War God's Will

by Matthew P Gilbert

  Rithard looked suddenly very glum. “Well, I hadn’t meant to include you in that assessment, frankly.”

  “Ah, but you should,” Sadrik answered, his tone sharp and bitter. “Or have you forgotten how we met? We all have blood on our hands, and I can’t say as any of our sect having passed has done the world a bit of harm.”

  Ahmed saw something odd in Sadrik’s eyes, not the usual Meite madness. He looked hard at the young sorcerer, and saw his normal gray aura seemed off somehow, almost tinted a slight green. Why are you feeling guilty, Sadrik? And what could that mean for one such as you?

  Maranath grunted. “So you’re drunk, too, eh?”

  Sadrik gave him a nasty smile and showed them a half empty bottle. “Oh, not nearly drunk enough. Come, Rithard, let’s put this to proper use. Do you think you can out drink a Meite?”

  Rithard smiled despite himself. “It depends on if you cheat.”

  Sadrik placed an arm around Rithard’s shoulders and began to lead him toward a group of young women. As they turned to leave, Maranath called out in a voice a bit more harsh than fit the circumstances, “Sadrik.”

  Sadrik paused and looked back, and again, Ahmed was struck by his mood. He was hiding it well, but he was angry and full of grief. Maranath sees it too.

  The old man held Sadrik’s gaze with his own smoldering stare a moment, before saying, in a clipped, sharp tone, “Mind yourself.”

  To Ahmed’s surprise, Sadrik gave Maranath an abashed nod before turning again, presumably to drown whatever dark emotions he carried with wine, women, and song.

  Maranath watched him leave, then rubbed at his temple as if he had a headache. “I hope there’s no trouble.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s young, and the events of late have unsettled him. Treachery has a way of breaking loose one’s moorings until they’re accustomed to it.”

  Ahmed shrugged. “My people deal with traitors differently from yours.”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure you do, but then you never have the case of needing to reign in powerful sorcerers with explosive tempers and wild emotions.” The old sorcerer scowled at Ahmed’s shrug, and continued. “Killing begets reprisals.”

  “I count only the three of you.”

  Maranath chuckled. “You don’t lie well.”

  Ahmed almost challenged him before he remembered. “Tasinal,” he said softly. “I’d almost forgotten about him.”

  “He established a clear precedent. Bend the knee, get in line, and rebellions can be forgiven.”

  Ahmed nodded, remembering his encounter with the great tyrant. I would not want to get cross with him, if I could avoid it. “So your woman, she received no punishment at all?”

  Maranath grunted. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

  Ariano had drawn the curtains when she returned a week prior, and saw no point in ever opening them again. There was, in truth, nothing outside that she cared to see.

  One of the slaves, she had no idea which, was knocking on the door again. They tried to check on her every hour, and they left food, though she took very little. The deep, black depths in her soul left little room for hunger, though she had not taken leave of her senses. If I wished to die, I’d do it in a more creative way than starving.

  She had expected it to pass, this crushing darkness, and it should have. The only rational explanation was that she didn’t really want it to. Oh, how I misjudged you, Narelki.

  Life had become little more than a loop, the constant reliving of her worst nightmare, watching her child murdered by his own father, and then seeing him, too, brought to his end at the hands of Sadrik, the Southlanders, and the Elgarite.

  Worst of all was the recognition that she grieved not just for Aiul, but for Lothrian as well.

  It’s your fate, for making that damnable bargain in the first place.

  They had both been pregnant at the same time, both gone into labor at the same time, and Lothrian had been convinced it was destiny, as he was about everything. “A child and a grandchild in the same night! That means something!” As for herself, Ariano had never been quite certain if the child had come at the appropriate time, or if she had subtly willed it, both out of her love for symmetry and her desire to feed Lothrian’s ego.

  It hardly matters, now. All it had really meant was making an agonizing choice. Narelki’s child had been stillborn, and Lothrian was convinced the knowledge would destroy his daughter. “She’s already fragile from what that bastard did to her!”

