Dark Gods Rising

by Mark Eller

  * * * *

  When Elise and Pol reached the armory, they had no difficulty getting in unnoticed. Nobody wandered the hallways. Elise opened the heavy oak door, slipped through, gestured for Pol to follow, and quickly swung it closed. Unlike her habit during their previous training sessions, she slid its locking bar into place. With her maid dead, no one remained who would give her warning of the king or his minions approaching.

  Without saying a word they walked to the armory wall where the weapons and shields were hung. Ignoring her shield, Elise pulled down a practice knife and a thin, blunt bladed sword. When she turned around, she discovered Pol remained unarmed

  “We need to talk.” Pol’s tentative smile was both infectious and unsure. He pulled the weapons from Elise’s hands and dropped them to the floor. Shifting on uneasy feet for a moment, he quickly kissed her lips. Releasing a nervous laugh, he took a step back.

  Elise touched her lips with a fingertip. The sensation of his unreturned kiss had been somewhat unsettling and rather nice. It had been a very long time since she had been kissed. The last time Vere kissed her had been after the birth of their first daughter.

  “There,” Pol said. “Even if it means my head, I’m glad it’s done. My Queen, I have loved you since I saw your first procession. I worked for three years just to reach your side.”

  “But you are barely a boy,” Elise protested, lowering her hand from her lips.

  “Only seven years separate us. There is a greater span between you and the king.” He desperately grasped her hands. “Please, Milady, tell me there is hope. I’ve spent countless nights tossing restlessly for thoughts of you. I ache for the touch of your hand. My lips burn for your kiss. Even a word of hope would be a balm for my heart. Come away with me, beloved. Come away with me and I’ll show you more of the world than you could ever imagine while stuck here within these walls, glued to the ungrateful responsibilities of your station.”

  “I have a husband,” Elise gently reminded. Her lips still tingled from his kiss. A softness she hadn’t felt for several years touched her heart.

  “He has a mistress,” Pol said eagerly. “He doesn’t love you nearly as much as I. You are still a young woman, beloved. You are filled with energy and life. You need a passionate man who will love you and protect you, not a fat man who wants you dead.”

  Elise shook her head slowly, sadly. Churning emotions filled her, embarrassment mixed with royal outrage and compassion along with a touch of desire. On the surface Pol was almost her ideal mate. He was strong, skilled, and knowledgeable about things she might never know. He was urbane, owned wit, and his body showed many signs of hard usage. In short, he was the type of man her father admired, and she was her father’s daughter in more ways than one. Yes, she was lonely. Her pregnancy and circumstance had made her vulnerable to a husband and king who saw her only as an encumbrance. Yes, she did need someone with strength to stand beside her. She needed someone she could depend on no matter what the challenge, and she desperately wanted to know at least once what it was like to be loved. Unfortunately, Pol was not the man she needed.

  Though he claimed to love her, Pol had left her alone with Belsac rather than risk the king’s ire. Though he did not love her, Calto had dared Vere’s wrath. He had cast his protections, had called on Anothosia, and because of his courage in casting those protections when he knew it didn’t follow his king’s wishes, five flying snakes lay dead while Elise remained alive.

  “I’m sorry, Pol,” she said. “I value you greatly, but I cannot love you. I wish it were different.”

  Sighing, Pol gave her a sad smile. Bending over, he picked up her discarded weapons. Elise reached out to accept them, but he shook his head.

  “I’m sorry too. Politically, it would have been much easier if you had broken your vows like Belsac wanted. Instead, you will just have to be killed by a spurned lover. They’ll hang me for it, of course, but Zorce promised to repair my body afterward. Apparently, easy deaths can be reversed without having to go through the whole installing a soul into a new body thing.”

  Cold chills swept through Elise when the full realization of Pol’s betrayal and her stupidity struck her, leaving her focused and hard. She backed slowly toward the barred door. “You work for Belsac?”

  “Of course, I obey my uncle,” Pol admitted, sliding his feet forward. Tossing her useless practice sword aside, he drew the blade at his hip. It seemed, Elise noted, to be very sharp and to possess a usable point.

