The Broken (The Lost Words: Volume 2) (44 page)

Damian shifted his weight. His bones hurt. The Possession Magic slowed down the aging process significantly, but it could not cheat death, only delay it. He had taken over Lord Erik more than four decades ago. By all rights, the man should have been dead by now. If the hunt were not over soon, he would need a new host.

Finding a volunteer would be hard. It had to be someone greedy enough to give up his mortal existence in return for a vague promise of greatness in his afterlife. It had to be someone willing to believe in the ghost of a truth of an ancient god imprisoned in the Abyss. Religion was quickly dying in the realms, its final throes spurred by the destruction of the Movement. Few people knew about the ancient times. Fewer still would let their body become a husk infested by a foreign soul. Not after Davar’s failure. But Davar had never really understood the purpose of Damian’s mission. He had followed blindly, motivated by fear. He never should have trusted him.

Damian had seriously miscalculated when he created the idea of Feor. He had hoped the destruction of the old gods would allow him to flee the Abyss on his own and make death his own servant. Instead, he had become weaker than ever before, ever more at the mercy of his son’s magic. He did not relish risking another possession. Nor would this world be ready for another religious uprising anytime soon.

Lord Erik stood up, groaning. His old frame quivered with a deep inner hurt that no amount of rest would heal. But there was no going back. His soldiers looked up, expecting instructions, and when none came, they went back to munching on bacon and roasted squirrel meat. Damian envied their simplistic views on life.

Their master went for a walk outside the camp, leaving the warmth of the fire behind. His feet crunched on dry, dead foliage. Above him, naked trees whispered in the evening wind. Autumn was coming. It was only a matter of days before the roads became impassable with hail and mud. He had to finish his end of this bargain soon.

His mind swirled with doubt and agony. He dreaded the last encounter with the one surviving god. Or rather, goddess. She was all that stood between him and his complete release from the Abyss.

In a way, the entire First Age had been a tragedy. He had been banished to his prison convinced he had murdered the woman he loved. He had spent an eternity wallowing in pain and misery and regret. Rage had made him kill his love, and sorrow had made him hate the world without her. All for nothing. But there was no going back. After an eon of loathing, he could no longer stop. He was committed with blind, rabid frenzy to the idea of his revenge.

Damian stopped and looked behind him. The camp was a distant orange glow. He had walked away too far without noticing. Around him, the dusky world rustled and cracked, copper and yellow leaves flying in erratic swirls. The poplar and wild chestnut forest looked eerie, surreal. The first stars glittered in the bruised sky. Fat clouds chased the sun behind the ragged black hills in the distance. There would be a rainstorm tomorrow.

Their campsite was a remnant of an ancient abandoned village. Blocks of stone overgrown with moss and grass marked the relics. The ground was uneven, mounded. Maybe this very spot was a cemetery. A long time ago, some forgotten people had lived here, convinced in the rightness of their puny, meaningless lives. They had died and left their bones to rot. No one cared about them anymore.

Pretty much like him. Even if he escaped from the Abyss, what could he do? He could envision having the world under his heel, shivering in terror, doing his bidding. But it would be nothing more than a selfish, egoistic moment of satisfaction. Even without him, his humans managed just fine. They butchered one another; they cheated and lied; they did things the gods could not have even imagined. His return would be like creating a mascot for their deepest desires and darkest feelings. He would be nothing more than a figurine they could worship. But his lust for revenge was burning in him. His brothers and sisters had wronged him for being better than they. They had betrayed him.

Damian cast his eyes on the ruins. Many centuries ago, this place had belonged to Tanid, the god of weather. Those hills out there, they always whispered with winds. The ridges always wept, always moaned, cold mountain air shivering through their ravines and their scarred cheeks. They used to call them the Singing Heights. Now, they only had shaggy goats and incest-loving clans to hear the never-ending lament. Beyond, a godless, empty land stretched all the way to the Twilight Sea.

Even the gods had their limits.

“How’s the hunt going?” Calemore asked, appearing behind one of the poplars. He was chewing on an apple, grinning.

Damian suppressed his jolt of fear and surprise. Then, he snorted loudly. “It will soon be over.” How could he have missed his son’s approach?

The White Witch nodded. “Who’s left?” When Lord Erik did not answer, he chuckled.

Lord Erik turned away. He could not bear the sight of his son. Calemore kicked the apple core away and approached. He was wearing white leathers that shone in the setting darkness. His cheerful mood angered Damian.

Damian remembered the first days of the aftermath of the war. He remembered the chaos and the confusion and the towering pillars of dust and smoke that rose from ruined cities. He remembered the fields of bodies, rippling with birds feasting on soft, rotting flesh. He remembered the rain that would never stop falling, black like tar. He remembered years of winter crawling over the blasted land, the sky that would not show its face behind the ashen blanket that covered everything. He remembered the corpses, bloated, rotting, mountains of them. He remembered the treachery.

Calemore had escaped far north with his human allies and walled himself behind a screen of magic, beyond the reach of the ordinary world. It was self-imprisonment as much as survival. But he had promised to return and help.

His proud, arrogant son had done more than just raise a big shield to keep intruders away. He had outdone himself. For countless centuries, he had been cut off from the rest of the world, fermenting in his secluded empire, plotting his return. When finally the spells had worn off enough to let him reach forth with small tendrils of his magic, he had started probing the Abyss, to let Damian’s presence wisp out.

They’d had an agreement: The White Witch would make sure Damian’s soul escaped, just a little at first, enough to grasp a hold in the human world. Then, Damian would work to destroy his treacherous comrades and make Calemore’s one true wish become a reality. And then, Damian would finally flee the Abyss and be free once again.

Well, he had never really intended to make Calemore his equal. Which was why he had started making his own plans. And then, he had almost succeeded in fully escaping his prison on his own. And he had almost outsmarted Calemore. Almost.

