Gathering of the Chosen (29 page)

But then, when they were several feet down
the staircase, Carmaz heard the sound of the door breaking above
him, probably the tendrils breaking through. He thought, however,
that they could possibly outrun the tendrils before Tashir, who was
in the lead and still carrying the unconscious Alira over his
shoulder, came to a dead stop, forcing the others to stop behind
him as well.

“Tashir, what are you doing?” Saia asked,
his voice higher-pitched than ever. “The shadows—”

“Have us surrounded,” Tashir said, without
looking back at any of them. “Look.”

Carmaz looked ahead of Tashir and saw that
he was correct. More shadow tendrils were making their way up the
staircase toward them, albeit at a somewhat slower pace than the
others. Still, the tendrils ahead had the staircase effectively
blocked, as did the ones behind them.

Saia then looked at Carmaz with fear in
his eyes. “Are we going to die, Carmaz?”

Carmaz didn't know what to say to that,
mostly because he had the sinking feeling that the answer to that
question was yes.

***

B
ecause of the amnesia that he had
experienced upon his resurrection, Braim hadn't known what dying
felt like. It was actually one of the most common questions that
others had asked of him when he came back the first time: “What did
dying feel like?”

That was an unusual, even morbid,
question, but Braim never felt offended by it, probably because his
answer was always, “I don't remember.”

It was the honest truth. Braim had always
supposed that he should have felt grateful that he didn't remember
it, because according to Jenur, Braim had died after getting thick
smoke in his lungs courtesy of his father who had killed him
(probably because his father had been a bad dad). It certainly
explained why Braim had an aversion to smoke in general, even if it
was only a tiny wisp from a warm fire.

But now, the pain that had taken over his
whole body was starting to jog Braim's memory. He recalled feeling
his body dying now, how he had felt his consciousness slip through
his fingers inch by inch. His current method of dying—having his
life force drained from him by a god who hated him—was different
from how he had died the first time, but he supposed that in the
end there wasn't much difference in how you died, only that you
died, period.

Braim looked up at Diog. The god showed no
mercy or forgiveness on his face at all as he looked down upon
Braim. He clearly thought that Braim didn't deserve any mercy or
forgiveness, probably because Braim had committed an unforgivable
offense in this god's eyes.

This idiot's more like the God of
Justice than the God of the Grave,
Braim thought.

But that didn't matter to him. Right now,
Braim needed to figure out a way to survive, but he unfortunately
was not sure how. The pain of dying was making it hard, if not
impossible, to think through a plan that would help him survive. He
could feel his life draining from his body rapidly, which prompted
him to briefly wonder what would happen if he died again.

Maybe the Mysterious One would just
send me back to the physical realm,
Braim thought.
Regardless, I need a survival plan, and fast.

Braim reached for his wand, but it was too
far out of his reach for him to grab. Besides, he was so weak now
that he doubted he could actually lift the wand, much less channel
magic through it.

Must keep trying,
Braim thought,
still reaching for the wand.
My … only …

Diog pointed with his other hand at
Braim's wand, causing it to snap in half instantly. Braim looked up
at the God of the Grave, his eyes wide.

“I saw what you were trying to do,” said
Diog. “And, while you may not be able to hurt me, I know how tricky
you humans can be. You have no hope now. So why don't you just die
and stay dead, as you did for three decades?”

“Because … I still haven't found … my
purpose,” said Braim, forcing every word from his mouth with all of
his strength.

“Your purpose?” said Diog. “Your purpose
in life is to die and stay dead. That is the end of all mortals
such as yourself. You should know that, seeing as you are a
necromancer yourself.”

That may have been true, but Braim hardly
remembered much about necromancy, even after he had gotten some
training in the subject at North Academy after his resurrection.
Not that it mattered either way. At this point, Braim was pretty
much convinced that he was going to die.

For the 'greater good,' of course,
Braim thought, scowling.

