The Mad God's Muse (The Eye of the Lion Saga Book 2) by Matt Gilbert

whispered.
    The figure cocked its head
quizzically. “A meaningless question. What could one such as I
seek from the likes of a wretch like you?”
    “Then leave me,”
Aiul answered. Even the fear was gone now. His entire being had gone
numb, overloaded, his mind unable to find a handhold to brace itself
against the onslaught of madness. He rose to his feet and looked
Elgar squarely in the eye. “Begone, Dead God.”
    Elgar chuckled. “You
would dismiss the Destroyer with a wave your hand? Truly, your
arrogance is a marvel to behold! I have not seen its like in….”
He trailed off, paused, then continued, “Eons.”
    “It’s not
arrogance. It’s not even bravery.”
    “Yes,” Elgar agreed
with a nod. “The calm that comes when one understands that he
is truly defeated.” He spoke now in his own voice again, and
Aiul was powerless to stop the sensations. He heard Lara’s
screams with a clarity that his own ears could never have matched.
He tasted her blood on his own lips, felt the blade rend her flesh.
And could he hear a small, high pitched cry, deep inside?
    “In such a moment, one
might find true freedom, had he the will,” Elgar continued.
And the images of Lara were burned from Aiul’s mind, washed
away by new screams, cries that no longer tore at his soul but
thrilled him like a powerful symphony. Nihlos was in flames, its
people rushing about in random panic. He was drunk with the euphoria
of unfettered, untiring, merciless hatred. His arms, swinging a
huge, misshapen club, rose and fell, again and again, caving in the
skulls of everyone about him, men, women, even children. A thousand
faces shattered under his assault. Blood and gore flew at each
strike, and it tasted sweet on his lips. The visions shot through
him in brief flashes, an orgy of rage, a climax of vengeance,
unending, spiraling higher and higher until it seemed he would
explode with joy.
    He came to his senses long
moments later, to find himself on his knees, sobbing. Elgar’s
hand caressed his back and shoulders, comforting him like a parent
might soothe an anguished child.
    “Do you offer this to
me?” Aiul choked.
    “I do.”
    “And what is the price?”
Aiul asked, certain that he knew the answer. “My soul?”
    Elgar took Aiul’s hands
in his own and pulled him to his feet, but gave no answer. Instead,
the Destroyer raised his hands to his own neck and removed his
gorget. Aiul gasped. Elgar’s throat had been ripped open, his
head half severed from his body. Black, oily blood oozed and bubbled
at the wound, as it might from a man who had bled out and was
breathing his last.
    “Such a victory, such a
liberation as I would give you, is its own price,” said the
Destroyer.
    “I don’t
understand,” Aiul whispered.
    Elgar raised a gauntleted hand
to Aiul’s throat. Spikes erupted along the fingers with a
sharp, metallic sound. Elgar held them lightly against Aiul's
throat, waiting, his black eyes gazing deeply into Aiul’s own,
green stare, the points of the spikes slightly pricking Aiul's
flesh. “Your mind is too small,” Elgar whispered.. “But
your soul understands.”
    “Yes,” Aiul
answered.
    Elgar tore out Aiul’s
throat.

    House Noril had several
prisons, some more secure than others. Given his choice of duty,
Salastin would definitely have preferred the minimum security, in
that it was just easier work, but for The Traitor, he was willing to
suffer a little.
    Aiul's rebellion had been a
hell of a night for both Noril and Luvox. They had all bled and
choked and fought. When it was done, Salastin had been surprised and
more than a little nervous to be summoned by Master Davron himself.
He had done nothing heroic to merit a commendation, but he couldn't
think of anything that would get him punished, either. Unless I
killed someone I ought not have in the chaos. All sorts of
mistakes happened in actual combat, often enough fatal. Quelling a
riot was hardly precision work. Someone important could have