Date: Sat, 19 Jan 2008 00:40:01 -0800
From: The Satyr <the.satyr@gmail.com>
Subject: Stag God's Apostle: Chapters 5 and 6

Hey, all. I've gotten some fantastic feedback from this series, which
I greatly appreciate. Some of you have asked some questions about the
background of this setting, which I have shared with one or two folks.
But, in order to do so, as well as to update you when a new chapter of
this Cycle is available, I have created a group at the following
address:

http://groups.yahoo.com/group/stag-god-cycle/

Join for updates, as well as the occasional short essay on parts of
the world, as well as a place to discuss the Cycle. I'd love to hear
from all of you, and perhaps get some ideas where you might like to
see these cycles go. Any good mythology is built to the needs of the
people it serves, and you are the people this Cycle is written for.

As usual, involves adult situations, with all that entails. You've been
warned.

+++++++++++++++++++
This story is (c) The Oaken Satyr, 2006-2008

The Stag God's Apostle
- A Continuation of the Cycle of Ashlan
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Chapter Five: Last Hours
The rising sun did little to lighten the sky that next day. Morning
brought with it thick clouds and rain. All night, the elders of the Great
Church met in the high towers of that holy edifice and made their
decision: the heretics would die the very next day, without waiting.
Before the cock crowed that morning, the headsmen and his men assembled
the stage, putting at its center the thick chunk of red-black stained
ironwood that had long served the town as its headsman block. The first
men and women in the street that morning couldn't miss its presence, and
the church crier stationed before it ensured that by mid-morning, even
those in the surrounding villages knew.

At noon, the orc would die, and a traitorous human heretic with him.

Water splashed Olusku awake, though the extent of his reaction was to
slowly turn his head, with a groan, to find the guard Tamas standing
there, a look of hate on his face. From his ginger movements, it was
clear that Tamas had probably been whipped for allowing Olusku access to
the orc in the first place.

"Bastard," Tamas hissed. "Filth. Is this how you repay my friendship?
That of my family? You dishonored me, you filthy orc-loving son of a
whore." He left the room then, and returned with another bucket, and a
pile of white clothing. He doused down Habra with the bucket, trying to
deliver the orc a kick to awaken him, but the prisoner ^Ö even with
broken ribs ^Ö was too fast for him, and scuttled out of the way.

"Put these on," the young guard barked at the orc, who stripped out of
his clothing and did so, glad for clean clothes, even if they were the
simple white garb the church executed heretics in. He idly wondered if it
was white so that the spatters of blood would show better. Tamas shoved
Olusku up against the wall and stripped the remnants of his clothing from
him. He garbed the huntsman in the white cloth and then leaned back,
letting Olusku rest against the wall.

Wearily, the huntsman looked at the young guard, whose anger quickly
dissolved to something else. Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Tamas
quickly stood, snatched up the bucket and fled the room before he allowed
either of the prisoners to see his tears.

"Hunter?" Habra asked, whispering quietly. The huntsman looked across the
cell at him, his face grim. "I am sorry that this happened. I wish you
had never become involved. I^ÅI go to my death without honor, because I
can never repay you for the help you tried to give me. I would be in the
debt of a friend who had tried to save me, but this? I am doubly
indebted, because we do not know one another."

"You don't owe me anything, Habra," the huntsman said, his voice weary
and hoarse. "I didn't do this for you. I did it for Him. And I'm sorry
that I failed you. And Him." Habra smiled at him kindly, his black eyes
shining with compassion and affection.

"You did not fail me, huntsman, though perhaps you did not achieve the
success you intended. And above all, you did not fail Him." He paused for
a moment, and listened for others outside the cell. "How long did you
know Him?"

"Only^Åonly a night. A few hours of that night, at best," Olusku said,
his voice heavy with regret. "I only wish I'd known him for longer."

"How did you come upon Him^Åor rather, how did He find you? Rare is the
human or orc that approaches Him without his desiring it."

"I'd been hunting. My damned bowstring snapped at the very worst time.
The big boar I was hunting turned on me -- almost as if the bastard knew
it'd broken -- and gored the hells out of me. I managed to kill it with
my hatchet, but what started as a hunt turned into a bloody mess. Both of
us, a bloody mess. I was losing blood at a terrifying rate; I tried to
dress it as best I could, but I couldn't concentrate, and the sun was
setting, and I just wanted to^ÅI just wanted to close my eyes, and take a
moment to gather my strength. Really, that was my body trying to give up
and die, and I was ready to let it. I crawled into the underbrush a
little, and found a hollow there. It was clearly a spot where does hid
their fawns until they could walk, one of the hollows of grass, almost
like a nest for fawns, you know?"

Habra nodded then, comprehending.

"You prayed there, didn't you?"

"I did, aye. I knew that if I closed my eyes, I was probably dead. But I
just didn't have the strength. So, just before I passed out, I prayed to
the Lord of Light, actually. I prayed to have enough strength to rest and
not die, so that I could make it out of there alive. Then, it was all
black."

Olusku paused, glancing at the door.

"When I woke up, He was there. I was clean, and naked, and even stretched
out on furs, with a small fire burning merrily nearby. I wasn't actually
in the fawn's hollow anymore, and His^ÅHis body was pressed up against
mine. I thought I would burn up, with the fire in front of me, and the
heat of His body behind me? I couldn't tell you which burned hotter."
Olusku glanced up at Habra, who sat smiling with joy.

