Mad God's Muse

by Matthew P Gilbert

  “We go about our business and trouble one another no more.”

  The old man made it sound so simple, but it meant letting Yazid’s murderer escape justice. Ahmed did not even know the villain’s name. But there had been enough fighting. Yazid had died well, and Ilaweh’s will had been done. What was the vengeance of one man, to stand against such things?

  “We come to hire crew for our ship,” he said. “Our man Eleran of no house, one of your people, says it is possible to buy the freedom of prisoners.”

  Maranath raised an eyebrow in surprise. Caelwen gave a wry chuckle and replied, “It is possible to purchase prisoners. What you do with them after is your own affair.” His face grew stern as he continued. “But I warn you, Southlander, do not enter Nihlos. Until the council actually meets again to call off any hostilities, I am duty bound to arrest you if you do.”

  Ahmed and the sorcerers rolled their eyes almost in unison, and Ahmed allowed himself a smile. These sorcerers, it seemed, had as little patience with such things as he. It was a good thing to know. “And what of Eleran?”

  Maranath again showed some reaction at mention of the name. Caelwen nodded and said, “I know him. A troublemaker and a drunk, but hardly a public enemy. As I heard it, he was told he would live far longer outside Nihlos, but I know of no formal charges beyond drunk and disorderly.”

  “He said he fucked the wrong woman,” Sandilianus said with a grin.

  Caelwen pursed his lips and nodded bemusedly. “That should be plural, I think. Where is he? I still owe him a thing or two.”

  Sandilianus cracked his knuckles and offered a wicked grin. “You owe me something, Caelwen Luvox.”

  The sorcerers shared a brief glance back and forth, and Maranath spoke for them. “I find myself forced to agree. You gave him quite a handling in court.”

  Caelwen shrugged, unmoved. “I did my duty, and the Southlander and I have already spoken of this. We agreed to put that business aside until things are sorted out.”

  Sandilianus nodded. “It is so.”

  Maklin punched Sadrik in the arm. “It seems sorted enough to me.”

  Caelwen shook his head, disappointment clear on his face. “Would that it were. I should like very much to accept the challenge, but I am on duty. I won't shirk it for personal matters.”

  Sadrik grunted in disbelief as he rubbed at his arm. “A convenient thing, that.”

  Caelwen shot him a withering glare. “What would you know about duty, Meite? I’ve kept your idiot cousin alive even though I despise her. Is that not proof enough for you?”

  Sadrik considered a moment. “When you put it that way, I suppose it is.”

  Maranath gave Caelwen a piercing look, as if probing him. “Do you want to fight, Caelwen?”

  “Of course I do!”

  “Then I relieve you and assume your post. I have that authority.”

  Caelwen stared at Maranath, a look of astonishment and gratitude on his face. “Thank you, sir!” He snapped a salute. “I stand relieved!”

  Maranath turned to Ahmed, pleading with his eyes. “Must it be lethal?”

  Ahmed was shocked at the notion. “It will not! They will go fists, or I will not stand for it. I cannot afford to lose Sandilianus, and I will not see him kill an honorable man when there is a choice.”

  Maranath regarded him for a moment with a quizzical smile. “We are much alike. We, too, despise waste. Do you have rules for your fist battles?”

  Ahmed nodded. “Some, but few. We form a circle. They fight within. No eye gouges or other attempts to maim. Fists and honor. The first man to cry off is the loser. You and I shall judge.”

  Sadrik cocked his head and asked, “Is there a prize?”

  Ahmed shot him a contemptuous look. “Victory is the prize.”

  Sadrik gave him a slight bow and spread his arms. “I like you, Southlander. You are a kindred spirit.”

  Maklin cleared his throat and raised a hand like a child in a classroom, though he didn't bother to wait for recognition. “And wagers?”

  Ahmed considered the old sorcerer a moment, then grinned. “There is no rule against such.”

  Maklin rubbed his hands together and cackled. “Then what will you bet me, Southlander?”

  Ahmed shook his head and smiled back. “I am no fool. I will bet you that we will see a good fight.”

