The Hollow God (Swords and Saints Book 3)

by JA Hutson

  I have to find out more.

  I approach the three hunched boys, scuffing my boots loudly so that they’ll know I’m coming. None of them look up, intent on their game. I lean over to see what has so fascinated them . . . and then draw back in disgust. A circle has been sketched roughly in what looks to be blood on a large piece of slate, and inside are a number of glassy orbs. Some are large and some are small, but all contain strips of color. Blue, green, brown, amber . . . round, slitted, teardrop. Eyes. They’re playing with eyes.

  One of the boys flicks the brilliantly blue eye in front of him and it skitters across the stone to knock what looks to be a yellow lizard’s eye out of the circle. He hisses in triumph and plucks it from where it has ended up, then deposits it among a pile of other mismatched eyes he has accumulated.

  I clear my throat loudly, and the three boys turn in unison to stare up at me. “I know you. I’ve seen you before.”

  “We”

  “Know”

  “You.”

  They speak smoothly, without any pause, each of the children uttering a different word.

  “Then you are the spirit under the hill. The poelthari.”

  “Yes,” says one of them simply.

  My throat is dry. I remember the overwhelming presence that had permeated the barrow, how it dominated Bell and the other scholars and compelled them to search without respite for a way to open the Gates. The image of skeletons in tattered robes slumped over open books comes to me unbidden. This creature – or creatures – displayed no qualms about forcing those it ensnared to research unceasingly until they died.

  “I thought you’d be long gone,” I say.

  The three children stare at me, their huge golden eyes unblinking. Finally one of them smiles, baring pointed teeth.

  “Curiosity”

  “Has”

  “Always”

  “Been”

  “Our”

  “Greatest”

  “Weakness.”

  “Then are you trapped here again? And can you please speak with one voice? It’s disconcerting.”

  Hissing chuckles, but two of the children close their eyes, as if going to sleep.

  The last of the poelthari holds my gaze, and with this comes a tingling caress against my skin, which makes me shiver. I feel something flit through my mind, different than the brute domination of a Voice. Still, the violation angers me.

  “Trapped? No. We have regained what was lost and can again walk the elsewheres.” A long tongue emerges to slide along pointed teeth. “Something strange and deadening had sapped our powers beneath the hollow hill. We came here because this world is the most interesting facet of this Creation.”

  “Creation?”

  The creature blinks rapidly, as if searching for a way to express what it means. “Creation. The worlds created by this Maker.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know any Maker.”

  The poelthari flashes another feral grin. “Oh, you do. You’ve been in his shadow since you came to this place. He has been watching you.”

  I think back to the massive skull brooding over the landscape. “You mean the skull? It’s alive?”

  “To beings such as us such designations are meaningless. We exist or we do not. The Maker of these worlds does not anymore.”

  “He . . . made this world? All the worlds? Even the one where you were trapped?”

  The serpentine tongue flickers again. “Many Makers, many elsewheres. But all you have ever known was fashioned by his hand.”

  “And now he’s gone,” I say softly, turning to see if I can see any part of the thing’s white cranium through the rents in the ruin’s walls.

  My attention snaps back to the poelthari as something occurs to me. “Did the Shriven kill him? The Mother?”

  Another hissing laugh. “In a way. The thoughts of a Maker always become real, for good or ill. He dreamed of your worlds and they were summoned forth. But not all thoughts are harmless, and after many long years the Maker doubted what he had wrought. He knew it to be flawed. And so that doubt took root inside him, and became a poison. And thus the creatures you call the Shriven were born, like maggots from corrupted meat. They are a god’s misgivings made flesh.” The poelthari smiles again. “So fascinating. That is why we have stayed. To watch this elsewhere unravel.”

  “Can these . . . maggots be killed?”

  The creature cocks its head oddly. “Anything that exists can be made to not exist. Whether you have the capability to do such a thing we do not know. We suspect not, but those from this elsewhere have surprised us before.”

  So it is possible, however unlikely. A better answer than I expected.

  Ghostly fingers flutter through my thoughts. “Mortal . . . we recognize that you did us a great service. And so we would do something for you as well. There is a . . . barrier in your mind. An obstruction. We could remove it, if you so desire.”

  Cold surprise floods me. Is the poelthari offering to restore my lost memories? I thought I’d wanted that for so long . . . but did I truly? I struggle to meet the creature’s burning eyes.

  “Give me some time,” I manage before stumbling away.

  “Talin.”

  I open my eyes to find Deliah leaning over me. My head feels like it is stuffed with straw, and I blink away the last vestiges of sleep as I sit up. Twilight has fallen outside, the sky visible through the gaps in the ceiling pricked by a few bright stars. Shadows swaddle the interior of the ruins, and a quick glance tells me that my companions are still sleeping like the dead. There’s no sign of the old man or the unnatural children.

  “Hm,” I grunt, swallowing away the dryness in my throat. “Is something wrong?”

  Deliah shakes her head curtly. “No. But I need to rest as well. You’ve slept away the afternoon.”

  I nod at this and struggle to my feet. The patch of grass-covered ground I’d found had been soft, but sharp pain still stabs at my lower back.

