With every passing second, the cold lump in his stomach grew bigger, sharper, heavier. It was too soon. Too soon. The boy had to face honorable combat first, before he could see the grisly backyard of war. Sergei looked at Kiril, his anger growing. Was this how his resourceful Talkers gleaned news from enemy soldiers? By smashing their teeth in with potatoes?
“Let me have a talk with them,” Vlad said, breaking the tense silence.
“You wish to torture them, Prince?” Duke Kiril asked, aghast. The man was suddenly pale.
“No, sir, I just want to have a talk,” the boy explained in a low, dangerous voice. “You will wait outside.”
Speinbate was the first to retreat, quickly and without hesitation. Kiril followed. Soon, Sergei was the only man standing in the tent except for Vlad. This was unraveling the wrong way. He could not let his son mutilate unarmed prisoners. It was simply wrong. There were people for that kind of work.
“You, too, sire. Please.” The boy’s face was somber.
Sergei walked outside. The evening was settling. Crickets picked up their song, filling the brown fields with a susurrating beat. Some distance away, olifaunts made their shrill calls, shattering the surreal atmosphere.
Sergei gritted his teeth. “If my boy comes out with blood on his hands…” he growled.
Duke Kiril swallowed. “No, sir, we won’t allow it.”
The king pointed at the torturers. The duke winced. “What kind of nonsense is this? You are supposed to be bring me news, not minced meat.” Sergei wondered how many incidents like these transpired daily. He wondered how many Athesian scouts had been taken alive and beaten into a bloody pulp, giving away any kind of rumor and half-baked truth to avoid the next kick.
A few long, tense minutes passed. There was no sound of activity in the tent. No screams, no pants, nothing. Finally, Vlad came out. His hands and clothes were clean. Sergei blessed the gods. The rest stared at him as if he could shit diamonds.
“They belong to the Athesian Sixth Legion,” Vlad said, exiting. “Detached. They did not know where the main body is now, but it ought to be about three days away, north and east. They were here before, but have moved to another garrison after hearing fairly credible reports of an enemy force gathering in the east.” He shrugged. “Must be the pirates.”
The head Talker stood agape. “How did you manage that, Prince?”
“I promised them quick death if they cooperated. As simple as that. You will honor that.”
“Yes, Prince.”
Sergei wanted to hug his son, but he stayed his arms. Everyone was looking. It was not the time, nor the place. But he was proud of his eldest. The boy had done the right thing. There were times when violence was pointless. Vlad the Fifth had not understood that, but Vlad the Younger did. It was an unexpected test, and he’d passed it. Sergei felt his taut belly muscles relax, the lump of anger dissolved like the first snow.
After weeks of worry and fatigue, he felt suddenly buoyant and happy. He was invigorated. His son’s little gesture had given him more hope than any military report predicting the swift victory ahead of them could ever have.
Kiril didn’t hide the relief from his face. He wiped sweat from his brow. “Well done, Prince.”
Vlad nodded, haughty and humble at the same time. “Thank you, my lord.”
Sergei looked at his liege. He would have a long talk with Duke Kiril about his interrogation methods. He knew people got beaten and fingers got broken in these kinds of situations. It was only expected. But not this. Later. Now, he wanted to be with his son.
“Time for prayer, sire,” the prince-heir reminded.
“Yes, we will all go together,” the king said.
Captain Speinbate tried to cough out an excuse, but Sergei was not listening. He was already walking away.
Shaking his head, the mercenary followed his employer, keeping his distance. He kept his eyes pasted on the boy. The lad frightened him. That was a stone-cold killer if he’d ever seen one.
CHAPTER 16
Lord Erik entered the common room, two of Calemore’s soldiers tagging closely behind. He scanned the dimly lit room and found Senari seated at a small round table toward the back, one of the serving wenches propped on his lap. He started toward the other god.
Senari saw him. His smile vanished. His face paled. He was no longer feigning interest, pretending to listen to the girl warming his knees. She paid little attention to the avatar and the armed men approaching.
