CITY OF THE GODS: FORGOTTEN (10 page)

“Foolisssh. Now I crush neck . . . take box.”
 

D’Molay struggled to no avail as his face turned crimson and the creature tightened its grip. Desperately he gasped for air, but none came. His vision started to go black around the edges as though he was looking through a shrinking tunnel. As he began to lose consciousness, he managed a last attempt to break free, swinging his feet forward and getting a sideways foothold on the creature’s chest. D’Molay then brought his other leg up and sent a crushing kick into the creature’s face with his booted heel. The kick took it completely by surprise and destroyed one of its eyes, the orange orb turning into black jelly under his boot. Screaming in pain and shock, the creature released its hold on D’Molay and he dropped into the back of the cart, gasping for breath. The thing staggered backwards as it held its tentacle over the leaking wound that had once been an eye.

D’Molay gasped for air as he lay in the cart. He could hear the creature’s continued screams and the slapping of its flailing tentacles. He knew his escape was only temporary. D’Molay managed to rise, taking a flying leap off the cart right at the creature. Holding the knife in both hands, D’Molay thrust it down into its head. It broke through his enemy’s skull like an arrow going into a watermelon. He set the knife in deeply and fell off the creature as it writhed. It staggered forward and almost ran into some onlookers as blood gushed out around the protruding knife. Within a few seconds, it was covered in the black liquid. It fell to the ground, gurgling, its tentacles still searching for its victim’s neck.

D’Molay lay on the ground trying to catch his breath, exhausted. He was bruised, cut, and his neck hurt like hell, but he would recover. A small crowd had gathered, muttering to each other as they pointed at the carnage. One of them, a priest of Artemis, stood over him. “Don’t move. I’ve summoned a guardian.”

“I won’t,” D’Molay managed to get out between gasps of air. He barely looked at the priest as he tried to recover from the fight. Slowly he caught his breath and was able to sit up, gathering his strength. “That’s the last time I show an opponent mercy. Next time, I’ll just kill them.
 
Mercy almost cost me my life,” he angrily muttered, staring at a smear of his own blood on the street.

Within minutes, a white, winged horse with a rider descended from the sky. As they sought a spot to land on the street pedestrians scattered out of the way. “Move aside, City business!” a strong, feminine voice called out.
 
D’Molay felt the air rush past him from the beating of the horse’s wings. Looking up, he saw its rider was a Valkyrie carrying a long golden spear. The horse landed gently on the ground, taking a few steps before coming to a halt. The horse folded its large, white wings. The rider gracefully slid off her mount and stood for a moment, surveying the scene in front of her
 

D’Molay couldn’t help but turn his gaze to her. She was a combination of beauty and strength, tall and full figured, with white-blonde hair flowing behind her like a flaxen banner down to her waist. On her head was a silver helmet with white dove wings on either side. She wore silvery metal armor. Over her shoulders and across her chest rested a dark blue leather collar. She carried a shield with the City Council symbol on it, much like symbol on the medallion D’Molay carried. Around her waist was a matching belt and skirt that hung about mid-thigh. Her boots laced up on the sides and went up to the top of her calves. As she walked toward him, she pointed her golden spear, an item carried by all the guardians, at him. D’Molay wiped the blood dripping from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, hoping he could talk his way out of this.
 
City guardians had considerable discretionary power. One could never be sure if a guardian would truly mete out justice. Some were just as likely to abuse their power for their own amusement.

“What’s this all about?
 
Answer or face the justice of the Council,” the Valkyrie said as she placed her shield on the ground and held her spear with both hands. She had angular features and thin lips which gave her the appearance of an elf that had been in the cold for too long.
 
D’Molay quickly judged she was not someone to be joked or flirted with, so he wasted no time in giving her an answer.

“That creature attacked me first, while I was riding in that cart. I defended myself and I had to kill it.” D’Molay noticed the horse still waiting for him. “I also work for the Council as a courier and a tracker.
 
I have a Council medallion if you want to see it,” he added.

The Valkyrie stepped closer, taking a defensive stance and aiming her spear right at his heart. It was so close that if she just gave a thrust forward her spear would pierce him with ease. “Show me. But I wouldn’t pull anything else out of that pocket.”

D’Molay reached in his coat pocket and pulled out the emblem the Council had given him years ago.
 
He always carried the medallion for it often helped him in situations like this one. He held it up for her to see.
 
“I was delivering a small box to one of the Egyptian pantheon, when that thing lying there attacked.”

She looked at the emblem without touching it. “You can put it away, but stay where you are until I say otherwise.”
 
Then she turned to the small crowd standing nearby. “Who attacked first? If you saw anything, speak now,” she said with an air of authority.

A bald man a white toga stepped forward. D’Molay recognized him as the one who had told him to not to move earlier. “I didn’t see who attacked first, but I can tell you that the so-called creature could speak, and said it would leave him be. The next thing I saw, that one had shoved a knife through its head,” the man said in an accusatory manner.

The Valkyrie’s expression turned grim as another man stepped forward. “But that creature attacked first - I saw it jump inna the back ‘o his wagon. When he offered to let it go, it lashed out a’ him. I swear it, and don’ know him or that beast.”

“That is what happened,” D’Molay added in earnest support of his testimony.

The guardian eyed the rest of the crowd. “Did it attack him after he let it go?”
 
Some shook their heads, some spoke their agreement, and many said nothing; but, she was used to bystanders that didn’t want to get involved. Finally, she withdrew the spear and rested it upright on the stone-paved street. She looked directly at D’Molay. “Get up. I’m satisfied with your story.”

“You made the right choice. Sorry to cause you any trouble,” he replied, standing up and brushing himself off.
 
