The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) (7 page)

Ironically, he had found the
tooth something of a comfort for a while. It drove the memories from
his mind and held back sleep. But then it grew worse, and he could
not sleep at all. At best, he dozed for a few minutes at a time
before awaking to sheer misery again. His captors offered him no
relief. Salastin took great joy in his agony, and told him to pray
harder.

If he had only had the most
basic of tools, just a simple knife or an awl, he could have done
something, perhaps, but since his last acting out, they no longer
even gave him eating utensils, just a metal bowl.

In a state akin to a living
nightmare, Aiul lost track first of time and then reality. He had
moments of lucidity, but they came less frequently as the days and
nights passed. It seemed to him that at times, he was back in the
cell where he had watched Lara die, and at others he was here again,
with Salastin pounding the door, asking if he had died and spared
them both any more misery.

Aiul had gone beyond caring. As
strong as his will had been, the passing months of deprivation and
misery ate at him like acid, burned away his resolve until there was
little left but a shell. He no longer prayed for salvation, merely
death. It was not in him to take his own life, not with the pride
and the lust for vengeance that burned within him, but he would have
welcomed that burden be lifted from him by some merciful accident of
injury or disease.

It will come soon enough.
The infection will spread. I'm doomed. It will be a hard death, but
the pain will eventually stop. That's all that matters, now.
The realization was comforting.

It was then, as Aiul lay
waiting for the end, drowning in despair and disorientation, that
the voice first spoke to him.

It was no mortal sound that
assaulted his ears. The words were horror shaped into words, meaning
imposed upon a thousand screams, the dripping of blood, the scurry
of insects over corpses. His nightmares paled to insignificance
compared to the fear that gripped him at its sound.

“
How long will you
suffer here, child?
” it asked, only that. Then silence.

Aiul curled himself into a
fetal position, gripped with a terror he could not explain. For long
hours, he sat like that, motionless, afraid even to move, scanning
the dim corners of his cell, looking for the source. He tried to
tell himself that this was simply a delusion brought on by a brain
infection, but he could not quite convince himself that was true. At
last, he fell into an exhausted sleep. The nightmares still played
in his head, but they were weak things now. The images were the
same, but whatever had chilled his soul with those few words had, it
seemed, numbed his capacity for horror. The visions of Lara were
just images now, meaningless against the backdrop of raw, primal
fear he had experienced. Even the agony of his rotting tooth seemed
dulled, grayed out, insignificant compared to the voice.

When he awoke, confused, trying
to decide if he were truly awake or in a fever dream, the voice
struck again, this time playing on all of his senses. The prickly,
burning snap of the hangman’s noose going taught, the reek of
rotting flesh, the taste of ash and bitter poison, the stomach
twisting emotional blow of betrayal by a brother, all poured over
and into him, a tide of corruption and depravity that threatened to
drag his mind into its depths with its undertow.

“
Blood calls for
blood,
” said the voice.

Aiul screamed. He screamed
again, and again, and again. He did not stop until at last Salastin
burst in and beat him into unconsciousness.

There was no escaping into
dreams, this time.

Aiul found himself on a barren
plain that extended in all directions as far as he could see. Cold,
gray light, its source invisible, filtered through dark clouds
overhead, illuminating a scorched wasteland. There were no plants or
animals, only dirt and rock, dust and wind, and all about, blackened
areas where fire had scoured the surface clean of color. It was gray
and lifeless, a world of ash.

He scanned the horizon,
searching for something, anything that might serve as a sign of
habitation, but saw nothing but more of the same rubble.

He heard a chuckle and felt his
heart skip within his chest. It was the voice! He was certain of it!
It was weaker, but it still chilled him to the depths of his soul.
“Who are you?” he shouted to the gray sky, looking about
frantically. “What do you want of me?”

“You called to me,”
the voice answered. The words had the same strength as before, and
he felt the terror rising in him again, the urge to scream and bury
himself in the earth as the sensations of horror, grief, and madness
bored into his soul.

“I can’t bear it!”
he cried out. “Leave me alone!”

