by Matt Gilbert
“Dog!” Logrus cried. “Get up and fight!”
Aiul heaved himself over onto hands and knees and scrambled away, frantic. “You’re mad!”
“Mad, am I?” Logrus roared. “I will kill you for that insult!” He slammed his boot into Aiul’s backside, knocking Aiul face first into the snow.
Aiul could see his vision narrowing, growing red. He rolled over on to his back and tried to rise, but Logrus stopped him with a boot to the chest. As Aiul cried out again, Logrus ground his foot into Aiul’s throat.
“Why are you doing this?” Aiul choked out, struggling for air. Bright flashes, like lightning, burst behind his eyes.
Logrus stared down at him and laughed, a cruel, hacking sound. “Why? Because your suffering pleases me! Because I am cruel and wicked! What other reason do I need?”
Aiul struggled to raise Logrus’s boot, but he was pinned and in a difficult position. “You’re killing me!” he gasped.
“Yes! Die!”
More lightning. Red, pulsing like blood. And then a flash, the symbol burning into his vision like molten lava. Strength poured into him, hot, furious, irresistible. With a roar of fury, he seized the boot at his neck and hurled Logrus aside.
“Now!” Logrus cried. “Try it now!”
Aiul heard the words, far away through a crimson fog. What was he doing. Killing Logrus, of course. But there had been something else, hadn’t there, something important? He cast about, looking for a weapon to bash his enemy with, when his eye seized upon the corpse.
Oh. That.
His hand rose of its own accord, high overhead, fingers dangling like a puppeteer’s. He would kill Logrus later. This was something he needed to do immediately!
“Rise!” he shouted, his voice resonating with power and fury. “Rise and serve me!”
“And forget!” Logrus cried.
“Yes, yes, forget!”
For a moment, it seemed nothing would happen again. Then, the corpse twitched, and quickly began to move. It rose slowly and stood, weaving like a drunken sailor.
Aiul’s rage at Logrus fled from his mind as he marveled at the thing standing before him. “Mei!” he whispered as he examined it, trying to understand the forces in play. It was plainly impossible, and yet still true.
He heard a soft moan. It took him a moment to realize it was coming not from the zombie, but from Logrus. Aiul turned from the zombie to see his companion still lying on the ground, mouth agape, eyes staring wildly, his face so pale it barely stood out against the snow.
“Great Elgar! Never before have I seen this!”
Aiul continued to stare at Logrus, uncomprehending. Logrus raised a shaking hand and pointed past Aiul, and Aiul spun, expecting…what? Something so horrific that even Logrus was unable to shrug it off?
Aiul sucked in a great gasp at what he saw. All over the snowy field, zombies stood wavering. Some were relatively whole, while other, partial corpses were barely able to stand at all. “Can these things fight?” he asked after several moments.
Logrus was on his feet now, his shock passed. “A little. Hard to destroy, though, except with fire. It balances out.”
“Then maybe we have a chance.”
Logrus nodded. “Elgar is with us. Have faith.”
In Torium, there was a hierarchy, established long before, through events and rites that were all but forgotten, even by the Torians themselves. In truth, they had no wish to remember, and for the Torians, a wish was reason enough to make something true. Still, it had been so long that, even were it otherwise, they might still have forgotten.
There was no word for their kind. They were not men, though, at some point, they might have been. That, too, they had forgotten, for similar reasons. They simply were. They justified their own existence. They did not extend the same justification to others.
In the center of the ancient, decayed city, a hideous, deformed mockery of a man, a thing crouched in near darkness above a black, viscous pool, humming to itself. It dipped a long, razor edged claw into the liquid and brought it to its swollen, purple lips. Its tongue, blackened by eons of such indulgence, slithered over rows of jagged, stained teeth, lapping at the oily substance. The thing smiled, exposing a maw that could engulf a man’s head, and had before, on numerous occasions. It was pleased, as always, with the nectar of a god.
