by M. M. Perry
Issa rankled at Oshia’s having cut her off, but tried not to let it show.
“That’s all well and good, but it has to be done now,” she snapped, asserting her authority.
“Why now?” Oshia asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Mother is calling everyone to the plains. I was to come here, to request you and all the rest join us there, in honorable battle. Old and new together. Today. An orderly, and your favorite, very theatrical performance for the mortals to think upon. A clash between the giants. But it won’t be orderly at all. Timta will make sure of that. She’s been acting strangely, and I haven’t been able to figure out why,” Issa said, hoping the small lie hidden in a mouthful of truths would pass by unnoticed.
Oshia clapped his hands together in delight.
“Darling Issa! My timing is impeccable!”
Cass sat crouched in a line of scrubby bushes, the rest of the group similarly hidden to either side of her. They had been hiking uninterrupted at an arduous pace for hours when Lasha had suddenly motioned for them to stop and drop down. Cass steadied her breathing from the vigorous trek, waiting for Lasha to signal that the danger had passed and they could move again. The female Cartan never did. Instead she continued eying a tree line just beyond a stream in front of them.
“They have captured this much land?” Droog hissed quietly.
“They have,” Lasha replied. “From here, I am not sure how to proceed. Once we cross that stream, they will overwhelm us with numbers. I have seen it happen. They swarm, like insects on a corpse. They will eat you alive. I’ve never seen elves behave in this manner before. I don’t know what this seer is doing to them, but it is terrifying.”
“They sound more like morta than elves,” Nat murmured.
“Morta?” Lasha asked.
“Insects on Centria. They live in large colonies and eat people alive. Fortunately, they only live in certain areas that can be easily avoided,” Cass explained.
“Fortunately,” Gunnarr said dryly. Cass smiled at him and gave his arm a squeeze.
“Every creature, even in a swarm, can be killed. We just have to find the best way to kill these,” Cass said.
“Better find it fast,” Korick said, unsheathing two slender blades at his waist.
The woods across the stream began to move. It was as if the very bark on the trees had become animate and was hostile toward them. The green and brown mass dripping from the branches and roiling just beyond the stream was not plant life, however—it was the elves moving to intercept.
“Just keep moving forward!” Lasha shouted. She had to shout to be heard. The sound of so many elves moving en masse was deafening. “If we can get to the temple and grab the seer, they may stop attacking. It’s our only chance!”
“Is that the best plan we have?” Droog shouted back.
Lasha did not respond, instead she pulled one of the thin arrows from her quiver and shot it. Gunnarr, Nat and Cass all pulled their blades. Droog pulled on heavy gloves. Cass only caught a glimpse of them as she readied her own blade, but they seemed to be covered in thick plates of polished metal that bristled with points. She didn’t recall having seen them before.
The elves had already forded the creek and were swarming up the bank. Korick took the lead, stepping out from the brush and slashing a bloody path through the elves with his two swords. Lasha followed close behind him, shooting as fast as she could. The rest of the group did their best to keep close while striking down as many elves as they could, creating an eye in the center of the storm of elves.
Cass took the rear guard. The elves flung themselves at her with wild abandon, ripping at her with bare hands and gnashing teeth. She began to wish she had gloves like Droog’s. The tiny creatures were so small, numerous, and close that her sword wasn’t doing much good. She felt her feet hit water and took a moment to look up from her bloody handwork. They were making good progress despite the number of elves. She gasped as she felt a stab of pain in her thigh, and looked down to see a lone elf had made it inside their perimeter and managed to sink his teeth into her. She set to, raining blows on him even after he had dropped from her. In between hacks, she glanced up at the trees. They were teeming with elves who stared down at her, teeth bared, eyes glassy. These were not the annoying elves she remembered. Is some ways, these elves seemed mindless drones acting as hive animals often did, with little regard for the safety of individuals so long as the hive’s goal was achieved, yet for some reason they weren’t all attacking. Though she was surrounded by attacking elves and hard pressed, she wasn’t being overwhelmed. There were certainly enough of the creatures waiting in the trees that if they all descended they could blanket the group so thickly they would have no chance to get out from under them before they were devoured. Yet the elves, for all their apparent descent into unthinking bestiality, seemed to be waiting for something.
Cass continued to keep the elves just at bay, gaining the further bank and rapidly moving farther into the sacred Cartan lands. Cass noticed then that although more and more elves were surrounding them, so far out into the trees that it was now difficult to determine where the horde ended, she was still managing to keep up a steady pace forward. It dawned on her then that they were being herded. She looked ahead to tell the rest of the group to stop, that they were being lead into a trap, only to notice that she had fallen several paces behind the rest of the group. It was then that she saw her fears were well founded. The teeming mass of elves around her had not filled in the space between her and the rest of the group. Instead, they were surging at her from beside and behind her. The ferocity of their attack sent a clear message to Cass. She had only one option: move forward, or be eaten alive. As she looked into the thousands and thousands of glittering green eyes staring at her, she could only hope that what they were leading her to wasn’t a worse fate.
