turn. The force had then compelled the crow to enter this living nightmare, and now the crow only wanted its own death. The crow prayed to the Geas for death, if the source of life would allow – or could gift – such a thing. Better to find this young human.

As if in answer to its prayer, jaws suddenly clamped around the bird and dashed it against the ground, killing it instantly. The large black wolf spat the bird out and backed away, hackles rising. It snarled, drawing back its muzzle to bare its teeth. There was something wrong about the bird. It was tainted with the magic of the enemy. The wolf had thought Haven would hide them, but the one predator both humans and wolf feared had found them once more.



Every moment of existence in this realm was a nightmare for the Speaker and his small tribe. The nature of the place forced them to adopt a permanent and meaningless form. As meaningless as that form was, however, it somehow engendered fear in the other creatures of this realm, particularly the humans, and this saw the humans harass and attack the Speaker’s tribe with unexpectedly harmful bits of shining metal. The humans were so primitive and limited! Even communication with such base creatures was nigh on impossible – the ugly gurgling and gesticulation that seemed to be the language of the humans was a torture for the Speaker’s tribe to endure. ‘Desert giants!’ was the most often repeated sound that the speaker could discern when confronted by the aggressive humans, but whether it was a form of question, command or accusation, the Speaker had no way of knowing. He suspected it was a challenge of some sort, for conflict had invariably followed when, in the early days, the Speaker’s tribe had rushed up to the humans in an attempt to welcome them.

Now his tribe hated them. Yet these humans were by no means the most dangerous beings of this realm – there were half-images and ideas of things known as Saviours in the simple minds of the humans. It was these Saviours who seemed to direct the humans, in part through force of will, and in part through establishing a wider dynamic of community and behaviour among them. At first the Speaker had thought these Saviours a mere fantasy or necessary delusion of the humans, but after millennia of the tribe battling the humans here, in the land of this realm’s sun god, the one who was Ba’zel had found them. The whole issue had been forced by the one human the Speaker had ever encountered who would not or could not yield to the Saviours. That human could never excuse the nature of the rest of its kind, of course – especially when he had led Ba’zel to the Speaker’s tribe! – yet that one human did cause the Speaker to wonder how different the humans might be if they were free of the Saviours. It hardly mattered, though, for Ba’zel had found the Speaker’s tribe.

Those known as the Saviours were precisely the sort of threat to the realm of the Speaker’s tribe that the Believer had foreseen. The Believer had long ago divined that there would be those seeking to transcend their own nature at the expense of the existence of other realms. As per his nature, the Speaker had questioned the truth of the belief, as had other Speakers. They had asked for evidence, logic and meaning. Inevitably, that had seen the Deliberator and Convocation rule that the various tribes of the Speakers be exiled to the adjacent realms so that they could find that evidence, logic and meaning, on behalf of the Convocation, and guard the way into the Convocation’s realm against any threat.

And with the coming of Ba’zel, the threat was made real. The exile of the Speaker’s tribe to this realm had manifestly been as wise as it was deliberate. The Speaker and all other Speakers would say so on behalf of the Convocation forever more, or as long as they were permitted to exist. They would speak the reality of it and give the realm greater definition, meaning and substance, all the better to stand against the threat.

The Speaker looked up into the heavens of the sun god. A ragged shadow moved across the sky above the blood oasis that was the way into the Convocation’s realm. An idea that was crow-seeking-Haven came to the Speaker. It was a harbinger or herald of the coming conflict. It was not just an omen – it was material sign of the conflict beginning. The Saviours approached. It did not matter, therefore, if that one human would not or could not yield to those Saviours, for all human existence would be ended in the coming conflict. It was inevitable now, all too real and soon to be made manifest. A shame, in a way, for that one human had made the Speaker wonder, the only moment of surcease in the nightmare that was this realm.



