The Faceless God

A thousand torches burned under a thousand stars in the moonless night of the desert, the light shining on the sand dunes turned to steel in the deep blue silver. In the wide open space, between two pillars of stone carved with ancient glyphs, two great clans of nomads met beneath a banner of truce. Banners fluttered in the night breeze, and light glinted on a thousand swords and a thousand spearpoints among the gathered hosts.

Beneath a black hawk standard were the war-lords of the Muzur Clan, hardened warriors and raiders led by their towering, one-eyed chief, Ayyut. Across the flame-lit space before him awaited the men of the Emru Clan, led by their young chieftain, the tall, handsome Izil, son of a great father, now gone down into death to leave his only son to command his people. The banner that hung over him was an ancient one, emblazoned with a red serpent coiled upon itself.

Riders came forth and erected a great pavilion there in the darkness, and they hung it with ornate lanterns and lit the oil so the canopy glowed with a warm radiance. The sides were drawn up, so that all might see there was no treachery, and no assassin might lurk. All was done beneath the watchful eyes of thousands of warriors, for these clans were mortal enemies, and did not trust any motive of the other.

Izil had called this gathering, and so he rode forth first, a dozen of his greatest warriors in his guard. He dismounted from his horse and entered the tent. A seat was brought for him, and he sat down on it, his sheathed sword across his knees. He drew off his brazen helm and set it down beside him, and he waited.

He watched as Ayyut came forward. He was a huge man, marked with many battles. His armor was scales of bronze and horn, both blackened as if by fire. When he dismounted, Izil marked the slowness of his gait on his left leg, and when he drew off his helm, he saw the many scars upon the man’s face. Ayyut was not young, and there was gray in his beard. His remaining eye was bright as a dagger, and in place of the other was a knot of ugly scarring.

A seat was brought, and Ayyut sat down heavily, one hand resting on the hilt of his hook-bladed sword. His warriors stood back, hands to their weapons, but Izil marked the new member of Ayyut’s entourage, the man he had heard rumors of. Udun was an aged man with a bald head and a long white beard. He wore black robes embroidered with the signs of the star-maps. It was said he was a sorcerer, and he was Ayyut’s new advisor, who whispered fell seeings in the old warrior’s ear.

“I give praise to the ghost of your father,” Ayyut said. He used the formal words, for they had been mortal enemies. “I am sad that I will never cross blades with him again. I have come to this meeting, and I know why you have called for it.”

Izil paused. “If you know it, speak,” he said.

“You fear my wrath, now your father is dead beneath the sands. So you call this gathering to seek a peace between us.” Ayyut leaned to the side and listened as Udun murmured in his ear.

“I do seek a peace between us,” Izil said. “There is no need for this feud to consume another generation. I would end the blood between us.”

“Then you shall have it,” Ayyut said. “When your clan submits to my will, when you grovel in the dust and swear to be my servant, and when a new eye gleams here in my face in payment for the one your father took from me.” He touched the scar on his face. “Then, and only then, will there be peace between our clans.”

Izil stiffened at the insulting words, hand closing on the hilt of his sword. “I came with my hand extended in brotherhood. Is this how the wise Ayyut answers me?”

Ayyut heeded the whispers of his sorcerer again, and then he smiled, showing his long teeth. It was said the chief of the Muzur was the spawn of some desert fiend and only half human. In that moment, Izil could believe it. “It is how I answer you,” he said, his single eye gleaming. “Ride away and count your hours, son of my blood enemy. The next time we meet, it shall be over swords.”

o0o

They rode all night and camped just before dawn, when the sun burned across the desert horizon, turning everything into flame, and the sky turned red as fresh blood on dagger blades. They camped beside the oasis hidden deep in their territory, beneath looming walls of rock. Izil scented salt upon the wind, and he knew they had been followed.

The moment there was light, war-cries lifted in the cold air, and a swarm of riders burst from the shadows of dune and canyon and galloped hard toward the encampment. Carrion birds gathered and screamed for death, and those in their tents beside the oasis were torn from their fires.

Men raced into the new daylight, grasping for bows and spears and knives, racing for their horses as the enemy force bore down on them. In the bloody light they saw the black hawk standard of Ayyut, and they knew their enemy had pursued them through the dark, unseen, and death was upon them.

Izil called for his warriors, and they raced to rally to his side. He took his shield and his spear in hand and leaped to his horse, calling for his men, and they gave voice to their own war-shouts as they rushed in his wake. Horses screamed and shook their heads, grinding their teeth with the hunger for battle.

