I conjured back a few bits of my smile. “Hello, Mighty Lutigan. It’s been a while since we chatted.”
No god despised me more than Lutigan, and really it was all due to a misunderstanding. I once helped Fingit, Blacksmith of the Gods, play a minor prank on Lutigan, but by accident, it became more of booby trap combined with an assault. While I didn’t plan for all that calamity to happen, I thought it was awfully damn funny. Lutigan felt my apology was insincere.
Lutigan didn’t have the appearance of a being who forgave easily. Most male gods wore robes, but he wore armor made from the hides of the fourteen most horrible creatures he had killed. He wore sharp, crushing boots instead of sandals. The tiger’s head on his red helm sported a crown of needle-sharp spikes. He carried a plain red shield on his back, and fourteen hilts stuck out from underneath it, the hilts of his fourteen swords, each fourteen palms long.
Most gods chose to wear a physical form of perfect beauty, but not Lutigan. His body was designed to kill the greatest number of beings in the shortest amount of time. His red, bristly body hair served as a second armor. His jutting eyebrows were both a challenge and an insult. He could drive his long, ridiculous nose into somebody’s brain and slay them instantly.
Over the centuries, sorcerers had argued with great fervor about Lutigan’s obsession with the number fourteen. The debates often involved drinking, physical threats, and broken marriages. Assaults and murders weren’t unknown, since quick tempers always accompanied any discussion of Lutigan. No consensus had ever been reached. Dozens of explanations seemed possible. The most popular held that the number fourteen was the key to conquering the universe by force. The second most popular was that Lutigan just liked fourteen and that was that.
It would not avail me to be nice to this god. Nothing I could do would make him hate me less or hate me more. The only reason he hadn’t destroyed me years ago was that I belonged to Harik, who was known to get pissy about his things.
Lutigan growled. “When I think about crushing your throat, Murderer, my entire, mighty being feels tingly. This interview won’t take long. You have treated my servant with disrespect.”
“I treat everybody with disrespect. They shouldn’t feel I’m singling them out.”
“Quiet!” Lutigan’s voice echoed inside my head, which was a nice trick.
I stayed quiet and waited.
“Well?” Lutigan shouted.
“Ah, which of Your Magnificence’s servants have I treated like shit?”
“That woman down there. The one with the face.”
“Leddie?”
“Right, that one. You threatened her and dropped things on her.” Lutigan held up a fist and squeezed. Cracking sounds echoed off the forest. I didn’t know what he was crushing, but it was impressive as hell.
“How can she be your servant, Mighty Lutigan? She’s not even a sorcerer.”
“I didn’t say she was a good servant.”
“Can she even know that she’s serving you?”
“She’s not a smart servant, either. You’re boring me, Murderer.”
“But . . . she tried to kill me.”
“I’m fine with that.”
Pleas and explanations wouldn’t avail me with the God of War. I stepped forward and threw back my shoulders. “I have to disrespect her a certain amount! We’ve been in deadly combat until now. And if she tricks me, I may have—”
“Quiet!” Lutigan boomed loud enough for my teeth to hurt. “I don’t care about your trials and your journey, you little snip. Can’t think of anything more boring. If I wasn’t immortal, you would already have bored me to death.”
Lutigan wasn’t the smartest of the gods. Maybe I could tease something useful out of him. I scratched my beard for effect. “Mighty Lutigan, Leddie is just riding along with me to kill your son, Memweck.”
“Who cares? The boy’s a giggling, insolent tower of butter.” Lutigan slapped the marble bench hard enough to show he did care even a little.
“A disappointment, huh?”
“The little dangler thinks he’s funny.” Lutigan stared at me. “Shut up about it.”
I shut up and waited.
“By Krak’s flaming, all-destroying testes!” Lutigan roared. Dust drifted down from the ceiling of the gazebo. “Aren’t you even going to say you’re sorry?”
I bowed. “I’m sorry, Your Magnificence. Really. Sincerely.”
“I hope you eat a thousand bugs in hell. Fine, regardless, here’s how you’ll make it up to me. I want the Knife. You will deliver her to me.”
I blinked twice while my brain adjusted. The Knife was the gods’ name for Pil. I cleared my throat. “I believe she’s associated with Fingit, whom I know is just as sorry as I am about everything that happened in the past. I have no pull with Fingit, though.”
Lutigan laughed. “I can deal with that wobbly blossom. Except for one thing. He won’t give her to me unless she asks.” The god leaned forward, perched on the bench like a tiger watching a chubby, stupid calf. “Make her ask.”
I blurted, “I don’t even know where she is.”
“Piffle.”
I silently asked myself whether the God of War had really just said “piffle.”
Lutigan went on, “You’ll see the Knife again. And she owes you a favor. Make her ask.”
“Well, maybe we can formalize things,” I said, angling for some clever way to escape this. “Mighty Lutigan, I offer you the honor of making the first offer.”
I saw only a blur as Lutigan jumped forward while drawing a sword, and he swung a savage cut into the dirt of the arena. I found myself lying on my back, buried up to my waist in a pile of grainy brown earth.
Lutigan pointed the pure white sword at me. “This isn’t a damned trade. Sorcerers think everything is about bargaining. You’re no cleverer than ducks! Gods don’t have to bargain—we can just take what we want. I want the Knife. Make her ask! Do it before sunset on the
