by C. L. Roman
Finally he turned back to Fomor with despair in his eyes. “If we fought a human foe, I do not doubt that you could help us. But of what use are your weapons against a god?”
“This thing that preys on your people is no god.”
Confusion struggled with determination on Zephere’s face. “What do you mean? What else has this kind of power? Of course it is a god.”
“It is not,” Fomor insisted. “It is an enemy, and one with power, but it can be defeated. Behold—” In one motion Fomor drew, turned and brought his sword crashing down on the idol, intent on cutting its maniacal grin in half and ending the question in a single stroke.
Thick, black smoke poured from the idol even as a shower of metal and sparks erupted with an ear splitting shriek. Fomor was thrown to the ground, bleeding from a hundred tiny cuts in his chest while cries of terror and pain ripped through the air. The smoke boiled up, shrouding the combatants in blindness, but as swiftly as it had come, the darkness was gone.
White-hot fragments of gold burrowed into pillows and carpets; flames danced where they fell. With a cry of alarm Zephere rushed to smother one tiny conflagration after another. The brazier flared, heating a room already hot with smoke and flame. Volot bent over Fomor’s unconscious form and shouted for help to stop the bleeding. There was a flurry of movement as Jotun exploded out of the house. He took wing, searching in vain for any trace of the smoky form he had seen rise out of the statue. Magnus and Zam slammed after him on foot, shouting that they would search the forest as he did the sky.
Danae raced along the forest path towards the village, sobbing, stumbling, repeating her husband’s name over and over as she ran. He was hurt, she knew it. How she knew didn’t matter and she had no time to wonder. Bursting into her father’s house she dropped to Fomor’s side, hands skimming over his injuries as she called for water and bandages.
“Fomor, can you hear me?” she whispered in a voice steady, but rough with tears.
He groaned, turned his head, and opened his eyes. She read confusion there, and pain. A whisper of sound threaded its way past his lips.
“What? I can’t hear.” She bent, put her ear next to his lips and he whispered again.
“Sword…”
She sat up and looked into his face, confused until she forced her gaze down, across his chest, traversed the length of his arm to the hand that still clutched the smoking ruin of his shattered blade.
Chapter Sixteen
Molek’s shrieks of agony vibrated against the freshly plastered walls of his new temple. Torchlight flickered in the damp air and somewhere water from an overturned barrel dripped on stone. He and his servant, Benat, were alone. The human acolytes had all run screaming from the building when Molek had broken through the roof like a ruined star hurled from Heaven. After the dust had cleared, the cries of the fallen one had been enough to keep them away.
Now Molek lay on the same altar where he had accepted sacrifice only days before. Benat could still smell the aromas of burnt flesh and the sweet blood of the innocent. His so-called Master lay in agony, blood weeping from three ragged tears in his flesh. A fourth shard had caught him high in the shoulder, barely missing his heart. The smaller angel reflected that a direct hit a talon’s width or so south would have served his own plans far better than the current situation. Still, this was fun.
“Only one more my Lord,” he placed a reassuring hand against the hard shoulder of his superior and sighed with well-feigned regret. “But it is the deepest one.”
“Leave it,” Molek roared. “Leave it where it is and get away from me you blood addled freak.”
Benat pressed his palms together in front of his chest and made a half bow. “Certainly, it shall be as the great one wishes. But, as the Master knows, Par-Adis made swords are forged of divellum, silver and iron and Benat is worried. The silver will poison the Master’s blood. He will be ill for months, if not forever.” The lesser demon placed a fawning claw on his superior’s shoulder, his eyes filled with false concern. “Eventually it may even destroy him. Benat can only hope the divellum won’t guide the iron to the great one’s heart first.” He sighed again. “Celestial steel is a nasty weapon, nasty. But Benat supposes the Unnamable did it on purpose, so that there would be a weapon whose presence could slow our healing long enough to kill us. He was cruel, very cruel to create such a thing.”
