Servant of the Gods

The Gods and the Demons have been at war since time began. Their battle rages on each and every world in existence. The goal of this war-- to seal off the enemy from each of the worlds, one by one. Until, eventually, the enemy has been sealed off from all of existence.

On one particular lonely world, the Demons have won.

*

I am a child of rape. All of my kind are. For I am a Tsarvrath-- a halfling demonkin. And there is, in reality, no other way for my kind to be conceived.

I know nothing of my parents, except the one thing that can be inferred-- that one of them was a human, and the other was a Demon. I don’t even know which was which. Though it is likely that it was my father who was human, since it is quite rare for a human female to be able to survive bringing a Demon child to birth.

I can guess that my Demon parent is out there somewhere, on this world or another, ruling. But it is likely that he or she knows nothing of me, not even that I exist. Halfling children often mean nothing to them. And, my human parent would be long ago dead. Having lived out his or her pathetically short life many millennia ago.

Thus, I have no one. No parents. No siblings. No family. But that is of no loss to me. Because I am Tsarvrath, and we, unlike frail humanity, have no need of anyone else to survive.

*

Confined, as I am, to this wasted world, I have made my way in life through the best means available to me-- war. I made my name on the battlefield. And it had become a name that was much feared among weak humanity. So much so, in fact, that my name was actually thought to bring a curse upon anyone who uttered it. And thus, frail humanity only spoke of me through my battlename-- The Render.

For more than a millennia, I went unmatched on the battlefield. And so, I rose as far as an unpatroned halfling could go. I was a mercenary general-- much sought after in the game of Slaughter that is modern war.

As always, I was, even then, fighting in a war-- serving Godrus, Demon Lord of Murder, and so-called God of Judgement and Redemption. Serving him as a general in a Final battle against his enemy-- Kerissa, Demon Lord of Lies, and so-called God of Love and Trust.

A Final battle, yes. But, that this was a Final battle in no way meant that this would be an end to the conflict. It wouldn’t even put an end to the fighting between Godrus and Kerissa. The only thing that this battle would put an end to was the existence of all of the weak humans in the losing Breeding Pool.

Godrus-- of late a frequent loser at Slaughter-- had purchased me in order to ensure that this day his Breeding Pool would not be among the beaten. However, had his usual commander not been so inept, I would have said that I was not in any way needed, because the enemy was pathetic, even for humans. Pathetic in many different ways, but especially in skills at fighting.

And the sun was burning down upon us. And the sand scraped at the claws of my feet. And there was the thick taste of blood in my mouth.

It was war. And it was good.

Good, despite the fact that this day was very like ten-thousand other such days in my existence. For, once again, I would find no challenge on this battlefield. The day had already been decided in my favor, early on-- the only thing left to me was to play it out. And this enemy had no real heroes to challenge me. Nor was the battle even large enough for me to break my record of slaughters.

But I entered into the battle anyway. Because battle could always bring me some measure of satisfaction.

The taste of the enemy’s blood upon my lips. The rot of tens-of-thousands of dead burning out underneath the blazing sun filling my nostrils. The whimper of those who knew my name echoing in my ears as I approached them. This was what brought me pleasure.

Bound to this weak earth as I was, it was the only thing that brought me pleasure.

Then I came upon someone dancing idiotically around and sticking his spear randomly into the people around him-- be they ally or enemy. And I did to him what he was doing to everyone around him. Though unlike what he was doing, I made sure to give him a killing wound.

Then I moved on. Yet, he didn’t die. For he, like me, had Demon blood in him, though I hadn’t realized it at the time. He didn’t have as much as I did; he was only Parvrath-- quarter-Demon. But Demon blood is strong, even when so faint.

Neither was he the only demonkin to have no ability at war. But he was the only one that I had ever met who willingly went out onto the battlefield.

Diego-- the Howler.

I didn’t learn his name until weeks later. I didn’t learn that I hadn’t killed him until that same moment. And so, it was only then that I learned of my horrible mistake. Then-- the moment when the two Staalazzd were coming for me, with their shadowy Overseer looking on. Coming for me because Diego was a favorite of one of the Demon Lords. Though I don’t know which one. Not that it mattered. Because I was no one’s favorite.

