God of Emptiness

by Walt Popester

  “I’ll get to that shortly, let me enjoy your reaction. Now, you may have noticed that no one is approaching us.”

  Dagger didn’t particularly like that answer. “They just need to see how I’m armed.”

  “That’s the same thing that happens with the Sanctuary.”

  “And what do they have in there that is so terrible?” Dag stopped abruptly when the body of a man, thrown outside a tavern, nearly fell on him.

  “Let’s go.” War took Dagger by his arm, as they walked in the opposite direction of the crowd.

  Soon the scenery along the street changed. High white obelisks, evenly-spaced and unadorned, marked the path of anyone who approached Molok’s immaculate heart. Ensiferum spheres burned at the top of them, lighting a purple way in the middle of decadence.

  Dagger looked up again. The wall in front of them was white in the night, and white was the dome rising beyond. White were the plastered buildings and the obelisks. “I think they’re obsessed with white.”

  “It’s the color that contains all the others and better reflects light,” Warren explained. “The Sanctuary was conceived as the mirror of the divine light, which once it contained. That was the source of its infinite power. The monolith you see rising from its center is the Hammer of Skyrgal, where until recently was confined the soul of Ktisis. That is to say…”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “Welcome home, Kam Konkra.”

  Dagger stopped, his eyes following the mayem monolith up to the sky. Was I really inside there, once? “I’ll kill you. I swear I’ll do it, sooner or later.”

  “That would be pretty useless. Remember what Varg did to me?”

  “Let’s run away.”

  “We can’t. Ktisis, your perception is a little rusty lately…”

  Dagger looked back and realized they were being followed. Two individuals in the crowd, both wearing long white tunics, seemed to tail them while keeping their distance. “Since when?”

  “They were waiting for us. No one enters or leaves Molok if Godivah doesn’t want it.”

  Dagger asked no further questions, knowing that all too soon he would find out who Godivah was. A river of people came out of the door opened in the perimeter wall, made of large blocks of limestone.

  A group of women, dressed in rags, waved their fists and were dammed by a cordon of guards wearing white-plated armor. They screamed, “Give us back our children!”

  Warren stopped Dagger by his arm, dragging him on the roadside. When the crowd was gone, the guards fell back with their spears pointed forward and placed themselves across the street.

  The women stood at a distance screaming and shouting, and bent to the ground to pick up the only weapon they could use. Soon a hail of stones poured down on the men.

  At the order from a superior, a guard stepped forward, spear in hand. The weapon flashed in the air, and Dagger could swear he heard its hiss before turning to see it already stuck in the belly of one of the women.

  She knelt to the ground as the other women fled and screamed. She put her hands to the wooden pole and fell forward, forever bowing in front of the Sanctuary. A purplish stain gave color to her worn robe. It grew wider and flowed on her bare thighs before reaching the ground.

  Once their job was done, the men disappeared through the door except for the two standing guard. A messenger of the gods perched at the top of an obelisk to spy on them. It was soon attacked by six crows and forced to flee.

  “Come,” Warren whispered, advancing slowly. “Don’t complain about what you just saw. Don’t act like the defender of the poor mothers in search of their children. Whatever happens, do not project your past onto them as you do with everyone. The current Holy Father was the regent of Molok since before you were born. Be very careful when you talk to him. Don’t swear. Don’t make jokes. Don’t use double meanings—he hates those especially—and don’t say stupid things.” He turned to Dagger, looked at him a moment and gave him a pat on the back. “While we’re at it, don’t say anything.”

  It was only when they were right under their noses that one of the sentries looked them up and down. “Who are you?”

  “Warren and Ash Korpiklan…and then there’s Dagger Nightfall, a little orphan of war. We come from the Fortress to meet the Holy Father and honor the power of Ktisis.”

  Dagger turned to him with a puzzled look, but Warren didn’t care.

  “You don’t seem to come from the Fortress,” the guard said. “Where is your armor and your symbols?”

