War Pigs

by Jay Requard

  Lut charged the two living raiders, who met him with thrusts at his heart. He dodged hard to the side, out of line for their combined attack, and dragged one of the raiders close. He clawed at the closest set of eyes with his sharp nails. The blinded raider fell to his knees screaming, only to be dispatched instantly with a knee to the jaw. Broken teeth flew from between his torn lips.

  The final Black Hood darted in, his spear held low. He screamed as he stabbed at Lut, who glowered as he caught the shaft before the point reached his abdomen. His enemy pulled and tugged to free his weapon, but the sheer strength of Lut’s arm refused as he yanked the spear free. The Black Hood died silently, struck dumb with terror as Lut pierced his heart.

  The lone survivor, his jaw broken, had risen to his hands and knees. Blood drizzled down his fractured face, his tusks broken. "She's going to kill you, Lut,” he said, his words warped. “The goddess is going to kill you!"

  Lut levered Ravager out of the first corpse he had made, which freed with the sound of a wet rind splitting open. He went before the young raider. "But you won’t."

  The smell of kindling met Lut when he returned to the Azure Queen's sanctum, not long after noontime. Though the sacrifice had ended long before, it still left most of the Black Hoods drunk in their tents, and with too few guards, he made quick work sneaking past them. He went by the slave pens, curious to see how many of the humans she had spared from the pyre.

  Huddled in the corners of their wooden cages, children and women endured fitful slumbers, dressed in little more than burlap shifts that did nothing to keep out the chill of Mystland's hills.

  Lut stared for a moment. He would never have children of his own, but seeing these young girls, he questioned whom their suffering really served. He had once thought of his kind, the Without-Tents, in the same fashion.

  He entered the tunnel to his goddess's grove and emerged on the other side to discover the meadow’s beauty devastated. The smoldered ruins of the bonfire crowned the trampled space, a black ash crown capping a barren expanse of mud mixed with flesh and blood. Unburnt pieces of human bodies scattered the scene, half-eaten or gnawed upon until the bones shone white in the early morning.

  As always, there she was. Her white-hot hair, tangled from a night of debauchery, shone brighter than the glimmer of her robin's egg skin. Smeared in the blood and juices of her sacrifices, such mess did not diminish her glory in Lut's eyes.

  She made a pleasant sound, almost a sigh. "Hello, Lut."

  He said nothing.

  She sighed again, sadder this time. "My hope, my little prince, is that when I turn around I will find you without that ax."

  "I will disappoint you.”

  The Azure Queen spun about on her small toes, gifting him a sad grin that dulled her golden eyes. "Why?" she asked.

  "I was loyal," Lut said.

  "Was?" Any softness to her bearing vanished, replaced by a forlorn expression solidified in the stern disappointment often ascribed to divinity. She stepped into the breach between them. "But you worship me."

  "I more than worshiped you," he said. Lut struggled to pull the words from his being, words he knew would curse the rest of his days, however long those lasted. "I loved you."

  "You loved your fame," she said. "You bared it forth, even at me."

  "I bared nothing at you," he said, failing to veil his sadness. "I was yours. What others made of me did not matter—"

  "Not until you failed to glorify me." She drew closer, almost within reach. "You reveled in the fear that came with Ravager, the awe made by your victories. If I had known that taking you as mine would lead to such arrogance, such greed, I would have killed you long before."

  "Greed?" He stepped toward her this time. The ax hung heavy in his hand. "I gave you everything, my goddess. I gave up my father, who I loved more than anyone. I gave up my past, my future, everything for you. What can a simple iron ax have against your divinity?"

  "It can grow legend, Lut." The Azure Queen's tone sharpened. "I am of the highest. I am of wonders. What are you, but flesh, bone, and blood? Nothing." She pointed at Ravager. "I've always hated your kind’s love of iron, but you wanted more than anyone should."

  "For you—I wanted for you. They would have spoken of Ravager, yes, but never without mention of the Azure Queen," argued Lut. "I was yours. I was your mate."

  "I have no mates. And no need for one."

  Lut allowed himself pride to scoff at her. “You’d have a cuckold instead of a champion."

  "At least a cuckold knows his place.”

