War God's Will

by Matthew P Gilbert

  WAR GOD’S WILL

  ©2019 MATTHEW P. GILBERT

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.

  Print and eBook formatting, and cover design by Steve Beaulieu. Artwork provided by Dusan Markovic.

  Published by Aethon Books LLC. 2019

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  ALSO IN THE SERIES

  Preface

  Prologue

  1. Sororicide

  2. Law and Justice

  3. Ideal versus Real

  4. Actions and Consequences

  5. Plans A, B, and C

  6. Breakfast and The Impossible

  7. From The Grave

  8. For Mischief

  9. Coronation

  10. Into the Pit

  11. A Matter of Perspective

  12. Class Reunion

  13. Elgar’s Wrath

  14. Some Assembly Required

  15. Breaking and Entering

  16. Impasse

  17. Schooled

  18. All the Marbles

  19. Actually

  20. Divergent Paths

  Epilogue

  FROM THE PUBLISHER

  ALSO IN THE SERIES

  Dead God’s Due

  Mad God’s Muse

  You are reading: War God’s Will

  There is nothing in life worth having that you will not, at some point, have to fight for, and the path to victory is never easy. Blood and treasure, pain and self-doubt, these are constant companions in any battle. A warrior will know them well.

  The Book of Amrath, Ruminations 1:7

  Prologue

  One Millennium Past

  Naritas could barely suppress a gleeful cackle as he regarded the dark, thin face before him. Amin al Asad, you are such a gift to us! “You must do it yourself,” he insisted.

  Al Asad glared back with dark, rage-filled eyes, and took the wicked, rune-carved blade. His long, dark fingers pushed Naritas's lighter, frail digits from the weapon’s grip. “I follow through on my plans, whatever the cost, weakling.” He snatched the dagger from Naritas with a sneer, not bothering to hide his contempt. “Just as my men did.”

  Al Asad’s smoldering gaze lingered a moment before he turned away. His jaw bulged as he clenched his teeth and raised the point of the blade to his eye.

  “Yes,” Naritas hissed, barely able to hide his elation. “This is how the magic works.” He spoke confidently, but in truth, he was anything but certain. What he had in mind, many would call madness. No one had ever attempted anything so bold. Men were not meant to tread in such places.

  Naritas allowed himself a quick glance at the huge stone font in the center of the room. Ten feet across and three deep, it brimmed with dark liquid. Near one edge of the font, a golden lion’s head protruded from the surface, the only visible portion of a statue submerged there. Mere hours before, a measure of that liquid had run through the veins of al Asad’s warrior priests. Each had walked proudly, even arrogantly, to the sacrificial font, placed his neck over the collection trough, and slit his own throat with inhuman resolve. Oh, I suppose the poor sods we used to round out the volume resisted well enough, but then they weren’t part of the ritual. They were just material. Disposing of the corpses had been thirsty work, indeed, but there were always students who needed to work off their tuition, and as far as Naritas was concerned, the more unpleasant the work they were assigned, the better.

  The font was as great an abomination as Naritas could conceive and create. Abomination was the heart of the ritual. It would draw him. It would call to his nature, and lure him into the trap.

  Naritas turned back to al Asad and watched him intently. We will see if you share your men’s resolve, al Asad.

  There were scholars in Torium who studied the depths of the mind, learned men who would have argued that it was not possible for human beings to do such things, that their own minds would rebel against such self-destruction, no matter their motivation, but al Asad and his men were apparently something more than mere humans. They were unique, and unique was another word for power to one who understood the true workings of the universe. One such as I.

  Naritas knew he could not allow his giddiness to show, but it threatened to burst from him all the same. I stand on the brink of greatness, and I owe it all to petty politics!

  Al Asad had come to them months ago, outcast and full of grief and rage. Snakes had put fangs into the boy king Alexander, whispering venom in his ear, poisoning him against his teacher. Fools hungry for power, with no concept of how a fighting man would respond to their pathetic games. Such mistakes are often lethal.

  They certainly would be if Al Asad had his way. He wanted a weapon, and Naritas, the Master of Torium, had many ideas for such things. One, in fact, was so audacious that he had never spoken of it to another soul, but he had written down his research, his mad experiments, his good results with demons and other unnatural entities, and his plan to move forward to a full test.

  Of course, that had required enlisting some allies. His underlings were happy to assist, though they knew only pieces of what was truly at stake. After all, the University at Torium was a place of knowledge and learning. If it was also a place of madness, where blasphemous ideas were entertained with cold reason, where men truly struggled to learn secrets they were never meant to know, was that a sin, really?

  It is the very definition of progress.

  Tasinal and his brethren soared over Torium like eagles searching for prey, their shadows flitting and warping over the ground beneath, dark reflections in a convoluted, twisted mirror. With equal measures of excitement and fear, he watched Amrath drop from the sky like a stone toward the ziggurats below, and, along with the rest of the Council of Twelve, Tasinal followed. The coming battle would be hard fought, much more real than the trivial handling of Aristademos and his men. Naritas and his students had much knowledge of true magic, and were firmly ensconced in the most powerful defensive structure of the civilized world.