While some did admire my skill as a slaughterer, admiration only gets you one thing-- the Staalazzd give you a nod when they come for you, instead of just hitting you until you are ready to go with them. And then, once they have given you the nod, they hit you all the harder, because, after all, you have proved yourself to be a dangerous and skillful killer.

*

The subsequent trial was, as I expected, a mockery.

The Demon courts did half-resemble the old human courts that they had been modeled after. But they were, of course, something else entirely. And though the Demons took no part in the trials themselves-- far too boring-- it is they who had given us the system that we have. And either they had no real understanding of what a human court was meant to do, or this system in some way provided them with much amusement.

There were no juries, of course, because Demons do not recognize authority. They prefer the judgment to come from the masses. And so, anyone who enters into the theater helps to decide the verdict.

There is a judge, because the Demons believe that there has to be someone there with the ability to inflict the determined punishment on the criminal without the aid of anyone else, since otherwise the trial would be a farce-- the weak imposing their weak wills upon the strong. Which, in Demon society, would be the worst crime possible. After all, if something is too weak to prove itself, then it is obviously too weak to be in the right. Thus, judges tended to be very large, very cruel, and very violent-- even by the standards of the Tsarvrath. Which usually made criminals very afraid of them. And the Demons thought that that was fitting.

There were also lawyers. Showmen. There to do their best to sway the crowd. But, what the crowd was swayed mostly by was, of course, money. Thus most, if not all, important Demon trials were decided through bribery. In fact, notoriously, some quite obviously innocent people had been found guilty simply because of the amount of money that had changed hands.

And so, I knew before the trial even began that I would be found guilty. It mattered nothing that I had actually and provably done nothing wrong. I had no patron, and so I had very little to pay the crowd with. Thus, my verdict was going to be guilty. And the crowd made that fact abundantly clear throughout the trial. They even cheered when Diego rose to say his piece, and clapped raucously whenever he finished answering a question.

But, since I expected nothing different, I was neither surprised nor disappointed when the crowd shouted out, “Guilty!” My hope was all for the judge-- Naiste, a three-quarters Demon of the cruelest and ugliest kind.

Naiste, as my judge, would determine the severity of my punishment. And he would be excessive and injudicious, of course. He was greatly famed for such sentences. But, it would be survivable.

Living in this wasted world, torment was just something that had to be endured, now and again. You didn’t look for it, of course. But you knew that it would come, and sooner rather than later. You endured, or you died. And, I always endured.

“Zellnos, The Render.” I glanced up as Naiste spoke my name. “You have been convicted of that most heinous of crimes-- attempted murder. I never thought to hear of one of our gentle breeding being capable of such a crime. This is the harshest surprise I have ever encountered in all of my years at this bench. “You--” He pointed at me. “--you are worse than any other criminal that has ever passed before me. This tragedy can never be allowed to happen again. ...You must be made an example of.”

I found myself gritting my teeth ever harder as each sentence was spoken. For this was an outrage.

There had been no attempted murder-- the wounding had happened on the battlefield. What is more, there hadn’t even been any chance of death. Diego was a quarterling, and could not possibly be killed through such means as I had used.

And all of the rest of it was equally exaggeration and lies. Such was the sentence that my judge read out to me. And I knew, before he even finished his speech-- I knew that he had been bribed against me, too.

Yet the judge, unlike the crowd, wasn’t supposed to let himself succumb to simple greed. Ever. On pain of his oath to the Lord of the Void, the Unnamed One. Our Creator. But, he had. He had let himself be bribed against me. Because I had no one to protect me.

Anger filled my body, and the Red Haze came upon me. The madness. The beast.

When it at last faded, I found that I had ripped up the desk that I had been seated behind and the chair that I had been seated upon, and was now killing anyone who was anywhere near me-- humans all, of course.

And now that my senses had partly returned, I continued the killing-- rending everything around me. Living up to my battlename. Giving answer to the outrage that this court had put upon me.

