The Third God sdotc-3

by Ricardo Pinto

  One pale woman’s face arrested his gaze. Though she was not as she had been, he knew her. ‘Quentha,’ he sighed.

  The sybling’s eyes pierced him. ‘Seraph?’ An urgent whisper.

  ‘Have you forgotten…?’ he managed.

  Her sister turned the jet almonds of her stone eyes upon him, but then the sisters responded to a gesture of command from the other syblings. Together they took the strain. The cross rising into the air caused Carnelian’s shoulders to threaten dislocation. He threw back his head, choking off a cry.

  ‘Behold Suth Carnelian!’ cried the beautiful voice.

  Spreadeagled on the cross, as the syblings carried him into the light Carnelian was blinded by pain. The impact as they put him down sent through him a surge of nausea. He pushed his consciousness into the soles of his feet, clawing his toes, digging his heels into the ledges, finding just enough strength in his legs to push back, squeezing his stomach, drawing up his innards, adjusting his shoulders gingerly to relieve their tearing agony.

  ‘Behold another of the Great who threw in his lot with Our rebel, apostate brother.’

  Blearily Carnelian tried to locate the source of that pure voice. His racked body gave a shudder as he saw the towering horned shape that could only be the Darkness-under-the-Trees having assumed a near-human form. Then he saw this was just the shadow of the apparition sitting upon an iron throne. Jade its sublime face, its head encased within a four-horned helm that gave it the look of a spider. Behind rose a green man, above whom a black man loomed with vast glimmering obsidian mirror wings stretching like startled hands. All around the throne, children huddled naked, their Chosen skin a dazzling headache.

  The apparition rose, its body clothed in a sinuous metal skin that might have been that of a fish, along the midline of which a lightning bolt jagged down. Taller by far than any mortal should be. Carnelian knew this was the God Emperor. Molochite extended Their hands, which were sheathed in what appeared to be shadowed, glimmering water. In obedience two of the children rose, extending trembling fingers. The God Emperor took their hands, then slid across a fur of blue fire towards Carnelian, whose attempt to recoil was thwarted by the cross. The apparition loomed over him, its horns like scorpion stings. He could not bear to look upon the jade of that perfect face. His gaze fell and was for a moment snared by the exquisite mail. Metal duller than silver, each link no larger than a fingernail. It chinked as They gestured. In response the syblings leaned against the cross and turned it.

  Below, beneath the vaulted ribs of the ceiling, stretched an assemblage of Masters. A field of gold masks, gleaming. Squinting, Carnelian saw the white cross of his body reflected, melting, over noses and brows and lips; displayed for them like a whore.

  Molochite drifted back into sight. ‘Now suffers he the fate to which all shall be consigned who dare raise their hand against Us.’ They offered Their left hand to one of the children. The Chosen girl looked up, her blue eyes frozen terror. Not only had the hair been shaved from her head, but even her eyebrows. The rims of her eyes were red from where the lashes had been plucked. Tiny fingers fumbled at the hand of the God Emperor and peeled off the glimmering glove. Molochite’s hand was living porcelain as it floated towards Carnelian’s throat. He turned his head away as far as he could. Molochite’s touch settled finger by finger along his jaw line. He tried to shake it off, but this only caused the touch to slide down to his throat, where it lingered on the scar around his neck.

  ‘You were his lover…’ They murmured.

  The fingers spread across the span of his collar bone, cupped his shoulder, slid down his chest so that Carnelian could feel the heel of Molochite’s hand as it rubbed over his nipple. One finger tip, another, grazed it. Again, Carnelian tried to pull away, but the cross and its agony tamed him. As the hand pulled down over his stomach horror boiled into his head. He gazed down through tears at the Masters, but they only watched with cold indifference. He tensed his muscles against the pressure of Molochite’s hand as if somehow that might stop it moving lower. His muscles began shuddering as the strength poured out of them like water. His bones felt as if they were coming out of joint. His heart melted like wax down into his bowels. He struggled against the shame, but his body no longer obeyed him. He threw back his head, wanting to die as his body relieved itself upon the floor.

  The hand withdrew, suddenly. A hissing. ‘Filthy animal!’

  Molochite’s shadow slipped off him. Sensing movement Carnelian lowered his head and saw the Quenthas stooping to clean the floor.

