He thought he sensed movement at the end of the tunnel, but nothing reared up. He ascended a ladder one rung at a time and reached for the filth-encrusted grate. Emerging into the temple quarter, he rejoined the shadows and vanished.
Chapter 37
Nishka leaned against the balcony adjacent to her room. The city sprawled before her. The air, still electric with joy from the spring festival, simmered down as the night evolved. She wanted to relive the excitement of this day; dancing in the streets, feeling the music pump through her heart, embracing another culture. If only she hadn’t invited Arxu to her room and asked…
She sighed… for what might have been. Now she may never know how he felt about her. She almost returned to her room when the main entrance to the inn swung open. Below, Nishka saw a figure emerge into the streets, cocooned in a dark cloak. As if sensing her eyes on him, the Nightwalker peered over his shoulder.
He hardly looked surprised to find her there. Nishka often accompanied him in the past few days, and he noted the ironic reversal in roles. No longer was he a bodyguard, nor as invulnerable and strong as he once thought. He could master control of his reflexes but it seemed emotions bested him.
Nishka did not require his protection anymore. In fact, she had been protecting him recently. She helped heal his grave injuries and escort him to the city. She stayed with him and made him feel less alone. Arxu’s weak smile spoke the gratitude that his words could not.
He yearned to be alone if only to contemplate the events of the past several days. So many emotional changes had come over him and it was perplexing to absorb all at once.
“I’m leaving the city for the forest,” he announced. Nishka regarded him warily.
“I’ll return soon. I’m going to charge my spell components.” He wrapped his cloak tighter around himself like a second skin. As he departed for the city gates, Nishka looked toward the heavens.
The moon was absent from the sky.
* * *
Ethan wandered the divine halls for hours, on the verge of collapse. Was it possible he could no longer recognize his home? Every hall looked the same and he feared he was walking aimlessly in circles.
The bedchambers no longer sheltered followers—or Kayla. She had vanished from his life like the most alluring flame. He briefly stopped by her room, afraid to set foot inside. Her scent still lingered there, evoking a tender feeling that drove back the confusion in his mind. He gently rested his hand on her bed, as if beckoning her to appear.
Given the chance, he would confess the feelings he denied for years and embrace her. He would hold her hand, lose himself in the splendor of her eyes and speak the words he had eaten for far too long.
A sudden noise outside the bedchamber had him spinning on his heels. No one stood outside the room. He felt like a criminal sought by authorities. How could he feel this way in his own home? He lifted a hand to his chest, feeling the palpitations of his heart. Perhaps he would wake up from this nightmare.
Suddenly, a shrieking sound assaulted his ears. His blood ran cold. He dashed to the cleansing chamber, tearing through the halls at a frantic pace. In his desperation, he became entangled with a candle holder and tripped over the device. He sprawled on his hands and knees as another jutting scream pierced the temple. Ethan burst into the hall and darted toward the balcony. Nearly throwing himself over the edge, he leaned over and stared.
Fanatics were cleansing their souls in the pools, crying out to their demigoddess. They raised their arms toward the ceiling and beseeched Astalla for forgiveness.
Ethan sighed and fell to his knees. He could feel the threat congealing outside the temple, waiting for the perfect opportunity to cripple them. Ethan wiped the sweat from his face and set out in search of the guards. He casually bestowed blessings upon them, trying to distract himself from his own fear.
Elder Invictus was still trying to decipher the message in his mind, but the words were much too garbled. He stared at the wall as the cracks seemed to grow larger, and the marble began to blur. Words and fragments of expression flitted across his consciousness, but nothing connected. His pulse was rushing and his temples began to pound with unbearable strain.
Astalla was going to die. He clutched his head and his fingers dug deep furrows across his scalp.
Suddenly, he arched his back and lifted his face to the painted dome above. The Elder Cleric let out a bloodcurdling scream as Margzor burst through the double doors in the entrance hall.
