by Mark Eller
Choosing to ignore the conversation, Jolson blocked the others out. Instead, experimenting, he reached down to place his not-hand on the wolf’s brow. Silently, the wolf’s body shifted, healed, and shifted again as fur and features and body flowed. When Jolson removed his hand he looked down at a naked man. Jolson did not feel surprise. He felt content and satisfied, as if he had done exactly what he was meant to do.
“Mathew?” Tessla said quietly. “Is it you? How did—?”
Rising, the naked man looked about, shrugged, stared at Phrandex’s separated pieces, and chuckled. “Gods, is Sulya really going to be pissed.
Jolson noticed Elise studying him before she moved her gaze to Tessla. “If a god saw something desperately needing repair, something he could not trust to anyone or anything else, what would he do?”
“Nothing,” Tessla answered. “He couldn’t, not without risking everything. Most of the virtuous and neutral gods don’t even dare step on Terra. Not for long. All we see of them is their images, a solid semblance of what is almost real. Omitan might come and stay for a short while. He is weakest, and his powers are limited, but Trelsar says Omitan might be the smartest one of them all.”
Elise nodded. She looked at Phrandex, at Mathew, back to Jolson, and frowned thoughtfully. “So if a god needed to take a personal hand he would have to become something— not a god.”
She knelt beside Jolson, took his head in her hands. “Jolson, how could you forget who you were? How could you forget who you really are?”
Jolson shook his head slowly. “I don’t know.” And he did not, no more than he knew if Mira’s soul now resided in heaven or in Hell.
“Nedross,” Ludwig whispered.
“Not yet,” Elise said. “If he were Nedross he couldn’t walk the earth…but maybe he is close to being Nedross or close to being somebody else because the seasons and time sure seems to be strained.”
Tirelle stood near Mathew. Cocking her head to the side, she ran a finger across her chin and frowned at Jolson. “A god dies and become earth. He rises as man and dies again. He becomes spawn, changes to human, and then into a…a demigod?” She looked to Tessla. “Could any god, any being, find a better way to understand Terra, to understand life? With understanding comes control.”
Jolson set the weight of his head in the queen’s hands. Motes of energy fled from the partial temple ceiling and its walls, slowly filling him, changing him. His body was a dry sponge being filled with the stored energy of Flinstar’s and Nedross’s worshipers.
“Gods,” Joss cursed softly. “I really am a stinking priest.”
“How do you think I feel,” Harlo demanded. He pointed an accusing finger at Jolson. “I fucking hate religion, and I invented him.”
“Jolson,” said Tessla, “if you were originally Flinstar, most likely you contain some of his old memories. Where is Flinstar’s forgotten temple? Your answer is rather important. The fate of Yernden may rest on it.”
Jolson shrugged. “Can’t tell you. I’ve no memories of being Flinstar at all.”
Chapter 6-- Hunter’s Prey
Tessla sat in a dark corner of the refurbished King’s Inn and took a single sip of a nearly tasteless dark ale while watching a greatly different Mathew Changer through dim lantern light as he attempted to recruit townsmen and thieves for his army. No longer a half-were, his newly human features showed much greater wear than she recalled seeing on his previously far too good looking face. Where his skin had once been nearly flawless and his facial structure sharply masculine, he now bore faint wrinkles about his mouth and eyes. Those same eyes were shadowed and baggy from fatigue, and his expression was no longer one of overweening confidence. During these last years some semblance of doubt or caution seemed to have taken hold.
Not only Mathew’s appearance had changed. His nature also seemed different, or at least the direction of his nefarious plans. How else to explain his previous intervention on the queen’s behalf? How else to explain him recruiting common laborers, shopmen, drunkards, and thieves to the queen’s seemingly hopeless cause, and doing a very good job of it by all accounts? If anything, Mathew had always before been an opportunist. No matter how hard she tried, Tessla could not quite figure out what the thief-lord expected to gain by this ploy. Did he plan to use the several hundreds he had already recruited for the queen’s army in his own bid for rule?
