Four Gods

by Sebastian H. Alive

  “It is already done. It started with a Fletcher’s son.”

  “You freed that beast from captivity?” cried Hephaestus with his face blanching.

  “Yes, temporarily. We will need his strength.”

  “Well it wouldn’t be for his deep wisdom, would it? I don’t know what Dar Thadian enjoys more, killing people or his hatred for you. You do remember it was you that imprisoned him in the council chamber all this time? His anger will have been simmering for centuries. Tell me, Magdalenian, how can you plan to stop a bloody tyrant and his creatures when your head has been removed from your shoulders by the Axe-Hound?”

  “I will deal with him when the time comes.” said Magdalenian grimly.

  “What of Akkadian?”

  “We will need him also. He’s probably in a brothel somewhere knee-deep in flesh, likely drunk and flapping his gums to anyone that will listen.”

  “Likely?” queried Hephaestus raising his eyebrows.

  “Mostly drunk.” corrected Magdalenian.

  Chapter Four

  The town of Llewelyn

  South of the capital city of Tarlath

  “Hey, I wanted to ashk you a queshtion,” slurred Falstaff leaning in close to the woman sat alongside him. “Have you ever had sex with a God?”

  The whore wrapped her arm around his shoulder making sure to brush her breasts against him as she did so.

  “I will make you feel like a God if you have the coin.” she purred running her hand over his thigh under the table.

  “Your lips are so…red.” he mumbled trying to focus on her face.

  She moaned softly into his ear as he turned to the other whore sat at his other side.

  “And you, you have remarkable teeth, so…big and white.”

  “Do you want us to make you feel like a God?” she whispered seductively.

  “I’m a God you know, a real one!” said Falstaff with a dopey smile on his face.

  “Of course you are.” replied the other woman tracing lazy circles onto the front of his ale-stained shirt.

  “No, I am a God…truly I am. Have you ever heard of me? What’s my name again?”

  “You said your name was Falstaff?” said the whore on his right flashing a fake smile.

  “Shhh…,” he warned lifting a finger to his lips and pressing it to his cheek and barely stifling a laugh. “We can’t say the name. The Great King may hear us.”

  “We can’t say Falstaff?” questioned the whore on his left in a low voice.

  “No, the other one.” whispered the man glancing around the tavern.

  “Which one?” asked the same woman with a frown on her painted face.

  Falstaff was about to say something else, frowned, then belched loudly and reached for his flagon of ale on the table but his fingers just grasped air.

  “What name?” said the woman again with a hint of impatience in her voice.

  “My name is… Akkadian.” replied the man lifting his head up theatrically and staring off into the distance.

  “You are named after an Old God?”

  “No…no…no,” cried Akkadian staring at the two whores quickly, trying to get the two of them in focus. “I am him, really him!”

  The woman on the right flicked a glance to the other woman and suddenly their faces changed from seductive and friendly to bored and impatient.

  “You have coin or not?” snapped the woman to his right pulling her arm back as if stung.

  “God’s don’t need coin, woman!” muttered Akkadian tipping the almost full flagon to his mouth and missing, sending the liquid down his already sodden shirt. “Wait, do I have to pay for this, Tara?”

  “My name is not Tara.” she answered curtly.

  “Which one is Tessa and which one is Tara again?” mumbled Akkadian rubbing his bleary eyes.

  “I’m Tara!” hissed the woman to his left.

  “You sure?” he asked closing one eye and peering at her. “Your name keeps reaching my ears but it sounds different.”

  “It is.” she snapped.

  “A God never forgets a name,” he said wagging his finger. “They also make magnificent lovers. I can do tremendously…bendy things in many positions you know. We’re also larger than the average man.”

  “Come on Tessa,” said the whore getting to her feet angrily. “I’ve had enough of this horse dung.”

  Both women made to leave but Akkadian shouted out at them.

  “Wait!” he said fishing around in his pocket for a few seconds and finding nothing. “It seems I do appear to be out of coin but just think about what I’m offering you.”

