God of Emptiness

by Walt Popester

  Dagger rested his forehead against the bars. “You talk too much for a dead man.”

  “And you’re pretty bold for a boy without his prick.” Mumakil shook his head and stood up. “One day, you’ll look back to this and you’ll understand my words. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. You already have enough elements to hate me until the day we meet again.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Oh, I’ll wander…I’ll wander, looking for a certain individual. I want to figure out whether he really wants that, or if he’s acting out of mere ignorance. And I don’t know which of the two is more disturbing.”

  “When will he stop?”

  The figure in black knew what Dagger was talking about. “When you stop giving Varg satisfaction. When you stop screaming.”

  “Do you think it’s so easy?”

  “Do you think you have a choice? Try to keep those lips closed the next time he twists your intestines with a hook. It’ll be worth it.”

  You’re so reasonable…you damn abomination! Dagger watched him disappear into the shadows, soon followed by a messenger of the gods. The bird landed on the preacher’s right shoulder.

  His regained solitude didn’t last long. Preceded by the funeral march of his metal rings, Varg returned. He squeezed Dagger’s cheeks between his metal thumb and forefinger, hard enough to break the boy’s molars and force him to open his mouth. The taste of iron and blood flooded his mind when his tongue was severed clean. Dag fell on his side, spitting it to the ground. One knee on his temple kept him down, as a knife penetrated his field of vision in a burst of electric suffering. Everything went black—the metallic sounds around him, the chorus of fear.

  The Anti-Pendracon let time pass between the various sessions and made things with care and dedication. He allowed his servants to stitch the boy’s wounds and disinfect them with fire. He alternated total silence with deafening noises, never leaving the cell. Dagger knew that Varg was watching him in the dark, feeding on his panic and pain.

  Time became a dark and silent agony nullifying every other memory and feeling, turning off every light at the end of the road. Now there was only him and his score to settle. Everyone is lying. Except for Varg. Rancor is always sincere.

  Dagger vomited against the dead end of his sewn lips, inhaled and died. When he realized he could scream again, he knew he was resurrected.

  Varg’s metal hand was caressing him. “How do you feel?” His voice was sympathetic, almost fatherly. “I want to know.”

  Dag spat out a smile. “There’s just physical pain.”

  “Hmm?”

  He watched the doubtful expression on the man’s face. I can see. My eyes are back! Dagger stared at him. “Every mutilation is definitive, that’s the real torment of any torture. It’s not the pain itself that terrorizes you, but to know that a nose or a limb will never grow back, to know that you’ll have to endure the eyes of people, their compassion and contempt for the rest of your days. I’m afraid you’re facing tremendous odds with me. I feel only physical pain, but in a while—who knows?—I’ll get used to that, too. Then you’ll have no power at all over me…and I’ll still be the asshole who slaughtered your son in front of everyone.” He laughed. “Like a jerk!” He laughed even louder.

  In a fit of rage, Varg drove his metal nails into the boy’s face, skinning him and screaming. “Give him back to me! Give him back to me!”

  Dagger cried out in pain, when the Anti-Pendracon crushed his eyes inside his sockets, then Varg snatched an axe from the hands of one of his servants and he brought it down, and down, and down.

  Dagger tried to protect himself with his arms, feeling them falling piece by piece against his own face. He surrendered to the raging waters slowly dragging him down toward the bottom. He was tossed about in a sea of light, crushed and torn and claimed by opposing energies in the meaningless time.

  The dog. The black dog through the five bars—of five different colors—stared at him but couldn’t get out. We’re similar, so similar. You and me, one inside the other.

  Dagger reemerged into the real world. He was in the dark, in the cold of his cell and lying on soft fur. When he grabbed its edges and used it to cover himself, he came face to face with a white Tankar. He shouted and stood up, looking at the beast silently snarling on the floor. The sharp fangs of an embalmed head couldn’t harm him, but he reached the bottom of his cell and kept there, making sure of Solitude on his shoulders.

