The Undying God (21 page)

How strange it seemed that she was the
only one to admire the courtyard’s transformation at midnight. She
believed it was far more soothing at this time than even by day.
Astalla faced the glistening stars above and considered their
astral travel.

It was unimaginable that the men and
women she loved as her followers were dying. The loss she felt was
indescribable, a void in her soul that ached more than any physical
wound. She prayed they were at peace now, safe from fear or
pain.

She glided across the courtyard host to
a single tree, slumbering like a gentle guardian. She rested her
hand against its soft surface, feelign the strength under the bark.
A caressing zephyr whispered to her, flowing across her body as if
nature itself wished to express its admiration.

Astalla faced two pressing matters; she
had to reach out to the Elder Cleric in the city of Eternitas.
Next, she would explain the murders to her local
followers.

With no time to waste, she made
Eternitas her first priority. She could sense weakness festering
and she gathered energy to project her thoughts. She didn’t feel
strong enough to maintain a mental link like she had with Arxu. She
focused to convey her thoughts to the Elder Cleric in Eternitas.
There would be a delay before it reached him and her efforts would
weaken her. But there was no question that she had to warn
them.

* * *

“The Nightwalker is down there,” the
guard uttered. He cast Arxu a wary look. “Make it quick. The
prisoner is to be executed soon.” The prisons of Gaelithea were
just as Arxu suspected: claustrophobic, dank, and thirty feet
underground. Fortunately, he was on the other side of the prison
bars, a barrier that separated hope from despair.

Criminals in Gaelithea was regarded as
subhuman, stripped of their rights and demoted to worthless
organisms. Nishka wouldn’t be thrilled to learn that Arxu had come
here, but he felt he had no choice.

He pulled back the hood concealing his
face. He scanned the cells to his left, letting his gaze fall on a
figure in the corner. Arxu didn’t say anything at first, studying
the lone creature. The same unnatural, blue hair marked the
prisoner as an exile. He refused to raise his head, engrossed in
thought. Surely, he was contemplating the last moments of his life;
his accomplishments, his secret fears, the friends he cherished,
his last sweet sip of wine. Arxu’s presence was insignificant to
him.

“I’m not a guard,” Arxu said. The
prisoner’s head jerked up and he considered the visitor. His eyes
fixed on Arxu in complete rapture.

“Who are you?” was all he managed to
whisper.

“We share a common bond,” Arxu replied.
The captive squinted, trying to catch a glimpse of his visitor in
the dark. Arxu rolled up his sleeves, revealing the indigo marks
that tentacled across his skin. Even in the cold depths of the
prisons, the marks glowed with the surreal intensity of moonlight.
He watched the prisoner’s eyes roam from his pale arms to his blue
hair.

“I didn’t know there were any
Nightwalkers left.”

“Some would say I’m a Nightwalker no
longer. Only an exile,” Arxu admitted. The prisoner, a man by the
name of Lucretio, grinned.

“I could certainly use a friend now.
I’m surprised to see a Nightwalker roaming free in Gaelithea. We
are not well-received in society, friend. I encourage you to leave
this garrison state as soon as possible.”

“I’m afraid I can’t until I find the
answers I seek.”

“Are those answers in these cells of
torment?”

“I felt compelled to come here,” Arxu
confided. “Word reached me that the guards were holding a
Nightwalker in the prisons. I must speak with you.”

“You are the first Nightwalker I’ve
encountered in ten years. I’m afraid you and I are the last of our
order,” Lucretio lamented. “I managed to smuggle some components
into the prison before I was apprehended. I won’t need them for
much longer, but perhaps they will serve you well.” He dug in the
corner of his cell and produced a finely cut rose quartz. He
offered the precious stone to Arxu and he murmured his thanks.
“Tell me, what have you done to share the same status as
me?”

