Cameron Johnston - The Traitor God

“You deluded bastard,” I said to Harailt. “You have no idea, do you?”

That stung him. “What do you mean?”

“It’s not yours anymore.”

He didn’t get it.

I helpfully clarified the situation: “Your god no longer needs you, you blind, bloody fool.”

It took a second for realisation to sink in. His eyes widened. “No. We three have an alliance. The Scarrabus and I spent years preparing for the cleansing and rebirth of Setharis. You promised that we would rule together, and you–” His eyes bulged as blood welled up over his bottom lip. “Please, no, I promise to lead the Arcanum in your name – for your glory! Please, my god, don’t you betray me too.” His voice cut off in a gurgle as his belly swelled, split, and then tore wide open.

Flesh burst in a welter of blood and from his insides a god came forth. My guts churned and my Gift burned as if I stood too close to an inferno. I’d boasted that I would kill this ? What hubris. It sloughed off Harailt’s meat suit to reveal a male figure covered head to toe in glistening blood and slime, hairless and horrible. Harailt was left a boneless, bubbling, shivering mound of discarded flesh, and yet somehow still alive. It seemed that a god’s blood and power coursing through your body for so long made you hard to kill, the Worm of Magic reluctant to let go of such a desirable host. Harailt’s one remaining eye looked up at me in agony and horror.

I recognized this god and shuddered. It was something ancient, more potent by far than any poxy hooded upstart. This was my patron deity, Nathair, the Thief of Life. He was physically unimpressive: short of height and hairless, features obscured by gore, but his sheer presence struck me like a brick to the face. My legs trembled, threatening to give way and fall to my knees before him. The Skallgrim were similarly struck, swaying in silent shock. The god stank of mageblood and corrupt blood sorcery and I sensed the magic of countless Gifted churning inside him, a deluge of different flavours. Their Gifts and blood had granted power to the Magash Mora and Nathair seemed to have learned to copy that. My god was now a damned mageblood addict.

He bent down and tore a pale creature the size of my fist free of Harailt’s exposed spine. It resembled a segmented beetle with too many legs and dozens of translucent threads instead of mandibles. It squirmed in his hand, frantic squeals hurting my head. “It would seem I am surrounded by tyrants this day. One of the mind–” he winked at me “–and this so-called ‘lord of flesh’ the ravak daemon spoke of. Pah.”

The gory figure tutted at Harailt’s remains. “Are you even aware how much this wretched parasite manipulated your feeble mind? I suppose not, it is their speciality. They certainly managed to enslave the Skallgrim tribal leaders with ease.”

His hand clenched and the squirming beetle-thing crunched and burst into flame. Then the god turned to me. “Greetings, Edrin Walker. You are more resourceful than I had given you credit for, a veritable pain, in truth.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, staring at him in horror. “What… what was that thing?”

Nathair cackled. “The creatures call themselves Scarrabus, an ancient and forgotten power waxing strong for the first time in millennia. The monsters hinted at in your oldest children’s tales have awoken and they are returning to rule the fearful human masses they left to run free so very long ago. Did you really believe those Skallgrim savages could organize and wield such potent magics on their own? They were useful to me for a time. No longer.”

I swallowed and stared him down. “And you, what is it you want?”

His mind probed my own, crude battering rams slamming into my defences, cracking them. I would not be able to keep him out for long. He pursed red lips, peeved I dared resist. “The Far Realms align in grand conjunction, allowing old powers to awaken and new powers to rise. Two hundred years ago a partial conjunction and the Arcanum’s arrogance led to the Daemonwar. This is an age of change that enables me to break free of the chains that bind me to this damned city. This is the dawn of Nathair’s dominion. Exciting times, no? Let us discuss the use of that lovely crystal after I have had a little snack.”

He turned to the Skallgrim and his jaw cracked open to reveal serrated fangs and a forked tongue. The Skallgrim captain and his men – brave bastards all – attacked instead of fleeing. They chose poorly. Before their next breath he was on them. The Gifted captain was fast, the god faster – he plunged a hand through the captain’s breastplate and tore the beating heart from his chest.

Nathair bit into the twitching organ with relish, slurping down Gifted blood while the wolf-ship raiders set about him with axes. He didn’t even notice their blows, his flesh healing as soon as it was cut. The poor fools didn’t have any idea that they were already dead.

A second Scarrabus parasite squirmed from the hole in the dead’s captain’s chest. Its pale and writhing head turned towards me.

I picked up the crystal and fled while the god was busy feasting. I had many failings, but not knowing when to run away wasn’t one of them. My god was ratshit insane.

The door to Lynas’ warehouse dangled half off its hinges. A looter had taken an axe to it judging by the great gouges in the oak and the blackened corpse sprawled outside that was welded to a stick topped by a blob of deformed metal. It was no great loss to the world – only a fool would take an axe to something protected by big glowing Arcanum wards.

I stepped over the lump of stupid meat and bone and made my way over to the window, hauling my leaden body up and through, smearing a trail of blood across the wall. I dropped the murmuring crystal core of the Magash Mora, denting the floorboards, and slumped down into the regal comfort of the Esbanian merchant chair, desperately trying to think of any way to get out of this mess.

Harailt was dead – if he was lucky – but that didn’t let Nathair off the hook. That traitor needed to burn, but how was I supposed to kill a sodding god? I’d done so once before, and as I scrabbled frantically at the locked doors in my mind a snatch of ethereal music whispered through my memory. I doubled over, vomiting and gasping as agony exploded in my skull. The seals were weakening but there was not enough time to pry them loose. I couldn’t hope to face Nathair head-on, but even if I could come up with something desperate and sneaky enough to have a hope of thwarting him, he would rip that plan from my mind and body before I ever succeeded. Fuck fuck shitting fuck. There was no way to hide it from him.

Destroying the Magash Mora was more important than revenge for Lynas; whatever else happened, that thing could not be allowed to live again. My nails dug into the smooth curved armrest. An idea began to coalesce. I knew what had to be done, and what I’d need to sacrifice to do it. I could never tell him anything about a plan if I physically burned out that part of my brain afterwards. I swallowed my bile and did not hesitate.

What was I doing? My head hurt like I’d been stabbed with a spear. Why was I standing in the middle of the room facing the back wall where a majestic tapestry of gold and red hung? My left hand twitched and trembled and I seemed unable to stop it. The regal merchant chair had been dragged from its corner to the centre of that wall, and behind it the foreign king’s woven image bestowed his blessings. It looked like a seat for an arrogant prick. Was I giving Nathair a damned throne to sit and gloat on while I grovelled at his feet and begged for mercy? No, that wasn’t my style.