The Demigod Proving

by S. James Nelson

She bounded toward him, leaping off of a rock—nearly slipping on the grime covering its surface—and soared over a juniper. Her heart already pounded from the pursuit, but now its thundering redoubled from Krack’s lack of response.

  Athanaric crashed through the trees, roaring as he did.

  “Krack!” she said again. “Help!”

  She’d come within a quarter of a mile, now, and covered the distance fast, using more and more of her Ichor to fly further and further with each leap.

  “There he is,” Athanaric said. “You led me right to him.”

  Relief seeped into her. Athanaric hadn’t previously found Krack. He was just deep asleep—when he should’ve been up and saving his mother.

  As she flew over another bunch of rocks and sagebrush, she bound Thew to her throat, and applied a burst.

  “KRACK!”

  She didn’t see if he heard and awoke, for she stumbled as she came down, having forgotten to apply Thew to her legs to absorb the impact of landing. Her hands flew out before her, and they hit a patch of fine dirt and sharp pebbles near a sagebrush bush. Her face skidded across the dirt as she ground to a halt.

  Athanaric flew over her, landing a dozen feet past. With a single thump, both his feet hit the ground and the earth beneath her cheek trembled. He turned as she lifted herself from the ground, as if she were doing a push-up. She applied Thew and Flux to the motion, lifting herself up and away—and to good effect; his fist hit the ground where her head had been. From how he bent over and she went backward, their faces passed close enough to each other that she could feel his breath on her cheeks and see the lines on his forehead from his scowl.

  She applied Flux to her motion, harvesting it even as she lifted backward and upward, almost in the exact opposite direction she’d been going before falling. She raised higher than Athanaric as he straightened. She had almost no Thew left, and now it had come to this. A confrontation with Athanaric.

  Only, there was Krack.

  He’d heard her amplified shout and now bounded up the hill, a streak of red. He roared, and his teeth shone in the moonlight. Sagebrush snapped beneath his feet and dust rose behind him.

  Leenda touched down on a tall rock, perhaps twenty feet back from Athanaric. He turned away from her—but not until he’d met her eyes with his for a moment, as if to say he would deal with her momentarily. He crouched to meet the oncoming draegon.

  “I killed your father,” he said. “And I can kill you.”

  A vision flashed through Leenda’s head—a memory of seventeen years before when Krack had been just a draegon pup held hostage by a god. Cuchorack, a grown draegon, had fought with Athanaric and lost.

  Krack couldn’t hope to fight and win.

  She leapt, extending her feet out before her, pushing her body with as much Flux as she could.

  Her heels slammed into Athanaric’s back, just below the neck and between his shoulders. As she struck him, and he stumbled forward, Flux emanated from his body being pushed by her. She harvested it, applying it with the Flux she’d already had, and pushed him harder.

  It took a great deal of Ichor to move something other than yourself—especially something as large as Athanaric. But she gave it everything she could. Her skin seemed to burn as the Flux flowed out of her soul, and he fell forward to his hands and knees. She pushed off of his back even as he began to rise, and with the last bit of her Flux flew toward Krack—harvesting the new Flux and applying it even as she careened away.

  Athanaric leapt up and swiped at her feet. She felt the wind from his arm, but he made no contact and stumbled over a sagebrush bush, onto his face.

  Krack, seeing her coming toward him, halted, turned, and adjusted his direction so that she would land on his back. Her hair whipped out behind her.

  Athanaric roared.

  She landed on Krack’s lower back, running. His fur tickled her calves as she sprinted up his spine and flung herself forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. His muscles rippled beneath her as he bounded down the hill.

  “Fly,” she said. “Fly away from him.”

  His wings spread, flapping lightly in preparation during a few more leaps. He lifted into the air, and the wings flapped fully.

  She looked back as Athanaric leapt forward and up, his face turned toward Krack and one arm extended. He must have applied all of his Thew and Flux, for he rose high enough that it seemed he would succeed.

