by Jack Conner
“This is a mistake!” cried the head priest, shooting to his feet. “You’ll regret this, Lord Onxcor. My people will attack.”
“Then it will be you who regrets it,” Onxcor said.
The rebel party shot glances at the group sent by the rival clan, and all these warriors traded knowing looks with Onxcor’s omnipresent people, in particular with the man who seemed to serve as his lieutenant; he stood nearest the throne.
Good, Avery thought. Perhaps it will work, after all.
“What does that mean?” said the priest. “Do you mean to have us tortured? I warn you that if you—”
“No one will lay a hand on you,” Onxcor said. “Not if you behave. Now shut up before I change my mind.”
“I—”
“Sit down! When I get my money I’ll lift the lockdown and you can go on your way. We can all get out of this alive.”
“We’re not leaving here without the Great One.” There was iron in the priest’s voice.
“You will not leave here alive, you mean. Well, that’s your choice. I have no problem sending you to hell. But it’s your heads, and your decision.”
The head priest—and indeed, all of them—fairly vibrated with fury, and Avery thought the leader might just explode. If anyone could explode from anger, it would be him at that moment. The priest’s chin quivered, his eyes blazed, his whole face twitched and spasmed in rage.
Suddenly, he smiled. It was a tight and terrible smile, to be sure, but it was a smile nonetheless.
“Fine,” he said.
“What,” said Onxcor, speaking slowly, “is fine?”
The priest’s grin widened, threatening to devour his face. He was suddenly all teeth, and his teeth were sharp—some effect of the mutation, Avery supposed, or it could be that the priest filed them. At any rate, they gleamed like little sickles in his gray-furred, smiling head. “I’ve just ordered the attack. It should begin immediately.”
For what seemed like an endless moment he and Onxcor stared at each other. Avery waited for Onxcor to have the priest killed, or to laugh the threat off, but the warlord did neither. It was only when a whump issued from down a tunnel, accompanied by the sound of gunfire, that Avery realized Onxcor had been waiting.
A cloud seemed to settle about the warlord’s face, and there was anger in it, but also, Avery thought, fear.
In a low, carrying voice, he said, “Damn you. We could have survived this, all of us, but now ... Men, to your posts! They'll pay in blood for every step.” Turning to one of his men, the warrior who seemed more senior than the others, he said, “Axgrec, lead the defense. I have something to do first.” Another muffled wump, the sound of an explosion, wafted in from one of the halls. A flurry of ice particles rained down from the ceiling. Fixing the envoys of the rival clansmen in his sights, as well as those sent by the rebels, Onxcor added, “Go. Now. Do as we discussed.” Briefly his gaze flicked to Avery, then away, and Avery felt a burst of hope swell inside him. It was immediately tempered by the expression Sheridan shot him. Quickly the envoys filed from the room.
“I have business here.” So saying, Onxcor drew the gleaming sword he wore at his side. Many of his warriors had run off to fight the invaders, but some had stayed. Perhaps being with their lord was their designated place. They seemed to know what he would do, and as he stepped forward they drew back, creating a path for him to walk through—a path to Uthua.
When the head priest saw it, cords stood out on his throat, visible even under the fur. “What are you doing?”
Onxcor didn’t spare him a glance, nor did the warlord slow in his steady, inexorable march to the Collossum, who still hung senseless from the wall.
“Your people may arrive before my new friends can lend help,” Onxcor said. “But if they do, they won’t rescue their god. Not a living one, anyway. I give you full claim of his pieces.” He raised his sword, cocking his arms over his head for the blow that would splinter Uthua’s chest, even as he drew so close to the dangling fish-man that the guards stationed under him started to pull aside.
“No!” the head priest cried. “You can’t!”
“Watch me!”
“NOOO!”
The voice came, surprisingly, not from any of the priests, but from Risiglon. While the priests had come forward, closer to Onxcor, as if to stop him—not that the warriors would allow this; even as the priests drifted over, the warriors cordoned them off—Risiglon had neared one of the warriors on the flanks. The warrior ignored him, eyes intent on the god. The anthropologist grabbed the man’s submachine gun in a move so fast and with so much passion behind it that the warrior couldn’t prevent it, aimed the weapon at Lord Onxcor—and fired.
