War God's Will

by Matthew P Gilbert

  Maranath shook his head. “Time is something we don’t have. You’ll have to do it on the way. Whatever dark work Aiul is up to here, he’s well into it.”

  New anger rose in Lothrian’s eyes. “Why would you have let him get so far? Why didn’t you stop him?”

  Maranath cast his gaze to the floor. “He traveled faster than we thought. There’s a lot going on. We had other, pressing concerns, and he got ahead of us.” So, do I lie about this part, or trust him with the truth? Maranath struggled with it for a moment, but in the end, he knew the insult of coddling Lothrian would be worse than the sting of the truth. I needn’t tell it all. The ‘how’ I will leave for later, after he grieves. But he has to know. “Brace yourself, Lothrian. Not everyone you loved has survived.”

  Lothrian’s face fell. “No,” he said in a tired, weak voice, a plea rather than a statement. He knows. It’s not as if he loved many, and the rest are accounted for.

  Maranath cleared his throat and swallowed hard, the grief still fresh in his own mind. “Narelki. There was an accident. A fall. We just sent her off two days ago.”

  Lothrian covered his face with his hands again. When he spoke, his voice was almost too soft to hear. “She never recovered, then.”

  Maklin shook his head. “No one recovers, Lothrian. We kept her as comfortable as we could.”

  Lothrian slowly lowered his hands. “Maybe she’s finally found peace, at last.” He lowered his hands and rose, his grief still etched on his face, but his eyes full of resolve. “There is a reason I am here, now. I missed Narelki by days, but Aiul is still alive. We must find him at once, while there is still time.”

  Maklin gestured in the direction of the screams and wailing, which still echoed throughout the place. “It’s a safe bet he’s part of that.”

  Maranath cleared his throat to draw attention. As the other two faced him, he said, “Understand this, Lothrian: he didn’t just come by the piece of the Eye. He took it, by force. The last time we saw him, he was immensely powerful.”

  Maklin nodded vigorously. “Blades turned off him. He punched through six inches of steel. And he was raising the dead as zombies. Just like you, here.” He paused a moment, then muttered, “Well, no, they were mindless. But I suspect this is his doing, even so.”

  Lothrian looked back and forth at them as Maranath added patiently, “We’re trying to say he may be more than a match for us. Don’t take him lightly. If we can talk him down, it might not be just for his benefit, understand?”

  Lothrian’s eyebrows nearly rose from his head at this news. “I will take that under advisement.”

  Maranath grinned. “Good. Now, let’s see what all that caterwauling is about.”

  Chapter 15

  Breaking and Entering

  Rithard and Ahmed arrived once again at House Tasinal's mystery building just as the sun was slipping below the horizon. Rithard had been fairly charged with adrenaline for some time since his encounter with Slat, but the journey through the Undercity and the chill of the deepening evening had conspired to rob him of his lovely energy. Now, his teeth were almost chattering, both from cold and sheer nerves, as he oiled the sticky lock with a small oilcan. “Stay close. No telling who will take an interest in us now.”

  “I'm taking off this stupid robe,” Ahmed replied. “I am here legally now, yes?”

  Rithard, working by the dim orange light of the cloud cover, nodded absently as he inserted the key and applied pressure. It gave with a slight squeal, and he worked the mechanism back and forth to distribute the oil. “It's not as if there are any guards here, anyway.”

  “Wrong,” called a voice from behind.

  Ahmed's hand shot toward his blade, but Rithard put a restraining hand on his arm and said, “It's Caelwen.”

  Ahmed relaxed as Caelwen stepped from the growing shadows, leading his horse. The beast whinnied and stepped forward, hooves clopping loud on the cobblestones. “It took you long enough,” Caelwen noted.

  Rithard scowled at his friend. “Mei, how long have you been there spying on us?” Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

  “I was finishing up a piss, if you must know. You’ve only been here ten seconds.”

  Rithard continued working with the lock, not bothering to look up. “Why are you even here? Surely there are drunks who need minding?”

  “Indeed, which is why I came.”

  “Oh, foul! Why are you really here?”

