The Black God's War

by Moses Siregar III

  “Damn, Caio! How could you do this? How could you be so irresponsible?”

  “I could not let this boy die! You don’t understand how much he has to live for.”

  “Just one time, Caio. Just once. You’ve gone and used your power. How could you!”

  Caio pushed himself up, revealing a long, bleeding gash on one side of his chest.

  Ilario rushed to him and covered him with his cloak. “Lay down, Caio. You’re losing a lot blood.”

  Lucia came forward and knelt beside her brother. Her red face turned pale. “I am sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “We’re going to take care of you.” Ilario held the cloth to Caio’s chest and watched the blood run down his hands. “Don’t worry.”

  Lord Sansone, let him be all right.

  Ilario glanced at the Pawelon. The boy stared at the ground with his mouth open, looking too stunned to move.

  Caio’s eyes opened wider in a defenseless, humble expression. “If anything happens to me, remember what I said to you. You should be happy together.”

  “Caio, don’t talk like that.” A sickening taste forced its way up Ilario’s throat and into his mouth. “Stay with us, Caio. We need you.”

  What the hell have you gods done to him? All he’s ever done is worship you.

  Caio opened his eyes. “I feel Mya’s healing presence.”

  Lucia’s breathing was out of control. “Tell her you want to live.”

  “I couldn’t let him die. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”

  Lucia’s eyes softened.

  “Stay with me, here and now,” Ilario said. “Focus on your healing.”

  The warpriests had encircled them. They sat up from their prostrations and one of them began chanting a hypnotic prayer. The others joined in, uttering the specific, harsh sounds of the old tongue. Lucia placed her hands beside Ilario’s on Caio’s chest.

  Ilario prayed in silent anguish to the backdrop of chanting, watching Caio smile despite his suffering. He looked down again and fought the churning nausea in his stomach as he watched the Haizzem’s dark red blood stain his hands.

  Chapter 22: The Quieting of the Gods

  HEARING THE WARPRIESTS’ resonant intoning gave Caio tranquil distraction from the guilt and doubts thumping inside his breast. He felt Mya’s invisible hands over his wound, soothing the bloody sting. Her spirit filled him like a cool spray of water tumbling off the canyon’s edge.

  Invigorated, Caio sat up on one knee. Ilario rested a heavy hand on his shoulder, his light brown eyes full of concern. Caio stood, ignoring the pain still burning in his chest.

  Ilario rose with him. “Don’t strain. Your duty is done.”

  “We’ll call off the offensive.” Lucia leaned against Caio and kissed his cheek, rekindling his will to press on.

  “I can still pray. My body suffers, but my spirit soars.” Each word Caio spoke intensified the pain in his chest. “These deaths should not be for nothing. We will push on.”

  The young Pawelon gazed at the spacious sky. Caio sensed everything the boy was feeling: stillness, gratitude, and wonder.

  Caio addressed the boy in his own language. “Now you know the peace of death.”

  “What happened to me?”

  “The gods of Lux Lucis brought you back to us. Your life means too much for it to end today.”

  The soldier came to his feet and staggered around, calmly viewing his fallen allies. “These men … they are in a better place now.” He turned his eyes to Caio and stared. “Are you … ?”

  “I am the Haizzem.”

  “You saved my life.”

  “I want you to return to your people. My army is coming. We intend to end the war today. You won’t be safe unless you leave the area. Go north until you reach the lake. Wait there, and return to your people some other day.” Caio coughed, causing hot daggers to stab his chest. “I’ve seen your future. You must live. You have so much to live for.”

  “I owe you my life … so I will do as you say.” The boy pursed his lips, deciding something. “My army will soon realize something is wrong. That we are not communicating with them. Only our sages can send signals back to them.”

  “Thank you,” Caio bowed as he spoke. “My brother, not all of us believe in this war. I, for one, do not.”

  “Then go home. Go back to your lands and leave my people alone. If you are the Haizzem, why don’t you make them all go?”

