War God's Will

by Matthew P Gilbert

  Aiul nearly collapsed into his Papa’s arms. Lothrian swept him up in a hug and reached into Aiul’s shirt to remove the silver chain and the amber sphere it held. “You’ve born this long enough, son. Rest now.”

  Despite the strong urge to simply collapse in place, Aiul shrugged off the many hands reaching out to help him. It was, as Maranath had said, a family matter, and that included his treacherous cousin. If Aiul was to go home, he needed answers.

  To his credit, Rithard met his gaze without flinching, and with a contrite expression, even. Aiul said nothing for long moments, then spoke a single word. “Why?”

  “Davron said he would kill me if I didn’t. I believed him.”

  It sounded so simple, so trivial, a contrived lie, and yet Aiul had entertained that very thought, that Rithard had been coerced. He hadn’t known for certain until this very moment whether Rithard was even still alive. It seemed true, and yet he saw, in Rithard’s eyes, something more. “Tell all of it.”

  Rithard rolled his shoulders as if readying himself for a great task. His throat worked as he tried to find the right phrasing. “I lost another cousin over that whole affair, you know.” He stared at his feet, shaking his head.

  For a moment, Aiul did not understand, but when it hit him, he felt his rage against Rithard melt away to nothing. Marissa. Mei, he loved her. He talked about her constantly, and I never understood until now.

  Rithard looked up again, his eyes glistening. “It had nothing to do with what I did to you. I hadn’t even really had a chance to process it. I know it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t even Kariana’s fault. It’s just... hard to let go.”

  Before Aiul could respond, Sadrik Tasinal stepped forward, a cruel grin on his face. “It was Maralena Prosin’s fault, and I settled that score on a permanent basis.”

  Rithard gestured at Sadrik as if handing him a burden, and stepped aside toward the other Meites. Aiul closed his eyes and let the numbness creep over him as Sadrik told his tale. It was Maralena who wrote the letters, set up the deadly encounter with Lara and Kariana. And it had been his own mother who had sent him down this path to ruin. No, Ariano, you are wrong. My mother most definitely did not take care of me. And now she was gone, beyond his rage, his grief, even beyond the chance of a simple goodbye.

  An unfamiliar and strangely accented voice spoke from behind him, “So you are the one the old man spoke of.” Aiul was surprised by the touch of a warm, friendly hand on his shoulder. He turned and looked into the deep brown eyes and alien face of an unknown Southlander. “I see no evil in you,” the man said. “Only much pain.”

  Another of the Southlander’s people, older and lighter skinned, with a hard face, stood just behind him. He was there, in the courtroom. Aiul couldn’t help but smile to realize that somehow or another, the fellow had managed to avoid the death sentence he had been given. Perhaps he really did beat them all.

  Aiul was just about to respond to the younger man when he caught sight of the sword the older fellow carried. To his shock, he realized he knew the blade. Aiul looked to the weapon and back up. “Sandilianus, yes? Where is Brutus?”

  Sandilianus slowly drew the blade and handed to Aiul to inspect. “Brutus is with Ilaweh, now, and no doubt arguing with him over how the world should be managed,” he said.

  The younger Southlander chuckled, then said, “If you knew Brutus, you knew Yazid, yes? I am Ahmed, Yazid’s...” He paused a moment, as if searching for a word before settling on, “...son.”

  It was almost too much for Aiul to bear, knowing what he had done to this man’s father, or rather, what he had helped to do. But he knew enough of their culture to offer the only comfort that could be given. His throat was thick with emotion as he spoke. “I was with him at the end. He died well, as he lived: unbeaten.”

  Ahmed offered his arm, and Aiul took it, grasping at the forearm. The Southlander’s eyes grew moist, and he gripped Aiul’s arm with a gentle strength. “Thank you for that. It means more than you could know.”

  “It’s the least I could do for you. I owe you much more.”

  Logrus, too, was at Aiul’s side now, poor, simple Logrus, not stupid but so very naive. He had been a friend to Aiul despite Aiul’s terrible treatment. He offered a crooked smile and said, “Elgar has saved you, Aiul. Look at what we accomplished. We eased undying pain. Now, I think, you can heal, too.”