Another thing entered, smaller, subservient, and knelt, trembling, before its master.
“Why do you disturb me?” the master asked, its voice a lower toned version of fingernails on slate.
“Forgive me, master,” the servant answered ritually. “Enemies come. Servants of Elgar.”
“Yes,” the master hissed, drawing out the ‘s’ like a snake, and ending with a malevolent chuckle. “The Dead God comes to reclaim that which we took.”
“Do we let them pass?”
“Pass?” the master asked, as if it found the concept both bizarre and amusing. It dipped its claw into the pool again and licked the black fluid as it considered.
“Rend them,” it said at last. “Make them into art. The Dead god must not send playthings to reclaim his property. He must come himself, and reward us.”
“Will he not be angered if we rend his servants?”
“We are better servants,” the master declared. “Let him be angered. Will he not, in the end, love us more for our audacity?”
“Perhaps he will rend us,” said the servant.
“Perhaps,” the master acknowledged, dipping its claw again. “But it will draw him here. I wrote his book. I have learned many things. If he will not accept us….” He trailed off in a hiss, and chuckled again.
“Yes,” the servant hissed back, eager to demonstrate its approval. It touched its head to the floor, rose, and left.
Black liquid dripped to from the thing’s claw to the stone floor. Where it fell, it bubbled and hissed as it ate away at the rock. The thing licked at the claw again, and smiled.
It would be good to have new art.
Epilogue: DIY
Kariana stood outside Prandil’s private quarters, ear pressed to the door. She heard nothing, so it was difficult to tell if he were asleep or awake.
She fingered the brass door knob, still feeling a bit uncertain. This was a very Plan A, Plan B situation, and she really had no idea how it would go. She thought of Narelki's shattered body, a woman who had terrified her, and considered backing out, but she was committed.
Things had begun to unravel in her mind very quickly after Narelki's unexpected death. Well, to be entirely honest, things had never been entirely raveled to begin with. The plan had been fairly rough after the ‘do whatever Narelki and Teretha tell me’ part, something along the lines of ‘and then we will be in charge and the Meites will have to listen'. After that, there wasn’t really any plan at all beyond improvising as she was now.
She turned the knob and let the door open quietly.
Prandil was obviously very fond of books. Flickering candle light played over hundreds of volumes. They were everywhere, in great shelves that lined the walls from marble-tiled floor to arched, beamed ceiling.
And one more, held in front of Prandil’s face. He lounged in his bed, propped up on pillows in a sitting position, regarding her with a bewildered look.
“How did you get in here?” he asked, his annoyance growing as he considered the situation.
Kariana offered him a catty, sexy grin that she thought was something near ninety percent genuine. “I lied to your slaves and told them we had plans. They didn't seem to find spiriting a young, pretty woman up to your private quarters as anything unusual.”
Prandil raised an eyebrow at this, then folded his book and placed it on his polished mahogany nightstand. “So that's the shape of things, is it?”
Kariana gave no answer but her grin.
“Oh, by all means. And do lock the door behind, won’t you?”
Kariana did so, then moved forward and took at seat at the foot of his bed. She said nothing, simply waited, t
aking in the aroma of the place. The smell of oiled wood and leather was strong, tinged just slightly by an undertone of tobacco. It was much like Prandil himself, older but not ancient, powerful and vigorous still.
Prandil looked her up and down, nodding with approval. “I would have come to you, eventually, you know.”
“Does it bother you? The role reversal?”
“Not at all. I find it rather refreshing.”
“You’re very certain of yourself.”
Prandil chuckled softly. “My dear, you have no idea. You’ve shown quite a bit of mettle of late, but not nearly enough flesh for my tastes.”
Kariana stretched her arms high and yawned, giving him a nice view of her breasts. “You might have joined one of my orgies.”
Prandil laughed out loud at this. “Do I look like a juvenile to you? I am a man of taste and discretion. You should try it sometime. It might suit you.”
