by Bill McCurry
“You never know. Maybe you’ll feel lazy some afternoon. Regarding booby traps, I’ll disassemble her down to the screws and gears so you can inspect her.”
“Never mind that. I can see that you’re telling the truth. You’re so transparent. And gullible. I used you like an old rag.”
“You certainly did.”
“Did you name the creature? Probably something pedestrian such as Floppy or Scraps.”
“Not exactly.” Fingit cleared his throat. “I inscribed a hundred lead balls with a different letter on each, put them in a sack, and drew out seven without looking at them. I laid them in a row on the anvil, still not looking, and then I threw them into the forge. No one ever saw what they spelled, so the dog’s name is, well, unknowable.”
Sakaj looked away, but not before Fingit saw her grin. She said, “Does it do any tricks?”
“Only one. Say the name of the being you hate most in all existence.”
Looking back at Fingit and the dog, Sakaj whispered, “Harik.”
Three dozen six-foot-long spikes sprang out of the dog in all directions. It resembled a panting, flop-eared, twelve-foot-diameter hedgehog with spines like needle-tipped razors.
Sakaj raised her eyebrows at Fingit.
“It only works when you say it. Say anything else.”
“Uh…”
The spikes retracted into the dog with a well-machined click. The dog ran to Sakaj with worshipful eyes, and it sniffed her crotch.
Sakaj guided the dog’s nose elsewhere and gave it a couple of hesitant pats on the head. “Let’s go then. Krak’s waiting to laud me.” She and the dog strode away toward the gate.
“You’re welcome,” Fingit said as he followed her.
The Gossamer Forest stretched out full and verdant under the midday sun. That sun hadn’t returned to golden, not even close. But it showered wholesome yellow light onto the Home of the Gods. Forest creatures darted around, no longer foul and warped, except for the squirrels. To Fingit they still appeared foul and warped, but he’d thought squirrels looked that way since squirrels first existed.
Fingit and Sakaj descended into a shallow, emerald glen of heartbreaking serenity. A modest pond lay at its center, as pure and poignant as a tear. Artful foliage dotted the pond’s grass-napped banks. Benches, tables, and divans of marble and rare woods had been placed around the pond in architectural tension. The breeze channeled wafts of lilac and rosemary, brushing the water and caressing the branches of the lone tree in the glen, a noble golden cypress. As Fingit strolled down into this newly created sanctuary, he felt that it might be the most peaceful place in all existence.
“Welcome to the Vale of Righteous Devastation!” Krak bellowed as they reached the pond to stand with the rest of the gods. “We have pierced the Veil. We have freed ourselves. We have reached once more into the world of man.” Krak waved at the pond. “We have wrought this, the Theater of Man, into which we may see to guide and protect man once again.”
Fingit gazed at the pond’s surface. He applied a slight thought about the Nub, and an image appeared, shifting toward the boy but leaving the rest of the pond undisturbed. Now all of the gods could visit the world of man as they wished. He shook himself and looked back at Krak, hoping he hadn’t been caught letting his attention wander.
I'd hate to have the impossibly searing light of the sun shot up my nose for being an inattentive little squid.
Krak was still speaking. “We owe our survival as divine beings, and our deliverance from the greatest peril of all time, to that which I am ashamed to say we have least understood and least appreciated throughout the eons.”
Sakaj took a deep breath.
“Our rightful power and majesty were delivered to us by our will to work together, to toss away our grudges and hurts, and to entrust our lives—our true and eternal lives—to one another.”
Sakaj didn’t move, but Fingit heard the breath being pressed out of her as if she were a frog stepped on by a bull. He glanced around and saw that Harik was scowling at the grass, and Lutigan looked like he’d swallowed a dead skunk.
Krak went on: “It is my wish that we set aside pettiness so that we may become inviolable and indestructible for all time.”
“What about me?” Sakaj said.
“Eh?”
“What about me? I elevated myself hundreds of times to find the Dark Lands, I brought Fingit there to work for us, and I secured the power that brought us victory, which required me to make an awful deal, by the way. And what about Cheg-Cheg’s foot?”
Krak looked down and smiled. “Well, I didn’t want to mention it, but I suppose I did contribute more than most. I provided the fundamental strength required to dismember the Void-beast.”
Sakaj took a step forward and said, “What? I brought us victory. The glory is mine. I should get a tithe on all power passing through these lands.”
Krak laughed. “That’s entertaining! Only I get a portion of all trades. It’s always been that way. I’m… the Father of the Gods. I agree that you contributed like a regular warrior, Sakaj. You served us well. Oh, and Fingit helped too.”
Fingit touched Sakaj’s arm, but she flung off his hand. “I will see this land in flaming wreckage before I let this stand!”