"We^Åwe made love. Several times that night, in fact, and inbetween bouts
-- letting me rest, He was -- I told Him my story, and He told me His. He
was gone before the sun came up, but He taught me so much. I know it
sounds stupid, but I couldn't tell you exactly everything He taught me,
just that^Å" the huntsman's voice trailed off.

"No need," Habra smiled. "I remember. It was that way for me, too. He
found me while He was still young in His divine power, and seeking wisdom
with the great Bear God of my tribe. I spent the night with Him, and was
changed by it. I found my way to the tribe that worshipped the Stag God,
though, and begged their shamans to teach me of Him. I've seen Him twice
since, and though each time I could tell He remembered me, we've never
again been intimate, or even really spoken."

"Why do you do this?" Olusku asked, turning to look at the orc across the
cell from him. "Does He want you to do this?"

"No," Olusku shook his head. "It is something I simply felt called to do.
To be honest, my words are rarely for those in the villages and towns.
All too often, they are terrified of what Ashlan represents. Sometimes,
though, someone will feel a truth to what I am saying. But far more
often, my public speaking simply alerts people like you -- men who've
encountered Him and been changed. I'm simply trying to build a fellowship
of such men. I remember how crippled and alone I felt when He left me,
and no one else understood. But you do. And so do the others." Olusku
looked thoughtful, and then smiled, though it clearly pained him to do
so.

"Men? Only men?" he asked, after a moment.

"Yes," Habra smiled. "Only. There is only one female any of the Beast
Gods love ^Ö the Great Goddess of the orcish peoples. They fight amongst
themselves constantly, warring to prove their strength, hoping to win Her
attention and favor."

The cell door slammed open then, and the Lord Keeper entered.

"I think I've heard just about enough of this filth," he spat and crossed
the room to snatch Habra up by his throat, while two guards, Stone and
Kunar entered, and set to work unshackling him.

"Then you shouldn't listen to other peoples' conversations, pinkskin,"
Habra sneered, and spat in the Lord Keeper's face. "Or if you're going
to, you may wish to try learning to be a little more subtle. I heard you
the moment you approached, and so did my friend. Pathetic." The Lord
Keeper slammed his fist into the orc's ribs -- the broken ones, of
course. Even so, Habra's groan still sounded as though it were diluted
with laughter.

"Enough. Your taunts end soon enough, and I'll remember your spite when
your head is mounted on a pike in the town square." He dropped Habra, and
Stone stepped in to lift the orc and unchain him. "It's all almost over
anyway. You words are simply the mutterings of the dead."

He snapped his fingers, and Stone and Kunar dragged the two heretics out
of the cell.
++++++++++++++++++++++
Chapter Six: Execution

Olusku stumbled as he walked, forced the guards to carry and drag him to
the headsman's block. He'd be damned if didn't make them literally drag
him there, though the little bit of rebellion didn't do much to make him
feel better. Still ^Ö a dying man has to take his pleasures where he can,
he supposed. Habra walked out into the courtyard in front of the great
temple, blinking in the sunlight. The guards pushed the orc ahead of
them, and dragged the hunter behind them.

Olusku did his best to avoid looking at the crowd around him. Habra was a
strange outland orc, but Olusku was part of this community. They knew
him. Still, he couldn't help but glance up, and when he did, he saw him.
The sight jolted the hunter to his feet, and the guards nearly dropped
him. He stole that moment to simply stare.

Not five full feet from him, his apprentice Ireku stood, cloaked and
hooded as though it might rain. Olusku shook his head, silently begging
Ireku to run, but Ireku simply raised a finger to his lips. Tears flooded
Olusku's eyes and ran down his cheeks ^Ö he didn't want his beloved
apprentice to see him beheaded as a heretic.

The smell of rain poured in on the cold wind from the east, harbinger of
the dark clouds that collected there over the forest. Appropriate, Olusku
thought. At least the sky will weep for us today. He glanced about him,
at the angry, frightened faces around him. These people certainly
wouldn't.

He nearly stumbled then, and was dragged up onto the platform. He glanced
up to watch them force Habra into a kneeling position before the
headsman's block. They raised the slack rope along its top enough to
force his head through, and then tightened it against his neck, forcing
him face-down against the block. They manacled his hands next to the
block on either side of it, just to ensure he didn't move.

Then, that task done, they shoved Olusku forward. He fought, for merest
moments, his eyes on the sun. The clouds rushed forward and swallowed it,
and only then did he allow them to similarly bind him. Once they were
helpless, a junior priest walked up, bringing with him a censer burning
with pungent purification incense, as an elder priest followed him.

"Attention!" he cried out, and a peal of distant thunder sounded. He
smiled at that, and turned a severe eye on the crowd. He glanced up at
the second-story balcony that jutted out from the church's façade over
the courtyard, where Patriarch Gerel and the Lord Keeper now stood. The
Patriarch nodded, and the elder priest ^Ö chosen for his powerful
speaking voice and stern demeanor ^Ö addressed the audience.

"The criminals you see before you stand guilty of heresy, treachery and
consorting with demons. One is the devilish priest of a savage orc
demon-god ^Ö his wickedness is understandable, though no less the vile.
Beside him, however, is one of us! One of our own, swayed to the obscene
and filthy worship of this orc-god!" He gave a chance for the crowd to
shout its revilement and its demands that he be killed.

