Mad God's Muse

by Matthew P Gilbert

  Time passed, how much, Aiul could not say. From time to time, a slave came and administered medicine or ran a cool, wet cloth over his fevered body. Confused as he was, Aiul was certain he hated the slave. He was a cruel-faced man, with a dark, pointed beard and hard, smoldering eyes, and he had about him a fearful air of purpose. Worse, he was ghostly, appearing from nowhere in the darkness to loom above Aiul like some hungry spirit, an angel of death who, for the nonce, chose to spare Aiul from the abyss. There would be a high price later for such mercy, Aiul was certain.

  “Leave me,” he whispered at the spirit slave, and struggled vainly to push the cool cloth away, but the creature was strong, irresistible. “Let me burn, damn you.”

  “Rest,” the slave admonished, as it ministered to him.

  “Too much pain,” Aiul moaned. “Let me go to her. Please, let me go.”

  “It is not my decision,” the spirit told him. “It was yours, and you have made it. Now rest.”

  Aiul sank into the darkness again, defeated, and dreamed a pleasant dream of Nihlos burning.

  “Slave!” Aiul shouted. “Come at once!”

  He had no idea where he was, nor how he had come there. But there had been a slave, he was certain of it, and he would have an explanation soon enough.

  He had wakened only moments before to bright sunlight streaming in from the room’s single window. For that small moment, in the confusing semi-amnesia of half sleep, he had drawn a few, precious breaths of pure joy, untainted by the bitter taste of failure, loss, and pain. How long had it been since he had seen the sun, or tasted air not steaming with the scent of filth and decay? How long since the damnable agony of his tooth had been silent?

  But as he had come to accept, happiness was, for him, something to be stolen, never owned. All too soon, the memories returned, and he was once more what he had become over the last months, a damned thing kept alive merely as a source of amusement.

  As he waited for the slave, he struggled to make sense of things, desperate to find a sense of continuity, to fill the missing time. And yet, it wasn‘t missing, not precisely. There were hazy, indistinct memories of blood and screaming, warm and pleasant rather than fearful. They were not quite his own, he knew, but somehow, he had been there, was allowed to share them. And there was a brief glimpse of a concept beyond his ability to grasp, a hatred so intense that his mind could not appreciate its full expanse. Like a cube drawn on a sheet of paper, it was reduced in his mind to a mere projection of its true nature, and even that was enough to overwhelm him if he focused on it. With some difficulty, he pushed the image aside and tried to concentrate on his location. He needed concrete facts, not the conjurations of a fevered brain.

  “Slave!” he shouted again, annoyed now. “Damn you, answer!”

  His sick bed was a sturdy, roughhewn construct that filled most of the small room it occupied. The room was part of a larger building that was, apparently, made from whole logs. The technique was unusual to him, but certainly it seemed to hold the heat well enough. Assuming, he considered, that the seasons had not changed during his madness.

  He was naked, save for a pendant on a silver chain that hung about his neck. It was unremarkable, a simple marble of amber, and meant nothing to him. Likely, he thought, it was some primitive charm meant to help the healing process. Or, just perhaps, it was a true charm. His recent experiences had been bizarre enough that he could believe he was in the hands of a sorcerer, and difficult enough that he decided not to risk removing it just yet.

  He had just begun to look about for something to clothe himself, when the slave at last bothered to answer his call.

  “So you’ve come through it,” the man observed, a wry smile on his lips. As the newcomer leaned casually against the door frame, a bundle of cloth in his arms, his eyes seeming simultaneously cold and amused, Aiul suppressed a shudder at the sight of him, memories of nightmares still fresh enough to surround the slave with an air of malevolence. He was, in waking sight, an ordinary enough man. Aiul guessed they were about the same height, six feet three inches, but the slave was bulkier, hairier, and a shade darker than Aiul considered normal.

  “How long must I call before you attend me?” Aiul growled, glaring at the slave.

  The man stared blankly at him a moment. “No slaves here.”

