Lost Gods

by Brom

  “How about a drink?” the man asked. “Two for one.”

  Both Ana and Chet gave the bottle a curious look.

  “Ah, you guys are still wet, aren’t cha? Nothing to it really. Makes you forget for a little while. Y’know, that you’re dead and all.”

  “Oh,” Ana said, sounding more than a little interested.

  “Here, take a seat, have a taste on me. It’ll at least look like someone’s buying.”

  They sat down and the man slid two small dirty glasses over, pulled a cork, and started to pour.

  Chet held up his hand. “No thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “Just a pinch,” Ana said.

  He poured her about a teaspoon worth.

  She held the glass up, staring at the dark liquid.

  “Yeah,” the man said. “The Edda, they aren’t big on the drink. The only coin I make here is selling to pilgrims and carneys.”

  Ana raised the glass to her lips but stopped, her eyes suddenly big and focused on something behind Chet.

  Chet spun and caught sight of Seet walking along a row of carts. The creature hadn’t noticed them.

  “Motherfucker,” Chet said and hopped up, starting after him.

  Ana grabbed him. “Chet, what’re you doing?”

  “Just want to see where he’s going.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “Really,” he said.

  They followed at a distance. Seet looked worn out, head down as he trudged along. He walked up to a tall wagon sitting on the outskirts of the caravan. Several doors ran along the side. Seet tugged a key from his satchel, stepped up on a short stair, unlocked one, and crawled in.

  Chet caught a glimpse inside before the goblin man pulled the door shut. It was just a sleeping compartment, not much bigger than a coffin.

  “Think your knife’s in there?”

  “One way to find out.” Chet started forward.

  Ana grabbed him. “Chet, have you lost your mind? Look around.

  There’re too many people.”

  Chet could see she was right. He took a deep breath. “Okay, you can let go. Not gonna do anything stupid.” He grinned. “At least not right now.”

  CHAPTER 51

  Drums.

  Gavin pressed his back against the temple wall, removed his hat, and peered down at the amphitheater below. It was dark now and torches sputtered around the perimeter, illuminating the rows of Edda filling the lower seats. Many sat cross-legged on the ground, holding small horned figures made of bones and hair, painted green and with gold stones for eyes—smaller versions dangled from necklaces and bracelets. Much of Veles’s caravan had turned out as well, servants, vendors, pilgrims, and guards. Gavin was pleased to see that the guards appeared at ease, sitting about smoking and chatting—some even had their feet propped up. Gavin knew his only chance to take Veles lay in surprise, that if the god got wind of them, he would ignite them all in flames.

  Carlos, along with a handful of his Defenders, slid up behind Gavin, spreading out along a low wall. They were armed with muskets and Gavin was glad to see they had the sense to keep their heads down. The Colonel and his Rangers waited farther back, just below a nearby ridge. The plan was to move forward the moment Veles’s little firework show began.

  A giant stag, nearly thirty feet tall and made from shards of bones, stood in the center of the amphitheater. Hundreds of smaller stag figures, also woven from shards of bone, were stuffed inside the giant. A chair, more of a throne, sat atop a stack of cut stone, facing the effigy, its back to Gavin. Gavin marked his best approach, hoping to take the god from behind. He clutched the spear, wondering what it would feel like to bring down a god. Would it take away his pain? Make him forget the screams of his own children? Maybe, he thought, for a while. It just—Gavin tensed as a tall kid with red hair entered the amphitheater. It’s him. The kid . . . the one from my vision.

  CHAPTER 52

  They’re starting,” Ana said.

  “You wanna watch?” Chet asked.

  She shrugged. “Why not?”

  They headed toward the drums and entered a natural amphitheater carved from the stone ledge below the temple. The Edda filled most of the seats. Yevabog’s cage had been moved and placed like a trophy next to a throne. A pig and goat sat in cages just behind her. Chet caught sight of her face. She did not appear happy with the arrangement.

  Chet nudged Ana and they headed over, taking a seat next to her.

  “You got the best seat in the house,” Chet said.

  Yevabog gave him a dismal look. “Yes, Veles spares me no consideration.”