  Fate had given them an opportunity, and they had seized it. “We’ll still see him every day. We’ll still know him and love him. All I am asking is we let Narelki believe he is hers.” It had seemed the right thing at the time, noble even. Help Lothrian’s daughter, and conveniently avoid the responsibility of raising the child. Ever does selfish motivation lead to rationalization.

  In the end, it had all been for nothing. Narelki had still suffered a collapse, and now she and her half-brother were both dead, all of it at Lothrian’s feet.

  And mine.

  It was tempting to wallow in self-pity. Every artist has a weakness for such indulgence, to shut one’s self away from the cruel world and pretend it doesn’t exist. As grief stricken and shattered as Ariano was, it was simply not in her nature to surrender to such impulses. A part of her did wish she had died in Torium, but more of her still loved life, and hungered to create, as she had always done.

  Destruction had been Lothrian’s passion, and she had let herself be led down the path by the sheer perversity and madness of it.

  To find her way back, she would do as she had always done: create.

  If the dragon wants a picture, he’ll have one. Let him see how it ended.

  She stood, crossed to the window, and pulled the curtains wide. She needed proper light to work. Her easel was next. She dragged it into position and placed a stretched canvas on it. Her palette and brushes were there on a low table beside her.

  Ariano sat long moments staring at the empty canvas, deciding on tone. She saw the image clearly in her mind. It had not stopped playing in her head since it had happened.

  It should be the color of rust and decay, of pain and loss.

  She looked about for a container, frantic to get started now that she had the vision. At last, she located a small tumbler near her palette, along with the small knife she used to trim her brushes.

  All good art is, in some way or another, bleeding. For a moment, she considered slashing her wrist, but dismissed it. She had no fear of dying from such a wound, not when she had important work to complete, but it would be too much too fast. She settled for her left thumb, watching in fascination as the sharp blade pushed the flesh down, then bit in and slid to the bone. The pain was excruciating, and yet somehow invigorating as well.

  She held her wounded thumb over the tumbler and let the blood flow, humming to herself a lullaby she had sung to the baby on the first and only night he had ever been truly hers.

  When Ahmed caught sight of the ship in the distance, he breathed a sigh of relief. He had always known leaving it was a terrible gamble, but what choice had he been given? To see it still where he left it was a minor miracle in and of itself.

  He commanded eight men now, less than half of those who had agreed to follow him. It seemed ages ago, now, that gathering on a rocky beach amidst the ruins of their previous ship. Plucky Rashid had had been the only one he could name at the time, and even then only because the man had lost his sword and been mocked for it. Now, he knew all of them, and they him. But it is easier now. We have lost so many.

  It was not sensible, this pain he felt at the losses, and not just the recent ones, but all of them since he had set out from Xanthia—he paused a moment, counting—years ago. I am nearly twenty now! So many fallen, and the loss weighed on him: Yazid, Brutus, and even the blasphemous navigator, Tahir, who he now understood had indeed found faith at the end. The man had literally traded his life so that Ahmed could continue his quest.
And the others did likewise, though not with as much understanding as Tahir or Sandilianus of what they were doing.

  No, it was not sensible to mourn men who died well, and yet he did, Sandilianus most of all. And why not? The greater the hero a man is, the more one wishes he were still with them.

  They had managed to hire a good forty men from the prisons, and their party now resembled a small, ragtag army. Ahmed had some concerns regarding their numbers. If they were to mutiny at sea, it could go badly, but such were the risks of any voyage, in truth. He had chosen men who seemed amiable enough, thieves and drunks mostly, people looking for a fresh start. He smiled to himself, remembering one particularly shocking volunteer: Anthalas, the lone survivor of the mob who had tried to kill him in the Undercity. Apparently, after spreading Tasinal’s warning as he’d been ordered to do, he’d been picked up for drunk and disorderly and refused to leave the prison the next morning. He had spoken to no one at all until the Xanthians came looking for men, and he had been at the front of the line. When Ahmed had asked him why, the man had simply said, “I need a new place.” Ahmed had understood, and had taken him on.

