Chapter 2 - The Creators

  Reygel examined the structure that had resurrected him—the Altar, the serpentine creature had called it. Of all the buildings clustered below, it alone possessed beauty. Where the o thers were rigid assemblages of rectangular metal, the Altar curved and flowed like frozen water, its irregular surfaces catching the red sunlight in unexpected ways. It stood taller than its neighbors, commanding the high ground at one end of the settlement, matched in height only by a sprawling complex on the opposite side.

  The town occupied the floor of a canyon, gray stone mountains rising on all sides until they touched the void of the black sky. Every structure gleamed with the same metallic sheen—countless rectangular pieces fitted together with mechanical precision. Impressive in scale, perhaps, but the relentless uniformity of gray wore at his eyes. Orange liquid pulsed through transparent tubes that webbed between buildings like veins carrying some vital fluid. Energy, he suspected, though he couldn't say why he knew.

  What dominated everything else, though, was the lava.

  Rivers of molten rock coursed through channels cut into the canyon floor, flowing just four or five feet below street level. Even from his vantage point two hundred feet up, heat rippled the air and pressed against his face. Halfway down the rocky path descending toward the town, he spotted a bridge arching over one of the smaller flows, its metal surface unbothered by the proximity to such heat.

  The town's heart was cleaved by a massive lava river that split the settlement in two. The distortion above it was so severe he could barely make out the far side. His gaze returned to those orange-filled tubes running between structures. Lava flowing through them seemed less like madness and more like inevitability here.

  One other detail caught his attention: all the serpentine creatures appeared to be female. Each displayed different colors, their scales catching light in jeweled patterns. The one watching him from near the Altar was the plainest among them. While her sisters below blazed with two or three distinct hues, she wore only a single shade of gray. She'd been silent since he'd emerged from the Altar, content to let him absorb the strangeness of his new reality.

  "What's your name?" Reygel asked.

  "Grelchn."

  "That's... a lot of consonants." He grimaced. "Pretty sure I'll butcher that every time. And I'm genuinely afraid to ask if you have a last name—if your first name is already a tongue-twister, your surname might actually break my jaw."

  Her serpentine features shifted into something like a smile. "We don't have last names. It's a Deathless peculiarity—something the Altars give you that makes no sense to the rest of us."

  Reygel nearly began explaining the utility of family names before realizing he had more pressing questions. "Are all of you female?"

  She laughed, a sound carrying the faintest hiss. "Why do you look like I'm about to execute you, Reygel? It's only a question."

  He exhaled, some tension leaving his shoulders. "I wasn't sure if asking would offend you."

  "By every other race's standards, yes—we're female. More importantly, we consider ourselves female." Her smile widened slightly. "Does that trouble you?"

  The question that surfaced next shamed him, but Grelchn had handled his curiosity without offense so far. "Forgive me if this is ignorant, but... how do you reproduce?"

  Her tongue emerged, stretching nearly a foot from her mouth—thicker than he'd expected, split at the end exactly as he might have imagined. She spoke clearly around it, which seemed impossible. "This is the equivalent of your penis." Her eyes glinted with amusement. "And I assume you know where a vagina is located."

  Reygel recoiled. The image of that tongue producing—he shut down the thought. "Thank you for the information. But next time, you can explain without showing me."

  Grelchn seemed entirely unbothered by his discomfort. He wanted to ask whether they laid eggs or gave live birth, but suspected she'd only find new ways to disturb him. He forced his mind toward safer ground.

  "What do you call yourselves? Your race?"

  "We are the Laderos." Pride entered her voice. "The most technologically advanced race in this world—and to the rest of civilization, a race long extinct."

  That stirred something in him. Questions multiplied in his mind faster than he could articulate them, a frustrating cascade of curiosity. "Why would anyone believe you're extinct?"

  Her smile died. Sadness and anger warred in her expression. "Because we lost a war to an enemy determined to erase us from existence. Only a handful survived. We fled here—to this Riftshore we'd discovered before the war began. Small, but rich in mountains and lava, both things we treasure. In secret, we shaped it to our needs, creating a haven hidden from the world. No one would find us here. No one could finish what they started."

  "Riftshore," Reygel repeated, testing the word. "So that's what these floating islands are called. And here I thought I'd woken on some rock drifting through space." He caught himself. "Sorry. I talk too much."

  Her smile returned, gentler now. "You are strange, Reygel Sireg. Very strange indeed. But yes—these worlds are Riftshores. This one is called Ephevret."

  "The creature that killed me," Reygel said, the memory surprisingly clear, "the one that walked on all fours with spikes down its spine—was that the race that tried to destroy you?"

  "No." Her voice turned hard. "But our enemies use them. They're called Minmors, and they fight each other nearly as often as they fight anyone else. Vicious things."

