The Dragon Lords: False Idols

by Jon Hollins

  And yet despite this, a sense of calm seemed to descend on their little copse. They had a plan. They had time. And if Quirk had not entirely quenched the flame in Afrit’s britches, then the pair had at least found some sort of comfortable resting place.

  Which just left her, and Will, no distractions. Not a single gods-hexed one.

  She loved him. Of all the stupid times to make peace with that fact, it was now. When she had just slept with three divinities. When he had just bedded the god(dess) of love and lust hirself. When Avarra was lost and their lives looked even shorter than they usually did.

  She loved him. And they had no future.

  How did she even start that conversation? They had to have it. She felt sure of that. She wasn’t sure why, but there was a compulsion that was strong within her.

  And so, as three days became two, she seized the bull by the horns. It was not hard to send Afrit and Quirk away to spy on the encampment outside Vinter. It was not hard to tell Balur that he needed to go and practice smiting things farther away from the trees. It was hard to live with Barph’s knowing wink and the mocking sashay of his hips as he wandered off to do the gods alone knew what, but she lived with it.

  “So …” said Will, looking around the empty camp and then back at her. “We should, erm …”

  Why in the name of all the gods did she find his blabbering adorable?

  “You love me,” she said. That seemed a safe enough place to start. They both knew that.

  She tried to hold the shape of the conversation in her mind the same way she would hold the shape of a swordfight. He would bluster. She would be firm. She would override him until the facts were all laid out on the table. She also loved him. They were incompatible. They had tried before and failed. Neither of them had changed. Then she would ask him for a plan. That was what he was good at, after all. He would prevaricate. She would say there was no rush, but there had to be a plan, a legitimate plan if they were to move forward.

  Gods, she hoped he had a plan.

  Will was giving her a startled look. “Oh,” he said. “This is …?” He stared at the space between them.

  “Yes,” said Lette. And that was good. She was sticking to the facts. “So—” she started.

  “I think that’s getting better,” said Will.

  Which brought her up as short as an unexpected parry in the flow of a fight. Some technique she had not expected to see in her opponent’s library of maneuvers. “What?” she said.

  “Well.” Will gave her a sad smile. “I know you don’t love me. And I kind of feel bad about everything I said back in the labyrinth below Vinter. It wasn’t fair of me to put all of that on you.”

  “Will—” Lette started.

  “I just wanted to say,” said Will, who then caught her irritated expression, “it’s just, I wanted to say sorry, and to let you know that that night with Cois helped.”

  Lette bit her lower lip with force. But not enough to bleed. Because apparently bleeding was the thing Will wanted to do tonight.

  “Helped?” she said as calmly as she was able. Which was not particularly calmly.

  “Yes.” Will was of course incredibly earnest. “I mean, I didn’t think it would. I hated the very thought of it.” He seemed to read disbelief in her expression, which proved that despite the evidence before her, not every ounce of his brain had turned to cottage cheese. “I mean obviously zhe has … or had a rather overbearing effect on my libido. But that was externally forced upon me. Inside, I was …” He pantomimed horror. “I hadn’t been able to imagine …” His hands fluttered in midair like two distressed hummingbirds. “You know. With anyone. But then it happened, and it wasn’t actually as unspeakably awful as I thought it might be. And, you know, I still have what might best be called very strong feelings for you, but also I think I can finally imagine moving on some day.”

  Lette stared at him. And of course. Of all the infinitely possible things that could be said, he would say the worst possible one. That was how the world worked. Regardless of whether the gods were alive or dead, they were still shitting on her.

  “So,” she said, feeling the weight of every dagger secreted about her person, “what you’re saying is that after a decent roll in the hay, you’re not as hung-up on me as you once were?”

  Will hesitated. Apparently even the shriveled lump of rancid cheese he used for achieving his deep thoughts recognized that just maybe he had gone astray somewhere.

  “Wait,” he said. “I just … Lette … I mean … I just … I thought, you know, that I’d be less of …” He looked around. “An imposition?” he tried.

  An imposition. A fucking imposition. If Will had been in an orphanage at that moment, Lette might have actually been tempted to burn it down.

  She felt so fucking stupid. That she’d been about to pour out her heart to this stinking, mud-swallowing, base, Cois-fucking pig. That she had considered letting him inside her guard. Inside more than that.

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, that sounds wonderful.” Her voice could have cured a world shortage in acid.

  “Wait,” said Will, still several leagues behind the actual purpose of their conversation. “Is that not …?”

  “It’s perfect, Will,” she said, standing. “It’s fucking perfect. I hope you and the girl you move on to are very happy, fucking in straw and pig shit for the rest of your lives.”

  She stood up. She needed to find Balur. She needed to take out her frustration on his hide.

  “Thank you?” Will tried.

  She hadn’t meant to throw the knife. But it was an instinct that died hard. She managed to pull the shot at the last moment. It landed in the soft earth between Will’s legs, burying itself up to its hilt, which quivered slightly.

  Will squealed.

  For her part, Lette wasn’t sure if she was actually sorry she had missed.