The warriors of Ayyut were almost on them when Izil and his men charged to meet the attack. Arrows scythed through the air, cutting down man and beast alike. Arrow-studded horses reared and plunged, howling in the riot as the lines came together. Spears hammered against shields and rent armor and flesh. Men were pierced through and cast down to writhe in the sand, trampled under in their death throes.

Izil led the battle, fighting desperately to drive the enemy away from the encampment. He stood tall in the saddle, striking quick as a flicker of lightning with his iron-pointed spear. He wove a web of blood around himself, leaving men dead upon the ground in his wake. When his spear splintered apart he drew his father’s sword and cut men down to either side.

The men of the Emru were bent back upon their camp, striving to keep from being driven in among the tent-posts and ropes, where their horses would stumble and be brought down. But there were more of the Muzur, and they came to war with their scale armor and helms drawn down, cutting through with axes and with swords. Despite the valor of Izil, they would soon be overwhelmed.

Then, with high-pitched keening, the warrior women of the Emru made their way into the battle. They had taken time to secure their children from harm, but now they came on horseback, plying their bows with deadly effect. The scream of so many of them at once was like a sound of devils, and the attack of the Muzur began to falter.

Izil rode into the enemy, spear-strokes glancing from his shield, seeking the massive form of Ayyut, his enemy. If he could strike down the chief, then the Muzur would flee. He sought among their blue-stained faces for the one-eyed chieftain, but he did not see him among the riders. For a moment he was uncertain, and then he understood in a flash like fire.

There was a toll of thunder and a cloud of smoke rolled down from the hills, lightning flickering inside the darkness. The sound of hooves came crushing down upon them, and then the smoke vanished as though it were a burial shroud torn asunder. Another mass of riders came hurtling to the attack, heralded by a smoke that crawled over the sands and lightning the split the dawn. At the head of the charge rode the towering form of Ayyut the One-Eyed, holding high his hooked and deadly blade like the tongue of a serpent.

Izil knew they were doomed now, for they were doubly outnumbered, and no amount of ferocity could save them from destruction. He shouted for his people to flee into the desert, and he set his heels into his steed and charged for the enemy chief with death in his eyes.

He saw Ayyut loom over the battlefield like a giant, smiting left and right with his sword. Izil charged him, bloody sword poised. He struck, only to see the iron blade blaze red-hot and crumple before it even touched him. Ayyut laughed and slashed at him with his black sword, and it cleft his shield apart. The edge traced fire along his arm and he cried out, feeling pain crawl within him. Ayyut laughed and rose up, his single eye burning like a setting star.

A crush of Izil’s warriors rushed in around him, shielding him with their bodies. They fought like devils to cut through the press of warriors, and then they carried him away. He felt a fever in his flesh, and the last thing he saw was Ayyut’s hawk banner billowing in the cursed wind.

o0o

He woke in darkness, his arm alive with pain. He shivered, feeling the cold from the night all around him. He was among those of his people who had escaped, huddled around campfires in the hollow of the rocky canyon, the bare stars above bright as jewels. He lay on a blanket as women tended him, wiping the sweat from his fevered brow. His arm wound was aflame with agony, and the smallest motion caused him such pain he almost cried out, but he would not.

They saw he was awake and gathered around him, his warriors looking pale and desperate in the silver light of stars and moon. “My lord, thank Hadad you live. We feared you would perish from the poisoned wound.”

“No poison burns in me,” Izil said. “It is sorcery. The same black power that hid Ayyut’s attack from us until it was too late. The rumors we heard, that he had taken a wizard into his service, are proven true.” He blinked, his vision cloudy. “How many remain?”

“A bare hundred of us have escaped, my lord. Many were slain, more taken into slavery.” The voices that muttered around him were filled with anger, and pain, no less than his own. Yet he would not so quickly surrender the heritage his father had entrusted to him.

“More will have escaped,” he said. “We rode in all directions, scattering through the canyons and across the sands. Send forth riders to find those that can be found, and bid them gather at the Shrine of the Faceless One. Tell them to bring any man or woman who can fight, any horse that can still charge. We will gather, and we will take back what we have lost this night.”