Blood flew, and the warlord spun about, staggering.
The warrior whose weapon the burst had come from wrenched the gun away from Risiglon and struck him over the head with it. Risiglon collapsed.
Onxcor had dropped his sword and clutched at his left arm with the hand that had been holding it, and blood squirted from between his fingers. No wounds showed anywhere else. An animal sound of rage—and pain, too, Avery was sure—worked its way up from the depths of Onxcor’s being.
He grabbed the gun of a nearby warrior and shot the man who’d allowed Risiglon to disarm him in the chest, and the man flew backward, dead instantly. Disgusted, Onxcor flung the gun back to its owner, his hand going back over his wound. In the few seconds it had been away, a good deal of blood had leaked out.
“Is he alive?” Onxcor growled, indicating Risiglon. When one of his men crouched, analyzed the fallen would-be assassin and nodded, Onxcor frowned. His gaze went from Risiglon to Uthua, and it was clear some sort of war was being played out in his head; did he revenge himself on Risiglon or deprive the Collossumists of their god?
Revenge won.
“Drag the fool to the block. Him first, then the god.”
Several men hauled Risiglon, who was coming awake kicking and cursing, toward the ice block that several other men were even then heaving toward its spot near the throne, and Avery realized there would be a repeat of the execution yesterday. Or so he thought at first. Then Onxcor directed a brazier be brought close and a brand laid on it.
“Lay his right hand down,” Onxcor said. To a lieutenant, he said, “I can’t wield the blade, damn it. You have the honors.”
Looking honored, the man gripped Onxcor’s sword and raised it meaningfully .
“No!” the head priest said. The priests, blocked from nearing Uthua, rushed over to the scene of would-be torture. “You can’t! He was only trying to save the Great One.”
Onxcor spat in the priest’s direction. “Shut up or I’ll give your Great One the same treatment before I end him.”
Warriors shoved the priests back, and Avery wondered if Onxcor would order their deaths next. Likely that would come once they’d witnessed their god’s end.
To his lieutenant, the warlord said, “NOW!”
The blade flashed down, and bright blood spurted the ice as Risiglon’s severed hand popped free. Risiglon screamed so loud Avery knew damage was being done to his throat. Gunfire rattled down the halls, and another wump, but none of the warriors even glanced up. All attention was riveted on the amputation. Revenge was serious business in Onxcor’s clan. Then again, Onxcor was no longer in any condition to lead an attack, and his immediate bodyguards would stay with him wherever he was.
“Now,” Avery whispered to Sheridan. “We must do it now.”
Her hand had already flown to her pocket.
Chapter 5
As Onxcor had the brand applied to Risiglon’s spurting stump, to more screaming from Risiglon, Avery approached the soldiers stationed under Uthua. There were only three, one having helped cart Risiglon toward the block, and the three stiffened at Avery’s advance. He’d come from an angle, and all three turned toward him.
He swallowed as the gun barrels tilted at his head. This had been the plan, but he was starting to think it had been ill-conceived. O
h well. It was too late to go back.
“Can I pray to the god before he’s killed?” Avery said, speaking Ysstran. “I would like to set his soul at peace.”
“Get lost,” one of the soldiers said. “Go or we’ll send you to the block next.” He didn’t seem as if he would regret this. If anything, he looked annoyed that Avery was taking up his attention when it could be much better spent watching the Risiglon show. “I’m sure it won’t be long for you anyway.”
“Might I just—?” Avery started.
The guard cocked his weapon. His eyes were cold. There would be no more warning.
There wouldn’t need to be.
A shadow had slipped up behind the rearmost guard. The man was too tall for Sheridan to slit his throat easily, and with his thick furs a kidney shot was problematic.
Her blade flashed at the level of his knees, below his coat. He screamed and fell, and even as he did Sheridan tore his submachine gun loose and struck the second guard in the throat with the butt of the weapon as he turned about. Clutching at his crushed larynx, the man fell away. The third, the one who’d been speaking with Avery, spun about, bringing his gun barrel toward this unexpected attacker, and he was fast—too fast. Avery saw that Sheridan couldn’t get him in time.
