Lost Gods

by Brom

  Chet coughed and spat, wiping the oily mess from his eyes and nose. Someone grabbed his arm with strong, knobby fingers that felt like tree roots. An iron ring was clamped around his wrist and crimped into place with large pliers.

  The minotaurs shoved Chet and the other slaves onward toward the far end of the chamber, out through an arch, and into a long hall lined with stalls.

  More Trow waited here, these ones larger, like Seet, most with one, two, or three horns growing from their skulls. They wore spiked leather vests and carried pitchforks. Rows of slaves were lined up within the stalls behind them.

  The first stall was stacked with banged-up helmets and shields. Each slave was handed a helmet as they passed, some receiving a shield as well. A helmet ringed with horns was thrust into Chet’s arms.

  The Trow drove them down the hall, putting them randomly into the stalls with other slaves. Chet lost track of Ana and Ado in the shuffle. Fearful eyes met his as he was led to a stall at the end of the hall and pushed in with about a dozen other slaves. They were lined up in front of a round, plated door, glancing about, a few clutching themselves and shaking.

  The drums gained tempo. Stomping came from above, gaining intensity, causing dust to fall from the ceiling.

  The slaves stood staring at the round doors, silent, like men waiting for a bomb to fall.

  A horn blew from outside and the large gears rattled to life, lifting the plated doors, rolling them slowly upward.

  Firelight greeted the slaves.

  “Out!” the goblin men yelled, jabbing them along with their pitchforks.

  The slaves spilled from the stalls and into an arena about the size of a soccer field. Several large fire pits blackened the field, each surrounded by dozens of standing stones. Twenty-foot-high walls spiked with blades ringed them in and stone balconies, full of spectators, spiraled upward into the mist above.

  The spectators jeered as the slaves entered.

  The Trow herded the slaves around the perimeter, stationing them between the fire pits in clumps of about ten souls each.

  Chet searched for Ana and Ado, couldn’t find them, but saw Coach just behind him. Coach seemed in a state of confusion, just staring at the dirt.

  Trow pushed a few carts of weapons around, mostly rusty and bent swords and spears, handing them out at random. The slaves on either side of Chet both received weapons, but Chet did not.

  “Helmets on!” the goblin men shouted, jabbing at anyone moving too slowly.

  Chet slipped his on and tugged the strap in place to secure it on his head. All the helmets had faceplates, and between the helmets and red paint, Chet found it impossible to tell one soul from another and gave up on finding Ana and Ado.

  The flames flared, then simmered down. The drums stopped. The crowd fell quiet as a tall set of red doors swung inward. The spectators leaned forward, many standing, all watching the dark opening.

  Chet swallowed, tried to focus on breathing, on remaining calm, tried not to imagine what horrors were heading their way.

  There was movement in the shadows, and then—monsters.

  A cheer went up from the crowd as the monsters entered the arena.

  Chet fell back a step.

  Twelve creatures paraded around the field. They all walked on two legs and appeared to be somewhat human, but that was where the similarities ended. Animal and human characteristics meshed together into every manner of monstrosity. But as they marched, Chet began to see reason to the madness, that they appeared more enhanced than deformed, as though a hand had crafted them to maximize their lethality. Many were even majestic in their own unique and deadly way, sleek and brilliantly colored, some hulking, with rippling muscles and bulging veins, others sinewy, lithe, and agile, looking fast and dangerous. One creature even had four arms. Chet saw razor-sharp bones protruding from forearms, elbows, and knees like blades, deadly horns, hooves, claws, and beaks. They wore no armor, but many had thick hides, feathers, fur, or scales. They carried all manner of weapons: swords, axes, tridents, and maces.

  The monsters circled once, then stopped in front of a row of ornate balconies. Atop the balconies, figures reclined beneath colorful canopies in high-back chairs, surrounded by servants and guards. Chet assumed these to be lords, gods perhaps. He counted twelve altogether. He noticed Veles’s banner, saw the god being attended to by his servants.

