A Tale That Dawned [Book 4 of Selvina's Tale series]

Chapter 49: Defend

Selvina gathered strength from the memories. She felt that overwhelming feeling of power intensify. It was now stronger than ever. Selvina still did not know what it was but she embraced it. She relished it and let it wash over her completely.

Accolon was upon her now, only a few paces away, nearly within reach.

Selvina, without hesitation, charged.

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Deep in his mountain, many days' ride away, the Writer's eyes peered down at the newest book to appear on his shelves. It had not been difficult finding it at all. This book, larger and more ornate than any other, glowed with its own light and had appeared with a bang so loud it rattled the stone bookshelves like an earthquake. No other book had ever done that and the Writer knew why.

He grinned wickedly as he read the inscription along the book's spine. The name Iktarosh was written in golden letters that pulsed with brightness, hinting at untold power within the pages, like a key to the greatest treasure in existence.

And, in all reality, this was to the Writer the greatest treasure. After all his planning, after all his manipulating and reading and directing, his prize was here. The empress had been of tremendous help but she had never been the means to an end. Iktarosh had always been the goal. And now, finally, he was here. Now, the god was his.

With tender care, he lifted the book and carried it to his study, where many other books sat opened. He placed the book on a side table before returning to his current story.

The Life Story of Accolon of Ghal sat opened, dark letters running through the pages at a furious pace. The Writer picked up his quill, dabbed it in an inkwell, and scratched a fresh inscription. He groaned in pain as each letter stabbed into his body like tiny blades. The pain was real, and not simply felt. The Writer, beneath his dark robes, would sport a fresh scar.

"Bring her down, Accolon," he whispered to the book as he picked it up and moved it aside. He then retrieved Iktarosh's Life Story and placed it on his desk. It already had several sentences written into it as the god's life began anew. Most sentences were identical, questioning why and how the god could see and experience the sensation of life. He was deeply confused and bewildered. The freshly newborn god needed help. He needed guidance.

A bearded mortal stands before me, speaking nonsense, the Writer read. There is hatred in his eyes. This insect seeks to harm me. Why? Is this a dream? A mortal cannot harm me. He is a slave. I am his master.

How am I here? Irtue? Where is Irtue? Where is she? Where is my sister? The mortal is waving his hands about now. Does he mock me? There is a girl beside him. She is...

The Writer pressed his quill onto the page and began writing. He managed to write the letter S and cried out in torment in doing so. Unlike the cuts and aches the other manipulations had done to him, this was near life-ending agony. Iktarosh was not a warrior, a general, or even a king. He was a god. Gods were the ones who controlled the mortals, not the other way around.

The Writer went at it again regardless. For once, a mortal would direct a god; a mortal would order a god to do his bidding. He pressed the quill against the page and began writing again. A mortal would control a god, no matter what it took.

"She is the enemy," the Writer wrote, his body quivering and thrashing about with absolute torment with every written letter, as if a dozen blades impaled him from every direction. He breathed heavily, steadied his trembling body, and swallowed the blood gathering in his mouth.

"She must die," he wrote before collapsing in an exhausted heap.

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