War God's Will

by Matthew P Gilbert

  “What does seven mean?” Rithard cried in a strangled voice.

  Ahmed cut his eyes briefly in Rithard’s direction, not daring to lose focus. The bookish fellow was mad again, eyes bright and burning. He had his weapon ready, though, so at least he would go down fighting.

  “What does seven mean?” Rithard shouted again, his voice shrill and demanding.

  “I don’t—” Ahmed began.

  “Numerologically!”

  Ahmed blocked an incoming knife strike that would have taken out an eye had it found its mark, and slashed back, but his opponent was wily. The fellow danced back into the darkness, cackling.

  We’re sitting ducks, here. We’re blinded by our own light, and they can choose their moment. And now Rithard wants numerology?

  “Truth,” he answered. “It means--”

  “Yes!” Rithard nearly shrieked. “Mei, it’s the damned blade’s name! How could I have missed that? Creation, change, liberty, those are one, three and five, yes?”

  Caelwen grunted as a rock whizzed through the air and caught him in the chest. Ahmed spared Rithard another glance, trying to work out if this was something useful or if the man had simply lost his mind. He seemed serious enough, and this look in his eyes had so far indicated he was on to something. “That would be one interpretation, yes.”

  “I need will, mysticism, and mastery!”

  Ahmed wracked his brain as he tried with only half his attention to remember lessons from long ago. “Uh, two, eleven, and twenty two?”

  Rithard sheathed his blade and began punching at the key as Wily came again, this time with two friends, one of them bald, the other sporting a patch over one eye. White wolves, lean, fast, and hungry. From the corner of his vision, Ahmed saw another four pressing in on Caelwen.

  We can do this. He sprung at Wily and slashed hard with his blade while bashing Patch with his shield. Blood flew from Wily’s throat, and teeth from Patch’s shattered mouth. Before Baldy could react, Ahmed brought his blade swinging upward and sank it seep into the man’s gut.

  The man’s scream of agony almost covered up Rithard’s howl of frustration. “Wrong, Southlander!”

  Ahmed, gasping for breath, pulled his sword from Baldy and stabbed Wily and Patch to make sure they stayed down as he called back, “Tell me again!”

  “What? How can you not—? Mei! Will, mysticism, and mastery!”

  Yazid’s voice echoed in his mind: Two is a woman’s number, lazy child. Eight is for will.

  “Eight,” Ahmed gasped back, staggering for the door as more thugs rushed forward. “It’s eight, eleven, twenty two! This is our last chance, Rithard!”

  “Oh, fuck off!”

  Ahmed raised his shield and placed his back against the door as the wave of attackers charged them. Caelwen, lacking a shield, huddled as close as he could.

  It is a good day to die, then.

  At first, as he felt himself fall backward, he thought that was indeed what had occurred, that a sword had found its mark and his spirit had left his body. A moment later, he realized the truth: the door was open, and the way behind was clear. He looked to Caelwen, who had also grasped the situation and was now shoulder to shoulder with him. We can hold it, if there aren’t too many, if we don’t get too tired.

  But the truth was, he was already tired, and Caelwen was wounded as well. Their position was better, but it was hardly unassailable. As they backed slowly into the open corridor, the number of foes became more clear. At least twenty, and that assumed there were no more outside. They were taking no chances after this morning. They mean to kill us no matter what cost. They brought the whole gang.

  Ahmed sighed and shrugged his shoulders. He glanced at Caelwen briefly, and saw the Nihlosian knew full well how this would play out. Ahmed nodded and said, “We make them pay dearly for it.”

  “Oh, pay they will,” called a voice from behind. It was clearly not Rithard’s voice, because after all, Rithard was busy stammering unintelligibly and quite loudly. But who, then? Ahmed shoved the closest attacker with his shield and risked a glance backward.

