Chapter 43: Accusations

 

If I have learned anything in my years, it is that tyrants and gods have one great tool: deception. Take that away, and their kingdoms crumble.

-Naresh

 

Relief washed through Athanaric as he stood over Naresh.

The slayer of gods. For a thousand years this man had moved among the nations, striking at gods and bringing them down one by one. How many had he killed? Two dozen? More? And now he’d come for Athanaric. It would end soon. His boredom and weariness, the weight of life, would perish with him.

What a relief.

He hadn’t expected to feel relief when confronted with the Godslayer. He’d known that one day the Slayer of Gods would try to kill him. It was inevitable. He’d anticipated a thrill of danger or perhaps a surge of adrenaline. But not relief.

Life had indeed become a burden for him.

He didn’t speak, but waited for Naresh. The little man stood in the shadow with a placid expression, arms at his sides, not intimidated by the dogs inching toward him.

How blasphemous for him to wear the vestments of a priest. He killed gods—he didn’t worship or serve them. Only, why had he assumed the mantle of a priest twenty-three years before? How many times since then had he foregone the opportunity to attack and kill? Hundreds of times, probably. Why wait? Why do nothing until now?

Except even now he hadn’t done anything. He no doubt would’ve continued on as a priest had Athanaric not forced him to expose himself. Athanaric had thought to kill the doddering fool as punishment for teaching his son forbidden ideas, and been as surprised as the dogs at Naresh’s ability to dodge the blow. He’d moved so fast. Athanaric had never seen anything like it, and it should’ve made him afraid, not relieved.

But as he stood there, contemplating his next move and binding Thew and Flux to his body in preparation to react, a seething anger rose up to replace the relief.

He wouldn’t let the Godslayer kill him.

He wanted to die in his own way, in a manner he chose, not like some criminal executed for heinous crimes. For two thousand years he’d strived for—and achieved—peace. How many lives had he improved? How many wars had he averted? How much suffering had people avoided because of the culture he’d created?

No one could measure it. He’d done infinite good and didn’t deserve to die like a criminal. He needed to pass on in a dignified way, after having left the kingdom in capable hands. If he didn’t, the country would plunge into war, and everything he’d worked two thousand years for would come to naught.

No, he would not die this day under the blows of this man. He would live and select an heir, and lay down when the time was right. Perhaps when Rashel and Calla had both died from old age. Life would certainly become even drearier without them.

“This would be easier if you forsook your throne,” Naresh said. “Together, we could avert a grievous war.”

He ignored the bait. The Godslayer didn’t understand his people’s welfare. He didn’t know what was best for them.

Athanaric shook his head, tapped his discernment, and bound Spirit Ichor to the part of Naresh’s soul attached to his brain. Athanaric didn’t have much of the Ichor left; he’d used a great deal when confronting Leenda that afternoon. It was an unusual type of Ichor—it depleted faster than Flux and Thew, and required large quantities to do anything. He probably didn’t have enough to kill Naresh outright, but perhaps he could incapacitate the priest long enough to kill him.

“You deserve to know,” Naresh said, “that the cultists don’t act alone.” Sorrow descended over his face. “They’re joined by others. The Hasuken honor guard.”

Athanaric didn’t understand—but he didn’t care.

“Your exploits end here, today.”

He applied the Spirit Ichor in a torrent, yanking on Naresh’s soul with the intention of pulling it from the brain. It would render the priest unable to act for several moments, probably long enough for the dogs to shred him.

Athanaric’s soul deflated slightly as the Ichor flowed out of it. But nothing happened. Naresh’s eyes didn’t roll and his body didn’t go limp. The edge of his body didn’t blur from the spirit separating from the body. The soul remained intact.

How was that possible? Athanaric had killed a thousand men in this manner. Not one had resisted.

Instead, Naresh flipped up and backward, onto the divan. The dogs leapt at him, snapping. The first one to reach the divan jumped, snarling. Naresh kicked him in the head and he tumbled back into the crowd of hounds, knocking several others down with a yelp. As the other dogs clamored around the divan, trying to jump onto it, the Godslayer remained calm.

One by one, he kicked the dogs. Yelping, they flew away unnaturally far. Most landed on the carpet, but one slid across the table, scattering plates and bowls. Another hit Athanaric in the torso, and a third bounced off of his hip and spun a way like a bird out of control. Naresh kept his face composed and his eyes locked on Athanaric until he’d dispatched all the dogs.

Athanaric stood there in silence, stunned that Naresh knew how to protect himself from soul-tearing.

The Godslayer drew himself up.

“Athanaric, you are not god.”

The dogs began to regain their feet, although the one that had slid across the table lay still. They growled, and several ran for the divan, but Athanaric called them back and motioned for them to stay behind him. They obeyed, some of them whimpering and limping.

He gauged his stores of Ichor. In a fight with the Godslayer, it might very well come down to whom had the most, and he didn’t have much; he’d used it too freely in recent days.

“I am god, and you will fail to kill me.”

“I could kill you now,” Naresh said. “You already know that you can’t pull my soul from my body. Likewise, I could kill you now. End it here.”

“No!”

Athanaric started at the voice. He’d forgotten about Wrend, who still sat tied up, watching the scene with frantic eyes. Surprise and horror and disbelief all painted his face as he looked back and forth between the god and the slayer of gods. A pity he had to watch Naresh defy his god and father. He would kill the Godslayer for it. He would make him suffer for this embarrassment.

“Don’t worry, Wrend,” Naresh said. “I’m not here to kill him today. I want to give him a chance to prevent his people from a great deal of suffering.”