"The elders of the Lord of Light convened, all the night through, and
ajudged ^Ö in accordance to the ancient Codex of Illumination and the
rightful laws of this land ^Ö that both savage and heretic must be killed
today. Does not the Codex say that contagion must be found and rooted
out, that cleansing and healing may come? Let it be known ^Ö by order of
Patriarch Gerel ^Ö that both the savage orc Habra and the reviled heretic
Olusku are sentenced to death by beheading."

A great cheer went up, and Olusku couldn't help but notice the voices of
those he knew in that cheer. Of course, it only made sense ^Ö in a
situation like this, the community was going to watch those who'd
previously associated with him, for fear that they, too, may be corrupt.
Those who didn't want to end up with their own heads on the block had to
cheer his death.

He couldn't help but notice that the day had become quite bleak and chill
^Ö appropriate to his mood, he mused whimsically. He wondered if all men
became bleakly humorous at their execution. They did, he suppose, call it
gallows humor for a reason.

Olusku glanced up and saw that Ireku had moved to the front of the crowd.
Why would he want to ^Ö oh, no. The hunter saw that the young man had
moved forward, staying out of the way, but moving up onto the first step
up the platform. His cloak rippled, and Olusku watched him draw a knife.

If he could speak, he'd have shouted at the boy to flee, but could only
croak. He felt, more than heard, the massive headsman walk up behind him
and unsheathe the massive axe the church kept for precisely these
situations.

Suddenly, the clouds overhead darkened, considerably. Lightning flashed
overhead, the sprinkling of the rain became a downpour and half a
heartbeat later, thunder cracked. The gathered crowd shivered and
shuddered, then returned their eyes to the platform.

The headsman's hood leaked a gout of blood, from the strange projection
imbedded in his throat. It looked like a set of antlers, sharpened to
arrow-like points and tied together with leather, forming some kind of
throwing projectile. A silence fell on the crowd as the headsman fell to
his knees, dropping the axe. One heartbeat, two, three passed before
anyone cried out in alarm, only to have their voice drowned out by the
terrible roar from behind them.

Two Keepers lay dead on the cobblestones, and a giant monster stood in
the middle of the road. He was largely naked, save for a pair of leather
breeches, and he stood seven feet in height. He was large-shouldered and
heavily muscled, and nearly covered in swirling blue tattoos. Though his
face was that of a goateed, square-jawed man, his eyes were a terrifying
animalistic amber hue, and his head was crowed by a set of utterly
majestic, powerful-looking antlers.

The Stag-God was among them, and he smiled as the sudden stench of fear
filled his nostrils. He laughed and strode forward as the gathered
townsfolk scattered, terrified out of their wits. The gathered Keepers
hesitated for just a moment before the Lord Keeper's voice carried over
the din of the storm.

"Kill him! Stop him!"

Olusku and Habra could only watch as their god walked within the walls of
this town. Their vision was shortly blocked by Ireku, quickly striding to
the top of the platform, knife in hand. The guard there stepped forward
to stop him, distractedly, and with a savage strength all out of
proportion to his frame, Ireku dropped and rolled, stabbing him first in
the back of the knee, and then again in the back of the neck when he
fell. He then stood, lifting the guard's corpse and threw it off the
platform.

Olusku could only gape, but Habra grinned ^Ö he knew that strength. He
knew it, because he'd been that strong before. All who partake of the
Stag-God's sacraments feel that strength after they are bred, infused by
his divine seed. Ireku knelt and quickly cut the ropes that bound their
necks to the blocks free.

"My god! What are you doing here?" Olusku gasped, tears mixing with the
rain that flowed down his face.

"You sent me into the forest, and I found a place to hide. You'd always
told me that if I had to stay in the forest at night, I should try and
find a doe's hollow ^Ö so that's what I did."

"And then you prayed," Habra chuckled as the boy rose to retrieve the
keys to the manacles. He nodded and then looked up at Ashlan
worshipfully.

It was a bad time to be one of the church's Keepers. Incapable of
standing against the divine might of Ashlan, they simply fell before him.
He roared words in the Foundling Tongue, and all who heard them quailed.
Wicked talons grew from the ends of his fingertips and his long hair
streamed behind him as he moved. Every two steps, another soldier died.
The Stag-God's talons opened their throats, his wicked antlers pierced
their bellies and his powerful legs delivered bone-shattering kicks.

By the time the Lord Keeper donned his breastplate, retrieved his sword
and shield and made his way to the courtyard, more than a score Keepers
lay dead or dying, and there was no one else in sight but the boy aiding
the two convicts to limp down off the platform. When the Lord Keeper
emerged from the massive double doors of the church, he found Ashlan
waiting, standing between the church and those he was here to rescue.

"This storm," the Lord Keeper said, warily circling his opponent, who
merely watched him. "I've spoken to the survivors of the Great Frenzy of
Innith, six years ago. The night that the storm blew in and drove all the
animals from the surrounding countryside insane, killing dozens of
soldiers at the gates. You were responsible, weren't you? You did that."

Ashlan merely nodded, his grin feral.

"You monster," the Lord Keeper spat. "I'll see you dead for that, and for
this," he said, gesturing at the carnage around him.

