Myths of the Fallen City

by James Derry

  The severed finger fell to the temple floor, where it left a rippling hole in the low-lying fog. The digit curled like an armored shrimp in its knuckled carapace of gauntlet. Then the finger twitched, and gray smoke poured from its stump. The smoke swirled across the floor; then it rose into a miniature tornado. At the base of the whirlwind, the finger spun and grew, adding bulk to itself as plates of armor materialized from thin air.

  Within moments, Jamal was standing before a new opponent—hideously malformed and heavily armored. The thing wore a helmet on the top of its cylindrical body, and one centrally located eye glowed through the helmet’s faceplate. It had one arm, emerging from the center of its narrow chest, and the arm carried a long, barbed sword. It had one leg, and as it hopped toward Jamal it showed an eerie and intimidating degree of dexterity and speed.

  Jamal held his ebony sword out in front of him. The thing bounced to its left and struck Jamal’s sword with a blow so fast and heavy that the jolt of it nearly dislocated Jamal’s elbow.

  “Look at you,” Jamal muttered. “An hour ago, you were picking a goddess’s nose. Now you’re big enough to pick a fight.”

  The thing feigned to its left, then slashed hard with an overhead right. Jamal sidestepped the blow.

  He said, “I’ll cut you down to size soon enough.”

  ***

  Sygne was amazed. She was supposed to be the impious one, but here was Jamal dickering with a war goddess like she was another random cadet on the practice fields.

  And yet his swagger seemed to be working. It had been maybe a full minute since Victory had agreed to kill Jamal, and yet he was still alive. In Sygne’s mind that was a major accomplishment. He was buying her time, and she had to make the most of it.

  She needed to concentrate. She was certain that Bliss had killed Yur. There had to be some way to prove that. She needed to find that proof. Here. Now.

  In Albatherra, the Mentors were treated like celebrities. It was a big event when a genius of the Academy would visit the citizenry to solve some practical problem of physics or geometry—or to offer some radical gobbet of philosophical truth. But nothing added to a Mentor’s legend like solving a murder mystery. Sygne had studied several recorded accounts of murder investigations. Among the young scholars, those reports were considered a sort of guilty pleasure. Their stories were salacious, but they also served as a stirring reminder that a scholar’s brain could be just as potent in matters of life and death as a city-guard’s cudgel or a soldier’s spear.

  The reports established a procedure for sussing out culprits, and a list of four primary sources of evidence for establishing guilt. Important clues often came from the murder scene or from the victim. Neither was nearby. The suspected murderer could provide spontaneous clues, but Sygne doubted she’d be able to find any bits of evidence from Bliss.

  That left the last potential source of proof: the theoretical murder weapon.

  “I have it!” Sygne exclaimed.

  “I will have your tongue!” Bliss snarled. “Quiet!”

  Sygne did her best to ignore her. She called to Victory. “I have proof!”

  But the war goddess was focused on Jamal’s fight with her animated extremity.

  “Ma’am? Oh, great goddess? I have proof that…” Sygne nearly said, ‘that Bliss killed Yur.’ She decided to take a different tact. “That we are innocent.”

  With deft, powerful strokes of its nasty sword, Victory’s finger had backed Jamal to the temple’s altar. Jamal rolled backward across the high, flat stone, and Sygne could see that he meant to use the altar as a barricade. If the finger hopped to its left to press its attack, then Jamal would sidle to his left to keep the altar squarely between them. Victory watched the fight with intense, grim interest.

  Maybe Victory would respond to one of her dark honorifics? Sygne racked her brain to remember one.

  “Oh… Distressing Damsel?”

  “Hold your tongue!” Bliss commanded. Once again, a tingling paralysis crawled its way up Sygne’s neck and over her face. Bliss grinned malevolently. The love goddess held Heart-Piercer by her side, pointed perpendicular from her hip. Sygne couldn’t help but focus on the gleaming sword. She saw a black fly circle the supposedly immaculate blade.

  ***

  Victory’s finger nullified Jamal’s ‘barrier’ gambit by hopping onto the altar. In an instant the block of stone had gone from being his temporary refuge to ‘higher ground’ that he had just ceded to the enemy.

