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  DEAD GOD’S DUE

  ©2019 MATTHEW P. GILBERT

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.

  Print and eBook formatting, and cover design by Steve Beaulieu. Artwork provided by Dusan Markovic.

  Published by Aethon Books LLC. 2019

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  1. Princes and Prophesy

  2. The Sorcerer's Sons

  3. Ilaweh's Chosen

  4. Clash of Cultures

  5. Machination

  6. Conflagration

  7. Treason

  8. Escape

  9. Judgment

  10. Fallout

  Epilogue

  FROM THE PUBLISHER

  Acknowledgments

  Many helped along the way. Some, I have forgotten, and for that I apologize. Some have forgotten me, and for most of those, I make no apology.

  My wife, Jessica, for listening, suggesting, correcting, musing, and sharing the dream with me.

  Paul Steed for prodding me years ago to actually write. The news of his passing hit me quite hard, and made me all the more resolved to finally get this done.

  Jeff King for convincing me it was good enough to publish.

  The many friends who offered criticism, proofreading, and suggestions, as well as encouragement that the tale was worth telling.

  Tom Thompson for sparking my imagination and amusement regarding a certain character.

  Prologue

  ONE MILLENNIUM PAST

  The Monster simply would not die. More than an hour after he had been hoisted outside the praetorium, the fiend still kicked furiously at the air, leering down at the men who had come to celebrate his well-deserved end. Somehow, he had turned even his execution into another chance to sow discord. At least the noose kept his poisonous tongue from inciting yet more trouble, but the whole affair was not merely futile, it was disruptive of good order. If the Monster would not die, leaving him hanging bordered on the obscene, yet what could be done?

  Imperator Publius Xanthius Bellicus had any number of problems due to both his position and the situation at hand, more than one of them the sort that could cause a man to lose his grip on sanity, but this was by far the most pressing. A failed execution was a clear statement that a leader lacked resolve, and that was not a message he could permit, whatever the circumstances. He wiped sweat from his brow, cursing the heat. Weeks past the end of summer, the evening ought to have been cooler. They were, until today. It’s as if we are cursed.

  Husam al Din, Xanthius’s second, strode around the corner of the command tent and made a beeline for Xanthius. At six and a half feet tall and thick as a bull, Husam was intimidating enough. In motion, with grim resolve plastered across his face, he was positively terrifying to the lower ranks, a force of nature that would exact penance from the insubordinate and indolent.

  Xanthius almost smiled at Husam’s approach but caught himself before it could show on his face. I suppose I am his target, now.

  Husam stopped a pace from his commander, snapped to attention and hammered a fist against his breastplate in salute.

  Xanthius raised an eyebrow at the sight of his friend and trusted officer. It seemed only yesterday that Husam’s skin was a chocolate brown, but now it was almost black, his eyes seeming to glow in his darkened face. Had there been a day when he was between shades, Xanthius wondered? It must have been so, and yet he had not noticed it until now. The time had simply slipped away, unaccounted for, like so much else. “At ease. Report.”

  Husam looked at his feet and ran a hand over his great bald head, shaking it slowly back and forth, a gesture that Xanthius had come to recognize as indicative of the man’s disapproval. Husam growled to himself briefly, then spoke. “The sorcerer wishes audience.” He spat upon the ground in disdain.

  Xanthius inclined his head toward the Monster, still dancing at the end of the rope. “About him, I presume.”

  Husam nodded, still scowling. “Presumably.”

  Noting the subtle undertone in Husam’s voice, Xanthius raised an eyebrow. “You disapprove? You’re the one who brought him to me.”

  Husam’s mouth twisted in a sour expression. “So it was, and Ilaweh knows, I have fought many men and befriended them later. But these men are treacherous.”

  Xanthius clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a fatherly smile. “Strange times, strange bedfellows. I’ll see him inside.”

  Husam snapped a salute and turned to carry out his task. Xanthius took one last look at the Monster, still leering down, then removed his galea, tucked it under his arm and turned toward the command tent. As he reached for the tent flap, he paused, his attention wandering toward his second biggest problem: The Wall. He looked up at the barrier, knowing it would not be enough to stop his army should he choose to enter the city, but the cost would be high. I will need to make a decision on that soon, as well.

  Xanthius’s camp was well out of arrow range, but close enough to observe the defenders. He watched them briefly as they ambled back and forth between merlons, full of nervous energy that had to be walked off, most not even bothering with helmets or mail in the heat. Fools. I could rush you with archers and kill half of you before you even understood what was happening. But they knew no better. They had never trained to resist a siege. They were farmers, guards, bureaucrats, even a few criminals, likely, but not a soldier amongst them. The soldiers were encamped outside the wall with their Imperator, awaiting his command to breach.

  Huddled behind the wall, terrified, the civilian populace prayed for salvation, as if there were anyone who could accomplish such a thing. The wretched politicians and lawyers who had brought them to this state had no doubt reserved the better accommodations for themselves, but there would be little enough for any of them soon enough.

