The Undying God

by Nathan Wilson

  * * *

  “What about this one?” Nishka asked.

  Arxu shook his head.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It doesn’t look healthy.”

  “Okay… What about this?” She indicated a young donkey. Arxu bent down and vigilantly studied its hooves.

  “Its hooves are split.”

  “It’s not like we’re picking out a wife for you,” Nishka said with frustration.

  “I have no need for a wife,” he replied, catching her off guard.

  “Well… This mule looks relatively healthy…” Every once in a while, a merchant would try to entice Nishka with silk or jewelry, but she would wave him away. She pretended to observe the pack mules for a while longer.

  “So you don’t feel lonely?”

  “No. Is that why you would marry? To be rid of loneliness?”

  “There’s a huge difference between being lonely and not wanting to marry into second class citizenship. Cooking, washing, and obeying without question sound spectacular and everything, but I’d rather hold onto my dignity.”

  “Marriage doesn’t sound very pleasant.”

  “I want to marry someday, but I don’t feel like a lot of men respect me.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m a woman,” Nishka said matter-of-factly. “Women are expected to clean the house, cook meals, and bear children. I don’t fit a man’s perfect mold of a wife. I want marriage to be a partnership.”

  “And most men don’t?”

  “Most women are subservient to their husbands. They seem to give up their sense of self when they marry. I’m not about to let a man walk all over me.” Her gaze lingered on the homes around her. “A man in the village once proposed to me. I don’t think he had the faintest idea how old I was, let alone my name. I think he just wanted a pretty wife.”

  “I take it you refused him.”

  “Would you accept the proposal of a fifty-year-old man?” Nishka laughed. “You’re different from a lot of men, Arxu. It’s kind of refreshing that you have no interest in seducing me.”

  “I don’t have sexual desires.”

  “Precisely! I don’t have to worry about you trying anything… like Hrioshango. So if you don’t think about sex… what does a man think about it?”

  “Survival.”

  “And I thought we were making progress,” Nishka smiled. Arxu silently studied the mules, not bothering to reply. In fact, the longer he considered his options, the more doubt crept into his mind.

  “Considering our encounters on the road, we may come under similar attacks. We can’t risk a pack animal turning loose at the first sign of danger.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Arxu’s attention briefly wandered across the marketplace, his eyes falling on the bizarre Hrioshango.

  He could sense a high level of magick on the darkling, but it wasn’t related to the creature itself. Something he possessed was radiating an immense level of power. Arxu looked closely at the brown cloak Hrioshango wore over his other garments.

  If he wasn’t mistaken, the cloak possessed properties useful for transporting items. He was fairly certain the properties in question were extradimensional. Theoretically, its pockets were a gateway to another dimension where an endless amount of matter could be stored. How this rare item had fallen into the hands of this darkling, he would never know. He approached Hrioshango and the darkling stopped to regard him.

  “I would like to barter for your enchanted cloak.”

  “This cloak is not for sale!”

  “Gamble?” Hrioshango’s eyes brightened. The single word triggered the darkling’s sinister impulses. Hrioshango excitedly reached into his cloak and retrieved a pair of worn, bone dice.

  Arxu regarded the items for a few seconds and said, “You have mercury weights in those dice.” Flabbergasted, Hrioshango stared at him with engorged eyes.

  “Fine,” Hrioshango growled, stowing away the dice in his myriad of pockets. He retrieved more dice and slapped them on a nearby merchant’s stall.

  “Excuse me, I’m trying to sell—”

  “Shut up, ugly human!” Hrioshango screeched, pulling out his blade to emphasize the point. The merchant immediately skittered away to escape the chaos magician’s wrath. Nishka watched from the side of the street with horror.

  Arxu regarded the dice and nodded in approval. With the other hand, he produced several gems. Hrioshango’s eyes gleamed with demonic joy.

  “Magicked?”

  “No,” Arxu said flatly. “I wouldn’t trust you with stones imbued with spells. These are unenchanted.” Hrioshango shrugged beneath his voluminous cloaks and snatched up the pair of dice.