  ‘Take him away,’ said the beautiful voice, disgust clipping the syllables.

  Carnelian gritted his teeth as the cross was lifted and glared defiance upon the gathered Masters as he was carried down steps towards them. At each shudder fighting the panic that his arms must tear out from their sockets.

  ‘Behold how far from his Chosen nature this one has fallen,’ the God Emperor announced.

  The Masters drew back as Carnelian was set down in their midst. Pale as maggots they were, each clothed in commander’s leathers.

  ‘Examine him carefully. See how tainted he is in flesh and mind. However high, not even one of the Chosen can hope to endure an existence among the bestial creatures of the outer world without much of his angelic nature leaching away. As it is with this one, so it is with Our brother. Neither is now fully Chosen. What else could explain that one of Our own blood should stoop to recruit vermin to bring against Us? Not only has Our brother become hopelessly corrupted but, evidently, he has lost hold of that divine reason that once was his birthright.

  ‘A host have We gathered here immeasurably more powerful than his rebellion. Though, insanely, he seeks to conceal his weakness within a deluge of bestial slaves, does he really imagine they can withstand Our flame? My Lords may demur that Our apostate brother has won a victory over the Ichorian, but this he did through no genius of his own, but by adopting a tactic common during the Civil War. Within the same books We have found described the technique that rendered that tactic obsolete. This is why We shall deploy Our huimur in two lines. Though the Apostate might pierce the first, Our second shall then be ready to annihilate him.’

  Sinking in a mire of shame and agony, Carnelian closed his eyes.

  ‘Now, my Lords, behold your enemy!’

  The clattering awoke in Carnelian a little strength. Light struck the side of his head in bursts. He managed to grind his chin up his shoulder. Another sudden flood of light. Another. He opened his eyes to the merest slits and endured the slicing incandescence. One shutter at a time, a wall of the chamber was being opened up upon a lurid dawn. Beneath a sky clotted with fleshy cloud rose the towers of a leprous city with a pale road running through it like an exposed spine. Carnelian could make no sense of where he was. Then fear bleached the pain away. He stared, convinced he was in a dream. Beyond the city, beneath the clouds, a blood tide was coming in. This was a nightmare he would not wake from. Against the red, the leprous towers were spined with masts and billowing banners like sails. No city this, but rather a vast military camp upon which a wave of dust was bearing down, its surge churned up by Osidian’s sartlar millions.

  Though Carnelian had managed to straighten his legs, his balance on them was precarious. Each breath was a struggle against agony and exhaustion. As he sucked air into his lungs in a narrow, snagging thread, he doubted he would find the strength to do it again.

  A stench of sulphur woke his senses. He ungummed his eyes. It was a shock to find the chamber before him empty. How long had he been sunk in the fight for breath? Blue fire, swimming below him, released wisps of smoke.

  ‘Was it not gracious of Us to let you use this cross?’

  Carnelian saw Molochite’s dull silver mail, but was too weak to raise his head.

  ‘We brought it with Us so that We might bear Our brother back to Osrakum upon it.’

  Silence. Then Carnelian’s jaw was caught by fingers and his head raised so that he was forced to gaze at the monster.
The sublime face of jade seemed to have changed its expression to sneering amusement. ‘We had planned to have you by Us so that you might observe your lover being humiliated.’ The hands shaped airy gestures. Never mind. ‘We shall not subject Ourselves to the odour. Even were you cleansed, how could We be certain you would not foul yourself again?’

  A gloved hand melted into a vague gesture that had a nuance of unkind regret. ‘We are sure you understand that nothing must be allowed to mar the pleasure of watching Our dear sibling being brought low at last.’

  At that moment the wind gusting into the chamber whipped the God Emperor’s cloak against Carnelian’s thigh. For a moment he was certain he could smell the Rains. For some reason that kindled a spark of joy in him. He yearned for its waters to wash away the filth, the pain, his soul, even.

  ‘You cry for him? Or is it for yourself?’

  Carnelian wished the hand holding his chin would let go. Something cold pressed against his cheek. It was the God Emperor’s mask.