  Ilario was still holding his cloak to Caio’s wounds. He interrupted, speaking the Pawelon language with some difficulty. “Because this world is not yet right. Look how your people suffer. You believe in no greater power than yourselves, and look at the results. You live like pigs. You suffer—”

  “And you mean to help my people? You wish to see us suffer less? We are happier than you think—”

  Caio interrupted, “My father believes this war to be a religious act.”

  “Don’t you command this army now? Take your people home. Let us all live.”

  Ilario spoke again, “Then you would come after us.”

  “We would not!”

  Lucia commanded everyone’s attention: “Our people believe it’s the gods’ will that we wage this war, because they want us to better our world. But if Rezzia is not guided by the gods of Lux Lucis, we will not conquer Pawelon. Soon, we will know what the gods wish for.” She looked at Caio, and he understood her meaning: Lord Danato’s vision, Caio’s abilities, and the favor of the gods would be put to the test on this day.

  “You, Haizzem,” the boy said, “you have such power. You should follow your own truth.”

  Maybe you’re right.

  The boy had named the outcome Caio wanted most: A retreat with no further casualties. The young Pawelon could be the last to die in the war, even though he now lived. The miracle of life given back to him could be such a worthy, symbolic act if his resurrection were to be the final turning point in the war. How many lives could be saved?

  But it’s impossible.

  The entire nation of Rezzia, as well as its army, expected the fighting to crescendo now that he was Dux Spiritus. History, tradition, and even scripture gave him a mission to fulfill, made necessary by his father’s sacrifice. He was the son of King Vieri, the Dux Spiritus of Rezzia, the Haizzem of their faith, and no one in his proud nation would be willing to see him lose. He had only one option, an already decided fate—and I despise that with my whole heart and soul.

  “Go!” Caio pointed north at the sun. The star blazed wine-red in the early morning haze. “Go north to the shore. Our armies are approaching. Run as fast as you can. Live for tomorrow. Live out your life!”

  The boy walked away, then turned around again, out of words. His gape showed his sadness and rage. He glanced at the warpriests before racing toward the sun.

  “If you insist on going forward,” Lucia said, “we must pray for a great rain to conceal our advance. Now.”

  Mya …

  The Rezzian army could barely be heard marching in from the east. A gust of dry heat blew across the land as pregnant clouds formed and distant thunder rumbled.

  Chapter 23: A Prayer for Accori

  THE GENTLE CLACK AND CLANG of Duilio’s waiting army centered his mind like a familiar song. The morning’s cool breeze had turned warm, invigorating his dry skin as he sat astride his horse and looked down on a young soldier.

  The boy could barely grow a moustache, but reported as if he carried the burden of all the world’s troubles. “Strategos, the sentries sent up their fire signals. Their citadel will know that we’re here.” The young man’s intense vision focused in the direction of the Pawelon outpost.

  Duilio’s legions had been spurred on a hard march toward the southern sentry outpost. Now they waited, surrounding the enemy beyond the range of arrow fire, hoping to draw more of Pawelon’s forces toward them.

  The old Strategos leaned forward and pulled back his horse’s tasseled red and yellow caparison. He dragged his fingertips along its warm c
hestnut neck.

  We have some time then.

  “We have seen significant movement in their southern contingent. We believe they are mobilizing to meet us,” the messenger said.

  “How rude. What is your name, son?”

  “Accori, Strategos.”

  “And whom do you worship, Accori?”

  “My family worships the goddess Vani, Strategos.”

  “Is that right? Do they approve of you fighting?”

  “To be honest, not entirely, sir.”

  “Let’s do something for your parents.” Since they’ve trusted your life to me. Duilio pulled up his silver necklace from beneath his breastplate and dangled the ancient symbol. “Look here, son. Will you pray to Lord Cosimo with me?”

  “Yes, of course, Strategos.” Accori’s wide, intense eyes focused on the holy ivory.

  “Lord Cosimo, how did I forget to honor you earlier today? Where was my mind? You are a kind god to old, forgetful men. I beseech you, my supremely patient god—wait, would you say anything to him, Accori?”

