Blades of the Demigod King

by James Derry

  Ahead of them, on either side of the cart path, stood a grove of almond trees. These were the same trees that they had passed through on the night they had come to rescue Sisprii.

  “You agree, then?” Sygne asked. “You’ll let me destroy these pieces? Even after everything we’ve been through to get them?”

  Jamal shrugged. “If that’s what you think needs to be done, then I trust you.”

  Sygne blinked at him, clutching her gown to her chest.

  “You trust me? Even after last night?”

  Jamal countered. “Do you trust me after yesterday morning?”

  “Of course I do, Jamal!”

  Alollei floated close and put her felt-soft hands on their shoulders. “I think you two are going to be all right.”

  A man stood at the far end of the cart path. “Halt!”

  Jamal sucked in a breath through his teeth. “You shouldn’t have said that, Alollei. You’re a demon… haven’t you heard of jinxing?”

  Alollei’s mouth clamped down into a frown that was nearly invisible against the felty skin of her face. “The sun is nearly up,” she said. “I don’t have more than a few minutes before I disappear for the day. But I can deal with this man before that.”

  Jamal squinted at the man striding forward. “I’m not so sure, Alollei. That’s King Pawn.”

  “What?” Sygne wrung her hands around the strap of her pocketbook. “How did he get in front of us?”

  “No,” Alollei said. “That’s not your Demigod King. He’s still sleeping in his tent.” The succubus tilted her head, as if picturing something in her mind’s eye. “This man is… someone else.”

  Jamal shook his head. Alollei was obviously wrong; Pawn was coming right for them. He was fully dressed in his outrider attire, with a hooded cloak that billowed out behind him as he broke into a run. The Demigod King drew a sword that was identical to Endbringer. Its unmistakable blue pommel flashed in the sun. “Sygne! Stop!”

  “You go!” Alollei shouted. “I’ll hold him off until the sunrise.”

  “But when will we see you again?” Sygne asked.

  “I have no idea where I will respawn. Look for me where lonely men gather. Rootless and restless.”

  “We’ll keep an eye out for you, Alollei.” Jamal grabbed Sygne’s wrist and pulled.

  Pawn was nearly within sword’s reach. No more time for talking. Without a word, he slashed at the succubus, who split herself in two before Pawn’s magical blade could touch her. Endbringer cleaved through empty air, and Alollei’s upper-half stretched into a torrent of glittering atoms that sprayed across Pawn’s face.

  Jamal didn’t look back. They ran at top speed, their feet pounding across the soft, bright grass.

  They ran in a diagonal line, weaving between trees until they hit a wall of shrubs that formed the western edge of the almond grove. Jamal slid through a shadowy cleft in the bottom of the hedge, holding his purloined sword out in front of him. Back at the gate, Pawn had been holding Endbinger. Did that mean that they had been tricked into stealing a replica? The polished blue gem in the hilt of Jamal’s sword seemed to gleam with the same, undeniable power.

  He remembered yesterday’s argument between the relatives of two blacksmiths who both claimed to have forged Endbringers. Was it possible that they had both been right? Two pieces of the Strider’s carapace… Two identical swords? If there were two copies of the Demigod King wandering the world, then it made sense that they would need two swords.

  Sygne pointed down one allée. “I know a way to the Garden Reach’s most complicated labyrinth. We could lose ourselves in there.”

  Jamal huffed, trying to catch his breath. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “With Pawn chasing us, I’d rather be lost than found.”

  “Good point.”

  And so they ran between rows of hedges and trees. Jamal was surprised by the way the shadows seemed to grow thicker and thicker as the leafy walls closed in around them. He knew that the allées were designed to be pleasantly quiet and shaded—and it was early morning—but this seemed like something more.

  “Is this part of the garden… bewitched? I feel like—”

  His heels dug furrows in the dirt as he skidded to a stop. A figure stood before them, tall and still, as if she had been waiting there for hours. Sygne stumbled and fell to her knees.

  It was the priestess of Urr-Ogshoth. She still wore her long, glossy black robe, and a screen of floating golden shingles obscured her face. But as Jamal watched, the shingles floated upward and interlocked into a crown at the priestess’s hairline. At the same time, she pulled back the hood of her cloak, revealing a cascade of coppery red hair.

