The Empire of the Dead (The Godsblood Trilogy Book 1)

by Phil Tucker

  But the demigod stood still, arms still raised, looking out over the crowd that filled the square.

  Acharsis rose to his tiptoes and saw more people streaming in through the many alleys and side streets. People were calling out to Jarek, raising their hands to him, tripping over the kneeling dead in an attempt to get close.

  “We’ve got to go!” Acharsis shook the stand. “Jarek!”

  Screams cut the air to his left. People were drawing back, others being cut down. He saw the flash of bone-pale masks. Deathless.

  “Jarek!” His scream was hoarse as he fought to make himself heard. People jostled him as they pressed in close. “Run!”

  Jarek looked down at where the deathless were approaching. Instead of leaping down and diving into the crowd, he simply placed his hands on his hips.

  Understanding hit Acharsis like a fist. Jarek wasn’t going to flee.

  “Babati! Go!” Acharsis pushed his way through the crowd to where the kid was pressed up against the arch beside Annara. “We have to get out of here!”

  Annara grabbed Acharsis’ hand, then looked back. “But what of Jarek?”

  Acharsis looked over his shoulder at his. “He’s made his choice. I only pray he knows what he’s doing. But we’ve got to go. This square is going to be locked down in a matter of moments. Run!”

  The last thing he saw as he slipped away into the crowd was Jarek raising his arms in defiance as the roar of the crowd crashed around him like waves and the deathless broke free of the crowd at last and hurtled toward him.

  Chapter 13

  Oh, glory. Oh, sweet delirious madness. Sublime fire, the burning that doesn’t consume, the flame that illuminates the soul. To ride the waves of faith, to feel the undulating cordons of power, to taste, even if for just this moment, the divine savor of immortality.

  Jarek felt the crowd’s reaction in his bones, felt it suffuse his flesh and sink into his very spirit. For decades, he’d been alone. For decades, he’d lived as normal people did, accompanied only by his shadow and his self-doubts, deprived of the umbilical cord that connected him to the gods.

  But now, the hundreds gathered before him gazed up, and in their eyes, he saw fervor, and hope, and the first stirrings and flickers of faith. Alok’s sigil fluttered overhead, and in their hearts, he saw it burn to life like a brand heated in the heart of a bed of coals.

  Alok, his father, his patron and lord.

  Arms raised, Jarek listened. Reached out with his soul. Sought to hear the faintest of rumblings, the grind of rocks against each other, the ponderous heavings of the earth’s crust as it spoke deep into his essence.

  But he heard nothing. Even as the waves of gold-tinted faith washed through him, he couldn’t sense Alok’s presence. Even as he felt himself buoyed on a tide of devotion, he knew that it wasn’t enough. A momentary spike on the part of several hundred people couldn’t undo two decades of abandonment, couldn’t revive a god whose every sacred image was buried head-down on Uros’ Golden Way so that each day, thousands trod on his memory.

  But it was enough to infuse him with some modicum of power. He stared down at where two deathless had emerged from the crowd and gazed upon their horrific upturned masks. He felt the strength in his muscles coil, felt light on the balls of his feet in a way that he hadn’t in years.

  Was it enough to take on these two adherents of Nekuul? Was the nascent faith of a few hundred enough to bolster his aged frame?

  It was time to find out.

  Jarek bared his teeth and lowered himself into a crouch just as the pair of eaters rushed his stand, then leaped.

  The force of his jump sent the platform tumbling over, and he flew up and back to land on the face of the triumphal arch. His hand curled around a protruding part of the façade, a skeleton’s stone arm. His heels found purchase on frozen waves of flame. Ten yards up, he gazed down at the deathless as they circled the wreckage of the platform.

  Beyond them, even those who had been busy distributing the stolen barley had paused and were watching him cling to the facade.

  The deathless moved to the base of the arch and began to climb.

  Jarek laughed and turned as well. He reached up and grabbed a carved skull, placed the toe of his boot in the hollowed mouth of a damned soul, and climbed. Up he went, smoothly, the strength in his fingers so intense that he occasionally crushed a finer carving, and then a hand grabbed his arm and hauled him over the edge of the arch.

