“In the last session,” Viktor said, “you told us that not only did Nakhran come back from oblivion, but he had also become much more powerful than before. He declared himself a god, then rebelled against yours. That started a war. The Calamity, right?”

  Khenemhotep nodded gravely. “Verily, Sovereign of the Dungeon.”

  “So, how did it end? Who won?”

  “There was no victor,” Khenemhotep replied, his voice dropping to a sorrowful cadence. “It was a great war that engulfed the entire world, one that lasted for many generations. The dead and the living fought on both sides, and on both sides they fell. I, too, took part, even though I was but a priest, not a man of war.”

  He looked down at his withered hands.

  “Yet, I went into battle, driven by the faith that burned within me. I lifted my hand, the hand that was ordained to bless the dead, and used it instead to strike down the living. I told myself, ‘What I do may hasten the end of the war, and bring peace back to our land.’ But peace came not. The war lingered, ceaseless, a shadow over the world. It was a stalemate, with neither side prevailing. And in the end, it was our people, our land, that bore the sorrow and the scars of it all.”

  For someone who was originally a mere mortal, Nakhran really punched above his weight, didn’t he? He didn’t just defy the divine; he also fought a literal god to a standstill. But how? Viktor wondered. Where did he get that kind of power? Was he aided by other deities?

  Was it Iseth-Ra? Or someone else?

  What was she doing while all of this happened, anyway? Was she simply watching the world tearing itself apart from the celestial sidelines while sipping some divine apple juice? Or was she standing behind Nakhran the whole time, smiling with satisfaction as her pet set the world on fire? Or maybe she didn’t care at all. “Did I just accidentally cause a calamity? Whoopsie!”

  “Sounds terrible,” Sebekton muttered. “It might sound strange coming from a warrior like me, but endless bloodshed is never the way to go. War should be quick and decisive, and it should end with a clear winner.”

  Yes, ideally. Viktor chuckled to himself. But reality almost never operated ideally. Of course, it would be best if war were a swift affair, with a neat epilogue and no lingering grudges. But wars tended to last longer than anyone planned, and the ones who suffered the most were usually the ones who had no part in starting them.

  And a clear winner, huh? He had crushed the armies of the Last Alliance. The whole world had bowed to him and called him Emperor. One couldn’t get more decisive than that. But it hadn’t ended. His enemies continued to plot in the shadows, and then they struck him down. Now it was his turn to plot, waiting for the chance to kill their descendants. It was as if the war had never ended in the first place.

  “So,” Viktor said, turning to Khenemhotep, “the war in your world was a stalemate. But it did end, right? How did it all wrap up?”

  “As the war raged across the earth, the cries rose up to the heavens, and the gods beheld the strife of men. They took counsel one with another, saying, ‘Surely this war cannot be allowed to devour the world forever; this is not the way peace is found.’ And so they set themselves to make peace between the Bearded God and Nakhran, so that blood might stop flowing and the world might finally rest.”

  As he spoke, the undead priest’s twin glowing orbs shifted toward Haku, who sat at the foot of the steps next to Sebekton, his staff resting over his shoulder. The bird-man gave a smug nod, as if it had personally mediated the conflict between the belligerents of that war.

  So Lord Monkey was also involved, huh?

  “A peace talk?” Viktor said. “Lovely idea. But if they could’ve settled this with words, the war wouldn’t have started in the first place.”

  “There was a truce, Sovereign of the Dungeon. And it was decreed in the assembly of the gods, that my Lord and Nakhran should depart from our world, and never lay hands upon it again. They shall take their conflicts elsewhere, far from the sons of men, so that my people and my land would no longer suffer under their wrath. It was further established that no other gods would ever claim this world or impose their rule upon it. Thus, peace was secured, for the sake of the land and all those who dwell upon it.”

  Interesting, Viktor thought. In a way, Khenemhotep’s world had been abandoned, not only by its own god, but also by every other god. Still, if the alternative was an eternal war that flattened cities and boiled oceans, then divine absence was a small price to pay. But of course, it meant the mortals were now on their own. No more blessings, no more miracles to help them sort out their problems, which they undoubtedly had in abundance after centuries of destruction.

  Wait.

  Wasn’t his own world the same?

  Once, long ago, there were gods here too. They walked among men, they taught mortals magic, they built great civilizations. And then, they were gone. There were no traces of them left, other than some vague myths and legends. The Forgotten Gods, they were called.

  Maybe, just maybe, something similar had happened here. A calamity had struck, or was about to, and the gods had decided that the only way to deal with it was to remove themselves entirely.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  “You said that both your god and Nakhran had left your world,” Sebekton asked, “but what about their followers? It’s not like it was just a squabble between two people. It was a full-scale war involving millions.”

  “The people, my lord Sebekton, being weary after centuries of war, laid down their arms with relief and joy. For the burden had been immense, and the land was scarred and broken. Yet the followers of Nakhran, those he had raised from the dust, remained steadfast. They departed with their master to wage his wars in distant realms, continuing to contend against our Lord. But we, the priests... we were astonished, and knew not what path to walk. For our purpose had been consumed by flame and shadow, and our calling left desolate. So we withdrew once more to the tombs, the places of silence. And there did we sink into a long, deep slumber, until the end of days or the rising of a new need. And it was decreed among us: if the future generations should seek our counsel, or desire our aid, or crave the wisdom of the old ways, then let them call upon us, and we shall awaken once more.”

