Blackhand (33 page)

“Answer my will!” Quintel shouted into the wilderness. Desire to kill the Thogs burned in his heart. The want was almost as crushing as the grief the fragment suffered. “I must confront the god!”

As the two spirits grappled, Quintel thought of the Lanya's instructions for controlling his power. An image appeared in his mind. The first fold. The first step in the process of controlling his spirit. Without a better plan, Quintel took the chance. Concentrating, he performed the act, folding the edge of the god fragment over like a piece of parchment.

Something deep within the separate spirit shuddered and it fell silent. Quintel was in control. The change filled him like cool mountain air. He had not been fully in charge of his own actions since entwining with the god. Now he felt like he had say. While they worked together to kill the Thogs, their cooperation did not go beyond that, except in their feelings for Aul.

He did not take the next step in the Lanya’s process, holding upon the first. The final outcome of their instructions still disturbed him. He did not know what it might mean when complete. For now, he had tamed the god enough to walk in the right direction.

He had been avoiding settlements and villages, but now he sensed a change in the population of the Forestland. Their loyalty to Ru was gone. Dozens of burned villages and hundreds of citizens butchered by the Thogs had given them a shift in alliance. The Forestlands were no longer resisting Aul's progress, but welcoming her.

And something else swirled in the currents of their thoughts. Something that had to do with him. Beneath the fear and betrayal felt by the Forestlands a whispering chant echoed quietly in their conversations.

It was a name.

Blackhand.

Some spoke the name with trepidation, some spoke it in reverence. Either way, the people of the Forestlands knew he traveled their lands spilling Thog blood and resisting Ru's will. Where the old god had betrayed them, a new god would save them. And this god was a man.

He decided to venture closer to a settlement at the edge of one of the denser forests. Several hundred lifelights bloomed throughout the streets and constructs of the village. Chimneys released thin wisps of smoke into the air and the sounds of turning wagon wheels and human voices found his ears. It was midday and the streets were filled with commerce and conversation. He decided to enter. What harm could it do?

As he followed the brown trail that led to the collection of thatched roof structures, he observed peasants and merchants milling about the streets. One of them, a young girl, saw him approach. At first she noticed him as she would any stranger entering her village. Then she saw his blackened limb.

She raised her arm and pointed to him. “Blackhand!” she called. “It's Blackhand!”

Others turned to see the source of her accusation. First one, then another, then many. He heard them shout to their neighbors deeper in the village, calling them to come. Quintel felt their fear, but there was no hatred in their hearts. They did not see him as an enemy.

By the time he reached the edge of town where the wilderness ended and the buildings began, the entire population lined the streets to meet him. Their light was like a garden of luminous flowers waving and changing colors beneath an unfelt wind. Some were nervous, but most stood in stunned awe. His legend had permeated deeply in very little time.

The cluster of gawking humans parted to allow him passage. He entered, enamored by the festival of life around him. He loved their emotions, the symphony of their experience. He could have stared at any one of them for an eternity.

One of the village elders came forward.

“Blackhand Thogstacker,” he said, voice cracking, tears welling at the rim of his eyes. “Welcome to our village.”

Quintel said nothing, overwhelmed by the man's adoration. Here was a human who knew nothing of him, who had never seen him before, who had been his enemy but weeks before, now worshiping him.

“Thank you,” Quintel said.

“We know you have been traveling our lands, slaying the monsters Sirian Ru sent to destroy us,” the old man said. “Forgive us. Forgive us and our fathers for believing in the mad god. He gave us food and protection, and for that we gave him our souls. Too late, we learned the truth. Were it not for you, this village would be ash.”

Dimly, Quintel remembered he had been in this region before. There had been a cluster of Thogs. He remembered no more. Or rather, the memory was blended with many like it.

Most of the people fell to their knees while others reached out to touch the legend, to touch the man-god who had spawned the tales he realized had been on their lips for many tellings.

As he moved through the conflagration of life that surrounded him, he felt an emotion long forgotten in short a time. He was humbled. The god in him wept, but for once, not in sorrow. He realized the fragment hungered for more than killing Thogs. It needed love.

Steadily he passed down the avenue of the village with its people shouting his praise around him. He chose not to dwell long among them for he had already found what he sought. And more.

Departing on the far side of town, he turned to the following crowd and removed the black sword from his belt. He thrust the Agara blade in the air above his head. It was a very human act.

“For you, I slay the god!” he shouted to them. And with that, he bolted into the wood and disappeared. Even as he put the Forestland village behind him, he could still feel the love radiating from its inhabitants.

At last, something greater than bloodlust propelled him. While the Abanshi had recognized his divinity, they had witnessed his might firsthand. These people worshiped him not for what they had seen him do, but out of gratitude. He had performed no miracle for them. Their love was given out of unconditional thanks. The sensation overwhelmed him.

He ran to meet the god faster than he had ever run before.

Chapter 38

Quintel could feel the phalanx of Thogs in front of him. Their numbers stretched from one edge of the world to the other, closing off the spit of land where Ru dwelled.

Often during his sprees of mayhem, Quintel would turn an eye to the hulking army to see if they moved or advanced, but they never did. Their line remained still, positioned between himself and Ru without variation.

All were of the failed breed of Thog. He did not understand their purpose. Their numbers could have been infinite and still they would have posed no threat. He assumed the legion to be a warning line, a barrier that would notify Ru once Quintel crossed into the god's land. Their function could not be much more. Yet why would Ru need such a line?