  “I … I thank him for protecting us.”

  “A good thing to pray for. Because you will be fighting alongside me, rather than with your Haizzem or king, or even with our king’s daughter. But we have a great purpose, you and I do, Accori, in support of our new Dux Spiritus. Are you prepared?”

  The messenger’s brow tightened as he nodded. “Yes. Lord Cosimo is a god of miracles, is he not?”

  “Indeed he is.” Duilio studied the earnest boy. Cosimo might have no other choice but to protect you—you dedicate your whole being to your duty.

  “I put my trust in Lord Cosimo to look after you, Accori. At my age, the prospect of death is not feared. It is a constant companion. I believe it is not important how long you live, but that you give yourself to living. Live as only you can, with every part of you fully engaged. Tell me something, how does this air taste to you?”

  “How does it taste, Strategos?” Accori sniffed, looking around dutifully, licking his lips. “Good, I suppose?”

  “Try again, as if this breath might be your last.”

  The young man nodded quickly and his nostrils widened again. He looked up at the clouds forming in the north. “Like … like the breath of unpredictable gods, warm at first and then cool. Sweet with the gifts of nature, and then … foul.”

  “Outstanding. Though perhaps my horse has just relieved himself.”

  Accori’s unforced laughter transformed his stern face for a moment.

  Duilio tucked his necklace back under his breastplate. He dismounted and placed one hand on Accori’s shoulder. The scent of the soldier’s leather shirt wafted to his nose. “Live life as you just breathed in and you will not fear death, even though Lord Danato takes the young as easily as he takes the old. Think about the goddess Vani today. Do not be afraid to pray to her. It would please your parents.”

  “I will do it. Thank you, Strategos.” The young man maintained his good posture as he stared back at Duilio with transfixed dark eyes.

  Duilio patted his steed’s shoulders. Lord Cosimo, you’ve brought me through it all. He rubbed along the underside of his horse’s neck. From a young soldier like Accori, fighting with my bare hands. He stared at the colorful tassels decorating his steed. Through the last nine years leading men either to their graves or back to their lonely beds in the desert each night. I pray that you bring this young man back to our camp this day, and back to his peace-loving family some other day. I know all the gods must be very busy, but please take care of this one.

  The young man glanced toward the Pawelon outpost, suddenly looking more uncomfortable than confident. “Can I do anything else for you, Strategos?”

  “Go and spread my command. There’s no use in attacking the outpost now. We’ll spread out and do our part to look like a threat and see how many flies we can attract.” Duilio tapped the holy symbol behind his breastplate. “We’ll have The Lord of Miracles on our side.”

  Chapter 24: Lions Arising

  RAO LICKED THE ROOF OF HIS DRY MOUTH to take his mind off the blisters on his feet, he focused on the warm air passing through his nostrils and studied the greenery among the red rocks near the trail. The path itself had been trampled into a smooth, featureless road, but the tiny plants growing around nearby rocks scented the air with a hint of life.

  The northern path began its switchbacks even though surrounded by canyon walls, starting down toward the canyon floor. A few dozen soldiers scouted ahead while most marched from behind. Aayu walked next to Rao, bouncing forward with nervous energy.

  Rao felt the tension in his clenched jaw, a product of his morning conversation with Indrajit. They had stood near a handful of other Pawelon officers at the forward-most edge of the cliffs due east of the citadel, looking down on the canyon. He recalled the conversation with detached emotions.

  “I’ll be taking my unit to reinforce our northern defenses.”

  Indrajit had been arguing with a couple other officers. “Excuse me, gentlemen, our prince has interrupted us.” He did not turn to face Rao. Instead he looked down into the canyon itself. “Even though they are moving in a large force from the south?”

  “I assume you will be rotating other troops from northern positions to southern ones.” Rao worried that the northern defenses would be left too thin, but he didn’t say it.

  “Your father has given you the freedom to abandon your army and avoid confrontation at a critical time—if you must.”

  “He only asked me to follow my own instincts, General.”

  “Then get out of my sight.”

