The Scarred God

by Neil Beynon

  Gor-Iven fell in his shock.

  Clutching the ring tight, he saw the god step close to the dying king. Gor-Iven lay down and pretended to be slain. The god stepped up to the king, the fire-lightning turning his skin red raw where the god made contact, and looked at the ruler as a boy might look at a tadpole – as a creature that was other, weak and strange. A man, the Kurah king, stepped through the breach next and made his way to the god’s side, his sword dripping with blood and his bodyguards spilling into the corridor after him.

  ‘There you are, Jorn,’ said Montu, the Kurah king. ‘I didn’t expect you to still be fighting, but here you are, like a true king, ready to die with your men. That’s not how this went with my grandfather, is it?’

  Jorn did not reply. He was straining at the magic that bound him in mid-air. Tears were streaming from his eyes and evaporating as they hit the energy. Gor-Iven watched as his ruler’s hair turned from greying brown to bright white.

  ‘Where is his ring?’ asked Montu, bending down to look at the other king’s hand.

  ‘I did not pay attention to his jewellery,’ said the god, and his voice was like the dark had come alive.

  Gor-Iven began to slowly push himself back along the corridor while they were distracted, but it was slow-going. He could only move when all of them were looking elsewhere.

  ‘Where is the ring?’ asked Montu, staring at the king.

  Jorn did not answer.

  Montu sighed. ‘You don’t need this one for your sacrifice?’

  ‘No,’ said Cernubus. ‘The only reason to keep him is if you want him.’

  ‘Not my type,’ said Montu, moving away. ‘You may do with him as you wish.’

  Cernubus waited until the Kurah were out of sight before he spoke to the prone king.

  ‘This may take some time,’ he whispered.

  Gor-Iven watched as the god slowly moved his spear above the king’s head, and a tiny tear in the king’s skin started to appear. Jorn screamed. After a few moments of the sound, Gor-Iven drew his bow unnoticed and put an arrow in his king’s chest. Cernubus’s head snapped round as the fire-lightning vanished, and the king fell dead at his feet.

  ‘We have a new player,’ hissed the god. ‘So glad you could join.’

  The Delgasian did not waste arrows on the god. He knew when he was beaten before he started. The bowman took off at a run. The god appeared to match his pace with ease. Gor-Iven was counting on Cernubus having limited knowledge of the layout. He took the god on a winding, circuitous route through the palace, often only just managing to outpace him by taking sudden turns and sweep-backs. The latrines for the banquet hall were not somewhere that would have appeared on any invader’s map, and so when he passed them, he ducked in, pausing only to throw a stone or two down the corridor.

  Gor-Iven pulled the plank of wood from the chute and jumped before either the smell or the thought of what he was doing stopped him. He slid down the shit-encrusted passage into the muddy slime of the base of the pit and was thankful the weather had been dry for the last few weeks. He could easily have drowned in there otherwise. Instead, he had a soft landing amongst the slowly rotting faecal matter of his fellow citizens. He did not wait to see if the god had heard him drop.

  The bowman ran for the broken walls of the city and the old boat hatches for the river. He hoped the Kurah had just come across the land and not from downriver, near the coast. He had little choice. Gor-Iven took one last look at the city where he was born before he dived through the hatch into the icy water, glad for its cleansing kiss, even if it was colder than the desert night.

  ‘This is a lovely tale,’ said Golan. ‘But I fail to see how a god who died millennia ago could be helping our enemy. Why would he?’

  None of the generals looked at the councillor, but the thain was disappointed to see other members of the council nodding their heads in agreement. They still believed this was about power, about politics, and not survival.

  ‘We are grateful for your candour,’ she said to Gor-Iven. ‘My learned friend is merely seeking to understand what we cannot comprehend.’

  ‘The Kurah force is vast,’ said Gor-Iven. ‘In the thousands. Your council did not believe that the attack was real, according to my friend Lord Bene, but the truth is the Kurah have learned their lesson. They have backed up their supply lines, and it is almost as if they have resurrected all their dead warriors to aid them. Perhaps this god has.’