  Aiul could barely hold back his own tears. It was all too much, and to finally be at the end of it was enough to almost cause him to break down. He nodded his gratitude and managed to choke out, “Imagine that. We saved the world without the battle everyone was expecting.”

  For a moment, he even believed it. But the look in his Papa’s eyes was unsettling, a wild, electric blue that spoke of storms and madness. That’s the look I remember most: the one that said pain was coming.

  Rithard breathed a sigh of relief at having successfully navigated very hazardous terrain. Bragging would keep Sadrik occupied long enough for Rithard to have a discrete word with Maranath and hopefully warn him against the very real possibility that Ariano would be attacked in short order.

  As he approached, he realized that he did not recognize one of the people in their group. The blond man, not much older than Aiul, was clearly a Meite. He had the stance, the air, the presence, and seemed familiar, but Rithard couldn’t place him. For no reason Rithard could lay his finger on, he felt an intense dislike for the man. Well, it’s hardly unreasonable to dislike Meites.

  Rithard saw with displeasure that the strange Meite had noticed him as well, and was walking over with an extended hand. “You look very familiar. It’s not really possible that we could have met, I suppose, but I wonder if I know your father?”

  Rithard reluctantly presented his hand and shook. Whatever misgivings Rithard had about the newcomer, he had to admit the man had a warm, firm, confident handshake. “Rithard of House Amrath. I’m afraid—”

  The stranger’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and he burst into a grin. “Of course! No wonder you seem familiar. I’m Lothrian.” He nodded at Rithard’s obvious confusion. “It’s a long story. Suffice to say I met with some difficulty down here and I’ve been rescued at long last.”

  Rithard considered this new information with clinical detachment. It was tempting to dismiss it as an outright lie, and yet the others had heard him say it, and no one was correcting him.

  Lothrian pressed on. “And your father?”

  Rithard, feeling pinned, answered, “Ah, my father was Barthold.”

  Lothrian grinned. “Yes, I remember him, a cousin, but he was a very young man when I knew him. You quite favor him, except for the hair, of course. Who is your mother?”

  Rithard cleared his throat, looking for an exit. Ariano was looking their way as if she might approach, and from the expression on her face, he would prefer to be elsewhere when she arrived. “Uh, Teretha Prosin.”

  Lothrian’s eyebrows rose as his face fell. “Oh. Ah, I see.” He brightened quickly and asked, “And do you hold a title within the house?”

  Rithard had been hoping to avoid addressing this. He didn’t actually believe this man was Lothrian, but now that the question was asked, Rithard felt certain that the imposter’s reaction to the answer would be informative. “As of this morning, I am the Patriarch of the House, sir.”

  Lothrian’s face seemed to simply freeze for a moment, the humor in his eyes fading, making the smile on his lips seem artificial. It, too, faded when he spoke, his slight grin seeming now more a baring of teeth. “Ah, I see. I am not entirely up to speed on events, but I should have thought that spot would have been Aiul’s.”

  “There was a crisis, and an emergency meeting of the council. Aiul was not in a position to be considered.”

  Lothrian smiled again, but his eyes remained humorless. “Have they given you the Papers, then?”

  What a bizarre non-sequitur. Rithard struggled to find words, wishing very much that he was elsewhere with a stiff drink in hand. Not ‘How
do you like the job?’ or ‘What are the biggest issues?’ Just straight at The Papers. Despite the alarm bells ringing in his head, Rithard put the notion aside. There were more pressing matters at the moment. “Indeed.”

  Lothrian’s eyes seemed lit with inner fire now, and he leaned in, uncomfortably close, to almost whisper, “And what brings the Patriarch of House Amrath to the depths of the Pit of Torium?”

  I might ask you the same question. Rithard stepped back, more out of reflex than design, and stammered, “There is a doomsday device here. We need to stop it from being triggered. It’s the basis of the Dead God’s prophecy.”

