by S J Doran
“I’m learning.”
“So you are.”
Cass finished off his drink and looked around. There had to be a way out. He’d left her there and didn’t feel right about it.
“I can summon you when I choose.” His father peered up at him, meeting his eyes once more. “It’s on you to keep the Arch-Dukes reined in. Most are loyal to me, but more have been searching for a weakness.”
Asmodeus stood and Cass jumped to his feet.
“And you are a weakness, boy. Until you accept what needs to be done.” His father reached for him again, laying his hand on Cass’s stomach, right under his ribcage.
A burning pain ripped through him, he felt his father’s mark singed right to his very essence, siphoning his new-found power.
“Give your sister my regards.” His father said, turning from him to hunch over his drink.
In a blink he was in his bedroom in the Nessus fortress, his breaths coming out as pants, his chest too tight to take anything more than a gasp of air, his insides quaking, the room spinning around him. He recognised this feeling. He needed his potions…
On the verge of blacking out, his hands grasped around on his dresser, fumbling to open the case and pull out the stopper. Without so much as a pause he tossed the contents to the back of his throat, the less of the vile liquid that touched his tongue, the less acrid lingering aftertaste.
Poison, his cure. His priestess had known of his condition and seen to his needs.
He’d left her there. He had to go back for her, no one else could sit on that throne.
He needed to feed first, his energy so depleted he was shaking. His father had taken everything, the sigil he’d marked him with burned, siphoning power like a greedy gaping maw.
He waited until his veins filled with blistering heat, until his body was so focused on the agonizing poison flowing through it, he could finally take a deep breath, then swung open his door, summoning the closest minion, ordering women to be brought up.
Feed. Then find her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
there's no place like home
Amara’s eyes cracked open to reveal the familiar surroundings of her private chambers, the shadows of night kept at bay by the firelight spilling from the hearth on the opposite side of the room. Despite its warmth, the air was frigid.
Awareness was slow to come, her mind operating as if it were on delay, and her body too heavy to move. A well-known side effects of the sleeping tincture. To the poison master’s credit, his vile concoctions never failed to deliver in their promise. Already the pain at her abdomen had settled into a dull throbbing.
With effort she coaxed her hand to move, her fingers to gently prodding along the angry gash at her belly, finding the large wound sutured closed, the flesh already knitting together. At this rate, the laceration would take only a few days to heal and was unlikely to leave even the faintest scar.
She licked her lips, only to come away with the taste of the healing balm someone had coated them with. Its taste unpleasant, yet the scent of medicinal herbs, verbena and magick soothed.
With a deep sigh of agitation, Amara allowed herself to recount the events which had led to her injuries. The Sword of Justice had been obtained, but the price paid had been high. Had it not been for the Goddess Kali, she’d never have made it out of Ghata’n alive. Offerings to the goddess would be made, worship offered in return for her blessing, and eventually she would demand her price for her assistance. Nothing came for free, especially not divine intervention.
She could feel the smile tug the corner of her lips at the memory of Namtar’s rage. Kali ma, the Hindu death Goddess would surely feel pleased with having thwarted the Sumerian death god, their rivalry was legendary and stemmed from a millennia old feud. Many believed Kali a primordial goddess of evil when in reality her energy was that of battle rage and bloodlust, she could be violent and brutal, but Kali was not cruel. The opposite was true for Namtar.
Ancient records told that at the dawn of Sumerian civilization Namtar had been a kind and merciful deity, and beautiful to behold. Back then the death god had worked opposite Inanna herself, the Sumerian goddess brought life, he ended it.
The story went that as time passed Namtar grew bitter over his ordained role. Where Inanna was met with celebration, his arrival was mourned. He became cruel, unleashing scourges and plagues upon mortals, reveling in their suffering. This earned him a secondary title, the god of pestilence.
As his compassion for mankind faded, so did his beauty, marking Namtar with the disfigurements and ulcers of leprosy. By then, many of the ancient ones turned away from the death god, repulsed by both his actions and appearance.
Amara had experienced Namtar’s cruelty for herself when the god had come to her one hundred years earlier, demanding her soul in payment for her mother’s crown. When she refused to honor her mother’s contract, he placed a curse on her, one which had stolen away any chance at happiness she had left.
Death will come swiftly for any foolish enough to love you.
At first, it had sounded like a curse borrowed from a fairy-tale book, a cliché even. Nor had she particularly worried, having lost her capacity to love long ago, her heart had died beside her demon, but she had cared deeply for her three sisters.
After losing Cassius and spending nearly four hundred years imprisoned in Hell, Amara had returned to them broken. Her sisters had understood and accepted her, had loved her unconditionally even when she wasn’t able to do the same. And because they loved her, death had come for them.
The image of her sisters' lifeless bodies flashed rapidly before blurry eyes. Their bodies broken, their features twisted in horror. Their end had not been gentle nor swift. She could never purge the image from her mind, but she could now replace it with a new one- the light extinguishing in the decrepit death god’s eyes. She had the Sword.
