God Wars Box Set Edition: A Dark Fantasy Trilogy

by Mark Eller

  “Looking for something?” A voice holding no warmth, one which very seldom ever did, racked over her scathingly. High Priest Lord Calto Morlon, the queen’s personal advisor, a distant cousin on her father’s side, and worst of all, head of the extended family, stood like death himself in the doorway.

  Instinct kicking in, Simta lobbed a small statuette of Anothosia at the priest while diving for the window, but when she shoved on the panes, instead of swinging easily out, she found them locked— and shuttered. Panic flooded her mind like a great sea swell.

  Lurching away from the impossibly locked window, she grabbed at the only other things available to her and started chucking books from the case lining the west wall. Only one left her hand before a blast of light struck her full in the chest, sending her careening backward into the bookcase. Heavy tomes of leather bound misery rained down upon her head, knocking her nearly unconscious.

  The world became fuzzy. The room tilted from side to side. A gruff hand grabbed her mask and ripped it from her face, causing her to slide sideways to the hard, polished wood floor. To Simta’s fuddled brain, the cool surface almost felt good against her fevered skin, but not for long.

  “Simta, how very disappointing. It will grieve me to strike your name from our family tree.” Calto’s voice drifted to her from far away, sounding less than sincere in its regret.

  Putting her hand down, she tried to rise when she was jerked upright and dragged across the floor. Calto shoved her hard into the desk chair, nearly spilling her over backwards when he shoved it toward the middle of the room. Vertigo hit her in waves as she finally gave up trying to hold her dinner down. Doubling over, Simta hurled over a new rug she knew the Evertrue’s had recently purchased from Illian.

  Good, the smug bastards deserved it for inviting Calto into their home.

  It seemed like forever before she could sit upright and not have everything spin. The sight greeting her didn’t make it any better. Leaning on the edge of the desk, holding a gleaming white leather bound book big enough to club someone to death, Calto stood rigid with anger in his white, long priestly robes. In his right hand, he held a replica of Anothosia’s staff of truth complete with a moonstone set atop it. The stone glowed so brightly it made the brazier’s fire seem dull in comparison. Calto regarded her with cold, emotionless blue eyes, eyes so pale they appeared to be ice, but not ice made of water— more like ice on fire.

  Trembling, Simta sank deeper into her chair. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t real. Calto wasn’t even supposed to be in Yylse. She had recently heard he was in Grace, the king’s city, visiting Queen Elise. Did he know she was coming? Had he the sight, or did she just have a case of bad luck on this job?

  “How dare you.” Calto’s voice emerged as a bare whisper, but it held all the sting of a slap to her face.

  Simta flinched.

  “Do you have any idea what you were stealing? By all the laws of church and state, I could have you publicly hanged for this attempted theft?”

  Each word stabbed her with Calto’s righteous anger, scalding and tearing at Simta unmercifully, making her whimper and cringe. Gods, she hated him for making her feel this way, cheap and pathetic, like filth beneath his feet. Tears stung the back of her eyes, but she refused to cry in front of this bigoted bastard. She would at least die with some pride.

  “Answer me!” Like an erupting geyser, Calto leapt from the desk’s edge and stormed over to her, standing before her like a towering white flame. The aura previously possessed only by his staff’s moonstone now radiated from his body as well. Calto appeared to be a blazing white pillar of godly power, ready to smite her where she sat.

  Crying out, Simta protectively flung her hands over her face.

  “If you will not willingly tell me the truth, I will pull it from you painfully.” Extending his staff, Calto touched the moonstone to her head.

  Like being physically jerked forward, Simta’s hands flew from her face in a spread eagle position. Layers of her mind, her memories, her past lies, and deceits burst free. She felt Calto shuffle through her lies and carelessly toss them aside. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Simta wanted to beg for mercy, call for help, but she did not. Those were options she no longer owned.

  “Well, isn’t this interesting,” Calto mused, and Simta’s mind crashed into a forgotten memory. She found herself back in her room at the inn, sprawled across her bed, naked, moaning, clutching at Malaria’s ass as he jammed his cock deep inside her. Instead of experiencing feelings of pleasure, an intense pain ripped through her body. Like water colors on a too wet canvas, Malaria’s features melted, transforming into something which made even the pain of what Calto did to her a mercy.

