The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2)

by Matt Gilbert

  He glared at the statue of Amrath, feeling helpless and alone. I cannot bear this any longer. You ask too much of me. I cannot raise and nurture your children just to watch them all die like this.

  “No more, do you hear me?” he shouted at the stone likeness of the Great Father. If Amrath, wherever his spirit might have gone, heard or cared, he gave no indication.

  “Fine,” Slat muttered. “This one last, duty, then. But after this, I am done.” He snatched the letter from Narelki's desk and gently opened the seal. Tears welled in his eyes to see her handwriting and know it was the last he would hear from her.

  “After this, I'm done.”

  Chapter 13: Captured

  “We ride to our doom, you claim,” Logrus said.

  Aiul shook himself from near sleep, focusing on Logrus. “If rumors are to be believed,” he said. “Forget I said it, it was foolish.”

  “This Torium is an evil place?”

  Aiul glared at Logrus, willing him to find another topic, but Logrus was determined. Aiul gave in with a sigh. “My grandfather said that no one who goes there ever returns.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know. That’s all he told me.”

  Logrus eyed Aiul with suspicion. “I think you must know more,” he said. “Why else would you have resisted it so?”

  Aiul shrugged, playing Logrus’s game, but Logrus was not so easily dismissed as Aiul had been. He stared at Aiul with feverish intensity, hungering, now, for more. “Tell me.”

  Aiul sighed again. “It’s silly. Childish fears, that’s all.”

  “Liar!” Logrus exclaimed with a chuckle.

  “No, really,” Aiul said. “My grandfather used to terrify me with tales of that place.”

  “Tell!”

  Aiul frowned, not wanting to admit that he was, to this day, still frightened by his grandfather’s stories. Still, he had to offer Logrus something, if he wanted any peace at all. “Fine,” Aiul said, in more severe a tone than he had intended. “There are…things there.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “I don’t know, damn you!” Aiul snapped. “Things that eat strong warriors and powerful sorcerers as easily as they eat little boys, so I was told. Things.”

  “So someone has been there and returned!” Logrus said in triumph. “No one could know what was there, otherwise.”

  Aiul shook his head in amused frustration. “Listen to me,” he tried to explain. “I was a child. My grandfather used to tell me the most dreadful tales.”

  Logrus waved a hand in derision. “Men do not fear children’s tales,” he said. “I saw your face! You were pale!” He paused, struggling for words once again. “More pale than usual. And Elgar did not deny it. I speak little. That doesn’t make me a fool.”

  Aiul stared at the back of his horse’s head, sullen.

  “I must know what you know!” Logrus pressed. “We may have to fight. I must be prepared!”

  Aiul nodded slowly. “It’s just that I don’t know what’s true and what’s fantasy,” he sighed. “It feels foolish to tell campfire tales about the place. What’s the point of frightening ourselves?”

  “I fear nothing,” Logrus told him. “And you already know your tale. Speak.”

  “Fine,” Aiul said in as cheery and upbeat a voice as he could muster. “Grandfather claimed Torium is inhabited by horrific monsters that torture and eat anyone who enters. Yes, even warriors, and even sorcerers. It’s been around since before Nihlos was founded. It was the only city to survive Alexander’s War, as far as I know, so it’s at least a thousand years old, but probably a lot older.”

  “We will not be eaten,” Logrus promised. “We cannot fail, so that will not happen.” His face grew grim as he added, “But we could be tortured.”

  “I admire your confidence,” Aiul sneered. “And since I have suffered essentially all that it is possible to suffer in one lifetime, I have no need to fear torture, either. Huzzah!”

  Logrus’s fist rose more quickly than Aiul’s eye could follow, and cuffed him in the ear. Aiul yelped in pain and raised a hand to strike back, but Logrus’s innocent expression checked him mid swing.

  “You do not appear immune,” Logrus declared.

  Aiul rubbed his pained ear in silence. He was uncertain whether Logrus was stupid enough to take his sarcasm literally, or smart enough to counter it with a dose of his own. It hardly mattered. Either way got him punched. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he mumbled.

