The Last God

by Norris Black

"Please, sit. I'll tell you what I know."

  I considered holding my stance on principle, but my arm was already beginning to tire from all the pointing, and the hard floor was hurting my feet. So, I sat. But I gifted him a glower of my own while I did so.

  "There has been a significant uptick in excursions from the Battery in recent weeks. Twists attacking the barricades, citizens on the boundary falling prey to the twisting magic surges in numbers not seen since the early days of Godfall. That would be bad in and of itself. But there's been something else. This past week my men have been discovering sites, many of them, all over the city. Sites where the darkest of rituals had taken place."

  "That's hardly anything new. Cults have always been around, and you know... culting? Is that a word? Regardless, you know what I mean."

  "This has been different. Most modern cults do not practice human sacrifice, and the few that do are extremely specific in their methods. These were like nothing we’ve ever seen. I can only describe them as abattoirs of the most perverse nature. In every case the perpetrators had done everything they could to inflict the maximum amount of pain on their victims. Some were torn apart with sharp instruments; others were burned alive."

  That rang a bell I didn't want to hear.

  "Missing persons reports have also leaped. The residents of an entire orphanage on the west side simply vanished with no trace of where they went." He shuffled around some of his papers. "A few days ago, Seraph patrols began to disappear, swallowed up whole like they never existed. We’ve only managed to recover a small few of them, or their bodies I should say. They were butchered like hogs and left to rot. Here and there a soldier would survive a confrontation and from those we learned of this new threat. These things that walk around in human skin. I've read the report from your encounter at Brickstone Block, so you know what I'm referring to."

  I nodded in mute agreement.

  "But back to those ritual scenes. Do you know what was curious, what each had in common? There were two words written on the wall at every one, sometimes in ash, sometimes in blood, but always the same two words. Do you know what those words were?"

  My gut sank into my boots.

  "I see you've already guessed it. Gideon Brown. Painted bold as day above the corpses of scores of butchered citizens."

  "Well first off, I had nothing to do with any ritual killings regardless of what some asshole is scrawling on walls. Do you think if I was a mass murderer, I'd be autographing the crimes? If you really thought that I'd still be rotting in one the cells below. And secondly, let's not pretend the Seraph doesn't have buckets of blood on its own hands. How many people have your Seraph put to the sword? How many innocents were collateral damage in your crusade to dominate the streets? Please. You can take your high and your mighty and shove both of them directly up your ass."

  The glower returned to his face. "My soldiers are the only thing keeping order in this city. Without them the Battery would leak its abominations into the wards unchallenged. Without them, the Wardlords and their ganger scum would loot and pillage and murder with impunity. They would prey upon the weak and the defenseless. We are the only thing preventing this entire city from devolving into lawlessness and anarchy. Do you think life would be better under the rule of these petty criminals who play at ruling the wards? Don't be ludicrous. Someone has to protect the citizens of this city, sometimes even from themselves." He hammered his fist down on the table, causing it, and me, to jump a little. "We are the bulwark holding back the screaming of the night."

  I clapped. Slow and loud. "Great speech. Do you rehearse that a lot? Have you actually been out there, on the streets? Or did they build this room around you while your girthy ass sat at that desk and pushed papers around? Because let me tell you, it's a shit show. And your Seraph? They aren't exactly the wonderful caring shepherds of humanity you're trying to sell them as. Maybe your intentions are good. Maybe. But I have to tell you, to the average Joe on the street? If someone's standing on your neck, it doesn't much matter whose foot is in the boot." All the anger and fear of the last several days poured out in every word. I had had enough of everything. "So, to sum up. Get fucked."

  Okay, so I didn't quite stick the landing on the impassioned monologue. But still, it felt good.

  We glared at each for a long minute. "So now what? You said you're putting Dogfucker—"

  "Ex-Rodmaster Goran."

