The Dead God's Due (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 1)

by Matt Gilbert

  The Dead God’s Due

  Book One of the Eye of the Lion Saga

  By Matt Gilbert

  Comments? Complaints? Just wondering if I have anything else you might enjoy? Follow me on Twitter @AmrathofNihlos, visit my blog at www.nihlos.com and ‘Like’ my author page at www.facebook.com/TheEyeOfTheLionSaga/ on Facebook.

  Check out #eotlsaga for news on the Eye of the Lion Saga.

  Text Copyright 2012 Matt Gilbert

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue: One Millennium Past

  Chapter 1: Princes and Prophesy

  Chapter 2: The Sorcerer's Sons

  Chapter 3: Ilaweh's Chosen

  Chapter 4: Clash of Cultures

  Chapter 5: Machination

  Chapter 6: Conflagration

  Chapter 7: Treason

  Chapter 8: Judgment

  Chapter 9: Fallout

  Epilogue: Not Fire

  A Word From the Author

  Preview: Commandos

  Acknowledgments

  Many helped along the way. Some, I have forgotten, and for that I apologize. Some have forgotten me, and for most of those, I make no apology.

  My wife, Jessica, for listening, suggesting, correcting, musing, and sharing the dream with me.

  Paul Steed, for prodding me years back to actually write. The news of his passing this year hit me quite hard, and made me all the more resolved to finally get this done.

  Jeff King for convincing me to put it on Kindle.

  Cisco Lopez-Fresquet for reading it multiple times and catching new errors every time.

  Paul Melamed who made it clear to me that the Xanthians needed a bigger role.

  Tom Thompson, for sparking my imagination and amusement regarding a certain character.

  Max Johnson, for his comments, his design of the book cover, and his speed in making the last minute revisions.

  David Toole, for his many comments and suggestions.

  Ray Duke, for dreaming with me all those years.

  Prologue: One Millennium Past

  Imperator Publius Xanthius Bellicus looked up in awe and dismay at the great wall of Laurea. Three years past, when he had marched from this city, the foundation of the wall had barely been in the planning stages, and the dense forest of ancient oaks and pines had run right up to the edges of the settlement. Now the wall encircled the city at a height of fifty feet, and ran miles about the city’s periphery. For another mile beyond the wall, the land had been cleared, extending both farmable acreage and, more importantly, the city’s view of approaching enemies. It was a remarkable thing, to have been completed in so little time, but then it was a time of miracles both benign and malignant these last few years. The new wall was strong, thick, and well planned. Merlons sprang like jagged teeth from the battlements, and cast long shadows from the signal fires that burned along the top. But it was all a futile gesture. Who was there to see them? Who would come to help Laurea should she need aid?

  Along the wall, the defenders moved back and forth occasionally, full of nervous energy that had to be walked off. The fools exposed themselves to arrow fire, but they knew no better. They were not trained to resist a siege. They were firefighters, policemen, bureaucrats, even a few criminals, most likely, but not a soldier amongst them. The soldiers stood outside the wall, looking inward, with their Imperator.

  Xanthius had neither the heart nor the need to take advantage of the defenders’ clumsy foundering. There were far too few of them to man the parapets at any rate, three thousand at the most. Ten times that number huddled inside the wall, terrified, praying for salvation, as if there were anyone who could accomplish such a thing. The wall was strong, true, but it would not be enough to stop him if he chose to enter.

  Xanthius shook his head in misery and despair, and turned away from the great wall to look out upon his hosts. A sea of steel and flame spread before him, campfires lining the ground to the limits of his vision, light glinting orange and deadly from sword, shield, and breastplate. They had been two hundred legions when Alexander had fallen, but extricating themselves from Prima had been months of butchery. Nine in ten had died, and there was no telling how many they had killed, how many would go unburied, food for the crows in a blasted land once known as the cradle of civilization.