  “No…” Sygne started.

  “I knew it…” Jamal said.

  But it was Sygne who pronounced the woman’s name aloud. “Nyfinein.”

  The priestess canted her chin upward. “Sygne Eugenia. Please. Call me ‘Mother.’”

  “You are not my mother!”

  Nyfinein said, “My child, please don’t lash out at me. I come this day to show my appreciation. To express my pride. Finally, you have done something to validate my faith in you. I hear that you gathered objects of power from the Ancient Ones?”

  Sygne held her pocketbook close to her hip. “Specimens. And I didn’t collect them for you.”

  Nyfinein ignored her protest. She sashayed forward, and—like Alollei—it seemed as if the witch was gliding weightlessly. The hem of her robe barely skimmed the ground. “Is that an Endbringer sword that your thrall carries? A third object of power? Very impressive. Finally your relationship with King Pawn bears fruit. I knew it was a good idea to introduce you.”

  “You didn’t hear her.” Jamal stepped forward, ready to unsheathe the mystical blade. “These pieces don’t belong to you.”

  Nyfinein’s eyes slashed Jamal’s way, but she did not deign to move any part of the rest of her. “Heel, you black mongrel. I’ll not speak to you.”

  Sygne snarled, “Jamal did more to find the Ancient Ones than I did. Without him, I would have died a dozen times over.”

  “Ah. I see. Perhaps that is what you always needed—a bit of brute strength to help you reach your full potential. Fine. I might let the beast live, despite his disobedience.”

  Jamal felt his body begin to shake. Surprisingly, his inciting emotion was anger, not fear. In the corner of his eye, he saw Sygne reach a hand into her pocketbook. He readied himself.

  Nyfinein sneered. “I see what you’re doing, Sygne. You think you could surprise me with a sneak attack? It would never—”

  Jamal pounced at the witch, Endbringer arcing out in a silver flash toward Nyfinein’s throat. He was too far to reach her, and yet the witch still flinched. Jamal pressed closer, swinging his sword with a backhand stroke. He had to move quickly and constantly, keeping the witch off-balance so that she didn’t have the wherewithal to cast a spell.

  He came at her like a focused berserker. Soon he would be close enough to deliver a surgically precise blow. Against a magic-user like Sessuk, the gambit probably would have worked. But Nyfinein was too powerful, honed on a dozen decades of violence and treachery. Endbringer struck home just an inch below Nyfinein’s ear. But it bounced away as if striking a marble column. Blue lightning crackled down the blade and across Jamal’s arm. He fell onto his back. His arm burned, and Endbringer fell from his grasp.

  Nyfinein laughed. “You’re just as stupid as I thought you were. Every evening I coat myself in half a dozen protection spells. Do you think you could hack through that?” She cocked her head to one side. “But I must admit that you are brave. Perhaps my daughter is right: you do have your uses.”

  A surge of crackling pain traveled up Jamal’s arm and through his chest. In its wake, the pain left a buzzing, heavy paralysis. Nyfinein stooped to pick up Endbringer.

  “Ah. The Threefold Key. What will I do with so much power?” She grinned to herself. “Wish
for more I suppose.”

  Sygne lunged forward, pulling something from her pocketbook. But the witch was too fast. She splayed her fingers and showered Sygne in green flame.

  “No!” Jamal screamed.

  Sygne dropped to the ground—unburned, but unmoving.

  Jamal writhed and shook in the dirt, trying to make his body move. Nyfinein stood over him and held the tip of Endbringer to his throat. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I didn’t kill your mistress. And I won’t kill you either. Although considering where you’re going, you might decide that’s not much of a mercy.”

  Nyfinein flicked her other hand, and Jamal’s consciousness winked out in a fury of green flame.

  15 – Baptism

  “Sygne! Sygne!“

  Sygne opened her eyes. A moment of confusion, and then she knew that it was Jamal calling to her. She blinked into vacuous space, climbing higher and higher and fading into red-hued shadows. She was staring up through a circular shaft, the same shaft that she had stared down into when they had first entered the Tower of Rotutta. This was the pit of gnawed rock that had been Urr-Ogshoth’s ultimate lair. And now she was at the bottom of it. Where was the Un-God? Where was Jamal?

