The Demigod Proving

by S. James Nelson

  He applied the Spirit Ichor in a torrent, yanking on Naresh’s soul with the intention of pulling it from the brain. It would render the priest unable to act for several moments, probably long enough for the dogs to shred him.

  Athanaric’s soul deflated slightly as the Ichor flowed out of it. But nothing happened. Naresh’s eyes didn’t roll and his body didn’t go limp. The edge of his body didn’t blur from the spirit separating from the body. The soul remained intact.

  How was that possible? Athanaric had killed a thousand men in this manner. Not one had resisted.

  Instead, Naresh flipped up and backward, onto the divan. The dogs leapt at him, snapping. The first one to reach the divan jumped, snarling. Naresh kicked him in the head and he tumbled back into the crowd of hounds, knocking several others down with a yelp. As the other dogs clamored around the divan, trying to jump onto it, the Godslayer remained calm.

  One by one, he kicked the dogs. Yelping, they flew away unnaturally far. Most landed on the carpet, but one slid across the table, scattering plates and bowls. Another hit Athanaric in the torso, and a third bounced off of his hip and spun a way like a bird out of control. Naresh kept his face composed and his eyes locked on Athanaric until he’d dispatched all the dogs.

  Athanaric stood there in silence, stunned that Naresh knew how to protect himself from soul-tearing.

  The Godslayer drew himself up.

  “Athanaric, you are not god.”

  The dogs began to regain their feet, although the one that had slid across the table lay still. They growled, and several ran for the divan, but Athanaric called them back and motioned for them to stay behind him. They obeyed, some of them whimpering and limping.

  He gauged his stores of Ichor. In a fight with the Godslayer, it might very well come down to whom had the most, and he didn’t have much; he’d used it too freely in recent days.

  “I am god, and you will fail to kill me.”

  “I could kill you now,” Naresh said. “You already know that you can’t pull my soul from my body. Likewise, I could kill you now. End it here.”

  “No!”

  Athanaric started at the voice. He’d forgotten about Wrend, who still sat tied up, watching the scene with frantic eyes. Surprise and horror and disbelief all painted his face as he looked back and forth between the god and the slayer of gods. A pity he had to watch Naresh defy his god and father. He would kill the Godslayer for it. He would make him suffer for this embarrassment.

  “Don’t worry, Wrend,” Naresh said. “I’m not here to kill him today. I want to give him a chance to prevent his people from a great deal of suffering.”

  “I’ve already accomplished that,” Athanaric said.

  This man knew nothing of disorder and suffering. He’d come along well after the gods had established order nearly two thousand years before. He’d never seen the true chaos that came without strong gods to lead and direct the people. The people might have endured some restrictions under his rule, but they lived in much more order and safety than people had in the dark days.

  “I have no doubt,” Naresh said, “that things are better now than they used to be, but the time of the gods has passed. There’s a better way, now. The end of your days approaches.”

  “A fine claim for a man like you. You kill the gods and the countries fall into chaos—which only leads to more suffering. If not for those of us who have moved in to establish order, the people would be back where they were in the dark years.”

  Naresh shrugged. “In centuries past, that statement held true—but no longer. I’ve seen the error of my ways and understand that my actions have only made the few remaining gods stronger, given you more and wider control. But your sins remain the same. You raise yourself above other men. You proclaim yourself god and become a law unto yourself.”

  Athanaric wanted to crush this little man, to grind him to dust. His accusation was false, Athanaric hadn’t made himself god. He’d done nothing of the sort. He’d simply assumed the mantle that he or any of his brothers could have taken.

  He straightened his back and thrust out his chest.

  “I am god. Have I not lived for two thousand years? Am I not a giant? Don’t I rule over my people and give them laws? Don’t they worship and serve me? What more is there to being god?”

  At his booming, the dogs grew excited. They barked and jumped up on his legs, pawing at him and growling at the Godslayer, who remained unimpressed. His expression turned disdainful, and he looked at Wrend, while gesturing at Athanaric.