  Krack lifted his tail and snapped it down on Athanaric’s hand, like a whip. Athanaric withdrew and began to fall.

  “Stay away from my son!” he said.

  He became smaller and smaller in the distance as Krack lifted higher and higher, but somehow his voice sounded like it came from right next to her. He landed on his feet, and the air vibrated at the impact.

  “You stay away from him!”

  She buried her face deep into Krack’s fur, and gripped him with what little strength she had left.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you, thank you.”

  He didn’t respond, and only then did she realize that his entire body trembled. And not from the effort of flying.

  Chapter 52: Grounded

  Don’t object to punishment. Don’t snivel and whine. Just take it. That’s your best option.

  -Athanaric

  Wrend had learned about poisoned sage in one of his many classes. The further south one went, the more common the plant became. Its potent venom made a person’s flesh bloat and veins constrict. It killed in a few seconds. Instead of the silvery blue of regular sagebrush, poisoned sage bore a yellow tint.

  And, as he scrambled out of the brush, he realized that the sage he’d fallen into was silvery blue. That meant the burning on his arms and legs wouldn’t kill him. Yet, as he found his feet, he rubbed his arms and shivered against what could have been a fatal mistake. It could yet prove fatal, of course, depending on how the Master reacted.

  Surely if the Master knew about Leenda coming out of the camp, he also knew that Wrend was with her. So Wrend decided to wait right where he was, and get the confrontation over with. He sat on a nearby rock and applied Thew to his face, to heal the wounds.

  The paladins reached him soon, and told him to get up and go with them back to camp. He ignored them, and they trained their bows on him. They persisted in the stoic way paladins did everything, and he explained that he would wait for the Master.

  And for punishment.

  That seemed to satisfy them, and they fell silent, although they didn’t lower their bows. He watched as, one-by-one, the tents in the camp below lit up as people returned to them, and went dark as the people went to sleep.

  Eventually the Master came, walking over the ridge and around the forest. He strode past the paladins, straight to Wrend, who stood to face his fate. It occurred to him that maybe he should kneel and proffer his sacrificial knife, but a thrill of defiance rushed through him, and he stayed on his feet. The Master looked at him with an unreadable expression, not speaking for nearly a minute. His clothes were torn.

  Wrend wanted to ask if Leenda was still alive.

  Eventually, the Master spoke. “Go straight to your tent. Until further notice, you’re under strict watch.”

  Wrend obeyed without speaking. After all, what excuse could he possibly give?

  Part III: Pruning branches

  Chapter 53: In the Valley of the Elder Gods

  When you're waiting, you think of a million ways things could happen, and all of them end up being wrong.

  -Teirn

  As the caravan moved south, Wrend spent his time under the watch of a hundred paladins. Teirn rode by his side; they spent hours talking, acting like the proving and imminent death didn’t stand between them—although, they did talk at length about it. But without progress.

  Once they’d exhausted the topic of their proving, they discussed about everything else. Teirn took particular interest in Leenda, soon admitting that he already knew the nature of their souls. What else wasn’t he telling Wrend
?

  Early on the second day, the caravan veered off of the usual path of the Strengthening, and word spread throughout the caravan that the Master had decided to postpone the rest of the Strengthening and head straight to Hasuke. Rumors of an opportunity to destroy the Godslayer spread through the caravan.

  Before noon that day, they entered the Valley of the Elder Gods, a narrow canyon with steep cliffs on both sides, and a road that wound between pillars of red stone hundreds of feet tall. Some pillars bore the vague silhouette of old priests in hooded cowls, backs bent under years of service, and somber postures born of inner conflicts. Others stood tall and proud, like young men just entering a life of service to the great god Athanaric.

  The valley provided fast access through the mountains to the southern portion of Locaran. Because any other route through the mountains took a week longer, many people used the canyon to travel and transport goods.

  As the caravan funneled into the narrow canyon, it slowed considerably. And it was not far past the entrance that Wester came to Wrend and Teirn.