  ‘It is a long time since I heard his stories, but I’m certain Cernubus did not have that power,’ replied Bene. ‘I don’t think any god can do that. Nor was Cernubus covered in tattoos. On this continent, only Shaanti warriors carry the ink.’

  Gor-Iven shrugged. ‘I am not sure he is a god any longer. Perhaps something else. A demon?’

  ‘It matters not,’ said the thain. ‘He is an enemy, and he is powerful beyond imagination. Only Danu has anything like his power.’

  ‘You underestimate our capabilities,’ replied Golan. ‘We will defeat him.’

  ‘How do you kill a god?’ asked the thain.

  The merchant couldn’t answer. He went bright red and muttered under his breath as he took another draught of wine.

  ‘I thought not,’ said the thain, rising. ‘We have always fought overwhelming odds. We will prevail once more – on that myself and Lord Golan can agree. The tattoos suggest the god is corrupted and may therefore have a weakness we can use to our advantage. Go now to the archives, and find me information on any of the cants he may have used on himself. I think there may be an entry in the Book of the Northern Reaches. We must stop him from getting to the forest.’

  The door to the banquet hall popped open with a crack that echoed round the hall. The shadow leant on the door frame. She was bleeding from a wound to her leg and covered in dirt to the point that she looked like she had been dragged from the forest. She stared at the room and then at the thain.

  ‘Cernubus has the forest.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Morrigan’s palace was made of glass.

  It wasn’t the translucent glass that you might drink wine from in some lord’s castle but the smooth black glass that you find on the slopes of the fire mountains. The palace stretched up into the dark of a gargantuan cavern within the rock of Golgotha. The three companions stood in the flickering light of Vedic’s dying torch. The chamber smelt sickly-sweet, like rotting meat.

  ‘No guards,’ said Akyar, his sword already drawn.

  ‘No need,’ said Vedic. ‘Kerberos is enough. The living do not come here very often.’

  ‘Are we still alive?’ asked Anya. ‘Feels like we’ve always been here.’

  ‘That’s your fear talking,’ replied Vedic.

  ‘You sound like my mother,’ snapped Anya.

  The woodsman did not reply. Whatever else he was, it seemed he held her mother in the same kind of awe as everyone else she had ever met. She found it hard to square with her mother’s absence. How could you be so brave and so cowardly all in one body? She clutched her shaking hands to herself and ignored the questioning voice in her head that demanded, Do you really not know?

  ‘How do we get in?’ asked Akyar, approaching the large double door that had been carved into the obsidian wall of the palace. There was no handle.

  Vedic tilted his head. ‘It was open last time I was here.’

  Anya forced herself forward.

  ‘Weapon, little one,’ said Vedic, nodding at the palace. ‘Just in case.’

  Anya flushed and drew her blade. She found it hard to believe she was the same person who had slain Kerberos only an hour or so ago, but of course, he was not a god. He wasn’t a person either. The Morrigan was close at hand. She knew this in her bones and could not explain why. The goddess was the thing of nightmares. Only the Priest had terrified her more as a child.

  Anya held her blade in her right hand and placed her left on the door. The obsidian felt warm to the touch, and she remembered the words of the legend of Arawn. She cl
osed her eyes. In her mind, she saw the doorway sliding open. At first nothing happened. Then there was a grinding as if the world were splitting in two, and she felt the door move. A gust of air rushed out of the palace. It smelt of Tream.

  ‘Well done, Anya,’ said Vedic, gently moving her behind him. ‘I’ll take point. Just in case.’

  Anya let herself be moved. The old Anya, the one who thought running away to take the ink was the sole reason for her to be in the world, would have liked to have thumped the woodsman, maybe even killed him, for that. However, the Anya who had killed that young Kurah warrior and found the act to be squalid and improvised, rather than glorious and right, felt almost grateful. What if the Morrigan had other living guards in the palace? She wasn’t sure if she could kill another person again.

  ‘Meyr is in here somewhere,’ said Akyar, behind her.

