The Undying God

by Nathan Wilson

  Something else immediately seized his attention.

  For the first time, he noticed a set of bloody footprints on the floor. He studied them with fascination, following the mesmerizing pattern across the room. The gruesome tracks wound ominously toward a cluster of pillars. He instantly got the feeling that he was not alone. He unsheathed his long sword and timidly abandoned the cleansing pool. Perhaps he would find a survivor. Or worse.

  He darted around the pillar with his sword raised high. There, he only saw a pair of boots.

  Further down the hall, a barefooted Arxu drew closer to the entrance. He sighed in great effort as he struggled to put one foot in front of the other. He needed to tell Nishka what he had seen within the macabre temple, what he had heard. He couldn’t let this knowledge die with him, nonetheless be suppressed by guards.

  Arxu approached the entrance and breathed a sigh of relief.

  Suddenly, the rattle of chainmail alerted him that he was not alone.

  Chapter 19

  Arxu instantly dropped to the floor. Slowly, his fingers released his staff as a shadow fell upon him.

  “What? I swear I thought I saw…” The guard turned around and scanned the hall. “Damn temple… Must be something about this place.” He looked down at the body lying at his feet, observing the apparent corpse.

  He kicked Arxu and he stifled a grunt. He kicked him again, roughly turning him over. Arxu’s chilling gaze fell on the guard, eyes that seemed icy and lifeless. The sentry shifted backward in surprise.

  “He isn’t bleeding. How did you die…?” He prodded Arxu with his toe. “He resembles the man rotting in the dungeons… The same pale skin and blue hair… Well, if he is a Nightwalker, he’s dead now.” The guard observed him for a while longer, trying to make sense of this discovery.

  “Perhaps I should bring the body to the watch. The general is curious to know the origins of magick… An autopsy may help shed light on this enigma.” He circled Arxu. “Is magick a defect in the bloodline? Or an aberration of the soul?” Arxu did not answer him.

  “I wonder if it’s something in their blood. There must be some explanation for their kind.” In fact, the general was paying a hefty sum for each mage “acquired” for their experiment. The guard could certainly benefit from a few more silver coins.

  “Yes, I think an autopsy is necessary.” Arxu swept him off his feet with his legs. The guard cried out in alarm and struck his head on the floor, losing consciousness. Arxu listened for the sound of guards pounding down the hallway, but they did not come. At last, he lifted a trembling hand. Arxu staggered to his feet and swayed as though inebriated. He blinked against the blinding sunlight. He couldn’t fight the exhaustion for much longer. He lethargically approached the temple door and departed.

  * * *

  Nishka glanced over her shoulder again as if Arxu might reappear. His absence could only portend trouble in the harsh city of Gaelithea.

  “Where did Arxu go?” she wondered out loud. She regarded the darkling hovering around the merchandise. He was scrutinizing the customers, ready to pounce upon them. “Hrioshango, I need to find Arxu. Can you watch over the merchandise?”

  “Yes! Hrioshango shall amass wealth in your name! I am the beginning of your merchant empire!” Nishka managed an amused smile, hoping she hadn’t made a terrible mistake. The darkling eagerly replaced Nishka behind the stall. He presided over the weapons, his gleeful smile infecting customers with fear.

  As much as Nishka wanted to monitor the darkling, her biggest priority was Arxu. She departed from the market and expanded her search to the temple district. One street after the other, she sifted through the crowds. He couldn’t have gone too far.

  “Where are you, Arxu?” she murmured as a contingent of soldiers rattled past her. She apprehensively eyed the blades on their halberds. Suddenly, Nishka spotted him among the people. Arxu wandered through the streets, appearing slightly dazed. He lost balance as someone shoved past him.

  “Arxu! Where were you? What happened? You look…” He slung his arm across her shoulders, letting his head droop.

  “I need to rest,” he quietly said, struggling to draw breath. His balance failed him and he tottered forward, and he would have fallen were it not for Nishka. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to stay awake.

  “What happened?”