  The wounded wolf will be the only one to survive, when the strong will fall.

  He put a hand to his chest and realized that the needles were gone. Endgame, he thought. Now we’re welcome to dying again.

  Instants became as long as hours. Then, as he tirelessly walked back and forth, he listened to the creak of a door and the steps of two men.

  Hamon and Hamarth came into view—the same Guardians Dagger had met when he had awakened for the first time at the Fortress.

  “And so we meet again,” Hamon said in a ravenous voice. “But the situation is slightly changed, isn’t it?”

  Dagger grabbed the bars. “How's your hand, asshole?”

  Hamarth showed his stump. “Infection,” he said. “They couldn’t do much. Remember when I said I could no longer put my hand at the service of the Fortress?”

  “Don’t take it so bad, you still have a future as a beggar.”

  The Guardian raised only his upper lip. The lower one had been devoured by Remission, exposing his bare teeth from canine to canine. His tongue constantly bathed the wreck of his mouth, as dry as the rest of his face.

  Now he does look like a hound. “I’d like to know what reasons pushed you to become like that.”

  Hamon bowed his face and seemed hurt.

  Hamarth shrugged. “Reasons? Who needs reasons when you’ve got Remission?”

  “Do you two even know what’s at stake?”

  “Destroying the Fortress to give the world a well-deserved peace.”

  “They omitted some details. Those who rule us all from above often do that.”

  “What are you talking about?” Hamarth asked.

  Hamon intervened, “We’re Guardians and we obey our orders, we’re not allowed to discuss them. Varg was there with us in the front-line and in the hardest moments. Why should he betray us?”

  Military Intelligence, two words combined that can’t make sense. Dagger thought. “What are your orders?”

  The two Guardians opened the cell. “Get out of here and choose: light or darkness.”

  “Creation or Destruction?”

  They didn’t seem to understand what he meant. They sat at a three-legged table and played dice. Dagger walked slowly past them, followed by their indifferent glances. He opened the door and all of a sudden was out of the prison.

  Free, or something.

  The sick, yellow eye of the sky watched him from above—a round window was the roof of the tower and the only light present. A wide spiral staircase rose toward that or fell into nothingness. The tower had to be really high. And deep.

  Between the black, evenly-spaced doors he saw stuffed Tankars’ heads hanging on the wall above their names, those of who had defeated them, and the related battles. Their fur was red and their eyes green or black. They were all chieftains and still growled against the opposite statues of the Hammer leaders erected on the low balustrade.

  A long cycle of bas-reliefs ran above them, repetitive in its representations—battles against Tankars, skinned Tankars, dismembered Tankars, boiled Tankars and gutted Tankars. A constant ode of hammers held up to the sky and towers that soared above the miseries of the world. It required a keen eye to see the burned houses, the raped women, the enslaved children.

  Should I go up or down? He instinctively opted for the former, when a distinct sound of chains arose in the whirling void beneath his feet. Prisoners! he thought. He looked down in the black bowels of the tower, but saw nothing.

  Once again he faced darkness alone, under the watchful eyes of
the stone guardians. After a long descent, he noticed some white ramifications—thin at first, then becoming thicker and thicker. They clung around the statues, ran down the traits of the bas-reliefs and hung from the door arches. For a moment, he thought he saw them move. Soon he found himself walking in a ruined place, partly claimed by the white appendages. The tower seemed about to be abandoned forever.

  The faint light of the sky left him progressively, on the other hand the sound of the chains became closer. When he heard footsteps, too, he stopped—they were climbing up.

  He leaned out over the balustrade. The reflection of a torch shone on him from above, together with other steps underlined by indistinct human voices. He was in a vice.

  He tried to open one of the doors, but they were all closed. He jumped on the balustrade and hid behind one of the statues, nearly slipping on its edge. He trod on one of the roots and saw it clearly move and retire in the dark with an annoyed hiss.

  But what…?

  Soon the Guardians—the ones in flesh—got so close that he could hear their voices.