“You called to me,”
the voice repeated, “And I am come.”

Aiul covered his ears and
ground his teeth, using the shock of physical pain to anchor him
against the storm. “Who are you?” he cried out again.

“I have many names,”
the voice answered. “Destroyer. Violator. Monster. Hater.
Elgar. You called out to me, and I am come.”

“No,” he whispered,
both a denial and a plea. “I didn’t mean it. Please—“

“
Liar
!”
The sensory assault was changed now. It was the sight of a trusted
lover caught in bed with a best friend, the sound their sighs
together, the burning of flame in the heart and mind. But it was the
taste that made it bearable, the sweetness of standing with a boot
on that former friend’s neck as he grovels and begs for mercy
that he knows can never come.

Aiul staggered and collapsed,
overwhelmed, face down in the dirt, raising his arms above his head
like a shield, desperate to block out the cacophony. For long
moments he waited, cringing against more words, but the next sound
he heard was the crunch of metal on gravel, right beside his head.

Slowly, trembling, he raised
his eyes and stared, taking in the figure that stood over him.

The newcomer was of average
height and armored for battle, perhaps six foot three, though
seemingly much larger from Aiul’s vantage point. Tiny death’s
heads, some graven into the armor’s plates, others embossed
and adorned with black gems for eye sockets, leered downward at him,
mocking him with their mindless grins and empty stares. The mail he
wore was blackened and scored, as if he had just walked from a
battlefield. Fresh blood and gore streaked the surface of his armor,
splattered from slain enemies. Dark, viscous liquid oozed from
breaches in the mail, running into the eye sockets and between the
grinning teeth of the skulls. He wore no helm, however, and that, in
particular, made Aiul’s blood run cold.

The face looming above him was
his own. He blinked rapidly, in shock, his mind reaching for
denials, and finding purchase on minor details, at least. The eyes
were not his own green, but instead pools of pure black, windows
into a cold hell, full of hate and malice that sent chills up and
down his spine, made his stomach rebel and his muscles tremble with
weakness. The hair, too, was changed, not his dirty blonde, but a
sickly, gray-white, the color of sun bleached bone. The wind whipped
it about his double’s head, strands of it striking toward the
sunken, unblinking eyes and caressing high, ashen cheekbones like
the hands of a lover.

“I am come,” the
figure said, this time in Aiul’s own voice, rather than
the
voice. It, too, was subtly different, more sinister, cold, but
again, close enough that it could not be confused as simple
happenstance.

“What do you want of
me?” Aiul whispered.

The figure cocked its head
quizzically. “A meaningless question. What could one such as I
seek from the likes of a wretch like you?”

“Then leave me,”
Aiul answered. Even the fear was gone now. His entire being had gone
numb, overloaded, his mind unable to find a handhold to brace itself
against the onslaught of madness. He rose to his feet and looked
Elgar squarely in the eye. “Begone, Dead God.”

Elgar chuckled. “You
would dismiss the Destroyer with a wave your hand? Truly, your
arrogance is a marvel to behold! I have not seen its like in….”
He trailed off, paused, then continued, “Eons.”

“It’s not
arrogance. It’s not even bravery.”

“Yes,” Elgar agreed
with a nod. “The calm that comes when one understands that he
is truly defeated.” He spoke now in his own voice again, and
Aiul was powerless to stop the sensations. He heard Lara’s
screams with a clarity that his own ears could never have matched.
He tasted her blood on his own lips, felt the blade rend her flesh.
And could he hear a small, high pitched cry, deep inside?

“In such a moment, one
might find true freedom, had he the will,” Elgar continued.
And the images of Lara were burned from Aiul’s mind, washed
away by new screams, cries that no longer tore at his soul but
thrilled him like a powerful symphony. Nihlos was in flames, its
people rushing about in random panic. He was drunk with the euphoria
of unfettered, untiring, merciless hatred. His arms, swinging a
huge, misshapen club, rose and fell, again and again, caving in the
skulls of everyone about him, men, women, even children. A thousand
faces shattered under his assault. Blood and gore flew at each
strike, and it tasted sweet on his lips. The visions shot through
him in brief flashes, an orgy of rage, a climax of vengeance,
unending, spiraling higher and higher until it seemed he would
explode with joy.