  Lothrian’s eyebrows again rose, and he grinned back, the old, familiar Meite madness dancing in his eyes like a blue flame. “Is there? I have never heard such a thing.”

  Rithard tried to keep the contempt he felt from showing in his expression. Lothrian was lying. He was certain of it. But why? Let’s prod you a bit and see where you jump. “Neither had I, since someone seems to have removed anything about it from the Papers. Fortunately, Tasinal was kind enough to explain it to us before he teleported us here.” He watched for a reaction, carefully gauging the man he could only think of now as his opponent.

  Lothrian’s eyes widened. “Mei, really?” He looked to the side, in Aiul’s direction. “Well, then it’s a good thing like we’ve managed to intercept it, eh?” He gave Rithard’s arm a friendly squeeze as he walked past, a clearly forced smile on his lips, and called over his shoulder, “Well done, young man! Well done!”

  Rithard suppressed an urge to brush at the spot where Lothrian had touched him, so strong was his sense of revulsion for the man. He watched Lothrian walk toward Ahmed, turning over the bizarre reaction in his head. He was certain of it, now. Mei! He took the damned papers!

  There was something more, though, something else that was nagging at him about Lothrian’s reaction. He didn’t even flinch when I mentioned Tasinal, or teleportation. A Meite with no ulterior motive would have argued or mocked such a statement. At the very least, he would have demanded an explanation. He most certainly would not have let it stand and walked away, unless he had something to hide.

  Or unless he were distracted by something else.

  My destiny is so much greater than I had imagined! Lothrian continued to smile at the others, even as the realization that he was on the precipice of greatness swept over him. He took a deep breath, wondering if he were truly committed to the plan that was tearing through his mind, making connections the others would surely call mad if they knew his thoughts.

  My daughter is dead. The woman I loved is old and gray, and taken up with my best friend. And my son’s mind is shattered beyond hope. My house is now led by an upstart. I have absolutely nothing left to lose, and everything to gain.

  His journey had begun humbly enough, with the notion that the pieces of the Eye ought be in more trustworthy hands. What could the founders have been thinking to leave one with the Torians? And to leave a doomsday device in place was simply irresponsible.

  At least Amrath had been wise enough to warn about it in the Papers. Once Lothrian had resolved to destroy it, those had become superfluous, a liability, even. Had Maranath or Maklin learned of his plan, they likely would have tried to stop him, and Lothrian had no intention of allowing that to happen, nor any guarantee that the Papers would remain secure while he was on his quest. Once he was finished, the information would be irrelevant. Simple prudence dictated he remove it, and he had never once considered that he might not survive his attempt.

  I would have, had I not been betrayed.

  Ariano had been more than willing. In so many ways! He looked at her, feeling a bit of the old longing, but mostly a deep sadness at what she had become. Old. Weak. Faded. And treacherous.

  Destiny had spoken, choosing to spare him the ravages of time, to arrive at his appointed moment still full of youthful vigor. Oh, yes, he had begun this second life as a zombie, but it hardly suited him. The hole in his chest had been unsightly, the cold and numbness in his body distracting and unpleasant. They had faded quickly, and no one had even noticed, a fact that both amused and saddened him. People should notice beauty and power, and yet, for the moment, it was perhaps best that they were otherwise occupied.

  He had not, until the upstart had let the information slip, realized that Tasinal still lived, had somehow managed to overcome death through sheer will. It had, of course, been theorized: sufficient will ought to be able to cheat death. Amrath had spoken against such things in his philosophical works, arguing that to even attempt such a thing was cheating, that the only thing that gave life value was the fact that time was finite.

  And what Meite had not, in some dark moment, looked at his situation and imagined killing everyone? The doomsday device made that idle, mad thought an actual possibility.

  But to realize both were within one’s grasp was an altogether different matter, especially when one had certain knowledge men were never meant to possess.

  A hundred years past, the Torians had finally overwhelmed him, but not nearly soon enough to stop him from plundering their secrets. Had Ariano’s cowardice not overcome her, had she just had a bit of faith, they would have triumphed over the creatures together. Instead, she’d fled, leaving him to die, alone, in that pit of horror and despair.