  A good fight it was. The two combatants stripped off their armor and shirts and took their places. The fighting men, Xanthian and Nihlosian, gathered in a circle around them and shouted cheers to both combatants, pounding their shields as the two warriors scrambled in the grass and dirt. Ahmed stood with Maranath, watching carefully for foul play, but both men were as scrupulous as they were skilled.

  Ahmed found himself truly fascinated as the battle raged. First one, then the other pressed his advantage. Sandilianus managed to slam Caelwen to the ground and rained blows on his head and chest. It seemed as if Caelwen were finished, but with a burst of strength and speed, he grabbed the Xanthian’s shins and lifted, sending him tumbling to the ground.

  The two rolled about, fists flying ever more slowly. Before long, both warriors were covered in blood and dirt, exhausted. They struggled for advantage, trading it back and forth, but neither held it for long. Soon enough, the blows became ponderous, one man slowly crawling to the other, raising a fist like an anvil, crashing it down, then falling aside in pain from a knee in the gut or an elbow to the head.

  Maranath looked at Ahmed, asking with his eyes if this were excessive, or whether they should let it continue. Ahmed nodded agreement. “Enough!” he shouted.

  It took a moment for his message to sink in. Caelwen and Sandilianus continued to flail at one another until Ahmed cried out again, “Stand down! It is over!”

  Maranath walked slowly to the circle. The men parted to allow him passage. The old sorcerer bent with painstaking effort, and grasped both men’s arms. They looked up at him with confused, punch drunk eyes as he raised both arms and called out, “Victory!”

  Maklin snorted. “Both victorious means both lost, you know.”

  Ariano elbowed him in the ribs. “Shut up, you old fool.”

  As the crowd cheered and several men from Nihlosian camp began to administer first aid to the two combatants, Ahmed caught the sorcerer Maranath's eye and gestured slightly with his head as he moved away from the group: Let's have a word.

  The old man seemed to have no problem understanding the gesture. He disengaged himself seamlessly from the crowd and seemingly without intending to, found himself walking alongside Ahmed.

  Ahmed wasted no time with pleasantries. It seemed his companion would only find such things a waste of time, and time was precious at the moment. “Sandilianus tells me you know of Carsogenicus and the prophesy.”

  “Aye,” the old man answered. “You call yourself 'prelate'. I presume you're the second of the man our demoncat empress murdered.”

  “I am.”

  Maranath was silent a moment, then heaved a great sigh and said, “You'll want revenge for that, I'll wager.”

  “Later, perhaps.” I don't even know what kind of revenge I would have on a woman. With a man it would be easy: fists or steel, depending on how strong one's hate was. With a woman? Ahmed had known perhaps ten in his entire life, and certainly never felt compelled by honor to seek vengeance on them. He had no experience in such matters. I suppose I will ask Sandilianus when I get the chance. “Time is short. You know why I am here.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Much knowledge was lost with Yazid. I am stumbling along almost blind. Tell me you know more.”

  “We do. In fact, I think we've damn near worked everything out. But this is not the place to speak of it. Your men can ride horses, yes?”

  “They can.”

  “Good. Nihlos is a day's ride from here. If you set out at dawn, you'll reach Nihlos near dark. We have horses to spare, and I'll have Caelwen join you as a guide. We'll come to your camp tomorrow night and put our heads
together on how to deal with this prophesy, agreed?”

  “That will be acceptable.” Ahmed almost left it at that, but there was one more thing, a poisonous, vitriolic acid that had been gnawing at his guts for the better part of a year, now, and growing ever stronger. “Do you know Torium?”

  Maranath stopped in his tracks and whipped his head sideways, his brilliant blue eyes smoldering with emotion. “We do. It figures strongly into what's going on.”

  “More than you think,” Ahmed sighed.

  “And what do you mean by that?”

  “This all ends there, for good or ill. It's like water draining from a tub, a vortex of evil drawing us all down. Make no mistake: it is our destination, but I do not know if we survive.”

  Maranth’s eyes widened. “You have visions, yes? Can you read auras?”

  “Aye. But not yours. You all appear gray, like madmen.”

  The old sorcerer chuckled at this. “I think you see ours just fine.”