She had her mentor, the Dark Fae King, who had protected her, shielded her from Namtar’s wrath, ceaselessly helping her search for a way to end the old god. Gwynn the Huntsman helped her develop and master her dark magicks, protected her with his wild magic until she grew strong enough to avenge the death of her sisters. It had been Gwynn that unearthed the lore on the Sword, it had been one of her Domina that tracked it for her.
Namtar’s days were numbered. She had a known god-killing weapon and he was number one on her list.
A soft hand moved across her forehead, startling her back into awareness. “Highness how is it you’re awake? They gave you enough draft to sedate a hell-beast. Dark gods, but you are chilled to the bone.”
She recognized the gentle voice of Er-Agate, her first attendant, and sighed softly when warm blankets settled over her. She had been about to ask about the sword when Agate turned from her.
“Pack everything of value carefully and move it to the cellars.”
Figures entered her chambers and moved to obey her attendant's orders.
“Agate, what is happening?” Her words came out in a struggle, the effort of trying to sit up immediately sending a burst of pain through her abdomen, her legs feeling as if they caught fire.
“Be at ease Sarratum, it is merely precautionary.”
Cold metal pressed against her lips, offering another dosage of the vile tonic. Clever Agate, her attendant was well enough acquainted with both her stubborn nature and dislike for the vile remedy to not allow her time to protest. That, however, didn’t stop Amara from pinning Agate with the foulest glare she could muster. The cheeky warlock had the audacity to smirk in response.
“We have been under attack ever since your return, there are factions wanting to avenge the fall of Ghata’n. Is it true you unleashed the Draugr?”
Amara nodded, and Agate’s smirk dropped into a grimace, a hard shudder running visibly through her body. “The council of Dominae agreed it would be best to temporarily move both yourself and the sword to the realm of Gaia, amongst the humans. They believe the ley lines scattered across the mortal realm are pow
erful enough to dampen the sword’s divine imprint, and it will keep you safe in case of an invasion.”
“I’m not fleeing my own realm…” When again she struggled to sit up, the world tilted, her vision grew dark and sound growing distant. The sleeping tincture already taking effect. “Not... going…”
That same warm hand brushed her forehead, weightlessness followed as she felt her body lifted off the bed. Then there was nothing but darkness as the abyss consumed her.
“Rest and recover, Sarratum sa. The sword is kept safe and so are you...”
As Amara dwelled through the shadowlands of her dreams, a too tall figure revealed himself there, waiting. She approached until she was close enough to see his eyes, lifeless, dark brown and cold as unlit coal. The sin-eater.
Yet as soon as his gaze locked with hers, Hellfire sparked within, flooding its depths with molten gold and deep crimson. And when she looked again, she was staring into eyes of burning embers.
“Cassius…”
CHAPTER EIGHT
sounds a lot like 'not my problem'
He paced in front of his throne, urgency and frustration riding him. He needed Amara on the Asurian throne, more than he’d ever admit to her, his power was tricky and uncertain, she was the constant he needed as anchor. Instead of trying to figure out how to get back, his thoughts kept circling back to his father. His father knew. Somehow, he’d figured out all the complex maneuvering, the plotting and set-ups.
He and the Priestess had set up the fall of Asmodeus over the span of a century, gently nudging events and misleading information to point in his father’s direction in order to set in motion his exile from Hell. As a result of their scheming, Asmodeus had lost his seat on the Council and been banished by Celestials. He hadn’t thought his father would figure out the role he had played in his downfall so soon.
As King of all the Hells, his position was titular, actual responsibility minimal. All he’d had to do was remain in his realm, seen and feared. His thirst for freedom, his arrogance believing he was finally free of his father’s rule, had made him reckless. He’d been running for the past five years, leaving his father’s Herald Basileus as regent while he pursued sin in the mortal realm.
The murmurings of uprising were constant, saying he was unfit to be king. Possibly so, but the throne belonged to him, by right of inheritance. He’d suffered at his father’s hand, willing to submit in order to be molded from prince to monarch. The throne was his, and he’d not give it up for anything.
Since his return to the Nessus, the seat of his rule, his mood had been soured by frustration. His fingers dug through his hair again, hesitating once he realized. Odd, he couldn’t recall ever possessing this particular habit before.
It was her fault. For two days he’d heard nothing of the warlock’s fate. At his command Basileus had sent ambassadors to Asurim, but neither they nor the spies he kept within her court had reported seeing her. Amara’s council ruled in her absence and the realm had been closed off to visitors. Had he let her die in that godforsaken place?
My Mara...
The sound of shocked murmurs within the hall interrupted his broodings, making him look up to find a familiar form approach. Andrus, son of Eros, husband to his only friend and at times stand-in mother, the Fae Queen Verity. What, by all the Hells, was a lesser god doing in his Nessus?
He eased slowly up from his throne, the poison still lingering in his system, and walked down his dais to greet Andrus.
“Cassius.” Andrus nodded, ignoring all the Demons surrounding them.
“Andrus. Baby must be getting big?” He turned to ask, trying to guess the reason for this visit.
“Did you know?” Andrus asked as they moved toward the doorway that led out of the busy hall.
“Did I know…?” Cass shook his head, brows knitted in confusion. “Sorry, what am I supposed to know exactly?”