Tossing the issue of Mathew Changer aside, she took another sip and grimaced, wondering how anybody could become drunk on such tasteless swill, although to be fair to the drunkards, this ale she despised most likely tasted fine to most humans. To her, food and beverage held little appeal now that Dell’s soul was beginning to drift away. Much of her old lover was still there, resting inside her body, guarding against Athos’s poison. He granted her a shadow semblance of emotions and sensation, but his presence was thinning. The world about her was gradually changing back to what she had known before, back to when she seldom saw people’s faces but always saw their nano-cloud souls. In two months, three at most, Tessla guessed the last of Dell would be gone.
Almost as if he heard her thoughts, Dell stirred within, captured an escaping wisp of poison, and returned it to the burl he had created within her spleen.
“What are we doing?” his thin thoughts asked.
“We hunt Missa,” Tessla silently answered, wishing it were true. Instead of hunting she only waited and thought, trying to worm her way into Flinstar’s head so as to glean even a hint of where he might have placed his hidden home.
Seeming satisfied, Dell’s awareness settled down and soon disappeared.
“Guard the door,” Mathew ordered two laborers, both burly men who bore long knives tucked into their belts. “Nobody comes in or leaves until we’re done here.
“You’re talking about rebellion,” a rat-faced fellow spoke up. “Treason.”
“I’m talking about supporting Yernden’s rightful queen,” Mathew corrected. He waved his hand expansively, indicating himself. “I’m talking about saving our country from hellborn and from Zorce and from Athos. You all know me, or at least you know about me. I’m no pansy bend me over and fuck me from behind humble servant of the queen. In fact I’m about as rotten a scoundrel as you can find. I’ve murdered and paid for murder. I’ve passed drugs that sent hundreds to their graves. I’ve done things few in this tavern would ever consider. So, rotten souled as I am, if even I consider living under Zorce’s rule to be an unbearable evil, how should those of you think who merely rob and steal. How should a common man who labors for wages or a shopkeeper who sells honest goods feel about…”
Taking another sip, Tessla set her mug down and pushed Mathew’s spiel from her attention. Instead, she contemplated on how she was supposed to discover the entrance to Flinstar’s forgotten temple when the word forgotten pretty much meant the same damn thing as lost. Still, someone must know the location of a secret entrance, or at least suspect. After all, Flinstar had not always been a totally reclusive god. In fact, during her long ago youth she often heard tales of wild parties in Flinstar’s temples. She heard of unending ale, wild dancing, and naked bodies entwined with one another during day long orgies of uninhibited sex. True, it was also said Flinstar seldom attended these events, but seldom didn’t mean never so he had to have some sort of social life. However, other stories said Flinstar often proved his solitary nature by always remaining apart, by escaping to his secret home, his first and now long hidden temple.
These conflicting stories, along with several others, told Tessla she could put little faith in old rumors, which made finding the Flinstar’s damn home a bitch. Almost impossible, in fact, since Jolson claimed to have no memory of the place at all.
“I got children to care for!” a woman shouted. “I’ve no place in your losing rebellion when my kids need to be seen to. Who’s to care for them after I’m raped and killed? Who’s going to feed my babies after I die holding some worthless damn sword? Isn’t it better to keep our heads down and hope to be m
issed?”
“I’ve seen hellborn kill children for fun,” Mathew responded. “I’ve seen hellborn use children as tools against their parents. Zorce and Athos have no care for you or your children or your desire to live your lives unmolested. Sure, Zorce’s priests tell us the hellgods are misunderstood because they were on the losing side of a petty war. I’m here to tell you the truth instead of their lies. I’m here to tell you of how humans originated on another planet and of how that planet was made uninhabitable by one man’s inventions, a man named Doctor Zorchester, the person we now call a god and know as Zorce. Here is the story as it was told to me by…”
It was a story Tessla might not know by heart, but one she was at least somewhat familiar with. While listening, she realized Mathew did not quite know the truth, either, or else he had deliberately changed it in places. Emphasis seemed to be exaggerated in some areas and removed in others. All mention of the other, lesser gods who had been chased far from Yernden seemed to be missing. Even so, from the reactions she saw, he was doing a pretty good job. With Mathew Changer taking charge, Vernden might just manage to field some sort of ragtag army, and this surprised her. His roughened voice was so compelling she almost felt tempted to quit her present mission and join his.