Blue mountains cobbled the horizon. The forest thinned and rocky terrain not unlike that of his homeland appeared before him. It was a patch of the world Quintel had only visited in spirit form.  He topped a pine-covered hill and saw the sprawling line of Thogs with his human eyes.

Thousands of them stood shoulder to shoulder, stretching from one side of the peninsula to the other, bearing armloads of the black stones that gave them life. None of them were armed. Dust had settled upon their shoulders and powdered their gray flesh. For months they had stood there, motionless, tireless, patient.  Waiting for him.

And now he had arrived.

He pulled out his sword. The god in him awakened, made giddy by the feast before it. He felt something like laughter resonate from the Agara blade.

As he moved down the slope, one of the Thogs saw him, its head turning slightly to capture his approach. As one, the entire army became animate. They stomped their feet and flung their arms out wide, dropping the black spheres they held to the ground. Touching fingertips, the Thogs adjusted their line as if playing some children's schoolyard game.

Quintel analyzed the action, trying to figure out what tactic it could possible fulfill. He did not ponder long.

The earth quaked. Boulders shed from the mountains and fissures crawled across the landscape. The convulsion intensified, uprooting trees and buckling shelves of earth toward the sky. Quintel fought to remain standing.

As he watched, the Thogs changed. Their forms became pliable, losing shape, melting like candles. A haunting, unified scream rose from the liquefying beasts, drowning the rumble from the quaking earth. The stones in their chests splashed to the ground with the others and their bodies dissolved to wet clay, blending into a gray, viscous river. Attracted to each other by some invisible force, the stones rolled together and fused into a long helix stretching out of sight.

Then the earth exploded.

A shockwave rippled across the landscape as if the ground were made of water. The wave shattered the terrain and sent Quintel flying into the air like a spider shaken from a blanket.

A sheer vertical wall sprung from the earth where the Thogs fell, collecting rock and earth as it grew into the air. The wall writhed and twisted, plowing through forests and crushing mountains beneath its expansion. It rose into the sky, a living thing being born. Then it stopped.

Silence fell heavy over the land. Quintel stood.

The wall was half a mile high and stretched from one edge of the peninsula to the other. It flexed and moved, contracting and pulsing, a titanic worm of stone, earth and Thog flesh.

The wall’s movement was grotesque, but what evoked Quintel's revulsion was its surface. It was covered in eyes. Some small and humanlike, others larger than wagon wheels.

   As he approached the living barrier, all the eyes followed him. Many were set on tall stalks which bent to track his every step. Others had slit lenses like a cat and stared at him unblinking.

    Walking closer, he heard a low moan of agony rise from the wall, inspired by its own existence. It creaked and rumbled with restless movement. Inside, he saw a complex, but random, collection of muscle, bone and nerves saturated in a wan light cast from the stone helix at its center. Flocks of birds circled frantically above the barrier, panicked by its sudden presence.

Sword in hand, he approached the structure, still uncertain how Ru thought it could stop him. While its massive flanks soared into the clouds, their height meant nothing to him. He had already fallen from the top of the world and survived. He could scale the wall in seconds.

As he neared its base, a portion of the wall lunged at him like the foot of a gigantic slug. Its speed surprised him and he threw himself backward just as the great foot fell where he stood. The edge of the fleshy skirt caught his boot and plucked it from his foot. The mass shredded the leather with stony protrusions resembling fingers. The wall pulled the remnants of the boot into its body and contracted around them. The earth trembled.

Quintel pulled off his other boot and threw it aside. He now knew how the wall could stop him. It was not a common barrier to block his passage, but a trap meant to imprison him. The thing might even be able to tear him apart.

In the sky above the rim of the wall, he sensed Sirian Ru watching all that had transpired, amused by Quintel’s confusion and pleased with his own handiwork.

From a distance, Quintel weighed his options. Going over the top was impossible and tunneling beneath the monolithic barricade seemed risky, for he was certain the thing could reach as deeply as he could dig. With its ability to move with such speed, rounding its ends also did not seem likely.

Able to do nothing, Quintel stood and studied the creation. His mind’s eye traced over every contour of the living structure, seeking any flaw. As near as he could tell, there was no way around or through the thing.  But he kept looking.

When Aul’s army finally came up behind him, he was so engrossed in the puzzle he barely noticed their arrival.
 

The legion, a weary collection of Abanshi soldiers, Vaerian guardsmen
 and converted Forestlanders, pitched camp a good distance away. Quintel felt their fear of the wall’s presence and enormous dimensions.

After a while, he sensed Aul approach him from behind. There was no love in her light.

“What monster has your existence inspired this time, little brother?” she said in greeting. “What hideous new creation has come to life because of you?”

At first he did not turn to her, but his desire forced him to look. A fresh, angry scar ran down the right side of her face. Her arms bore the reminders of many more wounds.

He said nothing, but ached from the hatred that seethed from her. The feeling was almost as great as her love had been. How could love and hate be so close a thing?

She locked her eyes with his, her light held no color but red.

“It took us a month to extract ourselves from the tunnel,” she hissed in an angry whisper. “Ten thousand dead before the battle began. Rotting bodies choked the passage. The Forestland armies converged their towers and sealed us in. We did not free ourselves until the twisted new Thogs appeared and began attacking them from behind. Then we charged.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “What jest that Sirian Ru’s monsters ended up freeing us. How grateful I was you could not kill them all.”

Quintel still did not speak. He knew he had no choice at the tunnel, but the pain of his betrayal to her, and the venom Aul spat now, caused the god in him to recoil and embrace itself so it did not have to hear her words. Or was that his human side?