Izil forced himself to his feet, pushing away the hands of those who would have prevented it. “I will go to the shrine alone, and I will bargain there with the powers of the night.” His followers drew away from him then, fear in their eyes. “Ayyut has called upon magic to defeat us, and so I will do the same. There are other powers to be found in the dark, and I will speak to them.” He called for a horse, and one was brought to him. He allowed no one to help him mount to the saddle, and then he gripped the reins and set his teeth against the pain in his wounded arm. Iron-willed, he rode into the night.

o0o

Ayyut held court in his silken pavilion, seated on a throne made from oryx horn and the bones of his enemies. Naked slave-women were leashed to the stout legs, and he watched them with pleasure as he drank from the skull-goblet he had made from his father. The tent was thick with incense smoke that drifted in layers between the ornate gilded lanterns. He waited as his advisor, the wizard Udun, passed through the guards and approached, hands folded in his drooping sleeves.

It was hard to say how old he was, for despite his bald head he moved with the assurance of a younger man. His mouth was lined with an expression of bitterness and cruelty, and his eyes were narrow and dark. His beard was white as frost and braided with beads and the skulls of birds. They rattled when he moved. He bowed, but his eyes were watchful and cold.

“You promised me utter victory, wizard,” Ayyut said, stroking the hilt of his sword. “And yet I do not have it.”

“The Emru have been broken,” Udun said. “I have done what I promised.”

“Izil lives,” Ayyut growled. He drank again from the skull, then hurled it aside to shatter against a tent-pole. “It should be his blood I am drinking tonight, but he escaped me.” He drew his hooked sword and held it up, greenish mist seeping from the blade. “I cut him with this sword you gave unto me, and yet he survives.”

“He will die before the next sunrise,” Udun said. “He cannot resist the curse upon that blade.”

Ayyut sneered, showing his teeth. “I do not countenance you for promises. I want Izil’s head in my hands, his blood soaking into the parched earth. Show me where he hides, else we shall test this cursed blade upon you in his place.”

Udun looked unafraid. “If you wish to see him through the veils, then it will require a price in blood.”

Ayyut sneered again. “I will spill a river of blood to finish him.”

“It may not be given you to choose the time and manner of it,” Udun said. “Yet I will work the seeing you desire.” He cast a handful of dust into the brazier and the flame leaped up, flaring blue and crimson. “I shall send my spirit racing ahead of time itself, across the gulfs of darkness where the spirits dwell and hunger for blood. I shall see where your enemy lies.”

The smoked coiled and seethed in the air, shimmering with a light that seemed almost to be a trick of the eye. Ayyut watched as forms and shapes twisted in the smoke, seeming to suggest far-away places, vistas of the desert and the grasslands to the north cities living and dead, where unseen forms walked by night. At last the shape revealed to him was an ancient ruin, marked by pillars worn down by age and a great, looming statue with its face worn away to nothing.

He saw a rider there, slow and slumped over the neck of his steed, and he saw the face for a moment, illuminated by silver starlight, and he knew the keen face of Izil in that moment. He bared his teeth, hand clenched on the hilt of his sword, and then a blackness washed in like fog and wiped the seeing away.

“I know that place,” Ayyut said, rising from his seat as the slaves crawled away from him. “He has gone to the Shrine of the Faceless One. It is not so far from us, and I shall go there and seize him alive, so that I may flay the skin from his body and return him to his people while he still lives.” He pointed his sword at the wizard. “Prepare, and accompany me. If he is there, all shall be well. If you have deceived me, it shall be the place of your own death.”

o0o

Izil rode through the darkness, wending his way among the ancient, wind-scarred rocks, going deeper and deeper into the vastness of the desert. Here the stones were marked with glyphs of ancient peoples, and there were ancient tombs cut into the faces of the rock, now long plundered and left empty as skulls. Once men had lived in this place, and they had left behind them a temple of a forgotten god.

The statue loomed in the starlight, black against the midnight sky. Seated on a grand throne, the idol still towered over him, and even mounted he could have barely touched its knee. Time had worn away the features and details of the statue, so that it remained only a manlike shape, faceless save for the faint suggestion of a brow. No one could say what manner of god this had been, for now the very name of this place was lost.

Pain wracked him, and he slid down from his horse, almost falling to the sands when he set his feet on the ground and tried to stand upright. The night was bitterly cold, but it helped him focus past the pain in his arm. It seemed the agony was creeping upward, like a true venom, growing to overwhelm his shoulder, and then perhaps his heart. He ground his teeth together and swore he would not falter. He would strive until death overtook him.