  "Dogfucker," I repeated with more emphasis "in my old cell. Does that mean I'm free to go? Since you clearly know I wasn't behind the beasties that did in your Seraph crew, and from the sounds of it these rituals have been continuing the entire time I've been here, stuck under your thumb. I haven't actually broken any laws."

  "According to the report you were originally apprehended for"—he squinted at the piece of paper on his desk before pulling a pair of tiny round-rimmed spectacles out of a desk drawer and perching them delicately on the rocky outcrop he called a nose—"ah, that's better. For 'riding a giant wolf down a thoroughfare'. Is that accurate?" he asked, peering over the top of the glasses at me.

  "Holy shit, is there an actual law against that?"

  "Well no, but it could qualify under the general magical maleficence prohibition. It's unlikely a wolf, as it's described here, would have been a natural phenomenon. There is of course also the matter of the daemonically possessed sidearm found in your possession. Possession of daemons without the proper permit is quite illegal. You wouldn't happen to have a permit for it, would you?"

  "I must've left it in my other sack robe."

  "Indeed," he said, before pushing the paper off to the side and picking up another.

  "Your name also came up in connection to a case from about a year ago. There seemed to be quite the body count attached to it, including a Wardlord by the name of Lensky. Does this sound familiar to you?"

  I went cold. "This has nothing to do with that."

  "Since most of those killed were either criminals, or known associates of those criminals, it was determined at the time no follow-up was necessary. Sometimes it's best to let the trash take itself out. I see no reason to revise that recommendation. At least not yet." He placed the page on top of the others and regarded me with dispassionate eyes. "As I see it, I have two paths before me. I am bound by the law, with no deviation. However, the creature you were riding was not apprehended so it is impossible to say if it was a Twist out of the Battery or merely an implausibly massive canine. As for your weapon, it is reasonable to argue your inability to provide proof of permit could have been caused by improper handling by men under my command at the time of your apprehension. As I see it, I could by all rights lock you away until either of those charges are proven or exonerated."

  "And the other path?"

  Without speaking, he reached out and pressed the red button I had noticed earlier. A minute later a middle-aged man wearing a plain white Seraph uniform entered the room. He was nearly as pale as his Lord General with a shaved head and a small, serious face. With some shock I noted he wasn't much bigger than myself. I had started to assume all Seraph soldiers had to pass some sort of 'you must be at least this tall to stab people with swords' test.

  "Yes, Lord General Apoch?" the man asked, deference clear in his tone.

  "Who reported the abuse of prisoner Brown here," said Apoch, gesturing at me while turning his gaze to one of the papers in front of him.

  I was pretty good at reading body language and despite him already standing rigidly at attention, I could read reluctance in this man's every line. "Swordbearer Fray, Third Rank, sir."

  Apoch looked up. "Did she? Interesting. Well, make sure she receives a recognition."

  The man went to respond, but hesitated.

  "Was there something Deputy Commander Asger?"

  The commander looked over at me, reluctant to speak in front of a stranger.

  "I believe I gave you an order." When Apoch put steel in his voice you felt it in your gut, even if it wasn't directed at you.

 
"Sir. Swordbearer Fray hasn't been out of the academy long and has already created a bit of a reputation for herself as being difficult, even challenging orders of commanding officers. The death of her squadmates and the stripping of rank of ex-Rodmaster Goran—"

  "Dogfucker," I corrected, and was soundly ignored by both men.

  "—have not improved things. I'm concerned an official recognition would worsen the situation further. She's a good soldier, though perhaps a little too idealistic for her own good. I feel I would be remiss if I didn't mention that a recognition might be looked upon as special treatment given her... unique background. Not that there's anything to that of course, but even the perception of favoritism is not good for morale."

  Apoch did not look happy. "You have given me much to ponder, deputy commander. For now, please take Mr. Brown to one of our temporary cells on the second floor. Allow him to get cleaned up and have a healer see to his wounds."

  "And some breakfast," I added.

  "And some breakfast," said Apoch.

