Renegade

Panzure walked out of the door carefully, and looked either way to see who was there. Suddenly something was poking in between his shoulder blades, and he immediately froze.
"Who are you?" a voice behind him asked. It was light an airy, not the sort of voice that a thief would have.
"Panzure."
"The mercenary?"
"Yup."
"I'm a friend."
"A bloody unfriendly friend." Panzure snorted.
"Is your neck broken?"
"What? No!"
"That's why I'm your friend."
Panzure shifted slightly. Something was wrong about the weapon poking into his back. It felt too blunt, too... wooden.
"That's no sword!" Panzure yelled. "It's a damn staff! And you're a bloody monk!"
Panzure turned around, only to see a long wooden staff hit him sharply in the stomach. It curved upwards into his chin and then knocked his legs out from underneath him.
He lay on his back, clutching his stomach and groaning. The monk stood over him, pointing the staff at his throat.
"And that makes it, and me, less dangerous? I may be a monk, but I live in Mimir, don't I?"
Panzure agreed silently through the haze of pain. Mimir was a tough city, and there was always some unholy threat about...
The thought stuck in Panzure's mind for a moment. If one of the allies the elder mentioned was a monk, then perhaps he could be dealing with...
He leapt up with surprising vigour and shook his head.
"No way! Count me out! That damn geezer back there said nuthin' about Chaos! I'm not cross any of the Chaos Lords! I like my spine where it is!"
"It's not Chaos."
"Oh. Good."
The monk sighed and pulled back his hood. His eyes were pure white, and a long, fresh scar cut across his face. Panzure had his fair share of scars, but this looked awful. It almost covered half his face. "It's something far, far worse."
"Oh. Damn."

The monk walked off briskly down the cobbled road, only stopping to touch a wall for a moment. Panzure followed him and looked up at the wall. On it was a pattern of notches and bumps, carved crudely into the brickwork.
"What's this?"
"Beggar's Way. Helps the blind amongst them find their way around Mimir."
"You learnt it from them?"
"You could say that," said the monk, stopping at another sign and running his fingers over it. "I've had to heal many beggars who've had their eyes put out."
"Put out?" Panzure excaimed.
"Things happen in Mimir, and someone or something doesn't want credible witnesses, but there are too many beggars around. That's why they have their eyes put out. Blind Norns are not allowed inside a court of law."
"Ouch." Panzure said, wincing. He'd seen eyes gouged out before, and it was not a pretty sight.

The monk led Panzure to a small temple near the riverside. Inside, it looked like a full-scale war had taken place. Books were scattered, some burnt out of recognition, and shelves were broken like twigs in a thunderstorm.
"What happened here?" muttered Panzure.
"It was a holy place, now ruined by insanity," the monk said, coldly.
Panzure nudged aside a book with his boot, and noticed the blood dripping off the pages.
"What did they want?"
The monk pulled a huge tome from the rubble, bound in iron and gold. It looked very impressive, and Panzure casually glanced at the cover. Then his eyes went wide.
"The Book of Creation?!"
"Yes. The writing of the Golden One. How our world was formed."
"But you'll die if you read that!" Panzure gabbled, panicking. "You bones will turn to molten lead and your eyes will pop, and, and-!!!!"
The monk hit Panzure round the head with the staff again, then he laughed for the first time, a melodious chuckle. Panzure was still trembling, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. The Book of Creation was the forbidden word of the Golden One. It was said that no-one on Midgard could read the words.
"Relax, merc! This won't do anything to anyone. It's not cursed, or whatever you mother may have told you as a child."
"Oh. Do you need me to read it for you?"
"No. This isn't a normal book."
So saying, he passed a hand over the surface of the book. It glowed slightly, before a loud voice spoke from nowhere.
"You are Tan'et Cathel, Monk of Varius. Golden Desert Norn, male. You may read," it boomed in a flat, monotonous voice.
"Nice trick, but what has this got to do with the trouble in Mimir? Or the state of this temple? And who the hell is Varius?"
"Book," said Tan'et, "vocalise passage 184, on the Old Gods."

The book began speaking in a different voice, one which sounded more alive than the flat voice beforehand.
"Tuesday. I have decided to stick with the thirteen main Gods of old Shee myth. A few of the lesser Gods seem stable, but the rest are failures. Taexus, the God of Plagues, has put three Shee into the infirmary already, and Zalae, the Goddess of Madness, keeps on trying to fight Varius, the God of Ways and Roads. So far, Varius is one of the few lesser Gods who remains sane. I think I must be forced to release them onto Midgard, no matter the consequences, but the other Gods must never know of their existence."
Panzure snorted and cracked his knuckles.
"I've seen roadside conjurors do better tricks than that! Old Gods, my arse!"
Tan'et stared at him coldly for a while. "Book," he said, "visualise subject 12, Maki."
Panzure immediately froze at the mention of that name, and made a small choking sound when the Chaos God appeared in from on him, eyes blazing with rage. He floated above the book, larger than life. Tan'et stayed calm and cool, though he could not see the personification of evil before him.
"Poke him," the monk said cheerfully.
Panzure tried to reply, but all that came out was a strangled cough. Was he mad? Poke Maki?
Before he could attempt to speak again, Tan'et waved his hand straight through the Chaos Lord. Around his hand, the colours of Maki's clothes and fur rippled and distorted.
"Wha-?"
"It is a magical image, merc. This magic is stronger than anything you may have seen before. It belonged to the Golden One himself."
"A-, wha-, bu-, hm-?" Panzure managed, still staring as the image of Maki twisted around Tan'et's hand.
"Awhabuhm, indeed, merc. But we have work to do. Another relic of the Ancients was stolen by one of the Old Gods."
"Mad one or sane one?"
"Mad one."
"Damn. What did he steal?"
"Book, vocalise passage 230, on the Glove of Annihilation."
Panzure sighed. The name was almost enough to make him wish he was back in the Grendel-Chaos war five years back. Almost, but not quite.

"Friday. It has taken me a few days, armed only with a packet of biscuits and a jar of finest coffee, to create the Glove of Annihilation. My Jotun bodyguard asked if it was a weapon, but I dismissed his violence-orientated views. The Glove is simple for carving out valleys, removing large forests, and melting rock," the Book said, sounding rather excitable at the prospect.
"Not a weapon?" Panzure exclaimed. "This thing could do so much damage..."
He trailed off, staring at Tan'et's face. He now knew what had made the huge burn scar. He let out a long, shakey sigh and sat down heavily.
"I was lucky. Taexus didn't know then how to control the glove. I was hit a glancing blow by the weakest blast."
"So it isn't Chaos."
"No."
"It's bloody worse. We have primeval gods to tackle, and they have a weapon of unknown and highly destructive power."
"Yes."
"And on our side is me, you, and some other deranged social outcasts, no doubt."
"Yes."
"With thousands of innocent lives in the way, who have no idea what's going on."
"Yes."
"Sounds like my kind of fight. Let's go."  

Chapter 1

Chapter 3