Dagger 3 - God of Emptiness

by Walt Popester

  This was their residence at Sabbath—a peaceful place where they could take shelter near and far from the worries of power. Dagger hid his face in his hands and heard distant voices, jokes, clinking mugs and forks on plates. The laughter of a child in the arms of his father, and that of a woman. He was sure he could hear all that. Then a breath of wind stirred the dust and silence took over again. That time will come—one day, you’ll see—when we can all be friends.

  He saw a mouse squeeze below the dresser and disappear from view. He knelt down and pushed it along the wall. Beyond lay a dark hole—a corner of the whole world that belonged to Heathen alone. Dagger watched the stars and the moons drawn on a black sky. The paint was falling apart. The sand had already begun to take back possession of that small place that someone had stolen from the never-ending desert.

  We both deserved better, Heathen…

  He picked up a pendant, and already knew what he would see once he opened it: the portrait of Heathen’s father, Varg Belhaven, opposite that of a woman—a mother who fate had forced quiet like so many other times before.

  A ribbon of pain bonds mortals through time. That of loss, abandonment and farewells. Dagger felt like an intruder. This pain and solitude didn’t belong to him. He put the pendant where he’d found it and pushed the furniture back to its place. He left the room, closed the door, and turned his back to the light to go downstairs.

  The door to the outside was thrown open.

  It was Warren. “Where is he?”

  Dagger looked at him, saying nothing. He advanced slowly, drawing Solitude. The white blood knelt down.

  Are you in, Olem?

  CLANG! the sword replied, and the chains were broken.

  Warren looked at his hands, as if surprised to find them still in their place.

  “He’s waiting for you upstairs.”

  The white blood rushed upstairs. Dagger found him with Ash in his arms.

  “No,” War only said, holding his brother’s head against his chest. “No!”

  Dag came up and laid a finger on Ash’s carotid. “He’s still alive. If you need to clean your conscience, tell him something now.”

  Warren looked up. “Give me your sword.”

  It was Ash to reply, “Do not…don’t do it, War…let me go.”

  “What’s on your mind, War?”

  “Saving his life, one way or another.”

  “War, don’t…disturb…Olem.”

  “Give me that sword, for Ktisis!” Warren took advantage of Dagger’s hesitation and grabbed Solitude.

  Dagger didn’t stop him, but he realized he would regret it when the white blood used Solitude to hurt his shoulder. “Argh!”

  The greedy metal sucked Dagger’s divine blood and shone bright enough to paint the walls red. Scarlet veining appeared all along the blade’s surface, constantly changing direction and throbbing.

  It’s my blood…my blood flowing in Solitude!

  The infernal howl of the exiled Dracon filled the room thick with dust and corruption. It was soon joined by the scream of War, as the smoke rose between his burned fingers. The handle was glowing. Solitude was rebelling.

  In an effort to oppose him, Ash rolled off the bed. “Don’t wake him up!”

  “Give my brother a new skin! Olem, I invoke you!”

  The sword penetrated the slim, flayed body of Ash. A choral cry of pain followed, that of Olem and the two brothers joined together. Bundles of fibrous, aberrant tissue erupted from the wound, covering again the extreme nakedness of Ash’s muscles. They wrapped what remained of his body, mimicking grotesquely its shapes with deformed, calloused protrusions. Dagger plugged his ears, raising his face to look at his sword. The thin veining composed a monstrous, long face. It was Olem. And he was angry.

  “Forgive me, brother!” Warren and Dag cried.

  The sword fell to the ground and the twilight of the desert resumed its control over the world.

  The power of the sword had healed Ash, raising a yellowish smoke in the air.

  It smells like roast chicken. Out of hunger, Dagger was horrified to find it an inviting aroma.

  Warren fell to the ground, his hair falling back to reveal the unusual sight of his face contracted by crying. He crawled to his brother, embraced him and protected him with his own burned hands. He snuggled against his deformed back while Ash still screamed, his every muscle stiffened by pain.