  A sea of steel and flame spread before Xanthius, campfires lining the ground to the limits of his vision, light glinting orange and deadly from sword, shield, and breastplate. They had been more, almost ten times as many when Alexander fell, but extricating themselves from Prima had been months of butchery. There was no telling how many of the enemy they had killed, how many would go unburied, food for the crows in a blasted land once known as the cradle of civilization.

  Without Alexander and the Eye, there was no hope of coordinating his men, much less the logistics. Starvation and disease would come soon, and then the infighting. Without the supplies within the city, another nine in ten of his men would be dead within the month, and the rest reduced to cannibalism. Xanthius cursed under his breath. The fools behind the wall refused to see reason. They leave me no choice.

  Xanthius forced his thoughts back to more pressing matters and ducked into the command tent. Despite how he had downplayed things to Husam, the sorcerer would be a prickly issue. Xanthius laid his helmet on one of the several tables and turned to the washbasin and mirror, privileges of rank. He dipped a cloth in the tepid water and cleaned sweat and dirt from his face. These sorcerers are heavily influenced by such inconsequentialities. Best to present the right image.


  From outside, Husam called out, “Imperator, your visitor.”

  “Come,” Xanthius answered, and turned toward the entrance to meet his former enemy. Though ‘former’ is, perhaps, too strong a word.

  The tent flap parted, and the sorcerer entered. Husam followed him in and stepped to the side, wary, one hand on his sword. “Amrath of Laurea,” he announced with a sneer.

  Amrath was not a small man. In fact, he was fairly muscular and stood a good six feet tall, but next to Husam, he seemed almost a child. He wore a simple green tunic cinched with a rope belt, but no armor or weapons, nor even jewelry. His blonde hair was bound tight against his head in a bun. There was absolutely nothing about him that was extraordinary, and yet for all that, Xanthius could feel the man’s presence like one might feel the sun on his face at high noon. Amrath’s deep green eyes stared at Xanthius with unnerving energy, a touch too bright to seem fully sane. At times, it’s as if they’re looking right through you.

  Imperator Xanthius knew that he, too, was imposing. And he was also the victor, pyrrhic though his victory might be. He said nothing and waited, refusing to concede anything to his vanquished enemy.

  Amrath raised an eyebrow and flashed a grin like the sun peeking from behind a cloud, still probing with his eyes. Xanthius ground his teeth, refusing to smile back. This was sorcery, some sort of charm, but it would not work. Not here. Not now.

  Xanthius’s visitor let the smile on his lips twist into a wry grin and sighed. “Amrath of nowhere and nothing,” the sorcerer said with a shrug. “You can call this place what you will, but it will never be Laurea. We have all robbed the world of her heritage forever.”

  Xanthius could feel his jaw clenching as he suppressed the urge to shout. “I think you overstate things.”

  Amrath waved a hand in the direction of the wall. “You think this misbegotten backwater can ever replace what was lost?” He spat on the ground. “A cheap simulacrum, nothing more, and you are but a fool with a barbarian horde.”

  Husam bristled at this. “You call us barbarians?” he asked, his voice soft and menacing as he tightened his grip on his sword.

  The sorcerer spun and regarded Husam with contempt. “What else could you be? Can you even appreciate what you’ve done?”

  Husam looked down at the sorcerer, his hand loosening on his sword as his gaze grew distant. His lips trembled, and a muscle beneath his left eye jerked spasmodically, pain, rage, and shame vying for dominance of his face. “We have killed the world,” he said softly. “We are as damned as your Council of Twelve. Would a barbarian appreciate that?”

  Amrath gaped a moment before answering. “No,” he said softly, shaking his head, his cheeks bright red and burning. He cleared his throat and spoke again, his voice stronger now, more confident. “He would not. Forgive me. The war has been difficult. It was easier to kill you if we thought of you as beasts.”

  Husam nodded in agreement. “At least you don’t bear the shame of the Monster being one of your own.”

  Xanthius folded his arms and scowled at this, shaking his head in slow denial. “Your people recognized him for what he was. It is our shame that we did not until it was too late.”

  Amrath nodded in silence. He looked back and forth at them and finally voiced the unspeakable. “The rope would seem to be less effective than we had hoped.”

  Husam shook his head in frustration. “I told you before how it must be done.”

  Xanthius covered his face with a hand for a moment. “It is barbaric, to burn a man alive! Wouldn’t your Ilaweh object to such a thing?”

  Husam was unmoved, his face stoic. “Ilaweh expects good men to destroy evil. Fire is a sure way. The other Fallen succumbed to the flame where steel failed. And he is not truly alive, at any rate.”

  The sorcerer’s face grew pinched as if he had eaten a lemon. So even the Meites have their limits. Good to know. “You tried everything?” he asked. “Even beheading?”

  Husam heaved a great sigh and lifted his arms to the heavens as if to ask for strength to repeat a lesson he had already explained many times. “Fallen in two pieces, or eight, or ten, they are still Fallen. What is already dead, you cannot kill. You must destroy it utterly.”

