War God's Will

by Matthew P Gilbert

  Maranath, now interested despite his other concerns, raised an eyebrow at Lothrian. “You knew this…thing?”

  Lothrian, still grinning, rose and answered, “Knew him? I should say so. He was key in their overwhelming me before.” He turned to Aiul, eyes brimming with curiosity. “He was immensely powerful. How did you manage to defeat him, boy?”

  Every instinct in Aiul told him to run to his grandfather, embrace him in a hug, and let the elders take him home. So much had passed, so much misery and sorrow, and he had lost so much, but it seemed he could put it all aright if he could just rest a while. Lothrian would fix it.

  The jagged thing stabbed at his mind even as he thought of this. He can’t be Papa! Listen to how he is speaking. Papa would command you, not beg. He was never so kind or comforting! This is a trap!

  “We had help,” Aiul muttered, slowly backing toward the black pool, keeping his weapon ready. “As for the rest, what would you hear? That they murdered my wife and unborn child? Or that they threw me in prison to rot?”

  Lothrian spun back to Maranath, eyes blazing. “You told me none of this!”

  Maranath took a deep breath and let it out. “It’s not exactly as he tells it.”

  Aiul’s barking laughter burst from his lips without any real conscious thought, not from amusement, really, just the irony of the situation. “Yes, of course, I imagined it all, my wife bleeding out, the pain of my beatings in prison. And you, Maranath, you let them do it.”

  Maranath’s ire seemed to be growing despite his best efforts to suppress it. “Boy, you conspired with foreigners and attacked the empress! It was all I could do to keep them from killing you!”

  “And look at the cost! Even if I had died, my wife and child would live!”

  Maranath tugged at his beard a moment, his jaw working. “There is no way any of us could have known how that would play out. We were doing our best to help you.”

  Aiul’s legs bumped against the edge of the black pool. He gave Maranath a sour look. “Like you’re trying to help me now, eh?”

  “You threw in with the Dead God and stole a piece of the damned Eye! Surely you didn’t think we could let that pass?”

  Aiul turned to Lothrian without responding. “Papa, are you with them against me?”

  Lothrian raised both hands over his head as if in surrender. “Aiul, I am always with you. If this were you doing battle with them, I would choose your side, no matter what the reasons. But this is not just your battle. The Eye of the Lion is reforming, and the end of the world is nigh! Where is the piece you took?”

  Aiul shrugged. “I know nothing of this.”

  Maklin spat on the ground and cried out in a shrill voice, “Liar! It’s hanging around your neck! Hand it over at once!”

  Aiul pulled the amber sphere from his shirt. “This? Fuck you, old man. It’s mine now.”

  Lothrian burst in, “Is it true you serve the Dead God now?”

  Aiul put the sphere back into his shirt and dipped a hand casually into the pool, wondering what any of them would make of the gesture. “And if I do?”

  Maranath shook his head vehemently. “You cannot trust him, Aiul!”

  Aiul felt the fury rise within him, the jagged thing stabbing at all the soft spots in his mind. “Can’t I?” He stepped forward and swept the mace in a vicious arc, the spiked fist passing within inches of Maranath, though the old man didn’t even flinch. “Right now, I trust Elgar more than I trust any of you. I’ve spent weeks with his man Logrus, and he is a better person than me by far. I’ve just watched Elgar’s wrath poured upon the monsters here, my wrath, and it was a good thing! It was what he sent us here to do! How is that wrong, eh?” He spat his contempt at them. “The lot of you are selfish and wicked! Why should anyone listen to you?”

  Lothrian again held his hands aloft, raising and lowering them in a gesture pleading for calm. “Aiul, Elgar is mad! His mind was shattered here in this very place, by the very monsters you speak of! They tried to kill a god and steal his power. You are involved in matters you can’t possibly appreciate!”

  Aiul grunted at this and glared at Lothrian. “You all still see me as a child. I think you’ll find I can appreciate quite a bit now, more than old men and ghosts could guess.”