Molek ended his subordinate’s irritating prattle by the simple expedient of wrapping five pitiless talons tight around the thing’s throat. He yanked Benat off his feet and jerked him forward until their faces were only inches apart.
“Do what must be done, quickly, before I stuff the shards you have already hacked out of my flesh down your throat and into your heart.” He shoved his tormentor back and released him so that Benat stumbled, nearly falling on the dirt floor.
The would be surgeon caught himself and smoothed a trembling claw down the long black robe he had taken to wearing upon being given the office of high priest. Hiding a smirk, he turned to the selection of knives that lay on a low table near the altar. In a few moments Molek would learn who the true master was. And in the meantime, there were the undoubted joys of service.
Benat deliberated only a moment before selecting a particularly long, thin blade. Holding it up to the light with his right hand, he turned to the patient. “Now, the Great One will want to hold very still. We wouldn’t want the knife to slip, would we?”
There was a flash of movement and a sudden prick of ice at Benat’s neck. Sweat popped out on his forehead as he felt Molek’s talons seize his arm in an iron grip.
“You are correct on all counts, my friend.” Molek rasped, a grim smile playing across his pale lips. “Celestial steel is a particularly formidable weapon. But rest assured, my hand is exactly as steady as yours.”
Benat stared down at the length of celestial steel resting against his own chest, the tip against his jugular, and had no doubt that there was yet strength enough in Molek’s injured shoulder to drive the blade home. The moment stretched, impossibly long, yet not nearly long enough until, with the utmost care, Benat began the final cut.
When the clatter of the last shard dropping into the stone bowl signaled completion, Benat felt the sword tip fall away from his throat and let out a long shuddering sigh. Molek appeared completely relaxed.
“Well, that was a job well done Benat. But after all that surgery, I’m absolutely famished. Being wounded is hungry work. I’ll want something tender and sweet. I’m still on the mend as you know so I need to build up my strength. Bring me that little red headed girl.”
Benat sniveled, hiding his glare of anger in his sleeve. “She’s only seen two turnings. If the Master lets her grow a bit more there’ll be enough for Benat too.”
Molek brushed his protest aside with a negligent wave of his hand. “She’s big enough now. I doubt I’ll finish her anyway. You can have what’s left.” His voice sharpened until it might have drawn blood. “Bring me the child.”
And Benat scurried off to obey.
***
The forest around the little cluster of houses brooded in unnatural silence. Inside the clearing miniature dust devils whirled against the sandy ground in agitation. Volot paced in front of his own home, unwilling to enter. Once he stopped in front of the door, placed his hand upon the frame, then drew back and continued pacing, his thoughts as confused as the winds around him. A sound in the doorway stopped him and he turned to face her.
“Volot, I…” Shahara raised a supplicating hand to him but he made no move towards her.
“Stop, Shahara. I don’t understand any of this. You bring that, that thing, into your father’s home. How could you?” She looked as if she would have spoken but he turned away and continued, “I saw your face, you were proud of it. You brought it in like it was some sort of great gift, a grand gesture to save the day.”
“I thought it would,” she replied in a low voice as she sank down onto the little bench next to the door. Volot had
made one for each of the houses, she remembered, for her – so that she could sit in the sun with her sisters, both of blood and marriage. Would Danae ever want to sit with her again? A sad smile slipped away from her lips.
“And then you ran away,” he whipped around again to confront her with the worst of her actions. “Did you not hear your mother, your sister’s cries? Danae screamed for your help and where were you?”
Horrified, Shahara covered her mouth with a trembling hand and her eyes swam with tears. “No! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know—”
“Didn’t know what?” he demanded before she could finish. “Didn’t know it was evil? By all that’s holy, the stench of corruption rolled off it in waves. Even your limited senses should have been able to smell it.”
Her hand dropped, clenched, into her lap as her expression hardened. “Well I couldn’t. It was a statue, Volot, a golden one and very valuable.”
“And you lied. You lied to all of them.”
