by Mark Eller
He did not bleed.
“You should be fucking dead!” Aldric cursed. “You’re no gods-damned spawn! What, in Athos’s holy name, are you?”
Jolson’s ripped open belly still did not bleed. No intestines spilled. Instead, wild, uncontrolled energies roiled and churned within the cavity. Motes of dancing lights swirled above. Cut open, separated from his arm, spread out like a sacrifice upon the snow cold ground, Jolson looked healthier to Mira now than she had ever seen him before.
Bent over its broken ribs, Get pushed Mira to the side and staggered between Aldric and Jolson. The demon grabbed Fubar’s twitching form and dragged it over to Jolson’s laid out body.
“And you are not Zorce be-damned demons,” Aldric accused, seeming both stunned and offended. He took two hesitant steps toward Get and Fubar. “No demon is as weak as you’ve proven yourselves.”
Holding Fubar’s form in its arms, Get smiled at the devil. “We are what Athos wanted and Jolson could not afford to lose. Some souls are too great to be held within a simple spawn’s body. His pieces now rejoined, the Savior is reborn.”
Dragging Fubar with it, Get stepped to the open cavity of Jolson’s stomach, smiled again, and both demons dissolved into bands of energy which swirled free— and were sucked into Jolson’s body.
“Damn you to Hell!” Aldric shouted. “No!” Leaping forward, his clawed hands flashed toward Jolson’s throat. Jolson flinched back from where he lay on the ground, but there was no need. Tendrils of energy reached out from his belly, wrapped around Aldric’s wrists, and held the struggling devil still. His features firming, Jolson rested commanding eyes on Mira before he looked back to Aldric. Following his stare, Mira saw Aldric’s scales shimmer like hot steel about to flow as the devil raised its twisted face to the sky and howled.
“Tell Athos I thank him for the loan of his hook,” Jolson whispered. “Mira—”
Raising Jolson’s pulsing forearm high, Mira jerked it down with all her strength and speed. Scales shattered and flew beneath the blow. The hook’s point sank deep into the top of Aldric’s head— and then Aldric fell away, his howling silenced. Mira released her hold on Jolson’s forearm, sighing with relief as its evil influence faded away. She screamed defiance at the falling devil when an ineffectual strike brought its talons within an inch of her knee.
His eyes bleeding tears of black bile, Aldric landed on his knees. The hook and forearm, still attached to his skull, quivered with his agony and impotent fury. His scales shimmered, shifted, and Aldric opened his mouth in outrage and disbelief as his body dissolved into the soil. He continued silently screaming until his hook-pierced head sank beneath the ground, leaving the hook and forearm behind.
Stunned, Mira remained immobile for a moment, and then another, listening. There was no sound, but even so she felt the devil’s rage vibrate the ground beneath her feet. The silence ended as a faint scream finally broke free.
“That,” Jolson finally said, his shaky voice sounding more real than she had ever before heard, “was unexpected.”
Looking at him, Mira swallowed hard, and her hands trembled. Jolson’s belly was once again whole. His left arm, severed just below the elbow, had a patch of thin, new skin stretched over the recent wound. Jolson pushed himself up until he sat upon the ground, rubbed his single hand through his hair, and reached that hand toward her so she could help him rise.
Hesitant, Mira slowly reached out and grasped.
The hand felt warm. Warmer than human. She had once drunk Jolson’s blood. She knew its potency and flavor, only now he did not bleed. All his blood was gone.
“What are you?” she whispered once Jolson stood and released her hand.
“I don’t know,” Jolson replied, his voice confused. He looked toward the ground from where an ever thinner scream still rose. “But I think the devil’s masters do. Someday, I’m going to ask Hell’s gods to explain.”
Mira shook her head. “Nobody dares to directly challenge Zorce or Athos. Not even another god.”
Jolson’s gaze rested on Mira, and his expression was a mixture of confused fright mixed with unreasoning courage. His stare continued, unabated, for an uncomfortably long time. Finally, after far too long, he lowered his eyes and frowned. “Maybe not, but it’s what I intend to do.”
