1.

The old priest's naked body lay on an oak slab in the centre of the temple. Flickering torchlight played across his exquisitely mutilated corpse - the delicate cuts that had taken a finger from each hand and a toe from each foot, the intricate prayer scars that decorated his face and scalp, the protective runes artfully cut into arms and legs and the empty space between his legs where he had been tenderly gelded. In life he had carried his disfigurement with pride, and even death had not robbed him of his dignity.

Only the wound on the back of his neck was recent, a single thrust with a thin blade that had ended his life, delivered with cool precision.

From the shadows of the basalt columns that lined the temple, the man named Vedreem stared at the corpse. The old man had died quickly and well. Vedreem had killed him less than three hours before.

"You are getting old, Vedreem," Odhren had said as the assassin entered his chamber. "There would have been a time when I would not have heard you."

"Perhaps I allowed you to hear me."

Odhren smiled, his teeth eerily white in that dark, scarred face. "Perhaps you did at that."

They stood for a moment and looked at each other. Vedreem was a compact man, with close cropped black hair and a trim forked beard that all but covered a livid scar on his chin. As was his custom, he wore dull motley beneath a dark cloak - his faded splendour contrasting with the simple grey robe that the High Priest wore. A sabre with an elaborate quillion rested on the assassin's left hip and a basilard on the other, the long, sensitive fingers of his right hand wrapped around the hilt.

"I'm dying, Vedreem," Odhren said at last. "My bones are rotten and the malignancy eats away a little more each day. It is better like this- cleaner, more graceful." He bowed slightly, wincing as he did so. "I wish you to stay when it is done, to witness my rebirth. You do me a great honour, Vedreem Lousnans."

"The honour is all mine," Vedreem told him.

As Odhren turned away from him, the assassin had drawn his basilard and struck.

Now, for some reason he could not place, he felt uneasy. Perhaps it was the sight of the disfigured body - although he had seen much worse in his long years - or perhaps it was the temple itself, with its friezes and frescos showing the grotesque history of the Priests of Cybele, a history of self-mutilation in honour of their goddess.

An almost imperceptible noise made him turn. By reflex he drew his sword a handspan from its scabbard.

"Come out of the shadows, Mulvane, I know you're there," Vedreem said. He replaced the blade with a soft swish of metal.

The priest emerged into the light. In common with all those of his sect, his face was marked with prayer scars and the index fingers of both left and right hand were missing. A long grey robe concealed his other offerings to the goddess.

"Thank you for staying to witness the ceremony," Mulvane said, although the tone of his voice was frosty.

Vedreem shrugged. "He was my friend."

"Yet you still took payment for killing him." It was not a question.

"Naturally." Vedreem said. "Business is business, even Odhren knew that - which is why he hired me to end his life."

"He hired you because he knew the blow would be swift and sure."

"And it was."

There was more ice in Mulvane's voice when he replied. "What concerns us now is the matter of his rebirth." He bowed perfunctorily and returned to the shadows. Vedreem listened to his soft footfalls as he left the main chamber to join his brothers.

After a short while, a group of priests appeared from the southern wing of the temple. They carried copper incense braziers that sent gouts of sickly sweet smoke into the air and chanted in low voices in a language so ancient that even Vedreem struggled to recognise it.

From the northern wing another group, headed by Mulvane, moved towards them. Their voices rose in counterpoint so that, gradually, the chants began to merge - and with them words began to form in Vedreem's mind.

It started as a vague recognition, squirming its way into his consciousness like a worm burrowing into a piece of fruit. An invocation in the First Tongue, a call to the soul of the departed.

'His head is gold; his hair is black as the raven.
His eyes are jewels, washed in milk.
His cheeks are beds of spices, his lips are swathed with karam.
His hands are rods of gold.
His legs are pillars of marble.
His mouth is sweetness.
This is my brother, beloved of Cybele.'

They began to prepare the body, washing the limbs carefully, anointing the old wounds with sweet balm and dressing it in a white silk robe. A small box, carved from a single piece of pure ivory dangling on a silver chain, was placed around the neck.