  Malaria’s sleek, muscled body grew larger, grotesque in its shape. Long blue barbs protruded from the backs of his arms and head. Spikes grew crookedly down his spine. More of the same needle-like barbs riddled the back of his calves, dripping a green poisonous liquid that burned and ate away at her skin. Simta knew her face was a twisted mask of silent horror as Malaria dipped his head down to her breasts. She heard herself scream as he tore at her pale skin, shredding delicate flesh with long, razor sharp teeth. When she thought she could scream no more, as blood poured from her body to soak the sheets beneath her, sickly grey and black tendrils of magic wrapped around her dying body. Malaria stopped feeding and raised his head to look down curiously at her. Frowning, he lifted a clawed hand above her chest. Simta watched in horror as he shoved bits of his magic into her ruined body. The blood on the sheets reversed its flow to rise and reenter her wounds. In mere seconds, those wounds were healed, but a horrible squiggling, grayness covered her skin.

  The scene disappeared suddenly. Simta found herself back in the Evertrue study, lying on the floor in a ball, hugging her knees to her chest, and crying hysterically. Long, agonizing moments passed before she realized someone had put their arms around her and stroked her face, trying to give her some small measure of comfort. No comfort was there for her. No peace was to be found and never would be. What she had witnessed in the inn’s room would haunt both her waking and dreaming hours for as long as she lived.

  “This cruelty was unnecessary, Calto. You nearly destroyed her.” A man’s voice speaking gently near her ear, barely carried past her sobbing.

  “Please,” Calto sneered. “Our cousin deserved that and more. She’s a disgrace. A piece of filth who would better fit in among the lowborn trash.”

  “‘And I say unto thee, walk among my people with compassion, walk among them with mercy in your eyes and forgiveness in your heart.’” Although the man holding Simta spoke with a low voice, it held passion as he recited one of Anothosia’s teachings, one all her priests were ordered to follow. Opening her red, swollen eyes, she turned her head to look into the face of Calto’s twin brother, Larson, knight and captain of the Order of the Sword and the Staff. Seeing Larson, tears streamed down her face in a silent torrent.

  With a dismissive wave of his hand, Calto ignored his brother. “Save it for church services.” He studied Simta. “You have no idea what your lover sent you to steal, do you?”

  Cringing again, Simta shook her head. Every time Calto spoke, fresh tendrils of pain whipped at her mind. “Please, stop. I–I don’t know why he wanted it. I swear to you on my very soul, I do not.”

  When a low humming filled the air, Larson hugged her tighter. Warmth and peace eased over her body and mind, allowing her to feel something other than abject horror and unrelenting fear, but just barely.

  Anger flashed across Calto’s face, twisting it into cruel, hard lines as he glared at Larson. “I am not finished, brother.”

  “Yes, brother, you are.”

  In a battle of wills, the two stared at one another, caught in a deadlock. Long moments passed before they both looked away. The room’s tension eased.

  Picking her up, Larson carried her to a dark red leather couch set along the east wall and laid her gently upon it. “Simta, you‘re lucky th
e demon only touched you once. Malaria is known to be powerful and well connected. Once he got his hooks fully into you, he would have owned you body and soul. Did it not occur to you to wonder why he didn’t just come and get the book himself?”

  “No. Yes. I don’t know,” Simta answered. “I just— I was desperate I guess. I didn’t care why. I just needed the money.” A sudden surge of anger made Simta glare at Calto. Men like him and her father were why she was in this mess.

  Baring his teeth in a feral snarl, the priest took a step forward. “I know what you are thinking, but you have no one to blame for the mess of your life but yourself. No one told you to whore, or thieve, or drink.”

  Like a house made of mud caught in a torrential rain, Simta’s anger dissolved into dark streams of pain. A fresh onslaught of tears coursed over her raw cheeks at the realization all her secrets had been revealed.

  “I saw it all while I was within you.” Calto’s cold whisper opened new wounds. “The petty remarks, the blackmail, the thieving. I even saw how you ended up betrothed to that idiot Charmaine. Did you think to hide these things from me, Anothosia’s most high priest and head of our House?”

