Death's Holiday

This story was inspired by Terry Pratchett's character Death in his Discworld series. This story is set in the same universe as my novella 'Of Quests and Quandaries'.

 

Against the desk lay a steely-bright scythe.

Men have always wanted to answer to a higher power; either to blame for bad things that happen, or to sacrifice animals to when good times come. They generally turn to Gods. This universe is no different than any others, and the many planets that orbit the Great Sun are no different than any other planets. And in this universe, whenever anyone believes in a god, that god is. He exists because they believe in him.

The scythe had carved into the handle the words 'Ol' Reliable'.

But then, gods are not the highest authority. Here are authorities that men almost never see and do not need their worship to live. Where gods are like humans because they are dreamed up by humans, these authorities only appear to be humans when they wish. They are the very elements of life, and here, they were all sitting in one courtroom.

The courtroom did not look like most. There was no flag beside the judge's podium and no guards at the door--for two reasons; no one left the courtroom while the Judge was present, and there was no door at all. In fact, there were no walls or a ceiling or anything to define this as a room--there was the Judge's podium and the desks at which the gods sat. And that was all. The courtroom was suspended in the outer reaches of space, the stars twinkling about.

The gods looked nervous in their seats. There were eighty-five, all told, and they all had one thing about them; they all seemed to have some link to death. Some were hooded, some wore plain black suits, some had skulls adorning their heads, and one was dancing on the table yelling a dirge that sounded like 'aoooaoooaooohoooooa!' and wearing a skirt of grass. Some were women; most were men. They were the respective Gods and Goddesses of Death in all of the universe.

They were all looking at the three great figures that sat across the hall from them. And well might they be afraid, for these were three elements of the universe personified in Body. On the farthest end was a well-dressed, mottled man that seemed not able to keep himself together. It was always hardest for Chaos to do that. He was, after all, very chaotic. At the moment he was trying to comb his hair while adjusting his tie, which kept flying into his face. Meanwhile his shoes were untying themselves and his buttons were coming undone.

Next to him sat a woman in a long flowing robe. She had many curves to her body, and brown hair as abundant as a river--but her eyes were the color of deep, rich loam. She sat at the desk easily, but she also seemed ill at ease there, for she was so huge it was hard to keep herself inside this courtroom. She was, after all, Earth itself.

In the desk adjoining was one who was much more grim than either of the others, but he fit well into his black cloak and hood. His body was that of a skeleton, bleached bone-white—and against his desk the scythe leant. At his belt the sword of Disease was sheathed. He was Death, and he was on trial.

The one sitting in the podium could perhaps be called a personification; but he was more. He was the Judge—the Orderer of the Universe—the very opposite of Chaos (whom he was eyeing with suspicion and a look that dared raucousness). The gods called him only a few things--Your Honor, for one, Please-Have-Mercy, for another. He took the form of a man for court cases such as this—a man with a wig and a gigantic gavel.

And the Judge always looked tired.

"Well, Mr. Death, it appears I must rule in favor," the Judge looked over the rims of his glasses, "Of the assorted Gods and Goddesses of Death, including the God Rylos, Trklklingit, Narabas…"

The Judge's voice droned on. He did not see reciting long lists as wasting time—what was time to him, anyway?

Death looked over at Earth and Chaos, a sigh on his skeletal face. Earth squeezed his hand and he winced at the strength of a thousand rivers.

"It's alright, Reaper," she smiled, "We're here for you."

He popped his wrist-joints back into place.

"Thank you," his voice was thick like dark licorice. "But how soon will it be until you're replaced by gods, I ask? Of course I came first—a death god is an important facet of every pantheon. But how soon will it be until Gods of Chaos and Earth are complaining?"

"No one's going to take my job!" Chaos’s thick voice echoing through the room.

“Please be silent, Mr. Chaos,” the Judge’s eyes were on him in a second.

Chaos whispered; "If they try, they'll regret it!" His comb flew out of his hand and into the stars. Then his hair broke loose with a twang and he sat back in his seat, frowning.

