His eyes widened as the writhing shapes became larger and more malformed. He was not sure anymore what he was seeing within the river. They began to float lazily above him, their deadened, black eyes staring at him.
Margzor finally burst from the water, his head breaking the surface in an explosion. He gasped for breath, his lungs scorching with pain. He clawed through the water and crawled to shore.
The haunting memory released Margzor like icy tendrils. His isolation was more suffocating than any cold river. He retracted his fingers from the web devoid of a predator.
He softly shut his eyes, disconnecting. He never wanted to feel this way. Why wasn’t anyone there for him?
* * *
The first step outside of Gaelithea lifted an immense weight off Nishka’s shoulders. Even the air tasted sweeter on her lips as she skipped down the road. A bewildered Hrioshango watched her prance away.
“Humans…” he murmured.
Caravans followed them beyond Gaelithea, winding down the road with wagons full of medicine, silk, spices, wine, and silver. Several bodyguards followed the merchants, looking far less extraordinary than Arxu. Bandits would have to be suicidal to attack them now.
“Are we returning to Azia-Nocti now that we have the means to transport merchandise?” Arxu asked.
Nishka playfully spun around and chirped, “No.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re going to Eternitas.” The word jogged a memory in Arxu’s brain, but he couldn’t place it in any context.
“What about the spring market? I thought we were fulfilling your responsibility to your father—”
“We have to stop Margzor,” Nishka interjected. “This is more important than the spring market. If what the priestess says is true, hundreds of people are going to die soon. He only has two places left to go.”
Suddenly, Nishka saw something in his expression she hadn’t seen before. Understanding. He didn’t question her. Instead, Arxu seemed willing to sidetrack from the task assigned by her father and assist her.
Nishka turned away, suddenly aware of the affectionate way she was looking at him.
Chapter 24
Margzor slinked through the dark nexus of the forest. The blackened canopy tinted the sunlight above, transforming it into a lifeless gray. He waded through a pool of grime in total silence. He had no thoughts to express, merely drowning in the frustration that would not let him go.
Tar streaked across his legs as he emerged onto a hill swathed in shade. Everything about this place was surreal. Pain shredded his side and he staggered forward with a shout. He fell to his knees and almost tumbled backward into the blackened pool. Instead, his fingers curled around a root jutting from the earth.
The wound pierced him with agony. It would be over soon, he told himself. He would never feel pain again once he became a demigod. He lifted his eyes and spotted an enormous tree at the top of the slope. It was barely alive, standing as a testament of nature’s strength against whatever infestation had taken seed. Drawing inspiration from the monument, he began to climb again.
He leaned his back against the tree, feeling diminutive beneath the wooden goliath. Margzor sighed in sweet release and closed his eyes.
Her eyes flashed briefly in his mind. The same blue eyes that belonged to someone he could barely remember, someone who helped him. Maybe he had only dreamt of her kindness and mercy. Now was not the time to think about the blurred line between fantasy and reality.
He swayed from exhaustion and his vision began to fog. Memories of a different breed slithered into his mind. Emotional trauma.
He needed to cauterize the wound. He searched among the nearby rocks and scavenged two that would serve his purpose. He knelt down and struck them together as an eternity of frustration passed him by. At last, an ember of hope leaped between the stones and glistened on the dry tinder. Margzor watched the flame grow, nurturing it with care. For several anguished minutes, he hesitated to do what was necessary. There was no avoiding it; he needed to prevent infection of the wound. Hesitation was always his greatest adversary.
With a frail grip, he dipped the branch into the flames. It licked the wood with a voracious appetite, snapping like the fangs of a beast.
Margzor brought the flaming tip close to the gap in his armor. At last he plunged the searing instrument into the wound. His eyes widened. His mind departed from reality as pain overcame him.
The first excruciating caress of fire is not so easily forgotten. He remembered a day almost nine years ago that would scar him forever.
Margzor collapsed to his knees at the edge of the forest, gazing in horror at the devastation. Engorged lightning veined the sky, pounding out a frantic pulse.
His sanctuary, his home, was burning. Flames ravenously consumed the trees, licking at their twisted husks. The inferno breathed like the lungs of a great beast, carrying the stench of decay.
His territory was forever lost, his only source of solace and retreat from the outside world. Where would he go now? He wanted to extinguish the flames, but even he could not undo the devastation.
Margzor stepped forward against his own will. He could feel the sickly heat through his skin. He walked among the ashes, still hot from the inferno.
The demon wanted Margzor to stick his hand in the fire. He refused the self-destructive impulse, but his muscles tightened and he found himself unable to resist. Fighting his own body, he advanced into the hellfire. The naked man took one step after the other, his arms outstretched to embrace his destruction. He could not deny the rush of excitement as he traipsed into the forested hell.
Hissing inferno reached sensuously toward his body, a seductive dance of writhing flame.
He, too, reached toward the fire, his fingertips beginning to singe. Fear blazed inside him. He knew what it was doing, but he could not resist. He could feel his flesh being devoured.