  That did it. The thought of that Tream child somewhere in this dark palace, on the edge of the void, and the row upon row of small hands reaching through the bars to her in the Kurah camp spurred her on. She tightened the grip on the sword. What kind of person would you be if you enjoyed killing, anyway? My grandmother, her own voice answered. You’d be your grandmother.

  They made their way into the entrance corridor. It was domed like a worm had carved out the passageway as it made its way through the obsidian, and part of Anya racked her memory of the stories for any such creatures. She could not recall any. Still, they kept to the walls with their swords ready as they made their way deeper into the palace. The woodsman stopped at each doorway, listening carefully for signs of anyone, but on this level the place was empty.

  ‘Who wants to keep company with death?’ asked Akyar. ‘No one is here.’

  ‘She’s not death,’ said Anya, her voice soft. ‘She guards the doorway, that is all.’

  On the second level, they found a person. The main hall door was open, spilling light from a fire into the corridor, and the three companions approached with caution. Vedic killed his torch with the remains of his cloak. Anya was the smallest and found it easiest to hide, and so she placed herself at the crack of the door as she looked into the chamber.

  The Morrigan stood with her back to Anya, looking at the fire that burned in a large black fireplace and seemingly warming her hands against the heat. Her hair fell in dark ringlets down her shoulders over the feathered crow-black fabric of her dress, its black surface moving like it was made up of a thousand connected pieces of cloth, reflecting copper light in different directions. The silver of her necklace gleamed around her neck like a metal snake. Anya had always imagined her to be pale like the Delgasians and the Tinaric across the sea, but the Morrigan’s skin was the same shade as her own.

  A wolf sat on its hind legs, staring at the Morrigan. Anya prayed the smell of wood smoke was enough to mask her scent, or this was going to be a very short rescue attempt. She pressed her ear to the crack.

  ‘My lord grows impatient. He wonders why you have not sent the Tream to him already. That was the agreement.’

  The voice was low and raw, as if the words cost the speaker a great deal of effort. Anya risked moving closer to see if someone else was in the room.

  ‘Our agreement also included not hurting Pan,’ replied the Morrigan.

  Anya danced across the open doorway to the other side, where she could get a better view. Vedic glared at her as Akyar took over her old station.

  ‘I cannot send the boy until I know the woodsman has been dealt with. The man is more dangerous than your lord does him credit for. Only moments ago my servants passed word that Kerberos is dead. They may already be in the Cave of Shadows. Do you know how few people have managed that during my stewardship?’

  Anya felt her skin prick at that. For the Morrigan to know Kerberos was dead meant there must be some of her agents behind them in the tunnels, and they would still need to get to the Cave of Shadows to escape back to the living world.

  ‘You promised the lord that would be taken care of already.’

  ‘And I will. My point is simply that transportation is difficult while he is on the loose. Your lord has no right to question my word. If anything, I should worry about his oath.’

  ‘I am aware of your history with the lord.’

  Anya peered closer. She saw the wolf scratching its shoulder. The realisation that the wolf was speaking hit her like a blow to the stomach, and she only just managed to muffle her surprise. The wolf tilted his ear but did not turn to look at her.

  ‘Is that what your people call it? History?’ replied the Morrigan.

  ‘I understand you gave a good accounting of yourself, that you had moved past this to embrace our lord’s leadership,’ said the wolf, stretching.

  ‘I do not embrace your lord. He merely made me an offer that I liked, and so here we are.’ She gestured at the hall.

  ‘Here we are,’ agreed the wolf. ‘I have seen the boy, and that is enough for now. How long should I tell my master to wait?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said the Morrigan, yawning. ‘As long as it takes.’

  ‘Woman, the alignment approaches. He cannot wait as long as it takes,’ said the wolf, growling. ‘You have until the dawn after tomorrow, or I will return with the pack for him.’

  ‘You are grown bold,’ said the Morrigan, rising, ‘since my sister is not here to control you.’

  ‘Dawn after tomorrow,’ repeated the wolf, walking towards the door. Anya gripped her sword tight.

  The Morrigan moved swiftly. Her hand flashed as magic flew from it, catching the wolf on the chest and surrounding him in burning energy that flickered the colour of the moon. The wolf yelped like a kicked puppy and vanished. Anya watched the goddess stare at the empty space.

