The Priest

  THE PRIEST

  by Chris Eisenlauer

  THE PRIEST

  Published in the United States of America

  by Chris Eisenlauer for Kindle.

  Copyright © 2017 by Chris Eisenlauer.

  All rights reserved.

  First published September 2017.

  Cover by BetiBup33 Design Studio.

  A little—or a big—nod to Roger Zelazny.

  The Last Times Have Come . . .

  All of civilization has been boiled down into a crucible, one last city where religions scramble to claim converts and affirm their Truths before the end arrives.

  NOX

  GODDESS OF THE TRUE DEATH

  The city wasn’t what it once was. Through the busy comings and goings, through the street vendors and their insistent hawking, through the veneer of what appeared to be a thriving metropolis, Phaeax couldn’t help but see dilapidation and decay everywhere he looked. Every street had its share of loose, cracked, or missing cobbles. Everyone’s clothes, even those of the wealthiest, were threadbare, frayed, or showed evidence of mending. It seemed that the very character of color was failing a little more each day. Dust spun in taunting whorls, carried by winds that ate away at the mortar—both literal and figurative—of human achievement.

  It didn’t matter. Everyone, and therefore everything, would succumb to the True Death. Phaeax had sworn his life and his death to ensuring this, and soon, the tallies of the Divine Accountants would reflect this as well.

  Lost in thought over the message he carried and all that it implied, Phaeax didn’t notice the gang of priests blocking the way. He felt a hand, belonging to one of the four men who’d accompanied him, upon his shoulder, shaking him from his reverie.

  “Lord Phaeax,” said the Gray, so identified by his cassock of the same color.

  When Phaeax looked up, he saw the garishly-outfitted priests of Kesh, who in spite, or because, of their raiments of many colors, blended in with their surroundings so as to be nearly invisible. There were seven of them in total, led by Nilsum, one of the faith’s three head priests.

  Nilsum stepped immediately in front Phaeax, his six subordinates fanning out on either side of him.

  Stallkeepers pulled in wares from free-standing tables. Passersby gave a wide berth and began to form a human cordon, a makeshift arena for the brawl that was about to ensue.

  Phaeax stopped and held out a hand to halt the Grays. His was a black cassock, a sign of his rank.

  “Look here, brothers,” Nilsum said. “We’ve got some of Nox’s boys—one of her chief boys at that—who appear to be lost.”

  Phaeax grinned. “Feeling rather brazen, aren’t you, Nilsum?”

  “Your black cassock doesn’t frighten me. You bleed enough and you still die.”

  Ignoring Nilsum, Phaeax said over his shoulder to the Grays, “Do you know why Nilsum is so brazen?”

  As a group they shook their heads. One replied, “No, Lord Phaeax. Why?”

  “He knows the message we carry. I imagine he mistakenly believes that, if he can forcibly convert the lot of us, he can somehow prevent the inevitable.” Phaeax’s eyes drifted back to lock onto Nilsum’s, causing Nilsum to wince.

  “Forcible conversion,” Phaeax said, his eyes narrowing. “Grays require explicit permission from Nox herself whenever they leave the temple, but not Black Cassocks.” And then his right hand was in motion, a blur no one could follow. A closed fist sank into Nilsum’s stomach, an open Y hand cut into Nilsum’s throat, the back of a closed fist circled upwards, crashing into Nilsum’s nose and popping it like an overripe boil.

  Nilsum toppled, gasping for, and grasping at, air that couldn’t help him. He landed hard and unmoving on his back, his throat swollen, his nose a sickening red pulp. Nilsum’s subordinates stared, stunned for a moment, before advancing and engaging.

  Phaeax altered his posture slightly, began to use both hands now. Another of the Kesh priests fell before him.

  A Gray took a punch that dizzied him and split the skin of his brow. Blood flowed instantly and copiously, fouling his vision, and losing him his fight.

  Phaeax grabbed the offending Kesh priest by the head, and drove a knee into it. The man’s eyes rolled up to whites, and he dropped like a sack of stones.