  A figure stood up in the center balcony—a woman, tall and gaunt, with bone-white skin, her black gossamer robes so thin they floated about her like smoke. Bones and bronze scales fanned out from her headdress like a peacock tail and her long black hair—tied in braids—twisted down her shoulders like snakes. A veil of web shrouded her features, but Chet could still make out the silver specks of her eyes.

  She moved to the rail holding a scepter of copper and bone across her chest, and made a slight nod.

  A servant stepped forward carrying a large bronze bell, and rang it sharply. “Queen Hel shall speak.”

  The crowd fell silent.

  “Welcome, champions,” Queen Hel said, her words ringing with an odd echo. She set her eyes upon the monsters, calling out names. With each name, one of the monsters raised its weapon to her. When she called out Veles, a lithe creature with a gymnast’s build—appearing mostly human except for horns and scales—bowed and Chet realized that these monsters must represent the gods.

  She raised her scepter. “Watchers may enter.”

  Three cloaked figures walked purposefully to a tiered stone platform in the center of the field. A large bronze coffer sat at the base of the platform. They set one palm atop the coffer, tapped their chests above their hearts, then ascended the steps to the uppermost stone, each facing out in a different direction. One by one they pushed back their hoods, revealing bare heads and deeply scared faces, with pockets of black flesh instead of eyes. They pulled pouches from their cloaks and untied them, releasing nine small orbs. The orbs floated upward, stationing themselves above their heads. Chet saw that they were eyes, three eyes for each Watcher.

  “Let all hear the laws of play.” They spoke as one, their voices soaring over the crowd. “The first contender to gather and drop six rings into the coffer wins the trial. Rings may be gathered by any means.”

  Rings? Chet glanced around looking for the rings, noticed several slaves looking at the band around their wrist, and a sudden and terrible understanding hit him. “Aww, fuck.”

  “There shall be three trials,” the Watchers continued. “The victor of first trial is to be awarded one copper ring. The victor of second trial is to be awarded two copper rings. The victor of third trial shall be proclaimed Grand Victor and awarded six copper rings.”

  Their floating eyes turned toward the gods.

  “Are these rules and honors understood by all lords?”

  Each of the gods nodded.

  “Are these rules and honors understood by all champions?”

  Each monster nodded.

  “Champions, to your posts.”

  The monsters strolled to the center and stood beneath the pole flying their lord’s banner, their eyes scanning the slaves.

  Don’t even have a goddamn sword, Chet thought.

  “Ring-bearers,” the Watchers continued. “Those of you that survive a trial still in possession of your ring shall advance to the next trial. And further, any that survives all three trials still in possession of their ring shall be awarded their freedom.”

  Freedom? Chet clutched the ring on his wrist, wondered if any souls ever survived.

  The large red doors rumbled shut with a resounding thud.

  “Champions,” the three Watchers called as one. “Prepare yourselves.”

  The champions hefted their weapons. One, a lean, muscular woman with black shiny scales, had no weapons, just long, powerful talons and jagged shark-like teeth. She had her small pale eyes locked on Chet’s group.

  The Trow hastily left through the stall doors, bolting them shut. The ring-bearers began backing away, falling out
of line. The man next to Chet collapsed to his knees, hands clutched together in prayer. Someone else was crying, sobbing. A man began hacking into his own wrist with his sword, cutting off his hand to remove his ring.

  Chet started backing away, then spotted Coach sitting in the dirt holding his helmet and sword in his lap, staring at the ground.

  “Get up,” Chet hissed. “Get your ass up.”

  Coach didn’t move, didn’t even look up.

  “Champions, are you ready?” the Watchers shouted, raising their hands. The monsters nodded and shook their weapons. Souls broke away and began to run toward the walls, some even throwing down their weapons.

  Chet kicked Coach, knocking him over. “Move it, jackass.”

  “Fuck off!” Coach shouted.

  “Get up!” Chet yelled. “You do not wanna die down here. You hear me? Now get up!”

  A light came into Coach’s eyes and he glared at Chet. “I’m already dead,” he snarled. “Because some asshole killed me. Remember? Remember!” Coach snatched hold of his sword and lunged at Chet, swinging wildly for Chet’s leg. Chet jumped back and stumbled, falling to one knee.

