The Thief Who Spat In Luck's Good Eye

by Michael McClung

  “If the fact that we're going to free you isn't enough, consider this: He's just as much a victim of the Shadow King as you are of the Sorcerer King. You might say he's a fellow victim; we both are. To allow him to die when you have the means to save him makes you both a murderer and an accessory to the evil that put you in your own personal hell.”

  I leaned in closer and whispered in his ear. “It makes you at least as guilty as your own worst enemy.”

  He closed his eyes and rolled his head away from me. Perhaps I’m beyond caring.

  “For your sister's sake I hope not. You're the only chance she has. If you want to spare Athagos from the Shadow King's attentions, you'd better bring Holgren back to life. If can't have him. I'll make sure you can't have her. That I promise you.”

  He looked back at me with those star-torn eyes, and I stared into them, unblinkingly. He looked away. Eventually.

  Very well. But expect no more healing from my blood, for either of you.

  Behind me, Holgren choked his way back to life, and along with him, my heart.

  Chapter 9

  I rushed to Holgren as he scrabbled onto his side to retch out a mouthful of god blood. It afforded me a view of his knitting skull. Seeing the shards of bone jostle themselves back into place and the scalp crawl back over the skull beneath wasn't pretty, but I could have asked to see nothing that caused me more joy.

  I knelt down and put an arm around his middle, pressed my cheek to his and whispered in his ear. “Don't you ever die on me again, you whore-spawned excuse for a mage. I couldn't stand it.”

  “My mother—wasn't a whore. She—ah, gods my head hurts! —she was a madam. Not the same thing at all.” He boosted himself up to a kneeling position, with my help.

  “Besides, I don't die on purpose, you know.”

  Enough. Free me. Now.

  I kissed Holgren quickly, then helped him to his feet. There was work to be done.

  “Oh, this isn't good at all.” Holgren had both hands wrapped around the rod that speared Tha-Agoth. He had been muttering arcanities for the better part of an hour.

  “What is it?” I asked him as he let go of the rod and stepped away from Tha-Agoth.

  I’ve given you back your life twice now, mageling. You are indebted to me. Do not fail.

  “The hells you say,” I told Tha-Agoth. “I pulled his rotting corpse out of the ground the first time, and had to coerce you to bring him back the second. He doesn't owe you a damned thing.”

  Without my blood he would still be decaying in the garden where he was buried.

  “I would prefer not to be talked about as if I weren't present. I'd like it even more if you'd both be quiet. This is difficult enough without listening to you two bicker. I've still got a headache.”

  Holgren cracked his knuckles, stepped further back from the altar and stretched. “The magics employed to fashion this—thing—were powerful in the extreme.”

  It has thwarted all my attempts to destroy it for a millennium mage. It was specifically designed to kill me, though in that it failed. Its nature should not be proof to your mundane Art, however.

  Holguin looked down at Tha-Agoth, eyebrow raised. “How much do you really know about the laws of thaumaturgy, may I ask?”

  It is a subject that holds little interest for me. The power I possess is drawn from a different source. One far more powerful.

  “Not in this case, it would appear. Let me state the situation as concisely as I can. A mage is able to produce effects in direct correlation to two conditions—the raw power he possesses the ability to tap, and the strength of will he is able to exert on that power to shape reality. It gets a bit more complicated than that, but to illustrate the point, consider this rod. It is the product of magic. It was created by a mage powerful enough, a mage possessing the requisite strength of will, to fashion something that could trap a god for an age.”

  I fail to see your point.

  “That's because I haven't made it yet.” Holgren rubbed at his eyes, took a deep breath. I guess dying made him irritable.

  Then make your point, mage. You waste time.

  “This rod isn't subject to the same laws that govern other physical things. A mage forces his will on reality when he uses the Art, to the extent that his power and will enable him. Part of the reality of this rod, as envisioned by its creator, is that it is indestructible.”

  There is no indestructible object. It must have a weakness.