He came to his senses long
moments later, to find himself on his knees, sobbing. Elgar’s
hand caressed his back and shoulders, comforting him like a parent
might soothe an anguished child.

“Do you offer this to
me?” Aiul choked.

“I do.”

“And what is the price?”
Aiul asked, certain that he knew the answer. “My soul?”

Elgar took Aiul’s hands
in his own and pulled him to his feet, but gave no answer. Instead,
the Destroyer raised his hands to his own neck and removed his
gorget. Aiul gasped. Elgar’s throat had been ripped open, his
head half severed from his body. Black, oily blood oozed and bubbled
at the wound, as it might from a man who had bled out and was
breathing his last.

“Such a victory, such a
liberation as I would give you, is its own price,” said the
Destroyer.

“I don’t
understand,” Aiul whispered.

Elgar raised a gauntleted hand
to Aiul’s throat. Spikes erupted along the fingers with a
sharp, metallic sound. Elgar held them lightly against Aiul's
throat, waiting, his black eyes gazing deeply into Aiul’s own,
green stare, the points of the spikes slightly pricking Aiul's
flesh. “Your mind is too small,” Elgar whispered.. “But
your soul understands.”

“Yes,” Aiul
answered.

Elgar tore out Aiul’s
throat.

House Noril had several
prisons, some more secure than others. Given his choice of duty,
Salastin would definitely have preferred the minimum security, in
that it was just easier work, but for The Traitor, he was willing to
suffer a little.

Aiul's rebellion had been a
hell of a night for both Noril and Luvox. They had all bled and
choked and fought. When it was done, Salastin had been surprised and
more than a little nervous to be summoned by Master Davron himself.
He had done nothing heroic to merit a commendation, but he couldn't
think of anything that would get him punished, either.
Unless I
killed someone I ought not have in the chaos.
All sorts of
mistakes happened in actual combat, often enough fatal. Quelling a
riot was hardly precision work. Someone important could have managed
to get mixed in with the rock-throwing commoners and gotten his head
cracked in the confusion. That thought had eaten at Salastin's guts
as he made his way to meet with his Patriarch.

In the end, it was nothing like
he had feared. It was an altogether different sort of disaster.
Davron had no reward or punishment for him, only grim news.
Salastin's cousin was dead, cut down at the palace gates. Two
friends he'd known since childhood had also perished in the fires
and chaos of the undercity. They had all been good men doing their
duty. The Traitor had killed them, as surely as if he had stuck a
dagger in their chests.

When Davron had approached him
later with the chance of evening the score, Salastin had leapt at
the opportunity. That the Patriarch would invite a slave to do
battle at his side, especially on a secure, black operation, was a
tremendous honor. That alone would have swayed him, but the thought
of avenging his cousin and friends was even stronger motivation.

Salastin had been volunteering
for this gig since he and Davron had drug The Traitor's rotten
carcass into this cell, and he intended to be here for the duration.

That being said, guard duty was
usually a crashing bore, and left a lot of time to fill. Salastin
and five others, armed and armored, sat at a small, wooden table,
cards in hand, tossing coins into the pot and daring one another to
meet their challenges.

“Bastard,” one
growled at Salastin. “You’re bluffing.”

Salastin said nothing,
inscrutable, giving no sign of his unbeatable hand. After a moment
of tension, he raised an eyebrow, taunting his opponent. It was
sweet, gulling him like this. There was more than a week’s pay
to take from his victim, and Salastin savored the kill. They stared
at one another for long moments, tension mounting, when their stare
down was broken by a cackle from one of the cells.

It was a small thing, but
enough to end the brief duel. Salastin’s mark broke eye
contact and turned his cards face down.

Salastin ground his teeth as he
raked in his winnings. The fool would have played on, but for the
laughter.