Mad God's Muse

by Matthew P Gilbert

  “They are not my men if they do not feel the same.” Brutus glowered at him. “And you? Do you quiver in fear, perhaps, that Ilaweh’s will might end your life?”

  Ahmed shook his head, thinking of Yazid again. “No. Only that I might fail him.” As I am now. He closed his eyes, trying to find some other words, but there were none. For good or ill, the decision had already been made.

  Brutus clapped a heavy hand on Ahmed’s. “Then let us rest. Ilaweh’s will be done.”

  Ahmed looked back out over the waves, feeling helpless, as the disc of the sun dipped below the horizon. “It surely will.”

  Ahmed woke to the sound of crashing timbers and shouting men. There was no doubt in his mind as to why. The only real question was who would survive.

  It was pitch black in the captain’s cabin. There should have been lanterns burning! He leapt from his hammock and staggered, almost falling as the deck ambushed him from an unexpected direction. It was not flat beneath him as it should be. Ahmed was no seaman, but even he knew this was a bad thing. How could the ship stay afloat if it tilted and filled with water?

  “Ahmed!” Brutus shouted from his cabin. There was an odd edge to his voice, enough to set Ahmed's intuition singing. This will not be good.

  “Here! I'm coming!” Ahmed felt his way along in the dark, trying to overcome the disorienting sensation that he was climbing downhill, at last finding the opening between their cabins. There was no privacy aboard a ship, so there was no door to battle, only a makeshift curtain they had hung. Ahmed struggled through the opening, blind.

  Light flared as he entered, and he raised an arm to shield his eyes. Brutus, sitting against the bulkhead, adjusted the wick of a lantern he had somehow salvaged. He hung the lantern on a wall hook that was no longer in quite the correct position for the task. The lantern settled at an awkward angle, tilted almost to spilling its oil on the floor, its flickering light casting shadows skittering over a skewed, slanted world.

  Ahmed almost wished it were still dark. The ceiling above Brutus’s hammock was splintered, and a huge spar of wood had fallen on the captain, pinning him. Brutus grimaced and beckoned Ahmed forward. “To me! Quickly, before it is too late!”

  Cold water swirled about Ahmed’s ankles as he moved quickly across the tilted deck and seized the massive weight pressing Brutus to the floor. He hauled at it with all his might. Brutus shook his head a moment, then pushed against it as well, leaning forward, the cords in his neck popping out from exertion. The spar moved, but only inches.

  Ahmed grimaced as he saw the grim depth of Brutus’s predicament: the huge timber was more than just a weight. It had not broken cleanly. A sharp spindle had sunk deep into Brutus's belly, passing right through him and into the bulkhead behind.

  Brutus’s hands slipped first, and then Ahmed’s. Brutus cried out in agony as the spar slammed back into place. The ship itself seemed to scream with him in empathy, straining wood and creaking lumber wailing in their own version of pain. Their vessel, like her captain, was dying.

  Brutus leaned his head back and looked up at what should be the sky above him, gasping in misery. “It is no use! Do not behave like a woman!”

  Ahmed shook his head, trying to stay focused. From elsewhere on the ship, he could hear screams and shouts, but here and now were what mattered most. “We try again!”

  “Even if we get it off, I am still dead! There is no time!” Brutus's eyes rolled in his head as he struggled against the pain. “You must bring my papers to the prince! Swear it to me, prelate, in the name of Ilaweh!”

  Ahmed ground his teeth. The water had grown higher now. It was approaching his knees, and Brutus’s chest.

  Brutus grabbed Ahmed's shirt and pulled him close. The captain’s face was a mask of pain, but his eyes burned bright with purpose. “Swear it!”

  “By Ilaweh, I swear.”

  “Quickly then. In my footlocker. There is an oilcloth bag.”

  Ahmed opened the locker, and found the bag at the very top. “This?”

  “Yes. It must reach Prince Philip. Go quickly. If you don’t clear the wreck, it will drag you down with it!” Brutus gasped and fell silent, eyes closed. For a moment, Ahmed thought the captain was dead, but at last he opened his eyes and said, “There is but one thing more. I ask a favor of you, not for duty, but for friendship.”