And as the chant continued - always low, but rising in intensity now and again - a thin grey tendril, fragile as smoke, began to emerge from the wound on the back of Odhren's skull, snaking its way into the minute cracks and crevices of the ivory box.

The soul of the High Priest Odhren was preparing for its rebirth.

A breath of wind disturbed it momentarily, almost dissipating the tendril. Vedreem turned his gaze away from the ceremony, peering into the gloom of the temple. The feeling of unease had returned and his hand went to his sword automatically; beneath the priests' chanting he could hear another sound, something unfamiliar, something that did not belong in this holy place - a faint squawking sound that was totally inhuman.

Around him the light dimmed, snapping to darkness and, just as abruptly, returned. Then he saw them - clinging to the pillars and the walls - creatures from a madman's nightmare.

They were much taller than men, with bloated torsos, stick-thin arms and legs, webbed hands tipped with wicked claws. Baleful red eyes protruded from flat skulls, serrated tongues flicked from wide mouths and their backs and chests were covered with thick mottled skin, grey-green like mould on a crumbing carcass.

Vedreem drew both blades and shouted a warning just before the mass of creatures erupted squealing from the shadows.

He saw Mulvane, his face white with shock and horror, raise his hand to make an ineffectual symbol of protection in the air.

And then the slaughter began.

The unarmed priests were easy targets, confused by what was happening, too slow to flee, too terrified to offer any form of resistance. The creatures were among them slashing with claws, cutting through flesh and bone as if it were rotten parchment, lashing out with long tongues to tear strips of skin from faces and arms.

Vedreem paused for a moment, calculating the odds. There were at least thirty of the creatures, too many for one man to fight. He turned towards the main doors of the temple but there were more of them there, scuttling over the mosaic floor towards the massacre, blocking his exit.

They were upon him almost instantly, talons raked at the front of his tunic and only the stout leather hauberk beneath prevented serious injury. A straight punch with the quillion of his sword sent one creature spinning back into the shadows. But another took its place, and behind it another. And another.

A backhanded slash from his sabre caught one of the batrachian creatures across its eyes. It fell away, spewing optic fluid and screaming in pain. A quick thrust from the basilard disembowelled another, punching up into the soft underbelly, spilling writhing grey entrails. Whatever these hell-born things were at least they could die and the knowledge gave him some satisfaction.

Fighting with cool efficiency, his swords working in a complex figure of eight pattern that severed grabbing hands and flicking tongues with each pass, Vedreem began to cut a path toward the temple door. Around him the priests were screaming, falling, dying, calling out to Cybele to save them; but the goddess could not or would not intervene.

One of the creatures leaped, froglike, onto the slab that held Odhren's corpse. Its body was covered in gobbets of steaming flesh, bright blood streamed down its chest and its red eyes gleamed with malice. Reaching down, it clasped Odhren's head between clumsy hands and pressed its muzzle close to his face. A quick snap of powerful jaws took away half the skull and most of the throat in one gulp. Vedreem saw the ivory soul box disappear into its gullet.

The creature threw its head back and squawked in triumph, the sound eerily clear over the priests' screams. In response to its call, a brief blackness filled the temple and when the light returned the creatures had vanished, leaving nothing behind them but wounded, dead and dying men.

2.

Vedreem stood in the middle of the carnage, breathing heavily.
The temple walls were swathed in crimson, torn limbs and crushed organs littered the floor; the abattoir stench of raw meat hung heavily in the incense sweet air.

Half the priests were dead and most of those that remained had been hideously injured. One acolyte lay with his back to a pillar, his hands pressed against a ruined stomach, trying feebly to hold his intestines in place. Another's chest had been torn open, Vedreem could see the man's heart, still beating, within the wreckage of splintered ribs - it fluttered once more and then ceased forever.

Mulvane lurched towards him. His robe was in tatters, exposing the hallowed scars on his body and a long cut that ran across his upper chest.

"They have taken his soul," he wailed. "He is damned forever."