  Rithard was on the floor in a heap, terror in his eyes. The newcomer was tall, lean, and regal, though his dress was nothing spectacular, a simple red robe with black trim. His features were sharp, his cheekbones high, his hair jet-black and pulled tight into a pony tail that ran down his back. He might have been a kindly looking man had his face not been twisted into a cruel sneer. Ahmed focused on him, trying to see more. The air about the man seemed to dance with energy—gray, pulsing light like a pounding, raging heart, stronger than anything Ahmed had ever seen. His aura was nearly blinding. He might be a god.

  If so, he was not a god of mercy. The stranger raised a hand in the air and clenched it into a fist in a furious gesture. Ahmed turned in horror at the sound of screams and crunching bone, to see the heads of his assailants implode, sending red and gray streamers over the floor, walls, and ceiling.

  The bodies collapsed, leaving a single assailant standing, a young man, barely able to grow a beard. His blade fell from his nerveless hand as the blood pooled at his feet.

  When the man in red spoke, his voice was like the edge of a knife. “I taught your fathers to stay away from here the same way, you know,” he called as he approached the lone survivor, slowly, menacingly, hand still raised. “Human nature is such a sad thing. Every generation needs to learn anew, always crawling back out of the mud and dying, never actually evolving and learning to breathe.”

  Caelwen sank to a knee and bowed his head as the man passed, and Rithard, likewise, struck a submissive pose. Ilaweh preserve us, they know him!

  Ahmed’s mind raced at this thought, but it did him no good. Whatever knowledge they had, he did not, so for the moment, he had best follow their lead. He knelt as well, from shock as much as from anything else.

  The man in red was a Meite. That much Ahmed could guess, and far more powerful than any of the elders he had seen. He could crush us like bugs, just as he did with these fools. In truth, Ahmed had no idea why he and his friends had been spared. Only one man was needed to deliver a message.

  The Meite unclenched his fist and brushed the cheek of the remaining thug in a gentle caress. “You, perhaps, will evolve this time, yes? You’ll remember my name?”

  The youth stammered, his trembling so violent that he could barely form the words, but Ahmed could see there was a measure of steel to him, even so. “Tell me, and I will not forget it, by Mei.”

  “Good,” the Meite crooned, as if soothing a terrified child. “You remember the old ways.” He said nothing for long moments, drawing out the scene. Ahmed saw the brilliant aura about him grow even brighter, as if the drama of the moment somehow gave him even greater strength. “I am Tasinal. This is mine.” He swept his arm as if to encompass the world.

  More words followed, but Ahmed could not hear them over the roaring in his head.

  Chapter 16

  Impasse

  Aiul woke with a start, to find himself in near darkness, the silence broken only by the sound of his own breathing and an intermittent dripping. Of water? Or blood? He spent a few long seconds disoriented, certain there had been more light, and not understanding why it had gone, before he remembered that it had come from the black pool itself. The blood had been glowing, filling the room with a strange, almost black illumination.

  For a moment, panic seized him like a hand compressing his heart. Even without the Torians, Torium was not a place anyone would ever want to be stranded in the darkness. There were plenty of ways to die without being murdered by the occupants, and Aiul did not relish blindly wandering trackless passages until he collapsed from thirst or hunger. He spent a moment to steady himself, breathing deliberately, and found he could in fact see. A dim light still shone from the pool, enough to show Logrus lying where he had fallen, along with the twisted, broken corpse of the Master, still reeking of cooked, rotten meat.

  In theory, the thing was dead, but given recent events, death h
ad become a considerably more flexible state to Aiul than it had been previously. He gave the hideous creature a wide berth as he made his way across the cold stone floor toward his traveling companion. The Master’s lifeless body did not stir at his passing, and Aiul breathed a sigh of relief.

  Logrus could have been taken for a corpse as well, save for the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Aiul checked the several wounds Logrus had received, wishing he had more light, but even the dim illumination was enough to show they needed stitching. Blood still oozed from the rents in Logrus’s flesh. Slower now. Not good. Aiul raised Logrus’s wounded leg and propped it on a stone, tore a strip of cloth from his pants and fashioned it into a tourniquet, then did the same for Logrus’s arm. This isn’t good long term, but it should keep you alive while I hunt for light.

