War God's Will

by Matthew P Gilbert

  Ariano clenched her fists, almost seething. “Torium!”

  Caelwen nodded, his expression carefully blank. “That's the rumor.”

  Ariano seemed to deflate as she unclenched her hands. “All of them in motion now, heading there.” She hung her head briefly, then turned to Sadrik. “Come, pup. We'd best be on our way. We'll miss Prandil for what comes next, I would guess, but we play the cards we have.”

  Sadrik eyed her a moment, feeling a coldness in his belly. “We could catch them,” he said after a moment. “They would still be a few days away.”

  Ariano sneered. “Weren't you just parroting Maranath's orders a moment ago?”

  “That was then. This is now. Will you have my help or no? I'll fight to the death if I have to, but if there's another way, let's at least try.” I presume if we are successful, Maranath will spare me. Success is always a good justification, after all.

  Ariano raised a hand to his neck, not unkindly. At her silent bidding, the boards in the ceiling groaned, twisted, then burst outward, letting a single shaft of sunlight spill into the room. “We can try, though it seems we're swimming against the stream of fate. Don't get your hopes up.”

  As they began to rise, Kariana called out, “And what in Mei’s name am I supposed to do while I wait for the great heroes of Nihlos?”

  Ariano shouted back, “Have you forgotten why I came here to begin with? You've relieved me of the need to care, upstart! 'The new order of things, all done legally', as you said.”

  Sadrik could not resist. As they rose into the sunbeam like gods, he called out “Try not to do anything stupid until we get back!”

  Ariano cleared the roof before he could hear Kariana's response, but in his mind, he could clearly hear the sound of shattering glass and Kariana's shriek of impotent rage.

  And hopefully, that lovely thought will sustain me long enough to save the world. Not that Sadrik was any sort of hero, but he lived in the world, and it would be very inconvenient for him if it ceased to exist.

  One needs to keep perspective.

  Ahmed followed Rithard deep into the section the Nihlosian's called the Undercity. He was glad for the hood, not so much as a disguise as to simply hide his gawping. It was true, the Nihlosians were hopeless as soldiers, but their architecture, their science, their culture, all were amazing.

  Rithard trundled along, oblivious to the wonders of his own land, as most men are, alert and focused as he looked back and forth, and occasionally over his shoulder.

  “You expect trouble,” Ahmed noted.

  “The Undercity is dangerous.”

  “Then why did you not bring a weapon?”

  Rithard shook his head but gave no answer. Instead, he gestured ahead, down the poorly maintained cobblestone street to a large, walled compound. “That's our destination.”

  Ahmed reached to grip the blade at his hip, feeling reassured by its presence. Ordinarily, he would have no fear of street thugs, but Rithard's nerves were contagious, it seemed. Ahmed scanned the streets about him once again before giving his full attention to the building.

  The wall, made of stone blocks, stood tall, at least ten feet, with spikes at the top, a formidable barrier for all but the most determined or desperate intruder. The building beyond, visible through a large gate, was a square, three-story brick structure of immense size. Its exterior was faded from years of weather, but beyond that it seemed in good order. The few windows Ahmed could see were high off the ground and still intact.

  Rithard, too, looked about in caution before inserting the key Kariana had provided into the gate's lock. He grunted with effort, struggling to turn the key, and Ahmed moved to help.

  The thugs chose that moment to attack.

  They were quiet, but one must have kicked a stone as they approached. Ahmed spun at the rattling sound, reached for his shield and blade, and cursed at the entangling robe. His shield, hung on his back, was in easy reach, but his blade was at his hip, and took an extra moment to free. Time enough to be killed, if these fools are competent. I should have seen this coming!

  Three men moved quickly toward him; where they had come from Ahmed could not say. Likely, they knew plenty of cunning ambush points. It was their territory, after all. They were tall, lean men, but not the strange, beautiful people from above. These were hard, threadbare wolves whose hungry faces Ahmed knew well. Bandits. They are the same everywhere. The knives and clubs they had in hand left no doubt as to their intentions.

