False Gods Read online

  Jarod curled into a tight ball and tried to protect himself with his arms—his tears mixing with the blood streaming down his battered face, his nose shattered and twisted at an odd angle.

  A giant of a man with long black hair and piercing blue eyes grabbed the two attackers by the collar of their shirts, throwing them to either side of the helpless man. He stood over Jarod, glaring at the other two, demanding answers. “What in the name of all that’s good is goin’ on here?”

  The fountain was typically crowded with people, and today was no different. Men surrounded the brawl, shouting encouragement or derision, eager for tales for their next trip to the saloon. Women hid their faces and whispered to each other. Children were pulled behind mothers, hands held over small ears and eyes, protecting them from the carnage.

  “So, let’s have it!” The big man wasn’t satisfied with the attacker’s silence. “What on Erador is all this?”

  The taller man was the first to regain his composure. The shorter man lay in the dirt where he’d fallen, glaring at Jarod, bleeding and broken on the ground ten feet away.

  “He said our Lord Kavan was a False God!” The taller man said, pointing at Jarod.

  The big man chuckled. Several people in the crowd hissed, and several others laughed—a few made no sound at all, but hate poured from their eyes: some for the broken-bleeding man—some for the other two. Hushed whispers passed through the throng. Mothers grabbed their children, herding them away.

  “So... this is about whose God is the real God?” The voice came from the edge of the crowd. Everyone turned. A tall thin man with a long flowing gray beard, dressed in red robes, pushed his way through the masses. Approaching the big man, he made a sign in the air with one slender finger, thin trails of red fire carving a shining rune in space before him.

  The stone in the circlet on his forehead glowed with a crimson light. He raised the staff in his left hand and brought the end down against the earth with a resounding thud, shaking the ground beneath the gathered crowd. Sparks of red and amber erupted from the base of the staff. The big man staggered back several feet, leaving the injured Jarod undefended on the ground.

  “I am a Herald of the God Zaril, and this man has been wronged!” His voice had changed: it sounded like the earth grating against itself—like a volcano erupting. The light surrounding the fountain dimmed as dense clouds passed overhead, streaks of blue lightning crawling across their gray faces. Thunder echoed in the distance.

  The crowd fled—thirty people running in as many directions. Screams of women mixed with the cursing of men—some were too afraid to move and became witness to the slaughter.

  The Herald raised the staff above his head, turning toward the two assailants—they tried to run. Both ends of the staff glowed a hot red, and flame burst forth: two beams of searing fire, consuming the pair before they could move. Engulfed in flames, screaming in agony, they died where they stood, charred beyond recognition. Two blackened stumps remained, the bittersweet smell of charred flesh mixing with those of sweat and fear.

  The big man grabbed the Herald by the neck, one massive arm lifting him from the ground—his fingers tightened around the Sorcerer’s throat, choking the life from him. The Herald spun the staff around, striking him on the side of the head. He lost his grip long enough for his victim to fall to the ground, choking, trying to catch his breath.

  The big man pulled his broadsword free—fire from the staff reflecting in his eyes. The blade made an evil-sounding hiss as it cleared the leather scabbard. The Sorcerer regained his feet, raising the staff, muttering something in the Cirrian speech, when the broadsword blade entered his neck from the left side. Blood erupted, showering the ground around them as the severed head flew into the air, propelled by the force of the blow. The lifeless body fell like a sack on the ground, twitching and writhing in the throes of death.

  The big man reached down, wiping the crimson stain from his blade on the red robe of the dead Adept—the cloth turned a deep black. He looked at the head, the lips still moved, mouthing whatever spell had almost been cast. He sheathed the sword and picked up the staff, snapping it across his left knee—he tossed the two halves into the dirt.

  The remaining crowd milled about, like sheep in a thunderstorm. One man, a short blond fellow who’d seen the whole thing walked over, curiosity conquering fear.

  “Tell me, friend… w-what is your name?” he stammered.

