Aching God

by Mike Shel

  “Back off, you sordid bitch!” snarled Eubrin, pointing index and pinky fingers at her in a peasant’s ward against evil. Auric was surprised at the intensity of the man’s venom, though it was true the god’s priesthood was loathed and feared by most. The clergy itself seemed to relish the ill regard received.

  The priest returned Eubrin’s hostile gesture with a broad, toothy grin. “Sordid, am I?” she tutted back at him. “You know this of me from up there on your ugly little horse?” She mimicked his gesture, waving both pinkies and index fingers back at him as though casting a mocking spell. “Hear this, little man: Timilis knows you. Knows your heart. And the great god laughs.”

  Belech grabbed the man’s arm before Eubrin could jump down from his speckled mount.

  “Priest, we understand that the clerics of your temple spoke some prophecies regarding our venture,” said Auric, deciding in that moment. “Perhaps you would share them with us, as a religious courtesy?”

  “You are mistaken,” said the priest now shaking off his member and stuffing it back into his robes, his front teeth conspicuously absent.

  “We have preached no prophecies about you, Auric Manteo,” said the female priest with a wink and a coy smile.

  “You know his name,” said Sira, her iciness uncharacteristic.

  “We know all your names, Sira Edjani, priest of the Blue Queen of Heaven,” she responded, aiming her sardonic sign against evil at Sira, then the rest of them, one at a time, finally ending her gesture by blowing a kiss at Eubrin. The mercenary fumed from atop his mount, Belech still gripping his arm.

  “We know many things,” said the male priest, wagging his tongue where his front teeth should have been.

  “But we speak no prophecies,” continued the woman. “Why waste time sifting through the entrails of goat and toad, hunting the future in the guts of dumb beasts and vermin? Timilis reveals to us what he wishes, how he wishes, when he wishes. He’ll reveal the truth to you as well, when it suits his divine purpose.” She held out her arms, clad in her oversized robes of deepest crimson, tilted her head to the sky with eyes closed, and sang an atonal kind of prayer. “Fair thee well in the Barrowlands, O thou Syraeic adventurers! We wish upon thee the blessing of surprise!”

  The male priest let out a loud belch and tugged the pyramidal hood of his robe over his eyes. The woman smiled and pursed her lips as though readying another kiss, but then did the same with her hood. Then the two retreated into their gilded temple, blind, chuckling like silly schoolchildren, as though enormously entertained by the exchange.

  21

  Into the Barrowlands

  And the people cried out, ‘O Great God, Marcator, Lord of the Heavens and the Storm, do not abandon us in our suffering, for the Djao abuse and oppress us, thy faithful servants.’

  And Marcator heeded their prayers, and looking down upon the Djao did witness them brutalize the people, rob them of the bounty of Chaeres, and enslave the sons and daughters of the righteous. So, too, did he see them consort with dark spirits of the Netherworld and worship fell gods and demons who called out for sacrifices, thirsty for human blood.

  So Marcator said unto Belu and Chaeres and Vanic and the other good gods, ‘The people cry out in their anguish, asking that we deliver them from their oppression. We must destroy the Djao, for they are a pestilence upon the earth and our people.’

  And the gods did smite the cities of the Djao, so that one stone did not stand upon another, and a blight fell on the land, for they were exceedingly wicked. Their crops became choked with weeds, their rivers dried up, and the beasts of the field and birds of the air were corrupted. And so too did Marcator and all good gods bring utter destruction down upon the demons and godlings that the Djao did worship, burying their foul temples in the dust. This came to pass because the Djao and their fell gods did great evil, for the true gods of the earth could not abide the stench of their iniquity.

  Divine Codex,

  Book of Marcator’s Glory,

  Chapter 2, Verses 11 – 22

  The rough path worn in the earth past the Northward Gate of Serekirk split off in six different directions, but by the time the city disappeared behind them on the horizon, the path had petered out. So now they rode over trackless rolling hills carpeted with coarse grass the horses refused to eat. The younger members of the expedition chafed at the slow pace Auric had adopted, but hidden dips and holes in the ground soon made clear why faster, less cautious travel was unwise. They passed clusters of trees and small ponds, but nature’s sounds were absent, unnerving the travelers. Fat black crows perched in the trees, watching them ride by with an almost clinical interest. In the afternoon, they came upon a wake of forthas, gathered on the carcass of some great lumbering beast. Auric directed them to give the scavengers a wide berth.

