Defender - Variel’s Story

Before you read

The following short story is a companion piece to the Deepwell Chronicles novel Echoes of Fallen Gods. As this story takes place during the final chapters of the book, and also is told from a perspective that gives a behind-the-scenes look at the events of the novel, please be aware that it contains heavy spoilers for the ending of Echoes of Fallen Gods. You're strongly encouraged to read the book first, if you haven't done so already.

Now also available as a free audiobook: https://www.youtube.com/@LordsOfTheStars

Defender - Variel’s Story

The Name spoke.

“Not yet,” He said, His voice crisp and deep, filled with infinite knowledge and unlimited authority.

It was not a command. He was free to reject the instruction, but Variel never even considered any action other than obedience. Through the eons, he had walked on a multitude of worlds across countless universes, all spoken into existence by the Name of the Word of Heaven, and on every one of them, he had seen firsthand the agonizing consequences of rebellion.

They were not all created equal, the different realities. In some, gravity did not exist. In others, magic was missing. There were those where the electroweak force never split, and there were creations where the speed of light was infinite. But in every universe where conditions allowed it—and in a few where they seemingly didn’t—the Name had nurtured life to flourish, eventually culminating in the rise of men. Not all of them looked the same, but they were all beings gifted with mental faculties mirroring His own. They were all His beloved children.

Behind Variel, one of them, a boy of five, stood in the middle of the rickety rope bridge crossing the chasm through which the river Lotar violently flowed. Frozen in terror, he watched the white water cascade below him. A few more steps, and he would have been safe on the other side, protected by the tender embrace of Dina Nauretian, the former Dark Flame of Patera. But fear had taken a grip on him, and he now refused to move any further. Beside him, his younger brother had stopped as well, desperately tugging at his older sibling’s sleeve.

Variel stood at the entrance to the bridge, the tip of his large sword resting on the first planks of the half-rotten contraption. At chin height, his right hand held the hilt of the weapon in a firm grip. No matter what came his way, he would not budge.

“Step aside,” Mardocar demanded, his eyes feverish from the carnage. None of the race of man could see them, of course, not unless the spirits deliberately showed themselves. That was rarely needed.

“I will not,” Variel told his former colleague. “You have no claim on the boys.”

Patera hissed.

“That may be the case,” the fallen spirit admitted. “But we do have one on the woman.”

“Really?” Variel replied with an amused smirk. “Are you sure?”

“She sold her soul to me seven years ago. She is my slave for eternity,” came the answer. The words were assertive, but they were betrayed by the lack of conviction in Patera’s voice.

“She did,” he admitted. It was true. She had. But it didn’t matter, not anymore.

“And…?” Variel continued. He always loved this part.

“And… I own her,” the so-called god of the world stated, desperately trying to get out of the verbal trap she had put herself in.

“Owned, Patera. Owned. Emphasis on past tense. And…?”

The fallen squirmed, but eventually relented. “And the Name of the Word has bought her back.”

“Indeed He has,” Variel stated, concluding the exchange. There was nothing further to discuss. Despite Patera’s attempt to claim it, whom Dina’s soul now belonged to had never actually been in question. She was the Name’s own, and no one would ever snatch her from His hand. Still, this was the only weapon the fallen had left. While Variel carried his sword proudly, the evil spirits no longer did. But despite having been disarmed on Victory Day, they were far from harmless.

But how could a finite being hurt its omnipotent creator? The question had haunted the fallen since the first days of their rebellion. How could they harm the one who was infinite? No matter how much they chipped away at the Name, He would always be stronger than the spirits He had created.

The truth was, they couldn’t, and this they knew well. But in their depravity, they had taken the very essence of the Name and turned it into a weapon against Him. They had exploited His love for mankind and turned it into a spear, directed at His heart. They couldn’t hurt Him directly, that much was true. But they could still harm His beloved children.

With every unloved baby, with every girl who was called words no daughter should ever have to hear, with every boy who was forgotten and unseen by his peers and with every woman abused and every man labeled a failure, the fallen hammered their pain into His heart, like nails driven through living flesh. Across the universes, they tortured the Name by the only means they had available to them.