  “You're absolutely right. There is one set of conditions that will allow us to break the rod. But you aren't going to like it.”

  What conditions must be met, mage?

  “The Sorcerer King was good at what he did. He knew that it would take a greater power than even he possessed to best a god. He took that into account when he set about creating your doom.

  “Tha-Agoth, It is your own power that sustains and strengthens your enemy's weapon. You must have noticed your weakened condition?”

  Yes.

  “The rod leaches your power away and turns it against you. The more you struggle against it, the more power you lend it. Artfully clever, actually.”

  The chamber was silent. If I understood what Holgren was saying, there was no way to free Tha-Agoth that I could see. I had faith, though, that Holgren would find a way. If he didn't we were doomed.

  “What can be done?” I asked. Holgren glanced at me, then looked down at the god.

  “I have only one solution, and it isn't certain or easy."

  Tell me.

  “We're going to have to kill you in order to save you,” he said.

  What foolishness is this? I cannot be killed. Do you understand nothing?

  “I understand more than you do in this case. The rod feeds off your energy. I need for the flow of energy from you to the rod to cease, or at least falter before I can attempt to impose my will on it. A massive trauma, such as beheading, should do the trick.”

  You expect me to allow you to behead me? Your humor escapes me.

  “I'm pretty sure he's serious,” I told Tha-Agoth. “Holgren doesn't have much of a sense of humor.”

  “Not at the moment, at least.”

  This is insanity.

  “Nevertheless. I do wish there was another way. There isn't, not that I can think of.” Holgren spread his hands and shrugged.

  “Once he's beheaded, how will you break the rod?” I didn't think a shovel and pickax would do it. That's all we had in the way of tools.

  “I’ll use the Art. Destroying it is as much a matter of ripping through the mesh of commands that infuse the rod as breaking its physical reality. Once I've accomplished that, a sharp blow should suffice.”

  “Will you be able to manage it?”

  He gave me a flat stare. “There's only one way to find out. With the additional power made available to me through the khordun, it is at least possible. I will do my best.”

  Do more than your best, mageling. You will not be allowed to take my head more than once.

  “I don't expect to fail, Tha-Agoth. Failure dooms us as much as anyone. But I cannot guarantee success. That is the reality of the situation. Accustom yourself to it.”

  I started toward the stairs. “I’ll go fetch a sword from the Duke's camp. You two try to get along while I'm gone. We all need each other, like it or not.”

  It took me forever to find a sword in the snow.

  Just inside the gate a score of armed men had met their fate at the hands and mouth of Athagos. Most of them hadn't even been able to draw their blades. They'd hung at their sides, utterly useless, inches away from hands that did not their owners' bidding, but Athagos's. What a way to die.

  It should have been a simple thing to find one sword in a relatively small area, but the snow made it frustrating, agonizing task.

  I finally came upon the hilt of a sword, my hands frozen nearly lifeless after at least half an hour of questing blindly through the snow. I pulled up my prize, and disentangled the sword belt from the chain mail
shirt it was attached to, with difficulty.

  When I finally managed it I pinned the sword in its scabbard awkwardly to my chest with a forearm, and buried my numb hands in my armpits.

  I slogged my way back to the Tabernacle through the storm as quickly as possible. I couldn't imagine Athagos would stick around, especially after the way she had acted when I told her about the necklace, but why take a chance? She was seriously, deeply insane.

  But cracked as she was, I was fairly certain her main goal in life was getting as far away from her brother as possible. There was something between them that I didn't really understand, more than Tha-Agoth's seeming obsession with his sister-wife, more than Athagos wanting to cause him harm. I felt as though I were staring at a puzzle with an unknown number of pieces missing. Everything pointed to Athagos wanting to get rid of her brother, yet she'd told me to free him just before she left.

  Except she was raving mad, and nothing was beyond her. Including hanging around the Tabernacle, waiting to make a snack of me.

  I shook my head in disgust. Enough of logic chasing its tail, I told myself. Just get on with the business at hand.