  “I was looking for Ahmed when I started out, but Slat explained to me you’d gone mad, so I thought I had better look in on you.”

  Ahmed laughed out loud. “So the police are looking for me?”

  “Worse,” Caelwen answered. “The Meites are, specifically Ariano, and I don’t think she has your health in mind. The Empress and I sent her off on a wild goose chase, but I have no idea how long that will last or what she plans next. I’m certain she will be in a bad mood, though.”

  Rithard turned the key back and forth again and removed it from the lock, satisfied with his work. He gestured to his new blade. “Slat called me mad? Did he tell you he's armed me?”

  “Mei! That ought to be grounds to arrest him right there,” Caelwen said. He looked at Rithard’s belt, then shook his head. “Too dark to see it well. Didn't you think to bring a torch?”

  Ahmed raised a hand. “One of us did.”

  Rithard sighed. “I am neither drunk nor a lackwit. I was well aware we had torches, so I saw no need to duplicate the effort. I'll leave the hauling to you burly apes.” He raised his medical bag like a trophy. “I brought the important gear.”

  Ahmed's torch flared as Caelwen gave Rithard a sour look. “Maybe you should have drank more. It would improve your mood.”

  Rithard snickered. “The Southlander takes a joke better than you.”

  “He'd have no qualms about killing you, if it came to that. Me, I'd have to fill out the reams of paperwork, so bitching is more economical.” Caelwen shook his head. “'Apes',” he muttered under his breath.

  Ahmed banged his fist against his chest and grinned at Caelwen. “There is no honor in beating madmen. They are touched by Ilaweh.”

  Rithard pushed the gate open with a grating squeal and applied oil to the hinges as well, studiously ignoring his companions’ barbs. He swung it back and forth, pleased with the silent motion, dropped the oilcan into his medical bag, and gestured forward with a flourish. “We've a mystery to solve, gentlemen!”

  Ahmed followed the two Nihlosians into the complex, making certain to close the gate behind himself. As Rithard pointed out, the last thing we need is to be surprised here by bandits. They left Caelwen’s mount tethered inside the gate and went in on foot.

  Ahmed smiled, listening to the other two banter as they made their way around the building exterior and back to the door they had found earlier. Rithard was prickly as a cactus, which was normal for him, but Ahmed found Caelwen's nature much changed. Gone was his customary formal tone and seemingly constant guilt and devotion to duty. The policeman was casual with the detective, short even, and not from any resentment or anger, but simply from comfort and familiarity, like a man and woman who had grown old together. Or like Meites.

  To his amusement, Ahmed realized he had, without being consciously aware of it, begun to think of these two as allies, friends even, instead of beasts. It seemed to him that not enough time had passed for him to learn their ways, and that only yesterday they had both seemed as alien as the screeching creatures he had glimpsed on the trip inland. Yet, he felt at ease with them, rather than tense as he would amongst barbarians.

  “There,” Rithard said, pointing at the door. Ahmed obliged them by placing his torch in a sconce there.

  Caelwen turned to look at Rithard with a raised eyebrow. “That? I hate to tell you this, Rithard, but it's just a false door. There's nothing special about them. They're all over the place down here. The founders seemed to favor them in their architecture.”

  Rithard waved aside Caelwen's lack of
faith and bent toward the depression. “Stay in your lane, ape.”

  Caelwen shook his head, a look of long suffering on his face. “It's not so much paperwork as all that. And no clever trickster to work out the sordid details, with you out of the picture. I could make it work.”

  Rithard snickered. “You'd make a terrible murderer, Caelwen. You'd turn yourself in.” He pointed to the inscription and the depression on the door. “See that? Does it look familiar?”

  Caelwen rubbed at his chin as he contemplated the strange symbols. “It does, now that you mention it, but I can't say why.”

  “Book of Amrath?”

  Caelwen studied the alien markings for long moments. “Mei. The weird chicken scratching at the end? The joke he played on everyone?”

  Rithard snorted. “I used to subscribe to that theory, too. It turns out, they are words.”

  “And you know this how?”

  Rithard nodded toward Ahmed. “He can read them.”