  “The trip was long enough. We made ourselves comfortable.”

  “Stop it!” The shadow of a tall, robust man appeared between two merlons. “You know who they are. Let them pass,” he ordered before disappearing from sight.

  “That was Godivah.” War informed him half-heartedly.

  “And he stood guard at the gate?”

  “It seemed like he was waiting for someone, right? Look how many birds are around here.”

  Shortly after, the door was opened. Godivah stood before them, white against the majestic profile of the Sanctuary down the street. He was good-looking, though in his later years. A sense of inescapable authority shone through his relaxed face, his steady eyes, his mouth apparently unable to smile and framed by a short beard on the jawline. He watched them waiting, but without giving the impression of studying them, as if their presence was entirely irrelevant.

  Warren took a step with Ash on his shoulders. “We come in search of salvation, Holy Father. We have an injury and we need help.”

  Godivah looked down and stared at Warren, before shifting his gaze to the pale face above his shoulder. “I see well the nature of the wounds you speak about.” He moved forward and rested a hand on the forehead of his younger brother. “A lot of people have come here in search of divine help over the decades, and we haven’t always done everything possible to help them. Fear not. Some mistakes won’t be made again.” He turned back, walking on the candid street without another word.

  Dagger hesitated, but Warren looked at him and quietly reminded him not to do anything stupid.

  The son of Skyrgal crossed the threshold, and that dome that looked like the top of the world was now looming over him too.

  *

  8. The Sanctuary

  They walked behind the man, straight into the jaws of the immaculate Sanctuary.

  Despite the hour, swarms of kids were running or playing on the roadside. Many abandoned what they were doing to run to the Holy Father and hug him. Godivah answered with a smile that broke the absolute firmness of his face. He caressed some blond or brown heads, picked up a girl, and walked part of the way with her, patiently listening to the summary of her day, before dismissing her with a kiss on the forehead.

  “Is this the same place Ianka told us about? I mean…the orphanage of the Sanctuary?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “It looks like a peaceful place.”

  “You mean, Except for the woman killed just out here?”

  “Yes. Except for that.”

  Warren shrugged. “Don’t ask questions if you don’t want to know the answers. Second Araya’s dogma.”

  Those scenes tasted of life, as if the wars, the hunger and the arid nothingness that had hunted them all the way up there belonged to another world.

  “What happened to your friend?” Godivah asked. “If you want my help, I demand your sincerity.”

  Dagger casually said, “That sword—”

  Warren glared at him. “The sword branded by one of those Disciples was cursed by one of their impure souls. Definitely.”

  “Disciples,” Godivah repeated. “Those stray dogs will not prevail against the light. This is what I promised a long time ago. We’ve long protected your world from them, but now it seems that the challenge is too big for us. This place has always been defended by walls much more powerful than the mere material that constitutes them. They are fragile, you may have noticed. It was the fear of the god of Emptiness that warde
d off any attack. But now the world has changed, as the world often does, and everything has become relative, everything open to attack. This is the aspect of chaos itself to mortal eyes, the lack of an impregnable ideal. When everything is questionable, then everything is destined to be swallowed, pressed and shipped to the highest bidder.”

  The two boys looked at each other skeptically, following him in silence.

  “It is sad,” the old man continued in his calm, warm voice. “All this is very sad. Every man should have the right to die knowing that his life was not in vain, and that there was a reason for everything, for every sacrifice, an impregnable ideal no one would dare to joke about. Yet it is not so. Emptiness breaks down every obstacle and always wins at the end. It was useless to worship the god that embodies it and try to defend it from the outside. We only ended up locking ourselves up while the world went on its way.”

  Dag looked again for the eyes of War, this time without finding them.

  “I beg your pardon. To let nostalgia take over is peculiar of old age.”

  “Your words made sense, Holy Father,” Warren answered.

