by Mark Eller
Mathew stood, panting, unbelieving while another crashing roar struck his ears. The war was not ended, but they had won a reprieve, and he did not know how. He ran his finger across the crystals coating his arm, cautiously touched one with the tip of his tongue, and tasted salt.
A faint cry sounded. Mathew saw a dragonet fall from the sky. Another fell. Mathew's eyes followed the tumbling fall, and then he saw Jolson staring intently at the flying creatures. Jolson's eyes narrowed, and another creature cried out, a wyvern. Mathew laughed and laughed again when pent up strain sought a sudden release. He laughed, and then something struck him and he fell. Skull cracked, shoulder broken, his neck canted at an impossible angle. Mathew lay on the ground, feeling nothing, staring at a last lone missile dropped from the sky, now lying beside him. It had blood on it, his blood. He tried to move, tried to roll over, but his hands would not obey. His feet did not move. They were not numb. They just did not exist. Opening his mouth, he found he could not speak. He was dying, again, and this time his curse would not save him.
A figure knelt beside him. Tessla, her white hair now streaked in deep red from blood splatter. She gripped his face in both her hands. Her black talons pierced his cheeks. She looked into his eyes with her flat, emotionless black orbs.
"It is not your time to die, Mathew Changer," she whispered. "Trelsar is not finished with you."
Her hands convulsed, cracking his neck back into position with a sudden jerk. Her talons ripped through his cheeks, and then Mathew experienced sensations more intense than anything he ever had before. The sensations were not pain. They were not pleasure. They were just…too much.
* * * *
Athos stalked down the corridors of Hell and scowled. The scowl twisted his face making scars bulge. A hundred small protrusions of horn jutted from his cheeks and forehead, their points glistening with a damp hint of the virulent poisons contained within. A low growl vibrated deep in his throat, sounding like the warning rumble of an ancient tyrannosaur moments before it attacked a thief trying to steal its prey. Glaring around, he searched for a hellhound, a soulwright, a demon, devil, succubus, gnome, or any other being of Hell who might be available for a quick rending. Unfortunately, the damned corridors were nearly empty. Those beings still roaming them were too indispensable to kill— for now.
Everything was fucked up beyond belief. The war had arrived weeks early because the bitch, Helace, had stirred the masses by killing their king, forcing Zorce to release his hordes before the plan’s time.
Still, Zorce had instructed his troops. Athos and Sulya had trained them. They had been close to releasing them onto the…well, not quite so unsuspecting world up above. That world was almost ready to receive them. It had been softened and prepared for Hell’s overwhelming arrival, so starting the war early might not be a disaster to Athos’s plans. After all, the inhabitants of the cities had become used to the sight of hellborn. They had become used to the idea of becoming prey if they did not play along with Hell’s plans. The wise mortals lived their lives, did their jobs, raised their families, and turned in anyone who voiced rebellion against hellkind.
Anything to live. The cattle would do almost anything to live, or so Zorce claimed. Athos was not so sure. His father was powerful and deadly and scarier than Hell itself. He was stronger than any four of the surviving virtuous gods, unless Trelsar was thrown into the mix. Trelsar was, perhaps, almost half as strong as Zorce, which made him only a little weaker than Athos was known to be. The meddlesome god was a factor that could split the world if he joined in the battle. If any of the other virtuous gods tried to directly confront Athos or Zorce, the world would not be split. It would only be burned by magma, ripped and torn by twisters and hurricanes, and buried beneath hundreds of feet of ice, so the virtuous gods dared not step into this war. Everything they fought for would be lost if they did. Some remote hope of eventual salvation remained if they did not.
Athos could almost see the calculation in their minds. Hell’s takeover was inevitable, but its eternal ruling of the real world was not. Hell needed humans, needed them for prey and for fun and for the souls they provided. Without fresh souls entering its realm there was no purpose for Hell. Without the miasma from Hell created by the influx of fresh souls, hellborn could not breed. Many could not survive. The usurper gods likely figured humans would survive and perhaps, someday, they might find a way to shove the hellborn back into their holes.
Athos’s scowl grew deeper at the thought. The so-called virtuous gods were fools, but then they had always been fools. Like his father, they had relied so long on their power and their worshipers that they had allowed their brains to atrophy. They no longer knew how to think in subtle terms. They no longer knew how to make contingency plans. They especially had no concept that someone weaker than themselves could in any way become a threat.
His father thought the same, as had more than three hundred of Athos’s older siblings. Athos had never been the most powerful of his father’s children. He had been born weak and sickly. His mother almost fed him to her harpy servants after his birth. On more than two hundred occasions, before Athos reached adulthood, Zorce had broken his body in disgust.
But Athos had healed, and he had thrived. He had thrived because he knew he couldn’t depend on his strength, on his innate power. Instead of surviving by might alone he had schemed and trapped and murdered, all the while leaving hints and evidence implicating others of his siblings. And then, by using a fantastic hook an ancient shamanic mage had designed and then built over the course of four thousand years, Athos began absorbing the strength of the fallen. Sixteen thousand lives had been used and consumed in the hook’s creation. It was crafted of rare metals, of intricate weavings and nebulous energies. It was, Athos believed, the most powerfully subtle inanimate force of evil the cosmos had ever seen, and Zorce still had no clue. He thought it a contrivance, a tool, useful in the right hands, but of limited utility unless it was used against him.