"Why, Lord Keeper," Ashlan said, his voice a surprisingly civilized and
deep basso. "I think you'll find that your sword and your shield, your
precious armor and helmet will do nothing to avail you in this fight. You
have not the weapons to battle me, little fool."

"Your weapons are dark magics and savagery. My weapon is Faith," said the
Lord Keeper, assuming a battle stance. His movements were sleek and
practiced, the results of long hours of training. From somewhere deep in
Ashlan's memory ^Ö from his childhood as a human ^Ö he recognized the
stance as one of the postures of the Ten Martyrs Discipline, a fighting
style practiced by the crusaders of the Lord of Light. He chuckled.

"You are a fool, then. Only those who follow you can benefit from your
Faith. I fight with Fear, and the terror I bring to the field of war
decimates my foes as readily as it strengthens mine allies."

"I'm not afraid of you, monster." With that, he launched himself forward,
his sword coming in high. On another man, such an attack might have
endangered his opponent's face, but it barely cleared Ashlan's chest in
height. Ashlan shot forward and spoke a word in the Foundling Tongue ^Ö
the Lord Keeper gasped as fear clutched his heart and weakened his grip.
Stepping to the side, Ashlan laid the palm of one hand beneath the pommel
of the Lord Keeper's sword and shoved upward, stepping in and snatching
him up at the neck. He growled and divine sinews tightened, and Ashlan
raised the warrior by his throat. He spun on one heel and hurled,
throwing the fully grown and heavily muscled man as though he were but a
boy, slamming him into the massive doors of the church, which thundered
open.

Ashlan chuckled, and looked around at the empty streets, now cleared of
onlookers. He smiled that wicked, predatory smile again as the Lord
Keeper rose, and warily stepped back outside. Ashlan roared his fury, and
thunder cracked overhead.

"Fool!" he shouted and gestured around him. "I don't need you to be
afraid. I simply need to clear the field of war of all but the bravest
and the strongest. I'm not interested in making widows of your women. I
seek a challenge, and slaughtering your men wholesale fails to give me
that. I am not interesting in giving your faith yet more martyrs. Better
that they should flee this place in fear, and go home to wives and
children when falls the night. Let normal men go home -- this battle is
for monsters, like you and I. And oh, what a battle it shall be!"

The Lord Keeper roared his defiance and ran forward. At the last moment,
he stopped, sliding somewhat on the rain-wetted cobblestones and executed
a sudden sword reversal. The sword which seemed to be flashing for
Ashlan's chest flickered, and twisted up under its original arc, scoring
a deep crimson line across the Stag-God's belly. The Lord Keeper
continued the movement, and in three steps was far out of the beast-god's
reach, his posture in perfect martial readiness.

"Ohho," Ashlan rumbled with laughter. "The little kitten has claws."
Ashlan circled him warily, his hand to his belly. The Lord Keeper lunged
once or twice, but Ashlan played a defensive game, slapping the flat of
the blade with his open palm, driving it away from him at every move.
Suddenly, the Lord Keeper realized what was happening.

"Lord of Light," he sword. "You're^Åyou're healing." Even as he watched,
the rain washed away the slash of blood across Ashlan's muscled belly,
leaving behind clean white scar tissue.

"So I am," the beast-god chuckled. Suddenly he pounced, his great legs
carrying him high in the air. The Lord Keeper raised his sword in defense
and tried to throw himself back, but could not act fast enough ^Ö Ashlan
came down nearly on top of him, antlers-first, skewering the Lord
Keeper's midsection. The warrior shrieked in agony, and Ashlan grabbed
him by the shoulders and with a toss of his head hurled him away from
him. A resounding snap echoed as one of Ashlan's antlers broke away,
trapped between two of the Lord Keeper's ribs, wedged there by the bent
and punctured metal of his breastplate.

Ashlan reached up and touched the side of his face, where the Lord
Keeper's raised sword had laid open his face in the middle of his sudden
goring attack. His thick tongue darted out and licked at the rainwater
and blood on his hand, and he smiled. The Lord Keeper lay where he'd been
thrown, his hand pressed to the multiple wounds on his torso, trying in
vain to halt the bleeding.

"Is this the best you can offer me?" bellowed Ashlan, his voice
resounding like thunder in the empty square. "For years I have avoided
the haunts of men, for fear of the dangers I might find there! Is this
the best resistance you have for one who comes to murder not your bodies,
but your faith, your god, your culture?"

The Lord Keeper shifted weakly, breathing shallowly, struggling to rise,
but failing.

"The Lord Keeper was not the sole defense of the Lord of Light, demon,"
said the stern voice of iron from behind Ashlan. The Stag-God spun, to
find the Patriarch Gerel himself standing there, flanked by a pair of
priests to each side. "Do you think it is strength of arms that keeps you
beasts at bay? Steel and the muscle that wields it?"

The Patriarch of the faith stepped forward and raised his hands to the
heavens, turning his face skywards. With a rumble of protesting thunder,
the clouds broke overhead just enough to shine down a ray of sunlight,
illuminating the strong features of the Patriarch with celestial light.
He basked in the light for a moment before lowering his gaze to Ashlan --
the man's eyes burnt with white-hot fire that Ashlan could not bear to
look upon.

"The time of thy demise is at hand, demon," he said, and gestured.
Burning, searing agony washed over Ashlan, and the fell, screaming, as he
burst into pure, hot flame, the heat turning the rain around him to
steam. "The Lord of Light himself is with us, and we are strong in our
faith."

