Lost Gods

by Brom

  Chet tightened the strap on his helmet. There were many more weapons to go around and he’d managed to claim a decent sword.

  The three Watchers entered, took their places atop the stone platform.

  Ado sucked in a deep breath. “Feel that?”

  “What?”

  “Life. It is in the air. A gift from the gods.” Ado appeared to actually be enjoying himself, his face not full of dread like so many of the others, but of vitality. “Savor the feeling; it is as close to life as you will get in the netherworld.”

  Chet shook his head, wished he could share his friend’s enthusiasm, but there was nothing about the moment he wished to savor.

  “Watch that one,” Ado said, nodding toward a tall, hulking champion with thick tusks jutting from its grim mouth and bluish skin spiked with horns and bony plates—the winner from yesterday.

  “His name is Mortem. He is Queen Hel’s champion, has been for the last twelve Gatherings and has won Grand Victor every time. They say he is undefeatable. They also say that Hel feeds him god milk from her own tit. Either way, he is a formidable force—even the other champions fear him. His method is to slash and hack, destroying all in his path and picking up the pieces. And there, the man next to him, that is Kwan, Veles’s latest creation.”

  Kwan had retained most of his humanity, appearing Asian to Chet, perhaps Chinese, with strong high cheekbones and a hawkish gaze. Brown scales ran down his back and blades of bone extended from his forearms. He appeared spry, even now bouncing on his toes like a spring ready to launch.

  “He is small and untried,” Ado said. “But it is not all about size. Some are quick, others strong. Each god designs and crafts its champions with different strategies in mind. It is part of the game. Mortem plays on savagery, relying on intimidation, a true berserker.” Ado said this as though he admired the monster.

  The Trow fled the field as the red doors once again closed with a heavy thud.

  Chet drew in a deep breath. “Here we go.”

  Coach appeared vigilant, his face hard and resolute.

  “Are all champions ready?” the Watchers shouted, holding up their hands.

  The monsters nodded.

  Ring-bearers began spreading out, others forming clumps and clusters, weapons and shields ready. Ado began to drift toward the gates where the smoke was thickest; Chet and Coach followed.

  “May the bravest and boldest win!” the Watchers cried, dropping their hands. A horn blew and, like the day before, the fire pits erupted and the drums thundered, sending the crowd to their feet.

  The champions hurled themselves toward the ring-bearers.

  Ado, Chet, and Coach dashed into the smoke and for the moment, Ado’s strategy seemed to work; the three of them went unnoticed while the champions charged into the larger clumps of ring-bearers.

  Mortem roared, his teeth bared as he smashed into a cluster of slaves. They broke and ran, the slower ones hacked and mangled beneath the ferocity of his ax. The impacts of his blows sounded like gunshots as his blade chopped through steel and bone alike.

  Screams and cries resounded from all sides of the arena. Souls ran past and around the three of them. Chet spotted a creature chasing two souls their way. It bounded along on its knuckles like an ape, long, cruel claws curving out from each hand.

  Ado, Chet, and Coach dashed around the fire pit, keeping the flame between them and the monster. It ran past, snagging one of the slaves by the ankle and flipping her. It hooked its claw in her ring and tore it loose, tearing off her hand. The creature held up the ring and started hooting when a big shadow rushed up through the smoke, leaping across the pit and through the flame, slamming into the monkey beast. It was Mortem. He landed atop the monkey beast, crushing it beneath his bulk, driving his ax into the back of the creature’s skull.

  The crowd let out a roar.

  Mortem grabbed the ring, but even in death, the monkey creature held on. Chet didn’t wait around to see what happened next, the three of them dashing away, disappearing into the smoke.

  They slid up behind one of the larger standing stones, trying to survey the field. Chet spotted Veles’s champion, Kwan, in action, leaping almost thirty feet to catch a soul, taking him down with a quick, precise slash of his sword, slicing the ring off at the wrist, then up and after another—leaping and darting about like a gazelle.

  The wind shifted, exposing Chet, Ado, Coach, and two other souls.