  Chapter 54: Brotherly hate

  Seize every opportunity to prove yourself.

  -Teirn

  The encounter lasted only a few seconds.

  Teirn and Wrend rode horses along the dirt road, with dozens of paladins ahead and more behind; but, due to the narrowness of the canyon, only a few walked by their sides. On both sides, the canyon rose in rocky steps void of vegetation. Throughout the canyon, travelers had moved off to the side of the road, kneeling as their god's caravan passed.

  As they approached one such traveler, who Wrend had paid no more attention to than every other prostrate traveler, the man called out to them.

  “Good servants," the man said, "I must speak with you.”

  The man had a shaved head and thick beard, wore rough clothes covered with patches, and carried a tall walking staff. Teirn glanced at Wrend as if to ask if he knew the man. Wrend shrugged. They maneuvered their horses between the paladins, to the side of the road, and stopped in front of the man.

  “What is it?” Teirn said.

  “I’ve come for your answer,” the man said, his eyes hard.

  In that moment, Wrend recognized him as Wester. It came as a shock, and his heart leapt. He dropped his reigns and gripped the hilt of his dagger with one hand, and reached over to Teirn with the other.

  “It’s Wester!”

  He looked nothing like he’d looked a week before, but Wrend knew it for certain. He remembered those eyes.

  Wester—apparently deciding Wrend’s exclamation was a rejection of his offer—didn’t hesitate. He dove toward Teirn, bringing one end of his staff up, thrusting it toward Teirn’s face.

  But Teirn leapt off of the horse. He flipped up from the saddle and landed on the ground near Wester, sacrificial knife drawn. Wester brought the staff whistling back toward Teirn, swinging it for his torso. Teirn ducked beneath it and moved inside the blow, thrusting the knife into Wester’s belly with a squish.

  It all happened before the paladins could even begin to close in and shout the alarm.

  Wester hardly seemed to notice the injury, though blood spilled out as Teirn withdrew the knife. Wester stepped back and turned, moving with speed and grace born of Ichor. With his staff, he struck away a second blow from Teirn’s knife, and with the butt demolished an advancing paladin’s head. With a spiteful look at Wrend, Teirn, and the gathering commotion, he crouched for a leap and shot into the air.

  Before he landed, Teirn also lifted into the air. Wrend watched, surrounded by paladins, as Wester landed on a large rock thirty feet above. He coiled for another leap and lifted upward. Teirn landed not far behind him, and pursued.

  Up the canyon wall they went, jumping over the rocks like frantic grasshoppers, quickly growing small. To the right and left, other demigods also began to pursue, leaping scores of feet at a time. The paladins around Wrend strung their bows, although with Teirn in the way, they couldn’t fire arrows.

  It only took a dozen seconds for Wester to near the top of the cliff. There, on an outcropping, he paused, leaning over and gripping his stomach like he needed to vomit.

  Teirn caught up with him.

  At that distance—several hundred feet—the struggle was indistinct and silent, yet fast and brutal. Teirn triumphed with his sacrificial knife in Wester’s neck and several more thrusts into his chest. Without hesitation, he dumped Wester’s limp body over the edge. He spread his hands wide, and released a scream of triumph as Wester’s body tumbled down the cliff.

  Wrend almost couldn’t comprehend what he’d just seen. Two weeks before, he never would have guessed that Teirn could do that. He’d learned quickly.

  Or he’d had practice, before.

  Wrend shivered at the thought. What, indeed, was Teirn not telling him?

  As Wester’s body bounced off of a rock about halfway down the cliff, Wrend understood what Wester had intended. He’d thought to quickly kill Wrend and Teirn if they didn’t join him, and escape. He probably would have succeeded, too, had he not underestimated Teirn’s skills with Ichor.

  Even so, he must have been truly desperate to risk the attempt with so many demigods and paladins around. Clearly, the rebellion was ending, if not ended. Truly, one could not defy or fight the Master. He was god, after all.