  ‘Why do you love him?’ Molochite whispered through the jade. ‘How does he draw love to him?’ The mask jerked; one of the horns of his crown clinked against the cross. ‘Always he vexed me, encompassed me, thwarted me. But now I will destroy him. Surely I must. How could I not? Have I not crushed them all? Even her.’

  Molochite pulled away. ‘We doubt you realize how complete will be Our triumph. At the moment of Nephron’s destruction, We shall regain the absolute power Our ascendant lost to the Wise and you Great centuries ago.’

  Carnelian stared at Molochite as he raised his arms, horror mixing with disgust, but there was also some pity.

  ‘This armour of tempered iron was Theirs, this helm.’ The jade mask gazed around the chamber. ‘And we are here within Their Iron House that We brought out from Osrakum. Today shall We undo the wrong done to Our blood. Undo all wrongs.’

  As the jade face turned towards Carnelian, in its slits he was sure he could see the glimmering malice of Molochite’s eyes. ‘Be not worried, cousin, you will not miss the battle. We shall have you hoisted to the roof of this chariot and We are certain you shall live long enough to watch your lover die.’

  The gloved hands shaped some signs. Take him.

  As the syblings bent to lift the cross, Carnelian saw Molochite moving away, then tumbled helpless into a well of pain.

  Raging agony was devouring his mind. Then, miraculously, its frenzy calmed. A breeze coolly caressing his skin. He heard the voice and felt something touch his lips. He threaded more air through his raw throat. He opened his eyes and saw the bladed black half-circle of iron, saw its rust-veined surface.

  The voice again rose above the rasping of his breath. ‘… slit your throat.’

  Carnelian drew his mind into his core. He managed to look up from the iron blade to find eyes filled with tears.

  ‘Please… let us end this.’

  Carnelian recognized Right-Quentha’s face; her lips moving, tears in her eyes. ‘Yes?’

  Carnelian tried to nod, but once he lifted his head, it flipped back as if his neck were broken. Black wings blotting out the sky, as if a vast raven were descending to feed upon his eyes, but the wings were frozen and he saw they formed a wall that rose before him. Feathers wrought from iron, among which were bleak masks, whose eyes were windows, whose mouths gaped as must his, in agony. The whole mass floated above the ground with only a bronze staircase lolling like a tongue from a gate in the iron wall. As his mind tried to resolve how so much mass could rest upon such a narrow support, his gaze, wandering, found a great arch. Columns radiating from a common centre showed it to be a wheel, but one as high as the back of a huimur. This thing, then, was some kind of immense chariot.

  Eyes closed, he struggled to lift his chest against the pain. He let his head sag back and opened his eyes again. A green face swam in his vision. Huge, it hung above the chariot, bearing the same four horns. Confused, he thought it must be Molochite grown as tall as the sky. Then he felt a difference in the way it looked at him. Was that a smile upon the gargantuan lips? It comforted him.

  It was the plaintive desperate thinning in the voices of the Quenthas that made him find the strength to disengage his gaze from the God’s face and bring his head forward. Their lips were moving, but he could not understand what they were saying, though he caught the panic in their eyes.

  The Quenthas suddenly fell silent, turning fearfully. In a remote corner of his mind Carnelian understood his chance for release from agony had gone. A Master was approaching. The Quenthas bowed. Carnelian’s gaze caught upon the stranger’s mask and was confused when he recognized it. His heart exploded. It was his father’s. Something was wrong. Suddenly, he knew it was not his father who wore it, for this Master was not tall enough, his shoulders not wide enough beneath his black military cloak.

  The imposter lifted a thickly painted hand and said something that at first Carnelian did not understand because he was expecting Quya. In Vulgate the words were: ‘Free him.’

  The Quenthas swung the blade towards the stranger’s throat even as Carnelian recognized his voice. ‘No,’ he barked, then choked as he lost the rhythm of his breathing. When he regained it, he saw the Quenthas were gazing at him.

  ‘My…’ he said and took another, rasping breath. ‘Friend.. .’

  Both Quenthas frowned, then they turned to each other; a pale face facing one dark with tattoos. Though neither spoke it was as if they were exchanging thoughts. They nodded even as all four arms swung the fanblade halberd. As the first blow fell, Carnelian was certain his left hand had been sliced off. The arm slumped, slapping his thigh like a hunk of dead meat. The ribs on his left side seemed to snap like a rotten ladder. He slumped forward and was only caught by his other arm, wrenching the shoulder.

