by Mike Shel
Before the creature could fall upon the old soldier, prone and helpless on the floor, Auric lunged forward with inhuman speed and stabbed the thing in its crotch. He dragged the blade up through its torso and the cluster of tendrils as easily as if it was made of paper. It shrieked and lost its form, spilling to the floor and disappearing like water into a sponge.
Auric looked down at Belech and his heart sank. The old soldier’s mouth and right nostril were fused shut, his right arm twisted up toward his face, the hand curled and deformed, the fingers attached to the flesh of his neck. His head canted at a painful angle, the lower lobe of his ear fused to his swollen left shoulder.
Auric was down at his side, supporting the man’s head, not knowing what to do. There were no wounds to tend: the creature had warped his flesh as though it was as malleable as moist clay. Belech looked up at Auric pathetically through eyes that were now mere slits in his puffy face.
“Belech!” he wept. “Gods! What can I do?”
The old soldier tried to say something, but his words were muffled by the malformed flesh that had closed over his mouth. Auric rocked him, impotent tears coursing down his cheeks. He looked up at the chamber and saw six more of the repugnant beasts still closing on them from the far end of the hall with slow, deliberate steps.
Now Sira was beside them, haggard and exhausted from attending Gnaeus, looking down on the ruin that was their friend. “He’s dying,” said Sira, her voice husky with emotion.
“Can you do nothing for him?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered, hesitating.
“The other creatures!” shouted Lumari nearby. “They stand their ground, but no longer approach!”
“What about Gnaeus?” he asked Sira.
“Dead before I could affect any aid. His…his fingers wrapped around his own throat, the flesh fused. I think…I think he may have strangled himself, to end his agony.”
Auric looked over at Gnaeus’s corpse, the eyes wide with fear, a hand absorbed by the bruised lump of flesh that was his throat. Lumari, standing behind them now, let out an involuntary gasp when she laid eyes on poor Belech’s horrific deformity.
You.
It was the Aching God, speaking again as Samic Manteo.
The one who bears Ush’oul. Come. I would speak with you.
“To the Yellow Hells with you, bloody demon!”
Look, it said. The remainder of my avatars, I dispatch them. The creatures lost their forms and dissolved into the floor, like mounds of snow melting in the sun.
Let us speak, you and me. Of the future. Yours. Those of your comrades, the ones who still survive. Come to me.
Auric looked at Lumari, who shrugged, helpless. She knelt by Belech, while Sira took the man’s head in her lap. Auric stood and walked mechanically to the thrumming membrane.
“What do you wish to say to me, god?”
Touch me.
Auric recoiled at the thought, recalling the nightmare, the demonic face pressing its way through the membrane, opening a hungry mouth to swallow him. He stood before the thing, words caught in his throat, swaying slightly. He wasn’t sure how much time passed.
Fear not. I will not harm you so long as we speak. Touch me and let us reason together.
A mad laugh escaped Auric’s lips. He turned to his surviving companions. Belech was motionless, lying on the floor, but Sira seemed focused on an endeavor to heal his deformities, chanting as she pressed her palms onto his malformed flesh. Lumari sat on the ground, supporting Sira. The priest was pale and slick with sweat, breathing shallow breaths.
You may leave.
“What?”
You may walk out of this place, said the Aching God. You, the little priest, the one who breathes fire. The tall man, perhaps, if he survives. All of you may walk away from here. Alive. Simply leave the body of the fallen one, and lay down that weapon you hold before me. It is so small a price. The blade has served its purpose. Neither it nor that corpse can be of any further use to you.
“You fear this sword,” Auric said, looking from the membrane to the Djao weapon in his hand.
I fear nothing. I am god. But I grant you this boon, for besting my avatars. A reward for your valor.
“You…honor valor? I think you are a poor liar, god.”
All gods lie, mortal. But in this instance the truth serves me best. Touch me and we can speak, face to face. No more avatars; no more veils. See the face of a god.