All of my guards were long dead, and so the only things binding me now were the lash chains joining my wrists to my feet. But such bindings were only a slight hindrance to one such as me. I could still rend, even bound back by shackles. Death was in my nature, and death was what I gave.

Yet, the Staalazzd were also there in the room-- the strongest of the Demon Lords’ servants. And they soon came upon me.

However, such was my anger that I almost fought them off, too. Only, I didn’t. And, a moment later, the Overseers’ soul whip slid into my body. Then my struggles were, of course, instantly ended.

*

And thus did I find myself out in the wastelands, shackled to immobility, bound to the stones of the Isivanis Desert-- the desert that had come to claim the entirety of this wasted world. Staked beneath the searing desert sun for eternity, unable to turn my head from the sky.

There to whither and burn beneath the sun, and to go mad, forever.

*

The centuries burned away, in utter agony. My kind do die, and so the torment could not actually go on forever. It could only go on for millions upon millions of years. Hundreds, thousands of times longer than the torment of years that I had already passed there, chained to the desert. A length of time that was, to me, seemingly without end. Or, in other words, forever.

Forever without water. Without food. Without being able to turn my head from the sun. Without movement. Without blood.

And I did go mad.

*

I was the desert. The desert was me.

The constant winds-- the song of my insanity.

The searing heat-- the exhaling breath from the infernal bellows that were my lungs.

The utter lack of water-- the dry void that my soul had become.

The brutal sameness that was each day in the long centuries that had already passed-- the constant, crackling pain that had entered into every single part of my body.

The empty horizon-- the emptiness that my mind had become in its madness.

*

The sun never ended. It never ended. Never ended.

*

I think that. Sometimes. I screamed.

*

A memory came to me. Clean, beautiful, crystalline in its purity. A memory of a day from long, long in the past. From so long ago that it had nothing to do with the here and now. Yet, for a time, the memory was more real to me than the pain and the searing heat were.

For a time.

A memory of a day that lay before all of the wars, before the Gods had been banished and all memory of them erased from weak humanity, before the Great Fires, before everything. A memory from a world that was very different from that which now was.

There were rivers back then. Not many of them, true. But now, these days, such a thing as flowing water was unheard of. Only we of the long-lived even knew of such things anymore. Or of such things as boats, for that matter. Yet it was upon such a boat that I was traveling that day, journeying as a passenger along the Sangrit River. The air was warm, but not hot-- such a day as had not been seen on this world in millennia.

And we came upon a bend in the river, on the other side of which was a wide lake. A lake that was speckled with white lilies, and surrounded by fern and a small patchwork of wooded hillsides. It was the most beautiful sight that I ever seen in my long existence.

There was a woman out there, too-- standing firmly atop the water out in the middle of the lake. A tall, slight, flowing form. Beautiful, though not with a human’s idea of beauty. And she was a Goddess. Salanae Meyanarra-- the Sylph, Goddess of Flowing Rivers and Enchantment. A Goddess that had killed enough humans that even a halfling could have some small measure of respect for her. And, she was also a woman who was to show up many times in my life in the decades following that meeting. Which she would do until she, and everything else, was gone.

I gasped in awe at the sight of her. At the sight of her surroundings.

And it was that one moment as we turned around the bend in the river that had come back to me. It was a memory that brought me much peace. Though it was not the woman that brought me that feeling. Rather, it was the place. And I reveled in the memory of that place, and the peace that it brought me, for a long time.

Until the remembered sight of all of that water caused my thirst to reassert itself. Which instantly shattered the memory, and brought me back to the pain of my body.

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Endless.

Torment.

And then the sound of footsteps in the sand. I forced one crusted eyelid open, and through the swirling mists of earth of a sandstorm, I caught sight of a narrow-bearded man moving past me, off in the distance.

This man was dressed in brown-colored robes, and his hair was a similar color of brown, though lightly stained with white in places. He kept his eyes tightly shut against the ravages of the sandstorm, but he moved easily across the desert despite that. And the earth-filled winds seemed to do him no serious harm, unlike every other creature in the world. As if he and the winds were somehow allies.