  Another Gray had his own knee kicked out from under him, the joint visibly failing, but he clung to his opponent, bringing the Kesh priest, too, to the ground. The Gray took hold of the other’s ears and drove his head repeatedly into a reddening cobblestone.

  The fight lasted less than a minute, and though some of them needed support, the only ones left standing were Phaeax and the Grays.

  Phaeax, whose only contact with the Kesh priests had been through his fists, stood over Nilsum.

  Nilsum didn’t or couldn’t move, but his bloodshot eyes were open and darting erratically, as if searching for some sign of succor that wouldn’t come.

  “The Divine Accountants’ tallies aren’t a secret,” Phaeax said. “And any fool can see that we lead all priesthoods in forcible conversions. You said my black cassock doesn’t frighten you, but how do you think I got it?”

  Phaeax knelt down until he was crouching over Nilsum. A dark shimmer began to radiate out from him, from which Nilsum flinched. Their eyes were locked once again. Phaeax drew closer and the dark shimmer grew in intensity.

  Nilsum jammed his eyes shut and cried out, “No!”

  Seconds later, the sound of retreating laughter coaxed Nilsum into opening his eyes again. He forced himself into a position which allowed him to see that Phaeax and the Grays had continued on their way, leaving behind seven bloody and broken priests of Kesh who still lived. The crowd had begun to break up and disperse, with many praising the priests of Nox as they passed.

  • • •

  Nox’s temple was of white marble. Broad steps led up to columns that lined its front and which formed a kind of facade. Its high walls described a square with a portion of its middle open to the sky and where its mana tree grew. There were bigger temples and smaller temples and most adhered to the same or a similar design aesthetic, with cosmetic differences revealing the divine occupant’s individual taste or artistic sensibility. Nox’s temple was simple, spare, and of sufficient size to house a full complement of forty-four priests along with herself.

  The two Grays standing at the main gate needed no urging or direction when they saw Phaeax coming. One pushed the gate open and joined the other in helping to usher the injured inside. The gate opened to a foyer. Immediately beyond, there was no wall, but steps led down to the mana tree. Halls on the left and right led to the temple’s interior. The Grays went right. Phaeax acknowledged them with a quiet, “Thanks,” and proceeded left, heading for Nox. The gate closed of its own accord. Only a temple’s priests could enter its gate, and only gods could circumvent that otherwise inviolable natural law.

  • • •

  Phaeax wasn’t sure when his worship turned to lust. What he wanted she freely gave to all except him whom she favored. She was known as the child goddess, last and youngest of the gods, yet older than all of mankind. She would remain when all the gods and their followers were gone, and if she had her way, Phaeax would be by her side. This was her promise to him. It was the source of his strength and his torment.

  He walked the marble corridor to her chamber, his boots clicking with swallowed echoes, his stomach a nervous tumult. It was worse every time he came this way, and he marveled at his waning discipline. He would have to master himself.

  There was no door to her chamber, only a gossamer curtain, and he found that his timing invariably coincided with her dressing, though the coincidence seemed to be unique to him alone.

  “Mistress,” he said through the curtain.
/>   “Is that you, Phaeax?”

  “Yes, Mistress.” His voice broke and he stared for a moment.

  The curtain did little to conceal her as she fastened the shoulder strap of her simple, black gown. She stood just under five feet tall. Her skin was as white and perfect as the marble that surrounded her, her hair a cascade of smooth and flawless obsidian that merged seamlessly with the black of her gown. They called her the child goddess, and her supposed youth was apparent, but she was no child.

  He swallowed hard and continued, “Karm, the Succession God, has formally requested that you serve as his Witness.”

  “Indeed,” she said.

  He could hear the pleasure in her voice.

  “Come here, Phaeax.”

  “Mistress?”

  “Yes, yes, come here. And call me by name. I’ve told you countless times now.”

  Phaeax stepped slowly through the curtain, “Mistress, such familiarity will surely prove disruptive.”