  Aiul had heard of snow, and had even seen it as a child, on brief excursions beyond the limits of Nihlos, but he had never been forced to endure it. Before, it had been a novelty, a toy, but now, a week into the journey, he viewed it as a layer of death and misery. No matter what he did, it snuck into the nooks and crannies of his clothes, seeping, melting, leaving him wet and cold. Logrus slept peacefully near the remains of their dinner fire. Aiul wondered if his companion was better at sealing his garments, or if he was simply oblivious to the misery.

  With a snarl, Aiul huddled deeper into his bedroll and pulled his blanket over his head, longing for warmth. He blew softly on stinging fingers as he waited for sleep, wishing he could find a unique curse to match each flake of misery as it drifted down to cover him.

  He awoke with a start. He was numb with cold, but he could still feel the hand gripping his shoulder. He started to speak, to ask why Logrus was bothering him, then caught himself. Logrus was not a ‘touchy’ sort of person. Something was wrong.

  Quietly, he lowered his blanket. It was pitch black, save for a dull glow from the nearly-spent coals of the fire. Logrus was crouched beside him, his curved blade in hand, head whipping back and forth as he tracked some unseen interest.

  Aiul pushed back the thought that Logrus was trying to murder him, well aware that if such were his companion's intent, the deed would have already been done.

  Logrus burst from his crouched position, surging forward like a pouncing tiger, as figures loomed from the darkness. A cry of pain tore through the snow covered woods, and droplets of something warm and wet spattered on Aiul’s exposed face.

  Aiul struggled in the dark, panicked, desperately trying to locate his mace, as grunts, thuds, and ever more screams battered his ears.

  He was inches from retrieving his weapon when a bright light tore through the darkness, blinding him with its brilliance. Something hard and heavy crashed into the back of his head, sending even brighter light and jagged red streaks across his eyes. Snow packed into his mouth and nostrils as he fell face first to the ground, agony flickering in his head like lightning behind clouds.

  “Don’t kill them!” he heard, as consciousness began to slip away. “Mei! They’ll have our guts for bowstrings!”

  Hands seized him, and ropes bound his limbs, as he slipped into blackness.

  Chapter 14: The Hunters Converge

  Ahmed tensed as another of the strange, screeching cries rang through the air. He searched the mostly-bare tree limbs above, but whatever the thing was, it was well hidden, and surely it had best remain so. It seemed to have no regular pattern, shrieking randomly, a grating sound that set his heart pounding. If the beast showed itself, he would put a javelin through it just for the nuisance it was making of itself.

  They were making progress, better than they had expected. The winter temperature, while unpleasant, was still of use, freezing otherwise muddy ground and killing back plant growth that would have required hacking through to pass.

  That acknowledged, and Ilaweh be thanked for it, the constant cold did little for morale. They were ill clothed for it, though their armor helped greatly. For the first time in his life, Ahmed was actually pleased at how warm armor could make a man.

  Even so, he could feel the cold sapping away at his vitality, stiffening his muscles, sinking into his bones. He thought back to a time not so long ago when he had promised himself that someday he would see snow, and chuckled at the irony. Surely, he had seen enough of it now, and surely he would see much
more before he was done here. One should truly be careful what he wished for.

  His men took the weather stoically, and he could do no less. It was likely they were more experienced than he with such things. Erikar was rumored to have similar weather at times, and surely these men had endured much during the fighting. Even so, it would look ill for a leader to seem weak to his men. Ahmed tried to show his discomfort as little as possible.

  For this reason among many, he was actually pleased to encounter a hostile force. This threat, at least, they could fight.

  The men stood directly in their path, weapons drawn, highwaymen without a highway. They were dressed in little more than rags, a dirty, irregular lot, some natives, some who might pass for Gruppenwalders or Laureans if they were bathed. Ahmed found himself strangely unsurprised at this. Save for Nihlos, this was a land of bastards and half measures.

  Sandilianus called out “Arms!” The men reacted smoothly, shields and swords readied in fluid motion without breaking stride.

  Eleran spat on the ground. “Elgies.”

  Ahmed turned to the Nihlosian, one eyebrow raised in curiosity. “'Elgies'?”