  “No sense in unnecessary risk before we reach our goal,” he said to the group. “Chances are we’ll have plenty we can’t avoid in the days ahead.”

  “It’s been ages since I’ve stabbed anything,” whined Gnaeus, the blade of his rapier dancing in the air, holding his horse’s reins with the other hand.

  “Have you forgotten the pirates already?” asked Lumari, eyes focused warily on the ground before her mount.

  “Oh, that,” answered Gnaeus, sheathing his weapon. “Yes, I suppose I have stabbed some things recently.”

  “Still,” quipped Del, a hand worrying at the opal jewel set in her forehead, “some activity would make the time pass more easily. The landscape sucks the spirit out of you. I’ve never seen such ill-omened country.”

  Sira quoted aloud from the sacred books. “Their crops became choked with weeds, their rivers dried up, and the beasts of the field and birds of the air were corrupted.”

  “Sister Sira with the scripture,” said Eubrin, cheerful.

  “Meaning: do not fuck with the gods,” Gnaeus added.

  “I honestly don’t relish camping under the stars here,” said Del, squinting up at the dull wisps of cloud overhead. “How many days of travel have we at this pace?”

  “Four, maybe five,” responded Auric, gingerly guiding Glutton around a series of holes in the incline of a hillside. “But with luck we won’t always be out in the open. There are occasional waystations where we can pass the night, a roof over our heads and a fireplace for cooking our dinners and keeping us warm.”

  “Thank Belu,” sighed the sorcerer.

  “How do you know where these waystations are?” queried Lumari. “Seeing as there aren’t any roads out here. Or where St. Besh is, for that matter?”

  “Well, as I said, sometimes it’s luck. If we run into any patrols, they’ll direct us to the nearest waystations. We know the priory is north, northeast of Serekirk. The sun guides us there.”

  “What’s this about patrols?” asked Gnaeus, chewing at his lip.

  “Royally deputized officers roam the Barrowlands, seeing to it that the expeditions they encounter are all sanctioned by the Crown. It’s another way access to the plunder of tombs and temples is controlled.”

  “Have I told you yet of my single-handed fight with three giants in these lands?” Eubrin asked. “Well, two. It was necessary for me to seduce the third.”

  “Giants are a children’s fairy tale, Eubrin,” said Lumari with a frown, eyes still fixed guardedly on the earth before her mount’s hooves.

  “Sir Auric?” said Eubrin, smiling.

  Auric sighed. “Technically, Lumari, the Othan qualify as giants.”

  “The hill people?” asked the alchemist. “I’ve read a little about them at the Citadel. Primitives, hermits, living in caves and ravines. Didn’t read anything about them being giants.”

  “Yes,” he responded. “They tend to be solitary, dress in the skins of their kills. A squat Othan is well over six feet tall. I saw one who had to be eight.”

  Lumari scoffed.

  “I’m
not endorsing Eubrin’s boast,” said Auric, amused by Lumari’s pique. “Two of them, armed with stone-tipped clubs, with the reach their long, gangly arms grant them? Two at a time, they would have brained you, Eubrin, and then roasted you on a spit over a cave fire.”

  “Cannibals then?” said Gnaeus, his interest ignited.

  “They eat whatever they can. The Barrowlands are not bountiful.”

  “Some believe the Othan are descendants of the Djao who survived the gods’ wrath,” said Sira. “Reduced to a cave-dwelling, nomadic existence, all knowledge of sorcery and civilization lost, with only the most rudimentary tool-making skills. League estimates suggest the total population of Othan isn’t greater than a few hundred, across the entire Barrowlands.”

