War God's Will

by Matthew P Gilbert

  “Forever,” Lothrian spat. He effortlessly tossed Aiul’s limp corpse into the black pool.

  Rithard sat in stunned, horrified silence as Ariano screamed in anguish.

  For the third time that day, Ahmed clawed his way back to consciousness. His entire body ached, but some spots ached more. The back of his head felt as if it were on fire. He touched the painful spot with his fingers and felt slick blood and a split in his scalp. His vision blurred and quickly refocused, resolving on a rapidly moving figure: Ariano was charging at Lothrian, screaming an ear piercing, multitone cry that raised the hair along Ahmed’s forearms. He could only imagine what it would be like to be in the line of fire of that weapon.

  From across the way, Maranath called in a ragged voice, “Southlander, it’s now or never!”

  Lothrian cackled and extended his good hand in front of him, flat like a shield. “It’s definitely never!”

  Ariano collided with and rebounded from an invisible barrier between her and Lothrian, as if she had run headlong into a glass wall. She staggered backward, shock on her face, and keeled over in a heap.

  Lothrian raised a fist over his head in a gesture of victory, and swept his stump in what would have been a grand, all-encompassing gesture had it still ended in an arm. “Anyone else? Anyone?” He turned back and forth, looking at them all. “No? Very well, let’s continue.”

  Ahmed shook his head. He had no chance but to die well, and that was what he would do. “Sandilianus—” he began, but Logrus interrupted him and pressed something cold and hard into his hand.

  Ahmed looked at it, dumbfounded. The amber eye in the half lion’s head seemed to wink at him. He looked at Logrus in shock. “How did you get this?”

  “He never saw it fall. He is an idiot.”

  The words sprang to Ahmed’s mind almost as if Maranath were speaking them in his ear again. That thing channels your faith somehow, and it has a strong influence on our abilities. You can help us or hurt us with it, so have a care.

  Ahmed grabbed Logrus’s hands in his own. “Pray with me.”

  Logrus offered him a confused stare. “Pray for what?”

  “Strength for our friends. Weakness for our enemies. Victory for the right.”

  Logrus gave him a wary look. “Would it not be better to fight?”

  Ahmed squeezed Logrus’s hands tighter against the piece of the Eye. “This is our fight! Yours and mine!”

  Logrus stared at Ahmed, understanding slowly dawning in his eyes. “Yes. I see it, now!”

  Ahmed turned to Sandilianus. “We need just a few moments, I think.”

  Sandilianus banged a fist against his breast plate and drew his blade as he started toward Lothrian. “Time for you to die, sorcerer.”

  “Oh, ho!” Lothrian cried. “Such arrogance! You would have made a fine Meite if you had lived, friend.”

  Sandilianus shrugged. “Kill me, then, dog. If you can.”

  Ahmed sank to his knees, face to face with Logrus, and the two men began chanting, each in his own way. The Lion’s head began to glow with a deep, green light that seemed to bleed over them as it grew brighter and brighter, casting an emerald tint over everything except the black pool.

  “Great Ilaweh, I, a humble warrior, call upon you….”

  “Elgar, lord of justice, hear my plea….”

  Lothrian cast a quick glance at them and shouted. “What are you doing?”

  A great piece of stone struck him from behind and knocked him flat. Sadrik swaggered forth, sneering. “Killing you, you piece of filth!”

  Lothrian leapt to his feet and swung a fist as if throwing a punch at Sadrik. The younger sorcerer grunted and flinched a bit, but kept coming.

  Lothrian spat on the ground. “You? You couldn’t even beat Ariano. You’re not strong enough!”

  Sandilianus pulled his shield from his back and banged his blade against it as he continued forward. “He is not alone.”

  Lothrian, scowling, looked back and forth at them, but he began backing up all the same, the green light of the Eye pulsing like a heartbeat. Sadrik slammed his palms forward, sending Lothrian skidding up against the edge of the black pool.

  Lothrian’s eyes grew wide with shock and anger, and he turned to respond just as Sandilianus charged him. The veteran slammed his shield full-force into the sorcerer and sent him toppling over the edge of the black pool, but not before Lothrian seized him about the neck.

