Lost Gods

by Brom

  “Yes, I told you. They’re my children.”

  They began to call, a plaintive chorus. Trish’s skin prickled; the sound was so desperate, so forlorn.

  “Mommy, mother,” they murmured. They were calling for her, for Lamia. They pushed closer, and closer, hands outstretched.

  Lamia smiled, positively glowed. “My children, I love you all.”

  They walked up to the porch, stopping at the steps, staring up at Lamia with eyes full of longing. The despair in their voices brought tears to Trish’s eyes.

  Lamia laughed. “Are they not wonderful? How they love me, with their very souls.”

  One of the children, a girl, not more than two years old, bumped the string along the porch steps and the bells jangled lightly. All the children fell back, hands clamped to their ears, pain on their faces.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just the bells. They cannot cross. It keeps them out of the house. Keeps the demons at bay. Keeps you safe.”

  “Demons?”

  “Billy, Davy,” Lamia called. “It’s okay, come out so this nice lady can see you.”

  The children’s eyes grew wide. Trish followed their fearful looks to a large oak at the end of the porch. Two boys came around from its trunk and strolled over to the steps. The children all backed away.

  The boys wore sweet smiles, but their eyes, there was something about their eyes.

  “Show the nice lady one of your tricks. Go on, don’t be so shy.”

  The two boys exchanged a sly smile, then looked up at Trish. Their smiles grew, and grew, stretching across their faces, up past their ears, revealing row upon row of tiny jagged teeth. Their eyes shrank into their sockets, until they were just floating in pools of blackness.

  “They smell your unborn child.”

  Trish backed away.

  “Okay, don’t scare the lady. Go now. Go play.”

  The demons spun around, leaping after the children.

  The children screamed and fled in all directions. The demons cut one off from the rest, a little boy, circling him like jackals, laughing and snarling. The boy tried to get past and the larger demon caught him by the arm, spinning him to the ground. The smaller demon dove in, sinking its jagged teeth into the child’s stomach, tearing into him.

  The little boy screamed and Trish did too, turning away, burying her face in her hands. “Stop them. Oh, please, make them stop.”

  “So, child,” Lamia said. “Do you still wish to leave?”

  CHAPTER 42

  Trish crept down the dark hallway, feeling along the wall with her hand. Tears streamed down her face, but she made no sound as she slipped across the living room to the door. She quietly let herself out onto the porch and into the night. In the moonlight she noticed the blood running down the front of her nightgown. It was coming from between her legs. She let out a slight cry, headed down the steps, careful not to step on the string. She walked out into the yard and stopped, glancing up and down the long drive, her eyes wide and fearful. Laughter—it came from all around her. She spun about. The two boys stood before her, smiling. Their smiles grew into something wrong, something grotesque—far too many teeth. She turned to flee but they leapt upon her, tearing into her flesh, into her throat. She screamed.

  Chet sat up gasping, Trish’s scream still echoing in his head. It was a dream, just a dream, he tried to convince himself, hoping against hope it was not some sort of vision, like the one Yevabog had shown him. It took him a moment to remember where he was, that he was dead. He didn’t even remember lying down, only that he, Coach, and Ado had sparred for most of the night, Ado making them go over and over the moves until they were all exhausted. Chet saw Ado sitting alone beneath the grate, staring upward, his eyes distant. Coach lay next to Chet, still sleeping. Somewhere a bell tolled. Chet let out a sigh, wondered if any of them would still be around come tomorrow.

  Footsteps approached. The sound of keys and the door swung inward. The Trow entered, beckoning the ring-bearers to their feet. They were different this day—no pushing and prodding, almost respectful. They led them down the hall, through the round doors, and out onto the field, where they were met with rhythmic clapping instead of jeers and taunts. Chet glanced down the line of remaining ring-bearers and thought he understood: they were no longer common slaves, but souls who’d managed to survive two rounds in the arena with the champions.

  The Trow spread them out around the arena. Chet, Coach, and Ado stood together.

  Today, four women dressed in golden robes brought the weapons around. They handed the three of them each a helmet, shield, and sword. These weren’t the broken rusted implements of the previous battles, but solid polished steel, the edges of the swords razor sharp.