He walked to where the shadow of the idol stretched upon the sands, and there he fell to his knees and breathed deeply, seeking to master his agony and be still. He had never called upon dark powers, and he was not certain what he must do. He thought of his kindred scattered and slain, or captured and enslaved, and a bitter anger coursed through him.

“Powers of darkness and the night,” he said, his voice rough-edged. “I have been cursed by your powers and I fear I will die. I will bargain with you for my life, and the lives of my clan. Hear me.” He bowed low to the ground, digging his fingers into the sand. “Hear me.”

“And if you are heard,” came the voice in the dark, “what will you ask?”

Izil looked up and saw a shadow moved beside the idol, and he felt his skin go cold as he saw a slender, female shape emerge like a serpent into the starlight. She came to him and knelt down, touched his fevered face. He felt drunk with fear, and he knew then that he had not really believed.

“I. . . I would be made whole again,” he whispered. “I would be given the strength to free and protect my clan. I would seek the destruction of Ayyut, the One-Eyed.” He looked at the woman, if woman she was. She was swathed in black, veiled save for her dark-rimmed eyes.

“And what would you offer?” she said. “My master awaits your word. He weighs and measures you against one another, seeking the one he will favor. If you are so chosen, what would you give?”

He shuddered with the pain of his wound. “I offer all that I can. I offer only myself. I will give my service, my loyalty, even my life. I would save my clan. Allow me that, and I care little what becomes of me.”

She looked at him for a long moment, her gaze searching him, and then she drew aside and turned to the shadowed idol. Izil stared as the shadows that cloaked it seemed to take shape and coalesce, gathering weight and solidity until the towering shape of a man stood there. He was cloaked in black, so that even his face was hidden, and he moved like a storm across the sands. He heard the distant howling of jackals, and a distant chanting seemed to shake the earth beneath him.

The shape loomed over him. “Would you pledge yourself to my service, even unto death? Not only you, but your blood and your clan?” The voice was like an evil bell, seeming to echo up from endless gulfs unseen by the stars.

“Take me,” Izil said. “I will not condemn my followers to any dark fate. Only myself.”

“I do not speak of any curse upon them, nor you,” the voice said, making him shudder. “I require an army, and your clan shall become the heart of it, and you my war-hound to lead them. Make that oath, and I shall give you all you seek, and so much more.”

“Who do you seek to make war upon?” Izil asked, breathless with the growing pain.

“I will encompass all the thrones of the earth within my grasp. Fire and conquest shall march in my wake, and the meanest of my servants shall live as princes, bedecked with riches and blood. I am come to reclaim the empire that was lost, and no one shall prevent me.” The shape drew forth a glowing red stone and held it up, casting its tormented light upon everything, even the pale face concealed within the cowl, and Izil bowed low, pressing his face to the sands.

“Choose your oath,” the voice said.

“I will swear it,” Izil said. “Give me what I seek, and my clan shall ride as your vanguard. We shall fight in your name, only utter it.”

“It is Utuzan you swear to,” the voice said, and Izil felt cold and fractured inside, as though he had been cast out of the world and unmade. “Utuzan, Prince of Kithara. The Heir of the Murutai. The Black Flame. Now give your oath.”

“I give it,” Izil said, shaking. “I swear from my blood and my bones. I swear by the Sea of Xis. The Sea of the Dead.”

“Then these curses cannot hold you. Rise.” The light of the red stone fell on him and he felt a terrible heat, and then the pain was cleansed from his arm, and he felt the weakness flood out of him and a new strength well up as if from a heart of fire. He stood, the dark woman helping him to rise, and he looked upon the one who had named himself Utuzan.

A thousand dark legends and tales of evil in the night lay at the back of that name, but when he looked upon the looming form, he did not doubt it for a moment. The Black Prince had come from the endless night of vanished ages, and Izil felt his power running through his veins like molten steel.

“Riders come through the dark,” Utuzan said. “Your enemy is near. He cannot stand against you now. Work your will.” The shadows came in and closed around him, blackening the stars, and hungry beasts howled in the endless night.

o0o

Ayyut rode at the head of a hundred men, dust rising in their wake. He gripped his spear in one hand and a shield in the other, feeling the thunder of hooves gather behind him. He felt as though he were at the crest of a storm, backed by unstoppable force. No power in the desert would stop him, and if his wizard’s prediction proved false, then a new head would hang from his tent-pole by dawn.

