Chapter Eight: The Anchor
Keeper of the Shade
Master Rez approached the manor on the side of the large hill. It was snowing and the path was frozen. He wore a glistening cape of gold, and was driven by a team of sixty white horses. The god and deviless had been kind to him for delivering them unto the world. Shamath rewarded him with a purse of endless gold, and Farhide laid a curse upon those who swore fealty to him. A curse of everlasting, unbetrayable, servitude.
The army that marched behind him was both spirit and flesh.
The call for his aid had come from Farhide, who had taken full control of her host’s body. She had given the girl the body of her fat older sister, who was unable to speak. The thought made Rez smile, the beautiful young woman being tricked by a devil. It was a story for the books, to be shared by the peasants and royalty.
He was writing a tome of his findings, of his summoning and the results of the matter. It was straight and dry fact, hundreds of lists and measures. It was unlike any holy text that had been written in the history of the world.
There were other gods and devils that he knew he could summon. The potential gifts and deals made his mouth water. He supposed that he’d become a god in his own right, if he was not one already. The scourge of men who worshiped the king god Asgar would be corrected. He would take everything and make it follow him, and he’d rule the living and the dead.
The monks in the temples he passed worked themselves sick scanning old scrolls and parchments for the preferences of the lesser gods. Some liked nature, some liked bread, others gore and patricide. He officially recognized a cult of each devil and each god, appointed generals and masters to lead the research. Temple services had been temporarily halted while the search went on.
Rez figured that he’d have a goddess summoned within the next ten days, and a devil summoned even sooner.
His guard led him up the steps of the mansion, and servants of the manor opened the door for him and his troops. Farhide threw herself onto him, sobbing.
“You’ve come!”
“Of course,” Rez said, stroking the long blond hair. The deviless was wearing nothing but a coat of mink. She smelled of brandy.
“He has been stuck for a few days now,” Farhide whispered. “I cannot break the spell.”
“The god was tricked by a monk, eh? He was my student after all, heh!”
“There is no time for laughter, monk. Shamath is on the patio, and the winter winds freeze his flesh.”
Rez followed the woman through the entry and down a hall. She turned into a dining room and descended a spiraling staircase. He and his men had to walk single file.
“Where are you taking us, sweet devil?”
“It is outside the kitchen. We were gorging, you see, when their spirits rose to meet us.”
“Ah,” Rez nodded. He took out a small scroll and scratched the note down while he walked.
They came into the warm kitchen and were led out onto the patio. It was only large enough for Farhide and the master monk.
A wooden wall had been constructed around the area, and a small fire was burning and boiling a pot of water beside the frozen person. His left hand was stuck beneath his pants. Rez pulled at the clothing, and revealed the hand touching the armor.
“Tricky little student,” Rez said. He smiled at the boy’s fortitude. He wondered if there would be any spirit left when he freed the body. It had been a while since Shamath had been incarnated.
He took a glass bead wrapped in a golden band from his pocket. It was the last of the holy Curiox he carried. He had not requested any others, as he considered that part of his life passed.
He took the orb and threw it against the monk’s hand. The oil and dust and glass mixed with blood from the flesh on the enchanted metal.
Farhide sucked in through her teeth as blood began to drip onto the frozen floor.
He wondered if he should take the boy in. It seemed he was resourceful after all. Managing all the cults alone was tiring work.
Rez set two fingers against Derian’s hand. He rubbed in the oil. A freshly hatched dayfly flew between the boards, its thorax furred against the weather. It buzzed around the flame as Rez began to chant.
“Release, monk, Habine Shook Shala.”
Derian’s right hand rose and smacked the dayfly against the back of Rez’s fingers. In his grasp he held oil and dust and dried blood from the Curiox he had smashed days before.
“Shala Shalook Savaine Studant!” Derian’s voice rose in tremendous fervor.
“N-”
Rez’s mouth was frozen in an O. Derian stood and cast off the blankets that had been piled high on his body. Shamath’s spirit raged like a forge inside his chest. He looked at the face of his master, the almost-god-or-devil repeatedly experiencing the miniscule lifespan of an insect.
Farhide stepped back. Her face was dripping with horror. The soldiers in the kitchen rushed forward to see what was going on. Derian stood. He beat his chest. He shouted to be heard above the raging wind.
“I’ve terms for you, lesser god!”