  She smiled, bright and genuine. “You use the same argument every time.”

  She stared at him trying to penetrate his stoic expression, then couldn’t suppress a giggle.

  “Everyone already knows that you are my favorite so there’s no sense being covert about it. Besides that, your black cassock marks you as Exempt and illustrates to everyone your elevated status in my priesthood. Even if you still wore the gray coat of your juniors, you would still warrant special attention. You have earned my recognition, and I cannot help but admire you.”

  Phaeax was silent.

  “These are the Last Times,” she said. “Many of my fellows refuse to acknowledge this despite the ravages brought on by the Six Gods of War, despite the crumbling oasis this city has been reduced to. Some know the Truth. I know the Truth, and Karm now knows it as well. This is a great day for us.

  “But, as these are the Last Times, chaos will seep into our lives more and more, and we will accept it so long as it doesn’t interfere with our task. My priests will accept this familiarity. They will have no choice, and they will have little time to form judgements. You forget that your example stands with or without my special attention. Of all my priests, only Tenes could be jealous, and though he, too, is Exempt, he is much too old for such sentiments.

  “So,” she said, sighing, “that is why you can, and will, refer to me by name.”

  He grinned unaffectedly. “Yes, Nox.”

  “Good! Now go fetch Tenes and prepare for the march.”

  Phaeax nodded. “There’s one more thing. There can be no doubt that Kesh and his priests are aware of Karm’s decision. We were set upon by Kesh’s priests on our way back.”

  “I see.”

  “As you say, the Last Times are here, and this shift in the Divine Accountants’ tallies will upset any balance, real or imagined, existing between those who oversee the business of death.”

  She nodded. “What is it you propose?”

  “Standing authorization for forcible conversion.”

  “Very well,” she said. “But frivolity will not be tolerated, nor will instigation. See to it that the Grays understand the importance of using the rite responsibly.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  She shot him an angry look.

  “Yes, Nox,” he corrected himself.

  She narrowed her eyes. “No compromises. You can do no wrong in my eyes, but this request is just as binding as any other tenet. It’s just that it applies to you alone.”

  Her lips curled into a seductive smile, making Phaeax both blush and shudder.

  “Hurry and go,” she said, pushing him back through the curtain, her hands upon him producing waves of chills that had nothing to do with fear or the temperature of her skin. “I’m anxious for the Accounting.”

  KARM

  THE SUCCESSION GOD

  Phaeax, Tenes, and a total of thirteen Grays escorted Nox through the streets, she upon a plain, open palanquin supported by four of the Grays. Shopkeepers gawked, pedestrians stopped and stared. The city was full of gods, but it was unusual to see them outside of their temples. Rumors and panic would spread quickly, and perhaps already had.

  Several blocks away, Phaeax observed three men in various states of undress as they tore at their clothes, ran in aimless circles, and screamed unintelligibly. There was no obvious cause, and no one paid them much attention.

  Elsewhere, a woman in faded finery stood facing the side wall of a yellowed building, banging her head into it with clockwork regularity, despite the blood that drizzled down in streams. A man in comparable dress lay at her feet, the fingers of his right hand wrapped tightly around a knife handle with its blade buried in his chest.

  Their route took them very near a vendor, whose eyes were wide with fever or madness, and who was busy destroying his stall with a length of heavy timber he had difficulty lifting.

  “Can you hear him? Pulling at his chains?” Tenes said with a grin to Phaeax.

  Tenes was stocky and weathered. His hair and beard were gray, but years had done nothing to dull his reflexes, his strength, his endurance.

  Phaeax stared straight ahead, pursed his lips, and answered soberly, “Yes. Yes, I can.”

  The grin dropped from Tenes’s face. He sighed and nodded, glanced almost surreptitiously at Phaeax, then resumed his forward gaze.

  As they came in sight of Karm’s temple, it became clear that Karm and his retinue were not the only ones awaiting them. Standing with Karm were Ahurimanda and Kesh, both accompanied by a number of their own priests. Phaeax could see that, despite his injuries, Nilsum was there.

