The New World (ви-3) by Michael A. Stackpole

Author:Michael A. Stackpole [Stackpole, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: sf_fantasy

Chapter Twenty-nine

14th day, Month of the Eagle, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Wangaxan (The Ninth Hell)

Nessagafel understood very little about his children. He forced Jorim to maintain full clarity of mind during torture. Every ant bite, every twist of the thorned ivy, each rake of a talon, remained stark in Jorim’s mind. He could catalog them and sort them, rank them and order them.

Nessagafel intended the torture to be unendurable. Clarity of mind provided a means for putting the tortures in context. The context was simple: the agony would endure until Jorim released Nessagafel.

Every twinge underscored this point. As they built and thrummed through him like bass notes, they reached and passed the point at which Jorim would have acquiesced to Nessagafel’s demands.

Jorim’s clarity of mind made one thing apparent: he had absolutely no clue how to release Nessagafel. Moreover, if the first god had been restrained with something that took Jorim’s divine nature to unlock, it stood to reason that whatever this last restraint was had nothing to do with Wentoki or Jorim. Another of the gods must have secretly restrained Nessagafel, trusting neither Grija nor Wentoki to keep him in check.

It had to be Tsiwen. Only the goddess of Wisdom would have such foresight. She was probably also wise enough to suspect something very strange was happening with Nessagafel. She would stay well away from him. Nessagafel would remain trapped and the world safe.

Clarity of mind allowed Jorim one other realization. No matter his physical pain, what truly tortured him was Grija’s simpering moans. When the blood cleared from Jorim’s eyes, the god of Death became visible. He lay on the ground like some discarded scrap of cloth. Even the ants marched around him, though they greedily devoured the dead vulture that had tried to nibble on Grija.

Eternal pain is one thing, but being trapped here with him is too much. Jorim would have told him to leave but the vine wrapped around his head and the thorns piercing his tongue severely limited his conversational abilities. He did manage a grunt, however.

The grey scrap rolled over, looking much like a doll that had been crushed beneath cart wheels. “It is your fault, Wentoki. If you would release him, he would free us. Can you not see how I am tortured?”

Jorim, who at that moment was having difficulty discouraging a vulture from plucking out an eyeball, wanted to laugh. Yet all he managed was a snort. He had never, in all his life, known anyone so pitiful-save, perhaps, his brother’s ex-fiancee.

Majiata actually had a lot in common with Grija. They both were self-centered schemers who accepted no blame and took no responsibility for their actions or the consequences thereof. Had he a choice, he’d have preferred to be trapped forever in Wangaxan with Grija only because her presence would mean she was a goddess-though he couldn’t imagine what her aspect would be.

He snorted another half laugh, then thought for a moment.

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