  “Yell if you see anything,” Deliah says through a yawn, then takes the same spot I’ve just vacated.

  “I will,” I murmur softly, finding where I left my sword. By the time I straighten again Deliah is already asleep. She must have been more exhausted than she showed.

  I slip outside and take a seat on a knob of rock that might once have been the base of a pillar. The sky has darkened further, the sun having already slipped beyond the horizon, and now only a few shreds of purple mar the black. More stars have emerged as well, strange patterns I’ve never seen before. The lone moon is a tarnished coin tossed up into the heavens, not bright enough to illuminate the great dark forest spread below me. I could be perched on a cliff overlooking a dark sea. There are no glimmers of light to suggest that any other tribes inhabit these wilds.

  A paradise. My eyes are drawn to the vast skull, the remnant – if the poelthari spoke true – of the one who made this world. Made all the worlds. The bone is more reflective than the canopy, and it glows with a ghostly radiance. What waits inside? If the Mother could murder a god, what hope do I have of killing her with a sword? I raise my weapon, studying the green-glass blade. An emerald light kindles deep within the sword, then begins to spread in branching veins. I don’t want the sword blazing like a torch for anything prowling below to see, so I slide it back into its sheath. There is power there – but enough power for what must be done?

  I set those thoughts aside for now. We must try, at least. Failure is likely, but any other path leads to the end of everything.

  Or does it? What did I know once that convinced me to aid the Shriven? I reach up and lightly touch my brow. Are there secrets locked in my head? Should I accept the poelthari’s offer and learn what I have forgotten? The thought both excites and frightens me. I’ve wanted to know who I was for so long . . . but what if Ezekal has spoken true? What if the man I am now vanished if I suddenly remembered?

  A gust of wind ripples the grass around me, sighing through the trees below. Branches rustle, whispering to
each other, and the plaintive cry of a lonely songbird drifts to me.

  This time a gentle shake of my shoulder is what wakes me. My eyes snap open, accompanied by a surge of panic. I’ve fallen asleep seated on the shattered pillar, and I must have slept through the night as a gray dawn has turned the sky to slate. Tendrils of mist slither down the hillside and vanish into the forest, which mercifully seems just as empty of demons as the last time I looked.

  “Good morning.”

  I glance over and find Bell crouched beside me holding two steaming cups. She’s also watching the woods below, her brow furrowed and lips pursed. I’ve seen this look before when she’s turning over something that defies an easy explanation. She should be relieved that the Shriven have vanished, but I can’t blame her for her unease. She appears refreshed – somewhere back in the ruins must be a source of fresh water large enough to bathe in, as her hair is plastered to her pale skin.

  “Morning,” I murmur. She looks at me and crooks a smile, offering one of the steaming cups. I take it, staring dubiously at what appears to be twigs floating in hot water.

  She notices my expression and chuckles throatily. “It’s good. Wakes you up.”

  I take a tentative sip and nearly spit it back out. So bitter. With some effort I swallow and shoot her a reproachful look.

  She laughs again, louder. It’s the first time in a long while I’ve heard her sound so unburdened.

  “You look good.”

  “Mm. There’s a hot spring deeper in the ruins. It feels glorious.”

  I glance behind me at the tumbled structure. “What do you think this place is?”

  Bell slurps her tea, her face growing contemplative. “My suspicion is that it used to be a temple. The large room where we slept has a cracked block of stone that I think was once an altar. The high ceiling reminds me of the houses of worship of the lost gods in Ysala.”

  “And would that make the old man a priest?”

  She nods. “I would not be surprised. I saw him this morning, before I went to wash. He was kneeling facing the west, muttering some mantra.”

  “Praying to the sun?” I squint at the gray sky. “He must have been disappointed.”

  “The sun isn’t the only thing to the west.”

  I look out over the sweep of trees, at the great leering skull. Low clouds shroud almost everything above the eye sockets.

  “That . . . makes some sense. That thing was once the god who made this world. And all the others, including ours.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Those strange children? They’re not really children.”

  Bell is silent for a moment, as if turning this over. “What are they?”

  I almost answer truthfully, but then catch myself. Bell was nearly traumatized by what happened to her in the poelthari’s lair.

  “I don’t know,” I say, and she must hear something in my voice as she glances at me sharply. She doesn’t press any further, though, and returns to sipping her tea.

  We share a silence as the sky begins to lighten, cracks of pink and orange fracturing the gray. A cool breeze rises, stirring her hair, and Bell tucks a stray strand behind her ear. She squints into the horizon, studying the great skull.

  When she speaks I think I’m going to hear about how such an object is beyond the realm of possibility, but instead she surprises me.

  “I hated her, you know,” she says quietly.

  “Who?”

  “Deliah. I thought . . . I thought I understood her.” Bell swallows, keeping her attention on the far distance. “And I was jealous.”

  I keep quiet, waiting.