In the distance, Variel could see the fires roiling above the burning homes of what had once been the small village of Grainsel. The smoke carried with it the revolting stench of the human sacrifices that had been performed there earlier that night. To him, and more importantly to the Name, the very notion of taking a life to satisfy the bloodthirst of a spirit was nothing short of an abomination.

Men, women and children. They should all have been the glittering jewels of the Name’s creation, their joy and laughter sparkling as they reflected His glory. But here, the fallen had reduced them to cattle, their worth limited to nothing more than the weight of their charred flesh. The precious gems He should have worn as a crown upon His head instead became thorns of agony.

Ahead of him, Variel saw Relaila’s lips move in silent prayer. He could not hear her words, but the Name did.

“Now.”

It was just one word, but Variel understood what the Name asked of him. This was the moment which the Name had known, all along, would eventually come. This was why he was here. Turning around, Variel gently laid his left hand on the young boy’s shoulder. He didn’t force the child to walk. There was no compulsion involved—that’d be akin to possession, and he would never do such a thing. But the touch brought with it a sense of peace. For a moment, the youngster could forget his crippling fear, and his feet began to move once more, carrying him safely over to the other side. Hand in hand with him, his brother followed.

On world after world, the fallen had executed their plan with cynic precision. Whispering sweet words of seduction into the ears of the first men, they had tempted them with empty promises of knowledge and false notions of freedom. One after another, the children of the Name had succumbed to the shackles of disobedience, as they turned their backs on Him.

But Taeron was different.

Here, the fallen had not had to work to achieve their goal.

This was one of the universes where the Name had created magic. Taeron was a wild world, its geology active, its weather violent, and its fauna monstrous. But on every world He had created, the Name had always provided men with the means they needed to survive. Here, that tool was magic.

The deepwell field was fundamentally no different from the gravitational or electromagnetic fields that permeated the cosmos. Just like anyone with eyes could see the photons carried through it, whoever was in possession of an intelligent mind could interact with the deepwell bosons that exchanged magic.

Together with the crude stone tools the first men learned to craft from the materials surrounding them, it should have been enough.

But the men and women of Taeron wanted more. Along with the smoke of their sacrificed firstborns, their prayers to anyone who might exist out there, and who would be willing to come to them and grant them stronger magic, was carried into the air.

And the fallen spirits listened. Invited into the world, they greedily accepted the bargain the first men made with them. In exchange for being worshipped as gods, they granted dark magic to the inhabitants of Taeron, more powerful than any which men could wield on their own.

With that, Taeron belonged to the fallen. On this world, mankind, willing and eager, had declared its allegiance to the evil spirits. And in an act that broke His heart, He had taken a step back, respecting that choice. On Taeron, the Name of the Word was now whispered in secret, known only by a select few. And here, the fallen now occupied a position more prominent than those they held on most other worlds.

But stepping back was never the same as abandoning.

Because the Name was the God of second chances.

He was hope, when all hope was lost. When you were at the end of your line, He gave you a new rope.

Ahead of him, on the slope leading up to the bridge, Variel saw Relaila Litarian, ritual child murderer and former Blood Sister of Remura, lift up a small girl into her arms. Risking her life to protect the youngsters now in her care, she shielded them with her own body against the two agents of the so-called gods bent on sacrificing them.

And those who were beyond redemption, He redeemed.

“Fancy a swim?”

The question ended with a deep, booming chuckle. Variel smiled. The Name enjoyed making little jokes like that. He loved making those around him laugh. And why shouldn’t He? After all, the Name was the One who had invented humor in the first place, and there was no circumstance dark enough that a smile couldn’t brighten it. But His jokes were always respectful, always personal, always tailored to those listening to them, and never told at the expense of anyone else.

“You will be needed downriver in a few minutes,” the Name continued. “A log will be floating there. You need to guide it.”

Variel nodded, eager to fulfill the wishes of his creator.

Then, the Name surprised him.

“And there you will, for a moment, show yourself to Themur Mauran, to remind him he is not alone and give him hope to carry on.”

As reasons for obeying went, what could be better than that?