The Godfall- Prologue

The Godfall
by James Matthews
Prologue

The Goddess Xanthe stood at the head of the altar in all of her glory, a vision of beauty veiled only by the silken dress that laid bare all but the most intimate secrets of her supple form. Gold banded amethystine rings adorned each of her fingers, gleaming in perfect contrast with the deep bronze of her skin and tawny sheen of her shoulder length hair. Her face was a mask of youth and beauty punctuated by plump, smiling lips and an immaculate complexion, but her full-silver eyes shone with unnatural weariness, a quality that spoke of age, of more years seen and spent than any mortal woman.

She regarded the windowless room about her with a smile, yet the shadow of disdain crept into the corners of her visage as she surveyed certain unfinished aspects. Eight fluted columns arranged in an octagon lined the circumference of the massive ovular chamber surrounding the altar. Each of them rose more than fifty feet from white marble floors to a domed ceiling with an incomplete mural depicting the recent conquest of Anghara, a tale of blood and death and zealotry. Upon it, dark skinned Angharans either fled or were pinioned upon innumerable spears while their enemies rejoiced with the Golden Goddess at their head. Xanthe wondered for a moment if it was vanity that had spurred her to commission the mural in remembrance of her victory over the old ways.

Beyond the octagonal columns, rings of short stone steps rose ever outward toward the periphery of the room except where a narrow corridor, the room’s only exit, cut into them at the north. The chamber was constructed almost like an amphitheatre, with the altar at its heart most efficiently lit and the stone steps ever more completely obscured by shadow as they ascended toward the outer walls. Xanthe was drawn from her judgment and admiration by a voice.

“Shall I continue, mistress?” asked a tall, aged man to the left of the altar dressed in a vicar’s smock whose dark hair silvered at the temples and a grew in a neat goatee upon his pointed chin. “He may yet have valuable stories to tell. Now that I’ve loosened his tongue, the poor fool simply won’t stop talking. To think, a few hours ago he cursed my name and spat in my face.”

The luminescent orbs which both lined the edges of the rectangular altar and hung in iron sconces on the columns lit Xanthe’s curvaceous form in the absence of natural light as she glided toward her servant. It had been her decision to construct this chamber, called the Temple Heart, a private room at the core of her sanctuary here in Karjala where the prying eyes of the public might be held at bay. In the relative darkness, her gleaming eyes narrowed at the thought of the greater Angharan province. Things in the capitol were bad enough without concerns from the borderlands, and even graver troubles from the lifeless swathe of land called Aminghol Breach that edged her territory.

“That will not be necessary, good Lucinor,” cooed Xanthe as she ran one hand gently across the back of her servant’s neck, pressing herself into him as she passed. His wiry form went rigid and a slight moan escaped the edge of his open mouth as she reached one hand to clasp him about the waist, placing the other upon his wrist.

He held a slender, wicked looking knife with glyphs on the hilt and a blade glistening with human blood. Timid crimson drops spattered upon the stone altar at regular intervals, but Lucinor did not notice, so enamored was he by his goddess, by the subtle sway of her hips and breasts as she moved. Xanthe eased the dagger from his grasp and traced the lines of his palm with her index finger before gliding back to the head of the stone slab.

A shallow breath finally escaped Lucinor’s mouth as Xanthe said, “No, I believe this one has spilt his many secrets upon our stone table along with the contents of his stomach. Have you, my dear? Have you spoken the truth to your queen, to your goddess?”

Beneath her upon the dimly lit altar lay a gory, quivering heap that had once been a handsome young Angharan, hardly more than a boy. His arms were bound at the wrists and ankles by chains, but he looked none the worse for wear from head to chest. Further down, things were more grim. From one gaping wound, viscera splayed out across the stone in a grisly mass, blood still flowing from the multitude of small cuts and unnatural ruptures crisscrossing the exposed intestine.

He had been gutted alive.

Xanthe leaned in close to the youth’s face, a mother’s smile spread across her features. The boy drew shallow, ragged breaths and his bloodshot eyes were wide open, staring at something beyond her, something ethereal in the shadows of the domed ceiling that only he could sense, perhaps the approach of death itself. But Xanthe was not quite finished, not yet, and so the boy would not be allowed to die. She whispered into one of his ears, “Listen, child. Your impotent Gods cannot save you now, and I will not lie about your fate. You will die here, but whether in pain or peace is entirely up to you. Know that my servant wishes me to heal your broken body so that he might further explore you, but I see no need. So let me ask one final time my dear boy- what more do you know? What more of this Ananke you spoke of?”

