“Well, of course not! That would be stupid. It would hardly be the perfect murder if I confessed to it.”
Caelwen snorted laughter. “Fine, then. Hypothetically, if you had actually committed the deed, which case would you be solving by confessing?”
Rithard looked back and forth dramatically, as if verifying they were alone, then, with a grin, answered, “Maralena Prosin.”
Caelwen shook his head. “That was clearly a Meite.”
Rithard shrugged. “He beat me to it, that’s all.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I would have gotten away with it, too.”
“I have little doubt.”
“You really don’t believe me do you?”
Caelwen sighed. “If I say I do, will you let it go?”
“And then what would we talk about?”
Caelwen laughed out loud. “I guess you have a point.”
Sometimes, for the bravest and most valiant of soldiers, Ilaweh grants a final boon before they leave the world of men for good. It was so with Sandilianus, whose name would be sung forever as a true hero.
He asked for one thing only: to look in on the boy he had come to count as a son. Ilaweh had laughed at this and asked if Ahmed would be angry to know Sandilianus still called him boy. Sandilianus had grinned and said he likely would.
It was much like a dream, for in many ways, it was a dream. Sandilianus found himself back aboard Ilaweh’s Will, amazed by simple things. He saw so much more, now. The whole world was frail, an illusion, much like scenery in a play.
But the people, ah, they were deeper, more vibrant, brilliant lights, each unique, and the boy was the brightest of them all. He lit the landscape like the full moon at night, a beacon to all around him.
Sandilianus smiled to hear the boy giving orders to cast off, to set sail for Xanthia. He nodded with appreciation as those orders were obeyed by Xanthian and Nihlosian alike without question, and not out of fear, but out of respect. He has learned well.
The pathetic, sham sun set slowly over the artificial ocean, and the bright light of the boy at last entered the skin of the flimsy ship. Sandilianus watched, smiling, as Ahmed prepared for sleep. First, the boy removed his sword and placed it into a cunningly crafted hanger, one that would keep the blade at hand if there were danger, but prevent it from being tossed about in rough waters. Next, he knelt in prayer, and finally, he stripped naked and slung himself in his hammock.
Sandilianus smiled at the sight, glad that the boy did not share his thoughts on women. We will need more like you, Ahmed. Many more.
As Ahmed’s breathing slowed and became regular, Sandilianus knew it was time for him to go. Even now, Ilaweh had work for him. But his gaze lingered a moment on the boy’s new blade.
It was a deadly piece of work. His new eyes could see facets that his old could never have noted. He saw all of the blood it had spilled, and the blood it had spared. He saw its first owner holding it aloft with a battle cry, and wondered if he might meet that proud warrior, now, in the afterlife. It is time. My work here is done.
As Sandilianus prepared to depart, his eye was drawn to the sphere of amber in the blade’s pommel. For a brief moment, it flared a deep, brilliant emerald. Then it was quiet.
Sandilianus shrugged and smiled. His time for worrying over such things had passed. It was the boy’s problem, now.
Sandilianus smiled one last time in the world of the living and corrected himself.
Not boy. Man.
Epilogue
Bitter Ends
Logrus promised himself as he slipped away from the others that he would allow himself one month to grieve, and no more. He would begin counting once he reached home. The first morning he woke in his own bed would be day one, and on the thirtieth day, he would let things go and move on.
The cave-in had given him good cover to escape without being seen. He barely knew the others, and even if he had known them better, there would have been far too much talking for his taste. Ahmed, perhaps, would have been good to share words with, but the rest would have been complicated.
The old woman, Aiul’s mother, presented a very difficult moral conundrum for Logrus. She was certainly wicked, though not nearly enough to draw Elgar’s attention, not under normal circumstances. But she had tried to kill everyone, had she not? She should be on his list, and yet she was not.
Logrus pondered this as he built a cairn outside Torium for Aiul, a symbolic gesture, but one he had felt the need to express. No one would visit, nor would they know what it signified if they were to stumble on it. Yet, it was some kind of marker.