  Jamal grunted as the monster’s shadow fell across his face, but he quickly recovered and slashed at its singular ankle. His sword knocked loose flakes of jagged armor.

  “Ah-ha!”

  Finally he had scored a hit, but he couldn’t savor the moment. The metal debris spun unnaturally in the air, fueled by magic. They flew toward Jamal’s face like tiny sparrows on the wing, and Jamal got his arm up just in time to protect his eyes. The bits of armor raked his forearm.

  Victory’s finger swung its sword to chop through Jamal’s head. Jamal threw himself backward. He was desperate; he had no other choice. And so he landed on his rump.

  Jamal stared up at the armored monster standing on the altar, and he waited. He knew that the finger would pounce down upon him—that he would have to roll to avoid its attack. But if he rolled too soon then the finger would see which way he intended to dodge, and it could angle its leap accordingly. Its one arm swayed nimbly, stirring the air in a figure eight. Jamal realized then that even the finger’s half-body gave it a paradoxical advantage. Usually Jamal could anticipate his opponent’s strikes by watching his off foot, or by watching the way he leaned to one side or the other. By comparison, Victory’s finger was eerily unpredictable.

  Jamal muttered, “Who knew a one-sided fight could be so difficult?”

  The finger twitched. It flexed its knee and leaped.

  ***

  Jamal had fallen behind the altar. Sygne couldn’t see him, but she could see Victory’s avatar preparing to pounce down upon him. Jamal couldn’t hope to survive but for a few more seconds. She had to do something.

  The answer was right there on the tip of her tongue. The problem was that she couldn’t move her tongue. Sygne moaned and flexed her jaw. Bliss turned to watch Victory, who was watching the duel.

  Jamal was about to die. Just like Ramyya had died. And Ilona. They were dead because they had become trapped in a tradition meant to prop up distant gods—and men like Sessuk. Higher powers that didn’t care—or couldn’t care—about them. Even Yur, as wicked as he had been, had died in that trap.

  “Nnngh!” Sygne tried to force a word. Everyone kept calling her an anti-theist, although Sygne didn’t feel she was opposed, in general, to an awe of the spiritual, to a hope in magic. She just wished more people could put their faith in each other. Embrace their curiosity. Question the way things seemed to be. She wasn’t an anti-theist. She didn’t want to argue with people like Ramyya and Jamal. She wanted to understand them. She didn’t want to be militant. She didn’t want to start a fight…

  But Bliss had started this fight.

  “Y-you…”

  “I tell you, stop!” Bliss said. “I know that this is for the best. This is the way things must go. Mine way.”

  “I… I don’t…”

  “Stop! Mine power is irresistible.”

  “I don’t… believe…”

  “You have no hope!”

  “I don’t believe… that!” Sygne cried. “I don’t believe in you!”

  ***

  Victory’s finger chose to leap straight ahead. It held its sword so that it could slash horizontally as it fell, creating the widest possible span of deadly force. The tip of its sword was pointed to Jamal’s left, so he rolled that way—toward the direction from where the sword would start, and not where it would end up. The monster’s sword hit the floor in a spray of sparks.

  Jamal scrambled to his feet. If he couldn’t anticipate the finger
’s attacks, then he had to initiate the attacks himself. It was a dangerous strategy, considering the monster’s strength. But Jamal could only dodge and back away for so long—that approach would lead to death as well. At least this way he might earn an extra bit of glory.

  Jamal rushed in at Victory’s finger as it straightened. He sidestepped an upward slash. His own sword flashed downward and landed with a rattle of chainmail and a fresh spray of weaponized debris. Jamal lunged at the altar with his left hand, swiping up two candles and sending them flying at the monster’s head. The monster flinched, and Jamal struck him again with his sword. He laughed—and caught a mouthful of metal flakes.

  “Ugh!” He spat out monstrous dander and returned to fighting with his mouth clamped shut.

  ***

  “I don’t believe in you!”

  “I would see this fight!” Victory boomed without looking their way. “I will punish mortal and immortal alike if mine attention is diverted.”

  Bliss scowled. Her hold broke, and Sygne was free!