Those things," Vedreem said. "What were they?"

Mulvane did not answer him, too wrapped up in his own anguish and pain.

"Forced to walk in darkness through the streets of the Obsidian City for eternity, never to reach the light."

Vedreem seized him by the shoulders and shook him violently. "What were they?" he barked.

Slowly Mulvane's senses began to return. "The Skalkinon. Servants of Attis, Three Faced God of the Obsidian City," he finally said. "He has ever been the enemy of Cybele. But never before has he sent his servants here."

"Then why now?"

Mulvane shook his head. "Our creed tells us that one born of faith and steel will to destroy Attis." He gestured vaguely at the frescos behind Vedreem.
"Odhren?"

"We believed so. But now he is gone." He grabbed Vedreem's sleeve with a bloody hand. "You must help us," he said. "You must bring his soul back."
Vedreem shrugged the hand away. "The affairs of the gods are none of my concern."

"You do not understand."

"I understand well enough. It matters little to me which gods rule the earth - the Dark or the Light - men will live and men will die regardless of who hears their prayers. Why should I be fool enough to enter The Obsidian City?"

"Because Odhren was your friend."

"That is hardly reason enough." He knew of the Obsidian City, of course - that darkly twisted parallel to the Shining City of PameValdas that lay beyond the Veil - had glimpsed it in nightmares and fever dreams, in those moments when the barriers between worlds are at their most fragile.

"Then do it for your own salvation, Vedreem the Lost."

"Some souls are beyond redemption," the assassin told him.

"Some, but not all," Mulvane said. "Even yours may yet be saved."

"Don't try to appeal to my conscience, priest, I have none."

"Gold, then, if that is what you require."

"It is."

* * *

The gods of Light know the darkness even if their followers do not, for the things that lurk in the shadows are were created in the same moment, brothers and sisters to each other.

Vedreem, too, knew the darkness, for it had lived within him for longer than he cared to remember, growing every day.

"The journey is not an easy one," Mulvane told him. "But with the blessing of the Goddess the Veil can be breached."

They stood together in a small antechamber dominated by an alabaster statue of Cybele. The benevolent features of the goddess stared down at them, but Vedreem could detect malice in the curve of her smiling lips, in the cast of her oval eyes and, most of all, in the cruel sacrifices she demanded from her priests.

"Do what you must."

Mulvane took a short dagger from where it lay at the feet of the statue.

"Prepare yourself, Vedreem. The wound I make will enable your soul to pass through the Veil. I will keep the pathway open for as long as I can - but you must find your way back quickly or you will never return. Bow your head."
Vedreem loosened his cloak and let it fall. He knew where the blade had to enter to create a pathway for his departing soul - the same spot where he had struck at Odhren.

He knelt in front of the Goddess and waited for the blow.

Mulvane began to intone a prayer in the First Tongue, pronouncing the harsh, guttural words with ease. When the prayer reached its zenith he struck.

Vedreem's pain was exquisite as the darkness reached out to welcome him.

* * *

He swam slowly back to life, reaching out with limbs that were made of thawing ice. Then, with a barely suppressed moan, his eyes opened.

He still knelt in front of the goddess, but the statue was chipped and broken, the nose and ears smashed away and deep gouges crudely carved into breasts and pubis. Mulvane had vanished, but the dagger had been returned to its resting place. He picked it up and examined it. The blade was etched with arcane symbols, identical to those that adorned the bodies of Cybele's followers, but other than that the weapon was unremarkable. Without thinking, he tucked into his boot, strangely reassured by its weight.

A dull knot of pain pulsed at the base of his skull - at the exact point where the dagger had entered - and he could still feel the rasp of steel against bone. He reached around to touch the wound and withdrew bloody fingers. Blood and something else; something pale and grey: the tendril of his soul.

He wrapped the cloak around his shoulders and walked out into the main chamber of the temple. The smell of ruin and neglect reached him immediately. Dusty light drifted through gaps in the roof. The friezes had been defaced with dung and mud, all but obliterating the images, and through the shattered main doors he could see the twisting, chaotic streets and choked squares beyond.