Two guards stationed at the doors leaped to attention. They quickly recovered and turned their weapons on the bold intruder. Their efforts would never be enough to save them.
A guard leveled his halberd to run Margzor through. He considered the guard with amusement and charged. He quickly dodged the attempt to sweep him off his feet, but the blade came around again, barreling toward his chest. Margzor swung his sword and braced against the stunning impact. The blow nearly tore the blade from his hands. From behind, the second guard brought his weapon to bear.
Margzor spun as the spear plunged toward the back of his neck. He circled around and blocked the steel shaft with a kick, knocking it far to the right. With the same steel clad foot, he drove it into the guard’s face. The guard’s ability to breathe was stolen from him. As blood gushed down his face, he could taste the nauseating sweetness on his lips.
Margzor dove and rolled across the floor as another blow threatened to shear the head from his shoulders. He agilely pounced to his feet.
A guard lowered his halberd again to impale him. Margzor leaped on top of the flat blade, pinning it to the floor. A single stride carried him to the guard and his elbow crashed into his jaw. His blade came across and severed the arm wielding the halberd. The guard’s mouth opened for a scream but Margzor’s sword denied him the opportunity.
Margzor spun around and raised the corpse. He recoiled as the human shield bounced hard against a spear.
The second guard, obviously horrified by what he had done, staggered backward. Margzor tossed the dead man aside with the sword still lodged in his throat. Desperate to avenge his fallen friend, the other guard let his anger override him. Margzor only dodged, making no attempt to retaliate. He savored the young man’s hate. The warrior reminded him so much of himself, yet his discipline was sloppy and unpolished.
He dispatched the guard with a ruthless blow. His eyes remained wide open in death, host to the most exquisite expression of horror.
Margzor reached for his sword when he sensed a powerful presence in the upper levels. The surge of energy tingled across his skull, exciting every nerve in his body. Harnessing his demonic nature, he could sense a divining device. He secretly delighted at the possibilities of such a magickal anomaly.
He wondered if he could see the woman of his fantasies.
* * *
Astalla gazed absently out the window. Hours slipped by in silence, strengthening anxiety’s hold on her. Still, nothing would grant her the peace of mind she so desperately sought. Only an answer from the Elder Cleric would end her worry.
“Astalla...” a smooth voice whispered from the corner. Astalla hadn’t realized Ava was still there. “You look like you need rest.”
“No. I cannot sleep. I have tried but cannot do so, knowing that my faithful are...” She turned away, unable to bear the thought. Sleep had escaped her for several days and the effect on her mind was obvious. Suddenly, she felt dizzy and stumbled past an altar. She brushed against a chalice, which shattered into pieces on the pristine floor.
“Please, Astalla! I also fear for the faithful, but you are losing strength!”
“Ava!” Astalla yelled. “I refuse to rest while innocent women and men are being murdered!” Her eyes glittered fiercely but Ava did not retreat.
“This is exactly what Margzor would want. Exhaustion is sapping your strength.”
“I need to listen for the Elder Cleric! He could respond to me at any moment.” The virgin deity rubbed her aching head. “I wish you could underst
and, Ava. I must remain on alert. Now leave me alone—!”
Her eyes widened and she doubled over as hot pain erupted in her chest. Her body viscerally reacted to every kill Margzor enacted. She gasped and collapsed to her knees. Ava shrieked as Astalla clutched her chest in pain. She could almost feel the blade, the blows landing on her faithful.
Suddenly, her body spasmed and she coughed up drops of blood. Crimson spattered on the marble floor. Her eyes grew with horror.
* * *
Margzor entered an opulent chamber with blue walls. A large, polished gong hovered at the opposite end of the room. Flames roiled in the braziers, wavering across the walls like a veil of light.
A man he hadn’t noticed before was approaching him. Ethan pounded down the stairs, striding toward the intruder.
