The Undying God (41 page)

She wouldn’t be a threat to him after
this experience. Her religious convictions would never allow her to
confess that she had violated her oaths. She would be banished from
the temple and scorned as a whore.

“You are beautiful, Ava.”

His fingers undid the fastenings of her
clerical robes. The way he looked at her was unnerving. His hungry
eyes stared at the most intimate regions of her body. Like so many
men, he only regarded her as a pair of legs and breasts. He would
not see past her body to her sorrow.

Ava fought hard not to cry. She didn’t
regret the sacrifice she would make to protect Astalla, but she
would never forgive herself. She vowed she would never let a man
touch her again. She only did this because she loved Astalla. His
hands reached toward her breasts.

Ava closed her eyes and wept. She
jerked as a piercing sound shattered the silence. It sounded like a
scream.

“What was that?
” Respa reared up
from his desk and looked around nervously. He peered out the window
and lunged for the door. For a moment, he was afraid someone knew
what he was doing. That irrational fear soon passed, and he
smiled.

He would tolerate no interruption
during this special occasion. He looked at Ava as though to assure
her he would return—as if she desired such a thing.

“I will be back soon.”

After all, the next twenty minutes
would be the most pleasurable of his life. He glanced at the sword
at his waist and slowly departed from the room. As soon as the door
slammed shut, she crumpled to the floor.

Her tears came pouring
forth.

Ava knew he would return and ravage her
with animalistic lust. As much as she despised Respa, she hated
Margzor far more.

She continued to cry futilely for help.
She wondered if Margzor could even imagine how much suffering he
would cause. How many lives must he devastate?

Her sobs gradually faded as she curled
up on the floor. Ava shut her eyes and tried to imagine that
someone in this world valued her for who she is inside.

* * *

Respa gasped as the final breath was
ripped out of him. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as his
neck snapped against the ground. The rest of his body followed
shortly after. Margzor stepped over the limp figures piled at his
feet.

He had disposed of twenty men who
failed to eliminate him. The last man had died in a particularly
cruel manner. He emerged from a guardhouse and engaged him with the
arrogance of a fool. The last two minutes had been the most
excruciating of his life.

Margzor’s destination awaited him at
the end of the plaza, the immaculate temple. Its architecture
proclaimed its vanity, a perfection glorified by the naїve masses.
He ascended the marble steps and reached forward. He entered the
temple without a sound. He knew the priestesses would be expecting
him; there had been far too many soldiers in the streets to
coincide with his arrival. He simply walked down the prayer hall,
like a mute, deaf, and blind man who lost his way.

Clerics fled screaming at the sight of
him. He did not change his pace, a calm and deadly gait advancing
toward his prey. They would be far beyond his reach now.
Nevertheless, no door could shield them, no matter how reinforced.
He came to a dead end within a lavish chamber.

A woman was trapped inside the room,
unable to escape. She pounded her fists on the double doors and
cried out for mercy. The clerics would not risk opening the doors
and letting the threat near Astalla.

She shrank against the wall, paralyzed
by terror. Margzor didn’t even flinch with regret as her beautiful
face contorted in agony. His blade soared across without mercy. She
collapsed as a final scream was torn from her.

Desensitized to violence, her pain
elicited no reaction from him. He used to feel something when he
killed a human, but this time, he felt nothing. He only stared into
the empty space, virtually unaware of what he had done. Everything
he would do this day would result in his damnation.

As if he even cared anymore.

* * *

“There!” Arxu cried out. Praemenon
reared up over the horizon, goading them forward. The night had
passed in a blur as they traveled north on horseback. Hrioshango
had proven his worth yet again when he mysteriously secured two
horses for them at the city borders.

Frankly, they didn’t care how he
acquired them. All that mattered now was intercepting Margzor
before he added more victims.

Nishka hoped she was prepared to face
the mass murderer. She didn’t have to do this, she knew. She could
leave the city to cope with the aftermath of the attack and return
to her father. The idea of giving up insulted her.

Even if she failed in the
end.

With Arxu and Hrioshango by her side,
she felt they stood a chance against this terror. Deep inside, she
knew this could have been avoided if the city officials cooperated
with each other and combined intelligence. Their failure to serve
innocent people and let them die infuriated her.

Margzor knew the risk, Nishka believed.
He knew the city watch and its lords were too incompetent to deal
with an organized, intelligent killer. They weren’t prepared for a
man whose ideology trumped theirs. He was willing to be martyred
for his moral war, for his vision of a decent society.

Nishka would only be another obstacle
in his way. She dreaded coming face to face with Margzor, but she
refused to back down.

If only she knew the personal role she
had played in his war.

“Hurry!” Arxu yelled as they entered
the city streets. “We must stop him before he reaches the
demigoddess of virginity!”

Hrioshango slowed to a stop as the
gravity of the situation assaulted him.

“The goddess of virginity?!” he
exclaimed with disappointment. In that moment, every fantasy of
power he entertained suddenly vanished. To his surprise, he still
followed Arxu and Nishka. When they arrived at the plaza, they
found the street swamped with the bodies of guards.

“Oh Gods,” Nishka breathed. None of
them dared speak the truth. They had arrived too late.

* * *

Margzor swept through the temple like a
harbinger of death, scoping the halls for overlooked prey. With his
blade, he was the incarnation of cruelty, judging men and women as
unworthy to live. He already felt like a god.

