Fallen Gods

by James A. Moore

Several times he saw gatherings of locals eyeing him and his group suspiciously. That was hardly surprising. They were armed men and one woman. They came into the city prepared for trouble and so many had come with little or nothing that he could see. Perhaps they were looking for easy prey and found none. Perhaps they sought only to keep the worst elements from the city. If the latter were the case, they were failing in their duties. How much worse than the very people who had triggered the end of the world?

  “Do we stop anywhere, Harper?” Constir’s voice was soft. The lad looked around with dread in his eyes. How could he not? They weren’t likely to find a place to stop and rest. Likely the inns were all filled.

  “We find a ship, Constir. That might well be the best place we are going to find for getting a good night’s sleep.”

  “A ship?”

  “We have tents, too. If you think you can find a street that will take them.”

  Constir snorted at the very notion. The streets around them were cluttered with every sort of nesting, from tents to bundles of cloth to, yes, still more wagons. If it hadn’t been for locals likely dragging the stragglers out of the main thoroughfares, those would have been filled as well. Harper had no doubt of it.

  Mearhan said, “We’re followed.”

  Harper nodded. “Aye. Likely there are soldiers here to make sure we cause no troubles. I intend to cause no troubles, unless they are started by another.”

  Mearhan frowned. “Soldiers? I’ve seen none.”

  “You are looking for colors. The soldiers in Torema don’t wear them. They all work for Darkraven. She has no army as you are familiar with. She doesn’t need one.”

  Halfway through the city and long before the docks, Harper called a halt. Hillar Darkraven’s castle was within arrow range of the courtyard where they found vendors aplenty. The smells proved too much. They were ordered to keep close, and Harper gestured for Mearhan to stay with him as he went to buy actual food and possibly a skin of wine. There was seasoned lamb on sticks and roasted pork with hard bread. He bought both for himself and for Laram’s true love, and they leaned against a low stone wall within range of the horses and ate. Any pretense at table manners went away in seconds. The food was too good. There was no actual conversation, but anyone hearing their grunts of pleasure would have thought they were rutting with complete abandon.

  When they were done Harper offered the girl wine and she took it. Like most of the wines in the area the stuff was nearly blindingly sweet, but it was refreshing after the long ride through a frozen desert.

  The weather was better here, but he doubted it would last. All one had to do was look to the north and note the approaching clouds. There was simply no escape from them.

  A minstrel sang not far away, telling tales of disaster and doom. There were no current tales of heroes to be had. The world was ending, after all, and Hollum was in ruins, along with Edinrun and Saramond. Half the cities in the known world were ruined and the last of the large cities, Torema, was likely not far behind.

  People tended to be stubborn. For the moment there were few who were looking to the ships in the harbor, but that would change and Harper knew it. When the storms came, or the people from Hollum, if there were any left, then the people around him would look to boats and consider distant lands.

  The drizzle became rain. Not heavy yet, but decidedly wet and irritating; the mood of the crowd reflected the change as those who could gathered their cloaks around them, or did their best to avoid getting soaked in the gradually increasing downpour.

  He’d have been far more worried if it weren’t for the fact that he was carrying enough to buy most of the ships on the water. Not that he intended to advertise that fact.

  Mearhan started to speak and he looked to her. “A moment. I’m listening.”

  Not a dozen feet away a heavyset man was talking about the people from Hollum. They’d been spotted and were only a day or so away. He talked as if they were a great invading force, and there was likely some truth to that notion. Whether they meant it or not, if most of Hollum was heading for Torema there would be fights starting up. There was no space left in the city and the people coming likely did not bring great wealth to spend with them.

  “What is it, Mearhan?” He smiled as he spoke. She was a not a bad person. She was merely in a bad situation.

  “You’ve been spotted, Harper.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She pointed with her chin. “Two men up there were looking at you and talking. They wore chains around their necks. Slaver chains.”

  Slavers carried chains for locking up their charges that got notions of running. It wasn’t uncommon for them to wear their chains as belts, or draped around their necks, especially in crowded areas. The slave houses did not wear colors anymore than the soldiers in Torema identified themselves, but they all had their ways of showing their affiliations if you knew where to look. Harper was surprised only because he didn’t expect Mearhan to know anything about that.

  As if reading his mind, she replied to his unasked question. “Laram told me about it. He always told me about his travels.”

  Harper nodded. “You might need to go to the horses. You’ve done nothing wrong, but being seen with me might not go well for you. Tell the others that I was spotted. I’ll meet you down at the docks.”

  “What will you…?”

  “Whatever I need to do, Mearhan.” He handed her the rest of the wine. “Take care of that. I’ll meet you soon.”

  She looked at the flagon and in moments, Harper had faded into the crowd.

  Simple truths: getting lost in a crowd is easy if you know how. Brogan would have had a problem. Harper did not. A slump of the shoulders, a hood slipped over the hair, a different gait and suddenly Harper was gone.

  It was all illusion, of course. Harper was still there. But if they were looking for a tall man with the warrior’s gait they weren’t going to see him. At least not if he was good at his job.