  They were less than twenty legions now. Xanthius shook his head in amazement that he had lived to see the day that he had lost ninety percent of his forces and still commanded a hundred thousand soldiers. It would not hold, though. It was simply too large a force. Supplies were low, and without Alexander and the Eye, there was no hope to coordinate the men, much less the logistics. Starvation and disease would come soon, and then the infighting.

  He had considered simply releasing them all from service, but that was no solution. Where would they go? And once they got there, then what? There was no time to plant, and not enough game to feed so many. Without the supplies in the city, another nine in ten of his men would be dead within the month, and the rest reduced to cannibalism. Xanthius cursed under his breath. There was more than enough to see them through winter within the city, but the fools there would see no reason. They leave me no choice.

  And then there was the Monster, hanging from a rope in the praetorium, still kicking after an hour. He would not die. It was almost too much for a warrior to bear.

  Ah, Prima! How much blood was there in the world? How much could be spilled at his command, before the gods themselves intervened in horror? Xanthius retreated into his tent, unable to look upon it any longer. He could not have his men see him weep.

  In addition to a cot and table, there was a water basin in his tent, and a mirror, privileges of rank. Generally, he ignored them, but now, they were needed. He dipped a cloth into the tepid water and wiped sweat and soot from his cheeks, the inevitable accumulations of war: smoke, dust, sweat, blood, tears. He would have no telltale tracks on his face rob his men of confidence in their leader.

  The eyes gazing back from the mirror beneath a gray brow were red, tired, but smoke reddens eyes. It was acceptable. The pale, square-jawed face, its features creased from years of bearing the weight of his tasks, was deeply troubled. He pushed his fears and self doubt aside, remembering his duty, and the face became stoic, resolute, fatherly. Satisfactory. The hair, gray and short, might have been shorter still, but it was within acceptable limits. There was a war going on. Sometimes, military bearing had to fall to the wayside. It would do.

  “Imperator,” called a voice from outside.

  Xanthius turned from his mirror and faced the entrance. “Come.”

  Husam al Din, Xanthius’s second, ducked under the flap, his six and a half feet barely fitting beneath the low ceiling. He straightened to attention and hammered a fist against his breastplate in salute.

  Xanthius raised an eyebrow at the sight of his friend and trusted officer. It seemed only yesterday that Husam’s skin was a chocolate brown, but now it was almost black, his eyes seeming to glow in his darkened face. Had there been a day when he was between shades, Xanthius wondered? It must have been so, and yet he had not noticed it until now. The time had simply slipped away, unaccounted for, like so much else. “At ease. Report.”

  Husam looked at his feet and ran a hand over his great bald head, shaking it slowly back and forth, a gesture that Xanthius had come to recognize as indicative of the man’s disapproval. Husam growled to himself briefly, then spoke. “The sorcerer wishes audience.” He spat upon the ground in disdain.

  “Very well.” He crossed to place a calming hand on Husam’s shoulder. “I kn
ow it is difficult to see him as anything but an enemy, but these are strange days. They make for strange bedfellows.”

  “Ilaweh knows, I have fought many men and befriended them later. But these men are treacherous.”

  “It was you who brought him to me.”

  “So it was,” Husam agreed. “As you say, strange bedfellows. But do not forget what he is or what he has done.”

  Xanthius pulled back his hand and glared at his friend. “That would be difficult,” he said, his words clipped in pain.

  Husam’s hard gaze softened in shame. He raised a huge, brown hand and grasped Xanthius’s arm. “I’m sorry, Xanthius. I know Alexander was like a son to you.”

  Xanthius pulled back and nodded, turning his face away as he felt tears begin to well once again. He would not. “Bring him in,” Xanthius said in a hoarse, pained voice. “Just…give me a moment.”

  Husam nodded and ducked out of the tent again.

  Xanthius bit his tongue until the pain of the flesh pushed back the agony in his soul. Alexander!

  By the time they returned, Xanthius had composed himself once again. The tent flap parted, and the sorcerer entered. Husam followed him and stepped to the side, wary, one hand on his sword. “Amrath of Laurea,” he announced with a sneer.