Avery flung himself at the warrior’s back. The man dropped the weapon and went to his knees under Avery’s weight, and then Sheridan was there, slitting the man’s throat.
All this had been done with a complete absence of gunfire. Those grouped about the execution/torture block hadn’t even looked in their direction.
Sheridan turned back to deal with the first guard, still alive and trying to crawl toward the second one’s weapon, while Avery drew out the first syringe filled with blood and crept toward Uthua. Staring up at the fish-man, Avery realized a moment of doubt. Am I really doing this? Surely I can’t SAVE him. I should be helping Onxcor disassemble him, limb by limb. With my medical knowledge we could drag it out for quite a while.
He jabbed the syringe into Uthua’s abdomen, aiming for the stomach. Uthua’s walls of muscle were thick, and it took some doing before Avery was satisfied he’d found the organ, but once he did he injected the blood straight into the stomach. He would have preferred to have squirted the substance into Uthua’s mouth, but the god was too high, his mouth a few feet out of reach. Avery would have had to clamber up, climbing on the god, in order to have done so, and there was no way in hell he was doing that. Avery wouldn’t touch him if he didn’t have to, let alone mount him.
Avery waited, breath catching. Would it work? Perhaps he needed to administer the second syringe. Just as he was about to, Uthua stirred. The god-thing groaned, and his eyes opened. Blinked. They were black and full of wrath, as well as a habitual rancor.
“You,” he said, and though he was clearly weak, there was power in his voice, and understanding. He recognized Avery.
“Me,” Avery said, hesitating. He had waited to administer the second syringe intentionally; now to see if the reason paid off. “I’m about to save your miserable life, but I want your assurance that you’re not going to kill me as soon as I do.”
Uthua strained against his ice-wreathed chains, perhaps hoping to break them before being compelled to give his word. Failing, he said, “You have it.”
Avery hesitated again. Just how valuable was the word of a creature like Uthua?
There was nothing for it, though. With a sigh, he injected the next syringe full of blood, then the third. In the background, Risiglon screamed, and distant fighting echoed down the halls. Sheridan came to stand watch beside Avery, her attention on the men in the center of the room, intent on their grisly sport. Avery looked over his shoulder once to see that the priests had been forced to their knees and that Risiglon’s left arm was now gone below the elbow. At any moment Avery feared one of the men would glance back and see what was going on with Uthua, but bloodlust seemed to have come over them, robbing them of all else save the need to see Risiglon de-limbed, joint by joint, and in any event Avery moved fast.
After the third injection, the air blurred around Uthua.
Avery leapt back just in time. The Collossum tore his feet free with a single terrible kick each, then ripped his hands loose and jumped down to the ground. He wavered for an instant, and Avery was half ready to reach out and stabilize him, chastising himself for the impulse even as he started to do so, but then the god steadied himself. He stood straighter. He was utterly naked save for a loincloth—apparently the warriors didn’t want to stare at another male’s genitals at eye-level every day—and his massively muscled form was just as impressive as it always was. Moreso now, with the air blurring around it, hinting at other-dimensional abilities ready to be called upon, and the terrible anger sparking from the creature’s eyes. There was nothing left of Muirblaag in him, Avery saw, no trace of the original fish-man’s rueful good nature. There was only ancient malice and unholy desire. Uthua was a being that had wallowed in horror and debauchery for centuries, and he saw himself as the awful god—was the awful god—he had been worshipped as by the primitive ngvandi.
His black eyes roved from the spectacle of Risiglon’s reduction to the Codex, which sat not far away from the center of activity.
“That is mine,” he said, and though he had not spoken loudly all eyes swung to him, and the activity around Risiglon stopped instantly. Avery thought Uthua had spoken psychically as well as verbally. He spoke Octunggen.
