The Badlander by Tom Golden

Author:Tom Golden
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Epic Fantasy, Grimdark Fantasy, Action/Adventure, Horror, Survival Fiction
Publisher: Thomas Golden
Published: 2023-12-03T20:43:26+00:00

Part IV:

Heights of Darkness

Chapter 32

It was impossible to know if the slave-god could hear him, but he spoke nonetheless. Phar-Mindorius found that with her, catatonic as she seemed, he could speak freely, eschewing the vague pretenses of the royal court and embracing a frankness that would have been impossible with his courtiers. The elderly king spoke to her of his fears and hopes, his aches and doubts, the son he missed and the nephew he’d regrettably shunned. Knowing that his own time was growing short, hastened by a life spent under the weight of his crown, the king felt no need to mince words with the being who had been the sole source of his survival, and whose pending demise guaranteed his own.

Phar-Mindorius still struggled to accept that, should his son fail in his quest, he would be the final Vingallean monarch, the last ruler of what had once been the greatest kingdom ever known. His progenitors had enjoyed a global dominion, but the war between the gods, and the steady march of time, had reduced that power to one city. Nordabor was a moldering holdout compared to the glories of the past. Where his ancestors had walked alongside their creator, Phar-Mindorius now stood in the damp darkness of the hidden grotto beneath his keep, confessing his failures to the only god he’d ever truly known, a silent, shackled wretch.

Ganachim had once spawned the entire natural world. Now, her splendor gone, her presence barely managed to keep their final measly crops from withering on the vine. Each time Phar-Mindorius came to the failing god’s miserable cell, he fully expected to find her dead.

His little visits had grown in frequency ever since Phir-Ramarian had departed. Phar-Mindorius, oscillating between two certainties, would sometimes tell his captive audience how certain he was that his son had found success, and at other times, he would lament that his son had perished, taking any chance of their kingdom’s survival with him.

On this occasion, Phar-Mindorius was feeling cautiously optimistic. “Many full-cycles have passed, yes,” he said, as if Ganachim had suggested it, “but, realistically, I would not expect them to be returning any time soon. They have a long way to go, though I think it likely that Phir-Ramarian has collected at least a few of the shards by now.”

Ganachim, suspended by her grime-slick chains, remained silent. As she rocked gently in the pull of the subterranean waters of the Einfallen, Phar-Mindorius imagined that he could see her nod in agreement. His eyes settled on the unnatural halo of rotten wood that hovered above her head. It was a peculiar reminder that, despite their humanoid features, the gods were vastly different.

And, somewhere beyond their realm, either beneath the relentless burning of the unmoving sun in the east, or in the blackness of the endless night of the west, Phir-Ramarian would be facing these monsters, demanding that they turn over the shards of the sundered blade they hoarded.

At least Phir-Ramarian was not alone. Cyprian was with him,

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