“The Black God, Dakar,” Quinn hissed.
Tane watched in a mixture of horror and fascination as the blackness continued to expand and coalesce into a huge, grotesque shape. Never had he seen any creature so tall, or so terribly evil looking. There was no doubt in his mind that the ancient God of his forefathers had arrived.
“That’s one bug ugly bastard,” Quinn whispered.
“Rise and attend me,” Dakar said.
As Nizar and the zombies rose up around him, Dakar looked over the captives with a satisfied smile. A tremble started in Tane’s belly at the sight of those terrible burning eyes upon himself and his friends, a tremble that quickly spread throughout his body. He tried to tell himself that is was just the cold, but there was no comfort in the lie.
“Divine Master,” Nizar said, stepping before his God and lifting up Tane’s sword. “The swordsmith’s own sword. I detect no magic.”
“There is none,” Dakar said, taking the blade and examining it closely. “A well-made blade, no doubt, but not a threat to Me, or a weapon I can use against the Arisen.”
He tossed it away. Tane noted that Raven casually picked it up. Then the priest caught his attention again, handing over another sword. Raven’s enchanted sword.
“Ashtar’s harlot carried this sword, Divine Master,” Nizar said. “It is enchanted. And a powerful enchantment, too. Perhaps we can find some use for it.”
“Yes. A powerful spell, as human magic goes. It is almost as powerful as a Sword of Power, but is no real threat to a God,” Dakar said, more intent in His examination of Tasheba than of Bearclaw. Tane found himself a bit miffed by the unintentional slight.
“You have done well, Nizar,” Dakar said, handing Tasheba back to Nizar as a trophy. “Now my victory over the Arisen is guaranteed. With the swordsmith, I now have the means to totally destroy Them.”
Tane was horrified. Dakar would use him to “totally destroy” the Arisen Gods? How would He do that?
“I’ll not help you, monster!” Tane said.
Dakar’s eyes, if possible, turned even more sinister and vicious. He bared a mouth full of wicked looking teeth, fangs really, that killed any remaining bravado in Tane’s heart.
“You’ll do what you’re told to do, mortal,” He said, pointing a long, thick, black-furred finger at Tane.
White-hot pain lanced through Tane’s body. Every fiber of his existence, both corporal and spiritual, was afire in a pain that he had never guessed possible. It was a pain and horror beyond what he believed awaited the damned in the Seven Firepits of Tyrus.
Chapter 55
“I...will...not...submit!” Tane croaked out.
“You will have no choice, mortal,” Dakar said, smiling grimly as Tane writhed in anguish before him.
Ending the magical torture, He waited for Tane to regain control of his body and emotions, and turn baleful eyes back to Him.
Dakar smiled, saying, “You are strong, stronger than you know. But now that strength, and God-given Gift, are Mine to wield. Mine to exploit. Tane Kyleson, you belong to Me, despite what you might think, for I know your weaknesses as well as your strengths and talents.”
Turning to regard Tane’s companions, Dakar’s thoughts clouded. Save for the half-elf, they were all direct descendants of the Arisen Gods. The two Vikon were descended of Maag, with the witch’s blood being remarkably pure. He noted the male had some Leltic blood, making his blood less potent for Tane’s use in making the Swords of Power. But the witch’s blood was pure enough for making Swords.
A faint glimmer deep within Joelle caught his eye, so to speak. It was a glimmer of magic, of two separate spells. One was a healing spell, and the other a spell of hoarding life energies. He recognized her Gift of Healing immediately. Unconsciously, she was beginning to heal her various wounds even as she siphon off a tiny bit of her life energies and stored them for later use. But it would do her no good, for she was His slave and was intellectually incapable to wielding magic of any form against her divine master. And her self-healing spell would only save Him the need to heal her Himself.
Unlike the others, the Tyrian, the cursed Ashtarite, had blood so pure it hurt Him to look upon her. He was unable to hold back the growl that escaped his throat at the sight of Raven, at the mere thought of her. It was Ashtar and Her twin brother, Bandu, God of War and Soldiers, that led the attack that forced Him back into His Realm and held Him trapped until a pair of Kamain’s dwarven priest-smiths sealed Him in for what They thought was forever.