Kariana stuck out her tongue at him, pleased that the gesture could be taken any of several ways. “Maybe you’re too reserved. Are you sure you're ready for my brash, classless youth?”
Prandil shrugged and gave her a patronizing look. “I’ve had more women in my life than you’ve had men, I’ll wager. Women are like wine: age adds things, even as it takes others away. Perhaps if you’d experience with men of actual ability instead of boy toys, you’d appreciate that.”
Kariana tittered at this. “I could have one of them right now, and instead I’m here. What does that tell you?”
“That perhaps you are smarter than you seem.”
Kariana leaned forward and crawled to the head of the bed. She propped her head up with an arm as she locked eyes with Prandil. “It’s nice to be given some credit now and then.”
Prandil eyed her with lust. “I think I should prefer to withhold true judgment on the meal until after dessert.”
It was, she had to admit, a very fine dessert indeed. Prandil had skills that her wretched little toys couldn’t even dream of. When it was finished, he lit his pipe and smoked, looking up at the ceiling, and she lay there in the afterglow, looking at his regal profile, feeling as if she had, at long last, found a truth, a home, a path.
The words came out before she had even fully considered them, but then again, she was improvising. This was right. “Will you teach me?”
Prandil turned to her, confusion on his face. “Teach you? I doubt it. I’m fairly impressed with your skills, actually. Much more than I expected.”
Kariana felt herself blush with his praise. “That's not what I meant.”
Prandil waited a moment for her to continue, then prodded. “What did you mean?”
Suddenly, she felt shy, embarrassed even. And yet she had to plow forward. People have to ask for what they want, after all, or they never get it. “Teach me to be a Meite.”
Prandil’s eyes grew wide with shock, which was to be expected. But his peals of laughter came as a painful surprise. He went on for several moments, completely overcome. At last, he wiped tears from his eyes with the edge of the bed sheet and chuckled, “Oh, my dear, you are ambitious, aren’t you? So here’s the bill for the evening’s entertainment?” He took a pull at his pipe and blew out the smoke, his humor fading. He regarded her with cold, cruel eyes. “Seriously, you? Preposterous.”
Kariana felt the warm glow around her fall away, replaced by a chill wind of anger and humiliation. “Why not me?” she asked, her voice husky with rage.
Prandil rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, don’t tear up about it.”
The fool thought she was about to cry? Was he truly that oblivious? Of course he was. It was all a sham, his perception. He had no insight at all. He was simply strong enough of personality to persuade people that his ideas were correct.
She asked him again, punctuating each word with a pause. “Why…not…me?”
Prandil’s face grew dark and angry now. “You would hear truth? Why not you? Mei! Because you’re weak, pathetic, and foolish. You've come here with the notion of replacing a woman you could never match, and it offends me! What ever made you think being a good fuck qualified you to be a Meite?”
Kariana ground her teeth, trying to show as little emotion as possible as she reached for her clothes on the floor. She felt Sadrik’s knife brush against her fingers as she retrieved her blouse, and she took it into her hand almost by instinct.
Mei! Why did Prandil react so? She had started with little skill, surely, but she had learned quickly. She had defeated Maralena and even backed Davron down, powerful enemies. She had earned his respect!
She let the blouse fall to the floor again, then turned back to Prandil, slipping the dagger beneath her pillow as she did. He had retrieved his book and was again reading from it. She looked him in the eye, holding his gaze without flinching. “So I’m just not good enough to be one of you?”
Prandil sighed and set the book on the pillow. “You needn’t take it personally.” He raised the book again and gave her a pointed look. “I do have things to do, you know.”
Kariana blinked at him in shock. “Now you dismiss me like a common whore?”
Prandil folded the book and gave her a look of annoyance. “There’s nothing common about you. That’s a compliment, you know.” He opened his book again and began reading. “But, yes, you are dismissed.”
Plan B it is, then.