"Maybe you can..." Earth searched for a word, "I don't know--lay back for a while. Have a holiday. You've been working yourself silly lately, what with all those diseases on Antiquaria."

"It would be a permanent holiday," Death replied. "I'm not needed anymore."

"…Lurking Davneus—also called He of the Ulcers, and Garble," the Judge finished his list. "And I rule that the defendant no longer has any power to reap the souls of any living thing, nor to take them anywhere against their wishes. He is to give up his every duty to the Gods and Goddesses, etc., of Death. Do you have anything to say, Mr. Death?"

Death looked across the aisle at the assembled gods. Most viewed him with an air of triumph, some with a look of fear, and one—and that was Trklklingit, the dancing god of death—with a slight look of pity.

"No, sir," Death replied as meekly as a skeleton could. "The people of the planets have chosen these gods as their adjudicators of death, and they may execute their powers among their own people."

The Judge nodded. 

"Then this court is dismissed!" the Judge brought the huge gavel down and the boom sounded throughout the reaches of void. The gods immediately disappeared and the four personifications remained, alone.

The Judge stepped down from his podium with a tired sigh.

"I am sorry I had to do that, Death, but I must be completely impartial. There's no way I can't be."

"It's alright, Your Honor, I'm not angry with you," Death replied. "I just wish I had a purpose. Even part-time work would be better than this."

The Judge shrugged. "Didn't Time come?"

"Oh, you know," Death replied. "He's always late."

The doors burst open and a bald old man rushed in. He kept tripping on his beard, and he was holding an hourglass in one hand.

"Ah!" he grinned, "it seems I am early!"

"Actually," the Judge replied, "You're very, very late."

"Oh," Time was crestfallen. He frowned. "Darn appointments. Never did like 'em. Abusement of Time, they are!" 

"Yes, well, I must be going," the Judge’s podium disappeared. "Mr. Death, I wish you every happiness that you are able to have."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Death replied.

The courtroom vanished along with the Judge.

"I take it the case didn't go well, then," Time came to Death's side. Death was looking at a glowing supernova several feet away.

"A few minutes ago, I could have finished that star," he raised his bony hand. Time gave it a smack.

"It'll die on it's own. Stars don't have souls, y'know."

Death scythe’s came to him and he strode down the invisible walkway of void, the stars twinkling on either side.

"I must go," Earth patted Time’s shoulder and nearly flattened him. "Oh, sorry. Keep an eye on him, Time. Make sure he doesn't do anything...drastic."

"Like what, commit suicide?" Time grumbled. "I'll make sure."

Earth smiled at him and exploded to gigantic size, spiraling off towards the planets. Chaos twitched and grinned manically at Time. Then he jerkily walked away, his belt whizzing off into eternity as he went.

Time caught up to Death.

"Come on, boy," he giggled, "I haven't seen you so blue since they invented Paradise."

He winked and nudged the quiet figure.

Death sighed.

"Oh, Tim...what am I going to do? Earth suggested a holiday, but I'm just not a holiday sort of person."

Time nodded.

"Hmmm...that is a poser, ain't it?" he rubbed his beard. "You need to go into retirement, I think."

"Retirement? Forever?"

"Yeah. You any good at golf?"

"No, thank you. I don't want to go into retirement—I don't want to lose my sense of purpose."

"Then, perhaps, a different job?"

Death considered this for a moment.

"Hmmm...that might be...satisfactory. What would you do if you ever lost your job?"

Time chuckled.

"My friend, I won't lose my line of work. Time isn't relative to different species and countries like Death is. Time has always been there, and it will always be there. Death will only be here as long as there are living souls."

Death nodded.

"That's why you call me Sonny," he replied.

"Yup," Time chuckled. "You 'n' Earth—you're younger than me. Even Chaos is."

“Yes, you’ve told me more times than many would think humanly possible.”

Time was a strong supporter of the belief that time brings wisdom.

Time patted Death after a pause. “I'll always be here for you, Death. Whatever you decide to do."

"I find that rather comforting. I will be seeing you.”

