Gods of Death

4 : Steps to the City

Victor heaved himself up the massive stone step. It was the seventeenth and required a significant amount of effort to climb. First, it was a step that was a full a foot taller than him; second, it was covered in a slick burning ichor that oozed from wounds in the very stone itself; third, it was very smooth, marble-smooth where it wasn't a fiery lesion. His thumbnail on his left hand caught on the very edge and came away easily. Victor watched with dismay as the blackened claw fell to the step below.

"Ouch," he said, a little disgusted.

"Tainted," said Emma confidently. She was hovering a little above his head, the whump of her wings in the air a steady pacing sound that had actually been helping Victor with his climb.

"Thanks."

"It's true; you shouldn't have been killed so many times. It was pretty pathetic actually. You should see your hair."

Victor had seen his hair. The tips of it had gone a pure white, as if he had dip-dyed his usually pitch-black curly mop in a pot of emulsion. It was the Taint, of that he was sure, but if he was honest he kind of liked the look. It made him feel unique.

His training was into the tenth day. Nine days of near-continuous sword combat had given him a certain level of mastery with the weapon. It was strapped diagonally across his back now, clinging to his t-shirt thanks to a few strips of cloth.

Taint aside, Victor was a mess. His clothes were the very same ones he had arrived in and he hadn't taken them off for even a few minutes, let alone run them through a number two wash on his combination washer/dryer that likely still stood in the kitchen. The jeans were torn in numerous places and cut from swords, knives and halberds where rocks hadn't snagged them. His t-shirt was laughable and did nothing to cover his torso; it was more an affectation now than an item of clothing.

He had defeated his last six enemies without taking a single hit. When he capped it all by dismembering a small dragon in three rapid slices; wing, wing, head, Emma had called time.

The relief had been incredible. An actual wave of relaxation had passed through his entire being and he'd collapsed onto that hated Stonehenge grass with tears in his eyes. Then there'd been a nauseating ripple and both he and Emma had appeared at the bottom of the steps. There were fifty, each made for a giant, a titan or a God; Victor didn't know and didn't care. Emma simply insisted he climb and so he'd done as he had been told.

"Where are we going?" he asked as he threw his leg onto the eighteenth step.

"The top," Emma did her best impression of a sweet smile.

"And what's at the top?" Victor had long since lost patience and just as long since found it again. Emma was unlikely to rile him.

"The city."

"And in the city?"

"Nothing much; it's where the Gods of Death like to hang out. I'm expecting them there to talk to you."

Victor sat on the step to catch his breath and looked at her sharply. "Any reason they don't just teleport us there, or them here, to talk to us?"

"Laziness?" Emma grinned. "That or sadism; take your pick. You should have wings, then these steps wouldn't bother you so much."

Victor nodded and stood up. "It'd help," he admitted.

He knew it got on Emma's nerves when he didn't argue or complain, and so he had started to do it more and more. Perverse, but effective and incredibly satisfying. "Well, the quicker I climb, the quicker I get there."

Steps went past in a haze. Victor concentrated on the rhythmic flapping of the imp's wings and moved his hands deliberately in a continuous pattern; reaching up to grasp the edge of the step and heaving with everything he had to pull himself from his fingertips to the flat without having to utilise an oozing and stinging handhold. After the half-way mark, he had it down to a fine art and started ascending without too much problem. Emma hovered silently; for all the antagonism between them, Victor wondered if she was somewhat proud of her trainee.

The top step gave way to a vista of enormous flagstones leading to an archway you could have flown a 747 through. Victor took in the classic volcanic scenery that dominated the backdrop without comment and strode forward. His sword was coming lose from the straps that had held it to him throughout the climb and he tore it from his back, divesting himself of the last remnants of his t-shirt at the same time.

"Very macho," said Emma.

"Too right."

Victor had become muscular in the days of training too. He had always been a regular exerciser and had never had too much spare body fat, but now he was lean and approaching buff. It gave him an extra layer of confidence as he made his way to the arch.

"You made it then?" Death-God number two, the one that reminded Victor of Santa, appeared and started to keep pace, walking on his left.

"Did you doubt it?"

"No," Two's voice was friendly. "Not once."

Victor kept walking. "Good," he said. He hated the fat God, he hated all three of the sick perverts, but his resolve had grown in line with his sword skill and he wasn't going to show them any sort of weakness.

Three appeared next, running to keep up like a small boy. Victor almost imagined him raising his hand to cling on, like a son clutching to his dad in a busy shopping centre. Thankfully, he didn't.

"You stink," offered Three. "And you are dirty."

Victor nodded. The archway came ever closer. He could see One now, standing in the path in the centre of the massive opening. Victor smiled; he knew he had passed their first test, their ridiculous training.

He continued silently, closing the gap second by second until the five of them stood together. Emma fluttered over to a nearby pedestal and landed, looking around as if disinterested in the main scene.

"Well done," said One. "It's time to tell you about the seven obstacles in your way. Would you like a drink?"