  Of course, sometimes good wasn’t enough.

  The mercenaries came for him as hard as they could in a crowd, which was hard enough to let him know they were approaching. The sounds of people protesting as they got shoved aside, or knocked half off their feet by the men pursuing him, were enough guarantee of that, even through the sound of the crowded streets.

  The first of them who approached was cocky. He had a club in one hand, because Harper was surely meant to be taken alive, and he swept it over his head, letting Harper know exactly what he planned.

  Harper’s dagger stabbed into the meat of the man’s armpit and left him yelping and falling back. That was a tender spot and it was known to bleed well enough. The heavyset bruiser fell away and left his club behind.

  Harper let the club stay where it was and moved on, slipping between people when he could, rather than trying to force his way through the crowd. The rains fell harder still and Harper did his best to use that to his advantage, hunching over and keeping his head low as the raindrops splattered heavily.

  Near as he could figure it was human nature in large groups; if someone pushed, people pushed back. If someone just breezed past, no one cared. That left a few of his pursuers wondering exactly where he’d gone while they were getting pushed or confronted by angry locals.

  Not nearly all of them, of course. There were those who tried to push through the crowd and those who followed Harper’s methods. They found him again easily enough.

  They came for him hard, and fast, and despite his skills, a few of them moved past his defense. A blow across the back of his head had Harper falling to his knees blinded by the unexpected pain. He rolled as quickly as he could, tried to stand, and found himself facing a massive man who hammered him in his face with a fist that seemed made of stone. Harper fell back, dazed, and was caught in the hands of someone else, who pushed him back toward the same fist that had sent him stumbling.

  His dagger fell from numb fingers as the fist crashed into the side of his head and dropped him to the
street.

  That was his saving grace. Rather than try to stand again, Harper moved between the legs of the people around him and crawled across the filthy cobblestones, amid a collection of protests.

  One man tried to kick him and he caught the muddy, booted foot and pushed. The man let out a yelp and fell onto his back in the crowd, a heavy puddle splashing across several others as he landed. Harper continued on as the fellow tried to get back to his feet in the crush of people coming from all directions. The streets were overcrowded already, but the struggle only made the situation worse for everyone.

  He had no idea exactly what happened to the man he’d felled, but there were screams, and profanity. His face bloodied, his ears ringing, Harper found an alley to slide into and stood as the people around him flowed like a slow moving river.

  He shook off the worst of the impacts, and felt blood flowing along the left side of his face. Not a lot, but enough to remind him not to get cocky about his ability to be sneaky a second time.

  A woman’s voice called out, demanding that he show himself. He saw her in the distance, a giantess who looked fully capable of pulling his arms off as easily as he might tear the wings from a fly. He knew her from reputation, a slaver named Stanna. He had no intention of getting close to her.

  The alleyway wended its way down toward the harbor and Harper took it, hoping to avoid getting seen again.

  His face hurt. The side of his head throbbed with every pulse of his heart. Muddy waters washed down the alley with him, heading for the docks. The rains were coming faster now, growing into a torrential downfall that made seeing anything even a few feet away more challenging.

  Harper nearly ran the rest of the way to the docks.

  When he got there he found his people waiting for him, Mearhan included. Despite his fears, no one had stabbed her or cut her throat. As a scryer only a fool would maim or kill someone who could speak with the gods. Of course, no one around here knew her as a scryer, so he had to simply call her a lucky girl.

  Two men who dressed in the clothes of the Kaer-ru stood with them, looking unfazed by the heavy downpour.

  Davers nodded to Harper and pointed to the two men. At a guess they were from Corrah, where the fishermen were notorious for hiring themselves out to strangers. Both of the men wore loose vests and baggy shirts underneath them. Both sported fishing knives and a few more blades besides, because only a fool walked the streets of Torema without adequate protection. As was the case with most of the people from Corrah, they’d shaved their heads and sported a few markings on the left sides of their bared scalps. Harper remained clueless as to what the markings meant, but felt no particular need to ask.

  “Harper, this is Captain Odobo and his first mate, Lendre. They have a fine ship, large enough for our crew and a few dozen more.”

  The shorter of the men, heavyset and muscular, nodded and smiled. “Davers Hillway says you wish to rent our ship?”

  “No. I want to buy your ship and rent your services.” He paused to let that sink in. “But I want to see your ship first.”

  “My ship is not for sale.”

  “I offer you fair value because the journey is dangerous. You can buy another when we are done, or you can buy the same ship back from me for the same price if you prefer. I offer this for your sake, in case the trip leads to your ship sinking.”

  Odobo listened and considered for a moment.

  “Let’s go see about selling you a ship then.”

  Harper nodded his head and with a gesture asked that the man lead the way. They moved on quickly, all the better to avoid staying in the pouring rain.

  Interlude: Trant’s Peak

  Far to the north, well beyond the Broken Swords mountain range, and as far west as a person could travel, Trant’s Peak stood alone, a massive sentinel of stone that was coated in ice and nearly always hidden by clouds.

