When Gods Were Human—Part Five (Patreon)

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          Genathor knew he only had a short amount of time to get his bearings and cast the Astral Projection spell before the Watchtower would kill all the “donors” he had hooked up to it. He looked around, using his city as his eyes.

          Tel’Andrid was sitting in some kind of basket or pocket. It was hard to tell which. All Genathor could see was a bit of sky and darkness all around with pinpoints of light poking through. There was plenty of sound though. He heard a series explosions in the distance, then from close by Belorian himself said, “Deploy one legion of flight infantry to reinforce the Western flank.” His voice was clinical and unconcerned. Based on what he said, it seemed like some kind of large scale battle was already underway.

          There wasn’t any time to lose if he wanted to take advantage of the distraction this battle would cause. Genathor focused the whole of his will on the signal coming through the Watchtower. He didn’t hold back, putting every bit of his power into an Astral Projection spell centered on the Watchtower. His soul plunged into the flames.

          There was a slightly different sensation than last time. Genathor felt as though he was being watched while his body was being torn apart this time. He nearly lost his concentration as his soul was pulled apart and put back together. All the time that feeling of being watched was pervasive. He reasoned it must be some side effect of the consciousness’s of the wizards he was using to power his spell. But then something happened to convince him that his assumption might be wrong. While his soul was in between realms a voice called out to him.

          Stop. Don’t interfere.

          Was that Elder Jaelyn? He couldn’t be sure as he’d never talked to the eldrin wizard mind to mind before. Who else knew he was in transit?

          Fuck you, Genathor thought back to the voice. If you could stop me you wouldn’t be asking. A strong feeling of surprise passed from the foreign entity to himself and then the moment passed. His soul was Outside.

          Before his senses could even come into focus he called out through the connection to his physical body. “Shut down the Watchtower and take over for me, Andrea.” He couldn’t hear her response, but he had to trust that she would take care of things on her end. Within moments the distant burning sensation filtering through his body’s connection subsided. He had to assume that meant the Watchtower had gone offline, so he surrendered control of his Astral Projection spell.

          “I think I got it,” Andrea’s voice echoed down the line into Genathor’s mind. Her voice sounded soft like a caelyn’s and echoed strangely, but he could understand it well enough. That was a good sign. As for his body, all sensation of it disappeared from his awareness. Andrea was in control. One less distraction to worry about. Time to focus on his mission.

          Genathor floated his astral form out of the bag Tel’Andrid was stashed in and looked around.

          Belorian sat upon a throne, but not in his usual throne room. He was sat upon the top of a hill looking down upon a massive battlefield. Genathor could see rows upon endless rows of soldiers in black armor carrying spears and large shields. They were lined up in neat rows that extended as far as he could see in both directions nearly two dozen men deep. These men were holding defensive positions along the hill. Across the way and down the valley before them the rebel army hid between the trunks of massive trees wider than carriages. At the tree line the rebels had opened hundreds of Hell rifts which were unleashing thousands of demons at a constant rate.

          A myriad of demons crashed against the shield wall of Belorian’s human army. There were more demons represented than Genathor even knew existed: spine covered hounds, spider-like creatures, slithering tentacled worms, little flying imps and even demons that seemed to be made entirely of smoke. The skies above were heavy with more of the imps which were struggling for air superiority with more of Belorian’s soldiers. Some of his soldiers could apparently fly with the assistance of magic and held loose formations in the air above the main forces to prevent them from being entirely overwhelmed by imps. The imps came in a wide variety of sizes. Genathor could see many that were only the size of small birds but there was at least one with a crown of bones on its head that was the size of an oxcart.

          It was too much to take it all in. Never in his life had Genathor seen so many living creatures in one place. If he kept gawking at his surroundings any longer the battle would be over soon. He had to find that green-skinned dryad with the vines for hair. Sylnya she had been called. Wherever she was, so was that ring.

          As it turned out, finding one person on a battlefield of hundreds of thousands wasn’t easy no matter how much they might normally stand out. But then, Genathor didn’t need to find Belorian’s general himself. Belorian was right before him, already in communication with her in one way or another. As a disembodied spirit it shouldn’t be that hard to follow a magical connection like that back to its source.