  Amrath was not a small man. In fact, he was fairly muscular, and stood a good six feet tall, but next to Husam, he seemed almost a child. He wore a simple green tunic cinched with a rope belt, but no armor or weapons, nor even jewelry. His blonde hair was bound tight against his head in a bun. There was absolutely nothing about him that was extraordinary, and yet for all that, Xanthius could feel the man's presence like one might feel the sun on his face at high noon. Amrath’s deep green eyes stared at Xanthius with unnerving energy, a touch too bright to seem fully sane. At times, it's as if they're looking right through you.

  Imperator Xanthius knew that he, too, was imposing. And he was also the victor, pyrrhic though his victory might be. He said nothing and waited, refusing to concede anything to his vanquished enemy.

  Amrath raised an eyebrow and flashed a grin like the sun peeking from behind a cloud, still probing with his eyes. Xanthius ground his teeth, refusing to smile back. This was sorcery, some sort of charm, but it would not work. Not here. Not now.

  Amrath let the smile on his lips twist into a wry, ironic expression, and sighed. “Amrath of nowhere and nothing,” he said with a shrug. “You can call this place what you will, but it will never be Laurea. We have all robbed the world of her heritage forever.”

  Xanthius could feel his jaw clenching as he suppressed the urge to shout. “I think you overstate things.”

  Amrath waved a hand in the direction of the wall. “You think this misbegotten backwater can ever replace what was lost?” He spat on the ground. “A cheap simulacrum, nothing more, and you are but a fool with a barbarian horde.”

  Husam bristled at this. “You call us barbarians?” he asked, his voice soft and menacing as he tightened his grip on his sword.

  The sorcerer spun and regarded Husam with contempt. “What else could you be? Can you even appreciate what you’ve done?”

  Husam looked down at the sorcerer, his hand loosening on his sword as his gaze grew distant. Emotion worked at his features. His lips trembled and a muscle beneath his left eye jerked spasmodically, pain, rage, and shame vying for dominance of his face as he spoke. “We have killed the world,” he choked out. “We are as damned as your Council of Twelve. Would a barbarian appreciate that?”

  Amrath stared at him in shock. He gaped a moment, then closed his mouth with an audible click. “No,” he said softly, shaking his head, his cheeks bright red and burning. He cleared his throat and spoke again, more clearly. “He would not. Forgive me. The war has been difficult. It was easier to kill you if we thought of you as beasts.”

  Husam nodded in agreement. “At least you don’t bear the shame of the true monster being one of your own.”

  Xanthius folded his arms and scowled at this, shaking his head in slow denial. “Your people recognized him for what he was. It is our shame that we did not until it was too late.”

  Amrath, looking less than comfortable, nodded in silence. He looked back and forth at them, and finally voiced the unspeakable. “The rope would seem to be less effective than we had hoped.”

  Husam shook his head in frustration. “I told you before how it must be done.”

  Xanthius covered his face with a hand in horror for a moment. “It is barbaric, to burn a man alive! Wouldn’t your Ilaweh object to such a thing?”

  Husam was unmoved, his face stoic. “Ilaweh expects good men to destroy evil. Fire is a sure way. The other Fallen succumbed to the flame, where steel failed. And he is not truly alive, at any rate.”

  The sorcerer’s face grew pinched, as if he had eaten a lemon. So even the Meites have their limits. Good to know. “You tried everything?” he asked. “Even beheading?”

  Husam heaved a great sigh and lifted his arms to the heavens, as if to ask for strength to repeat a lesson he had already explained many times. “Fallen in two pieces, or eight, or ten, they are still Fallen. What is already dead, you cannot kill. You must destroy it utterly.”

  Xanthius ground his teeth at this. “Semantics.”

  Husam’s face grew even darker, and his nostrils flared as he spoke in a low, flat tone. “There is no other way.”