“Unfortunately, I cannot remember.”
Lucretio’s eyes narrowed as they settled on the pendant around his
neck, cradling the polished jet. He seemed to understand the source
of Arxu’s amnesia.

“That is forbidden magick,” he uttered.
“Very few have experimented with death without dire consequence.
Even the most knowledgeable among us refuse to interfere with
death.” His eyes widened. “…Are you the one called
Arxu?”

“Yes.” The temperature plunged several
degrees as though winter stirred in the dungeons. Lucretio studied
him for a moment, his features growing colder, fear clouding his
pupils.

“You are the reason the Nightwalkers
are extinct!” he screamed. “You should be in this prison awaiting
your execution!
Not me!
” Arxu was so taken back by the
accusation that he stumbled away.

“I cannot remember anything,” he said
as a dull pain began to grow in his temples.

“Everyone you loved died because of
you!” Lucretio spat with feral intensity, squeezing the prison bars
until his jutting knuckles glowed white. Had the bars not separated
them, he looked like he would sink his teeth into Arxu’s neck.
“Your actions annihilated an entire population!”

“How?
” Arxu demanded. “
How
did I
—what have I done to be branded a traitor?” The prisoner’s
hands uncoiled from the bars.

“Perhaps that is the cruelest
punishment that can be afforded to you. You cannot remember
anything… You cannot remember losing your mother.”

“How did I lose her?” The words spilled
out of Arxu’s mouth in white hot anger.

“You don’t deserve to know. Her life
was more precious to me than you could possibly fathom.” Arxu could
feel a familiar rage flowing within him like caustic venom.
Lucretio scowled with disdain. “You hurt her more than anyone in
the world ever could. I was there as she spoke her last words and
begged for mercy.”

The prisoner floundered back from the
blow that followed. He massaged his tender lips, thankful he could
not feel blood.

“You haven’t changed,” Lucretio
condescended. “Your anger will kill you one day—and possibly
everyone around you.” Arxu didn’t surrender his glare. “I knew your
mother. No one would openly say it, but we could see the
resemblance between you two. You didn’t even know your own mother
until it was too late.”

“What’s going on down there?” a guard
called.

“The city watch has been exterminating
mages and performing autopsies on them,” Lucretio hissed. “They
seek to discover where magick originates from, tracing its
biological origins. Soon they will perform an autopsy on
me.”

“What is your crime?” Arxu
demanded.

“You don’t understand, do you? My
existence is my crime.” Arxu could hear the guard rattling down the
stairs, coming to dismiss him.

“You have felt discrimination in
Gaelithea, haven’t you?” Lucretio said. “Mages aren’t safe in this
city. The commoners won’t protect you. They
fear
you.”

“Do you expect me to free
you?”

“Look around you, fool. Where would I
run? Our kind is persecuted in every major city and hounded in
villages. It’s a massacre out there; I’m tired of running.”
Lucretio retreated to the dank corner of his cell. “Soon you will
find yourself in a cell just like mine.”

It was unthinkable that he could have
killed an entire population. Was this his crime? Mass murder? Was
he no different from the killer terrorizing the temples? Arxu
wanted to say something to Nishka, but he couldn’t bring himself to
voice the truth. Even more heartrending, the prisoner implied that
Arxu had loved ones. He wondered if he had a family or a lover. He
could have children for all he knew, their innocence erased from
his memory.

Chapter 21

Nishka refused to ask the guards for
directions. There was no telling if she had been spotted last night
as she fled the tavern. The last thing she needed was a grabby
guard hauling her to the dungeons and reading her death sentence.
Even if she mustered the will to ask where the markets were, she
didn’t see those mysterious sentries.

She was contemplating what she needed
most at the marketplace when a change overcame the citizens.
Agitation swept through the crowd and they hastened forward. She
had no choice but to match their pace, trying not to trip or fall.
Their voices grew louder, reaching high pitches of surprise and
awe. Then a devastating silence fell upon them.