The Patriarch glanced back at the priests behind him.

"Quickly, begin the rite," he said, stepping forward. "I will keep him
occupied." The priests began a sonorous chant, a rising and falling
incantation that twisted at something deep inside Ashlan. The Patriarch
walked over to Ashlan's fallen form, as the sun-fire he was engulfed in
finally guttered and died out, leaving the Stag-God gasping for breath
and terribly burned. The Patriarch did not come too close, keeping what
he deemed a safe distance from the great horned man, and simply regarded
him curiously.

From the shadows of a nearby alley, Habra, Olusku and Ireku watched.
Habra and Olusku exchanged concerned glances, but Ireku only smiled.
Unconcerned.

"You truly once were a man, weren't you?" the Patriarch seemed curious.
Perhaps even a bit amused. Ashlan nodded his head and then sat up on his
haunches. The Patriarch took a step back, and then realized that the
beast-man's wounds were already healing. "How far you have fallen, then."

Before the Patriarch could raise his hand to call on his god's power once
more, Ashlan was in motion. With a roar, he struck the Patriarch in the
jaw with his clenched fist, knocking the man backwards. The priest was
strong -- all priests of the Lord of Light had to be, for supernatural
communion with their god was taxing and could kill lesser men -- but he
flew backwards from Ashlan like a rag doll.

Ashlan stumbled to his feet and called aloud in the Foundling Tongue, and
the sky thundered its response. The scent of new-toiled earth filled the
air, and the rains became richer and warmer. They poured down on the town
and brought healing. Bruises went away, and cuts and abrasions healed.
The three faithful of Ashlan in the alley marveled as they watched their
god bring healing rains to Himself and those He loved best. He reached
His arms skyward and threw His head back, letting the waters pour over
Him.

The Stag-God's flesh quickly healed from the terrible burns and He
shuddered from the sensation of new, cool flesh replacing burnt, painful
skin. For a moment, all was silent, and then thunder boomed overhead
again, and the rains became colder once more. Ashlan opened his eyes and
found the Patriarch standing before him once more. The rains had even
lent their healing power to him, somewhat. He circled warily.

"The time of your doom is at hand, beast," he said, his voice carrying
over the square. Ashlan became aware of the windows all around them. The
people of the town had long-abandoned the square, but they watched it
still. After all, how could they not? A battle such as this was the thing
Church legends were made of -- or signs of the end of the world, surely.
Ashlan chuckled.

"You keep saying that, priest," he grinned, his voice booming like
thunder. "And yet here I stand."

Behind him the pair of priests that flanked the door to the Church cried
out -- Ashlan knew they'd been chanting this entire time, but he'd
assumed they were prayers for strength and victory. Too late, he knew
better.

A sigil of binding flashed between the two of them, a seal to ward
civilization against those things which would tear it down, a gift of
sunfire and steely faith from the Lord of Light to his favored people.
Sometime deep within Ashlan recoiled, and he knew that this was what had
ensured the survival of men in a land bordered with orcish beast-gods.

The symbol flashed again and disappeared, only to shimmer into searing
existence around Ashlan. The heat from the sigil turned the rain around
him to steam, and he cried out, screaming in agony. In the places of the
beast-gods -- the forests, the mountains, the hills and the marshes --
they ruled supreme.

But the cities were marked by men, and there ruled the Lord of Light.

Understanding and pain flashed like quarrelling lovers through his body.
That was why men destroyed what was around them. That is why the liturgy
of the human god commanded them to subdue the natural world: only in
these places of stone and dead wood did the Lord of Light find no rivals
for power. The orc beast-gods, children of the wild places, had no power
here.

Ashlan sobbed in pain and crumpled to his knees.

"Not by my hand, devil," the Patriarch hissed. "But by the power of the
Lord of Light! You are defeated!"

"We need to get out of here," Olusku whispered to the others. Habra and
Ireku, looked at one another. Habra slowly nodded, when suddenly Ireku
bolted, drawing his knife. He ran across the square, knife lifted and
ready to strike, toward the Patriarch, who regarded him calmly; indeed,
he looked almost amused.

"Ireku!" cried Olusku, just as the Patriarch casually backhanded him, his
steel gauntlet making a sick, wet crushing sound as it impacted with the
side of his head. The boy's knife flew over the Patriarch's shoulder, and
the boy himself stumbled back, arms akimbo at the sudden, vicious blow.
He fell and lay still less than a foot from the binding circle that
trapped and tormented the Stag-God.

Ashlan sprung to his feet and roared, his amber eyes bleeding to a deep
crimson, his vision colored with purest hate. Once more thunder answered
his bellow, and overhead lightning arced down and struck the Church with
a deep chord that sounded like the end of the world. The Stag-God fell to
his knees, and watched as a trickle of blood from Ireku's terrible head
wound crept along the joins in the cobblestones of the square, pushed on
by the pounding rain, toward him.

The priests continued their chants, and the Patriarch walked away,
careful to watch Ashlan. The binding was a lengthy one, and he would need
more eyes. Other Keepers poured out of the Church, carrying the Lord
Keeper to the Patriarch's ministrations.

In the alley, Habra fought to keep Olusku from rushing forward to his
death. The hunter finally collapsed in Habra's arms, sobbing. The orc
priest shushed him, telling him that all would be well. Ashlan was here,
what would go wrong? Silently, he prayed that his words were true.

