HE PLANET Vitos——a remote paradise of high mountains crowned with deep emerald green, endless fields of wildflowers, clear azure skies, and radiant amber light. Lakes and rivers were the only waters that interrupted the uniformity of Vitos’ verdant surface. Men had come to this place from far-off worlds on star-sailing vessels, heeding the call of their god Anau, who lay dormant in a giant crater. His golden bones still coursed with strength and whispered the god’s great promise: His power would be made full by the blood of his faithful ones——the king-of-the-gods would reclaim his throne and bring an age of unseen glory to the universe once more.

They who could hear and discern the silent dreams of their king entombed him in a grand mausoleum upon which they built their grand cathedral and its sprawling capital, Atris. 

These men became the first hierarchs, and for generations passed divinations down to loyal warriors, calling themselves the Order of the Holy Rite. The finest of these warriors was called Guril the Spear——a tall, broad man, roughly middle aged with short, dark brown hair and intense grey eyes. He was taken as a child and made an acolyte, forced to undergo procedures which altered his body and mind. He learned every prayer and holy writ, every martial art devised by the Rite’s masters. And as a trophy he was given blood red armor, etched with prayers and gilded in heavenly gold and draped with the cloak of their most esteemed.

Now the ‘Spear’ appeared in the court of the archpriest in full regalia, awaiting his new orders. It had only been two days since his last——surveying the Eastern Reaches where he single-handedly slew ten men.

Rays of morning light washed the crimson carpet of the lavishly decorated high court room in a multitude of colors. Stained glass depicting hundreds of years of terrestrial conquest on Vitos diffused the sun’s golden beams. Marbled columns stood rigid, holding aloft a ceiling laden with gilded frescos of nude warriors slaying devils meant to represent the apostate.

On an ornate throne of pure white gold sat Amarys, archpriest of the Order of Holy Rite, who addressed his most elite warrior. The hierarch spoke with absolute authority——his command was like a charge from Anau.

“Your mission is to find Erebal the Artificer. He is accused of the crime of treason against our order. Go alone to Doronin, our settlement in the mountains. He will be in the custody of our magistrate. Bring him here, where he will sit before the council. But if he should resist you, slay him.”

“As you will, master,” said the Spear. “It will be done.”

Guril the Spear’s baritone voice echoed through the hall of the cathedral. He was a stoic man nearing thirty. Years of hard training had carved lines into his face befitting one older. Deep set grey eyes peered out from under a heavy, permanently furrowed brow.

The mighty theocracy to which he belonged had held power over the planet Vitos for three hundred years, a rule unchallenged by any force outside their world. No army in the universe dared encroach upon them——they were far outside the jurisdiction of any empire or republic, and their holy warriors’ strict adherence to their faith and the Rite’s militarism secured their victories. Stories were told of their ferocity, their prowess with weapons and warships alike. The only ones allowed on Vitos were the bravest of merchants, whose ships could undertake the long journey to such a remote place without harassment from star pirates.

The Rite was seemingly content to trample only upon Vitos, but conquest of a single valley remained. When they had claimed its treasure——a fabled weapon said to kill even gods——the worlds beyond Vitos would undoubtedly be their next conquest.

The Divine Valley, their final conquest, was a place guarded by the Yomus clan, warriors said to be trained by the gods themselves. They were a sect created to safeguard the sanctum at the heart of the valley, and had long been at war with the Order of the Holy Rite.

For untold centuries they lived in peace until the order had come seeking the power of that place. At one time they had been outside the valley, carving a city on the high walls of a misty pass into the sanctuary. Gray slate rose high above the verdant trees below——its striking angular carvings were weathered by intense rains which battered the highlands year after year.

Years of battle pushed them further within their hollow, forcing them to live like prey. It would only be a matter of time until they were in full submission.

It was unknown exactly what the nature of the treasured weapon of this valley was, but ancient sources had the Rite believe that whatever it was could give their fiefdom power to conquer the stars. This had long been the goal of the Holy Ones, as many other worlds existed, though they were apostates who had abandoned the true king of the gods and must be brought into submission.

“Anau be with you, mighty Spear,” said Amarys.

Guril bowed to his lord and departed. 

It would be a two day ride to reach Erebal’s dwelling at the foot of the Divine Valley’s mountains.

The Spear galloped through the bustling streets of the gilded capitol astride Ota, his Cepternii mount. 

These Cepternii were long-legged reptilian hounds who had made fine allies to the fighting men of the Rite for generations. 