  “Yes. Yes they did,” Godivah said. “Your Fortress claimed to fight our own cause, to guard its god like we did, yet it was infested with them. I think it is reminiscent of the struggle within every one of us. How can you fight an enemy when you see it every day on the other side of a mirror? How can you fight against yourself?” When he said that, Godivah dropped his gaze on Dagger for the first time.

  Coming here was a bad idea, the boy thought.

  Warren shook visibly. He put a hand to his neck and closed his eyes. Opening them, he turned to Dagger.

  Will the old man take it out on you, when you tell him you are to be a Disciple too? Dagger wanted to ask.

  They arrived at the foot of the immense dome. Dagger hesitated to climb the steps leading to the entrance of the Sanctuary, then resigned to following the other two.

  A white door opened into the darkness inside. Dagger’s eyes, accustomed to the narrow innards of Adramelech, got lost beneath the immense vault covered with black stone just like the plates on the floor. Black is the heart of whiteness, he thought.

  The dome was divided into six equal, symmetrical, and unpainted segments corresponding to the hexagonal shape of the building. The perfect geometry and the relationship between its proportions seemed to be the only ornament of the place—so vast that the wall opposite the entry was still not visible. The beams supporting the vault all led to the center, joining at the only element breaking the monotony of that blackness, a high column of green, raw metal.

  “Mayem…” The word escaped from Dagger’s lips, as he advanced followed by the threatening echo of his own footsteps. He turned and saw the arch of ocher twilight through which they had entered.

  “Yes,” Godivah said. “When we were outside, we only saw shadows beyond that door. We had to penetrate the darkness to find out its reasons, and see the light where we saw only fear and ignorance.” He led them to the base of the malignant backbone of the Sanctuary. A monumental fountain was built close to the metal. It consisted of several groups of sculptured children. Gushing from their slashed throats, water flowed in a steady stream down their chests and legs until it reached the tank surrounding the monolith, shaped like the carapace of a crab, but in place of the claws there were white marble tables with diagonal grooves intersecting at the center.

  “Forgive the macabre art of this place. It comes from ancient, violent times. Only the desecrated vestiges remain today of what was once the center of the world, guarded by a handful of poor, stubborn priests. The Sanctuary has never known the meaning of compromise. The difference between good and evil always appeared to us in its naked simplicity. Only in the light there is hope. Only light defeats darkness, fear, and finally death.” Godivah turned to Warren, holding out his arms. “The rite will take time, leave him to me. There comes a time in life when you have to give yourself over to the help from above.”

  Warren hesitated, before delivering Ash. “He’s not dead.”

  “Life is merely refusing to abandon him, for reasons that…” The old man stared at the still body, as the cloth that had wrapped Ash until then slid to the ground. “I asked of you trust and sincerity.” Godivah shook his head. “It was not a Disciple who hit him—do you think you can fool me? I spent half of my life chasing them and I know how They operate. Here the hand is different—an inexperienced hand, I would say. Very inexperienced. Look at the network of shadowy threads that’s taken possession of his body. That harnesses his life, but its texture is too thick and narrow. Your brother is likely to burst in our hands as we speak!”

  “Holy Godivah, we—”

  “You used an Immortal Rite, didn’t you?”

  War bowed his head.

  “How could you?” The Holy Father turned to Dagger and the sword rising above his shoulders. “I see. It’s happening all over again.”

  “That was the only power able to keep life inside my brother,” the white blood said. Any confidence and arrogance was disappeared in the presence of the old man. “I couldn’t do anything else.”

  “Did you wonder at what cost? Some compromises are not to be accepted—never!”

  Warren didn’t answer.

  “The teachings of the lizards are not lost, apparently.” Godivah scolded. “But I understand you. Yes, I understand. You boys grew up in a world that can no longer see a clear distinction between good and evil. You walk balancing on the boundary between them, resting your foot now on one side, now on the other. It’s the failure of my generation—what can you do about it?—and even if I don’t have a direct responsibility, it’s still the generation I belong to and I apologize.”

