War God's Will

by Matthew P Gilbert

  Ahmed struggled to remember if he had said at all, and decided that it would be foolish to correct the sorcerer, even if he could remember. “Ahmed Justinius, Master.”

  “’Master’, is it? Are you a slave?”

  “I am a your student.”

  “Then I approve of the term. I have a gift for you.”

  Rithard could not contain himself, and heaved a huge, disgusted sigh. Caelwen elbowed him in the ribs. Tasinal glanced at them briefly before sighing himself. “There are things you don’t understand,” he repeated as he rose. “Wait here.”

  Then it happened again. Ahmed watched Tasinal rise and turn to leave, and then, suddenly, he was on the other side of the room. If it were merely that he had moved, it would have been one thing, but he was also wearing different clothes. Instead of the red and black robe, he now sported tan breeches and a simple white shirt, and he was holding a half-eaten sandwich.

  Also, unless Ahmed misunderstood his gestures, Tasinal was shaking his fist and cursing at someone, though Ahmed saw no one else present.

  Tasinal turned back to them, a sheepish grin on his face. “As I said, there are things—”

  Rithard shouted, “Why are you toying with us?”

  Tasinal shook his head in denial. “You’re being toyed with, indeed, but not by me. I’m a victim, too, just of a different sort. I’ve been wicked enough to draw unwanted attention.”

  Rithard looked about, an expression of mock-credulity plastered on his face. “Oh, really? And who might that be, that it’s not the all-powerful, annoying sorcerer?”

  Tasinal glared at Rithard. “Being honest, I suspect he would stop me from tearing out your tongue, but I am sorely tempted to test that theory.”

  Ahmed suddenly noticed a weight in his lap, and looked down to see a fine blade lying across his legs. Reflexively, he reached to check his own weapon, but knew even before his hand made contact that it would still be in the scabbard on his belt. This was not his blade (Brutus’s blade, a small voice in his head reminded him). It was a much finer weapon. In Xanthia, sword making was more science than art, and serviceable weapons were produced in large quantities, but this blade was something else, custom-made with love and devotion, and at considerable expense. It was a no-nonsense weapon, one made for work, not for show. The only concession to pure serviceability was a stylized ‘X’ graven on both sides of the grip, and a single sphere of amber set into the pommel.

  Could this have belonged to... Ahmed banished the idea as childish dreaming. Surely it could not be so. But the time period would be correct, and the style matched many of the weapons Ahmed had seen from the Great War. And if this sorcerer were truly Tasinal, there was a chance.

  From what seemed like a distance, Rithard and Tasinal were arguing, and Caelwen was simply shaking his head. Ahmed, however, was so focused on the blade that he heard nothing but his own words. He gasped out, in a rasping voice, “How did you get this?”

  Tasinal and Rithard stopped their bickering, and the sorcerer raised an eyebrow and grinned. “Husam. He came here after the war, once Xanthius passed away. We all worked together to see the Eye was put asunder and never restored. We failed. But that blade properly belongs to your people. You, since there is no one else here to claim it. Take it home.”

  Ahmed stared wide-eyed at Tasinal, his mind rebelling at the thought of immortals who knew legends of history, who bore their blades. Now, I know how it feels when I tell people Ilaweh speaks to me.

  He was about to offer thanks for the blade when he saw from the corner of his eye a vague, human shaped figure. He turned, alarmed, to look at it directly and saw nothing.

  Rithard cleared his throat. “So this Husam, he was your code master? You used their language? Why? Weren’t you all of the same mind about the Eye?”

  “The council was,” Tasinal answered. “There were considerably more dabblers then than now. You must understand, those of us on the council saw this all happen. We understood the danger, but for most Meites it was hearsay, and a weapon is something to be seized, an opportunity to be taken. Even I thought so in the beginning.”

  Ahmed watched the figure with his peripheral vision. It was nothing more than a shimmering, like heat warping the air. It was indeed shaped like a man, yet it seemed something more somehow: deeper, heavier, more real. I should not be able to see it, but I have the sight.