Chapter 2-- Queen’s Gambit
Ignoring the demon by his side, Count Wencheck smoothed back the thinning strands of his wet hair and wondered how many more days it would take for the last of Gertunda’s poisoned wine to sweat itself out of his body. For two days after the poisoning he had convulsed and cursed in his bed. On the third day he finally rose, though even then he was not sure if he would live.
Now, two weeks later, there was no doubt he would survive, just as there was no doubt his diminishing fortunes would improve because he had not hesitated to whore out Gertunda and his daughter to further his cause. Because of that use he now had King Vere’s and Zorce’s leave to be in this roofless temple with its fire-blackened walls. Charcoaled beams, fallen from above, littered the shattered tile floor. Partially melted stone columns leaned against one another. Trelsar’s altar was broken. The bodies of his priests and priestesses hung outside the temple’s open doorway, giving the air around him a stench he found slightly pleasing. Sun dried and crow pecked, there was little left to the corpses except a few shreds of flesh, tough sinew, and stained bone.
Wencheck looked around the ruined temple and smiled. A vacuum of faith had been created when King Vere ordered Anothosia and Trelsar and the other mewling gods be cast out of Grace and the gods of Hell invited in. Sacrificing his women to a devil’s passion had ensured Wencheck would be the one to fill the vacuum and reap his share of the rewards.
“I love corruption,” Urvald said. The devil, glamour changed into the aspect of an urbane and slightly desiccated man, allowed a mocking smile to mar his face. “You have created a delicious plan.”
“Are you sure this will work?” Meliandra, his daughter, asked nervously. Her hands brushed at nonexistent wrinkles in her white acolyte dress. Gossamer thin, the dress was multiple sheer layers of shimmering cloth. Bare flesh showed when the material shifted. It was, perhaps, a rich whore’s dress, but Wencheck knew Meliandra’s morals were well suited to its wear. Though only twenty-five, she had spent the last eleven years inviting Grace’s elite to her bed. Her eyes, she claimed, were set on a king, but until His Majesty chose to make her a queen she would settle for any titled man who came along.
In the end, she got neither. King Vere’s wife disappeared, but not before Helace, an alluring creature from Hell, usurped the queen’s place.
And because King Vere had accepted a mistress from Hell, Wencheck now stood in a ruined temple sweating out the last of Gertunda’s poison while wearing a too heavy robe on an unseasonably hot day. People wanted hope Wencheck had explained to Belsac. They wanted assurance their spirits were fated for a place other than Hell. They needed a god.
And Wencheck had the perfect god to give them. In return he would receive money and power, all because he had willingly allowed Urvald to rape both Gertunda and Meliandra. Because of this willingness, Belsac had granted him an interview.
Wencheck drew a deep breath, feeling nervous despite his resolve. “It will work,” he told Meliandra. “Within a year I’ll be the head priest of a hundred temples and the spiritual leader of two thousand spellbound priests.” He glanced toward where the temple’s doors used to be. A small crowd had already gathered outside. Drawing in a deep breath, he released it slowly and smoothed out the normally harsh lines of his face. “Invite them in.”
Meliandra glided to the opening. Layers of cloth billowed from the wind of her passage, revealing taunting hints of soft flesh. Urvald released a chuckle and leered.
“Please come inside,” Meliandra said smoothly. Her voice drifted to Wencheck, serene, controlled, and refined. It held a hint of allure and secret promise which made him smile. She had learned her lessons well.
First one, then two, and then by the dozen, the gathered men hesitantly stepped into the temple. They came, Wencheck knew, because Meliandra was a pure white vision in a world filled by a dark morass of uncertainty and despair. They came because her voice and bearing spoke of soiled purity. They came for hope. They came, and each coming brought a little copper, a touch of silver, and maybe even a few slivers of gold.
Wencheck smiled when he glimpsed a ragged street-side magician. The boy’s magic, he knew, was fake, but the lad’s performance was good enough to gull the city’s ignorant masses.
“The fun begins.” Urvald grinned.
