The Wolves of Gryning: Chapter 19
Chapter 19: Death of the Firstborn
Now our story comes again to Vacka, who during this time was not inactive. After emerging from the tomb with Morgara in his possession, his time had come to use it. His singular focus was restoring his mother's soul to life, and the death god had denied him that reward. And what if he could gain that god's power? He'd read a text that suggested the power of gods may be obtainable by anybeast who killed that god. He knew as well that the only beast capable of killing a god was another god; being mortal, his only hope had been in finding Morgara, that blade of Valenthi, and employing its holy edge. It had been forged by a god, and had already killed another. It would yield to its new master, god or no. With the difficult task of finding the blade out of the way, he had only one task left.
Killing a god.
No power of death or miracle of life could have altered his course then. He had cleaned his robes, repairing what fabric he could and replacing the rest. He'd eaten his fill and drunk plenty - water to fill him, wine to steel him, tea to settle him. Morgara glistened where he held it across his knees. It had been forged out of a single piece of steel, honed into a blade along two-thirds of its length. The bottom third had been hammered into a delicate grip and wrapped with fine linen. It had been polished from tip to tip till its surface was reflective as a mirror. He placed his hands atop the weapon and drew in a breath, closed his eyes, fixated on the glow that began to expand in his consciousness. As always, it grew till it overtook his whole mind.
He was standing in front of the lake. And how many times had he dived beneath those waves, into that glassy deep? Always he had done so to seek aid, to gain the power of the dead. He dove under to travel, or to displace his spirit and peek around the world. He had done that once, earlier, to see if that pesky king of Gryning had been alerted to his presence. That damn king's involvement is going to get him in all sorts of trouble, he thought. Right now he had more pressing matters. But if the king didn't head home and stay home, he might face a reckoning of his own.
He held his weapon out and used it to pierce the waters as he dove, and then it carried him down into that deep and breathless lake.
When he came up, he came up coughing. There was no air in that trip down, and though he knew he couldn't drown in those waters the sense of breathlessness never felt right to the living. To be up out of the water was a relief, and he clambered coughing into the chamber of the dead.
He stood dripping. Kethke woke from her doze gradually, turned and opened a sleepy eye.
"You've returned, mortal," she grumbled. "I thought maybe you had forgotten me, or died and slipped past my watch. I even began to look for you among the dead."
"Not so long has passed, in the realm of the living."
"You understand that time has no meaning here. It has been an eternity. It has been an hour, an afternoon. It all feels the same to me."
"Beast, you bore me," Vacka said. His body trembled with cold and fear, but he projected in his strongest voice. He cast his sodden robe off and stood naked-chested before the god, his skirt clinging to his calves, his tail swishing, finally unencumbered by the robe. The god rolled up and leaned forward, something like anger spreading across her face. Like anger left broiling, a lifetime and again. She leapt to the base of the tomb and approached.
Vacka raised Morgara up and it caught the light of darkness, bursting like a million eternities. He laughed, water sluicing down the weapon and his upturned arm, and fixed the blade in place before the god. He saw recognition in her features, and addressed her again.
"You recognize this?" Vacka said. He turned the blade left, then right, casting off the ethereal light wherever it looked.
"No," said Kethke, "It cannot be... The blade of my father."
"Speak its name, beast," Vacka commanded. "And hear how it rings in your ears."
"Morgara," she whispered, and the word fluttered up and was lost.
"Then meet your death."
He advanced, the edge of the sword hissing where it cut the stillness. The god stood tall, wavering, and raised a rotten hand.
"Halt," she said.
"I won't hesitate another second," Vacka said. "What hope have you of defense? Save yourself, if you can."
"You think me defenseless? I don't need weapons to win."
The god unlaced heavy claws like knives from the ends of her fingers. She stood half-hunched, neither on two legs or four, her jaw hanging low and swinging on loose ligaments.