A dull pallor hung over the city, covering the spires of the tallest buildings. Bloated, winged creatures flapped through the gloom, calling to each other with cracked voices, now and again swooping down to snatch some unwary creature in their curved beaks.

In the square outside a crowd of naked men and women - their features obscured by intricately wrought animal masks - danced around a massive sculpture. It was made of smooth marble, fashioned into the head of a handsome man and it screamed along with a chaotic, tuneless music that surged and fell, played by an insane, invisible orchestra.

A dark form stumbled drunkenly into the doorway of the temple, laughing an idiot's laugh. It saw Vedreem as it turned; the laughter ceased abruptly and its mouth fell open in surprise.

Vedreem crossed the floor in three long strides and caught the thing by the scruff of the neck, his hand sinking into soft, wet flesh. The thing had been a man once, perhaps, but now the skin had been flayed from its body, exposing raw, bleeding muscle, cartilage and sinew. Teeth and eyes shone in its gory features.

"My apologies, lord," it babbled, "I did not know that you were here. I…"

Then it stopped. "A man! Alive!" It sniffed at him, a dog sniffing its master.

"Alive!"

"What are you?" Vedreem said.

"The Flayed Man, lord." It giggled. "You have not heard of me? No matter, you will know me in time - all of the Obsidian City knows of the Flayed Man and the Flayed Man knows all of the Obsidian City."

He twisted in Vedreem's grip and pulled away, leaving him with a fistful of bleeding flesh. Before he could seize it again The Flayed Man had danced onto the steps of the temple.

"Brothers and sisters!" he called out to the creatures around the sculpture. "A living man! A man alive!"

As one, the pack of animal-headed people turned to stare.

Despite the murky light, Vedreem could see them clearly now and he realised with horror that these were not masks they wore, but the heads of living creatures sutured onto their necks. Some had the heads of carnivores - wolves, leopards and jackals - others had the heads of hares, geese and pigs. There were scores, perhaps even hundreds of them, their bodies blue with cold, despite the vigorous dance.

There was nowhere to run, no Words of Power he knew that could defeat so many. Cursing all the gods, both Dark and Light, he drew his swords and prepared to meet them.

They burst into the temple in a great, dense pack, bowling him from his feet, careless of the blades that hacked and ripped into their midst. Foam flecked muzzles snapped at this torso, frigid fingers dragged the swords from his hands and bore him aloft, out into the square towards the still screaming sculpture.

"A man alive!" The Flayed Man sang out as he danced on the edge of the crowd. "And soon to be a man dead!"

3.

They bound his hands and feet and left him in the middle of the square.Their exertions had exhausted them and the creatures slumped onto the flagstones, narrow chests heaving, paying little or no attention to their captive, preferring to lick their own and each other's wounds.

All except The Flayed Man.

"Do you see yon statue, lord?" he said in his sing-song voice. "Do you know why he screams so? No? Then I shall tell you. He screams because he hungers." The sculpture bellowed again, the sound gradually dying away to a throaty babble." And what does he hunger for? For you, lord, for you." He giggled happily at his own joke. "And when the Beastskulls have rested, we shall feed you, feet first, to the Screaming Monument." He peered down at Vedreem warily, his skinless head cocked to one side. Even with his hands tied behind his back, the swordsman exuded threat and danger.

Vedreem barely acknowledged him. The throbbing in his skull had worsened, blotting out the minor scrapes and bites that the Beastskulls had inflicted upon him, and he knew instinctively that it was linked to the spell which had allowed him to pass through the Veil. He could feel the connection between worlds growing weaker as the pain increased, even after so short a time.

At last the Flayed Man's voice penetrated his pain, an irritating non-stop babble that forced him to focus his thoughts.

"Tell me," Vedreem said. "Why do you claim to know all of the Obsidian City?" As he spoke he moved his hands surreptitiously towards the dagger hidden in his boot.