Damian was smiling. “Hello, Sena.”
The woman frowned, but she kept her eyes on the man she was entertaining. “Sena? You told me your name was Wyatt.”
Senari paid her no heed. His eyes were plastered on Damian.
“Who’s your friend?” the woman persisted. She seemed to be on the poor side when it came to hints.
The other god seemed distracted. He opened his mouth to say something. Instead, he only managed a weak groan.
“Beat it,” Damian barked.
The wench looked him up and down, frowned, but she obeyed. She could feel danger even if she could not really understand it. Uninvited, Damian took a seat opposite Senari. The two soldiers remained standing, solid, impassible, threatening in a very nonviolent manner.
“This is how you spend your days, then? Drinking yourself to oblivion and whoring with local peasant girls?” For an instant, his own last eighteen years flashed in front of him, a vomit bucket of remorse, tears, shattered dreams, bad memories, and lots of drinking.
“Please, Damian. I don’t want any trouble,” Senari whispered. His voice trembled.
Lord Erik’s grandfatherly face creased with sympathy. “It’s been a whole age since,” he continued, ignoring the other god’s mumbled plea.
“Please, Damian. Please.”
“You have betrayed me,” he hissed, his eyes sharp and focused on Senari. Muscles in his jaw twitched. Then he remembered Nannath. No, he must not lose his composure.
“We didn’t know,” Senari moaned. “We acted in the best interest of the world.”
Damian slammed a hand against the pockmarked table. Several patrons turned, stared for a moment, then got back to their business.
“You mean you decided to destroy me because I was different?” He leaned back. “But it makes no difference now. I have won. Your sad, stupid humanity is gone. The world is ruled by my creation. And you have perished almost to the soul. More or less.”
“We can work together,” the other god offered.
“Ah, Sena, always the slimy one. Even back then, you showed promise. But you went over to the winning side. If only you had stood by me, it could have been different. No. You were always a coward. And a traitor.”
Senari was on the brink of tears. His face was as pale as a slug. Sweat beaded at his temples. He reeked of panic and stale ale. It was an unsettling stench. “Damian, I beg you.”
Damian was calm again, smiling softly. “Too late for that, I’m afraid. Most of you are dead anyway. Staying behind in this world makes no sense for you, Sena. What do you have? A fistful of ancient ideals that no one remembers and a scattering of followers who worship brick and timber houses and know nothing of the god they pray to? Why do you bother?”
“Damian, I beg you. Please. Let me have my last few years in this world. I’m doomed anyway. My powers are weak. And even if I wanted, I couldn’t do anything. No one cares about the gods anymore. We’re fading away.”
Suddenly, Damian slapped him. It was a slap a father might use to discipline a petulant child. It was humiliation perfected into physical form. Senari brushed his cheek as if bitten by a snake.
“You are nothing but a whore. You expect me to show mercy after you banished me to the Abyss? After all of you deprived me of life for ages? And what did you do? You abandoned this world, all of you. Cowards. You ruined me, and then you shat on the world. If you had no intention of running it, then why did you fight me? Was it fear? Was it jealousy?”
Damian seemed to be on the
verge of tears himself. His face was hot with rage. He wanted to leap across the table and strangle Senari, just as he had killed Nannath. He wanted to sink his fingers into the soft flesh and squeeze it like clay. But he endured. Not today. He kept his wrath on a leash. He had promised himself to behave. This execution must be flawless.
Ah, he could stay and argue with Senari, but it was futile. The old god remembered reality the way he wanted, not how it happened. They had all wrapped themselves in the madness of denial and let destruction roam free.
Soon, he would hunt down the very last of them. Then, Calemore would complete his part of the bargain. And Damian would be finally and completely free again. Free to rule the world that rightfully belonged to him. Every single human bore in their soul the seed of his passion, the storm of emotions and love he had given them. They were his creation, his people.
“If you had any decency, you would have killed yourself. Why did you flee the City of Gods anyway?”