  Silence wedged between them. Birds chirped in the boughs of the canopy above, their song ill-matched against the power of a goddess’s ire. Lut knew he had little chance of defeating her if she attacked. Left with no other option, he uttered his final words.

  "Then mine is no longer beside yours." Lut turned away, headed for the tunnel.

  "Don't you dare leave me," she screamed, shaking the very sky above them. Clouds rippled and tore as the trees shifted under her force, a gale of power personified. The songbirds scattered in a storm of movement. She charged at Lut, grabbing him by the hand that held Ravager. Bone crushing in strength, she yanked him around to face her, seething at his rejection.

  Lut glowered, ready to accept death.

  She held him there, heaving as her eyes sparked in colors of red and blue. Their glow lessened as the seconds ticked by, and a sincere, almost mortal despair took her.

  "Please, Lut," she said, easing her grip on his bruised wrist. "I will not spare you if you leave. One day I will hunt you down."

  He shucked from her grasp. "I’ll see you then."

  5

  And Only Iron Remained

  Lut exited the shadows of the tunnel to find the Black Hoods gathered in the center of camp, waiting for his arrival. Tet stood at the apex of their loose wedge, Bloodtide resting on his shoulder. Its long edge gleamed in the light piercing the green-leafed trees. Calm beyond reproach, Lut halted before the horde. No questions were asked; no answers were needed.

  Tet spoke first. "I’ll say this—I don't give a shit about Ravager anymore."

  Lut smiled a wicked grin, his shoulders and arms tight with anticipation. "You're not worthy to shine its flats, let alone look at it."

  "That's the problem with you, Lut," said Tet. "You think you're better than the rest of us. The great champion."

  "A champion who earned his title. I didn't have to ask my friends to help me get it."

  Tet’s temper rose, as did the anger of those gathered with him.

  Bursting in laughter, Lut brandished his ax in a daring flourish. A few of the raiders flinched. "Look at you," he shouted. "Look at all of you!" He motioned back toward the cave. "And yet you think you're worthy of her." Sadness imbued the anger in his voice, a deeper note he struggled to hide behind bravado. The finality of his choice settled on his broad shoulders.

  Tired of words, he strode forward. The gathered parted before his sure, slow gait, their fear of his iron—of him—creating an aura none wished to challenge.

  Only Tet blocked Lut's way. Though equal in their points of muscle and sinew, he stood taller than Lut and carried as many scars as he did. Past his cowardice, Lut also knew this warrior had some worthy skill, and with the vigor of youth, no longer had the odds fell even.

  "You're old, Lut." Tet sneered through his tusks. "Old. Dumb. Worthless."

  "Better worthless than a slave."

  They squared with each other. The other raiders formed a loose circle around them, a fitting ring for bloodshed. Lut recalled the mud pit from the old days, and for a moment, a spark of happiness sealed his heartbreak. He backed away, almost skipping from range. Ravager came alive in his hands.

  Tet stood on his spot, the two-handed sword hung heavy in his hand. A sudden grin found his ugly face. He drove the point of the stolen sword into the ground. "I don't even want to claim your ax anymore, Lut," he said, stepping forward with his empty fists raised. "I just want to kill you."


  Pleased by the challenge, Lut lay Ravager to the soil. He raised his fists up, young again after a decade of blood and iron. No distractions, no mind.

  Lut and Tet circled. They flecked jabs at each other, touching snouts before Tet rushed in, throwing rights and lefts in rapid succession that backed Lut into the crowd. Met by hard shoves to his back and kicks to his legs, Lut wheeled for an escape, dodging the worst of the punches. Tet threw a hard right hand. Ducking the blow, Lut dove low, his arms snaring Tet's legs.

  Slamming him into the dirt, Lut stood back up. Tet held his legs high, kicking with both feet to keep Lut away. The theft of his victory over Bloodtide’s worthy owner, the betrayal of the raiders—the Azure Queen's fickleness—coalesced before Lut's eyes as he looked down at the one who had usurped everything. He refused to enter Tet’s guard, to play games of holds and transitions.

  He wanted to punish him.