Time patted him on the back and disappeared abruptly. Death looked around one more time at the stars about. Then he opened the front door of his palace.

He was met by a horde of squabbling gods. Nearly every god from the courtroom was here, all arguing and smacking each other upside the head with skeletal staffs, swords and even clubs.

"This palace is mine!" Rylos waved the Sword of Kneel-Or-Feel-My-Wrath (loosely translated). "I am the one worshipped by the most people here!" He wore a crown of iron—highly fashionable.

"It is mine by right, you sniveler!” –Haties, winner of the Best Underworld Palace Prize, Fourth Millenium.

"You are all squabbling fools!" –Burgle, boar-headed god— "Oink! I'll ram you through if you don't get out of here!"

"Aoooaooo!" shouted Trklklingit, dancing about.

"What is all this commotion?" Death spoke and all went quiet. Every god turned.

Then Rylos sniggered.

"Ah, the defeated chairman of death returns. You have no right here now. This is property of the gods of Death."

"This is my palace," Death spoke again, standing taller than any of them.

"Yes, but—" Burgle began.

"It does not belong to those who reap, it belongs to me. Now get out."

The gods reluctantly shuffled out, some muttering curses and others spitting at him. Trklklingit waved at Death as he left.

"I'm sorry about that, sir," came a voice from across the hall. "I could not for the death of me get them to leave."

"It's alright, Hela," he nodded to the receptionist. "I just wish they had wiped their feet before they came in."

She nodded. The woman that was his receptionist was, you might put it, drop dead gorgeous. Her skin may have been white as snow, but her hair was luscious and curled in just the right places. Her dress, though plain, accented her figure, and she was very tall. But her eyes—her eyes completely estranged her beauty. They were icy blue, and it was said that any male who looked into them would go mad for the rest of his life. Thus, Death found work for her here, in his offices. The fact was, she was a bit of a threat to mankind.

He liked Hela; beauty had no sway on him, but she had a businesslike, capable personality. She would make a good wife for some man, except she would have to wear a blindfold to the wedding.

Death strode up the huge marble staircase and walked into his office. He felt a sense of belonging in this place—the papers were all neatly stacked and signed in the out tray, but the in-tray was mysteriously empty. He laid Ol' Reliable against the desk and unbuckled the sword Disease from his belt. Then, he pulled out a piece of wood and a paintbrush and sat down.

The first thing that came to mind to write was 'Will kill for a few souls,' but he remembered he wasn't allowed to kill people anymore. Finally he painted 'Need job. Good with a sword. Can cut wheat if necessary.'

A map of the planets around the Great Sun appeared before him. Where would he go first to look for employment? Trolliter probably wasn't the best place to go; everyone knew the only work to get there was clubbing and...beating, perhaps. And he couldn't go to Coveny; they were all hyena-men, lizard-men, or seal-men there. What were their proper names? Gnolls, salamanders, and selkies. Salamanders, selkies and gnolls, oh my!

Antiquaria was probably where he wanted to go; even though Rylos' abode was there, it was a good, sensible planet, all in all. And it had a lot of moons. Death liked moons.

Finally, he took out a small flashing badge and pinned it to his chest. It said 'Hi, I'm Death!' in big letters upon it. He took it off after a few moment’s consideration.

Then he was trudging down the stairs, his boney feet clacking on the marble.

"Well, Hela," he said, "I must be off. Will you close up the office? I can give you a ride to...where do you live?"

"Vonvill, in Margravia, sir."

"Vonvill...isn't that a vampire colony?"

"Yes, sir. They think I'm one of them, Mr. D."

"Really? And how do you pull that off?"

"Oh, you know, Mr. D," she replied, taking out her keys and locking the office doors, "taking advantage of their ignorance. Of course, if I live there, I must be a vampire. Right?"

Death nodded.

"Very good. Now where is that banshee? Mrs. Crimp!" Death called into the gloom.

"I thought you rode a horse, Mr. D," Hela ran a hand through Stygian hair.

"Normally," he replied. "However, I have my luggage to...oh, I don't have any luggage. Well, I just like taking the ol' death carriage sometimes. My skeletal horse could hardly hold two."