  “Yes, what more is there to being a god than sacrificing your children so that they don’t rise up against you? What more is there to being a god than demanding obedience and killing anyone who disobeys in the slightest manner?”

  Through all the questions, Wrend stared at Naresh with an unreadable expression. After this was over, Athanaric would have to talk with Wrend at length about it.

  The Godslayer turned back to Athanaric.

  “Tell me, who watches over you? Who ensures that you are just? What moral code must you abide by?”

  “None,” Athanaric said. “I’m god, a law in and of myself.”

  “That’s exactly the problem. Your strength is the only reason you hold dominion. But using force to maintain control does not make you a god. It makes you a tyrant.”

  Athanaric tried to control his trembling, but his legs and hands shook with rage. Instead of him lulling the Godslayer into a mistake, the Godslayer would lead him to succumb to his anger. This man knew him, understood how to make him blind with emotion. But Athanaric wouldn’t fall for it. He would school his emotions.

  “Wouldn’t," the Godslayer said, "a just and true god control his people through their love for him, instead of their fear?”

  Though his eyes were bound to Athanaric’s, he spoke for Wrend’s benefit. Athanaric could see that—and now Wrend listened wide-eyed, straining against the ropes that bound him. How dare this upstart taint his favored son.

  “Enough,” Athanaric said. “Be gone, before I slay you.”

  “Consider those things,” Naresh said directly to Wrend. “Ponder on them—and if your father doesn’t kill you for the things you’ve heard, make the right decision.”

  “You can’t trick me anymore,” Wrend said. He spat on the ground. “I know what you’ve done to me all these years, how you’ve tried to turn me against the Master. What, was it you who convinced the other demigods to rebel?”

  “No, they formed of their own accord—just one more example of how the people do not wish to live in oppre—“

  Athanaric couldn’t hold back any longer. He roared and lunged for the divan, applying Thew.

  But the Godslayer moved to meet him, thrusting an open palm. It struck Athanaric in the chest with such force that he bounced and fell backward to his rear, nearly crushing the hounds. They scattered away, yelping and growling. Dull pain spread through his chest.

  Stunned, he sat there, blinking up at the Godslayer, who’d returned to a standstill on the divan. No one had ever repelled Athanaric like that, with enough Flux to send him reeling.

  “You should know that it was the Hasuken honor guard,” Naresh said, “who convinced the cultists to act. I pled with them not to commit those atrocities, but they killed your children and wives, and poisoned the food at the feast.”

  Athanaric had long since grown accustomed to hearing confessions of those around him. Wives, priests, sons, citizens. They’d told him of the petty things they’d done or the life-altering actions they’d taken. All of them showed remorse—else, they wouldn’t have confessed in the first place. They all also feared for their lives.

  But the Godslayer’s confession bore no guilt. No repentance. He recounted the deeds like a common braggart.

  Athanaric remembered the moment he’d realized that his wives and toddlers had been killed, how he’d collapsed there at that door to the nursery, his heart and legs failing him. He couldn’t go an hour without seeing the faces or thinking o
f the names of those who’d died without purpose or defense. The visions would linger for years, he knew.

  Still sitting on the floor, he lifted his head and bound Thew and Flux to his body.

  “The Hasuken honor guard have yet to learn, like you,” Naresh continued, “that compulsion is no way to—“

  Athanaric burst forward and up, pushing his body with his Thew-strengthened hands and Flux. He lifted into the air, ready for another repulsion from Naresh.

  But none came.

  The Godslayer flew to the side, off of the divan, toward the tent’s entrance. He landed on the carpet as Athanaric touched down on the divan’s opposite side, colliding with a table and sending it toppling. The plates and cups shattered as they fell onto each other and the floor.

  Everything fell still again.

  “Consider well, Wrend,” Naresh said, “the things you’ve learned here tonight.”