  Eleran nodded, his face full of loathing. “Cultists. Freaks. They kill people and think they’ll get super powers from Elgar.”

  Ahmed nodded gravely, remembering his encounter with similar men in Brust. Yet this did not feel the same. These were villains, true, but they were minor evils at best, common. They lacked the malignant wrongness he had felt from the others. Ahmed would have preferred to know more of them, but it would be bad form to halt and discuss the matter. It would make them look hesitant and embolden the enemy. “Kill them, then?” he asked. That would have to be enough.

  Eleran answered with a single, quick nod, and then they were upon the hostiles. Sandilianus marched the men within ten feet of the opposing force and called a halt.

  The ‘enemy’ hardly merited the honor of such a word. An enemy was someone you fought, not slaughtered. Ahmed counted thirty two of them, and not a fighter of worth amongst them. They stood, stoop shouldered, hesitant, some crazy eyed, trying their best to look fierce, but Ahmed was unmoved.

  One of the Elgies, presumably their leader, stepped forward. He reminded Ahmed of a weasel, his beady eyes darting this way and that as he approached, rubbing his hands together. He opened his mouth to speak, but Ahmed interrupted him. “Dog! Why should we not slaughter the lot of you?”

  Weasel stopped short and blinked. That was obviously not in the script. “Give us your money and we will let you live.”

  Ahmed couldn’t help himself. He burst into laughter, and the rest of his party joined him. Ahmed struggled to master himself as Weasel grew more incensed.

  The flesh below Weasel’s left eye began to pulse with a nervous tic, making him look as if he were winking. “Laugh all you want, but we outnumber you, and we have archers in the trees.”

  Ahmed raised an eyebrow at this, and turned to Sandilianus. The elder soldier pursed his lips in disdain and shook his head, his meaning clear: a lie.

  Ahmed looked once again at the ‘enemy’. Some were young. Too young. He would give them a chance. “In ten seconds, all who stand before us die.”

  A number of the Elgies looked back and forth, shaken. Weasel’s entire face seemed to twitch now, but he was committed. “You will be the ones to die! Surrender!”

  Sandilianus called out in his high-pitched command tone, “Javelins!”

  Ahmed allowed himself a grim smile, listening to the sound of the men at the rear switch weapons. This was ridiculous. “Five seconds.”

  Two of the younger Elgies wavered, knees shaking, then turned and bolted. Six more, emboldened by their example, followed moments later.

  Ahmed reached zero in his mind, stretching the time to allow any more who wanted to flee. He gave them another full ten seconds, and three more men chose life. The rest, he judged, would stand.

  “Cut them down!” he called.

  It was not a fight. It was, as he knew it would be, a slaughter. The Elgies rushed forward, impacted harmlessly against the Xanthian shield wall, and were promptly skewered by javelins and short swords. In less time than he had given them to flee, they had lost more men.

  Fools they may have been, but even a fool knows when his comrade has been spitted like a pig and is lying screaming on the ground. The twelve survivors, Weasel among them, turned and bolted.

  Sandilianus called out, “Archers!”

  Ahmed held up a hand to stop any more slaughter. “Let them go. Except for the leader. I want him alive.”

  The aftermath of the battle was as distasteful as it was necessary. A few of the enemy were still alive, though none would survive more than a few days, their last moments filled with agony. Ahmed took it upon himself to give them mercy. It was pointless to ask what a coward wanted, so he did not give them a choice, any more than he would ask a dog. It was for the best.

  Ahmed sat on a great, gnarled root at the edge of the river, sharpening his newly cleaned blade and watching Sandilianus and Bashir drag Weasel toward him. Weasel was considerably less belligerent with an arrow in his thigh. He squawked at the two Xanthians as his heels bounced against the hard ground, craning his head backwards to see where he was being taken. Ahmed smiled, knowing full well it must appear to Weasel as if he were being taken to an execution. Ahmed saw no reason to disabuse him of that notion.

  They dropped Weasel like a sack of potatoes. With a groan of pain, the Elgie rolled on to his good side, then his belly, and coughed furiously.