  Ahmed could not tell if the sorcerer was joking or speaking truth. Either way, it told him nothing, and time was short. “We might sleep a few hours still tonight if we start soon. Let's talk to your man about those horses, and then rest.”

  Aiul had no idea how far he had run, only that Logrus was just out of reach. He was not winded, but that told him nothing. It seemed he was not even subject to such a thing anymore. All he had to measure the time was his own sense of frustration, which had become a loud voice screaming in his ear.

  Perhaps, were he a different man, Logrus would have called back taunts or insults, and been caught for his efforts, but no. Logrus simply ran, doggedly, without distraction, and held his own. That, perhaps more than anything, irked Aiul beyond reason. It seemed unfair that Logrus, being superior at so many things, should even be near Aiul’s equal in a skill Aiul had actually trained to perform.

  It soon became apparent, though, that Logrus was not quite Aiul’s equal. The manhunter was indeed fast, but Aiul was gaining, inch by slow, agonizing inch. Aiul grinned with anticipation at how he would make Logrus pay for his transgressions. A distant part of his mind realized that it no longer remembered exactly what those transgressions were, but that was hardly important.

  Logrus’s cloak fluttered before Aiul in the icy wind, tantalizing him, but Aiul paid it no mind. It would likely tear off, perhaps even trip Aiul in the process. No, he had only one goal: Logrus’s calves. That was the key to taking a man down with certainty. He judged the distance as it closed, then, when the moment was right, leapt and clasped his arms about his quarry’s legs. Both men crashed to the ground in a spray of snow.

  “Now you pay!” Aiul roared.

  Logrus answered with a boot to Aiul's face. “I have no money.”

  Aiul felt as if his brain might burst at this. Logrus was a fool, a dullard, a literalist, an odious churl! This was why he needed to be beaten severely!

  Aiul let out a wild, mad cry and surged forward, crawling like a crab, then swinging for Logrus’s head. “Die! Just die!”

  It was simply another, maddening nettle that Logrus should actually answer this, but answer he did. “No.”

  Aiul felt his mind tear away, like layers of an onion, as rage overtook him, a pure, unreasoning thing, white hot and warming in the cold. He no longer really understood what his arms and legs were doing, the odd pumping and hammering motions they made. He felt as if he were in the midst of an orgasm, limbs flailing, salty taste in his mouth, sweat on his skin. Light exploded within his mind, multicolored, bright, beautiful in its perfect hatred.

  Such moments pass, as they always do, fading to a brief flash in the mind, followed by the drag of weariness, the urge to lie just a moment and contemplate. Aiul saw his arm rise for another blow, and then it seemed whatever demon that possessed him simply fled, leaving him once again in control of his own body. With a groan, he rolled to the side and collapsed.

  He looked at his companion, his enemy, with weary eyes, and was shocked to see not a mark on his face. How could that be? The snow was riddled with droplets of red, spray from repeated blows, both his own and Logrus’s. They had fought like animals. It was impossible that Logrus was unharmed!

  Aiul lay gasping a moment, trying to find his breath. At last, he muttered, “Impossible.”

  Logrus, despite being unmarked, was likewise winded. “Possible.”

  “Idiot!”

  Logrus chuckled. “Elgar does not approve.” He paused again for breath, then continued. “He undoes our work.”

  Aiul glared across the snow, slowly accepting the truth of it. He would not be permitted to kill Logrus. He could no longer remember why it was even important that he do so, though it definitely was. He felt his face twist into a scowl of frustration as he lay back on the snow, his breath steaming out of him in rapid gasps, clouding the air above him. “Fuck you.”

  Logrus grunted. “Me? Or Elgar?”

  “Both.”

  Logrus nodded to the sky, contemplating this for a moment, as if choosing his words very carefully. “Fuck you, too,” he pronounced at last.

  Aiul chuckled. Perhaps there was some humanity to Logrus after all.

  Chapter 16

  Confessions and Consequences

  Maranath rubbed at his temples, knowing what came next would be neither quiet nor particularly pleasant, but there was no avoiding it. For the moment, at least, things were peaceful. That would change as soon as they landed.

