Lost Gods

by Brom

  “Chet, now that you know I’m serious, are you ready to give this another try?” Carlos nodded at two of the guards. “Bring the girl.” The two guards left the chamber. “Y’know,” Carlos continued, “no one really knows where the soul goes once it’s lost it’s ka. Not even the gods. Isn’t that so, Yeva-bog?”

  The god made no response.

  “Doesn’t seem to be a very pleasant place, I’ll say that,” Carlos added.

  They brought Ana in, shoved her to the stones. “Johnny,” she gasped. “Oh . . . dear, God.” She stared at his body, then up at the guards, her eyes brimming with hate and tears.

  Chet tensed and the guards pressed down on him.

  “Bind her,” Carlos said, and the guards tied her wrists to a stone pillar.

  Carlos squatted before Ana. “Chet, one of the wonders of being dead is your body, your ka, can take a lot of punishment before giving up its ghost.” Carlos waved the knife back and forth between Ana’s eyes. “Might be fun to find out just how much of your girlfriend’s hide I can cut away before she gives up hers.” He touched the tip of the knife to Ana’s face and with a flick, cut open her cheek. Ana let out a small cry.

  “It was the angel,” Chet said. “The angel gave me the knife.”

  “An angel?” Carlos repeated, then laughed. “Chet, you’re still playing games.” He slid the knife along the side of Ana’s head, clipping off an ear.

  Ana cried out.

  “Fucker!” Chet shouted, twisting, trying to shove up from the stone. One of the guards drove his spear into his chest. Chet let out a yell. It was then that he saw Yevabog struggling to reach the drawer, pulling against the spear, trying to get her fingers on one of the vials.

  “Chet, we can play this out all day long if you want.” He jabbed the knife into Ana’s chest, twisted. Ana let out another scream. He pulled it out, stuck her again, then again, then again. Ana’s screams echoed round and round the small chamber.

  Yevabog gripped the throne with three of her hands, pulling herself against the spear blade, actually tearing open her own flesh, inch by inch, closer and closer to the drawer. A small grunt of pain escaped her lips as she wrenched herself the final inch.

  “Watch out!” Troy shouted. He leapt up off Chet, moving fast for a big man, but not fast enough.

  Yevabog’s fingers closed around a large vial. She slung it upon the stone floor in front of the big guard. The vial exploded, spattering fluid, dousing Troy and the two guards nearest him. The fluid instantly lit up into bright yellow flame. The guards howled as they tried to slap out the burning potion, but the flame stuck to their touch and spread.

  The potion spattered Chet’s leg, searing his flesh, and hit Carlos across his chest and face. Carlos yelled, the knife falling from his grasp. It clattered to the floor as he smacked the sticky flame.

  Chet dove for the knife, snatched it up, rolled to his feet, and rushed Carlos.

  Carlos reached into his jacket, came out with a revolver. There came a deafening blast and Chet felt the bullet punch through his side, spinning him, almost knocking him off his feet. Still he came, slashing the knife before the man could fire again, catching Carlos at the shoulder, taking off his entire arm. Carlos let out a howl.

  A guard charged Chet, swinging a thick, short sword. Chet met the blade, his knife slicing right through the heavy steel and into the guard’s chest, cutting the man open, slicing him nearly in two. The guard toppled to the floor in a screaming heap.

  Troy and several other guards were now entirely engulfed in flame, crashing over the broken furniture and into the walls, setting everything they touched on fire. Chet caught sight of Carlos fleeing the burning room.

  “Chet!” Ana screamed, still bound to the pillar, flames all around her. Chet rushed to her and cut her free, yanking her to her feet. They started for the door. Chet stopped, searching for the pouch, the coins, but found only the scabbard. He snatched it up, then saw Yevabog, her throne ablaze, the flames crawling down toward her. Yet she just hung there, making no effort to escape.

  “What are you doing, Chet?” Ana yelled.

  Chet dashed back into the thick smoke, made his way around the flames, to the throne. He shoved his knife into his belt, grabbed hold of the spear, and wrenched it free. Yevabog let out a moan and fell forward. Chet caught her and tried to pull her away, but she snagged hold of the throne and held fast.