  Black lines—dark capillaries under the hard, deformed skin—sprang from the wound on Ash’s side, branching out and crossing like a spider’s web. They took possession of his neck and face, returning it to unconsciousness.

  Dagger picked up the blade from the ground and sheathed it back. “What did you do?”

  War didn’t answer immediately. He caressed his brother, then replied, “I have nobody left but him.”

  Dagger stared with a mixture of horror and comprehension in his eyes, then turned his back to Warren and went downstairs. He put down his sword, sat at the head of the table, and grabbed a silver knife. Holy shit…He stuck it into the wood and turned it several times between his fingers, contemplating its long, sharp blade.

  He heard War slowly climbing down the stairs.

  The slanting rays coming through the windows put Warren’s body in alternate light and darkness until he sat down at the other end of the table, half of his face already delivered to the dark.

  They didn’t speak until sunset laid its red carpet over the world.

  “You must help me,” the white blood finally said.

  “Really? To do what?”

  “To reach the Sanctuary. Only there can they heal Ash and fix what I did.”

  “And maybe fix what Varg did to you.”

  The white blood opened his mouth to reply, closed it, and finally said, “I’ll never be like—”

  “Like me?” Dagger felt sorry for him. He knew Warren’s pain. Oh, War…“That should be you in his place. You betrayed us.”

  “Do you have any idea what he did to me?”

  “Yes, now you’re one of them.”

  “Oh. That. No, I’ll become a Disciple only after I die.” Warren drummed his fingers on the table. “My misfortune started some time ago, and only because of you. Mumakil wanted to get to you, and he used me.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not the first time that I happen to be the ruin of someone, and of his thousand, twisted plans.” Dagger was still turning the knife between his fingers. He listened, afraid to hear a flapping of wings or animal cries, but silence reigned. “What did he do to you? I’ve never heard you say please like when you cheated us and gave us to Mumakil.”

  Warren offered a tired and amused sound. “Was I really so proud once?”

  “An asshole. Once. Who are you now?”

  “Mumakil possesses the ability to make you see things with eyes that you didn’t even think you had; extraordinary visions, so powerful that—in comparison—those given by Araya’s mushrooms seem everyday scenes. Mumakil found me and helped me to see reason. He showed me how crazy Araya’s plan is.”

  “You mean fucking Erin?”

  “Stop it.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Creation or Destruction—it’s a law of nature. You can’t have one if you decide to serve the other. I saw it, Dag. And you don’t want to see what will happen if Creation and Destruction were fused together in the same creature.”

  The Cry of Mankind. Dagger shuddered as he thought that name, but he forced himself to say, “That fucking preacher has manipulated your thoughts.”

  “Maybe.” The white blood drove away a beetle which was climbing a pile of rancid cheese. He leaned forward, clasping his hands in front of his face. “Or maybe what he showed me was enough to push me to take a drastic decision, when Erin revealed to me that she was pregnant.”

  “She only asked you to talk to me, damn you.”

  “Telling Warren what to do is always a risk.”

  “Sometimes I forget it.” The son of Skyrgal shook his head.
“But that was Araya’s plan. Erin said that, too. If it’s so wrong, then how can it be…Araya’s plan?”

  Warren thought about it. “Because the Messhuggah doesn’t know, because the Messhuggah is blackmailed.” He stared at him. “Or because the Messhuggah wants. And I don’t know which option scares me the most. Communicating with him has become impossible since the Fortress was laid siege to by Agalloch citizens. Those walls which once were our home have become a silent, dark shape against the horizon. We’re alone, you dig it?”

  “Or maybe it’s always the usual fourth option.”

  “Which one?”

  “You’re saying a bunch of crap.”

  Warren sighed wearily.

  Erin was right, Dagger thought. He does look aged. “Did Mumakil plan what happened today at the tower?”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me. His real purpose was getting his hands on Erin and the creature in her womb, but Mumakil knew that Missy would come out of the closet as soon as you were back in the open air, and he meant to get rid of Sabbath now that it was no use to him anymore. If that mess was not his work, he surely didn’t do anything to avoid it.”