"Claim, lord? It is no idle boast, I assure you, The Flayed Man knows every inch and secret of the City, from the lowest of the low," he pointed at Vedreem and giggled again. "To the secret corridors in the Palace of Attis the Three Faced God. There is not a place or a soul that the Flayed Man does not know."

"Yet you did not know me," his fingertips, already beginning to grow numb, brushed tantalisingly over the handle of the dagger.

"I confess that this is true," The Flayed Man chewed at his lip and a spot of bright blood fell from his mouth onto the flagstones. "But then you are a man alive, not merely a soul."

Around them, the Beastskulls were beginning to stir again, stretching their limbs and yawning, a hundred different cries and croaks issuing from their mouths. A yard or so away a slender woman with the head of an eagle gazed across at them, she blinked once then sank back onto the stones.

Vedreem's swords lay at her feet, tantalisingly close.

"You are a liar," Vedreem said. "No one could know all the souls in the Obsidian City." He began to draw the dagger slowly and carefully.

The Flayed Man drew himself erect, full of wounded pride. "Name just one and I will find it for you."

Vedreem began to saw through the cords that bound his wrists, holding the treacherous blade awkwardly, the handle slippery with sweat and threatening to fall from his grasp at any moment.

"Name one," The Flayed Man said again.

The cords gave way. Vedreem flipped the dagger and caught the handle deftly, a quick slash parted the bonds around his ankles and he jumped to his feet, swaying as the blood rushed back into his tortured extremities.

The Flayed Man squealed with surprise as the dagger pressed against his throat. "Save me, brothers and sisters!"

But the Beastskulls simply stared, still too sluggish to react quickly. The eagle-headed woman snapped at Vedreem with her sharp beak as he reached down to grab his swords, but a back-handed slap sent her sprawling back onto the flagstones, shrieking as she fell. By the time the others realised what was happening, Vedreem had disappeared into one of the winding lanes surrounding the square, dragging the shrieking Flayed Man with him.

* * *

They ran through the streets until the Beastskulls were far behind them, The Flayed Man protesting with each step.

When they finally halted, resting in the lee of a ruined tower, The Flayed Man fell on his knees before Vedreem. "A jest, lord, it was merely a jest. Surely you would not hurt a harmless creature such as I over a simple jape."

"Your life means nothing to me," Vedreem said. "I would as soon slit your throat now - but I need your help."

"Anything, lord, whatever you require."

"Did you speak the truth? Do you know all the souls in the Obsidian City?"

The creature looked pained again. "Of course I spoke the truth - all of the Obsidian City knows of the Flayed Man and the Flayed Man knows…" A glance at the glittering dagger in Vedreem's hand stopped the flow of words.

"The priest Odhren came here recently - where is he now?"

The Flayed Man stood and pondered for a moment, making an elaborate show of thinking. "The Skalkinon delivered him to the Palace only hours since."

"Take me there."

This time The Flayed Man's laughter was genuine, echoing through the muggy streets. "One man against The Three Faced God? You would have been better to allow us to feed to you the Screaming Monument, at least then your death would have been relatively clean." He leaned closer and Vedreem could see the elaborate pattern of veins and blood vessels that covered his skull. "Are you insane, lord?"

"Perhaps." And The Flayed Man knew that he spoke the truth.

"I can show you the way, lord," The Flayed Man said. "But do not ask me to enter the Palace- Attis would tear my soul from my body."

"Unusually cruel - even for a God." Vedreem said. Then a soft groan escaped from his lips as a wave of pain passed through his skull. Time was running out - he did not know how long was left to him. Days? Hours? Minutes?

"Take me there," he said again.

* * *

The Palace of the Three Faced God stood on a hill overlooking the city. From a distance it appeared as disordered and chaotic, nothing more than a tangle of black spires that reached up and disappeared into the perpetual gloom. A mud-choked river separated the city proper from the Palace and a wide stone bridge connected the two, its length swarming with all manner of creatures, both human and inhuman.

As they crossed the bridge the gloom deepened, reaching out to embrace them, and with each step The Flayed Man grew more and more agitated.