  Aiul was annoyed by the man’s disrespectful tone, and embarrassed to think he might have taken a high tone with his actual benefactor. “I meant no offense,” he said, nodding. “I assumed…” He trailed off and stared at the hardwood floor.

  “Logrus,” the newcomer told him.

  Aiul looked at him again, confused. “What is a ‘logrus’?”

  “Me.”

  “Ah.” It seemed to be a day for humiliation and poor assumption. “I am Aiul.”

  Logrus tossed him the bundle. “Clothes. Food’s in the kitchen. You’ll need it.” He turned to leave.

  “Talkative,” Aiul observed, but Logrus kept walking without response. With a sigh, Aiul examined the bundle of clothes, finding a woolen, hooded robe, along with leather pants, shirt, and boots. All of the garments were well made, better than Aiul would have expected, and all were black, hardly Aiul’s favorite color, but it was preferable to being naked.

  Once he had managed to stand and walk without losing his balance or consciousness, the difficult part of the journey to the kitchen was over. From there, it was a simple matter of hobbling toward the sounds of cooking and the heavenly aroma of frying meat. He had thought himself slightly sick to his stomach, but the smell awoke within him a ravenous hunger.

  The kitchen, like the bedroom, was small but warm. Logrus was here, eying him with the same curious stare, and tending a feast of bacon and eggs on an iron stove that seemed to fill the tiny room. He tossed a plate toward Aiul as he staggered in. Aiul’s reaction, slow and half hearted, was not sufficient. The plate sailed past him and shattered against the wall.

  “Reflexes a bit slow still,” Logrus noted with a shrug.

  Aiul was not amused. Silently, he took a seat at the small table, and lay his head on his arms. Between the vertigo, the weakness, and the hunger, it was difficult not to moan, but he had been embarrassed enough this morning, and, through sheer will, managed to remain quiet.

  “It’s like a hangover,” Logrus explained, as he turned the eggs. “Assuming you survive to this point, anyway. Many don’t.”

  “What are you nattering about?” Aiul mumbled into his arms.

  “Later,” Logrus told him. “After you eat.” Aiul waited, unmoving, feeling as if he might vomit, until at last he heard the thud of a heavy plate being laid before him. The smell of the food, as close as it was, drove back the vertigo and nausea, and within moments, he was gobbling the meal with his bare hands.

  Logrus belatedly tossed a fork to him, and Aiul was clear headed enough to catch it this time.

  Logrus slid a pitcher of water across the table. “Drink,” he said. “It will help the weakness.”

  Aiul nodded, and drank deeply from the pitcher. “Where did you learn your knowledge of medicine?” he asked. “You have done a fine job with me. I should know. I am a physician myself. Are you the local healer?”

  Logrus’s eyes showed little, though Aiul thought he could see confusion deep within them. “Skill at healing comes from understanding the inner workings of the body. There is more than one reason to know such things.”

  Aiul shrugged, not really certain what Logrus was getting at, but unwilling to pursue the sinister implication. “I suppose,” he said. “Explain to me how I have come here.”

  Logrus nodded, his brow furrowing in thought for a brief moment. “What do you remember?” he asked.

  “Prison. A voice, terrible, horrific. And a dream.”

  “You spoke to someone in the dream, yes?”

  Aiul stared at the table in discomfort. He knew little of the man that sat before him, and what he did know gave him pause. There was a strange air about Logrus, one that Aiul found diffi
cult to examine directly. Like a dim star, it seemed to vanish when he focused upon it, only revealing itself peripherally, at the edges of his thoughts. It was nothing visible or tangible, and yet Aiul had the distinct sense that there was something draped over the man, like a cloak or a shroud, something that smelled of grave dirt and rotting corpses, tasted sour and metallic, and radiated a cold that was felt not by flesh, but by soul. How am I to share my nightmares with someone who seems to wear them like clothing?

  “Yes,” Aiul said at last. “I dreamed of the Dead God.”

  Logrus nodded, as if he were simply going over established facts. “And you spoke with him, yes? Made a bargain?”