  He found his torch lying on the stone floor beside the black pool. There was very little life left in it, and he had his doubts he could even get it to light, but it was something.

  His eyes strayed to the pool as if pulled by an invisible force, and suddenly he felt the jagged rage rising in him again. Why don’t you help us? He’s dying and you do nothing!

  Aiul remembered clearly the bizarre sensation of his own battered flesh mending, and watching it happen with Logrus as well. Elgar had prevented them from harming one another. He had the power. Why would he not use it now of all times?

  Even as he questioned it, he knew the answer. Elgar had mentioned more than once that he was “constrained by the order of things.” Perhaps he can undo the works of his followers, but can’t interfere in everything?

  Aiul was not entirely comfortable counting himself amongst Elgar’s followers, yet it was difficult to deny, and in any event, was it truly such a bad thing? He had thought so up to now, but excising the Torian cancer had radically changed his perspective. We have destroyed a great evil, and righted a great wrong. Logrus would seem to have the right of things.

  If so, then he had every right to call upon Elgar, did he not? Aiul held the cold, blackened torch up like a club and shook it at the glass-like surface of the black pool. “We’re doing your will! Why don’t you help us!”

  Aiul felt a response, something akin to wind rustling through his hair. His torch burst into life, brilliant now in the darkness. The surface of the black pool rippled feebly, forming a barely visible face. The lips moved in time with a voice in his mind. “Weak. Tired. Soon. Wait.”

  To his great surprise, Aiul felt a pang of guilt. Surely, after that display, he might indeed be tired. Of course, what ‘soon’ might mean to a god was difficult to say. Aiul wondered if he would starve waiting on ‘soon’. At least Elgar had managed to get him some light, which was his most pressing need.

  Aiul wedged the torch in a wall sconce and dragged Logrus over to it, then sat next to him to tend the leg wound. It was deep, but mendable. He rifled Logrus’s pockets, hoping his companion was as well prepared as he seemed to usually be, and indeed he was. Tucked away in a small bag was a packet containing needle and thread.

  He probably did this sort of thing for himself a hundred times, and without the benefit of an anesthetic. Aiul bent to his task and said softly, “Well, my friend, this time you’re getting the red-carpet treatment.”

  It took him a bit, and the task was a bit tricky, but not too much for him. I would prefer to have some disinfectant, but we can’t have you bleeding to death while we wait for it to magically appear. He followed by stitching Logrus’s arm and chest, then removed the tourniquets and considered his handiwork, pleased to see he had plugged at least the most egregious leaks. He put a hand on Logrus’s forehead, noting the man was clammy, but decided it didn’t really tell him much. He has a constitution fit for an elephant. “I prescribe rest, friend. Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

  Aiul leaned against the cold stone of the black pool, wondering what to do next, and reached to his shoulder to examine his own wound, which was surprisingly painless. To his shock, he saw that the wound had vanished entirely. He stared at the spot where the Master had impaled him, finding it difficult to believe, even taking recent events into account. It must have happened in the black pool. Again, he felt a pang of guilt for his thoughts. He would have healed Logrus, too, had he had the power.

  Aiul considered trying to haul Logrus over and toss him into the font, but given that Elgar had just specifically told him to wait, it seemed a bad idea. So I wait.

  He closed his eyes, not really intending to sleep, but open to it if it came. He had just begun to drift off when he jolted to full alertness at the sound of voices. His belly filled with icy dread. Elgar was sleeping, and Logrus was unconscious. Whoever these intruders were, they would find Aiul helpless and alone.

  Not helpless, he corrected himself. You have killed too many of late to think that way any longer. Quietly but surely, he reached for his vicious mace, the fist and spikes now familiar and comforting, where once they had horrified him. He rose in silence and hefted the weapon, swinging it experimentally, the dense metal feeling lighter than ever. I am stronger, faster, better than I was. Whatever dark power Elgar had given him, it was his now, independent of Elgar. No, I am far from helpless these days.