One thing that did reassure Braim somewhat
was the knowledge that he was not entirely defenseless. While mages
required wands in order to use their magic without damaging their
bodies, it was still possible for a mage like Braim to use magic
without a wand. Diog no doubt knew that, but he probably also
didn't think Braim would risk using magic without a wand, as that
sometimes had very negative effects on the mage who did that.

I really don't feel strong enough to do
anything except grovel,
Braim thought.
But I gotta try. Even
if I fail, I can at least say I tried.

The problem was obvious: Diog was draining
Braim's life force. How much Braim had left, he didn't know, as
life energy was not a substance that could be measured in the same
way as water or air.

Nonetheless, Braim figured that if Diog
could remove his energy, then it was possible for Braim to restore
it. He recalled Jenur explaining the concept to him once, when she
was reminding him about his first life and he had inquired about
the exact powers of necromancers. Jenur had explained that, based
on her own research into the subject, she had discovered that
necromancers could not only drain the life force of individuals,
but also draw it back into themselves. It was supposed to be an
extremely difficult move, however, so difficult that only
necromancers who had achieved Limitlessness—a state in which a mage
could use magic without running out of magical energy—could do
it.

Braim was not that kind of mage. At one
point in the past, Braim had been so good that he had been the
Magical Superior's personal pupil, but ever since returning to
life, Braim had had to start over from square one. Granted, he had
found magic easier to learn than most people did, but the fact was
that Braim was nowhere near as skilled as Darek or Jenur or most of
the other faculty at North Academy.

But I have to try,
Braim thought,
punching the floor to avoid crying out from the pain that was
crippling him.
Otherwise, I'll have lived an even shorter life
than I lived before.

So Braim closed his eyes, focusing on
Diog. In his mind's eye, he could see his life force like a great
big cloud that was being sucked into a vacuum that was Diog. Diog
was vacuuming his life force without any resistance from Braim,
which was why his life force was depleting so rapidly at the
moment.

Now Braim had to focus very, very hard on
asserting his rights over his life force. He focused hard on
grabbing hold of his life force and holding it firmly in his hands
so that Diog couldn't take any more of it. That was hard, because
visualizing it as a cloud made it almost impossible to visualize
grabbing and taking it away from Diog.

Nonetheless, Braim pulled as hard as he
could until finally he felt his life force break off from Diog's
sucking force. The pain that had tormented Braim suddenly vanished,
replaced instead by a high that Braim had not expected to feel. It
was like all of his life energy had returned to his body at once,
making him feel giddier than ever.

Diog, on the other hand, actually
staggered backwards from Braim's actions, almost like Braim had hit
him hard. The god even fell on his behind, dropping his shovel,
which fell to the stone floor with a clatter by his side.

“What …” Diog sounded and looked
bewildered by this sudden turn of events. “How did you do
that?”

Braim got to his feet. He felt better than
ever, like he could run laps around Diog without even trying. He
felt so good that he clapped his hands twice and said, “I just got
my life force back, Diog. Do you really need to know
how
?”

Diog scowled and grabbed his shovel. He
then stood back up, still leaning on his shovel for support, and
said, “It doesn't matter how, I suppose, because there is more than
one way to skin a cat.”

Diog waved his hand and Ragao appeared as
if by teleportation, wielding her four swords as usual. Diog then
barked at the half-god, “Kill him! Tear him apart with your bare
hands if you must!”

Ragao nodded to show that she understood.
Then she launched herself at Braim, swords flying through the air
before her.

But Braim wasn't afraid of her. He raised
his hands and unleashed a powerful burst of light from them that
struck Ragao directly in the chest. The blow sent Ragao flying
backwards into the far wall, which she struck hard. She then slid
to the wall's base, dropping her swords. She did not get up
again.

“Ragao?” Diog repeated in a horrified
tone. “Ragao, please answer me.”