They rode between the smooth rock walls under a river of stars to where the faceless idol rose up in shadow, and there he saw someone awaiting him. At first he did not believe it could be Izil, for the shape did not lie imprisoned by agony, but stood upright. He rode closer, spear ready in his hand, and then he saw it was his rival in truth, the son of his old enemy with fire in his eyes.

He rode for him with his spear flashing death, struck down with all his strength, only for Izil to seize the haft and wrench it from his grasp with such force that he was torn from the saddle and hurled to the ground. His riders rushed in and Izil struck at them, the spear wreaking death with every blow, piercing armor and flesh, scattering men upon the ground.

Ayyut rose from the ground and drew his cursed blade. Izil hurled the spear at him and it struck the spell that guarded him, burned red-hot and then fell in pieces. Ayyut laughed as Izil caught up a fallen sword from a dead man and faced him. “You cannot overcome the power that guards me. I will cut you down this time, and nothing shall save you.” He held up his sword to his men. “Back, back! I will take his head, and no other shall touch him.”

He closed with Izil, who awaited, and their swords clashed together with the ring of iron. Ayyut hammered at him with his fell blade, but he could not overcome him. They circled, striking and countering, until Ayyut’s shield was notched and rent, and he was breathing heavily, moving slowly on his bad leg.

He cast his wrecked shield aside, and he readied himself. Izil watched him with eyes that seemed alight, moving as though he were a lion in human shape. Ayyut trusted in his strength and the spells worked on him by Udun. He glanced at the wizard and saw him pale with fear, and as he looked the old man turned his horse and fled.

He cursed him and turned back, only to see the faceless idol behind Izil transformed into a towering shape swathed in billowing robes. A red light gleamed from one dark hand, and Ayyut felt a cold wind close over him. Izil leaped in, striking like a cobra, and Ayyut could not stop him. No spell prevented the stroke, and the iron blade pierced his armor and sank deep into his chest, cold against his heart.

Ayyut fell back, gasping, bleeding, and he struggled to stay on his feet. The sky seemed to spin above him, and a red light blinded his remaining eye. He held up his hands and sank down upon the ground, feeling the life run out of him, and then there was only darkness.

o0o

Udun rode through the dark like a shadow, wrapping his power around himself to hide from the stars. In his mind he saw the red jewel that burned like a demon’s eye, and he felt a fear inside that he had not known he might still contain. He had spent so many years immersed in forbidden knowledge and dark arts that he had believe he had no more fear. He had been wrong.

His horse screamed, and he set a curse upon it so it could not cease to carry him until it fell dead. By dawn he would be far from this place. He would ride to the river and sail far away from here, this place where the devils out of lost ages walked with mortal shapes.

Something struck against his face and he slapped at it, feeling nothing. Something else struck him, and then another. It felt like he was pelted with stones, but when he touched them he felt things that squirmed and crawled, and he screamed aloud as his horse reared and pitched in the dark. He was covered in black-shelled locusts, more and more of them, and he felt them bite him like the pinch of iron nails.

They swarmed over him, a cloud so thick they covered him and obscured him from sight. He howled as they lifted him into the air, leaving his horse to flee from him, eyes wide with terror. He felt their mouths all over him, and he fought and twisted, but nothing availed. He tried to speak a curse to drive them away, but they crawled into his mouth, worked down into his throat and his chest, eating him as they went until he screamed no more.

o0o

It was dawn when Izil rode back to his people, the remnants of the clan gathered there in the deep canyons. He rode upright on a black steed, and beside him rode a woman veiled in black who did not speak, but only watched. He carried a severed head at his side, and his sword was bright in the sun.

He rode in among the tents, and the people gathered, shouting his name. He held up the head of Ayyut, and a cheer rose up to the paling sky. He cast it down and called to them. “I have broken Ayyut the One-Eyed, and I have made an oath that will set us upon a path of conquest, and greatness. Gather your horses, draw your swords. We will ride upon the Muzur this day and defeat them, and we shall take back those who they have imprisoned and enslaved. We shall grow strong again, and we shall become an army.” He held up the iron blade in his hand. “We ride to war. To war!”

The shout rose up from every throat, every man and woman, and the clan gathered in a great host of steel and fury. Nothing would stay them, nothing would prevent them, and Izil knew that they were now bound to a path that led to blood and fire. He had tried to be a man of peace, had tried to put away old hatreds, but it had brought him only pain. Now he would come as a harbinger of war born in dark ages, and given new life.