  Rithard, genuinely curious now, asked, “You used it?”

  Tasinal shook his head. “Nay, but I would have, and it would have destroyed me. It was my choice to keep it in this world, and I pay for that decision even still. The long and short of it is that, on this matter, I am extremely limited in my ability to act.”

  Rithard snorted in derision, but Ahmed spoke up. “No. He speaks truth.”

  Rithard cast him a sour look. “And you know this how?”

  Ahmed shrugged, preferring not to let on to the phantom presence that he had in fact sussed it out. “I just know, Rithard. It is my gift.” Ahmed almost laughed as Rithard’s features wrinkled in distaste. No, it is not your logic and science. That makes you uncomfortable.

  Rithard waved a hand. “I suppose I must trust Ahmed. He has a track record.” He looked at Tasinal with disapproval. “So do Meites.”

  Tasinal chuckled. “Oh, indeed. I have told spectacular lies when it suited me. I take no offense. But I am telling the truth now. Though, admittedly, I would say that if I were telling a spectacular lie, too.” His grin beamed like the sun.

  Caelwen nodded sagely. “So you’ve found some loophole?”

  Tasinal looked at him in bemused surprise. “Oh, really, the meathead speaks, and he’s on target! Why, yes, I did find one. How did you know?”

  “I’ve done plenty of interrogations.”

  “So I’m a criminal sort of mind, am I?”

  Caelwen, looking suddenly uncomfortable, shrugged.

  Tasinal burst into laughter. “Well, there’s really only one way to take that gesture.”

  If Rithard was happy to play Bad Cop in this scenario, and Ahmed was unwittingly the Good Cop, Caelwen was happy to play Dumb Cop.

  Caelwen was well aware that people were less guarded with you if they thought you weren’t very clever. Tasinal was kind enough to leave no doubt of his thoughts. That left Caelwen a lot of time to observe.

  The ‘blinks’ had been quite unnerving the first couple of times. They hadn’t really gotten any easier after that, but they had at least become familiar.

  Rithard was too busy being angry or smug to notice, but Tasinal seemed, very often, to be looking over his shoulder, or off to the side of the room, as if there were someone else there. Caelwen hadn’t been able to understand what was going on until he caught Ahmed doing much the same, watching someone or something with his peripheral vision.

  Whatever was there, Caelwen couldn’t see it, neither straight on nor from the corner of his eye. The Southlander, though, clearly could, and he had demonstrated some remarkable abilities. Not that it mattered. Caelwen doubted there was anything they could do about it that Tasinal couldn’t, but still, it was something to keep an eye on.

  Caelwen was fairly certain that, somehow, time was slipping during the ‘blinks’. It seemed mad, and yet it was the only thing that made sense. It wasn’t just a case of Tasinal moving. He changed clothes. Once, his hair was wet, as if he’d just stepped out of the bath, and now it was dry again.

  I would think I was going crazy if the situation weren’t already the height of madness. Our ancient, undead emperor just crushed the heads of a couple dozen thugs, then crushed the rest of them into goo, exchanged insults with Rithard, and is presently eating a sandwich he didn’t have the last time I looked. Oh, and there’s a ‘presence’ lurking about that only the undead emperor and the holy man can see. I don’t know what sanity even means anymore.

  Tasinal, done laughing at him for the moment, continued, “The ‘loophole’, as you put it, is that I can provide you with things you might have gotten in some othe
r way, such as information Amrath put down in the papers. I can answer historical questions. I most definitely cannot fight your enemies.”

  Caelwen raised an eyebrow. “They would be your enemies, too.”

  “One would think so, yes, but unfortunately, not everyone agrees.”

  Caelwen nodded. It seemed, for the moment, he was the one asking questions. “And presumably, you’re not allowed to speak of this ‘someone’, eh?”

  “How very astute of you. I, of course, can neither confirm nor deny that, but yes, that’s the situation.”

  Caelwen noticed, to his dismay, another blink. So he’s telling the truth. He’s been disciplined during that one, for breaking the rules. It was rather obvious, once he understood. Tasinal’s entire demeanor was a mixture of misery and rage, exactly the sort one would expect of a Meite being forced to knuckle under to a superior.