  The drums ceased, and everyone fell quiet. Veles entered through a stone arch, stopped, and surveyed the gathering. He appraised the giant bone stag, then began to stroll around the arena, speaking to the Edda in their own language—a peculiar combination of hand gestures, clucking, and grunts, touching those that reached out to him. The Edda followed his every move, captivated by his slightest gesture. And Chet saw it, on their faces, in their eyes, not just devotion, but love. They began to chant his name.

  “They adore him,” Chet said.

  Yevabog let out a long, pained sigh. “Yes. It is most annoying.” She sighed again, more a sound of giving up. “You are looking upon a god that is one with his people. Even in ancient times, Veles was always out among his clans, traveling from temple to temple, spreading his name, growing his congregation. I rarely did such things, too lazy, too proud. Ha, and that is why he still has disciples, while I have none.” She shook her head. “Never share that I spoke thus of him, but Veles, in his day, fought hard to keep disease, pestilence, and all the dark spirits at bay. His people thrived. He always gave back more than he took, and that was what made him a great god.” She was quiet a minute, then a coy smile slipped up on her face. “And that is why I burned his temples. For even then, I was a spiteful, jealous creature.”

  Chet laughed, couldn’t help himself.

  “I should not tell you this,” Yevabog said. “But he fed me god-blood, to heal me. Back at Styga. I cannot say I would have done the same for him.”

  Veles climbed the steps to his throne and stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the gathering. Slowly he raised his arms, closed his eyes, and bowed his head as though in deep thought. His fingers did their dance, his golden corona glowed, and all the torches around the amphitheater flared, sending up a host of sparks. The sparks sprouted wings, fluttered around the giant bone stag like flaming butterflies.

  The Edda oohed and awed.

  The butterflies swirled about the giant figure and everywhere they touched, a small blue flame lit, until the entire giant was ablaze.

  Veles opened his eyes and the drums started back up.

  One by one the Edda stood and entered the ring, stomping to the beat. They clasped each other’s hips and began to circle the burning stag, dancing and chanting Veles’s name. The pace picked up, and some of them broke away—leaping, spinning, and hooting.

  A loud howl came from behind Chet and to his surprise Veles hopped down into the ring with the Edda, spinning and leaping about right alongside them. He let loose howl after howl, laughing—an exuberant, hearty sound that echoed into the night, that seemed to chase away all the bad things that might be hiding out there.

  The Edda laughed too and Chet found a grin on his own face, found his feet drumming out the beat, found that part of him wanted to join in, to dance and howl and forget all else.

  The tempo picked up and some of the souls, the ones that had come with the caravan, did join in, the Edda welcoming them with lively hoots and big grins.

  “You feel it, do you not?” Yevabog asked. “Veles’s spirit.”

  “Yeah.” Chet nodded, he did, all around him, almost a thing he could touch. He inhaled deeply; it was sweet, like the air when winter turns to spring. He caught Ana smiling, nodding her head, and drumming her feet. She looked happy.

  “See,” Yevabog said,
“their energy . . . it weaves together. The gods and souls. It is a real force and with enough believers, the gods could make the underworld like earth above. There was a time, long since lost, when the ancient gods created entire gardens and forests full of flowers and animals such as the Elysium Fields and Asphodel Meadows. Such wonders to behold. But as our worshippers faded, so did our power. Now our crumbling statues and temples are all that remain of those ancient days of glory.”

  The tempo slowed and the Edda moved at a more plodding pace. Veles spun away from the circle, bounded up the stones to his throne, and took his place. He appeared bigger somehow, full of zeal. His golden eyes sparkled as he watched his people dance. The Edda too, seemed more vital, their flesh taking on an almost lifelike sheen as though for this moment, real blood flowed in their veins. As Chet watched them circle the burning giant, he felt he was catching a glimpse into a different time, a long ago earth, felt he understood on some level this nourishing, healing relationship between gods, souls, and earth.

  Ana stood. “C’mon, Chet. How ’bout it?”

  “Huh?”

  “Let’s dance.”