  Xanthius suppressed an urge to chew at his lip, knowing it would present a poor image. “Semantics.”

  Husam’s face grew even darker. His nostrils flared as he spoke in a low, flat tone. “There is no other way.”

  Xanthius was not the sort of leader to argue in the face of the inevitable. Husam spoke truth, and they all knew it. “Cut him down and bring him to me,” he ordered. “I will not do this without looking him in the eye.”

  Amrath scoffed. “That will be difficult.”

  “This is hardly a time for cheap humor,” Xanthius said with a scowl.

  “On the contrary,” Amrath replied, somber once again. “It is a time when humor is desperately needed.”

  Xanthius nodded to Husam. “Go.” He waited until Husam was well away, then turned an accusing eye toward the sorcerer. “Where is the Eye?”

  “Safe. That’s all you need to know.”

  “How dare you speak to me as if I am a child! What have you done with it? If it should fall into the wrong hands…”

  Amrath picked at his sleeve, seemingly distracted. “All men are tempted by power, Xanthius, even you.”

  “The arrogance of such a phrase coming from the lips of a Meite is beyond words.”

  “Aye, there is some irony there, to be certain,” Amrath said with a nod, looking Xanthius in the eye again. “But we understand power, too, in ways few outside our sect ever will. No one could have imagined what it did to Alexander, not even the Monster.” He paused a moment, studying Xanthius’s face, searching for something; though if he found it, he gave no sign. “The Eye is safe, Xanthius, in ways that only Meites could think of to make it.”

  “And I am supposed to simply trust you?”

  “I can’t see how you have any choice. But consider, if we intended to use it, would I be here now?” Amrath’s eyes seemed sincere. But they all lie well. “We Meites understand how to balance power, surely you must know that. None of us would want it in anyone’s hands, not even our own. It does not even belong in this world.”

  Xanthius allowed a nod at this. They are quite jealous of one another. “Probably true. But how could anyone ever trust you after—”

  Amrath’s face grew dark with anger. “I am well aware of the treachery we practiced on Alexander!” He paused a moment, fuming, holding a finger in the air as if to reserve his right to speak. After a moment, he continued, “If you think it doesn’t haunt me every day, then you know nothing of my beliefs.”

  “He was offering you the chance to surrender!”

  “To surrender and leave him with the Eye!” Amrath’s gaze was like a green flame, his confidence in his own cause like a physical force, undeniable. “You don’t fully understand the significance, and I won’t do you the evil of explaining it. A warrior needs his sleep, eh? But even a simple warrior like you can appreciate the madness of his command to slay the entire continent!”

  Xanthius looked away, not wanting his eyes to reveal all of his thoughts. “I did not obey that command,” he said softly.

  “He gave it, Xanthius! To everyone! The damage was done the minute they all knew. Surely you have to see what that thing did to him!”

  There was no arguing that point. “Tell me you destroyed it.”

  Amrath sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, looking suddenly older. “I don’t think it can be destroyed. Yorn was able to pry its eyes out and cut the thing in half along a seam, but beyond that, it was impervious to everything we tried.”

  “Can it be reassembled?”

  “With terrifying ease.”

  Xanthius pounded his fist into his hand in frustration. “We are cursed by the gods themselves!”

  “Aye,” Amrath said. “More so than you realize.”

  Xanthius raised an eyebrow at this,
waiting for more.

  Amrath looked for a moment as if he thought Xanthius was toying with him, then shook his head vigorously. As if he were denying a bad memory. “Those mad fools in Torium were trying to kill a god, to steal his power. They almost succeeded, would have if we hadn’t attacked them. They may still, in the long run.”

  “Gods visit Torium regularly, eh?” Xanthius sneered.

  “Once was enough.”

  Xanthius tried to take this in stride and give no further insult, but Amrath’s frown suggested this effort had not been entirely successful. “Sorcery is difficult enough for me to accept, and I have seen it with my own eyes,” Xanthius admitted. “I respect your and the Ilawehans’ beliefs, but I do not share them.”

  Amrath was obviously offended, but that seemed a fairly normal state for Meites. They squabble like children. The sorcerer scowled at him a moment, his lips pressed hard together. “Then you are a fool,” he declared.

  “This would hardly be the first time I was pronounced such.”

  Amrath opened his mouth to deliver what Xanthius expected to be a significantly more artful insult when the sounds of a struggle outside interrupted their conversation. A dark hand pulled open the tent flap, and a man came hurtling through the opening and collapsed in a heap, face down on the floor, long dreadlocks splayed about his head. The noose had been cut from the pole, but it was still tight about his neck, and his hands were bound behind him as well. Husam strode in and delivered a savage kick to the downed man’s ribs.

  Instead of screaming, the prisoner turned his gaping, empty eye sockets toward his captor and let out a deep, sinister laugh. “That which does not kill me.” His voice was deep and gravely, made even more so by the noose.