"I can go no further, lord," he said when they reached the far side. "The Three Faced God knows me well - he would scent me long before we reached him." He looked pleadingly at Vedreem and there was genuine terror in his raw, viscous features. "I am thinking only of your safety, lord," he said.

"Tell me where to find Odhren."

"At the feet of the Three Faced God, where else?"

"If you lie…"

"What would I gain from a lie?" The Flayed Man cast a fearful glance towards the Palace. "Please, lord, have I not served you well?"

Vedreem nodded a dismissal and with an elaborate bow worthy of any grand courtier, The Flayed Man danced away from him to be swallowed up by the crowd. He did not look back.

The steep streets that lead to the Palace were all but empty, lined with abandoned buildings, their glassless windows staring blindly. Once, a multi-legged animal skittered out of the darkness, followed swiftly by another that leapt upon its back, rending and tearing with needle-sharp teeth.

The Three Faced God has placed his stamp firmly on this place, Vedreem thought, but then that is the way of all gods.

He halted at the top of a flight of crude stone steps and knelt, wrapping his cloak around his body and using both it and the darkness to hide from watching eyes.

The Palace lay on the far side of a meticulously maintained square, the flagstones made of granite and marble giving it the appearance of a gigantic chess board. Crumbling stone walls, perhaps fifteen feet high, surrounded the Palace, their line broken only by an ornate iron gate that lead to a cobbled courtyard. He could see figures moving in the murk beyond the gate, unmistakeably Skalkinon, their awkward, long-limbed gait all too recognisable.

Despite the mounting pain in his head, he forced himself to speak a Word of concealment and for a moment a bright shaft of torment ran through his whole body. Gritting his teeth against it, he moved swiftly across the square and scaled the wall, his climb made simple by ample hand and footholds in the old stonework. At the top he paused for a moment, scanning the twisting towers for any sign of habitation.

Further in, on the other side of a huge archway, he saw a group of figures being led towards the cavernous doors of an immense cathedral. Pale yellow light torchlight shone on glittering chains and naked bodies and he could hear the crack of whips as the group was driven along by its Skalkinon guards.

He dropped lightly onto the cobbles and followed them. By the time he reached the archway the effort of maintaining his minor glamour had become too much, cold sweat bathed his limbs and a spike of flame pressed into his skull. He allowed the spell to fall away, relishing the momentary relief before the pain began again.

The doors of the cathedral lay open, a faint, fetid wind reached out to him as he approached and with it the sound of a muted scream, choked off abruptly.

There was no time for subtlety, no time to calculate the odds. Vedreem could feel his strength fading rapidly as the tenuous connection between this world and his own began to fracture.

He stepped inside.

"Welcome", a silky voice said.

4.

Attis, The Three Faced God, sat on a throne carved from lapis lazuli; gold pinpoints twinkled within the stone, burning with a cold, malevolent fire that was matched only by the glitter in the God's eyes.

It was a huge, bloated creature swathed in shining black and silver armour. Massive muscles strained against the plate guards on its upper arms and thighs, as if living flesh had been poured into the metal case. Its mailed right hand was wrapped around the hilt of an eight foot broadsword with a serrated blade and three handsome faces, all identical, stared from its hairless, domed head. Clustered at the foot of the throne, bound together by chains, a group of men and women - naked except for rags - stared up at the god. A squadron of silent Skalkinon stood over them, long cruel whips in their webbed hands.

"I have come for Odhren's soul," Vedreem said.

"You cannot have it," three mouths spoke at once and the words were a roar. "His soul is mine to do with as I wish." The God stared down at the group. "Is that not so, Odhren?"

Odhren rose from the pack. His youth had been restored, his skin smooth and hairless. The marks of the goddess had been sponged away, his fingers and manhood given back and the cracked ivory soul box dangled from a chain around his neck.

"Help me, Vedreem," he said in a tormented voice. "In the name of Cybele, help me."