  “They want us to be able to bite back,” Ado said. “They want a good show.”

  Chet set his shield aside—it would only slow him down—and strapped on his helmet. It was padded and fit snugly.

  “You will need to stay well clear of me today,” Ado said and showed them his helmet. Chet didn’t understand; it looked like all the other helmets. Ado tapped one of the horns.

  “Oh, shit,” Chet said. The horns on Ado’s helmet were dark brown, almost black. All the other helmets had red horns.

  “I have been marked, my friends.”

  “Yeah, well that’s bullshit,” Coach said and started after the weapon girls.

  Ado grabbed his arm. “No. It will not matter. Look.” He nodded toward the stadium. Almost all eyes were on Ado. Mortem wouldn’t need colored horns to find the man.

  Ado slid his helmet on and buckled the strap. “Chet, Coach, hear me. Stay clear. It is me that he is after. Do not throw away your one chance at freedom.”

  Chet met and held his eye. “Our best chance is together.”

  “It’s our only chance,” Coach added.

  Ado looked away.

  The tall red doors opened and for the third time in as many days, the champions paraded onto the field to the ovation of the crowd. Only six champions remained.

  Six champs and twenty slaves, Chet thought. Is that even a chance in Hell?

  “Not enough rings to go around,” Ado said. “That’s why they call it the champion’s trial, as it is as much about them beating each other as gathering the rings. It was always the most exciting match to see.”

  The champions took up their stations around the center platform. Mortem move into the spot directly in line with Ado.

  The Watchers entered, took their places.

  Mortem’s eyes fixed on Ado.

  The red doors closed with a deep thud, a sound of finality.

  The Watchers raised their hands as one.

  The stadium quieted.

  “The third trial,” they announced. “The champion’s trial. Today we find out which champion will bring glory and honor to their god.”

  “I will say it again,” Ado said to them. “Do not throw away your chance at freedom.”

  “Yep, got that the first time,” Chet said, trying to sound brave.

  “I am telling you,” Ado growled. “Do not be a fool.”

  “I know a fool that saved me yesterday when he should’ve run.”

  Ado shook his head. “You are a good friend, a stubborn friend, but maybe not a very smart one.” He managed a laugh, but Chet caught the underlining despair.

  “Are the champions ready?” the Watchers shouted.

  The champions nodded.

  “Okay,” Ado said, speaking quick. “If you are going to stand with me, here is what must be done. We cannot face him head-on. Our only chance is to lose him in the smoke.” He pointed to a cluster of nearby stones circling a fire pit. “We have to beat him to those stones.”

  Chet and Coach nodded.

  Mortem leaned into his stance like a sprinter awaiting the gun, his mouth twisting into a snarl around his tusks.

  “Get ready,” Ado said to Chet and Coach, setting his hands on their backs.

  Chet took a few steps toward
the stones.

  “It has been an honor to fight with both of you,” Ado said. “It is in the hands of the gods now.”

  “No,” Chet said. “It’s in our hands.”

  Ado grinned. “Yes, our hands.”

  “May the bravest and boldest win!” the Watchers cried, dropping their arms. The horn blew, the fire pits erupted, and the drums thundered. The arena filled with the cries of the spectators.

  “Go!” Ado shouted, giving them both a shove-off.

  Chet ran for the stones, ran for all he was worth, knowing how fast Mortem was, knowing it would take every ounce of speed to beat him into the smoke.

  The crowd roared, all up and on their feet.

  Chet made the stones, glanced back, saw Coach right behind him but not Ado. He halted, Coach bumping into him. “Move!” Coach shouted. Chet didn’t, couldn’t. Ado wasn’t with them, because he was running, actually charging toward Mortem.

  “Oh, no!” Chet cried, realizing that Ado had tricked them. Chet started back for his friend, but Coach grabbed him, trying to pull him into the smoke. “Chet, no! There’s nothing you can do!”

  “Let go!” Chet yelled, shoving Coach away and leaving him behind as he ran as hard as he could for Ado.