  That of a corpse said, “He’ll get what he deserves, have no fear.”

  A second hissing answered, “Yes, but I still wonder why he did that. He betrays us after swearing allegiance in the belly of Skyrgal, he takes Skyrgal’s soul away from us, and then what does he do? He yields to us as if nothing happened.”

  As they descended, Dagger walked around the statue to keep out of their visuals. He hid behind the massive stone shoulders, balancing on the ledge. Who knows how many things you have to tell me this time, Skyrgal…he waited for the Guardians to walk past him. When the time had come, he set foot on the ground in complete silence, watching them go down, noticing that they wore no armor. One had a skinned skull, the other was missing both ears.

  The two stopped.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “A metallic sound.”

  “Here it comes again. It sounds like…”

  “Chains!”

  They both grabbed their hammers, dropping the torch to the ground.

  One leaned over to look down. “How far did we go, damn it? We surpassed the stock of pitch.”

  “Let’s flee from here!”

  They turned back. Dagger drove Solitude into the neck of the bald one. His brother in arms raised his hammer with a moment’s delay. Dag’s shining blade went through his abdomen from the bottom up spilling purple guts.

  The dead brute fell against the boy, burying him.

  The sound of the dragged chains suddenly came back—a terrible warning. Whatever was ascending from the unconscious level of the tower, was already very close, and very big.

  Apparently, also very annoyed. Dagger tried to reach the torch, when a roar shook the statues. A black and immense figure appeared silhouetted against the omnipresent darkness.

  And what the fuck is that?

  The creature dragged long chains made of rings as big as the head of a child. Its body seemed made of lava rock, with curved horns pointing forward and ivory beads for eyes. Its teeth were purple fangs ready to tear the flesh of anyone in its path.

  Endless silver writings covered its black skin. The chains were their natural continuation—metallic appendages generated by its body, and now pointed against Dagger.

  The creature stopped and looked at its hopeless prey. It stepped forward, raising the sharp extremities as if they answered only to its will.

  The spikes snapped all of a sudden. The chains clung around the corpse of the Guardian, lifted it and hurled it into the abyss.

  Dagger jumped up with Solitude in hand, only to hit the deck again—a shrill song of rings preceded the dull thud of the spikes, stuck into the floor right where he was a few moments before. The boy rolled among the stone splinters and ran behind one of the statues.

  The chains shattered that too. The creature came forward, staring. With an ominous rattling the spikes rose again, their tips pointed at him.

  Dagger backed away, sword in hand.

  “Enough!” someone shouted. “Go back to the darkness. This is not the time!”

  The chains fell to the ground devoid of energy. The creature bowed its head and walked away, sinking into the shadows.

  Dagger felt a graceful hand rest on his shoulder, and then a strong smell of balsam.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” a calm, soft voice said. “What’s the obsession with darkness? I expected you to climb.”

  “People wrote for me too many scripts, Evoken. It’s high time I started to see things my way.”

  Varg Belhaven’s firstborn laughed amiably. “I see you’ve already talked to him.”

  Dag turned around, seized by the blackness of his eyes. Long, smooth, and shiny hair opened like curtains on Evoken’s face. He was still intact, his breath perfumed, a sarcastic grin on his thin lips.

  The boy sheathed his sword, because the man in front of him needed only to call that beast to bring him back to reason. “You didn’t follow in the footsteps of your father? Piercing your cheek and losing your jaw is the current fashion.”

  “You must have really suffered to move a step in that direction,” the man replied. “Yet, aren’t we all marching on that same road?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one that starts from Agalloch walls and penetrates into nothingness. You, Aniah, Aeternus, your friends…Crowley himself. There’s something calling us to the east, leading us away from everything we hold dear before forcing us to regret it. It’s stupid, very stupid, to give ourselves over to uncertainty when we should just stand still and enjoy what we have.” Evoken helped him up off the ground. “So. Won’t you ask me what that thing was?”