  With a jolt, he remembered the ritual book. It still lay where it had fallen from the Master’s ruined hand, surrounded by repulsive ichor and cooked flesh, but pristine. No trace of the disgusting creature clung to it at all, which Aiul counted as a grand blessing. Even dead, the creature was horrific, the sort of thing no one in his right mind ever wanted to be near.

  Aiul found himself suddenly filled with the terrifying notion that the creature was not in fact dead, but had been feigning all along, waiting for them to be vulnerable. He knew it wasn’t true, that surely it had died at Elgar’s hand, but he could not resist walking over and prodding at it to be certain before he lifted the book from the stone floor.

  The book was heavier than it had any right to be. It was large, yes, and bound in iron, and yet there was a weight, a density to it that seemed almost more than its mere substance. What is this, that it is so important to him?

  Hearing the voices again, closer now, Aiul decided it was no time to contemplate such. He walked to the black pool and slowly, gingerly touched a finger to the surface, afraid he would perhaps draw back exposed bone, but the liquid felt warm and comforting. He lowered the book into it, feeling certain that it would be safe there. He drew his arms back out, unsurprised to see none of the liquid clung to him.

  With a last glance at Logrus, who seemed stable for now, he again hefted his mace and moved to the entrance, hiding in the shadows to one side.

  Someone will be very surprised, very briefly.

  Aiul peered out at the killing field, still littered with Torian bodies, waiting, when the voices came again, but from behind him. He spun, shocked, realizing there must be another entrance to the room, and maddened by the acoustics of the place. It could be coming from anywhere in this maze!

  He moved back inside the pool room and looked closely at the walls. There were indeed other entrances, one at each of the cardinal directions. I suppose that’s important, for some sort of magical reason. The other three entrances were more mundane, simple metal doors that could be barred from the inside, but nothing like the massive primary entrance.

  He opened the other doors one by one and listened carefully at each, again cursing the acoustics. He finally decided that the voices were coming from the passage directly across from the main entrance, and took up a defensive position just to the side of the entry, ready for battle.

  The wait was longer than Aiul had expected. The voices had seemed nearby, and they were clearly growing closer, but they were taking their time. He was fairly certain, from the tone of the voices, that they were actually arguing amongst themselves.

  Aiul continued to wait, resolved that the element of surprise was one worth maintaining, but his mind began to play tricks on him. The voices sounded familiar. One, in particular, sounded like—

 
; Mei! Impossible!

  As they rounded the corner, he was simultaneously elated and filled with deep dread, because he did indeed recognize them. Maranath and Maklin were surprising, but at least within the realm of possibility. But the third man simply could not be there!

  He knew he should be wary for a trick in a place like this, but if this were someone else trying to deceive him, how could they possibly have captured the way the three interacted? They groused and carped at one another, stopping and starting to hurl insults or laugh at each other. They were exactly who they appeared to be.

  Which simply could not be true! Aiul’s plan fled from his mind entirely, and he stepped forward into their view. The words burst from his lips like he was a child again. “Papa?” he stammered.

  The man who couldn’t possibly be standing there, and most certainly couldn’t look so young, whipped his head toward the sound of Aiul’s voice and took a step forward, but Maranath put a hand on his shoulder and called out, “Aiul. Put that damned thing down, son. This has gone too far.”

  Lothrian (for that was who he was, however insane it might be) glared at Maranath. “Son, is it?”

  Maranath looked at Lothrian intently and said with deliberate, slow calm, “This is not the time. Speak to him. This could still end well.”

  Lothrian nodded, the anger fading from his eyes to something akin to misery or terror as he turned back to Aiul. “Didn’t I tell you never to come here, boy?” He offered a shaky chuckle. “I don’t understand how it’s come to this, Aiul, but it’s a very explosive situation. Won’t you explain it to me?”

  Maklin, pointing to the corpse of the Master, jerked at Maranath’s sleeve and muttered, “Mei! What the fuck is that?”

  Maranath turned on Maklin with a glare, making shushing noises, and Maklin stepped back, looking offended as he muttered under his breath.

  Lothrian, however, bent to examine the corpse with a vicious grin. “The Master of Torium, dead as dirt!” he marveled.