  He had, of course, not simply accepted his fate. He slew the filth as they came at him, desperately trying to use the piece of the Eye the dragon had given him to find his way to the piece the Torians held, to no success. Something was wrong, and whether it was his technique or something else, Lothrian couldn’t say, though he suspected it was because he had simply lacked the focus due to his circumstances. Whatever the reason, he had been forced to rely on intuition and garden-variety brutality, at last prying the secret from their much-vaunted Master. Lothrian, pressed for time, had left the fiend to bleed out. My greatest mistake was not finishing him when I had the chance.

  Lothrian had retrieved the Torian piece, a half-head, along with their Book of the Gods, and torn through it to find the ritual, fully intending to take them all with him, but the counterattack had been bold and well planned. Somehow, the Master had survived and organized them into a final, devastating assault.

  Lothrian had made them pay dearly, but in the end, there were simply too many, and he had fallen there, betrayed by the love of his life, alone in the dark, surrounded by monsters. Such a great irony that he had been brought down not by powerful sorcery, but by a simple piling on until he could no longer see, and a mass of wood shoved through his chest. Even then, he had very nearly recovered. Had his heart beaten a few moments more, long enough to retain his mind just a second or two, things would have ended very differently. Lothrian shuddered at the memory and pushed it aside. Some things are best forgotten.

  The fools had enshrined him as a perfect monster, a beauty so rare that it surpassed all of their work. They had preserved him in every detail, up to and including the partially assembled Eye hanging about his neck. Did they miss that, or did they know and use me as a display out of spite? Or even admiration?

  Even as the questions ran through his mind, he knew the truth: they sensed his destiny, and they chose not to resist. It was fitting. It was appropriate. It was inevitable. They had prepared him, preserved his flesh, and stood him in a position to ascend to the greatest of heights when at last his moment came.

  And my would-be rescuers lacked the presence of mind to even verify things when I told them I didn’t have it anymore. So terribly foolish of them. Now, with the piece I took from Aiul, I have three, and the last piece is in this very room.

  The crucial point, the information none of the rest understood, was a bit that Naritas and his minions had worked out eons past and written down in the book: the gods themselves were but manifestations of large groups of minds. Men wanted justice, and so a being that stood for justice must exist. Men made war, and so there was a god of war.

  That, in and of itself, was no great mystery.
Such had been theorized by many a philosopher. But Naritas had worked out the existence of an even greater entity, known as the Sleeper or Dreamer, a vast being that was the sum of all minds. It alone was capable of choice, and each living mind had that gift. But because men were almost always at odds, the entity slept, having no specific direction.

  The Eye had changed that balance. Suddenly, great swathes of men aligned on the same side, their visions linked together by the ability to communicate in great numbers and mind to mind, without distortion or mistrust. Naritas had indeed created a mighty weapon.

  But Naritas had been a small thinker. He had never asked himself the obvious question: what if there were only one man alive? Only one vessel to contain the Sleeper?

  That man would be a god of gods.

  Ahmed watched the stranger approach, another sorcerer, his intent gray like a madman. Ahmed couldn’t help but smile to think that in these interactions, he was forced to live as any normal man might, to judge others not with any special sight but just on experience. But I have little enough of that to rely on.

  Rithard was running toward him, shouting and gesticulating wildly, and Ahmed understood: there was something terribly wrong with the man standing before him. Ahmed could not see the sorcerer’s aura, but he could see the expression on his face, the madness in his eyes, the intent in his gaze.

  Ilaweh, guide my hand! He reached for his sword, but it was too late. With a strength and speed Ahmed had never imagined, the smiling sorcerer seized Ahmed about the throat, one hand tightening like an iron band, the other tearing open his shirt and dragging forth the piece of the Eye. Sickly green light poured from the half-head like puss from a gangrenous wound.

  The sorcerer held his prize aloft only briefly before turning to the others and sweeping his arm at them in a grand gesture.