She stared at him, wide eyed with apprehension. “I didn’t lie. I—”
“Seven days”, he quoted her own words back to her. “You said you kept the fire going day and night for seven days. When did you do that? Where was I that I didn’t notice my wife was missing for seven days.” His voice rose steadily until he was shouting at her. Seeing her terrified expression he looked down at himself, abruptly realizing that not only was he glowing like a dwarf star, but he had tripled in size. Calming himself, he forced his body back into its normal appearance and continued, “What were you going to do? Melt it down, sell it?”
Seeing a chance to explain, his wife lurched upright and took a step toward him. “Yes, exactly! I was waiting for the right time—”
“There is no such thing, not for this,” Volot interrupted, grabbing her by the shoulders, “And now Fomor may die because of your greed.” Shahara looked into her husband’s eyes and saw in them the immensity of his pain. It was more than she could stand. Tears flooded her eyes and her legs buckled.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, “I never meant for any of this to happen. I didn’t know, I swear to you, I didn’t know.”
Her tears made him feel helpless, as they had when Nera was taken. He picked her up, cradling her against his chest. “I know you didn’t.” Still, anger goaded by worry simmered inside of him and made his voice harsher than he intended when he spoke again.
“You must never keep anything from me again Shahara, do you understand? You must not.”
“Never,” she agreed and sighed with relief when he buried his face in her hair and asked nothing more.
***
“Help me get him outside,” Danae said. “I can see nothing for the smoke in here and the reek of demon is overpowering.”
Fomor lay unconscious on the floor, blood streaming from a dozen wounds where the shards of his own sword had bitten deep into his torso. Naomi and several others had worked frantically to beat back flames where flying metal had set carpets and pillows alight, leaving the room dark and filled with an evil stench.
Using the carpet he had fallen on, Nephel and Zephere managed to carry Fomor out of the house into the sunshine just as Adahna alighted near the well.
“What has happened?” she asked as she joined Danae in kneeling next to her captain.
Danae did not answer but used a knife to cut away Fomor’s tunic. She sucked in her breath and pushed it out in a rush as she saw his wounds. There were so many.
“They aren’t healing,” she said, scarcely looking up as Jotun returned from his search.
“No,” he said. “And they won’t so long as the steel remains in them.”
Adahna looked up at the training officer in horror. “What happened?” she demanded again. “What did this to him?”
In short, terse sentences Jotun explained that the fragments in Fomor’s chest were those of his own sword. He did not need to explain further to Adahna, but Danae looked at them both with confusion in her eyes.
“Why isn’t he healing?” she pleaded. “Just last week he slipped while he was cutting wood. The gash in his arm was long and deep, but it healed clean in moments. I watched it,” she insisted. “It didn’t even leave a scar and these are nothing compared to that.”
“It’s the steel, Danae.” Adahna’s words were gentle, but she could not blunt their impact. “Heaven forged blades are made of an amalgam of three elements. Silver and iron, which you have here on Earth, will harm an angel, even kill him if you manage to cut off his head, or pierce his heart with one of them.”
“His injuries are not that bad,” she gestured toward her husband. “These are scratches compared to the damage the axe did last week.” Danae looked from Adahna to Jotun and back again. “What is this third element?”
“One found only in Par-Adis. It is called Divellum. It not only binds the other elements together, but hardens and sharpens them. It is also called the true steel because it acts to guide the blade in battle. Such a blade is unbeatable except by another of its kind wielded by a swordsman of greater skill.” Jotun’s worry was plain in his tone, but Danae shook her head.
“It sounds great – an excellent material, I’m sure – but that doesn’t explain why he isn’t healing.” Her breath caught on a sob, but she bit it back and continued, “What aren’t you telling me?”
“The silver will make him sick, prevent the wounds from healing.” Adahna placed one hand on her sister-in-law’s arm. “The divellum will guide the iron to his heart.”
“All of it?” Danae grated.
“All of it,” Adahna replied, “until his heart is shredded.”
