The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy-Chapter 172 - The Long Road Ahead

Mirian paid for new accommodations for her adoptive family, one with guards. She contracted another company to keep an eye out on anyone attempting to surveil them. The nice thing about Florin was there were a lot of services available for anyone with the coin to pay.

As the war and coup developed, rich families from across Baracuel found their way to the city, perhaps hoping neutral Florin would protect both them and their assets. Likely, they were right. The prices of luxury services and rented apartments went up across the city.

She had promised herself to take this cycle easy, but she also didn’t expect to return to the Florin Principality anytime soon. By the 28th, she’d constructed another three leyline detectors. Sure enough, without Troytin to interfere, Cearsia ordered the destruction of the Divine Monument as soon as she’d captured the city. From this far south, Mirian could only get poor readings.

North of Alkazaria, there was no movement. Apophagorga was either dead or had simply decided to stay burrowed near the leyline.

When the 4th of Duala came, she joined her family on the roof of the apartment after dinner. “I like to watch. There’s a sinister beauty to it. The auroras… the eruptions. Such magnificent colors.”

In the ocean, the dark sea shimmered with a bloom of light.

“I didn’t realize the arcane eruptions were also taking place under the ocean, though I suppose it makes sense,” she added.

Dhelia looked stricken. “Why don’t the Elder Gods stop it?”

“I don’t know,” Mirian said. “Maybe they’re busy. Maybe they can’t. Something happened to the Ominian. They seem… wounded.” She thought of the multitude of wounds in the God’s stone-like flesh, the dripping ichor. She thought of Them sitting on the throne of the Mausoleum, silent and still.

“I still can’t believe it,” Jeron said. “We just sent you off to your final year at the Academy. I can still remember you running around the village as a child, pretending to be a mage.”

“It was very cute,” Dhelia added, then looked over at Zayd. The ground shook again. Her mother looked down at the crowds below. “They must be so scared, not knowing what’s happening.”

“Scary even if you do know what’s happening,” her father said.

“Not really,” Dhelia replied.

Zayd let out a “woah!” as another aurora danced across the sky.

Mirian looked to the Divir moon. It should have started falling by now, she thought. Killing Apophagorga hadn’t changed anything, and she knew for sure the Divine Monument had been destroyed. “A moment,” she said, and returned to the room below where one of her leyline detectors was running. She activated the illusionary display. Without data from the other two detectors to triangulate, the information was incomplete, but it was enough for a basic analysis. The pattern of collapse beneath the surface looks typical. Breakdowns along the Palendurio axis, as expected when the Monument blows, then the effects propagate down to Persama where the moon falls. But it’s not falling yet. Is it leylines in Persama…?

She felt nervous hope surge through her. Did Ibrahim change tactics and start working on the leylines? Did he find a way to stabilize them? Or are there other time travelers, and they found a way to prevent their own Monument from collapsing?

Mirian reemerged on the roof. “Something’s changed,” she said. “We might not see the moon fall tonight after all.”

Her father breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh thank the Gods. I’ve been trying to put on a brave face, but… I really don’t want to die. How much longer do we have?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Well, I like that answer better.”

***

The moon fell on Duala the 10th, six days behind schedule. Mirian had pieced together as much as she could with the leyline detectors, recording some of the most critical information in her soulbound spellbook. By the morning of the 10th, the amount of arcane eruptions occurring at regular intervals had been staggering.

Mirian woke to the dripping ceiling again. Quickly, she fixed up the hole with her new spells before Lily was awake. Then, with a heavy sigh, she got ready to start her investigations.

First, she needed to investigate the presence of other time travelers. With Troytin gone, the Republic Intelligence Division and the Deeps wouldn’t be looking for her. She could finally start moving around in Akana Praediar and figure out just what in the five hells was happening over there. Perhaps she could even stop the war before it even started. If she could recruit allies with persistent memories, that would change everything. If they were her enemies, she needed to know that even more urgently.

Second, there was the Divine Monument. She still wanted to investigate the possibility that the structure wasn’t unique. Her delves into the Palendurio underground hadn’t turned up anything yet, but it also hadn’t been a focus. Jei’s equations implied a second set of coordinates was necessary to make the Elder devices do anything. But, with her new knowledge of runes and tri-bonded sequences, there were new breakthroughs to make in magic, even if all she had was the Torrviol Divine Monument to study.