          Genathor floated over to where Belorian sat upon his throne and examined him more closely. There was an outside possibility that Belorian might detect him the way he nearly had last time, but Genathor was willing to bet Belorian had more important things to focus on at the moment.

          The God-King was seated on a dais at the top of a hill overlooking the valley where the battle was taking place. The resistance fighters were among the massive trees of the Trenal valley. They were using the trunks as cover while the humans fighting for Belorian rained spells down on them from the hills above. Belorian’s eyes were glowing bright with magic as he watched the battle play out and he was wearing the same silver-and-black outfit he’d worn to the slaughter in Tel’Andrid earlier that morning.

          Belorian didn’t notice Genathor’s approach. His gaze was unfocused, as though he were barely aware of his current surroundings. He didn’t have the focus to concern himself with the thin wisp of an astral projection Genathor manifested as. “Have the ranged support cast Fireball on my mark,” Belorian said as though talking to himself. Genathor knew better. He was giving orders to his troops down below. “Mark,” Belorian said. A moment later there was another massive explosion from far away. Genathor saw the flash in his peripheral and turned in time to see the remains of a force of bipedal hound-like demons that had been charging the flank of one of Belorian’s legions scatter and flee. Even blood-thirsty demons retreated before Belorian’s human forces.

          Being in an astral form gave Genathor expanded senses, but he still couldn’t see magic the way non-human races could. The only thing extra he could see was the glow of peoples’ souls. That wasn’t what he needed right now. What he needed to be able to do was track the magical residue of the spells Belorian was using to communicate with his troops. It stood to reason that his trusted dryad general would be one of those he was in communication with. If the Watchtower were active it would be a relatively simple matter to turn on a mana filter and track the spells.

          “Andrea, can you hear me?” Genathor asked.

          “It’s hard not to with me acting as the in between for your body,” Andrea’s voice echoed back.

          “And can you see what I’m seeing too?” he asked. “I need to track the spell Belorian is using to communicate with his troops. To find the dryad with that ring.”

          “Good idea,” Andrea replied. “Let’s see… oh wow, he’s really good at that. There are over a dozen connections coming out of him.”

          “And can you tell which one leads to a dryad?”

          “They all look the same to—wait a second. I found one that looks different. Get a closer look at that ring on his finger.”

          Genathor did as he was bid. Between the joints of the black armored gauntlets Belorian was wearing was a ring. A simple band of silver. Just like the one his general Sylnya had been wearing. A matching set? It only made sense. How else was the Ring of True Love supposed to know who to make the wearer direct their love towards?

          “Yeah, that one is totally different. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

          “Spare me the details,” Genathor replied. “Just tell me where it leads.”

          “Turn towards the battlefield.” Genathor turned. He took in the hordes of demons clashing into unyielding lines of armored soldiers, the endless rows of Hell rifts constantly reinforcing the rebels’ front lines, the swarms of winged demons clashing with Belorian’s flying infantry, and the near constant barrage of spells being unleashed. It seemed that not only were Belorian’s forces the only ones casting spells, but that they were limited to only a few specific spells: fire, lightning, and the occasional tossed boulder. Belorian was keeping the good magic for himself.

          After a moment Andrea’s voice echoed into Genathor’s mind once more. “I can see the source of it now,” she said.

          “Great, where?”

          “Over there,” Andrea said simply.

          “Where? I can’t see if you’re pointing to something. Try to be more specific. It’s a massive battlefield.” Genathor tried not to let any of his frustration into his voice, or… thoughts? Could she feel how annoyed he was at her? He tried to limit his projection to words and hoped that would be enough. But, in doing so he realized something: he and Andrea were connected soul-to-soul. There was no reason they needed to communicate with words. Genathor sent these thoughts to Andrea along with a query for the location she was trying to point him towards.

          There was a small burst of confusion from Andrea’s end, then understanding. A moment later he knew exactly where to go. He just understood it. On his left, three legions down, the front line. He began to float in that direction.