  He tossed them into the air and dexterously caught three on the back of his hand. The combined number of spots on the topmost surface determined the outcome of the toss.

  “Six,” he said, handing the dice to the Nightwalker. Arxu had never gambled before, but the concept was easy to grasp. His hand swiftly shot out like a spear. The dice landed deftly on his hand, revealing ten dots. Hrioshango scoffed and swiped the dice. He tossed and smiled impishly. “Twelve.” He was satisfied with his fortune and fairly confident he would win. His gambling career spanned several years, and he was proud of leaving numerous contenders destitute and ruined. He didn’t even notice Arxu’s toss.

  “Eight,” Arxu said.

  “Only eight?” Hrioshango mocked. He gleefully observed six spots at the end of his next toss. “Aha!” The odds did not discourage Arxu.

  “You will give up the cloak if I win?”

  “Yes,” Hrioshango leered. “If you lose, the cloak will remain mine and you will forfeit your gems.”

  Arxu glanced at Nishka, watching safely from a distance. With a flick of his wrist, he cast the dice and let them fall. Nine spots glared into Hrioshango’s eyes. “You’ll need to find another cloak.”

  “Foul bastard!” Hrioshango exclaimed. “I shall flay the cloak from your body when you are dead! It will be mine again!” He outstretched his claws to the skies as if in defiance of the fate the gods had sent him. Nishka choked back her laughter.

  Arxu threw the cloak around his shoulders and walked away with Nishka.

  Hrioshango shrugged, accepting his misfortune. Perhaps now was an acceptable time to drug his sadness away. He searched through his robes, seeking for his sordid “flying potion.” His hands roamed from one pocket to the next, gradually becoming frantic. Dismay crashed over him when he realized it was no longer in his possession, but within the cloak Arxu possessed.

  “No!” he screeched. “That wretched thief! He stole Hrioshango’s happiness! Hrioshango will inflict a thousand tortures on him until his happiness is restored!” He broke into a run through the market, pushing people aside and running toward the gates.

  Not far from the markets, elite hunters took up hiding in an alley, scoping out the area for the darkling. An archer perched on a roof overlooking the streets. There would be no avoiding his line of fire. Others hid within abandoned buildings like trapdoor spiders ready to spring at the slightest provocation. One of the abductors signaled with her hands, indicating their approaching prey.

  Hrioshango entered the dim side street, searching for Arxu and Nishka. He wasn’t entirely sure how he would retrieve the magicked cloak. He could possibly steal something precious from Arxu and use it as a bargaining chip. If that didn’t work, he could always resort to force. Yes, Hrioshango concluded that murder would be the most reliable method.

  A bolt lanced through the air toward his face. In an impossible feat that only a chaos magician could achieve, he evaded the missile. The poisoned bolt struck a wall and shattered on stone.

  A door to a shady building burst open, and an expressionless warrior emerged. He towered well over six feet tall, his robust frame overshadowing any mere human. While Hrioshango was transfixed by the sight of the henchman, the archer lined up another shot. He squeezed the trigger and the bolt zoomed along its trajectory. Hrioshang
o spun around and thrust his hands toward it. The archer wasn’t sure what the darkling did, but the poisoned bolt didn’t impale him.

  Suddenly, the crossbowman spun to his left as the same bolt lanced toward him. It was impossible, the bolt could not have returned to him, nonetheless from that angle. His amazement was not the least bit diminished when the missile rammed into his sternum. The most exquisite poison-induced delirium flooded through his brain. He didn’t even register the pain when he splayed against the streets.

  Hrioshango turned around as the gargantuan man bore down upon him. To his left, an exotic woman with platinum blonde hair came into focus. Her arms were embellished in body art, a weaving pattern of black ink that overdosed the visual senses.

  A chain was wrapped comfortably around her wrist, ending in several hooked blades and barbs. Hrioshango had never seen anyone successfully wield a chain whip. Somehow, he suspected she would surprise him. Venexa swung the chain over her head and lashed out.

  He leaped to avoid the length of blades as it recoiled. His opponent looked delighted by his defensive maneuvers.