The two beasts stood thus armed, waiting on a wire for the first glimmer of movement in the other. Water still pooled around Vacka's feet, and the droplets along Morgara's edge began to simmer and steam, clouds of vapor rising off the weapon. The blade glowed with holy Flame. The god made a lunge forward, but Vacka side-stepped it easily. He held the sword in both hands now, poised on the edges of his toes. Kethke tried a cautious swipe next, but Vacka held his distance, Morgara dancing in the darkness. Thirst for blood overcame the god, who lunged forward a final time with both hands out. Vacka stepped back and tipped the blade forward, so that the rotten chest fell upon it and burst open. She writhed as the length of the weapon penetrated straight through her, black blood erupting, and then the god shrieked. Vacka pushed it forward, pinning her to the ground, but the god was not dead. She screamed, but Vacka held her where she was.
"Let me go!" Kethke pleaded. "I can feel it burning. It's going to burn me alive. Let me go!"
Vacka removed the blade from Kethke's chest but stood over her with one foot on her shoulder. He held Morgara inches above the puncture wound, blood dropping back onto the body from whence it came.
"Last chance," Vacka said. He stepped back and pulled her to her feet, where she swayed, unsteady.
"What do you want?" she asked, bitterly.
"Take me to her."
"Foolish mortal! Have I not told you before? What is dead is dead. It is beyond my power to restore life to her."
"We'll have to see."
"You think I'm lying? I tell you, mortal, it is impossible!"
"You're in no position to bargain; your own life is decided by my hand."
"My life is hardly a life at all, but a half-life spent forever in timelessness and shadow. It is more like death than anything else, and I live always without a companion. Kill me if you will - even death would be better that the existence I suffer."
"Take me to her," Vacka demanded. "Now."
They walked past the tomb, into the long hall that stretched into the distance. The walls rose forever, and though the chamber they'd been in had existed under a seeming cloud of darkness, a gradual lightness filled the place the further they went. What once had been black began to take on a pale half-light, pink and hazy, with no apparent source. The stones underfoot began to appear scattered, and gave way to dirt and ghostly, transparent grass. The walls on either side crumbled to an end and vast tree trunks began to rise in the distance. The leaves and branches bore many colors, but even up close they all seemed faint and watered down. Then a shimmering wind blew past them and Vacka saw that they were not alone. A crowd of faces had appeared one by one between the trees, like strokes of a brush, now here, then there, then all at once everywhere. They were the souls of the dead. And just as he realized this, he saw a figure like a ghost stepping out of that crowd, a shade approaching him, and her shape took on the form of a wolf. He recognized her as she approached, but her featureless face was scant of any understanding. She reached out, touched his face, shivered, sighed.
"It is hopeless," said Kethke behind him. "What remains of the dead is not comprehensible to the living. She cannot speak to you, nor can she know you, though in a sense she now knows everybeast, everything in the world and off it, and need speak never again."
"Don't you know me?" Vacka asked her, and rivers burst under his eyes. A look of alarm flitted across the shade's face, and she drew back. He cried out to her.
"I came back for you! I came so far! Don't you know me? Don't you recognize your own child, after all this time?"
But already the soul had departed, fleeing back to the crowd. If anything had changed about her, the face that had been emotionless now bore a wistful downturn. Then the crowd accepted her and she vanished into the swirling mist of them. The mist began to fade back into the trees. Vacka fell to the floor sobbing. He clutched Morgara and it felt like fire; the blade began to glow when it felt his anger, responding to that strength and power of life, and it built up a new and hidden strength inside the wolf, lending something of its holy power to him.
He turned on the god.
"What power have you, if you can't bring her back?" Vacka said.
"I have told you over and over again. My powers are those of death."
"Then join the others, if that's all you know."
Vacka made one motion, stepping forward and swiping up once, like a wave crashing upon the rocks. The blade caught fire where it connected, and the bleeding, rotting god burst into blazes. She fell, opening her jaws in a stiff rictus, screaming, the fire spreading across her body and consuming it whole, until nothing at all remained.
Then Vacka opened his eyes.