Auric took a step closer to the mottled, pulsating skin, pointing the tip of Szaa’da’shaela at it. There was a slight tremor that rippled across the chamber.
Touch my flesh. We can speak unimpeded by the gulf that separates us.
“Auric!” shouted Lumari. “What are you doing?”
I have shared this only with you, said the Aching God in Auric’s mind. Touch me.
“It wants to speak to me, Lumari,” he answered, crouching before the membrane.
“Don’t trust it!” she screamed.
“I don’t. I don’t,” he said, somehow distant. “But I think I must…”
Auric knelt, reached out, and touched the face of god.
33
The Face of God
Auric sat again at the long table in the great dining hall of Duke Emberto Montcalme in Kalimander. The banquet laid before him was even more sumptuous than what he, Sira, and Captain Hraea had found on their frightening visit. But now Auric was alone. The chamber was still ill-lit, a single candelabrum atop the table and the flickering firelight from the hearth casting shadows on the walls and high ceilings. Auric looked over at the fireplace, the same high-backed chairs facing its warmth. Though he couldn’t see it, he imagined the corpse of the duke’s murdered wife sat in the chair as Hraea had described. And he saw that the iron pegs set in the hearth’s stone on which Szaa’da’shaela had been mounted were empty, though the other weapons still hung there. He reached down and felt the Djao blade’s reassuring purr at his side.
When again he looked up, he saw an aspect of the scene that had changed: the portraits. They no longer featured Duke Emberto’s dead, treacherous relations. Instead, Auric found himself looking upon depictions of Belu, Vanic, Marcator, Lalu, Tolwe, Chaeres, Ussi, and the rest. The walls were festooned with many paintings beyond those of the adored deities of Hanifax. He saw some that looked vaguely familiar, perhaps the lesser godlings and house spirits revered by the ancient aristocratic clans, images he had seen in passing at some official function or in some barely-remembered passage from an archive tome. There were still others he could not recognize at all, of alien visage, even monstrous appearance, every bit as repugnant as the toad-like idol that had represented the Aching God.
“You are comfortable?” asked a silky voice behind and to his right. Auric started and his hand shot down to the pommel of his sword. He turned to locate the source of the voice, standing up from his seat, the legs squeaking noisily on the parquet wood floor as it shot backward. But no one stood there.
“I did not mean to startle you,” said the voice.
The man sitting at the head of the table, the place the duke had occupied, was indescribably beautiful, olive skin smooth and without blemish, eyes dark and penetrating, lips full, curled in a sardonic smile. His hair was jet black, worn in a style still popular among the aristocracy of the main islands. He sipped at a crystalline goblet of red wine, set it down on the lily-white tablecloth with a gentle grace, fluid and perfect. He had a thin black moustache and goatee, oiled and exact. His beauty was almost feminine. Auric found himself unable to speak.
“This is more comfortable, is it not?” asked the man, looking on Auric with eyes that seemed infinitely ancient. “No more affectation or pretense. I am as I am.”
“Y-you…are the Aching God?” Auric managed at last.
“If that is the name you wish to call me.”
“W
hat name should I call you?”
“What you will,” he responded, brushing the shirt of regal velvet he wore with a casual hand. “It is not important.”
“This place we’re in—” began Auric after a moment.
“Plucked from your mind, as easily as you might pick a berry from a bush. I thought you would be more comfortable in a place that was familiar.”
“You mock me.”
The Aching God seemed hurt by Auric’s rebuke. He placed a perfectly manicured hand over his heart. “Why do you say so? Are these surroundings not luxurious? More hospitable certainly than where you stood but moments ago.”
Sincerity? wondered Auric. Is it possible he doesn’t intend to unsettle me? But if that was true, the being’s clairvoyance was imperfect. He had the architecture and trappings of the duke’s dining hall exact, but none of the emotion that went along with this memory. This being might be able to draw things from his mind, but they were incomplete.
“This is where I was given Ush’oul,” he finally said. “It’s the home of the Duke of Kelse, whom we visited before coming to find you. But the portraits are not of the duke’s family. They are of the gods of Hanifax. At least those I can recognize.”