  Maklin, red faced, shouted, “Oh for fuck’s sake, he’s one boy with a stick! I’m pretty sure we can take him without killing him!” He gestured grandly at Aiul, obviously expecting something impressive. Aiul felt what seemed a playful punch to his gut, enough to make him take a step back, but nothing to be concerned with.

  “You think so, old man?” he asked with a grin.

  Maklin’s face fell. “Shit,” he muttered, as the others’ eyes grew wide.

  Furious wind whipped Sadrik’s hair about his face as he held his arms overhead, a showman thrilling the crowd and himself with every ounce of drama he could muster. Sparks and flame filled the twilit sky, trailing behind them like the tail of a comet as the last bit of the sun sank behind the trees. It must be half a mile long. I am damned proud of that!

  Ariano howled in a mixture of glee and frustration from the front of the raft, her hair a fluttering flag in the gale, teeth a-grind and lips parted as if in a rictus grin. Her knuckles had gone white from her death grip on the rail. “More, whelp! Bigger and better! I’m flagging!”

  Sadrik felt a brief flutter of panic in his breast. They had been at this for hours, and he was running out of tricks to impress the Southlanders. Being honest, he was fairly impressed himself, not only at his own handiwork, but at Ariano’s as well. He had never moved at such speed, and was fairly certain that going much faster would actually strip the flesh from his face. The ground was nothing more than a blur beneath them, a silver, moonlit expanse that seemed more like an ocean than a forest.

  Had anyone below been watching, Sadrik and his vessel would surely have seemed a wonder, for the brief moment it was in sight, a flaming raft of logs, bound together with vines and sheer force of will. The very air around them wailed in protest at their violation of nature. Which is, when you think about it, a fairly excellent thing in and of itself. Tired as he was, Sadrik felt his face stretching into a mad grin just to think of what they were doing.

  It wasn’t precisely an abomination, but it was generally considered risky, and their specific application was without a doubt foolhardy. Everyone had emotions, desires, most of them untapped and wasted. In a pinch, and with tremendous focus, a pair of desperate sorcerers could deliberately whip up awe or even terror in a group and turn it into raw fuel, to go further than they could on their own, do more. And burn up faster, when we fail.

  It worked, for as long as it lasted, at any rate, and assuming the emotions didn’t turn against the sorcerers in question, which could prove disastrous. There seemed no danger of their passengers declaring them enemies, and even so, they could hardly be more dead from being spitted on Southlander blades than they would from the ensuing crash. At this speed, if she folds, at least the end will be mercifully quick.

  Sandilianus shot to his feet and shouted, “There it is!”

  Sadrik risked a glance over his shoulder, and felt a chill creep up his spine despite the unnatural warmth. A great, stepped pyramid rose above the jungle, the central piece of a large fortification. Something twisted in his guts and damped his carefully cultivated enthusiasm, leaving him momentarily nauseated. That is a place of true evil. It was an odd thought, completely unlike him. Since when do I believe in good and evil? He swallowed hard at the growing lump in his throat, the sharp, contrasting angles of the moonlit and shadowed portions of the pyramid seeming like the blade of a knife, the edge of darkness. Since now, I suppose.

  The sun was completely set now, and, and Sadrik couldn’t help but wonder if the Southlanders’ god had meant, literally, by sunset, or if there was any wiggle room at all. It just set! We can be fashionably late, right?

  Their battered craft shuddered and plunged twenty feet, jarring from his dark musings, before Ari
ano could right it. She screeched back at him, “Idiot! Focus!”

  Sadrik eyed the treetops, now mere feet below, and the terrifying speed at which they were passing. Mercifully quick, indeed, and then what hope will the world have? He shuddered again, then forced his mind back where he needed it.

  Sadrik raised his hands over his head and cried out with abandon, “Torium! Let the gods mark our passing in blood and flame!” He suppressed a shudder of exhaustion, feeling his own emotion running into his veins like quicksilver, bolstering him, burning along his veins like...

  Fire!

  The flames burst from his skin, streaming in the wind and joining the fireworks from the raft. The Southlanders leapt to their feet, cheering and waving their weapons in the air.

  “For Ilaweh!”

  “For Xanthia!”

  Sadrik joined them with his own cry. “Mei smiles on us!”

