The weather had taken a nasty turn, and this suited him well. Above, billowing grey clouds rumbled in despairing groans; here and there, claps of thunder followed the bright flashes, their fading echoes slowly falling away into the same nothingness from which the light had come and into which it had gone.
He knew there was magic in such things, in a perfectly timed word—given in a shout or whisper as the need came—and here was God’s voice. The Almighty had set the tone for the coming performance.
Tonight it would end—or at least he’d give the killing stroke. Words were so much sharper than swords, he knew, and as the heavens raged over his head, he wondered how sharp they were, if they would, to coin the phrase, cut it.
When they saw him, the guards put their hands to their hilts, trembling as the biting winds of the storm followed in his wake. Yet they did not draw their weapons. He’d brought no arms.
“Halt!” cried the Blackheart’s Tongue, his silent master hidden under the mirrored mask.
“I have come,” proclaimed the man of the storm, and here the wind whipped around the guards to trouble the tattered ribbons of the Blackheart’s black robes. “You carry that corpse around in its litter and live for it, speak for it, die for it.”
The Blackheart’s Tongue frowned. His mouth opened, but the thunder swallowed his words.
“How powerful is nothing when you wrap it up in shadows. You’ve given this great emptiness form, and every man can see a face in the mirror.”
He watched carefully the scalloped folds as the wind enlivened the idolatrous scarecrow. How it seemed the thing was trying to rise, as if those the hands were pushing up from the armrests of its chair.
“You want us to fear its release?” Shouted the man of the storm. “Let us placate it by surrender. If we willingly crawl into its belly, it will not be forced to chew. And will you make a body for it out of this city? Gather enough worshipers to make it real? See, it tries to lift itself. Not yet? Have you not spilt enough blood for it to move? After all those sacrifices, it is still so weak. Still you speak for it. Still you guard it. It has no teeth.”
The lightning flashed, and the mirrored mask was all radiance for a moment. The thunder was immediate, and it seemed the very earth shook at the sound. The man of the storm watched, waiting to see if his words would take hold. Slowly, the silent figure, trembling, the folds of its cloak fluttering in the driving winds, stood. The Blackheart’s tongue saw it, his eyes growing wide, and he screamed. At the sound, the guards turned, and, seeing their god standing, they fell upon their faces.
But the man of the storm was not moved by the prodigy. Lifting his hand to heaven, he spoke the magic words of God which had long ago called forth the light from the darkness. And fire fell from heaven upon the demon. The effigy blazed, and the flames rose as the howling winds circled and cried. The storm broke, and the cold rain fell upon the bent worshipers and the smoldering wreck of their false god.
Tale Told 