  Ahmed felt his guts churn, certain what Brutus would have him do, and sick with the knowledge, but he accepted the burden nonetheless. “Name it,” he said as he tucked the oilcloth bag into his shirt.

  “Do not let me drown, brother.”

  Ahmed clenched his jaw and nodded.

  Brutus pointed. “My sword. There. It is a fine weapon, Ahmed. It has slain many. It’s yours now. Use it well.”

  Ahmed took the scabbard and drew the blade from it. The metal sang as it quivered in the air. Brutus smiled at him. “You were right, brother. Go. Save the world.”

  Ahmed raised the blade. “I will try, brother. Ilaweh is great.”

  “You will succeed. That is not a hope, it is an order!” He chuckled softly, then grew somber. “Ilaweh is great. I am ready.” Brutus leaned his head to the side to offer as easy a target as possible.

  Ahmed struck Brutus’s head from his shoulders with a single, swift blow and silently gave thanks to Ilaweh for guiding his hand. He shook the blood from the sword, sheathed it, and stood a moment, knowing it was unwise, but feeling compelled. A comrade had fallen, one Ahmed had come to call friend. Brutus's passing should be marked. No words were needed. Brutus was not that sort of man. But a few seconds of silent respect were appropriate, and worth risking.

  Ahmed managed half a minute before the ship gave another violent lurch. He heard more splintering, and new screams from the main deck. I know! Hurry up. He waded toward the cabin door, tried the latch, and felt his belly fill with ice. The door wouldn’t budge.

  Calm yourself. If it is Ilaweh’s will, you will live. It was easy enough to accept in theory, but unlike Brutus, he had no one to spare him from drowning.

  He tried the latch again, making certain he had actually released it. No good. Something heavy was blocking the door. Ahmed took a deep breath. The water was rising quickly, almost to his hips. He was running out of time.

  He hurled a shoulder against the exit, and felt the weight on the other side shift. The door yielded slightly, perhaps an inch, but no more. He tried again, and a third time, but it was the same.

  Ahmed could feel the panic in his heart, yowling and searching for an exit like a cat in a shower. He crushed it down, knowing that it would do him little good. Still, he felt its claws tearing at him from within. He drew Brutus’s sword and began hacking at the door. Perhaps the top was clear, and he could crawl over the obstruction.

  The ship lurched again, more violent this time, with a groan that sent shudders throughout the frame. The floor tilted beneath Ahmed’s feet, water churned, and he lost his footing.

  When he surfaced again, it was to blackness. The lantern was out, and he had no idea where the door was. The panic in him drew strength from this and surged at the chains of faith with which he had bound it, a frenzied beast intent on freedom.

  The water was at his chest now, and freezing cold. He could taste the sea on his lips, or was it blood? His, Brutus's, who could say? It was quiet now, just the sloshing of the rising water and the sound of his own labored, shuddering breath. He struggled to reorient himself, to find the door again. Surely, if this was the end, it would not be because he had not tried. But the door was simply gone. He pounded his fists against unyielding wood in frustration.

  The ship groaned again, and he heard wood creaking under pressure. A board, perhaps right next to him, gave way with a sharp report, and water rushed in. Something hit his chest, something small but hard. He reached for it, but found nothing. Another groan came from overhead, and then a great splintering, shredding sound. Ahmed simply stood. How could he know if he were avoiding a blow, or leaping into one? It was in Ilaweh
’s hands.

  The water was rising faster now. It was up to his neck. This was his end, then. He shook his head at the irony, that a man from the desert should suffer such a death. He felt the fear in his heart subside, replaced with acceptance. He was ready, as difficult as the path was. Ilaweh’s will be done.

  As the water closed over his head, Ahmed Justinius looked up one last time before he closed his eyes, and saw, in the pitch darkness, a twinkling of light. The door was over his head, and through the hole he had hacked in it he could see the moon.

  Energy surged into him as he seized the edge of the wood. He could not strike a blow against it, not under water, but he could pull. He did so with all his might.

