by Mark Eller
"You don't look pleased," Elise noted.
"The outrider says they're led by your brother. He says the empire refuses to allow Hell a foothold this close to their territory, so your father has ordered troops here to rectify the situation." He frowned. "Your Majesty, I'm not sure I like the idea of trading off Hell for your father’s rule. I've heard the tribute he demands from new territories is crippling, and his laws are reputedly unforgiving."
Elise nodded. "It's not as bad as the rumors say, but the emperor has little patience with those who thwart his will. This is not good. Not when we no longer have organized troops or any other means to enforce our sovereignty." She studied her gathered army. They looked rough. More accurately, they looked like a mob, but then that was exactly what they were. "Have we any idea how many are coming?"
"The outrider said more than twenty thousand."
"We're fucked," Elise observed.
* * * *
Dakar walked the black marble hallways of his brother’s otherworldly palace, silent, determined. He was free now, able to affect both the world of man and gods. The god of thieves, the ancient trickster, or shadow master to some, was a force to be reckoned with now; and as soon as he recruited his brother— and a few others— unstoppable.
An icy wind blew through the corridors, ruffling the waves of Dakar’s long black hair. He sent a warm wind ahead of him in response. Doors of polished onyx loomed ahead of him, black and unforgiving. They disappeared into the shadows above with no end. The doors gave off a sterile shine in the dim torchlight; their beauty as stone cold as their owner. As soundless as snowflakes falling in winter, they opened.
Dakar entered; his power drew about him, flowing in shadows of dark blues and blacks.
Inside, Erlmene sat upon his throne of polished onyx and silver, his pale appearance a stark contrast to his dark surroundings. He nodded, his face calm, expressionless. Eyes like liquid silver regarded Dakar in a cold, detached manner. The icy wind of his power flowed around his lithe frame; it blew tendrils of hair the color of fresh fallen snow about his shoulders.
Dakar smiled; a slow, sly smile. “I know you are not alone. You always have Trouble about you.”
Erlmene’s mouth, soft, alluring, the color of a dark gray morning, turned at the corners in a small smile of his own.
A pillar of fire blazed bright and intense beside the cold god. The fire flickered, danced, and then solidified into a fierce warrior woman. Six feet tall, hair the color of fresh blood, owning amber eyes full of power and passion, she smiled wide and laughed. “Is Trouble ever far behind the two of you?”
Dakar’s smile broadened. Dulce, Illian’s goddess of war, or Trouble, as so many through the centuries had called her, would be one of his most powerful weapons. She would be the diamond in his crown when he was finished with Yernden.
Dulce walked up to him, a swagger in her walk, and gave Dakar a sweeping hug which lifted him off his feet. She spun him about and laughed all the while. He could not help but laugh with her. The fresh flow of renewed power swept through him like a torrent; it washed away the cobwebs which had settled in his soul. When she finished, she put him down and took his face between her hands.
“My mischief maker, it’s good to see you restored. I have missed you upon the battlefields and in the shadows of my bedroom.” She kissed him.
Her lips, the same color as her hair, covered his mouth in a sensuous, burning, explosion of lust and desire. Dakar slid his hands around her body and cupped her high, firm buttocks. He pulled her to him, molded her sexy curves against his hardened member, grinding it into her sex.
Dulce drew back from the kiss with a gasp. “By the gods… I forgot how good you felt. It has been far too long.” She locked her lips with his again and wrapped a long, lithe leg around his waist.
Dakar’s body clenched. How long had it been since he felt this intense, this aroused? Anothosia had done more than just steal his presence from the world of man; the bitch goddess also stole his ability to be wholly solid in any form. She had tried to send him back into the universe as pure essence, as drifting energy. But she had not been strong enough. Had the other gods lent her their power she would have succeeded; too late now. Anothosia would not deceive him twice. She would pay for the pain she caused.
Dakar drew back, reluctant. His body hated him for the delay. “Later, my fiery warrior. I bring interesting news.”
Dulce scowled. “Your news can’t wait a few hours? You just returned to us after being mostly gone for thousands of years.”
Dakar shook his head. “Not even a few minutes. Time grows short and the battlefield calls to us.”