  “I would like to note,” said Eubrin, puffing out his chest, “that while Sir Auric casts doubt on my martial skills against the Othan, he wisely voiced no skepticism of my love-makin’ abilities. Let me tell you how I managed t’ beguile a she-Othan out of her bearskins…”

  Before long, Eubrin had the group laughing. Even Auric found himself diverted from the oppressive country through which they rode, and was thankful the jovial fellow had joined them on their journey.

  They reached a waystation for their first night in the Barrowlands. It was a simple mudbrick rectangle with a low opening for the door and a roof of thatch, a third of it caved in. They built a fire for warmth, beneath a chimney that canted at an angle, and ate boiled eggs and jerky for their dinners, along with bread purchased from Pennyman before leaving Serekirk.

  “Even the stars look strange and unhealthy up here,” commented Gnaeus, lying on the ground and propped up on an elbow, looking through the hole in the roof. “I assume we post watches through the night.”

  “It would be wise,” Auric answered.

  At that moment, there was the sound of a twig snapping outside. All stood quickly, reaching for their weapons. In the open doorway stood two shaggy men, clad in dull, battered breastplates and animal pelts, their faces unshaven, emotionless, each holding a long spear with the butts resting on the ground.

  “Patrol,” said one of them in a deep, guttural voice.

  “Permit,” asked the other, tapping his spear’s butt on the ground for emphasis.

  “We’d like to see your insignia first, if you please,” said Auric, careful to avoid a defiant tone.

  “He wants to see our insignia, Thad,” said the first, face still impassive.

  “That is right and proper, Almacht,” said the other.

  “So, I think we show the man our insignia,” droned Almacht.

  “Aye, we should,” Thad answered.

  Almacht reached slowly beneath a dirty pelt and drew out rough cloth rolled up like a scroll, unfurling it before them. Sewn onto the face of the cloth were several patches bearing symbols, letters, and swatches of color. Auric studied it closely for a moment, then looked up at Almacht and smiled.

  “You’re satisfied, then?” asked Thad. “Now we‘d like t’see your permit, as is right and proper.”

  “Of course,” said Auric, handing over the Letter of Imprimatur while giving Belech a glance.

  Thad took the packet and inspected its seal and ribbons, turning it over in his grubby hand. He tossed it to the ground. It landed perilously close to their fire, but no one moved to retrieve it.

  “Looks like everythin’s in order,” said Almacht.

  “Everythin’s as it should be,” echoed Thad.

  “Then if you gentlemen would be on your way,” said Auric.

  “There’s another matter,” said Almacht, with what might have been an attempt at a grin.

  “The toll,” said Thad.

  “Toll,” echoed Auric.

  “Aye. You need t’pay the royal toll, which we as deputies of the Crown shall hereby collect,” Thad answered, running a fat tongue along uneven teeth.

  “We will see that it reach ‘er Majesty,” said Almacht.

  “Long may she reign,” said Thad dully.

  “How much is this toll?” asked Belech, stepping to Auric’s right.

  “Oh, say, fifty sovereigns a head. That sound right to you, Thad?” said Almacht.

  “Fifty sounds right and proper,” answered Thad. “Syraeics‘re always loaded with coin.”

  “What happens if we refuse to pay this ‘toll’ of yours?” Auric questioned, edging his hand toward the pommel of his sword.

  “Well then,” replied Almacht, a flicker of malice in his eyes, “Thad an’ I ‘ill take these spears of ours and shove them in your fuckin’ guts.”

  Auric nodded slowly. “Understood,” he said.

  The Djao blade was out of its scabbard in a blur and Almacht’s head jerked back as the sword’s edge slashed a bloody path under his exposed chin. Belech swung his mace at Thad’s head, but the thug moved back with surprising speed so that the weapon only glanced across his cheek. But at the same moment, Gnaeus came in low and drove his rapier up into Thad’s waist so that it slipped beneath the breastplate and skewered him, blood spurting onto the rapier’s ornate guard. Thad was dead before he hit the ground. Almacht lay on his back, gurgling, desperate hands clutching at his neck as his life’s blood coursed out onto the hut’s dirt floor. Sira began moving to the man’s side, but Auric stopped her. “Don’t you dare, Sira,” he said.

