Chapter 19

The bright lights and garish colours in the basement of the Aderlass parlour didn't really reach Seroin. The shrill music and the moans of the dancing guests, covered in powder, dared to reach her ears, but she didn't notice.

Seroin leaned against the bar and stared at the scene in front of her, watching a crowd of people give in to their God-given instincts. And they all seemed so small. Her eyes sharpened; she hated the people in front of her more than anything else.

Those who danced and drank, slashed their skin for more powder, rubbed their bodies together, pressed their lips together in blind ecstasy. They did not plan, did not look, did not live. Out there walked the children of gods, a completely more powerful species above them mortals, so alien. But the crowd here did not care. Out there, plans were being made to kill all these demigods and many more, to change the world outside Badazan forever, but the crowd here continued to dance.

Seroin didn't even know what she could ask of them. Should they know? Should they participate, have an opinion? The sweating bodies were nothing more than a blind collection, guided by the city of Badazan. By the city and by...

She looked down at her open palm, where the brimming cylinder of an A.M.I. lay glistening. Her gaze was reflected in the dark red liquid, looking back at her in a distorted image. She was so incredibly small, so insignificant, who would ever learn her story, who would ever notice her? Perhaps the senseless crowd in front of her was doing the only thing that mortals in this world could do.

The wet, cold fingers on her shoulder pulled Seroin back to the present. ‘Liku?! Not like that! You don't sneak up on anyone, not here. A simple greeting would suffice.’

The gaunt and pale elf in an oversized shirt smiled, his wet skin reflecting the lights of the bloodletting. ‘You were staring at me, you weren't quite here.’ His jet-black, constantly restless eyes scanned her forearm. ‘Too much powder, Seroin, too much. What do you need? Did Shiverlip send you?’

Seroin leaned forward. ‘Same as always. Information. The elf from last time, Tomga Balf. I need everything about him, who was looking for him, who was thinking about him, who saw him last. Everything.’

Liku grinned more sharply. ’Did he disappear? And if you're asking so urgently, did he disappear with good loot?’

Seroin skilfully deflected the question. ‘Worse. We found his little whore of a sister, and what does he do? He thinks he can run off without paying me. I won't tolerate that, not from him.’

Liku nodded understandingly. ’That won't do, no, no. Those barbarians out there think they can do whatever they want. No A.M.I. for that, it's on me. I always say, new growth are the scum of the street. They're good for boxing and whoring, not for business.’

The dream dancer closed his eyes and leafed through his countless memories, his lips continuing to move. ‘Are you sure he didn't escape?’

Seroin shook his head. ‘I don't think so, he's still here. I just have to find him.’

Liku hissed. ’With these new checks at the gates, no one can get out that quickly. The inspectors have almost tripled their searches. All because of the Young Harvest, they say. Good riddance. They should just burn down the Magic-quarter and be done with it.’

He opened his eyes again with a jerk. ‘Unfortunately, I don't have any current information about him. Apparently, a few people are looking for him, but I don't know why. And I'm not particularly interested in new growth. Otherwise, he only appears in an older memory.’

Seroin snorted angrily. ‘I don't know what I was hoping for. Yes, he seems to have messed with a few people. Let them cut him up, I just want my A.M.I.s back.’

‘You can always try the good Dala? My former student is supposed to be well connected in Badazan. Or are you two still... well, still avoiding each other?’ For the first time, the wet elf averted his gaze, and one could have thought he was blushing, regretting his words.

‘Dala and I only work together, if at all. I saw her recently. It was clear that neither of us wanted to see each other again anytime soon. But what other choice do I have? I don't have much time. Do you know where she's hanging out right now?’

Liku nodded. ‘She was at Feeding-street recently, now she's sneaking around the east gate of the city. She wants to search the memories of guests and inspectors, collect everything for her planned raid.’

‘The Sandevis celebration, the new Platti, I remember. Bigger than all the others, they say. The elite of the elite are supposed to be there, Dala will have her fill. Maybe she has something, maybe.’

‘If that knight escapes, we'll find your A.M.I.s somewhere else. New growths are stupid. He or his family will come back. And then we'll get her. War hero or not.