“It won’t take that much. The first shard to pierce his heart will destroy him,” Jotun said.
Danae set her jaw. “Then we’ll have to get them all out. Someone get me some water and a sponge. We need to be able to see what we are doing and he looks as if he’s bathed in blood.” Seeing Gwyneth hovering at the edge of the gathering crowd, she motioned her over.
“I need my basket, you know the one?” Her sister nodded and she continued, “Bring me a flask of poppy juice as well and some aloe. I never thought to use either of them on him, but if he wakes we will need the poppy juice at least.”
Gwyneth bit her lip and sped off down the path.
Jotun and Danae knelt on opposite sides of Fomor. Jotun slipped his dagger free of its sheath on his calf while Danae reached down and pulled Fomor’s. Glancing across her husband at his friend, she hesitated.
“We can’t use these. We need flint or bone knives. If we use these we’ll make the wounds worse and—”
She stopped as Gwyneth ran up with the things she had asked for. Behind her Naomi brought a water bowl and some rags. As Danae thanked them Jotun finished the thought.
“But cuts from flint or bone will heal quickly.”
“Right.” She opened the basket, quickly finding what she wanted. “I have these. I usually use them for taking out larger splinters or cutting away dead flesh, but I think they will work for this.” They were long thin blades of bone, the handle portion sanded smooth and round while the cutting end had been honed to a thin, sharp edge.
Jotun accepted one of the small blades from her. The girl tried to wash Fomor’s chest and neck, changing rags and calling for a second bowl of water before settling for simply keeping a damp rag in her left hand while she dug out shards with her right, starting with those nearest Fomor’s heart. On his side, Jotun found most of the shards to be shallowly embedded and was able to work faster, but was only able to keep ahead of the bleeding by the same clean and cut method Danae was using.
The sun crept upward and Nephel ordered a canopy to be set over the trio in order to keep off the worst of the rising heat.
“No, don’t get in their way, you ham-footed fool,” he yelled at Abram, giving the unlucky boy a clout on the ear that set his head ringing. “You, Dan, lend a hand or next he’ll be kicking dirt in your brother’s wounds.”
Glancing up at her husband’s face, Danae was almost
grateful that he had not regained consciousness. Sighing, she rubbed a blood-stained and weary hand over her eyes before cutting free yet another shard. A strange tingling bubbled behind her eyes, but she had no time to wonder about it. Instead, she dropped the shard into the bowl, setting to work immediately on the next. Ahba’s mercy, but there are too many.
“Danae, look.” Jotun’s voice held a suppressed urgency but he did not stop what he was doing, jutting his chin to indicate the area where they had excised the first pieces. Danae looked and saw with relief that, with the metal removed, the wounds were healing. The process was still slower than she thought normal for him, and it was leaving white, raised scars, but one by one the cuts stopped bleeding and the flesh closed over.
Two shards later a long, slow shudder rippled up Fomor’s chest and she lifted her hands in alarm.
“He’s waking up,” Jotun looked grim and she understood his concern.
Until now they had been able to work very fast, but if Fomor woke and began to struggle against the pain…
“Adahna, sit on his legs, Gwyneth, get me the poppy juice from my basket and then hold his head still.” Danae didn’t wait to see if her orders were obeyed but took her husband’s face between her palms. “Fomor, can you hear me?”
He opened glazed eyes and stared at her without comprehension. She tried again as Gwyneth pushed a small vial into her hand.
“My love you must lie still. I know it hurts but we have to remove all the pieces.”
“What?” he croaked. One hand groped across his chest, exciting flares of agony every time he touched a spot that still held a piece of sword. The pain seemed to clear away his confusion however, and his eyes were clear when he looked at his wife again. “Tell me,” he whispered.
In terse sentences she explained the situation. “We’ve cleared your upper chest down to the abdomen, but the fragments are concentrated here, and embedded deeper into the muscle. It’s as if he tried to cut you in half with your own sword.”