Lhara picked her way through the twisted forest. She stayed close to the path she had taken before, for everyone in the village knew there were hidden drops and partially covered sinkholes hereabouts, although the eldest in the village liked to tell stories to scare the children about individuals occasionally being snatched by malevolent forest wights or being bewitched by the dark fey. Most of the villagers avoided this ancient warren because they did not understand its sacred nature and thus, in their ignorance, feared it. Ludicrous stories of child sacrifice conducted by the pagans in the time before the Saviours were even whispered between the old men who sat nursing flagons of ale in the village inn all day. Lhara thought such tale-tellers and rumour-mongers were simply addle-brained, or were jealously looking to undermine the status of Old Sheela, the village wise woman who understood the mysterious whys, ways and workings of a man’s heart, childbirth, fertility, nature, remedies and the forest. For as they advanced in years men became increasingly self-possessed and full of themselves. They did not like to be beholden to, guided by or instructed by any woman, even if it was a woman who had brought them into the world and more than likely overseen their upbringing. It was just the essential nature of men, Old Sheela had explained to Lhara when the young woman had made the trip to the wise woman’s hut deep among the trees. And of course Lhara wanted a love charm to win back the heart of Jol, the handsome carpenter’s apprentice who had drunkenly betrothed himself to the conniving baker’s daughter, Wilhemina! It was a tale as old as time. Even so, Old Sheela had smiled with compassion and told Lhara to seek out the old altar to the god of love, which was to be found in a grotto in the twisted forest.

‘Who is this god?’ Lhara had whispered in fearful excitement.

‘Pasca the Passionate, dear one.’

‘Pasca? I have not heard that name before.’

‘No surprise, child!’ Old Sheela had snorted. ‘The jealous Saviours commanded that they be the only object of the People’s love. All word and thought of the Passionate One was stricken from the minds of the People. The Saints sought out those of the Unclean who had knowledge of the old god and silenced them for ever.’

‘Then how is it you … ?’

‘Old Sheela has her ways, child, Old Sheela has her ways. Now, the way to the old altar is as indirect, wild and full of misstep as love itself can be, so attend closely.’

Lhara had found the secluded grotto and the intricately carved altar, some of its lewder depictions making her blush. She’d then prayed fervently, baring heart, soul and bosom, as Old Sheela had directed. She’d begged and promised, prostrated herself and writhed in misery, offering all she had. Finally she was spent, and lay panting with a hand resting against the long shaft of the shrine.

‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I enjoyed that,’ murmured a male but otherworldly voice with a timbre that set Lhara’s insides vibrating.

Lhara gasped and looked up into sensitive violet eyes. A diaphanous youth wearing a glorious helmet of sun-metal stared down at her and drank in her soul. His face and barely concealed body were drawn in firm strong lines, but his beauty was so impossible that she did not believe she truly saw it, even though she looked upon it. She could not hold it properly in her mind.

‘I will give Jol to you, Lhara, if you will vow to worship me and me alone for the rest of your days. You will constantly offer up thanks to me and never hesitate to do what I ask. Otherwise, I will be unable to guide you and lead you to your heart’s desire.’

‘I swear it, holy Pasca, oh, how I swear it! Instruct me, radiant lord, for I am yours!’

‘Then hear me, Lhara, and do as I command. Take this candle of runes and black blood and light it tonight as the flame of your love, passion and lust. Set it outside the wall behind which Jol sleeps. Its heat will gradually overwhelm and consume him. It will burn away all other preoccupations and distractions he might have. Trust me in this, Lhara, for all will be well. When it is done, return to me and I will instruct you further.’

Lhara had hurried away and done all precisely as the god had directed. She’d placed the green-flamed and sickly sweet candle by the wall and retreated back to her own home. In the early hours of the morning the whole village had been awoken by terrified shrieking, shouts of anguish and a loud crackling roar.

‘Fire! Help!’

‘Blessed Saviours, protect us! Bring water!’

‘Save her!’

‘Hold him back! Jol, there is nothing you can do in there.’

‘You don’t understand! I love her!’

‘More water!’

The carpenter’s workshop had become an inferno, and the villagers had only just managed to prevent the fire spreading to other adjoining buildings and then the whole village. It transpired that Wilhemina had chosen to bed with Jol that night. He’d been woken by the sound of the growing blaze and run to fight the flames while assuming the stirring Wilhemina would get herself to safety. Yet, tragically, the baker’s daughter had been overcome by thick smoke before she’d been able to escape. It was only when Jol had been forced out of the building by the conflagration that he’d realised his beloved Wilhemina had not made it out with him. He’d been devastated. Lhara had run to console him, but in his grief he’d hurled her away from him. Lhara had been ushered away by well-meaning neighbours and Jol had fallen to his knees to scream his heartbreak and rage to the heavens.