Cass ran to catch up to the group. Gunnarr was closest. He had fallen back as soon as he had noticed her absence. When he saw her he felt some of the tension ease from him. Then he noticed the elves behind her, an angry wall of pale green death, and he also understood what was happening.
They both hurried to catch up with the rest of the group. When they finally pulled even with Korick, they both saw the fight with fresh eyes. The elves before them were offering token resistance, squealing with pain and darting out of their way when they were struck, as opposed to the dogged relentlessness with which the elves to either side and behind attacked them. It was then that the group suddenly broke through the forest into a broad clearing. A small temple squatted in its center, a man standing at the temple’s entrance. Upon seeing them, the man shook his head and slumped to the ground. He put his head in his hands. At this distance, Cass couldn’t be certain, but she thought the man was sobbing.
Time seemed to halt as the overwhelming sound of the elves movement suddenly ceased. The sound of one of Lasha’s shots thunking into some far off tree, a squirming elf pinned to it, was the last sound for several moments as the entire group stood, waiting for what was going to come next. When nothing happened after a few moments, Cass stepped out from the group, making her way toward the temple. The man looked up, his face filled with grief and rage.
“You stupid woman,” he sneered. “You had to come. You had to see me. You’ve doomed us all.”
Cass began to speak but stopped when she felt a sudden change in the air. She looked up when she noticed that the sky above them was dimming. She could still see the sun there, the normally blindingly bright orb now looked a pale ball of cotton, and she could no longer feel its warmth on her face. The ground beneath her feet felt somehow less firm as well, as if she were about to sink into it. She reached out and grabbed Gunnarr’s hand, and felt intense relief as he gripped back firmly. It was the only thing in the moment that felt like it always had. She turned to him and could see from the look on his face that she was not alone in sensing these sudden changes.
Issa returned to the river in haste. She sensed the other gods amassing on
the plains, as Timta had commanded they do. Given the overwhelming sense of power she perceived, Oshia must have done the same, commanding his side to go there as well. If all was proceeding as she’d planned, both sides were lining up for a fight they believed would be more spectacle than combat. Timta had said as much. Issa hoped Oshia was saying the same. She was gambling he had, remaining loyal to their plans at least this long. She thought the odds in her favor, as he had no real love for any gods other than himself.
When Issa entered the temple she found Timta knelt in a huddle on the ground, her body shaking and shivering. Issa touched her gently on the shoulder. Timta raised her face, her skin clammy with a sheen of sweat, her eyes dark, the pupils dilated to their fullest. Timta’s hand shook uncontrollably when she reached up to touch her daughter. Issa was shocked at how quickly Timta had fallen back to this state.
“I did it for you, mother. I convinced Oshia. They are all on the plains. Come, clean yourself up. You only need to last a little longer, then you can heal.”
Issa led a listless Timta to the River’s edge. She watched passively as her mother dipped her hands into the water and splashed her face. The cool water shocked the god out of her torpor.
“I just need some more. The battle. No one will notice. I’ll take a few, and no one will notice. Kepsos didn’t work because he was only one. I need more than one, then it will be okay,” Timta babbled, suddenly manic. “It’s a battle. People die in a battle. We can even say they needed to be punished. Just like we punished Kepsos when they asked. A few. A few needed to be punished. They won’t notice. You haven’t told anyone?”
Issa shook her head and forced a smile to her lips. No, she hadn’t told anyone her mother’s secret, not even Oshia. She hadn’t told anyone her own plan, either—her plan to kill as many as she could before they fled. Her plan to make sure she killed more than any other god killed. She knew, after seeing her mother, that once they started killing, they wouldn’t stop. Issa had decided to make sure she killed the most. She knew it was her only chance.
“Let’s go to the plains now, Mother. They are waiting.”
“What does it all mean?” Viola asked absently, looking through the space Chort had stood a moment before, her thoughts rushing through her head.
“It means the gods have a much bigger incentive for killing each other than we thought. It means the people in the way of that hunger, they won’t stand much chance,” Manfred replied.
Viola picked up a piece of fruit and began munching on it inattentively. She stopped mid chew. The fruit tasted wrong. Instead of the crisp, sharply tangy morsel she was expecting, she found it dull and slightly soggy. She lowered the fruit to her plate while forcing the unappetizing swallow down. Then she realized she could no longer smell the spiced meats cooling before her. The colors of the beautiful tart she had looked at moments before no longer popped. Everything seemed lifeless, and the air had become unnaturally still.
Chort, after leaving so dramatically, came back quietly into the room. He looked from Manfred to Viola.
“The war has begun,” he said solemnly.
The dragons hadn’t moved much in several days, lounging stone like in the sun. They seemed almost to be hibernating, their breathing so slowed that Anya had to watch carefully to even discern the slow rising and falling of their bulk. She tried her hardest to remain patient, to resist the urge to pester them with questions. The last time she spoke to the Ambassador, he had said they needed their rest. He hadn’t said it as an admonishment, more as a statement of fact. It hadn’t bothered Anya too much, as she was used to traveling alone. She had all the supplies she would need for a great length of time, but little to occupy her time. Today, she had finally decided to take a cue from the dragons and relax, slipping into one of the mountain valley’s broader, cooler hot spring fed pools to soak. That had been hours ago, but she found the warm water so soothing she hadn’t yet been able to muster the will to get out.