  “May the bravest and boldest win!” the Watchers cried, dropping their hands in unison.

  A horn blew a long, loud blast and the fire pits erupted, sending pillars of flame swirling skyward. Drums thundered and a roar came from the stands as the champions charged toward the slaves.

  Coach stared in terror at the monsters, as though seeing them for the first time. Chet ran, heading toward the wall with all the other ring-bearers. A woman stumbled and fell in front of Chet, tripping him. He landed next to a fire pit. Before he could gain his feet several other souls also collided in their panic, falling atop him, pinning him to the ground. The flames flared and searing heat shot up Chet’s leg. He cried out, clawing and kicking, trying to free himself.

  A wild scream—it was the demon woman, the one with the black scales. She was upon them, tearing into the slaves above Chet with her long claws, their screams mixing with hers as she ripped their limbs from their bodies.

  Chet kicked free from the pile, gained his feet, and escaped into the smoke.

  Souls dashed in all directions amid the screams and smoke, running around and into Chet. Chet spotted a sword in the dirt and snatched it up. The tip was broken, but Chet was glad to have something in his hand.

  “Stand together!” a voice cried. “Stand or perish!” Chet couldn’t miss that voice; it was Ado. The wiry man stood with five other souls among a cluster of standing stones, swords and spears on guard. Chet dashed over to them.

  “Ado, it’s me!”

  Chet caught the man’s smile through the cage of his helmet. “Do you feel alive, Chet?”

  “What?”

  “Steady!” Ado cried to the souls behind him. “Stand true. It’s your only chance.”

  Chet caught glimpses through the rolling smoke of the monsters as they chased down souls, of mutilated bodies writhing in the dirt. He noticed another group of slaves holding together, putting up a defense as a group. The monsters left them alone, going instead after isolated individuals or those fleeing or putting up no defense. Chet understood then what Ado was doing, that the game wasn’t to defeat these monsters, but to avoid looking weak, easy.

  A man without a helmet ran toward them. It was Coach, his eyes wide with horror, three deep gashes across his chest. A shriek came from behind him and the demon lady leapt from the smoke, clutching a handful of rings in one hand. She spotted Coach and started after him.

  “Over here!” Chet shouted at Coach. Coach dashed to them, joining their ranks.

  “Show her steel and teeth!” Ado cried. “Growl at the bitch!”

  They did, shouting, growling, and brandishing their blades. Chet joined in, howling, slashing the air. Coach too, screaming at the monster as though he’d lost his mind.

  The demon lady stopped, looking unsure, snarled, but she didn’t attack. A man ran out from the smoke, his eyes on something behind him, and almost collided with the demon. She pounced, knocking the soul down and cutting off his arm with one stroke. She snatched up the arm, tugging the ring free. A huge shadow burst from the smoke behind her, driving into her, knocking her to the dirt.

  This monster, easily the size of a grizzly bear, planted a huge foot atop her, pinning her to the ground. She shrieked and writhed, and dug her claws into its leg. It hefted its ax and hacked into her back, cutting off her scream. The huge monster pried the rings from her hand, held them up. It had five rings, needed but one more. It caught sight of Chet, Ado, Coach, and the other men. It let out a grunt and charged, appearing not the least intimidated by their show.

  One of the ring-bearers broke and ran, then another.

  The monster barreled down upon them.

  “Stand!” Ado shouted, stepping forward to meet the attack. The beast plowed into them, knocking Ado and his blade aside with a wide sweep of its ax. Chet ducked, tried to dive from its path. The ax caught him and sliced through his arm, flipping him into the air. Chet had no idea which way was up until he slammed into the dirt. The monster stomped down upon his leg. There came a horrible snap followed by blinding pain.

  Chet screamed.

  The monster raised its ax as a horn blew, the sound blasting across the arena. The monster stopped, ax still raised, and jerked its head around, looking over its shoulder toward the center.

  A tall, hulking beast with bluish skin spiked with horns and tusks jutting from a fearsome grin stood at the coffer, sword held above its head, a triumphant look upon its face.