  ‘Help him!’

  As his second arm came free, Carnelian crashed forwards into an embrace. The body beneath him reeled, but managed to catch his weight. Smell of leather. Feeling the rumble in Fern’s chest as he spoke. The relief of his spine curving the other way. The joy of taking a deep, deep breath. He felt Fern stagger back as his right leg came free, stubbing his toes. When the left was released, Fern leaned back so that Carnelian was fully off the ground. Carnelian felt a cloak settling over him. Felt its grip as it was tucked over him and a hood was pulled over his head.

  ‘Flee,’ two throats said in Quya, ‘while you still can.’

  ‘Can you stand?’ rumbled Fern almost in his ear.

  Carnelian just wanted to hang there, draped over him, loving him. He edged his weight back and felt his toes touching stone, his heels, his feet spreading as they took his weight. As his legs buckled, Fern leaned back to take his weight again.

  ‘Flee,’ hissed the Quenthas.

  Fern began to drag him away and as he did so Carnelian’s feet found passing purchase on the stone. He felt the strain in Fern’s body and tried to walk, as best he could, hanging off him. His mind lived for each step, willing the strength back into his legs, counting the joins between the paving stones of the road pass, each one a victory. When he felt Fern tense up, he managed to lift his head, clamping his teeth against the strain. He peered through the slit of the collapsed hood. A watch-tower rose from the side of the road, stripped of its leftway. Around the monolith protecting its stable door stood syblings and ammonites. Surely, at any moment they must come to question him and Fern, but when they did not budge, he dropped his head to concentrate on walking.

  Then a ditch opened up before their feet. The usual mess from the road was overlaid with rubble and stone dust. Fern manoeuvred him to where a slab had been thrown over the ditch. As they hobbled across, Carnelian’s nostrils caught a fragrance. Attar of lilies suffused with rare musks. Glancing up, he saw a path running between pavilions that fluttered with the colours of butterflies, their silk walls thick with the cyphers of the Chosen. He dragged his heel to bring Fern to a halt.

  ‘What is it?’

  Carnelian used him as a support upon which to turn
and gaze back the way they had come. Between its wheels, the Iron House swelled up from the stem of the bronze stair into a baroque black tulip. In the air above it, supported on a mast, the green face. Then he became aware of a mountain of darkness looming up behind it.

  ‘What is it?’ cried Fern again, in response to Carnelian’s violent shudder.

  Too weak to raise his arm, Carnelian pointed with his chin. ‘The Horned God.’

  He felt Fern shaking his head. ‘Just a thundercloud.’

  Gazing up, Carnelian saw Fern was right. An immense tower uncannily like a baobab grew up from the dark layer of cloud roofing the sky. It was its smoky branches he had taken for horns. He regarded it uneasily. Its faceless immensity seemed to be gazing down on them with the malice of the Darkness-under-the-Trees.

  Fern tensed. ‘They hunt us!’

  Carnelian could see, beyond the Iron House, a dragon, and the traces, the hawsers and hooks with which an ant crowd of men were hitching the monster to the chariot. Then he saw upon the road a posse of syblings coming their way. Leaning upon Fern, he allowed himself to be half dragged into the encampment of the Masters.

  They had passed perhaps a dozen pavilions when cries broke out behind them and they knew they were being pursued. Carnelian had been managing to keep up a reasonable pace, though only by leaning on Fern, whose breathing had grown more and more laboured behind his mask. Carnelian knew they would be chased down unless he could move on his own. He disengaged from Fern, batting away his protests and his arms even as he tottered forward and found his legs just strong enough to bear him. Balance was another thing altogether and, as he broke into a clumsy lope, Fern often had to reach out to steady him. The sound of pursuit grew louder. Focusing on each stride, half lost in the aching of his abused body, Carnelian did not dare to look back. The cries of their pursuers were drawing curious retainers out from the pavilions. The tattooed faces of guardsmen and other servants grew wide-eyed as they saw Carnelian and Fern bearing down on them. Reacting to Fern’s mask, these retainers fell to their knees, imagining they were two Masters. In places there were so many of them they blocked their path and Fern was forced to pull them off to right or left, along another alley.