Out of the misty darkness came a screech and a large black carriage lurched into view. It jittered in the air as if riding over a bed of rocks, but there was no ground to hold it. On the seat sat a very old—well, it could be mistaken for a woman, except for the fact that it had blue skin. And a beak.

The carriage skidded to a halt right in front of the office doors. The banshee smiled sweetly at Death as he climbed in.

"The scream was a bit much, Mrs. Crimp. Nobody's dying here, as far as I know."

"Sorry, sir," Mrs. Crimp replied, eyeing Hela disapprovingly. "Where to, sir?"

"Vonvill, Margravia," Death replied, shutting the door.

The banshee whipped the horses and away the carriage dove.

"So, what will you do now, Hela?" Death asked in the gloom of the carriage.

"I was just thinking about that, Mr. D," she replied, brushing a skeleton off the seat. "Perhaps I should do fashion design or something like that."

"Ever thought of settling down?"

"Not really, Mr. D. I travel where I please."

"Of course."

The banshee-carriage screamed out of the sky in a black cloud, tunneling through the air toward an indistinct landform below.

The carriage landed on the cobbled road with a metallic clang. Horses, foot-travelers, and other carriages spun out of the way as the banshee careened by them. The sable horses weren't even sweating, but the carriage was going faster than a stampede of dragons.

Suddenly the banshee hit the brakes. The carriage whirled in a circle and pulled to a stop, nearly falling off the road.

"This is your stop, I believe," Death stepped out and helped Hela.

"Yes, Mr. D, it is," she replied, smiling.

"Well, then," he replied, looking about. "Is that a bonfire?"

"Yes, I think it is," she replied. "The vampires have taken to them lately."

"Really? Are those...stakes and garlic they're burning?"

She nodded, smiling.

"Mr. D, it has been a pleasure working with you." She said, turning back to him.

"Ah, thank you, Hela," Death replied. "If you ever need anything, don't hesitate to find me."

She smiled and stood on her toes to kiss him on the bone cheek. The banshee's mouth dropped.

"Till we meet again!" Hela waved as she strode off.

Death watched her go. The vampires, who were sitting about their bonfire singing songs and roasting—were those jugular veins?—said hello to her as she passed.

   

The Great Margravian Road has been called the most boring road in Antiquaria. Trees grow seldom about it, it is made of a uniform grey stone, and it is hellishly straight. Sure, it went over a river sometimes, but even then it didn't change from cobblestone to wood. 

But Death didn't mind. Monotony was a concept lost on him. He could walk for millenia and not give one little sigh. But then, he was Death.

Soon the great city of Quentintople stretched out before him; Quentintople, the city of opposites. The city whose temples were beautiful and clean, and whose slums were rivers of sludge and slime. Quentintople, whose system of law was one of the most advanced and well-enforced , and whose lawlessness abounded more than any other city.

Death strode into the city, scythe in hand. Few gave him a second glance—things like him were not uncommon in Quentintople. The only one who took any interest was a somberly dressed man, who soon turned and hurried away down a side alley with purpose.

 

"Tall, you say? Holding a scythe?" the astrologer was sawing at his fingernails with a small knife.

"A scythe...that's something like a spear, ain't it?"

"Actually, it is generally used to harvest crops, although I doubt his would be used for such a purpose."

"Yup, sir, that was 'im," the first highwayman bobbed his head like a beached fish. "No skin, a scyve, and a large sword at his waist."

"And he was headed toward the city?"

They both nodded.

“We tried to jump him, we did,” the second rubbed his skull. “He’s all bones! It ‘urt something awful.”

"Well, gentlemen, thank you for the information," the astrologer put away the knife. He gestured to his captain by the door. "Rustam, take them to the dungeon."

"That's very stereotypical, sir," Rustam glowered at the two.

"I know it. But I can't have them running around in the streets. If you wish you can chuck them out the window."

"I think I'd prefer that, sir," Rustam moved forward.