The boy’s eyes drew back to the tangible world of the present and terror registered on his face as he recognized his own innards strewn across the stone. His hands strained against the chains in a futile effort to scoop himself back into the gaping abscess in his gut. He began to cry, more soft whimper than sob, and Xanthe moved her still smiling countenance to his other ear, saying, “Tell me now, or we do it all again. All of the sawing, all of the violation, all of the pain. I have the power to make you endure endless torture, to see you split like a sow at slaughter again and again until you’re mad, and my servant, zealous as he may be, is quite exhausted. I will exercise that power if you hold anything back from me. Do you understand? Deceiving the Godorii is blasphemy! Even an unbelieving worshipper of the Old Ones should know that.”

Shaking, the boy turned his gaze away from his own ruined stomach back to the Godqueen and began to stammer, “I t-told you, mistress Xanthe-” He was unable to finish because Lucinor’s fist snaked out of his black cloak, balled about the grip of a diminutive black whip with shards of glass embedded into its leather tendrils. The weapon struck him just above the gut wound, eliciting a fresh scream and three snaking streams of blood. The sallow Vicar leaned in and hissed, “None may speak the name of the Godqueen! Show the proper respect, you filthy infidel! You are not worthy to back in her presence, much less speak her glorious name!”

Xanthe raised one slender arm, halting her servant in his tracks, and leaned back in to the boy, who, despite choking on his own blood, sputtered, “A-all I kn-know is that an Ananke was sent by Sekhmet, not when, not w-why, just that your brother sought out the Siphons to the East and found this one amongst the Saari. P-Please, just kill me. Please, end it. It hurts.”

With one bejeweled hand, Xanthe reached out and caressed the boy’s face for a moment before striding away to the center of the room and the stone basin that stood there. She cleansed first the dagger and then her hands, dabbing them with a perfumed pomander, before calling out to Lucinor over her shoulder, “You do not believe him, that he knows nothing more?”

“No mistress,” replied Lucinor, avoiding eye contact and attempting to hide the flush in his cheeks. “I am unsure. Sekhmet’s indoctrinated men are revered as deceivers even here in Anghara. Even now, I cannot say with certainty whether this one is treacherous or broken.”

Xanthe laughed, an eerie, hollow sound, and swiveled her sleek hips to face her grim servant. She said in a playful, almost mocking voice, “Oh, I’m quite certain that he is broken. But are you certain, Lucinor, that you desire to question the prisoner once again out of concern for your Goddess? Or could it be that you enjoy the process more than the service? He’s already told us of the marshalling of my brother‘s armies- not that we didn’t already suspect- as well as the news of the Ananke.”

Lucinor spat and kissed the tattoo upon the back of his right hand, a ward against foul magics, saying, “That accursed sorcerer shall not so much as gaze upon Karjala’s fair gates. He cannot kill the invincible, cannot undermine what is holy, cannot ruin what we have fought a war to attain!”

The war between Anghara, provincial state where Xanthe was now queen, and Dathalas, a northern conglomerate of three like-minded theocratic countries, had been brutal, lasting almost five years and embroiling every nation in the central part of the continent. The Angharan leadership, composed uniformly of Templar in service to the Old Gods, had started the war themselves, using religion as a pretext for what Xanthe recognized as a war of opportunity. They had called it a crusade and invaded the southern Dathalian lands in an effort to regain what they claimed were their holy places- her holy places! It was only by the aid of her mercurial brother and an as of yet unexplained if fortuitous plague that the crusade had been stemmed, and now even the aftermath caused her no end of trouble. Perhaps another plague was just what the Angharans needed, she thought. Mayhap that would rally them to their new deity.

Though glad of her new land claims, Xanthe found the daily tedium of managing a pagan state more difficult than rewarding. She wondered if it was worth it sometimes, wondered if she might have been better off executing the Templar remnant than offering them amnesty in return for conversion.

“I appreciate your candor,” added Xanthe to her aide, “but I understand it can be quite difficult to hold back the truth when one’s insides are so beautifully turned out. So whom is it you truly serve? Your goddess, or your own pleasure?”

Lucinor paled and fumbled with the iron crescent sigil, mark of Xanthe, that hung about his neck. He said, “I live only to see your will done. If I’ve been overzealous with this man, you have my most sincere apologies, mistress, but I fear he may yet know more. Why would he have knowledge of the Ananke’s coming but not of the fiend’s purpose?”