Seroin frowned. ‘You know about the war hero? What memories do you have of him?’

The elf tapped his forehead. ’A battle from the Daumaje. Idea children against Idea children. I sell them to wannabe heroes, veterans or adventure seekers. But that won't help you much.’

Seroin had just unwrapped her fork when she paused. A curiosity she had never felt before spread through her. ‘Show me.’

Liku shrugged. ’That'll cost you an A.M.I. Bringing back memories like that is no fun for a dream dancer like me. You're a history student? Or are you slowly coming to believe in one of those Ideas?’

‘Just show me!’ Seroin slapped her arm on the counter. The cauldron of emotions boiling inside her grew stronger and stronger, only the thought of the next fork kept her calm. And she rarely despised herself so much for it.

The elf rummaged behind the counter for his iron tube for A.M.I.s, placed Seroin's A.M.I. inside it and put the device in its usual place for injection. It hissed and his arms pulsed with heat. ‘That was a violent moment in world history, are you sure?’

When Seroin didn't even flinch, the dream dancer ran his fingers over her arm. With that, he gave her divine torment in the mortal world.

He felt stronger than ever, yet the fingers of death tickled his neck.

With a roar, he ran forward, the heavy axe in his hands digging deep into the stomach of a screaming man. Blood and intestines gushed from the wound, and both men fell to their knees.

He almost vomited, but then he looked into the pool of red and recognised his reflection. A dwarf with sunken eyes and a haggard face stared back at him, his once thick mane of black hair and beard now just a grey tuft. The sight of himself disgusted him, he wanted to tear the armour from his body and sleep forever.

Then a strong hand pulled him back to his feet. ‘Not today, Galdor, not today!’ Standing beside him was an elf in shining armour, long blond hair falling from his head, his blue eyes sparkling with conviction. There were few scars on his face, not enough to call it ugly.

He, Galdor, pulled him up. ‘Today! They are too many!’

‘Then to my side, to my line! We will strike them back. FOR BEING! FOR DIERSA!’

Inspired by these words, the two and their troop of soldiers ran forward.

Before them stood the mass of the enemy, all dressed in their grey-black armour, all bearing the symbol of the enemy, the circle, on their chests.

They, on the other hand, shone in the white of the Diersa, each house bearing its coat of arms on its chest.

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The two rows clashed, steel rained down on steel, screams accompanied their battle and blood decorated the muddy ground.

Just as the enemy began to weaken, Galdor looked behind him and saw the face of a dwarf from his unit.

The soldier looked back at him, confusion in his eyes, which slowly began to bleed. A wet cough forced its way from his throat, and he quickly fell to the ground, gasping for air.

‘IDEA CHILD!’ Tomga shouted over their heads. ’BACK! IDEAS CHILD! IT'S KEUFADOR!’

Their ranks fell back, shoulder to shoulder, bracing themselves for the coming horror.

The enemy did not rush after them, instead forming a corridor, avoiding someone from their own ranks.

A tall elf strolled towards them, his skin shining sickly pale, his white hair falling strangely empty to his hips, and a clean white-green robe enveloping his narrow body. He could have been mistaken for an arrogant aristocrat or a mysterious magician. Then he stretched out his hands towards them and began to laugh. With a twist of his fingers, two dark green spears formed in his hands, which he twirled around, displaying a talent for this weapon like no other.

He took a deep breath and blew it towards them with a hiss. ‘Flee from Keufador, the second son of disease, Iohelana, flee from the Damp ough. I give you plague, blood and cholera!’

Instantly, the sounds of illness croaked from their ranks, soldiers coughed and gagged, others collapsed with an unnatural fever, and still others clutched their chests, seeming to be burning from within.

Keufador gave them no respite, he leapt forward, smashed their ranks and wildly flailed his spears. An expression of absolute joy and justice adorned his face; the world was as Keufador wanted it to be.

The soldiers around Galdor fell to the ground in large numbers, some stabbed by spears, others suffocated by their own blood.