The big man picked the two whimpering knaves up and tossed them out the tower window, grunting as he did. Rustam was Kwhazdrak-Lomenian, and he wore skulls and such on his armor for looks. He was a big man, and quite ugly--but he was clever as a snake.

"Our spy observed Death heading for the Law'n'Gambling District, Arkan," Rustam wiped his hands, turning back to the astrologer.

"Well, Mr. Rustam...it seems now all we must do is capture Death, and the plan will be unstoppable."

"Capture Death? How are we going to do that?" The Lomenian cracked some of his knuckles.

"Everyone has a weakness. The Emperor of Margravia, despite the most powerful man in the world, is soon to die by the hand of an insignificant Duke.” the astrologer rose. "And there are other ways. There are things that can even imprison…personifications, eh?"

"I suppose you will find a way, Arkan."

"Yes... and when the army attacks this city, Margravia will be mine!"

Rustam frowned.

"I mean…Margravia will be your Dukes’, of course."

The captain nodded, sighing.

Arkan the Astrologer sighed. He was going to have to think of a way to get around that.

 

"So, Mr...Death, is it?" the manager looked up from his desk at the skeleton towering over him.

"Yes."

"Very good," the man replied. "You want to join our firm, it seems. Do you have a referral?"

"Um, no, sir, but I could get one."

"Perhaps you should. But first, where did you get your degree?"

Death set his scythe against a bookcase.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean.”

"What law school did you go to?"

"Ah. That. I did not go to a law school, Mr. Spook."

"Spork."

"Mr. Spork...sorry."

"You didn't go to law school? Then what makes you think you qualify for joining our law firm?"

"I know the Judge."

Mr. Spork sat back in his seat.

"Eh…which judge?"

"The Judge."

"I'm afraid I don't have the slightest inkling who you're talking about."

"The Judge. Your Honor?" Death tried. "Please-Have-Mercy? The Orderer Of The Universe! He's the one who made all the laws. You know, the Law of Gravity? He legislated that one."

"I see. And is that who you were going to get your referral from?"

"Yes. He always said I would make a good lawyer, having no sense of humor and being pretty good at cheating people."

Mr. Spork slammed his hand down on the desk.

"Just who do you think you are, Mr…er, Death? Calling a lawyer a cheat is a primary offense in this city!"

"Really? Is all truth banned, then?"

"Who do you think you are?"

"I," Death intoned quietly, "am Death."

Mr. Spork remained completely still.

"I see," Mr. Spork shuffled his papers. "Well, we have no need of your services at Forcks, Spooner and Spork Associates, thank you. You may leave."

Death stood up, took his scythe and strolled out.

"Hey, Slack!" Spork called to his secretary. "Nip down to the Asylum and tell them there's a madman on the loose, will you?Ah… and he's armed."

 

"This is an interesting piece of clothing," Death said to the guard, "How do you move your arms?"

"You don't," the man replied, closing the door and locking it.

Death sat in the gloom. He stayed calm—it was hard to do otherwise, he being Death and all. They had showed up, relieved him of his scythe and his sword, and put him in this strange thing they called a strait jacket. Death had always believed in being subservient to the law, but this was a bit much. If they were going to arrest him (and he didn't see a reason why they would) then why didn't they just put him in handcuffs? Of course, he would've been able to slip out of those, being only bone.

Rustam and three other Lomenian soldiers/thugs watched the infamous 'Crazy Carriage' make it's way through the slippery, dung-and-who-knows-what-else filled back alleys of the Slag District.

"He's in there, Captain," the soldier pointed with an axe. "We have men placed all along Badbucket Street."

"Good," Rustam cracked his neck. "Are they shooting on sight?"

"Um...yes, Captain."

The Lomenian picked his nose and followed the carriage as it bounced across the flagstones. The carriage turned onto Badbucket Street and disrupted a puddle of dubiously brown water. Then a series of twangs and boings filled the air, followed by several cries as the two guards toppled to the ground.

Death looked about the inside of the carriage. It had stopped; but then, in a moment it was all moving again, at a more agitated pace.

