Dreadgod (Cradle Book 11) (111)

His servitors were masses of flesh, living robots molded like rough clay to vaguely resemble servants. They scurried here and there, mutating slightly under the pressure of Oth’kimeth, the Fiend inside him, but the servants were made to resist such pressures.

They cooked meals in case he wanted something hot, cleaned corridors, and maintained basic devices. Even simple gears and pulleys might break down after too long exposed to his chaos.

Daruman scanned them with only a thought, to ensure that the servitor population was thriving and that there were no problems he could address. Oth’kimeth the Conqueror examined them too, and was displeased.

Failure, the Fiend complained. We have failed.

From the wider perspective of the Vroshir, their alliance of world-striding liberators who opposed the Abidan, their operation had succeeded beyond anyone’s wildest expectations. Even now, there were celebrations across every Vroshir homeworld, as new populations and resources made it back to roost.

Even on Amorenthus, where the Reaper had struck. He’d damaged their defenses and struck fear into their populace, but that was only a slight damper on the world-wide holiday.

That world, and many others—including Daruman’s Tal’gullour—had received the loot of many worlds.

Now, there were new species of plants and animals that the people had never seen before. New sources and patterns of energy, new works of entertainment. Fresh blood into the populace, often including sub-species of humanity that had developed on different worlds.

All taken from the Abidan.

With the Abidan system in shambles, their worlds were ripe for the taking. Between now and when they crumbled to chaos, they were essentially piles of treasure for the Vroshir to pick through.

Daruman watched scenes of joy and celebration on the wall of monitors in front of him. This cheered him normally, though it took as much control as he could muster to keep the electronic screens from exploding.

This time, he agreed with Oth’kimeth.

They had failed.

And when he could avoid it no longer, he projected his will to the servitors, who deactivated the monitors. Only then did he stretch out his powers and look to the future.

He did not have the same philosophy the Abidan did.

While the Abidan read the Way and bowed to the current patterns of Fate, Daruman wrestled destiny and bent it to his own will. He created the future he wanted and projected it in front of himself, and he saw it spin out.

Daruman envisioned the destruction of the Abidan. He saw them execute Ozriel for his crimes, then the Judges dissolving into in-fighting while their worlds crumbled around them.

That vision spread in front of him like a pantomime, but when he searched for a path toward it, he found none.

He knew why. They wouldn’t execute Ozriel; he had too much utility to lose. But he had hoped.

Daruman wiped away that vision of the future and wrought another.

An image of the Mad King in his ancient bone armor strode into Sanctum, laying waste around him with his sword. Fleets of his warriors blackened the skies behind him. He smote the golden edifice that was their Hall of Judgment, broke the flying cities, and blighted populations.

He was eventually struck down for it. Makiel, Raziel, and a manacled Ozriel shoved him into the Way outside the Sector and erased him. The armies that followed Daruman were destroyed, and Tal’gullour substantially weakened.

Strangely, this future was more likely than the first.

Daruman froze the image, studied it, let it roll through his mind.

Oth’kimeth pushed the image away. What good is a conquering that ends in death?

That would be a worthy end, Daruman responded. If he cleared existence of the Abidan organization, at least in its current form, that would be a valuable use of his life.

But he didn’t need to spend himself so easily. There were other solutions.

It came to him immediately why this vision had seemed more possible than the other. He restored the image of the broken Hall of Judgment and pointed to it.

“It has not been restored,” Daruman pointed out.

The Fiend understood his words immediately. The Hall was indeed being repaired as they watched, but it should have been fixed immediately. Its slow speed indicated that it was being pieced together by lesser Phoenixes.

And not by the Phoenix.

Daruman traced this Fate-line back. He was not the Hound, but his vision was less restricted in some ways. He found himself in battle against a woman with bright green hair and a shining sword split into many branches.

Suriel.

Ozriel and his Scythe crashed against Daruman’s sword, but the Reaper’s powers were suppressed. Daruman was going to land the killing blow…

...and then Suriel banished Ozriel beyond existence.

To save him, she cast him into the Void. He would return, of course; the Reaper was almost as adapted to the Void as a Vroshir. But it would not be easy.

In the meantime, Daruman struck down the Phoenix.

He watched in the present as the image of his future self tore Suriel apart. She kept regenerating, kept fighting, but eventually her power met its limit. He shattered her armor to dust, shredded her Mantle, and Oth’kimeth’s head emerged from Daruman’s body to devour her completely.

The seventh generation Suriel was gone, destroyed so utterly that there would never be another Phoenix after her. At least not until someone else rebuilt the position from the ground up.

The situation puzzled him.