  Lut stomped on the bastard's gut. Driving his heel down and up, down and up, he crushed Tet's sternum in search of his heart. The air whooshed out of Tet with a rasped groan as he rolled to his side, away from the pounding blows. Undeterred, Lut kicked at him harder, this time for the face and ribs. The sharp toenails on his feet broke, painful stings that bled as he left the pieces in Tet's bare chest. The agony drove him onward, a frenzy born of a wounded heart.

  Lut struck to the chest, the face, before he hopped over Tet's broken form to level a hard kick to his spine. A loud snap followed, causing his enemy to wrench from the ground with a howl.

  Contorted in an unnatural pose, Tet looked up at Lut. "Stop," he gasped.

  Snarling in rage, Lut belted him on the cheek, which snapped the bastard Wag’s head to the side. Tet lay on his side, a picture of stillness.

  Lut mounted the body, turning it so Tet’s face pointed toward the sky, and punched it again, and again, and again. Murmurs of disgust and shock issued from the Black Hoods. One off to Lut's right vomited. He pummeled until exposed cheekbones sliced his knuckles, the tusks, his fingers. His hands and feet pulped, Lut rose off the corpse in search of his next victim.

  The raiders had backed away, far from the reach of him or his ax.

  Lut took in the stench of the blood, the sweat, and the taste of his own tears. His body begged him to fall, to rest. Marching to where he had left Ravager and Bloodtide, fresh strength flowed as he gripped their hardwood handles. In expectation of assault, he swung around, ready for the next battle. None waited on the other side.

  Glaring at those around him, he marched past Tet's battered corpse and left his life as a Black Hood behind forever.

  The green-gray hills flowered in the cool mist of the early spring morning, wet, rotted, and shadowed. The fresh smell of new leaves, of recent rains, soaked Lut's threadbare clothes and armor as he scoured the overgrowth, the dirt soft beneath his healed feet. Miles and melancholy had brought him far south, to climes where he had hunted and foraged as a youth.

  Along the way, he had passed many Without-Tents, wandering souls that had failed for the year to find a Tent or Inner to give their days toil either dying or slaving for their living, a common problem those of his caste often faced. Most gave the ax and sword on his shoulders wide berths when Lut passed, though those he did approach were kind, answering whatever questions he asked about the goings-on of Mystland’s great powers and the small bits of knowledge all wanderers gather to them.

  After a week of searching and questions, he located an old cavern near the border Mystland shared with Sutia, a collection of kingdoms where brown men lived with rainbow gods in glittering silk courts. Entering the familiar haunt, Lut let his hands guide him, leaving Ravager and Bloodtide by the entrance.

  Lut followed a narrow passage, groping in the musty dark. Slowly a small bit of light appeared, glancing off the rock walls.

  The patting of his feet drew out a clatter. "Who goes?" called a worn voice. A shadow broke the scant light, formed into a broad-shouldered figure who hunched, armed with the shard of a broken spear.

  "I do, Father."

  The old Wagani, deep in his years, squinted as he backed toward his poor fire. Bloodshot eyes widened in recognition. Grus dropped his meager weapon and pulled his son into an embrace. His wails of joy, of sadness, echoed in the cavern until only sobs remained. Lut struggled to believe how the half-starved body in his grasp could stand at all. Ribs cut past what had once been a powerful trunk, and arthritis had curled his father's hands inward.

  "Let's go," he whispered to Grus. He led them from the cave, back to a small camp where he had left what food he had gathered. Bloodtide, its heavy blade plunged in the dirt, glowed proudly in the new daylight.

  "Why did you come back?" Grus asked when his son lowered him to a bedroll. His eyes wet, he refused to let go of Lut, holding his face in his hands. "What happened?"

  "What had to happen," said Lut. "I need your help. I need to be a champion again."

  "For who?"

  Lut glanced to the canopy above. Weeks after leaving his goddess, he still saw her in every hint of blue the sky held. Every ray of Shur's brightness reminded him of her hair. She haunted his dreams like she haunted his heart.

  "For me," he said. "For every Wag."

  Grus, weak from starvation, coughed out his words. "What will you do with it?"

  "I'm going to kill the gods."

