by Alan Baxter
He knew what it was to be in the Realm of the Balance. He knew what it was to believe in things beyond gods. To believe in all gods. He was human once, but now he was far more than human and always would be. All the time he held his humanity together, remained a human agent in the mortal Realm. Now he let it go.
With a howl of dimensional winds Isiah was swept up in a rush like nothing he had felt before. Like an orgasm amplified a thousandfold he felt the power of gods flow into him. The gods themselves flowed into him. The pure power of belief engorged him. Gods from every Realm slid and merged with him and Isiah grew, rising up to meet Yath-vados eye to eye. He crackled with power and spoke with the anger of a thousand deities. ‘THE UNIVERSE CAN NOT ALLOW THIS!’
He raised his arms either side of his head, his muscles flexing, standing massive over the battle below. Like ants, the Magi ran, chasing down the last remaining cultists, almost irrelevant now to the battle brewing above them. Isiah felt himself almost lost within the combined consciousness of a thousand thousand gods that bulged within, swirling, boiling, empowering him. The soul of everything pulsed through him. He laughed, giddy with the rush of power. ‘SAMUEL, PEOPLE BELIEVE IN YOU AND THAT MAKES YOU A POWERFUL GOD. BUT LOOK AT ME. I AM THE BALANCE. GODS BELIEVE IN ME. GODS INCLUDING YOU!’ He brought both hands crashing down onto the head of Yath-vados, staggering the blood god backwards.
Isiah roared with laughter. He was everything now. He was transcendent. Even a manifest god was no match for every god made manifest. Deep inside a tiny part of him, the speck of his human self that remained, clung desperately to his conscious mind. He knew that it would be easy to remain as he was. Every god, every power, had trusted him. He had opened and they had come and now he was more powerful than anything. More powerful than everything. It would be so easy to keep this power. In fact, it would be hard not to keep this power and that was the great risk that had been invested in him. That tiny speck of humanity, that raw strength of Isiah’s own will, locked down and held on tight, hoping to survive. But right now that was like a puff of breath in a hurricane and the multitude that was Isiah advanced on Yath-vados, laughter like mountains cracking rending the air.
Yath-vados roared in anger and defiance and rushed forward, swinging blows at Isiah’s head and body. Isiah stepped in to meet them, his arms blocking and intercepting, catching Samuel Harrigan’s strength and turning it back on him. ‘YOU WERE EVER THE ARROGANT WHELP, SAMUEL. THIS ENDS NOW.’
The deep red face of the god on Earth that Samuel Harrigan had become twisted in rage and frustration. ‘You can not defeat me, Isiah. With the help of other gods or otherwise. A defeated god simply returns to his own Realm. This is my Realm!’ A giant red fist crashed through Isiah defences, rocking him backwards.
Isiah turned and powered out a side kick, cracking into the body of the blood god, lifting him off his feet. Yath-vados flew backwards through the air, crashing into the wall of the valley. Rocks cracked and plummeted, crushing the barn below. Yath-vados landed and rolled immediately to his feet, swinging massive red arms at Isiah as he advanced. The human battle below was behind them as Isiah grabbed the blood god by the throat and groin and lifted him high into the air. With a grunt of effort he slammed the deity down onto the ridge of the valley wall. Boulders and scrub exploded into the air, rockslides changing the shape of the valley forever, the boom of the impact echoing across the arid outback.
Isiah gathered the consciousness of all the gods swirling inside him, a maelstrom of divine energy. ‘WELL, GUESS WHAT, HARRIGAN? THIS IS MY REALM TOO.’ He swelled larger still and planted one hand heavily against the god Samuel Harrigan’s chest. He raised the other hand and began raining blows down, Harrigan’s face tearing and splitting. Blood red hands clawed at Isiah’s face and arms, rending flesh, spilling blood, but it was irrelevant. Isiah’s senses were the emotions of gods. Pain only empowered him. He felt bursts of magic and anguish behind him, felt people dying, irrelevant mortals dying. But that was the gods in his mind. Isiah the human, still intact within the mighty being he had become, knew the mortals and their thoughts, their beliefs, were the most powerful thing of all. ‘CAN YOU FEEL YOUR POWER WANING, PRETENDER? YOUR FAITHFUL ARE DYING.’