“His purpose is simple enough,” scoffed Xanthe, tossing both hands into the air. “He comes to kill me, to slay the Golden Goddess herself. If my brother thinks he can end me at the cost of one man, he is sorely mistaken, and he will pay. His people will die. His harem will die. He will die. But first, we must warn the people of our fair city. We must warn that abominations are among us: witches, mages, warlocks- whatever they’ll believe. One word about magic from our Vicars and the fires of old superstition will rekindle to riotous effect. Ideal really for weeding out the Ananke.”

“A wise decision, mistress,” replied Lucinor, greedy eyes now on the dying boy. His breathing was still husky, mouth working in absent anticipation as he added, “Shall I contact the Mepherii as well? Surely they will want news of the Ananke so that they might send one of their own.”

“Yes,” replied Xanthe, smile lost in rumination. “I’d prefer to use the army, keep this whole grim matter close at hand, but those bumbling fools would be a pitiful alternative to trained assassins, especially with General Tharius’ split loyalties. I fear that man may need to die sooner or later. I can’t have the leader of my militia worshipping the wrong set of Gods. It would look bad. But never mind that. Do contact the Mepherii. Be sure to mention that this warning comes from the Godqueen herself. No sense giving them an excuse to send one of their lesser initiates.”

“Very well, mistress,” answered Lucinor, lusty eyes locked with the dying boy‘s. He was about to continue, but blanched before the pleading words ever left his throat.

Xanthe flashed him a toothy, predatory smile and sauntered back toward the altar, dagger held in one lithe hand. “You wish to continue torturing the boy," she stated bluntly, pausing for a moment, tracing the blade across her firm, full lips, before saying, “He knows nothing more. I can sense it. But you have been a faithful servant, and who am I to deny you pleasure?”

With her final statement, Xanthe pressed the dagger’s hilt into Lucinor’s palm and dragged her lower lip across his earlobe. His flush became even deeper, and he looked as though he might topple on the spot until she added with violent flare, “I am your queen, your goddess, not some bitch from The Bleak you may drool over at will! Lust only after those you can hope to bed, little vicar. Is it not within your vows to forsake the touch of all women?! I treat you as a toy because that’s precisely what you are, easily broken and easily replaced.”

Lucinor dropped to his knees with a face stretched into horror and tore out a handful of his own hair, stifling a scream. Xanthe stood over him, mouth still smiling but eyes simmering like embers. This was a pleasant game indeed. Yet something at her core prodded Xanthe, stirring at the base of her skull until she was compelled to kill. Her small hands closed about Lucinor's neck then, but as his veins swelled and his eyes grew wide, a timid voice drifted across the Temple Heart from the entrance.

As soon as Xanthe turned, the young servant girl bowed her forehead to the ground, clutching an iron sigil sign identical to Lucinor’s in her dainty right hand. She had braided auburn hair and wore a drab lavender doublet with an equally ugly shawl, the same hue as Xanthe’s to illustrate just how ordinary mortals were in the face of the Godqueen.

“What is it, girl?” demanded the goddess. “I was not to be disturbed.”

To her credit, the girl did not stammer, speaking in monotone as she said, “Mistress, there is someone here to see you, a man who called you by name and full title. I did not understand, but the matron bid me inform you of his words. He claimed he was here to kill an Ananke.”

Xanthe positively beamed at that final statement and motioned for Lucinor to stand, saying, “It seems the Mepherii have more eyes and ears than we‘d assumed. They learned of this assasin before ever we heard whispers of his name.” She then followed the girl toward the door by way of the altar, where she casually passed one hand over the still whimpering young man. There was an electric tingle to the air that popped and hissed like dying fire. The light of the glowing orbs gave way to a peculiar black glow emanating from the boy’s wounds. Xanthe felt the familiar exhilaration of the siphoning, but also felt the taut pull of The Link and the feeling of despair at its far end. As the healing began, it faded.

The boy’s tangled innards began to snake back in upon themselves like a ball of twine being straightened. Crying became outright shrieking as the grim spectacle continued. His viscera moved of their own accord and in only a moments time, had wrapped themselves back to their proper places.

And then he was whole. He lay there panting, and the beginnings of a smile, of relief, flashed upon his face. As Lucinor emerged from the shadows of a marble column, one hand clutching the dagger and the other the whip, the boy struggled in futility against his bonds. The grim realization spread across his face that he was to endure it all again. He cursed and spat and damned all for naught.