  “Your uncle?” she asked, trying for time.

  “He’s one of Zorce’s head devils while I’m nothing more than a minor chameleon. I’m afraid the nano curse didn’t take especially well with me.” Pol’s left cheek shifted, flowed, and a rakish scar appeared. “I’ve been wanting to ask, do you think a scar like this makes me look more daring? I thought for a long time before deciding not to use it.”

  “It’s stunning,” Elise snapped, and she leaped to the side when his sword jabbed forward. A knife strike sliced into the folds of her dress and caught there. Elise spun, ripping the trapped knife from his hand, and she darted away. Pulling the knife free from her dress, she instantly set to cutting away the bottom portion. Relief washed through her when she finished. In battle, dresses were only a hindrance. She could move much more quickly with a good portion of the drapery removed.

  Smiling sardonically, Pol leaned his weight on his sword and watched. “I hate to be rude, but your legs are unsightly. Far too long and they have no womanly shape because of the excess muscle. It’s no wonder Vere threw you aside.”

  “You can’t harm me,” Elise reminded him, sidling toward the armory door. “I’m protected by Anothosia as long as I carry the baby.”

  “You trusted me after the protection was cast,” Pol said. “That makes me immune. Now, darling, it’s no use looking at the door. You’ll never get it unbarred in time, and you might as well forget trying to stab me with a sword. The enjoyable thing about my kind of chameleon is we aren’t bothered by steal.” Straightening, he lifted the sword. “I wish I could say I’m sorry, but I can’t. I like you well enough, but I’ve a pleasant job to do and no conscience at all. I can’t even promise this will be quick since I like playing with my toys.”

  “Me, too,” Elise said when she felt the door’s bar press into her back. Reaching up, she grasped Wynderfyte and pulled the war hammer down from its supports. She dropped the knife from her left hand and reached up to grasp a shield. Shifting her fingers, she adjusted her grip on the hammer’s shaft and wished she had leisure to slide her arm through the shield’s arm strap. As it was, she could only grasp the shield by its center handle, making her hold of it awkward.

  “We never practiced with a hammer,” Pol pointed out. His eyes laughed at her naivety, mocked her, and then he lunged in for an attack. He struck high, low, and then tried to slice the artery under her arm. Frightened, Elise ducked and dodged. She twisted free of one blow, caught one on the shield, and another struck Wynderfyte’s metal shaft, sending up a rather unimpressive shower of sparks.

  “I know,” Elise replied, and she swung Wynderfyte with all the fear she possessed. The hammer struck Pol’s sword, almost sweeping it from his hand. “You should have found yourself a shield,” she added helpfully. “This hammer might be a tad bit slow, but your pointed stick is far too light to block me.”

  Nervous sweat ran into her eyes, blurring her vision and making her eyes sting. Risking a quick swipe with her shield arm’s sleeve, she wished she had a rag to tie around her head.

  “I’m still immune to steel,” Pol pointed out. His hooded eyes appeared amused and contemptuous. Laughter bubbled lightly on his lips, “Still, you are right. Your hammer is very slow.”

  His arm flickered and fire ran along Elise’s ribs. She gasped, stumbled, and prayed to Anothosia for her child’s life. Pol struck again and yet once more. He moved with a speed and flexibility he had never shown her before. Elise caught two strikes on her shield, twisted to avoid anot
her, and then the thin steel blade slashed into her left thigh before she could leap away. She cursed, glanced down, and saw she bled from a gash.

  “Pity you won‘t live,” Pol observed. “The cut would have made a wonderfully ugly scar.”

  “It won’t be my first,” Elise panted. She hurt in more places than she should, which meant she bore more wounds than she knew. It was only a matter of time before she became too weak to defend herself. Already, her leg trembled and threatened to give way.

  “Oh?” Pol raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  “My father,” Elise said, “insists all his children have some taste of war.”