  But who could have that sort of power, and why won’t he show himself?

  Rithard realized, with a start, that he was late to the party. The others had worked out what was going on some time back, while he had been distracted with anger. This is what I get for indulging in emotion. Mei, I need a drink!

  “I don’t suppose you have any decent vintages hidden away here?” he asked, not really expecting a good response, but Tasinal’s face lit up at the mention of alcohol.

  “Mei, that’s just what we need! But something stronger than wine, assuming your constitution isn’t as weak as your wit, eh?”

  “You may insult me all you like if the barbs are served with spirits,” Rithard told him, offering a slight bow of gratitude.

  Tasinal rose, walked to a cabinet, and opened it to reveal an impressive array of liquors. “Go on. Ask your questions,” he called, as he busied himself with filling glasses.

  “Tell us about charging the blood. How do you even know about this? What must be done, and how will we know it’s happening if we need to stop it?”

  Tasinal placed a stout drink in front of each of them. Rithard grabbed his at once and knocked it back, as did Tasinal. As the ancient sorcerer moved to refill their glasses, Rithard saw Ahmed take a hesitant sip, as if uncertain what to expect, while he was fairly certain Caelwen merely pressed the glass to his mouth but took nothing from it.

  “We captured some of Naritas’s notes when we put a stop to his grand experiment. I won’t claim to have understood much, but Yorn and Amrath did.” Tasinal feigned a yawn. “What I do know is that when all of the pieces of the eye were present, the stuff glowed with a nearly black light, but once any of the pieces were removed, it just looked like oil.” He shook a finger at Rithard, his face growing serious. “Mind you, it’s still highly volatile, even in that state.”

  Rithard raised an eyebrow. “How explosive? What if we set it off without the Eye? Perhaps we might solve our problem with a bang, eh?”

  Tasinal knocked back another drink, grimaced, and poured a third. Oh, why not? Rithard knocked his own back and gestured for a refill as Ahmed and Caelwen looked on with disapproval.

  Tasinal swirled liquor in his glass, considering. “It would still be a cataclysmic explosion. I’d expect it would leave a tremendous crater, but without the energy of the Eye behind it, the ley lines would not be threatened. I doubt whoever set it off would survive.” He again drained his glass and winked at the group. “Unless they could fly.” His expression grew somber, “Or walk ley lines, but that way lies madness. It would be better to die in the explosion.”

  Rithard pressed on. “How would it be triggered?”

  “There is a book in Torium with any number of rituals involving Elgar,” Tasinal said, a contemplative look crossing his face. “Or at least there was. Naritas and his toadies had a long tradition of ‘publishing’, as ‘twere. Very jealous sorts, always jockeying for credit.” He shrugged and waved a hand in the air dismissively. “We never found it. Presumably it’s still down there somewhere.” He gave a slight shudder, as if chilled by old memories. “For all I know, so is Naritas. It all became very… fluid after we intervened.”

  Ahmed, apparently deciding he did like the drink, polished his off and set the glass down with great care. “It is a good plan, if we could get there. I have always doubted we all survive this quest. If there is a chance to stop it, I for one would be happy to die well to see it done.”

  Tasinal smiled warmly at him. “You remind me very much of Husam.”

  Ahmed nodded at Tasinal. “A kind thing to say, master, and you give us good knowledge, but it will not help us, I fear. There is little we can do from here, and it all happens tonight.”

  Rithard stared at Ahmed, aghast. “If you knew this, then why did we even bother with this wild goose chase?”

  Ahmed shrugged again. “I did as I was told. I thought perhaps we would discover something we could do here to stop things, or get help from a powerful sorcerer, but with Tasinal bound as he says, it seems things are out of our hands. We cannot possibly arrive in time.”

  “Indeed,” Tasinal said, looking glum and defeated. He poured another drink, and his face suddenly lit with impish glee. “Oh, that’s simply too rich!”

  Rithard finished his own drink. “What?”