  Caelwen turned a half-scowling, half-grinning face to Ahmed. “You let him maneuver me right into that.”

  Ahmed grinned back. “I told you, my people think madmen are touched by gods. They are to be indulged.”

  Caelwen looked back and forth between the two of them briefly, before finally giving in and nearly shouting, “Well? What does it say?”

  Rithard inclined his head in victory. “‘The key to true knowledge lies within the heart of wisdom.’”

  Caelwen considered this a moment, frowning. “And so, based just on that, you smashed the thousand-year-old statue?”

  “That, and finding the inscription here, yes. I presume these other false doors of which you speak have neither the inscription nor the keyhole, hmm?”

  “I—” Caelwen began, then paused. “I can’t really say. I don’t think so.”

  “Rest assured, if you should see one, we’ll want a look at it, but I strongly suspect this is a unique thing.” He reached into his pocket and fished out the key. “Let’s see what they’ve left for us, shall we?”

  Caelwen eyed Rithard’s prize with suspicion. “You call that a key?”

  “A key opens a lock, does it not?”

  “We have yet to establish that.”

  Rithard slipped the lion’s head into the depression and turned it back and forth, trying to align the grooves. It settled in with a slight click. Rithard gave Caelwen a triumphant look.

  Caelwen in turn gasped in shock and staggered back with a cry of pain. Rithard’s smug expression faded to confusion as bright crimson blossomed from Caelwen’s left shoulder.

  Rithard, as usual, was slow in grasping the nature of the situation. Ahmed, seeing the shadowy figure emerging from behind Caelwen, drew his blade and lunged forward in a single motion, stabbing past Rithard’s shocked face and drawing a bloodcurdling screech of agony from his target. At the very same moment, he felt a hard blow against the shield on his back. He spun, careful not to behead one of his companions, and crashed his blade into the skull of a second assailant. The man staggered backward into the darkness with a cry.

  “Get the blackie!” someone shouted. “That’s the one what did for Silas!”

  “Add two more to my list, bitch!” Ahmed called back as he unslung his shield, though he wasn’t entirely certain he had finished either of his attackers. They might well be waiting in the shadows, looking for his chance to even the score.

  “Fucking Southlander! Should have killed the lot of you when we had the chance!”

  Another voice, shrill with excitement, called, “Stab that cocksucker Caelwen again! Make sure he’s dead!”

  “Come and try it!” Caelwen shouted back. He had his own blade in hand now, and was shielding Rithard with his body, staring anxiously into the dark. Ahmed’s torch was a rather pitiful light source, illuminating only a small semicircle about them, a fact that would not escape their attackers.

  Rithard, close to hyperventilating, gasped, “Didn’t you close the gate?”

  Ahmed kept his eyes focused on the darkness as he answered. “Aye. They climbed the fence, I’d wager.”

  “Which means they’re very angry with us. I told you they’d be back.”

  Caelwen grunted in pain, keeping his sword ready in case the attackers grew bold enough to try again. “You need to get that door open! Our asses are hanging in the wind out here.”

  Ahmed nodded. “Aye. They’ll come again soon.” He stepped to close ranks and offer Rithard as much cover as possible while the smaller man bent to work with the key and lock.

  Caelwen glanced at Ahmed and licked his lips. “How many?”

  Ahmed shrugged and continued peering into the darkness, seeing only vague shapes moving in the shadows near the wall, just at the edge of his vision. “Four, I think, but they are afraid. Probably waiting on friends before they try again. That buys us a few minutes.”

  If Rithard could open the door, he and Caelwen could fight shoulder to shoulder, and take a small band of thugs. Out here, though...best not to think too long on it. He offered a brief prayer to Ilaweh, asking only for strength and a respectable death if that was his will.

  Caelwen checked his shoulder, frowned, and asked, “Can we run for it?”

  Ahmed shook his head. “We won’t get that gate open without getting hacked to pieces. May as well make our stand here.”

  Rithard fumbled with the key and hissed, “Mei!”

