The Undying God (39 page)

The cleric walked down the corridor,
not taking his eyes off the killer. He raised his hand to summon
the torrential wind again, or so Margzor thought. Instead, he
invoked something that aroused fear in Margzor. Flames writhed to
life in every brazier.

Ethan spotted several intricately
carved vessels of incense and sprang into action. Margzor dodged
the airborne missile, but he soon realized he was not its target.
Smoke and flame spewed in his face as the pot exploded inside a
brazier.

Margzor’s eyes burned and he choked for
breath. The suffocating fragrance made him gag. He staggered down
the hall toward another chamber thick with smog. His vision blurred
and he shut his eyes.

Tendrils of flame whipped his armor,
and he felt the shrapnel of another incense firepot pummel him.
Margzor almost vomited as he swayed from the nauseating fumes. He
felt a sedating weakness creeping through his mind.

Panic jolted through his brain as he
remembered the drowning and burning from his childhood. He focused
on his purpose,
on the anger
, in efforts to repel his fears.
He breathed deeply, inhaling the noxious miasma—and he
relaxed.

Margzor quieted his mind and tried to
sense his prey’s movements. The world around him gradually drifted
into focus. He could feel the heat of his prey, the warmth in his
breath. The stench of smoke wafted up his nose as he drifted toward
a flaming brazier.

Ever so slowly, he dipped his blade in
the glistening inferno. When he retracted his sword, the steel was
as red as an open wound. Margzor swerved toward his
assailant.

Ethan recoiled in shocking pain from
the hot sword. He clapped a hand over the wound on his arm. A split
second later, the scalding blade plunged into his chest. He gasped
for breath as his life faded. He did not regret his sacrifice, even
if it meant nothing in the end. A vision of Kayla briefly flashed
before his eyes.

Another thrust of the blade ended his
suffering.

Chapter 38

Arxu let the forest coax him far away.
The Nightwalker only knew he would arrive at his destination when
he felt it. For now, he was content to wander aimlessly as he so
often did throughout life.

In truth, he didn’t understand why he
felt this way. He had recovered so many emotions, but he still felt
hollow. A void lurked deep inside him, refusing to heal. Something
belonged there, but he couldn’t put a name to it.

Finding himself no longer able to
continue, his steps abated. With a sigh, Arxu rested on a nearby
log. The stars glistened above like a thousand fireflies in the
sky.

Arxu stared aimlessly, lost in the
abyss of his thoughts. Leaves whispered in the tree
boughs.

He wondered if he would ever find
something to fulfill him. Maybe withdrawal was just a natural
symptom of existence.

Someone stepped into the grove. Arxu’s
eyes opened and he looked on with surprise at Nishka. Her presence
was unexpected but not unwelcome. How did she ever manage to find
him?

She sidled next to him without a word.
Neither of them spoke, content to bask in the silence. The flora
seemed to glow a fluorescent blue. Arxu wondered if everything he
saw was an illusion and perhaps Nishka wasn’t even there. One look
into her striking eyes dispelled any doubt that she was
real.

Nishka’s voice rejoined the gentle
breeze, sounding softly.

“Can you feel this?”

He glanced at her, hardly in the mood
for jokes. To Arxu’s surprise, she leaned in near enough to eclipse
the forest from his view.

Her hands caressed his face and her
lips brushed against his. She kissed him softly, then harder. Arxu
retreated backward as he felt her arms around him. At first, he
stared at her in confusion.

As he opened his mouth to ask
something… anything, he looked upon Nishka as though he had never
seen her before. The most gentle expression reflected in her eyes.
Gradually, his eyes were opened to really see Nishka.

Arxu was drawn to the beauty of her
body, the gentle curves of her hips and her breasts. He could lose
himself in the depth and clarity of her sizzling eyes. The
excitement that rose within him as he gazed upon her was
undeniable.

She was beautiful, flaws and all. He
had been too blind to see Nishka as an amazing woman who cared
deeply about him.

Suddenly, he understood. He understood
her advances and, all at once, he was grateful to her for nurturing
him. All he wanted in that moment was to loosen the bindings on his
repressed feelings for her. He moved forward instead of
back.

Their lips found each other. He savored
the taste of her and her touch sent an electric current through
him. He ran his right hand through her hair. Her sensuous lips
pressed against his again and again to drink his soul through his
mouth. His other hand explored the rise and fall of her breasts and
the curves of her waist. She welcomed his touch and kissed him more
fiercely.

He crushed her body against his, as if
to absorb her into himself, and she responded with equal
desire.

* * *

Invictus’ eyes stared vacantly into
space, black pits that could no longer see. Margzor’s shadow glided
across his body as he approached the pool of water. However,
Invictus would not be alone in death. Ganelon and several priests
sprawled ornately across the chamber in vivid death poses. In the
end, Ganelon had become well acquainted with the hot, iron rod he
so cherished. He died knowing exactly how much pain he had
inflicted on innocent women whose only crimes were being
women.

Margzor’s passing seemed to defile the
life forms around him. The blood of his victims flowed through the
cracks in the tiles, gathering eerily in the pool.

He loitered at the precipitous edge,
watching tendrils of blood unravel in the water. The dark stain
expanded like an inkblot taking the sumptuous form of a
woman.

He wanted so dearly to see her again,
the woman who possessed his heart every day, every night. She was
not like other women; she was kind, concerned, and she
genuinely
cared about other people.

He would overcome any obstacle to love
her like no woman has ever been loved.

The image that met his eyes froze him
in place. Grief crashed over Margzor and his heart sank in his
chest. She lay in the embrace of another man. Her lips caressed his
passionately, lustfully, sensuously, her virtuous love offered to
this stranger.