  Ahmed poked Weasel in the back of his neck with the point of his sword. The wounded man flinched, but would not meet Ahmed's gaze. Ahmed let out an exaggerated sigh. “So, you are a coward as well as a fool.”

  Weasel stared at the ground, a thin, bloody line of saliva trailing from his lips. “Aye. So it seems.”

  “My Nihlosian friend tells me you are murdering scum, cultists who do not deserve the mercy of a sword. He urges I use fire instead. What say you?”

  Weasel grunted and, to Ahmed’s surprise, raised his gaze up to meet his captor’s. “I reckon he mostly has the right of it. Murdering scum, maybe. But we ain’t cultists. Not no more.”

  Ahmed snorted at this. “Gave it up, eh?”

  Weasel shook his head. “Everybody went to some gathering, claimed Elgar summoned ‘em. It was pretty much a one way trip as I figured.” He laughed, a cruel sound, and spat more blood in the dirt. “Turned out, some of us were there more for the murdering scum part, and screw the religion.”

  “So you became bandits?”

  Weasel grunted. “That was the plan. It didn’t work out so good, like you see.”

  Ahmed nodded and raised his sword overhead. “Are you prepared to die?”

  “Nope.” Weasel’s eyes narrowed as his lips formed an ironic, resolved smile. “Reckon me being ready don’t matter much, though.”

  “No. It doesn’t.” Ahmed brought his arm down in a flash, his blade passing little more than a hairsbreadth from Weasel’s neck. Weasel shuddered a moment, slowly realizing he was still alive. Moments later, he heaved up the contents of his stomach.

  Ahmed waited until Weasel had regained control of himself, then spoke. “The next time we meet will be the last.”

  Weasel struggled to rise to his feet, then wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. His looked Ahmed in the eye, his face pale like a corpse, except for the bright sincerity in his eyes. “This was the last.”

  Two days passed without incident. They assumed they were least halfway to Nihlos by now, though no one was really certain. Sandilianus was the only one who had made the trip before. There should have been a detailed map, but their notes had been taken by the Nihlosians when they were captured. Sandilianus’s dead reckoning was all they had.

  Sandilianus scowled as he gazed through the spyglass. “You are too merciful, Ahmed. The fools stalk us.”

  Ahmed shook his head, amused. “Paranoid.”

  “I am no such thing!
I saw a man.”

  “And how do you know it was these Elgies?”

  Sandilianus’s mouth thinned to a hard line. “Aye. I am assuming. For all we know, it could have been Nihlosians.”

  “It might have been farmers, or goat herders, or teenagers slipping off for a fuck. Did you see weapons?”

  “No. But it means little. We should be alert.”

  Ahmed looked at Sandilianus and grinned. “Are we not?”

  They saw more fleeting figures as the miles passed. The terrain changed from thick woods along a steep riverbank to flatter land dominated by scrub. It increased their field and distance of vision significantly, and Sandilianus relaxed a bit, but it was a brief respite. A few more miles, and he tensed again and pointed to the horizon. “Look there. Smoke. A lot of it.”

  Ahmed nodded. It was difficult to miss. “What of it? A town?”

  “Too many plumes. That is a large camp. Mark my words.”

  Ahmed looked at the smoke, considering Sandilianus’s pronouncement. He could not see the distinction, but he trusted his second's experience. “Call a halt. We will need to investigate.”

  Sandilianus turned and shouted orders, and the group stopped where they were, some men looking about curiously, confused at the delay. Sandilianus turned back to Ahmed. “It is likely the Elgie dogs. The one you call Weasel mentioned a gathering.”

  Ahmed watched the plumes in the distance a moment longer, considering his response. “It is possible,” he said without turning. “But it feels something else.” He mused a moment more, then turned to Sandilianus. “Ready some scouts.”

  They camped cold, no fires, and waited for dark to dispatch their men. Sandilianus led the mission, leaving Ahmed to brood and pray. Ilaweh, as usual, did not answer. His will would be done whether Ahmed liked it or even understood it. This is how Ilaweh teaches patience.

  It was four hours past dark when the scouting party returned. Ahmed took one look at Sandilianus and knew the situation was explosive. He forced himself to ask no questions until his second offered his report.