  "Then who is your real enemy? Because the Minmors looked frightening enough—"

  An explosion cut him off.

  The sound rolled up from below, deep and violent. Grelchn rushed past him to the canyon's edge, her head whipping toward the source. Reygel followed her gaze and felt his stomach drop. Smoke rose from the right side of town where three, maybe four structures had collapsed into a gaping wound in the earth. Minmors poured from the breach like insects from a disturbed nest—dozens, then hundreds.

  "We're under attack!" Grelchn's calm shattered. She rushed to a weapon rack near the Altar's entrance, grabbing a crossbow and quiver with uncertain hands. She gripped them the way someone might hold tools they rarely used. Without looking back, she started down the path. "Move, Deathless! They're here because of you—so you'd better fight!"

  The casual way she delivered the accusation almost made it sound less damning. Almost.

  Reygel ran after her, then veered toward the Altar. "Wait—I need my spear!"

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Grelchn stopped so abruptly she nearly fell. She stared at him with something between disbelief and fury. "Your spear is an Arbiter! You can summon it anywhere!" She turned and resumed her descent. "Now move, Reygel! My people are dying!"

  He chased after her, calling out, "Arbiter, come to me!"

  Nothing happened.

  "We finally get a Deathless," Grelchn muttered without slowing, "and of course he's useless. Picture it forming in front of you. Don't speak—just will it into being."

  Reygel focused, imagining the weapon materializing before him. He doubted it would work, but the Arbiter appeared exactly where he'd pictured it—hovering in its scarlet bubble several paces ahead. His fingers passed through the energy field without resistance, and the moment he gripped the shaft, the bubble vanished.

  Grelchn didn't acknowledge his success. He couldn't blame her—her people were being slaughtered while he struggled with basic concepts.

  She ran with everything she had, though her pace wasn't impressive. Other Laderos moved alongside them, some ahead, some behind, but none showed particular speed. Instead, they leaped high with each stride, an inefficient gait that sacrificed forward momentum. Reygel might not remember his past, but instinct told him he'd never been athletic. Yet even in this lean but unremarkable body, he easily kept pace with trained Laderos warriors.

  Grelchn pulled bolts from her quiver, loading them into her crossbow with the careful deliberation of someone who'd learned the mechanics but lacked real experience. He'd thought crossbows held only a single bolt. Apparently, that was another flawed memory.

  They reached a section where a squat metal bridge spanned a narrow lava flow, the molten rock glowing just three feet below. Heat washed over him, uncomfortable but not unbearable. Strange, that he could stand this close to liquid stone and not be cooked alive.

  The sounds of battle clarified as they descended—individual shouts, the clash of weapons, the screams of the dying. Reygel's mind began cataloging details without conscious thought, as if his brain was designed for exactly this kind of analysis.

  The Laderos fought with technology as their primary weapon. Crossbows and retractable arm shields formed their standard loadout—the shields could expand to full height or collapse into smaller forms, serving as both protection and bladed weapons. What struck him immediately was their complete immunity to fire. Several Laderos stood directly in lava rivers, safer there than on solid ground, unleashing devastating crossbow volleys until their ammunition ran dry.

  Their heavier weapons were truly impressive. Cannons fired explosive shells that detonated mid-flight, raining magma down on the Minmors. Even more devastating were weapons that fired spheres of solid blue light, detonating with apocalyptic force. The front lines were suicide for anyone not immune to fire.

  Elite warriors in full metallic armor struck with electricity crackling from their gauntlets, felling Minmors with single blows. Yet their armor failed more easily than it should have—after absorbing only a few hits, even these fighters went down.

  What impressed Reygel most were the ranged units. Rifle-wielders fought just behind the armored warriors, their weapons crackling with each discharge. Short-range, from what he could tell—the wielders had to stay uncomfortably close to the front lines. But the true artists were the sniper units with their massive laser rifles.

  He passed one—a Laderos with blue and teal scales—lying prone on higher ground. She held her trigger as a green laser beam materialized, thin as thread before thickening to the width of his thumb. In the final moment before firing, the beam flashed yellow and vanished, followed by a sharp crack. A Minmor collapsed in the distance.

  The weapon needed time to charge, building power while the sniper held the trigger. Devastating when it connected, but the visible beam gave targets warning—often enough time to dive behind cover before the killing shot arrived.

  Reygel sprinted toward the battle with nothing but a spear he didn't know how to use. Fear should have paralyzed him. Instead, he found himself analyzing, cataloging, noting patterns. Like his body remembered something his mind had forgotten.