  “A bargain?” Aiul allowed himself a bitter laugh at the memory. “No, no bargain. He merely expounded on just how little my life was truly worth. He…” Aiul paused briefly, as his voice began to tremble, and cleared his throat. “He pointed out how total defeat was not necessarily a position of impotence. And I agreed.”

  Logrus scowled, obviously confused. He placed his elbows squarely on the table and steepled his fingers against his forehead as he considered. “Then you are of the other order,” he said slowly, as if he were trying to convince himself of something he did not fully believe.

  “All that from a dream, eh?” Aiul sneered. “I am not a member of any ‘order’. You’re mistaken.”

  “It was no dream,” Logrus said. “It was a vision, a true one. Don’t be foolish. How do you imagine you are free from your prison? Why do you think I came for you?”

  “I don’t know,” Aiul answered, sullen. “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  Logrus nodded. “Elgar wore your flesh and left a path of destruction and flame through the heart of your city when he liberated you. Now you are one of his knights. Like me.”

  “Preposterous,” Aiul declared, though with less conviction than he would have preferred.

  “Logic is not your strong suit, it would seem,” Logrus said.

  Aiul felt anger rising within him at Logrus’s barb. He struggled to master himself, but still, his words were coated in acid as he said, “I will not be insulted by you! I am House Amrath! I am well familiar with logic!”

  Logrus cocked his head and regarded Aiul with bewildered eyes. “Why would I insult you? What purpose would it serve? I need your cooperation.”

  As quickly as the anger had come, it passed, and Aiul found himself clearheaded once again. “Of course,” he answered. “I’m sorry, I don’t feel quite myself.”

  “It is to be expected,” Logrus said. “But this is difficult. I do not know how to proceed. The situation is irregular. I have never heard of a mentor from one order guiding a newcomer of the other.”

  “I told you, I am not a member of any order,” Aiul shot back, irritation rising in him once again.

  “Not an order of choice. An order of kind,” Logrus told him. He leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, he rose to his feet and said, “I must seek guidance.”

  “You’re leaving?” Aiul asked. He found Logrus’s presence disconcerting, but the idea of being left alone in a foreign land was even more troublesome.

  “Yes,” Logrus replied. He lifted his robe from the table and slipped into it.

  “What about me?” Aiul asked.

  “Stay,” Logrus told him.

  “I am not a dog to be commanded!” Aiul shouted.

  Again, Logrus looked at him with a slightly confused, yet icy stare. “So much energy wasted on unnecessary things,” he observed. “You must stay here. It will be another day or two before you are fit for travel, and I will be back by then.”

  Aiul glared at Logrus, but said nothing. How many times had he been on the other end of the conversation, explaining to an obstinate patient that he was not yet mended, only to be ignored. There was little use in being angry about simple truth, and yet, Aiul found, there was great satisfaction in it.

  “There is food and drink aplenty,” Logrus said as he gathered several things from drawers and dropped them into a bag. “Stay inside. The neighbors are…” He seemed to be searching for the appropriate term, and at last came up with “Troublesome.”

  “Will they attack me?” Aiul asked, alarmed now. He had not thought to look outside to see what sort of town they were in.

  “No,” Logrus told him. “They’re terrified of us.” He opened the door and stepped out. Then, as an afterthought, he peeked his head back inside and added, “But if they do bother you, kill some of them. They are stupid, but they are cowards.” And then he was gone.

  Aiul awoke to an insistent banging on the door. His first instinct was to dismiss it and continue sleeping, but Logrus’s warning of troublesome neighbors was still fresh in his mind. It seemed wiser not to ignore such people. Surely, that would only excite them further.

  It was dark, and as he made his way, the banging outside growing more intense, he cracked his shin painfully on a low lying table, and again on what he thought might be a crate. He cursed himself for not having had the presence of mind to leave a candle burning, but he had planned on sleeping through the night.

  In the kitchen, he armed himself with the most wicked-looking knife he could find, then carefully felt his way toward the front room. He could hear voices now, beneath the banging. Perhaps, he thought, it was better that he had no light. It would certainly warn of his approach, and surprise might be preferable, here. He moved to the window and lifted the curtain just enough to peek out, uncertain of what to expect.

