The last god, p.1
The Last God, page 1
A NineStar Press Publication
www.ninestarpress.com
The Last God
ISBN: 978-1-64890-488-2
© 2022 Gillian St. Kevern
Cover Art © 2022 Jaycee DeLorenzo
Published in May 2022 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at Contact@ninestarpress.com.
CONTENT WARNING:
This book contains depictions of graphic violence.
The Last God
Gillian St. Kevern
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Glossary
Acknowledgements
About the Author
To my writing buddy Sera, for all the encouragement over the years.
Chapter One
The Kindly One Speaks
THE DEAD MAN’S eyes reflected the chill grey sky. The wind dragged at his tunic, giving him, for an instant, life. But the gods, though cruel, had yet some mercy. Kel was alone in the burning village.
“Earth Mother…” The words stuck in his throat. They meant nothing to him. They meant even less to the corpse.
Kel’s dirt-caked hands locked around the handle of the shovel. None but him saw the observations made; none cared. The man’s family would not return to the village until the death rites had been completed—if they returned at all.
Smoke stung his eyes. The fire was dying now, too, burning itself out in the ruined house at his back. Beside it lay the two yet to be buried.
The accusation in their dead eyes was too much to bear. “Earth Mother. From clay, you made us.” It was not as if she listened. As if any of them listened. “Sky Father. You breathed us into life.” Bile rose in his throat. Burying the dead was the lowest task anyone in the Nine Lands could do, and he couldn’t even do that right.
“The dead need no counsel.” His cheeks burned. Two years on, and Jayna’s words still stung. He’d confessed his doubt in the gods to the head-priest, and this had been her solution. “Go tell Samel, the gravedigger, you relieve him of his duty.” His horror must have shown on his face because her expression softened. “Serving the Unknown God is not easy. Other gods reward their servants, but we must find reward in our service. Make your work your purpose.”
Kel drew a deep breath. Digging graves was all he had. “Mighty Sea. You bestowed on us the life fluids. From three, we are one in life. In death, we become three again.”
There was something in the familiarity of the words. He scattered a handful of soil into the grave. “Rest peacefully in the embrace of Mother Earth.” He’d found a knife nearby the man’s body and cleaned it. He placed it on the man’s chest so he might cut free of his shadow. “May your shade descend without obstacle to Gentle Death’s kingdom.” Finally, the three tin coins. “May your spirit soar, free of earthly debts, to join the gods in perfect communion.” He shut his eyes. “I ask this, in the names of the Eleven and the one as yet Unknown.” The secret names of the gods came easily to his lips, sealing his prayer.
Kel began filling in the grave. A priest without faith was good for one thing at least. Maybe in time this would be enough…
How many deaths would it take for him to be satisfied with his fate? Kel saw the years stretch out ahead of him, a succession of empty graves to fill, until he was as numb inside as the dead were cold. The shovel slid from his grip.
The distant thunder of hooves was a relief. The North raiders back to finish the job. Kel looked over the waterlogged rice fields to the riders, distant but steadily growing closer, the cloudy sky flashing on their weapons.
Mechanically, he reached for the shovel. He searched within himself for fear but found only resignation. Had he known this was coming? Ever since news of the attack had reached the Farport temple, he’d felt a strange sense of dislocation, as if his shadow and breath already strained to leave his mortal body. Being struck down suddenly was no hard thing.
If it was sudden. Kel’s legs tensed. The godless North raiders took special delight in torturing priests. His death would not be quick, nor would it be final. No one would bury him.
Well, that’s just fine. Kel pushed his shoulders back, hefting the shovel. Grave dirt still clung to it, coating his grey cloak, now his funerary garment. He took a deep breath, beginning his recitation of the funeral rites again. There was one comfort at least. His existence could not possibly get any worse than this.
But as Kel raised his gaze to the rapidly approaching horsemen, he glimpsed gold on blue. His blood chilled. He licked numb lips, blinking, but there was no denying the burnished copper of their breast plates. The North raiders rode out draped in animal pelts. Armour meant soldiers. Blue and gold meant—
Kel’s chest pounded painfully. Sky’s soldiers—in this deserted village? He looked around, but there was nowhere to hide. The raider’s destruction had been thorough.
Do not be a fool. Kel drew a breath, forcing himself to hold it. That they were Sky’s soldiers meant nothing. Iscar was a general. Would Sky send his war-maker to protect a few peasants? Hands shaking, he pulled the grey hood of his tunic low to mask his face.
One of the riders outdistanced the others, dark hair streaming out behind him as he urged his rowan forward. The cloud danced on the tip of his raised spear.
Not long now. Kel gripped the shovel.
With a clatter of hooves, the horse stopped before Kel. The spearhead pressed against his chest. “What brings you to land raided by the Northmen? Do you have treaty with them?” Less than half Kel’s age, the soldier radiated a confidence Kel would never possess. “Speak!”
“I serve the Unknown God.” His voice trembled. “I bury the dead.”
The other soldiers reached them, horses and riders milling on the edge of Kel’s vision. He did not dare look. Sky’s servants were notoriously arrogant.