The Spear weaved between the crowds of commoners going about their daily tasks, low hums of levitating vehicles filled the air as they swerved to make way for Guril. Young women blushed and waved at the warrior as he rode past, and servant men saluted him to show their loyalty, hoping to gain favor through some acknowledgement.

Guril reached the city outskirts quickly, saluting the guardsmen who returned the gesture, letting him pass.

Ota’s iridescent sapphire scales glinted in the noonday sun as his thick legs propelled them across hills blanketed with yarrow. Each leap by the beast left the earth gouged in its wake. Guril’s beast was special, for the Rite only awarded Cepternii hatchlings to their most esteemed. It was an animal which chose its rider via psychic connection, and these powerful pack hunters only ever chose those with the strongest wills.

As the sun sank beneath the mountainous horizon, Guril and Ota drew near a dense forest sprawling out in the shadow of the colossal mountains, still many miles off.

The forest lay below them as they paused upon the edge of a cliffside, used by many to rest before descending into the wood. Rays of sun shone from behind the immense peaks like a celestial crown. The horizon turned a deep orange as the chill of the night air kissed Guril’s stoic visage.

HE WARRIOR made camp as the gargantuan moon, Ferius, appeared in the darkening sky as a sliver. The scent of smoke was heavy in the air as Guril gazed at the stars above, the distant planets shimmering most brilliantly of them all.

Finishing his prayer, he dreamed of the great empire that the Holy Rite would soon raise up.

The vale’s great peaks loomed on the horizon like black titans, blotting out the starlight behind them as they watched over their lands. Guril could not help but feel small in their wake——the awe of such majesty humbled even the mighty Spear of the Rite.

How I wish I could live to see that day, he thought, to see our master returned, and share in the heavenly bounty afforded us faithful——our dead returned to us, and our lives made eternal.

Guril was perhaps the most devoted servant of the Rite outside the high priests themselves. If he had not been selected for his overwhelming martial prowess, he would surely have taken the oath of the divines. No other soldier in the service knew the Recitations as clearly as he. None had gained such favor with the Archpriest since the Rite’s inception, when the first settlers of this world landed and flew their banner proudly as they received their fateful charge from the living corpse of the Anau.

Soon his eyes grew heavy, and Guril slept. Tomorrow he would retrieve Erebal, and the artificer would answer to the council for his treachery.

The champion’s sleep was interrupted by a deafening sound all around him. He opened his eyes to behold nothing but blinding white light. Guril let out a frightened yelp as he shielded his ears and attempted to shut his eyes to escape the madness.

“Your mind will adjust in time, warrior.”

The voice was crystal as it sliced through the wall of loud droning.

“What is this?” Guril managed to choke out in a pained whisper.

“I’ve brought you here-” The voice began but was cut off by the sudden ceasing of the ear-splitting sound and the dissipation of the bright light.

Everything was dark and quiet. Guril stood still, or was he still laying down? He could not tell.

Once again he opened his eyes.

A glowing blue sphere materialized beneath and above him at once. The shape was all around him. Likewise many other objects, or entities, stretching out for infinity. He felt eyes watching him everywhere, saw them all around him, as innumerable as the nameless shapes which stretched on for all time.

He knew this was the center of all things, and he had been taken there——allowed to see. He felt nothing, needed nothing, and wanted for nothing. No body to ache, no tongue to taste or eyes to see, yet he knew of these things. Guril simply perceived.

“We brought you here to show you from where we see. How we know what we know.”

Guril’s thoughts simply echoed out.

“God Anau?”

The word seemed to draw out for a lifetime, or ten, losing all meaning in the space between.

His query grew louder and louder over the eons, reaching a crescendo before terminating with the reply.

“No.”

Fear gripped Guril, his spirit overcome with it as he feared the wrath of the nebulous pagan lords with which he communed.

“Name yourself!” he cried. “Release me!”

“I am called Gen,” the voice said. The name rang out with a feminine tone as a radiant woman appeared before him in flowing robes, red as wine. Her face was pale and shone like the moon, but her eyes were jet-black and peered at him with the intensity of a beast, a killer.

She approached him, her bare feet flashing beneath her robe, clawed toes scraping on invisible stone. As Gen drew close the power of her aura overcame Guril. He fell to the floor that rose to meet him from nothingness. He could not look at Gen directly——her power was beyond his reckoning.

“What are you, god or demon?” His body was racked with nausea.

“Neither. I am the spirit of this vessel——the will of my creator made flesh. You lay here as my captive to hear what I have to say.” 

She paused, kneeling beside Guril, touching him with a clawed hand. He gasped as her power ran through his body, filling him with terrible visions of destruction.