  Sira frowned, stopped, and watched with a grimace while Almacht’s life slipped away.

  “It’s safe to say that wasn’t a proper patrol?” asked Lumari when the light at last went out of the man’s eyes.

  “No,” replied Auric, wiping his blade on Almacht’s furs. “These two bandits likely took it from a patrol they got the jump on. There were several clues of their fraud.”

  “Such as?” asked Gnaeus, cleaning his own blade on one of Thad’s pelts.

  Auric reached down and retrieved the rolled cloth insignia from Almacht’s corpse.

  “First and foremost, while patrols tend to be composed of hard men and women, they usually maintain a more polished appearance. They keep up their armor, for instance, don’t trot around in soiled furs. Second, they did nothing to inspect our permit but look at the seal. A real patrol would have opened it, read it to make sure we were all covered by the imprimatur, and re-sealed it. Finally, the insignia of a patrol is a code of sorts, telling you something about the specific bearers. This insignia, for instance, indicates this particular patrol consists of a male and female officer.”

  “I see the lot of you have worked together before,” commented Eubrin.

  “Our first expedition as a team, actually,” Lumari replied.

  “Well, you could’ve fooled me,” said Eubrin, eyebrows raised.

  Auric, too, was struck by the harmony of their actions. These two stupid brutes didn’t stand a chance—a glance at Belech was all it took. Gnaeus was whisper-quick as well, without any need for sorcerous flourishes to do the job. Lumari and Del already proved their skill aboard the Yaryx. It usually took years for groups to fight with this kind of concord. Perhaps we’re a natural team, he thought.

  That night, Auric slept well.

  The next two nights, they were unable to locate waystations and camped beneath the inhospitable stars in copses of stunted trees. On the second night, a trio of growling, unnaturally large wolves with mangy black fur and cold blue eyes stalked their camp, but Del drove them off with an impromptu pyrotechnic display. Early on the third day, they encountered a royal patrol—authentic this time—and presented the duo with the insignia that had somehow fallen into the grimy hands of Thad and Almacht.

  “This belongs to Oli and Welmu,” said one of the patrol, a tough red-haired woman whose name was Chana. “I haven’t seen hide nor hair of them for a month or more.”

  Auric described the location of the waystation where they had encountered the bandits and where the bodies were buried. Chana’s
quiet male partner picked his teeth with a thin blade while she returned the favor, telling them where they could find another waystation for shelter that night. “Storm’s headed in from the northeast,” said Chana as they parted. “Best you have a roof over you tonight.”

  The rain began to fall before they reached the shelter. Once they arrived, they were soaked through. The building was in better condition than the first waystation, with an intact roof and four smaller rooms off a large main chamber that featured a big fireplace. They dried their clothes on the hearth and ate dinner, listening to Eubrin sing an endless repertoire of songs.

  They rose early and ate. As the others gathered their things, Auric joined Gnaeus outside. He stood looking into the eastern distance, shielding his eyes from the rising sun.

  “That’s an awfully strange-looking bird,” Gnaeus said at last.

  “Your eyes are better than mine, lad. I see nothing.”

  “It keeps dipping behind the hills. Clumsy flier, whatever it is.”

  “Wounded, maybe?”

  “Not sure. Can’t tell how big it is, or how far away.”

  Before leaving, Eubrin announced that his speckled mount had lost a shoe somehow. They spent a short time trying to locate it, without success.

  “Perhaps during the rainstorm, before we reached shelter,” suggested Sira.

  “Whatever the case,” responded Eubrin, “poor fellow’s gonna be limping before long.”

  Del picked up one of the pots they used to boil water. “Can we do without this?” she asked, holding it up for all to see.

  “We have two others,” Lumari answered.

  Del crouched down on the ground, sitting the pot down before her, and rubbed her hands through her black, crop-cut hair briskly several times. She began muttering alien words and making strange gesticulations, finally touching the pot with the stump of her severed pinky. She picked it up and, with her two hands pressing at the sides, the metal collapsed as though made of paper. She molded it, soft as clay, into the shape of a horseshoe. A spicy odor of cinnamon filled the air.