  Sandilianus sunk to a knee and jammed the tip of his blade into one of the logs. He hung his head, as if in prayer, but his cry was louder than any of the others. “For the world! Ilaweh is great!”

  Sadrik felt his knees begin to buckle as the moment drew out, the wild emotion streaming out of him as if his chest had a great hole. The flames would follow soon, and he had nothing left. The Southlanders gave him a bit with their display, but he was fading quickly.

  I pray your god is with us as you say, Southlander. One may not be enough this night.

  Logrus awoke to the sounds of struggle. The pain hit him immediately, from everywhere at once. It was all he could do not to cry out, but even groggy, he understood that this would be a bad idea. With a supreme effort, he clenched his fists and rode out the wave of agony.

  After a bit, it passed, or he became used to it. He wasn’t truly certain which was the case, but his mind cleared, and he could sense other things. Darkness. Sharp voices. The smell of blood everywhere, almost certainly his. He saw that Aiul had apparently been kind enough to minister to wounds, but spilled blood stayed spilled. Is there even any left in me?

  Logrus tried to rise to a sitting position, but his head swam and to his horror, his body simply refused to obey. He tried again, over and over, but weakness permeated his every fiber.

  He felt the panic begin in his gut, and crushed it down, refusing to tolerate it. Fear was useless and unnecessary. He began to take inventory, testing one body part and then another. A finger twitched. His eyes could move, and, after a few attempts, so could his head. His arms and legs were like butchered meat, still and numb.

  Elgar! My flesh fails me!

  “Weak. Come closer.”

  Logrus cast his eyes toward the black pool. It was perhaps ten feet from him, a seeming eternity. He had no idea how he would reach it, only that he must. He focused all of his will into his right arm. The limb seemed an alien thing, not attached to him at all, someone else’s arm. Move. Nothing.

  He could hear the sounds of struggle more clearly now, curses, grunts, Aiul’s voice and others, strangers he didn’t recognize. For the moment, it seemed Aiul was holding his own well enough to taunt and prod at them. The others, it seemed, wanted Aiul alive.

  Logrus focused on his arm again, summoning every ounce of will he could. To his joy, it moved, just a bit, but it was under his control again. He flexed his fingers and gripped at the floor.

  Ten feet.

  “We’re going down!” Ariano cried.

  Sadrik tried desperately to think of something more he could do, some bit of showmanship that could rally his audience, but everyone, himself included, was simply spent. “Can we make the water?”

  Ariano hesitated, eyes bulging at the rapidly approaching pyramids, her grin still on her face, though perhaps it was now equal parts fear and elation. “We can damned well try!”

  “It’s been exhilarating working with you, grandmother!” Sadrik called, and laughed like a loon.

  Ariano shot him back a look that was a mixture of fury, gratitude, and terror. “You too, whelp!”

  Sadrik was surprised to feel a strong, warm hand on his shoulder. He spun to see Sandilianus. The man offered him a grim smile and extended his hand. Sadrik knew their custom by now. As they grasped forearms, the Southlander said, “Likewise.”

  Despite the urge to watch the disaster unfold directly, Sadrik held the man’s gaze, blue eyes locked with brown in newfound respect, as they passed the wall, descending even more quickly now.

  “Brace yourselves!” Ariano cried.

  Through the bone jarring impact and the shock of cold water, Sadrik had one last conscious thought. These are men from the desert. Can they even swim? Because I never learned…

  Blackness rushed in like a wave, and all was quiet.

  Just one foot. Were it not for his deep, sincere belief in Elgar, Logrus simply could never have found the strength. It was not possible. It had not been possible when it was ten feet, and it was even less possible now.

  Yet, it was necessary.

  From his new vantage point, Logrus could see his enemies, though they had yet to notice him. Aiul, for all his bravado, was now backed into a corner, swinging his mace furiously at any who approached, the madness in him now fully in control. Logrus couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like for the other order, the Knights of Flame, to be driven by rage instead of icy necessity, but he was certain his way was better.

  Blood oozed from his torn nails, and he grimaced as he dug his fingers against the stone again, feeling fresh misery lance up his arm. Slowly, he dragged himself forward, inch by agonizing inch, until, at last, he was at the edge of the Black Pool.