  She shouted, “Bliss is unclean!” The words just came out—and this time the phrasing worked. Somewhere across the temple, Jamal’s sword clanged again and again as it connected with Victory’s finger. It was an excellent show, fit for a god. But Victory’s awful gaze was leveled squarely on Sygne.

  “I demand,” the war goddess said, “repeat yourself,”

  “She is unclean,” Sygne tried to keep her voice steady. “She’s drawing flies.”

  “Outrage!” Bliss cried, and a fresh boil of feverish nausea passed through Sygne. She staggered backward as Bliss demanded, “Vermin! Take back your lies.”

  “No… Then not you.” Sygne managed to burble this without puking. “Your sword.” She pointed tremulously at Heart-Piercer.

  “Again, I say lie!” Bliss held her blade at eye level. “A fly is even lower than a mortal. Even stupider. Mine blade exists beyond its comprehension.”

  “You’re right,” Sygne said. “I don’t believe the flies are attracted to the sword itself. They sense something beneath our perception. I can show you, if you’ll give me a chance.”

  ***

  “Halt!”

  The command echoed through the vaulted space of the temple. Jamal was caught mid-thrust, intending to strike Victory’s finger through the eye slit in its helmet. Instead he missed his mark, and his black blade knocked loose another dusting of metal fragments. The metal fell to the floor; it didn’t swarm to attack him. The one-armed, one-legged monster stood stock-still—like a hideous statue.

  “Hey. What is this?” Jamal asked. “Just when I was winning…”

  He lowered his sword, and the change in position brought a jabbing pain in his abdomen. He glanced down to see that the monster’s sword was frozen in place with its tip pressed against his midsection. A few more inches of forward progress and the sword would have slid through Jamal’s intestines and pierced his kidney.

  “Fine, then.” Jamal stepped back, eying his frozen opponent warily. “We’ll call it a draw.”

  Sygne jogged toward him. “Victory said she will hear me out. I think I can prove that we weren’t the ones who killed Yur.” She threw her arms around Jamal’s neck. “Did you get any blood on your sword?”

  Jamal pointed to his forearm, which was dripping from a few deep scratches. “Maybe a little of my own blood.”

  “Oh. That might be a good thing. Your sword can be the control.”

  “Sygne, what in the Seven Obscurities of Hell are you talking about?”

  11 – The Trial

  They planted the three swords into the stone curb at the front of the temple’s main entrance. Heart-Piercer. Jamal’s borrowed sword (with a few drops of Jamal’s blood applied to it), and Victory’s sacred sword, Weeping Wind. Victory affirmed that it had been five days since her sword had been tainted with mortal blood, and since then she had scoured it in the proper manner. Bliss’ shifting face wrenched significantly at this bit of news, and Sygne had to hide a grin. It was a part of her hypothesis that Bliss didn’t know the most astringent methods to clean a sword, and that was why there were still minuscule remnants of Yur’s blood on her blade. That residue was not visible to a mortal’s—or a god’s—eye. In this case, the scavenger-insects knew better.

  She hoped.

  Each sword stood—blades naked—just inches from the scabbed gutter. Flies buzzed merrily over the rust-brown filth. A long minute passed, and Sygne worried that her experiment was flawed. The flies had more than enough gore to eat and breed in. They didn’t need a few tiny morsels from a tainted sword. But Victory stood, patiently watching, as Bliss complained. The goddess of passion was still as demanding as ever, but her tone had turned strident—almost desperate. All the while Victory kept a strangely thoughtful look on her face. Again and again she told Bliss to be quiet.

  One fly whizzed blindly toward Victory’s sword. It hit the sword edge-on, and it was split into two halves, corkscrewing lifelessly to the ground. The tiny bifurcation happened so quickly that Sygne thought she had imagined it. But Jamal sucked in his breath, and she knew he had seen it too. Bliss’ words rang in her memory. “A fly is even lower than a mortal. Even stupider. Mine blade exists beyond its comprehension.” She supposed the same applied to Victory’s blade.

  Another minute passed. They were running out of time. How long until the war goddess gave up on Sygne’s test and decided to use Weeping Wind to start cutting through humans?