  “Sygne!” Jamal’s voice.

  Sygne was overwhelmed with a surge of relief. “I’m here!” Her mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. The gnawed-rock walls of the pit spiraled up around her, but she realized there was something even more claustrophobic about her immediate surroundings. She was lying supine in some kind of confined space, like a shallow grave. In an instant, her sense of relief was gone.

  No. She was lying in something that was more like a washing basin or a trough. The polished granite sides of the trough rose to about two feet high. Sygne should have been able to sit up and see easily over the sides of her trough, but she was manacled to the floor.

  A figure stepped into Sygne's vision. It was her mother.

  “Ah,” Nyfinein said, her words meant for Jamal, “I see that you do have a special bond with my daughter, Ardhian. She is roused by your voice.”

  Nyfinein’s toes protruded over the lip of the tub.

  Sygne struggled against her shackles until the metal bit hard into her wrists. There were also shackles on her ankles, and a leather strap around her waist. She craned her neck and saw a spout protruding from the top lip at the foot of the basin. Sygne was dressed in the same coarse vestments that the Urrists wore. Her bare feet waggled frantically, just below the lip of the mysterious spout. Was Nyfinein planning to pour some kind of awful liquid onto her body? Acid? Lava? Quicksand?

  Or would she simply choose to drown her?

  “What is this?” Sygne asked.

  “Let her go!” Jamal shouted. By the echoing sounds of his voice and the rattle of chains, Sygne inferred that Jamal was restrained in his own granite trough. Whatever her mother had planned for Sygne, she planned to do the same thing to Jamal.

  “Do not bark at me, mongrel,” Nyfinein warned. “I will not let either of you go. I have need of both of you. You see, the Threefold Key is a source of massive power, and yet it takes great power to trigger it. The currency of human belief.”

  “Gozir’s gaze,” Jamal groaned. “I feel a villainous monologue coming on.”

  Nyfinein continued, staring always at Sygne. “The Key won’t work without scores of faithful souls kindling its power. That’s one thing you poor mortals never understood. Only a god with many devoted followers could ever ignite the Threefold Key. For a mortal to gather all three pieces for her own use—well that’s a fool’s quest.”

  “Please don’t do this,” Sygne moaned.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, Sygne. It takes power to make more power. And so you can see, this is just another case of the witch getting witcher. For a mere earthly sorceress such as myself, I need to find my own reservoir of mortal belief. Luckily, Urr-Ogshoth and its human sheep have proven to be perfect for my aims. Although I have to say it won’t hurt to add a bit more brains,” she nodded to Sygne, “and a bit more brawn to the equation.”

  “Mother,” Sygne choked out the word. “Please. Don’t do anything to hurt my friend. I will do whatever you want. I gathered the specimens… I’ll help you spark the Key. Please let me—”

  Nyfinein cut her off. “Oh how I hate when my children beg. Look on the bright side, Sygne. At least this way you and your loyal thrall will be together in the end. At the end of your story.”

  Jamal moaned. Sygne knew that was the Gjuiran in him. Any talk of stories ending abruptly or ingloriously was sure to make him wince.

  Nyfinein stepped out of view, and Sygne heard some grating noise, not far away. Whatever liquid waited at the top of that spout, she had a feeling that it was about to be uncorked to fill her grave. She thought she could hear Jamal chanting to himself. Beginning to pray.

  ‘At the end of your story.’

  “Wait!” Sygne cried. “I have something to say.”

  “Last words?” Nyfinein asked.

  Sygne couldn’t bring herself to admit aloud that these might be her last words. Instead she licked her lips and barreled ahead. “I wanted to say that I hope you can forgive me for everything.”

  Nyfinein stepped close to Sygne and stared down at her.

  Sygne tried her best to not look her in the face as she continued, “You pushed me. Challenged me. You made me a better person. And for that I am grateful.”

  Her mother was uncharacteristically quiet. Jamal had stopped praying.

  “Go on,” Nyfinein said.