Now They knew different.
Raven looked, acted, and smelled so much like Ashtar that Dakar had an almost unstoppable need to rip out her throat and feel her blood on His hands. There was power, enormous power, in her blood and her soul. The thought of her fate – to die upon His blood-stained altar – brought a smile to Dakar’s hideous face. Souls were the food of the Old Ones, and her soul was a banquet to be devoured with relish, every morsel savored. She would bring five times the enjoyment, and twice the nourishment, as the other four combined.
Soon, my beauty, soon you will be mine, He thought, a cold glint claiming his eyes. You will never go to your Goddess, for I will devour your soul. You will cease to exist in all ways, but I will grow more powerful and better able to fight your Goddess and Her fellow Arisen. Then studying her blank eyes, he thought, But I would give up half my Realm to have Ashtar in your place, to make Her, or any of the Arisen, my absolute slave. Oh, how I would make Them pay!
Turning to the half-elf, he frowned. The ancient elves were never His most ardent supporters. They were obedient, even dependable, but never truly “worshipped” Him. They didn’t trust Him. Their souls were pledged to the Sweet Mother, and were destined for reincarnation over and over again, until they reached perfection and rejoined their Creator in eternity. They considered themselves above and outside of the Old Ones’ food chain.
Elves lived for their Goddess, their Sweet Mother. Out of fear of the Sweet Mother, who never bothered Them, or the Arisen for that matter, the Old Ones never tried to crush the elves belief and worship of that all powerful being. Instead, They forced the elves, and dwarves, too, to build temples and perform services for Them. In addition, They never devoured the souls of any elf that didn’t give themselves to Them in no uncertain terms. Few elves did.
The ogres and centaurs had been different. Those two warlike races had little regard for the peace-loving Sweet Mother, or the Dwarves’ stern, All-Father, which the Old Ones understood to be one and the same, though when They tried to explain that to the elves and dwarves it only horrified them to hear such blasphemy. The ogres and centaurs reveled in the bloody rites demanded of the Old Ones. They gleefully waged war, sacrificing the prisoners afterwards, for the glory of themselves and their blood-thirsty Gods. If only they had managed to survive, He would have been able to conquer the world again without using such lowly, frail creatures as humans.
Enough! thought Dakar. The ogres and centaurs are gone, destroyed by the Arisens. For that, too, They will pay.
Noticing that Tane was glaring murderously at Him, Dakar smiled grimly back. The smile had the desired effect, shaking the human to his core of being. Fear drowned the fire of his hatred like a bucket of cold water on a forge fire.
“Raven, come to me,” Dakar commanded. As she started toward Him, he turned to Tane. The swordsmith’s eyes were huge in their fear. “Mortals are easy to understand. Many would sacrifice themselves for the greater good, and would rather die than serve their enemies. But almost all will do anything to save their loved ones.”
“What are you going to do?” Tane asked, struggling desperately with his bonds.
As soon as Raven was within reach, Dakar seized her by the neck. He didn’t want her any closer than that. Her Arisen blood, though diluted with human blood, reeked in His supernaturally keen nostrils. The touch of her bare skin upon His hand burned, reminding Him that there still was a force out there capable of harming Him. His grip tightened until her breathin
g became labored and loud.
“NO!” Quinn and Tane cried, faces beat red in their rage and struggles.
“To forge Swords of Power you must have the blood of Gods. Her blood is the purest, so the most dangerous to Myself,” He said, tightening His grip even more. Raven’s face was now as red as Tane’s, though she didn’t struggle at all. “The Arisen gave you these traveling companions to provide that blood, deluded as it is. So now I’ll take them away, making it impossible for you to threaten me.”
Dakar tightened His hand some more. As His hand tightened more and more, He listened eagerly, breathlessly, to her harsh breathing. Strangulation was His favorite manner of execution, for the victim’s terror and horror added spice to the soul.
That thought stopped Him. Raven was a magically induced slave. She felt nothing, save discomfort, at being strangled to death. He had stripped her of emotion, of independent thought. But...he could return her to normal, just long enough to know the pain and anguish of her fate.