  The chain completed another loop in the air and lashed out without warning. Hrioshango barely even saw her arm recoil. He braced his sword as the bladed chain entangled around it. Venexa jerked hard and tore the blade from his clutches. He wasn’t immediately aware of the pain shooting through his hands because he was still reeling from shock. He tried to call on his chaos powers but nothing occurred. Out of options, he darted toward the stairs running alongside a merchant’s house.

  Venexa smiled at the minor setback. The sight of fleeing prey always brought supreme satisfaction. She swung her chain whip and snagged a statue overlooking the alley. She beckoned the larger man and he obediently hoisted her up. He swung his arms and propelled her forward.

  She dexterously raced along the side of the building with the chain providing firm anchorage. She swung in an arc and rose higher and faster to the top, accelerating in momentum. She swiftly leaped above the roof as the darkling crested the stairs.

  Hrioshango spun around and saw the airborne woman descend. Her arm recoiled and the bladed chain slithered through the air like a serpent to strike its quarry. Hrioshango saw no more.

  Chapter 13

  Hrioshango awoke in a daze, his head throbbing from pain. He was completely immobilized, unable to move any digit or limb. He could perceive nothing, only blackness, as though a magickal attack rendered him blind before unconsciousness. The only thing that told him he was still alive was sound.

  Muffled voices enveloped him, a boisterous congregation of noise; tones of rage, elation, excitement, and joy. No less than several thousand people could produce such a discordant symphony of emotions. The noise reached epic proportions, drowning out the background, even drowning out the sound of his beating heart. He was fairly certain this pumping organ verged on an explosion.

  “The darkling has awakened...” a nearby voice observed. It belonged to a female, her tone confident and cruel. A scream resounded from the distance, ensnaring Hrioshango’s attention.

  “Battlemaster Venexa, what do you intend to do with it? Its powers are immense. It could destroy the entire arena—”

  “No. The magickal resonance of the past empire lingers intensely here. The darkling’s powers will react unpredictably if they respond at all. It will summon forth magick at its own risk.”

  “Bizarre... I’ve never heard of a darkling that mastered magick.”

  “It has not mastered magick. Darklings are incapable of mastering a craft that relies on intelligence. It is an oddity and no more.” Hrioshango squirmed with fury. He would make her regret every racial remark she uttered. Suddenly, he registered the moniker the man bestowed her.

  Battlemaster.

  Hrioshango realized with dismay where he was.

  His mind spun as he recalled the stories he heard of the arena during his brief interlude in the city. Supposedly during the climax of the games, great beasts were unleashed on several combatants, and in the center of the arid sands resided a jawless mouth. A massive circle of fangs would form there, wide enough to entrap and devour beasts.

  “Battlemaster, I understand that Rafael was imprisoned and executed not long ago. Why?”

  “He betrayed me. The fool planned to inform the kings of the siege machine. My network of informants discovered that he was afraid I had gone too far. I was only doing as he asked by reassembling the construct. Apparently, he thinks I’m a megalomaniac bent on laying ruin to the city.” Venexa paused and scrutinized the outlying sands. “Besides, he’s not dead. He’s squirming out there now, dying slowly. But it will end very soon.”

  Hrioshango couldn’t help but wonder why they attempted to kill him during his capture. Surely, this battlemaster understood that the crossbow bolts, had they not missed, would have torn his head from his shoulders? He suspected they were evaluating him for the arena. He had been judged worthy of the blood sports, exceeding the normal expectations of darklings, but he felt no pride in his achievement.

  The mantle of darkness lifted from his vision. Before him loomed a sprawling wasteland of sand. The amphitheater could seat thousands of spectators among the ascended seats, a magnificent structure elevated above the dangers below. He was confined within a narrow passageway where bars separated him from the battlegrounds. The guards and battlemaster surely lurked behind him.

  With rising fear, Hrioshango eyed the sand, patches of which were visibly darker than the rest. He wondered how many lives ended in this enclosed space, how much blood had stained this land. However, he did not despair over the lives lost. He only considered his.

