The Undying God (20 page)

Suddenly, Nishka spied Hrioshango
across the street and immediately her concerns rose. His voice
resounded over the din of the market, attracting stares and causing
several people to halt in their travel. His voice was thick with
agitation. Panic stricken, Nishka left Arxu and raced toward the
darkling.

“Stay there!” she shouted. In the
distance, she could see the darkling arguing with a hefty
man.

“Copper? This is worth your weight in
silver, fat man! Hrioshango labored over sweltering fires making
this sword! His blood, sweat, and tears are mingled with this iron!
He poured his soul into the forge!”

Alarmed, Nishka jostled her way through
the crowd, cutting through without mercy. Hrioshango’s eyes widened
at her brazen approach. He attempted to dodge the furious woman but
it was too late. She roughly shoved Hrioshango aside and greeted
the customer with a brilliant smile.

“What was your offer?” she
asked.

“
Who are you, woman?!”
Hrioshango exclaimed. “This is Hrioshango’s goods! He will kill you
with them!”

Nishka couldn’t restrain her temper
anymore. The last thing Hrioshango remembered before blacking out
was how beautiful she looked when she was angry.

* * *

Laughter and raucous voices resounded
across the most brazen tavern in Gaelithea. Travelers, locals, and
suspicious types kept to their own in the establishment. Several
lowlifes gambled in the corners, passing time in the only way they
knew. It was one of the few places where Gaelitheans enjoyed
themselves, even if such happiness could only be found in drunken
stupor.

Few had the courage to relax here,
though, because the atmosphere bred suspicion with every drink and
toss of the dice. Only the crudest men congealed in this place,
where they lorded over anyone weaker than themselves.

Arxu looked intently at Nishka, eagerly
awaiting a response. He had recalled everything he saw and heard
within the temple, and his companions lapped up the
details.

“We should inform the guards,” Nishka
said at last.

“That won’t accomplish anything,” Arxu
replied. “The kings don’t trust each other. In fact, they may think
a foreign government has something to do with the
attacks.”

“Then we have to do something to stop
it.” Hrioshango hoisted his tankard into the air and
said:

“You’re going to slay a god? You’ll
need Hrioshango’s help!” Several rough-looking patrons glared at
Hrioshango as if he was on the verge of provoking a
fight.

“Not a god, a demigod,” Arxu
clarified.

Nishka added, “And we’re not going to
let him get that far.” Hrioshango shrugged and took another swig of
his drink. The achbala burned down his throat but he craved its
nostalgic taste. Only the most stalwart drinkers could resist its
intoxicating effect and the blackout that inevitably ensued.
Hrioshango wasn’t the only one indulging in achbala that
night.

Across the room, a surly patron
finished off another glass of achbala, gorging on every drop of
pleasure. He slammed the glass down, his eyes never leaving
Arxu.

He often scoped the tavern for weak
characters that were not familiar with his reputation as the alpha
male. The man with the staff had not escaped his attention. He
resembled the enchanters whose very vocation was demonic. Their
kind was an abomination of men, possessing power that injected
chaos into society. He looked suspiciously at the man’s staff
adorned with a blue stone. If that didn’t indicate the man’s
profession, surely his appearance suggested something deviant. His
skin was ghostly pale, his hair unnaturally bluish, and his eyes
were unfeeling and cold.

Such a man may pose a threat to him. He
couldn’t tolerate that possibility.

He rose from his seat and crossed the
tavern. Wary men cast a look in his direction, watching the
foreboding man pass by their tables. Suddenly, he stumbled and
liquor splashed on Arxu’s shirt. He staggered away as if to feign a
drunken accident, and patrons laughed at the amusing
spectacle.

Anger flashed across Nishka’s face. She
almost confronted the hostile patron when the expression on Arxu’s
face froze her. His jaw tightened and his body moved faster than
she had ever seen. The back of his fist collided with the man’s
jaw, sending him sprawling.