  “Oh, fuck,” Chet said, seeing Mortem not fifty feet away, his eyes on them.

  Chet started to run, but Ado grabbed him. “We cannot outrun him. We have to stand. Together; we feint together.”

  Every ounce of Chet wanted to flee, but he nodded. Coach too, his face grim, his eyes wide, almost fierce.

  “Be fluid,” Ado said.

  Mortem came for them. One of the slaves ran. Mortem caught him in three strides, slashing a broad stroke, cutting off the slave’s arm and slicing through most of his abdomen. He snatched up the ring. He now had five, needed but one more. His eyes landed on Chet.

  “Form up!” Ado cried, urging them into the defensive formation he’d shown them.

  The creature bellowed, snorted, raised his ax, and came at a full run.

  “Steady!” Ado called, widening his stance, sword pulled back as though prepared to hit a homer. Chet and Coach followed suit, giving every indication that they meant to meet the attack head-on. Chet steeled himself and Coach howled, sounding more animal than human.

  Mortem leapt for them, ax coming around in a wide sweep with his full formidable weight behind it. Chet and Coach slid back at the last second, in separate directions, just as Ado had shown them, giving the monster a moment’s hesitation on where to land his blow. Ado feinted, drawing Mortem’s aim, then slid down. Mortem’s blade met only air, sending the giant stumbling past, off balance. He tumbled and fell.

  The crowd roared.

  The monster rolled up, shaking his head as though trying to understand what had happened.

  The crowd was on its feet as Chet, Coach, and Ado ran.

  Chet caught sight of something flying toward him. Mortem’s ax struck him in the side of his chest, cutting deep into his ribs, knocking him off his feet and into the dirt. Chet tried to get up, tried to move through the pain. Suddenly Mortem was there, upon him, slamming him back to the ground beneath his huge sandaled foot. Chet let loose a cry as Mortem grabbed the ax and yanked the weapon free of his flesh, raising it above his head.

  Ado slid up from behind, low and fast, brought his sword around in a full hard swing, catching Mortem in the back of his ankle. The blade bit deep, cutting almost all the way through.

  Mortem let out a howl and leapt for Ado. He made it one step before his wounded ankle collapsed beneath his weight, sending him to the ground. He let out another howl, more of rage than pain, and tried to grab Ado, but Ado was already away.

  Cheers erupted from the far side of the arena. A figure was running toward the center of the field. It was Kwan, six rings in his hand.

  “No!” Mortem shouted. He tried again to gain his feet, and fell.

  A champion, a large bearish brute, made to intercept Kwan. Veles’s champion spun, effortlessly dodging past the monster, leapt up to the coffer, and slammed six rings into the chest.

  The horn blew and the arena erupted in cheers, spectators on their feet, stomping, clapping, and shouting.

  Mortem stared, face stunned, confused, as though not able to comprehend what he was seeing. He let loose a choking moan and sat down hard.

  Kwan walked around the arena one time, holding his sword high to the cheering crowd. He bowed low to the gods. The red doors opened and those champions that could began to leave the field.

  Coach slid down next to Chet, helped him to sit up and take his helmet off. “We made it, Chet. We fucking made it!”

  Chet grinned through the pain. “We made it.”

  Ado walked up.

  “Ado,” Coach cried. “We did it!”

 
Ado’s face was grim. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  Ado watched as Mortem tried to stand, the crowd too, all waiting, watching the injured giant. “They want to know if he will return tomorrow to restore his honor.”

  The giant pushed himself up onto one knee.

  “Champions must make it from the arena on their own,” Ado said. “Or they may not return.”

  Mortem stood up on one leg, trying to keep his balance, trying to keep his weight off his mangled ankle. He tried to hop, lost his balance, lurched, and fell hard.

  Jeers and laughter came from the crowd.

  Mortem stayed upon his hands and knees for a long moment, just staring into the dirt. Chet wondered if the giant had given up.

  Someone shouted at him from the stands to crawl like a lizard. Several others picked it up, all shouting, “Crawl, lizard, crawl!”