As Xanthe glided down the spotless marble hallway toward the temple proper, she heard the prisoner’s screams begin anew. A smile crossed her features as she considered the foolish sorcerer come to kill her, this impudent Ananke. Yet the farther she walked, trailing her maidservant all the while, the more a tangible feeling of unease settled into her gut. An Ananke was the worst kind of trouble. Along with the obvious danger of murder, this pig would bring death to the people of Karjala and even worse, confusion. Xanthe could only hope that the ill will of the mob was not turned upon her.

After a few moments, she reached the end of the hallways and entered a long, low room lit by torches that stood in sconces lining the walls. The furnishings here were less regal, tapestries designed to induce more calm than wondrous awe, but Xanthe nonetheless appreciated them. Calm was important for worship, and worship was everything. She felt an odd yet familiar sensation, like a tingling in her brain that sent waves of alarm rippling through her body. Perspiration glistened at the back of her neck and pooled in her palms, marring her perfect skin. With a strained voice, she ordered her aide on ahead.

Left alone in the room, Xanthe clambered over to one of he benches and sank down, hardly a graceful act. Face a pallid white, she suddenly felt very much unlike a queen, much less a goddess. These spells happened from time to time just as they had for as long as she could remember. She felt like someone else, like someone very much human was struggling to rip herself free from the goddess’ core. It was an unnatural sensation, one that had plagued her for almost a millennium, since she had ascended to her place of power.

Her hands shook as she thought of the dying boy and what he went through again even now. Her father, a simple, foolish man now long dead, had always said, “The innocent must die so that the powerful may live, and the powerful must deceive so that the innocent may be truthful.” She considered them words of wisdom despite her father‘s pedestrian intellect, but a flash of the boys innards bore into her mind and she vomited at the foot of the bench, gagging and coughing. She had to remind herself that the mortals were all insects, that they were all infinitesimal in the grand scheme of things. If not for her kind they would all be dead, would all have been dead for two thousand years by the hands of their own Old Gods. She wondered at times whether they deserved it.

As she looked about the room, eyes hard and cold, she registered the many paintings of her glory. She was, after all, the Godqueen, worshipped by thousands and regent of not one but two powerful provinces. Act like it, she thought, rising and avoiding her own vomit. The servants would clean it without question, but in the meantime, it was her duty to act the way a goddess should, to be cold and beautiful and immutable, a vision of momentous perfection.

She moved through the torch lit darkness until the bright rays of the Angharan sunset flooded into the room ahead. The chamber was open on one side, revealing most of Karjala due to the temple’s position of elevation. The whole of the gleaming city, her city, stretched toward the horizon. From the levees, to the merchant district, to the Templar quarter and the dreaded Bleak, all was laid bare before her. Domed and spiral rooftops rose gleaming for miles until they abruptly met the city’s outer wall, a stalwart of white brick and sanded stone which gave way to lush green jungle as far as the eye could see to the south and east. Xanthe smiled to herself and was reminded what she had to lose as she turned to her guest.

At the heart of the chamber, a man stood eyeing the marble floor. He wore a dreary grey cloak with a ragged hood, and seemed to favor one leg even at a standstill. No weapons were evident, and he hunched with the posture of an old man, a cripple. Xanthe felt anger flare at the base of her skull. They had sent this man, this invalid? She had never seen a Mepherii before, but she had heard the whispers of their prowess and needed a protector, not a ruined old man.

When the man in grey’s face rose to appraise her, she stopped short and swallowed, eyes betraying the stolid set of her jaw. It was not his angular, aged visage- sickly and wrinkled- nor pallid white skin that struck her, but the uniform lines of tattoos dotting his flesh, arranged in innumerable parallel lines, and even more so the look of his eyes. They were fully white, not like those of a blind man but instead giving off their own pale, eerie luminescence. Dead eyes- that’s what they were, and the Golden Goddess felt a chill creep up her spine. She suddenly had every confidence that those emotionless, searching orbs would find the Ananke.

The Grey Man spoke in monotone, saying, “The abomination will be destroyed.”

Contrary to her nature and despite the man’s lack of formal address, Xanthe gave a prolonged deferential bow. In a matter of hours, her most immediate problem would be dealt with, and then she could see to her fool of a brother. She smiled coyly at the Mepherii and said, “Luck of the Goddess upon you.”