Dulce’s eyes flashed, became excited. Her leg slid slowly from Dakar’s body.
“Battle? Have you started a war already?” Her voice was a deep purr. “Who do we get to kill? Where?”
Giving her a wicked smile, Dakar delivered a slow wink. “No my sweet, I’ve not had enough time to start my own war. Soon, but not now. No, this war has been building for thousands of years. It’s a war we have been previously forbidden to interfere in. But one of Yernden’s faithful, one who holds political power, made a plea to us, the forgotten and true gods, to come hither and interfere. I, for one, plan to do just that. I’ve already sent word I’m coming.”
Dulce whooped. “Yes! Yernden’s damned virtuous gods can’t do anything if we’re invited by somebody in power. Ha ha!” She drew her long sword from the scabbard on her back. “Who leads this army? Who are we destroying? I shall give him my full protection and aid him in his tirade.” Stepping back, she spun, slashing at invisible foes. “It’s been too long since I had a good go of it. I think I will join the fray myself. I long for a good fight.”
Dakar laughed. “I knew I could count on you. Brother?”
He slid his gaze to the unimposing figure of Erlmene. Death’s Lord still sat silent upon his throne. “It would not be complete without you,”: Dakar added. “Back in the day, you and I went through everything together.”
Erlmene nodded once. “Yes. We have.” He paused a moment, his face reveling nothing. “But you did not answer Dulce’s questions. Who is this leader, and whom does he call the enemy?” A knowing look crossed Erlmene’s face, as if the only reason he asked was to hear Dakar say it aloud.
Dakar took a calming breath. It would not do to lose face with his brother so soon after returning from exile. It would not do to lose his patience. He would play his sibling’s game. “The queen of Yernden fights an impossible foe. She faces the Two.”
Dulce sucked in a sharp breath and swore. “Impossible! The Two can’t leave the confines of their pocket world. They are too powerful, far more so than us. If your presence was upsetting to reality, theirs would be cataclysmic.”
Dakar shook his head. “Zorce and Athos have planned this a long time. They have slowly eroded the other god’s faithful, diminished the weaker gods to mere shadows, and they honestly don’t care what happens when they take over the real world. They’re both more than a little bit insane.” Dakar suppressed a shudder. He felt a moment of compassion for those the Two were trying to destroy; but only briefly. After all, they cared not when Anothosia tried to destroy him. “Zorce and Athos have pushed enough of their numbers above ground to tip the balance in their favor. More wait to join the fray.”
“No. Really?” Dulce was wide eyed. “But if Zorce and Athos win it will mean the end of the world…the end of us. Zorce will not forget the part we played in forming his prison.”
Dakar nodded. He hadn’t thought of that aspect of Elise losing the war. His only agenda was to trick the queen and get her to accept his help so he could later collect on the bargain. Of course, he wouldn’t tell her she bargained with all three of the gods and thus owed a boon to each.
Erlmene rose. His tall frame was feminine grace, artistic beauty in motion. Long, black satin robes billowed out behind him. Trousers the same color as the robes hugged his legs, revealing hard, lean appendages which disappeared
into calf length black boots. His shirt, a soft cream color, was unbuttoned to just above his navel. Erlmene glided to the floor and stopped a few feet from Dakar; his eyes, half lidded pools of suspicion. “I know you didn’t consider the consequences of the Two’s victory. So what else are you not telling us?”
Dakar narrowed his eyes. Erlmene was a quiet being, but deadly. Suspicion was his middle name, but Dakar had come prepared. He knew exactly how to garner his brother’s loyalty.
“I don’t plan on telling Elise either of you is involved. She will make her bargain and be none the wiser. Then we will give the humans time to clean up their mess. Once that is done, we will conquer all of Ilian and then return to take over Yernden. When Yernden is conquered, Altude, the nation favoring Trelsar, will be the next to fall. In fact, Altude will be a snap. They’ll crumble once we cut off their water and food supply.”
“Why go to such bother? You never before said you wanted to be a king? Neither do I for that matter. I care not if I am worshipped. I care only for the dead and dying.”
