I went for my sword, but he turned his back on me and wandered away, humming merrily. I stood inside the doorway, hand on sword hilt and heart hammering.
“Are you coming in or not?” a dry, male voice said from a chair by the fireplace in the centre of the room. “It’s a little draughty with that door open.”
I advanced slowly into the room and let the heavy door swing shut behind me. The place appeared to serve as the tower’s great hall, with huge wooden beams and tables and chairs set around the central fire pit while other doors led off to side rooms and steps up and down the tower. The man’s back was carelessly exposed to the doorway, as if he was not in any way afraid of being surprised or attacked. His stockinged feet were up and resting on a padded stool, and next to him was a small table with two foamy mugs of ale.
Smoke curled in the air like dragon’s breath, drawn from a clay pipe held in his left hand…a dark and weathered hand missing a finger.
“How do you know my name?” I demanded. “Are you the one they call the God of Broken Things?”
“I am,” he said. “As to how I know your name…”
He stood and turned. My sword was up and ready to strike in a horrified second. The ancient Escharric tyrant Abrax-Masud stood before me. The enemy lived!
I flashed forward, magic singing in my veins as I cut at his neck. He lifted his right hand and my sword clanged into it, like I’d struck iron. I stared at the enchanted black iron plates enveloping his hand, and then at the cheeky, foreign smile twisting Abrax-Masud’s lips. His bald head had grown to stubble and the oiled beard shaved off entirely. On his tunic was pinned a badge that said: “A god. Yes, really.” This… this was…
“Walker?” “Ta-da!” he said, ignoring the blade so near his throat to fling his hands wide and grin at me.
“Walker?” I repeated, stunned. I had to be sure. I fumbled for the scraps of terrible old poetry Layla had given me and began reciting it.
He cringed. His face reddened and he snatched the paper from my hands, crunched it into a ball and lobbed it into the fire. “I will kill her!”
“It is you!” I gasped. “Course it is. Do I look like an arrogant piece of shit with a bug pulling my strings? What other bloody sneaky little bastard do you know who could pull this off?”
He must have sensed my rising anger: “Uh, we have ale. Or I have a flask of whisky somewhere…” he fumbled at his clothing, searching.
“Walker?”
He looked worried. “I… uh… I thought it would be fun to surprise you once I sorted myself out. I guess seeing me in my new meat suit might have been a little terrifying now that I think about it.”
I snapped and punched him full force in the face. It sent him spinning to crash head-first into the far wall. I choked with sudden fear that I’d killed him.
I got back up and dusted myself off, without so much as a scratch to show for the truly impressive blow I’d taken. I smiled ruefully at Eva. “I have an elder magus’ body now. Just as well really. Sorry about the bad joke. It honestly sounded far more fun in my head.”
Her sword clanged to the floor and she rushed me, wrapped her arms around me and squeezed hard. “Bastard. Utter bastard.”
“Did I ever deny that?” “How did you survive? I saw you die. You both died. You…” “Like all bullies I gave them exactly what they wanted, and exactly what they expected. When they used their full might to force through my defences they found a simulacrum of myself waiting, and then my trap slammed down to keep them locked inside my flesh. My true self was already slipping into their body, leaving only a few physical movements for my own to finish the job.” I looked down at the new flesh I inhabited. “As for this, you never did see it destroyed. You all remember only what I wanted you to. In fact, all I did was turn and walk away from the city.
She shook her head and cursed my weird magic. “What of the Scarrabus inside you?”
My face twisted in disgust. “Let’s just say that after I killed its mind what was left made its own way out of my body in a very unpleasant manner – now there was a shite I can never forget.”
Both of us could have done without that lovely image, but as usual my mouth was running far ahead of my brain.
“What brought you to this place?” she asked.
I held up my new, darker skinned hands, and examined them. They still felt utterly foreign. I willed the black plates covering my right hand to slide forward and form the vicious barbed blade of
Dissever and then back again. The daemon grumbled in the back of my mind, complaining I wasn’t feeding it enough. Not that there was enough blood in all the realms to sate its thirst.
