by Kyle Olson
The taxi driver took off so fast he nearly careened through a guardrail. Instead, he simply crumpled a fender before disappearing down the hill in a peel of tire-flung gravel.
Ifon recovered and lunged at Tess, but was cut-off by a dash from Sejit, her polearm whoomping through the space once occupied by his head. No longer constrained by walls and ceilings and structures, the lioness was free to dance, to perform! Twist, pivot, lunge, retreat, thrust! A gleaming mirror scything through the air and even bisecting the tiny droplets of water misting about.
Unarmed, Ifon was forced on the defensive, his every action dictated by the reach of Sejit’s weapon.
He stumbled back, an apparent mis-footing on loose debris. A golden opportunity, but Sejit did not seize upon it, instead hopping back, just in time to clear the distance for Ifon’s rush. His counter-charge was desperation, but not quite; more his style, built upon the foundation of his stamina and resilience.
“I was hoping you’d have forgotten by now,” Ifon said as he came up short, arms raised to parry any errant attacks.
“Your color is forever stained upon me,” Sejit said, the calm of her words at odds with her aggressive stance. There was even a faint hint of wistfulness there if one was inclined to hear such things.
“It’s not too late.”
“Did you forget? Or, no,” Sejit switched her grip, alternating which hand was forward, spinning the haft round her body, “You used to be above deception,” she growled, using inertia to carry her round and raked out in a murderous slash.
Fast as her attack was it still had wind-up, and Ifon saw through it, leaping forward under the murderous swing. But, it came at a cost, for such was her might the axehead ripped through the barrier of sound and the deafening aftermath pounded his eardrums, disorienting and dizzying. He staggered, knee dragging across the ground. Sejit pounced.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
Once the duo departed down the road in their cab, Sophia pushed away from the smudge-and-dirt smeared window and had herself a seat on one of the beds, next to Yf. Tarkit had taken up the other bed, reading something or other on his phone. To most he appeared relaxed, but Sophia knew better. She felt the same way.
“Feels kind of strange just sitting here like this,” Sophia said, bouncing her legs against the side of the bed, “Seeing as how it’s the final showdown and all.”
Yf couldn’t resist the opportunity and pounced on Sophia’s back, wrapping her arms around the girl’s neck.
“Hey!”
“You get used to it,” said the Goddess of Cats, resting her chin on Sophia’s shoulder just so, “Loved ones marching off to war and all you can do is fuss about at home like a lonely housewife. Such a travesty!”
“Loved ones? What are you—Actually, never mind.”
“What’s wrong? The worst part is the waiting. I know! How about us three have some fun?
Tarkit shook his head without looking up or over, “I’ll have to pass. I’m amazed you can even think about sex at a time like this.”
“Yeah!” Sophia shook off Yf, “This whole area could be wiped out! They could die!”
Yf balled up, drawing her knees to her chin like a sulky child.
“That’s just it,” Yf said, voice an octave higher than usual, “The passion, the emotion! It’s electric! Ah, if only you two could feel it!” She shivered and hugged herself, “They’re not the only ones who need to release all their pent-up feelings.”
“You’re always pent-up,” Sophia grumbled, migrating from the dangerous bed to the safety of Tarkit’s island.
Yf’s face dropped in exaggerated hurt, and then she giggled and sighed a dreamy sigh, the very image of a teenage girl lost in the throes of her first heart-throbs, “It’s so hard to find a good release these days. Are you sure—”
“Yes, I am, and no, it’s not. Just… There’re websites for that, you know.”
Tarkit let out a short, quiet snort of laughter, but kept his eyes on his reading.
“Hmph! Girls these days. And guys. Or really, everyone these days.”
Much as Sophia wanted to jab back, there was nothing to win from it, and she already knew from experience how deep that rabbit hole could go. She cast a peek at Tarkit from the corner of an eye. His face was the same as it always was, broad and creased, strong-chinned, and capped by a head of salt-and-pepper, short, wavy hair.