  Find a place in the world and tell people it cannot be reached and almost inevitably someone will go there to prove the naysayers wrong. Trant’s Peak had been mapped long ago and most people were warned to stay away because the pale people who lived there were not friendly and had no desire to barter.

  Both of those statements were absolutely true. They were not friendly and they did not barter. Though they usually left people alone, they did not like visitors.

  At the base of Trant’s Peak the pale people gathered, first by the tens and then by the hundreds. Their huts and homes were left behind to stand or fall as the gods saw fit. They had been summoned and told that the time had come for them to seek and protect their brethren.

  The pale people had no horses. They had no supplies. What they had was faith.

  The gods called and so they obeyed, moving toward the waters and diving into the bitter cold waves, their bodies shifting as the water swallowed them. Their flesh grew scales, and their fingers and toes grew longer and developed webs. Their eyes bulged in their faces and their teeth and jaws changed. The nails on their hands and feet thickened into black claws, and their eyes moved on the sides of their heads, sliding outward until their vision was widened by the change. No one snuck up on the people easily when they were swimming.

  On the far side of the land their kind were called the Grakhul. On the western shores they simply called themselves the people, as they had seldom seen anyone else and considered most of the world little more than a place the gods played with.

  The waves were harsh, but not as violent as they were on the other side of the Five Kingdoms.

  They had their destination in mind. The Sessanoh waited, as it had ever since they’d left it centuries before. After longer than any of them had lived, the pale people were going home.

  The gods made demands and they listened. There was little else for them to consider.

  They swam as fast as they could and ate the fish that crossed their paths when they were hungry.

  The pale people were always hungry. The gods had made them that way.

  Amen.

  Myridia

  The waters roared down from the heights, and despite her best efforts to reach the shore before she plummeted into the ocean, Myridia went with the rushing torrent. She had practice, and so she turned her fall into a dive and directed herself, praying to her gods that the sea was deep enough to allow her to survive.

  She cut into the ocean like a knife, slicing deep and moving away from the cliffs.

  Myridia broke the surface of the water and stared at where she’d fallen from. The stone was rough and gray and rose almost two hundred feet. The land here was sheer, and the waves were treacherous. She had dealt with cliffs almost identical to these all her life, and she felt an odd sense of homecoming.

  The world is often new and exciting, and sometimes it is simply mundane. She had not known for certain that the waters of the river would run to the ocean, but there had been a good chance and when the river broke into the cold, harsh sea she’d been relieved.

  Even as she watched on, more of her sisters rode the descending river into the water, most landing easily and a few slapping the waves hard enough to make her wonder if they’d broken bones. They kept falling, in numbers that were nearly impossible to count.

  The He-Kisshi had told them to follow the river and they had, and the end result was this. To the left she could see hints of architecture instead of simple stone surfaces, but they were higher still than the cliffside and she knew that reaching her destination was not a task that had been completed as yet.

  Myridia did not wait for the others, but instead did what she needed to do. She started climbing the cliffs, her claws helping with purchase. The rains had reached the area and kept her flesh wet enough to stop her from shifting back to her more human form.

  Near as she could tell none of the others hesitated to follow. If they wanted her as their leader, she would set an example. They had much to do and time was running short.

  Lyraal climbed beside her, the woman’s powerful hands and feet clutching the slick stone, her sword sti
ll tied across her back.

  She offered a simple smile to Myridia and continued to climb.

  It was exhausting work. They made their way carefully up the stone, and more than once a sister fell and had to climb again. Myridia did not go after the ones who slipped. That was not why they were here. They had to make preparations.

  The sun set to the west, and their shadows hugged closely to the stone and then slowly faded into night. Still they climbed. The light of the twin moons was meager in comparison to the sun, but despite the clouds, it was enough. Had they returned to human form they’d have never had a chance, but in their water-breathing forms they were hardier and their eyes more easily adjusted to the darkness, just as when they were deep in the sea.

  When she finally reached a plateau Myridia climbed out of the way and settled on the rocky outcropping. The wind was softer than she would have expected and she guessed that the gods continued to aid them when they could.

  Lyraal stood over her for a minute and then settled on the rough stone with a soft grunt. Myridia barely noticed. She was looking at the stone above them, at the symbols and structures that looked so very familiar. She knew that Nugonghappalur was gone, but when she looked up it seemed the city where she was born and raised still existed.

  There was never a sight that so quickly brought tears to her eyes. It was not home, but it called to her and soothed the emptiness that had been her constant companion since escaping the men who’d come to kill and enslave them.

  Several of the women around her let out high, keening noises, singing their thanks to the gods. She was not alone in her love of the gods, not alone in her bittersweet joy of seeing the Sessanoh and understanding the name properly. Back in Nugonghappalur the view they had now would have been the view from the waters. They had another day of climbing ahead of them, but that was just as well. They would have time to recover from the shock of seeing the place that was so very much like their home and yet so obviously not what it seemed.