  “I remember the first time I saw you. Stumbling back to camp with my papa, clothes still damp. I was sure you were some grifter who had recognized my papa’s overly trusting nature. And then your ridiculous stories of another world.” She shakes her head ruefully. “Now here we are, staring at the severed head of a dead god. What did my father say? Magic is just science that hasn’t been explained. Well, this explanation better be really good.” She chuckles softly, then sighs. “Through it all I’ve been waiting for you to realize that I was the one who really loved you. That the truth about the lamias’s affections would eventually come out.” She plucks the head of a purple blossom growing near her and tosses it away. “Yet instead I was the one who came to realize the truth of the situation. Deliah loves you as much as I do.”

  I don’t know how to respond to this. I can’t summon up the proper words, so I reach out and lay my hand on her arm. She glances at me quickly, then back at the horizon.

  Quiet descends between us again. Red banners have unfurled in the gray sky, burnishing the skull. Finally, she pats my hand and stands.

  I want to say something as her footsteps recede, but my words fail me.

  And then she’s gone.

  I finish my cup of tea as the morning continues to unfold, turning over what Bell said and regretting that I couldn’t express better what I wished to say. I wonder idly if before my memories were expunged I was better with women – I have to admit, if that is the case I would be tempted to take the poelthari up on their offer to restore me to the man I once was, evil bastard or not.

  Well, not truly.

  I return to the part of the ruin that the old man has turned into a semi-habitable living space. The others look to have been up for a while, busily packing up our supplies and preparing to depart. My heart sinks a little at this, given how comfortable the last day has been, but I know that we cannot stay here. The remains of a breakfast are strewn upon the table – the dismembered carcass of what might have once been a large bird, along with a medley of mushrooms and fruits – and the old man is again humming to himself as he tidies up the mess. Bell holds my gaze for a brief moment when she notices me, smiling almost sadly, and then turns back to stuffing her bag with some of the fruits. Ezekal looks miserable, the dark circles under his eyes suggesting he didn’t sleep well. Beside him, Valyra is a study in contrast, visibly refreshed and copper eyes bright.

  Deliah shoulders her bag and faces me. “We’re almost ready. Zev claims that the skull is three more days march through the forest. He’s given us enough supplies that we likely won’t have to forage for anything but water, and he says there are plenty of clean streams to drink on the way.”

  I nod and go to gather my own things. As I turn a jolt of surprise goes through me – the three strange children who claim to be the poelthari have snuck up silently and are watching me with their luminous golden eyes.

  “Have”

  “You”

  “Decided?”

  My companions have stopped what they are doing and are staring at us. The old man also looks interested, coming around the table with a bemused expression as he wipes his hands on a rag.

  “I have,” I reply, struggling to meet the poelthari’s intense gaze.

  “And?”

  “I don’t want you to restore my memories,” I say. One of my companions gasps; I’m not sure who, but I think it was Bell. “The man I was doesn’t matter, only who I am now.”

  The children incline their heads in unison and begin to turn away, but I stop them with a word.

  “Wait! You say you have a debt to me, yes? I would still collect it now.”

  They swivel to face me again, and although their faces remain expressionless, I sense that I’ve intrigued them. My sword chimes as it flickers from its sheath. With three quick strides I’m across the room, and before he has a chance to react I lay the blade against the Prophet’s neck.

  “What are you doing?” he hisses.

  I ignore his question. “You saw into my mind,” I say, directing this at the children. “Could you see into his?”

  One of them answers without hesitation. “Yes. Your minds are as open books to us.”

  Another gasp – this time it was definitely Bell. I glance at her to find that she has stumbled back, her hands covering her mouth. Her skin is even paler than usual, and her eyes are wide with
shock.

  No,” she murmurs, clutching at the edge of the table to steady herself. She looks like she’s about to flee this place. She has realized what these creatures are.

  I force my attention back to the Prophet. There is fear in Ezekal’s expression, as if he can guess what I will request of the poelthari.

  “This man is hiding secrets from me. I want you to lay them bare.”

  Ezekal swallows hard. “I have not betrayed you, Alesk. I could have cut your throat in your sleep or bashed your head in with a rock when your back was turned. I want the Mother gone as much as you do. More, even. She destroyed everything I loved.” Bitterness twists his face. “I saw our world and people die, something you can’t even remember.”

  “And yet you allied yourself with her,” I say softly.

  A shudder of movement and one of the children now stands behind the Prophet.

  The poelthari lightly touches his leg and Ezekal gives a pained cry, dropping to his knees. I try to keep the blade lightly touching his neck as he falls, but the movement is too sudden and a thin line of red appears as my sword breaks the skin.

  “We will do as you ask,” the child says, and then places its hands on either side of Ezekal’s head. Small fingers curl against the Prophet’s skull, and threads of black spread beneath his skin like spider silk unspooling.

  Ezekal screams.

  My heart is pounding as the Prophet’s cries continue unabated. The old man approaches, staring at what’s happening with curiosity. My other companions look as unnerved as I feel, their faces ashen.

  The screaming ends abruptly. Ezekal’s eyes stare sightlessly ahead, blood trickling from his nose.

  “Many secrets this one tries to hide,” the poelthari whispers.

  “Tell me,” I command, wondering if the Prophet’s mind will survive this intrusion.