Pretty much any other time and she wouldn’t have minded, despite what she’d claimed on more than one occasion. Honesty with herself was a tricky thing. Besides, who knew what shape Yf would take for something like that… Not to mention, Tarkit would never agree. Such was life, but that was fine.
She flopped on her back and gazed up at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the yellowed paint, the surprising number of stains.
What would happen when Sejit and Tess got there? Would they talk first, attempt to negotiate, or would they charge up, Sejit in her lion form in a full sprint? Which also got her to thinking about how Sejit carried Mun’skit without any hands.
Sophia’s mind pondered and wondered, sketching out a slideshow of possible events and outcomes. Witnessing Tess and Ifon gave her a good idea of how they’d do things, the result of their attacks. Sejit and Daontys, however… How did they fight? Was Sejit reckless and feral, or measured and restrained? What about Daontys? What can a Sun God do besides blind you? Maybe a sunburn so bad it’d make the skin slough off. Okay, that was pretty bad.
The sketches were inked and the first strokes of color appeared. Each big attack was its own page, everything leading up to and after stashed away with a dozen others on another sheet. It was easy to get lost in the made-up battle in her mind, she had to keep reminding herself with thoughts like That’s probably not how it’d go, to which her imagination would huff and puff and respond with How about this?
So it went, for minutes, maybe dozens of them. Tarkit read in silence and Yf had called in a few cats to play with.
Myriad iterations of their fight played out, papers scattered across the floor. Some still sketches, others in full color.
What would happen if someone interfered? She wondered, idly. A normal curiosity, a permutation of events.
Something flashed. The bed fell away, winked out of existence. Sophia gasped as she fell, but no sound escaped her lips. Tarkit and Yf were gone. She kept falling, bracing herself for an impact with the floor that never came. The room had gone. Falling and falling through a black chasm, she tried to scream. Her mind reeled. This wasn’t the tranquil nothingness of the void she remembered from when she’d died. Nothing to see, to hear, to feel or taste or smell, but the darkness was alive, packed with intangibility coiling about her.
Out of the void, snapshots appeared. Rough and crude. Visions of jets and soldiers. An explosion rang in her ears. Acrid smoke burned at her sinuses. A bomb detonated over a cliff-side manor. An image of the aftermath, a circular impression of stumps where trees once stood. Everyone was dead.
Dread filled her gut. She’d never seen Daontys’ hideaway, or even had it described to her, but she knew that was it.
She knew.
Just as suddenly it’d fallen away, her plummet carried her through the inky boundaries of the abyss and she fell onto the bed with a cry. She blinked her eyes to clear away the haunting, blurry afterimages. Tarkit was gazing down at her, concern writ into every feature.
Sophia’s chest heaved and her heart beat like a galloping engine.
“Are you okay? What happened?”
“Ah? What, why…” Sophia fumbled with her words, cotton stuffed into every crevice that had once been so clear.
“Well, that was something,” Yf said, still on the other bed. Her whole body was focused and intent.
The sphinx shook her head and rubbed her temples to try and disperse the lingering fog, “What happened?”
“Well, everything was nice and quiet, then out of nowhere you screamed and started flailing like you were having a seizure.”
Tarkit help
ed her sit up, propped her against some pillows and the headboard.
“I was just… shuffling through the images like I usually do, and then,” Sophia said, narrating along with the afterimages flickering in her mind, as if cast by a dying projector. Echoes resounded and scents lingered.
When the reel ended, she took a deep breath, “I think it means they’re going to be attacked by the Erton military.”
“The military? How would they… Never mind,” Tarkit said. He stroked his beard in thought, one eye on her, “I would ask if you’re sure, but I don’t think I need to…” he turned to Yf, “What was that? Clairvoyance?”
Yf considered the question, then nodded, “Right, but it’s a little different than I remember how Lorithyl worked. Maybe—”
“We don’t have time. Sophia,” Tarkit lowered himself so he was eye-to-eye with Sophia, “Are they in danger now?”