  Athanaric screamed and leapt toward Naresh. But Naresh was too fast. He had too much Ichor and reacted with too much speed. He turned before Athanaric could reach him, and bolted out of the tent.

  Athanaric, driven by rage, pursued into the night.

  Chapter 44: Accelerated plans

  When you've planned for something for hundreds of years, you learn to build flexibility into those plans. If you remain dedicated to one course, and refuse to change your tactics, only failure will result.

  -Athanaric

  Ten minutes later, Athanaric stood outside his tent, regaining his breath and ignoring the paladins kneeling nearby.

  Twice. Twice in one day he’d given pursuit and failed. He sorely needed to replenish his Ichor stores.

  The camp lay in general stillness and silence. The clear starlight gave a soft luster to the tents and sagebrush-spotted streets around him. Several tents over, a few serving girls giggled with some of his younger wives—one of whom he would need to summon later on that night—although most people still gathered on the opposite side of the city, at the feast that followed the Strengthening. The celebration had really only just begun, and generally only paladins remained in the camp. Nearly a thousand of them patrolled the area. The other nineteen thousand held positions around the camp and city, watching for the redheaded draegon-girl. And now, also, for the Godslayer.

  Now, after the fact, with his anger dulled and his pursuit failed—and the Slayer of Gods disappeared into the dark countryside—Athanaric again felt the appeal of giving up. How nice it would be to lose the burden of ruling over a disobedient and willful people, to just leave them to their own problems and let them deal with the Godslayer themselves. But no, as their god he needed to provide a way for them to live in peace.

  Why had Naresh spared him? The Godslayer certainly could’ve killed him; he had the power, especially given his history of defeating gods and Athanaric's own depletion of Ichor. But why hadn’t Naresh killed him?

  Athanaric had no firm answers to that question. He could only guess that Naresh wanted to kill him in public so that everyone knew he’d died—the opposite of what had happened in Hasuke, where most still didn’t know their god had perished.

  Whatever the case, Athanaric wouldn’t fall to the Godslayer. He would prepare for the inevitable confrontation. He would continue on his course, down to Hasuke, to take control of the country and bring the people under his wing.

  Something Naresh had said returned to Athanaric: the cultists worked with the Hasuken honor guard. The thought hadn’t occurred to him before. But it made sense. Along with the Godslayer, the honor guard had overthrown their god, and now worked with the demigods in the neighboring country to overthrow theirs.

  Well, they’d failed.

  During the last week, Athanaric had spent a great deal of time searching out the rest of the apostates. While he still hadn’t captured Wester, he believed that he’d pinpointed the rest of the dissenters and killed the last demigods—except for Wester—that day at the Strengthening. Only a group of regular people remained, and he'd learned where they were. As proof that he was right, no demigods had been attacked in days.

  He’d almost succeeded in eradicating the rebellion. The problem was almost taken care of. Hasuke now loomed as the biggest challenge.

  He and his army could reach the border in a week. His original plan had called for him to go to Hasuke after he’d completed the Strengthening, when all of his Caretakers had returned to their homes. But if he went straight there, and postponed the remainder of the Strengthening, his Caretakers could join him in fighting the honor guard. He liked that idea.

  He lifted a hand to pull the tent door aside, but paused.

  Of course, he could take that as one more reason to just lie down and end his existence. Pile that on top of everything else. His general boredom with life, the slaughter of his wives and children, the poisoning of his servants, the attacks of the renegades—it was all becoming too much. It would be so nice to give up.

  No, he had to continue on. He couldn’t succumb until he’d selected and trained an heir that could care for and watch over the people.

  And it might very well be Wrend. The boy had demonstrated considerable strength of will, even despite a few foolish decisions, even if those decisions had probably proven the right things to do—which made them even that much more impressive. He’d gone against tradition in order to make a hard decision. His country needed that—someone with a firm hand, who could take whatever steps any situation might require.

