***The World***

***Seria***

Myrm hadn't gotten any worse since I decided to take action against her deteriorating mental state. Sadly, she hadn't gotten any better either and was still stubbornly fixated on her personal crusade against Ascathon who she perceived as her personal archenemy.

It wasn't that much of a surprise that the latest political ploy of Ascathon's minions was like a slap to her face.

The assassination of Magnolia's king, a little, neutral patch of land between the Alliance and the Empire came as a surprise to the Alliance. They thought that they had covered their tracks well enough, right up until King Lucius responded with force.

Myrm thought that she had the little city-state in her pocket and with it a perfect way to infiltrate the Empire. I chuckle at remembering the expression on her face when she read the message while I was in her office.

But their leader's death caused a complete turnaround in Magnolia's city-council. Within a few days, which is practically overnight on a political time scale, the city's remaining leadership closed off all friendly connections with the Alliance. The Alliance's agents and operations were kicked out, leaving only a small diplomatic core in the city.

Together with the returning exiles, the Alliance's government got a nice little letter. Its contents were an elongated rant about how Magnolia would return to its valued neutrality, honouring the old ways of its wise and peaceful ancestors.

I assume that Myrm's original plan was to abuse the Empire's weak military defences along Magnolia's border in a Blitzkrieg manoeuvre. They would have marched unchallenged through the neutral country, aided by their spies' intelligence.

The only problem was that the Empire had noticed this plan and reacted by amassing troops of their own on their side of Magnolia's border.

I chuckle involuntarily upon studying the map which I have on the wall of my little domicile. It's located on a patch of land which is floating freely in the skies above the world, a little trick which I learned from my father a long time ago.

The leadership of Magnolia saw the war between the Alliance and the Empire coming from afar, which would have made their intelligence and foresight commendable. Sadly, they failed to honour their neutrality. Staying true to their outward ideals wouldn't have guaranteed their non-involvement in the war, but it would have been the safer bet in my opinion.

Myrm is an idealist and so are her followers. It's true that the Alliance reached out to Magnolia's government, but had the king simply said no, Myrm would have stayed away.

With Ascathon and his puppet, Luxley, it would have been a different story. They certainly wouldn't hesitate to overrun a little neutral country it there was any benefit in it, but they also wouldn't unnecessarily go out of their way to wage war on everything in their sight just because they can.

Had they insisted and honoured their neutrality from the start, I am sure Magnolia's strategic position would have been unimportant enough to stay out of the line of fire, even in an all-out war. They would have been pulled into the war eventually, but it would have been a slow and gradual process. There are far more important resources and natural strategic positions to hold than either the Empire or the Alliance are able to take care of in their current state.

Magnolia's leadership created an easy opportunity to exploit by inviting the Alliance in. With their own actions, they created the very situation they wanted to avoid. Now, instead of being a neutral country, the city-state is caught between the front lines of both sides' armies.

Magnolia's territory would be turned into the first battlefield of a war with an indeterminable outcome. In their desperation to safeguard their home, they doomed what they wanted to protect.

Both sides had access to vast resources and manpower, their populations roughly equal from a military point of view. Each also had a god on their side, an immortal being which guaranteed a steady flow of knowledge and good advice.

I knew Ascathon had a slight edge in that department. There was hardly a being in existence who could challenge him on the fields of the technological sciences and magic.

On the other hand, Myrm was no slouch either, and I have no doubt that she would bring in assistance from other worlds, should her people turn out to be in need of education. Ascathon had already taken this step. Also, Myrm herself was a genius when it came to biological and genetic research, which meant that she could rival Ascathon's ability to share arcane knowledge.

I already dread the thought of the both of them teaching their followers ways to utilize nuclear warfare or to deploy purpose-built biological weapons. Once those gloves came off, the world would quickly turn into a wasteland.

This place was never really peaceful, and somehow there was always a war to fight. But somehow the inhabitants of this world had always lacked the means to do permanent damage.

Well, there was this one incident in which Ascathon's former alter-ego blew up the centre of the continent; which was originally called the Eternal Battlefield. Now they call it the Blight because nothing grows there. The radiation poisoning is still strong enough to kill off even plants.

As it is, things could get nasty very quickly even if there are only mortals involved on both sides. With two or more immortals entering the playing field, I wasn't quite so sure that the world itself wouldn't suffer. After all, I was quite certain that Myrm had managed to rally at least some of the other deities of our impromptu pantheon for her campaign.

There were three or four who I am sure are firmly in Myrm's camp, aiding her in one way or the other.

I have to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

Looking around, I leave the small bungalow on the floating island. It's not much, just a little single-story abode with four rooms, kept in an eastern-style. Made out of wood, it's located in the centre of the floating island, which isn't much more than fifty metres in diameter. A few steps through the perfectly maintained garden take me to the edge.