  Mortem’s mouth tightened around his tusks. He looked at the crowd, met them with hard, proud eyes, and pushed himself up again. Then he placed his weight on his broken ankle, his face contorting with pain as he fought not to cry out. This time he did not try to hop, but took a step, walking on his broken ankle, his foot twisted sideways. Chet could barely stand to watch. One step, then another, and another.

  The crowd fell silent, all eyes locked on the giant as he moved closer and closer to the door with each awkward, painful step. And as he neared, as he pressed through what was obviously extricating pain, the crowd began to shout encouragement, to cheer. And, as he took those final few steps, lurching forward, grabbing hold of the door, the crowd exploded in applause and shouts.

  Mortem clutched the door, his whole body shaking. He looked back at Ado, just a look, but there was no misreading his meaning.

  “I am afraid tomorrow will be my last day,” Ado said.

  CHAPTER 40

  The old Trow woman set two ka coins in Chet’s hand and moved along. Chet placed them in his mouth, trying to block out the moans and cries of those around him as he chewed and swallowed. He leaned back against the chamber wall and waited for the pain to subside.

  Coach and Ado sat beside him. Ado had not spoken since leaving the arena.

  “He’s not gonna waste time trying to find you,” Coach said.

  Ado didn’t answer.

  “Think about it. How’s he gonna find you? We’re all painted the same color and wearing faceplates. With the smoke and confusion, he’s just gonna be after the rings.”

  “He will find me,” Ado said. “It is a matter of honor with that one.”

  “Still, he has to—”

  “Dead meat,” came a harsh voice. Seet stared at them through the bars with his soulless reptilian eyes. “That is what they are calling you, dark man. There are no bets on you keeping your ba. Only bets on how long for Mortem to crush your skull. My coin says you do not have a chance in Hell. What do you think?”

  “I think you should fuck off,” Chet said.

  Seet’s thin lips peeled upward into some horrible parody of a smile.

  One of Veles’s guards walked up with three slaves in tow. “This is all of them.”

  “Good,” Seet said, heading away, then to Chet. “Tomorrow, I will find a seat up close. I want to see your ba when it flies off.”

  Ado stared at his hands, his face that of a man who had already accepted his fate.

  “Seet seems to think we don’t have a chance in Hell,” Chet said. “Well, I happen to think we do . . . so long as we stand together.” He pushed to his feet, mindful of the big wound slowly healing in his side, went to the pile of busted weapons, found the broken staffs they’d been practicing with, and brought them back. He gave one to Coach and held the other out to Ado. “You said you had a few more tricks to show us.”

  Ado looked at the staff, then past Chet to the chamber door. A hulking hooded figure stood just outside, conversing with the two minotaur guards. The figure’s size left little doubt to who it was. After a moment, the figure slipped something into the guards’ hands and they let him through.

  Mortem had to stoop to enter. He pushed back his hood, revealing the bony plates of his face, and scanned the room until his eyes lit on Ado. His mouth tightened around his tusks and he headed over. Chet noticed he walked without so much as a limp now.

  Ado took one of the staffs from Chet. “You two should go.”

  “No,” Chet said. “Can’t do that.”

  Coach stood up, standing with them.

  Mortem stopped several feet away, observing the staffs in their hands. “I’m unarmed.” He opened the cloak showing he wore no weapons. “I’m not here to fight. But to talk . . . to commend your skills and bravery.”

  Neither Ado, Coach, nor Chet lowered his guard.

  “And to offer you a chance.” He looked at each of them in turn. “I hate to kill brave men. But tomorrow I will win at any cost. So, I’ve come to offer you this deal. Should you be in my path . . . submit. Bare your ring for me to take and I’ll spare you. Should you resist . . . I’ll crush you. I’ll send your ba to Mother Eye.”

  He set his eyes on Ado, spoke low. “It is you that I’ll come for first. I have to. Honor demands it.” He tapped his broad belt; row after row of notches lined the dark leather. “A notch for every soul. In twelve games I have slain more souls than any other champion in the history of the arena. Don’t be a fool. Remember my offer and save your ba.”