The trickle of the boy's blood reached the binding circle, and passed
through it. Ashlan reached down, and wet his fingers in the boy's blood.
Suddenly, he stood and looked to the alley.

For just a moment, Habra was sure he'd heard his prayers.

"Your Eminence," one of the Keepers said over the Lord Keeper's groan.
The Patriarch opened his eyes, finished channeling the healing light of
the Lord into his captain of the guard and glanced at Ashlan, who was
standing now.

"Get up," he hissed to the captain who was struggling to wakefulness. "I
fear our battle isn't over."

The Patriarch glared at the two priests who were speaking the binding.
Neither of them were faltering -- they were strong men, built thickly,
with broad shoulders and wide-placed legs firmly planted on the ground.
Their channeling stances were steady, easily the best of any of the
Patriarch's priests. There was no reason the power of the binding pattern
should be faltering.

Slowly, he looked across the square at Ashlan, and found amber eyes
meeting his own.

"Blood," Ashlan said. His voice was not the terrifying booming of the
monster come out of the wilderness. It was filled with wonder, instead,
almost that of a much younger man. "His blood^Åis in your city, now. My
blood is in cities, too."

The Patriarch furrowed his brow. What was the beast talking about?

With a roar, Ashlan threw Himself forward, and for a moment, He seemed to
pause, suspended in midair as He met the edge of the burning pattern of
sunfire. The shattering of the pattern filled the square with an
unnatural silence -- the sound of thunder in the sky, the rain on
cobblestones and armor, the breathing of soldiers and even the chanting
of the priests all guttered and was swallowed by the stomach-churning
moment that the beast-god did the impossible.

He shattered the bonds of civilization, and threw the world into tumult.

Then, everything was normal again, and Ashlan was free. With a triumphant
laugh, he launched himself at the pair of holy men at the door. He came
down foot first on the knee of the first, who didn't have time to cry
aloud the agony of his suddenly-broken leg before Ashlan snatched him up
by his throat and slammed his head into the face of the second,
shattering the priest's nose and jaw. Then, he completed the circle of
motion, spinning on his heel and slamming the priest in his hands into
the wall, head-first.

A sickening crunch echoed across the square, and neither priest moved.

Ashlan gestured to Habra and Olusku, pointing to Ireku, and his two
faithful emerged from the alley to tend to the boy. The Stag-God turned
his face to the small knot of Keepers, the captain and their Patriarch.

"Were I any other beast-god," he said, walking slowly toward them. The
Patriarch hissed at the soldiers to stand their ground, but they inched
slowly away from him, terrified. "Had I been another, that might have
worked."

"But I was born of the cities, priest! I was a child of man ere my
ascension to this mantle. These streets are as much my home as the deeps
of the forests, though I have not understood that for many a year. But
you -- you have helped me to remember this! Your magics would drive a
beast-god back to the place of his power? You have made me understand
that this is a place of my power, and never again will I abandon it!"

He roared and threw himself at the knot of holy men, and the soldiers
cried their fear and broke, scattering like leaves in an autumn wind. The
Lord Keeper, however, now healed by the Patriarch's miracles, met his
charge, and the two slammed into one another.

"You!" Ashlan spat. "Didn't I kill you already?"

"Death cannot stand before the Light of the Lord, demon," the Lord Keeper
sneered, and braced himself for another assault. The two circled warily.

"Good," Ashlan smiled. "You are proving a proper challenge. I was
disappointed that you should have fallen so quickly. I have a more
fitting fate in store for you, little creature. I am a god, and you have
blasphemed against me. You would dare to try and turn my sacraments into
a form of torture?"

The Lord Keeper rushed forward suddenly, his blade a flurry of gleaming
steel in the wan light of the storm. Most of his blows Ashlan swept
aside, though a few bit deeply indeed. Holy blood flowed.

"Your sacraments?" the Lord Keeper laughed. "Your perversions? Is that
what you call your buggery and man-rape? Sacraments?"

"No," Ashlan chuckled. "You know their holiness. You feel the desire
eating at your loins even now. I can smell it on you, little fool. Is
that what drove you to embrace such horror? Unfulfilled desire, then? Are
you afraid of the hot flesh of men, so afraid that you would flee to the
bosom of your Church to stave those desires off?"

"I have no such desires!" the Lord Keeper screamed, suddenly attacking
the Stag-God wildly. He hacked and swung, and Ashlan struck him a sound
blow in the chest, denting the man's breastplate slightly. He fell
sprawling, gasping for breath.

"You are fine of form, little soldier," Ashlan taunted him, circling him.
"I reckon there are many men who would give you a fine tumble, and be
glad of it. But I do not forgive you -- a man who is too cowardly to face
his own simple, animal desires is not worth forgiving. I shall free you
from them, instead. Never again will they drive you to this madness,
where you cause others to be raped and violated!"

With a roar, Ashlan leapt forward, slamming into the man's chest with his
kness. His strong right hand descended and crumpled the man's steel
codpiece around his genitals. The Lord Keeper shrieked and threw his head
back in utter agony as the Stag-God ripped his hand away, trailing blood
and bits of rent steel. The Lord Keeper's legs worked furiously, trying
to kick himself away while he clutched at his groin with both hands. The
pool of red mixed with the rain around him, and he stopped flopping about
soon enough and simply lay there shuddering.

