That was his major problem, and the source of his discontent. The power of the dying gods was absorbed by the closest survivors in varying degrees according to their proximity. Others, like the Gorgon and the Raven and the Hydra, had been closer and absorbed more of Azrai’s power. Czrak and others got only the leavings: enough to grant lengthened lives, perhaps even immortality, and the ability to use some of the god’s powers. This dubious blessing also twisted them into grotesque parodies of mortal beings.
No mortal frame could hold the power of a god. It was ironic that the followers of Azrai, who received the power, found themselves transformed into grotesque shapes. Some, like Czrak, had even chosen their miserable states. In their need physically to accommodate their new abilities, they had changed themselves.
At first Czrak had reveled in his powers, and his appetite for more was insatiable. He had discovered bloodtheft, the absorption of the abilities of people he destroyed. Several of the other Revemirovs had been close, and they were the first to enhance his strength. Only a few escaped him, and they were saved because he suddenly discovered he was also in danger of being destroyed. Those who had been closer to the mountain and absorbed more power than he were also in search of added strength. Like himself, they had discovered that minute amounts of power could be had from the common people, but the real power was in those who had absorbed it directly from the gods.
The power gained from bloodtheft could be acquired in a number of ways. For the awnshegh, inhaling the departing spirit was enough. Czrak had a taste for blood and flesh, as did many of his kind, but that was a personal preference. When two mortal members of the ruling bloodlines fought to the death, the winner absorbed part of the loser’s power. Anyone, ruler or commoner, and a being from any race could take a larger portion of his victim’s strength if he used a weapon made of tighmaevril. Luckily there were only a dozen such weapons in existence and the secret of their making had been lost.
Even with a blade of tighmaevril, or bloodsilver, few humans desired to go up against an awnshegh. Instead, they hunted and killed each other to increase their own strength.
Czrak spent many years running, hiding, sneaking out to ravage where he could, and slinking away again. Then he came to the swamps in northeast Elinie. More years passed as he concealed himself under the primeval ooze. When he could stand it no longer, he emerged with a raging appetite and ravaged the surrounding countryside.
As time passed and his body felt as if it would burst with the power he held, he allowed his shape to expand. He took to himself the additional long legs and wide, splayed feet of the small water spiders that could travel easily over the surface of the mud and water. He noticed the soft bodies of the ooze slugs that bonelessly slid over any obstacle in their way and took that ability also. By the time he discovered the mockery he had made of himself, not even his power could change him back again.
After a century in the swamps of Elinie, his appetite had worked to his disadvantage. No human who saw him lived to spread the tale of the awnshegh in the bog, but since none returned from their expeditions, fewer and fewer braved the damp region in search of swamp-cat pelts or the meat of the large amphibians that were considered a delicacy in Elinie.
For more than four hundred years, Czrak had not allowed any intelligent creature to see him and live. His main fear was that the knowledge of his existence and his whereabouts would reach the Gorgon, the Hydra, or the Raven.
Czrak divided his time between feeding and the satisfaction it brought him, and his usual mood of malice and discontent. For two days after eating the elf, he wallowed in contentment. Then he felt that strange pull again.
Something tugged at him; he had experienced it before, but never so strongly. An undefined yearning, stronger than mere physical appetite, made him restless. He knew its origin but not what caused it.
It came from that other plane, the Shadow World. His power gave him the sense of its presence. It was all around him, but not reachable except in those special places where the divisional fabric was weak and occasionally gave way. He always knew when one of the portals had opened, but by the time he had sensed the source, it always closed again. Such portals were rare, and seldom appeared in the same place twice. Still, several times he had felt the pull from the western arm of Sielwode, each time from the same place.
He writhed in the mud of the swamp, his whole being drawn to that portal. The pull became stronger, and he slithered to the west, compelled almost against his will.
After a few minutes, the compulsion ceased. He gave a sigh, a combination of relief and frustration. The portal had closed.
The portal had closed, but a power from the Shadow World remained in Sielwode! He could sense it: a sharp, turbulent potential just waiting to be possessed and used; the mighty weapon of some powerful being from that other world.
He slowly heightened his senses, searching for the minds of other awnshegh. It was a risk he seldom took, knowing if he sought them out, they might also sense him. But he found no other god-strengthened minds turned in his direction or toward the artifact that had been left in Sielwode.
He alone knew of it!
He must have it! The force he sensed would not quite put him on an equal footing with the Gorgon or the Hydra. But with it he could overcome some lesser awnshegh, and with their added strength, he might take on the Raven. Then he could become the most powerful awnshegh on Aebrynis!
He would be a god!
But how could he get it?
A distance of only forty miles separated him from godhood, but it might as well have been ten thousand. If he were a true slug, he could glide over the ground, or as a true spider he could have walked, but he was neither.
The journey would be slow and painful. If he were seen by the elves of Sielwode or the humans of Elinie, word would spread. He might be destroyed by a more powerful awnshegh before he reached his destination.
Minions.
Gods had minions—he should have servants.
He twitched in dissatisfaction. He should not have killed the elf. The creature would have served him better as a slave, drawing others to his service.
Never mind; he would find others. Humans would do—or goblins, gnolls. Even orogs would serve if any came up into the daylight near the swamp. Yes, he would take any and all servants that came his way. A god should not limit himself to a single race.
When he was a god …
What was he saying? His power was from Azrai, so he was already a god. All he had to do was take advantage of it.
He raised his misshapen head and roared, “I am a god!”
His voice was disappointingly weak and shallow. He would work on his voice—a god should have good volume. In the meantime, he would search the edges of the swamp. It had been half a century since he had traveled the borders of his domain.
Perhaps the humans had started again to hunt the fringes of the wetlands for swamp-cat pelts.
Six
Gerbid, the leader of a band of four gnolls, paused and wrinkled his hyenalike snout, testing the air; perhaps the humans had given up the chase. If he had known there were so many of them and they were so bad tempered, he would have looked for a quieter place to raid.
He had thought the freestead was deserted. No one seemed to be around. The four gnolls had been so anxious to raid the house, they neglected to check the outbuildings.
The two axes they had found made good weapons for Ruflik and Fadaarg, maybe better than Gerbid’s old, rusting sword. He had been delighted with the small cooking pot. It fitted loosely on his head, but with a bit of fur tucked inside and a thong tied to the handles and under his chin he would have a helmet as good as any human or elven warrior.