Yath-vados growled, thrashing under Isiah’s grasp. ‘You can not destroy me here. I have claimed my Realm!’
Isiah grinned. ‘THEN WHY AM I BEATING YOU?’
Harrigan roared again, anger and defiance, bucking up against Isiah’s pressure. The earth beneath him cracked and opened and he slammed one hand into Isiah’s face. Rolling to his feet he batted aside Isiah’s blows and grabbed Isiah by the throat. ‘This is my place and I can not be beaten here!’
Isiah grabbed the hands at his throat and drove one knee up into Harrigan’s ribs, cracking and pulverizing the flesh and bone of the unnatural host. Samuel Harrigan grunted, the face of the god Yath-vados twisting in pain. Isiah felt the legion minds of the gods within his own and he knew what to do. He drove another knee into Harrigan’s body and slammed an elbow into his face. The physical body of the god Yath-vados was being broken. As Harrigan fought desperately against Isiah’s increasingly ferocious attack, Isiah broke more and more of his unnatural form. Harrigan collapsed to the ground, Isiah fell with him, both hands grasping the red head of the blood god. He drew infinitely amplified power and grasped Samuel Harrigan’s consciousness, his very essence, in a vice-like mental grip. As Harrigan screamed, as more of his faithful fell to the strength and power of the Umbra Magi, Isiah let the essence of every belief grow and focussed it on the essence of Yath-vados, the soul of Samuel Harrigan, the mind of a god. The energy building around them became nuclear, intense magic threatening to split Realms apart forever. Before the power grew too much for Isiah to bear, he released it, sending each god back to their own Realm, each holding a fraction of the mind and soul of Samuel Harrigan, the essence of the god Yath-vados. In an explosion of energy and light that knocked every surviving member of the battle to the ground, the body of the blood god vaporised in a wet, red cloud and his consciousness was torn away to a thousand thousand Realms and more, fractured, fragmented, split beyond recognition.
The death howl of a god rang through the valley and Isiah was thrown up and away, diminishing as he fell, the gods departing, each with its own small piece of the prize. Isiah crashed to the ground and rolled. His body felt battered, broken, his mind scorched and ruined by the power he had contained. His vision swam and his stomach turned as he tried to get onto his hands and knees. He saw Petra supporting Cai Wu, both of them bloody and battered, but staggering away from a fight that was won. He could vaguely sense the dragon sweeping through the valley, up and back.
Isiah cast his mind out. Is it over?
IT IS OVER.
He was separated from the powerful entity again, himself once more. And you really never saw this coming? We were lucky to survive this, any of us.
HUMANS PROVE ONCE AGAIN THAT THEY ARE CAPABLE OF FAR GREATER DECEIT AND GUILE THAN GODS COULD EVER DREAM OF.
Isiah let out a small laugh. No shit. Coloured lights preceded blackness at the edges of his vision as orange sand swam dream-like up to meet him. Darkness slammed shut inside his mind.
Epilogue
In Herb’s living room, a joint sending gentle blue curls of aromatic smoke towards the ceiling, Isiah watched the big plasma screen with interest. Herb sat in an armchair in the corner, studiously packing a bong. He was not sure he wanted to know anything about what had been happening recently. Isiah’s stories scared the pants off him and he was never sure what to believe. He was happy to let Isiah and Petra chill at his place for a while. If they needed somewhere to rest, he was happy to provide it.
Petra emerged from the bathroom, wrapping a towel around her head. With a smile, Herb wandered from the room and swung up into his hammock out on the deck. ‘Look,’ Isiah said, pointing to the television. Petra slumped onto the sofa beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. Isiah raised the volume.
�
�...are unable to fathom exactly what happened out here.’ The camera panned across a devastated camp in an outback valley. ‘Police are trying to keep the location a secret until they can gather as much evidence as possible. The scene is like something from a war zone. When police were first tipped off to come out here they found bodies littered throughout the camp and all around the valley, hundreds and hundreds of them, a final death toll still days away. At this stage the best guess is a brutal mass suicide by some bizarre Satanic cult, fuelled by drugs and alcohol.’