  Kish. She was dressed in functional leather armor, split at the hip so that broad strips flared out over her thighs. Her hair was tightly braided and coiled on the crown of her head, and she was holding her hammer in her other hand.

  “What are you doing up here?” Her voice was breathless. “What’s going on?”

  “Deathless,” he said, backing up. “Two of them. Are you ready for this?”

  “Deathless?” Her face paled, and she gripped her hammer with both hands. “Here? Now?”

  “Here,” he said. “Now. If you’re going to jump, jump.”

  Kish flashed him a nervous grin. “And miss the fight of a lifetime? I don’t think so.”

  The top of the arch was a broad, plain strip of stone, five yards wide and ten long. They were some twenty yards above the square, hidden from sight if they stood in the center, but in plain view of hundreds if they moved to the edge.

  The deathless surged up over the edge of the arch like oily smoke. They rose smoothly to their feet. As before, they were silent, and now Jarek knew why. He stared at their stylized masks and tried to imagine their gutted eyes filled in with black tar and blood, their cadaverous faces pulled into rictal screams.

  “Jarek,” whispered the one to the left. His mask verged on the demonic, whorls of black ink covering the pale bone, nose but a subtle bump, mouth frozen in an open snarl, melted strands of ivory running like bars across the hole as if his teeth had flowed and merged. “Jarek, son of Alok.”

  “So, you were listening,” Jarek said. “Well done.”

  “Come with us,” whispered the second. “You need not die here.”

  His mask was gaunt, its raised brow and harsh cheekbones the face of a starving old man. Black ink was filigreed around his eyes like flames viewed from a distance, rising into a column up the center of his forehead.

  “Is that what they told you? That you could avoid death?” Jarek grinned. “They lied to you.”

  They drew their broad iron swords in perfect synchronicity and began to approach, drifting forward like dust blown across the desert.

  Kish shifted her weight to his left, her breath coming in shallow pants.

  Jarek didn’t hesitate. With a cry, he leaped up into the sky, and the crowd below seemed to sigh in contentment as he soared up, Sky Hammer raised in both hands, only to come crashing down upon the deathless to the left.

  The eater threw himself forward into a roll. Jarek’s hammer crunched into the stone of the arch, and cracks spider-webbed out around the point of impact.

  For the first time in two decades, Jarek saw a dull glow emanate from the heart of the Sky Hammer’s head, an amber smolder like a dying coal. Fierce joy flared in his heart. Oh, to fight with the might of the gods within him!

  He rose just as the eater attacked his side. The eater’s blade whispered toward his head, but he simply swayed back, letting it pass before him, and then slammed his fist against the deathless chest.

  It was like hitting a tree, but Jarek hit like an avalanche. The force of the blow sent the deathless sliding back to the far edge of the arch, the soles of his boots hissing across the rock. He caught his balance just before toppling off, stared down, then whipped his gaze back up to Jarek.

  Jarek grinned. “Game’s changed, boys.”

  Then he wheeled around, hammer swinging at shoulder height in a vicious arc. The second deathless was on the verge of taking Kish’s head off, but he ducked below the blow. Kish swung her hammer up as if slamming a nail into the underside of a boat’s hull, and somehow th
e deathless pulled his head aside just in time.

  Jarek reached and out and grabbed a fistful of the eater’s robe. The eater writhed and tried to pull free, but Jarek lifted him one-armed over his head and then brought him down with all his might onto the surface of the arch.

  The eater crunched down, mask clacking as he hit the rock. Kish wasted no time. She pounded her hammer down on his shoulder in a two-handed blow, and Jarek heard bones snap.

  “His head! Aim for the eyes!”

  A line of fire scored its way down his back and he turned, hammer driving the first deathless back. Before the eater could recover his balance, Jarek was on him, swinging high and then low, jabbing his hammer’s head at the mask and then whipping it down and up and around and cracking back down again.

