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- Herausgeber: The Anwansi House
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
Sala is the god of the sun, the gentle Heir to the Ursha throne of iron and steel.
Khat and Seth are the Mawia Heirs, Moon and Sea to Sala's blazing Sun.
A truce has halted the ancient rivalries, but the tenacious peace is threatened when the Heirs discover a shocking secret.
And so it comes that the three must make a difficult choice.
For what is one life against the fate of many?
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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WE KILL THE TRAITOR GOD
FALLEN GODS
BOOK 0.5
MICHAEL NWANOLUE
CONTENTS
Verse 1
Chapter 1
Verse 2
Chapter 2
Verse 3
Chapter 3
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Michael Nwanolue
To the mortals and immortals of the Magicae Scholarium.
I’m more than a little in love with y’all.
Once upon a time, two pantheons went to war.
It did not end well.
1
The fires burning on the scones barely wavered as Jwahir-Malada, the Tyrant In White, Elder Ris of the Sky and King of the Ursha gods beat a servant half to death. An iron tray and the oranges that it once held lay scattered about the feet of the weeping girl; further victims of his wrath. The other servants hung back at the edges of the war chambers, fearful of attracting the Elder God’s attention. Something Sala thought was a wise choice. After all, immortality did not mean invulnerable. Malada stalked after the servant, great wings spread out and a chilling expression on his light brown face.
“You dare to challenge me?”
“I meant no ill, Your Majesty,” the girl replied, trembling. Black blood leaked from a gash on her blue skin. “I would never. It’s just… things are getting harder each day. The war—trade with the other tribes have dwindled and prices have skyrocketed.”
Sala closed his eyes and leaned back into his chair, wishing he could shut the Duru girl up. Couldn’t she see that she was making things worse?
“Is that a fact?” Malada asked, his voice dangerously low. “Things are getting harder. And I suppose it’s my fault?”
Yes.
“No, Your Majesty! We… we just want a small raise.”
“A raise,” he repeated. It was impressive, the amount of malice he managed to pack into that single word. “Do you know how many people, how many humans, would give their right arm to be in your position? To constantly be in my presence. To proudly serve the greatest of all the Ris. Out of all the Duru, I picked you up from the gutter. I feed you. I clothe you. I help you take care of your wretched family. I even keep you ageless. And now you ask for a raise?”
“Please Your Majesty…”
“Shards!” he thundered and the Elite of the White Army materialised at once, seven in all. They bent the knee and paused; their featureless helms turned upwards as they waited for a command. Sala had to suppress a shudder. A tingling chill always travelled up his spine whenever he saw what were arguably his father’s greatest creations.
“Take her away. Take them all away. Perhaps a few months in the Underrealm will help them realize just how privileged they are.”
At once the girl and the other servants threw themselves on the ground, pleading, but Sala knew that there was no changing his father’s mind. Their wails as the golems dragged them away forced themselves through his ears and into his brain. There was silence for a moment before Adviser Setne gave a delicate cough and approached the throne.
“Shall I send out word about our need for new servants?”
The Elder Ris reclined back on his throne and gave a lazy wave. His anger seemed to have vanished, and in its place lay an odd weariness. Adviser Setne hesitated as if bracing himself.
“I must say Your Illustriousness, that the recent incarceration of servants has made the Duru… hesitant… to work for the crown. We might have to settle for humans.”
“If they will not work freely, then they shall work in chains. I will not tolerate insubordination in my kingdom. Among my people,” Malada roared in a rare show of visible rage. A bolt of lightning rent the sky asunder.
“As you wish Your Illustriousness. I will relay your orders promptly.”
Malada’s nostrils flared, a great jet of air exiting from them like a bellow, before he managed to calm himself. His great white wings vanished as quickly as they appeared.
“How goes our campaigns?” he asked.
“Ibi-Duniya is ours. As is Ibi-Omi. We’ve already sent in troops that should arrive at their realms in a week. The Mawia Heirs are on their way back from their annual visitations. The Obayifo tribe still resists, but the war has drained them and we are on the brink of breaching Ibi-Bala’s defensive wards. Don’t concern yourself with it. The mortal realms will soon belong to the Ursha, as it should.”
“And Ibi-Keji? What of my former wife’s homeland?”
Sala tensed, hands curling into fists. It took all his many years of training to keep the emotion from his face.
“Completely destroyed,” Adviser Setne said with the air of one discussing the weather. “The only landmass left untouched is the Jigasa archipelago, whose people swore fealty to us. The other continents were levelled according to your request, and their libraries reduced to ash. Some of the Scribes still live, however. They have barricaded themselves inside the Bastille and activated its defences.”
Malada nodded, thoughtful.
“Salatis. What would you do about this?”
Sala turned to his father who was watching him intently. Adviser Setne lurked behind the Elder, a knowing smirk on his face.
“I… I would cut off their supplies and leave them there,” Sala said, fear forcing the words to his mouth. “Directly besieging the Bastille would be an exercise in futility. Its stones are hard and its magic is ancient, well beyond anything we Ursha could dispel. The Mawia could, but they’ve informed us time and again that humans are the one thing they won’t back down on.”
He took a deep breath. “The solution is simple. Lay a siege around the island, but leave them be. Let starvation and disease take care of them for us. That way, no Ursha life would need to be lost.”
Malada frowned. “I am not sure I like this plan of yours.”
“It is a coward’s plan for sure,” said Adviser Setne, pretending not to notice the way Sala’s hands curled into tight fists. “But I cannot say it doesn’t have its merits. We would need to preserve our forces if our attacks on the other realms are to succeed, and wasting it on a few hundred Scribes doesn’t seem particularly wise.”
“Very well,” said Jwahir-Malada. “Give the orders.”
“Of course, Your Illustriousness,” Adviser Setne replied, bowing so low his head nearly touched the marbled floor.
“You make this war sound easy and effortless,” Sala spat viciously, unable to contain himself anymore. His eyes burned with golden light. “Even without the support of the Mawia, the Goliaths and Obayifo are still a force to be reckoned with. Or are we to believe their surrender at face value?”
It happened too fast to see but suddenly, Sala was rocking backwards from a slap. A spurt of blood, gold and shining, burst from his lip and the temperature in the room plunged several degrees.
“Calm yourself Your Illustriousness. The words of the very young are all too often foolish,” said Adviser Setne who looked like he’d just been given a jar of honey. He patted Malada in commiseration, then turned to Sala.