  The 'university' had never been penetrated, partially because of its claims of neutrality, but more so because it was indeed a fortress, one designed by magi with an intricate understanding of physical forces. The entire compound was surrounded by a high, sloped wall made of some sort of odd sedimentary stone quarried from nearby deposits, a light, airy material that was impervious to catapult or ballista fire. It did not shatter or puncture like ordinary stone or brick, but simply swallowed projectiles whole, absorbing and redirecting the energy away to nothing.

  Further within lay a great central pyramid that towered over the landscape, the ‘university’ where the magi, claiming to be scholars and educators of men, carried out their black magic. Between the wall and central structure was a great moat, and beyond, more, smaller, flat-topped pyramids encircled the city just inside the wall, watchtowers with overlapping fields of fire to mass archers, siege weapons, or other, more arcane engines of destruction.

  Tasinal barely contained the urge to spit at the city. Let us see how you withstand us, fiends.

  The Council’s spy had been certain. Naritas intended utter madness: he
would try to slay a god and harness its power into a weapon. He had a damned good chance of succeeding, and a similar chance of failing and bringing the world to ruin.

  Worse, the spy had known when: now.

  They set down in the courtyard on the far side of the moat, each sorcerer having his own sort of landing ritual, some hitting the ground running, others simply stopping in place in defiance of puny physics. Tasinal was a runner for now, though he was of the opinion that being a stopper indicated a more powerful mastery, and hoped someday to be able to master the technique.

  Tasinal crouched, momentarily spent from the flight and subsequent landing, and watched the true masters set about their work. Amrath, Noril, and Aswan were titans amongst titans, practically demigods. And yet I notice Amrath is a runner! He resolved to think on this later. For the moment, there were other, more pressing matters that required his attention.

  Those matters, specifically the guards assigned to keep them out of the university, were quickly dealt with. The fools came pouring from the pyramid, full of righteous fury, perhaps three dozen men in all. Ah, this is my part. It seemed a small number of defenders, and yet who knew what a bunch of stuffy scholars thought an appropriate force? It hardly mattered, at any rate.

  Tasinal raised a hand and clenched his fist. His target, a marble statue depicting a scholar holding a book aloft, imploded into rubble. With a flick of his wrist, he sent thousands of projectiles hurtling at the would-be defenders. The missiles ripped through the fools and kept going, sending streamers of blood and gore behind them to paint the cobblestones and the walls of the pyramid. His victims slumped to the ground, lifeless and well-ventilated, as Tasinal smiled in satisfaction.

  Amrath gave Tasinal a brief, grudging nod of approval. Tasinal bowed with a flourish, then sat on the ground. I just kill people. I’ll leave the engineering and siege work to the masters.

  Amrath, satisfied that they would now be unmolested, looked up at the great pyramid and called to Yorn, the artificer to join him. Tasinal disliked Yorn intensely, and considered him halfway to being a Torian himself, meddling with things he ought not, but it was difficult to deny his results. Still, a proper Meite does not make things to do his magic. He damned well does it himself.

  Yorn contemplated the pyramid for some time, rubbing at his chin, a sour look on his face. Noril tapped his foot, scowling, while Amrath and Aswan watched his growing impatience with wry amusement.

  At last, the Artificer spoke. “No point in going in from the top. It’s all heavily warded. Let’s just find the bunker and breach a wall.”

  Amrath produced a rolled sheet of parchment from his robes and held it in front of Aswan. “The spy says it should be there.”

  Aswan looked at the drawing for a moment, then turned to a particular point in the structure. He studied the ground intently for a moment, then raised his arms in a great, sweeping gesture. Tons of dirt flew from the base of the great pyramid as if he were wielding a giant shovel. Again and again he dug, sweat running on his brow, gradually exposing the bunker beneath.

  Amrath, his blue tunic now covered in a fine dusting of dirt, ran his hands through his bound, blond hair, corralling any that had managed to escape. Noril raised a well-muscled arm and ran a hand over his own short-cropped, graying head, grinning. Amrath spared him a brief scornful look before returning the smile and heading for the exposed wall.

  Tasinal rose and followed the other Meites. Yorn strode to the exposed wall, his tall, lanky frame almost rattling. He made a show of examining the runes, though Tasinal strongly suspected he was simply making things up.

  Yorn plucked at his beard, shaking his head and muttering. “Powerful wards.”

  Amrath asked, “Will they stop us?”

  Yorn, bemused, answered, “No.”

  Noril scoffed and stepped up to the rune-graven wall. “Let us see what they are made of.” He hammered a fist squarely in the center of the polished, reflective surface. The blow produced a terrific, ringing tone. Waves of white light rippled from the point of impact like a stone dropped in still water, brilliant at first, then slowly fading, but the wall seemed no worse off for Noril’s efforts. He rubbed at his hand, frowning. “Strong.”