  Part III

  Upon Darkened Paths

  1

  Resurrection Boulevard

  Drums beat under rapid hands, joined with horns and bells that clashed beneath a fresh summer vault. The flies buzzing above the mud pit flew thick in swarmed clouds of torment too hot to find comfort. Inners, robed in their furs and shore-shell fineries, cheered drunken celebrations as their Tent-servants partook in what meager luxuries their masters afforded them for the war festival’s final day, where the victorious would be chosen for that year's raids into the human and sirtya lands.

  Lut stood across from his opponent.

  Years older, yet still strong of form and feat, Dras looked back at him with a curious expression that also possessed a certain lack of respect one needed in the face of an enemy. Shaking out his shoulder, he stared ahead with resolve.

  Respectful of Dras' bearing, Lut bounced on the balls of his feet, rolling his wrists in preparation for a fight. The ache of his victories the previous day before had left a small buzz in his joints, a thrill of honest combat surging in every fiber of his being. He cared nothing for the boos the crowd hollered his way—they would cheer soon enough.

  No distractions, no mind.

  "Remember, feint your way into the exchanges," Grus called from behind. A year since his son's return, vigor had returned to the old warrior's body, upright and as powerful as the massive sword hung on his back. Bloodtide, still a legend in its time, seemed at home with its new owner as he stood at the pit’s soft edge. "And keep your hands up!"

  Lut nodded as the Tent referee arrived. Draped in the flayed skin of a buck, the antlers of his skull-cap were hung with blood-died feathers. He waved the combatants to the center.

  "The last fight, when the last seed finds the soil while the others fall to the wind. He who wins may count one favor of the Wicked and one favor alone. No bites. No cheeks. No eyes. No pauses." He gave Lut a heavy glare. "And may the true Wag win. Fight!"

  As they had years before the two skipped back to create distance. When they neared again they circled, measuring each other's movement for openings. Lut bobbed his right hand. Dras lurched, firing a jab. Timing the termination of the punch, Lut swung his leg out with a snap, burying his shinbone into Dras' thigh with a loud thwack. The crowd groaned at the sound. Dras stutter-stepped into his own kick that missed by inches. The two exchanged lefts and rights, neither landing, before they backed away again.

  "Pick up the pace," Grus shouted from the sideline. He receded into the crowd, turning his back to the fight. "And more kicks!"

  Lut knew the order hidden behind the lie. Easing forward, he snapped ou
t two low roundhouses, letting the last one pass slowly before his adversary. Dras threw himself forward, over-committed in the search of a hard right hook to Lut's jaw. Slipping the punch, Lut ducked and charged, his arms wrapping Dras' torso. He absorbed two knees to his gut before he finally wrapped a leg around his opponent's matching limb.

  The two hit the mud hard and scrambled to their feet to the roar of the jubilant crowd.

  Lut clinched with Dras, hooking a left hand to the back of the Without-Tent's neck. Dras matched his hold. Their right hands flew as they pushed and shoved, pounding their faces until cuts opened. The crowd came alive as the two turned to attrition to decide their fates. Lut bore the worst of Dras' punishment as fist after fist crashed into his cheek, which dripped blood that filled his mouth. He pushed through, throwing Dras back with two hard uppercuts that found his jaw. His opponent's balance faltered on the second punch.

  Rearing back, Lut launched one last blow at the side of Dras' head, dropping him in a heap. He thrust his hands in the air as his legs gave out, his knees squelching the mud. "Lut-tik-tik-tik!"

  The audience, a mix of Inners and Tents, applauded as the Without-Tents cheered, unbridled in their joy that one of their own—even an outcast—had achieved victory not once, but for an unheard second time. The dirt-crusted referee came toward Lut, an irritated look on his face as he bowed his head.

  "You may count your favor..." he grumbled. "Champion."

  Nonplussed by the Tent's disrespect, Lut ignored the official as he made for Dras. Kneeling down by the fallen warrior, he offered his hand. Bleary-eyed, Dras regarded the odd gesture before he let his conqueror assist him. Pulled to his feet, his expression mixed between thanks and confusion.

  Lut patted his hard shoulder. "Next time."

  Surprised, a small grin formed on Dras’ swollen lips. He replied with a small, grateful nod.