Third, she needed leyline data. A lot of it. She needed to put detectors in the furthest flung places she could and figure out exactly what was happening so that she could figure out how to stop it. Or even if it could be stopped. With the soulbound Holy Pages, she could finally record data in detail. That would eventually allow her to do something like what Viridian did with his Akanan climate device, except modeling the leylines instead of the weather. Magical research also might assist her. There were still devices at the end of the Frostland’s Gate Labyrinth with unknown functions, and there was that simulation room that seemed to be connected to the arcane eruptions somehow. There was also her new titan catalyst to study. While it had already made casting arcane and celestial spells easier and lent more power to her spells, she hadn’t begun to understand the full implications of such a substance.

Fourth, there was that damn memory curse on her. It was burrowed deep in her soul. She still wasn’t sure how to pick it apart, nor how to dispel the curse safely. She needed to talk to the psychopathic necromancers who had done it to her as a child in the first place. This ‘Doctor Westerun’ seemed like a good person to start with, but investigating the Deeps and the conspiracy might get her information as a side effect. Reluctantly, she had to admit it was the least important of her objectives. The curse bothered her, but it clearly wasn’t impeding her. The fate of the world came first.

Though she’d just made a priority list, Mirian immediately violated it by resolving to spend the cycle in Torrviol. She’d just run wild across all of Baracuel for months. The time loop was still going. It showed no signs of stopping. A month of relaxing research sounded too good to pass up.

She started by recruiting Jei and Torres, then got to work on the Monument as soon as she could. Perhaps ‘relaxing’ wasn’t the right term. The Elder device was monstrously complex, and despite her encyclopedic knowledge of glyphs and runes, there were plenty of sequences used that she couldn’t even guess the function of. She quickly became convinced that there were layers upon layers of glyphs beneath the surface, like a Allard bank seal, only far more complex. The more productive solution was a variation of what the researchers had been trying, which was introducing different energy inputs into parts of the system and seeing what resulted. In short, a great deal of drudgery, not unlike what she’d need to do to study the leylines.

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On the 10th of Solem, though, her plans of relaxation came to a grinding halt.

She picked up the Torrviol Broadsheet to check the news, expecting the usual article about Dawn’s Peace being defeated. Instead, the front page read:

RAMBALDA REBELS! ATROXCIDI RETURNS! UNDEAD SIEGE ALKAZARIA!

A sinister rebel group in Persama known as “Dawn’s Peace” used great treachery to slaughter the Baracueli peacekeepers in Rambalda. By the same treachery, these Persaman outlaws attacked the forts along the Southern Range, then attacked Alkazaria itself! Only by the heroic effort of the garrison was the surprise attack repelled. Once behind the walls of the capital, the soldiers thought they would be safe until reinforcements arrived. But the Torrviol Broadsheet has learned that the forces at work here are far more sinister than a mere rebellion!

Just days ago, legions of undead soldiers emerged from the desert and joined the siege. These terrifying skeletal monstrosities, animated by foul necromancy, were the feared shock troops of the insurrectionaries during the Unification War.

“There can only be one explanation,” Commander Batima Ayral, commander of the Alkazaria garrison, stated to concerned citizens in an address. “The necromancer Atroxcidi has returned. There are no necromancers in Baracuel, and our brave soldiers have fought hard to suppress the despicable practice in Persama. Only a necromancer of his power could command so many undead. But fear not! The Praetorians are with us, and our allies will soon come to our aid.”

Martial law has been declared in the second capital and the surrounding cities. Military arcanists from across Baracuel are being organized to deploy to the south immediately. King Aurelius Palamas, speaking on behalf of Parliament, urged citizens to remain calm, and to do anything they can to support the courageous soldiers who will be fighting to protect them. He also assured the crowds that they had already invoked their mutual defense treaty with Akana Praediar. “The vile necromancer will regret showing his face again,” his Majesty said to the crowds.

What could have caused the horrible necromancer to emerge after so many decades of silence? Speculation abounds! Some think he was only biding his time to strike. Others suspect that nefarious Persamans worked in secret to recruit him to their cause, perhaps resurrecting the old blood cults so famous during the reign of the Triarchy.

The article went on, with the baseless speculation only growing, and added a bit of history about who he was and his opposition to Baracueli unification. Mirian set it down, blood running cold. Now she knew what Ibrahim had been doing. Atroxcidi.

She stared at the paper. What in the five hells do I do about that?

She’d tested herself on the tripoint detector in the underground and had reached 107 myr. That made her an Archmage, still a bit below Luspire, but stronger than most. But Atroxcidi had defeated an archmage who could reach 150 myr. Whatever soul magic she knew was no doubt paltry compared to someone who had actually been trained in the forbidden magic.