  Larson turned to his brother. “I said enough. Simta might be guilty of all you say, but she is also a victim. I won’t allow you to rape her mind further. All deserve Anothosia’s forgiveness. All deserve a second chance.”

  With a toss of his head, Calto sneered at them both. “Fine. She will get hersecond chance, but she will also atone for this sacrilege. Tomorrow evening she will meet with her demon lover at the inn where he raped her. She will help us spring a trap on him. If she does not, I will march her straight to her father’s house in the evening and explain why she is being stricken from the family books and sold off to the highest bidder in the Illian slave markets.”

  A cold wind tore through Simta’s soul at the thought of facing Malaria again. She started shaking. Even being sold as a slave was a fate she would willingly face over being in Malaria’s presence once more. “No,” she mumbled through numb lips, “please no. Don’t make me face him again.”

  Gods, is this what Calto did to others in his role as Anothosia’s high priest? Is this how he gathered the truth, by shredding a person’s soul, tearing out their hearts, and destroying their minds? Simta shrank as far into her seat as she could.

  Kneeling, Larson placed a reassuring hand upon her cheek. “You won’t face him alone, Simta. I wouldn’t allow anyone to do that. I will be there along with Calto and several of my knights. We will kill him when he shows us his true form.”

  Simta clutched at Larson’s arm. The memory of Malaria feeding on her body remained fresh. “He’ll rip me to pieces again, only this time he won’t put me back together.”

  With a gentle tug, Larson pulled his arm from her grasp. “I swear upon my soul no harm shall come to you, dear cousin.” He stroked her disheveled hair. “You will be safe, but Calto is right. We need you to do this. We have tried to catch Malaria for a long time, but he always sees through our traps and murders our spies. You have no idea how many good men and woman have died at his hands. Help us stop the evil bastard, and you’ll have your second chance.” Drawing back, Larson looked at her with pleading eyes.

  A deep shudder ran through her body. Calto had made it very clear what he would do if she didn’t comply. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

  Seeming regretful, Larson shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not, but Simta, think of all the good you will do. Think of the men and women who will go home to their families alive and unscathed to kiss their spouses and hold their children, all because you helped us stop Malaria.”

  Larson stoked her cheek. The calluses on his hand felt rough against her tender, tear soaked skin, nothing like the hands of other Yernden nobles. Unlike Larson, those prigs knew little about an honest day’s work or sacrifice. Unlike them, Larson’s hands bore the scars of many battles. A long puckered line ran down his left check, marring the perfection of his looks. Both brothers were handsome beyond words, but she could always tell the twins apart even without the scar. Where Calto’s face was arrogance and cold justice, Larson’s was a sun-kissed summer day. Warmth and joy danced over his strong features. Why couldn’t he have asked her to marry him? Why had her father never presented him as a choice? After all, Larson was still unmarried, and though they were cousins, they were not closely related.

  With the world weighing down her head, Simta gave a weary nod and became limp within Larson’s embrace. It was all just too much for her. In this one night, she felt as if she had aged twenty years, all her youth gone in an agonizing stripping of her soul.

  “Good. Now get out of here!” Calto snapped. “And you had better be at the Dancing Unicorn tomorrow, Simta, at nine bells.” Calto’s eyes narrowed. Something unnatural stirred behind them, something powerful, something Simta knew she dared not break a promise to.

  * * * *

  Exhaustion still pulled at every muscle in Simta’s body. She checked her appearance in the mirror one last time before leaving her room to meet Malaria in the commons below. Getting ready had been almost unbearable, her limbs felt too heavy to apply her makeup and put her hair into its customary array of dark red curls atop her head as best she could without servants. Heavy, but she had gotten it done, gotten dressed, and was leaving to attend her own farewell party. At least it was how she felt as she left her room and headed for the stairs. From the top of the stairs, she saw and heard a number of party goers just coming into the Dancing Unicorn, resplendent in all their finest dresses and pants and waist coats. Only two more nights of the festival remained. Simta knew these partiers were trying to get in as much debauchery and as many drunken revelries as they could in a short time. With such dark happenings upon the land, the people of Yernden needed every excuse they could find to rejoice, to forget the hellborn who dared walk in the open, and forget the hellhounds who chewed on friends and neighbors in dark alleys. The citizens of Yernden needed these five days to push back the trappings of Hell that were slowly consuming the very life force of its inhabitants with rumors saying King Vere contemplated changing his allegiance away from the seven virtuous gods to give it to the Two.

