Illegal Gods

by James K. Pratt

  “Ignore Avison. Come with us. We are headed to the palace,” Chelsea says.

  The orc just smiles kindly at me while looking over his shoulder as he takes the lead.

  That orc healed me somehow. Yet, I couldn’t heal myself. What is the source of his powers? For that matter, what is his name?

  Then I see the real prize. Erich is at the rear of the group as we stride down the King’s Road toward the palace. He is one of the four heroes of the city. I once watched the four heroes for fun as they went on missions for the Royal Family. His adventuring party’s banner hung from the palace wall before the riot burned it. But he’s different now; a burn covers half his face. And his eyes are less confident now. Nonetheless, a weakened, sad hero is better than an atheist and a young, probably inexperienced female wizard.

  I move to Chelsea’s side as we near the palace.

  “Here,” she says, taking the spear strapped to her back. “Take this. You may need it.”

  Atheist Priest

  Curious about the healing powers of this orc, I walk up to Chelsea and say, “Tell me about the orc.”

  Chelsea’s eyes narrow as she walks beside me. “His name is Swin Dei ‘El, not orc.”

  Like his name matters. “He touched me, and I felt better, instantly.”

  “Really?”

  I’ve never understood why mortals ask silly questions like that. I just stated what happened, so why ask? “How did it do it?”

  Chelsea’s face reddens. That means the mortal is angry. Reading people’s faces is a useful tool. They do these things without thinking, making the face sometimes a more truthful guide to their thoughts than their words are.

  Chelsea replies, “Again, his name is Swin, not “it,” Ningal.”

  She’s offended. I handled this poorly. My mission is to glue these allies to my cause, not make them angry with me. I must remember, as long as I pretend to be human, I must use tact. They think I am one of them, after all. If I appeared as a goddess, I wouldn’t need it, but any god might see me. And the gods are watching, even now.

  Chelsea is walking ahead now, talking with the half-orc, Swindle. He looks over his shoulder. The girl gestures for me to catch up. I do so.

  When I catch up, the orc whispers, “I felt power leave me when I touched you. Then you felt better?”

  “Yes, right away.”

  Chelsea and Swindle look at each other. The half-breed orc nods and walks on. That leaves me with questions. How, orc? How did you do it?

  Chelsea’s gaze fixes on me “Tell no one.”

  “Very well,” I say. The orc must be an atheist. He gets his power from this old God. She’s covering for this orc. The audacity. Fine. My fight isn’t to understand the metaphysics of my healing. It’s to save the city.

  “What are you children prattling about?” says Avison.

  Chelsea glares back at Avison and says, “Nothing.”

  I want to ask Swin if he’s an atheist. If he is a priest of this God, then this God makes bad choices. If this God wants power over his people, he should choose princesses and kings of great kingdoms. Swin is an orc, and all orcs are low. At the very least, a smart God would choose from a superior race like a human or an elf.

  But my father’s choices are not always obvious, either. What does this God know that I don’t? Perhaps there is a strategy for choosing an orc. Does this God wish to create a following among the downtrodden inferior races? This unnamed God has little power on Earth that I see. So perhaps this God knows nothing. But I’ll keep an eye on this orc, for the time being. I may even be able to use him to my ends.

  I have only four people. Well, Chelsea mentioned the Inn and said we are looking for Corvinus, a very good wizard, and then heading to the palace where there will be more people. There is no better help that I can see. The rest of the people are hiding, scared.

  I look up to the clouds with my god-site and see a cone of yellow strobes across the city. The cone comes over us. The mortals do not see it. A god is searching the city and looking over us. Are they looking for me or just looking at the situation? I doubt anyone knows I am gone, but if they are searching for me, they haven't seen me yet.

  But I'll have to be careful, though. If I break my cover, I will be found out.

  Lost Wizards

  The mortals cover their nose at the smell of death. The corpse of a goblin lies in the street just outside the house of Corvinus. No fires are visible, but black smoke lazily hovers in the streets like fog. The goblin’s stomach has been eaten. The rib cage is open and the contents litter the street. Eaten by ghouls, no doubt. Shattered glass lays around him. Three stories above, a window is broken. He must have fallen, and then eaten.