  Tasinal giggled like a child at whatever was running through his head. “Yes! Oh, great Mei, the irony is delicious!”

  Tasinal rose to his feet, wobbled slightly, raised a finger in the air, and shouted, “I shall teleport you there!”

  Ahmed had just enough time to see the shimmering figure surge forward, and then...

  Chapter 18

  All the Marbles

  Blink, but this time, it was the whole world. Ahmed struggled to keep from heaving up the contents of his last meal as the disorientation sent a wave of nausea through his innards. And for that matter, when was my last meal? He couldn’t remember, though his belly insisted it had been too long. Better to fight on an empty stomach, though.

  Things were so changed that Ahmed’s mind had trouble adjusting to the new circumstances for a moment. They had been inside, and now they were under a dark, star-filled sky. It should have been cold, and yet the gentle breeze felt warm on his skin, though it was tinged with a subtle scent of something foul, like a long-dead corpse.

  He realized he was lying, not standing, in a large wooden cart, along with Rithard and Caelwen. The policeman was looking about in wonder and shock, whereas the detective was examining himself, eyes wide and unbelieving.

  Rithard was the first to speak. “Impossible.”

  Caelwen shot him a patronizing look. “Clearly, possible.”

  Rithard dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “Meites can’t do this! They throw things, they set fires, but they don’t make things appear or disappear or teleport!”

  Caelwen shrugged. “Until now.”

  “Stop it, dolt! This is important!”

  Caelwen hauled himself out of the cart and stretched, shaking his head and chuckling at Rithard. “You’re the one denying reality, and I’m the ‘dolt’.”

  Ahmed looked about, trying to get his bearings. Their cart stood in a clear spot that had likely once been a road leading toward a walled city. The road itself was barely visible, nearly overrun with vines, grass, and other wild vegetation, but the walls were clear of any growth, as if living things could not bring themselves to touch it. Eight small ziggurats, defensive structures that would have held archers and other troops in war, were spaced equally about the perimeter. Within, towering above the wall, was an enormous central pyramid, its stepped sides rising over the jungle to near two hundred feet.

  Ahmed felt his guts twisting in revulsion as it came clear to him. This is Torium. He dropped to a knee, drew his blade, and bowed his head in prayer. To his surprise, Caelwen did likewise.

  Ahmed raised an eyebrow. “What god will you pray to?”

  Caelwen offered him a thin smile. “Any that will hear me.”

  Rithard shook his head, the expression on his face leaving no doubt that he was about to say something critical, bu
t it fled him quickly. He hauled himself from the cart and knelt in the dirt with them. “Southlander, we will need your god today, I think. Show me how you pray.”

  As Ahmed opened his mouth to speak, he was interrupted by an utterly alien sound, a roaring, whooshing noise, and above that, he was certain he could hear shouting voices. As he looked up, a great flaming craft roared overhead, trailing fire and sparks. It cleared the outer defenses of Torium and moments later, as Ahmed and his friends knelt, gaping, they heard it impact, sending a great gout of steam and water into the air, visible above the wall.

  Rithard spoke for everyone. “Mei! What was that?”

  Ahmed leapt to his feet and pointed at the gates. “That was a sign! The gods have spoken! With me, quickly!”

  Sadrik burst to the surface, his breath ragged, pulse pounding in his ears. The reek immediately assaulted his senses. He gagged, and very nearly vomited before realizing the scent was only mildly unpleasant. He took a great breath as his stomach settled, and tried to take stock as he struggled to tread water, close to panic. I should have learned to swim, damn it!

  About him, shouts and screams filled the air. At first, he could not understand why. They had landed in water, relatively softly. The raft was still largely intact.

  Something cold and slimy wrapped around his foot and pulled, drawing him beneath the surface before he could cry out himself. He caught just a glimpse of a mottled, purplish tentacle before the water closed over him. As the vile liquid filled his mouth, eyes, and nose, Sadrik’s stomach again threatened to rebel, and his panic rose almost to an overpowering tenor. He was blind, drowning, and a nightmare creature planned on making a meal of him. It was the end.