When it opened, two fully armed soldiers martialed him out at the end of a spear. They were in a field, and the only thing around was Quentintople, a ways in the distance, and a temple.

"This is the insane asylum?" he pointed to the crumbling temple before them. 

The two said nothing, nudging him with their swords. There were more warriors about, all with skulls and spikes and whatnot all over their armor. Every soldier in Kwhazdruck-Lomenia was part of a cult, they said, which had something to do with rusty lanterns and card games. He didn't know anything about it; the Lomenians were atheists, after all.

They ushered him into the musty place of worship and to the main room. Columns that once were proud reared about Death, and in the middle of the room was a huge and awe-inspiring statue of the Goddess Stagnesis, Queen of Gas And Flatulence And Swamps. Granted, her left hand had fallen off and half of her head was missing, but she was still awe-inspiring. The main temple court had fallen into decay; grass was growing in between the stones.

"Death, I presume?"

Death brought his head down from the lofty court and focused on a tall man, in a robe that had stars painted in lacquer all over it. His eyes were a glassy blue, and his hair was basically glued to his head.

"Yes, I am Death. Are you the curator of this...fine facility?"

"If you mean 'Am I the head priest of Stagnesis,' no. I am not, particularly, gaseous, and this temple—as well as the religion—has been abandoned for some two hundred years now. People complained of the—ah—smell. I am, in fact, Arkan Stargazer, He Who Is Too Heavenly Minded To Be Of Any Earthly Good, as some call me."

"Oh, yes I have heard of you, I think. You wrote that booklet a while back, The Stars; The Gods' Overhead Lights. Am I right?"

The Arch-astrologer nodded slowly, his eyes perusing Death. He raised his hand and the two guards came forward, grasping Death by the wrists.

"How did a famous astrologer end up working as the curator of a broken-down old asylum?" Death let the guards move him over to a stone table.

"You don't get it, do you? You are—ah, my prisoner, Mr. Death."

Metal bonds folded out of the table and clamped to his wrists and ankles. Death did not struggle, but nevertheless Arkan said;

"Do not try to fight them. These were used to hold the human sacrifices before they were burned at the altar. I can assure you they are very strong—and are powerful enough to imprison a god."

"And what are you going to do?" Death mused, "Sacrifice me?"

The Astrologer chuckled, but none of the Lomenians so much as tittered.

"What a wit for someone who has been reaping souls for most of eternity! No, my dear sir, we are not going to sacrifice you. I am sure that is what you would like. No...we will imprison you here while the master plan begins to work."

At that moment a Lomenian captain on horseback, with a helmet fashioned to look like a skull, galloped into the temple court and dismounted.

"Duke Hasafat sends his regards and wishes to know..." the captain's eyes flitted to the altar where Death laid.

"Yes, we have completed His Lordship's wishes," Arkan waved his hand elegantly. "He may march on—eh, the city."

The captain bowed and leapt back onto his horse. Arkan turned back to him.

"I believe this will be a safe place to wait out the siege."

"What are you planning, may I ask? No one has taken Quentintople in four hundred years."

"But today it shall be taken. You see, Your Deathship, my vocation is watching the stars. I am the most revered astrologer in the Grand Margravian Observatory. About two months ago, the stars told me that there would be a great falling out among the gods, and that Death would be unhorsed. I took this as an insignificant turn of events—to me. It might matter to the Death Gods. Though an astrologer, I am a devout atheist."

"But you just acknowledged the truth of gods and goddesses. How can you be someone who denies that gods exist?"

"Alright...so I am not someone who denies that gods exist. I am someone who believes that the gods are all fools. And then I thought to myself—now who is going to reap the souls of the atheists? This thought filled my mind so much that I decided to test it. So, the next morning when my butler opened the door to bring me tea, I ran him through with the butterknife (he has always declared that gods are a figment of everyone's imagination—an underdigested bit of beef, all that). I am intrinsically delighted to tell you that he is alive today, for if he wasn't I wouldn't be doing.