  "And some whiskey," I threw in with a smile and a hopeful look.

  "And make sure he stays put until I've decided what to do with him."

  I sighed. You can't win them all.

  Chapter 13

  "That fat fuck lost his tongue, eh? Bit it clean off when his chin hit the floor. I saw it all floppin' around on the ground like a fish. Craziest thing I ever did see. He was still bleedin' a gusher when they drug him away. You hate ta' see it."

  It was evident from Happy Jack's tone he did not in fact, 'hate to see it'. I also didn't give much credence to his tale of the still wriggling severed tongue. Jack was the type to never let the truth get in the way of a good story. Within a week he'd be talking about how the tongue sang him a lullaby while dancing a jig or some other such nonsense.

  The new cell they had put me in was a huge improvement over my last room. It was about ten-foot square and had an actual bed and, better yet, a window to let some precious daylight in. The door was made of the same heavy oak of my last cell, but this one had a small, barred opening inset into it. That last turned out to be a bit of a mixed blessing. While it did help cut down on the claustrophobic feeling that comes with being penned up against your will, it also afforded Happy Jack—who had been invested in a room across the hall—an opportunity to never shut the hell up.

  Apoch had been true to his word and I had been able to get cleaned up, stitched up and get some food in my gut. It was only a bowl of lukewarm porridge and some stale bread, but it was the finest thing I had ever tasted in my life right then. They had even given me my clothes back, everything except my longcoat.

  I had already gotten Jack's story from him. A Seraph raid had hit his stronghold. They had come in force and anyone who put up a fight was put down right there in the street. In many cases even if you weren't putting up a fight. Jack was on track to have his head added to the growing pile when I came galloping up on Garm's back like some twisted fairytale knight. Apparently, the appearance of a man riding a massive wolf threw a wrench into their plans. I suppose it is the kind of thing that catches people's attention.

  Someone in charge had the foresight to realize the top brass was going to want some explanation about that unusual event and, in general, corpses don't tend to do much in the way of talking. The talkative Wardlord was fortunate enough to get swept up in the wake of that decision. For his part Happy Jack had decided my intervention, accidental or not, had kept his head attached to his body a little while longer so any grudges he had been holding against me were called square. That's one in the win column, I guess. On the downside, he wasn't able to shed any further light on all the weirdness happening in the city as of late.

  A low, appreciative whistle brought me out of my reverie. I had been so lost in thought I hadn't even heard Jack's incessant chatter come to an end.

  Dagda peered through the bars at me, her bright green eyes unreadable. The scratch the vile urchin had given her was now an angry red line running down the side of her face from scalp to chin. Over her shoulder I spied Happy Jack's leering face pressed up to the bars of his own cell.

  "Well now miss, what're you wastin' time with an old hunk o' leather like that when Happy Jack is right here and ready."

  "Wag that tongue in my direction again and I'll nail it to the door," Dagda replied without turning around.

  Jack flushed crimson and I winced as I anticipated his response. The man was famous for his absolute evil temper. I was surprised when the ganger boss dropped his head instead. "Gods lass, I was just being friendly. There was no call to be rude," he mumbled, so low I barely made out the words. Dagda ignored him completely.

  She opened her mouth to speak, closed it, frowned and tried again. "What did you say to him?"

  "You're going to need to narrow that down a tad. I've said lots of things to lots of hims."

  "You know who I mean. Stop playing dumb."

  "I assure you. I'm not playing." She was trying to play it calm and cool but there was a half dozen visual cues to give her away. She’d meet my eyes boldly one moment, only to glance away as if embarrassed the next. She restlessly shifted her weight from one foot to the other. One hand reached up and lightly ran down her fresh scar, I doubt she was aware she was even doing it.

  "How about you tell me what's got your feathers in a twist and I'll do what I can to dig out the puzzle piece you seem to be missing. Oh, and apology accepted."