Senari kept his eyes downcast. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Something snapped inside me.”
Damian shook his head. “If you’d stood proud and stared me in the eye, I would have respected you. But you don’t deserve anything. You’re like a worm.”
Senari grabbed Damian’s sleeve, twisting it. “Yes, yes, I’m a worm. I want to live. Please, Damian. Spare me. After an age of stupor, I’m alive again. I care. I care for this world. I want to make it a better place. I want to amend my mistakes. I will help you. This is your world, Damian. It always was. Please.”
“You should have killed yourself. You should have let the wolves eat you. How about I give you a knife? Will you slit your own throat?”
The other god wrung his palms. “Please, Damian. Please.”
Damian grimaced. “You’re such a coward.”
Senari looked up, braving another slap from Damian, or even worse. “For countless centuries, I lived in the city, ignoring reality, pretending, dreaming. It almost killed me. I grew weak and stupid. Then, there was the Shattering, and everything came back to me. Now, I have a purpose in life. I understand now. I can help you.”
“Will you help me?” Lord Erik stared.
Senari bit his lip. “Yes. But not that.”
Damian nodded. “Even if the price is your own death?”
The other god broke down again. He started whimpering. “Damian, I can’t undo what we’ve all done. It takes all of us. You must understand that. But I don’t want to die.”
“I know. But if all of you acted together, you could release me from my prison. Would you then surrender the world to me? Would you do that in return for your petty, meaningless life? Yes?”
Senari rubbed his face. “All right…Damian, please.”
Damian was not amused or relieved. “So why did you banish me in the first place?”
“We made a mistake. We didn’t know that—”
“Oh yes you did. You knew what you were doing. You never expected me to return. You’re a coward, Sena. You see, I could go around the world hunting the rest of you, trying to convince you to undo the pact. But who knows what you may attempt then. You’re treacherous bastards, after all. Instead, I think you should all die. It’s simpler that way. Besides, the satisfaction is immense.”
“No, Damian, no. Please!”
“Enough talking. Take him outside,” he ordered the two soldiers. “If he struggles, maim him.”
The soldiers hustled Senari to his feet and led him away. The god walked in small paces, hanging limp between the two burly men, in an obvious state of shock. Damian followed. Some of the patrons stared at him, but they knew better than to interfere.
They went into a small back alley behind the inn. Gutters flowed with rain, shit, and fat rats that gorged on leftovers. Damian ignored the weather.
“If you kill us, there will be no one left to free you,” Senari tried.
Damian chuckled. Then, he swung and punched the other god in the solar plexus, hard. “You see? That’s the true test of your spirit. Even when faced with certain death, you try to whore your way out. And it insults my intelligence, really. That a pitiful creature like you could possibly try to outsmart me. While you jerked off your petty existence in the city, I spent the last age forging my vengeance.”
Senari was wheezing, bent double, quivering with pain and shock. He retched.
Damian leapt back, escaping the jet of pale beery vomit. “Suffice to say, your death is required. Your assistance is not. Now, I’ll give you a moment to sober up. Then, I want you to apologize. Brave up. Die like a god.” He snorted.
Senari spent some time breathing deeply, recovering, mustering what little courage and dignity he had left. He knew he was going to die. His face was bloodless. His soul had withdrawn into a little bubble of terror, trying to reason out the inevitable.
“I’m sorry,” Senari whispered after a while. It sounded like he meant it.
Damian closed his eyes. “That’s better, Sena.” He pulled a short sword from a scabbard at his hip.
“I’m sorry, Damian,” the other god repeated in a low voice. He held his breath.
Genuine or not, the apology made no difference. It was just another crumb of humiliation. Damian plunged the sword into Senari’s belly. He pushed hard, deep. The blade chinked against the stone wall behind. The god slumped, the sword tip clanking against the uneven brickwork. Damian pulled the blade out. A puddle of rain-diluted blood spread.