"So I went about wondering how I might turn this to my advantage. Of course, an army of men who cannot be killed would be unstoppable. So I contacted Duke Hasafat of Kwhazdruck-Lomenia and asked him if he might like to take over the world. He took the—ah, bait."

A clattering sounded behind them as Rustam drew his sword.

"I mean—" Arkan struggled for another answer, "—he...jumped at the proposal." 

"It won't be long before more countries catch on and the secret gets out," Death replied. "War will turn into nothing more than a rather entertaining farce."

Arkan considered this.

"Well, by then I—I mean, the Duke—shall have a sizeably sized empire for himself."

"Your men are fools. Your captain cannot see that you are planning to kill the Duke and set up your own empire? If you didn't see that coming, Captain, you're blinder than Old Howeater the Dragon."

"I knew it all the time," Rustam replied. "But His Lordship does not listen to captains."

"Would he be quite angry if you killed him now?"

Rustam considered this. The Arch-astrologer listened to the man's breathing behind him.

"No," After a moment, Rustam grinned. "I don't think he would."

The Lomenian Captain strode forward, men bristling on ever side, blocking any escape Arkan could think of. The Captain raised his mace to set a new record in brain-splattering, but suddenly Arkan whirled and slashed into him with a sword that Death recognized with a shudder; his sword, Disease.

The Lomenian couldn't die; it would have gone better for him if he had. In half a second, his flesh and eyes and nearly every part of him was engulfed in terrible plagues of every kind—huge welts covered his festering skin, and the sight made all the other soldiers turn away in loathing.

Arkan laughed and held the sword aloft.

"I will not be stopped! I am as powerful as Death, now!"

Rustam writhed on the floor, his skin leaving him. He gazed up at the statue towering above them.

"I give my soul to Stagnesis, that she might relieve my suffering!"

And then he died. Little did he know that his belief in the Queen of Farts, etc. had caused her to come out of a two-hundred year gloom and take his soul away and she married him and they both lived happily for the rest of eternity.

Arkan turned to the rest of the men.

"You will all bow before the true Emperor! Or I will destroy you!"

The soldiers were cowed, and so they bowed. Arkan grinned at the show of reverence and Death chuckled at the rhyme-in-prose.

"Now," Arkan faced Death with a mad light in his eyes. "Some say that even Death is vulnerable to his own weapon."

Perhaps the sword would have killed Death; perhaps he would have ceased to exist; perhaps the blade would have had little more effect than any other weapon on him and perhaps then Arkan would have run home screaming. But none of these happened, because at that precise moment the sword spun out of his hand in a blue flash and buried itself in a marble column.

Arkan stared with surprise and his attention was immediately brought to a figure standing five feet from the altar, clothed in bright blue light and—more specifically—a dress suit. His hair was slicked to his skull in the same manner as the astrologer, but it was flashing and breaking out of the fat that stuck it down.

Chaos erupted in the temple. Really, He did. Four more brave (and less wise) guards ran at him with spears out. Chaos did nothing—it was his aura that did everything. You couldn't expect anything to be normal around Chaos, because that would be contradictory. The first two guards tripped on a large duck and broke their noses on the brick floor; the second one's armor and spear evaporated in a mist, leaving him naked—but the third one threw a spear at Chaos and it turned into a chicken in mid-flight.

Chaos caught it and tossed it into the air, where it zoomed away faster than sound. Seconds later, Death heard frightened squawking.

Arkan had run across the court and grasped Death's scythe.

"Thank you, Chaos," Death said. "Can you get me out of these bonds?"

"Well...I was hoping they would have turned to caterpillars by now."

"Ha! They are made of better stuff than that!" Arkan approached with scythe in hand. "Now step away, Mr. Chaos, or I will slash you with this scythe."

"How do you know it can hurt me?" Chaos growled, his underwear giving him a wedgie of its own volition.

"How do you know it can't?" Arkan held it out in front of him like a spear.

Chaos stepped back.

Then the ground began to shake. Arkan looked around, bewildered, but Chaos and Death shared a smile. Chaos licked his lips.

"She always has to make a big entrance."