  There they froze, Lothrian inches from the surface, nose to nose, their hatred for each other radiating outward like heat on the desert sand. The surface of the black pool rippled with it, as if blown by wind. Weakened as he was, Lothrian was still somehow able to keep himself from toppling into the deadly liquid.

  Lothrian clawed at Sandilianus’s face, seeking his eyes, his nose, anything to cause pain. Both men’s bodies were rigid with strain. “If I go, you go!” Lothrian cried.

  Sandilianus hammered a gauntleted fist into Lothrian’s face, sending the sorcerer into a brief swoon. “I told you when you started this, I am ready for a hard death!” Sandilianus strained forward, pounding the sorcerer’s face again and again. “It is a good day to die!”

  Sadrik gestured wildly, to no effect. He turned to Ahmed, eyes wide and helpless, but before he could say anything, Lothrian’s will folded under Sandilianus’s rain of blows, and he slipped, just an inch or two, but it was enough. As his flesh made contact with the surface, sizzling like meat frying in oil, his face no longer smirking, but pale and taut with stark terror, he found some inner reserve, enough to stop his descent one last time. He stared up at Sandilianus in hate and roared, “No! It does not end like this!”

  Sandilianus, nose to nose with him, drew a dagger from his belt. “Yes, it does!” he hissed, and plunged the blade into Lothrian’s eye. With a shriek, Lothrian collapsed, and both men toppled into the black pool, leaving not even a ripple on the surface.

  Sadrik staggered back, gasping and shaking his head. “I couldn’t save him!”

  Ahmed released Logrus’s hands with a nod and stood, taking a deep breath. “No,” he said softly. “We weren’t meant to.”

  Even still, it was not over. The black pool suddenly lit with a brilliant orange flare, and the liquid inside exploded upward toward the ceiling, sending everyone diving for cover.

  The light was blinding, but the sounds told their own tale. The liquid struck the ceiling with the ring of a colossal hammer on an anvil, and brought down a huge section in a grinding cacophony. Ahmed once again found himself visionless beneath a hard rain of boulders, with only the will of Ilaweh as shelter.

  As the noise faded and the dust settled, Ahmed concluded that Ilaweh did indeed still have plans for him. When his vision returned, he was pleased to see those plans included the rest of his allies as well. The others all stood blinking, save for the wicked sorceress Ariano. She was clawing in vain at the untold tons of fallen debris, as if she might still somehow change what had happened, if only she could clear the stones.

  Ahmed Justinius rose to his feet, suddenly feeling a thousand years old. He knew he should be elated at the victory, at having saved the world; he should rejoice for Sandilianus, who had found himself a hero’s death if ever there had been one. But there was no joy in his heart. It was all driven out by the wracking sobs of the old woman kneeling at the edge of the black pool, tearing at her hair and calling her dead child’s name.

  Even the wicked know grief, perhaps they most of all.

  It was a lesson he would never forget.

  Chapter 20

  Divergent Paths

  Kariana stared at her own reflection in her vanity mirror, feeling wholly inadequate for the task at hand. She had put on her face and taken it off three times already, and was slowly coming to the realization that while she had plenty of skill at a seductive look, she had none whatsoever for stately and serious.

  In the end, she had called for help. The slave girl had done an admirable job, but it felt somehow artificial. Kariana di
dn’t recognize the person looking back at her from the mirror. This stranger was wise, decisive, a genuine leader, not even remotely close to how Kariana saw herself.

  Of course, she’s not really me, when it comes down to it. The New Empress was a bizarre puppet with Kariana’s face and voice, but with someone else’s words and thoughts.

  Kariana wrinkled her nose in distaste at the changeling staring back at her from the mirror, but she had an official function to lead, and it was necessary. For a brief moment, she was seized by the mad urge to find something, anything really, to take the edge off, but dismissed it. She had endured far too much pain to get free of all of that.

  The grief came again, suddenly, like a punch in the gut. Kariana struggled not to ruin her makeup with tears. She hadn’t even been able to say goodbye. Sadrik had told her everything, or at least as much as he cared for her to know: Aiul’s horrid death, and the Southlander’s heroic end. Somehow, the two combined to be bearable. It wasn’t how things were supposed to have ended. Yet, she was slowly learning it was how things seemed to go, for the most part.