Krak stopped smiling and seemed to grow half again as tall. “This is a time to rejoice. It’s a celebration of our collective victory and our resplendent future.” He rubbed his hands together, and slivers of shocking-white light leaked out from his palms. “I would hate to tarnish the mood by burning off someone’s tender parts.”
Sakaj trembled, and Fingit stepped away so that his tender parts didn’t get vaporized in error. Then she exhaled, looked down, and stepped back.
“Good!” Krak said. “I think everything’s been said, so let us revel! Bring the ambrosia!”
Demigods and demigoddesses hurried into the glen bearing pitchers, platters, bowls, and pipes. Fingit didn’t partake much, but not because he felt cheated. He didn’t really want glory, anyway. He wanted a well-stocked workshop, plenty of power, and everyone else to leave him alone until he needed guinea pigs. In fact, he had a new idea. He’d given up on chariots, but perhaps a flying war elephant powered by the impossibly searing light of the sun… he’d need to make some calculations.
The party wallowed its way deep into the evening darkness, with every indication it would continue for several days. Fingit shuffled away while Weldt was telling a joke about four water spirits and a sea serpent. Halfway to the Gossamer Forest, he heard the dog barking behind him, so he stopped and waited for Sakaj to catch up.
Her hair, black as night and soft as sleep, trapped specks of moonlight so that her head appeared to be covered in stars. Her face was shadowed and still. She stood straight and relaxed. She didn’t speak, but she did scratch the dog’s ear.
At last, Fingit said, “Well, that was a kick-in-the-groin, huh?”
Sakaj nodded.
“I guess you’ve got a lot of work to do, since you owe the Nub power every day.”
She nodded again.
“Whatever it is you want, I’m not helping you. Take your dog and go home.”
“Thank you for my dog.” Fingit heard the smile in her voice. “She’s beautiful.”
“Stop that. Don’t be nice. It doesn’t suit you.”
Sakaj knelt and put her arms around the dog’s neck. The animal panted, wagged its tail, and wiggled in happiness. “You know, we’re the only two beings in existence who have ever elevated Krak. You’ve elevated him more than once.”
Fingit halted with a stomp. “No! No talk about elevating Krak! I’ll remind you that he now knows how to destroy insolent gods forever.”
“I’m not saying we should really kill him permanently! It’s just… interesting that it can be done. Of course, you were only able to elevate old, degenerate, insane Krak. Elevating mighty Krak is probably impossible. Killing him must be impossible beyond doubt.”
“Well… probably. I guess nothing
’s totally impossible. But shut up about it!”
“Right! Silly of me. Just as an intellectual exercise, what would it take?”
Fingit laughed. “You can’t stop, can you? Do you think I’m stupid? You can’t use me anymore.”
Sakaj stood and sighed. “I guess you’re right. You must already have lots of fascinating problems to solve. I’m sorry. I’ll fetch you a drink to apologize.”
“Fine. Just one. A small one.”
Sakaj took Fingit’s hand in one of hers, and she petted her dog with the other. Then she led them both through the trees toward the Sun Soul Pavilion.
Fingit chuckled. I can’t believe she’d try to fool me again. She must think I’m an idiot. She’s the one who’s transparent now. I’m glad she likes the dog, though.
Damn, it is an interesting problem. What would it take to really kill Krak?
Have you read Death’s Collector?
Cursed to take lives for the God of Death. Sorcerers must give up things and people they love, or accept things they despise, to gain magical power. The sorcerer Bib saves his daughter by accepting a curse to murder people, and only Death knows how many Bib must kill. He tries to slay only evil people, but soon finds he’s also killing people who are merely bad, or who might someday become bad. Bib chases a brutal sorcerer to help a woman rescue her boy, mainly because he expects a lot of killing. But he doesn’t expect to unearth obscure magic, enslave spiteful supernatural beings, and strike ghastly bargains with the childish gods. And the last thing he expects is to face the question—is he a good man cursed to crave murder, or has he always been a murderer at heart?
* * *
Read the Death-Cursed Wizard Book 1 now:
https://tinyurl.com/y36t2ryt
About the Author
Bill McCurry holds a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology and a Master of Arts in Sociology from the University of Texas at Arlington. He is one of seven people known to have secured a non-academic job using a sociology degree. Bill’s short story “The Santa Fix” was published by Open Heart Publishing’s anthology An Honest Lie: Volume 3. He has performed and taught improv and interactive theater for over twenty years. During his career, Bill has owned a small construction company, run market research projects, managed customer service groups, and developed computer systems as a contractor for the National Cancer Institute. He is currently writing his seventh novel, Death’s Least Favorite Toy. Bill grew up in Fort Worth, Texas, and now lives in Carrollton, Texas, with his wife, Kathleen, an independent court reporter who is so keenly determined that she would always be able to kill him if it came to a knife fight.
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