  Ado said nothing.

  Mortem pulled his hood back up and left the chamber.

  Chet looked at Ado.

  Ado met his eye, tapped his sword. “A chance in Hell then.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Trish awoke with a start. She had no idea how long she’d been asleep. It was dark now, the dim glow of moonlight seeping through the window slats.

  She felt sure Lamia had drugged her, but thought the effects were wearing off, her head clearer now. She slid off the bed, went over to the window, and peered through the boards. The moon was bright and she could see across the yard, toward the marsh. She spotted the graveyard at the bottom of the hill, thought of Chet lying all alone beneath the ground, and fought back the tears. Stop it. You can cry later. Chet’s gone. He’s not coming back. If you want out of this you’re gonna have to get yourself out.

  She tested the slats, tugging each board, searching for a loose one. They were all solid, but she found a nail that had gone in sideways and began working it back and forth until finally it came free. She used it to scrape the wood around another nail, digging away the wood one tiny splinter at a time. It was slow work, but after about an hour, she’d loosened another nail. She was hungry, thirsty, and her fingers were sore, but she felt encouraged, sure that, given enough time, she could work all the nails loose from the board.

  Footsteps came down the hall. Trish tugged the drape over and shoved the nails beneath the mattress. The door opened and Lamia entered carrying a tray. She hit the switch with her elbow and a single lightbulb hummed to life above them.

  Lamia looked the room over with a keen eye. “Good evening, Trish. I trust you slept well?”

  Trish didn’t say a word, just stared at her.

  “Our little baby needs nourishment. I’ve fixed up a plate of herbs and vegetables all fresh from my garden.” She lifted the napkin off the plate, revealing a steaming plate of vegetables.

  The smells caused Trish’s stomach to rumble. She had no idea how long it had been since she’d last eaten; it felt like days.

  “Lamia, I understand you’re upset about Chet. We’re all upset . . . not ourselves. But you can’t keep me here like this . . . like a prisoner. This isn’t good for anyone.”

  “Trish, dear, you don’t understand. I’m not holding you captive . . . I’m protecting you. Protecting the baby. You need to stop being so selfish and think of your child. Now . . . eat up.”

  Trish shook her head. “No, I’m not eating any more of your poison.”

  “Poison? No, girl, I would never allow you to eat anything that might harm our child.”
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br />   Our child, Trish thought. She thinks the child belongs to her too.

  Lamia took a pinch of greens and put it in her mouth. “See, no poison here.”

  Trish stayed put. “I’m not eating anything from you.”

  “Come out on the porch with me,” Lamia said. “I want to show you something.”

  Lamia took the plate and left the room, heading down the hall. Trish stared at the open door, after a moment stood up, walked down the hall, and found Lamia out on the porch.

  “Let me show you why you must remain in this house.”

  Trish looked out across the estate, at the light fog drifting along the low country. She’s trying to trick me. She scanned the bushes, looking for Lamia’s worker, Jerome, wondering if at eight months pregnant, she could outrun the man.

  “They’ll be here in just a moment.” Lamia set the plate down on a small table between the rockers. “Keep your eyes along the edge of the trees . . . there, among the marsh fog.”

  “Who will be here?”

  “My children.”

  They waited several minutes, but nothing happened. Trish glanced at Lamia, hating the half smile on her face, the smile of a queen overlooking her kingdom. Trish peered down the drive toward the road, trying to remember how far back the last house was. She felt it was about two miles, maybe three. Could she walk that far in her condition? She thought she could, thought she could do about anything she had to in order to escape this crazy woman. She took a step toward the edge of the porch.

  “Here they come.”

  Trish saw nothing but fireflies and moved closer toward the steps, gauging the distance around Lamia. It was then she noticed something odd: the fireflies, they appeared to all be moving up the hill, toward the house. But even odder: they were in pairs. Like eyes, she thought.

  They drifted closer and the fog began to swirl about them, slowly forming into ghostly figures. Trish gasped, not believing what she was seeing. “Children,” she said. “Those are children.”