  “Maybe this is the goblin that stalked your group,” Avison says.

  Erich nods. “Maybe.”

  “You don’t think the goblin at the Inn is the one who stalked your group, do you?” Avison asks.

  Erich shook his head.

  The house remains quiet. The door stands ajar. Not a good sign, considering the riot and the ghouls.

  I remember that Corvinus is a powerful, ninth-tier wizard. I loved watching him from the clouds. If he were still alive, I would sense that power and see him, but I don’t.

  “Erich,” I say. “He’s not here.” We’re wasting time.

  A flash of irritation crosses his face and vanishes. “We’ll see.”

  Avison looks to the orc. “You first.”

  The orc kicks the door wide open with his boot. Looking past the threshold with a fanning gaze, the orc mutters, “Hello?”

  Avison chuckles at the greeting.

  Swin steps in. Silence.

  I looked at Erich. His eyes are fixed on the orc, his features sunken and sad. He steps up to the door and sticks his head inside. “Corvinus?”

  I lose sight of the orc as it steps further into the wizard's home.

  Erich looks back to Chelsea, Avison, and me. “Avison, take Chelsea and Ningal. Check the bottom floor for threats. Secure the doors. Then stay there and make sure nothing follows us into the house. I’ll take the orc and check the top floor and then we’ll work our way back down.”

  “Got it. And his name is Swindle," Chelsea says.

  "Uh, Swindle. Right," Erich says, disappearing into the house.

  I don’t step into the house right away. I’ve been in human form only a short time, and taking on mortal flesh makes me feel vulnerable. Avison goes first, his short sword at the ready. Then Chelsea enters, holding her breath as she walks in. Her gaze swings from right to left, although it is unlikely that something is waiting after all three men have already entered the house, and each has looked around. How is it that they would have missed something? But like all mortals, she fears death to the point of being illogical.

  Then I step in. It does not appear that there was a fight in this place. There is a table in the living room surrounded by enough chairs to host a half-dozen guests.

  “Lock the door, Ningal,” Chelsea says.

  I do just that.

  The floor above creaks. I look through the ceiling with my god-sight and see the orc looking about. Erich joins him.

  I switch back to normal sight. On the first floor, Chelsea stands at the doorway of the kitchen. Her spine straightens and the rest of her body stiffens.

  A painful moan calls from the kitchen.

  “Ningal,” Chelsea whispers. She walks backward, not taking her eyes off the kitchen doorway.

  Already I see sweat on her forehead. I have no idea what’s going on.

  Chelsea whispers some words. It’s a magic spell. The dim room gets darker. She’s doing a shadow spell. It forms around the two of us. I can barely see myself, but I do see beyond the darkness.

  From the kitchen comes a groan. Undead no doubt.

  My god-sight sees something coming to life with a faint glow—coming to undead life, anyway. It must have died last night, and the magical spark of undeath has just started to glow.

  Chelsea y
anks me close to her and pulls me to a corner of the living room. We’re hidden in her magical shadow, next to a plain wooden chair beside the fireplace.

  Avison sits on the stairs, staring into the kitchen. Sheathing his short sword, his mouth curves into a smile.

  “What is he doing?” Chelsea whispers.

  “He doesn't appear worried,” I say.

  While the two of us huddle in Chelsea’s shadow, she readies her wand.

  Sweat runs down my forehead. Even I am starting to fear like a mortal. But I can’t see anything with mortal sight from the kitchen yet.

  Footfalls pad on the floor, and Chelsea lets out a worried squeal. But still, we see nothing.

  From the kitchen, I hear two more shuffling steps. Then a dirty girl shambles into the living room. Black hair drapes over its face. It takes two more steps. The skin on its arm hangs like a loose cloth. The creature is undead but is not a ghoul. It was a girl maybe as old as Chelsea, or perhaps a small woman. I can't tell.

  “Help me,” it says in a weak voice.