“You see the decimation of our existence, brought on by Agannat. Me and my brothers were created to defend against it, and against those who would perpetuate its goals. Agannat is soon to wake, and his progenitor lies here under the watch of your hierarchs."

“Lord Anau…”

“Correct. The lord you serve worked many terrors in his time, but none so terrible as the coming of Agannat. Go and meet your mark, Erebal, and he will lead you to the valley. He knows where my body sleeps.”

Guril tried to ask more of her, but he slipped into a deep slumber and did not wake until the morning, gently nuzzled by Ota’s warm snout. The Cepternii’s concerned eyes relaxed as his master patted his thick neck.

S HE rode along the wooded path to Doronin, Guril wrestled with the implications of his strange vision. Certainly the word of the archpriest or even Anau were infallible. He hoped with all his might they were. 

The rustling of leaves and calls of distant birds reminded him of the days when he was sent out to the woods, training with other boys his age. For months they lived on nothing but what was foraged, and hunted one another at the behest of their masters. In the end, Guril was the only boy left standing.

The warrior wondered if such training had been necessary. After all, why waste so many potential warriors? Why would he have been forced to kill his own classmates? Once he had dared to ask after these things, and was whipped within an inch of his life for blasphemy. He had been allowed to live because of his skill and otherwise perfect belief.

After this he never questioned the hierarchs again.

Eventually the canopy began to thin, and rolling foothills entered the warrior’s view. The smell of the air changed from sweet to foul as Guril emerged at the site of a battle long ago won.

The sparse trees were burned to withered husks. Ash coated the ground, refusing to yield any vegetation. Remnants of armor and weapons lay scattered with countless bones all around him. 

The place was now said to be cursed. War had seared away any magic that had lived there——no rustling of animals or of wind through the leaves. All beasts departed that place long ago when the flaming cannons of the Rite scorched the earth. All that remained were the worms. Large, blue, eyeless, gnawing things that bit at men in their sleep, and befouled the air with their breath. 

Guril noted their snaking mounds as he passed and pulled out his sidearm——the Marak-Tzon pistol, a state-of-the-art directed-energy weapon. Guril fired shots at them from Ota’s back. The firearm emitted a white beam and hit something——he heard the familiar searing pop of its energy striking living tissue.

The familiar scent of singed flesh followed.

To those uninitiated to the ways of war it would seem most foul, but to Guril it brought pleasant memories of his victories. As a younger man, he had been given a weapon and set upon some traitorous slaves accused of apostasy. It was a test of fortitude and loyalty, which he passed, executing the wretches quickly. His training had been extensive and filled with brutal acts. The slightest misstep or hesitation was met with corporal punishment.

At any moment he could have chosen death over the torment of the Holy Rite’s training regimen, but Guril was resolute. He was born to see the vision of Anau through, for he knew that Amarys trusted him above all other soldiers.

As the sun was nearer to setting, Guril passed through the threshold of Doronin and dismounted. Leading Ota towards the nearest stable, he called out for an attendant but received no answer.

“Strange.”

He led Ota through rows of empty stalls and ushered his mount into one near the exit before shutting the gate and reaching through the metal bars to give the beast’s snout a pat.

HE SPEAR made his way through the settlement, which unlike Atris was entirely utilitarian in its construction. The stone walls which surrounded painfully plain, every building was squat and unadorned save for carvings of prayers to ward off evil. There were none of the sleek vehicles or exotic animals one would see among the streets of Atris, only dirt roads and battle-worn transport engines. The settlers could have easily moved into the conquered stone-carved city of the Yomus, but refused. They claimed to detest “heathen architecture.”

Guril looked about, continuing to call and look for the settlers, but found none. He approached the main hall, a flat-topped stone-sided octagon that looked every bit like a prison with unbarred windows. A great steel door engraved with prayers was its only entrance. He was accustomed to the ornate structures of the capital city, but the architecture here was not strictly crafted for worship of Anau, but to resist the harassment the Yomus inflicted upon their invaders.

Perhaps the Yomus had attacked? 

He drew the Marak-Tzon.

Impossible. He would have crossed paths with evacuees. Moreover, there would be signs of combat, of which there were none.

The disappearance of the settlers troubled him. Only certain groups were allowed to form hunting parties——most were mandated to labor inside the walls. If Guril wanted to find Erebal, he would have to act quickly. It was possible that the Yomus had already granted him refuge and captured, or killed, the settlers. If this was the case, he would need much more firepower.