“I, I don’t know the exact time, but yeah, it’s going to happen… now.”
“I don’t think sending a text message is gonna be enough,” Yf said, a smile spreading across her face, “I’ll have to deliver it in-person.”
“I question the nobility of your intentions.”
“Question away! And I don’t think I can just leave you two here by yourselves. Something might happen, after all.”
“You’re awfully eager to get to a battle. This isn’t like you,” Tarkit stood in the space between the two beds, Sophia to one side, Yf to the other, “I might be fine, but the girl?”
“She already survived one encounter, and apparently she’s still got some tricks we don’t know about. Besides, do you really want to stay cooped up here, waiting for either your mother or Daontys to come through that door?”
He made a complicated face that ended with a sag of resignation. “You’re right, but she isn’t going to like me showing up.”
“It’ll be fiiiiine, especially once she knows we’ve just saved her from getting bombed to death.”
“Bombed to death?” Sophia spoke up, blinking her eyes one at a time, like she was still adjusting to the light of the room after having been in perfect darkness for hours.
“That’s what you pick up on?”
“Whatever!” Sophia picked herself out of bed, rising on two legs that started shakily, but became firm within seconds. She threw on a jacket. “If we’re gonna go, we gotta go now!”
“See, now that’s the kind of attitude you need,” Yf declared, bounding from her perch. In seconds she was out of her robe, stark naked beside the door.
“Aren’t… Aren’t you going to put something on?”
Yf threw open the door and in the same motion, transformed into a white cat the size of a large leopard. While the facial expressions of a feline were limited, the ones on Yf seemed to say: “Why bother?”
Tarkit was first out the door, phone in hand. He brought up an application to call a taxi to them, but paused with his finger hovering just over the screen. “Do you know the address?”
“Uh. Can’t we get it from a map?”
Tarkit showed Sophia the screen, “Okay, where on here did they go?”
Sophia bit her lip. Within a few miles there were at least a dozen manors that’d fit the description in her mind’s eye, based on the blurry, distance images that came up on the map.
Yf chattered at them, tail swishing through the air like a scythe. She sniffed at the air, then pointed with her body in the direction they ought to go.
“Looks like we’re on foot,” Tarkit said.
CHAPTER FORTY THREE
Tess had worked out, in short order, that while Daontys had the power of the sun itself, it also meant he couldn’t blindside her or pull any sneakies. A pile of broken cinderblocks and other former building materials provided refuge from his glare. If the scrap between Sejit and Ifon was a spectacle to capture an audience with feats, skills, and tactics, her skirmish would be childish trench warfare.
Daontys would attempt to call down the sun, things would briefly heat up, and then she’d break his concentration and focus with a little puff of a fireball from behind cover. In turn she’d try to wind up a strong attack, only to have to dodge away lest she take the brunt of the sun.
“Wretched beast!” Daontys howled from behind a wall.
“Whatever, asshole. ‘Oh I’m Daontys, God of Gods! Oh no, the mean old jackal keeps fucking me over with parlor tricks! Abloo bloo bloo!’”
“You dishonor yourself and all of us with your infantile behavior!”
“Gaka-kof-ka-kof-ka! Get fucked!”
Another exchange of light and fire, Daontys retreating with a burn on his arm and Tess with an ever-darkening tone of her already caramel complexion. In the solitary safety of her mind, she was sputtering an unending stream of curses. In many regards, they were a perfect match for one another, with their ability to strike from a distance and immolate a target, albeit with different means.
Or were they?
The ground steamed.
Pausing to listen, she could hear the whirl of a blade, the rustle of feet—and the shifting noise of changing flesh and torn clothing.
Yeah, who’d have guessed they’d stay to one form? But does that make things easier for me? Fuck it.
Tess launched herself from cover in an apparent suicide charge. Overhead, the sun pierced through the clouds, a spotlight for the jackal.