  “Must get to the inn…”

  “Will you tell me there?” She guided Arxu in the direction of the inn. Images waned in and out of focus for the weary Arxu. “What were you thinking?” Nishka said. “Don’t ever separate from me in Gaelithea! We need to stay together!”

  Suddenly, Nishka spied Hrioshango across the street and immediately her concerns rose. His voice resounded over the din of the market, attracting stares and causing several people to halt in their travel. His voice was thick with agitation. Panic stricken, Nishka left Arxu and raced toward the darkling.

  “Stay there!” she shouted. In the distance, she could see the darkling arguing with a hefty man.

  “Copper? This is worth your weight in silver, fat man! Hrioshango labored over sweltering fires making this sword! His blood, sweat, and tears are mingled with this iron! He poured his soul into the forge!”

  Alarmed, Nishka jostled her way through the crowd, cutting through without mercy. Hrioshango’s eyes widened at her brazen approach. He attempted to dodge the furious woman but it was too late. She roughly shoved Hrioshango aside and greeted the customer with a brilliant smile.

  “What was your offer?” she asked.

  “Who are you, woman?!” Hrioshango exclaimed. “This is Hrioshango’s goods! He will kill you with them!”

  Nishka couldn’t restrain her temper anymore. The last thing Hrioshango remembered before blacking out was how beautiful she looked when she was angry.

  * * *

  Laughter and raucous voices resounded across the most brazen tavern in Gaelithea. Travelers, locals, and suspicious types kept to their own in the establishment. Several lowlifes gambled in the corners, passing time in the only way they knew. It was one of the few places where Gaelitheans enjoyed themselves, even if such happiness could only be found in drunken stupor.

  Few had the courage to relax here, though, because the atmosphere bred suspicion with every drink and toss of the dice. Only the crudest men congealed in this place, where they lorded over anyone weaker than themselves.

  Arxu looked intently at Nishka, eagerly awaiting a response. He had recalled everything he saw and heard within the temple, and his companions lapped up the details.

  “We should inform the guards,” Nishka said at last.

  “That won’t accomplish anything,” Arxu replied. “The kings don’t trust each other. In fact, they may think a foreign government has something to do with the attacks.”

  “Then we have to do something to stop it.” Hrioshango hoisted his tankard into the air and said:

  “You’re going to slay a god? You’ll need Hrioshango’s help!” Several rough-looking patrons glared at Hrioshango as if he was on the verge of provoking a fight.

  “Not a god, a demigod,” Arxu clarified.

  Nishka added, “And we’re not going to let him get that far.” Hrioshango shrugged and took another swig of his drink. The achbala burned down his throat but he craved its nostalgic taste. Only the most stalwart drinkers could resist its intoxicating effect and the blackout that inevitably ensued. Hrioshango wasn’t the only one indulging in achbala that night.

  Across the room, a surly patron finished off another glass of achbala, gorging on every drop of pleasure. He slammed the glass down, his eyes never leaving Arxu.

  He often scoped the tavern for weak characters that were not familiar with his reputation as the alpha male. The man with the staff had not escaped his attention. He resembled the enchanters whose very vocation was demonic. Their kind was an abomination of men, possessing power that injected chaos into society. He looked suspiciously at the man’s staff adorned with a blue stone. If that didn�
��t indicate the man’s profession, surely his appearance suggested something deviant. His skin was ghostly pale, his hair unnaturally bluish, and his eyes were unfeeling and cold.

  Such a man may pose a threat to him. He couldn’t tolerate that possibility.

  He rose from his seat and crossed the tavern. Wary men cast a look in his direction, watching the foreboding man pass by their tables. Suddenly, he stumbled and liquor splashed on Arxu’s shirt. He staggered away as if to feign a drunken accident, and patrons laughed at the amusing spectacle.

  Anger flashed across Nishka’s face. She almost confronted the hostile patron when the expression on Arxu’s face froze her. His jaw tightened and his body moved faster than she had ever seen. The back of his fist collided with the man’s jaw, sending him sprawling.