He tried to tear his hand from the flames. Pain crescendoed to a symphonic scream of agony, a voice wrought of defiance. His screams would always go unheard. His voice echoed in the silence until it died.
You are a beast, the demon whispered.
The refuse of society.
Margzor’s eyes opened to the familiar scent of decay. The tree on the hill was now a husk, gutted of life by inferno. He must have ignited it during his post traumatic episode. He lay at the foot of the hill, as though he had fallen there. Out of reach of the flames...
But the gnashing flames were drawing nearer, crawling toward his fallen body. He shook his dizzy head as he adjusted to reality.
The drowning and burning he endured by the demon was not without purpose. It was building up his immunity to pain. To overcome the emotional trauma, one must first conquer the physical. Margzor would endure any ordeal to become a god. Anything.
The heart of the forest pulsed no more, freed from a slow demise. Hellfire retreated to magnificent plumes coiling in the sky. Margzor swept through the smog and left behind the remains.
Chapter 25
Nishka looked over her shoulder as a growl reverberated from the forest. They had separated from the caravans, taking a shorter route through the wilderness, where bears surely lurked. Hrioshango clutched his howling stomach with an embarrassed smile.
“The belly requires sustenance!”
“Perhaps we should stop for a break,” Arxu suggested. Hrioshango smiled triumphantly.
Nishka quickly discarded her armor, glad for an opportunity to shed the burden. Though she hadn’t eaten since morning, her appetite was absent. She craved privacy, something that had been denied to her for too long. She glanced at her companions to find them sorting through foodstuffs. She innocently slipped away, melting into obscurity.
Arxu noticed her departure despite her stealthy efforts. He looked away, knowing all too well she did not require his protection. Yet, he could not deny the strange feeling that pierced him when she vanished into the forest.
He reached for a piece of dark bread and bega
n to eat despite his lack of hunger.
The forest floor cushioned Nishka’s feet as she followed the trickle of water. Emerging from under the trees, she spied a lush creek nestled below. Every detail hummed with tranquility; the poetic whisper of the water, the sun’s gentle caress across the trees.
The creek reminded Nishka of the forest around her home. She walked along the shore, stepping gingerly among the pebbles. Amber sunlight floated on the surface of the creek, a luxurious pathway that led into the mist. She stooped low and dipped her hand into the water. It felt icy and cold, a pleasant contrast with the warmth of day. The current swayed playfully across her fingertips.
This would be her last opportunity to bathe before they reached another city. She looked over her shoulder to ensure her privacy.
Nishka crossed her arms in front of her chest and gently removed her shirt. As it hiked up, it revealed marks and scars on her back. Her injuries from the tavern brawl still caused her pain. She didn’t want to concern Arxu with injuries that would heal in time. As far as he knew, he had succeeded in protecting her.
The waters looked so inviting as she stepped within them and waded toward a small waterfall. Nishka closed her eyes as the cascade flowed around her like the caress of a lover. She let down her hair and she could feel the tingling water across her scalp. She breathed deep and relished the cool sensation on her skin.
As she bathed, Nishka spotted a blue stone in the water, subtly reflecting among the ordinary sediments. The color reminded her so vividly of Arxu. She plucked it from the water and slipped it among her possessions.
She returned to the campsite only to find Arxu studying a magnificent tree.
“Arxu, I found this in the forest,” she said, offering the blue stone. The Nightwalker looked at her with sincere confusion. “This is for you.”
“It has no magickal properties,” he remarked. At last, he reached for her hand and accepted the small stone.
“Thank you?” Nishka goaded with a pleasant smile. Arxu examined the cerulean stone, pondering the significance of this gift. A strange urge overcame him to return her kindness. The placid green of her shirt grabbed his focus and he reached into his satchel for a token of thanks. A green crystal gleamed before Nishka’s eyes, reflecting in the brilliance of the sun.
Nishka smiled warmly as he placed it in her hand.
* * *
Margzor was only a young man when the worst of it began. He had resolved his hatred with the demon long ago. In fact, he came to regard it as his only ally in a deceitful world. He could remember how it all began, with one innocent fantasy. Sometimes even the noblest intentions can be twisted into something horrifying.
As he crept through the forest years ago, he could sense the demon’s frustration like an unpleasant taint on the fringe of his mind. It searched deep inside, looking for something to prey on.
Margzor’s transformation was not yet complete. He was in a dormant state of metamorphosis, his flesh finally resistant to pain. The next stage confronted the more emotional, moral, and mental aspects of the host. His identity required drastic change.
The demon sifted through his memories, exploring the crevices of his mind and the dark fantasies it concealed. It was a twisted and treacherous journey navigating his mind, interrupted by moments of surprise and sheer amusement. Suddenly, the demon discovered something shocking in the convoluted terrain of Margzor’s brain. A secret.
He had been hiding a secret from the demon, so carefully tucked away beneath a wave of frustration that it almost eluded the demon. How delightful.
