Cameron Johnston - The Traitor God

A scream burst from my lips as I twisted my magic into a wind-wall and blasted him with every fragment of strength I could muster. A howling gale briefly tore at him, shedding droplets of filth like a stinking rain into the night air. The wind dwindled to nothing, the strain too much to continue. I sagged, and we stared at each other in silence for a long moment.

“That was all you had left?” he said. “One last, futile insult?” He laughed, wiping tears of blood from his eyes. “Shit, piss, blood, and soured wine. Ah, Walker, you always did amuse me. It must have been blind, idiot luck that you managed to kill Artha.”

He expanded in my mind, magical aura growing until it felt like he would crush me by weight of presence alone. He stepped forward and the crystal core of the Magash Mora shrieked and shattered, instantly overpowered. A hundred dead pieces tinkled across the floor. The warehouse plunged into a gloom filled with a roaring maelstrom of magic that tore at my Gift.

He grabbed for me and I jerked back. Clawed fingers tore a hunk of hair from my head, bringing tears to my eyes.

“Oh,” he said. “A magical adaption to sense air movement, most interesting. Very painful to have it ripped out I would imagine.” The Thief of Life shook his head with exaggerated sadness and tossed my hair aside. “You could have been so much more, little tyrant. You could have been so useful if you had not fled from me and destroyed what was mine.” He pointed a finger and I slammed face-first to the floor, crying out as a rib snapped, Dissever falling from my grasp. He tutted. “Pathetic. You have taken all the fun out of this, but perhaps I can find a use for you, once certain adjustments have been made. A shame it leaves the subjects somewhat devoid of imagination. For you, however, I would consider it an improvement.” He leaned down and briefly caressed my scarred cheek with a clawed hand. I winced as a nail gouged a bloody furrow. I heard a sucking of fingers. “Ah, a new flavour of mageblood. A little sour.”

I groaned, tried to rise, failed. “You expect me to serve a pathetic god slaved to his foul habit? You are a fool who allowed himself to become addicted to mageblood provided by a self-entitled arsehole of a blood-sorcerer.”

The weight pressing down on me doubled. Face-down, struggling to breathe, all I could see was a gory foot as he stroked my throat with long, gnarled toenails.

“I will become the sole God of Setharis, and of this world,” he said. “For too long have I been concerned with petty thoughts and limited creatures. And duty, always that dreary duty and the endless task of guarding this realm.”

He snarled, bloody saliva dripping onto my cheek, searing a trail across my lips. “You think me addicted to mageblood like that cretin Harailt? Your imagination is far too limited. I intend to give part of myself to every creature that crawls, swims and flies upon this world – a drop of blood swimming in the veins of all creatures, as it already does within my worshippers. All life will become one with me, and all its magic will flow into their One True God. There will be no more Gifted, there will only be Nathair.” His eyes burned with all-consuming lust for power. “I will ascend to a new existence beyond that of what you call a god, a great power able to extend my dominion across all realms near and far.”

“What of Derrish and Lady Night, the Lord of Bones or the Hooded God?” I groaned. “Won’t they stop you?” Keep him talking , something screamed inside me.

“The gods of Setharis are bound here by enchantments the likes of which you cannot conceive, and which no god can break. The Magash Mora, however, devours all magic.” He smirked. “I trapped them below the earth and sacrificed this city to free myself from the chains that bind them still, and I would do so ten times over if needs be. I no longer suckle at the same teat of power as those so-called gods, the very power that binds us to this place. Blood is a stronger source by far. The Scarrabus’ art of using mageblood to grow the Magash Mora showed me the path to true power.”

I shook my head, not understanding.

He sighed. “I always forget how ignorant you little creatures are. Have you never wondered why the soldiers of Setharis are called wardens? The title has meaning. The gods of Setharis suckle power from the fever dreams of the Imprisoned, that hoary old beast entombed in the heart of the Boneyards, kept slumbering for untold millennia by our constant effort. In ancient days when even the Scarrabus were young, the Imprisoned devoured entire realms, and would again were it to wake. I could not contest the gods of Setharis directly lest our battle wake the beast and doom us all.” He cackled. “No more, no more – let those foolish gaolers remain chained to their charge, tortured by the effort of keeping it dormant. Oh blood-blessed freedom, after all this time! Soon I will leave this decrepit city to travel the wide world, and then on to other realms. I will grow in power as worshippers flock to accept my blood, and then in time I shall return to devour those false gods and the ancient beast they guard.”

His eyes misted over. “Where shall I go first? What new lands shall I see?” Then he blinked and licked his lips, eyeing me hungrily. “First I must uncover those secrets squirreled away inside your head. You think them secure, but I will have them. Nothing can be hidden from me, not even by the power of false gods. The Arcanum cannot help you and your friends cannot save you. Submit!”

His eyes flared with power. Distilled agony shrieked through my body, pain that nothing living should ever feel. Bones cracked, flesh bulging grotesquely from my torso, organs moving and tearing. His thoughts crashed into me, impossible to resist for long. I screamed, pleading for him to stop.

A shadow flitted into view behind him. He saw it reflected in my eyes and a clawed hand stained with my excrement reached for whoever dared interfere.

A shadow cat tore it off at the elbow. The hulking black beast barrelled past, jaw chomping down on the still-moving hand covered with my scent. The god and I locked gazes for a drawn-out moment, realisation dawning at the same time. My piss, shite, and blood had been in those jars and I had blown a cloud of my scent and magic out into the city. At the moment he smelled more like me than I did.

Hissing filled the air as the rest of the pack slid from the gloom. Nathair growled and grew in height and bulk, defensive tentacles sprouting from his body as five more great daemonic felines leapt from the shadows, claws slashing. His remaining hand tore the face and jaw from one charging shadow cat. Tentacles wrapped around two more and lifted them struggling into the air. The faceless cat slammed into him like a charging horse, trampling him beneath clawed feet before crashing blindly into the wall. The two shadow cats still free of his grip pinned him down and began ripping huge chunks of blood and bone free. Their daemonic fangs and claws proved far more effective than Skallgrim axes.

The crushing weight lifted from my chest. I bit my lip bloody trying to keep the screams in, flailed for Dissever, found it and rolled away from danger. Dissever’s rage was the only thing keeping me conscious. I managed to wedge myself against the wall under a rack of shelves as blood and meat rained down all around me. The tentacles holding two shadow cats aloft contracted, snapping thigh-thick spines like dry twigs. Jets of black blood splattered the walls and steamed into dark mist.

A muffled screech to my left drew my eyes to where the first shadow cat had been eating the god’s hand. The severed limb had dug its way into the beast’s throat, gouging bloody holes as its huge head whipped from side to side trying to dislodge it. The faceless daemon spasmed on the ground nearby, spraying ichor as it busied itself with the task of dying.