Chapter LIII
LIII
I was the spectator now.
Unable to control my own body, I seemed to float somehow within myself. I could only watch through Sarmodel’s eyes as we stalked the Beast over the snow.
I have never properly seen what we become when Sarmodel takes control of my flesh.
From my limited perspective, it seems a monstrous multiplicity of me, an abomination sculpted from man meat.
I know it has more than four limbs. I know my skull and my sternum become great bulwarks of bone, and my ribs double in number around a heart grown immense.
I know it is powerful and it consumes a little more of my essence for every moment it remains in this world.
Through the snow-filled forest we ran, a demon in a coat of human flesh.
The snow boiled into steam where we stepped, and the creatures of the forest fell dead in our wake.
There was no real word to describe our rippling, many-limbed gait, galloping over the snow and leaping through the trees with equal grace.
The forest thrashed around us as we ascended. The Beast was easy to follow with Sarmodel’s supernatural senses, though our quarry was moving at fantastic speed. He was leading us higher up the mountainside, right up into the maw of the snowstorm.
Sarmodel, be careful, please, I whimpered. It shocked me to hear how small and hollow my voice was.
His laughter bubbled around me. How is it, then, to be the prisoner? How does it feel to be trapped in flesh that does not obey?
We bounded over ravines and crashed heedlessly through thickets and snowdrifts alike.
The scent rising from Avstamet’s blood trail grew stronger and stronger; we were gaining on him.
Filled with the heat of Sarmodel’s essence, my body was hungry in every possible way.
My belly growled and my manhood throbbed hard against it like an iron bar.
Sarmodel drank greedily from my anima and we surged ahead with ever more power.
And there he was.
At the highest edge of the forest, where the trees gave way to barren stone and snow, Avstamet had reached a crevasse he could not cross. He paced the brink, looking for a way down.
But he could go no farther. The warm days that had incubated the snowstorm had also melted the high snows, and the canyon was filled with thundering white water. In his weakened condition, the Spirit would risk killing his vessel in such a flood.
Our quarry was cornered.
Sarmodel wasted no time. With a powerful bound, he leaped for the Beast’s throat.
The fight was terrible; two abominations locked in mortal struggle. Their cries challenged the blizzard itself.
Great sagas have been written about such battles between gods and monsters. None of them capture the savagery of a contest in which the flesh is just another resource to expend.
Gobbets of meat were torn away with every blow.
Sarmodel hooked his many claws into the Beast’s wounds and stripped the skin from his torso like a furred apron.
I screamed into the ether as Avstamet raked his way into my abdomen and began to unspool my innards onto the snow.
There were no rules of engagement and no taboos—they blinded and crippled and violated each other without compunction.
Each was simply intent on devouring the other body and soul, and they set about it.
Even in his extremity, Avstamet was formidable.
He outmatched us in size and strength, and he had ample experience operating a body in the Mundane world.
But he had suffered grave injuries already, and Sarmodel was fast and fearless.
He made no effort to evade Avstamet’s blows; with my millennia of anima at his disposal, he could repair our flesh as soon as it was damaged.
I screamed in terror each time a mortal blow was struck to my altered body, only to see the wound flood with plasma and the tissue regenerate in seconds.
The Beast was not so blessed, thanks to the venom running through his veins. Where his flesh was torn, his blood flowed.1 While Sarmodel attacked ever more vigorously, the Beast grew slower and heavier in his movements.
It could not last forever.
I began to feel a hot prickling, as of a numb limb regaining sensation. It started at the base of my spine and then sent spasms shooting through me.
Sarmodel, hurry! It’s wearing off! I said. The spasms gripped harder and I detected the flicker of a response when I tried to move my eyes. My body was beginning to return to me.
No! Not yet! Not yet!
The Beast was standing upright, his shredded torso exposed, and Sarmodel took his chance. Rearing like a mongoose, he leaped high, gripping onto his foe with his hind claws. Anima surged into his arms and he brought his bunched fists down like a hammer on Avstamet’s bloody chest.
The Beast’s rib cage collapsed under the blow. He made a terrible wet grunting sound, staggering to his haunches. Sarmodel howled in triumph as he clawed through the shattered bones for the Warfather’s heart.
But Avstamet was not yet defeated. With his remaining strength, he gripped us in his hands and kicked us away with a roar.
We hit the ground and skidded in the snow. Sarmodel sprang back to his feet immediately and charged at our enemy.
And then he stumbled. Once. Twice.
His gait began to weave.
He was losing control.
He is mine. He is mine.
Sarmodel was not speaking to me; I’m not sure he knew he was saying the words at all. He continued his advance, first running and then limping and finally shambling toward the Beast.
But Avstamet was in no state to face him again. Blood poured in a cascade from his broken body, far more than could ever have been contained within it; we had pierced his heart after all. His ancient anima swirled within the vital fluid like nectar.
“You. I . . . do not understand . . .” He looked at the blood and then back at us, his terrible face stricken.
His voice cut through the snowstorm. “How can you bear it? How do you endure this perpetual, aimless pasture?” he demanded, panting.
“How can you refuse the promise of empire? I would return this world to life, uplift the race of men from this indolence and bring them to glory once more—and you refuse?”
“Your time has passed, Warfather,” answered Sarmodel through my mouth, and not without regret.
“There will be no glory, no empire—not under your name. But I will take what you have to offer, yes indeed. This hunt is over, and I claim the victor’s prize.
What is yours will be mine. I will take it all, beginning with your heart. ”
Avstamet looked at us not with anger, but with pity.
“You are not worthy of it.”
He stepped back and fell into the roaring crevasse.
1. I can only image the horror of Jean Chastel, who was no doubt in a similar position to me, watching helplessly as his body was possessed by one nightmare creature and torn to pieces by another.