The elf Tomga withstood two blows from the weapon, then Keufador danced behind the knight and rammed a spear through the back of his knee. Tomga roared hoarsely in agony, but Keufador was already turning his attention to his next target, the dwarf Galdor.

He himself was barely able to block Keufador's fierce blows. The dwarf staggered helplessly backwards, dodging one attack after another, seeing only the distorted grin of his enemy before him, who was not fighting but playing with him. The dwarf took a deep breath and suddenly felt himself becoming unnaturally hot, and was about to fall to his knees.

Keufador spun around once more, his spears sending half a dozen soldiers to their deaths, then he stopped in front of Galdor. ‘I'll let you cough up your tongue, dwarf. Just for the audacity of standing here.’ The Idea child placed his blood-soaked spear under Galdor's chin. ‘The strongest bodies tear each other apart the most beautifully when they are sick and...’

A bright light whirred through their ranks and Keufador thundered backwards, ramming his spears into the ground to keep from falling.

A sudden silence tore through the air and Galdor saw something he desperately needed. He saw Keufador, second son of the disease, in panic.

Heavy footsteps struck the ground next to Galdor, a body taller than any man towered between them. And when he saw that body, Galdor stood safely on his feet again, his own will giving him unexpected strength.

The woman in their midst was taller than all of them, thick, oil-black hair cascading down to her shoulders, tied in tight braids. Her ebony skin stretched over powerful muscles, and two sharp eyes were fixed on the enemy before them. The bright fabric and golden jewellery on her body stood out against the battlefield covered in dirt and blood, and everyone there stared at her.

Tomga Balf's cry of joy gave them all something they had long lost: courage and will. ‘Arabara!’

The woman raised her hand, commanding them all to be quiet, even the wounded were able to pause. ’It is over, Keufador. The battle is decided. I am here. And where Arabara, first-born daughter of Will itself, appears, there the will of those I love prevails. Lay down your weapons, grant yourselves an end to the dying. I, Arabara the Judge, will grant each of you your life today.’

Keufador's fine features contorted in anger, recognising her words as absolutely true. ‘If you are here, then you may win the battle, for that is your gift and your power. But we will kill as many of you as we can. For we are all servants of Lord Defala, the Nothingness! And the Nothingness obeys nothing above all else but destruction itself! Zitaar, now!’

At these words, the sky shook, a jagged bolt of lightning struck the air and hit Arabara with full force.

The tall, dark woman did not even collapse to one knee, wiping the burning sensation away with a wave of her hand, but some of the soldiers around her were burned to ashes.

Above their heads, the radiant body of a woman flew through the air, her form only guessable, surrounded by sparks. Her shrill cackling was followed by more flashes of lightning, which licked through Diersa´s troops. ‘TO WHOM DOES THE SKY BELONG? TO WHOM DOES THE POWER BELONG? BOW DOWN BEFORE THE LIGHTNING! PURE POWER AND ENERGY!’

The soldiers around Galdor cried out in panic, looking to Arabara for help.

She once again proved her name and rank. ‘Tomga! To me! That is Zitaar, daughter of the Lightning, the Idea of Taar. If she continues, our troops will be burned to a crisp. Quick, raise high spears of steel and catch her lightning bolts before they reach you!’

The knight pointed desperately at his body. ‘Mistress, my leg?’

The demigoddess placed a hand on his shoulder. ’Do you want to run? Then you can!’

Instantly, the pain seemed to leave Tomga and the knight rushed off with renewed determination.

Arabara then turned to Galdor. ‘You there, what is your name?’

When her determined eyes met his, the dwarf wanted nothing more than to serve her forever. ’Galdor, of the Mosshammer clan!’

The Idea child smiled proudly. ‘Mosshammer clan, mighty dwarves. Healers and blacksmiths in one, masters of creation and preservation. Pride. See that hill there, to the side of the battlefield. Hurry there and take this!’ She pressed a small bell into his hand. ‘Ring it up there. And forgive yourself! Go!’

With these words, Arabara turned and began to storm into battle with her bare fists. Each of her blows thundered several enemies to the ground, and the soldiers near her fought more courageously and cohesively than ever before.

Galdor gripped the bell tightly in his hand and sprinted off.