  “No. I wonder why every one of you always says the right things despite being a complete, fucking lunatic.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “What was that thing?”

  “A daughter of Destruction.”

  “Oh. She was a girl?”

  “Didn’t you see her tits? It’s the creature born out of your blood. Warren had a vial full of that when Mumakil intercepted him on his way back from the Kahar Tankars’ lands.”

  I’ll take your blood to safety, Warren had said. “And…that thing came from—”

  “From you, of course. An adorable daughter—no doubt about it—just one of the many surprises we’re preparing for the Guardians. Soon they’ll realize that their grief is useless, and their world ended.”

  “Not a great loss, after all.”

  Evoken produced a slow laugh. “See? We agree on some points. Ignorance creates monsters, but far more terrible are the ones created by knowledge.” He took Dagger by the arm as they climbed toward the light, but didn’t hold him close. Dagger went with him without argument.

  “Half of my tower rises straight to the sky, while the other half sinks into the secrets of the desert,” the son of the Anti-Pendracon said. “It was erected on the ruins of an ancient well. You’ll not find an exit at its base, but the first creature you allowed us to create on the banks of the underground river. He has made him my new bodyguard.”

  “What are these white roots?”

  The man grinned, without answering directly. “Mumakil has put a lot of efforts in making some of my subordinates stronger, and I did my best to support his researches. You may find it hard to believe, but I may even listen—and above all, keep quiet—before someone who knows a lot more than I do.”

  “Yes, about how to bleach your hair…” Dag looked at the fangs of a Tankar emerging from the shadows. “You gave him free rein for his experiments.”

  “I was hospitable and eager to learn. The project’s gears are in motion now, and the tower will become the new Fortress.”

  “I can see you at the head of an army of these decomposed, stoned pricks.”

  Evoken squeezed Dagger’s shoulder enough to hurt him. “Oh no. I’m putting together a slightly unusual alliance, you’ll see.”

  With who
m? Dagger wondered as they climbed the stairs. The light was slowly returning, and with it the air, finally clean from the filth infesting the underground. They came to a black door pretty similar to the previous ones. Evoken opened it and entered a roughly triangular-shaped room. Shelves full of books covered the wall. Two bronze braziers were at the corners, and a chandelier of candles hung from the ceiling. A giant red hammer reigned at the center of a black carpet.

  Evoken let the door close behind them. “For years my father has planned to free ourselves from the lumbering presence of Araya and the Sword Guardians to become the new Pendracon. Somehow he managed to fail even when he was successful. I realized that greater powers were rising at the end of the day. Someone in the Fortress was playing with Angra’s blood, producing hybrid creatures, and I could do the same thing. Worrying about a throne about to fall was a waste of time and energy.” He sat behind the large desk at the center of the room. There was only a little amorphis chest on it.

  Dagger asked, “Did you already get rid of Varg?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Some details never escape me. You’ve been talking in the singular for hours.”

  “He’s still my Pendracon and he needs my help.”

  “A rather elegant way to say that a man blinded by hatred and easy to anger is unfit for command. Mumakil, whoever he is, will be happy to replace him with you.”

  “It’s your way to see the matter. Let’s say that my father and Lord would have missed some chances that fate offered us—like how to make our men brave and resistant, for example.”

  “With what? That shit?”

  “Remission is imperfect, I allow you that. We slightly missed the mark.”

  “Then why did your father start to take it?”

  “Because you killed his favorite son, remember?” Evoken shook his head, as if to say, you don’t do that, then he continued, “Our strength was already limitless when we were just the toughest half of the Guardians. Imagine now that, thanks to you, we’ve got the power of a god.” He stroked the chest in front of him. “Araya’s recommendations didn’t go entirely lost; Get some culture. Studying is important! he’d always say. I even took that student away from him. Kugar turned out very useful and—shhh. Don’t say anything, and don’t kid yourself, for you’ll never see her again. We made her a pawn on our chessboard, like Araya did with you.”