“I’ve already accomplished that,” Athanaric said.

This man knew nothing of disorder and suffering. He’d come along well after the gods had established order nearly two thousand years before. He’d never seen the true chaos that came without strong gods to lead and direct the people. The people might have endured some restrictions under his rule, but they lived in much more order and safety than people had in the dark days.

“I have no doubt,” Naresh said, “that things are better now than they used to be, but the time of the gods has passed. There’s a better way, now. The end of your days approaches.”

“A fine claim for a man like you. You kill the gods and the countries fall into chaos—which only leads to more suffering. If not for those of us who have moved in to establish order, the people would be back where they were in the dark years.”

Naresh shrugged. “In centuries past, that statement held true—but no longer. I’ve seen the error of my ways and understand that my actions have only made the few remaining gods stronger, given you more and wider control. But your sins remain the same. You raise yourself above other men. You proclaim yourself god and become a law unto yourself.”

Athanaric wanted to crush this little man, to grind him to dust. His accusation was false, Athanaric hadn’t made himself god. He’d done nothing of the sort. He’d simply assumed the mantle that he or any of his brothers could have taken.

He straightened his back and thrust out his chest.

“I am god. Have I not lived for two thousand years? Am I not a giant? Don’t I rule over my people and give them laws? Don’t they worship and serve me? What more is there to being god?”

At his booming, the dogs grew excited. They barked and jumped up on his legs, pawing at him and growling at the Godslayer, who remained unimpressed. His expression turned disdainful, and he looked at Wrend, while gesturing at Athanaric.

“Yes, what more is there to being a god than sacrificing your children so that they don’t rise up against you? What more is there to being a god than demanding obedience and killing anyone who disobeys in the slightest manner?”

Through all the questions, Wrend stared at Naresh with an unreadable expression. After this was over, Athanaric would have to talk with Wrend at length about it.

The Godslayer turned back to Athanaric.

“Tell me, who watches over you? Who ensures that you are just? What moral code must you abide by?”

“None,” Athanaric said. “I’m god, a law in and of myself.”

“That’s exactly the problem. Your strength is the only reason you hold dominion. But using force to maintain control does not make you a god. It makes you a tyrant.”

Athanaric tried to control his trembling, but his legs and hands shook with rage. Instead of him lulling the Godslayer into a mistake, the Godslayer would lead him to succumb to his anger. This man knew him, understood how to make him blind with emotion. But Athanaric wouldn’t fall for it. He would school his emotions.

“Wouldn’t," the Godslayer said, "a just and true god control his people through their love for him, instead of their fear?”

Though his eyes were bound to Athanaric’s, he spoke for Wrend’s benefit. Athanaric could see that—and now Wrend listened wide-eyed, straining against the ropes that bound him. How dare this upstart taint his favored son.

“Enough,” Athanaric said. “Be gone, before I slay you.”

“Consider those things,” Naresh said directly to Wrend. “Ponder on them—and if your father doesn’t kill you for the things you’ve heard, make the right decision.”

“You can’t trick me anymore,” Wrend said. He spat on the ground. “I know what you’ve done to me all these years, how you’ve tried to turn me against the Master. What, was it you who convinced the other demigods to rebel?”

“No, they formed of their own accord—just one more example of how the people do not wish to live in oppre—“

Athanaric couldn’t hold back any longer. He roared and lunged for the divan, applying Thew.

But the Godslayer moved to meet him, thrusting an open palm. It struck Athanaric in the chest with such force that he bounced and fell backward to his rear, nearly crushing the hounds. They scattered away, yelping and growling. Dull pain spread through his chest.

Stunned, he sat there, blinking up at the Godslayer, who’d returned to a standstill on the divan. No one had ever repelled Athanaric like that, with enough Flux to send him reeling.

“You should know that it was the Hasuken honor guard,” Naresh said, “who convinced the cultists to act. I pled with them not to commit those atrocities, but they killed your children and wives, and poisoned the food at the feast.”

Athanaric had long since grown accustomed to hearing confessions of those around him. Wives, priests, sons, citizens. They’d told him of the petty things they’d done or the life-altering actions they’d taken. All of them showed remorse—else, they wouldn’t have confessed in the first place. They all also feared for their lives.

But the Godslayer’s confession bore no guilt. No repentance. He recounted the deeds like a common braggart.

Athanaric remembered the moment he’d realized that his wives and toddlers had been killed, how he’d collapsed there at that door to the nursery, his heart and legs failing him. He couldn’t go an hour without seeing the faces or thinking of the names of those who’d died without purpose or defense. The visions would linger for years, he knew.

Still sitting on the floor, he lifted his head and bound Thew and Flux to his body.

“The Hasuken honor guard have yet to learn, like you,” Naresh continued, “that compulsion is no way to—“

Athanaric burst forward and up, pushing his body with his Thew-strengthened hands and Flux. He lifted into the air, ready for another repulsion from Naresh.

But none came.

The Godslayer flew to the side, off of the divan, toward the tent’s entrance. He landed on the carpet as Athanaric touched down on the divan’s opposite side, colliding with a table and sending it toppling. The plates and cups shattered as they fell onto each other and the floor.

Everything fell still again.

“Consider well, Wrend,” Naresh said, “the things you’ve learned here tonight.”

Athanaric screamed and leapt toward Naresh. But Naresh was too fast. He had too much Ichor and reacted with too much speed. He turned before Athanaric could reach him, and bolted out of the tent.

Athanaric, driven by rage, pursued into the night.