There was also something vaguely familiar about him.

Obviously a figment. But I had long ago stopped preventing myself from talking to figments. “...W...ait.” My voice was as dry and crackly as the desert wind. I was the desert. The desert was me.

And I lost my vision for a time.

When my vision returned, the figment was gone. Ah well. It was not much of a loss. After all, it hadn’t actually been real.

But then I noticed that the figment hadn’t actually gone; it had only changed its position. It was now crouched upon a low stone a few paces away from me, its elbows upon its knees, and its chin resting upon its clasped hands, as it stared down at me.

And it stared at me in silence for a long time, its eyes most of the way closed. And I stared at it. Yet then, abruptly, it opened its eyes, and it was like looking upon the empty night sky.

“You look as if you have been here a long time,” it said gently.

“Fo...r...ever.”

It smiled faintly. “I hardly think that it could be that long. ...Though, looking at you, that does seem close enough.”

“...For...ever.”

“Mm.” It frowned musingly, for a long while, then said, “It seems to me that you haven’t been as careful as you usually are.”

“...What?”

“I was at the Battle of Ran Rafar. ...You normally study your opponent much more carefully, and so wouldn’t have made such a mistake as to not identify just who exactly your enemies were”

The pause this time wasn’t only because my throat was so dry. “...I was bored.”

“Ah.” The figment turned its gaze away, and was once more looking upon the vista around us. And the storm returned in full force, and I realized then that it had seemed to fade over these last few moments. “...You should remember, Zellnos,” the figment said, its voice somehow carried to me on the storm winds, “these shackles you wear do not only bind you because of your punishment; they also bind you because of the company you choose to keep.”

“ What...other...company...is there?”

But my eye had crusted back over, and when I once more managed to open it, the figment was gone. This time, in truth.

*

I retreated into a dream of pleasure.

A dream of the battlefield.

A dream of death.

A dream of blood.

Everything that I found enjoyable in this world. And I laughed and screamed and reveled at the good of it all.

But the pain soon pulled me back from my dreams. Returning me to my endless torment.

*

A voice. Sounding in my head.

Not the first such. Not at all. But this one was soft, and coaxing. When the others had all been harsh and biting and cruel-- as I was used to from real people.

It was also a feminine voice.

Zellnos.

I didn’t answer. Because the voice was far too kind to be real.

Zellnos. This time, it was more insistent.

“...W...hat.” My throat burned terribly.

We know what you want. We can give it to you.

“Outs...ider. You...know nothing...of...me.”

Revenge. ...We can give you revenge.

“...Heh....” A laugh strangled by pain. “Yes. As...I...said. ...You know...nothing of me.”

Revenge. We know it is your desire. It is the desire of all of your kind.

“It is...not.”

Silence.

“...Voice? ...Voice?” I was far more desperate than I cared to admit, even to myself. “...Voice?”

Diego. We can give him to you. If you will serve us.

“I...serve...no one.”

You have served the Demonaazguledd loyally for many years.

An unintended, brittle laughter, coming from me. “No longer.” I shook my chains. “Obviously.”

We will give you your freedom.

"I would...rather...die...than serve one of you Outsiders!”

But you will not die, Zellnos, as you well know. As least not soon.

“...I would...rather live...in pain.”

We will give you Diego, and so much more.

“I have...no desire...for...stupid revenge...against...that idiot.”

Silence.

“...Voice? ....Voice?”

But this time, it was well and truly gone.

*

Revenge. All Demons and most demonkin enjoyed playing that game. But I had no interest in it. You had to care about something or someone in order to desire revenge for their loss. And I cared for nothing at all.

*

More years passed.

And then I was awakened to the cooling taste of water upon my tongue, and the soft feel of lips touching mine.

Obviously, the remains of a dream.

A voice sounded in my head, then. “You are not looking well, Zellnos.”

The Voices were back. Which was good, in a way-- it was someone real to talk to. “I...am looking...better...than if...I’d accepted any offer...of yours.”