  Xanthius was not the sort of leader to argue in the face of the inevitable. Husam spoke truth, and they all knew it. “Cut him down and bring him to me,” he ordered. “I will not do this without looking him in the eye.”

  Amrath scoffed. “That will be difficult.”

  “This is hardly a time for cheap humor,” Xanthius said with a scowl.

  “On the contrary,” Amrath replied, somber once again. “It is a time when humor is desperately needed.”

  Xanthius nodded to Husam. “Go.” He waited until Husam was well away, then turned an accusing eye toward the sorcerer. “Where is the Eye?”

  “Safe. That’s all you need to know.”

  “How dare you speak to me as if I am a child! What have you done with it? If it should fall into the wrong hands….”

  Amrath picked at his sleeve, seemingly distracted. “All men are tempted by power, Xanthius, even you.”

  “The arrogance of such a phrase coming from the lips of a Meite is beyond words.”

  “Aye, there is some irony there, to be certain,” Amrath said with a nod, looking Xanthius in the eye once again. “But we understand power, too, in ways few outside our sect ever will. No one could have imagined what it did to Alexander, not even the Monster.” He paused a moment, studying Xanthius’s face, searching for something, though if he found it, he gave no sign. “The Eye is safe, Xanthius, in ways that only Meites could think of to make it.”

  “And I am supposed to simply trust you?”

  “I can’t see how you have any choice. But consider, if we intended to use it, would I be here now?” Amrath’s eyes seemed sincere. But they all lie well. “We Meites understand how to balance power, surely you must know that. None of us would want it in anyone’s hands, not even our own. It does not even belong in this world.”

  Xanthius allowed a nod at this. They are quite jealous of one another. “Probably true. But how could anyone ever trust you after—“

  Amrath’s face grew dark with anger. “I am well aware of the treachery we practiced on Alexander!” he nearly shouted. “If you think it doesn’t haunt me every day, then you know nothing of my beliefs.”

  “He was offering you the chance to surrender!”

  “To surrender and leave him with the Eye!” Amrath’s gaze was like a green flame, his confidence in his own cause like a physical force, undeniable. “You don’t fully understand the significance, and I won’t do you the evil of explaining it. A warrior needs his sleep, eh? But even a simple warrior like you can appreciate the madness of his command to slay the entire continent!”

  Xanthius l
ooked away, not wanting his eyes to reveal all of his thoughts. “I did not obey that command,” he said softly.

  “He gave it, Xanthius! To everyone! The damage was done the minute they all knew. Surely you have to see what that thing did to him!”

  There was no arguing that point. “Tell me you destroyed it.”

  Amrath sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, looking suddenly older. “I don’t think it can be destroyed. Yorn was able to get the eyes out and cut the thing in half along a seam, but beyond that, it was impervious to everything we tried.”

  “Can it be reassembled?”

  “With terrifying ease.”

  Xanthius pounded his fist into his hand in frustration. “We are cursed by the gods themselves!”

  “Aye,” Amrath said with a nod. “More so than you realize.”

  Xanthius raised an eyebrow at this, waiting for more.

  Amrath heaved a great sigh, then shook his head, looking older still. He’ll be dead within the hour at this rate. “Those mad fools in Torium were trying to kill a god, to steal his power. They almost succeeded, would have if we hadn’t attacked them. They may still, in the long run.”

  “Gods visit Torium regularly, eh?” Xanthius sneered.

  “Once was enough.”

  Xanthius tried to take this in stride and give no further insult, but Amrath’s frown suggested this effort had not been entirely successful. “Sorcery is difficult enough for me to accept, and I have seen it with my own eyes,” Xanthius admitted. “I respect your and the Ilawehans beliefs, but I do not share them.”

  Amrath was obviously offended, but that seemed a fairly normal state for Meites. They squabble like children. The sorcerer scowled at him a moment, his lips this pressed hard together. “Then you are a fool,” he declared.

  “This would hardly be the first time I was pronounced such.”