  The eater danced and weaved before him, giving ground, unable to launch his own attack, occasionally parrying, sparks flying when their weapons touched.

  The masses were roaring below, cries of disbelief and joy, and as Jarek drove the eater back, he felt pulses of power flood into him. He moved quicker, drove his hammer faster, but it was like fighting a shadow.

  No matter. The arch ended barely a yard behind the creature.

  Kish screamed behind Jarek, but he couldn’t help her. He had to finish this one, had to destroy him. The deathless wove to the side, ducked a swing, and then stabbed his sword straight into Jarek’s gut.

  The blade’s tip sank in half an inch and then stopped.

  Jarek grunted and looked down. Then he grabbed the sword with his left hand, wrapped his fingers slowly around the blade, and squeezed.

  The iron bent beneath his grip and folded. He tore it free and hurled it out into the crowd.

  The deathless arm was thrown open wide, and he teetered on the edge of the arch, heels over the void. Impossible grace allowed him to recover and bend forward, rising to the balls of his feet, but then Jarek smashed the hilt of his hammer right into the creature’s forehead.

  The demonic mask cracked as the eater’s head snapped back, and he was thrown into the air. Arms and legs windmilling, the eater tumbled down, and Jarek could have sworn he saw green mist leak from the deep fissures that had appeared in the mask.

  The crowd parted just in time. The deathless crashed to the packed dirt of the ground with a bone-jarring crack that would have shattered the neck of an ox.

  Jarek didn’t wait to see if he would rise again. He turned around and saw Kish backed into the corner. Her face was drawn with pain and effort, tendons standing out in her neck as she held her hammer aloft with one arm. The deathless’ blade was pressed down on the shaft of the hammer, driving its edge toward her face. Her other arm was hanging uselessly by her side, blood coating her hand.

  Jarek inhaled, raised his Sky Hammer overhead, took one massive step, and hurled it. The hammer blurred as it shot through the air. He almost thought he saw gold dust trail in its wake, the passage of Alok’s might, and then its head slammed into the back of the deathless’ hood.

  The sheer momentum knocked the deathless forward, sending it diving over Kish to sail out into the air. The contents of its skull burst outward, and what looked like a spray of green fire roared out as his mask fell free - and then he was gone from Jarek’s line of sight.

  “Kish!”

  He ran forward. She dropped her hammer and nearly collapsed. Nicks and cuts marked her arms and face.

  “He was toying with me,” she said. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes. “The bastard. Cutting me, playing with me -”

  “There’s no time for that. We’ve got to go.”

  “Salute them,” she said with a grimace of pain.

  “What?”

  “The crowd. Salute them. Use my hammer. Hurry.”

  Jarek took her weapon and stepped to the edge of the arch, where he looked out over a sea of faces. Death watch guards were glaring up at him. A leech was haranguing the kneeling dead, ordering them to stand, one by one. Half a dozen deathless were threading their way through the crowd.

  Jarek forced himself to take a deep breath and raise Kish’s hammer.

  The effect was instantaneous. A massive roar rose to buffet him like the winds of a storm. The pain in his gut from the stab wound faded, and he inhaled deeply, feeling his frame swell. This was but a mere few hundred, hardly an entire city of the devoted, but after his years spent in the dark, it felt like he was finally coming alive.

  The deathless were converging on the base of the arch. Jarek stared down at where his Sky Hammer was lying, but then stepped back and lifted Kish into his arms.

  “We’ve got to jump.”

  “Jump?”

  “Jump. Hold on.”

  He took a deep breath, then broke into a sprint. He raced down the length of the arch, placed his foot on the far edge, then hurled himself into the sky. His legs kicked at nothing as he flew out over the crowd, arching high, buoyed by their chanting, and the deathless below turned to track his progress with their pale, upturned faces. Then, down he came, and he hit the flat roof of the closest building just inside its edge.

  The clay shattered, the wooden beams supporting the roof buckled and sagged, and huge cracks splintered out in all directions - but the roof held. With a grunt, he rose to his feet and ran. There was no time to guess, no time to hesitate. They’d barely been able to take on two deathless. A half dozen with Kish down? It was time to go.