Lord Onxcor, sprawled on his throne with one hand clutching his bleeding wound—Avery thought he might well die watching Risiglon suffer, willing to bleed out rather than allow the would-be assassin a moment of leniency, even amidst invasion—straightened and swore. Below him, the man who had been about to cauterize Risiglon’s newest wound—his right foot had just been removed—paused, and blood pumped onto the ice. Risiglon, face gray, drooped in the arms of the men that held him. If the wound wasn’t sealed soon, he would bleed to death, just like Onxcor. Of course, the cauterization itself might kill him, too. He could die from shock.
“How did—?” Lord Onxcor started, then noticed Avery and Sheridan standing to either side of Uthua. “You,” he said, seeing Avery, and Avery wondered if he should simply take that up as his new name. “But I thought you—”
Were on my side, Avery knew was how he meant to finish, but Uthua, thankfully, didn’t allow him the chance.
“Give me the Codex,” the Collossum said.
“You’re still weak,” Onxcor said. “But take the thing if you think you can.” He glanced once to Risiglon, still bleeding out at the block, then told the men attending to the torture, “Leave him.”
Risiglon slumped unmoving to the ground, blood still pumping rhythmically out of him, and Avery felt a surge of pity. I’m so sorry, Sul. You were a fool, but you were heroic in your way. You gave us the distraction we needed. You really did save your god’s life.
The warriors grabbed up their weapons and arrayed themselves between Onxcor and Uthua, some maintaining position around the priests. The head priest was watching Uthua with joyful, adoring eyes, and the expression on his face almost made Avery sick. Uthua didn’t waste a glance on the priest, however. His attention was solely reserved for the Codex.
“I do not have to ask.”
Uthua strode toward the artifact in even, bold strides. Avery knew that Onxcor was right; the Collossum was still weak and might not even be strong enough to bring his other-self over, and even if he could it would only be for a few moments. Then again, he might only need a few moments. The room was packed with infected people—everyone in it but Sheridan. All Uthua would need to do would be to eat a few of them and he’d be strong once more. He seemed to realize it, too, and his eyes darted from warrior to warrior as if sizing them up. Which one would taste best after a long fast? Avery could practically see him licking his lips.
“Fuck it,” Onxcor said. His words came more weakly now. Avery wondered how long he had before he simply lost consciousness. The doctor
in Avery wanted to attend to the warlord; the rest hoped he was still conscious when Uthua tore him apart. “Kill him,” Onxcor said.
The warriors let loose with their guns, and for a moment the cavernous chamber echoed so violently with the sound of gunfire that Avery feared the many stalagmites containing their grisly trophies would crack and the butchered corpses would spill out, littering the floor like that of a charnel house.
The bullets slammed into the blurred air around Uthua and were instantly absorbed or destroyed by his otherworldly barrier. He brought his other-self over, and for a moment the world tilted, and Avery’s head swam. Strange lights played across the ice walls, and sounds and smells wrapped themselves in Avery’s senses and overwhelmed him. All were alien and horrible, not meant for humankind to experience or understand. The vast amoebic form emerged from Uthua’s interior, eclipsing his fish-man shape, which still existed but hovered somewhere inside the strange dark fluid that filled the amoebic sac, impossible to see in the nearly opaque substance. Strange pseudopods thrust out, some fringed by grasping tendrils, and the air reeked of ammonia, shocking in its intensity. Uthua now resembled something like a great, mountainous amoeba, black and nightmarish, with pseudopods and starfish-like protrusions sprouting deadly tentacles.
Uthua grabbed up one gunman with his tendrils and shoved him through the wall of his amoebic sac. Immediately the man began to dissolve, eaten away by otherworldly acids, his body, what could be seen of it, twisting and arching amid the organelles, his mouth screaming, though none could hear the sounds. In seconds there was little of him left, and by then Avery had other things to occupy his thoughts. Uthua grabbed up another man, and another. The warriors fell back but didn’t flee, forming a half circle around Uthua and firing for all they were worth. If they could stay out of his reach for long enough for him to burn through the fuel provided by their confederates, he would have no choice but to suck in his other-self; he would be vulnerable again. Avery didn’t know how much of this they knew, but they didn’t run. Lord Onxcor watched it all grimly from his throne, too weak to join the fight or even shout orders. He merely waved for his sword to be brought to him and clutched it with the same hand that staunched his wound.