  Teirn certainly hadn’t made such difficult decisions. He’d stayed the course, proven obedient in all things—which was, of course, also very important. He would be more easily trained, and would obey and learn without question.

  But which to choose as his heir? He’d never made a more important decision, and while he’d moved closer to a conclusion in recent days, he still didn’t know who was the right choice.

  He’d intended to wait until battles with Hasuke to really test his sons, but he saw now that he couldn’t wait that long. They’d already guessed—or someone had told them—the purpose of the proving. It annoyed him to no end, for with them having such knowledge, he couldn’t hold back any longer.

  He needed a test, something that would force the two sons into a direct confrontation. Then maybe they would make the choice for him. One would eliminate the other.

  He liked that idea. Let them choose. Perhaps either son would do. He’d suspected it from the start, from the very day he’d selected their souls and placed them into Rashel’s and Calla’s fetuses.

  Let them decide who would be his heir.

  The perfect idea came to him.

  Satisfied, he headed back into the tent to tell Wrend what he’d decided.

  Chapter 45: The deep recesses

  The most important memories are the ones hidden the deepest.

  -Wrend

  As Wrend waited for the Master to return, his worldview threatened to shift toward uncharted territory.

  He waited with the dogs, jealous as they gobbled up the food that had spilled from the table while he sat there in the chair, still tied up, nothing in his stomach. His knife lay in the clutter from the table; it had been knocked to the ground in Naresh’s fray with the dogs.

  With Naresh and the Master gone, the dogs became wild and reckless, bickering with each other over food and even jumping up onto the table to eat. They jostled the kerosene lamp, which made the shadows of the room swing, and for a moment Wrend thought they might tip it and start a fire. But they didn’t—they just ate the food. It was the worst when they ate the cheese. Cheddar. Probably extra sharp.

  After the approximately forty-eight seconds it took them to eat all the food, they retreated to the carpet near the divan and collapsed into piles of shaggy gray fur. All except for the one killed by Naresh.

  The Godslayer. When Naresh had revealed himself as the slayer of gods, the Master’s face became relieved, but that look had lasted only a second. Then his face blanched. His hands had trembled, dropping an apple, and he’d gone b
leary-eyed for several moments.

  Whoever Naresh was, Wrend had cause to fear him if he created such a reaction in the Master.

  He didn’t know what to think. Well, he did and he didn’t. Obviously Naresh, an enemy, had tricked him and had tried to get him to act foolishly. Yet even so, the ideas he’d taught still rang true. It was right to consider others’ points of view. It was right for people to have the freedom to choose.

  Yet, it was wrong to slaughter innocents. Hadn’t Naresh confessed to being a party to those crimes, to being in league with the rebels? Wasn’t it also wrong to defy the Master?

  Maybe not.

  That thought chaffed on his sense of propriety like the ropes rubbing his arms, legs, and shoulders. Yet, he couldn’t get rid of the thought even though he tried.

  Everyone seemed intent on defying the Master. First the apostates—Caretakers, priests, and regular citizens—and now Naresh. He’d called for the Master to step down from being a god. As if the Master could do such a thing. One couldn’t stop being a god just as one couldn’t stop being a person. Just as one couldn't become a . . . god.

  But, if he or Teirn could become a god, did that mean that the Master had once not been a god? What had Naresh said? That the Master had taken godhood upon himself, that he wasn't really a god. Did that mean he'd decided to become a god on his own accord—he'd appointed himself to the position? Not anyone could do that. He'd been the son of a god, the grandson of Pyter. That was why he could become god. Same with his brothers? The ones he'd killed?

  But why him? Why not any of his brothers? Had he become god because he was stronger, or because he was a better person? Defeating his brothers—had that been good or bad, and who had determined that?

  It all seemed so circular and confusing, but none of it had ever occurred to Wrend. The implications made his blood cold. If it were true—if the Master had no inherent right to rule and reign—nothing Wrend believed made sense. None of it held true. Everything he’d been taught all his life was wrong.