“Of mine?” The Voice was curious. “Have I made an offer to you recently? ...Really? ...I don’t remember doing so.”

And then she came closer, and I smelled a familiar smell-- the scent of rotting leather and jasmine. The scent of Sirvina, Lord of Spite, and so-called Goddess of Devotion and Retribution.

I forced open my eyes, and it was indeed her, leaning over me. A figment, then, and not a Voice. Unfortunately. The figments weren’t real.

And, as well, this particular figment was a very nasty choice for my mind to be making. But, then again, after all, I was crazy.

Sirvina’s illusory body-- the body that Demons showed to weak humanity-- was a thing of extraordinary beauty. Mostly. For, unlike all of the other Demons, she did not care to hide her tail. For some reason. Possibly vanity-- she did seem to be overly fond of it.

But Tsarvrath eyes could see through such illusions, to the true body beneath. Yet, unlike most Demons, her true body was also beautiful, in its own way. She had claws and fur and fangs and a slightly extended muzzle. And her eyes were a shining red, when most Demon eyes were the color of drying blood.

A vision of beauty, among our kind. A deadly beauty.

I coughed, a few flecks of blood strewing out. “...Well, maybe...I am...wrong.”

“I do usually remember these things. ...But not always.”

“...I...may have only dreamed...it. I...have...lots of time...for dreams.”

“Ah!” She grinned ferally. “So you do.”

“...Why...are you...here?”

She sniffed, very obviously miffed at the people who had sent her here. And, with her, it could be any reason under the sun that had caused her the irritation. Any reason, small or large. “I was sent to you as a messenger, my sweet. ...The Council of High Lords wants to know if you have any desire to return to society.”

I managed a cackling laugh. “...Is this...more torment?”

Sirvina smiled down at me. “Ah, me. If only it were. That is a most splendid idea. ...But, no. They really do seem to think that they need you.” She examined her claws, and then absently began sharpening them on a rock. “For something or other. I’m not really sure what.”

"...They...want me?”

“Apparently.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” She cocked her head cattily. “I suppose, though, that they think they need The Render for something.”

“...Never. ...I will never...work...for them again.”

“Hmph. Such anger is rather unbecoming in you. ...Strangely enough.”

“...Never again.”

She came close to me, then straddled my chest. Which was something that I didn’t want, but I was chained into immobility, and so could not prevent it. She arched her back across me, and then kissed me, hard. Once more, I felt a hint of sweet water pass my lips and enter my mouth. I drank greedily. “We are prepared to pay you very well,” she said ever so slowly, her nose touching mine. And then she slid her mouth down and nibbled at my lower lip.

“Never again.”

She dismounted from me. “Very well.” Then she knelt beside me and reached down to caress the side of my cheek. “Yes, I suppose they shouldn’t have expected you to forgive them so soon after what they did to you.”

A brittle laugh, mixed with much coughing, escaped me. “So soon?” More dead laughter. “Had it been soon, I would have accepted. But it has been centuries.”

She moved her caress to the bottom of my chin. “Ah, but back then you had not yet been punished enough.”

“‘Punished enough’? ...For what? I did nothing wrong.”

She smiled wickedly as she caressed me one last time. “Punishment for your failure at the Laws of Personal Survival.”

I sneered at her.

“And it is a most fitting punishment, I think,” she added quietly.

My sneer widened.

She cocked her head at me. “You are sure that you do not want to come back?”

“Never again.”

“Very well.” She stood, and turned to go, but paused for a moment, looking down over her shoulder at me. “You do know that the Demon Council only make their offers once?”

"...I would rather die.”

She smiled ferally. “Well, that is good, because you will, out here. ...Good-bye.” And she kicked me in the side, hard. With the strength of a Demon. “As the millenia pass, do, please, try not to forget me. I so hate to be forgotten.” Then she walked away into the desert.

*

There was a fierce pain in my side now-- a physical pain-- which made me wonder if this last figment might not actually have been real. Not that it really mattered-- the conversation would have been the same whether it was real or dreamed.