“Yes?”
“Do you mean to suggest that the gods of Hanifax are your siblings?”
“Of course,” he answered, his smile pearly and radiant.
“This must be a lie.”
“Why would you say that?”
“You hardly seem akin to Chaeres, who makes the harvest fruitful, or Belu, whose bounty heals the sick and wounded. Vanic strengthens our armies; Marcator gave us our laws. The Djao seemed to capture your essence, if not your appearance, in the idol they carved. Captured it perfectly. A repulsive beast waiting to be fed.”
A flicker of annoyance briefly marred the Aching God’s beauty. “Yet we are alike, my siblings and me. We all seek the same thing. I merely shun their pretense of benevolence. I abhor sham, mortal. It offends me. I would think that would be something you might appreciate: an honest relationship between mortal and immortal, unsullied by pretty lies.”
“So, this family of gods to which you belong,” said Auric slowly, hand tight on the grip of his sword. “Would you say that you and your siblings are close? Or are their relations more like those of the Montcalmes of Kelse?”
“Of course we brothers and sisters are close. We have quarreled, it is true. As all families do.”
“You lie.”
“As I said before,” retorted the being, eyes darkening with irritation, “all gods lie. My brothers, Marcator and Vanic. My sisters, Chaeres and Belu. We all lie when its suits our purposes. Presently, the truth suits me better than a lie does. So I speak the truth.”
Auric reached for his wine glass, stared at its burgundy contents for a moment. “I don’t drink wine or other spirits,” he said, casually pouring the goblet’s contents into a silver gravy boat near his place setting. “An attentive host would know such a thing about his guest.”
The Aching God lifted a finger. Suddenly a figure stood next to Auric, filling his goblet with water, cubes of ice dancing in it. He recognized the uniform of the servant who poured for him, identical to that worn by the duke’s maidservant, Alyce. He turned to thank her, but found that she was faceless, mousy brown hair tucked haphazardly beneath the white cap, a livid handprint on the otherwise blank flesh. Auric swallowed his horror.
“You wanted to speak with me,” he said, attempting to recover from the shock. ‘Unimpeded.’”
“Yes. Yes, mortal, My proposal for you.”
“And what would this god have to propose to this mortal?”
“As I said: leave the corpse of the pretty man who accompanied you, and that sword, and this god will spare your lives. You may exit these ruins unharmed. It is a bargain you would not regret.”
“And what of Belech? Will you lift the deformities you laid upon him?”
“The big man? It is already done. I allowed your little priest to heal his injuries.”
“Why? Why would you offer us this…mercy?”
“A god needs no reasons. A god may do whatever he pleases.”
“And this would please you.”
“At this moment, yes.”
“And do you still command us to preach your gospel?”
“If you wish. I would grant you great power and riches if you would only draw more worshippers to me. It is the least you could do for your god.”
“Perhaps I do not covet power and riches.”
“Love, then? The baroness. Perhaps that countess who so intrigues you. I will give them to you, both. They will be in your thrall.”
“I want no woman in my thrall. The idea sickens me. It seems you misread the desires of this man, god. Or do you project your own needs upon me?”
“I know man very well,” hissed the beautiful, dark-haired creature, drawing another sip from his crystal goblet. “When he can’t be brought to heel with the whip, he can be bought for a coin, a crown, or a cunt. Man is an animal; we gods are his masters.”
“I find your theology grotesque.”
“It is the truth you find grotesque, mortal. You might as well chastise me because fire burns and the grave corrupts. I ask only that you acknowledge the difference in our stations and pay me fitting homage. I am immortal, all-powerful. You are not.” The Aching God set the goblet down and traced its rim with a languid, wet index finger, making the crystal sing.
“Oh,” said Auric, filled with a sudden awareness. “Oh, I think you just made a mistake, god.”
This halted the being’s finger, the goblet’s song abruptly arrested. “What do you mean?”
