Tartarus Beckons, Edmund Batara [bts book recommendations .TXT] 📗

“I am at your service, milady,” he stammered as he found a smidgen of courage and an ounce of will. The exquisite creature did call him her champion.

“Indeed, you are. I am a spirit of the mountains and the woods. Long have I not concerned myself with the ways of men, but recent events have roused my disappointment at the disorderly manner with which mortals conduct themselves. This must be put to right, and a champion shall light the way for greatness, discarding and removing those that pose a threat to such a worthy cause. Are you that man, Arn?”

Suddenly, a glorious vision came to his mind – he was astride a black warhorse, in shining plate armor, with faithful retainers at his side, watching as a vast army broke through the imposing stone walls of a besieged city. Images of the aftermath of the battle flooded his thoughts – where he proudly presided over the impalement, torture, and crucifixion of those who dared defy him.

Other glimpses followed – a magnificent hall where Arn the king, the conqueror, held court. A harem of exotic women. A private dungeon for his true desires, where Arn indulged in his pleasures to the fullest, the terrified screams of the dying gracing his ears with sweet music.

“All that and more shall be yours, Arn. Agree to be my champion, reclaim your legacy, and you shall rule over a vast domain,” tempted a sensuous voice.

A delighted Arn, ecstatic beyond belief, eagerly nodded his head.

No more hiding! No more waiting in the dark! I will be somebody. I am somebody! Arn shouted in the deepest part of his mind. A feeling of exultation flooded the man.

“To seal our bargain, Arn. Your pledge to rule these lands in my name, and a kiss.”

“I do pledge! And your name, my Lady?”

“Call me the goddess Uttu. My land is far from here, and like you, I have been wronged.”

Arn immediately prostrated, his forehead touching the ground.

“I am and will always be yours, my goddess,” exclaimed the mortal.

“Indeed.  More than your mortal mind will be able to comprehend. A ring of power I shall bequeath to you, my champion. With it, you are invulnerable. My chosen can raise armies from the very ground, bind the loyalty of warriors, and gain the favor of any female he fancies.”

Arn’s eyes bulged at what he heard. His breathing became faster as it tried to catch up with the beating of his ecstatic heart.

A glowing ring appeared, suspended in the air before him. Then the mysterious woman kissed him on the lips.

“You need blood to rouse it from its sleep and animate its might, Arn of Uttu. And only the precious fluid which flows through the veins of those bound to you by filial ties shall serve.”

That very night, Arn strangled Birke in his sleep, and right after that, the would-be conqueror hacked his brother Garth to pieces.

***

The figure at the edge of the woods turned as he heard somebody coming. By the aura of the approaching creature, the waiting being knew it was who he was waiting for. In a few seconds, a bizarre merger of spider and human appeared, though only the head and the neck were that of a gorgeous black woman. The hideous being quickly scurried its way toward the man, its eight legs scrambling on the wild grass. She bowed as she reached the waiting figure.

“My Lady Uttu, how did it go? Does he pass?” asked the male outline.

“He’s a selfish, depraved, and cruel imbecile. That mortal is now in his dreams, covered and protected by my webbing. But his blood and soul are what you said they would be – deliciously flavored with heinous sins and a repulsive mind. Anansi would be pleased with this one. Every part of his body is as it should be – flavor, meat, and soul unspoiled by repentance or fear. You have done well, Lord Loki,” said the spider deity.

“I aim to please. Always.”

Story Note:

Uttu – An ancient Sumerian goddess of weaving and usually represented in spider form. A daughter of the deity Enki, she was raped by her father who had the abominable practice of raping all his daughters.

Short Story:

Mad Magus

(Writer’s Note: The story that follows is not part of the Adar mythos and I thought it might make for a change in pace at this point. It is part of an on-going serialized story available on my Patreon page.)

Synopsis

Salemon the Mage. Somehow, the name and the description didn’t fit together.

But the woodcutter-turned-mage never really was a wielder of magic. He was more of a conduit for the suppressed urges and energies of a collection of almost-gods who had been trapped for millennia.

They do have ambitions for Salemon. Grand plans. World-shaking schemes. Lofty dark or enlightened ideals to achieve, depending on whose turn it is to talk to, or drive, the woodcutter.

But first, they all want to have their divinities back. And have fun.

Salemon stared at the departing coach. He kept looking at it as it became smaller in the distance, gripping in his hand a large semi translucent bottle of a strange design.

It looked like a tall wine bottle but had handles at its sides. It didn’t have any markings, but the closure at its mouth was neither cork nor clay. He thought it strange, but the material appeared to be some sort of silvery metal, with a design on top, and secured to the bottle’s neck by several strings of the same material.

When the carriage disappeared from sight, Salemon turned his attention to the bottle. He got six gold quarters from the gentleman for safekeeping the heirloom for a month.

Six gold quarters, or one whole gold coin and half of another, was an incredible fortune for Salemon. He now counted himself lucky when he chanced upon the carriage with a broken wheel on the road. The ornately decorated conveyance carried an extra one, but with only the coachman, there