  “This means he took into account your torture, and that of Ash too. That was not an incident. He wanted to get rid of you too, now that you were…useless to him. But maybe the result went a little beyond his expectations.”

  The white blood didn’t answer.

  “And you’re not okay with being used this way, right War? Some blackened pride still burns at the bottom of your raped mind.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Dag shooed another beetle. “Seriously. Why do you think that I’ll follow you?”

  “Because to face a trip on this side of Agalloch walls two swords are better than one, and you’re a little short of allies. Because that’s where the Hermit was seen the last time, as the Agent Orange told you.”

  “Give me a third reason, and you’ve won the first prize.”

  “Because that’s where the Hermit is, as Mumakil revealed to me.”

  The silver knife stopped dancing in Dagger’s hands and divided their gazes.

  The white blood smiled for a moment, then a thousand troubled thoughts darkened his eyes.

  “And this is how you tell me?”

  “How should I do it, hopping on one hand?”

  “Mumakil is lying. He…”

  War shook his head. “No. It was the Hermit to reduce him so, and Mumakil wants you to keep away from that man…or whatever the Hermit has become now.” He moved a wine-stained cork back and forth. “But I’ll go there with or without you, that’s clear. My brother must live, and I’ll never be like you.”

  “Like me?”

  “Without any bond.”

  Yeah, now we’re similar, right? Dagger thought. We both run away from a power that we don’t want and which flows inside us. Funny that our two paths crossed this way. Then one word swept all his thoughts and doubts away: Hotankars. “I will not leave Ash alone.” He stroked Solitude as he continued, “But I warn you: if you get me in trouble like this again, you won’t enjoy any benefit.”

  Warren returned his gaze through the dim light. “Don’t expect me to die for you. Now we’re necessary to each other, but our paths will split when the time comes.”

  “I should be the one to say that.”

  “No. You need people, that’s your problem, and you’ll hide behind my skirt as you did with all those who left the door ajar for you.”

  “If that’s how you mean to tell me that you’ll dress differently from now on, that’s okay with me. I’m broadminded.”

  Warren didn’t seem to get the joke. “We didn’t talk often, you and I. So it’s better to specify once and for all that I hate everything that you stand for. I hate that you’re still human, and at times it seems to me that we’re almost similar, that I understand you and feel close to you. Definitely, I hate that with the current situation—my current situation—this will happen more and more often. I hate that I feel sympathetic to you. I hate to see you happy. I hate to see you suffer. I hate when you make me laugh even though I try not to show it. I hate when you escape the control of those who know all these fucking matters better than you. I hate what happened to you, and the people to whom you caused death or exile. I hate you even more since Mumakil showed me what you can do. I hate the divine blood flowing inside your veins, and now even inside mine. But most of all, I hate you!”

  There was silence.

  Dagger said. “Our divine blood doesn’t flow inside our veins. It seems like a liquid silver with the black blood inside it. You saw it that night, a real show.”

  “Who cares.”

  “You used to be so accurate.” With a blow of his middle finger, Dagger drove away the stubborn beetle. “I want no showdown with you, Warren. I have too many enemies to fight.”

  The white blood shook his head. “Not one more of those you wanted or deserved. You’re a resourceful individual, and you’ll get what you want like all those who preceded you. Including Olem—that mutt.”

  Dagger bowed his head, but said nothing. The priority was another. “Let’s march.”

  “We won’t move in the sunlight. They knew of your arrival at Sabbath since days ago, you idiots! Enemy eyes fill the sky, and they expect us to come out. We’ll march only at night until the day will become a distant memory.”

  “In which direction?”

  “South.” Warren looked out of the windows. It was a matter of minutes before the sun disappeared below the horizon. “And, unfortunately, even east. Where they all await us.”