In that instant, patrons scrambled from
their seats. A bottle soared through the air and Arxu dodged the
missile. Glass screamed and someone cried out in rage. Arxu barely
spun to his right as a chair launched from the opposite direction.
Hrioshango gleefully welcomed the chaos.

And chaos ensued. One punch catalyzed
another, and another thrown chair triggered a catastrophic
brawl.

Nishka overturned the table and
crouched behind it for cover. She reached for her crossbow purely
on instinct, but her hand did not close around the handle. Instead
of gripping her weapon, she only felt her purse dangling from her
belt. She realized she hadn’t equipped it when she left the inn.
After all, she planned on relaxing at the tavern with a few drinks
after bartering in the market.

“Damn it, Arxu!” She resolved to never
venture beside Arxu without her crossbow or armor. Suddenly, she
realized there wouldn’t likely be a next time; they would die for
inciting a tavern brawl in Gaelithea.

All of these patrons were dead men now,
which made them all the more dangerous. They had nothing to lose.
She shook her head at the insanity of it all, grabbed a bottle of
ale and smashed it against the table. She clutched the makeshift
weapon as a drunkard leaped over the table toward her.

Across the large drinking room,
Hrioshango took measure of the situation facing him. Spying a horde
of unruly men, he maintained his high ground on the table and
quickly thought of an improvising tactic—or perhaps he embraced the
first chaotic impulse.

The darkling reached within his cloak
for a bottle of spirits he had cherished on many an occasion. It
would be a shame to die without having emptied the bottle. He
reminisced of its sweet taste and its mesmerizing ability to calm
his mind. Unable to bear the thought of such waste, he pried it
open with his claws. Still, the screaming and howling men drew
closer, their boots clapping loudly against the floor.

Hrioshango looked sorrowfully at the
precious drink, a priceless bottle that dated back nearly four
centuries. How he had ever come into possession of this extremely
potent liquor, he could not remember—nor did it matter
anymore.

His mourning expression brightened into
one of joy. He overturned the bottle and let the liquor flow across
the surface of his long sword. Casting aside the bottle, it
shrieked as it shattered against the wall.

He watched with anticipation as the
horde approached. He could vividly see their eyes now, bloodshot
and swollen like sickly creatures. Hrioshango leaped forward and
swung his sword at a lantern suspended above the horde. An
explosion ripped forth that singed the hairs on several men’s
heads. Not content to let them escape with such trifling injuries,
Hrioshango leered at them with his most threatening gaze. Flames
rippled across the sleek surface of his blade. Hrioshango leaped
forward with a scream of joy.

He swung his sword at the nearest drunk
and flames leaped onto his clothing. The man thrashed in horror and
rolled on the floor in his efforts to extinguish it—only to roll
into a pool of alcohol.

Reckless and blinded with rage, many of
the men threw themselves at Hrioshango despite the flames. He
leaped from one table to the next as they tried to surround him.
When possible, he scattered them with a swipe of his fiery
sword.

One of the men threw a chair in his
direction and Hrioshango narrowly dodged, but he slipped from the
table in the process. He sprung to his feet and swiped at the legs
of several belligerent drunks. Hrioshango noticed they gradually
thinned out and he relished their fleeting confidence.

A growl pulsed through the room,
gripping Hrioshango’s heart. A hooded figure staggered into view,
his calloused hands closed around a chain. The chain slithered over
the floor, suppressing a large dog with a grotesque face. Spittle
flew with every snap of its flapping jaws. With a crooked sneer,
the man released it.

Hrioshango spun on his heel and ran. He
ducked under tables as the hound pursued, overturning chairs and
slipping on unsavory ale. He skidded to a halt before the kegs on
the far side of the tavern. The dog’s bark was loud enough for him
to know he was seconds away from death.

That was a shame because Hrioshango
preferred to die on his own terms. He plunged his flaming blade
into a keg of achbala. The wall exploded, unleashing a shower of
fire and alcohol. Half of the room was flung across the tavern with
devastating force.