  In other words, you just went to sleep, huh? Viktor thought. Not that he blamed the guy. After centuries of slogging through blood, hacking down those who were once his own people, small wonder Khenemhotep had felt utterly spent. The ancient priest probably hadn’t chosen rest so much as given in to it when the war was finally over.

  “So, how long was your nap?”

  “Three thousand years, Sovereign of the Dungeon.”

  Viktor heard a whistle coming from the Tengu, and he himself chuckled. “That’s... a lot. The world must have become unrecognizable, right?”

  Khenemhotep inclined his head.

  “Verily, the scars of the old days have at last healed. The people have restored what was lost, and the land flourishes anew. They live in peace and are content with their lives. Yet they have forgotten. The memory of what came before has faded. The old rites and customs have been abandoned; the people walk not in the ways of their ancestors. Even the Calamity is now spoken of as if it were a tale told in the night—a myth, a shadow with no substance.”

  Well, it couldn’t be helped. Three thousand years was a very long time, enough for kingdoms to rise, fall, and fade into mere footnotes in history. Of course the people had moved on. To them, the Bearded God was now a forgotten god, just like the Forgotten Gods of this world. At least Khenemhotep’s world still had him, and other undead priests, slumbering in the ancient tombs, ready to rise and remind everyone of a world long gone and the god who once ruled it. The same couldn’t be said for Viktor’s own world.

  Or... was it really the case?

  If the Matriarch of the Emerald Order really was still alive, actually alive, then she might be the only one person left who remembered the Age of Gods.

  “So, how did you and your friends find this brave new world?”

  “We beheld the people,” Khenemhotep rasped, “and our hearts grew heavy, for they had forgotten the ways of old. The ancient paths lay desolate, and no one walked them any longer. Yet even so, we rejoiced greatly, for the land had been healed, and the wounds of the world had finally been made whole. Then said we one to another, ‘Surely this is a new beginning,’ and a purpose was given to us: to remind the people, to speak to them the wisdom of their ancestors, to recount what happened in the past so they would not again turn to folly. And I set my heart on becoming a storyteller. I desired to walk among the sons of men, to lift my voice in their streets, and to tell them the stories of a world long vanished, that they might hear and understand, and remember.”

  “Very admirable,” Viktor said. “But I have a feeling things didn’t go as planned.”

  Khenemhotep let out a breathless sigh, the sort of sigh that carries the weight of three thousand years of disappointment.

  “Verily, Sovereign of the Dungeon, I once told you, ‘They live in peace and are content with their lives.’ Yet the truth is not so simple. For there are kings, and they contend with one another. Their rivalries burn, and often do they lead their people into war. It is nothing like the Calamity, when the earth groaned and the heavens went dark, yet blood is spilled nonetheless, and the cry of the slain rises up to the sky.”

  Well, yes. Humans didn’t need any god in order to start wars. They had always been excellent at that.

  “When we, the priests, entered the courts of the kings, they welcomed us with gracious words and open hands. Our hearts rose within us, and we said among ourselves, ‘Surely our counsel will be sought again, and wisdom will return as in the days of old.’ We hoped to speak peace among the nations, to turn the rulers’ hearts toward one another, and to rebuild the Golden Age, as it was in the beginning. But nay, Sovereign of the Dungeon, for our joy was short-lived. In time, it was made plain to us: they saw us not as keepers of sacred truth, but as mages of renown, wielders of forgotten power. In their eyes, we were not counselors, but weapons. And the fire they sought from us was not for light, but for war.”

  Viktor didn’t say anything, just gazed at the torchlight dancing in Khenemhotep’s sockets, prompting him to continue.

  “And that knowledge broke our hearts asunder. One by one, we returned to our tombs and lay down in sleep once more. I alone remained, the last of my kind. I walked the streets of the sons of men, searching for someone who would listen to my words. I said in my heart, ‘Perhaps there is still someone who hungers for the stories of old.’ But behold, they looked upon me with awe, and with fear. Few dared to come close, and those who did sought not the tales of the past, but the power that lay in my hand. They said, ‘Give us your magic, and we will listen.’ Yet I saw through their hearts. They feigned interest, but their ears were closed. For the stories of the ancient days were naught but dust to them. They cared not to remember.”

  “And that’s why you’re here?”

  “Verily, Sovereign of the Dungeon. If there be none in my world who thirst for the tales of old, then must I seek them in another. For the flame of remembrance must not be extinguished, and the voice of the storyteller must never fall silent.”

  “You do know that I summoned you here to be my weapon, right?”

  “I know well what lies between us is but a bargain. But this I also know, Sovereign of the Dungeon: you did not feign interest when I spoke. Nay, you did listen. You did drink in every word, as the dry earth drinks the rain. Not only did you hear, but you also did ponder. You did weigh my words carefully, turning them over in your heart.”

  Viktor gave a short laugh. “Because knowledge is also weapon.”

  Khenemhotep nodded solemnly. “That makes you wiser than many kings I have known, wiser than the rulers of great realms who hear not, even when wisdom cries aloud in their courts.”

  Because I am no mere king. I am an emperor.

  “Perhaps you have not realized this, so I would say it plainly: I am grateful beyond words for all that has been done for me. Blessed be the day I set foot in this place. For here I have found companions, my kindred spirits.” The ancient priest’s glowing orbs slowly swept through his audience. “Sovereign of the Dungeon, warrior of scales, scholar of plumes. For the first time in three thousand years, my heart has known rest. For the first time, I have called a place home.”

  “I’m glad that you like it,” Viktor said. “Once again, High Priest, let me welcome you to my dungeon.”