  Sweat trickled down what little cleavage Simta owned, making her dress’s silken green material cling in an itchy, uncomfortable way. Her shoes, pointed prisons of torture, were not what she would have chosen for such a dire meeting, but she had to dress the part Calto had given her. Men’s traveling boots would have looked out of place with the rest of her finery. If she had to run for her life, she was as good as dead. One small consolation was the blade strapped to her calf. With it, she could cut her shoe’s laces and rip them from her feet when a moment presented itself. Even barefoot was better than what she presently wore.

  Although people were arriving, the commons room wasn’t overly crowded yet. Good thing. The knights had planned a special show just for Malaria, a show Larson promised the demon would never forget. Her eyes scanned the crowd trying to figure out which were the knights and which were just celebrants. No one seemed out of place, but that was what Calto and Larson wanted, the element of surprise. There was laughter, tankards of good ale and jugs of the best wine, along with the smell of roasted pork, arvid, and chicken. If Simta didn’t feel so wretchedly nauseous, the commons would have smelled like a slice of heaven. As it was, she could barely stand to breathe without puking.

  Scanning the room, Simta felt a glimmer of hope when she didn’t see Malaria. Maybe he had decided to not show, but from the corner of her eye she caught the wave of a hand. She turned slowly toward the gesture, horrified at seeing Malaria’s languid hand motioning her over. Did she really have to sit with him to fulfill Calto’s orders— within reaching distance? She knew from rumor how fast demons and devils could move. She once saw a demon change its hands into weapons, and hellborn were strong. How easy it would be for Malaria to simply reach over and rip her head right off her shoulders. At least if he killed her, Simta would
n’t have to suffer much, that is as long as he decided not to hold her on the brink of death and play with her afterward. Of late, many walking dead had been seen in the dark recesses of the city streets. No part of Simta wanted to join them.

  Oh gods, this is not helping. Think happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy, happy— oh screw it. I’m dead.

  Drawing a deep breath, Simta gave Malaria a small smile. Well, more like a grimace, but it was the best she could do at the moment, especially considering the fact she was about to die.

  Simta’s hand strayed to the satchel by her waist. Another book, one given the appearance of the book she had been sent to steal, had been handed to her by Calto with simple instructions. All she had to do was hand it to the demon. When she had asked what it would do to Malaria, Calto had given her a cold smile and said,“You will just have to watch and see.”

  Needless to say, this dubious assurance only cemented the fact she was going to die.

  The demon stood. His eyes narrowed, but his calm smile never left his face. Sweat formed upon Simta’s brow and did a slow slide down her neck as she drew closer. The satchel hung so heavy upon her shoulder Simta thought she was going to drop it. Malaria slowly came around the table to pull a chair out for her before returning to his seat.

  The air felt thick and heavy with her own fear. When Simta sat, she envisioned shackles coming up around her ankles and upper arms, effectively trapping her in the chair so Malaria could kill her slowly once he discovered the book was a fake. If worse came to worse, she could lie and tell him she only did as he had asked, that the book she took from the Evertrue mansion was exactly the book he had wanted because it looked like the book she had been sent to steal. How could she know it was a fake?

  “Things went well I assume?” he asked.

  “Yes. It wasn’t too difficult to get in and grab the book, but I’m a bit nervous. Anothosia’s seal was on top of it.”

  Amazingly, her voice didn’t shake or crack like she feared it might. She found it difficult to not crane her neck around looking for the knights. Somehow, she managed to continue staring in Malaria’s eyes without screaming. For once, she had not had a thing to drink. Simta sincerely doubted alcohol would have helped anyway. She would never be able to get drunk enough to forgot what Calto had shown her, the horrid vision of her own body being torn apart by this evil monster’s teeth, watching herself die.