But creating an army was not her job. Her job was to put herself into Flinstar’s head. Some of the most prevalent and most likely stories said he had frequently been subject to dark moods. They said he had been born to strife during the early days of Terra Scientia’s founding. Flinstar was called one of the virtuous gods, and was definitely aligned with them, but from what Tessla gathered his nature seemed to be much like Jolson’s, pragmatically fixed on what worked for the moment rather than driven by concepts of good or even benign. In truth, in a purely rational manner driven by her put together impression of Flinstar, he was the one god for whom Tessla felt the greatest affinity, more so than she ever felt for Trelsar. She would have liked to have had the chance to know him before he somehow transformed himself into a darkly morbid Jolson, especially since she might then have an inkling of how the original Flinstar’s mind worked. Unfortunately, since Flinstar was long disappeared by the time she managed to get born, the only ones remaining who might still have a clue to his secrets were the virtuous gods and a few other long lived beings— which pretty much meant other hellborn like Mercktos and Belsac since Jolson was worthless on the matter of knowing where the hell he had placed his most favorite home. Deep questioning proved he retained only a few of Flinstar’s memories, and none of those did her quest any good at all. As for the rest, well, normal human folk tended to die on a decent schedule. A few similians might have lived long enough to have known Flinstar, but no story Tessla ever encountered claimed the reclusive god paid much attention to any of the created species. Jolson’s own proclivities during the time she had known him seemed to bear those rumors out.
Frustrated, Tessla fought back a frown. A less likely option for finding the lost temple was through Flinstar’s priests. Problem was, those same priests had pretty much died out and not been replaced except for a stalwart few who maintained a handful of very small and very run down street-side temples.
So, not really an option there, either. Not when Missa’s life might hang on the line, what with her being stuck in the bottom of a well somewhere if Mercktos could be believed, and what the hell was Mercktos thinking when he put her there, and why the fuck couldn’t Jolson discover a way to help her out? Running around chasing hellborn who followed rumors might suit Calto and Anithia well enough, but Tessla needed more.
Time was crucial. She had very little of it remaining, which meant she didn’t have time to chase down mostly silent gods, enemy hellborn, or priests who probably hadn’t a clue Flinstar once truly existed.
“By the gods!” a tall man shouted from near the bar. He was a fellow Tessla recognized as being one of Grace’s more prominent thieves, and thus someone well known to Mathew.
So a shrill.
“I’m joining up,” the man continued. “Yeah, it’s probably going to get me killed, but by damn, if I’m going to die anyway I’ll die on my feet and fighting back. I’ll die with pride so my family might have a chance!”
Definitely a shrill.
Tessla’s frustration grew. She growled while Mathew released a happy laugh and grasped the tall man’s hand. None of this pondering, none of this watching or listening, and none of this nearly tasteless ale helped her at all. Missa was still stuck in a god’s forsaken well in a god-damned lost temple located who the living fuck knew where. True, the life of a single child wasn’t normally significant, but when the child housed a large part of a goddess’s soul it tended to change things.
Well, the gods weren’t telling her where to find the kid. If the priests knew, the knowledge was buried so deep it might as well be lost, and she couldn’t approach most hellborn without somebody dying, hopefully them instead of her. All this led her back to priests as her only realistic option, but not those of Flinstar. No, she needed a priest who was intimately familiar with Flinstar’s main temple here in Grace. The temple had been converted over to a theater a few decades earlier, and then converted again into a temple for Trelsar a short time before Belsac and Helace began their religious purges. Little of Flinstar’s time would remain in the temple but there might be old records. There might be a priest somewhere with enough guile or ambition to dig through those records in hopes of finding something that might help them rise in authority.
It was a long shot, but it was all she had. Besides, she wasn’t looking for an answer. All she needed was a clue.