“I came here searching for the legendary God of Broken Things,” I said. “I hoped it could bring me peace. What a crock of shite that was. Maybe once there was such a being, but no longer. Instead I sat in this ruin alone with my thoughts, trying to put all the broken pieces of myself back together and overwrite all the remaining inclinations this body’s previous owner left behind. All he knew is still inside this old brain you know, good and bad and ratshit insane. While I worked out the issues I thought I’d take the time to write a great saga for the bards to tell, but one that tells how it really was, full of pain and panic, sacrifice and bloodshed.”
I sighed and shook my head. “The world had other plans for me. I can still feel them all out there, the wounded and the despairing, the ones who had once prayed I might save them from the Scarrabus queen and gifted me their will and power. I invite them here to rest and to heal, and eventually return to their old lives if they want. And if not, they can stay and forget their pain and turmoil and have a second chance to be happy. I can offer them that. There was no God of Broken Things when I arrived, but there is one now.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Say, how do you feel right now?”
It took her a moment. Then she gasped with the sheer bliss of suffering no pain. “Thank you.”
“What are friends for?” “Is that what we are?” she countered.
I sensed her malicious glee and realised I must be flushing with embarrassment.
Then that glee died, utterly, replaced with a barren yearning. “Walker, there can be no future for us. I cannot offer you anything physical. With my wounds we can never… you know…”
I chuckled. “The pleasures of the flesh are overrated, Eva. I’m more interested in your mind. The things I can do will surprise you.”
My magic wrapped around her. I opened myself up and invited her into my mind, our thoughts entwining, pleasure exploding.
She drew back, panting. “I will stay, to rest and heal in mind if not in body. Besides, a big, ugly, idiot like you needs somebody with some sense to watch his back, and to stop your damned saga from making you sound far worse than you really are.” She punched me in the arm hard enough to crack stone. “I’m glad you didn’t die.”
I handed her a mug of cold ale. “I’ve always said that heroism could get a man killed; luckily I am more thief than hero.”
She removed her mask and knocked the ale back. “I hope this fancy new body of yours is not as much of a lightweight as your old one.”
“Challenge accepted.”
For the first time in a long time, it was going to be a good day.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Despite the image of the solitary author toiling away late at night, I’ve found that writing and publishing a book is really more of a team sport.
I’d like to thank the good folk at Angry Robot for making the process of writing and publishing this second book as easy and fun as possible: Penny Reeve, Nick Tyler, Marc Gascoigne, Gemma Creffield, and my editor Paul Simpson – you have all been amazing and it’s been a real joy working with you. Thanks also to Jan Weßbecher for another kick-ass cover.
Dawn Frederick and everybody at Red Sofa Literary, you have been as wonderful as ever.
My deepest of thanks to all the readers, reviewers, and the fine people at Fantasy Hive, Fantasy Faction, The Fantasy Inn, Red
dit r/fantasy, Grimdark Fiction Readers & Writers, Fantasy Focus, Absolute Write, and many others who have all helped to spread the word about The Traitor God and God of Broken Things. Your support has meant a lot!
As always, the science fiction and fantasy author community has been a welcoming place, with people like Anna Stephens, RJ Barker, Edward Cox, Gavin G Smith, Ed McDonald, Sam Hawke, Peter McLean, Dyrk Ashton, Anna Smith Spark, Stephen Aryan, Jen Williams, Cat Hellisen, Ruth Booth, Rob Adams, Neil Williamson and many more making sure I am hard at work. Seriously, no distractions and amusements at all. Nope. None. *sidles off*
And finally, to Natasha, Misty, Mum & Dad, Billy & Lisa, Paula & Michael, Craig & Mary - thanks for your unwavering belief in me, your support has been invaluable.
By the same author…
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UNDER THE PENDULUM SUN BY JEANETTE NG
PAPERBACK & EBOOK
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Two Victorian missionaries travel into darkest fairyland, to deliver their uplifting message to the godless magical beings who dwell there… at the risk of losing their own mortal souls.
Winner of the Sydney J Bounds Award, the British Fantasy Award for Best Newcomer
Shortlisted for the John W Campbell Award
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An Angry Robot paperback original, 2019
Copyright © Cameron Johnston 2019
Cover by Jan Weßbecher
Set in Meridien
All rights reserved. Cameron Johnston asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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