  Chet looked at her shocked. “Really?”

  “Why not?”

  Chet hesitated.

  “Go,” Yevabog said. “Might be your last chance to have a taste of life.”

  Chet followed Ana down, but didn’t join in, just stood on the edge of the circle, nodding and tapping his toes to the drums. He watched Ana move, a slow, groovy sort of dance, swaying to the rhythm. She smiled at him, a warm sweet smile, and something about that smile reminded him of Trish, of happy times. It’s Veles’s magic, he thought, but let the spell take him, let his memories drift back to Trish, the smell of her hair, the taste of her lips.

  Chet caught sight of Seet and blinked as though slapped awake. He’d forgotten about the goblin man, about the knife, all of it, and felt a wave of anger at himself for letting Veles’s spell distract him from his purpose. He glanced around, realizing that most of the caravan was here at the show, that there couldn’t be a better time to break into Seet’s little cabin.

  Ana was adrift in the rhythm, dancing with her eyes closed. Chet slipped out of the arena and moved rapidly through the camp, sticking to the shadows. He found almost no guards, only a few souls wandering here and there. He came to the wagon with Seet’s sleeping compartment. One of the doors was open and in the fluttering torchlight he could see a man lying inside. He appeared to be sleeping, a bottle of Lethe clutched to his chest.

  Chet slipped up to Seet’s door. He tried the handle, but it was locked. He slipped out his sword, glanced around, saw no one, and wedged the blade into the lock, giving it a quick, hard tug. The latch pulled out of the plank with a loud screech.

  “Whut . . . whut?” the man mumbled, half-raised his head, then plopped back down.

  Chet pulled the door open and crawled in. The compartment smelled of mud and sour rags. He tossed the bedroll, then rifled through a bundle of clothes beneath the bunk. Nothing. He found a sack, emptied it—just some tools. Then his hand hit something solid—a chest. He pulled it out, shook it, something clanked within. That’s it. Gotta be. He sat it on the bed and set his sword blade atop the small lock and popped it off with one hard thrust. He opened the lid and dumped out the contents. There was a knife all right, along with a pair of brass knuckles and a handful of coins. Only it wasn’t his knife.

  “This what you want?”

  Chet started, tried to stand, knocked his head against the low roof, and fell back down again.

  The goblin man stood blocking the door, Senoy’s knife in his hand. He pointed the deadly blade at Chet. “You think me stupid, horsekiller? Think I do not know you were following me? You are—”

  There was a loud pop behind the creature, a streak of light followed by an explosion, and the sky lit up. Seet glanced sideways and Chet threw the chest, the knife, the brass knuckles, catching Seet in the neck and face, causing him to stumble back. Chet followed with a hard driving kick to the creature’s stomach, sending him to the ground.

  Chet rolled out of the tight compartment, bringing his sword up and around, intent on Seet’s neck. Seet met the blow with the angel knife, cleaving the blade off near the hilt and sending Chet off balance. The goblin man struck out in a flash of white gold, catching Chet across the forearm then down, slicing deep into Chet’s knee. Chet let out a cry, tried to leap back, but his knee went out and he slammed hard into the wagon wheel.

  Fireworks lit up the sky. Chet could hear the crowd oohing and aahing. The glow glistened off Seet’s scaly hide, revealing his horrible parody of a smile.

  Chet clung to the wheel, trying to keep on his feet. He thrust his sword out, trying to ward the creature away.

  Seet looked at the cloven blade, snorted, then pressed in, leaving Chet nowhere to go. The creature rolled the knife back and forth in front of Chet’s face, then struck out, slashing the blade across Chet’s cheek.

  Chet gritted his teeth against the pain.

  “That is for Styga,” Seet hissed and slashed again, this time catching Chet across the other cheek.

  “Fuck!” Chet cried.

  The goblin man’s eyes gleamed. “That is for—”

  Rapid popping erupted, something—many somethings—whistled past them in the air, planks and boards splintered all around, and suddenly the night was full of screams.