  Rithard was slow, terribly so. He was only just realizing something was amiss. He would not be part of this, then. They would live or die either by Ahmed's skill, or the bandits’ mercy. Ahmed preferred not to rely on the latter. In my experience, they are not apt to have any.

  He could almost hear Yazid’s voice in the back of his mind, telling him that war was risk, that one must play the cards he has. Cursing, Ahmed dropped his shield on the ground and shrugged out of the robe. A sword alone may win the day. A shield won’t. By the time Ahmed brought his weapon to bear, the bandit in the lead had registered something was terribly wrong, but it was far too late for him. The man's cry of “Southl—!” ended in a gurgling shriek of agony as Ahmed's sword opened his throat to the elements, sending a spray of bright red blood into the faces of the others. The would-be attacker staggered briefly, clutching at his throat, eyes wide in shock, then collapsed to the cobbles.

  The remaining pair, eyes wide in terror, skidded to a halt and nearly fell over backwards as they scrambled to escape. Ahmed watched them flee with a grim smile. Idiots. Not used to victims who fight back, eh?.

  Behind him Rithard let out a shuddering sigh. “I told you it was dangerous here.”

  Ahmed turned to him with a shrug. “A relative term, it would seem. I could have killed the other two, but I saw no reason to chase them.”

  “Oh, there was reason,” Rithard said. “They will be back in short order with more.”

  Ahmed scowled, but knew it was likely true. “Then we need to finish our business quickly.” He spared a glance at the man he had downed. He was unconscious, either dead or soon to be. He pushed at the body with a boot. “Do you know him?”

  “No, but I likely will soon enough,” Rithard said absently, still working the lock. It gave with a sudden squeal and click, and the gate swung open with a screech at his touch.

  Rithard looked back down the street after they entered, then closed and locked the gate behind. “The last thing we need is for them to surprise us in here.”

  The interior grounds were in remarkably good shape, all things considered. The space between the wall and the building was about twenty feet wide all the way around, presumably to accommodate drawn carriages, and covered in a seamless stone that had neither cracked nor worn, though it, too, had weathered to gray.

  Ahmed followed Rithard around the entire building, looking for an entrance, but the only candidate they found was on the far side. It looked like a door in that it was about the right size, and inset into the building wall. It seemed to be surrounded by a frame of sorts, but Ahmed could see nothing resembling a conventional handle or keyhole.

  Rithard bent to examine a small depression where a knob should have been. “And here we have our damnable riddle again, yes?” He gestured for Ahmed to have a look. “I can't read it, but it’s the same as the one in the book.”

  Ahmed bent down briefly for a closer look. The depression looked vaguely like a head in shape, though it was inset with intricate lines like nothing Ahmed had ever seen. “It is the same. ‘The key to true knowledge lies within the heart of wisdom.’”

  Rithard nodded slowly, examining the depression. “It almost looks like some sort of key goes there...” His eyes flashed suddenly with strange emotion, and his body grew stiff. For a moment, Ahmed thought the Nihlosian meant to attack him, so intense was the man's expression. His mind is working hard.

  A moment later, Rithard turned a feverish gaze on Ahmed, even going so far as to seize him by the shoulders. “We must r
eturn to the library at once!”

  Ahmed stood still and spoke in a calm voice, as was best when dealing with madmen. “Of course. And what shall we do there?”

  Rithard grinned, his eyes still lit with something akin to madness. He shook Ahmed by the shoulders and laughed. “We’re going to smash something very old and valuable!”

  Ahmed found himself in a difficult quandary. Not only was he a guest who ought not interfere with his hosts, it was improper to lay hands on either the old or the mad. With Slat and Rithard locked in a life or death struggle over the pick ax, it was difficult to know whom, if anyone, he should assist.

  “Have you gone mad?” Slat nearly shrieked, his hair flying about his head like snow as he pulled against Rithard's grip.

  Rithard hauled on the handle, nearly toppling Slat in the process. “I'm the first person of any sense to hold my position! Let go!”

  Ahmed looked about to see that the rest of the house staff seemed to be as conflicted as he, and worse, they seemed to be looking at him to do something.