  "Apology?" She squared her shoulders as she said it, but her face flushed in embarrassment at the same time. This was someone I'd gladly play cards with any day of the week.

  "I seem to recall an awful lot of accusatory language being thrown in my general direction the last we spoke. Unfounded language I might add."

  "Yes, well. The official report said—"

  "It said a lot of bullshit," I interrupted. "Did it make sense to you that I would set an ambush for your squad, only to turn around and drag your unconscious body halfway through this Gods' cursed city just so I could get you patched up and send you on your way? What exactly was I gaining from that?"

  "You're right. I apologize, it's... it's been a rough few days."

  "Fucking preach, sister," I said fervently.

  "I'm sorry?"

  "Nothing," I said, waving the question away. It was obvious how much it took for her to do say those words, not to mention I don't think I've ever heard of a Seraph apologizing to anyone before for anything. I also kept in mind that, if it wasn't for her ratting out her comrades on my behalf, I’d still be several floors below, sweating under the tender mercies of a man with the title of rodmaster. "Now, tell me, what the hells are you talking about?"

  The telltale click of a key in a lock was the only answer to my question, and a moment later the cell door swung open. From across the hall I heard Happy Jack move up to his door again. Dagda must have as well, as she whipped her free arm around behind her, index finger pointed in the air. "Don't," was all she said, but it was enough, I could hear the creaking of Jack's cot as he returned to it with grumblings I couldn't make out.

  The Seraph stood framed in the doorway wearing a pair of dark pants and a long-sleeved, high-necked shirt to match. A set of plain but sturdy boots completed the outfit. None of it bore any trace of the insignia Seraph typically wore. Draped over one arm was my longcoat. She tossed it to me.

  "The lord general has ordered all charges against you be dropped and you be allowed to go on your way."

  "Just like that eh?" I shrugged into my coat, noting the familiar weight of the revolver in the right-hand pocket but made no move to check it. My luck was never this good. Somewhere, there was another Apoch-sized shoe getting ready to drop. I just knew it. "I just walk on out of here?"

  Again, she shifted from foot to foot, like a child being told they had to do something they didn’t want to.

  "Alright, out with it."

  "I've been ordered to accompany you and provide any assistance you may need."

  Across the
hall Jack gave out a hearty guffaw and Dagda's face flushed scarlet again. I couldn't tell if it was from anger or embarrassment. For a moment I thought I was going to witness the beating of the red-haired warlord to death right in front of me, but Dagda mastered her emotions.

  In my mind was the sound of an exceptionally large shoe dropping.

  Chapter 14

  "No. Absolutely not."

  The car was black, sleek and undoubtedly heavily armored. And it was something we were absolutely not going to be able to use.

  "I don't understand your objection," said Dagda in exasperation. "It's a standard issue, unmarked patrol car. It'll get us around the city quickly and well protected. I would prefer to have this task over and done with as soon as possible."

  "That right there is the problem. Standard issue. Which means every ganger in the nine wards is going to recognize it as a Seraph vehicle. What we need is answers. What we don't need is an even bigger bullseye on our backs while we try to find them. Don't you have something a little less conspicuous floating around here?"

  She frowned. "There's a lot around back for confiscated vehicles. There might be something there." It was obvious she found the whole idea dubious.

  The lot in question took up about a half-acre at the rear of the main building and was surrounded by a high chain-link fence. Inside. The late afternoon sun reflected off roughly two dozen cars in various states of disrepair. The gate to the compound was ajar, the small guard booth to the side empty. A fact Dagda said was unusual.

  The lot was deathly silent, the blocks surrounding the Seraph keep being mostly abandoned. No one's conscience was so clean they wanted to live within a stone's throw of a police force prone to homicidal outbursts. Goosebumps crawled up both my arms as I had the distinct feeling of being watched. The impound lot was out of sight of the keep, screened from view by a row of tall trees planted in a small strip of land separating the two. If I wanted to set up an ambush, I couldn't have asked for a better place to do it.