Smiling, Dulce broke in. “Hey, I want an empire. I’m tired of not having what should rightfully be mine. I’ll take Altude, and Dakar, you can have Yernden, If you like, Erl, you can start an entire nation of dead people. And what a silly question you ask of your brother. It’s all about revenge. You’d be angry, too, if someone tried to turn you to dust and instead made you a nothing.”
Dakar winced.
“Sorry sweetie. But it’s true.” Dulce shrugged and placed her sword back in its sheath.
“There is something in it for you as well brother. A boon if you will.” Reaching into his shadow upon the floor, Dakar pulled a silver mirror from its depths. He polished it with the sleeve of his black, silk shirt. “Observe.”
Dakar handed the mirror to Erlmene. The god took it and gazed into its depths. His eyes widened; his iris’s swirled like silver whirlpools. “Can it be Caroline?”
“No brother. Caroline is centuries gone, remember? But this woman looks almost exactly like her. Her name is Anithia Morlon. She is Omitan’s High Priestess, and she comes from Caroline’s linage.”
Erlmene nodded. “Yes…gone. Sometimes I yearn too much for yesterday. For the world as it once was. Hmm. I can see the life force of the Forest Lord flowing in her veins. What a beautiful aura she has...so much…vitality…life. So much like Caroline.” He pulled the mirror closer, his breathing quickened.
Dakar refrained from smiling. He had him. Never mind he intended to drain Anithia of all her beautiful life force. She would serve Erlmene’s purposes just as well dead as alive.
“Keep the mirror brother, gaze at her often…that is until she dies and her soul is scattered.”
Erlmene’s attention snapped to Dakar so quickly the god did not see his brother’s eyes move. They were now solid silver. “What do you mean by this?”
“She is going against Zorce with Anothosia. She will not live long it if Athos wins against Yernden’s queen.”
Erlmene stared intently at Dakar, his suspicious look undaunted. “Hmm,” was all he said before he turned and walked back toward his throne, the mirror clutched protectively to his chest. Veering right, he headed toward an almost invisible door.
“Brother.”
Erlmene stopped. Turned.
“Will you aid me or not?”
Erlmene nodded once, then continued out of the chamber.
Dakar sighed. He would have to be careful around Erlmene. If his brother knew his true goal, to suck the essence from all the other gods through their connection to their avatars and priests, he would try and stop him…for Dakar’s own good. Dakar fought a sneer at the thought. Erlmene had done nothing while Anothosia cursed him to a half-life of darkness. The uppity prick felt it was for the better. When Dakar drained Anithia in front of his brother it would be his revenge upon the snit.
Dulce frowned. “Now then, you have deprived me of my companion. I do not wish to share him, Dakar. Besides, no other woman could hold the life force I possess, the fire that burns bright within my spirit.” She tilted her chin in defiance.
Dakar nodded agreement. “Ah yes, you are a wondrous being Dulce, but my brother is a hopeless romantic, a dreamer. He prefers a lasting, hopeless love to endless nights of lust. I, on the other hand, will gladly keep you company.”
Dulce glanced at the door Erlmene had disappeared through, hesitated, then turned a heated gaze on Dakar. “Hmm. Yes. Fine. Let him have his mortal. Either way, I win. I will pledge my help to your cause, but you will pledge your loyalty to me…and only to me.”
Dakar’s groin stirred and then shot fully to life. To watch for centuries from the shadows while others moaned and tossed in the throes of passion had given him a pent up need for release. He had sated part of his lust on Fox, but only a little, and for too short a time. “Gladly.”
Dakar pulled her to him roughly. His conquering of the world had begun, but nothing was so urgent he couldn’t enjoy himself for a while. A few days would pass before the final battle was joined. Three days, four, or perhaps only one or two. Either way, a few hours delay would make little difference in the outcome.
Chapter 9-- Athos Ascended
Belthethsia stood in the dungeon, listening to the comforting sounds of screams, enjoying the refreshing scent of mold and feces and decaying flesh. Her hand wrapped tightly around the iron bars set into the small window of a cell door. Her whip was wrapped around her waist, its handle set into a sheath at her side. A glance inside the cell showed the broken remnants of a naked priestess who feebly tried to grab onto something to preserve the small shreds of flesh still attached to her body. She screeched when a sudden jarring rolled her across the floor to slam into a dungeon wall. Flesh split, but only a trickle of blood flowed, thick and dark and slow.