  As Teirn descended the cliff, Wrend's unease with the entire situation—and his role within it—only increased.

  It wouldn’t take long for it to become even more uncomfortable.

  Chapter 55: Deferring the Strengthening

  The best thing about traveling is that you have time to think. The worst part about traveling is that you have time to think.

  -Wrend

  The next day, beneath glowering clouds that never unleashed their rain, the world reversed as they came out of the Valley of the Elder Gods and traveled along the lip of a cliff that dipped nearly two thousand feet to the bottom, where a river carved its way through the red rock and dirt. In places, the gorge narrowed to just a few thousand feet, but generally stretched several miles wide. Teirn commented that as he looked out across it, he felt like he looked into the very mouth of the world. Wrend agreed: it was quite a sight for those who, two weeks before, had never seen more than canyon walls.

  The following day, the canyon narrowed and eventually disappeared, with the river entering a tunnel far below. After another mile or so, the ground on both sides of the road fell away, so that before long the caravan lumbered along the rocky ridge known as the Draegon’s Spine. It stretched a hundred feet wide. Golden-copper rocks the size of cattle littered its surface, along with tenacious sagebrush and poison sage. On both sides, the desert spread out to mountainous horizons; and after an initial upward slope of several hundred feet, the ridge turned downward, descending into the basin below. By evening, they reached Waran, a city of one-story adobe structures at the base of the spine, at the head of a long desert prairie.

  There, the people wept as the Master passed through their streets, followed by the demigods that remained in the caravan. During the journey, many demigods had stayed in their cities or departed to other parts of the country, but nearly two hundred remained in the caravan, including the three that would stay in Waran.

  One of them was a brand new Caretaker that Wrend had known back in the Seraglio. She accepted her responsibility with solemnity, even as the people wept because Athanaric could not perform the Strengthening on the demigod she replaced. That demigod had died back in the Seraglio, in the fight at the Courtyard of the Wall. Now, the people would suffer without seeds strengthened by his blood.

  In the morning, after the battalion of servants and priests had packed up the camp, loaded it into the caravan wagons, and headed out across the plains, the Master summoned Wrend.

  Chapter 56: The Task

  It's very difficult to undo a lifetime of learning.

  -Naresh

  Wrend hoped he didn’t fall—especially with the entire caravan behind him,
potentially watching him. He sat directly ahead of the Master, straddling Cuchorack’s neck—which was about as wide as the body of a horse, but much higher up. If he lost his balance, it would be a long tumble to the hard-packed dirt road below.

  But for all Wrend knew, such a fall would be less painful than what the Master was about to tell him. Whatever it was.

  In every direction, hills of sagebrush, rocks, and cacti spread to mountainous horizons. Off to the east, a bank of white clouds hovered over the mountain peaks. So far south, air hung still and hot in the late spring air.

  Wrend had never ridden Cuchorack—he doubted many demigods had—and wasn’t used to such a huge shape lumbering beneath him. While it felt similar to a horse, it felt much more dangerous. The strangest thing was to consider that he’d once been Cuchorack. His soul had occupied this massive body, so much more powerful, vastly superior to his human body.

  “Today is the day of your test,” the Master said.

  He sat in a saddle and held the reins. They stretched up past Wrend and connected to a bridle around the draegon’s head. A leather strap ran over the Master’s shoulder, down to a bag at the opposite hip. He reached into the bag, pulled out a carrot, and began to chew.

  “I’m ready for it,” Wrend said.

  The Master looked down at him, his eyebrows lifting.

  “What if the task was to kill Leenda?”

  Wrend tried not to hesitate in giving his answer, and hoped the comment meant Leenda still lived.

  “Then I’ll do as you ask.”

  But the promise sounded hollow in his heart—which worried him. Since the Master’s confrontation with Naresh, things had changed. But it wasn’t just the confrontation and the things Naresh had said, it was the entire proving. It seemed so unreasonable that he or Teirn had to die. For the first time, Wrend questioned the wisdom of his god and father.