Lifting her mug once more, Tessla emptied its nearly tasteless contents, rose from her chair, and headed for the guarded door while most of the inn’s patrons cheered Mathew.
Tessla scowled at their enthusiasm. Thief, murderer, and crime lord, he was another one who needed to be killed, but Trelsar did not yet want Mathew to die, and Tessla did not have a problem with waiting. Her list of those to be killed was very long. While fairly high on the list, Mathew still remained at least fifteen places below Athos and Zorce.
A furtive movement caught her attention as she wound her way past occupied tables to reach the door. There, at the end of the bar, a man sat openly, partially shrouded by a cloud of thin smoke from several nearby pipe smokers. He did not appear to be obviously hiding from attention, but he also did not seem desirous of drawing any, either. No, everything about him screamed unobtrusive. Don’t notice me. I’m not important. Leave me the fuck alone.
So he was either a fool caught up in more than he suspected or he was a spy.
In Grace, fools could be found by throwing a stick outside almost any street-side door. The second option, however, the one where he might be a spy, made him a very important fellow to Tessla, especially since something strange was presently giving her a mental push. It wasn’t Trelsar. She knew her former master’s touch too well to mistake it for another. The touch wasn’t Jolson’s, either, but it almost felt like him.
Tessla stilled.
Holy fucking shit and Anothosia’s milk white tits! Had part of Jolson truly separated out and become Nedross as some of the others suspected? Perhaps some part of Flinstar’s memories was working on her behalf after all, only without Jolson knowing.
Shaking off the speculation she changed direction and headed for the man. Within three steps she silently thanked Nedross for gifting her with a priest who so perfectly fit her requirements.
He started when she stopped beside him. His eyes grew large.
Tessla smiled. She had struck gold. He was both a fool and a spy.
She intended to speak quietly so as to not draw undue attention but decided not to bother. Around her, the smoke filled bar broke out into resounding cheers as most of its patrons swore their service to Mathew Changer. Tessla felt the slightest hint of admiration for the man. Somehow, he had overcome these people’s fears and convinced them to join a non-existent army and march to their deaths.
; Which did not concern her. All people died eventually. It might be these people’s time, but it was not yet Missa’s.
“My Lord Charmain,” she said with a smile when he shifted nervously and attempted to rise. Her steady stare stopped him. “You and I need to have a little talk. If you answer well, you might even live to see tomorrow.”
* * * *
“I really don’t like it down here,” Missa complained for perhaps the thousandth time during the last several days. “It’s still scary. I don’t think I like Mercktos anymore.” She studied the well’s dry walls where they were still covered in spider webs pretty much everywhere above her reach. The rope Mercktos had used to lower her into the well remained. It was not an option she chose to use yet even if Mercktos had been gone for far too long a time.
“Patience child,” Anothosia answered within her mind. “As I have already explained, Merktos only did as I requested when he set us here. This was a needed time of quiet for you and I. A time with no distractions and nowhere for you to roam. You must have noticed we grew much closer during this period. We have, in fact, almost merged into one person. Only a little push is now needed to complete our connection. With a bit more than a push we will switch positions. Most of you will then reside within my Garden while a large portion of me will have control of this body and the abilities it commands. Our strengths will merge, giving me some hope your mother and I can defeat Zorce at the Hell Mouth.”
Missa whimpered, not sure she liked the thought of giving up control of her body while Anothosia threw it into the worst dangers in Hell. “But if you fight him we will die. I don’t want to die. I’m still too little.”
The presence stirred within her. Warmth entered her body which Missa instantly recognized as silent laugher.
“Too young, Missa? You think yourself too young? The body you inhabit is only the last in a long line of those a large piece of you has worn, each belonging to one of your own descendants. Part of you has lived and died a dozen times since your first birth, long ago, as Omitan’s beloved daughter, Sarah. Each time you died I carefully gathered your nano field and placed your essence in a new mother’s womb. Six times you have been reborn without the benefit of a man’s seed. Each time only part of the original Sarah broke off.”