  Ado met Mortem’s attack head-on, feinting at the last second, bringing the sword low, going for Mortem’s ankle. Mortem sidestepped the cut, bringing his ax over and down, catching Ado across the shoulder, severing the smaller man’s arm and driving him into the dirt. Ado attempted to gain his feet, but Mortem was upon him. He brought his great ax up high and Chet screamed Ado’s name as Mortem’s blade fell, two hard strikes, smashing Ado’s helmet, crushing his skull.

  The crowd roared.

  “No!” Chet cried, stumbling to a stop, overcome, as though he himself had received the blows. He dropped to his knees. “No! No!”

  “Another notch for the gods!” Mortem shouted, and chopped Ado’s hand off. He scooped up the ring, held it high for all to see.

  A wild cry came from the smoke. Chet spotted a reptilian woman carrying a scimitar. She was chasing a soul and it took Chet a moment to realize it was Coach. The woman held two rings and Mortem must have seen them, for he charged toward her. The reptilian woman was so intent on Coach she didn’t see Mortem. He blindsided her, coming out of the smoke and catching her in the midsection with his ax, nearly splitting her in to halves. He tore away her rings, then leapt after Coach.

  Coach kept running, but there was nothing but open arena before him.

  “Halt!” the giant yelled. “Halt and I will spare you.”

  Coach saw then just who it was chasing him, and stumbled to a stop, his face one of utter despair and resignation. He dropped to one knee, offering up his ring.

  No, Chet thought. No, you stupid fuck!

  Mortem caught up to Coach, kicked him to the dirt, but instead of cutting off his ring as promised, he stomped his heel into Coach’s head, twice, a savage grin upon his face as he crushed the man’s skull. Chet found himself frozen by the monster’s viciousness.

  “And another notch for the gods!” Mortem bellowed as he hacked off Coach’s ring.

  Chet got to his feet and ran for the nearest cover, for the center platform where the Watchers stood. He didn’t look back, not until he made it, and when he did, he saw Mortem heading straight for him. Chet glanced wildly about, searching for escape, some advantage, found nothing but screams and the clang of arms coming from all directions. Chet’s sword suddenly felt small in his hand, but he had no intention of making the same mistake as Coach. He slid into one of the defensive stances Ado had shown him and leveled his blade at the charging monster.

  A wild cheer rose from the crowd. Veles’s champion, Kwan, stood over a burly, brutish beast, his sword planted deep into its neck. The creature lay on its back, clutching its throat with one hand, three rings with the other. Kwan seized the rings, tearing them from the beast’s grasp. The monster made a feeble grab for Kwan, but the agile fighter was already away, sprinting for the center—a total of six rings now in hand.

  “No!” Mortem snarled, shifting course, moving to intercept Kwan.

  The crowd, all on their feet, began stomping as the two champions raced toward one another.

  Kwan spotted Mortem and began to dart back and forth, keeping Mortem off balance. At the last possible moment Kwan made as if to strike, but tucked and tumbled instead and Mortem completely missed his opponent. Kwan rolled past and up onto his feet, dashing for the coffer.

  “Yes!” Chet shouted, almost forgetting he was on the field and not in the stands. There was now nothing between Kwan and the coffer and Chet began to believe he just might make it out with his ring—with his freedom.

  Mortem roared and flung his ax—a powerful overhand throw. The ax hurled end over end and Kwan must’ve sensed it, for he glanced back. When he did the ax caught him on the side of the head, lodging in his skull. Kwan hit the ground and all six rings flew from his hand, bounced and rolled along the dirt, smacking up against the platform not five feet from Chet.

  Mortem let loose a triumphant shout.

  Chet started to flee, saw champions rushing in from all directions, and his eyes darted back to the rings. The rings, he thought. Just throw them the fucking rings! He dove for the rings, snatching them up from the dirt.

  “Here!” came a thunderous cry. Mortem started toward him with his hand out. “Hand them here, now and I’ll spare you!”

  “Not today, motherfucker!” Chet shouted.

  Mortem’s face twisted into a knot of rage and he broke into a run.

  Chet spun away, heading around the platform, toward the other champions.

