The Mage's Grave: Mages of Martir Book #1 (27 page)

“Then I'll take full responsibility for whatever happens next,” said Durima. “Now shut up and help me figure out how to—”

The clicking of the Spider Goddess's fangs—which were far too close for comfort—made Durima look around Gujak. The Spider Goddess was now clinging to the wall behind them, so close that Durima could literally smell her horrible, unwashed body odor. The goddess smelled like a mixture between seawater and webbing, a scent that assaulted Durima's nose like a battering ram.

“She's here!” Gujak said. He looked at Durima with pure despair in his eyes. “We're dead for real!”

“You speak too early,” said the Spider Goddess, the anticipation in her voice so evident that Durima could practically see it. “You still have a few more seconds to live, after all.”

Even though it was probably useless at this point, Durima kept looking over Gujak's gauntlet. No matter how hard she looked, she didn't see anything to indicate exactly what the gauntlet did. As far as she could tell, it was nothing more than an unusually shiny metal glove, and nothing more.

It made Durima think, for a moment, that this whole mission was a hoax. That the Ghostly God had sent them here knowing they would be killed by the Spider Goddess. That Master had known that the gauntlet was powerless and so had sent her and Gujak here as the punishment for their earlier failure at North Academy.

That's exactly the sort of thing Master would do to us,
Durima thought as despair began to climb up her spine.
Send us on a 'mission,' only for that mission to turn out to be nothing more than our punishment for daring to fail.

She had no time to dwell on that depressing thought, however, because in the next instant the Spider Goddess launched herself off the wall directly toward them. There was no way to dodge, no way to avoid the Spider Goddess's attack.

Yet despite the despair that was gradually smothering her hope, Durima's instincts kicked in. She shoved Gujak's gauntlet in the direction in the Spider Goddess even as Gujak cried out in fear and terror. Durima did not expect this to do anything, but as they were going to die anyway, she saw no reason not to do it.

The Spider Goddess was unable to change her trajectory. Just as Durima wondered what it would feel like to be eaten alive by a goddess, the Spider Goddess collided with Gujak's outstretched gauntlet-covered hand, and stopped.

Literally. The Spider Goddess halted in midair like a giant was holding her. She went completely still and rigid, her twelve eyes unfocused and confused. Her smoky, sickening stench washed over Durima like a tidal wave, but the katabans was so taken aback by this sudden, unexpected turn of events that she didn't even notice it.

“What … is this?” said the Spider Goddess in a trembling tone Durima had never heard in a god's voice before. “Why … do I feel … like … like …”

The Spider Goddess gave off a huge, shuddering sigh. Her whole body shook like the earthquake from earlier. Her teeth began clicking madly and her eyes suddenly became refocused.

“No!” the Spider Goddess cried. “No! What is this? The pain … by the Powers, the pain …”

Before Durima's horrified eyes, the Spider Goddess's legs began disintegrating. Starting from the tips, the Spider Goddess's legs slowly dried up and turned into dust. The disintegrating effect slowly made its way up the Spider Goddess's legs to her body. It was like watching a crumbling stone statue, but far more terrifying because the Spider Goddess was sobbing.

“No,” said the Spider Goddess. “No … I can't … this isn't possible … please … let me live …”

Her begging and pleading did not appear to touch the disintegrating effect. If anything, it seemed to goad it, because the disintegrating effect sped up. In less than a minute, all eight of her legs were gone and her underbelly was halfway gone. Her behind went next, the dust falling to the webbing below like snow on a winter day.

Although the Spider Goddess's body was almost entirely gone, she managed to fix all twelve of her ugly eyes on Durima and Gujak. The hate and fear in them was completely unlike anything Durima had seen in the eyes of a deity before. Durima had been looked upon with contempt and disappointment by Master and other gods in the past, but the look in the Spider Goddess's twelve eyes—obvious despite their spidery appearance—was so far removed from what other gods had looked like that Durima was actually afraid.