  Ilaweh, if it is your will that I die, let me die well. And if it is not, then give me strength!

  Ahmed felt as if his arms would tear themselves from his body. Five seconds. Ten. Fifteen. His muscles tightened even more, and his breath burst from him in a cry of exertion. This would be his last chance. Twenty seconds. Twenty five.

  The door gave way with a splintering crack that Ahmed heard even through the water in his ears. The moon above wavered with the water covering him. He clambered through the opening and burst to the surface, sucking in air in great gasps.

  He was on the main deck, what was left above the water at any rate. He saw men leaping from the railings, and remembered Brutus’s warning to escape the ship before it went down, or he would be dragged down with it.

  Ahmed struggled to climb the tilted deck, to reach a high point and jump as the others were doing. He couldn’t help but smile at the irony. He had no idea how to swim.

  I will learn, he promised himself. I will learn right now.

  He leapt over the rail and into the dark, rolling waves. He watched the others, and tried to do as they did, digging and crawling through the water like sand. In the distance, he saw lights, and what looked like land, and his heart sank.

  Too far. Far too far, and I am exhausted and freezing, and out of my element. Ilaweh, I have failed you. Yet he swam on.

  Ilaweh’s will would be done.

  Chapter 3

  The Dead God

  Aiul had realized fairly quickly that, while he was in a prison, it was not the prison. His cell was far from luxurious, but there was at least enough space in the small, brick room to stand and pace. It even included a toilet. The door was clad in iron. Aiul tested it, and found it locked just as he had expected.

  He spied a small view port at eye level in the door. His captors had been either negligent or kind enough to leave it open. It restricted his view to a narrow section of the chamber outside his cell, but he could see working lanterns on the walls, proof that he was most definitely not in the pit.

  It was the next morning before he saw anyone. The newcomer was dressed in black mail, a guardsman of Nihlos, though his armor bore no markings of house or rank, and he wore his helmet with the visor down.

  “You, there!” Aiul shouted. “What is the meaning of this? Where am I?”

  The guard ignored Aiul and went about his business. He refilled and relit lanterns, then turned briefly toward Aiul’s cell, as if verifying all was in order. “The traitor lives,” he called out in a loud voice, as if he were informing others.

  Then he turned and disappeared up the stairs.

  Shirini stirred at the steaming pot of soup again. It was sooner than necessary, but she had her rituals. When troubled by events beyond her control, she gave extra attention to the details she could actually influence.

  She had no real need to even be here. As a principal of House Noril's slaves, she had many underlings she could task. She might have spent her time gossiping, even napping, though of course she would be held responsible if her people made a mess of things. That, she supposed, was part of why she was here, but the greater part was simpler, and something she would never admit to the others: she loved the work. Cooking was a joy, an art, a solace. She needed it now.

  Across House Noril’s enormous kitchen, Parala and Cyndi, both young trollops who spent far too much time sowing dissent amongst the male slaves, tittered as they cut and laid out biscuits on a pan. Shirini scowled at them in disapproval, but said nothing. She had been young, once, too, and had done her share of gossiping. But I kept my skirt down more than the two of them, that's certain.

  Cyndi pressed a cup into the flattened dough and giggled at the farting sound it made. “What do you reckon he did? The man in the prison?”

  “I heard he stole from the house,” Parala said as she slid a tray of biscuits into one of the many brick ovens.

  Shirini stirred her soup again vigorously, not deigning to look up as she spoke. “You two cluck like hens, and with about the same result. There's no man in the prison.”

  Cyndi gaped at her. “Yes there is! Everybody knows it. My boyfriend saw them bring him in.”

  Shirini gave her a hard look. “Which one would that be, missy? The liar, the tale-spinner, or the one too stupid to mind his own business?”

  Cyndi, chagrined, stared at the floor and said nothing. Shirini waved her spoon at the two of them. “There ain't no man in the prison, you hear me? If you know what's good for you, that's the tale you'll tell. Don't test me.”

  The two girls grew somber, but Parala brightened quickly. “How about the woman in with Master Davron?” she asked, a leer on her face. “Can we talk about her?”