  Two armored Laderos took position on his flanks. Three rifle-wielders spread out behind them. A sniper found higher ground to his left. They'd formed a protective perimeter around him without a word, putting their lives between him and the enemy while he'd been busy spectating like this was theater. The realization brought a flush of shame to his face.

  "You're not a soldier," Reygel said to Grelchn. It wasn't a question.

  A Laderos sprinted past them going the opposite direction, fleeing. The sight unsettled him more than the battle ahead. He glanced back and saw purple smoke consuming the structures around the Altar, melting metal like wax. If he died and the Altar was destroyed...

  The answer came unbidden: he would die truly. Permanently.

  The thought should have terrified him. Instead, it registered as simple fact, emotionally neutral. Why didn't that bother him more?

  "No, I'm a Formwright," Grelchn said. "Before you arrived, Formwrights were the most vital members of our society, with Aids ranked second. But now?" She gestured at him without slowing. "Now that honor belongs to you. That's why so many Aids are stationed around the Altar."

  Formwrights. Aids. He turned the terms over in his mind, trying to understand their significance. He looked back toward the Altar again and froze.

  The Aids stood in formation, moving through gestures with trance-like focus. The structures around the Altar—the ones being consumed by purple smoke—were being rebuilt as he watched. Portals opened at the Aids' command, disgorging raw materials. A gray-scaled Laderos directed the process, using the summoned metal to form basic structural frames while the Aids completed the finer work. That one had to be a Formwright like Grelchn.

  "If you're a Formwright," Reygel asked as they reached the canyon floor, "why aren't you up there helping rebuild?"

  Grelchn's smile carried approval. "So you do have a brain. You watched for thirty seconds and understood what we are. There might be hope for you yet, Reygel." Her expression hardened. "But I'm not stationed for defense. I'm here for offense."

  Offense? He wanted to press her, to understand what kind of offense a builder could provide. But the battle was upon them, and he needed to understand the enemy if he hoped to survive more than a minute.

  The Minmors came in several distinct varieties. Most fought with pure savagery—biting, clawing, piercing, ramming into opponents with their spiked bodies. Others gripped swords in their jaws like the one that had killed him. Some could eject spikes from their backs in wide volleys or precision shots, and several of these spikes had a sickly green tint. Poison, perhaps?

  Another variant had oversized claws and teeth that made them ungainly fighters, but they were clearly built for excavation. These were the tunnelers who'd enabled the invasion. The most disturbing ones were smaller, covered in pulsing purple slime, and seemed barely intelligent—sometimes attacking empty ground. They could detonate themselves on command, taking everyone nearby with them.

  The most important Minmors remained at the rear. Physically, they resembled ordinary Minmors, but feather-like garments draped their bodies, and rings, chains, and amulets dangled from their spikes. Every movement released wisps of purple mist. Strangely, despite their obvious importance, the Laderos cannons and plasma weapons avoided targeting them. Why? They seemed like the perfect targets—take out the leaders and the rest might falter. Yet the devastating firepower focused everywhere else.

  These shamans—if that's what they were—fueled the warriors around them. Minmors on the front lines would have their eyes flash purple, falling into bloodlust that visibly swelled their muscles and doubled their speed. At other times, purple auras cloaked their allies, allowing them to drain energy from corpses and mend grievous wounds in seconds.

  Reygel forced his attention to Grelchn. She was raising her hands, materials flying through the air to bond and form structures. Multiple Laderos assisted her while others opened portals to transport more metal and exotic materials. He should have been fighting, but he found himself mesmerized by creation in the midst of destruction.

  "Alright," Grelchn announced, not even breathing hard despite her exertion. "Tell the Plasmoneers that in five minutes they'll have a new Plasmarium for recharging. No more than ten at once—the flow should support that many."

  "Thank you, Formwright," said a red-and-blue-scaled Laderos who appeared to be some kind of officer.

  "Now a Cannon Factory," Grelchn continued, already shaping metal for the next structure while Aids finished the first. "We need more plasma cannons. Too many Plasmoneers are standing idle without weapons. Tell the Aids in the mines to prioritize plasma production over metal extraction—we'll need vast quantities. It's time to bring the fight to them instead of just defending."

  Understanding crystallized. This was why Formwrights and Aids were considered paramount. Even in battle—especially in battle—they shaped the course of the conflict more than any individual warrior could. Warriors fought. Creators won.

  The soldiers surrounding them weren't just protecting a valuable asset. They were defending the difference between victory and annihilation.

  Reygel looked down at the spear in his hands, then at Grelchn as she literally constructed their salvation from raw materials and will.

  Creators, he thought. In every sense of the word, they're acting as gods.

  He tightened his grip on the Arbiter. If this was his world now, he needed to become more than dead weight. The question was how.

  Around him, the battle raged on.