  “Araya said their power may come in handy.”

  “Bah! If Angra were still alive, a Messhuggah would never wear the sacred white robes. Don’t talk about him. I’ll never recognize him as the Pendracon of the Fortress. Please, respect the sincere intolerance of an old man.” He looked down at Ash. “His teachings deceived you that you can dig deep into every knowledge, and every desert. Don’t think that I don’t know the powers that have been unearthed, and in what impious hands are now getting humiliated. Do you think you’ll win this war if you use the same weapons as the enemy? Look at yourself. You thought you could handle an Immortal Rite and these are the results. Your brother is waiting on the last threshold and he’s looking back at you, white blood. He’s wondering how you could do that to him. Do you really want to see him in that state—with malignant appendages coming out of every part of his body? Have you ever seen one of their children?”

  “Give him back to me. I beg you. He is my brother.”

  The Holy Father shifted his gaze back to Warren. “Maybe I should just give you time. Perhaps the only way to make amends for what you’ve done will appear in its naked squalor, if for a moment the world will allow you the truce you’ve always longed for. They never grant you respite. None of them ever did.”

  Warren didn’t answer.

  “To be always up to expectations, never to let anyone down. It’s a game that no child would ever want to play.”

  The white blood grinned. “No, that was not me. That was your mistake, once. Failing to give your student the truce he was looking for.”

  Dag’s eyes widened. He’s leveraging the old man’s grief just like a Disciple, he thought. For a moment he was sure he was already facing one of them.

  The old man closed his eyes and refused to answer. A brother of the Sanctuary—wearing robes with a dark gray neckline—stepped forward to take Ash from his arms.

  “Follow him,” the Holy Father said turning to Warren. “A night of wakefulness will help you understand a lot of things. If it has to be done, then it’s better it’s done calmly.”

  “Excuse me, Holy Father, I—”

  “I forgive you,” Godivah replied. “You’re confused. You’re facing the death of a brother, a bond among the most complex born from a mother’
s contended love, where hatred has the same importance of affection. I know what it means. You’re right. I know that pain.”

  War knelt out of respect. He walked behind the attendant, following him in the dark beyond one of the six doors.

  Godivah turned to Dagger. “You’ve grown up since the last time.”

  “Have we met before?”

  The man closed his eyes and nodded once, as he walked toward the door opposite to the entrance. Dagger followed him outside into a vast garden surrounded by a portico. It had a pool at the center with an unusual metallic bottom. Groups of children swam in its heated waters, dived or climbed on each other’s backs. They ran barefoot on the emerald meadows, laughing noisily in the purple ensiferum night. Some crabs moved between the flowerbeds. The boys grabbed them by a paw or kept them between two fingers as the beasts wiggled their claws.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t help your mother,” Godivah said. “He knocked at our doors, running away from the temple of Ktisis. But at the time I’d never have hosted the compromise you embody. You were blasphemous, and still are. It’s the circumstances that have since changed. Our world is dying.”

  “You know everything about me.”

  “You’re the son of Skyrgal, holder of the nucleus of Ktisis’ soul. You were created by insane beings whose sole purpose is to bring the end of the All. For revenge, or maybe just for the innate hatred of the old, dying men toward the new that looks out onto life.”

  “The nucleus of Ktisis’ soul?”

  Some of the boys, dressed in white, saw Godivah and saluted him from afar.

  The Holy Father raised his hand affectionately. He led Dagger in the portico while some crows hopped around them, the most courageous ones landing on the old man’s arm stretched out to receive them.

  “You’re the synthesis of all the ungodliness I’ve fought against during my life,” he said. “I followed your adventures since you came back in this world. The Guardians have handled the problem you represent in a clumsy and dangerous way, but I can understand them. Because of your mother, they ended up defending something they didn’t want and couldn’t understand.”