Isiah shook his head. ‘Poor old Satan. He always gets the blame. I wonder where he was anyway. I guess he was embarrassed that Harrigan managed to escape his Realm in such a spectacular fashion.’ He gestured at the television and it switched off.
Petra sighed, snuggling closer to Isiah. ‘I’m still not sure I understand what happened out there.’
‘Me either, to be honest.’
‘Is it over?’ Petra looked up, large, dark eyes searching, concerned.
Isiah smiled and kissed her. ‘Yeah, it’s over. We destroyed the bodies of the Sorcerer and the Optimates ourselves. Let the police worry about the rest.’
Petra shook her head. ‘No, I mean with Yath-vados. Samuel Harrigan. Whatever. Is that really over?’
‘Yeah. He’s scattered throughout the Realms. Nothing could have enough power to bring him back, especially with just about all his faithful dead and gone.’
Petra nodded. ‘A dragon helped us. Came and fought with us.’
‘Told you so.’
She glanced up, a slight smile, but her eyes were still sad. ‘What did you become out there? How did you do that?’
Isiah chuckled. ‘You know what? I don’t really know. It wasn’t really me doing anything. The Balance kinda took control of me and drew all the gods in.’
‘The gods were obliged to work together like that?’
‘Not so much obliged. They knew there was little choice. Gods are born of human frailty and insecurity. That makes gods essentially frail and insecure too. The gods saw the possibility of becoming obsolete if Harrigan, Yath-vados, took the human realm. They had to fight that.’
Petra was quiet for a moment. Eventually she looked up again. ‘Where do you get the power to control every god like that?’ There was fear in her voice.
‘It’s not me. It’s Balance. I don’t know how it works, I’ve never been able to figure it out. I think that, because the gods fear oblivion, they therefore desire some balance as much as humans. Without it they could be gone. I think the Balance is born of gods and of people, all desiring a balance that allows gods their existence and humans their free will.’
‘I hope you’re right. About it all being over, I mean.’
Isiah kissed Petra again. ‘It is.’
They were silent for a moment, numb from their exertions and the subsequent relief. Then Isiah saw light glitter off a tear as it beaded and rolled across Petra’s cheek. He caught it on one finger, kissed her hair. ‘Faith...’ Petra’s voice was agonised.
Isiah drew a deep breath. ‘I know.’
‘She didn’t deserve any of that.’
‘Of course not. She was a beautiful, powerful young girl. There just wasn’t time.’
Petra nodded. ‘Such a violent way to go. Such fear.’
‘She’ll be with the Morrigan now.’
‘Is that supposed to make me feel better? That old hag was horrible!’
‘She only ever presents the hag to me. She doesn’t like me. But she’s the maiden too. And the mother. She loves and protects those that have faith in her, the goddess of battle. We may never know for sure, but we can assume that Faith has found peace.’
Petra sighed. ‘For so long my people studied these prophecies and we really had no idea exactly what was going to happen. And then it all happened so fast.’
Isiah nodded. ‘The fate of the world is often decided in the blink of an eye.’
END
Running Wild From the Hunt
An Isiah Short Story
By Alan Baxter
Just as he had been every night for the past week, young Tom Jamieson was running for his life.
He ducked low branches, jumped twisting roots that reached and grabbed, tried to snare a wayward foot. Pounding hooves gained ground behind him like thunder. Hounds bayed, voices whooped. A rampant blast from a hunting horn hammered his ears, made him cry out. Tears streaked his cheeks, his breath jammed his chest, the thundering inches away. The horn blared again and he screamed as hot breath seared the back of his neck.
Tom jerked awake. Slowly relaxing his death grip on sweat-soaked covers, he took deep, reassuring breaths. His hands trembled, his mind churned. He bit back a sob.
He’d always had occasional nightmares, like everyone else, but these last few nights had been terrifying. Worse than anything before.
He knuckled tired eyes and stumbled out of bed to get dressed and get to school. So tired, his sleep so disrupted that he wondered how long he would be able to carry on. Already his teachers had started asking questions, Everything all right at home, Tom?
He barked a humourless laugh. Sure, tell them he was hunted in his dreams every night and couldn’t sleep properly. He’d be into the school counsellor’s office quicker than he could protest.