He was enveloped by the orchestra of a war of the gods. Soldiers croaked away under inhuman diseases, lightning rained down on them, some finally hitting only a raised spear, others still finding the flesh of mortals and tearing it away. Screams and stench filled the air, both sides fighting without doubt, without thought of escape. If they continued, it would come down to the last man standing.

With burning legs, Galdor forced himself up the hill and turned, panting, towards the battlefield. Up there, all the sounds reached him more muffled, a little further away. Trembling, he lifted the small bell and rang it, the delicate sound barely reaching his ears, so loud was the raging of death.

Warm fingers instantly rested on his shoulder, and Galdor immediately flinched in fear.

Next to him stood a woman, apparently a human. Her body was thin and smooth, adorned only by a simple white dress. Full, grey hair fell over her head, but she did not look like an older lady, but young, almost timeless. Two almost completely white eyes looked down at him lovingly, and she gently took the bell from his hand. ‘You are Galdor. Son of Herl and Ganza. Father of Gorm, Uta and Kalam. I greet you.’

Galdor was still gasping for air, partly from his sprint, partly from the shock. ’You... I greet you... we need help. Arabara said you could.’

The woman kept her gaze fixed on him, completely ignoring the battlefield. ‘Your father Herl died from a rusty spear, a bandit attack with fatal consequences. Your mother Ganza died of Death-envy, a disease that mainly affects healers. Do you want to die here, Galdor? Or rather, do you want to die like them?’

Bewildered, the dwarf kept looking back at the battlefield, the screams slowly growing louder. ‘No, no, of course not. But we'll die, we'll all die here if no one does something, we...’

Finally, the woman looked at the war. ’You're right. The battle will rage until no one can hold a weapon anymore. That's what both sides want, that's what they want. Is it wrong to take that away from them?’

Galdor looked at her in disbelief. ‘My men and women are down there, dying of disease and lightning! Fuck what they want now, what they wish for now. They should live!’

The lady nodded weakly. ’After all, we are on the side of being, of Diersa. Very well. But there is one thing to consider if you ask for my help and my burden.’ A deathly cold stare pierced his body. ‘You don't talk about me, ever.’

With a few barefoot steps, she stepped to the edge of the hill and looked out over the battlefield, her eyes showing neither joy nor sorrow.

Suddenly, the outline of a horse formed beside her, shimmering brightly and mistily, pawing the ground with its hooves and laying its head in her hand.

‘Send them to him. Every enemy. Send them to Father.’ The woman struck the horse on its hindquarters and it galloped off with clattering hooves. It simply flitted through every soldier, unaffected by any weapon or body.

Hardly anyone on the battlefield reacted to the bizarre, spectral figure, except for two.

Keufador, second son of the Disease Iohelana, and Zitaar, daughter of the Lightning Taar, saw the animal, looked at each other in panic and disappeared on the spot, carried away by a strange spell.

The lady next to Galdor calmly raised her hand to her chest. ‘A bell toll for all those who dare to end this madness.’ She struck the air and a deep bell toll echoed across the battlefield. Galdor fell to the ground and covered his ears.

So did one side of the battle. The soldiers of Diersa were so surprised by the loud gong that some simply fell over.

Not so the other side, not so the soldiers of nothingness, of Defala. At the sound, they all stood still, then one by one they fell dead to the ground. Thousands of lives sent into the next existence by a single toll of a bell.

Immediately, silence fell over the field before them, the sound of steel and screaming ceased.

Galdor forced himself fearfully to his feet and looked down. At the sight of the countless dead, he could not help but begin to cry. ‘Just like that? They were blinded and fought for the wrong cause, but... just like that... I... I called you... I know who you are... I know... I should have known, I...’

The lady looked expressionlessly at the field, examining Arabara a little longer, then turned to Galdor. ‘You rang the bell. If Arabara wants me here, then show herself, Lady Ferl, firstborn daughter of Death, Fer. My powers are now exhausted, I must rest to regain control over death. Go down to your soldiers and feed them. And don't forget.’ Her gaze became threatening. ’We do not speak of Lady Ferl.’