The Undying God (26 page)

He felt justified in every act of
violence he perpetrated, and he
knew
the crimes he committed
did not reflect on the love he was capable of. In his mind, society
was his nemesis and its inhabitants were disposable.

They were guilty of feeding a religious
conspiracy founded on sexual guilt and slavery to
priests.

He smiled to himself as he considered
his plot. In some ways, he wanted to test their faith and see if
they would still believe. Would they offer themselves as martyrs
for their religion? Did they believe the sanctity of virginity was
something worth dying for?

He viewed himself as assaulting the
values they represented rather than targeting the humans
themselves. Their elitist concept of purity would no longer cast
its oppressive shadow on him. He would not feel guilt for his
sexual feelings and passion, and they would suffer for spreading
persecution.

Margzor studied the fiery sword in his
hand as night stretched across the forest. The unnatural blade
nearly hypnotized him, forbidding him from looking away. It seemed
to grow closer and closer, or perhaps he was slipping away from
reality again. He could vividly remember the first time he held
this...
beautiful weapon
...

Years ago, Margzor had brooded for many
nights before the demon insisted he take further action. It hissed
to Margzor and he listened intently.

Create a bonfire with the bones of a
wolf
. It continued to instruct Margzor to spread the ashes in
intricate patterns around the flames.

His fingers gingerly scattered the
ashes among the forest floor. The cold, black vestiges sunk into
the dirt like a disease overtaking its victim. He knelt reverently
before the scorching flames and its fiery pall glared into his
eyes.

Reach into the fire.
The very
notion confused and alarmed him. He refused, but it became
abundantly clear that he did not have a choice in the matter. The
demon wrestled away his control and forced him to closer to the
flames.

When Margzor thrust his hand inside,
shock consumed him. He was greeted by pleasant warmth. His skin did
not burn. His fingers closed around something solid within the
flames. He hesitated. Finally, he extracted the object from the
bonfire. A sword of demonic origin rested in his hand. The
voluptuous blade radiated in the firelight, its sharp edges pursed
dangerously to kiss wounds on living flesh.

A massive pommel acted as a
counterweight to the long blade, and its grip was wrapped in black
leather. Its deadly design entranced him, arousing the violence
within that writhed to explode. He clasped the weapon viciously,
breathing life into his sadistic fantasy.

That fantasy began to take hold of his
imagination as the dark hours changed to early morning.

The demon persuaded Margzor to waylay a
caravan.
Use your weapon against humans.

He lurked beyond the edge of the forest
where he could survey the road. His green eyes saw them approaching
now, six men and a wagon. It would not be difficult for Margzor to
overtake the merchants with his speed and agility.

Suddenly, he focused on something he
hadn’t seen before. A knight hired to protect the merchants
followed the caravan, clad in amour with a sword sheathed at his
waist. Margzor had never faced an opponent of this caliber
before.

At last, he advanced, slowly creeping
on all fours beneath the trees. He assumed a biped stance, walking
only on his feet, treading over the twigs and ferns. His legs moved
faster as they raced pendulously across the forest
floor.

Margzor erupted from the trees with a
cry of rage.

The merchants stopped and stared. It
was not immediately clear what riveted them in shock; the prospect
of an ambush or the fact that their assailant was nude. He rushed
toward the nearest merchant and ducked low, swinging his sword as
he spun, slicing the man’s legs out from under him. The man
screamed as a hot deluge of blood bathed his leg and he plunged
into the dirt.

Margzor spun toward another caravaner
and his eyes transfixed him with a hypnotizing glare. The man knew
he was dead before the demonic blade bit into his ribs. The
remaining merchants cried out for help and ran into the forest.
Margzor enjoyed the idea of hunting down the fools that escaped
into his domain. He almost plunged into the forest in pursuit when
movement out of the corner of his eye arrested him.

A long blade careened at Margzor with
cutting speed. Agility alone saved him from the sword tearing his
arm off. He continued to retreat from the knight’s sword, barely
evading its sharp edge. The knight relentlessly advanced, obviously
experienced in combat. His defense was impenetrable and his offense
only built momentum with each blow. Margzor’s weapon snapped
against his adversary’s, not once striking home. He feared he would
soon be forced to flee.

No. Failure was not an option. All
inner weakness must be subdued.

Margzor broke into a run and catapulted
toward the knight. Before his feet landed on the road, he gyrated
and his blade sheared through the knight’s neck. The knight’s body
staggered forward and collapsed. The torso continued to exhibit
signs of life, its limbs twitching. At last, the knight became
still.

Margzor crept closer and reached toward
the corpse. He quickly withdrew his hand as though he expected the
body to reanimate. Finally, he touched the armor with his
fingertips. Blackness seemed to corrode its edges, transforming it
into a darker husk. Tarnished with the demonic presence, the metal
merged with his sickly energy.

He began to don the apparatus with
shaking fingers. His heart throbbed against the breastplate that
melded with his flesh. Like an infection, a dark stain consumed the
metal, embracing Margzor like the infestation that had taken hold
of his mind.

The memory faded as the sword slipped
from Margzor’s fingers. He gazed into the distance, spellbound by
the feeling of his first murder. That moment had changed his life
forever, extinguishing what remained of his innocence. He felt an
overwhelming urge to vomit as he considered the dozens of murders
he carried out. He could still hear his victims’ screams echoing in
his brain.

What indeed had he become?

It was during this vulnerable state
that the demon confirmed everything he did not want to hear. The
violence he imagined was becoming more vivid and pleasurable in his
mind, and guilt was replaced with twisted
rationalization.