  Indecision was hardly one of Ahmed's failings, but circumstances were arrayed heavily against him. By the time he had managed to work out a plan of action, which went something along the lines of stopping Rithard from jerking the old man's arms from his sockets, Slat's grip failed, and Rithard staggered backward, prize in hand, as Slat howled in protest.

  Rithard, full of mad energy now that he sensed his moment, swung the pickaxe in a great arc at the statue of Amrath as Slat fell to his knees and wailed, “No!”

  The axe hit the statue's chest not with the meaty chunk one would expect of solid stone, but with the softer ring of a hollow space. Even Slat fell silent at this.

  Rithard's cry of victory broke the silence. “I knew it!”

  As they all looked on in shock, Rithard reached within the cavity of Amrath's chest and pulled out a gold chain, from which hung a small lion's head carved of green stone.

  Ilaweh is great, there is another! But no, that could not be true. A moment later, Ahmed realized what Rithard had known for hours: this was the literal key, in the literal heart of Nihlos's icon of wisdom.

  Rithard, the key dangling from his hand like a charm, looked up at the skylight and frowned. “It will be dark soon. We need to hurry. The Undercity is no place to be at night, but this can't wait.”

  Slat, busily gathering shards of the statue from the floor, cast Rithard a reproachful glare. “It is certainly no place for the leader of our house! We've just lost one to madness. Why not at least wait until morning?”

  Rithard softened and laid an arm across the old fellow's shoulders. “I know you've had a hard road dealing with Meites. It's none of that with me.”

  Ahmed grasped Rithard firmly by the shoulder with his left hand, and clutched at the hilt of his blade with his right. “I will protect him, grandfather.”

  Slat looked back and forth at them, eyes full of doubt, and nodded, resigned. A moment later, he suddenly brightened, as if he had remembered something. He raised his finger in the air and said, “Wait. I have something for you.” He turned and waved at the rest of the gawping slaves. “Out. This is not for your eyes!”

  When they were gone, and the doors to the library secured once again, Slat moved slowly to one of the many shelves, his hand shaking with age as he traced the spines, searching. “Ah, here.” He hauled a huge volume from the shelf and staggered backward. Ahmed caught him before he fell and helped him ease the book to the floor.

  Rithard fingered the lion's head absently as he looked at the dark space the book left. He grinned at Slat's mystery. “You've kept secrets from me?”

  Slat shook his head. “Not as such. More of an oversight than a secret.” The old fellow reached in again. Ahmed heard the low rasp of metal on stone, and felt his hand move of its own accord to his blade once again. Don't be foolish. It's not an attack! “Lothrian put it here ages ago. He had no use for mundane weapons, and Narelki, likewise, had no interest. It was just a secret treasure, as far as they were concerned, of no practical use.”

  Slat removed a scabbard containing what appeared to be a long dagger, or a short sword. It sang as he drew it, a thin blade with a fine point. He extended his hands to Rithard. “My grandfather told me Amrath himself carried this blade. It’s named Truth. You may not be a Meite, but you're as mad as one, and you need something. Take it.”

  Rithard looked at the weapon, wary, then back to Slat. “I've had no training in weapons since I was a child! I wouldn't know what to do with it.”

  Ahmed reached for the blade and scabbard, and Slat reluctantly allowed him to take them. With a grin, Ahmed swung the sword about, testing the heft, then gently placed the point against Rithard's chest. “This end toward the enemy,” he said. “Then push. But all at once, and quickly. And don't let him do it to you.” He re-sheathed the blade, then handed the scabbard back to Rithard with a grin. “Simple.”

  Rithard accepted the weapon, holding it experimentally at his waist. “Slat, I shall need a belt, I think.”

  Slat eyed them both nervously, then added, “I’ll fetch your medical bag, too, Master.”

  Rithard nodded vigorously. “Indeed. I have a feeling we may have need of it before the night ends.”