  *

  7. The Candid Heart of Hell

  Whatever happens, I’ll be there for you. I swear, cross my heart and hope to die!

  Ian, where are you brother?

  I’m here, sister!

  Erin opened her eyes in the dim light. She was lying on a soft carpet, and was surrounded by multicolored pillows embellished with pearls and precious stones. A breath of wind embraced the curtains around her in a slow, sinuous dance. They were so thin that they gave her a glimpse of what lay beyond. There were braziers with burning incense, trunks and exquisite oriental-crafted furniture, and the entrance to the giant tent—a slit of light.

  She felt a sudden pain, sat bolt upright and put her hands to her belly. The pangs followed one another stronger and stronger, cutting off her breath in her throat. She lay on her side and tried to breathe, when—fast as they had come—the cramps ceased.

  She opened her eyes. My baby…my baby. What they did to me while I was dead? Is it still inside me or not?

  She wore only a semitransparent robe of white silk and was barefoot but for a golden anklet on her right foot. She walked through the ethereal barrier and took a few steps on the wool—a new feeling after so much wandering on stones and sand. She smelled herself and realized she had been perfumed. Jasmine? She liked that story less and less.

  She went outside and found herself at the center of a great camp. The tent in which she had awakened was probably in the middle of it, where its two main avenues intersected. The first thing she saw was a column of naked, bloody slaves of every age and sex chained together by their necks. Some were loaded onto carts and carried away. Some were being whipped and wounded.

  Some have been punished, she realized when she saw a block of wood surrounded by amputated hands. Of all sizes.

  She turned around and went back inside, closing the curtain behind her and cursing. Only then did she notice the other women, lying all around and all nude. At first glance, those shadows in the dark had seemed part of the furniture. They stood up and drew near. They silently stripped her and pushed her in a copper bathtub.

  “No, please. Stop that,” Erin tried to say, but they washed her with a force disguised as kindness. They made her wear a green silk robe which made her eyes stand out, and a hairnet of golden thread. With firm gestures they invited her to lie down on the bed and the soft pillows; with their eyes they asked her not to cause problems in
the name of Ktisis or any other god she held dear.

  “Can’t you talk?” she asked.

  One of the slaves looked away. Erin grabbed her face, pressing her cheeks and forcing her to open her mouth. No. They definitely can’t talk. Erin stared into space while the girl wiggled free.

  “You must help me. I must understand what happened to me.”

  The slaves didn’t even look up to her.

  I’m part of the furniture, too, Erin thought.

  It was then that he came inside. He wore voluminous green and red robes, sandals embroidered with rubies and emeralds, and golden chains in his long, black, braided hair.

  His dark, intense eyes stared at her. Some details of his face slowly took shape in the gloom, his full lips, his soft amber skin, and his prominent cheekbones. He would have been a nice-looking man, were it not for the deep scar that cut through his left cheek and opened the border of his mouth in a perpetual grin. “My precious.” He approached.

  “Where I come from, you introduce yourself before kidnapping someone.”

  He slapped her with his giant hand, hard enough to make her fall to the ground. “Tell me who you are.”

  “If I already belong to you, you can go ahead and give me a name.”

  The man looked fearsome. Then he smiled—this time for real. “You must be one of those lively little fillies who always try to escape. I love when you struggle and I hold you in my arms, cuddling and kissing you on your bare back. In your eyes I read a wild spirit waiting to be tamed, but have no fear. I know how to do that. And I have the time. It takes a lot to round up the slaves these defenseless lands can offer. The Tankars call me the Great Pastor. To the Disciples of Asa, I’m just the mad butcher. To the Guardians, I’m Orgor the disgusting pig.”

  Erin felt her breath stuck in her throat. “I’ve heard your name.”

  He nodded once. “This is good. Now you’ll want to return my courtesy and tell me who you really are. A weird black man paid me your weight in gold to take you away to a certain place. And I’ll do that, because it’s better not to upset similar individuals. But, for Ktisis, I demand to know what you are.”