The Godless

by Ben Peek

  Reila made her way toward the pair, a satchel draped over her shoulder and chest. She moved slowly, pausing to examine the mercenaries who lay upon the ground. Twice she called over one of the doctors that were working around her and left instructions, corrections, before she was returned to making her own, slow walk to the two on the stone wall.

  “Let me have a look at this shoulder.” She took Ayae’s place on the wall, setting the bag beside her. As Zaifyr watched, she lifted the thin bandage that had been placed over the wound, the discolored linen lifting parts of her shirt as well. “At least it’s clean,” she murmured, but even as she said the words, she pulled a bottle of alcohol from her bag and rubbed it over the long cut. “It’s not too deep, but it will need some stitches.”

  “Will Lady Wagan be down here?” Ayae asked.

  “I imagine so.” Reila began to thread the needle. “Now that it has been revealed what the gates are for, she will have to speak to people, to reassure them.”

  “Reassure them of victory?” Zaifyr’s tone did not hide his cynicism. “The way you all speak, I would be surprised if they didn’t ask you why you hadn’t evacuated yet.”

  “They will not ask, not those who have stayed.”

  “He does have a point.” Ayae winced as the needle pierced her skin. “If we don’t believe that we can win, why stay?”

  “Do you want to leave?”

  “No, but—”

  “You think others will?” Reila’s fingers worked confidently, pulling the skin together. “I do not wish to speak ill of you, dear, but that is unkind of you. No one wants to give up their home. Few are content to just give it up, to let someone, anyone, simply take it because they wish it, or because they believe they have a right to it. Many would rather die than do that.”

  “They would be wrong to do so.” Zaifyr’s hand touched the copper charm beneath his wrist, his thumb and forefinger rubbing it lightly. “There is no pride in death.”

  “But no shame, either,” the healer replied. “Death is a natural thing in our world, Zaifyr. It is nothing we need fear.”

  “You are wrong.” A pair of haunts began to approach him, their voices joining a growing murmur of conversation that saturated the air around the man who had, once, been called the God of Death. “There is much to fear.”

  THE IMPORTANT GARDEN

  The voiceless demand me to take responsibility for each and every one of them. Yet, every action I take does not. I have shed blood in their name, I have sacrificed, I have honored, but it is not enough. It has never been enough to sate their demands, never enough to grant them peace.

  —Qian, The Godless

  1.

  The priests visited General Waalstan the day after the siege officially began.

  Crouched in his cage outside the general’s house, Bueralan watched them approach in a quiet and somber line. He had been sick again the night Waalstan had talked to him, the raw meat only offering that as a return experience. Unable to reach Zean and the others, he had been forced to give up the idea of piggybacking the blood magic of the army and to eat more conservatively, more for his strength. On the following night, he had asked for the meat to be cooked, but he had been ignored and, after leaving two plates of the meat untouched (the bread and potatoes eaten), Bueralan had been given slightly more cooked meat and left in silence to watch the Faithful set up camp at the first of the four villages they intended to occupy.

  Consisting of just over fifty buildings, the town had been constructed as if it followed a spiral, with each line of houses and shops part of a circular wall. As the midday’s sun rose into the empty sky, barbed wire was stretched between each of the buildings while outside the center of the town, guards were posted upon a large wooden wall that encircled the whole village, and, in front, trenches were dug. The priests had not taken part in any of that work and, in truth, the saboteur could not think of a single time he had seen them during the Faithful’s march. It was possible that they had been kept away from him—his cell was a small state in the country of the army—but it was just as possible, he thought, that they had kept to themselves away from the soldiers, a division of privileges that could be used to pry the tongues of common men and women around him open.

  His attention did not linger on Waalstan’s modest house, however. Earlier, as he struggled to stretch his limbs, the catapults had moved slowly up the mountain, dragged by bulls along a narrow trail cut through the trees that had once grown between the four villages. But the raiders who had cut that trail had not made one all the way to the Spine, and the dense thicket of trees standing before the village was the cause of a problem. Dural had informed the general that, beyond the trees, the Mireeans had constructed a killing ground of around a thousand meters. “It will take two days to cut through, sir,” the soldier had said, speaking within earshot of Bueralan’s cage, ironically the only part of the village not thronged with heavy traffic. “Once the trees are cut down, I’ll have the logs turned into debris we can hurl across the ground, to provide our units with some cover as they charge.”

  “Keep the logging tight, we don’t want to expose ourselves.” Waalstan spoke easily, his confident, assured manner revealing nothing of the man who had talked to the saboteur the night before. “I doubt we have much to concern ourselves with. Mireea will hide behind their wall, but it can only defend them against us for so long. Once we’ve established a foothold, our sheer numbers will win us the battle. Tell that to the men, Lieutenant. Reassure them that what happened the other night was just an unfortunate circumstance.”