  Stepping forward, she swung Wynderfyte with all her might. Pol moved to block, but Elise slammed her wooden shield into him, and the hammer cracked into Pol’s left shoulder. Pol cursed, stumbled, and fell back, his shoulder a ruin. Feeling grim satisfaction, Elise followed.

  “There’s a difference between iron and steel,” she said with a grin. “Olnac made himself king with this weapon because he was too poor to afford a sword.”

  She swung again and cursed her weak arm. The hammer was heavy, and she had already lost too much blood. Pol’s sword deflected her slow strike, but she slammed into him with her shield once more. The shield shivered in her hand when it hit his defending arm, almost falling from her weak grip, but Elise maintained control. She struck once and then twice with shorter and weaker war hammer blows. The heavy iron glanced off Pol’s head to crack into his injured shoulder once more. Crying out, he staggered back, stopped, and lunged forward just in time to meet the hammer once again. Wynderfyte crushed flesh and bone beneath its unforgiving weight. Sweat streaming down his face and blood running from a tear in his scalp. Pol swayed before her, unsteady, broken, one eye fallen free from a crushed socket. Realization and despair bled from his remaining eye as Pol opened his fingers, the sword falling from his slack grip.

  “I was right when I said you have a warrior’s heart,” Pol whispered, and then Elise swung Wynderfyte with all the remaining strength she possessed, using her legs and back to amplify its force. Wynderfyte crashed into his face, breaking his jaw, sending jagged shards of broken teeth flying through a mist of blood. He fell, but Elise did not stop swinging. The hammer cracked into Pol again and again, breaking his body beneath its weight until, exhausted, Elise fell to her knees and the hammer slipped from her hand. She stayed there, swaying while she searched within herself for some promise the king’s unborn heir still lived.

  Peace settled over her and warmth. Her mind wandered, opened, and Anothosia’s grace momentarily filled her soul. Dripping blood slowed, stopped, and Elise’s ripped flesh healed. New strength filled her.

  A muted and insistent pounding sounded on the thick oak door. Rising, Elise felt no surprise at finding her shredded dress was clean and whole. Not a drop of blood stained it, not a wrinkle showed, but she still had blood on her hands.

  “Why?” Elise asked the air.

  “Calto,” Anothosia answered within her mind.

  The pounding stopped and the ring of axes on wood started. Elise listened while watching Pol’s features shift. The remnants of his handsome mien became coarse and disjointed. Below the ruin of his inhuman face lay a misshapen body with almost no unbroken bones. Looking down on her work, Elise smiled. Not even the gods of Hell could reform this body. She had made sure of it. If Pol were to live once more, Zorce would have to form him a new body, a spawn’s body, for Pol’s spirit was not strong enough to claim anything more. Though he had played her for a fool, he had been a fool to believe the gods of Hell would grant him strong life and great strength for dying while failing to fulfill their will.

  Finally, the crack of weapons and tools on the door ceased when the door broke open. Men bearing weapons poured in, but their weapons lowered among a united sound of startled gasps. King Vere stepped past the gathered guards, stared first with unbelieving eyes at Pol before he turned those eyes on her.

  “How? How could you do this?” he demanded. “This is murder.”

  “This is justice,” Elise lied. “He tried to rape me, and I became angry.” She gave her husband a long, studying stare before allowing one corner of her lips to form a partial smile. “I’ve decided on a name for your heir. We’ll call him Olnac, after your grandfather, because he knew iron sometimes has more worth than steel.”

  “Murder,” her husband whispered, but his voice shook.

  They both knew the charge could not stand. Pol Swordbreaker was obviously hellkind. No court in all of Yernden would convict any of its citizens for killing one of Zorce’s followers. Not now. Not yet.

  Knowing this, Queen Elise allowed her smile to become full, bright, and without concern. She leaned over to grasp Wynderfyte’s handle, straightened, and lightly rested her other blood smeared hand on her husband’s corpulent cheek.

  “Try to divorce me,” she whispered, gently patting him, “and watch me really get mad.”

  Fastening her eyes on Belsac’s scowling face, she narrowed her eyes. Then she laughed.