          The location Genathor floated towards was holding strong and had just put down a small force of demons that had charged their line. The field before them was empty, but they didn’t take the initiative and instead held in place waiting for the next wave to hit them. Across the field a dozen or more Hell rifts were kept open by rebel blood mages. It also looked like a colossally large demon composed of a mass of slimy black tentacles was trying to force its way through a rift as well. That was actually one of the few kinds of demons Genathor had much knowledge about. They were called Brood Mothers and were capable of birthing a myriad of lesser demons in addition to being incredibly powerful themselves.

          Holding back and allowing the enemy to summon a Brood Mother seemed like a bad move tactically, but Genathor certainly wasn’t going to complain if Belorian’s forces were making mistakes.

          When Genathor reached the front line he looked around frantically for any signs of the dryad he was looking for. She wasn’t hard to find. He floated over to her and tried to spot the ring she would be wearing.

          “Hold,” the dryad commanded her forces. A new wave of hound-like demons covered in spines was charging into their ranks. As he watched, the dryad made a few quick hand gestures. A wave of thorny brambles emerged from the ground and entangled the demons just before they could reach the front line. A follow-up gesture with a twisting motion squeezed the vines into dry dead plant matter. “Loose!” the dryad shouted at her soldiers.

          The imperious wall of black shields parted for a moment. The second line stepped forward, shot their hands out, and shouted, “Ignis et actus!” all in unison. Flames shot out from the human soldiers’ hands and engulfed the demons in a blanket of fire. This general was controlling her troops with deadly precision.

          The demons were held securely in place by the brambles, which then added fuel to the fire. They shuddered and shrieked as they died. Not a single human soldier was so much as injured. “Refuel!” the general commanded next.

          While the soldiers pulled out glowing white mana potions Genathor made his move against the dryad general. He jumped on her with his astral form and tried to grab at the ring. She didn’t even notice. She pulled out her weapon to address some other threat as he collided with her.

          For a brief moment Genathor felt a rush of intense love overtake him, but he was immediately snapped out of it by some kind of sharp pain. Genathor flinched backwards, trying to figure out what had just happened. Despite being in an astral form that shouldn’t be capable of feeling pain he felt like he had just been stabbed. He looked around and saw that the dryad was holding a dagger of some kind that seemed to pull in all the light that touched it. That had been what had cut him. That dagger… it had cut Genathor’s soul.

          “Andrea, are you seeing this?” Genathor asked.

          “Yes, don’t touch that again,” Andrea’s voice echoed back. “It’s enchanted with lunamancy. It can cut anything: a body, a spell, even a soul.”

          “I was under the impression that lunamancy enchants weren’t possible because they—”

          “Don’t look at me,” Andrea said. “Belorian is an evil god with a thing for lunamancy. Clearly he figured something out. Did you notice the low-grade lunamancy enchantments on his soldiers’ armor?”

          “I did not,” Genathor said. He tried to figure out where he’d been wounded, but without a proper body it was impossible to say. “And Belorian is not a god. I don’t care about that damn dagger. I just need to get my hands on that ring.”

          There was a flash of red light and one of the soldiers on the front line nearest the dryad general fell down dead. Genathor looked over; something had punched right through the soldier’s armor and killed him instantly. His eyes were blacked pits. The dryad seemed to be even more surprised than Genathor was.

          “Did you just say their armor had lunamancy enchantments on them?” Genathor asked Andrea.

          “I did,” she confirmed. “Lunamancy is more effective against harmonic magic. Whatever that just was, it wasn’t magic.”

          It had certainly looked like magic. Another shot hit a soldier on the dryad’s other side and he went down without even a final scream of pain. The shots burned like fire and killed instantly. That two soldiers very close to this general had just gone down couldn’t have been a coincidence. Someone was aiming for her.

          “Hold fast! I’ll take care of this!” the dryad shouted to her men. She briefly leaned down and planted a sprout at her feet, then darted forward and charged the enemy line singlehandedly. As she charged she weaved her path back and forth so as not to be an easy target.

          “Crap,” Genathor cursed to himself. “I still need that ring of hers.” He floated after her, hoping one of the fiery arrows that had taken out her men would strike her down on the way so that he would have an easier time recovering it. He made sure not to get too close to the action while potentially soul-killing arrows were flying through the air. No sense getting killed before he’d even started.