Belthethsia giggled at the sight and gripped the bars harder. Little blood remained in the woman’s body. The human stayed alive only because of spells set into her flesh before the torture began. The little vixen had been defiant at one time. She had drawn upon her dignity as a priestess of Anothosia, the bitch goddess, and demanded she be allowed her freedom. She had taken on airs, had assumed a posture of superiority to Belthethsia, and for these transgressions she had paid.
Belthethsia admired her handiwork. The woman no longer had feet or fingers. Her small breasts had been cooked over an open fire and fed to a hellhound. Afterward, the woman’s every orifice had been raped by gnomes and ghouls and demons and devils, and by a dozen other beings who often took a strip of flesh or a shred of soul when they finished. The priestess had then been beaten and burned, fed poisons and forced to drink acids. Through it all she protested her faith in Anothosia, insisting her final fate would be salvation.
The fool.
Belthethsia had not allowed the priestess to die, just as she had refused to allow death to any of the humans in the surrounding cells. Death was too easy a fate for people who thought themselves Belthethsia’s superior, or for those who refused to give up their belief in the so-called virtuous gods.
They would soon learn no being but Athos was superior to her. They would discover there was no such thing as salvation.
She grasped the bars tighter when the earth rumbled and shook one more time. Her feet wanted to fall out from under her, but they did not dare. Cracks shivered into existence down dungeon walls. The ceiling creaked, shook, and small rumbles of debris fell to the floor. The ceiling might not fall, or it might. This was a gamble she had to take if she was to win her position. Her days of being a whore were done. Her legs would no longer spread for humans or the damned. She would no longer scream and cry and beg while her father’s barbed member ripped and tore at her insides, using her because, as his daughter, she was one of the few beings in any world he could use over and over again.
Though she was weak when compared to her brothers, though she had never had any choice but to be compliant to her father’s demands, as of this day she would no longer be the victim. She had learned. W
atching Athos had taught her there were types of power beyond the physical. There was a power of mind, of purpose, and there was power in influencing those stronger than herself.
A sudden screech of rock tore into her ears. The crevasse bulged and cracked. Boulders broke into a thousand pieces, broke again and again, until they became sand falling into the hole, exposing more rock, more boulders that shifted and became sand in their turn. The wall before her splintered. A shard shot out, arrow swift. It sliced through the air, slammed into her shoulder, and buried itself into the wood door, pinning her in place. Belthethsia bled but refused to flinch. She had suffered worse, and she had delivered far worse to her servants and her spawn. She had flayed their bodies with her whip until hundreds of them died, perhaps thousands. She was very adept with giving injury, and almost as good at receiving it.
A hand reached up as the crack spread wider. The rock beneath her feet shook harder. Walls fell in, opening cells. The ceiling rumbled, crumbled, and large sections fell, striking the floor to break into smaller pieces. Delightful screams sounded from the cells. She heard shrieks fading into death rattles. Humans crawled past the tumbled walls, escaping their cells, but that was of no moment. Not one of them was capable of more than a slow roll or crawl. They would not get far.
Not when her brother was coming.
Another hand joined the first. The crack grew wider still, and then Athos’s beautiful head rose into view. Ball lightning crackled angrily between his four horns, flashing red and dark purple, almost black. He growled and flexed, and more rock shattered. He pulled himself out of the crack and shook his magnificent body. It glistened with sweat and with the blood he had spilled while working his way through a too small opening. His energies roiled around him, flaring with strength and assurance, a strength that had been tried but not fully challenged as he broke his way past the god wrought barriers set in place eons before. His muscles flared out, rippled. Powerful, but they were not the gross overdeveloped things her father preferred. Even with his advanced level of nano control, Athos did not have Zorce’s strength of body. He had never been the most physically powerful of Hell’s devils. In fact, Belthethsia could easily remember when she had been more powerful than him. She remembered a time when she had looked at her older brother and seen an opportunity for advancement over his carcass.