That secret manifested more vividly as the demon pried. Margzor craved companionship, love, affection, sex. He did not want to feel pain anymore. He ardently longed for someone to love him.
The demon took joy in this wonderful discovery. This was a welcome opportunity to develop Margzor.
That opportunity began to innocently manifest in Margzor’s dreams. One dream after the other penetrated his subconscious, drawing him deeper into his fantasies, inventing a woman who cared dearly about him. Margzor adored the delusions of joy. He did not feel alone in his dreams; he felt loved and fulfilled. His senses convinced him this was real, not a concoction of cryptic desires.
He slept peacefully on the forest floor as night enveloped him. A dream embraced Margzor like one he had enjoyed during so many nights. Her arms encircled him as they lay under the canopy of the forest. Her body contoured to his, giving of herself with complete, loving surrender. She whispered succulently in his ear, every syllable weaving a spell over his mind until he could hear the truth ring in every word. She peeled away the layers of his pain and filled him with content.
Her eyes locked with his in rapture and, at once, he knew she would always stay by his side. He relaxed, no longer afraid to open himself up to a woman.
He entrusted his heart to her.
Margzor closed his eyes and leaned closer. Her soft, wet lips barely grazed against his and agony lacerated through his head.
* * *
A labyrinth of candles surrounded Astalla as she sat on the floor. Hundreds of wicks burned warmly, casting shadows that curved around her like a divine aura. The scent of lavender and vanilla permeated the chamber.
She lifted her head as the high cleric swept into the prayer hall. Baby blue garments draped ceremoniously around Ava’s body, fluttering like silk in the hush of wind.
Astalla always felt a surge of inspiration when she met with the priestess. Perhaps what astounded her most was Ava’s perseverance and strength.
Several months ago, she confided to Astalla why she felt called to the faith. For five years, she suffered a tragic relationship with a man, objectified only for her sexuality and abused for any transgression. The slightest social imperfection, any disrespect or scorn, was met with violence.
Every night, he demanded she give herself to him, and when she resisted, he would spiral out of control. He never forced himself on her, but beneath her religious garments, Ava still bore the scars of his assaults. She never understood how a man who claimed he loved her could beat her, force her to the brink of death, beg for forgiveness and convince her again of his love—only to beat her into submission the following night.
Ava hoped he would change. She remembered the days they spent together before they were married, when they danced in the taverns and fell asleep in each other’s arms. He would take her across the countryside on horseback and cuddle with her under the starlit sky. Somewhere deep inside her husband, she knew part of that man remained.
If only he would promise to never harm her again. Her hopes were crushed one bruise at a time.
At last, she sought shelter within a local temple, where she believed he couldn’t trace her. After the ordeal, Ava vowed to never love a man again.
As she dwelt in the temple, she mingled with the clerics and disciples. She was unaccustomed to their kindness given her years of abuse. Ava wanted so dearly to thank the priests who granted her sanctuary, and she longed to help others the way they salvaged her.
In time, she grew to be the most devoted cleric in Astalla’s temple, overthrowing the misconception that women couldn’t lead a congregation. In fact, Astalla regarded her as the most inspiring cleric in Praemenon.
She offered refuge to others in their times of need and she helped victimized women escape situations once similar to hers. Astalla could only marvel at her selflessness and commitment to charity. She viewed Ava as an idol for all of her followers to emulate.
“Astalla, what is wrong?” a distraught Ava said. She could sense that something was amiss several days ago, but Astalla would reveal nothing.
The deity almost couldn’t bring herself to inform Ava about the tragedy. She trusted her perhaps more than anyone, but because of their relationship, she wanted to shield her from grief. However, she needed to know about the threat facing them.
“Blessings upon you, Ava. I have asked you to join me tonight to enlighten you about troubling events.” This s
tatement alone captivated the high cleric. Astalla walked toward an arched window and peered into the mist-wreathed courtyard. “Ava... you have always been by my side. And now I need you more than ever.”
“Of course, Astalla, but I don’t understand. What is happening?”
Astalla’s throat tightened.
“A man by the name of Margzor has been attacking my followers in the temples.” It barely even felt like her voice as the words spilled out. “He is traveling across the city-states, hunting down my priests and disciples. He is coming here.”
Ava’s blood ran cold. She almost felt too weak to stand on her feet.
“We must evacuate the temple,” Astalla continued. “Margzor cannot kill my followers if he cannot find them.”
“Some must stay behind. You’re weak…” Her demigoddess turned away, attempting to hide any apparent weakness, but the damage was done. “You haven’t responded to your disciples’ prayers for days.” Astalla spun away from the window, looking shocked. “You haven’t felt their prayers…?” Astalla didn’t realize how weak she had become.
“I cannot die,” she whispered fearfully.
Ava immediately sputtered, “We will not allow it. The temple will be maintained by guards constantly—”
“This isn’t just about me! This is about the souls in the afterlife!” Ava froze like a moth caught in a web. The thought inspired horror in her. She could only imagine the torments Margzor could inflict on the dead for eternity.
Chapter 26
The Undying God Page 17