  Tenes grunted. “This might get sticky,” he said.

  Nox smiled. “Now, now, Tenes. Let us have faith in what remains of civilization.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” Tenes said.

  “Besides,” she continued, “if circumstances so warrant, I can always serve as Witness for more than just Karm today.”

  Tenes and Phaeax, both grinning, shared a look.

  The Grays lowered Nox’s palanquin. She stepped down from it and took the lead of her procession, with Tenes and Phaeax immediately behind her, the Grays behind them. When she reached Karm, she ignored his two callers.

  Karm was dressed in opulent silk robes of deep red and lustrous gold. Upon his head was a small boxlike hat of polished black wood with a fine, inlaid scrollwork mosaic of iridescent seashells.

  “Karm,” she said. “I am here as you requested.”

  Ahurimanda, God of the Two Fates, was dressed in several layers of thick silk, dark and of uncertain color. The silks covered his head as well, except for his face, over which was a mask that corresponded with his disposition, always either benevolent or malevolent. His priests were dressed similarly, with helmets that boasted rotating faceplates, so that, like their master, they always showed their true selves. At the moment, Ahurimanda’s white, cameo features were pleasant, reassuring, comforting. His priests’ were the same.

  “Nox,” he said. “While I’d hoped Karm would choose otherwise, I respect his decision. It’s quite a boon for you.”

  Kesh, a male figure of nearly transparent gelatin, snorted.

  “And quite a blow to the both of you,” Nox said, glancing at Kesh momentarily for emphasis.

  “There is still time to reconsider, Karm,” Kesh said, his voice, as always, sounding trapped in a chamber half-filled with water. “Don’t let the unsophisticated child walk away with so much.”

  “Nox!” Phaeax said, breathless with rage and seeking permission to act.

  She held a hand out to calm him.

  Kesh snorted again. “One of your chiefs seems to have a discipline problem.”

  “He—as one of my chiefs—was invited here,” she said. “You, I believe, are intruding. Ah, yes, here are the Divine Accountants. Let’s get this underway, shall we?”

  Karm acknowledged the new arrivals, each identical, robed, hooded, and bearing an abacus.

  “Yes,” he said, and the Divine Accountants began calculating. K
arm took a deep breath, stood his full height, and assumed a dignified posture.

  “Do you have anything you want to say?” Nox said.

  Karm licked his lips. “For so long, everything went so smoothly. Everything seemed so right. My worshippers strove in life for rebirth into ever more prosperous circumstances and I had results the world over, my tallies some of the strongest. The Six Gods of War changed everything when they annihilated themselves along with a sizable percentage of the population. After that . . .” Karm shook his head. “How could the world recover? Even then, I wondered. There was no population boom to balance all that death. Cities began to waste away to nothing. Everywhere, it was the same spiral of decay. And here we are, in the Last Times with no future, only a fleeting present.”

  Nox listened attentively. When Karm finished, she nodded, but then thought for a moment and frowned.

  “Karm,” she said, “did you ever wonder if your own doubt played a part in the onset of the Last Times?”

  Karm blinked, cocked his head, frowned himself. He looked at her questioningly, then cast his eyes down as he rolled her question over and over in his mind.

  “I’m sorry Karm,” she said. “The time has come. I acknowledge your diligent efforts. Your numbers are graciously accepted.”

  She drew closer to him, rising up on her tiptoes, a black shimmer radiating from her like a dark corona.

  “In these last moments,” she said, “remember the happy times if you like. You will know pain, suffering, and the very ennui of existence no more.”

  She reached a bit higher, turned his head gently with her right hand, and kissed him on the lips.

  With her kiss and his willingness to let go, Karm collapsed dead. The divinity he’d shared with his priests was a fatal thread connecting them all. They, too, dropped dead when their master did.

  The Divine Accountants continued tabulating for hours, while Nox waited. Ahurimanda took his retinue and left, but Kesh remained behind with his own.