  ‘Tell me what to do in my own house,’ muttered the Morrigan.

  Anya flattened herself behind the doorway as the Morrigan turned back towards the fire. Anya could see the Morrigan’s brow was furrowed as she looked deep into the flames.

  ‘Where are you, Laos?’ she whispered. ‘What are you up to?’

  The Morrigan had no answer from the flames. She turned, walked into the wall and vanished with a sudden swirl of her skirts. Anya was left staring at an empty room. She waved her companions over.

  ‘The Morrigan has gone,’ she said. ‘She’s looking for someone named Laos, and so we have some time to look for the boy. He’s definitely here.’

  Vedic looked pale. Anya hoped they weren’t going to have another episode like out by the lake, as she had little patience left. She hadn’t even got to the important part yet.

  ‘Did you hear the last bit?’ she asked Akyar.

  The Tream shook his head. ‘I dared not get too close. The wolf would have recognised my scent from the boy’s cloak.’

  ‘Vedic was right,’ said Anya, downcast. ‘The Morrigan is in league with Cernubus, and taking the Tream prince was a trap to catch us and this Laos person.’

  Akyar’s eyes flashed to Vedic and back to her. It did not escape her attention that the woodsman did not return the look.

  ‘We have an advantage, then,’ said Akyar. ‘She did not expect us to get this far.’

  ‘What about guards?’ asked Anya, her voice low.

  Akyar shook his head. ‘I don’t hear any. She knows we’re trying to get out; they’ll all be looking for us.’

  ‘Where would she stash the boy?’ asked Vedic.

  ‘The dungeon?’ suggested Anya, although she didn’t want to go down there.

  ‘We should just search from the top down,’ said Akyar, shaking his head. ‘What if we miss somewhere?’

  Vedic nodded. ‘It’s risky, but we don’t have much choice.’

  They made their way up to the top floor of the palace. There were two rooms on that floor. Both doors were locked, and Vedic was forced to knock the handle off the first. The noise put them all on edge as they entered the room. The air was fetid with the stench of herbs and earth. The smell was deeply familiar to Anya, who had lain in a fever while Vedic treated
her with a similar-smelling unction. The memory distorted her perception of the room. Anya felt as if someone had walked on her grave.

  The god lay naked save for the tangled sheet barely covering him, unmoving save for the slow rise and fall of his hair-covered chest. His eyes were closed, and his hair was matted with sweat, and there was no mistaking the badly mauled body.

  ‘Pan,’ said Akyar, rushing to his side. ‘What the hell has she done to him?’

  ‘Not the Morrigan,’ said Vedic, shaking his head. ‘Wolves. They’ve tortured him.’

  ‘He’s in a mess,’ said Anya.

  ‘We can’t leave him.’ Akyar looked at Vedic. ‘He’ll die.’

  ‘I doubt he’ll die,’ said Vedic, sheathing his sword, ‘or he’d be dead already. But you’re right, we can’t leave him.’

  The woodsman walked over to the Tream’s side and wrapped the god in the sheet.

  ‘This is going to be really hard. He’s not light,’ said the Tream.

  ‘I’ll carry him,’ said Vedic. ‘First things first though.’

  The woodsman pulled a small pouch from the fold of his jerkin. He opened it, and his companions got a faint whiff of a pungent, salty smell that the woodsman placed beneath the god’s nose. Pan’s bloodshot eyes opened, his hand slapping the salt from Vedic’s hands.

  ‘Welcome back.’ The woodsman gave the god a wry smile.

  Pan coughed a couple of times before looking at the three faces staring back at him. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Rescuing you,’ said Anya, trying to lift him upright in the bed.

  ‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ he groaned, trying to push Anya’s hands away. ‘You should be saving Danu. Only she can end this.’

  ‘Lie still,’ said Anya. She grabbed a sponge that lay near the bed, and pressed its cool surface to the god’s forehead. The skin was hot enough to fry an egg.

  ‘You must go,’ said Pan, trying to push her away feebly. ‘She wants you to come. Then she can lock you up and take the boy to him.’