  Sandilianus. His name was Sandilianus, and his god is Ilaweh. It had taken some effort to commit those two names to memory, but since the disaster of a trial where she had first met the man, he had loomed large in her mind, and so had his god. So much better than Mei. I wonder if I need a church, or if I can just worship him on my own?

  A woman’s voice called from behind her, “Have you gone over the speech, Empress?”

  Kariana turned to see her new speech writer entering the room without bothering to ask for permission. Thalassa Idlic was tall, thin, and imperious, a thinner, younger Narelki, and full of the same skill and ego as her late uncle, Prandil. She had the same miraculous power to swell men to giants or shrink them to mice with words.

  Thalassa raised an eyebrow, her electric-blue eyes accusing, her almost porcelain face sour and disapproving. “I see. Shall we go over it now?” The words carried the proper imperious tone, something Kariana was still working to master, but she at least had a fine example to emulate, thanks to Rithard’s suggestion to bring the Idlic woman onboard.

  And Rithard himself, well, that had been a rare good decision on Kariana’s part. Legend said Tasinal had ever been advised by Amrath. Grief welled in her briefly as she remembered that she had once assumed that would be Aiul, but in truth, sour, gloomy Rithard was far and away a better adviser. Like Sadrik, he did nothing to ingratiate himself. He told her unvarnished truth, and she trusted him. Moreover, he trusted her. Who would have thought that stepping in to save Caelwen’s friend would turn out to be such a boon in the long run?

  And as for her Captain of the Guard, he, too, seemed a new man. He had, she knew, hated his job for a long time, hated her too, most likely. But now he actually smiled on occasion. Sometimes he even participated in conversations between her and Rithard, when he happened to be present, even occasionally going so far as to pronounce Rithard a drunken idiot for plans he disagreed with. The Stone was flesh and blood now. Mei, soon he’ll be interested in women or some sort of entertainment or comfort!

  Thalassa cleared her throat as she shoved a sheaf of papers at Kariana. With a sigh, Kariana accepted the speech and began reading the words she would pretend were her own, reciting them and being corrected like a child at her intonations.

  She couldn’t help but grin as she considered how little had changed. They had called her a liar and a whore for years, and now she was the biggest liar and whore possible, a politician. It’s just that I am fucking pretty much everybody at this point, and they actually enjoy it.

  The indignity rankled just a bit, but the power to actually do something worthwhile helped to compensate for that. She had much to make up for, and today would be a great start.

  Maybe, just maybe, they would remember her not as Tasinalta the Mad, but as Tasinalta the Wise, or Tasinalta the Peacemaker.

  It was good to finally have friends.

  The great pavilion in the center of Nihlos was a truly enormous edifice, capable of seating thousands, and arranged in tiers so sound would carry. As an honored guest, Ahmed had been seated at a table right up front with Maranath. About them, more tables were filled with the other house elders and Ahmed’s remaining men.

  Ahmed shook his head in wonder at the excess. One thing was certain: the Nihlosians had a strong penchant for overdoing things. Victory ought be its own reward, but somehow the Nihlosians felt the need to dress it up with lace, candles, and cakes.

  And words. He had not expected their empress to even know so many, and yet somehow she had waxed poetic and philosophical for far too long.

  Maranath eyed Ahmed a moment, then said, “I know just how you feel. It’s drab, isn’t it? You’d think they could have put a little more effort into the celebration.” The old man raised an eyebrow and held his deadpan look for a few seconds before a grin broke out across his face, and Ahmed realized he’d been tricked.

  Ahmed grinned back at him. “It’s not all bad. The monument is a good idea. The dead should be remembered.”

  Rithard, drink in hand, approached and slid into a seat at their table. “That was actually her idea. Most of the rest was mine, and the words were Thalassa’s, but Kariana wanted the monument. A rare good idea from her, I think.”

  Ahmed reached out a hand to Rithard. “It is good to see you! I would speak with you about our dead.”