The ground in front of the temple erupted and the body of Earth towered above the three. The guards dropped their weapons and ran.

"Surrender, Arkan," Death said. "Nobody can cope with three personifications and hope to stay whole."

"Oh no? I am Arkan Stargazer! Fear me!" He swung the scythe and rested it against Death's neckbone. The scythe was so sharp it could take it off in one blow. Death could do nothing; he was still bound to the stone table.

"Don't move," he snarled at Earth and Chaos. "You thought you could best me! Soon even the gods will quake when they hear the name of Arkan! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

"Excuse me, I don't see anyone quaking."

It was a new voice.

Arkan looked up--and that was his fatal mistake. He saw a beautiful woman, and looked right into her icy blue eyes. And then he went mad. He dropped the scythe and started drooling and nibbling his fingernails.

Death turned and nodded at Time and the woman who stood there.

"Good call, Hela. I am forever indebted to you."

"You might be," boomed the voice of Earth, who reached down and snapped the stone table in two. "Who knows? Could that scythe have killed you?"

Death shrugged and stood up.  

"How did you know I was captured?"

"The Judge," they all said at once.

"Ah, yes," Death rubbed his wrists. "I needed to talk to him. Supposedly he can see through every loophole in every document and any court case in the history of the universe. How did he not see this one?"

"I did," the Judge was standing beside Death. His speedy fingers were applying the last bit of writing to a file that said 'Arkan Stargazer'. "But, I was hoping that you would. I thought perhaps it didn't matter to you."

"Your Honor," Death remained standing in reverence. "I am sorry—I did not see the woeful loophole."

The Judge waved it away.

"At least you have friends--and a good receptionist. But now...there seems to be an imbalance in the world. In fact, the Margravian Army is having a hard time of it at Quentintople. Are you up for a good battle?"

"I...” Death picked up his scythe. “I think so,"

The Judge didn’t reply—he wasn’t there any longer.

Death cracked his knuckles.

"Thank you for your...looks, Hela. It seems you have saved the day."

"It was the least I could do, Mr. D."

"And Time, thank you very much for bringing my receptionist."

Time grinned.

"Go get 'em, Death."

"I was also wondering..." Death cleared his throat, "...would you be up for a game of golf anytime soon?"

 

And Time ticks on... 

 

 

Author's Note

It's now my second version, but I'm open to comments--especially things that I could change! I know it's far from done...but I want this story to be the best that it can be, and I know you reviewers can help it become that.
PLEASE don't just put down 'oh, I liked this' and then nothing else. I would really like some...er, mean stuff.

Reviews

[AaronPhobia]

I loved it!

I don't find mistakes because they run away from my view lol, i will never be an editor.

This should be published and I can be called the first person to have read it =D

Loved it, I want more of it, I didn't want to leave Death behind, but i must continue without him. lol, i love a good God story =]

[ICE]

This was a very nice story. I didn't see any mistakes..but then again I'm not sure that I looked very hard. -sigh- I really liked this stroy though.

[Gregory Hill]

Ok Scott I wanted to add, you need to have his words capatilized, if of course you want it like Terry Pratchetts books.

[Alex]

This was very interesting, I really enjoyed the read.

If you wanted to rewrite it again, then you might try writing it in first person this time. That would be interesting too. :P

[C. C. Burl]

LOVE IT . . . awesome story, very well-written. I love the truth in it. Don't see anything you should change. Well, there were a few tiny grammar issues, somewhere in there, but nothing really important. I agree with everyone else about it being published. You should submit it somewhere.

AGAIN . . . this is great, and I love it!

C. C. Burl

(ps Thanks for the free advertising in return!)

[Gregory Hill]

Pretty Good Scott I like it

[Monee H.]

OMG! I loved it. If you ever get it publishedinto a book, i want one.
~Monee~

[daftinklings]

Oh wow. It's awesome. Kinda Neil Gaiman-ish...which is very good. Hey...If you make a compilation of your short stories and turn it into a book...can you give me a copy for free? Anyway...I was kinda thinking that if no one believed in a god any longer...then wouldn't that god die?