His interrogator narrowed his eyes. Hazel like Kel’s own, but lit with a fire Kel had long since lost. His features were regal, naturally warm skin toughened by years of service beneath the sun’s rays. “What proof can you offer?”
“Proof?” Kel gulped. “I have only myself.”
“Only an uncommonly brave man would spend time alone in the company of the dead or territory so recently visited by the North raiders.” This voice was older, but no less powerful. Every word revealed the iron will that formed them. “Or one with uncommon dedication to the gods. Respect the robe he wears, Sol.”
Iscar! Kel’s world spun. A thousand needles pierced his chest. Heat rushed to his face and then drained just as abruptly. He could not breathe.
His interrogator scowled, leaning his spear against his shoulder. “Uncommon is right. Something is strange about him.”
“Sol.” Iscar had never had to raise his voice to exert control. His subordinate bowed his head, urging the rowan onwards.
Kel stared at the dirt-stained edge of his robe. Implacable Death, claim me now! Take me to your kingdom of shadow where none might recognise me!
Over the thundering of the pulse in his head, Kel realised Iscar was speaking to him. “News can you give us?”
“None.” His voice wobbled. The humiliation to come made him sick. “The Northmen departed as suddenly as they came.”
“Leaving only death.” Iscar’s tone was grim.
Kel risked a glance. Iscar surveyed the surrounding land. His profile was unchanged, its new lines accentuating the mighty set of his jaw. His dark hair was cut short like that of all Sky’s soldiers, and any grey hairs were not immediately apparent. He moved as one yet in his prime, countenance alert and assured.
Sol snorted, his horse flicking its ears. “Little here to tempt a raiding party.”
“Indeed.” Iscar swung himself off his horse. Tossing the reins to a second soldier, he looked down at the grave without flinching. “These people do not have enough even for themselves.”
Was it possible—he hadn’t recognised him? Kel licked his lips, scarcely aware of what he said. “The harvest was poor. Rain rotted the root vegetables in the ground. If the Northmen hadn’t claimed these villagers, the winter may well have.” There had not been a day, a single day, in which he had not thought of Iscar. He could not have failed to know him. That he did not know Kel…
It was well. He dug his fingers into his skin, trying to regain command over himself. Better unrecognised than have his shame uncovered.
But to be forgotten… The pain was all-consuming. He’d not believed he still had the capacity to hurt so much. But then, no one had ever hurt him like Iscar.
ISCAR GAZED INTO the open grave. The dead man’s face was fixed in an expression of surprise. Dead before he’d even realised he was attacked.
A fool. Iscar’s jaw tightened. The village was wide open to just such an attack. Located in an open stretch of farmland, without any defensive walls. The damp air of Trickster’ s land was the only reason the flimsy wooden buildings had not instantly burnt to a crisp.
“Taro.” The nearest solider snapped to attention. “Find the raider’s tracks. Ascertain the direction they took and then return.”
Sol’s horse made as if to follow Taro. He jerked its reins, bringing it under control. “Why not send me? No one matches my ability as scout.”
Iscar waited until Sol raised his gaze. His second’s long lashes gave his eyes an enchanting softness, but Iscar knew better than to take his obedience for granted. Too many men had discovered too late this gilded scabbard concealed a razor sharp blade. “I need your skills here. Dark business is afoot, and it will get darker.”
Sol’s mouth curved like a scimitar. No doubt he thought Iscar spoke of his skill as a lover rather than his knack of spotting what others missed. “As my general commands.” His honeyed tone confirmed Iscar’s hunch.
Had it been a mistake to take Sol to bed? The prince would have been a problem in any capacity. At least as a lover Iscar had more sway than he did as Sol’s commanding officer. He grabbed the rowan’s reins, leading him away from the others. “You know of what I speak. As yet, only the two of us know of the omens.”
Sol’s eyes widened. “You really think this ruined village…?”
It was a tragedy—but an everyday tragedy. Nothing here deserved the portents of disaster that had urged the priest-emperor himself to authorise this expedition. “That, I rely on you to tell me.”
Sol smiled, self-importance restored. “As you command.” He rode on, surveying the ruins.
Iscar dragged a hand across his face. Manifold gods, spare me spoilt princes!
A movement caught his attention. The priest stood at the grave edge, fidgeting with the hood of his robe. Behind him, the remaining members of Iscar’s unit awaited orders.
“Anahiid, make camp. Ahmose, Dagr, two graves must be dug.”
The priest started. “That is my task. It would not be right…” He picked at his sleeves, palpably nervous.
Spare me. Iscar forced himself to smile. “You have laboured hard already, Uncle. My people are used to digging.” Ahmose and Dagr swung themselves from their horses, taking up their spades with an alacrity that proved the truth of his words.
“The charge of the dead is mine.” The priest spoke breathlessly. “The living need you.”
Iscar detected a hint of the accent of Love’s people. He ground his teeth. “To be of service I must learn all I can. How came the attack?”
“Suddenly, during the night.” The priest gripped his spade. “The first the villagers knew of it was the cry of fire.”