  Sygne said, “We had our differences. A ton of differences. But you made me see things in a different way. I just wish that we had more time together—”

  The witch flung out her hand angrily, as if slicing through Sygne’s words. “That’s enough, Sygne Eugenia. Nothing you can say will make me change my mind.”

  Sygne locked eyes with her mother. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  Jamal’s voice drifted up from his basin. Softly, he said, “I love you too, Sygne.”

  “Ahh!” Nyfinein gnashed her teeth and stormed away and out of sight.

  Sygne was on the verge of tears. Once again, she had led Jamal into mortal danger. And this time there was no escape.

  Jamal shouted, his words coming out frantically. “I love you dearly. I’m so glad that I met you. I mean I care for you so much. I don’t know if I capital-L ‘Love’ you. But you know what I mean? I wish we had more time. I’m sorry. I…”

  Sygne sputtered her words between sobs. “I love you… too… You are such a… good man.”

  The grating noise started anew. Then a smaller, more sinister sound, like the glub-glub of a thick liquid decanting. Nyfinein stepped back into view, as if she wanted to observe whatever horrible thing might happen next.

  Jamal’s words came out in a jumble. “Like you said, you made me better, too. I was afraid sometimes… Selfish or petty or prejudiced. You helped to push out all those bad feelings. You brought out the worst in me, Sygne.”

  “Thank you, Jamal.”

  “And what was left was me as a better person.”

  Nyfinein rolled her eyes. “I’m so glad that this is it for the two of you.”

  A sparkling droplet of clear liquid appeared on the lip of the spout. Sygne watched it swell, growing larger and heavier. Despite its crystalline appearance, the liquid must have been extremely viscous, almost syrupy. It hung there like a slightly melted glob of glass; then it finally distended, broke under its own weight, and stretched downward, like a glistening stalactite.

  Sygne stretched her manacled feet as far apart as she could, and the liquid poured—and pooled—between her heels. At first her feet remained dry, but then a gurgling surge bullied its way down the spout, pushing out blobs of fluid in a falling wave that splattered everything below her ankles.

  “What is this?” Jamal groaned.

  Nyfinein answered him from the corner of her mouth. Her ga
ze was trained on Sygne. “It’s drool.”

  Sygne made a tiny squeak sound.

  “The holy saliva of the Un-God, Urr-Ogshoth.”

  The liquid was coming out in a steady stream. Sygne thrashed against her manacles and tried to shake the stuff off her feet. It seemed slick, not sticky. But it was too heavy to be flicked off. Already, the individual shapes of Sygne’s toes were hard to see through the thick meniscus of the liquid. It was like they had blended together into one vague shape under a distorted lens of oily fluid.

  God’s saliva. What did that do to a person?

  A panicked voice in Sygne’s head was screaming out an answer, but Sygne ignored it. If she gave in to it, she feared she’d lose the last thread of composure she had left.

  It was Jamal who spoke the awful idea out loud. “I’m melting! Essoth’s eyeful! It’s melting me!”

  Another big gob fell from the spout and splashed heavily across Sygne’s feet. What she saw made her mind snap—absurdly she thought of clay on Pawn’s spinning wheel. Malleable, glistening clay that had been mixed with too much water. That’s what her feet were like now; they collapsed under the weight of the splash so that they were just malformed stumps sticking into the air. No shards of bone showing—no blood. They looked like the stubs of well-used candles, hollowed out in the middle and rounded along the edges. They were still coated in viscous fluid, which was now spreading across her shins.

  Sygne screamed and screamed.

  The Un-God’s saliva was gathering in a puddle across the bottom of the granite trough. It soaked through her robe and pooled against her backside and her shoulder blades—the parts of her that were touching the ground. She tried to arc her body to avoid the growing puddle, but already her ankles and shins were feeling weak and spongy. How long would it take for the liquid to completely dissolve her? And at what point would she lose consciousness?

  She fought at the cuffs on her wrist. Somewhere in the dim reaches at the back of her mind, she realized that the melting sensation was not painful. At least there was that. Through the cacophony of her panic, she thought she could hear someone calling to her. “Sygne! Sygne! I raise your name.”