  Caelwen trudged warily alongside their new crew, alert for trouble, and Eleran circulated amongst them, learning who could be trusted and who bore watching. And likely, who is a good mark. Rithard, looking suitably dour, swayed in his saddle, clearly not one for horseback riding, especially after having spent most of the previous evening trying to outdrink Sadrik. Ahmed briefly wondered what had become of the young sorcerer. All Rithard would say was that Sadrik didn’t want any contact with the elders, and that Sadrik had hinted he had found a new mentor. Ahmed shuddered at that thought, knowing who said mentor was likely to be. But who could blame either of them, really?

  Aboard the ship, a commotion was brewing as the crew rushed the rails, watching intently as Ahmed and his party approached. Ahmed sighed, knowing this would be difficult. They had left the boat carrying a large sack of left boots, and a crew convinced that shoes were the key to demonic sorcery that would kill them with fire if they disobeyed. What had become of the boots, Ahmed had no idea. They were lost somewhere, likely at the scene of the great battle with the Elgies. There was no telling how the men he had duped with his wild tale would react if their footgear was not returned.

  As the party approached within shouting distance, Bendaro, the leader of the old crew, leaned over the railing, his brown, lined face still mottled with the bruises Eleran had given him. “The sorcerer returns! Soon we can go home!” The rest of his men watched intently, terror etched on their faces.

  Ahmed called back, “We have a problem.” He started to say more, but his tongue froze as his eye caught movement in the sky above the ship. A small dot rapidly grew, becoming man-shaped as it hurtled toward the ship at breakneck speed.

  Maranath slammed feet first against the deck with a resounding crash. Bendaro and his men spun as one, eyes wide in horror, as the old sorcerer brushed at his sleeves. “I should damned well say you do!” Maranath shouted.

  Eleran cried out in a strangled voice, “The master! He’s found us!” He fell to his knees and raised his hands over his head as if to ward off a blow.

  Rashid reacted quickest. He hurled himself to the ground and gibbered in mock terror: “Aieee! Please, master, spare us! We were only having fun with the humans!”

  Ahmed struggled to keep his face straight as he knelt and gestured for the rest of his men to do likewise. The new crew looked about, bewildered, as did Caelwen and Rithard.

  Maranath seemed to suddenly notice Bendaro and his men, and glared at them briefly. “I believe these belong to you.” He unslung the heavy sack from his shoulder and dumped the contents, almost thirty left boots, onto the deck.

  For long moments, Bendaro and his men were still and silent, their eyes wide with fear. Maranath glowered at them briefly, then swept his arm at the cringing men. “Take them, fools! I hardly need boots to keep you in line.” He gestured at a hanging lantern and balled his hand into a fist. The lantern crumpled, sending shards of glass in all directions as the frame collapsed into a compact ball of twisted metal. “I can crush your skulls any time I like.” Maranath opened his hand again, and the metal ball fell to the deck with a thud.

  One of Bendaro’s men keeled over in a dead faint. The rest rushed for the pile of boots in a single mass and fell immediately to squabbling as they tried to sort the boots amongst themselves.

  Maranath scowled down at the group on the shore. “And that goes for you lot as well!” he called, making a point to mug it up for the new crewmembers. Ahmed smiled, knowing full well that Nihlosian commoners feared Meites at least as much as Bendaro and his men feared demons.

  As Bendaro and his men scuttled below decks with their boots, Ahmed turned to Eleran and grinned broadly. “You hid them at the battle, eh?”

  Eleran grinned back. “Yeah, it’s not like I had much else to do. I mentioned it to dad, and he thought it would be a hoot to play along.”

  Ahmed shook his head and chuckled. “I suppose we did owe them a meeting with a real sorcerer.”

  Eleran nodded toward the new crew. “Won’t hurt keeping this lot in check, either.”

  “No, it won’t.”

  Caelwen, a disapproving look on his face, proffered a sheaf of documents to Ahmed. “Formalities.”

  Ahmed looked through the papers without much enthusiasm. “’I do hereby accept custody of these prisoners’, bah. This paperwork is the most savage aspect of your culture yet.” He shrugged. “I have no ink or quill, at any rate.”

  Caelwen handed him a long, thin instrument about the length of a hand. “We savages have this covered.”