  “No,” she cried, staring upward. “No. I cannot leave my husbands.”

  The heat and smoke grew unbearable.

  “Let go!” Chet yelled, yanking her loose and dragging her away, stumbling half-blind through the burning smoke, searching for the door.

  He heard Ana screaming for him, someone grabbed his arm, tugged him along, leading them out of the chamber and down the long corridor. They fell into a heap out on the terrace. Chet coughed, trying to clear his eyes, his knife out and ready, but he saw no sign of Carlos or any other guards, only the brutalized body of the dwarf.

  “What were you thinking?” Ana shouted.

  Yevabog’s hair and dress still burned. Chet grabbed one of the soggy tapestries and threw it on the creature, smacking and smothering the flames.

  Ana watched him as though he were out of his mind.

  Chet pulled the tapestry off Yevabog. She lay quivering, curled up like a dying insect. “She knows where Gavin is.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Gavin turned away from the blood, the bodies, toward the river, wedged the toe of his boot beneath a large stone, and flipped it over the ledge. The stone plummeted end over end, dropping into the lazy river more than two hundred feet below. The splash echoed up the ravine. It seemed to call his name. A smile touched his thin, tight lips.

  He saw the kid’s face again, couldn’t shake it, especially those pale gray eyes. They’d been so like his children’s eyes. He tugged a small bottle out from his coat, pulled the cork, and lifted it to his lips, taking a long swig and grimacing at the bitter taste. The contents of the bottle were derived from the River Lethe below, not the thin stuff they sold in the sob joints, but a concentrated inky sauce brewed by the monks of Fallen Faith. It was supposed to make you forget for a while—the good, the bad, all of it. It had been a long time since he’d had a swig, but the vision, the kid, the one with the red hair . . . “Goddamnit,” he said and took another sip, drank deep, not caring about the risks as the sauce numbed his mouth. Too much and you forgot for good: forgot your name, how to button your pants, became one of the mindless dead wandering the streets until someone finally cut you up and ate you.

  The numbness spread into his head and the rocky landscape blurred, yet his memories wouldn’t let go, they never let go. How long ago was it? he wondered. Forty years? Fifty? Then why does it seem like yesterday? He held the bottle up and locked eyes with the grinning skull on the label. “How many years does it take for a man to forget murdering his own children? Huh? How long before he won’t hear their dying screams no more?” He took another swig, draining the bottle, then chucked it, watching it tumble all the way down to the river. He stared into the dark waters. “One step,” he said. “That’s how long.” He slid his other foot up until both his boot toes hung over the edge. “Go on,” Gavin whispered. “Just one more step.”

  “Hey, Gavin,” Ansel called. “That’s rot rock, man. Gonna fall in the river and take you with it.”

  Be a real shame if that happened, Gavin thought, feeling dizzy. He rocked on his boot heels, felt the stone cracking.

  “Gavin, you hearing me?”

  The clang of arms. The sound of men making their way up the bluff, shouting to one another, voices full of bravado. The sound of men who had just fought and won a battle that they didn’t think they could.

  “Hey, Gavin,” Ansel called. “You’re gonna wanna see this.”

  Gavin turned. A man rode up the hill astride a dirty white horse. It was Colonel Turner Ashby. He rode straight in the saddle, one hand thrust beneath the lapel of his jacket—that of a Confederat
e cavalry officer—the very one he’d crossed over in. A long dark beard, a mountain man’s beard, framed a critical, but agreeable face. A cart followed behind him, not any cart, but one of Horkos’s carts, gilded in gold. And strapped upright onto a bench sat none other than Lord Horkos himself, legs severed at the knees, arms at the elbows, one eye torn out, and his mouth a mutilated gash.

  “He did it,” Ansel said, and you could hear the weight of the thing in the man’s voice. “The son of a bitch did it. A god, we’ve taken a god, Gavin. Can you believe it?”

  Gavin stepped away from the ledge.

  The Colonel held a spear with a gold blade, so light it almost glowed. He was smiling, and Gavin thought never did a man more earn the right to smile.