“I’ll do anything you ask!” Tane shouted. “Anything! Just don’t kill Raven!”
Dakar hesitated. If he killed Raven, would the witch’s blood be adequate for making Swords of Power? Yes, but they would be very weak blades. Tane would need both Raven and Joelle to do that, for the combination of their bloods, from two different Goddesses, with very different powers, would barely be enough for the job. He would be safe, for the time being. The Arisen would be sure to send others, but they were less likely to succeed with each passing day.
Loosening his grip just enough to allow Raven to breathe, barely, He regarded Tane. The swordsmith wasn’t good at hiding his feelings. He would do anything for his friend’s life. But was he strong enough to withstand a God’s will even after all his friends were killed? Was there any amount of torture and torment that would make that man willingly serve Him?
“If I spare your friends’ lives, then you will make Swords of Power for Me,” Dakar said. “Otherwise, I will kill them all right here, and you too. And none of you will know peace in death, for I will eat your souls.”
Tane visibly trembled. He could see sweat beading on the human’s upper lip and forehead, despite the numbing cold. Humans, more than any other race, feared for their souls more than their lives. The promise, or at least the chance, of a better life after death was all that kept many humans going in their dreadful little lives. It was the Arisens’ promise of a blissful afterlife that won over the humans so long ago, and ultimately doomed Dakar and the other Old Ones.
Bitterly, dejectedly, Tane said, “Spare my friends, and I will make your Swords of Power.”
“Good decision,” Dakar said, releasing Raven. Then turning to Nizar, He said, “Enslave the other two, and set them all to guard him while he makes the Swords.”
Nizar quickly jumped to obey, and soon Quinn and Armin wore the same blank expressions as the other zombies.
Turning to Tane, Dakar said, “My power is absolute, as you see, and will continue to see in the future. Your friends are now your jailers. They are totally loyal to Me. You will find that nothing you say or do will change that.”
“But what sort of life is that? Being mindless zombies is just another form of oblivion,” Tane said. “Maybe they would’ve been better off dead.”
“They will only be ‘zombies’ until my inevitable victory is complete,” He said. “Once the Arisen are defeated, and the world is securely under my rule, then all zombies will be freed. This world is useless to me without free-minded mortals to nourish Me by performing My holy rites and worshipping Me. So, serve Me well, and all of you will be free someday soon.”
“Very well,” Tane said, taking a deep, steadying breath, “I will serve you, Old One.”
Chapter 56
The snow-blanketed village was smaller and more primitive than Tane’s home village. It looked more like his mother’s home village, with its cluster of two dozen dome-shaped thatch huts surrounded by log palisades. There was only one gate into the village, now permanently opened after priestly magic smashed it to kindling. A large inn with its own walled yard sat across the road from the gate. There were few cleared fields to be seen, with the forest huddled close to the village and inn walls. Since it was the main trade road between Kestsax and Treversax passing by the village, Tane figured the residents lived by hunting, trapping, and catering to travelers.
Once inside, Tane found the village was strangely quiet for midafternoon. At first Tane thought it due to zombies killing or capturing everyone, but remembered Nizar mentioning that few of the villagers had been enslaved. Then he noted most of the huts had smoke curling up out of their smoke holes. Twice he saw small children peek out doors, and even spotted a brace of dogs keeping guard outside one hut’s entrance.
“Welcome to your new home,” Nizar said, waving a hand at a hut just inside the village gate.
The hut was typical, if not slightly larger than most. The thatch looked freshly cut. The area around the smoke hole at the top didn’t appear blackened. The stone walls came up to about Tane’s waist, upon which the heavy oak, domed frame sat. He could see a hard-packed dirt floor and three unmade sleeping pallets through the open door. The centrally located firepit was cold.