“You said you are ‘all-powerful.’ Yet an omnipotent being negotiates with a mortal man?”
“Do not try to comprehend the mind of a god, little man. You could never fathom our methods or motivations. It is beyond you.”
“I have dealt with bullies my entire life, god. I think you only differ in scale.”
The Aching God grabbed the goblet from the table with angry violence, sloshing red wine across the pristine white of the tablecloth, and heaved the glass at the hearth. It shattered against the stone of the fireplace. “Then perhaps I should close this negotiation,” said the beautiful man, whose features darkened ominously, “and instead dine on your entrails.”
“Do you truly inhabit the stones of those ruins we were in?” asked Auric, ignoring the threat. “I think so. Somehow, your essence has become a part of it—the temple, cage, whatever you call it. When they took the gem from the idol, you spilled out into those stones. When the boy cut himself on the gem, it allowed you to lash out at the Citadel, through the gem. And the lives you and your disease claimed gave you what you needed to grow. But I think it has also made you vulnerable, so-called god. Vulnerable to this Djao blade in particular, though I know not why.”
The Aching God stared back at Auric, a beatific smile now gracing his countenance. “You are mistaken, little man. They took that fragment of me into the world because I willed it. I knew it would be the instrument of my liberation. Had I permitted it, they would have run away empty-handed, stinking of piss. I gave them the gem to remind them they had spoken to a god.”
Stinking of piss. It echoed in Auric’s mind. He slowly pushed back his chair, the legs dragging on the wood floor, making a keening screech that reverberated in the grand chamber. He stood and let his right hand reach across his body and wrap itself comfortably around the grip of the sword. He drew it six inches from its sheath, exposing its silvery-gray sheen. “Again, I think you fear this Djao weapon, god. I think it can hurt you.”
The look on the Aching God’s face was one of annoyance, but something else tinged it—a particle of anxiety? But then his lips curled back in a feral sneer and he stood up from the table. “I fear nothing. I am god.”
&nbs
p; “Truly?” asked Auric, starting toward the man, drawing the blade another inch from its scabbard.
“Do not do this thing, mortal. You will come to regret it. It will set in motion a chain of events that destroys everything. The world will come tumbling down around you, along with everything you love.”
“I once wished that all gods had a single heart, so that I might run it through. Now, perhaps the heart of a single god will do.”
“Lenda died. Brenten and Meric and Ursula died. They died in the prison of my sister, Aelashim. You unleashed her, if only for a short while, and she ate those four. They’re gone forever, you know. Their flesh and souls fed my sister. But this can be different, Auric Manteo. Not all your friends need to die today.”
“At last you speak my name. You did not know it until now, did you? Or perhaps it’s only now that it matters to you.”
The Aching God backed away from the table, toward the hearth. Auric followed him, matching his slow pace and drawing the blade fully from its sheath.
“You murdered Gnaeus, a good man,” he whispered, his anger cold and pure. “You are just as responsible for the death of Del Ogara, a good woman. You caused the deaths of many Syraeic brothers and sisters as well. I think I am their avenger.”
“Don’t,” begged Lenda Hathspry, who now stood in place of the beautiful dark-haired man.
Auric swung the blade. Lenda recoiled, but its lethal tip grazed her cheek. By this time, she had reached the hearth and grabbed an ornate halberd from the martial display on the wall. Auric felt energy surge through his body, running up into his arm from the hand gripping Szaa’da’shaela. He sprung forward like the young, brash man he was thirty years ago, forcing Lenda’s desperate parries of his quick strokes.
“We are still in the sanctum, Auric Manteo, the ruins beneath the priory,” said Lenda as she rounded the chair that held the corpse of a murdered duchess. She grabbed the body by the sleeve of its dress and dumped it on the floor between them, Del’s face there, dead mouth and gaping neck wound opened in twin screams. “This confrontation is only symbolic. While you waste time here, I am strangling the life out of the others. What are their names? Lumari? Belech? Sira? Stop this foolish display of bravado and lay down the weapon. You can have your lives and your freedom.”