The little robot which acts as my gardener ignores me, busy with maintaining some flowerbed.

Looking down at the world, I start wondering why anyone of my calibre would concern her- or himself with such a little ball of dirt.

The answer is: Nobody.

Aside from the youngest and the weakest of the gods, none of us would be bothered by the fate of a single world. That's why the Council's actions bother me. I understand that they wish for control, but why in this manner? They surely aren't concerned with the mortals, or Tjenemit would have stopped what's developing between Myrm's and Ascathon's followers.

What they must be after are the potential new gods, but why? Because nobody would mourn for them if they joined the ranks of those who mysteriously disappeared? Because one thing is certain, the Council's control will slip further out of their fingers the more gods go missing. Our personalities are cut out for survival, so most of us duck their heads and disappear inside some hole when the shadow of disaster looms over their heads. But if things go on like this for much longer, people will start thinking that it's only a question of time before it's their turn. Once that thought takes root, there will be those who will decide to fight openly.

My silent musings are interrupted when I feel the World Enchantment's pull.

Reacting quickly, I wrap myself in a shroud of confusion and shadow, making myself invisible to the mortals. It's a practise that became standard doctrine for me. Instead of interacting directly with the mortals, it's much easier to fulfil the World Enchantment's terms in more subtle ways.

I appear in a line of soldiers, some of them praying to whatever deity they chose as their patron god. One glance is enough to tell me that they are from the alliance. Their leaders chose to defend a small hill amidst fields of corn. Facing them is an army which is very similar in its makeup.

Amidst medieval infantry which is mostly equipped with spears, they have some siege weapons and cavalry. In the skies above both armies are flying airships, huge monstrosities just like I remember them from the Eternal War.

And there I thought that artefacts of that potency were lost to history. They must have either found the airships mothballed away in some hidden cave, or Ascathon and Myrm both taught their followers how to create and repair these things.

If they are fully functional, things will get ugly for the ground-pounders down here. No wonder that they are already praying for an easy passing to the afterlife.

From what I can see, the Empire's forces are smaller in numbers, but they look much better equipped. Without a doubt, they also have quite a few undead among their ranks. Those can be counted as four of five normal soldiers.

Their disadvantage in numbers is more than compensated by the fact that they have three airships on their site, while the Alliance just has two. In days long forgotten to the world, there were entire fleets of these things, sailing proudly to their doom in gigantic air-battles.

I am still considering the situation and my role in it, when the two armies start marching towards each other, following some hidden signal.

The lines of soldiers are generously placed twenty metres away from each other. This makes it unlikely that too many soldiers get caught up in a spell, should one get through the magical defences. It also makes it easier for each magic user to protect the group of soldiers under his care.

The Empire's forces approach the hill, while the Alliance's troops move to meet them halfway up the gentle incline, probably hoping that the lay of the land would give them some slight advantage.

Generally, fighting downhill can be seen as an advantage, but I doubt that it makes much – if any – difference with the number of mages and magical devices involved. All soldiers are heavily supported by magical enhancements.

Maybe I should just strike down those who are praying for an easy death, just to get home. But I promised Ascathon and Myrm to stay neutral. It probably wouldn't do to sow the seed of fear among the Alliance's ranks by striking down one of their soldiers out of nowhere.

Either way, it doesn't happen often that the Goddess of Life and Death gets summoned to a battlefield. Those who pray to me often wish for an easy departure to the afterlife or a safe delivery at birth. Both are things which rarely happen on a battlefield fuelled by mortal greed and hatred.

Feeling a slight tug on me, I follow the World Enchantment's compulsion and stay close to the mortal who summoned me in his fear. Despite his obviously unfit state to fight on a battlefield like this one, he stays in line with his comrades, chanting the prayer that summoned me like a mantra.

I saunter after them, making sure to keep my distance while I rely on my protections to keep me safe. My shrouding may keep me invisible to the normal man, but people will notice if spells don't behave like they should upon hitting me. I am not here to influence the outcome of the battle.

Falling in step with the advancing soldiers, I listen to the beats of their drums, their cries of challenge. Magical siege engines and ballistas join their cacophony, and above them, the airships charge up with the ‘whirr’ of strategic-class spells.

It’s the old song of mortal folly, kindled by immortal players behind the curtain. I don’t blame Myrm or Ascathon for what they are. They are simply an eternal constant in this round dance.

It’s the mortals' own fault if they join the dance. After all, they could have just said, “No,” and walked away.