Wencheck returned the smile. Nedross, the ambiguous god, now truly lived. Nedross, the invented god of hopeless causes and worthless ideals, called the people to his service. The boy, the magician, was going to be one of those who served to his own destruction— just as soon as Urvald cast an obedience spell on the hapless fool.
* * * *
“Nedross bless you lady,” Joss Harker said gently. The young woman he addressed pulled her arms tighter against her body and hurried on. Irritated, Joss smiled at her tense back because Wencheck had ordered that the marks never see him frown.
He fastened his eyes on a young, prosperous looking man with soul-sick eyes. Those eyes did not surprise Joss. In a city where demons and devils openly walked the streets and frequently killed on a whim, many souls had been damaged.
“Witness the miracle of Nedross,” Joss shouted. He raised his right hand slowly and cast a silent prayer to Trelsar, the head god of virtue, recently outlawed by the king‘s decree. It was Trelsar who Joss truly worshiped when he thought of it, though he now served Wencheck in a false god’s name.
He raised his hand higher, and the apple in front of him rose, too, which was not surprising because it was attached to his center finger by a woman’s long blonde hair he had attached to the apple’s stem.
The soul-sick man threw him a frightened scowl and hurried away. For just a moment, Joss thought of grabbing the small pouch of his newly invented flash powder from his possible bag and throwing it after the fellow. Rude was just rude, and frightened of an obviously harmless young man was something else. A fellow like that needed a bit of fun even if it was unwanted and unexpected.
Especially if it was unexpected.
Unfortunately, the powder was too hellishly expensive and difficult to make for such pointless jape.
A primly dressed pregnant woman and a shag haired companion possessing the appearance of a personal servant fallen on hard times paused before walking his way. After studying the pregnant woman closely, Joss realized he had seen her several times before. In fact, he had last seen her that very morning. She had once, he thought, been part of Grace’s notorious elite. Now she was just another of the fallen.
Unobtrusively, he lowered the apple and broke the hair from his finger. No reason to allow the women to see how the trick worked.
The primly dressed woman stopped in front of him and settled a hand on her swelling belly. Her mouth tried to force a smile, but the expression seemed foreign to her face. Her bearing spoke of superior disdain mixed with bitter hope.
“My mistress carries the get of a devil,” the drab servant said. “Can Nedross make the child die without causing her harm?”
“If she has a pure heart,” Joss promised, “Nedross will help.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fake talisman. It was, he noted, a blackbird’s feather attached to a desiccated kitten’s paw. One of his better ones then. Cat paws were hard to come by what with them being mostly edible during these lean times. Holding it up, he looked at the pregnant woman and suddenly remembered once hearing her name.
Firmly holding his face in its most solemn mode, Joss offered the talisman to her. “String this on a cord, Lady Gertunda, and wear it around your neck. In the darkest part of this day’s night, step over a grave three times while reciting, Nedross free me from evil birth. Nedross free me against grievous birth. Nedross free me against evil lame birth.”
“How do you know me?” she demanded.
“Nedross speaks within my mind,” Joss answered. “His power imbues this talisman.”
“Will Nedross ensure the obscenity I carry is stillborn?”
“If your heart is pure,” Joss answered, forcing himself not to step away from her. Though the woman was comely enough, and clean, her presence rasped more unpleasantly against his skin than a hundred nettles.
When she reached an imperial hand for the talisman, Gertunda’s companion cleared her throat.
“Mistress, I think we need to pay something for this.” She looked nervously at Joss. “Don’t we?”
Joss forced a benevolent smile and shook his head no. “Nedross always asks but never demands. Those who have nothing need pay nothing. Those who have something need not pay. However, Nedross sometimes gauges the purity of a person’s heart by their willingness to give.”
Biting her upper lip, the companion looked thoughtful. “We’ve only seven coppers left to our names. Is it enough?”
No, Joss mentally told her, it was not nearly enough. Officially, Nedross wasn’t a demanding god, but the old count and his bitch daughter were money grasping owners with a penchant for breaking bones. Joss thought of the seven coins. He looked at the irritating woman’s too thin face, at her growing belly, and a part of him wanted to tell them to just walk away. The more practical side of him knew he had no real choice. Not only did he carry Wencheck’s geas of obedience, he also had his additional role to play.