As the sun had risen on that terrible morning, it had revealed all the villagers standing silently before the blackened ruins of the carpenter’s workshop. They stared, or bowed their heads as mourners at a graveside.

Old Sheela moved among the older members of the community, making sympathetic noises and whispering here and there, eliciting nods of agreement.

‘So awful. Only tragedy can come of an unsanctified union between a man and a woman. They were not married, eh?’

‘The baker’s daughter should have been tending to the bread ovens, not stoking Jol’s own fire.’

‘Consumed by their own sin, undone by their waywardness.’

‘Her parents should have kept a better watch on her.’

Rejected, horrified, feeling confusion and guilt, Lhara had fled back to the twisted forest. She entered the grotto now, tears streaking her cheeks and at a complete loss as to what to do.

‘Sweet lord, what have I done?’ she wailed. ‘I never meant to kill her. Never!’

And he was there, wrapping her in his strong arms, comforting her, crooning to her. ‘Lhara, remember the oft-spoken truth that all is fair in love and war. If what you have done is crime at all, it is only a crime of passion, and none are condemned for such. You did not properly know what you did. You were innocent. You were true to yourself and your heart. You were true to your love for Jol, true to him. You heard the elders pass their judgement that the fire was the price the baker’s daughter paid for her sin. It was she who erred, not you. She should never have been there. It is an important lesson to the whole village. Once Jol has remembered himself and his love for you, it will all be as if it never happened. It never happened, Lhara, it never happened.’

She sniffed hard, and hiccuped. ‘But he cast me aside. He wants no part of me, holy Pasca!’

‘There, there, Lhara. Do not take on so. He is not himself right now. He hates himself for what he has helped cause, and does not think himself worthy of your love. It will take him time to earn that love. Yet do not fear, for I will whisper in his ear and all too soon he will be keen to press his suit. You must be gentle with him and show him understanding, Lhara. Can you do that? For then you will be married.’

‘Truly, lord?’ she dared hope, looking up into his eyes. ‘You will do all this for me? Oh, thank you, holy lord!’

‘You will have children. You will be happy and fulfilled, dear Lhara. How could I treat those who worship me any differently?’

‘Can it be true?’

‘And in return your firstborn will be mine.’

She shrank back from him. The blood had drained from her face. ‘No,’ she whispered.

He loomed over her, eyebrows lowered and a self-satisfied grin upon his face. She had never seen anything so hideous in its perfection. ‘Oh yes, Lhara. You have sworn to do precisely as I ask, remember. A vow made to a god is no small matter, you know. It is as binding as your need for air and sustenance. It is as binding as your love for Jol, and his future love for you. It binds you absolutely.’

‘Have mercy, lord, I beg you.’

The god tutted in disappointment. ‘None of that, dear one. It would be bad faith on your part. Jol would want nothing to do with one who is so unfaithful, now would he?’

‘I will forswear myself to you.’

The god’s face became wicked with displeasure. ‘You must know I cannot allow that, dear Lhara. If one follower was permitted to forswear themselves, where would it ever end? Pretty soon every follower would be at it, wouldn’t they? Would you have the gods exist to serve the whims of mortals? That is against the natural order of things. At best it is utter madness, at worst the most unforgivable blasphemy. You will doom yourself, Lhara.’

The young woman shook in terror. ‘Old Sheela will protect me!’

The god laughed humourlessly and shifted into the guise of the wise woman. ‘We are one and the same, child.’

‘You tricked me!’ Lhara pleaded. ‘It is all false. My vow was not a true one. I unsay it!’

‘Come now, be reasonable, child,’ the avatar croaked. ‘I have given you all that you wanted. Be grateful that I do not ask for more than your firstborn. The child will be well looked after, far better than you could look after it yourself. It will become a demigod of sorts, in my name. You should rejoice that it is your own offspring that has been chosen. You are blessed by the god of love. And think of the consequences otherwise. Think of what would happen if people found out what you had done.’