  It would have been sweet to heave a great sigh, yet he knew he dare not make a sound. Until he could recover, he was nothing but a gnat to these men. He could not literally see their power, but he could feel it, sense it like the sun on his face on a warm day. Likely, they could have killed Aiul by now if that was their intent. They were of his people, pale, lanky, tall, and insufferably arrogant. Perhaps they were related.

  One thing was certain: they would have no incentive whatsoever to keep Logrus alive.

  He lay in silence and shadow for long moments, slowly catching his breath, listening to the melee. The newcomers sounded reasonable enough, with many cries of, “We don’t want to hurt you!” or “Don’t make us do this!” Aiul spat and hissed back at them, having none of it.

  For a moment, Logrus wondered if perhaps it would be best to let them have him. Elgar’s will had been done. Logrus could bring back the book and the blood without help. And what was Aiul to him, really? A nuisance, a disruption of his otherwise orderly life. But also an ally. Logrus thought a moment longer, but finally had to admit the truth. A friend.

  It was a new concept for Logrus. He understood the word, and had even had ‘friendships’ when he was young, but the decades since had worn the edges away from such a notion, leaving it shiny and smooth in his mind.

  He is not well, though. Logrus felt torn by deep, sincere confusion about what was the right path. If Aiul was a friend, then his welfare was a now a valid concern, and Aiul was very clearly descending ever deeper into misery and madness. Perhaps, if his people were truly there to help, they could heal his agony of soul, mend his mind.

  But a stronger part of Logrus said simply: you do not abandon friends. Slowly, Logrus reached his hand upward, crawling with his fingers over the rough stone of the pool, and seized the lip. Perhaps Aiul returning with his people would be best for him, but that was for him to decide, not them. If it was vengeance he needed to feel whole, then that was what he would have. Elgar chose him for a reason.

  With the last of his strength, Logrus dragged his numb body upward and plunged a hand into the black pool.

  Strength surged through him, furious energy burning along his veins and nerves with such intensity that he felt it blazing from his pores, his eyes, even his hair. His rent leg knitted in a flash as if it had never been torn, and Logrus sprang to his feet, whole and hale and full of fire.

  It was only then th
at he thought to wonder where his weapons had gotten to. No matter. He reached to the floor and took up a stone and a pottery shard left from the battle with the Master. “Stop!” he shouted.

  One of the sorcerers was a demon summoner, by the looks of his servants, several creatures that seemed to be composed of thousands of bits of debris. The summoner looked up with a bemused expression and called out to the others, “I presume we can kill this one?”

  You can try, old man. Logrus flung the rock. It flew with killing speed, but the old sorcerer was faster than he looked, and managed to dodge well enough to turn what should have been a fatal strike into a merely painful, stunning blow. As the old sorcerer howled in misery, Logrus charged forward, the shard in his hand like a blade.

  Maranath felt his calm begin to slip at the sight of the newcomer. Mei! It never ends!

  He spared Maklin a quick glance. His old friend had a hand clamped to his head, wailing and cursing, as blood trickled down his face. Maranath suppressed a snicker, knowing it might well provoke Maklin into changing his mind about who he was fighting.

  In any event, Maranath had more pressing problems. He swept his hands in a grand gesture, imagining the feel of each of the bits of debris as he picked them up with invisible hands, each with its own texture and weight. Rocks, sconces, even a few bits of bone sprung from the floor and arranged themselves into a barrier between him and the stranger, the pieces spinning and weaving in the air. “I don’t know who you are, stranger, and you don’t know us, so I’ll give you this one warning: stay out of it. This is a family matter.”

  The stranger’s gaze seemed to go distant, eyes unfocused and wandering. Too late, Maranath realized the fellow was trying to calculate paths and find a way through. But that’s impossible!

  Nevertheless, the stranger rushed forward, dodging, and leaping. He was on Maranath in the blink of an eye, one hand twisting Maranath’s collar and drawing him close, and the other holding what looked to be a piece from a broken urn to Maranath’s throat.