The temple itself scarcely made a
sound, for everyone had either hidden or perished. There would be
no mercy for those he encountered. He was determined to consummate
his ideological war and eradicate this pathetic
religion.

He walked slowly through the
hall.

Someone was hiding nearby, he was
certain of it. He could hear a scamper, a panicked intake of
breath, the sound of feet. He smiled to himself because he knew
escape was futile. As he stalked through the upper level, something
flickered beyond the periphery of his vision.

He spun to face his prey crouched in an
alcove.

There, he saw two children. Their eyes
met his in stunned expressions of terror. Time itself may have
stopped for Margzor, paralyzed by the sight of his
victims.

The children could be no older than
five years. Their frightful eyes peered up at Margzor, their
trembling forms so small compared to his. The boy turned away and
hugged his younger sister. They closed their eyes, holding onto
each other for dear life, afraid to die.

Margzor focused on the demonic sword in
his hand, its dancing embers enthralling his vision.

The image of the sword burned into his
retinas, evoking painful memories of his own childhood. The blade
carried him away to another time and place, a time filled with
torture and sadness.

He recalled the hurt that haunted his
childhood.

If he punished the youth, he would be
no better than the demon that tormented him. He tried to collect
himself as he felt tears stinging his eyes. He trembled and took a
faltering step back. With a final look at their faces, Margzor
turned away. Over his shoulder, the young ones fled.

Margzor walked down the hall, hardly
acknowledging his own footsteps, trying to forget what had happened
so many years ago.

His face contorted in a grimace as
tears began to eat away at his façade. He focused on the innocence
he could never reclaim. No god could ever restore the love and joy
he felt as a child.

Margzor squeezed his eyes shut to stop
the flow of tears. He screamed out in defeat, an anguished plea for
help. His sword clashed to the floor as he plunged to his
knees.

He buried his face in his hands and
began to cry.

Not far away, Astall also fell to her
knees, sobbing for breath. She wept for the innocents lost that
day, the men and women whose faith did not protect them. Sunlight
glowed through the room from beyond obscure windows. Margzor’s
footsteps resonated as he entered the divine chamber of
worship.

Astalla’s tears touched the floor like
rain, crystals dancing on the marble surface. Margzor simply
laughed, a cold, mocking sound that cut through the silence. He
circled her with his sword held slackly in hand.

Astalla was repulsed by the energy he
projected. She swallowed the bitter taste of anger and tried to
draw upon as much power as she could. Margzor leered at the
helpless woman. He leaned in close with a cruel smile and whispered
in her ear.

“I killed the children.”

Astalla lunged at him and her nails
raked across his jaw.

“Monster!” she screamed. Margzor lifted
his hand to his lips, now glistening with blood. Astalla staggered
to her feet, as if his words imbued her with strength.

She would utterly annihilate him. The
memory of those screams wafting up from the lower levels compelled
her to destroy him. Margzor’s fingers slowly descended from his
bloodstained lips as he regarded her. The same hand suddenly
gripped his sword.

He lunged forward and cut high, taking
the first step in what would become a macabre dance. Astalla
floated away from his attack, her feet coordinating perfectly to
evade his blade.

She could no longer sense the demonic
taint on him, and the horrible truth dawned on her. Margzor was no
longer the slave of a demon but a pawn of his own hate.

He swung his sword dangerously close to
her body and Astalla veered out of its path. She floundered
backward on an altar. Margzor’s eyes flashed with pleasure. What
sweet irony it would be to sacrifice her. She dashed across the
room for cover, but no barrier could shield her from his
onslaught.

She outstretched her hand toward
Margzor and he felt weakness overcome him. He nearly plunged to his
knees and released his sword. His arm relaxed by his side, no
longer strong enough to wield a weapon.

His eyes dilated with delirium as she
injected her divine energy into his mind. It was the strangest
sensation, a feeling of hopeless surrender. His neck felt barely
able to bear the weight of his mind, and his chin slipped toward
his breast. He could feel his head bowing in reverence of the
divine woman. Margzor fought the emotional hell that invaded his
mind, convincing him to give up.

His self-confidence withered to
despair.

Almost.

He lunged and thrust his blade toward
her chest. Astalla cried out and fell back. She couldn’t believe he
had resisted her.

Margzor glowered at the demigoddess.
His blade narrowly touched her, cutting her perfect
skin.

Astalla felt sick at the sight of her
blood. She feared he would kill her slowly. She hoped he wasn’t
capable of something so merciless. The answer would come sooner
than she thought.

The larger of the silhouettes darted
forward and brought a blade across. Razor-sharp steel passed
through the other figure without a sound. Astalla took several weak
steps backward, her smooth movements now jerky and awkward. The
precious gold chain fell from her throat, slithering down her body
to collect on the floor. Her muscles didn’t respond to her brain
anymore.

Astalla plummeted to the floor with
morbid elegance. Even in death, she possessed the most startling
grace.

Margzor did not approach the beheaded
body of Astalla. He spoke not a word. The air itself seemed
electric and foul as if polluted by an impurity of unimaginable
sin. He could feel himself transforming.

Chapter 41

Hrioshango came scampering behind Arxu
and Nishka. The façade of the temple loomed down upon them, bidding
them inside.

Arxu leaped up the stairs leading to
the entrance. He immediately lurched to a stop in the vestibule. A
pair of double doors lay at the far end of the hall, gaping ajar.
It looked like a portal to an underworld, wreathed with icy mist
the color of ash. His eyes darted across the temple interior,
scanning for signs of life.