‘I swear by my blood and my hope of meeting the gods in death that I will not cease until we have resurrected our Bloody Mother.’
She cut once more, the pain lancing through her and making her stronger, more determined. A blood oath, carved in flesh and bone and will, new scars on top of old: a promise to the gods, to the Dark Lady wherever She was; and a promise to Lanta herself.
This is faith. This is determination. This is how we win.
Lanta gave the blade to Gull and he touched its tip to his lips, licking her blood from the steel. And then he swore the same oath, one cut at a time, and the heat in the temple grew, the stinking slaughterhouse smell drifting from the altar and the godpool they’d blessed with the blood of sacrifice, its clotted surface so thick it echoed back their words and the harshness of their breathing.
Beneath Lanta’s hands a brass dish full of coals smoked and hissed as her blood dripped into it, filling her head with the path to the Waystation. Opposite her, Gull’s nostrils flared as he inhaled the fumes. Lanta’s fingers coiled through the smoke, sweat sheening her face.
‘Holy Gosfath, God of Blood, lend us your great strength in the quest to return your Holy Sister to you and to the world. Grant us the strength to do your will. God of Blood, we honour you.’ The glowing coals sizzled and burst into flame. Lanta smiled cautiously; He was listening.
‘Gosfath, God of Blood, separated from your loved and loving Sister, we beseech you to search beyond the veil for the Dark Lady, snatched from your loving arms and our yearning souls. We seek your mighty aid in helping us bring Her back from beyond death. Will you come to us?’
A breeze rippled through the dry heat of the room, tickling Lanta’s skin, lifting her hair, stealing fingers inside her gown, beneath her breasts and between her legs. It carried the whiff of corruption, the tang of sulphur.
‘He’s near,’ she whispered and Gull scuttled further forward, his face a skull ill lit by the glow from the brazier. The heat was so strong it took all her will to keep her palms close to the coals. She sucked in a breath of smoke, held it against the urge to cough, tears stinging her eyes, and exhaled.
‘Bring Him,’ Gull murmured.
Lanta strained, opening herself to Gosfath as she had for years to the Dark Lady. A tickle, a tentative poking, and then nothing. She strained harder, but He wouldn’t come. Gull had more experience with the god, but for this plan Gull would not suffice.
‘The God does not desire,’ she said.
‘The God always desires,’ Gull said. He put his hands on top of Lanta’s and, with one savage move, pressed them into the coals.
Red screaming agony coursed through her hands and up her arms and Lanta shrieked, fought to pull away. Gull held her tight and suddenly there He was, bright and dark and vast in her head.
Want. Need. Want.
Lanta felt herself pulled along the Path, flying from the temple into the presence of her dread lord, pain and terror mingling into the perfect alloy of devotion.
Heat pulsed around her, fingers of hot air stroking her now naked skin. Ahead, a shadow loomed among the stalactites of the Waystation, massive and misshapen. He was supposed to come to them, not her to Him. It wouldn’t work here. It had to be the temple. It had to be. Gosfath’s bellow brought her thoughts to a crashing halt and ignited her tongue.
‘As we call to the gods in times of pain and terror, so They take as Their due our blood and breath,’ she chanted. There was no time to worry about what had gone wrong; Lanta was in the presence of the Red Father. ‘As fear brings us to the gods’ presence, I welcome you. Fear is your call; devotion is our answer.’
Fear indeed, as the darkness parted to reveal Him sitting on a throne carved from the bones of a mountain. Or perhaps it was a mountain of bones. He rose, head bowed to avoid the cavern’s high vault, and stepped down, the black talons on one huge hand skirling across the wall, gouging lines, striking sparks, the noise an unholy screech that made Lanta’s eardrums flutter. She dropped to her knees and looked away as He shrank, a giant still but of a size she could comprehend now. Half her height again, three times her weight, muscles rippling like eels in oil.
‘Lord Gosfath, God of Blood, most mighty Lord of War and chaos, I am honoured by your presence, and honour you in turn with—’
‘Want,’ the God of Blood hissed, hauling her to her feet with one hand wrapped around her upper arm. ‘Want now.’
‘Your Sister wants you too, Father,’ Lanta gasped, raising her hands in a barrier as effective as a spider’s web. ‘The Dark Lady yearns for your arms around Her, Father, She yearns for you. We must find Her, bring Her back to you and this world, restore the balance—’
Gosfath leant close. ‘Alone,’ He grunted and flung her down. ‘Want.’
Lanta cried out as her head struck stone, again as Gosfath threw Himself on top of her, and then screamed as His talons and then His fat red cock dug their way inside her, screamed in an agony so close to ecstasy she understood they were the same. Screamed as the god honoured her.
Lanta woke with a wail of mingled pain and exaltation, her consciousness slamming back into her body where it lay in abandon on the temple floor, her head pillowed on Gull’s knees and her skirts cast up around her legs. She exhaled a long, drawn-out moan as her hurts made themselves known in a rush that rippled through her body from the back of her head to her ankles.
She gestured with scabbed fingers and carefully, so carefully, Gull undid her gown and peeled it down to her waist. Among the black god-stains and disappearing beneath her breast band, her skin was hatched with cuts, claw marks, bite marks, and at her core throbbed a deep ache that spiked into pain with every movement.
Lanta looked down at herself and a slow smile spread across her face at the ruin of her flesh. She placed one hand between her legs. ‘The god honoured me,’ she whispered. Tears started in her eyes.
‘Then we have taken the first step,’ Gull replied. ‘The next time, you must draw Him here rather than go to the Waystation. We must be able to bring Him through the veil if the Dark Lady is to return.’
Lanta forced herself to sit up, groaning against the flare deep within her pelvis. Next time? Even if she could go through this again, there was no saying that Holy Gosfath would come through the veil and into the temple. Not next time, maybe not ever. She breathed through the pain and pushed her doubts aside. It would work. He would understand and He would help them. He would be rewarded, first with Lanta to appease and comfort Him, and then by the restoration of His Sister-Lover.
It would work.
Gull scooted around to face her, put his hands on her shoulders, reverence lightening his features. ‘This is monumental, Blessed One,’ he said. ‘We have made great progress here today. No one has ever communed with the god so … thoroughly.’
‘Great progress, yes,’ she said, ‘but I will need time to heal before I call Him again. His desire and loneliness were so great, you can see what it has done to me.’
‘And yet time begins to run short. Perhaps some of the slave women could be trained to pleasure the Father until Mireces women arrive,’ Gull mused.
Lanta’s guts twisted, not in pain this time. ‘No,’ she snapped. ‘It must be me. Only me. I am the Blessed One and this is my task, my holy purpose. I will see it done. I will bring the Father to Rilporin, to this very temple. He will come and we will make Him a beacon to guide the Dark Lady home.’
I have known the love of the Father. May it sustain me until our Bloody Mother is brought back.
‘Come, let us get you to a warm bath and then the healer. You have done great work.’
‘It is only the beginning,’ Lanta stuttered as Gull