Through the eye holes of Ragao's mask,
Braim saw that she wasn't conscious. She wasn't dead, because her
chest was still rising and falling with each breath, but it was
pretty clear that Ragao was not going to be getting back up for
another round anytime soon.

So Braim lowered his hands—which hurt from
the light blast he had fired, although his high allowed him to
ignore the pain for now—looked at Diog, and said, “Looks like your
little servant is out for the count.”

“Impossible,” said Diog. He was now
shaking. “Strictly impossible. The half-gods may not be on the same
level as us gods, but they should be much stronger than you humans.
How, then, did you knock her out in one hit?”

“Not sure,” said Braim with a shrug.
“Guess I just got lucky.”

“Only fools and thieves believe in luck,”
said Diog. “You are even worse than I thought. There must be
something about your nature that has made you stronger than you
should be. It is unnatural. It is time I stopped holding back.”

Diog pointed at the coffin with Braim's
picture on it. The lid lifted open and then the coffin itself flew
through the air toward Braim.

Taken by surprise, Braim did not move in
time to dodge the coffin, which closed around him immediately.
Braim found himself in a tight, narrow, and completely black space,
which would have been easier to break out of if he hadn't felt the
air being rapidly depleted from the coffin's interior.

He's trying to suffocate me,
Braim
thought.
No, you don't!

Braim punched the coffin lid as hard as he
could. His hand broke through the stone lid as though it were
paper, allowing air to flow in. He then punched another hole in it
with his other hand and tore open a gap large enough for him to
dive through, which he did.

Rolling to his feet, Braim looked to see
the coffin fall to the floor where he stood mere moments before.
Diog looked absolutely enraged now. He was panting hard and
gripping the handle of his shovel so tightly that it looked like he
was about to break it.

Before Braim could say anything, Diog
roared in anger and jumped through the air toward Braim, landing
before Braim with a hideous scowl on his face. He swung his shovel,
aiming directly for Braim's head, but Braim managed to duck and
avoid it. Braim then began walking backwards outside of Diog's
reach as quickly as he could as the god advanced on him with an
angry scowl on his foul features.

“Hey, we don't have to fight, you know,”
said Braim, holding up his hands to pacify the angry god. “If you
would just take me back to World's End, I promise I won't bring
this up if I win the Tournament and become the God of Martir.”

“Idiotic mortal,” said Diog. “Did your
brain come back faulty? I will only be happy when you are dead and
not a moment before that.”

“Then I guess you're never going to be
happy, because I intend to live a long time,” Braim said.

Diog stabbed at Braim with his shovel.
Braim grabbed the shovel's head, however, and ripped it out of the
god's hands. With a grunt, Braim then threw the shovel away out of
both of their reach.

“There,” said Braim, looking at Diog
again. “Now we're both unarmed. If I were you, I'd—”

Braim was interrupted when Diog appeared
right in front of him, the stink of death radiating from the god's
body, and grabbed Braim by the neck. Shocked, Braim grabbed Diog's
arm and tried to remove it from his neck, but the god's grip was
like iron and there was nothing Braim could do but flail his limbs
about uselessly as Diog choked him to death.

“I dislike getting my hands dirty, but if
this is what I must do to ensure the continued survival of Martir
and the gods, then so be it,” said Diog. “But do not worry, Braim
Kotogs. I will take your body back to World's End as proof of my
deed and then return it to your friends in North Academy, where
they can bury it again in the grave that you are destined to rest
in for eternity.”

Panicking, Braim did the only thing he
figured had any chance of working: He grabbed Diog's arm and tried
to suck out the god's life force.

This was another necromancer technique
that he had never done before, but Braim was so desperate to live
that he would have tried literally anything at this point if it
offered him even the slightest chance of survival. He quickly
visualized Diog's life force as a large cup of water from which he
drank with a straw. He drank and drank as much as he could, feeling
his body fill with the stuff to the point where he could barely
contain it all.