Scar Night Page 0,148

fingers, and realized that he was still alive.

“We’ll be on our way soon,” Devon said, righting the slop bucket before he squatted down beside the priest.

Sypes did not open his eyes.

“There’s no hope of rescue now, Sypes. No further need for your silence.” He paused, then spoke again in a whisper. “Your god is rising, isn’t he? But Ulcis isn’t what your Church would have us believe. That’s why you’re so afraid.”

“I wanted to protect them.” The old man swallowed. “I wanted to free Deepgate from her chains.”

“The only way to do that is to break them.”

“No,” Sypes said, “you’re wrong, Devon. Even chained, the city flourishes with life. Why can’t you see that?”

Devon sighed. “I once said how I was the only living man in Deepgate. I meant that everyone else takes, consumes, for no other reason than to feed the blood that feeds the abyss. That’s not life, it’s a hunger—as mindless as a poison or a disease. But I was wrong to claim life as mine alone. You and I stand each at the apex of twin pyramids, Sypes. Religion and science. There’s nothing beneath us but snapping mouths. But there’s life in you too, old man.”

“I can’t accept that as a compliment. You’re too arrogant. Besides, you’re insane.”

Devon smiled. “Can I get you anything to relieve the pain?”

“No. The pain is no more than I deserve after all I’ve done to them. If I die, it will be some comfort.”

“That reeks of martyrdom, Sypes, which doesn’t suit you.”

“If I’m a martyr, then it’s one to my conscience, not my god.”

“I fail to see the difference.”

Silence fell between them. Finally Devon said, “Tell me about Ulcis. Who is he really?”

“He’s Ayen’s son! A god!” The outburst triggered a coughing fit.

“All right.” Devon raised his hand. “Let’s not kill ourselves over semantics. Sometimes I think we’re both looking at the same thing through different ends of a sightglass. Our perceptions differ, but whatever we are trying to perceive doesn’t change.”

Sypes drew a long ragged breath. “Ulcis,” he said, “consumes the souls of the dead and leaves them empty. The lucky ones remain as vessels for his will. As long as he exists, they linger…like walking husks. Others suffer an even worse fate.” He winced. “Better to wander the Maze than to be used like that, to be stripped of everything that makes us human.”

“That,” Devon said, smiling, “depends upon which god a soul is used to empower.”

Sypes snorted. “Even Ulcis himself would struggle to match your arrogance. You think thirteen souls make you his equal?”

“I find that comparison demeaning. He is, after all, a parasite.”

“After the first holy war, his army grew too large to sustain itself. Without sustenance the dead rot. He could not swell their ranks and continue to…feed them. And so he has since allowed them to feast for a long, long time. For three millennia, the god of chains has waited, growing powerful on stolen souls while his slaves fed on his leavings.” The old man shook his head. “Now they are coming, and they will harvest our world for their master. Oblivion awaits us all. If you cut the city down, you’ll do nothing but aid him.”

Sudden convulsions gripped the priest. His body curled up like a fist, eyes screwed shut, fingers clenched, and coughs racking his emaciated frame.

Devon crouched and seized hold of the Presbyter’s shoulders until the worst of the tremors had passed. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and, having no clean water to dampen it, pressed it into the old man’s hand. Sypes clutched it like a lifeline.

Devon felt suddenly sorry for the Presbyter. Like all the city’s priests, his faith was anchored in that pit. He hoped Sypes would survive to witness the city fall. It would be a kindness, for only then would he see the truth. The dead did not walk. There was no army in the darkness beneath Deepgate’s chains.

“I’m getting you out of here,” he said.

“No,” Sypes gasped. “I don’t care any more. Help the temple guard instead. Ease his pain.”

Devon had forgotten about Angus. “He’s still alive?”

Sypes nodded. “I heard that he’s deranged, like a rabid dog, biting, and scratching himself. They’ve had to restrain him.”

“You!”

Devon turned to see Bataba standing in the doorway. “What are you doing?”

“Interrogating the prisoner,” Devon said.

“You too are a prisoner.” The fetishes in Bataba’s beard formed a crooked ladder up to his chin, under the welt across his ruined eye. “What were you talking