‘I have done nothing. It was all you!’

Old Sheela shook her head sadly. ‘We both know that is not the case, don’t we, dear one? Imagine what would happen if Old Sheela let it slip to the elders that you had come to see her just before the fire and asked about ways of winning Jol’s heart and removing all impediment to the fulfilment of your selfish desire. Imagine what would happen were they to find the remains of the black candle among the ruins. They would know you for a witch, would they not, Lhara? What then? Jol will be lost to you. There will be no wedding. You will never have children, for I will also see to it that your womb withers inside you. The villagers will either burn you for your crimes or brand you and drive you out of the community. None will ever help you once you are marked. You will die alone and in misery.’

‘You are evil!’ Lhara cried, hands pulling at her hair in distress.

‘You are hardly one to accuse others of evil after what you have done, are you, dear Lhara? Mortals are only ever victims of the evil that they themselves do. How can I be evil when I only want you to be happy? Believe me, I want none of those terrible things to happen to you. I would truly be a monster if I did. No one would grieve more than I if you were to be condemned by your own kind. You see, I am compassionate. Lhara, remain faithful to me and I can offer you forgiveness, for such is within the power of the gods. Repent and all will be as it was before. Obey me as your god and your life will be blessed. Jol and happiness will both be yours. Genuine and wondrous love like you have never known. Your world will be a paradise. Never will you have known such joy and contentment. I can offer you all of this if you will just speak to others in my name and spread my holy word. You will be a high priestess of the god of love. Simply repent your crimes here to me now, Lhara. Do not be too proud. Do not hate yourself either. Simply love yourself, your life, Jol and me, for they are all the same. Will you repent?’

Eyes wide, the trembling young woman spoke the words. ‘I-I repent, lord.’

Her legs collapsed under her, but the god – who became Pasca the Passionate once more – caught her and held her up. His smile was infinitely kind and reassuring. ‘See now, that wasn’t so bad. Return to the village, dear one, and all will be well, you’ll see. Know that you are much loved.’

Shaking, Lhara turned away.

‘Oh, and Lhara?’

‘Yes, lord?’

‘You don’t think you should be thanking me for all that I have done for you? A god could get to feel quite unappreciated otherwise.’

‘Th-thank you, lord.’

‘And Lhara?’

‘Yes, lord?’

‘Remember to worship me regularly, won’t you?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘That’s a good girl. Run along, then. Remember, I’ll be watching over you, always.’



The god watched and nodded to himself as the girl fled from the grotto. Another community of followers would soon be his. ‘Alright, you can come out now, whoever or whatever you are. I knew you were there the whole time.’

A fearsome being emerged from the back wall of the grotto and the god turned to face it. The eavesdropper was statuesque in bearing – an overly large and crenellated skull supported by a frame of spindly and stone-like limbs.

Pasca’s expression became schooled and then shifted into the mischievous visage of Anupal, Lord of Mayhem. ‘Why, Thraal, you old sweetheart, there you are! You don’t know how I’ve missed you. Really. The sleepless nights I’ve had. I’ve been beside myself with worry about what might have happened to you, truly I have.’

Elder Thraal became preternaturally still.

The Peculiar winced and took a cringing step back. Through gritted teeth he said, ‘Thraal, be a dear and suppress the power of your presence, would you? Even with this helmet on, it’s quite a strain.’

‘You have stolen a Disciple’s helmet. You are crowned by your own sin. You betrayed us, did you not, Peculiar?’

‘Look, just reduce it a little, yes? I’m your biggest fan, you know that, but sometimes there’s just no talking to you. Ow!’

Thraal abruptly reined in his presence. ‘Speak.’

The Peculiar pulled himself back up and took several long moments to straighten his helmet and smooth down his robes. ‘There, that’s better. Honestly, Thraal, there is no need to be such a grump. You’re just sore that the mortals gave you a kicking and brought your fancy Great Temple crashing down upon your big heads, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I understand how disappointed you must be with how things turned out, especially after all the effort you put in. And for your information, the Disciple I borrowed this helmet from no longer had any use for it. Of course, should he, she or it require the helmet again in the future, I will not hesitate to return it. Alright?’