She was happy.

So happy.

She kissed him with abandon, sharing an
intimate connection that Margzor’s heart could never have. She felt
beautiful in his arms.

Margzor gripped the hilt of his sword
until his knuckles glowed white. He wanted to throw himself into
the image and reach for her.

He had found the perfect woman, his
fantasy, only to learn that she had already invested her love and
affection with another human being. Hope cascaded away. Bitter
coldness seeped into his every pore, gnawing at the core of his
soul. He could do nothing but stare, as if to deny reality through
sheer willpower. Maybe he could convince himself it was an optical
illusion.

It was a lie, it could not be... He
reached for her, but she started to fade and become less real. The
image dissolved and became blood, the product of his hate and moral
failure.

His fantasies of love were
foolish.

Pain lanced through his head, building
in intensity. Nothing felt real anymore. The room swiveled
dangerously and he nearly collapsed to his knees. He weakly sank
against a wall and curled up in a fetal position. What had happened
to his love…?

He felt numb, so numb.
Comatose.

Finally, the emotions inside him could
no longer be repressed.

An agonized scream exploded from his
lips. Sheer hatred poured out in painful spasms. He screamed in
denial—and hatred for the happiness that had slipped
away.

Unobtainable love.

He lashed out at the nearest thing that
resembled a human. The dead victims became the objects of his
rage.

He collapsed to his knees and choked
for breath. His fingers could barely grip his sword anymore. Numb
with hate, he stared at the floor, at the dark blood so
artistically pooled around him.

When he regained control of himself, he
realized the most horrendous thing. He wanted...
to kill
her
. If he could not kiss her lips, look into her eyes, and
touch her with love, no one could. He trembled from the onslaught
of adrenaline. He could no longer contend with the insanity of the
heart.

Of all the emotions that could defeat
him, love had maimed his heart. Not even anger, sorrow, or the loss
of all hope could surpass this pain. He could not rally his rage to
scream yet again. He could not utter a sound.

He stormed out of the chamber. And he
left behind the man he could have been, along with the woman who
could have changed him.

Chapter 39

Nishka and Arxu kissed once more under
the shade of the forest. Encloaked in darkness, their secret
desires emerged one kiss at a time. Nishka’s hands voyaged across
him, her touch gently venturing inside his shirt. She murmured with
pleasure.

As he held her, his hand descended
along the curves of her hips.

Although she could not deny her
excitement, Nishka was unnerved by the thought of having sex. She
longed for that level of intimacy with Arxu, the opportunity to
reveal herself fully to him. She trusted him and she knew he shared
that trust. And yes, she wanted him to make love to her. Letting go
of her fears, she placed her hand over his, guiding his hand down
her navel.

Suddenly, a dark expression clouded
Arxu’s face.

“Something is wrong.”

“What?” She had waited for this moment
for so long and it seemed unfair that something would steal this
moment. Arxu looked toward the distant city. A dreadful feeling
crept up on him, as though someone was watching them.

“We must return to the city.”
Dumbfounded, Nishka let go of Arxu and followed him.

“What is it?” Arxu didn’t answer. There
was no sign of guards at the city gates as they approached. Their
absence didn’t bode well. Arxu slipped through the gates with
Nishka, his head spinning in search of guards. Cries of terror
sounded in the distance.

“What’s happening?” Nishka
breathed.

“Just stay close.” They carved their
way through the plaza. Voices swelled with screams and silhouettes
swarmed in the distance. One of those figures ran toward Arxu with
a sword in its hand.

“The temple was massacred!” Hrioshango
announced as he came to a stop.

“What?”

“Yes, and the killer has
escaped!”

“Damn it!” said Nishka. “Why don’t the
cities warn each other about the massacres? If they did, this could
have been avoided! They need to send word to Praemenon!”

“They won’t,” Arxu replied. “We must
hurry to the republic. There’s no time to waste!”

Hrioshango couldn’t agree more. The
bounty on his head had increased tenfold with every looting and
assault he perpetrated that day.

Arxu and Nishka rushed to the inn to
gather their belongings. They could still hear the screams of
families who lost loved ones in the temple. Guards kicked in doors
at multiple houses, searching for any sign of the killer. Nishka
quickly donned her breastplate as Arxu organized their inventory.
They knew their time was running out.

Outside, Hrioshango anxiously fidgeted
with his hands. He believed he was prepared to face Margzor. The
only matter left unresolved was how he would deal with Arxu and
Nishka. His hand unconsciously rested on the handle of his
sword.

He would almost feel guilty killing
them. Almost.

In time, his friends would be replaced
by human servants—enslaved like his darkling brethren. He was quite
fond of the irony.

Hrioshango had spent the week exploring
every possibility to destroy a demigod. Despite his preparations,
he was not sure he could slay Margzor. He heard the accounts of
carnage in the temples and he saw the evidence for himself tonight.
It would be unwise to underestimate this madman.

He jerked in surprise as the door to
the inn burst open. Nishka walked into the streets and Arxu
followed with his staff clutched in his hand. Hrioshango smiled
innocently at his companions.

“After you,” he smiled, motioning
toward the gates. “My friends.”

* * *

Morning cast its sickly, yellow sheen
across the ruins. Arches as pale as bone stretched toward the sky
like ivory tusks. A haunting atmosphere of loss added the finishing
touches to the quiet valley of dead dreams.

The sunlight seemed unwilling to touch
this land. The shadows did not obscure the underlying beauty,
however. There was beauty in its loss, as if such desolation begged
to reveal what it could have been.