  “What’s that?” spat Tara planting her arms onto her hips. “I hear nothing but hot air and the smell of stale ale on your breath?”

  “What is wrong with you women?” asked Akkadian spreading his arms. “You could make passionate love to a God. I have many followers but not as beautiful as you, Tessa.”

  “It’s Tara.” yelled the whore over her shoulder before spinning on here heel and stalking away with her friend.

  “But they made statutes of me!” whimpered Akkadian looking nonplussed.

  He stared after them with longing until they had vanished into the crowd of revelers and was lost from view then sighed and reached for his flagon and realized it was empty. With a muttered curse he rested his elbows on the table and massaged his bleary eyes hoping to stop the room from spinning. Somewhere in the tavern a minstrel began playing shrill, high music in the background and the sound was met by jeers and drowned out by the drunken men. Groaning out loud Akkadian blinked open his eyes and stared around the room groggily. In the corner of the tavern a group of men gambled with marked dice over low tables, their voices high with excitement as they placed their bets and shook the bones in clay cups before tossing them onto the table. Groups of other men hung around the middle of the room, swaying on the balls of their feet and laughing uproariously at some joke they had just been told while tavern whores drifted in and out of the throng looking to catch someone’s eye and find a suitor with loose coin. At the bar the bald Tavern keeper with the angry scowl was wiping the counter with a dirty cloth and casting occasional glances in the direction of some of the more rowdy clientele. The noise was becoming too raucous and Akkadian suddenly longed for the fresh, crisp night air to clear his head and rid himself of the unpleasant smell of ale and stale sweat. With his head still swimming nauseously he reached under the table and located his short sword, dropped it immediately then grasped it by the hilt.

  “Try to regain a little bit of dignity, Akkadian.” he chided himself with a chuckle. “A God should walk straight, shoulders back, stomach in and chin up.”

  He stood up and tottered on his feet, swayed forward for a moment then swayed to the side and took one step away from the table unsteadily.

  “People are watching in reverence and admiration.” he told himself.

  Then he stumbled and fell to the ground dropping his sword as he did so.

  “Who did that?” he blurted out looking up at the thatched ceiling from the ground.

  Groaning loudly Akkadian sat up, dragged his fallen sword over to him then pushed himself to his feet and stood there feeling light-headed and dizzy. He was just about to push himself through the throng and make his exit when suddenly an angry looking man followed closely by one of the whores stormed through the middle of the tavern towards him barging people aside as he did so.

  He was stocky of build, wide in the shoulder and narrow at the waist with short black shoulder-length hair, green eyes, narrow nose and full lips with a scar running the length of the left side of his face.

  “You!” shouted the man stabbing a finger in his direction.

  Akkadian looked over his shoulder at the wall behind him then back at the man innocently and blinked a few times.

  “My sister said you wished for her company but wouldn’t pay for it,” snarled the man. “What kind of man are you?”

  “The kind that has no money,” answered
Akkadian with an apologetic smile on his face. “Also, to correct any misunderstanding I’m more of a divine being than a man.”

  The man snarled, his lips curled back almost feral-like and he drew his sword and hefted it in his right hand menacingly.

  “I’ll gut you like a pig, you whoreson!” he yelled.

  The commotion was picked up quickly by the crowd and word spread like wildfire and people began to fan out, dragging tables and chairs out of the way.

  “Now hold on,” said Akkadian to the man as a hush fell over the revelers. “No-one wants to see any bloodshed here tonight, right?”

  “Fight! Fight! Fight!” the crowd chanted as they formed a circle pit around them to make way for the battle.

  “You pay up or you touch swords with me.” hissed the man.

  “Cut him up, Darian!” screeched the whore, her eyes wide in excitement as she clung onto his arm.

  “That’s really unnecessary now isn’t it? Does your brother look like he needs added encouragement, really?” argued Akkadian glaring across at the women.