  The big man looked at him, gave a curt nod, and walked away. Ten yards passed when he pivoted and stared at the blond stranger. He walked back and placed his right hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “Do you believe in these... Gods?” His voice was deep but melodious.

  The blond man looked into the big man’s eyes—all he saw was pain. “Not after what I saw you do.”

  ***

  “This Senate meeting will come to order!” The scribe took her seat.

  Corian Dinatos eased himself up and strolled onto the floor of the Senate chamber. He had his hands in his pockets, Alisha noticed, she wondered why it would register with her.

  “My good Senators and citizens, tonight is a historic night for Erador...”

  Corian would ramble on for several minutes. She glanced to her right where Garrian and Eustas sat—they looked as anxious as she felt. She’d never been this close to the Senate floor, had never wanted to be.

  I can’t believe this is happening, am I losing my mind? I’m not ready for this… What was it Eustas said at the kitchen table?

  “I don’t understand.” Her brow wrinkled as she stared at him. “What’s the real reason behind having this council? Why is it necessary?”

  The fire from the kitchen hearth crackled and spit, a single glowing ember escaped the inferno, finding a spot to cool and die on the brick below—it hissed with relief, the torture over.

  Eustas smiled and leaned back. “You realize, if we’re successful, your actions will probably not ingratiate you with their followers…”

  “You mean they might want revenge?” Alisha sipped her kaffa, a distant look on her face.

  “People have died for less... Let’s make sure our cause is legitimate. We have the people’s best interest at heart, don’t we?” His wink made her smile, at first… “And if they agree now, they can hardly back out later…”

  “Isn’t this sanctioned murder?” she asked.

  “Murder is such a nasty word.” He drained his cup and stood. “Let’s stop saying it.”

  “... and so, I ask you to welcome, Councilor-General Eustas Callus!” Corian sat down; his eyes were furtive.

  Eustas stood and took his place. She admired his stoic demeanor. He circled the floor, casting glances toward the seated Senators, judging their acquiescence before he spoke. Eustas was a consummate politician—he was a better warrior. They were starting a war, so that was good.

  The white plasma lamps circling the Senate chambers flashed on the rows of medals adorning Eustas’ chest. His knee-high leather boots gleamed. Epaulets with gold braided rope hung from each shoulder, accenting the dark blue of the dress uniform. Gray streaks along his temples and down the center of his close-cropped beard gave him an air of authority. His presence was commanding.

  Besides Corian and Eustas, there were three other High Council members. Thaddeus Thalos sat across from them, flanked by his oldest son, Rodrik, and his daughter, Cerene—all three watched Eustas as he circled the Senate floor. Riven Marlock and his wife, Justia, were whispering to each other; occasionally, they would laugh. Jos Riner was absent, but his wife, Merdith, sat staring into the crowd with apparent disdain.

  Eustas’ booming voice broke the silence. “We have a problem,” he said. “There’s no spiritual leadership on Erador, since the departure of the Adeptus Order to Cirrus.”

  A soft murmur of agreement rose and then fell away. Senators exchanged whispers, and many heads nodded. When the mild furor subsided, Eustas continued, clasping his hands behind his back in a military posture.

>   “We’ve become three worlds, fighting against a fourth, and although we’re all Eradorians at our core, we’ve lost much of our diversity. Our mystics moved to Cirrus, and most of our soldiers now live on Minos, while our scientists remain here on Erador. Although we’re free to choose our paths, and our homeworld, this division has segregated our resources.”

  Eustas paused, judging the Senators’ acceptance; Alisha followed his gaze, she saw no outright opposition in the assembled faces, although several appeared to be daydreaming.

  “The High Council has determined we must address this issue, and we’ve decided on the means to do so.” Eustas glanced at Alisha; she saw a hint of indecision; her smile made him press on. “We bring this before you Senators tonight for your support. We hope you see things as we do.”

  One Senator from Erador Prime stood—he was an old man, with a wise face. His eyes were kind but cautious, and he was experienced at politics. Alisha smiled. Eustas said this would happen.