But he was betrayed again. By his very own blood.

He needed Calemore still. Without his son, he would not be able to get entirely free.

“I may need a new body,” Lord Erik said into the darkness. He cursed himself for saying it. But this body was weak and almost worn-out.

“What’s wrong with this one?” Calemore commented.

“It’s almost a hundred years old,” the grandfatherly avatar chided, keeping his emotions in check.

The White Witch threw his head back, as if he’d remembered something. “One goddess left, you must be excited. After all this time, it will be almost like a family reunion!”

Damian gritted his teeth. “I told you, she’s not—”

“Relax!” The White Witch cut him off, raising his hands defensively. “Do you want to be released from that ethereal shithole or not?”

It was not really a question, Damian knew. Calemore would not stop now. If his own hunger for revenge was maniacal, it was nothing compared to his son’s mad desire. The only chance Damian had of saving Elia was to obey the Witch now. If she could be saved. He dared not admit what choices he would make to escape the Abyss.

Calemore blinked meaningfully, as if reading his mind. “Any knowledge of her whereabouts?”

Damian clenched his fists. He had no idea where his former love hid. She was untraceable. Even the best rangers in the realms were unable to locate her. After months of easy hunting, the one remaining deity was nowhere to be found. She hid well, from magic and treason alike.

“I will find her,” Lord Erik said, but he sensed there was something wrong.

“I have already found her,” Calemore said, confirming Damian’s greatest dread.

“If you’ve killed her—” he snarled.

“I haven’t killed her, you old fool. But we will see what has to be done.” Calemore flexed his fingers. “So tempting. But then, it’s best if you do it, Father. You’re already experienced in that area.” He smirked.

Damian felt warm blood trickle down his palms. His fingernails bit deeply into the paper-dry skin of his hands. Even after ages of madness, he still felt a pang of guilt in his stomach whenever he thought about Elia. She had betrayed him, but he still loved her. He hoped that she would not have to die to make his escape happen. He wished he could pray, but gods had no one and nothing to believe in but their own consciousness. Morbidly, they were like people without faith.

“I will bring Elia to the Womb,” Calemore continued. “You make sure you get there.”

So, the hunt is over
, Damian thought dryly. He would be free from his prison soon. But he felt no joy, only a dull, hollow, dreadful feeling of a dark end that suffused him with panic. What would he do when he finally fled the Abyss? What would he do with this world? Destroy it? Rebuild it? Let it be?

Then he remembered Calemore. His son would be around, too. The thought of murdering Calemore felt odd, but right. Like a sculptor forced to destroy his best piece of art. You dreaded the idea, but you cherished the intimacy and the knowledge you could do it all over again if necessary. Denying everyone else the beauty of your finest work.

Calemore frowned, looking annoyed. “Did you hear me?”

Damian remembered the ever-present chill in his limbs. This body was dying, hanging on with the last threads of stubbornness. “Yes, I heard you. I will dismiss the gang tomorrow.”

“Oh, keep them,” the Witch mocked. This is a dangerous land. You still have a month’s worth of ride till you get to the Womb. I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.”

Lord Erik felt there was something wrong. He had a gut feeling that his mission was not finished yet. There was more to it than just a list of dead gods and goddesses. A ghostly feeling of unease echoed in his belly. But it was too faint, too weak. Maybe just a trace of expectation. Maybe an ancient memory from the First Age. Maybe the icy realization that he would see Elia again.

The two men stared at each other. There was no love there, no trust. Lord Erik deflated first. “Do you still sculpt, Son?”

The White Watch almost looked bashful for a moment. “I mostly paint these days. It gives me peace.”

Damian smiled softly, sadly. “I wanted you to be a free spirit,” he admitted.

Calemore grinned, his face taut, his eyes narrow. “I don’t know whether to thank you or curse you for the cravings and emotions you gave me. Sometimes, I have these wild, vivid dreams.”

“What are they about?”

“It’s one dream, really, in a hundred colors. I dream of the day when I become a god.”

Damian nodded.
And I dream of human love
, the betrayed deity thought.

The White Witch was somber, his face stern, cold. “Get to the Womb as soon as you can.” And he was gone, vanished. Calemore used magic wildly, never caring about what it cost. He was vain and arrogant. But his son had never tasted utter defeat, never been raped with betrayal. That was a lesson he would yet learn, Damian promised himself. Now, he had to make sure the rest of his life as the one god of the world was not riddled with unbearable guilt and remorse.

Oh, how he loathed his Special Children. They had let him down, every one of them. From poor farmers and orphaned altar boys to the rich, greedy nobles and heroic army commanders. When their moment of glory had struck, they had crumbled like old caterpillar husks. If only his son Ewan had joined him, he could have been free by now, fed by the infinite force of the dead. He could have fled the Abyss, never having to keep his promise to Calemore. But he was ever a beggar.

Human years had dulled his resolve, nagging like a missing tooth, a hollow, wet feeling of futility that just grew stronger every summer. Nothing made a difference anymore, it seemed, except the raw scar burning inside his soul. He had not expected revenge to taste like ashes.

He walked back, acutely aware of the pain in his limbs. If his host died, it would take many years before Calemore could find a new volunteer. If he chose to. Calemore could well decide he would take the world by force. He could keep Damian trapped in the Abyss forever, an itching yet impotent presence and a reminder of failure. Damian only hoped the man’s sense of urgency, now that he was outside Naum, was as unbearable as his own.

Back in the camp, his men were getting ready for the night. Luke, one of his soldiers, had drawn the first watch. Disinterested, Lord Erik headed for his own tent. Inside, he buried his face in the musty pillow and cried quietly. He knew he was going to kill the woman he loved for the second time, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.