“Demon!” he yelled. Margzor halted and considered Ethan. “You have destroyed countless lives and condemned hundreds of innocents to death!”
Margzor acknowledged his valiant display as deep interest grew. Ethan glared at him. “Your slaughter ends tonight.”
Margzor had been delayed long enough. He charged toward the young cleric. Ethan’s hand leaped to the pendant around his throat. He chanted as fast as he possibly could. Margzor closed the distance and raised his weapon to kill him.
Ethan thrust his hand forward and an immense force assaulted Margzor. It slammed full force into his knees, sweeping him off his steel clad feet. Margzor narrowly avoided bashing his head against the hard surface, a blow that would have surely resulted in a concussion. He catapulted across the room and his arm snapped against a pillar.
He fell flat on his chest but the force continued to push him. It forced him through a tiled corridor as he clawed at the floor, his nails digging into the blood-stained surface. He furiously grappled for something to cling to, slinging his arms around a pillar. At last, the force subsided.
The cleric walked down the corridor, not taking his eyes off the killer. He raised his hand to summon the torrential wind again, or so Margzor thought. Instead, he invoked something that aroused fear in Margzor. Flames writhed to life in every brazier.
Ethan spotted several intricately carved vessels of incense and sprang into action. Margzor dodged the airborne missile, but he soon realized he was not its target. Smoke and flame spewed in his face as the pot exploded inside a brazier.
Margzor’s eyes burned and he choked for breath. The suffocating fragrance made him gag. He staggered down the hall toward another chamber thick with smog. His vision blurred and he shut his eyes.
Tendrils of flame whipped his armor, and he felt the shrapnel of another incense firepot pummel him. Margzor almost vomited as he swayed from the nauseating fumes. He felt a sedating weakness creeping through his mind.
Panic jolted through his brain as he remembered the drowning and burning from his childhood. He focused on his purpose, on the anger, in efforts to repel his fears. He breathed deeply, inhaling the noxious miasma—and he relaxed.
Margzor quieted his mind and tried to sense his prey’s movements. The world around him gradually drifted into focus. He could feel the heat of his prey, the warmth in his breath. The stench of smoke wafted up his nose as he drifted toward a flaming brazier.
Ever so slowly, he dipped his blade in the glistening inferno. When he retracted his sword, the steel was as red as an open wound. Margzor swerved toward his assailant.
Ethan recoiled in shocking pain from the hot sword. He clapped a hand over the wound on his arm. A split second later, the scalding blade plunged into his chest. He gasped for breath as his life faded. He did not regret his sacrifice, even if it meant nothing in the end. A vision of Kayla briefly flashed before his eyes.
Another thrust of the blade ended his suffering.
Chapter 38
Arxu let the forest coax him far away. The Nightwalker only knew he would arrive at his destination when he felt it. For now, he was content to wander aimlessly as he so often did throughout life.
In truth, he didn’t understand why he felt this way. He had recovered so many emotions, but he still felt hollow. A void lurked deep inside him, refusing to heal. Something belonged there, but he couldn’t put a name to it.
Finding himself no longer able to continue, his steps abated. With a sigh, Arxu rested on a nearby log. The stars glistened above like a thousand fireflies in the sky.
Arxu stared aimlessly, lost in the abyss of his thoughts. Leaves whispered in the tree boughs.
He wondered if he would ever find something to fulfill him. Maybe withdrawal was just a natural symptom of existence.
Someone stepped into the grove. Arxu’s eyes opened and he looked on with surprise at Nishka. Her presence was unexpected but not unwelcome. How did she ever manage to find him?
She sidled next to him without a word. Neither of them spoke, content to bask in the silence. The flora seemed to glow a fluorescent blue. Arxu wondered if everything he saw was an illusion and perhaps Nishka wasn’t even there. One look into her striking eyes dispelled any doubt that she was real.
Nishka’s voice rejoined the gentle breeze, sounding softly.
“Can you feel this?”