“You … fools …” said the Spider Goddess, her voice little more than the echo of a whisper. “What … have … you …”

She did not get to finish her sentence because the disintegrating effect reached her head. In the next second, the last remains of the Spider Goddess fell onto the webbing below, leaving little evidence to show that she had been there at all.

Both Durima and Gujak stared with horror at the spot where the Spider Goddess had been. Neither of them moved or said a word. Durima even forgot to breathe for a moment. Her heartbeat quickened, which was the only sound she heard in the whole chamber.

Then, as automatically one of the automaton children of the Mechanical Goddess, Durima reached for Gujak's gauntlet. Gujak didn't protest or even seem to notice when she grabbed his arm and brought the gauntlet as close to her eyes as possible. She wanted to read what was written on the knuckles, to see now if she would get an explanation of what just happened.

Most of the text was still faded, and the poor lighting did not help, but there was one word on the middle knuckle that was as clear as possible. Durima was surprised she could read it, seeing as the gauntlet was clearly an ancient object, but read it she did.

The single, solitary word written on the middle knuckle in Divina, was this:

God-killer.

Chapter Seventeen

S
eeing Uron about to kill him, Darek realized that he had a lot of things that he still wanted to do in life. He wanted to graduate from North Academy and leave the school to see the wider world; wanted to become a more proficient mage; wanted to serve Lord Xocion with all of his heart, soul, and strength; and maybe even get married and have kids someday.

He would never get to do any of that now. Uron's strange black ball, apparently made from his own flesh, would undoubtedly end his life. He didn't know exactly how it would do that, but he doubted it would be painless.

The Magical Superior was still unable to help. At this point, Darek would have been glad even for the Ghostly God's help, but that deity was obviously out for the count, too. And Darek couldn't count on any of the students or teachers from the school to help; no one knew he was even awake, much less that he was in the graveyard, facing down an enemy no one had even known existed until now.

And Darek was still too weak to protect himself. His arms and legs felt like jelly, though they were getting better. Even if he was in his best shape and at full magical power, he doubted he would be able to defeat Uron. While he did not know Uron's full magical power—he couldn't sense it—he understood that Uron was so far above him in sheer power that he might as well be an annoying insect in Uron's ears than a real threat.

That realization alone sapped him of much of the strength that he had managed to recover, as little as it was. He simply watched as Uron's ball grew larger and larger. It even started to bubble, like boiling water in a pot.

Then Uron hurled the ball at him. It flew through the air straight and true, Uron's aim impeccable, directly toward Darek. The flying ball of death was coming at him at impossible-to-dodge speeds. Not that Darek had felt tempted to try.

Without warning, Darek felt a powerful magical spike nearby. He did not have time to look for the source of the spike, however, because the ball of death exploded in midair, sending black bits and pieces flying everywhere. Darek raised his arm to avoid getting the worst of it, but he couldn't help but stare at the spot in the air where the ball had been earlier.

“What?” said Uron in complete and utter disbelief. “How did it explode? Who did that?”

Uron looked toward the Magical Superior and the Ghostly God, but they were still unconscious and clearly in no position to do anything. An angry frown crossed Uron's lips as he looked around the misty graveyard for whoever had blown up his ball.

“Show yourself!” Uron shouted, his voice echoing eerily. “Or I will tear this entire school to pieces with my bare hands!”

Then a voice spoke from somewhere within the mist. “You sound angry, Uron. Why not take a moment to cool down and think rationally about the fact that you just tried to murder an innocent mortal in cold blood?”

This was followed by the sound of footsteps across the uneven stone path that snaked through the graveyard. It was hard to tell what direction they were coming from, especially with the odd magical spike that had completely messed up Darek's senses. It felt like a hundred gods had appeared in the graveyard all at once, but that did not make any sense to Darek until the source of the magical spike stepped out of the mist and into the general area.

Uron hissed when he saw the being, like he was still a snake. “So the God of Martir decides to show himself after all.”

Skimif, the being who had walked out of the mist, did not look bothered by the clear hostility in Uron's voice. He simply looked from the Magical Superior to the Ghostly God, and then looked at Darek.