*

The Marghastal arrived-- the great sandstorm that swung though the desert once every generation or so. It was a storm so powerful that it could scrape a person to death, if you did not protect yourself, or you were not a Tsarvrath. For me, it brought only pain, as the sand and the grit and the gale winds tore across the wounds that covered my body.

And in its wake, the storm brought fire. As the Marghastal so often does.

There wasn’t much left to burn in this empty desert, but the fires raged for a time across what small plant life there was. And the roar of the fire became, in my mind, screams. The screams of the dying. Millions upon millions dying a slow, simultaneous death, as the Great Fires raged.

It was a time when there were forests and great human cities, rivers and lakes and oceans. Then came the Great Fires. Infernos of rage and power-- burning whole cities and all of the land around them all at once. Fires that swept through the entire world, again and again and again. Bringing to the world a full century of terror and death.

More people died in those fires than died in all of the plagues that came after, or in all of the Slaughter Games of the Demons. It was a time of destruction and death the likes of which the world had never seen, will never be able to see again.

And though it was not actually the first sign, it was the first sign that most people recognized that this world-- our world-- was dying. Slowly. Sliver by sliver. A death that would take thousands of millennia. But a death just the same.

Being a Tsarvrath, I had watched the Great Fires burn across my world. But unlike the Demons or any of my brethren, I did not revel in it. It was something that, back then, I had only recently realized-- the fact that I did not worship destruction and death. I worshipped the battlefield-- blood and violence and skill. But destruction and death brought no emotion to me.

I watched the Great Fires burn simply because it was something to do to pass the time. Since there were no wars during those years of fire.

The images of all of that burning were seared into my memories. And those images now mixed together with what was currently happening to me, until everything, to my mind, was burning and burning and burning.

Only, the Great Fires eventually ended. But my torment would not. I was to live here, burning, forever.

*

Yet, forever is a long time. And even the metal of the Demons weakens with the centuries. Eventually, my bindings snapped. And I rose up from my imprisonment. Scarred, emaciated, and vastly weakened.

But free.

Even in my current state, I could still manage the Hunt of a small animal-- I was still a Tsarvrath. I made a kill, and answered my hunger, and slaked my thirst. And, with that, the madness started to fade. I could again think-- something I had not been able to do for a very long time.

But I was far from wholly healed.

My kind do not sleep, but we can enter into a similar state, when we need to heal. Though without first feasting and drinking, it is an utterly useless state to be in. Yet, I had just done both, and so I crouched down and slept.

*

When I awoke from my healing sleep, my stomach was once more empty. Yet, many of my wounds were now healed, and I once again had the strength to run and to kill.

However, it was not my own body that had awoken me-- it was a Voice. Though it was not the same Voice as it was the last time, even if it was using the same path to speak to me. This time, the Voice was deep and masculine.

So. You are free.

“What, still here, Voices?”

Yes.

“There is nothing I want from you. ...Go away.”

We do have one thing you want, half-demon. Revenge.

I smirked. “I have already been through this with your ally. I do not want revenge.”

The masculine Voice was dryly amused. All of your kind want revenge, half-demon. It is a part of who you are.

“...Why do you want my help so much, Voice?”

Well..., the Voice replied ponderingly-- not pondering his answer, but pondering just how much of it he was going to say to me. You obviously have the ability to help restore us to this world, since you were so very much a part of our banishment.

Another male Voice spoke-- this one not quite as deep as the other, but more mocking of me. And also, for this same reason, we think it would be fitting if you were to help restore us.

“I have no desire to free Outsiders.”

You misunderstand us, Zellnos. The feminine Voice. That is not the deal we are putting to you. We are only informing you of our ultimate goal, so that there are no secrets between us. We only hope that you will one day decide to help restore us of your own free will.

I laughed. “I find that unlikely.”

The deeper male Voice spoke. The only thing we want in return for giving you your revenge is your promise that you will continue to listen to us.

Yes. The feminine Voice. Do not shut us out, as you have for so long.

“I do not want your revenge, Outsiders.”