“About my daughter, my Elodie?” Andrus stood, turning toward the unlit fire, hands clasped behind his back. “How much do you know about the Huntsman?”
Cass growled low and let his head fall back on the sofa. The Huntsman, the Dark Fae King. He had made inquiries about the mad king in the past, mainly because that’s who his Priestess had been involved with. To his knowledge the two had become lovers soon after had Cass helped her escape his father's prison.
“Only that he is King of the Dark Fae, and that he is rumored to suffer bouts of madness.”
Andrus whipped back around, the air surrounding him blurring.
“She sold off my daughter to him.” Andrus snarled, then took a deep breath.
“She...what?” Cass slid forward in his seat, still wanting to maintain some distance between him and the God. “Verity did?”
“Verity betrothed our baby girl to the Dark King before she was even born.” Andrus spoke slowly, waiting for Cass to catch up, resting his hands on the top of his head and blowing out a long breath.
Cass’s thoughts were still sluggish from his last bout of poisoning, so it took him a moment to process. Although he personally considered the practice to be unappealing, the betrothing of an infant to the mother’s choice of suitor was a common enough practice within the Realms. Some even offered their first born up to demons or dark gods in exchange for favor, even his father had accepted such contracts in the past, in order to feed innocent souls to the Hells.
Still the news came as a shock, not only because it seemed highly out of character for gentle and kind Verity to do such a thing, but also because the priestess and the Dark King had been involved for the better part of a century. It had always been his understanding they’d end up as each other’s consorts, however that would work.
“But that’s not why I came.” Andrus said with a sharp motion of his hand towards the exit, “this is a conversation best had in private.”
“Is the world ending? That’s the only reason I can think of for you to bother entering my Realms.” Cass said, leaning in closer, so their words wouldn’t travel beyond the two of them, as he led the young god down the hall towards his private rooms.
Andrus’s eyes sparkled, then darkened once more. “There have been some concerns in that regard. I am here because you and the Warlock Queen have somehow managed to unearth the Sword of Divine Justice.”
Cass looked around to see if anyone had heard before ushering Andrus into his sitting room, shutting the door tight behind them.
“We might have.” He leaned against the door, narrowing his eyes at the young god who was helping himself to the liquor strewn across the side table.
Andrus turned back to him, swirling the liquid in a tumbler, his eyes back to violet.
“Have you any idea what this signifies?” He took a sip, watching Cass carefully.
“I know it’s been said to have the power to slay a god.” Cass said, pouring himself a drink.
Andrus stilled. “You have to be on the side of truth to be able to wield it as a weapon. I know it has killed one of my kind at least once before.”
“Would it work on my kind?” Would it work on his father?
Andrus studied him carefully, then stood to stare into the empty fireplace.
“Perhaps, but killing is only a side effect of the sword’s true power. It is a sentient weapon, with a will of its own and imbued with the divine purpose of unmaking injustice. As such, death is not guaranteed, as it often fails to solve the problem.”
Maybe Mara had been on to something. He needed that sword, even if that meant he had to return to the zombie infested Ghata’n to retrieve it. He sat, covering his shudder of repulsion by slumping back into the worn leather sofa, Andrus perching on the chair beside.
“Justice is all I ask.” He said quietly, noting how Andrus’s eyes moved back to his, scanning his face.
The intrusive god merely nodded. “The Sword brings greater significance than justice. The fact that it has resurfaced,” he paused, thoughtful. “More or less, it’s a harbinger, ever since its discovery the tides of fate h
ave altered and the gods grow concerned.”
Cass shrugged and sipped at his drink. This was none of his concern.
And you’ll free me? I’m supposed to just trust you?
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the scene which kept intruding upon his mind. Apparently, Amara shouldn’t have trusted him. He freed her from her prison and delivered her to her death. He stifled a shudder at the memory of the zombies.
“Your expression betrays you Cass, are you thinking about the Warlock Queen?” Andrus raised a brow, insinuating something.
His hand absently rubbed across his chest, where some of Amara’s essence had entwined with his own, a side effect from the vow he had made her swear, the sigil hidden by glamour; a secret only two beings had known.
“Not surprising considering the topic of conversation. I left her there Andrus, and I’m beginning to fear she may have not survived.”
“That’s not the story Kali tells.” Andrus’s gaze was locked on his, as if to search for a reaction while he spoke. “The goddess claims to have snatched Amara from death’s embrace only moments before Namtar could lay claim her, she’s been bragging about it ever since. Queen Amara was hurt during her escape, but remains very much alive. And more importantly, she has the sword.”
“She’s alive.” He’d left her with her undead creatures, the ones ravenous for living flesh, no longer in her control, and she had survived. Of course, she had, he was a fool for not realizing it sooner, his priestess was simply too stubborn to die.
She had secured the sword… that could possibly be the end to his father for good, ‘god’ or no.
“This is the reason I came here to speak with you, they want that sword,” Andrus stood and refilled his drink, tipping it back to swallow in one gulp.
“I need that sword.” Cass said, baring his teeth and getting to his feet. “My need supersedes your wants.” He thought for a moment. “Who wants it?”