  Yorn rolled his eyes. “I believe I just mentioned that.”

  “You didn't mention how we were going to get through it, that I heard,” Noril shot back, still rubbing at his hand.

  “You hit it with something very hard, lots of times, until it falls over, dolt.”

  “I just did that.”

  “No,” Yorn corrected. “You should have used your head.”

  Tasinal barely managed to contain a snicker at the artificer’s barb. Noril would not be happy to be laughed at, especially by someone he saw as an inferior, and Tasinal did not relish an encounter with Noril's fists.

  Amrath clapped a hand on Yorn and Noril's shoulders and said in a cheery voice, “A novel idea, using our heads! Let's do that now.”

  Naritas tore at his hair as yet another thunderous blow hammered at the heavily enchanted inner walls of Torium. Dust drifted down from the rough-hewn ceiling and rained through the flickering candlelight. Fifty of his best students encircled the black pool, chanting softly. All of them could feel the power building, both from their own ritual and the unrelenting assault on their walls.

  Surely, the external defenders were dead, or at least fled. No one could expect them to stand against the Meites. But the subterranean sanctum had been built specifically to be impregnable, the walls and entrances reinforced with the most powerful of arcane wards. Dangerous experiments were conducted there, experiments that, if interrupted, could have grave, even disastrous results.

  Experiments such as the one in which he and his underlings were even now engaged.

  But we did not plan on holding off the damnable Council of Twelve! Not for long, at any rate! We must hurry!

  Al Asad, to his credit, had already managed to carve one of his own eyes from his skull. What will! What resolve! Naritas took the glistening, blood streaked orb from al Asad as the man stood trembling, blood dripping down his face, steadfastly refusing to scream. The next will be infinitely harder, though, for with it comes darkness—eternal, crushing darkness.

  Naritas walked slowly toward the black pool, al Asad's eye in hand. A short, rune-graven ledge encircled the sacrificial basin. The runes would channel the power, contain it, focus it into the blood and into the vessel that would contain the very essence of Elgar: a golden lion, submerged to its neck in the black pool. A lion, for Al Asad. It is perfect. And it certainly didn’t hurt that Naritas fancied lions as symbols of strength, as well. The Meites relied on emotion more so than the Torians, but even so, emotion was a handhold, a focus.

  But this lion had no eyes. Not yet. Naritas pressed the glistening white orb into one of the lion's empty sockets. He smiled as the still-living flesh gazed back at him, its green iris seeming quite at home in the lion's face.

  He was startled from his reverie by another deafening blow to the walls. “Al Asad!” Naritas cried. “We are almost out of time!”

  Al Asad stood transfixed, his one remaining eye staring at the blade in his hand, his face contorted with warring emotions as he brought the blade to bear, slowly.

  Naritas felt a pressing urge to scream, and yet he feared breaking the man's focus. Instead, he spoke in a soft, fatherly tone. “If they penetrate our defenses before we finish, it will all be for nothing.”

  Al Asad roared in fury and desperation, still unable to find the will to move the blade forward. “Wizard, you swear upon your life this will work? If I give up my sight, will I have the weapon I seek?”

  Naritas kept a straight face as he called out, “I swear it.” In truth, he had no idea how things would play out once he managed to trap Elgar. In theory, al Asad would have his weapon. In practice, there was a non-negligible chance of destroying... everything. It's not as if he can hold it against me if we're all dead, though.

  Another titanic blow
struck the enchanted wall, as if a mountain had been hurled against it. The shockwave ripped through the entire structure, sending debris raining from the ceiling. Another impact followed, even more energetic, and a crack appeared in the wall with a loud report, spreading like slow lightning.

  Naritas wanted to turn his power and focus to mending the wall, but he had no choice. Things would simply have to play out now. At any moment, Elgar would be drawn into his trap, and it would take all of Naritas and his students' efforts to lock him down properly. Failing to do so would mean a disaster of epic proportion!

  Naritas gnashed his teeth in mounting rage. It was not that he feared death, or even the destruction of the world. What he was unwilling to accept was failing to complete his greatest experiment, the pinnacle of his life and study. Damn the Meites! I needed only minutes more!

  He cried out in a voice nearly a shriek, “Al Asad! It's now or never!”

  Al Asad stood silent, the point of the knife an inch from his left eye, blood trailing from his empty right socket. Another tremendous blow struck the wall, so loud it momentarily drowned out the chanting. The crack in the wall became a spider web. More debris fell from the ceiling, and, with a huge, grinding and rending, a block of stone bigger than a man fell from the ceiling, missing al Asad by mere inches.

  Al Asad did not even flinch.

  In the end, Amrath simply lost patience, and gave in to outright fury; though admittedly, Aswan had assisted greatly by laughing at him for failing the first fifty-odd times.