  Seet flinched as splinters rained down and Chet drove into him, knocking the creature off his feet and landing atop him. Seet thrust his knife into Chet’s ribs. Chet felt the blade burn deep into his chest, then tear out his back. He locked his arm around Seet’s forearm, trapping the goblin man and the angel blade. He shoved his broken sword into the soft underside of Seet’s neck, jabbing, slashing, tearing open the creature’s throat.

  Seet let out a weak gurgle, then fell limp.

  CHAPTER 53

  Ana lay on her back watching the fireworks explode. There, then, that very moment, she wasn’t in purgatory, wasn’t even dead, and neither was her child. She was six years old, it was New Year’s Eve, and the world was a good place to be.

  There came a sudden rapid session of loud blasts. The grand finale, Ana thought and felt disappointed that the show was almost over.

  Then the screams came.

  Ana sat bolt upright.

  There was carnage everywhere. Souls, mostly the guards, lay writhing on the ground, riddled with gaping wounds.

  A shout from the dark came from somewhere behind Veles.

  Another blast.

  Heads exploded, torsos ripped open, and more souls crumbled.

  Something smacked into Ana’s shoulder, hard, knocking her down. She cried out against a wave of searing pain. Those are bullets, she thought, as shards of stone cracked and ricocheted around her. She stayed low behind the stones.

  Veles let out a roar, his face a mask of fury. He thrust his hands skyward, and the air above him crackled.

  A third volley of fire slammed into the god, tore his throne to splinters, and knocked him to the ground. Veles lay upon his back, his clothes ripped and smoldering. He sat up, shaking his head. He appeared dazed, but Ana saw no actual wounds, no torn flesh or blood.

  A man carrying a spear charged out from the dark, his eyes cold, dead, his face grim. He didn’t yell, or shout, just ran directly for Veles as the god was getting to his feet. The man swept the spear across the back of Veles’s hocks, cutting completely through the god’s legs. Veles toppled backward to the ground, his eyes blazing with rage and confusion. He raised his hands skyward, his fingers dancing, the clouds overhead crackling. The man struck again, whipping the spear around, taking off one of Veles’s hands at the wrist, the other at the elbow. Veles’s eyes widened with shock and before he could even cry out, the man whipped the spear around once more, slashing the gold blade across the side of the god’s face, cutting away most of his jaw and snout.

  A loud yell went up and a wave of men streamed into the arena. Wild-eyed me
n, with red scarves tied around their necks, some carrying muskets, most with swords, spears and axes. They drove into the crowd, cutting down any who stood in their way.

  A small group of Veles’s guards rushed forward and Ana scrambled behind the stonework in an effort to escape the vicious fighting.

  A man, one of the attackers, fell in front of her, his head split open. Ana snatched up his sword, started to crawl away, stopped, tore off the man’s red scarf, tying it around her own neck. She stood and ran from the arena.

  Ana slid into the shadows of a wagon, trying to catch her breath as she searched for Chet. Flames sprouted up here and there as wagons burned. Souls from both sides dashed past. Screams and the clang of arms came from all around her. Dammit, Chet, where did you get off too? Then it struck her. Seet.

  CHAPTER 54

  Chet opened his pouch, snatched out three ka coins, then chewed and swallowed them as fast as he could. The wagon above him burned and armed men with red scarves rushed past, heading into camp, killing any they met. Chet closed his eyes, tried to ignore the screams, the growing flames, tried to concentrate on his wounds, knew he wasn’t going anywhere until his knee healed.

  A loud snap came from above him and the wagon sagged, raining down sparks and embers. One of the wheels cracked and the whole flaming heap tilted precariously.

  “Shit!” Chet cried, rolling out from beneath the blazing wagon. The wound, the one across his chest, tore open, and it felt like someone was twisting him in half. He let out a yell and just lay there, out in the open, panting, waiting for the pain to subside.

  More men were coming.

  Chet held still, even though his shirt was burning, just lay there playing dead, ignoring the flames until the souls had passed. He sat up, slapping out the embers. The pain in his knee and chest was finally starting to recede and Chet was hopeful that he might be able to stand. He clenched his teeth and forced himself up onto one knee.