  Rithard grasped forearms with Ahmed in the Xanthian fashion and gave Maranath an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

  Maranath waved the thought aside. “No intrusion. We’re just passing the time while we drink.”

  Rithard raised his glass, offering a toast. “I’ll drink to that!”

  Maranath clinked his wine against Rithard’s hard liquor. “To drinking. That’s a fine toast, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone offer it before. You’d think someone would have.”

  Ahmed, not fully understanding the gesture, followed suit out of politeness. “I would leave our dead here, at this monument your empress will build, alongside your own,” he told Rithard. “It will be difficult to preserve the bodies for our voyage, and it seems fitting that they lie with their brothers in arms. Ilaweh approves.”

  Rithard nodded agreement. “That’s easily done. I’ll make the arrangements at once. We could hold a small ceremony before you go, if you like.”

  “I would.”

  Maranath cleared his throat to draw attention. “If you can bear the whitewashing.”

  Ahmed shook his head and scowled. “You’ll call the mad one a hero, eh?”

  Maranath chuckled. “We’re all mad, but if you mean Lothrian, yes, that’s the general thinking. Died saving the world, side by side with your man, dealing with that monster down there. We’ll bully the rest into telling the same tale, assuming you’ll play along.”

  Ahmed laughed out loud. “I will play your game, old man, but I don’t understand it. Why not let him be remembered as the villain he was?”

  Maranath’s voice had a dark edge to it as he spoke. “To be remembered as a wicked, devastatingly powerful sorcerer who returned from the dead, fought us all to a standstill, and damn near destroyed the world? Oh, I suspect he’d be damned proud of that.”

  Ahmed waited a moment for the punchline before he understood it had already been delivered. He nodded in satisfaction. “Cunning, and cruel.”

  “I thought so.”

  Ahmed grew somber. “And the Eye?”

  “Well, there’s no retrieving half of it. The other half, we’ll separate again. Cruentus will get his piece back. As for the half head, honestly, I don’t know. I’m leaning toward sending it back with you.”

  Ahmed slashed a hand through the air. “No. I am a humble soldier and prelate. It was only the intervention of Ilaweh that kept others from taking it by force. It should be with someone strong enough to defend it.”

  Maranath looked sidelong at Rithard and smiled. “Or someone clever enough to
hide it well.”

  Rithard scowled at them. “I knew I should have sat somewhere else.”

  Ahmed nodded his approval. “Think of it, Rithard. This time you can make the puzzle for someone else to solve.”

  Rithard smiled despite himself. “There is that, eh? The game is again afoot.”

  Ahmed looked back and forth at them, then, satisfied they were all agreed, asked Maranath, “And your woman? Will she go along with all of this?”

  Maranath’s face grew dark at the mention of Ariano. “It serves her ends. She’ll do as she’s told, at least for a while. She’s on my shit list right now. We’re not speaking overmuch.”

  Rithard looked as if he were about to be ill. “You’ll forgive her, won’t you?” he said in an accusing tone.

  Maranath raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Probably. At some point.”

  Rithard’s jaw clenched. “She had the right of you in Torium, eh? You do think that way! If you’d had the chance—!”

  Maranath waved a hand in derision. “I didn’t have the chance. That’s all that matters.”

  Rithard turned to Ahmed. “They’re a cancer here! It’s why we deposed them!”

  Maranath chuckled. “Oh, give us some credit for saving the world, hmm?”

  “You and your kind put all this in motion! Meites are the cause of all of it!”

  Ahmed put a steady hand on his new friend’s shoulder. “No, Rithard. It was all of us. Your people and mine. We all did this. And we all stood together to fix it.”

  Maranath gave Ahmed a wan smile. “Just so.”

  Rithard glowered at Ahmed briefly. “They will do it again. Murderers and psychotics and liars, the lot of them!”

  Maranath gave Ahmed a shrug. “He’s drunk.” He looked past Ahmed and rolled his eyes, apparently in response to someone approaching. “And loud.”

  “He’s right,” Sadrik added as he joined their group. He, too, put a hand on Rithard’s shoulder. “I couldn’t help but overhear,” he told Rithard with a grin.