  “Pay or you’ll be carrying your bowels from this tavern in your hands.” said Darian pointing the end of his sword towards him.

  “Then we are at an impasse because I have no coin.”

  “I will take that pretty sword of yours.” growled the man eyeing the blade.

  “This swords means a great deal to me,” replied Akkadian staring down at his weapon. “It was made from the strongest steel and forged by the elusive renowned sword-maker of Targon deep in the molten fires of Mount Hirukuni. It took three years to temper, shape and hone the blade so that it would never dull and it is so sharp it can cut the very air we breathe. It is more than an object of deadly beauty and we are more than just sword and wielder. We are friends.”

  “Is all that true?” asked Darian greedily.

  “No of course it isn’t, I won it in a wager with a beggar,” snorted Akkadian. “Plus, I have absolutely no idea if Mount Hirukuni even exists.”

  “You mock me?”

  “Listen, I can see emotions are high. Your sister is very beautiful and I can see where she gets her looks from,” said Akkadian throwing the whore a wink. “Not like that other whore who looked like huge gutter rat. Did you see her teeth? It looked like she brushed them with a butter knife.”

  “You dare to insult my younger sister?” asked Darian in a dangerously low voice.

  “Ahhh…what a deliciously awkward moment we have now,” muttered Akkadian. “I suppose there’s no way of avoiding this now is there?”

  “Prepare yourself!” shouted Darian.

  “You do realize I am an immortal God and can’t actually die, don’t you? Well, technically speaking my body can die but I will come back in another form.”

  Just as Darian was readying himself to attack the bald Tavern keeper, still with an angry scowl on his face and with the dirty cloth hanging over his shoulder jumped in-between them much to the groans of the watching crowd.

  “Please!” he pleaded. “I beg you not to fight in here.”

  “See, at last a man with some sense.” said Akkadian smiling.

  “If you’re going to fight do it outside.” added the Tavern keeper.

  “Outside! Outside! Outside!” chanted the crowd as they yanked open the door to the tavern and filed into the night air.

  “I’ll be waiting out there for you.” spat Darian spinning on his heel and stalking away.

  Sighing heavily and with slumped shoulders Akkadian trudged after him and wandered outside to be greeted by the roar of the drunken crowd. They parted momentarily allowing him to stride into the center where Darian was stood poised with his sword and ready for combat.

  “Ready?” snarled Darian eagerly.

  “Just wait one moment.” replied Akkadian thrusting his sword deep into the hard-packed soil.

  He then rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and began gently rolling his hands in circles in one direction then in the other.

  “Just what are you doing?” yelled Darian looking flustered as the noise from the crowd trailed off into low murmurs and grumbles.

  “It’s just some simple warm up exercises to prevent any wrist pain.”

  After a few long minutes of silence Akkadian stopped exercising his wrists and curled his fingers around the hilt of his sword. Seeing him finally wield his weapon the crowd erupted into a sea of people chanting in unison.

  “Fight! Fight! Fight!” they said.

  “Are you not in awe of me? You do realize how long I’ve had to master the blade, don’t you?” boasted Akkadian whirling the sword loosely in his hand.

  Suddenly the sword tumbled from his grasp and fell to the floor. There was a pause of embarrassment and everyone eyed the weapon laid on the ground. Clearing his throat Akkadian picked it back up and looked at it closely.

  “Wait, remind me. Which is the pointy end again? Just let me focus for a moment.”

  With a scream Darian surged forward with his sword raised and the crowd roared its approval. Akkadian’s sword hissed through the air in a silver arc and opened the man’s throat from ear-to-ear and was back in its scabbard before the body sank to the ground.

  “Fool,” said Akkadian staring down at the lifeless body face down on the ground with his blood pumping into the mud. “I told you I was a God.”

  Chapter Five

  The capital city of Tarlath

  The King’s personal chamber

  Mordechai took a deep breath and leant over the right side of the King with the wickedly sharp narrow blade poised in his shaking fingers over his fleshy bare arm. Laid flat on the huge bed King Gomorrah stared long and hard at the enchanter hunched low over him noting his uneasiness.