  Sygne’s brain was buzzing like a fruit fly under glass, flitting around, searching for any opportunity that might prolong her increasingly shortened existence.

  She touched her hip. The Dweller’s quill! How had she forgotten it? How had the goddesses not sensed it? Sygne had felt the Dweller’s power herself. The needle might be strong enough to wound the goddesses. Or at least frighten them away.

  The goddesses had stepped away from their swords. If she was quick enough with the needle… If she could slip it out from under her long robe… If she could stab Victory...

  Sygne’s ‘needle’ plan was less and less plausible, the more she thought it through.

  Finally two flies lighted on Jamal’s sword. A third circled Heart-Piercer.

  “Come on. Come on.”

  A fourth insect rose from the street and landed on Bliss’ short sword. Sygne carefully circled around so that she could see the insect more clearly. She was so focused she barely noticed the squish of bodily fluids as she stepped into the street. Another fly landed on the silver blade. Sygne could see it rubbing its forelimbs together, like a glutton anticipating a delicious meal.

  Victory growled to Bliss, “I accuse. You killed Yur.”

  “I, I…”

  Victory swung her clawed gauntlet, cutting off Bliss’ words in mid-air. “I heard you say it: Heart-Piercer is immaculate. A fly couldn’t find the blade, unless the filth of a mortal had tainted it.”

  Jamal rubbed his swollen forearms. “We’re not all filthy.”

  Victory and Bliss were too engaged with each other to notice. Victory said, “Mine suspicions were correct all along. You were too vain to let Yur live. To do his job.”

  “Vain?”

  “Yes. I say you did not want us to conquer the Djungans.”

  “The Djungans?” Bliss planted her fists on her hips. “I laugh. They are vermin who worship goat droppings. And yet mine amazement grows when I hear that our servant Yur plans to annex their territory after Krit. I ask: would you welcome such filth into our Empire? Am I the only deity in all of Issulthraq who has proper regard for the exclusivity of our realm?”

  Victory scoffed. “Do you imply that you killed Yur for the good of our realm? A blatant lie. You thought only of yourself.”

  Jamal asked, “What’s happening?”

  Sygne said, “Remember when we talked about Bliss melding into other love goddesses? I think she is sick of it.”

  Bliss’ voice rose to a shriek. “I see that yo
u care for nothing but Victory! Mine concern is that we trample through these low-people, and they drag us down into the mire with them. I have replaced a Kritan idol with four breasts. How long until I grow two extra teats? I am a goddess of passion—not a heifer in the fields!”

  “I remind you: Krit is essential to our plans. And I count tens of thousands of mortals who call Krit home—who worshipped Ulthal,” Victory said. “That is tens of thousands of hearts and minds, now pouring their faith into you.”

  “I am not that thirsty. I don’t need to drink swill.”

  Sygne elbowed Jamal. “See? That’s the motive.”

  Jamal suggested, “We should run while they’re distracted.”

  But Sygne stayed where she was. She wondered if any other mortal had ever heard two deities speak so candidly about their ambitions and intrigues. She wanted to absorb as much as she could, so that she could analyze it later.

  Bliss pressed on with her complaints. “I ask, how far will we march into the borderlands? The farther we go, the more brutish the people become. Fortunate for you. You’re a war deity. No one cares if you grow feathers or add a few new appendages.”

  “I will spur our armies farther, Bliss. I will not stop here, simply to appease your vanity. I say there is too much at stake.”

  “No,” Bliss said. “We do not stop. Mine idea is that we change course to take a proper prize! Albatherra. Gjuir-Khib. Even Prathet-Sin. Or let us sail to take one of the high kingdoms of Ardhia. Or the North Hinterlands.”

  With that, the goddesses turned their attentions to the Ardhian and Northerner in their presence.

  Victory cleared her throat. “I will discuss this with you further, with the full Pantheon.”

  “I welcome the conversation.” Bliss was slightly less agitated than she had been a few moments before. “I ask: What do we do with these two?”

  Sygne said, “We proved our innocence. You promised—”

  Victory tilted her nose to the sky. “I promised nothing.”