“Do you have a name?”
 

“My name is Geirronul. Trouble is my duty,” she said, walking over to the corpse of the half-man, half monster. Crouching down, she looked closely at the dead creature. That annoyed sneer crossed her face again. “Looks like one of Lamasthu’s servants. Strange. Rarely see them in the City.” She took hold of the large knife sticking out of its bulbous head. “I take it this is yours?” she asked rhetorically, pulling it out of the wound. More dark blood gurgled out of the hole in its head. “Nice dagger.
 
It suppresses magical energy, doesn’t it? Here.” She held the bloody knife hilt out to D’Molay.
 

“Yes. It was a gift from the god Intarabus.” D’Molay took it, wiping it off on his already ripped and blood stained shirt. Geirronul cleaned her hand off on the creature’s cloak and then pulled it aside to reveal a twisted grey body.

“This was a man once. Now . . . who knows what to call it?” She stood up, tapping the spear on the ground three times. A yellow glow appeared at the pointed end. As D’Molay watched, it became orange and then turned to flame. The air around the spear tip began to waver as the heat from it continued to increase, though no heat seemed to pass into the shaft of the spear, leaving Geirronul unaffected by it.

“Step back.” She held the flaming spear over the dead thing and then lowered it to touch the corpse.
 
D’Molay heard a loud sizzling noise as the body was engulfed in red flame. Within a few seconds the remains dissolved in the fire, leaving only a dark mark on the road. The Valkyrie lifted the flaming spear back up, tapping it on the ground three more times. The flame went out and the glow faded until it was gone. “That takes care of that. One last thing. What’s in that box you’re carrying?”

He gave her a slightly embarrassed look. “I don’t actually know. I’m not permitted to open it unless the recipient gives permission.”

“Yes, I thought it would be something like that. You can go.” She walked over to her stallion. “Stay out of trouble if you can, eh?”

D’Molay smiled weakly. “I’ll try.”

Geirronul mounted her horse and urged it forward. “See that you do.” The horse spread its wings and with a running start they flew off into the midday sky.
 

After checking to see that the small box was still safely tucked away in the cart, D’Molay climbed in, grabbing the reins and starting to ride forward. One look at his gore-covered hands caused him to make a u-turn. He was a mess; he couldn’t visit a goddess looking as he did. The cart rolled over the dark stain that had been a servant of Lamasthu as he changed his plan.
 

D’Molay made his way home, dropping off the cart in favor of walking. If anyone else was following him, they’d be looking for a man on wheels. Without the vehicle, he could more readily hide in crowds and stay in the shadows. D’Molay thanked his luck that the cart hadn’t been destroyed during the fight. He wouldn’t have wanted to pay for those repairs.

Still smarting from the fight, but none-the-less victorious, D’Molay walked down the quiet winding lane towards his small, gray two story home. As he rubbed dirt out of his hair, he realized his shirt sleeve was badly ripped.
 
Multiple cuts and bruises showed through the torn shirt. Most would heal in a day or two. The small black box was snug in his bag, safe and sound.

D’Molay’s home was a little more run-down than the other wood and stone houses on the street. It looked more like it was a vacation home, infrequently used by its owner. There were weeds growing in some of the cracks in the path that led up to the entrance, and some of the slate had fallen off the roof. D’Molay bent down, picked up a tile and looked up. He would have to fix that soon, or endure leaks from the next season’s heavy rains. Putting the tile down by the front door, he got the key out of his leather bag.
 

He had been granted the house by the Council for his aid during a war a few years back. His old partner Sergius had been granted a similar boon, which he had managed to trade for an equally shabby tavern across town. They had both almost died that day. Had it not been for their efforts, the entire Council and their grand meeting hall would have been destroyed. Yet all he had to show for it was this unimpressive house. D’Molay shook his head at the whims of the gods.

As he stepped inside, the familiar smells of candle wax, saddle soap and leather greeted him. These scents made the shelter feel like his home, rather than just some place he stayed. In his spare time, D’Molay enjoyed leather working. The vest he wore and the bag he carried had been made here. Such things were easily bought in the City, so his hobby was more a pastime then a necessity. This was fortunate, because he had little time to enjoy the craft.

He put his bag down on the nearby wooden table and exhaled wearily. D’Molay brushed more grit and dirt off his leather vest, but realized those efforts were not going to be enough to set right his clothes. He had work to do. Turning back, he bolted the door shut behind him, something he should have done immediately, he chided himself. Anyone could have followed him inside.

Vowing to remain vigilant, he looked at his appearance in a mirror on the wall.
 
He was a mess; he could not go to see the cat goddess looking as he did. D’Molay winced from his various wounds as he removed his vest. His shirt was bloodstained, muddy, and ripped.
 
He threw it into a wooden crate filled with rubbish then took a closer look at the brown leather vest. He could salvage it with some brushing and cleaning. His pants and leather boots were merely scuffed and dirt-covered from the tussle.

He went over to the hearth to retrieve a brush and remembered the last time he had used the fireplace. Perhaps he shouldn’t have discarded his oldest possession, but he truly felt it had no meaning for him anymore. Maybe it never had. A feeling of betrayal and loss ran through his thoughts.
When I think of all the years I wasted with it on Earth - what better place for it to end than my own fireplace.
D’Molay turned away from the cold, empty hearth with bitter conviction.

Looking around the rest of the place as if seeking something else to condemn, he realized he had never really lived in any one place for very long. Yet now he actually had a home, one that should be organized the way a home should be. Resolving that a good first start would be cleaning himself up, he took his vest upstairs to set his clothes in order and get dressed.