  He spotted something protruding from the center of the arena he hadn’t noticed before. A human arm outstretched from the sands. It feebly grasped for the world above, the limb attached slowly sinking as death bestowed its mercy.

  The earth encompassing the victim subtly shifted. Hrioshango tried to retract himself from the arena, to force himself backward. Something alive was moving beneath the sands.

  Whispers replaced the crowd’s screaming.

  Hrioshango could scarcely breathe. An ear-rending call bellowed forth, reverberating through the stones; a gout of sand spiraled upwards from the center, whipping passionately into the skies.

  A chasm seemed to fade into existence, parting the arena like a great canyon. Curved fangs protruded from the edges of the abyss, a pit wherein a pulsing, dark membrane vividly shown—the inner lining of a gigantic canal belonging to a creature of unimaginable origins. Hrioshango could only stare helplessly in horror.

  On the outskirts of the sands, cells similar to Hrioshango’s opened and something immense strode forth. It lumbered on four thick legs and its head possessed enormous ears. The elephantine creature boasted four trunks that coalesced around a massive beak. These creatures were said to be guardians of ancient ruins in the deserts south.

  Hrioshango’s attention drifted at the sound of another creature, a Zzirith. It had also been retrieved from the arid deserts of Murabdihabas. The Zzirith resembled a horse with a massive scorpion tail. Furthermore, its entire body was covered in a black exoskeleton, a thick carapace resistant to most weapons. Its only vulnerable spot was its fleshy belly. Eight black eyes glinted on its head, roaming over anything that moved, assessing potential prey.

  Scuttling on three pairs of horse legs, its cloven hooves thundered against the ground. Hrioshango watched as five more emerged and circled the vast pit.

  A man with blades on his armored forearms was led into the sands with a chain around his neck. Imposing pauldrons towered above his head like blackened tusks mounted upon his shoulders. He was bald all but for a thin strip of dark red hair running from his forehead to the base of his skull. His grim citrine eyes showed no mercy. Perhaps most foreboding of all were the two scars engraved across his left profile.

  He did not wear the expression of a helpless man condemned to death. He bore the nonchalant face of one who had reconciled with his fate.
No vestige of dread shown in his eyes, yet his resentment was obvious.

  Three armor-clad men gripped the chain around the slave’s throat. He showed no resistance whatsoever; he merely stared into the distance. Someone in the audience tried to spit upon the slave, but he failed to reach his mark. The slave denied the obnoxious crowd the pleasure of his attention. Across the arena, latticed iron bars lifted. Nearly a dozen humans charged into the battlegrounds, flailing weapons and screaming at the tops of their lungs. A gong bellowed and the slave was released. He stood idly bye as beasts were unleashed.

  One of the warriors recklessly charged the elephantine creature, which seemed equally as frightened as angry. It snatched up the man with a trunk and flung him aside. Another warrior persisted and thrust a polearm into its belly. The abomination bellowed and seized him with one of its trunks. The beast lifted the man toward its mouth and the sharpened beak opened wide. The crowd screamed in satisfaction.

  All the while, the slave observed the spectacle, expressing no will to fight, not for something this shameful. The crowd roared above in excitement; men, women, and children devouring the violence with ecstatic frenzy. Ambassadors gleefully thrust coins into one another’s hands, gambling on the lives of beasts and men.

  Hrioshango could see children in the tiered seats, shouting in elation. At that moment, he had never been more disturbed in his life.

  Other faces among the crowd twisted horrendously with laughter, reveling at the less fortunate lives engaged in death. They only wished to see suffering.

  The slave’s primal instincts roared to life and he barely had time to evade the Zzirith. He managed to spin aside and hook his arms around its muscled neck. The beast faltered as they entangled, collapsing to the ground.

  He dodged the stinging tail and thrashed in his efforts to fight back. He could feel muscles straining in his arms as he railed against the ferocious beast. A hoof slammed between his shoulders as the horse-like aberration pounced, several hundred pounds pinning him against the sand. The slave roared in fury as the barbed tail dove to impale his brain from above.