  “It’s talking!” Chelsea gasps.

  The undead creature grunts, then stumbles toward us.

  Chelsea aims her wand at the creature and whispers a few words. The tip of the wand glows. Our shadow shrinks back from the magical glow, and a wisp of light flashes into the air, burning into the undead’s face.

  Chelsea’s shadow vanishes. The undead creature’s head turns to us. It stumbles our way. But then our shadow reforms over us. The dead girl stops. It can’t see us. We are in the dark again.

  This girl wizard is not well educated. Otherwise, she would know her wand's “true light” spells would peel back her shadow.

  Chelsea mutters her spells while pointing her wand. This time, she kneels. The dead girl’s arms reach out into the empty space at the edge of our shadow.

  A thin flash of yellow light hits the monster in the head, and the creature lets out a gurgling roar.

  Chelsea gasps, still in her shadow. She has the monster’s undivided attention.

  Avison says, “Hurry now, girls.”

  I realize I’ve been holding a spear. I scream and lunge at the monster, who, upon seeing me, lurches in my direction and eats the tip of my spear with her chest, almost willingly.

  Pulling the blade out, I thrust it into her chest again, but it doesn’t act hurt, even as it falls to the ground with flailing arms and feet. A flash of light zips through, smacking a wall. Chelsea’s wand missed badly.

  The smell of death gushes from the monster’s wound, but no blood appears on the tip of my spear. Chelsea’s shadow comes over the monster. She fires her wand again, blasting the monster’s face.

  Silence.

  Avison laughs. “First off, Ningal, you should have used your spear sooner. You, Chelsea, should have known that shadow and light spells don’t work well together.”

  Then Avison steps down the stairs. “I’ll secure the kitchen. That is the safest lesson in fighting the undead that you will get.”

  Chelsea whimpers, her head falling into her hands as she sits in a chair.

  Palace

  Time drags as Chelsea and I wait in silence beside an undead corpse. Erich and Swindle march down the stairs. The orc’s face is filled with concern as he stares at the undead monster. “We heard a noise. What happened?”

  “The creature must have hidden in the kitchen while it still lived. Avison sat on the stairs while we fought it,” Chelsea answers.

  “I let them handle the creature. It’s the only lesson they are going to get,” Avison says.

  Erich sighs and looks at Chelsea. “It seems that you’re going to be the best wizard we have for now. How do you like that?”

  "Not at all," Chelsea says.

  Swin kicks the fallen zombie. “Someone was wounded here, probably Corvinus, but whoever it was has left. Maybe Corvinus is alive somewhere.”

  They won’t find him. Corvinus is not in the city. Not alive, anyway.

  ***

  We walk to the palace. Erich tries not to show it, but he is sad. I know how to read humans. Mortals reveal their emotions in many ways. Erich’s gaze is to the ground. His brow is low to his eyes. Occasionally he sighs. Chelsea told me Erich lost one friend earlier today, and I think that whatever he saw upstairs told him his friend Corvinus is dead as well.

  It’s about more than his friends. Erich’s face is burned, and I notice he is carrying his sword on his right hip, meaning he’ll wield it with his left hand. Since his body is covered in armor, no other wounds are visible, but he must have badly burned his right side, forcing him to use his opposite hand.

  He has every right to feel depressed. For humans, death is a constricting snake that tightens itself around every mortal's neck. I know I wouldn’t like it.

  Erich puts his hand on Chelsea’s shoulder and says, “Sorry about the rude things Avison said about your friend.”

  “You didn’t do anything,” Chelsea says, kicking a stone in the road. “So, it’s not you who needs to apologize.”

  Avison looks over his shoulder. “Well, I’m not going to, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “There is something you need to know about Avison,” Erich continues. “He wanted to be a priest but was rejected. I think that is where all his self-righteousness comes from.”

  Neither Erich nor Chelsea says anything. Swindle, if he’s listening, doesn’t say anything either. He remains ten paces ahead of everyone else, looking out for danger.

  Chelsea looks to Erich. “How did you burn your hand and your face?”