Damian waited, but there were no more words from Sena. He was still alive, blinking slowly, ever more slowly. He no longer saw things in this world. Damian shoved him over. The body folded sideways into the gutter. It was an absurd pose to die in.
There was noise from the street. A pair of city guards had just arrived and was watching the scene warily. They had not witnessed the execution, but they could spot trouble.
“What goes on there?” one of them asked.
Damian didn’t want to have to kill them. They were meaningless humans to him, but their deaths would not go unnoticed in the town. He used just a faint bit of magic to cover up the blood; he couldn’t afford more, not yet.
“My friend here passed out. He’s drunk.”
The guard snorted derisively. “Had a friend do that once. Passed out in a gutter. Woke up without his nose. Rat bit it off.”
Lord Erik saluted. “Thanks for the tip, Officer.”
The guards walked away. Damian knelt by the corpse, staring. One of his kin. Now, just a pile of broken flesh. They all had to die. All of them. It made him empty and sad. But there was no other way. He just hoped Elia would forgive him.
He cleaned the sword on his own cloak; he would find a better one later. For the next kill, he might not even need one. They would be going into the nomad lands next, where the weather was much warmer.
Damian pushed his plastered hair away. He blinked the rain out of his eyes. Rain and tears, maybe. Overall, he was pleased. He had not lost his composure. He had handled the kill as he had expected. One day, murdering other gods could almost become a pleasure.
He walked away, and Calemore’s men followed.
CHAPTER 17
“I will resign, Your Highness,” Commander Gerald repeated, for the fourth time. His face was haggard, his eyes red. His perfect composure was gone, replaced by deep lines of exhaustion and despair. He had not slept in two days.
Amalia slammed a fist against the desk. “No, you will not! I forbid it!”
Theodore gestured in a pacifying manner. “Please, Amalia, relax. You must not get agitated.”
Captain Gerald stood, swaying slightly from excitement. His voice was thin and crisp. “If I’d been there, it would not have happened.”
“If you had, you’d be dead now!” Amalia shrieked.
The atmosphere in the room was grim, dark, tense. Luke was there too, and he looked as somber and defeated as Gerald. They had both utterly failed in their task of protecting the empress. Her face still bore the signs of their failure. The left side was swollen
, bruised in shades of purple and yellow. Her lip was pulled up in a grotesque grimace, and she lisped when she talked.
“Your resigning won’t solve anything,” Theodore spoke, his languid manner replaced with a firm voice. “This attack was an act of magic, it’s obvious. We do not have protection against it.”
Magic.
Magic was not a word often spoken in the realms. Since the First Age, magic was not practiced in an open, free manner. It was confined to witchcraft and tricks and some healing. The Sirtai were more liberal about it, but even they kept their sorcerers hidden from public view. The attack two nights ago had come as a total surprise. This was a dire threat that no one had anticipated.
The empress-mother sat by her daughter, stroking her back lightly, trying to soothe her. What else could she do?
“We need to understand who this man was,” Theo added. He nudged Luke.
The man seemed stunned. He shook his head. “My agents have nothing.”
The city was in chaos. Hundreds had been arrested and questioned; hundreds more were locked in damp cells, awaiting interrogation by the Secret Guard. A night curfew was in place, and no one was allowed to leave the city without an imperial pass. The streets were deserted, people huddling in their homes, frightened, confused, not quite sure what they’d done to suffer the wrath of their empress.
Theodore gripped Luke’s shoulders, shaking him. “We need to know who he’s working for! Caytor? Eracia? Someone else? They now have the bloodstaff, and this could change the balance of power.”
“Enough,” Amalia snapped. She tried to rub her face, but stopped herself. She was still sore from that kick. Gently, she tugged a stray lock behind her ear.
“You will need magical protection, Amalia,” Theodore persisted.
“I will personally protect the empress,” Gerald intoned. His eyes brimmed, but he kept his composure, just barely. Years of service with Amalia’s father, his own dad’s teachings, all for nothing. He had failed in the one duty he was supposed to be doing.
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