  “So, are we to assume this is a formality, and the Council has already made the decision it requires?” He held his arms across his chest, nodding to himself, confident his answer was correct.

  “Not at all.” Eustas turned to face him, his smile disarming. “This is open for debate—but allow me to propose the idea first, please, before you take issue with it.”

  The old man sat, but he kept his arms crossed. The seated Senators congratulated him, their hands slapped his shoulders, proclaiming their solidarity. Eustas turned away from him. Alisha saw the move for what it was—a dismissal. She watched her father-in-law breathe, walking in a tight circle, aiming his attention at a different section of the assembly.

  “As I said, we need spiritual leadership. There’s one person amongst us who is qualified to provide it, but we shouldn’t expect one person to shoulder the burden. The Council believes we should institute a separate body, charged with shaping Erador’s faith and beliefs. There are four Gods whose doctrines seem at odds. This causes untold hardship. I’m sure everyone here would agree.”

  The old Senator nodded, uncrossed his arms, and leaned forward. Alisha noticed most of the others mirror his actions. Eustas pressed his advantage.

  “We ask for the formation of a Luminary Council, without the supervision of the High Council, or the Senate. This Council will act on its own accord and will not be a government body—it will answer only to its leader, and its sole purpose will be Erador’s spiritual future.”

  Silence—almost deafening.

  Alisha looked around. The Senators were all still leaning forward; most of their mouths hung open, unsure what to say.

  The old man’s eyes turned to slits as he stood. His bony knuckles white as he grasped the seat-back in front of him.

  “So, this is strictly a religious body?” he asked, suspicion in his voice. “They’ll have no say in governmental matters, no power to enforce policy?”

  Eustas turned again, locking eyes with the older man.

  Alisha knew if he could pacify this leader, then the others would follow. She held her breath, fingers crossed.

  “Absolutely not. The directive of the Luminary Council is the furtherance of Erador’s spiritual beliefs and incorporating all the Gods’ doctrines into a functional system that leaves no one behind.” Eustas smiled. He looked satisfied.

  The old Senator judged the faces of his peers. They all looked to him, waiting for his decision.

  “Well, I see no problem, and I think everyone else will agree with me, but who is this person you think is qualified to lead our people into the spiritual future?” the senator asked. “The Adeptus Order, as you say, moved off-world to Cirrus.”

  Alisha knew this was her cue. She’d sat with Eustas at their dining table, discussing how the meeting would play out. Garrian came around eventually—even joined in the strategy. She knew her husband was opposed, but only because of the danger to her, not for lack of certainty about the need for action.

  Alisha stood and smoothed the folds of the blue robe she wore. All eyes focused on her as she strode to the center of the floor. She tried to imagine standing on a broad hilltop, clouds circling overhead, calm wind on her face—it didn’t help. She took Eustas’ hand and raised her head to address the gathering. “My name is Alisha Callus, and I am an Adeptus Supreme.” Her voice never faltered. “What Eustas says is true: we haven’t all left for Cirrus. I am here to serve you as a guide if you’ll have me.”

  Whispers of Adeptus Supreme and Sorceress flowed among the Senators; glances were shared, eyes locked in disbelief. Several seconds passed, interrupted by a soft voice from the back row.

  “Why should we place our faith in a woman who wouldn’t honor her vow?” A small woman with black hair and pale green eyes, dressed in the silver-gray robe of an adept, carrying a wooden staff with a solid gold headpiece, descended the stairs toward the gallery floor. She moved like water flowing over stone—graceful, but purposeful, her eyes fixed on Alisha. “What faith can we place behind a woman who abandoned her order?” She stopped at the edge of the floor, driving the end of her staff into the wood planks. “Cenae enforus!”

  The force of the blow echoed from the walls of the chamber. Blue-lightning crawled across the floorboards, crackling and hissing, reaching out. Alisha waived her right hand in the air, silver fire burned at her fingertips, her eyes intent on the younger girl. She snapped her fingers, almost like an afterthought.