  He raced across the rooftops, digging deep for speed, pushing himself as hard as he could. Kish held on tight, looking back over his shoulder. He leaped across the narrow streets, ducked under clotheslines, raced around families who had climbed up to enjoy the last of the sun.

  The winds of faith blew at his back, so strong that they almost lifted him off the ground. He tore across the packed roofs and finally reached a small square into which he dropped, hitting the ground with a grunt.

  There, a tall, defaced statue of Irella stood amidst four palms. Two great cats flanked her.

  The smith’s courtyard.

  “Down that alley,” gasped Kish.

  They hurried down the alley, shoulders brushing the walls, and Jarek kept glancing behind them, expecting that at any moment a deathless would leap into view.

  But none did.

  They made a left turn, then a right, and then Kish nodded at a slender door. “In there.”

  They stepped into a small room. Kish slid from his arms and pushed the door closed, then hurried to a narrow table on which one of Ishi’s moon candles was sitting.

  Jarek stood facing the door, hammer in hand, and waited. There were no windows in the small room, just the door. If the deathless attacked, the door would burst open with no warning. So, he waited. Kish lit the candle behind him, and a cool glow pushed back the dark as he lowered her hammer.

  “I think we’re safe,” she said.

  “Yeah.” He turned around.

  Kish was struggling out of her armor, wincing as she fought to free her injured arm. “Can you help me with this?”

  “How badly are you hurt?”

  He set her hammer down and stepped over to examine her arm. A gash had been cut into the flesh of her shoulder, growing more shallow as it ran down her arm. The leather armor was glistening with blood.

  “Some.” She hissed as he pulled on the thongs that bound the armor shut. “You’ll have to cut it off. The sleeve, at least.”

  He nodded and saw a bronze knife on the table near the candle. He took it up, tested the edge, and found it sharp. Carefully, he inserted the tip between the thick stitching and set to slicing. Kish stood still, jaw clenched, staring out into nothing. She made no sound when he finally peeled the sleeve away. The arm beneath it was crimson with blood.

  “You want to sit down?”

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “Stop trying to act tough. Sit.”

  “I’m not acting tough,” she said distantly. “I am tough. There’s thread and a bone needle in that box there, along with clean cloth you can use as a ban
dage.”

  “Fair enough.”

  He dropped her ruined sleeve and opened the small wooden case. A spool of incredibly fine thread was wrapped around a cow’s knee bone. Four slender fish bone needles lay beside it.

  “Use these much?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Though I heal pretty quick. Scythia’s blessing, perhaps.”

  “Most likely. Now, hold still.”

  He took up a jar of water and poured it over the wound, washing the blood away. The red-tinted water spattered on the dirt floor. Then he threaded one of the curved needles and set to work. Kish didn’t flinch once.

  When he was done stitching, he bit the thread and snapped it, then tied it off. The wound was puckered but closed, with only a bit of fresh blood leaking down her triceps. He wrapped the cloth around her shoulder five times tightly, then tucked the loose end away.

  “There.”

  “You’re going to have to help me pull off the rest of my armor,” she said. “I can’t undo it with my arm like this.”

  Reluctantly, he stepped around in front of her and was struck by a sudden awareness of where they were: her private chamber.

  The light of the candle brought out the deep tints of her hair, warmed the curve of her cheek, and caught in her eyelashes when she looked at him.

  Her smile was amused. “What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Nothing.” He frowned and crossed his arms, watching as she undid the clasps with her good hand. She started at her neck and worked her way down.

  She was wearing a thin white tunic beneath the armor, now dark with her sweat. It clung to her full breasts, leaving nothing to the imagination.

  “Can you pull it off?” she asked.

  She raised her good arm so he could take hold of her cuff. When he pulled, the armor slipped free and fell to the floor.

  They stood in silence. She didn’t seem to care that a dozen nicks and cuts adorned her body. She looked up at him, and in her eyes he saw something he hadn’t seen in years.

  Hadn’t expected to ever see again.

  Desire.