          A pack of demons rushed to meet the dryad, emerging from Hell rifts adjacent to the massive one the Brood Mother was attempting to squeeze through. A fiery bolt crashed into the ground beside her. It only just missed her. Genathor didn’t know what her plan was. It didn’t really seem like she had one. A single combatant would be overwhelmed and ripped apart by so many enemies. As a pack of four-legged demons rushed her she thrust her enchanted daggers out in front of her and dived right into the ground.

          “Shit! I lost track of her,” Genathor reported to Andrea. “She went underground.”

          He looked around while floating forwards in the direction she had been charging. The enemy blood mages were looking around for her as well, and from this close Genathor could see that one of them—an eldrin—was carrying a black bow with a burning red arrow. He had to be the archer in question. There were a few dozen non-humans around him. They looked like non-combatants, comprised mostly of women and the disabled, nothing like the soldiers Genathor might have expected to see. A few of them were collapsed on the ground at the eldrin archer’s feet.

          The dryad popped out of the ground behind the enemy line. In the same fluid motion she used to leap out of the dirt she performed a backflip and threw one of her enchanted daggers at the archer in a high arc. The move was showy, but her aim was also flawless. At the last possible second another eldrin threw herself in the dagger’s path. She fell down, dead instantly.

          “Protect Haedril!” The other non-humans shouted. They formed a protective line around the archer, presumably Haedril. Genathor recognized the name. Haedril had been named at Belorian’s meeting as the leader of the slave rebellion. This had to be the same guy.

          While the other non-humans protected him Haedril leaned down to the dead woman and chanted something. Bright eldrin blood flowed out of her body and into the bow he was carrying. It hissed and spat in protest at the magic taint in the blood, but it accepted it nonetheless. The flames of the bow’s arrow flared brighter.

          So that’s what you’re doing, Genathor thought to himself. Those too weak to fight were acting as fuel for blood magic. It was truly insane. Or perhaps truly desperate. Especially since mana-tainted blood was so ineffective at powering blood magic. But what choice did they have? Belorian had stolen all the secrets of magic for himself. Blood magic was all they had to work with. Genathor shuddered to think of what the rebels must have offered the demon princes in exchange for their support.

          Everything, he thought to himself immediately, whatever it took. He’d probably do the same to protect Tel’Andrid.

          The dryad rushed into the wall of Haedril’s meager defenders. They offered no resistance and her blades cut them down so easily they barely even slowed her down. Haedril unleashed another bolt at close range. The dryad saw the bolt coming and ducked under it impossibly fast.

          Haedril tried to line up another shot, but she was too quick. She got inside his guard and knocked the bow from his hands. In the next breath she had his arms pinned and a knife held up to his neck.

          “My love, I have their leader!” the dryad said aloud. It sounded like she was communicating directly with Belorian, but Genathor didn’t have time to worry about how she was managing it.

          The non-humans that remained, the nearby blood mages, and even a score of nearby demons held back. None of them made a move to try and attack Sylnya. It made sense for Haedril’s forces to not want to risk his safety, but not the demons. Not unless Haedril was the one that held the blood pact for all of them.

          That was bad. If Belorian got his hands on the person who held the blood pact for this invading force he might very well be able to cut off the demons that were doing the bulk of the fighting. That would be far more than the symbolic victory of taking out a leader. It would be utter defeat.

          “Nobody move or he dies!” the dryad called Sylnya shouted at the assembled onlookers. “I’m a dryad. Even if you kill me I’ll grow again, but your precious leader won’t.”

          The non-human forces held back. Apparently they didn’t want to risk their leader dying. But nobody could see Genathor. He floated over to the dryad. She was finally holding still. He reached out and grabbed the hand wearing the Ring of True Love. This time she didn’t move.