The mocking Voice spoke. Against Diego, yes. We understand. But we are no longer speaking of revenge against Diego. We are speaking of revenge against Naiste.

The Judge. My judge. And a coldness entered into my soul.

But the coldness was not the desire for revenge, as these Voices so mistakenly expected. Such a desire has never moved me, and never would move me. Not one way or the other.

But when someone strikes you, you strike back, harder. Otherwise, you are weak. And the weak, die.

The Judge had struck me very hard.

“ Done.”

*

A simple caravan trail led me right to him. My judge. When I reached him, he was staying in a track hostel-- resting. Not for himself, of course, since he was Malivrath-- a three-quarters Demon-- but for his bearers and his guards.

The hostel was a large, rambling structure, designed to accommodate three separate caravans at once. It was run by a desert family, as most such hostels were. A large and extensive family.

I stood on an outcrop and looked down at the complex, from a far distance. My eyes were not human eyes, though, and I saw what a human would see if he were standing at the very gates.

There were many buildings, but it was easy enough to figure out which building the Judge was sleeping in-- I recognized his guards all too well.

*

Night on my world was not all that dark, and so Naiste had a good view of me as I entered his room. He was not at all afraid-- he didn’t recognize me. But then, it had been a long time. A very long time.

A clawed fist in the face reminded him.

Naiste was Malivrath, though, and so, even though the blow had thrown him across the room, he was still not at all afraid. Instead, he was gloating. “Zellnos, is it?” he asked as he straightened his jaw.

“It is.”

“I had always wondered if you would come to me. I simply could never decide if you were foolish enough to try.” He grinned, then turned his head and took in a deep breath.

“You needn’t bother.” I sneered.

He narrowed his gaze at me. “Hmm?”

“No one would hear you. There is no one left alive in this hostel.”

“I see.” He reassessed me, then, but there was still no fear. “There is nothing that you can do to me, half-human. Why are you here?”

“You are wrong!” I bared my claws.

Naiste was Malivrath, which meant that he had enough Demon blood in him that he could not die. But, there was still a slight taint of weak humanity in him, and so, unlike a full Demon, his body could be hurt. And there was a reason that I had been named The Render.

*

I left his body strewn across all of the nine deserts of this wasted world. Let him rejoin himself from that.

*

I set fire to the hostel. Did so because I now found that I enjoyed watching things burn. And then I stood on my outcrop, and watched it burn to the ground.

As the flames licked at the last vestiges, I heard footsteps approaching from behind me. Yet they were non-threatening footsteps, strange though that seemed. And so, I turned around carefully, instead of claws first.

It was the desert-wanderer, from my time of madness. I narrowed my gaze and studied him. The grit in his clothing and skin, not to mention his smell, made him seem quite real just then. And I grinned savagely. “So. You were not a figment.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Or I still am.”

I ignored that, and turned back to the flames. “I have even less desire to talk to you now than when you were a figment.”

He didn’t move, just stood there gazing at me. “...So, are you one of the Servants of the Gods now?”

I immediately spun around. “I serve no one!”

There was a trace of grim amusement on the desert-wanderer’s face. And he gave a nod at the fire. “But you did just do what they wanted, did you not?”

“This?” I waved a hand at the burning ruin. “This is my doing.”

“Oh? Are you sure?” He turned away, looking into the desert. “Naiste, the judge, was headed to Sar Vanados, you know.”

“Yes, I did know.”

“And there, he was to have performed a trial. The trial of a man that some call The Prophet. A trial that will now be postponed. Which will give The Prophet’s friends time enough to free him. ...Which is the exact thing that the Gods wanted.”

I snorted. “And what do you, a weak human, know of the Gods, wanderer?”

He started walking away. “And who ever said I was human?”

I howled at the sky. “...Damn you! Damn you all!”

Then I rounded on him. But he had already disappeared into the desert and the night.

*

Manipulation.

I started to remember why I had come to hate the Gods, and had actively moved against them so long ago. And why I had promised myself that never again would anyone control me.

But, here they were, trying again.

Well, let them try. This time, I was ready for them.