Anya felt a sudden shiver, starting at her feet and running the length of her body. As relaxed and muzzy-headed as she’d let herself become, it wasn’t until she noticed that steam no longer rose from the water that what she was feeling was a sudden chill. She sprang out of the water just as a skin of ice began spidering across the top of it. She shivered while she quickly dried herself. The perpetual fog that shrouded the mountain valley was dissipating as she began to dress, allowing Anya a clear view of the sun for the first time since they’d landed there. Something about the sky didn’t look quite right to her. As Anya pulled on her furs, she found they no longer felt right. The strands of animal hair were coarse, dull, and brittle. As soon as she was clothed she raced across the valley to where the Ambassador had been resting. She found him unmoved save that his neck was craned, his head pointed up into the sky. His visage was just as glorious as she remembered, the one thing unchanged in the valley.
“What is it?” she asked, knowing this sudden change in sensation wasn’t a good sign. “Is it time for us to leave?”
“Yes,” the Ambassador said. His voice rang out as rich and clearly as it always did, piercing Anya like a bolt. Its fullness made her feel the loss of luster on everything else that more acutely. “We must go to the warrior woman. Gather your things.”
Melody was preparing lunch for Callan. He had been so worried lately, she decided to go down to the kitchens and prepare something special for him herself, though the cooks had at first vehemently objected to their queen demeaning herself by undertaking such a mundane task as cooking. Melody smiled as she picked out her ingredients, remembering when she had first shared a meal with him. He had been caught in a downpour and knocked on the kitchen door, looking for something to warm him. Melody still remembered his haggard appearance when she opened the door, wondering why he bothered to knock when he was the prince of the palace. She had been a guest for only a short while, but they hadn’t been introduced yet.
“I n-need s-someth…,” and Callan had stopped, his eyes caught by hers. Melody knew he was a prince, and it was her place to serve him as he requested, but as soon as he saw her he clammed up. Melody had made him a quick, easy dish of pasta with herbs. As she prepared it, he had slowly opened up to her. While he ate it, they’d continued their conversation, and well past the point that he’d finished the meal. The whole evening he never spoke once about his royal background or used it in any manner to intimidate or impress her. It was that night that had marked the beginning of their courtship. She thought making the dish again for him now might cheer him up.
Melody always loved preparing herbs for cooking: the scent they released was delightful. Melody dropped the dried herbs into the mortar and began to grind them up. She could tell something was wrong immediately. The air did not fill with the pleasant aroma of the plants. She dropped the pestle and stepped away from the counter. She noticed the gossip of the chatty kitchen staff that were busy preparing lunches for the whole castle had stopped. She could see the other cooks looking puzzled at their own creations. She quickly left the kitchen, her special meal forgotten, in search of Callan.
The once vibrant tapestries that lined the walls now seemed dull affairs, as if a layer of thick dust had permanently settled upon them. The plush carpet beneath her feet felt thin and unyielding.
When Melody saw Callan running toward her, her heart leaped. He at least, had stayed the same, though his garments had lost their luster. He ran toward her and embraced her tightly.
“What has happened?” he asked, sounding more a lost boy than the man he was.
“What else could it be? The gods, my dear.”
Swords Aplenty was as boisterous as ever. The warriors were thick in the little tavern, ready for a battle that promised to be the biggest, most dangerous, and grandest they’d ever known. As was often their custom, they drank as merrily as possible before the impending fight, knowing they might not ever have the chance to do so again. Drinks were being spilled, stews were being generously ladled, and songs were being shouted as
loudly as possible. Someone was playing a merry tune on a fiddle and everyone in the tavern was singing along, if singing is what one could call such a noise as not everyone was singing the words in the same language, rhythm, or key. When the song came around to the chorus the crowd quieted, waiting to see how well the fiddler handled the oft improvised solo that preceded it. The playing started well enough, but halfway through, the music changed, sounding suddenly strident. The fiddler pulled her instrument away from her chin, checked the strings, and then tried again. It still didn’t sound right. She looked up from her fiddle to apologize to see the room had grown quiet.
She could immediately see it wasn’t just the fiddle that had gone off. One of the warriors nearest the door rose from his seat and headed out of the tavern. When he didn’t return, the whole lot of them followed after, finding him standing dumbstruck just beyond the door, staring out at the Plains of the Dead Gods. They filled in the space around him and each in turn gaped out at what they saw. Many of the huge statues that had so recently risen far into the sky had been toppled. Smoke filled the plains so thickly, the group could only barely make out the occasional outline of the looming figures that remained.
Something came hurtling toward the group at high speed. It hit the ground some ways in front of them and bounced several times, leaving a trail of scorched earth behind it. It finally came to rest a dozen paces before the group of warriors. The warrior that had first ventured out of the tavern stepped forward to investigate it. When he reached it, he used his foot to turn it over then leaned down to take a closer look.
“What is it?”
“I think,” he said with uncertainty, “I think it’s a head.”