  62

  Wolves in Cows’ Clothing

  “All right then,” said Balur. “Let us be doing this.” He clapped his hands. The sound boomed out from the little copse of trees and Lette gave him an annoyed look. They were, he knew, supposed to be being quiet and sneaky. And he appreciated that. But he was excited. After a week of sitting on his hands he was to finally be putting a plan into action. There were only so many farmyard animals an Analesian could be smiting before he was wanting to try out bigger fare.

  He still did not understand why he was not allowed to be smiting the men and women around the city. That, to him, was seeming like the most obvious plans. Their belief made the apotheosis of the dragons possible? The dragons were impervious because of that belief? Then kill all the people so there were no believers left. And then kill the dragons. But, when he had been suggesting that … Oh the condescension and the mockery.

  Fuckers.

  But now. Now. Balur grinned, and licked the air. He tasted sweat and humanity, excitement and fields, bricks and blood.

  The plan was, of course, trickery. Deception was always being Will’s plan. That was Will’s way. But much to Balur’s satisfaction, Will’s plans always broke down. Bloodshed always happened. So Balur nodded to himself. Chaos would come. Barph was with them, after all. And the god might not be good for much, but he was surely good for mayhem.

  The god in question was looking at them all. “I still do not hold with this,” he said, which was absolute bullshit and they all knew it.

  “Who is it you are thinking is watching you?” Balur asked. Because they were all wondering it, he knew. “Be fucking enjoying your revenge, already.”

  Barph licked his lips. “I have no—” he started, then stopped. “Lawl’s hairy balls to it.” He grinned. “Let’s go enjoy not giving that prick his powers back, shall we?”

  “And then?” asked Afrit. “What then?”

  Balur wished she would be giving it a rest. Someone had to be in charge. Why not them? And if they fucked it up—like Afrit was so afraid they would—well then, what would separate them from any other bastard with a crown in
the annals of history?

  “This is going to work,” said Will, as much to himself, Balur suspected, as to anyone else.

  “I don’t know if you know this,” said Lette, giving Will amounts of side-eye that Balur had not known she was capable of, “but actually saying it out loud doesn’t make anyone feel more confident.”

  “I feel slightly more—” Will started.

  “Just shut up and do what the big lizard man said,” said Barph.

  And that was enough for Balur. He wasn’t waiting any longer. He closed his eyes and concentrated. He held the image in his mind.

  “Become,” he said. Not just with his mouth, or his tongue, or his lungs, but with his heart, and his mind, and his soul. He said it with all of himself, the way Barph had taught him to. He felt the word reverberate through his being.

  And he became. He felt his skin flow like water, his bones become rubber. He felt his muscles shifting, his joints dislocating. He felt warmth running through the length of his whole body.

  And then he stood on the ground, on all fours. And he lifted his great shaggy head. And he mooed.

  “Gods,” he heard Afrit mutter. “Subtle as a fucking brick.”

  Balur did not care what Afrit was saying. Will had been telling them that they would be getting into the city disguised as cows. He had said they would divinely transmogrify themselves. And Balur had divinely transmogrified himself, and he had become a cow. Nobody had been saying what sort of cow. Nobody had been saying he could not be a prize bull with horns the width of a wagon cart. Nobody had been saying that he could not ripple with muscle.

  “More than a little Lawl in you, isn’t there?” Afrit muttered.

  Balur did not think he had left any doubt about the use of the words “Lawl” and “in you” in front of him. He objected loudly. Even to his own ears, an affronted moo didn’t seem to do much.

  Afrit rolled her eyes at him. “Oh give it a rest.”

  Of all of them, she had not transformed. Instead she held a long stick of wood, with which she would pretend to drive them toward the city. That was the extent of the role she was willing to play, and only after much cajoling from Quirk. The others were in their bovine disguises. Will looked like a young bullock, the others—including Barph—finely shaped tan cows.

  And so they traipsed slowly down the road, kicking up dust as they went. The sun slowly rose before them. Birds sang. Elsewhere, dragons roared.

  More than a little unexpectedly, Balur found himself admiring the curves of Quirk’s bovine hips as he went. It was a slightly unsettling feeling. He had never before given the arse-end of a cow much thought. Afrit, he noticed, was stroking Quirk’s new fur almost incessantly. Was Quirk perhaps a curiously good-looking cow? Was she somehow more desirable with udders?

  That was a confusing thought.

  He considered checking out Lette’s bovine derrière, and couldn’t quite bring himself to do it. Maybe it was being a cow. Maybe when he was being a cow, he was … liking cows. He was liking human women after all, and many Analesians would consider than an interspecies kink. Though at least humans were being sentient. For the most part anyway.

  He shook his heavy head from side to side, feeling the satisfying weight of his horns, and pushed to the front of their small herd. Afrit called and clucked her tongue at him. But he honestly could not take the view of attractive cow hips anymore.

  Out at the front he was able to settle into a more peaceful frame of mind, letting the weight of his body carry him forward, wondering at the curiously dull senses, the surprising range of vision.

  Others were on the road with them now, marching toward the city. They were singing and cheering. Many had wineskins out. More than a few, Balur began to notice, were falling into step with Afrit, exchanging pleasantries, though few were meeting her eye.