‘You sought to claim the Geas for yourself rather than fulfilling your agreement with us. Do not deny it, for it was seen through the being Ba’zel.’

‘So!’ said the Peculiar huffily. ‘I hear nothing from you for an absolute age – not a missive, or a letter, or a token of affection, or even an omen in the sky – when I’ve been frantic with concern, and then I get this! One accusation after another. Not a single How have you been, Peculiar? or You’re looking well, Peculiar. No, just harsh recrimination and talk of fulfilling agreements. Did it never occur to you that if I was trying to claim the Geas then I might have been doing it for you? Did you not stop to think that I might have wanted to gift it to you, because I knew how important it was to you? After all we’ve meant to each other, as well. How could you? Quite frankly, dearest Thraal, I’m hurt. I’m not at all pleased with you. No, I’m not.’

‘Your words are meaningless. You seek to obfuscate, misdirect and confuse. You do this to hide the truth of your betrayal.’

The Peculiar’s mouth hung open and his hands covered his pained heart. ‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve said to you, have you? So cruel! I see it now. I mean absolutely nothing to you, do I?’ His bottom lip quivered for a second, but then he tightened his exquisite jawline and squared his shoulders bravely. ‘Very well then, elseworlder, if that’s the way you want it, that’s the way it will be between us from now on. If you wish to speak of betrayal between us, then it is of that we shall speak. There was no betrayal on my part, for as per our agreement the boy and rock woman were brought to you at the Great Temple. In the process, the plague was ended. My end of the bargain was completed. It is you who has not delivered on your end. Where is my seventh chamber of sun-metal, eh? All was lost, including my other six chambers, when you succumbed to the mortals. By your failure, it is you who has betrayed me. I am hugely disappointed, elseworlder. In fact I am livid and demand to know when reparation will be made.’

‘Nothing has been lost, Peculiar. The chambers remain and are easily uncovered. We did not fail in any way. The location of Haven is now revealed to us and we are closer than ever before to claiming the Geas of this realm as our own. All is as we planned and willed it. These are the final moments of the convergence. There is nothing of consequence that stands in our way.’

The Peculiar’s eyes narrowed. ‘And did you plan and will it when Samnir the Sand Devil decapitated four of your kind in front of all humanity?’

Elder Thraal blinked slowly. ‘It was of no consequence to us.’

‘I still demand reparation.’

‘As do we,’ came the smooth reply.

Without turning his head at all, the Peculiar sprang backwards and landed lightly atop a tall stalagmite. He folded his conjured wings against his back and crouched like a gargoyle. ‘What manner of reparation? What would you have of me, elseworlder, and what do you offer in exchange?’

‘The terms of the agreement made when we first came to this realm still stand. You will ensure that the pagan gods remain divided.’

A shrug. ‘Shouldn’t be too difficult. In return, you will grant me the freedom to move through the world as I see fit.’

‘As long as you do not interfere with our plans and intentions.’

‘Perish the thought. And you will supply me with the seventh chamber.’

Elder Thraal nodded his assent. ‘And you will give me egress, Peculiar, to the nether realm.’

The Peculiar paused. He tilted his head. ‘Nether realm?’

‘You thought we did not know of it? All is known to us.’

‘Elseworlder, if such a place existed, you would not want to go there, trust me.’

‘Trust you?’

‘Alright, alright! But why the nether realm? Even I avoid it as far as possible. Spend more than a few moments there and it will draw all life energy from you. It is death and ending. Surely you elseworlders, ancient as you are, have more to lose by it than most. Some gates are not meant to be opened, even by beings who have travelled the cosmos! Some spells should never be cast. Some words should never be spoken. Some thoughts never thought. Some ideas never conceived. They will destroy everything.’

‘The nether realm was used temporarily to prevent our will. We will not permit that to happen again. Now we are properly aware of the nether realm, our will becomes manifest and inevitable there. It will be ours and will be defined by us.’

‘Well, rather you than me.’ The Peculiar shuddered. Then he pursed his lips, a glint in his eye. ‘El