That sepulchral wail was dwindling now, but it would rise again, he knew, with the next breath. Midnight in the tavern, the foul nectar was drunk down, and the god in terrible pain was summoned — the gate to his tormented soul forced open. Fed by immortal pain, the prostrate worshippers spasmed in ecstasy — he could see their blackened mouths, the writhing black tongues, the eyes in their smudge-pits; he could see that old man with the smashed nose and the broken fingers-
And Clip remained inside. Witness to the madness, to its twisted face, and when the eyes opened and fixed on his own-
‘Hurry,’ groaned Nimander as he came up against Skintick, but as he moved past his cousin reached out and grasped hold of his tunic, drawing Nimander to a halt.
They were at the edge of a field.
Before them, in the cold silver light, the rows of scarecrows were all in motion, limbs writhing like gauze-wrapped serpents or blind worms. Black blood was streaming down the flowers of the horrid plants had opened, exuding clouds of pollen that flashed like phosphorescence, riding the currents of night air.
And Nimander wanted to rush into that field, into the midst of the crucified victims. He wanted to taste that pollen on his tongue, on the back of his throat. He wanted to dance in the god’s pain.
Skintick, weeping, was dragging him back — though it seemed he was fighting his own battle, so taut were his muscles, so contradictory their efforts that they fell against one another. On to the ground.
Clawing on their bellies now, back down the dirt track.
The pollen — the pollen is in the air. We have breathed it, and now — gods below — now we hunger for more.
Another terrible shriek, the voice a physical thing, trying to climb into the sky — but there was nothing to grasp, no handholds, no footholds, and so it shot out to the sides, closing icy cold grips upon throats. And a voice, screaming into their faces.
You dance! You drink deep my agony! What manner of vermin are you? Cease! Leave me! Release me!
A thousand footsteps charging through Nimander’s brain, dancers unending, unable to stop even had they wanted to, which they did not, no, let it go on, and on — gods, for ever!
There, in the trap of his mind, he saw the old man and his blood- and nectar-smeared face, saw the joy in the eyes, saw the suppleness of his limbs, his straightened back — every crippling knob and protuberance gone. Tumours vanished. He danced in the crowd, one with all the others, exalted and lost in that exaltation.
Nimander realized that he and Skintick had reached the main street. As the god’s second cry died away, some sanity crept back into his mind. He pushed himself on to his feet, dragging Skintick up with him. Together, they ran, staggering, headlong for the inn — did salvation beckon? Or had Nenanda and the others fallen as well? Were they now dancing in the fields, selves torn away, flung into that black, turgid river?
A third cry, yet more powerful, more demanding.
Nimander fell, pulled down by Skintick’s weight. Too late — they would turn about, rise, set out for the field — the pain held him in its deadly, delicious embrace — too late, now-
He heard the inn’s door slam open behind them.
Then Aranatha was there, blank-eyed, dark skin almost blue, reaching down to grasp them both by their cloaks. The strength she kept hidden was unveiled suddenly, and they were being dragged towards the door — where more hands took them, tugged them inside-
And all at once the compulsion vanished.
Gasping, Nimander found himself lying on his back, staring up at Kedeviss’s face, wondering at her calculating, thoughtful expression.
A cough from Skintick at his side. ‘Mother Dark save us!’
‘Not her,’ said Kedeviss. ‘Just Aranatha.’
Aranatha, who flinches at shadows, ducks beneath the cry of a hunting hawk. She hides her other self behind a wall no power can surmount. Hides it. Until it’s needed.
Yes, he could feel her now, an emanation of will filling the entire chamber. Assailed, but holding. As it would.
As it must.
Another cough from Skintick. ‘Oh, dear. .’
And Nimander understood. Clip was out there. Clip, face to face with the Dying God. Unprotected.
Mortal Sword of Darkness. Is that protection enough?
But he feared it was not. Feared it, because he did not believe Clip was the Mortal Sword of anything. He faced Skintick. ‘What do we do?’
‘I don’t know. He may already be. . lost.’
Nimander glanced over at Aranatha. ‘Can we make it to the tavern?’
She shook her head.
‘We should never have left him,’ announced Nenanda.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ Kedeviss snapped.
Skintick still sat on the floor, clawing periodically at his face, wracked with shivers. ‘What manner of sorcery afflicts this place? How can a god’s blood do this?’
Nimander shook his head. ‘I have never heard of anything like what is happening here, Skintick. The Dying God. It bleeds poison.’ He struggled to keep from weeping. Everything seemed stretched thin, moments from tearing to pieces, a reality all at once in tatters, whipped away on mad winds.
Skintick’s sigh was ragged. ‘Poison. Then why do I thirst for more?’
There was no answer for that. Is this a truth made manifest? Do we all feed on the pain of others? Do we laugh and dance upon suffering, simply because it is not our own? Can such a thing become addictive? An insatiable need?
All at once the distant moaning changed pitch, became screams. Terrible, raw — the sounds of slaughter. Nenanda was suddenly at the door, his sword out.
‘Wait!’ cried Kedeviss. ‘Listen! That’s not him. That’s them! He’s murdering them all — do you want to help, Nenanda? Do you?’
Nenanda seemed to slump. He stepped back, shaken, lost.
The shrieks did not last long. And when the last one wavered, sank into silence, even the Dying God’s cries had stilled. Beyond the door of the inn, there was nothing, as if the village — the entire outside world — had been torn away.
Inside, none slept. Each had pulled away from the others, coveting naught but their own thoughts, listening only to the all too familiar voice that was a soul’s conversation with itself. On the faces of his kin, Nimander saw, there was dull shock, a bleakness to the staring, unseeing eyes. He felt the surrender of Aranatha’s will, her power, as the threat passed, as she withdrew once more so far inward that her expression grew slack, almost lifeless, the shy, skittering look not ready to awaken once more.
Desra stood at the window, the inside shutters pulled to either side, staring out upon an empty main street as the night crawled on, leaving Nimander to wonder at the nature of her internal dialogue — if such a thing existed, If she was not just a creature of sensation, riding currents of instinct, every choice re-framed into simple demands of neccessity.
‘Their is cruelty in your thoughts.’
Phaed. Leave me alone, ghost.
‘Don’t get me wrong. I approve. Desra is a slut. She has a slut’s brain, the kind that confuses giving with taking, gift with loss, invitation with surrender. She is power’s whore, Nimander, and so she stands there, waiting to see him, waiting to see this strutting murderer that she would take to her bed. Confusions, yes. Death with life. Desperation with celebration. Fear with need and lust with love.’
Go away.
‘But you don’t really want that, because then it would leave you vulnerable to that other voice in your head. The sweet woman murmuring all those endearing words — do I recall ever hearing such when she was alive?’
Stop.