  He felt a hand fall upon his side.

  “He’s a fine-looking beast,” he heard a woman say, her hand slapping his flank.

  He flicked his head trying to get the bovine’s eyes to focus properly on the woman. He wondered idly if he could parlay his beefy allure into something more serious. The gods did it all the time in myths, after all.

  At the movement of his head the woman shied away, but with more of a coquettish giggle than a startled squeal.

  Someone else was stroking the tuft of hair on the top of Lette’s head. And glancing at her now, Balur did have to regretfully admit that in her bovine form she did have deep and soulful eyes.

  He shook his head again. What in the Hallows was going on?

  “I bet she’s a fine milker,” said the man stroking Lette’s hair. “Fine.” Balur was forced to conclude there was being a distressingly sexual lean on that last word.

  Balur huffed and took a stride toward the man with Lette.

  “Oh look out!” squealed the woman who’d been patting him. “Look at his muscles.”

  And come to think of it, there actually was something sexual in the way she said that. And as nice as it was to receive positive comments from the opposite sex, perhaps someone with a thing for cows was not what he was into after all.

  “Okay,” said Afrit, “that’s enough handling the merchandise.”

  More people were starting to gather. “They like it!” said someone else, putting a hand on Balur’s flanks.

  “Fucking fine-looking animals.”

  “That’s a tasty side of beef.”

  “Like to taste her milk, I would.”

  All right, that was being downright creepy.

  They were getting into the camp of tents and wagons, and a crowd was starting to form. Balur lowed again, swung his horns from side to side. What was it that was getting into people? There were being all sorts of stories of the gods getting into places disguised as animals without a problem. Admittedly, they were only getting into those places so they could have an awful lot of deviant sex with an awful lot of …

  And then it hit him.

  And gods, he had expected the plan to fall apart, but already?

  The stories of the gods disguising themselves always ended in the gods getting laid. Which had never made much sense to him. Why had Lawl become a goose when he wanted a bit on the side? And why was Betra a horse when she permanently boned the Batarran monarchy? But those were the stories and so you just nodded and smiled.

  Except now here they were using abilities borrowed from those same sexually deviant gods …

  He tried to explain to the others, but his mooing did nothing but draw a lot of the wrong kind of attention. People were all around him, pawing at him.

  Will was right. They truly did have to find some way to make sure the old gods never got back in power. Because he was a cow. A sexy cow. All of them were sexy, sexy cows.

  He could hear Quirk’s shrill moos of distress, Lette’s snorts of anger. And maybe he could be using his horns to skewer a few of the bastards first.

  He lowered his head.

  There was a loud crack, and a squeal of pain. Then another.

  “I said,” he heard Afrit roar, “hands off my cows, you perverse bunch of arseholes.” She wielded her walking staff above her head like a two-handed blade and brought it cracking down on the shoulder of a man who seemed to be trying to climb up on Will’s back.

  There were shouts and cries, bellowed curses.

  “These cows are to be sacrificed to the dragons themselves!” Afrit yelled. “Touch them again and you bring down their wrath!”

  Which put paid to a lot of the grumbling and made their passage a lot easier, but rather kicked Balur’s plans to smite everyone in the nuts.

  Soon enough, though, even Afrit’s tactic of standing out in front, whirling her walking staff, was not enough to help them make much more than a grinding forward progress. At least now the touching from the crowds was not inappropriate. Instead it was the grunt and shove of people desperately heaving toward what was left of Vinter’s gates. It felt like half of Avarra was clamoring to get into the city.

  Bann
ers were waved. Names were chanted. Gods were mocked. Dragon roars were imitated. Stories of fire and destruction were swapped. Prayers were improvised. Merchants stood at the sides of the roads trying their best to take advantage of the crowds. They sold toy dragons, dragon kites, ashes of those who had opposed the dragons suspended in holy water. Who exactly had blessed the water was left unclear. There were apothecaries selling cures, ointments, and oils made from the ground bones of the dragons who had died in the Kondorra uprising. There were street preachers telling new myths of these new gods. There were mad men screaming, and screeching, and loving every moment of it.

  Avarra was celebrating. Avarra was alive with passion. Avarra had new gods this day. Better, and stronger than the old. The fact that these new gods were totalitarian arseholes bent on stealing every last copper from the people come to worship them seemed of only peripheral concern.

  As the broken walls of Vinter loomed closer, Balur could see more and more guards perched upon them. The three hundred thousand troops the dragons had brought with them had not given up their weapons or armor. They kept a watchful eye on proceedings. Balur saw more than one party try to mount the walls in their more run-down sections, only to be beaten back with enthusiasm by the soldiers.

  Rather than dampen anyone’s spirits, though, these displays of brutality only seemed to egg the crowd on to new heights of worship.

  The reasons for the guards’ enthusiasm became clear as Balur finally reached the gate. There the soldiers were in heavy force, using spear butts to force people into line. Their grim expressions were a marked contrast to the citizens around them. Balur saw one vendor, a dozen yards ahead of them, offer the guards some dumplings. It was a clumsy attempt at bribery, to be sure, but even Balur wasn’t sure it warranted the beating the man received.