Isiah leaned against a red brick wall, pretending to read a newspaper as he watched Tom Jamieson leave for school. The kid had tousled blond hair, wore his school uniform, a battered backpack slung over one shoulder. And he had bags under his eyes like a nightshift worker with a day job. Isiah frowned and ran through again what he knew about young Tom: thirteen years old, one older brother, one younger sister; parents still together, comfortable middle-class lifestyle; average at sports, above average academically, plenty of friends, not particularly bullied or stressed at school; destined to save a god.
That last was the kicker for Isiah. The reason he got involved. The most boring people often had the most remarkable destinies and Isiah’s job was to make sure they saw those destinies through. It had been his job for centuries, and he was heartily sick of it. Yet he endured through lack of choice and revelled in the occasional win. Young Tom Jamieson here had a massive destiny, yet meeting it appeared to be growing less likely. At this rate it wouldn’t be long before they caught him.
Isiah sighed, folded his newspaper under one arm. He watched Tom amble up the street and fell into step behind, keeping a long way back. It would be difficult to approach this subject. An older man talking to a kid. Way older, even if he only looked to be in his thirties, and a stranger.
After a ten minute walk Tom arrived at school and Isiah watched from across the road as he went into the big front doors and disappeared from view. There was nothing else for it. Isiah would have to approach him directly and take his chances. He didn’t have time for anything more elaborate.
Tom slogged through his school day doing his best to stay awake. He couldn’t ignore the nightmares when he felt like this, an inability to concentrate and eyelids made of lead a constant reminder of his lack of sleep. His teachers had all asked him if he was okay, every single class a chore of pretending he was. He trudged from the school building like a zombie, wondering what he would do if he dreamed again tonight. Could a person die of tiredness?
‘Tommy! Game on!’
Mark Jenkins, always the most energetic person in any group, seemed positively hyperactive now. Tom gave him a weak smile. ‘Nah, mate. I’m pretty tired. Gonna head home.’
Mark sneered. ‘Come on, you pussy! We have a five-a-side thing lined up against St Swinten’s and you’re our secret weapon.’
Tom watched Jenkins bounce up and down, a blistering mess of neurons firing all at once. St Swinten’s School across town might be a hardy rival in all things academic and sporting, but Tom didn’t really care about that. He did care about Jenna Hoyt, however, and she always came to watch a soccer match. Tom liked to think this was because he always played. He fantasised that she liked him as m
uch as he liked her. ‘Can’t do without me, eh?’ he asked Mark, securing his best put-upon expression.
‘You know it. We need your magic feet!’ Mark danced about, bouncing a black and white soccer ball from one hand to the other. He popped it up on one knee and headed it directly at Tom.
Tom laughed in surprise, caught it on his chest and controlled it down to his foot, quickly showing his skills, the ball flying from foot to foot to knee to foot.
‘That’s what I’m talking about!’ Jenkins enthused.
Tom kicked the ball back. ‘Come on then, if you can’t manage without me.’
‘That’s the spirit. Besides, that Jenna whatshername’ll probably be there.’
Tom sneered, feigning indifference. ‘Yeah? So what?’
Mark laughed. ‘Whatever, Tommy-boy. Pretend all you like, I know you fancy her.’
Isiah watched the football match from the shade of a large tree. The kids all raced around, laughing and shouting, lost in the game. In the moment. Even Tom Jamieson appeared carefree, though Isiah could sense his fatigue. An opportunity presented itself. The football flew in an arc, badly kicked by someone. Isiah reached out with his mind, used magic centuries in the training to nudge the flight path of the ball. As Tom chased it, the ball glanced off a rubbish bin and spun off toward the trees.
‘I’ll get it,’ Tom called over his shoulder. He flicked a nervous smile at a pretty blonde girl as he ran.
Isiah used more manipulation, made the ball roll into the shade of his tree. Tom jogged after it, stopped short when he saw Isiah. Isiah picked up the ball and hefted it over. Tom caught it, his face suspicious. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
Isiah smiled. ‘No worries. We need to talk.’
‘Nah, that’s all right, mate.’
Isiah sighed. He knew this wouldn’t be easy so he might as well cut to the chase. ‘You’re having nightmares of being hunted. Right?’