  Shirini sighed and turned back to her pot. “If you keep your voice down. And you better keep up on them biscuits, too. It wouldn't do for us to lay a poor serving for her, would it?”

  Cyndi snickered at this, and made a show of slowly peeling a biscuit and gently, painstakingly moving it to a baking tray. “If we make a good impression, maybe the Master will get himself an heir.”

  Shirini slapped her spoon on the counter. “First off, it's not your business to be meddling in such things.” She allowed herself a wry smile as she continued, “And how in Mei’s name can we hear what they're saying if you two keep nattering on?” She folded her arms across her chest, smiling with satisfaction as the girls' eyes widened, and they nodded in conspiratorial agreement. Cyndi gestured sewing her lips shut, and the kitchen fell silent save for the gentle farting of dough and scraping of pans.

  Shirini looked out the serving window into the dining room where Master Davron and his guest sat at a low coffee table, talking quietly. Not quietly enough, now that these chickens have the idea.

  The woman was a real looker, with long, raven hair, deep green eyes, and full, red lips. She had noble written all over her, but her build was anything but. Noblewomen tended to be way too thin in Shirini's opinion, but this one bucked that trend. She had bosoms to rival Shirini's own well-cultivated pair, and her red, silk dress was cut to display them well. More, her hips were wide and fine in contrast to her narrow waistline. Shirini winced at her own broadened waist, then shrugged with good nature. She'd had enough babies, and was enjoying being done with that part of life. She felt no guilt at enjoying eating at least as much as cooking, and there was plenty of interest from the men despite it. Not so much from the younger ones, but then I prefer men to boys anyway.

  Davron's guest crossed her legs and leaned in seductively, but her eyes gave lie to the pose. “How long do you intend to go on with this foolishness? It threatens my only son, and for what?”

  Davron offered her a patronizing smile. He was a damned fine specimen of a man, Shirini mused. He dressed well, but without pretense, and had bulges in all the right places, quite a feat for a man of his age. “It will go on as long as it amuses me,” he told the woman. “I'll decide if he lives or dies in my own good time.” The woman opened her mouth to speak, but Davron help up a hand. “I have no sons, but I had a nephew, until recently. He was a useless thing, really, partial to debauchery, but his mother loved him. He was a regular at Tasinalta's disgusting orgies. For once in his life, the fool found a use for his balls beyond fucking, and the Southlanders cut him down like a dog.”

&nbs
p; The woman smirked at this. “No sons, you say? Imagine that. Don't care for girls do you?”

  Davron laughed in appreciation of the gibe. “I like 'women' not girls. The problem lies with my wife, if you must know.”

  “So set her aside.”

  Davron sneered at this. “Perhaps that's how you handle such things in the lesser houses,” he said. “In house Noril, we value loyalty, history, duty.”

  The woman answered with a seductive smile. “That's good to know.”

  Shirini growled to herself, and clutched her spoon in anger. Who are you, bitch, to mock him so?

  Narelki stared at her trembling hands, willing them to be still, but the best she could manage was to quiet their shaking, not eliminate it. Her gut churned in helpless, blind objection to reality. Once, that would have been enough to move worlds. She felt her eyes burning as tears welled, uncertain if they were for Aiul or for her own lost self.

  I will not do this! She clamped her eyes closed and gritted her teeth. There must be something left! Some tiny shred, at least! People change all of the time, but they don't simply turn in on themselves and vanish. A snake can't simply swallow its tail until it pops out of existence!

  And yet that was just what it felt like. Whole pieces of her were gone as if they never were, and now the one piece she had left, her son, was being torn from her as well.

  How many times had she come lately? Ten, Twenty? She had lost count. There were no handholds for memory because nothing changed. Aiul said nothing. He gave no indication that he even knew she was there, much less that he recognized her. Of course, the damned bandages made it impossible to read anything in his eyes or his face.

  Someone behind her politely cleared his throat, and Narelki dashed the tears from her eyes before she turned. Rithard, hands clasped in front of him, offered a single, solemn nod of greeting.