Guril pressed his hand into the large metal door of the main hall. Runes lighted on its surface. The thick door hissed as the magical locks released——a powerful enchantment, though rudimentary compared to the technological wonders bestowed on Atris. 

As he was about to enter, Guril heard a man’s voice yell from behind.

“Hold!”

As soon as the voice hit his ears Guril ripped his pistol from its holster, turned on his heel, and fired a bolt at the stranger——its energy crackled and emitted a thunderous bang when it connected with the outstretched hand of Erebal.

Guril’s eyes widened as the fugitive artificer held the white-hot plasma in his palm, its fierce glow shining through his fingers.

Erebal clenched his fist and hurled the energy blast skyward in a shower of sparks that rained down around them and hissed on the wet ground.

“What kind of Yomus witchcraft is that?” asked Guril. He kept his weapon raised. An uncommon feeling gripped him——fear.

REBAL, a young Medane with deep purple skin and wild red eyes, looked at his would-be captor with a smirk. His race were distant cousins of humanity——folk wise to the ways of the forests and mystic arts. Very few of their kind had been seen in this world.

“It’s of my own design,” said Erebal. “I had a feeling they’d send a sure-shot like you.”

“You’re not what I expected, I thought you’d be—”

“Older, weaker, human, not gifted in the ways of sorcery? They don’t tell their top hounds these things? I thought the Rite prided itself on intelligence.”

Erebal laughed as Guril’s face briefly betrayed his surprise.

“So, they didn’t tell me you were a wizard. Anything else I should know?”

“It is clear to me, Guril, that your Archpriest wants you dead. He knew better than to send you alone. He knows the skills I possess. I was to be his court sorcerer, chief enchanter, and understudy to the head of the academy when my training was finished.”

Guril dared not point his weapon at Erebal, though he kept his finger on the trigger. How did the man already know his name?

“Why did you betray us?”

“Simple,” said Erebal, “I had been given a vision, the same as you. We are to work together, you and I, to preserve the lives of trillions.”

“Speak no more of this treachery, wildling! If you have any honor you will abandon these blasphemous visions and return to Amarys.”

Erebal scoffed. “There is no honor in serving the old king. He lives only by taking what is not his. If your order only knew the atrocities he has—”

“Enough!”

Guril began firing at Erebal, hoping to overwhelm the young magician. The cracks of the pistol fire rang out a total of ten times before the weapon's internal battery died.

Click.

Guril clenched his teeth in rage as all ten of his projectiles halted mid-air, inches from Erebal, who stared on with indifference, arms folded behind his back.

“Damn you, damn your eyes!” said Guril.

The holy warrior flung his weapon on the ground, throwing his arms up in a gesture of submission.

“Kill me, then! You say Amarys wants me dead——so be it! I live and die for the Holy Rite!”

“False, Lord Guril,” said Erebal. “You live for no beckon of false kings.”

Just then a group of elite soldiers appeared from within the abandoned buildings, carrying heavy artillery. Guril could see their faces, men he had commanded, brandishing weapons against him.

“Guril the Spear!” one soldier began, his face forming a cruel half smile. “Lord Anau has told us of your betrayal and your doubt. For these crimes you and Erebal will die.”

The moment the last words fell from the man’s lips his warriors opened fire on the artificer and warrior.

The weapons flashed with power as a rain of white hot energy incinerated the area where they stood, yet unharmed.

The soldiers continued the barrage until the weapons refused to fire any longer, staring in disbelief as Erebal stood abreast of Guril, facing them all, hands outstretched.

Any projectiles which might have struck their mark stood suspended in the air. With a flick of the wrist, the rogue Medane flung the plasma back at the attackers, each bolt with impeccable accuracy killing instantly the one who had fired it.

The wizard turned again to the Spear, and beside them appeared Gen.

“Behold,” said Gen. “My body. The Dreadnought. Built to ward off a great coming darkness, one of seven more. Join us, and let us put an end to the Rite’s transgressions, and the evils of their master Anau. The false king’s demise is inevitable, and all who cling to his bones shall perish.”

S THEY spoke, Guril saw an immense black diamond blot out the stars which dotted the space all around him. He was instantly drawn within and gasped as he saw this great shape encompassing his entire world. Then the Spear was shown a vision of his world consumed to fuel the might of the dreadnought, whose ten thousand guns shattered the mightiest star, and turned the largest worlds to dust. He glimpsed the horrors which Anau had wrought upon mankind in the days of old, and his defeat at the hands of the god of wrath.

Then Guril’s eyes were opened and he knelt at the feet of Gen.

“What must I do?”

She lifted him up by his hands.

“Kneel not for me, child. We fight together.”