  We walk into the shadow of the robin’s egg blue colored palace. A trail of dried blood leads towards its double doors, as if bloodied fighters had retreated into the palace. Or, more likely, were defeated and dragged in. Magic blocks my god-sight view, and only a god can do that. Anu, what did you do inside? What are you doing?

  The orc tries opening the giant wooden doors, then looks to Chelsea. “It’s locked.”

  “I’ll open it.” Chelsea takes out weird tools used by robbers.

  Is this girl not only a friend of the orc but also a thief?

  Avison scoffs, “Odd skill for a girl to have.”

  Chelsea frowns at the man. “Trust me.”

  But after a few minutes of tinkering, she fails to open the door. Avison sighs and rolls his eyes.

  “I’ve got this,” Chelsea protests, but her eyes remain fixed on the lock.

  “Are you a thief, girl?” Avison asks, crossing his arms.

  “I never stole anything in my life. But if I hadn’t learned this, I’d never have been able to do magic,” Chelsea replies as she continues tinkering.

  Lock-picking allowed her to learn magic?

  “You really think you can unlock the palace door?” Avison crosses his arms.

  “Yes, the real security is the guards.”

  Was, more likely.

  Avison grunts in reply to Chelsea.

  The door made a thumping sound. “You’re welcome,” Chelsea says.

  Swindle kicks open the doors. The palace floor gleams with blood half dried under the torchlights hanging inside. Armor lay empty. Its former owner’s bones lay scattered near the door and further in, where darkness meets the light. Near the entrance, a skull stares blankly as if warning us not to enter. This doesn’t bode well for the princess. I really liked her.

  No one speaks.

  Erich takes a torch from the wall and gives it to the orc. Without a word, Swin takes it.

  “Be careful, Swindle,” Chelsea says.

  The orc smiles back at her, “I’ll be fine.”

  The half-breed enters, holding the torch before him.

  I hate walking on a floor sticky with blood. I think the floor is stone, but there is so much blood, I can’t tell.

  Pushing the gore from my thoughts, I focus on Chelsea. She opened the door when the other two older men, Avison and Erich, could not. They are older and more experienced than her.

  If this girl—despite h
er poverty—learned to do magic and pick locks, then even as ugly as many of them are, and as badly dressed and stupid as they may be, maybe there are a few gems among the dirty poor. Chelsea is certainly a smarter and prettier exception. Yes, I suppose she’s pretty in a poorly dressed and rugged sort of way . . . I do like her.

  Surely, she hangs around a bad lot, like the orc. That will need to be changed. The orc is holding her back.

  Well, the orc did help me with the sickness. Yet he is an orc. That one act of healing me does not excuse it for being an orc.

  Swindle gasps and everyone else stiffens.

  The half-breed orc stands at the end of the hall where it widens to the throne room.

  Chelsea whispers, “What?”

  Erich gestures for her to be quiet.

  I hold my breath. I hate having to breathe.

  Swindle gestures for everyone to proceed. He points in the direction of the throne.

  Before the throne, a menagerie of gore, bones, and armor lay among human hair. Swin’s torch sheds light upon the throne. A dark form shrouded in a dirty robe remains on the seat.

  Swindle walks forward, his gait narrower than before. His light shines on a single man who sits in the main hall. One eye is caked with dried blood; the other stares at us, unblinking. His beard has bits of flesh dangling, as if he’d feasted on guards perhaps.

  “He’s not watching through me yet,” says the man on the throne.

  “Who?” Avison asks.

  I know who. I should not have come. Anu may be near.

  The strange man ignores their question. “Does my daughter live?” He looks to the orc and to Chelsea.

  "Yes," Chelsea answers.

  That seems to give him great relief and he lets out a sigh.

  “Off the throne, man," Avison orders.

  Shut up you fool.

  The strange man ignores the Avison.

  Chelsea steps forward. “We are sorry. We thought we’d killed you.

  Sorry we didn't kill you? What does that mean?

  “You tried,” the unblinking man says. His eyes narrow and look to the ground.