  Two figures, dressed in black robes similar to the one Logrus had given him, stood on the wooden porch outside the door . One held his torch high, as the other slammed his fist against the door. At some other time, they might have been comical, but here in the flickering torch light, their features twisted with the telltale signs of inbreeding and malnutrition, their eyes lit with unknown, sinister purpose, there was nothing humorous about them.

  “What is it you want?” Aiul shouted.

  “We seek the Dark Lord!” one replied.

  “He’s gone!”

  “Liar! The Dead God himself says the Dark Lord is here! Open the door and lead us to him, or you will suffer and die!”

  Again, the jagged thing twisted in Aiul’s mind, rage surging through his heart and veins like a drug. Never again would anyone command him, or threaten him! Ever!

  Aiul did not plan what he did, he simply acted. He jerked the door open. Banger and Torch-Holder stood frozen in place, Banger’s arm halfway to hammering against Aiul’s chest, blinking in awkward shock and confusion. Aiul seized Banger’s outstretched arm, snatched him forward, and brought the knife up and across his neck. Banger went to his knees with a gurgling, muffled cry, blood spraying from his wound to cover all three men. Aiul kicked him in the chest and sent him tumbling over the edge of the porch.

  “What say you now, dog?” Aiul hissed at Torch, brandishing the blade at him, willing, wanting even, to use it again.

  To Aiul’s surprise, the remaining man seemed unmoved by his companion’s demise. If anything, he seemed more resolute.

  “I serve the Dead God,” he said. “I do not fear your blade.”

  “Shall I kill you, too, then? Or will you leave me to my rest?”

  “I am sent to fetch you, Lord. Elgar commands it, and I obey.”

  “Bah!” Aiul sneered and wiped his blade on Torch’s robe. “Before, you said you were here to fetch some Dark Lord, and now you’re here for me? Can’t you even get your story straight?”

  Torch nodded toward his companion, who was still busy dying, and said, “You are the Dark Lord, surely. Elgar speaks to us of a tall, white-haired slayer from the city of demon men.” He licked his lips, a look of uncertainty briefly crossing his features, then vanishing as he seemed to push aside some nagging doubt. “You are he, Lord! There can be no doubt! Is this a test?”

  Aiul stared at the blood on his hands, his distress growing as his anger faded. He could not explain his actions, but he knew that he h
ad quite willfully killed a man for nothing more than his tone.

  “These hands once healed,” he murmured, ignoring Torch’s question. “Now I am a murderer.”

  “The Dead God's works are wondrous to behold,” the other man noted, his face beaming with fervor.

  “Fool!” Aiul shouted at him. “Villain! Can you not see the evil in this?”

  “Aye,” Torch whispered, nodding reverently. “It is beautiful, Lord!”

  Aiul stood gaping, unable to decide if the man was serious, or if he were mocking him. Either way, it was a disgusting display. He struggled against the urge to kill Torch as well.

  “Leave here,” Aiul told him, and began to close the door, but Torch stepped forward and grabbed his arm.

  “Dark Lord, you must come with me!” he pleaded. “The Dead God commands it!”

  Aiul looked at the man’s flat, alien features, considering. He seemed sincere, but it was all so insane. Still, he had to concede Logrus and these people’s versions of reality fit the facts, whereas his own did not. Perhaps, if nothing else, he would find some answers.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll come.” Wait. Did he say ‘white hair’? The thought was appalling! “In my own time. Wait here.” He pushed Torch away from the door and slammed it in his face.

  He needed a moment to have a look in the mirror before he left.

  Aiul followed Torch through the tent city, wary of the throngs of Elgar's minions. He ran his fingers through his now bone-white hair, idly noting it didn't feel any different. I've been branded, marked like cattle, though to what end I have no idea.

  Hundreds of the cultists, perhaps thousands, meandered about, young and old, men and women, all dressed in the same dirty, black robes. Some talked or ate, ignoring the Nihlosian, but most turned and stared at him with sinister elation, their eyes lit with zealous fervor.