The airships launch the first strike almost simultaneously, making it impossible to tell who struck the first blow. Lances of plasma and balls of fire light up the sky, quickly followed by orange cascading force fields deflecting the destructive energies of their counterparts. Some of the energies get deflected in random directions and hit the battlefield below, claiming the first casualties as wards and defences are overwhelmed by much more powerful magic.

As if the crescendo of exploding magic was a signal, both armies charge, still feeling the relative safety of the magic users who are assisting the ranks, providing magical protections.

Sensing their turn, the twanging of arrows and the sizzling of spells joins the symphony. Most get caught by previously erected wards and countermagic, while others get through, stunting the advance of both sides.

I raise my hands in an attempt to conduct this musical play, remembering Ascathon's peculiar behaviour when he is on a battlefield. Is that what he does when he plays with his hands while overseeing a battle? Is this his way of coping with what’s happening, with the cruel reality of the world? Or is he so unfeeling to towards the mortals that he simply doesn’t care, and his actions are fuelled by his own amusement? Maybe it’s all just one great game to him.

But no. That can’t be the case. Whatever he is, he isn’t uncaring. He is a man with certain principles which he follows unerringly. That’s his way of coping with the ways of the world.

When the first ranks of soldiers clash into each other, the cries of encouragement and sounds of powerful weapons are quickly joined by the shrieks of the maimed and dying.

I listen, taking note of the short, pain-filled sounds. Unlike in the movies, a person in real, mind breaking pain doesn’t let out a single, continuous scream. They try to scream, and any human being would recognize the sound instinctively. When a person tries to announce his pain to all the world, trying to reach anyone who might help. They try to raise their voice as loud as possible and the emitted sound climbs an octave by the second, right until their vocal cords fail and their voice breaks in a rather unmanly manner.

Then there is the blood and the gore, the severed body parts and the stink of shit and piss. It makes me want to wash. That’s something none of the tales of glorious battles share with the audience. That this worshipped moment of glorious battle was – and is in truth – a rather gruesome affair.

Some strange spell lands right in the ranks in front of me, breaking through the defending mage’s protections. When it passed through, it wasn't much more than a small ball of light, somehow bypassing all defences. But as soon as it is inside the shields, it activates and unfolds all its power into a conjured mass of blades. The small ball of ghostly plasma turns into a whirlwind of slicing death, shredding its targets like a meatgrinder. Blood sprays, body parts fly, men scream and die.

I coo, appreciating the craftsmanship of this magical construct. It’s a far cry from anything an immortal would have the time to come up with, but if the caster was a mortal, then I have to acknowledge his ingenuity.

The spell caught only a few men, not enough to change the outcome of the battle. Had the soldiers simply ignored it, the rest of them would have been fine. But as it often is with flashy magic, the spell draws attention and makes an impression. Seeing a comrade turned into itty-bitty-little pieces has that kind of effect. Maybe the spell was even intentionally made with cruelty in mind, instead of just blowing the enemy up.

It’s the frightened man’s fault, the one who summoned me with his fear.

He turns and runs, fleeing the battle like a startled sheep, going so far as to drop his weapon.

Seeing his frantic escape, several of his comrades lose their calm and give in to the fear of death. The battle-line quickly dissolves into chaos as formerly brave men abandon their positions. The only one who doesn’t break ranks is the mage who was in charge of protecting the platoon. Instead of wasting his energy on protecting the mundane deserters, he retracts his wards, concentrating on those who are flooding in from neighbouring positions in an attempt to fill the gap.

I sigh, seeing the end coming as a mage on the other side notices a bunch of juicy, unprotected targets.

A ball of necrotic-green energy rises into the air and comes screaming down on the deserters. Exploding in their midst, it releases sparks of deadly energies, dissolving flesh and bones in a nova of green death.

It's low energy spell, easily blocked by any kind of shielding, but the men who chose to flee had no such protections.

The coward who started everything gets caught in the spell and falls, opening his mouth to scream as some magical effect, plague or curse ripples through his flesh.

It's finally my turn and I fulfil my duty to the World Enchantment, ripping the mortal’s soul right out of his body with a wave of my hand. His bonds easily come loose, very much unlike when I try to take the soul of a god. He is already dead when his empty flesh hits the ground.

I relieve the others who were hit of their suffering, even though they didn't pray to me.

Looking at the battle which is now all around me, I wonder if that little bit less pain in the world had any meaning at all if there is so much of it.

One of the Empire's airships comes crashing down, taken out by one of the Alliance's siege engines, a large floating ziggurat, which I only now realize was an anti-air defence platform.

I take a little more time to watch the mortals' brutal handiwork, the thing they are best at, no matter when or where in the multiverse you look. Sick of it, I return home.

In a way, I am no better, so I shouldn't judge them. What I am planning will create death on an even larger scale than just a single world.