  Chapter 10

  Into the Pit

  Aiul could see the column of zombies ahead in the distance as they approached Torium, lumbering along like a poorly disciplined but determined unit of soldiers. Farther ahead, he could see a great pyramid looming on the horizon, and the sight filled him with a bizarre mix of elation and despair. There was his goal, and within it the keys to what he imagined he wanted most in the world: revenge on Nihlos.

  Yet, there was more to his motivation now than mere vengeance. Try as he might, he could not shake the sense of urgency the nightly dreams had brought, and the certain knowledge of the sick, repulsive wrongness that lay within Torium like a cancerous tumor awaiting the surgeon’s scalpel.

  Aiul scoffed aloud at the notion. That’s the height of self-delusion, to imagine this mission relates even metaphorically to healing.

  Aiul and Logrus pulled alongside the marching zombies before long, and Aiul made certain to give them a wide berth with his spirited mount. He didn’t need any more accidents. In any stories Aiul had ever heard, animals recoiled in horror from the undead, but their mounts were hardly afraid. They simply didn’t like the zombies, and had no problem lashing out at them if they came too close. Beyond that, the horses simply ignored the shambling corpses for the most part.

  Aiul slowed his pace once he was far enough ahead. He and Logrus would stay with their fighters from now until they reached their destination.

  The change in the land was nothing short of miraculous. Two days ago, they had been freezing in the snow. Today, they had entered a warm, green area, a jungle, humid and dank with decay, full of lush vegetation and bizarre creatures. He had never seen palms except in books, but here, they were plentiful, along with other less identifiable trees. Most of them were festooned with vines or moss, and here and there were patches where a particularly virile sort of vine had swallowed up entire groves of trees, covering everything, even the ground.

  There were strange beasts, too. The travelers saw few, but heard many unusual cries and caws and roars that set them on guard. Once, a strange, vaguely man-shaped creature, though smaller and covered in fur, leapt from one tree to another as they passed beneath. It chattered at them, and threw oddly shaped fruit, making Aiul wonder idly if it were carnivorous. He spent much of his time after that watching the trees in a mixture of fear and delight, hoping to see another, as the great pyramid in the distance slowly grew larger.

  “There,” Logrus said at last, and pointed to the horizon. “That is the place.”

  In the distance, the road turned upward. At the top of a small hill, Aiul could see a walled city. The peculiar, voracious vine they had noticed seemed particularly fond of the area, though it, and all other vegetation, stopped short of the walls, giving
the impression that it was tended, or, perhaps, that the plants were simply unwilling to approach any closer. Above the defensive perimeter, they could see the step-sided tops of multiple ziggurats. Eight lined the walls, standing fifty feet or more in height. A huge central pyramid, at least two hundred feet tall, towered over the landscape.

  Aiul felt his guts twist in fear. “Yes.”

  “There is power there,” Logrus said. “I can feel it.”

  “So do I,” Aiul replied, his voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. “Something primal.”

  The road continued up the hill to a huge gate, a massive set of rune-graven steel doors. They stood open and inviting, with not a guard in sight.

  “Looks perfectly safe,” Aiul quipped.

  Logrus looked at him as if he were crazy. “It is an obvious trap!”

  Aiul sighed and gave Logrus an exasperated look. Logrus looked back, a blank expression on his face for a moment before it lit with dawning understanding.

  “Sarcasm,” he announced. “Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “A stupid sort of talk,” Logrus said. “Let’s go.”

  “Into the obvious trap?” Aiul gestured toward the zombies.

  Logrus rubbed at his chin and grinned. “That is a better plan.”

  Grinning despite the foreboding surroundings, Aiul called to the zombies, “Imbeciles! Advance!”

  Their undead troops moved past them, and Logrus and Aiul followed, wary, to find themselves in a huge courtyard. The area was at least a quarter mile across, and paved with cobblestones. Most of the buildings that must have once stood within the walls had long since decayed to dust, leaving only the stone construction, like bones of a rotted corpse. In the distance, they could see a stagnant, putrid moat surrounding the central pyramid. Aiul thought he could see motion below the murky surface, but it was difficult to tell. Bloated corpses of local fauna, in various stages of decay, floated on top, marking it as lethal, whatever else it might be.