Zorce was a fool. With the hook, Athos could have become so powerful every other god would be no better than a gnat chewing on his dead skin. In time, once he recovered his hook, Athos would become more powerful than any other god had even imagined becoming.
Athos smiled. He was already extremely powerful, more powerful than any but a select few knew. Soon enough he would no longer act cowed before his father or pretend he could not overcome Merktos. He would no longer take his father’s orders or belittling. He would not have to play the fool, play the decoy while his father attempted to single handedly win the real world in an orgy of blood and battle and death. No, the day would come when Zorce would kneel to him. When Zorce would beg for mercy.
Mercy? Athos would not give it. No. Instead, he would rend his father’s soul with the hook and steal his strength.
His steps fell heavier on the corridor floor. They struck with a thundering boom which cracked stone and drove diamond shards deep into the rock. A movement caught his eye, a brief flicker of motion. His power shot out, grabbed, and reeled in a cringing ghoul who had been trying to hide in a crevasse. Athos stripped meat from the mewling thing’s arm, worrying at the tough fibers with his teeth, savoring the rancid flavor while the ghoul squirmed and screamed. Carefully prolonging its agony, Athos stripped away meat from its other arm, from its legs, and then enjoyed the delicacy of its entrails, being careful to leave it with a functioning heart and lungs. He dropped the still screaming creature to the floor in a clatter of bones. With luck, the ghoul would grow new flesh, just as it had more than a hundred times before. If not, well, ghouls were completely disposable.
He entered a chamber. Like most of Hell right now, it was empty of life. A few shattered souls drifted around, remnants of the damned who had not yet been allowed to see a path toward that false hope called redemption. One of the souls, he saw, seemed to particularly enjoy tearing shreds off another. They had once been husband and wife, he remembered. The man had murdered his wife because he wanted a clear path toward win
ning Athos’s sister, the concubine and whore, Belthethsia, in a contest of some sort. A good enough reason for murder, in his opinion, but it provided troublesome results since it eventually led to a spawn getting hold of his hook. Because of this, Athos was more than pissed at the pair. He doubted he would ever release either soul back into the real world for a chance at rebirth.
In the center of the chamber a jagged crack marred the ceiling. Two feet wide and seven long, it was the only access to the real world Zorce would allow Athos to use. It was Athos’s job to draw the attention of the virtuous gods, to bring their wrath and their avatars down on him while Zorce conquered the world past the Hell Mouth. Atho’s troops would consist of only the several thousand hellborn who had already climbed up through the crevasse. He was, Zorce said, to take orders from Belsac because the devil had been living in the middle world for more than a year and because Belsac had been with Zorce since the beginning.
An obvious trap.
Athos was no fool. He knew his father wished to replace him with Belsac, or with any of his other remaining children. Never once had Athos received anything but contempt from his father. Zorce had been totally astounded when Athos usurped the position of second in command and gained godhood. Ever since, he had subtly worked to have one of his other children overthrow Athos. All had fallen to Athos, victims of his hook. It was easily done, but then with proper use of the hook most evil tasks were easily done. Unfortunately, the hook was no longer in his possession, and Zorce had given Athos the task of acting decoy with the false promise that Athos would take over a large section of the world.
Athos knew his hope of success was nil. His chance of death was almost assured since Belsac and almost all of the hellborn in Grace would be working against him.
Or so Zorce thought.
Athos allowed his scowl to shift briefly into a faint smile. Zorce didn’t know Athos had long suspected what his part in this play would be. He did not know Athos had spoken to the virtuous gods, had told them of the gathering army at Hell Mouth, and then told them of Zorce’s plans. Zorce was gathering his forces. He would open the gates. When he did he would be attacked in the one place in the local cosmos where the gods could directly confront one another without putting the real world at risk. The virtuous gods would lose, of course. Against Zorce and all his hordes, they would have no choice but to lose, but Zorce would be weakened. His hordes would be lessened. Once the real world belonged to Hell, and once Athos regained his hook, he would strike against his weakened father.
He would win. He had to win. After all, usurping Zorce had been his original intention when he first proposed this plan. He was, at this moment, exactly where he wanted to be, but his scowl remained. Even knowing he was going exactly where he had manipulated his weak-minded father into sending him, he still didn’t like taking orders or being humiliated in front of the beings he would someday completely dominate.
When Athos reached the center of the chamber he allowed his nano control to reach up, grasp rock, and seep into cracks. The accumulated nano, the nano that had infused every part of all the connected worlds, lifted him until his raised talons were able to sink into the ceiling’s split. Hand over hand, sinking talons deep into rock, Athos began climbing out of the pocket universe Anothosia created and Zorce named Hell. Around him, rock shuddered. Diamonds spilt and crumbled. All of Hell shook, and corridors collapsed as the most powerful being remaining in this prison left it for the very first time. Athos forced his way past invisible barriers and barricades set in place by the virtuous gods eons ago, barriers which were supposed to ensure this incursion could never happen.