Nishka shrieked and dove into a crouch
as a wooden beam lanced through the air.

Hrioshango’s gleaming sword cut through
the smoke, signaling he was not dead yet. With a triumphant cackle,
he escaped through the demolished wall. Nishka felt Arxu’s hand
close around hers, and he pulled her into the streets. Their
shadows elongated across the nightscape, washed away in a tide of
gloom. Arxu knew what Nishka was thinking as they twisted and
turned through the alleys. She was stunned by his violent reaction.
Even he could not deny his surprise. The streets would soon be
swarming with Gaelithean patrols.

Hrioshango vanished by the time they
arrived at the inn, leaving his companions to fend for themselves.
The Nightwalker burst into the inn without so much as a word and
staggered up the stairs.

“What happened back there?” Nishka
demanded as Arxu plunged into his room. Her shirt was stained with
ale and she had a fresh cut on her lip. Adding to her disheveled
image, a bruise glared on her left arm.

“I’ve never felt anything like it
before,” Arxu confessed. “I wanted… to hurt him.”

“You felt anger?” she
gasped.

Arxu contemplated the arresting
notion.

“Yes…” She seemed to fall back at this
revelation. Despite the adrenaline and anger, she was excited by
his emotional progress—but not quite excited enough to forgive him.
She never wanted to fight off groping drunks again.

“Arxu,” she said, her tone softer this
time. “Try not to let your emotions kill you—
or us.
You need
to control them.” She looked gently into his eyes. “Maybe I can
help you.”

As Nishka stood there, she knew why he
had been targeted by the patron. The presence of his staff
suggested something paranormal about him, but his uncanny
appearance no doubt contributed. Her eyes wandered across his wavy
hair, dyed blue with indigo.

Arxu calmly explained to her many days
ago that Nightwalkers in exile received a “mark” to distinguish
them among mankind. Supposedly, they had committed crimes so
heinous that they were sentenced to forever bear this mark. She
suspected he had been exiled, but Arxu couldn’t remember why. She
wished she knew which crime he had committed to justify this
fate.

Nishka timidly retraced her steps
toward the door.

Recalling the injury on her arm, Arxu
snapped to attention. He reached for her to tend the wound. Nishka
regarded him with caution or intrigue, he couldn’t tell
which.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” she
assured him, shyly pulling away.

She left for her room, but not without
casting one final look over her shoulder at the lost soul
transfixed in the doorway.

Chapter 20

Night bloomed in the city of Praemenon,
cascading around the temple with the grace of a waterfall. Scarcely
a candle lit the structure that so often radiated with prayer and
song. The prayer halls were empty and the altars had been cleared
of offerings of incense. Clerics had concluded their rites and
extinguished the lights within the halls. Peace reigned across the
temple as countless devotees lay in their beds.

Astalla walked the outskirts of the
inner courtyard. She looked like she was carved out of marble,
donning only a chastity belt, her beauty mesmerizing to the eye.
Her facial features were beyond compare and dark brown hair framed
her heart-shaped face.

Her smile was as tranquilizing as the
most potent drug. All men fortunate enough to gaze upon her were
reduced to weak-hearted, dopamine-addled idolatrists.

One look into her eyes was sufficient
to inspire infatuation and, depending on the individual, obsession.
Countless men coveted her affection, though they knew she would
deny them. No matter how pure his love may be, she would accept no
man. Perhaps her denial only made them desire her more.

Every detail she possessed resonated
with purity, beauty, an innocence untouched by the
world.

A delicate gold chain encircled her
neck, barely visible in the dark. Astalla’s footsteps carried her
past marble columns and majestic carvings, her footfalls barely
above a whisper on the stone. The soft grass cushioned her feet as
she wandered the courtyard, free from political turmoil and the
bleeding economy. The atmosphere that lingered across the beautiful
gardens tamed even the most tortured soul, allowing for a moment of
serenity.