When it came to manipulating fire, or even the chroma of emotion and thought, she just did, the same way she’d walk and breathe. She commanded and fire obeyed, but what was fire, really? A bunch of hot gas, most of the time. Chemical reactions stimulated by a great deal of heat and energy, which were, more or less, the same thing.
She commanded the light brought down upon her.
It sort of listened, like a rebellious teenager, settling for a bit of singeing and searing in place of immolation. Tess’s long strides were made wobbly by a stream of curses as she crossed the gap with her hands over her head. Clothing ignited, transforming her into a fireball with legs streaking across the battlefield.
Some dozen strides passed until most of her clothing had burnt up and blown away, save for her shoes and one leg of her jeans. Daontys was within reach and she had a mild sunburn that was already healing up.
He squawked and tried to retreat, but Tess had the advantage of inertia and leapt, tackling him to the dirt, face-first. She grabbed the back of his head and slammed his face into the ground over and over. Her other hand lit in brilliant blue flame, the heat of it flashing mist to steam.
“I never-kof knew you were so-kof,kof weak! Fuck, if I woulda known-kof, I would have ended you years ago!”
“Wretch!”
Daontys’ attempt at hurling more insults was cut short by another introduction of his face to the ground. Tess laughed, reveling in her victory.
Wolf and lion scuttled a circle like a pair of crabs. Ifon, in his half-human, half-wolf form, was smaller than Sejit in hers. Not by much, but enough for him to notice. Enough to think about it. He wasn’t one to stew, but some things just stuck under the skin like a thorn. An irritation that never went away.
His white fur was smeared half over with blood from wounds that’d bled fiercely before reversing to unblemished skin. He wasn’t one to complain about the odds, but that polearm gave her a considerable advantage. Unfair, even. All he’d managed to land on her were two glancing blows, trifling injuries even by mortal standards.
This was not how a battle between the gods should be! This is a stupid fucking game, a damned dance of keep-away. Where did she get that weapon, anyways? Did she find some artifact of the crafters in these past hundred years?
“What happened to your pride, your honor?”
“It is intact,” Sejit replied, coolly.
They continued to orbit some central, unseen point.
“Is it? You can say that while you use a mortal weapon? Hah!” His maw stretched wide with his laugh, rows of teeth bared to the world.
“You resort to mockery? I am no
t the fool who comes to wage war unprepared.”
“This is not war. This is… us.”
“We died long ago.”
“Not that,” Ifon said, wearing a wolfish grin, “We are gods of war. We are above them all!” He gestured with a flick of his snout in a vague direction where the other pair were fighting, to the accompaniment of the fwoosh of flame and a stereo of cries from bird and jackal. “To use common weapons reduces us to their level.”
“Your rhetoric weakens you.”
“And your reliance on tools weakens you,” Ifon said, drawing in a slow breath.
“Blinded by ignorant pride. You never change.”
The radius of their circle was narrowing with each revolution. Another few passes and she’d be within range. He watched her, the way she held the shaft, the way she dictated his avenues of movement with the point. She was always shifting it around, changing her grip, maintaining a fluid grace that made it impossible to tell how she’d attack or defend until it was well beyond the point of guessing.
That way she moved. Her stance. Memory charged through him like lightning.
That’s it! That’s… when she nearly ruined the world.
Recollection made his brain fizzle with shame since she’d left him a tattered mess of meat. Only reason she left had to be because she assumed him dead. He damned well nearly was; it’d taken an entire week until he was fully mended. No one knew how or why her rampage came to end in that era, only that it did.
Sure he’d come out on top when they fought sometime after that, but she hadn’t her weapon then and his victory had not been so telling. It was more like she was just going through the motions at that point.
I remember that poleaxe, now. So she’s found it again. Why? Has she been searching all this time? How’d she even lose it?
Questions raced. In short order, they all arrived at the same point of origin: Whatever it was, it was important to her in some critical way. A critical weakness.