  “Drop them!” Mortem shouted, his footfalls thundering after Chet. “DROP THEM!” The footfalls gained rapidly, closer, closer. Mortem roared, right behind him, and Chet did a trick, not a move that Ado had showed him, but a simple schoolyard stunt. He dropped—just fell like a rock, leaving his pursuer no room to react.

  Mortem’s foot caught Chet’s side, tripping the giant, sending him tumbling. The impact also flipped Chet and he landed not two feet from the coffer. It was then that he spotted Ado’s body still lying mangled in the dirt, that his friend’s sacrifice, that Mortem’s wanton brutality, hit him like a kick to the chest. His rage, his utter hatred for this monster before him, overcame his fear, his panic. Chet knew he was done, but even if it was his last act, he intended to see to it that Mortem did not, would not, get these rings. He stood, stepped to the coffer, and held the rings out over the open chest.

  Mortem rolled to one knee, looked from the rings to Chet. Chet locked eyes with the giant, a wicked grin, a crazy grin, spreading across Chet’s face.

  Mortem’s brows cinched together. “What are you doing?”

  Two other champions ran up, stopping when they saw Chet, their faces unsure.

  The crowd fell quiet.

  “You can’t do that,” Mortem spat. “It’s forbidden.”

  “For Ado,” Chet said and dropped one ring. It hit bottom—the loud metallic clang echoing all the way to the top of towering stands.

  “Stop!” Mortem cried, getting to his feet.

  Chet dropped another ring, another.

  “You will stop!” Mortem screamed and charged.

  Chet slammed the remaining rings into the bronze chest.

  The horn blew.

  Mortem halted, looking up at the Watchers, his eyes blazing with fury. The drums petered out. Every soul in the stands stared on with shocked, surprised expressions. And then, only then, did Chet wonder at what he had just done.

  CHAPTER 43

  By . . . the . . . gods,” Mortem growled, “you will pay for such insult.” He reached for Chet, but Chet leapt back, sword on guard.

  “Cease,” three voices called in unison. The Watchers held up their hands.

  Mortem set hard eyes on them. “Cease?”

  “He has placed the rings.”

  “He’s a ring-bearer. A ring-bearer cannot place
the rings.”

  “He has placed the rings.”

  “I’ll not stand for this!” Mortem cried. He took several long strides past the platform and stood before the gods. “Hel, my queen. What do you say to this madness?”

  Hel, like all the gods, was out of her chair and at the edge of her balcony, her veil pulled aside, her face as surprised as the others. Gradually, her expression darkened and she exchanged sharp words with the two guards in her booth, then pointed angrily at Chet. The guards left in a hurry, leaving through a door in the back of the chamber. Hel gave Chet one more dark look and followed after them.

  Christ, Chet thought, getting slowly to his feet. What’re they gonna do to me now? There was nowhere to run, so he waited, everyone waited.

  The big red doors opened and Hel strolled out onto the field flanked by two minotaurs. The remaining champions bent to one knee and placed their weapons in the dirt before them. One of the minotaurs preceded the goddess, slapped the sword from Chet’s hand, and shoved him to the ground. “Stay on your knees.”

  Hel walked up, stopping a few strides away, a tight, grim expression on her gaunt, skull-like face. “Remove your helmet, slave.”

  Chet did as bid.

  She looked him over, not hiding her disdain. “You have interrupted my games.” She held out her hand to one of the minotaurs. He drew his sword, a short, wide blade, and handed it to her. It appeared heavy, but she held it with ease. She took a step toward Chet. “Head down, slave.”

  Chet looked at the blade, up at the goddess, shook his head. “No. No way. That’s not right. I placed the rings. That makes me the winner.”

  The goddess’s eyes flared and an audible gasp passed through the crowd.

  The minotaur struck Chet, knocking him to the dirt.

  Chet shoved back up to his knees. “Ask them!” he shouted, jabbing a thumb toward the Watchers. “They said it. Said I placed the rings. And according to the rules. According to your rules. That makes me the goddamn winner!”

  Again the minotaur struck Chet down.

  A murmur passed through the crowd and many began to boo.

  Chet pushed himself up yet again, met and held Hel’s eyes.