  “You are nervous, Mordechai?” he said in deep voice.

  “Of course, my King,” answered the enchanter looking up with a bead of sweat forming on the pale skin of his forehead. “Venesection is a delicate procedure. One needs a steady hand and a keen eye.”

  The King stared back at him with cold eyes, forcing him to lower his head again then he began to chuckle.

  “You find humor in bloodletting, my King?” asked Mordechai with a tight smile hovering over his lips but not looking up.

  “You could end it all right now,” whispered King Gomorrah. “You are in my private quarters. There is no-one else about so why not be rid of me? All it takes is one slip of the blade and Tarlath will be free of my reign.”

  “Then who will lead us my great King? You are a God to these people. Tarlath would mourn your death like no other and the streets would be awash with the tears of millions. Do not talk of such things.”

  “Death comes to us all eventually, Mordechai. You saw to my wife when the sweating sickness took her. On that morning there were no signs of disease but by the time the full moon rose that day she barely looked at me when I called her name.” said King Gomorrah distantly.

  “It was the fever which consumed her. It happened so very, very fast.” mumbled the enchanter tapping on the King’s arm with his free hand to help bring a vein to the surface through his thick, saggy skin.

  “Horse bollocks she barely looked at me when she was healthy,” he grunted. “Then she took her last breath and the light vanished from her eyes on the morn of the next day, from living to death between two sunrises.”

  “Sometimes death makes no sense, my King.” replied Mordechai sighing.

  “Did she ever love me?”

  The enchanter paused and looked up at the King and considered lying.

  “No, my King.” he said finally. “You should take another bride into your bed and sire an heir. The people would greet the birth of a male with great joy.”

  Nodding his head the King tugged at his forked black trident beard thoughtfully.

  “Be still, my King.”

  “Now here I am, Mordechai. The Great King above all Gods with no wife and without a royal lineage so who would step into my place?”

  “You have a daughter, my King
.”

  “My daughter is not the heir apparent!” snapped King Gomorrah with his dark, beady eyes flashing angrily. “The cursed child is slow-witted. It is but a matter of time before someone from one of the noble houses rises up and lays claim to my throne. Their treacherous factions will spring up like mushrooms after rain.”

  “Nonsense, they wouldn’t dare my King. No-one has your political skills or military strength.”

  “We must be ready, Mordechai. No-one will take what is mine by force!”

  “We will be ready, my King.”

  “Then I need more Meldlings.” he said with a glint in his eye.

  “Then be still, my King.”

  King Gomorrah became still and silent, laying his head back upon the goose-feather filled pillow as the enchanter steadied the fleam blade over a vein on his arm. With infinite care Mordechai lifted up a small wooden club and struck the blunt end of the fleam with a single blow then snatched up a pewter bleeding bowl which he then used to collect the crimson liquid streaming down the arm.

  “I will not forget how hard you have worked for me.” whispered the King.

  The enchanter didn’t answer as his eyes measured the amount of blood taken. After a couple of minutes he removed the bowl and held his finger over the puncture wound until the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. Then the enchanter gently applied a tourniquet to the arm and rose to his feet slowly. The King watched him silently as the old man carried the bowl over to a table in the far corner of the room then returned with a small goblet which he passed to King Gomorrah.

  “Drink, my King.” he ordered.

  “Is this another one of your foul tasting concoctions, enchanter?”

  “It’s simply Wheat-grass, Yarrow and other ingredients that would turn your stomach, my King. Think of it as blood building juice.”

  King Gomorrah lifted the cup hesitantly, sipped it and grimaced before downing the contents in one.

  “If defecation and death was ever in liquid form then this is surely it!” he spat as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “A compliment from the last drink, my King,” replied Mordechai with a wry smile on his face. “But it is necessary to create the Meldlings. Old magic requires blood, and lots of it and none is more powerful than Royal blood.”