  He looked down, watching their shadows stretching and warping over the moonlit, snow-covered trees below, searching for a clearing that would lend itself to a private conversation. Hah! A fight, that's what we'll be having, not a conversation.

  He had at least managed to convince Maklin that the ‘conversation’ was best held several miles from the camp. “They need their rest, and this isn't going to get hashed out without shouting.”

  Maklin had responded, “That's on the rest of you! I'm perfectly capable of having a calm, rational discussion.” The synchronized eye-rolling that followed had set him giggling, though, and he had abandoned the pose, grabbed the back of Sadrik's shirt, and shot off into the star-filled night sky. Maranath and Ariano had followed.

  Maranath felt a bit regretful at not having spoken further with the Southlander leader. I should have told him. He was not quite sure in his own mind why he had not spoken to the Southlander about the piece of the Eye the young man wore about his neck, but in part, it was just too damned big a thing to discuss while taking a leak by the roadside. There would be plenty of time tomorrow evening to go into the full story and answer all of the questions.

  He was significantly less conflicted about not telling the other Meites. It would just be one more thing to fight over, and they had plenty of that. When it came right down to it, Maranath had yet to decide if he would include them in the meeting. Ariano's obstinacy and secrets were beginning to genuinely annoy him, and Maklin's petulant accusations were likewise grating. In truth, there was no sense in making solid plans until this was resolved. He wasn't entirely certain everyone would survive. It wouldn't be the first time Meites had ended up dead from an argument. Young Sadrik knows that all too well.

  Maranath glanced to his left at Sadrik and chuckled at the poorly concealed terror on the boy's face. You can burn and kill just fine, but you're not a real Meite until you have the arrogance to leap from a tower and deny the ground itself.

  Ariano shouted, “There!” and gestured toward a clearing below as she dropped like a stone. He saw the dirt fly from her impact just before he heard it, and shook his head in amusement. She would be forever young at heart, still terribly amused both by her own power and the thrill of demonstrating it to others.

  I'm not so old as that, either, am I? And the boy could use all the examples he could get, not to mention it's amusing to terrorize him.

  Maranath did more than remember gravity. He remembered a force far stronger, one that sent him hurtling from the sky like a falling star, the world flashing past him in a b
lur. The impact would surely have smashed him into paste if he were a normal human, but he was not, and never had been. His flesh was made of sterner stuff, a unique material for which he had no name, save the one he had been given at birth.

  Maranath was just climbing out of an impressive crater, cackling with Ariano, when Maklin impacted the ground like a comet with Sadrik's scream for a tail. Dirt and stones flew in every direction.

  “Oh, shut up you big baby,” Maklin groused once the dust settled. “I could have just dropped you, you know, and let you manage on your own.” He grinned at Maranath and mimed releasing something from his grip. “Think fast!”

  Sadrik, ashen and shaken, glared at Maklin as Ariano and Maranath chuckled.

  He's had enough, though, and we have places to be. “Alright, Maklin, you were practically jumping out of your wrinkled old skin back there. No need drawing things out.”

  Maklin's humor faded quickly. He cleared his throat, a serious expression on his face. “Obviously, the appearance of a second piece has complicated matters. We’re dealing with something very serious.”

  Ariano, too, was no longer laughing. Fun and games over, time for sarcasm and insult, thank you, come again! She glowered at Maklin now, her lips curling into a sneer. “Welcome to last week, you stupid codger! Last month, even! It’s your fault Aiul escaped!”

  Maklin, obviously offended at being attacked from an unexpected direction, turned and shot her an indignant look. “My fault? How in Mei’s name do you get to that lunacy?”

  “We had things under control!”

  Maklin waved his arms in the air and looked about as if he were the only sane man alive. “You didn’t bother telling me a thing, knowing I’m supposed to be the one looking after it! If my showing up ruined your plans, it’s because you were idiots to begin with!”

  Ariano opened her mouth to speak, but Maranath waved a hand and said, “It's true. We made a mistake. We were, I suppose, rather caught up in the excitement. We’re hardly the first Meites to behave so.”