A tall man clad in armor stepped into
view. His face and scalp were covered in black tattoos that
distinguished him from all others. A battalion of soldiers followed
in his step, traversing the plaza toward the ungodly garrison.
Instruments of war gleamed in their hands, especially polearms with
elaborate blades. They maintained an excellent formation, marching
in unison with each step, not once breaking their order. The rhythm
of war drums hypnotized the populace, holding timid men and women
in place. Several commoners looked too frightened to move.
Suddenly, Nishka realized why the people stopped and
stared.

Child soldiers followed the battalion
of men. They looked like smaller versions of adults, young boys and
girls outfitted for war. It was difficult for Nishka to process
what she was seeing.

A child no older than thirteen met
Nishka’s helpless gaze. The girl looked at her without emotion.
Nishka had seen that expression before—in Arxu’s eyes, except this
child’s feelings were not stripped away by her own death. She was a
shell of a girl, her fragile innocence shorn by war. And she looked
at Nishka as though she saw nothing, not even a person. The child
was enduring a slow decay, desperate to break free of politics, but
it had been the only way to feed her family. She felt no more than
a pawn in a patriarchal society obsessed with control.

But the world would continue to seat
these dictators on their elite thrones, and any rebellion would
only perpetuate the oppression their revolutionaries espoused to
end. The girl looked away and gripped the sword dangling at her
waist.

It broke Nishka’s heart to see the
child relinquish all hope of escape. The girl refused to believe
that she could forget what she had seen or done to
others.

Nishka backed away from the plaza as
she gazed at the procession. She would never make it through the
streets now. Mothers and fathers continued to stare in disbelief,
some of whom didn’t see their children return from the war
campaign.

Nishka slipped through people frozen
like statues. She wished she could forget what she had just
witnessed. Of all the war crimes Gaelithea had perpetrated, robbing
children of their youth and transforming them into killers was the
most appalling. At once, she remembered how desperately she wanted
to flee this city.

She would locate Arxu immediately and
beg to leave. No atrocity could compare to Gaelithea.

She tripped over Margzor and toppled to
the streets. Nishka cried out and staggered back to her
feet.

“I’m so sorry! Are you hurt?” Margzor
looked at her with shock. He reared up and twisted away, but the
agony crippled him. He collapsed to his knees in
surrender.

Nishka felt paralyzed. Margzor breathed
deeply and touched the wound at his side. Blood stained his
fingers. He lifted his face and looked into her eyes; blood flowed
freely like crimson tears streaking down his face.

“You’re wounded!” Nishka gasped. She
reached out for him but he recoiled like an animal. Margzor closed
his eyes as another spasm of pain lit a fire in his chest. Nishka
quickly tore at the hem of her shirt, collecting the cloth to clean
his wound. After all, her shirt was already stained with ale from
the tavern fight. Margzor’s eyes widened in fear as Nishka reached
for him.

The cloth pressed against his cheek
with soothing warmth. Margzor trembled at her touch. He was
stupefied that this woman did not fear him.

He didn’t know what to say. He could
only marvel at this woman who treated him with kindness. He gazed
at her compassionate face, her soft features accentuated by
beautiful eyes.

Margzor tried to focus on the woman,
but his reality was deteriorating. He felt too weak to maintain
control as if the world was stretching away. He tried to speak, to
utter his thanks, to say anything before she was gone forever. Fear
and tranquility washed over him. His senses died and he passed
out.

Nishka watched his consciousness slip
away as she set down the cloth. He breathed heavily, his chest
rising in its furious endeavors to maintain life. Nishka cast one
final look at the dying man sprawled in the alley, concerned for
him. She needed to inform a guard about the victim. She wandered
the streets, looking for one of the sentries who seemed everywhere
at once except for this dejected street.

Finally, she caught sight of an armored
figure standing at the crossroad. Nishka looked uncertainly at him.
He wore a black helmet that shielded his face from view.