  Caelwen chuckled softly. “It’s not a key, is it? I told you it wasn’t. I’ve finally won an argument with you, and I have no time whatsoever to gloat about it.”

  “You do recall I am armed now, yes? I could stab you a matching hole in your leg.”

  Ahmed dodged an incoming rock. The missile flew over his head and bounced off the bricks behind him, almost catching him in the head on the rebound. “Just get that door open!”

  “I’m trying! It doesn’t make any sense! It ought to—oh! I see!” He stabbed a finger at the key. A hollow click emanated from deep within the building.

  A shoddy looking arrow thunked against the wall beside Ahmed’s head. He raised his shield, trying to position it to cover most of his and Rithard’s vitals, but it simply wasn’t large enough for the task. Ahmed looked to Caelwen and sighed with realization.

  “No armor and no shield either, eh? You were planning on dying well tonight?”

  Caelwen shrugged, looking embarrassed. “I wasn’t planning on a fight.”

  Rithard glanced at the door’s seam with high expectations, but nothing seemed to be happening. “You came to the Undercity without armor?” he asked, his focus still fixed firmly on the key.

  “No,” Caelwen shot back. “I came to House Amrath without armor, to warn Ahmed that Ariano is hunting him. I wound up unprepared in the Undercity because I was silly enough to be concerned for your welfare. I apologize for that.”

  Rithard jabbed at the key again, and another click sounded, but the door remained closed. “Let’s hope it’s not your last mistake, old friend.”

  Ahmed shifted the shield to fully cover Rithard, knowing he was exposing himself a bit, but hoping his enemies would not be skilled enough to immediately capitalize on it. They are waiting for overwhelming numbers. He could hear shouting from the front of the building, reinforcements most likely.

  “Not much time, now. Rithard! Turn the key!”

  Rithard bit back a stinging retort. It would hardly help things, and in truth, the Southlander’s lack of understanding had nothing to do with his intellect, which had actually impressed Rithard. Rather, Ahmed simply lacked information. He could not see the ‘key’ or the circle of nine buttons which had sprung from its surface, or it would have been obvious there was no ‘turning’ to be done.

  At first, it had seemed easy enough to work out. Press the first, click. Press the second, nothing. So not primes. Start over. One and three each click, fourth nothing, start again. Odds, then. One, three, five, seven click. Nine, nothing.

  He could hear them approaching in his mind, and perha
ps with his ears as well, now. Focus, Rithard! It wasn’t odd numbers, then, but if not evens, odds, or primes, how could he work it out?

  There must be a clue in the book, or written here. We were intended to find this.

  “Caelwen,” he said in a soft voice, hardly daring to ask what he had in mind. Caelwen was a creature of habit, so it was likely he had what Rithard needed, but if he had deviated from his routine this night, they were probably all dead men. “Give me your Book of Amrath.”

  He caught Caelwen’s eye then, and his friend clearly thought him mad, yet he was true to form, unchanging. He carried his copy of the book everywhere he went, even to his death in the Undercity. Perhaps especially to that.

  Caelwen reached into his shirt and handed over the tome with a resigned expression, leaving a bloody hand print on the cover. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “They’re coming,” Ahmed said, as if commenting on the weather.

  Both warriors stiffened and closed ranks at the sound of rushing footsteps. Rithard heard as if from a long distance away the ring of metal on metal, and felt himself squeezed as his friends gave and received blows, but his focus was elsewhere.

  Quickly, Rithard opened the book and paged to the end. The cryptic, foreign letters swam before his eyes, meaningless symbols. They were indeed the very last things written, as he had remembered.

  And before? “Creation. Change. Liberty. Truth. Will. Mysticism. Mastery.” More philosophical drivel.

  The Southlander cried out, though whether in pain or victory, Rithard could not tell. He closed the book and drew the blade Slat had given him. This end toward the enemy. He raised it before his face in a halfhearted salute, and froze at what he saw.

  Perhaps it was the torchlight that made it visible now. Perhaps, if one looked hard enough, it would have always been visible. Whatever the case, he could see it now clear as day, etched into the metal over and over, all down the blade: the number seven.

  Seven means something.