  The Colonel’s ragged crew of men, which he’d dubbed Ashby’s Rangers—a throwback to his days commanding a group of partisans in the Confederate army—surrounded him, following him up the hill. Many of them were wearing the spoils of victory, donned in the armor and carrying the finely crafted weapons of the lord’s guard. A few even wore the fancy feathered headdresses of the dancers, cutting up, laughing so hard they could barely walk, drunk on the spirit of conquest. But every one of them wore a red scarf or kerchief around his neck to clearly identify himself as the Colonel’s rangers. Behind them were men leading horses—more than a dozen fine beasts. And Gavin nodded, knowing the difference these mounts would make in the trials ahead.

  The Colonel pulled on the reins and hopped from his horse onto the cart to stand next to the god. “I made each of you a promise,” he cried in a commanding voice. “Today . . . today, I make good on that promise.” He raised the spear high for all to see. “Here it is. Here it is. Here . . . it . . . is!”

  The men cheered, clapping and banging their weapons against their shields and armor. Gavin guessed there to be at least two hundred men now. But it wasn’t long ago that Ashby’s Rangers amounted to little more than a handful of souls wandering the Barrens. All following the Colonel as he dealt out his vigilante style of justice: hunting down soul traders, bandits, even demons—anything that preyed on souls. He even robbed from the gods themselves, making swift, stealthy raids on their caravans and temples, freeing slaves whenever he could. Back then, most had considered the Colonel a ranting idealist and his crusaders fanatics, but of late the Colonel’s talk of a new age for souls was catching on like fire. Gavin had heard speculation that it was due to a new godless breed of souls entering purgatory, but Gavin thought it was simply that souls had had enough, that they just needed someone to bring them together, and the Colonel appeared to be that someone.

  And now this, Gavin thought, looking at the mutilated god. This changes everything. He walked toward the crowd, part of him envying those who had been there for the ambush, had witnessed the god fall. His detail had been assigned the rear assault, to round up any trying to escape back to the city of Lethe.

  “A god,” the Colonel continued. “Together, we have slain a god!”

  Another round of cheers. The Colonel whacked Lord Horkos with the hilt of the spear. The god’s face twitched and Gavin knew that somewhere in that lump of mutilated flesh, the god was trying to scream. Only the Colonel had made sure it had no mouth left to scream with, no hands to weave spells with, no legs to run away with, his useless body now nothing more than a prison for his spirit.

  “It’s only the beginning,” the Colonel continued. “For as word spreads, more will flock to our banner. Our ranks will swell. Why even today, we welcome over fifty new souls into our fold.” He gestured toward a cluster of dirty, battered souls—Horkos’s slaves—souls with bewildered but elated looks upon their faces, all now wearing the red scarves. “Fifty souls no longer in bondage. Fifty souls ready to put an end to this reign of tyranny forever. A band of rangers brought down Horkos . . . imagine what an army can do.”

  Stomping. Cheering.

  “Here and this day, I now make you another promise,” the Colonel cried. “Soon, very soon, souls will no longer kneel to the gods. No longer toil beneath their tyranny. One by one, they shall fall and soon it is not us that will quake before the gods, but the gods that shall quake before us!”

  They shouted his name, some even dropping to one knee before him, and Gavin wondered why men seemed to always need someone to bow down to. Wondered how long before the Colonel became a god in his own right.

  “The winds of limbo blow in our favor,” the Colonel called. “Mother Eye has turned full circle and the Gathering draws near, the gods will be on the roads—vulnerable. The Defenders of Free Souls from Styga are even now on their way to join us. Together we’ll hunt down the gods . . . slay them one by one. Who will join me on this hunt?”

  The cheers intensified; the bloodlust was upon them like a fever. Gavin could see it in their eyes. Their colonel was no longer a ranting idealist, but a god killer; they were all god killers. Gavin wouldn’t guess at where this would end, but of one thing he was certain: there would be more blood, much more blood.

  CHAPTER 23

  Where’re you going?” Ana asked.

  Chet stopped, realizing he had no idea. He’d been bent solely on getting away from Carlos, running down one twisting avenue and stairway after another. He glanced up and down the narrow stone steps; the temples were lost behind them in the mist, but a few torches fluttered in the valley far below.

