The Three Thrones of Death

    “…”

    Sean felt his consciousness return. He was floating in silent, numbing darkness. Instinctively he knew that none of those words were entirely sufficient to describe his current state, but they were the closest his mind could retrieve right now. What surrounded him was simple and complete nothingness, an absence of any sensation he could use to anchor himself or interact with the world.

    He took a moment to assess his situation. On the positive side he didn’t have the urge to panic at his predicament, which was a pleasant surprise considering what he suspected had just happened. The pressure in his chest was gone, as was the constant urge to cough and the pervasive weakness in his body.

    On the less positive end, he wasn’t sure that he even had a body that could feel pain anymore. The void that surrounded him didn’t match any of the afterlives he’d ever heard of either, usually they were less “inky black void” and more “everlasting paradise”. He wondered if, perhaps, this was some sort of waiting room for something else.

    So Sean waited. And waited. And waited some more. He waited for what might have been minutes, but could have been years, there was really no way for him to tell. He finally accepted that nothing was happening. So, he thought, this is death then.

    A voice, a whisper and a scream of denial all at once, filled his mind.

    “No”

    If Sean’s soul could have left hit body, it would have. As it was, he tried to discern where the voice had come from without success. Cracks of light began to appear in the darkness, snaking their way down and around what appeared to be curved walls. Feeling quickly began to return to his body along with the light and he took advantage of it.

    His feet pushed off whatever was beneath him, propelling him unsteadily towards the closest crack.

    With a sharp snap, he impacted the wall. Its curved surface drove him slightly off course, but the impact was sufficient to shatter the brittle vessel containing him. Sean lost his balance as the wall gave way and shards of what looked like speckled green porcelain tumbled down around him, rolling out onto a black marble floor.

    He lifted his head, shaking bits of debris from his hair, and looked around. The raised platform he found himself on resided in a huge room. Walls of dark stone rose to vaulted ceilings illuminated by moving wisps of pale light. The platform itself seemed central, while the floor below it was lost in shadow. Most interestingly, the wall in front of Sean was textured differently than the others. It had carved patterns in it, groupings of straight ridges leading off in regular intervals. In its center a massive black orb, polished to a mirrored shine, showed his kneeling form and furrowed brow. On impulse, he reached his hand out to touch his reflection.

    The orb blinked.

    Sean screamed.

    Suddenly he was falling, the platform beneath him disappearing in the same instant. Stone gave way to richly appointed purple drapery and deep brown woodwork as he plummeted screaming. The ceiling and its lights seemed to follow him down and the walls contracted in, creating a strange feeling of weightlessness that made him queasy until he impacted – admittedly much more softly than he’d expected – the floor below.

    The pillows cushioning his fall let out a puff of dust that made him cough, but it was a normal cough – not the kind he’d been dealing with for the last few months.

    “Apologies for the mess,” a woman’s voice rang out from all around him, “We rarely receive guests these days.”

    Much like the room, the voice seemed to shrink as it spoke. It centered itself on the figure of a raven, standing in the middle of three plush thrones at the far end of the room from Sean.

    “What happened?” Sean croaked, pulling himself upright to face the bird, “Who are you?”

    The raven cocked its head to the side, membrane flicking across its eyes. “Both pertinent questions, fledgling, although you leave out the most important. We will do you the honor of answering.”

    Sean blinked and in place of the raven a different woman occupied each throne. All were the kind of pale he’d only seen at gaming conventions and late night theater marathons.

    “I am Mag, Goddess of Fallen Warriors,” said the rightmost woman. The first thing Sean noticed were her eyes, bright blue and full of promised violence. Red hair tumbled loosely down to shoulders clad in leather and bronze, like the rest of her well-muscled body. What skin he could see was pocked with scars.

    “I am Mog, Goddess of Fallen Mages,” said leftmost woman. Her long grey hair spilled from a green hood and across the front of a white robe embroidered with golden runes. Sean couldn’t see her eyes beneath the hem of her cowl, but she gave off a mature, matronly air.

    “And I am Mig, the Goddess of Fallen Kings” said the woman in the center. She was slight of build and wore a fur-lined purple mantle that covered her from neck to floor. Its hood was down, revealing a beautiful young woman with intricate golden braids ringing her head like a crown. Her grey eyes were stern, but not unkind.

    “Together we are the Goddess of Death of a world far from your own, Sean Byrne,” she continued, “which perhaps partially answers your second question. You passed in a place outside the influence of your world’s gods, a remnant of ancient pacts long neglected, and came instead to us.”

    Sean held up a hand, “Wait, so I did die? Then what is this place, your world’s afterlife?”

    Mog cackled, “In a sense, fledgling. This is indeed the realm of the dead, but you are no longer in danger of becoming a resident. When you died your soul came to us and we…” She trailed off and Sean could feel her poking around in his brain, searching for a familiar word. “Ah, yes, we rehomed it,” she continued, “into a vessel that will suit our purposes. It may seem familiar to you, but you’ve shucked off your old meat and been reborn anew.”

    “Which brings us to the question unasked,” Mig said.

    “Aye,” Mag interjected, “’What do I need to do to thank you for your boon, oh mighty goddesses?’. And I have the answer, go out and crack some skulls!”

    Sean could see Mog’s mouth threaten to turn up at the corners, “Not quite how I would have put it, but Mag is right. There is a geas woven into the fabric of your being that will bring you prosperity if you should observe it, and death if you do not. Do not fret though, we do not ask of you that which you are incapable.”

    Mig’s eyes met Sean’s eyes and she smiled reassuringly. “It is a simple task,” she said, “one which many before you have accomplished without the benefits of our aid. Indeed, it is an activity many of the souls in my charge engaged in simply for the pleasure of it.”

    Mag and Mog both nodded, smiling at their sister’s sage advice.

    “Alright, I suppose there isn’t any arguing with a goddess, let alone three. What do I have to do?” Sean asked.

    A map of a large island shimmered into being between Sean and his hostesses. On closer inspection, Sean saw it was a patchwork of different petty kingdoms and fiefdoms.

    “You must unite the island of Aiane under your banner and, in repayment of our boons, renew our worship throughout the land.”