  Ahmed turned the thing over in his hands, bewildered, while Rithard snickered quietly. At last, Caelwen had mercy and briefly seized Ahmed’s hands to remove a cap from one end of the rod.

  Rithard, grinning, explained, “That’s the business end. The ink is already inside. We call it a pen.”

  Ahmed grinned like a child as he understood the workings of the device. He scribbled tentatively on the sheaf of papers, then with more confidence as he saw the device did indeed work as advertised. “Can I keep this?”

  Caelwen nodded as he took the paperwork back and began to thumb through it. “I can get another. Expensive, but it’s a nice parting gift, I think.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the paperwork. “What sort of chicken scratching is this?”

  Rithard, looking over his shoulder, smiled knowingly.

  Ahmed tucked the pen into his purse. “That, my friend, is ancient Ilawehan. It seemed appropriate.”

  Rithard snickered. “Indeed.”

  Caelwen looked back and forth at them, then shrugged in surrender. “I witnessed the signature. I don’t need to be able to read it, I suppose.”

  Ahmed looked about at his new friends and sighed, feeling wistful. He would truly be sorry to leave, and yet he had duties. “It’s time to get these men on board.” He turned, for some reason intending to call to Sandilianus, but instead found himself facing Eleran. The lanky Nihlosian offered a quizzical look, and Ahmed answered with a wry smile. “I seem to be missing a second. What about you, Demon Man Dog? Will you have the job?”

  Eleran’s face lit with a broad grin. “If you twist my arm.”

  Maranath, still on the ship, called out, “I heard that, you know!” He pushed off and drifted quickly to the ground in front of Eleran. “So you’re going, eh?”

  Eleran looked positively sheepish. “That was always the plan, dad.”

  Maranath scowled at him a moment. “One would presume so, given that you accepted the job. I’m old. Has it occurred to you we might not see each other again?”

  Eleran shook his head, grinning. “You’re a tough old bird. You just survived the end of the world. I’ll see you again.”

  Ahmed put a hand on Maranath’s shoulder and squeezed. “We will meet again, old man. I think you know this, too.”

  “Aye,” Maranath said. “Nothing i
s over, just delayed.” He flashed a mischievous grin. “Which is precisely why I am coming with you, too.”

  Eleran gaped and stammered, “Since when?”

  Maranath shook his head in consternation. “Oh, please. You didn’t really think I hauled myself all this way just to pull a prank on some savages, did you?” He pulled at his beard and groused, “What? I’m newly single, and I have in mind to go and do some man things, spend some time with my son. What’s wrong with that?” He turned to Ahmed and grew more serious. “Besides, you may need a bit of help controlling those prisoners, considering your losses.”

  Ahmed nodded at this. “We could use your help, there is no doubt.”

  Maranath grinned broadly. “Then it’s settled.”

  Eleran, rubbing at his chin, seemed to warm to the idea. “Do you play poker?”

  Caelwen and Rithard watched Ilaweh’s Will recede in the distance, waving until they could no longer identify individual people onboard. Caelwen lowered his arm and turned to Rithard. “Just the two of us now.”

  Rithard rolled his eyes and trudged toward his horse. “Huzzah! I’m overwhelmed with anticipation of the scintillating conversations we’ll have.”

  Caelwen shrugged and hauled himself atop his own mount. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were in such a hurry to get home to your new girlfriend.”

  Rithard cast a withering gaze at his friend and said in a deadpan voice, “I will stab you.”

  Caelwen snickered and flicked his reigns, setting his mount moving for home. Rithard, after a moment of confusion, urged his horse to catch up. As Rithard’s mount drew abreast, Caelwen continued as if there had been no interruption, “You barely know how to use a blade for anything but cutting your meat.”

  Rithard scoffed at this and waved a hand dramatically. “I’ll have you know I’d make an excellent murderer. I’ve planned the perfect murder before, in meticulous detail.”

  Caelwen shook his head, smiling despite his attempt to feign disinterest. “I noticed you only claim you ‘planned’ it, not that you actually ‘committed’ it.”