Mirian read through the article again, then burned it with a flash of raw magic. If Atroxcidi had an army attacking Alkazaria that fast, the only explanation was that he’d been recruited even earlier. It took time to move soldiers, even ones that didn’t sleep. It also meant the necromancer was relatively close to where Ibrahim started. Even if she could acquire an airship from Cairnmouth on day one, it was unclear if she could find a way to stop the alliance. She still didn’t know what he looked like, where he started, or how much he knew.

Ibrahim hadn’t made any direct moves against her, but with the powerful arch-necromancer at his beck and call, she had to act as if he was hostile. The risk he presented was too great to assume otherwise. Perhaps the Praetorians could have dealt with him in a surprise attack, but the Persaman rebel had no doubt told his new ally all about the battlemagi who’d thwarted his assault on Alkazaria so many times.

I need to stick to the shadows. No more gathering armies or revealing herself as Prophet to the masses.

On the 11th, Mirian flew south of Torrviol and destroyed the train tracks in three places, downing several trees so that the repair job would be even more of a hassle. She wasn’t worried about his army making it to Torrviol, but if Alkazaria fell, his agents might be able to disperse across Baracuel. Troytin had been able to get the drop on her because he’d gathered information clandestinely first. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

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***

That night, she finally had the dream of the Mausoleum again. She had missed its towering ceilings and the strange shifting geometry. She’d missed the high windows that looked into endless stars. She started to walk, eager to walk through the corridors again, then stopped.

Something was different.

She knew the Mausoleum too well. She used it to help her memory. Something was out of place.

Mirian looked around, first to the ceiling, then the walls, then back down the long hall towards the front where she’d found several bindings scribed. Then her eyes settled on the Ominian, and her heart skipped a beat.

There, in the Ominian’s right shoulder, was a colossal needle.

Her mind raced. She’d seen the needles in Their body fly away, leaving behind the wounds. She’d assumed it was symbolic, that it represented some injury that had been inflicted on Them. Perhaps during the Gods’ War. After all, she’d had apparently visions of that too. But now, she was reconsidering everything.

Her thoughts went back to one of the dreams she’d had, years ago. She’d been here, in this room, only she’d seen dozens of figures, obscured by shadowy robes. Realization struck her like a blow.

She recognized that needle burrowed in the Ominian’s shoulder. It was the same one she’d removed from Troytin.

Heart pounding, she asked, Is that what did it? She couldn’t bring herself to believe this was some grand competition. Surely, they were meant to work together. I can’t do this alone, she told the statue. But who can I trust? And how do I truly stop this? Surely, you didn’t mean for this world to die.

Or maybe it wasn’t a statue. The whorls of thick flesh, colored like granite and studied with burnt-out eyes—it was much like the flesh of Apophagorga.

She took a step towards the Ominian.

The Ominian’s eyes opened.

They bore down on her with the weight of worlds. Mirian collapsed to her knees, a thousand sensations suddenly overwhelming her. She saw the burning tree again, the anchors raining down into an endless sea, heard the cry of a child, saw an endless wall of fire, saw a thousand pieces of Enteria, saw the Labyrinth, heard Apophagorga’s roar, smelled death, smelled roses, saw scoured battlefields, heard screams, heard laughter, saw blood, saw a smiling face. A man wandering a desert in despair. A leviathan’s call, mournful and distant in an uncaring ocean. A creature, crawling through the Labyrinth as it shifted once again. It was too much to process; she placed her hands over her ears, but the sounds continued. She closed her eyes, but the images flashed through them anyways. She tried to scream, but there was never any sound in the Mausoleum.

She found herself collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily, sobs wracking her body. Certain images stood out. The tree. Overlapping roads. A map on a table, shredded. A thousand branches; too much. No path. No map.

A realization struck her, even more terrifying than before. The Ominian doesn’t know. There was no correct path, just possibilities. Many paths. But one future. She sat back on her heels, staring up at the Elder God. Ominian, you have to guide me. It’s too much. There’s too much at stake. And I’m not strong enough.

More images flashed through her mind. A baby glaciavore, wrestling with its mother. A flower, not yet budded. A student, bloodied and exhausted, sword held loosely in her hands, unwilling to look her master in the eye. A young sapling, branches greedily seeking light in a hole in the canopy, a great tree fallen next to it. A word came to her mind.

YET.

***

Mirian woke, jaw clenched, her resolve hardening.

A thousand challenges lay before her. She still didn’t know if she faced potential allies or implacable opponents. Enteria was still dead; she and the world had no future, not yet. But the Ominian had chosen her for a reason. She had placed her faith in Them, and in turn, They had placed Their faith in her. It was a monumental responsibility. Her task was still impossible. Regardless, she couldn’t relent.

There was work to be done.

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