Logrus found, as he travelled, that he had more interest in talking with Aiul now that he was dead than he ever had while he was alive. He imagined his friend there, with him, as he piled the stones, and asked him how it could be that it was not a matter of urgency that the old woman be punished. The imaginary Aiul did not know, either, nor did Elgar clarify anything.
Logrus reached home before long and began his vigil of grief. Elgar had not spoken to him since Torium. The last contact Logrus had felt was when he had touched the black pool and been healed. Since then, nothing, and Logrus harbored a growing fear that something terrible had happened to his god. Perhaps the cleansing of Torium had expended so much of his dwindling energy that he had died. It would explain much.
So Logrus had grieved for the only two friends he had ever known, hoping against hope that he would receive a sign from Elgar, but knowing the grim truth in his soul: something had happened to Elgar. He had known it when he looked at the old woman, knowing she had tried to kill the world, and saw her only as gray. The knowledge had grown within him day by day here as he rose each morning and prayed without any answer.
The Dead God was at long last truly dead. It was the only possible explanation. It had taken him a thousand years to bleed out from his wounds, and he had spent his last breath avenging not just the most wretched, sorrowful people ever to have lived, but himself as well. As much as it pained Logrus to realize that Elgar was no more, it pleased him to know that his oldest friend had found peace at last.
And perhaps, if what gods remained were just, his newest friend Aiul had as well. He had died a hard death, but he had been avenged. Logrus hoped his friend’s soul could rest now. If the gods were kind, he would find his wife and child again.
As for himself, Logrus used the time of grieving to think on where he should go and what he should do. For as long as he could remember, he had done what was necessary. And what was necessary was something Elgar had, up to now, defined for him. He still had his book, and even his vision, but seeing the old woman as gray made him doubt it.
How could she have been gray?
As the end of the month approached, Logrus decided that he would need to test his vision. There was but one man he knew for certain would be red, one man whose name he had written in his book, but never crossed off. There had always been something more important, someone who had done even worse evil than to rob a child of his mother.
It almost seemed unfair. What had he done but strangle one woman? He would not be expecting a Knight of Fear to mete out justice.
Logrus shouldered his pack and looked about his humble home one last time, wanting to be certain he had not forgotten anything important. He ticked off the various items he felt necessary, from tinder to sausages to needle and thread. He had what needed.
Logrus thought of his departed friends one last time as he lit a torch and opened his front door. Is this the rest of my life, hunting men down and slaying them? Is there nothing more for me? He stood for long moments in the doorframe, wondering if perhaps he should forgive the man who murdered his mother. Perhaps just seeing him would be enough, to know if his vision were still true, or if it had indeed failed him, as the sight of the wicked sorceress suggested.
“Fuck that,” he said, and tossed the torch into the house. It landed in the pile of kindling he had prepared, and the flames caught quickly.
&nbs
p; As the house began to burn, Logrus opened his book and turned to the only unfinished entry: “It is necessary that Hector Gonzales die for his crimes.” Below this, he wrote:
Day 1: Hector last seen in Brust ten years ago. Heading there to look for clues.
From the entrance to his lair, Cruentus watched Ariano rise quickly into the sky, headed… somewhere. Cruentus had never bothered to learn much about short-lived races beyond what he had needed to know to plunder them. At one time, he had found such foolishness the height of entertainment, but it had lost its appeal after the first few thousand years.
Now, he found he treasured beautiful things and stories more than anything else. He looked at the paintings Ariano had brought, payment for her debts, and beside them on the ground, a small, amber sphere.
The first painting was a scene from a nightmare, hideous, misshapen creatures so lifelike Cruentus could almost smell them. “Monsters. I don’t know what to call them. Everywhere,” he recalled her saying, and here they were. He gazed at the portrait for long moments, then turned to the other. This one depicted simply a woman on her knees, hands over her face as if weeping, as the world about her melted under the intense heat of a bonfire built high enough to touch the sky. On the ground by her side lay a torch, still lit, presumably the very one she had used to start the fire.