“Nedross asks for only six,” he said, assuaging his conscience with the knowledge he had left them an entire copper, enough to buy two baker‘s rolls if they could find a baker who still had flour.
The ragged woman fumbled six coppers into his open hand. “May the queen’s grace guard your mission,” she said. “Don’t let them destroy Nedross as they have the others.”
Joss forced a smile. “Nedross will guard me far better than will the queen’s grace. It is said Queen Elise is dead.”
“She lives,” the woman said nervously. “I’ve heard Athos seeks her.”
“Relia, stop babbling!” Gertunda snapped. Clutching the worthless talisman tight in her hand, she cast a frightened glance past Joss’s shoulder and hurried away, pulling Relia after her.
“Interesting company, Brother Joss,” a sultry voice whispered near his left ear. “My father has been looking very hard for that woman.”
Joss twisted his head to see the speaker and felt his guts fall into his ankles. Meliandra Wencheck had silently approached while he worked his scam. She wore her too thin, too revealing temple dress, a fact many nearby men did not miss. They also did not miss the bodyguards following her. Those guards might look human, but Joss knew they were glamour-ridden demons and ghouls.
Meliandra gestured to her guards. “Cereft, please deliver those women to the temple.”
The guard grinned. “Gladly.”
Quietly purring, he glided away.
“I’ve not much,” Joss said carefully. “Business has been brisk, but the offerings are thin.”
“Then I suggest,” said Meliandra, “you come up with a more interesting spiel. I’ll save you an early trip to the temple‘s offertory. Keep two coppers and give me the rest.”
Sighing, Joss fished in his pouch for the money. He showed her he only had a handful of coppers before separating out two and handing her the rest.
Meliandra’s lips formed a moue of disappointment when she dropped the coins down the open neck of her dress. They were caught, he saw, in a nearly transparent pouch nestled between her almost visible breasts.
“Lucky coins,” Joss half muttered.
“What?” Meliandra’s eyes narrowed.
“I said I’ll find a way to bring more coins,” Joss quickly threw in.
“Try hard,” Meliandra said warningly, “and use more of the magic you do. I expect to see twice this much tonight.” She gestured toward her remaining bodyguard. “If not, Kalad wil
l encourage you to do better.”
Remembering the demon’s true form, Joss swallowed down his fear and gave her a sickly smile. Easy enough to do what with all the frequent practice he’d had lately. Of late, it seemed like he was always afraid and often smiling. “I’ll do better,” he said. “Promise.”
She nodded. “Father will want to see most of his priests in the temple’s cellar tonight so they can view the gift I’m giving him. Be there no later than midnight, third bell.
With a swirl of her gown, Meliandra turned regally and moved away. The bodyguard silently followed.
Joss watched them leave and frowned. Evening was close so he needed to quickly find a more lucrative location if he didn’t want to have his feet broken in the morning, or even his heart removed tonight. With both Meliandra or her father, anything was possible.
He began walking at a slow and steady pace, doing his best to look like a great holy man preoccupied with important matters of the mind. The charade, he knew, was ridiculous when done by a youth unable to grow even a scraggly beard, but this, too, was something Wencheck insisted on. Still, the studious pose did give him leave to think on Relia’s words.
Queen Elise was supposed to be dead, yet as best he knew nobody had actually seen her body. The rumor of her survival, he suspected, was one Calto would want to hear, just as he was sure Calto would find a way into tonight’s meeting since the priest had a curious mind and was incensed with anything doing with hellborn. Ever since the destruction of his manor had forced him and his followers to hide like frightened moles inside the King’s City, the high priest had sought out every opportunity to shove his anger up Hell’s rotting ass.
Which meant Joss religiously avoided the prickly priest unless he had something substantial to report, especially now when he knew Calto was being hard pressed to drop everything to continue the search for some missing girl whose importance Joss didn’t quite understand. With all this in mind, he wasn’t sure mere rumors of the queen’s survival was substantial enough for him to bother the High Priest.