  Indrajit and Briraji led the bulk of Pawelon’s army down the southern trail. Earlier, the southern sentry had signaled that a large Rezzian force surrounded them. Briraji said he would have another surprise in store for the invaders.

  The further Rao walked the trail with his unit, the more his concern for the northern defenses felt justified. An unexpected rainstorm moved in from the northeast, blocking visibility. He suspected the worst.

  A lanky messenger ran through the ranks to Rao and Aayu. Soldiers surrounded the winded runner as he spoke. “My Prince, there’s something strange you may wish to consider. Prior to the arrival of the storm, we received no communications from the northern sentry for a considerable time.”

  “Thank you,” Rao said. “Continue on and relay this to our commanders at the citadel.”

  The thick slab of rain crept toward them, churning darker and greyer, like the expressionless face of a sorrowful god. Steaming air pressed against Rao’s cheeks, adding palpable sensation to the weight of leading men to face the storm.

  Aayu’s jaw hung slack as he searched the sky. “Was it like this when the royal daughter conjured the storm?”

  “No. There was no rain at all. But I’m sure she’s out there.”

  Rao commanded the men to increase their pace. When they reached the final slope, cliff walls blocked their sight lines to the valley. In another hundred paces they would see the canyon floor again.

  As Rao rounded the final corner with his men, a warm gust carrying the odor of the rainstorm blew through his hair. Inauspicious dark weather stretched from the ground to the heavens, waiting near the base of the trail and blocking all visibility beyond it.

  Without hesitating, Rao climbed the nearby cliff and balanced himself on a narrow ledge. He addressed his men. “There is something behind that storm, either an army or some spiritual weapon. I’m afraid we don’t have enough forces here after some of our defenses were repositioned. If you go forward with me, accept that we are likely to be overrun.” The words poured out only due to some kind of instinct. “If you join me down this hill, know the sacrifice you are making. If you cannot do this, go back now and fight another day. With luck we’ll stop the dogs again, or at least slow their advance.”

  A thousand pairs of eyes looked up at him—probably an inconsequential number contrasted with whatever waited behind the storm. “Master Aayu and I will locate their l
eadership and attack those targets. We will indicate their position with a signal. Join us and kill their leaders and we might survive.”

  Rezzian roars and the clamor of pounding feet passed through the storm and rose to Rao’s ears.

  There are far too many of them.

  “Run!” Rao yelled, and every one of his men sprinted toward the valley as Rao jumped to the ground.

  Aayu stood before him, his eyes focused with a determined glare. “You are your father’s son after all.”

  With no one else able to hear him, Rao said, “Is that what my fear sounds like? Courage?”

  They joined the stampede and ran side by side. After dreaming of it for years, they were finally fighting together. In conjunction, their strength would be more than doubled. No one would hurt Aayu—Rao would see to that—and Aayu would defend Rao’s life as if it were his own. The moment heightened Rao’s bond with his brother and ally, his bhai.

  Rezzian shock troops emerged through the watery partition and filled the air with their battle screams. Moments later, the storm literally vanished to a clear sky, revealing the armada of warriors and cavalry behind it. Ten lions led the Rezzians, bounding toward the Pawelon front line.

  “Lord Galeazzo’s lions,” Rao said to his bhai. “Their king is here. Rezzia’s Haizzem must be with him.”

  With his face red from running, Aayu panted and smiled. “Then we’ll kill them.”

  Chapter 25: Struggle

  ALBINA TROTTED HESITANTLY behind the dark sheet of rain. The mare yanked her head from side to side, reluctant to follow the weather. Whenever the wind stopped, Lucia heard the sounds of mass death at the Strategos’s battle to the south. Duilio wasn’t supposed to engage a large force. Something was wrong.

  She rode between Caio and her father, with Ilario on Caio’s other side. Her brother’s grunts and grimaces were a constant reminder of his pain, but she felt powerless to help him. She could pray to Mya to comfort Caio, but Caio had already prayed to his goddess. The gods never answered Lucia’s pleas for compassion anyway.