  In that instant, patrons scrambled from their seats. A bottle soared through the air and Arxu dodged the missile. Glass screamed and someone cried out in rage. Arxu barely spun to his right as a chair launched from the opposite direction. Hrioshango gleefully welcomed the chaos.

  And chaos ensued. One punch catalyzed another, and another thrown chair triggered a catastrophic brawl.

  Nishka overturned the table and crouched behind it for cover. She reached for her crossbow purely on instinct, but her hand did not close around the handle. Instead of gripping her weapon, she only felt her purse dangling from her belt. She realized she hadn’t equipped it when she left the inn. After all, she planned on relaxing at the tavern with a few drinks after bartering in the market.

  “Damn it, Arxu!” She resolved to never venture beside Arxu without her crossbow or armor. Suddenly, she realized there wouldn’t likely be a next time; they would die for inciting a tavern brawl in Gaelithea.

  All of these patrons were dead men now, which made them all the more dangerous. They had nothing to lose. She shook her head at the insanity of it all, grabbed a bottle of ale and smashed it against the table. She clutched the makeshift weapon as a drunkard leaped over the table toward her.

  Across the large drinking room, Hrioshango took measure of the situation facing him. Spying a horde of unruly men, he maintained his high ground on the table and quickly thought of an improvising tactic—or perhaps he embraced the first chaotic impulse.

  The darkling reached within his cloak for a bottle of spirits he had cherished on many an occasion. It would be a shame to die without having emptied the bottle. He reminisced of its sweet taste and its mesmerizing ability to calm his mind. Unable to bear the thought of such waste, he pried it open with his claws. Still, the screaming and howling men drew closer, their boots clapping loudly against the floor.

  Hrioshango looked sorrowfully at the precious drink, a priceless bottle that dated back nearly four centuries. How he had ever come into possession of this extremely potent liquor, he could not remember—nor did it matter anymore.

  His mourning expression brightened into one of joy. He overturned the bottle and let the liquor flow across the surface of his long sword. Casting aside the bottle, it shrieked as it shattered against the wall.

  He watched with anticipation as the horde approached. He could vividly see their eyes now, bloodshot and swollen like sickly creatures. Hrioshango leaped forward and swung his sword at a lantern suspended above the horde. An explosion ripped forth that singed the hairs on several men’s heads. Not content to let them escape with such trifling injuries, Hrioshango leered at them with his most threatening gaze. Flames rippled across the sleek surface of his blade. Hrioshango leaped forward with a scream of joy.

  He swung his sword at the nearest drunk and flames leaped onto his clothing. The man thrashed in horror and rolled on the floor in his efforts to extinguish it—only to roll into a pool of alcohol.

  Reckless and blinded with rage, many of the men threw themselves at Hrioshango despite the flames. He leaped from one table to the next as they tried to surround him. When possible, he scattered them with a swipe of his fiery sword.

  One of the men threw a chair in his direction and Hrioshango narrowly dodged, but he slipped from the table in the process. He sprung to his feet and swiped at the legs of several belligerent drunks. Hrioshango noticed they gradually thinned out and he relished their fleeting confidence.

  A growl pulsed through the room, gripping Hrioshango’s heart. A hooded figure staggered into view, his calloused hands closed around a chain. The chain slithered over the floor, suppressing a large dog with a grotesque face. Spittle flew with every snap of its flapping jaws. With a crooked sneer, the man released it.

  Hrioshango spun on his heel and ran. He ducked under tables as the hound pursued, overturning chairs and slipping on unsavory ale. He skidded to a halt before the kegs on the far side of the tavern. The dog’s bark was loud enough for him to know he was seconds away from death.

  That was a shame because Hrioshango preferred to die on his own terms. He plunged his flaming blade into a keg of achbala. The wall exploded, unleashing a shower of fire and alcohol. Half of the room was flung across the tavern with devastating force.

  Nishka shrieked and dove into a crouch as a wooden beam lanced through the air.