  Bueralan’s cage was being lifted from the back of the general’s cart when he overheard what had taken place the other night. He had been curious: the explosion that had rolled like thunder down the mountain, as if brought by the morning’s light, had been inexplicable until the scouts had returned to the village. They reported collapsed mine shafts and that the western half of Mireea had been turned to rubble, which had shocked all who heard. No one had expected that Heast would collapse part of the city. Bueralan felt a small click, the final piece of a puzzle he had not known he was trying to solve slotting into position, upon hearing the news. But for the others around him, the truth of the matter was not that they had just lost three hundred soldiers, but that they had been handed their first defeat by an enemy they had obviously underestimated. Bueralan had felt no small sense of satisfaction at their dismay.

  Bueralan heard nothing more from Dural and Waalstan: the two moved away shortly after, leaving him to watch the felling of trees and listen to the soldiers talk.

  “Get ready.”

  A pile of chains fell to the ground in front of him.

  “Do you finally plan to take me out for a walk?” he said to Dural. “Or do you plan to wheel me in my cage?”

  “This time, you’re on the lead.” The lieutenant motioned to one of the soldiers beside him; both were large, pale-skinned men who might have been twins, if not for the very distinct and ugly nose that was squashed against the face of the one who approached the cage. He named that one Handsome, the other, Ugly. “You have an audience, so be on your best behavior.”

  Outside the cell the saboteur stretched to his full height, feeling the deep protest of his muscles as he did so. Quietly, he waited as the more handsome of the two men hooked a chain between the restraints on his ankles and wrists, and refrained from telling him that he needn’t have bothered. Bueralan stumbled to the door of Waalstan’s house in such a state that stepping over the wooden frame almost sent him sprawling to the ground. He caught himself, but only just, and did not miss Dural’s thin smile as he straightened.

  The inside of the house was as modest as the exterior and dominated by Waalstan’s large map, which had been carefully moved in before Bueralan’s cage had been placed outside. A second, smaller table sat at the back of the room, before a narrow kitchen. To the left was a single doorway and it was there that two male priests stood, while three female priests were spread around the room, two looki
ng at the intricate map, and the last—the oldest—sitting at the small table beside the general, whose hand rested gently on her knee.

  “Captain Le.” Waalstan rose. “I trust you’re enjoying being out of your cage?”

  “I could positively sing.”

  “While I enjoy your banter, please understand that it is not wanted at the moment. I have the pleasure of introducing you to Mother Estalia.”

  The woman who rose from the chair next to him was on the other side of fifty, the thickness that she had gathered in the latter part of her life threatening to verge into fat. She was white skinned, and her hair was a gray silver and cut short. Her face was a series of hard lines around her mouth, but it was her eyes that told him the most, for in the depth of their dark color, there was a coldness born of horrors that had robbed her of any joy. For a long moment she regarded him steadily, as if she knew all the terrible things Bueralan had done in life.

  “He is the one,” she said, finally. Her voice was familiar, and for a moment, he did not realize that what he heard was the mother’s voice. Here before him was the woman who had tried to calm the soldiers in the tunnel—the woman who had spoken to all of the Leeran Army, not as a figure of worship, but as a servant. “Our God has shown me truth once again. He knows where the temple lies.”

  “In the City of Ger, Captain Le,” the general elaborated.

  “There’s a number through the Spine—”

  “The one you have been to,” Mother Estalia broke in. “I do not have time for the games that Ekar does. Please remember that.”

  He would. “There is a temple beneath us.” With his chained hands, he pointed to the floor of the house. “The only way to it that I know is through a flooded mining tunnel. But I guess you already knew that.”

  “Oh?”

  “The Quor’lo.”

  “I did not control it, if that’s what you think.”

  “I don’t. But someone cleaned up the blood of whoever did. Blood has power. You ask any witch.”

  The hit was to his stomach. It came from Ugly, hard enough that it would have doubled him over if he had not already been weak; as it was, he fell to the hard dirt ground, and thought that he would vomit.

  But he had done enough of that, lately.

  Mother Estalia turned to the general. “I see your point, Ekar,” she said. “I will take the two guards, but I will leave your Lieutenant Dural here. You will need him.”

  “He will command a small force to guard you until you’re in this mineshaft,” the general said. “This is not the time to take risks, Mother. We have been surprised once and we need to be wary of it a second time. With that in mind, I must ask you again: do you truly need this man to accompany you?”

  “I do, and you should trust that he was given to us for a reason. More practically, I must admit that I do not know exactly where this entrance is, nor the directions that were taken once inside. It has been very difficult to see what is in Oyia’s blood since her death.”

  “That shaft is flooded with water.” Bueralan rose slowly. “I’ll never make that swim. Neither will you.”

  “Trust in God, Captain.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “You’ll drown.”

  2.

  Zaifyr spent the night in her house. Despite the fact that Ayae had invited him—that in itself was a surprise to her—he was the first man besides Illaan to have spent the night in her home and when she awoke, she felt a strange sense of guilt that she could not justify. In the first, drifting moments of her consciousness she believed it was the chasteness of the night, the fact that he slept on the couch in the living room that was the cause for her feelings.

  “What now?” he had asked her the night before, when they were finally left alone. “Would you like me to leave you alone? I would understand that.”

  “I—” She winced as she moved her shoulder. “Did you really do what Fo said?”

  He did not hesitate in his reply. “I gave form to all the dead in Asila. Not just the city by its name, but the entire kingdom. I had listened to them for far too long and I gave them their desire. I gave them food and warmth. If I had not stopped, I would have given all the dead such a grace.”