“But does she weep because she started the fire, or did she start the fire because she weeps,” the dragon wondered aloud.
“Fools damage themselves,” came a voice from behind, a sharp, pointed voice Cruentus knew all too well. He turned to see Tasinal, in his preferred red and black, making a rude gesture at the dwindling form of Ariano. “Does it really matter how they view it? It’s the harm they cause the rest of us that’s of concern.”
Cruentus scowled at his uninvited visitor, but stopped short of insult. The others were amusing. This one was dangerous, even to a five-thousand-year-old dragon, and as volatile as any Meite ever was. “You might have put an end to her when Lothrian began his foolishness.”
“I might have,” Tasinal replied. “But she was much more attractive at the time. She bribed me, as women are wont to do, and I found myself in a forgiving mood.”
“She is a good artist,” Cruentus said. “This piece moves me.”
Tasinal nodded briefly, apparently in agreement, then asked, “Do you think she knew?”
Cruentus ruffled his wings and snorted flame. “About the piece? No.” Gingerly, he took the amber sphere from the ground between his two smallest claws, barely able to hold on to such a tiny thing. He held it up to the sun, and looked at it closely. “I was hoping I would get the real one back, but this is the same one Amrath gave me long ago.”
“How can you tell?”
“I marked it, of course.” Cruentus dropped the sphere and stamped on it, crushing it to dust against the obsidian ground. “She would have been considerably angrier with me if she suspected. I as much as sent her and Lothrian to their deaths in Torium with your Council’s little fraud.”
Tasinal winked, an almost sheepish grin on his face. “How long have you known?”
“Since the moment Amrath gave it to me. I have a sense for such things. Where is the real piece?”
“Safe,” Tasinal said with a cryptic smile. “That’s all you need to know. And let’s be honest, it all worked out just fine.” His smile faded to a sneer. “Lothrian is far and away better off dead.”
“And Ariano?”
Tasinal gave this some deep thought for a moment, rubbing at his chin. “She used to be quite the hot little piece of ass back in the day. But yes, she deserves it, too.”
Cruentus chuckled. “Fate disagrees with you.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“What’s done is done,” Cruentus needled.
Tasinal snorted. “I have other thoughts on that, too.”
Cruentus eyed the sorcerer warily. Something about that statement felt odd. “What sort of black magic are you up to, sorcerer?”
Tasinal smiled back, an angelic expression of innocence on his face. “None you need concern yourself about.”
Aiul did not recognize the afterlife, any more than he had known the place the first time he had visited. He once again lay face down on the charred ground, the scorched wasteland extending to every horizon, stark and barren beneath cold, gray light. Dark clouds boiled overhead, a gathering storm.
He did, however, recognize Elgar. The Dead God, wearing Aiul’s own face, stared down at him with black eyes full of pain and rage. His armor seemed even more scored now, the wound in his throat larger, his agony more intense. In his gauntleted hand, he clutched something with a death grip, but Aiul could not make out what it was.
Even as Aiul rose to his feet, the figure before him swooned and staggered. Elgar fell to a knee, using his clenched fist for balance. “It cannot be mended,” he whispered. “There is too much evil, too much retribution to mete out.”
“Where am I?” Aiul asked.
“Nowhere. A waystation. You will not be here long.”
Aiul suddenly felt a terrible chill within as memory poured back into his head like water filling a sinking ship. He remembered Papa’s crushing grip, irresistible as fate, inexorable, implacable, just like the man. “Mei!” he gasped.
Elgar, his voice quiet and wispy, managed to chuckle, “No.”
Aiul could barely find any words at all, and when he finally forced them from his lips, they came out as a croak. “Am I dead?”
Elgar looked up at Aiul, his black eyes like pits into the deepest void, the very antitheses of existence. “Yes,” he said. “For a bit longer.” He raised his clenched fist and spoke in his true voice. “You are the one.”