  Hrioshango’s gleaming sword cut through the smoke, signaling he was not dead yet. With a triumphant cackle, he escaped through the demolished wall. Nishka felt Arxu’s hand close around hers, and he pulled her into the streets. Their shadows elongated across the nightscape, washed away in a tide of gloom. Arxu knew what Nishka was thinking as they twisted and turned through the alleys. She was stunned by his violent reaction. Even he could not deny his surprise. The streets would soon be swarming with Gaelithean patrols.

  Hrioshango vanished by the time they arrived at the inn, leaving his companions to fend for themselves. The Nightwalker burst into the inn without so much as a word and staggered up the stairs.

  “What happened back there?” Nishka demanded as Arxu plunged into his room. Her shirt was stained with ale and she had a fresh cut on her lip. Adding to her disheveled image, a bruise glared on her left arm.

  “I’ve never felt anything like it before,” Arxu confessed. “I wanted… to hurt him.”

  “You felt anger?” she gasped.

  Arxu contemplated the arresting notion.

  “Yes…” She seemed to fall back at this revelation. Despite the adrenaline and anger, she was excited by his emotional progress—but not quite excited enough to forgive him. She never wanted to fight off groping drunks again.

  “Arxu,” she said, her tone softer this time. “Try not to let your emotions kill you—or us. You need to control them.” She looked gently into his eyes. “Maybe I can help you.”

  As Nishka stood there, she knew why he had been targeted by the patron. The presence of his staff suggested something paranormal about him, but his uncanny appearance no doubt contributed. Her eyes wandered across his wavy hair, dyed blue with indigo.

  Arxu calmly explained to her many days ago that Nightwalkers in exile received a “mark” to distinguish them among mankind. Supposedly, they had committed crimes so heinous that they were sentenced to forever bear this mark. She suspected he had been exiled, but Arxu couldn’t remember why. She wished she knew which crime he had committed to justify this fate.

  Nishka timidly retraced her steps toward the door.

  Recalling the injury on her arm, Arxu snapped to attention. He reached for her to tend the wound. Nishka regarded him with caution or intrigue, he couldn’t tell which.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” she assured him, shyly pulling away.

  She left for her room, but not without casting one final look over her shoulder at the lost soul transfixed in the doorway.

  Chapter 20

  Night bloomed in the city of Praemenon, cascading around the temple with the grace of a waterfall. Scarcely a candle lit the structure that so often radiated with prayer and song. The prayer halls were empty and the altars had been cleared of offerings of incense. Clerics had concluded their rites and extinguished the lights within the halls. Peac
e reigned across the temple as countless devotees lay in their beds.

  Astalla walked the outskirts of the inner courtyard. She looked like she was carved out of marble, donning only a chastity belt, her beauty mesmerizing to the eye. Her facial features were beyond compare and dark brown hair framed her heart-shaped face.

  Her smile was as tranquilizing as the most potent drug. All men fortunate enough to gaze upon her were reduced to weak-hearted, dopamine-addled idolatrists.

  One look into her eyes was sufficient to inspire infatuation and, depending on the individual, obsession. Countless men coveted her affection, though they knew she would deny them. No matter how pure his love may be, she would accept no man. Perhaps her denial only made them desire her more.

  Every detail she possessed resonated with purity, beauty, an innocence untouched by the world.

  A delicate gold chain encircled her neck, barely visible in the dark. Astalla’s footsteps carried her past marble columns and majestic carvings, her footfalls barely above a whisper on the stone. The soft grass cushioned her feet as she wandered the courtyard, free from political turmoil and the bleeding economy. The atmosphere that lingered across the beautiful gardens tamed even the most tortured soul, allowing for a moment of serenity.

  How strange it seemed that she was the only one to admire the courtyard’s transformation at midnight. She believed it was far more soothing at this time than even by day. Astalla faced the glistening stars above and considered their astral travel.

  It was unimaginable that the men and women she loved as her followers were dying. The loss she felt was indescribable, a void in her soul that ached more than any physical wound. She prayed they were at peace now, safe from fear or pain.

  She glided across the courtyard host to a single tree, slumbering like a gentle guardian. She rested her hand against its soft surface, feelign the strength under the bark. A caressing zephyr whispered to her, flowing across her body as if nature itself wished to express its admiration.