The long sword flashed once and Odhren's head fell from his shoulders.
"I told you not to mention that name," the Three Faced God said rising to his feet, surprisingly graceful despite his bulk. He reached down and grasped the severed head, pushing it back onto Odhren's still upright body.

The stink of burning flesh filled the air as the head and torso fused together and immediately Odhren began to scream.

"This is the creature destined to destroy me!" the God laughed. "This is the creature born of faith and steel." It turned its many eyes to Vedreem. "And you, Vedreem Lusnan, what will you do now?"

With leaden fingers Vedreem drew his sword. Pain coursed through his entire body and he could feel the pathway between worlds growing ever weaker, dwindling to a gossamer thread.

One of the Skalkinon leaped at him. He gutted it with a single slash.
The Three Faced God laughed again. "Splendid," he boomed, "Splendid! So there is some sport in you." He moved towards Vedreem, broadsword at the ready. "You may even make a worthy addition to my court - after all, you wear the jester's garb and perhaps we can teach you to caper and tumble."
The massive sword came sweeping towards him. He sidestepped, barely managing to avoid the blade as it crashed into the floor, smashing tiles and stones to flinders.

His counterstroke was swatted aside with contemptuous ease and a savage riposte cut through his hauberk ripping a shallow cut across his chest. A blow from the hilt of the sword caught him on the side of the head and bright sparks danced in front of his eyes.

"You were foolish to come here," the God said. "Weak and foolish - obeying the whims of a Goddess who cares nothing for you."

A savage thrust impaled Vedreem on the broadsword, punching through his stomach and out through his back. The Three Faced God released his grip on the hilt and Vedreem fell onto the cathedral floor, blood streaming from a terrible wound, the blade still jutting from his body.

"You will not die if I do not allow it," The God told him. "You will live lifetime upon lifetime in my embrace, Vedreem. Reborn a hundred thousand times if I so choose." He strode away contemptuously and sat on his throne. "Do you see now, Odhren?" the God said. "Do you understand why you can never win?"

A bright flash of metal streaked through the putrid air and punched into one of the God's eyes. Cybele's dagger, thrown with unerring precision by the dying assassin. The God squealed in pain and rage.

"Use it, Odhren," Vedreem whispered, his voice choked with blood. "Faith and steel, remember? Faith and steel."

The priest sprang forward and grasped the dagger's hilt. At his touch the weapon began to glow, energy pulsing from the symbols on the blade. The Three Faced God roared again as the power of the Goddess began to surge through his body, vaporizing flesh, tearing his essence to ribbons.
He rose to his feet, shaking his head from side to side in an attempt to dislodge both the priest and the blade, his death roar shaking the very foundations of the building. A final surge of light illuminated the cathedral and when it had faded nothing remained of Attis except his buckled smoking armour.

Odhren crossed to where Vedreem lay in a widening pool of blood. The assassin was still alive, but barely. His face was white as chalk and something rattled in his throat with every breath.

Odhren held him in his arms and pressed the dagger tenderly against the back of his neck.

"Time to return home, my friend," he said. "May the Goddess grant that we meet again in the life to come."

Vedreem tried to say something but no words came. Odhren pressed the blade home and the world exploded.

* * *

Vedreem's eyes opened and his lungs filled with air. All pain had gone, only the memory of it remained.

Mulvane stood over him. Above him the impassive marble face of the Goddess stared down.

"Odhren?" he asked.

Vedreem held out his hand - the pure white soul box rested in his palm. Reverently, Mulvane took it from him.

"May the Goddess remember you for this."

"You promised me gold, priest."

"Do you care so little for your soul. Vedreem?"

The assassin held his hand out. "The gold."

Mulvane handed him a small but weighty leather pouch.

"One day even you will need the comfort of the Goddess," he said. "And on that day what good will gold do?"

"Your Goddess is a bitch who asks men to mutilate themselves, why would I seek her comfort?"

He turned and left the temple without looking back.

Outside, a light rain had begun to fall. He drew the hood of his cloak over his head and walked into the twisting streets of the Low City. Soon he was lost in the darkness.

Copyright © James Lecky