As Elgar’s voice bored into Aiul’s mind like a drill; Aiul could feel his horror slipping away, turning to hatred and rage. In his mind, he saw Papa’s mad, electric eyes as he had last seen them, felt the hand tightening about his throat like an iron band and the cold fury of being robbed of life and hope yet again.
Aiul heard the cries of a thousand crows and the roar of flames, felt the flesh melting from his bones as Elgar spoke. “Do you still want to rest, humble servant?”
Aiul ground his teeth, despite knowing better. What does it matter if I crack another? I am dead.
“No,” he answered. “No rest. I would have my revenge on all of them. You promised me!”
“I am constrained by the order of things.” Elgar clenched both his hands into fists and raised them before his face. “You, however, are not.” Spikes erupted from Elgar’s fingers, metal talons now.
Aiul felt he understood, even though he did not. “How long will you suffer here?” he asked in a whisper, as if it were someone else speaking, not him.
“I have suffered enough.” Eerie, green light bled through the gauntlet fingers, growing brighter until it was almost blinding as Elgar drove the spikes through his own head.
Aiul stood in stunned silence as Elgar toppled over, dead by his own hand. His fist relaxed as it hit the ground, and Aiul gaped in horror to see what Elgar had been hiding.
A tiny half lion’s head rolled from his limp grip and fell to the blasted ground. Even as Aiul recognized the thing for what it was, his vision wavered, and his senses were torn away in a whirlwind.
In the pit of Torium, Tomas rubbed his hands together as his underlings worked at clearing the last of the stone. Already, he could see the black liquid glimmering in the pool beneath, but he could not reach it! “Hurry!” he carped, slapping at the backs of multiple heads. “Work harder! Elgar commands!”
Tomas left them to their work and walked back out into the enormous cavern with the massive, spiral staircase. This is all mine now. In his mind, he envisioned how he would decorate. He would need a symbol, of course, but what?
Ten long years, he had waited for this moment. From the instant he knew the False Prophet and the Fool had slain the wretched creatures in Torium, that they had cleared a path, Tomas had known it was his destiny. B
ut the leaders of his murder had been visionless cowards, preaching caution as if caution had ever gained Elgar’s favor.
No, bold action was required, but to get himself into a position to lead had taken years of patience, slowly advancing to become Javier’s right-hand man, and then Eduardo’s. Javier had been easy to overcome once Tomas had secured his trust, but Eduardo had been a sly one, sleeping in a different location every night, keeping secrets. Of course, it was only sensible, after what happened to Javier, and it had taken two years to find Eduardo in a weak moment, but Tomas had a head for patterns, and patience eventually paid off.
Once he had presented the rest of the murder with Eduardo’s head as proof of his strength, they had accepted him as their new leader. How could they not? He had Elgar’s favor. He had the courage to do Elgar’s will. He had a destiny, and they were fortunate indeed that he was leading them to glory, allowing them to ride his coattails into history.
When this is done, everyone in the kingdom of Reese will kneel before me or die! For so long, he had endured living as an outsider, hunted and reviled. Once he had the power, he would show them all.
A cry from the workers at the black pool broke Tomas from his dreams of glory. “What?” he shouted, his voice pitched high with excitement. My ascension is nigh!
Tomas waited a moment, expecting obedience, but there was no reply, only eerie silence. As he turned to the pool room to see what was the matter, his first thoughts were of the punishment he would inflict on his insolent underlings, but as he approached, he realized he could not see any of his people in the room. He felt a chill run down his spine, any thoughts of vengeance fading to unreasoning fear. He sensed something terribly wrong, something…unspeakable.
A hand, covered in metal, shot from the darkness and seized him about the throat, lifting him as if he were a child, or a toy. He struggled against the merciless grip, and cut his eyes downward to get a glimpse of his attacker. What he saw threatened to tear away what remained of his mind.
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