The Stag God looked to the Patriarch, who now stood alone.

"If I am at an end, too, then know that I go to that end defiant. You may
slay my body, beast, but my soul is pure."

Ashlan smiled.

"I am not interested in your soul," he said, chuckling. As he neared, he
whispered in the Foundling Tongue and the Patriarch screwed his eyes
shut, stumbling backwards slightly. With a swift lunge, Ashlan caught him
by the front of his robes and pressed him up against the outside wall of
the Church.

"Let other gods be worried with such things. Never have I seen a soul,"
he said, and with a great tug, the Patriarch's robes ripped down the
middle, showing his equally-ripped undertunic and the pale flesh
underneath, corded with muscle. His pectorals were like steel, and his
nipples pale, pink and tiny. Ashlan growled his lust, deep in his throat,
rumbling it for all to hear.

"Neither have I tasted a soul," he said, and licked the side of the
Patriarch's neck, tasting a trail down to one nipple, where he clamped
down his greedy lips, sucking and pulling at it, nibbling with tiny sharp
eyeteeth. The Patriarch gasped, and struggled, bracing himself against
the wall and pushing against Ashlan with all his might.

To no avail. The beast-god was too strong, and in too fine of a position
to hold the priest at his whim. He was also far too aroused, his god-cock
straining at the leather breeches he wore. The laces on the front bulged
and creaked, as though they might give way at any moment.

"I have never touched a soul, Patriarch," he said, and wrapped his arms
around the man's torso, thick, muscled arms coiling around him. He buried
his face in the man's neck, and inhaled deeply. "Neither have I smelt
one."

He stepped back suddenly, and the priest fell, losing his balance.
Ashlan's hands worked at his waist quickly, and his breeches fell away.
His fat cock nodded at its sudden release, dipping under its own heft and
then bouncing slightly back up once, then twice under the strain of his
excitement.

The Patriarch stuttered, and tried to remember his prayers. Nothing came
to mind.

"I do not care about your soul, priest! Only your body is of matter to
me!"

At the sudden thundering shout, the Patriarch tried to flee, spinning on
one knee and coming to his feet running. But he was not swift enough --
in a heartbeat, Ashlan was behind him, tackling him. The two thudded into
the cobblestones, the priest's breath knocked from him by the mass of
Ashlan.

The Stag-God's breath was hot on his neck as the Patriarch struggled. He
could feel the thick, meaty length of the beast-god's cock pressed
against his ass and lower back, and it throbbed.

"Excellent," Ashlan chuckled. "You do this well for one who has never
known the pleasures of the flesh before." Ashlan straightened, remaining
kneeling on the priest's legs and gazed down at the strong body beneath
him. Broad shoulders above a deeply muscled back, tapering to a strong
waist. Ashlan ran his fingers across the man's lower back with one hand,
while he wrapped his other hand around his massive cock, the fingers not
even quite meeting all the way around its length. The red-purple cudgel
dripped a thick and steady slime of precum.

Ashland's touch found the man's ass, and he growled in irritation at the
cloth that concealed it. He tightened his grip into a fist, and pulled.
The cloth gave, and he ripped it away, tossing it aside to lay bare the
holy man's flesh. Sleek muscle, with a light covering of dark hair --
sprinkled lightly, in contrast to Ashlan's own furry flank. His
ass-cheeks were large and curved, covered with just enough roundness to
make them pleasant to the touch, with a core of steel-like muscle.

The Patriarch tried desperately to turn himself over, to dislodge the
beast-god, but Ashlan laughed and threw himself back down on top of the
man.

"You are wasted to these priests, Patriarch. How many of your young
acolytes have you caused to soil themselves in the nights, dreaming of
doing what I'm doing now? It must have been torture." As he whispered in
the man's ear, he slowly humped his backside, shifting his hips slightly
until his hot, fat cock found the sweet cleft between the man's legs and
lodged itself there, sliding back and forth. Each time those hard,
muscled cheeks tightened around the purple flared head of his thick cock,
it spat more precum, until soon man's ass was slick with the stuff.

Finally, Ashlan tired of the teasing and the struggle. In a flash, he
wrapped his arm around the priest's throat, the crook of his arm in the
man's adam's apple and growled a warning. Quickly, meekly, the priest
ceased struggling.

"This will hurt," Aslan whispered -- half threat, and half promise. He
worked the fingers of his other hand down into the man's ass and found
his tightly puckered asshole, sitting deep in a smear of precum. He
pushed, and the priest groaned. His asshole gave, ever so slightly, just
enough for the god's pre-seed to find purchase.

Ashlan smiled and began to croon in the man's ear, speaking the ancient
tongue of the Foundling Times. The words that made the world, he sang,
though his project was more modest than the creation of everything. The
Foundling Tongue was a speech of transformation and change, and Ashlan
had mastered it sufficiently to do this.

His seed thickened in the man and a warm glow suffused the Patriarch's
body suddenly. He gasped, and then whimpered as Ashlan shoved a finger
into his hole, slickened on the transforming seed. The precum heated his
skin pleasantly, and made it tingle, sending waves of pleasure through
his body.

"No, no^Å" the Patriarch prayed, or begged. "Please, Lord of Light, no."