  The bear-sized beast slowly lowered its ax, spat, then slapped its rings into the dirt. It muttered a curse, then lifted its foot off Chet and just walked away.

  Pain rolled over Chet, engulfed him. He yelled through clenched teeth.

  Someone grabbed him. “Chet.”

  Even through the pain, Chet had no problem recognizing Ado’s big grin.

  “Chet. You did it. You still have your ring!”

  CHAPTER 35

  Here, careful,” Ado said, helping Chet off the stretcher. Two goblin men rolled Chet off, then turned and headed away.

  Chet tried to sit up, and abruptly realized his left arm was missing, simply gone from the shoulder down. Oh no, he thought. Oh, no.

  Ado helped him into a sitting position, propped him against the wall. They were back in the underground chambers.

  “You made it, Chet.”

  Chet looked at the twisted and broken mass that was left of his leg. I’m done for. Fucked. So fucked. But his despair went far deeper, his grief not for his leg, or for what might happen to him now, but for Trish and the baby.

  A woman’s scream rose above the other moans and cries. Chet scanned the room. “Where’s Ana?”

  Ado shrugged. “I have not seen her.”

  The wounded and maimed lay everywhere. Souls sat in the dirt or stood staring blankly at the wall or ground. Chet searched every face, looking for Ana, but it was hard to distinguish one soul from another due to the oily red powder.

  “Perhaps she is among those who lost their rings,” Ado said. He stood and walked over to the iron bars separating their chamber from the next.

  The souls in the adjoining chamber appeared in an even worse state—the maimed, the burned, the crushed. Farther back, Chet saw piles of severed arms, legs, next to those—bodies. Their heads were crushed, or missing altogether. The dead dead, Chet thought. He couldn’t see their faces and could only hope that Ana wasn’t among them.

  Trow moved through the chamber gathering weapons and helmets, stacking them in carts along the far wall, as more and more bodies were brought in.

  Ado returned, sat next to Chet. “No sign of her.”

  Another wave of slaves shuffled in. A Trow woman checked their wrists, sending those who still wore rings into the chamber with him and Ado, the rest into the other. Chet scanned their shell-shocked faces. He didn’t see Ana, but he did see Coach. Coach still had his ring and came
stumbling in, collapsing on a bench near the far wall.

  “Here, you,” someone barked—an older Trow woman, with shaggy gray hair, a cluster of whiskers sprouting from her chin, and what looked like a cigar jutting out from the corner of her mouth. But, unlike the sour-smelling cigarettes Chet had encountered so far, this one smelled pleasant, almost like cinnamon. She prodded Chet’s leg.

  Chet gritted his teeth against the pain.

  She looked at the stump where his arm used to be and shook her head. “Bad time.” She tapped the ring around his wrist—smiled. “You keep ring. Good.” She held up four fingers to the Trow woman beside her.

  The younger woman dug four brown coins out of a large satchel, handed them to Chet, then moved on to Ado. The old Trow woman prodded a large gash across Ado’s chest, held up one finger. The other woman handed a single coin to Ado and then headed on to the next soul.

  Chet looked at the coins. “They pay us?”

  “Pay? No. They’re to heal you. Eat.” Ado placed his coin into his mouth, began to chew.

  “Eat the coins?” Chet held one of the coins up and pinched it; it was like hard leather. “These are supposed to heal me?”

  “Yes.”

  Chet put one in his mouth, began to chew. It dissolved, almost evaporated within his mouth, leaving behind a bitter powdery taste.

  “Nothing’s happening.”

  “Wait.”

  A tingling sensation, almost an itch, started around his injuries, then the pain began to recede. Chet quickly ate the remaining coins.

  Music drifted down through the trapdoors above, a whimsical tune. Someone or something began to sing, a hearty male voice.

  Chet set his head back and closed his eyes, listening to the song as the pain continued to ebb away.

  “I wish Queen Oya could hear,” Ado said. “She was never much on the tournaments, but she dearly loved the performances. I fear there will be no more . . . not for her.” He sighed. “Maybe if I am bold and brave the gods will smile upon me and I will win my freedom . . . return once more to Oya’s side.”