“You all right, Darek?” said Skimif. “You weren't hurt, were you?”

Darek could not answer. He had never actually met Skimif in person before. Oh, he'd heard much about the God of Martir, of course, particularly from Mom, but actually seeing Skimif in the flesh was a completely different experience from merely hearing about him.

It took Darek a moment to realize that Skimif was the source of that hundred god magical spike he had felt earlier. Again, he had known that Skimif was the strongest being in all of Martir, but feeling Skimif's energy levels personally was like seeing a Great Berg blizzard for the first time.

He's generating so much power,
Darek thought.
How does he handle all of that? Anyone else wouldn't even be able to stand with that kind of power flowing through them. He truly is the God of Martir.

“He's too shocked to speak,” said Uron. “Or maybe he's so dumb that he forgot
how
to speak. These mortals haven't shown themselves to be the brightest bunch.”

Skimif shook his head. “You must have a very low opinion of mortals, Uron, because I know several whose intellect, creativity, and wit are a match for that of any god or goddess.”

“And you assume I think the gods are much smarter,” said Uron. “In truth, they are quite easy to manipulate. But it doesn't matter how intelligent mortals or gods are. How did you know I was going to be here?”

Skimif folded his muscular arms over his chest. “You haven't done a very good job of covering your tracks over the years, Uron. I've been paying attention to your presence as your power grew over the last three decades. I knew it was only a matter of time before you decided to show yourself.”

“The Ghostly God told you he was not going to do anything wrong ever again,” said Uron with a scowl. “Why did you not believe him? I pegged you as a naïve, trusting fool who always looks for the 'best' in even the worst people.”

“I do look for the best in others,” said Skimif, nodding. “But I am also realistic enough to know that some people are more prone to lying than others. I was aware that the Ghostly God had been lying when I confronted him on the issue, but I also knew better than to push the subject when he clearly had no respect for me or my authority.”

“I understand most gods have no respect for you or your authority,” said Uron. “Some leader you turned out to be.”

Skimif held out his hand. A gold scepter with a ruby topping it appeared in his hand, looking as dangerous as a sword. He swept the scepter before him like an ax.

“The point is, I knew that the Ghostly God would try to get to the school's graveyard again,” said Skimif. “And I allowed him to do so because I didn't want him to know I was watching him. I originally intended to step in at the last possible moment and stop him before he could open the casket, but something came up and I was briefly unable to act.”

Darek wondered what had came up that had left Skimif, of all gods, unable to intervene. There wasn't someone else like Uron running around Martir, too, was there?

Skimif looked very tired, even slightly stricken, which might have been a clue as to what had distracted him. Whatever it had been, it must have been serious if it was bad enough to shake the God of Martir himself.

“Luckily, I recovered just in time to save Darek,” said Skimif. Then he glanced at the unconscious Ghostly God. “I think I will need to have a long talk with the Ghostly God once this is all over.”

Uron cracked his neck again. “You're assuming that you will live long enough to have that talk with him. Considering how I intend to destroy everything in this world—including you—I think that that is not a safe assumption to make.”

“You're the one making unsafe assumptions around here,” said Skimif. “You're assuming that you will defeat me. You have no proof that that is even possible.”

“The proof is in my power level,” said Uron. He gestured at his body. “The power I wield is equal to yours in every way. I may not have authority over the gods, but that does not diminish my own abilities in any way, shape, or form. It just means I do not have to worry about fools who refuse to respect my authority for no good reason.”

“That's another unsafe assumption you just made there,” said Skimif. “You're assuming that
all
of the gods disrespect my authority. You couldn't be any wronger about that.”

It was then that several more magical spikes—each appearing one after the other, almost too fast for Darek to keep track of—erupted inside the graveyard. With each magical spike, Darek's senses were assaulted by all of the magic that was pouring in. It wasn't quite as much energy as Skimif's, but so much at once really took a toll on Darek's senses, forcing him to try to ignore the majority of it in order to avoid overloading his senses.