"There is none such," Ashlan whispered to him, slipping a second finger
in. The priest's ass, impelled by the effects of the subtly changed
precum, opened gratefully, the heat turning into a burning hunger. The
skin where the slick substance touched was pliable and moist, though
still tight and strong. "Only I am here, Patriarch, and I am answering
the prayers you never knew you had."

A third finger slipped into his hole, and the man's whimpers became gasps
of pleasure. Ashlan shifted, and placed his cock next to the hand that
was still three-fingers deep in the man. He pushed ever so slightly, and
the head of his cock pressed up against the man's already tightly-packed
ring.

"Please," the Patriarch whispered, and Ashlan stopped. He withdrew his
fingers by a single knuckle, and then paused again.

"Please, what?"

The silence between them was terrible, broken only by the priest's ragged
breathing. He withdrew his fingers another knuckle, leaving only the tips
in, and the reaction was immediate.

"No!" the Patriarch cried, and then sighed when Aslan slipped them back
in. "Please, don't^Ådon't leave me empty. Please -- it has begun^Å"

"And you want me to finish it?" The priest could only nod, and Ashlan
smiled. He lined up his cock once more and fully withdrew his fingers.

"But you are wrong," the Stag God said to the priest, and then he lunged,
sinking the massively thick length of his cock deep into the man's
divinely slickened ass. The skin of his hole gave, opening greedily to
accept the god's sacrament, and pleasure shot like arcs of lightning
through his body.

"It has not even begun yet!" With that, Ashlan wrapped his other arm
around the man's torso, pushed himself up onto his knees and began to
pile-drive his cock deep into the man's guts. The priest howled in equal
parts agony and unutterable pleasure as the thick cock ravaged him,
stoking a heat like embers in his loins. Over and over, the god-cock
withdrew nearly to its length -- on several occasions pulling out so far
that the flare of the god's cockhead were the only things preventing him
from fully withdrawing his shaft, catching as they did on the edges of
the man's obscenely stretched and overloaded asshole -- before slamming
it home again, vengefully.

"Oh god^Åoh god^Å" the priest panted, and he wrapped his arms around
Ashlan's arms, pulling him closer to him. The man -- so ordinarily
composed and stern -- wept hot tears, searing down his face. He bit into
Ashlan's forearm and screamed into his flesh, and the Stag-God responded
with a growl and more punishment to his nethers with that fat god-cock.

In a thrice, Ashlan unwrapped his arms from the man and knelt up, keeping
his long, thick cock wedged halfway in the man's ass. He grabbed his
shoulders and turned him over, pulling away clothing as he did so. Soon
the priest was on his back, naked, and his cock -- a healthy, respectable
length, but enormous in its fat girth -- bobbed up and down, slapping his
muscle-hard belly. Ashlan howled in delight, and shoved his cock back
home deep in the center of the priest's being.

He pulled the priest to him, and the man's cock jabbed him in his
thickly-furred belly, and Ashlan growled his admiration.

"Why, Patriarch," he chuckled, as he slipped his cock free and slammed it
home again, and again and a third time. "Is that a thorn of arousal you
are pressing into my belly?"

The priest reached up with something halfway between a sob and a grunt,
grasped a fistful of the long braided hair of the Stag God, and pulled
him down. The priest's long, thickly muscled legs spread, opening himself
to the beast-god's rut, and pulled Ashlan into a deep kiss. Aslan's
tongue invaded the mouth of the holy man as surely as his cock invaded
the man's ass, and the sound between the two was nothing but primal, wet
slapping, and the grunts of powerful men fucking.

Then, finally -- though it seemed an eternity to the priest, and yet
still not long enough -- Ashlan straightened, howled, and his fat
cockhead spat its seed deep in the man's bowels. The Stag God grasped the
holy man by the shoulders and pushed himself up against him, burying his
cock in its entirety in the man's hole, as rope after rope of god-seed
emptied itself deep within him.

Ashlan smiled as the man twitched and reacted to his seed. The sensation
of the divine orgasm within him brought on his own climax, and the man's
thick cock trembled. Before it could empty itself on the man's belly,
though, Ashlan bent low and swooped it onto his tongue and into his
mouth, sucking ferociously. The Patriarch howled in utter ecstasy, and
emptied his balls in the Stag-God's mouth.

Then, with one final kiss, Ashlan returned the man's seed to him and
blessed him all at the same time.

"Those are my Mysteries, little priest," he whispered, holding the
trembling man tenderly. "You should leave this place. My faithful will
wait for you at the edge of town -- your people will not accept you here,
not after this. Even now they are coming, and we must be away. They will
take you to heal you, but you are forever tainted in their eyes. Come to
the forest. We will find you."

The Stag God stood, and looked around, daring the soldiers there to step
near him. There weren't many of them, but more were showing up every few
minutes, and as their numbers increased, so did their bravery. Ashlan
turned to Ireku, Habra and Olusku; the young hunter's apprentice handed
him his breeches.

"My thanks, boy," Ashlan smiled, ruffling the youth's hair fondly. The
rains had all but healed him as he lie there unconscious. Ashlan turned
to the other two. "Let us away -- I have no desire to kill more of these
men today." And with that, the four of them fled into the forest, and the
Patriarch could only weep and watch them go, the taste of his own seed on
his lips, and the feeling of the divine seed of creation burning inside
him.

++++++++++++++
Thus ends the Stag God's Apostle.