The workshop next to the hut was crudely built, even by Leltic standards. There were only three walls, all of loosely fitted logs. The builder hadn’t even bothered to remove the bark, which was slowly rotting off and giving the structure a splotchy appearance. The roof was high and wood-shingled. The forge squatted in back, centered on the wall and next to a pile of broken knives and tools. Large wooden bins with lids sat on the other side of the forge, in which the raw materials of iron and steel waited to be transformed: iron ore, charcoal, sand, glass. The tools of the smith’s trade lay spread out upon a pair of work benches, or hung off pegs on the wall. The fourth “wall” was thatch and swung up to make an awning during the workday.
“A farrier’s shop,” Tane said. He glanced around disdainfully. “I can’t make swords here, much less Swords of Power.”
The priest’s black eyes narrowed dangerously at him. Tane held his ground, though he knew it was shaky at best. In truth, a forge was a forge, and he could just as easily shoe horses as make swords from that workshop. It had everything he needed, including more than enough raw materials to make a dozen swords, and matching knifes if Dakar so ordered.
Tane’s remark had only one purpose – to test the priest. How far could Tane push him? How much authority did the priest have? Could he punish Tane? Could he harm one of Tane’s friends? Dakar had simply ordered Nizar to escort Tane and his companions, now his zombie guards, to this site. And then Dakar vanished into thin air.
“I have little patience, swordsmith,” Nizar said, eyes flashing, then narrowing again. “My Divine Master’s great host will be here by week’s end. That army will be the spearhead into the Jarlands, where my Divine Master believes the Arisen will be forced to take the field Themselves, or risk annihilation before They can lift a finger. If you don’t have the first Sword of Power made by then, we will both be punished.” He looked at each of Tane’s friends meaningfully, then back at Tane. “Dakar deals quite brutally with any He believes has failed or defied Him.”
Tane felt a cold lump beginning to form in his belly. He had no doubt how Dakar would punish him. And he believed that the priest would exact his own revenge if he believed he was doomed because of Tane’s failure.
“Besides,” Nizar continued. “Your companions won’t allow you to shirk. If you do, they are ordered to punish you.”
A quick look at his friends was all Tane needed to understand. They all returned his look with blank eyes and faces. Zombies, they obeyed Dakar and His priests without question. One word from the priest, and they would commence beating some “sense” into him.
Looking at his friends was hard. Three of them appeared in worse shape than he felt. Armin was the worst, his face a mask of black and blue, lower lip smashed and swollen more than twice normal.
One of his eyes was swollen shut, with the other nearly so. He carried his left hand in a way that made Tane believe it broken.
Raven wasn’t quite as bruised and beaten in the face, but he could see at least a dozen bloody spots all over her body, and she had a bad limp. But her neck was the worse, horribly bruised by Dakar. The way she never turned her head, but moved her entire body around, told Tane her neck was injured in some way.
Quinn’s injuries didn’t appear too bad in comparison. All Tane could see was a lone knot over the half-elf’s eye, blackened eyes, and a swollen nose. But Quinn didn’t move with his usual effortless grace.
Joelle didn’t appear injured at all. He knew she had been beaten and by the priest and zombies, or so the priest had bragged. But, fortunately, her healing magic didn’t require conscious thought to activate, so had healed her during their short march to the village. Nizar wasn’t pleased at all, but his God wouldn’t allow him to needlessly injure the witch now that He had made a deal with Tane. At least, Tane prayed that was true.
“Shirking isn’t the issue. A great sword like a Sword of Power is made of crucible steel,” Tane said. “This forge is not set up to make crucible steel.”
“What about all that steel right there?” Nizar said, eyes flashing with anger. “That looks like good steel to me.”
Tane turned disdainful eyes on the pile of rusting, broken blades. Most were broken knives, but spotted pieces of swords, too.
“They wouldn’t be broken if they were good steel,” Tane said. Not necessarily true, but what did the priest know? “Besides, welding blades back together doesn’t create even average swords, much less a Sword of Power. And Dakar wants a Sword of Power.”
Nizar stared suspiciously at him a long moment.
“What is it lacking?” Nizar said. “I’ll have it brought here.”
“First and foremost, I need a crucible,” he said. Using his hands, he indicated height and diameter, “It’s not that big, but it has to be made to handle the extremely high heat the furnace I’ll build in back. It usually took me about a week to make and fire a clay crucible.”
Belly of the Beast Page 24