  “Can we hold up for a minute?” Ana asked, sitting down on the steps. “Just a minute.”

  Chet rolled Yevabog from his shoulder. He’d wrapped her in a tapestry, carrying her across his back like a sack of seed. He laid her upon the steps, wincing as he took a seat next to Ana, wondering how many more holes his body could take and still go on. He examined the burns on his leg, grateful that the searing pain was at last receding.

  “Johnny,” Ana said.

  Chet met her eyes, saw the deep pain.

  “He’s gone. I mean really gone. Right?”

  Chet shrugged, trying not to think of the terror in the boy’s face as his soul drifted away, grateful Ana had at least been spared that.

  “Yes,” Yevabog said, little more than a whisper. It was the first she’d spoken since leaving the flame. “His ba has been released. There is nothing left to bind him to this world.”

  “He was happy here,” Ana said. “Actually having a good time. The place was just one big Neverland to him. I mean, shit. Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been me? I’d be glad to go.”

  “No,” Yevabog said. “Not that way. For your ba to float away unfettered . . . down here in the underworld. Never wish that.” She tugged the tapestry tightly around her as though trying to hug herself. “My husbands,” she said, a slight quiver in her voice. “They are adrift now. Their souls lost to the winds of chaos. Maybe if I had burned with them, maybe I could have guided them . . . I will never know.” She stared upward, her eyes distant.

  They sat silently for a long spell. Chet didn’t know if souls needed sleep, but he certainly felt weary to his core, felt he could sit here and never move again.

  “Lethe,” Yevabog said. “We go to Lethe.”

  Ana and Chet looked at her.

  “You will take me there. And in return I will take you to your grandfather.”

  “He’s there?”

  Yevabog nodded. “Near.”

  “What is Lethe?” Ana asked.

  “A city. A river. A path to oblivion.”

  “Oblivion?”

  Yevabog nodded. “Souls who drown in her sweet waters disappear forever.” She said it longingly.

  “But we saw faces in the river,” Ana said. “Such pain . . . horror.”

  “That was Styx. Each river sings it own song: Styx is the river of hatred; Phlegethon, the river of fire; Cocytus, the river of wailing. There are many others, but Lethe is the river of oblivion . . . the only path to a true end.”

  “A true end,” Ana said, speaking the words as though referencing some holy grail.

  “All roads lead to Lethe,” Ye
vabog said. “Souls, denizens of the underworld, sometimes even gods. When they are done, have given up, or are just tired, they make their pilgrimage to Lethe’s tranquil waters.” She paused. “My heart has died with my loves. There is nothing left for me, not even revenge. When a god no longer cares for revenge, their time is indeed done.” All emotion fell from her voice. “I am done.”

  Ana nodded and whispered, “Yeah . . . me too.”

  “Lethe,” Chet said. “How do we—”

  “The Green Coats will be watching the river roads,” Yevabog said, her breath shallow, as though all this talk was taking a toll. Chet noticed there was a lot of blood on the tapestry. “Our only chance is across the barrens . . . but we cannot cross alone . . . too dangerous.” She paused, gathering her strength. “The stockyards are below. If we are lucky, a caravan will be gathering. That is our best hope.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Coach approached an arch bearing the crumbling bust of a great stag. He could see the wagons gathering within, felt sure this must be one of the caravans that the bloodseeker, Gerda, had been referring to.

  He joined the long line of souls at the entrance and as he stood waiting to enter, his thoughts returned to the bloodseeker. She’d cut him as they’d sat cross-legged beneath the tarps, taking a sliver of his flesh, tasting it and then pressing her palm against his cheek, telling him to close his eyes and reach for his mother. They’d drifted together through his memories, until he saw her, his mother lying at the feet of some giant statue, her eyes glazed and half-closed. This wasn’t a memory; he’d never seen that statue before. He called to her, again and again, and slowly her eyes cleared and she looked about her as though waking from a deep sleep. She heard him, he was certain, because, as the vision faded, she spoke his name. “She’s in the temple at Lethe,” Gerda had said. Telling him he could walk up the river road to Lethe, along with the masses, but the quickest path was by caravan. It was an easy decision; the sooner he found his mother the better.