I am sending a creature to this world, one which can remove the usurpers from existence, just as their existence threatens your own. Seek this being out, bring Illiun and his people to justice for what they have done. If you fail, you and all those you love will be consigned to oblivion.
“But why me?” Silus said. “Why can’t you eradicate them yourself, or use the Swords to enact your wrath?”
Because they trust you. I would rather they walk to their deaths voluntarily, unknowing, than fight against me again. They have escaped me far too many times for me to take that risk. This is where it must end, Silus. You must be the agent of my wrath.
Silus was blinded by a flash of light as a storm raged in the heart of his god. A wave of nausea washed over him and he realised that he was back in his body, his heavy flesh anchoring him to the floor. He could hear Bestion crawling around him, still chanting the words that had sent him into the presence of Kerberos. He tried to call the priest’s name, but his throat was too dry and he couldn’t make his lips work. Silus reached out and grabbed Bestion’s arm as he shuffled past, and the priest looked up with a startled expression, before realising that Silus had returned. Bestion brought him water then, and helped him to sit upright. The priest looked as ravaged as Silus felt, his robes soaked with sweat and his face pale.
“Has the Allfather spoken?” he asked, the desperation for any news of his god writ large on his face. “Will He lead us to safety?”
There was a knock on the door then and Katya stepped into the room, holding Zac; Silus noticed that his son had been crying.
“I’m sorry,” Katya said. “You were such a long time and we were getting worried. Is everything okay?”
“Well, Silus?” Bestion said, ignoring the interruption.
Silus looked at his wife and child and realised then what truly mattered; the only thing that mattered.
“Kerberos has spoken,” he said. “Help me to my feet so that I can tell everybody the good news.”
PART TWO
CHAPTER TWELVE
Scaroth wasn’t sure which of his wives he was eating. It definitely wasn’t First Wife, as she was tucking into the carcass herself, glowering at him over the fire as she fed. Maybe it was Seventh Wife. He hadn’t seen her in a few days, although the last time he had she was being more than a little friendly with one of his shamans, so it was entirely possible she was now ensconced in his tent, doing the deed. That was the problem with having over forty wives; it was so hard to keep track of them. Scaroth didn’t feel much guilt, then, when he had to slaughter one to feed his tribe. Food was scarce and times were hard. The only thing left to hunt was a species of toad, and even then you had to boil it for hours to neutralise the poison in its flesh. He had considered moving the tribe on, seeking more fertile land, but he knew from experience that this would be pointless. Everything in this world was dust and rocks. He’d once asked his shamans why their god would treat them this way, but amongst the knuckle bones and entrails they’d found no answers. Many generations had passed since their god had shown his face, and all their prayers and sacrifices hadn’t brought him back.
Scaroth was sucking the flesh from a thigh bone (as leader of the tribe, the best cut of meat was, of course, his to claim) when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Wrenk, jumping up and down on his perch at the edge of the camp, waving his arms about his head.
Scaroth put down his meal and stood, looking towards the guard.
“Something’s coming!” came the faint shout. “Something is coming!”
Scaroth looked to the others, but they were too intent on their food to pay much heed to Wrenk, though when the first rays of azure light washed across the foothills, some of them did look up.
“What is it, Wrenk?” Scaroth called.
“Something’s coming!”
Wrenk tumbled off his perch and ran down the slope towards them, still waving his arms above his head. There was no doubt about it, Scaroth thought, the boy was touched. But then, in his infancy, his son had been almost killed by Tenth Wife fighting with Eleventh Wife, claiming that the child was hers. Scaroth remembered well the horrible sound baby Wrenk’s head had made when he’d been dropped on it.
“Wrenk, be calm. What is coming?”
“Burning blue disk, rising over the world!”
“Shut up, Wrenk!” said First Wife, scratching her right tit as she noisily scraped her teeth against a fragment of skull. “We’re eating.”
But there was indeed something coming, Wrenk hadn’t been wrong about that.
The light that flooded down into the hollow was like nothing Scaroth had ever seen. Its azure brilliance picked out each individual amongst the stark rocks, highlighting them and making their dark-green flesh shimmer. The sphere that rose high above them was much much larger than Small Yellow Fire God That Comes With Day. Maybe, Scaroth thought, this is our god. Maybe he has returned to us now that times are so bad.
But when he looked to his shamans they seemed as unsure as he. Indeed, nobody in the tribe knew how to react to this divine arrival. Some had taken to fucking, rutting as though their lives depended on it, as though the end of the world was here and this was their last chance; others glanced up and then continued eating, while others sobbed, rocking back and forth in the dust as tears rolled down their dark cheeks.
“You!” Scaroth called one of his shamans over. “What is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it our god?”
“The old stories say that the god of our people was much smaller. And red.”
“But this is a god, right?”
“Must be.”
“Then we make an offering. See what happens.”
The wives of Scaroth collectively breathed a sigh of relief when the sacrifice was not chosen from amongst their number. Instead, it was decided that as Wrenk had been the first to see the god, then it should be he that was offered up to the deity. This had to be explained to the boy several times, but when it sank in he gave himself gladly, even smiling as the bone knife was plunged deep into his chest. Scaroth wasn’t sad to see him go. Once the ceremony was over, they could feast on whatever the god did not take.
The shamans danced. The shamans pulled out Wrenk’s guts and held them aloft. The shamans dabbed the blood from the corpse on the forehead of every member of the tribe. The shamans burned the sacred bones of the First and inhaled their smoke.
The shamans might as well have done nothing, for all the effect it had. The god hung there, silent and impassive, oblivious to what was going on below him. So, they waited. But eventually the tribe got bored of waiting for divine intervention and began to fight over the remains of Wrenk. His corpse was quickly pulled apart and consumed.
Some time later, despite his full belly, Scaroth had to concede that he really was not happy. He looked around at the tribe and saw again that their numbers were dwindling. He would only be able to slaughter his wives to feed his people for so much longer before they began to eat themselves into extinction. Few children had been produced in the last season’s couplings and only a fraction of those had survived.
Though their sacrificial ritual had borne no fruit, Scaroth still looked up and offered a prayer to Big Blue God, asking that there be good hunting or, failing that, many more children.
Scaroth’s tummy rumbled. It had been several days since the slaughter of Wrenk and he had eaten nothing but dried toad flesh and some moss. The latter had made him feel distinctly strange for a time, and he had looked up at Big Blue God, terrified that he would fall into his azure clouds and be consumed. The feeling had passed, however, leaving him nauseous and weak.