They deserved it,
the demon
hissed from the depths of his sentience.
Their lives are
dispensable compared to your future.
Margzor swallowed the
bitter taste of shame.

Become a god,
the demon said
more forcefully.
Slay one of their precious deities and take its
place. It will give you the power to rise above your emotional
pain. Destroy their source of joy that you can never hope to
achieve.

Margzor contemplated the opportunity
with skepticism. It would be impossible to defeat a god—but perhaps
not a demigod, an entity both mortal and divine. The demon began to
pry at his deepest resentments in efforts to exploit his
desires.

It soon discovered what it
sought.

* * *

Nishka closely followed her guide as he
continued along his course. A lush forest beckoned them with
curtains of leaves parted to grant them passage. Suddenly, Arxu
jerked to a stop.

“What was that?” he said, the words
exploding from his lips. His hand darted for his staff.

“What?” A keening wail pierced Nishka’s
mind like a dying animal. It mellowed into silence, itching at the
crevices of her brain like a departing memory.

“There was a strange disturbance
nearby,” Arxu said. He scanned the forest, every muscle knotted
with tension. A more primitive part of his brain signaled danger.
Nishka studied her companion uneasily, waiting for him to attack.
She almost reached for her crossbow when she heard him
sigh.

“Let us continue.” He stepped inside
the maze of trees. A fading sunset glazed the forest foliage in
warm tones, almost immediately sucked up in shadows. Petrified in
the embrace of twisting vines, the trees seemed no more than empty
shells void of life. Their ancient, alabaster skin gleamed like
bone in the dying spasms of dusk. Arxu wound toward the south as
the road rose in an incline.

At the top of the crest loomed a
strange arch. It looked too precise to be natural, yet its surface
was eroded by decades of wear. The closer they drew to the archway,
more stone formations reared up on the horizon. Nishka and
Hrioshango stood in awe of the city remains. It was beautiful to
behold and eerie in its splendor.

Mystic arches loomed in the background,
robed in evening mist. A dome-shaped structure resided further in
the distance, centered by the resplendent architecture. Arxu
blinked as he saw movement within the ruins. He was certain he saw
something. He crept forward.

“Arxu...” Nishka protested.

He glided down the paved walkway, the
surface giving way to an ancient courtyard. The gray tiles beneath
his feet were worn by age, providing uneven ground.

He gazed across the wreckage and his
jaw slowly dropped. He felt something here. An emotion very
different from anger.

A memory was swirling into his mind,
emerging from the fog of amnesia.

A figure lurked in the obscurity, not
daring to move. Though Arxu could not see it, he could feel its
eyes piercing him. Arxu stood transfixed at the sight of the
unusual shape. What was it doing in this melancholy place all but
robbed of life?

“Who is it? Do you know what it is?”
Nishka asked. She took a step forward when his hand lunged out and
seized her. She looked fearfully into the Nightwalker’s eyes. Arxu
replied in the most chilling and calm manner.

“This is the creature that killed
me.”

Chapter 28

Margzor wandered the forest as the sun
dipped below the clouds. Isolation did not torment him at this
hour. He did not focus on the tragedy of existence, instead, swept
away in the embrace of nature.

The sky above was the epitome of
beauty. If only the common man and woman could worship this beauty,
not the pretty idols that blemished society. Margzor smiled at the
amusing notion.

It was pathetic the way they regarded
someone as the pinnacle of everything good in the world, and that
virtue seemed only to originate from her beauty and sexual
charms.

They strived to emulate Astalla in
every way, to be perfect in spirit and flesh. He could not imagine
spending his life in pursuit of a goal so vain. For him, virginity
was not a matter of purity or moral righteousness, but an absence
of love.

It represented the bitter reality that
no woman trusted him or loved him enough to share affection. He
could only imagine what it felt like.

To be loved.

What would they turn to without their
precious idols? How shall they live when loveliness is no
more?

The very concept they adore would be
perverted into something grotesque and unspeakable. Every idol
would be stricken with physical deformity, and every human would
lose sight of beauty.

Beauty only gives rise to lust, a
perversion of love, thought Margzor. He would redefine these
concepts as a demigod. Men and women would be forced to love each
other not for their physical attributes but for the contents of
their hearts. Their culture of superficial worship would be struck
down. No one would ever be judged again.

He would never be judged…

Anger and pain gradually subsided. He
paused at the edge of the forest to behold a majestic sunset,
painting a serene smile on his face. He reflected on the gorgeous
woman who showed him kindness.

Margzor reminisced of her heavenly
face, so rich and captivating, endowed with blue eyes that should
never cry. How he wished he could wade into her embrace and love
her. He wanted to adore her, hold her close to him and shelter her
from pain. He could imagine her fingertips brushing against his
chest, healing him. Had he only dreamt of her?

The gentle melody of her voice lingered
in his memory, lulling him away. Away from this reality.

No human could be worthy enough to walk
near her or speak to her. Surely, he did not feel that he was
deserving of her mercy, let alone a glimpse into her eyes. Perhaps
he was a hypocrite for falling prey to this …
idolatry
. Yet,
it was not her body or face that endeared him.

Her humanity captivated his
soul.

Silence enchanted him and he studied
the forest. The leaves swayed in the sighing breeze. His lonely
soul relaxed and opened himself up to the world around him. Margzor
found himself looking at the gilded skies as if the very image
struck a chord deep within his heart.

A twinge of happiness.

* * *