          Love. Genathor could feel a boundless love. Belorian was his whole world. It was only now that Genathor finally realized what his true purpose in life was. To be by Belorian’s side. He needed to crush the God-King’s enemies and help remake the world in his image…

          Genathor shook himself back to his senses. What was he thinking? He was here to kill Belorian, not serve him. He just needed this ring’s power. He could feel a glimmer of the ring’s power from his brief touch but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough. If he wanted to pierce the veil he needed to go beyond regular emotional ranges. That was the key after all. A sanity break.

          “Sorry Andrea,” Genathor said, “you’ll just have to snap me out of it after.” He grabbed at the ring again and stopped trying to resist. Belorian was his reason for living. Belorian was love itself. Belorian was his everything. The world beat to the rhythm of Belorian’s heart. All of history had been leading up to this one point. Everything Genathor had endured, everything the planet had endured, it had happened for one purpose. To bring him and Belorian together. Genathor knew this in the deepest parts of his soul. This world was created for one purpose: so that Genathor could love Belorian. Nothing and no one could tear them apart.

          The air shattered with a sharp crack. Sylnya looked over at the crack in the world along with everyone else. “What is that?” she demanded. “I said nobody move!” The air rippled and bent as the cracks spread. Green light leaked out at the edges.

          “It’s not us,” one of the blood mages insisted. They began to back up in fear. The nearby demons shuddered and hissed at the crack. They too kept their distance.

          The constraints of reality could no longer contain Genathor’s love for Belorian.

          A crack like thunder exploded as the veil gave way. Power flowed into Genathor. Infinite power. He felt the rush of it. It threatened to drown him in an endless tide. No, he commanded it in his mind, you serve me.

          Visceramancy. The magic of flesh. The magic of love. Its boundless power rushed through Genathor. It was his to command. All of it. All visceramancy was his to command. All flesh.

          The spectral hand that was holding Sylnya’s came to life. New flesh grew from nothing and ripped the ring from her finger. Genathor grew for himself a new body: a younger body from back when he had been blond instead of grey. He put his ring on his new hand. It was his connection to his one true love.

          Those watching his body form looked on with stunned disbelief as a being of untold power that had shattered the sky itself manifested before them. Let them watch, Genathor thought to himself, let them see the power of my love remake the world in Belorian’s image. Sylnya collapsed on the ground in a heap, clutching at her now naked finger. Her face was frozen in a rictus of shock.

          Genathor looked around at the dead bodies around him. Many had fallen already in this battle. He could feel the loss of death. The loss of love. It displeased him. With a wave of his hand he restored the life of all those whose souls hadn’t yet moved on. He felt a glimmer of love from those assembled as the injured rose in perfect health.

          An eldrin with a missing arm and a limp hobbled closer and asked, “What are you?”

          “A god,” another murmured. Others took up the call. Soon many of those gathered on both sides of the war were shouting that a god had entered their midst.

          Genathor looked down at this man that had approached him. The man’s hideous form displeased him. Would he let Belorian see this ugliness? He restored the man’s body to perfect health. His arm regrew, his leg straightened, the scars that marred his chest melted away. With another tweak, Genathor fixed the asymmetry of the man’s face until it was perfect. “I am love,” Genathor told the man. It was true. Every fiber of his being pulsed with a love more intense than any he had felt before. The feeling was intoxicating. Why did he have to limit himself to loving only Belorian? Did not the once-broken man before him also demand love? Did not the very soil beneath his feet?

          A pop of displaced air sounded beside him. Belorian stepped down onto the ground in all his glory. He carried the scepter with Tel’Andrid mounted on the end. His face was twisted in anger. “Who dares defy me? Are you the one they call Haedril? Finally showing your face?”

          Genathor instantly remembered his purpose for being. It was not to love all, it was to serve Belorian. He dropped down to one knee. “Belorian, my love, how can I serve you?”

          The God-King narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “What trickery is this, Haedril? It is too late to save yourself. Only through death can you serve me.”

          Genathor kept his head bowed. “I am not the one you speak of, I am not Haedril. You must not recognize me in this form. I thought a younger body would please you. I am Genathor, and I wish only to serve you, my love.”

          Belorian’s eyes lit up. “Genathor! High Seer of Tel’Andrid? How wonderful it is to see you finally prostrated before me. I told you this day would come, did I not?”

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