  I didn't relax until I'd made it back inside, and then only a few degrees. Tha-Agoth didn't exactly put me at ease.

  Back in the temple, a tense silence reigned. Tha-Agoth was motionless, eyes closed. What he was thinking I couldn't even begin to guess. Having his head chopped off might not kill him, but it was still going to be hideously painful.

  As for Holgren, he was squatting in one blood-washed corner, elbows on knees, thumbs pressed against the bridge of his nose. Whatever he was doing had the hairs on the back of my neck trying to loose themselves from my skin.

  “So,” I said, more loudly than I intended, “are we ready?”

  Make the stroke clean, thief. One blow only if you can manage it. I’ll not have you carving on me.

  “I'll do my best. Holgren, are you ready?”

  “As ready as I can be.” He stood up and walked over to Tha-Agoth. “I wish—”

  “—you had access to your sanctum. I know. You don't. So let's move on.”

  He smiled half-heartedly and looked down at Tha-Agoth.

  “Forget the rod,” he told the godling, “and concentrate solely on healing the damage we are about to cause. I want as much of your power diverted from the rod as possible.”

  You do not forget a spear through your heart, mage.

  “Do the best you can.” Holgren turned from Tha-Agoth and looked at me. “Once you've finished the beheading, I want you to swing on the rod at my signal. However much I may weaken it, physical blows will still be necessary. And do try not to hit me, Amra.”

  “You take the fun out of everything.”

  Holgren moved to the other side of the altar, across from the doors. I lined myself up with Tha-Agoth's neck, planted my feet, and took a few practice swings. The sword's balance felt all wrong; it was far too long for me and the grip was slick. I didn't have to fight with it, though. I just had to hit a stationary target or two. I hoped I could cut through with one swing—beheadings were a grisly business. There was a reason the condemned paid their executioners to do their best.

  Satisfied as I was going to be with the weapon, I stepped forward until the last few inches of the blade hovered just above Tha-Agoth's neck. He looked at me with those star-filled eyes of his, but said nothing. He turned his head and looked up at the snowflakes skirling in from the broken windows far above.

  “Are we ready?” I whispered, and looked at Holgren. He was kneeling down, and his hands clasped the rod just above Tha-Agoth's chest. His head was bowed. He looked to be praying, almost.

  “Strike when you will,” he said, voice muffled, “but wait for my signal before you swing at the rod.”

  “Alright.” My palms were suddenly sweaty, making the sword-hilt even more slippery. I thought about wiping them dry, but decided against the delay. The sooner this was over the better.

  Holding the sword in two hands I lined up the blade along Tha-Agoth's throat. I took a deep breath and pulled it overhead. With a wordless cry I whipped it down on the god's neck with all the force I could muster. The edge of the sword stayed perpendicular to the ground, thankfully, and bit into Tha-Agoth's neck with a meaty smack.

  The shock of impact rode up my arms and I nearly lost hold of the hilt. Blood sprayed up, hot rivulets of it splashing my face and torso, but I'd done it.

  “Again, Amra!” Holgren's voice was strident. I looked more closely at the cut I'd made. I'd failed to cut all the way through. Tha-Agoth's head was still connected to his body by a thin strip of flesh at the back of his neck. His body spasmed. His torso tried to curl into a backbreaking arch, but it was held in place by the rod. His head was already reattaching itself to his body.

  “Cut again, Amra! Quickly!” Holgren's voice was rough with strain. I cursed, dropped the sword, and severed the remaining scrap of flesh with my knife. Then I pulled Tha-Agoth's head a little away from the rest of him and scrambled for the dropped sword. It might have been my imagination, but I thought I saw Tha-Agoth's eyes tracking my every move. I know he blinked.

  A greenish, pulsing glow began to suffuse the room, emanating from the point where Holgren clutched the rod. It lit his face, gave him a diabolic look. His lips were pulled back front his teeth and his forearms trembled with the effort of his magics. A low groan began to force past his teeth, growing slowly louder.

  “Holgren?”