He glanced at her, hardly in the mood for jokes. To Arxu’s surprise, she leaned in near enough to eclipse the forest from his view.
Her hands caressed his face and her lips brushed against his. She kissed him softly, then harder. Arxu retreated backward as he felt her arms around him. At first, he stared at her in confusion.
As he opened his mouth to ask something… anything, he looked upon Nishka as though he had never seen her before. The most gentle expression reflected in her eyes. Gradually, his eyes were opened to really see Nishka.
Arxu was drawn to the beauty of her body, the gentle curves of her hips and her breasts. He could lose himself in the depth and clarity of her sizzling eyes. The excitement that rose within him as he gazed upon her was undeniable.
She was beautiful, flaws and all. He had been too blind to see Nishka as an amazing woman who cared deeply about him.
Suddenly, he understood. He understood her advances and, all at once, he was grateful to her for nurturing him. All he wanted in that moment was to loosen the bindings on his repressed feelings for her. He moved forward instead of back.
Their lips found each other. He savored the taste of her and her touch sent an electric current through him. He ran his right hand through her hair. Her sensuous lips pressed against his again and again to drink his soul through his mouth. His other hand explored the rise and fall of her breasts and the curves of her waist. She welcomed his touch and kissed him more fiercely.
He crushed her body against his, as if to absorb her into himself, and she responded with equal desire.
* * *
Invictus’ eyes stared vacantly into space, black pits that could no longer see. Margzor’s shadow glided across his body as he approached the pool of water. However, Invictus would not be alone in death. Ganelon and several priests sprawled ornately across the chamber in vivid death poses. In the end, Ganelon had become well acquainted with the hot, iron rod he so cherished. He died knowing exactly how much pain he had inflicted on innocent women whose only crimes were being women.
Margzor’s passing seemed to defile the life forms around him. The blood of his victims flowed through the cracks in the tiles, gathering eerily in the pool.
He loitered at the precipitous edge, watching tendrils of blood unravel in the water. The dark stain expanded like an inkblot taking the sumptuous form of a woman.
He wanted so dearly to see her again, the woman who possessed his heart every day, every night. She was not like other women; she was kind, concerned, and she genuinely cared about other people.
He would overcome any obstacle to love her like no woman has ever been loved.
The image that met his eyes froze him in place. Grief crashed over Margzor and his heart sank in his chest. She lay in the embrace of another man. Her lips caressed his passionately, lustfully, sensuously,
her virtuous love offered to this stranger.
She was happy.
So happy.
She kissed him with abandon, sharing an intimate connection that Margzor’s heart could never have. She felt beautiful in his arms.
Margzor gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles glowed white. He wanted to throw himself into the image and reach for her.
He had found the perfect woman, his fantasy, only to learn that she had already invested her love and affection with another human being. Hope cascaded away. Bitter coldness seeped into his every pore, gnawing at the core of his soul. He could do nothing but stare, as if to deny reality through sheer willpower. Maybe he could convince himself it was an optical illusion.
It was a lie, it could not be... He reached for her, but she started to fade and become less real. The image dissolved and became blood, the product of his hate and moral failure.
His fantasies of love were foolish.
Pain lanced through his head, building in intensity. Nothing felt real anymore. The room swiveled dangerously and he nearly collapsed to his knees. He weakly sank against a wall and curled up in a fetal position. What had happened to his love…?
He felt numb, so numb. Comatose.
Finally, the emotions inside him could no longer be repressed.
An agonized scream exploded from his lips. Sheer hatred poured out in painful spasms. He screamed in denial—and hatred for the happiness that had slipped away.
Unobtainable love.
He lashed out at the nearest thing that resembled a human. The dead victims became the objects of his rage.
He collapsed to his knees and choked for breath. His fingers could barely grip his sword anymore. Numb with hate, he stared at the floor, at the dark blood so artistically pooled around him.
The Undying God Page 27