Kariana could feel her muscles twitching. She was, she realized, literally trembling with rage. “Well, I suppose I should regard it as a lesson. I’m learning all the time, you know.”
Prandil turned again from his book and sighed. “Oh? And what, pray tell, have you learned from events of late?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.
Kariana moved with the speed of a lioness. Her arm shot from beneath the pillow, the dagger glinting in the candlelight. Prandil’s eyes flew open in shock, but there was no time for him to react. She buried the blade to the hilt in his left eye socket.
Prandil’s body convulsed briefly, then lay still.
“I learned that if you want someone dead, you should do it yourself.”
END BOOK 2
A Word From the Author
Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the tale. If you did, please take a moment and tell others with a review on Amazon. Word of mouth is absolutely vital for those of us in indie publishing. Even a one liner “I really liked this!” makes a big difference.
This arc of the series concludes with “The War God's Will”. Here's a sneak peek of what's coming. Enjoy!
Preview: Into the Pit
In which Aiul and Logrus enter Torium and learn its terrible secrets. Logrus is injured by an insidious trap the two barely survived.
The master stared into the pool, amused by the suffering of the invaders.
The servant asked, “Does it please you, Master? I thought it would be better this way, slowly, instead of crushing them outright.”
“Yesss,” the master agreed. “Their fear is sweet.” It dipped its claw into the pool again, sending ripples over the image, and licked at it. “I have changed my mind. I want them alive. It is fortunate for you that you delayed.”
The servant shuddered, an involuntary spasm of fear at the realization of how close it had come to making a mistake. But it smiled, too, at its own cunning.
“I am a good servant,” it crooned. “You are capricious. I try always to anticipate you. To please you.”
The master tapped a claw on the stone rim of the pool, thinking that perhaps it might still be amusing to rend the servant, but dismissed the notion. It was difficult to find a servant smart enough to anticipate. It would be foolish to waste this one now.
“I am pleased,” it said. “Bring them to me. I would speak with them and smell their fear. Perhaps they have knowledge. Then we will rend them and make them into art.”
The servant touched its head to the floor, hissed its compliance, and scurried from the room.
Aiul made his way along the wall, trying to build a map in his head. The room was
similar in construction to the smaller pyramids, but vastly larger, at least a hundred feet to the side. On each of the other walls, he found hatches, like the one through which they had entered, leading to passages that were, likewise, all too familiar.
It took several minutes to make the complete circuit. Logrus surprised him near the end, walking toward him. Aiul shook his head in amazement at his companion’s resilience.
“I told you I needed to bind it before you walked,” he admonished, and immediately felt foolish. Now that they were closer together and in stronger light, it was easy to see that Logrus was most definitely not well.
He was trembling violently, whipping his head back and forth, and muttering beneath his breath. He clutched at his chest as he staggered forward
“Stop!” Logrus cried out, a wretched wail more appropriate to a man on the rack. “Make it stop! Elgar, my lord, it is too much! Take this from me!”
“What?” Aiul shouted, starting toward him in alarm. He grabbed Logrus by the shoulders and shook him. “What happened?”
Logrus stared at him with mad, uncomprehending eyes, and gibbered incoherently between ragged breaths. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with saliva trickling from the corners of his mouth and into his beard.
Aiul shook his head in utter disbelief at the timing. Here, of all places! “You’re having a heart attack,” he told Logrus, struggling to keep his voice calm. Panic would make it worse. “I need to you lie down.”
“Fool!” Logrus snarled, twisting in Aiul’s grasp. He hammered his own fist into his broken ribs, and, with a gurgling grunt, collapsed to the floor, insensate. Aiul felt panic rise within him as he struggled to decide on a course of action.
The physician stepped forward in his mind and demanded calm, explained that, for the moment, Logrus was still among the living, and that only cool heads could ensure it remained so. Aiul smiled at the knowledge that the physician was not, after all, dead. He had merely been sleeping until he could be of some use.