  “It was monstrous.”

  “Yes.” He reached for the warped hilt of the sword, lifting it from between them. “And I live with that, just as I live with sights much worse. Now, if you will forgive me.” He handed her the sword, hilt first. “I need to find a place where the dead will be unable to locate me. Where I can be quiet, before I leave.”

  “My house?” The words surprised her, shocked her, and she thought to take them back the moment they emerged. Instead, she added, “You’re welcome to stay there.”

  “Me, you and the elderly woman who was buried beneath your kitchen.” He smiled as he said the words. “But I would appreciate it, thank you.”

  As they began walking, Ayae thought of the old woman’s grandson from whom she had bought the house. He had been born in Mireea, born in a different house that his mother had sold after the death of his father, a house she had used to buy the one he was now selling. “The grandson spread her ashes around the house,” she said. “He said that she had loved the house in the last half of her life more than anything else—but I don’t think that he ever thought her spirit would be actually there. Rather, it was symbolic.”

  “It has never been symbolic,” Zaifyr said. “In literature, the Wanderer was said to take the souls of the dead, to guide them to a place of peace, a place of rebirth. His priests would recite the story of him and a farmer. In it, the latter is honest and giving and known as a man who honors both the living and the dead of his family. He does it to such a point that he talks to the dead at night, every night, though they never answer him.

  “One day, the Wanderer arrives at his farm, appearing as an old beggar, looking for dinner. He is given a place at the table and, after all have gone to bed, the farmer tells the god that he feels blessed, that because of this, he is happy to share with those less fortunate than himself. He says that it is his family that makes him feel this way. That he can feel his father and mother about him all the time, just as he can feel his son and daughter. He tells the god that he honors the living and the dead equally because of this.

  “In response, the Wanderer tells him that it is true, that his family is around him, but that it is nothing to be proud of. Against the farmer’s anger, he explains that the presence of his ancestors means that they are lost, that they are suffering, and that they watch him out of envy and hate.

  “The farmer is distraught by this thought, but he doesn’t believe it. He argues with the god, but even though he appears as an old, homeless man, there is something undeniable about the words he speaks. That night, the farmer kills himself. It’s an extreme response, but the story is a parable and all the parables of the gods had violent extremes.

  “At any rate, after the farmer dies, he knows that the Wanderer is right. He can see his parents and their parents and he can sense their hate and envy. He begins to weep and it is then that the god appears, no longer in the form of an old man but as a shadow, a specter more detailed than any around him, as if the souls of all the dead dwell within his form. He tells the farmer that it was his fault what had happened. He says that because he loved his family so strongly, so deeply, so obsessively, they could not leave him.

  “From there, the story drifts into the moral, the lesson that the priests would impart, which was that you must accept death, that it is a natural part of existence. The story is all but forgotten now, and so is the truth it speaks, the truth of a world without the God of Death—and it is a truth that will be on show in the following week, when the fighting begins.”

  “That’s why you will leave,” she said. “Your brother agreed with that. He is worried about you.”

  “He is right to be,” Zaifyr admitted. “My days of warfare are long gone.”

  “How did you live with it when you did take part?”<
br />
  “Take part?” He smiled half a smile, a cynic’s smile. “I did not take part: I made war. I made it and I believed in it. I could rationalize a terrible thing and claim it as normal when I was younger. I suppose that part of it is that it is difficult to see what I see and feel every day and to always think of it as abnormal. But it is no longer that time, for which I am grateful. I do not wish to watch men and women die, just as I do not want for them to come to me afterward, searching for answers I do not have.”

  Then they had arrived at her quiet home, a dark square among other silent, dark blocks. For a while they had talked, and then parted for the night, the house silent until Ayae pushed herself out of bed and dressed slowly. She pulled the hard leather armor on over her clothes, wincing as it rubbed against her injured shoulder.

  Before she and Zaifyr had left to come to her house, the day after Steel had escaped and the floor of the city had erupted, Lady Wagan had delivered her speech. Dressed in somber greens and whites, with the Captain of the Spine at her side, she stood in front of the Western Gate. It had not been a long speech: she begun by telling them all that she would be honest and forthright. “This will not be a short war, though the battle before us will be,” she said to the crowd before her. “You have seen the size of the force approaching us. You have no doubt asked what is it that we can do against them. You ask, not just how can we survive, but how can we triumph? We cannot do either if we are conventional. We cannot engage the Leeran force in the way they wish us to do. Neither I, nor the man beside me, plan to do so. Trust both of us on this, trust that Mireea is a wealthy nation, and trust that what we leave behind we can rebuild once our debts are settled.”

  Ayae’s hand lingered on her door frame as she stepped onto the narrow back veranda that looked over her small, empty garden plots. Zaifyr sat at a table to her right, a still figure next to a glass jug of juice trailing lines of moisture. A plate with cut sandwiches was also there. “Just simple food,” he said, as she eased herself into the chair opposite, thanking him. As she poured herself a drink, he added, “Heast has sent for me. The same messenger informed me that you have been requested to attend Lady Wagan.”