  The lightning disappeared with a loud pop! An acrid smell of spent magic floated on the still air. The small Sorceress gasped, bowing toward Alisha. She knelt, laying her staff upon the floor, her head down. The Senators were beside themselves in awe.

  “Who are you?” Alisha demanded. She moved toward the woman, making small protective sigils in the air with her fingers, her eyes on fire with silver light. The folds of her cerulean robe filled with the glow of Orphic energy drawn from the ether. She resonated power. “What do you want?”

  The Sorceress raised her head, grabbed her staff with both hands, and offered it to Alisha in defeat. Her eyes were fearful, looking into the face of the Adeptus—her body shook, hands trembling.

  “I was told you were a fake,” the young woman murmured, looking past her at Eustas. “I can see my error; please forgive me, Adeptus…”

  Alisha spun around to look at Eustas. The cold gleam in his eye and the corner of his mouth told her what she needed to know.

  He turned from her and addressed the assemblage. “Who can doubt this Adeptus Supreme is our rightful spiritual leader?”

  Murmurs became shouts, and shouts became cheers. The old Senator from Erador Prime shook Alisha’s hand. They milled around her, crowding the center of the floor, threatening to overwhelm her. A steady hand grabbed her left wrist, and she followed—out the door of the Senate chamber into the street, oblivious to her destination. She looked up at her escort, he was a huge man, with long jet-black hair and a kind face—a large broadsword strapped across his back in the warrior fashion.

  “Who are you?” She recoiled, pulling against his grip. “Where are you taking me, and where is my husband?”

  “My name is Dalo Karran, Sorceress.” The big man bowed toward her. “I am your protector, at Eustas’ request. No harm will come to you as long as my heart beats—I swear it.”

  His eyes were full of pain, but she could see a gentle calm there. He seemed familiar, and she couldn’t say why, but she trusted him without question. She let him lead, unafraid, down the dimly lit streets into the darkness beyond.

  ***

  Kavan was vexed.

  He sat by the spirit-pool. The deep pool cast no reflections, absorbing the surrounding light; the glow from the plasma lamps mounted on the walls bent toward the inky surface. The hard floor and walls of the cave were slick, the moisture pervasive. Kavan stared into the pool long after the images had faded. Punching a button on the console by the pool produced a short capsule-shaped object—he slid it into the pocket of his robe.

  He rose and
walked toward the vast cavern he called home. The images played through his memory: a blue-robed woman with silver eyes, the older soldier, and the big warrior with the Draggon-crested sword. They shared a secret—it concerned him, he knew, but he couldn’t discern the reason—couldn’t see their thoughts. Something was blocking his vision.

  Perhaps the woman?

  Kavan sensed the Orphic energy discharge; it was far greater than some minor adept wielding a staff or casting a healing spell. The level of energy he and the others could control—it required a deep knowledge, a natural affinity. At first, he believed it was one of them, but the sensation was different, he knew how their power felt. The pool showed him the truth. Something was wrong, and it bothered him.

  The furnishings in his cavern were the finest available on Erador, all supplied by his followers. His black eyes took in the room. Gold and silver. Beautiful woods and cloth. He kept trying to give it back—trying to help those in need, but they only brought more.

  The time was close for his adoration ceremony—followers would gather at the temple, forming the mouth of the grotto. Changing his robe for a more formal vestment, he headed up the central passage.

  The cave looked out upon a lush valley with a river winding through it—mountains lined both sides, some high enough to keep the snow from melting. He’d chosen this spot for its beauty, its solitude—it had lost part of that when his followers built the temple, but it was convenient, they came to him now. Columns and stonework cut from the sides of the mountain formed a circle with a large stone altar in the center. A stone path—smooth river rocks carved by water—led from the altar to the cave. Vines grew around the columns and covered the arches. Trees took root within the circle—his followers wanted to cut them down, but he’d stopped them—it was beautiful.