Athos smiled and laughed. None of them had counted on the power of his hook. None of them had the forethought to even imagine such a thing could exist. They would pay for their stupidity.
* * * *
Hours later, there was order. Elise directed healers to care for the wounded. Others were ordered to cart away the dead for cataloging and eventual burial. She knew her duty. She had been taught well by her father. Before any of the bodies were hauled away she took a moment to gaze into each face, say a quick prayer to Anothosia, and swear to the missing spirit their sacrifice would not be wasted.
She felt grim inside, and hard. She had been in battles before. She had wielded her sword, felt it slice into flesh, and seen her enemies fall. Friends had entered battle by her side, never to be seen again. Hard times, but never before had she been the one in charge. Never before had the final decisions been hers. Mathew, the once half-were, had started this war, but he was wounded, possibly dying, and so the mantle had fallen entirely upon her shoulders.
Elise knew her shoulders were stronger than most. She hoped they were strong enough.
Another catapult released its load, sending a bag of salt through an upper window. The catapults were all loaded, ready, but by her order they seldom fired. In the first brief battle more than half the god-imbued salt had been used by the unruly mob. All of Joss's bursting powder was gone. Not surprising. There had only been enough of the stuff for half a dozen uses.
So a stalemate. The hellborn were trapped within the castle, which was exactly where they wanted to be. From the castle they had access to all of Hell through the hellhole she had allowed to go undiscovered. Where Hell had instant re-supply and reinforcements, she had an army with few supplies and no real prospects for trained soldiers coming her way. Elise was still greatly outnumbered, though the numbers were growing closer with each passing hour as more volunteers poured in. Unfortunately, none of those had skill or training. Soon the inflow would slow and then stop. It was a problem Athos would not face.
Another catapult fired when several hellborn showed themselves near a window. The bagged salt sailed through the air directly toward the target but failed to reach it. An almost invisible wave of magical force shimmered into being. The bag struck it, burst, and its contents fell uselessly.
"I hate magic," Elise muttered, knowing all the while she would accept any magic coming her way. Unfortunately, Calto’s priests were exhausted, drained, and would not be much use for at least a couple hours. Nearby, they lay in a circle, heads pointed toward the center, their clothes removed, sucking revitalizing energy from direct contact with Terra. It was a difficult and awkward method of recharging, but one they had to use because Anothosia was not gifting them with her strength.
Elise smiled faintly as she remembered the sight of those naked priests, She took a moment to wonder if Calto might be as physically gifted in a certain area as many of them had proved to be. The least of those priests would have put King Vere to shame.
Frowning, Elise mentally shook herself. Those were not the kinds of thoughts she should be having. Looking at Calto, she forced herself to lower her inner flames. Some things did not bear thinking on now. Not when she had a war to run, and not when his interest clearly centered on Anithia.
Her frown lessened. Infatuations changed, and Calto did look fine even if he appeared tired. However, he did not show the same exhaustion as his priests. Was he that much stronger than them, or had he not exerted himself as much? Did his stamina show itself in other, more personal, areas than battle and magic? Was Anithia willing to share?
“What?” Calto asked.
"Your goddess isn't being much help," Elise said, casting aside her pervious thoughts and concentrating on more important matters. “I haven’t seen her or Anithia since shortly before we marched to the battle.
"Our goddess," Calto corrected. "I'm not exactly sure what those two are about, but I think they are busy with something important right now."
"What's more important than Athos’s minions trying to take over my castle and my kingdom?" Elise demanded.
Calto shrugged. "Do I look like a god? I might be Anothosia’s head priest, but I haven't been a very good one for quite some time. She doesn't speak to me like she used to." He gestured. "We have a lot of people who don't know what to do or where to go. Somebody needs to take charge and start assigning positio
ns and tasks."
Elise nodded. "My hands are full. Have fun."
"What about them?" Calto motioned toward Tessla and Jolson. Tessla paced calmly before the castle, studying it with an intensity seeming almost strong enough to make the castle stones fall beneath its weight. Jolson stood still, his head canted to one side. Watching. Waiting. A faint nimbus of power emitted from his skin, making it sparkle with a not quite seen reflected light. The view was surreal.
Elise shrugged. "Yeah. Them. From what I can see, they are in a world of their own. Jolson is almost not a part of this, and Tessla is no warrior. She is an assassin. They are both out of place here. Putting either of them in charge of anything would be a disaster." She sighed. "See to your duties. I've work to do."
Calto left. Elise didn’t even flinch when a hellhound jumped over a parapet. It landed nearby, growling, and then died when a dozen druid arrows instantly sprouted from it. A catapult sounded from the castle walls. Elise watched a rock sail high, reach its apogee, and descend in a long arc that ended with a direct hit on one of Elise's catapult wagons. She cursed as arvids bellowed, and the wagon broke into a hundred jagged shards. A cloud of splinters sheeted through the air.
"Damn them," Elise muttered, knowing the ones she cursed belonged in Hell and so were already damned.
Joss approached, his expression worried. "Reinforcements are coming. They'll be here in another twenty minutes."