The priest faltered as soon as Iscar’s eyes were on him. A nervous man, and yet, brave enough to have spent a day in the company of the dead. Iscar glanced at the grave and recalculated. A day and a night. “This man has received the rites?”
The priest lowered his head and nodded.
Was it possible he had recognised Iscar as general? No. His name had travelled the length of the Nine Lands, but none in this backwater had any dealings with Sky’s war-maker. “Then allow me.” He took the shovel before the startled priest could react.
The man sucked in a sharp breath. “I protest.”
“A soldier has seen as much of death as a priest.” It was a struggle to keep the bite from his voice. Iscar pressed down, forcing the shovel into the soft grave dirt. “I was too young to aid the priest who buried my parents. Let me repay my debt.”
The priest swallowed. He bowed his head, stepping back.
Even his agreement irritated. Iscar raised his head, catching Sol’s eyes. “Light a fire. Our guest needs a drink.”
Sol nodded, and Iscar knew his unspoken orders understood. The warmth of a fire invited a body to rest, and a hot drink eased tense muscles. Relaxed, the priest would speak freely. And even if not, he was Sol’s concern.
Iscar did not hear much of what followed. When he stopped to catch his breath, the sound of Sol’s butterfly-light conversation darting here and there punctuated by choked monosyllables from the priest had his teeth on edge. He threw himself into the thought-dulling rhythm of his task.
Much later, when the sun had descended almost to the horizon, Iscar realised Sol stood at his elbow. “What is it?”
“The priest requests stillness for the rite.”
Iscar looked up. Only a few meters from him, Dagr and Ahmose stood by the side of their completed grave. Anahiid waited in silence, hands folded demurely in front of her.
The priest pulled his hood low and stepped forward. “Earth Mother. From clay you made us…”
Iscar listened with half an ear—not to the words. He’d heard them too often for them to hold meaning—but to the modulation of the priest’s voice. He spoke with the ease of practice—a true priest then. No one else could speak the words without risking the god’s immediate and awful wrath. The priest’s dull tone called to mind the heart-weary army priests, trudging from one grave to the next. Why then did the hairs of the back of Iscar’s neck stand at attention?
The priest tossed the coins into the grave. He spoke the final, sacred chant, his back bent as though under a heavy burden. In repose, his mouth had a downward slant, marked either side with harsh lines. One marked by great sorrow. And yet—
Jasmine wafted on the warm afternoon breeze. Iscar saw again the sun dancing across the Great Sea in the harbour below, as they walked arm in arm, the gentle heat of the sun on his shoulders a poor second to the burning in his chest.
He ground his teeth together. For entire months he could forget, but something always happened. Sunlight caught on a golden necklace, a certain refrain picked out on a harp, and Kel was beside him again, as if he’d never crushed Iscar’s dreams and heart. Time dimmed the memory, but never the pain.
Iscar turned back to his grave and realised Sol still hovered. “Well?”
“I would speak to you.” Sol inclined his head to the edges of their camp.
Iscar glanced around. Dagr was hard at work at the third grave, while Ahmose covered the newly buried. From Anahiid’s excited chatter, she’d recognised a countryman in the priest. Iscar’s lip curled. “Very well.”
Sol did not speak, even when they were well beyond the hearing of their companions.
Iscar frowned. “What have you to tell me?”
“Precious little, for all the effort I have made.” Sol’s mouth curved, inviting Iscar to share his rueful self-assessment. “He hails from Blessed Union, has served the Unknown God since his twenty-third year and been eight years in Farport. Occasionally, he uses a word employed by one of high rank. A servant of some rich household, perhaps. He has fallen far.”
“Far indeed.” Farport was a world away from the balmy breezes of Blessed Union.
“He has some dark secret or moral deficiency,” Sol said. “To have fallen so far and have no friends or family aid him… I would not share our camp with him.”
Iscar shook his head. “So speaks youth. Life is not all light and shadow.”
Sol crossed his arms. “None serve the Unknown God by choice.”
“The Unknown God may be the reason we are here.” Iscar caught himself. Sol became sulky if scolded. “You did well to learn as much as you did.”
Sol still lingered.
Iscar restrained his impatience. “What now?”
He lowered his gaze. “I heard your words to the priest. Forgive me. I forgot you lost your parents in circumstances like this.”
Iscar glanced around quickly. “You did not offend me. I am no longer that orphaned child.”
“Even so. The reminder cannot be pleasant.”
Pleasant? Iscar smiled grimly. “That it is not. But I have made my weakness my strength. From an early age, I saw what many men do not grasp in their entire lifetimes—that the gods help those who help themself. I learned the value of strength.”
Sol placed his hand on Iscar’s bicep. “That you certainly have.” If the warmth in his voice wasn’t enough indication of his approval, the heat of his gaze spoke volumes.
Iscar removed his arm. “Not in the presence of the dead.”
Sol turned his head. “A pity. Ahmose and Dagr will not finish that grave before sunset. We have an interesting night ahead of us.” He laughed. “Just as well we have a priest with us.”