  The green glow suddenly turned to a burst of brilliant red, and Holgren flew back from the rod as if he'd been hurled away from it by an invisible giant. He slammed into the far wall and slid down to the floor. Then the unnatural light died, and was replaced by the weak winter light from far above.

  I dropped the sword and ran over to Holgren. He was already climbing to his feet. The palms of his hands were burned.

  “What happened?”

  He let me help him to his feet. “I failed,” he said, voice tight. “I don't have the power to destroy the rod. It's been feeding off him for an age. Its reserves are vast.”

  “So we can't break the rod. We'll just have to try something else.”

  “What else is there?”

  I looked back at the rod, the altar, the beheaded god. Good question. What else was there to try? The rod was indestructible. We could try to break the altar using the pick, but that would take weeks at best. I watched Tha-Agoth's head slowly reattach itself to his body, and an idea came to me.

  “So the rod won't break. We don't need it to.”

  “What have you thought of?”

  “We need to get him free of the rod, not the other way around.”

  Holgren looked at me and I saw understanding spark in his eyes. “Why didn't I think of that? Brilliant!”

  “I know. Come on, let's do it before he has a chance to object.”

  Object to what?

  Too late. “We're going to free you,” I said. “It's going to be painful.”

  You will not sever my head from my body again. His voice was full of pain, and a little fear.

  "You're absolutely right.” I walked back over to him and picked up the bloody sword.

  Tell me what you intend to do.

  “We can't break the rod, so were going to cut you free.”

  I have been struggling against it for centuries, with no effect.

  “You're also weak as a kitten. You don't have the physical ability to pull yourself free of the rod. If you did, you'd have escaped long ago. Now do you want to be free or not?”

  Yes, he hissed.

  “Then prepare yourself. As I said, this is going to hurt. A lot.”

  The rod was about two inches in diameter, and had speared him through roughly through the heart, or near enough. I would have to cut more than a hand span's worth of flesh and bone from the rod to his side. And I'd probably have to do it more than once, considering the rate at which he healed.

  “Holgren.”

  “Yes?”
r />   “I want you to stay on the other side. Start pulling once I get enough of his chest cut away to free him. I don't want to have to keep hacking at him. Pull him by his right arm.”

  “Alright.”

  It was easier to think of him as a pig or a cow about to be butchered. I wasn't sure I could go through with it otherwise, immortal or no. I wasn't particularly squeamish, but this was going to be gruesome. Not that beheading him hadn't been, but ...

  “Put your left arm above your head and stretch out your right for Holgren to pull on.” I didn't want to hack his arm by accident. He did as I asked, and then there was nothing left to do but start cutting.

  The main difference between beheading someone and butchering them is the screaming. It's hard to scream when your vocal cords have been severed along with the rest of your neck. When chunks are being taken out of your chest you can scream just fine, though the blood from your punctured lung works its way into your throat and mouth, and gives the screaming a wet, bubbling quality. And when you're a god, you can stream right into someone's mind so they get the full effect.

  I couldn't very well tell him to be quiet. I gritted my teeth and hacked through flesh and ribs, clearing a bloody path for Holgren to pull him free of the rod. I kept hoping he would pass out. He didn't. Tha-Agoth healed with amazing rapidity.

  We resorted to a constant tugging on Holgren's part and methodical hacking on mine. It might have gone a little more smoothly if I’d thought to cut out a wedge-shaped portion out of the god's flesh, but I didn't until later. So I had to sever reconnecting flesh continually.

  At last Holgren gave a yank. Tha-Agoth fell to the bloodwashed floor of his temple in a limp, shrieking heap. I let the gore-drenched sword slip from my fingers. It fell to the stone floor with a metallic ring. I was exhausted. I felt as if I'd been hauling nets all day, something I had never been fond of. I was drenched in blood. On the positive side, none of it was mine.

  Tha-Agoth's shrieks began to subside. I looked over at Holgren and he looked back at me, smiling. “You did it,” he said.