God's Last Breath

by Sam Sykes

  That thought should have revolted him.

  But for some reason, it did not.

  This was why they hadn’t looked up at him. They probably couldn’t even look up anymore. Their entire lives, small and petty though they might be, were in the wood and the chains and the fires. They had nothing else.

  Asper could not save them; she was weak, stupid, treacherous.

  Gariath would not spare them; he was little more than an animal that had learned how to talk.

  But he could. Just as easily as he could take their lives away, he could save them.

  He could save her.

  And when they finally had enough room to breathe the clean air, when they finally looked up, they would see him. They would finally see him for what he was.

  “I am capable,” he whispered.

  “Capable might not be enough,” the shadow replied.

  Dreadaeleon turned to him. Red light danced behind his eyes.

  “I am invincible.”

  The shadow inclined his head. “Of course, the Venarium might disagree.”

  Dreadaeleon’s eyes narrowed to thin, burning slits. “The Venarium are nothing. Bookkeepers fussing over their ancient tomes. Pointless. Obsolete.”

  “Treacherous,” the shadow replied. “But, if you think that a few hundred Venarium who were wholly expecting you to be dead and out of the way by now won’t have a problem with you expending such power to save these people, by all means, ignore them.”

  A point.

  This shadow—whatever he was—was irritatingly full of them. Who was to say Shinka wouldn’t go back on her word to not pursue him once they felt capable of doing so? After all, she was already planning on betraying Asper once the priestess served her purpose.

  Asper … His lips set into a bitter frown at the memory of her. As though she would even appreciate you for doing this. As though she would ever think you a hero for doing so. His fingers tensed. But if she were to look up … to see you over the city, so high above …

  What would she think, then, old man?

  Dreadaeleon turned and fixed a glare on the shadow. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Is it too hard to believe that I’m a concerned citizen?”

  “Concerned citizens don’t vanish and reappear like a bad thought. Nobody does that.”

  “Reasonable.” The shadow nodded. “I suppose, then, that telling you I am simply acting on behalf of an interested party who has interest in this city remaining safe and has little faith in gods would convince you of my virtue?”

  Dreadaeleon’s glare did not budge.

  “Fine,” the shadow sighed. “Whatever our plans might be, it’s not as though you simply couldn’t incinerate me with a thought once you’ve got enough power.”

  At this, Dreadaeleon drew in a breath. He called magic to his hands and thrust them at the street. He rose from the earth, hovering over the shadow and looking down upon him. He inclined his head and grunted.

  “Reasonable.”

  And with that, he spoke a word, hauled himself into the sky, and was gone.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  THE RATIONALITY OF VIOLENCE

  Gariath quirked an eye ridge and snorted.

  “Nak Chamba?”

  The tulwar standing before him flashed a grin that was too heinous to be called crooked—gashed, maybe. Naked to the waist, his body littered with scars and the hair on his arms fallen out in patches, he was clad in simple breeches and sandals. A long bandanna was coiled around his head, covering a gaping hole where once an eye had been. The colors on his face had long since faded, and his teeth were worn down.

  While he was old, Yuku Humn Nak Chamba was not the sort of creature Gariath would have thought of as a warrior, let alone a leader. But from the way the hundred-odd tulwar behind him knelt in respect, it was hard to deny his authority.

  “At your service, daanaja,” Yuku grunted.

  Gariath’s nostrils quivered—this tulwar, and all his clan, stank of dirt and death, along with the customary tulwar scent of anger.

  He glanced to his side. Mototaru glanced back, shrugged.

  “The Nak Chamba are from the north,” the old tulwar said. “Mountain clan. Good archers, last I heard.” He looked back to Yuku and scratched his chin. “Of course, last I heard, the humans had pushed them off the edge of the map.”

  “We are all that remain,” Yuku replied, gesturing to his clan behind him. “We claw out a living in the far reaches of the Akavali ranges. Yet even as far as we are, word reached us of the great daanaja.” He fired off a bow toward Gariath. “We heard the stories. Is it true you took Jalaang?”

  Gariath stared at him flatly. “If it wasn’t, would we be marching from it, moron?”

  He stepped back and gestured to the edge of the dune he stood on, and to the river of fire below.

  Their thousands-strong lights painted their faces. The hammering beat of drums drove them forward. The thunder of their feet sent them ever onward down the road toward their distant target.

  Tulwar.

  Of many clans, of many Tuls, of many families. With swords, with bows, with shields. Their faces colored by the reds and yellows and blues that flooded into their scowls.

  Tulwar.

  Pouring from Jalaang, torches and blades held high, warding off darkness as the sun set over the desert. First as columns, then as packs, and finally as a tide, seeping inevitably forward toward Cier’Djaal.

  Tulwar.

  Below, one of the warriors looked up and saw him standing high on the ridge. He raised his sword toward Gariath and let loose a roar.

  “Rise up!”

  Thousands of blades rose in response. Thousands of howls took up the cry, shook the smoke-stained sky.

  “RISE UP!”

  An army.

  His army.

  And this dirty vagrant, this Nak Chamba, wanted to join it.

  “We are few in number,” Yuku growled, “but we are strong. Our arrows are sharp. Our eyes are keen. Let us fight for you, daanaja. Let us fight for the clans.”

  Gariath glanced toward Mototaru. The old tulwar glanced back and made a stiff, short nod.

  The dragonman sighed and looked back at the kneeling tulwar. He supposed that once, he would have seen morons: weak, idiot monkeys who didn’t know what fighting was. Or perhaps he would have seen warriors, eager to fight and to kill and to win for him.

  These days, though, he mostly just saw bodies waiting for graves.

  “Sure,” he grunted. “Whatever.” He waved a hand. “Head to the front of the line, find a man named Daaru Saan Rua Tong. Give him that stupid speech of yours and see if he can’t find a place for you.”

  “At once, daanaja!” Yuku turned toward his clan and rose his fist into the air. “Nak Chamba!”

  “Nak Chamba!” the tulwar roared back, rising to their feet and raising their bows. “Rise up! Rise up! Rise—”

  “Enough of that shit,” Gariath snarled, loud enough to cut them all off. “To the front. Tell Daaru you can yell loud, too.”

  With a few grunts, Yuku had his clan moving. They hurried off, cheering and hooting, as they slid down the dune and rushed to the front. Gariath was glad to see them go, if only to get their stink out of his snout. Though there wasn’t much reprieve to be had, with the reek of steel and smoke everywhere.

  “That was a good decision.” Mototaru packed his pipe with fresh tobacco and lit it.

  “I just wanted them to shut up,” Gariath muttered. “If you had told me how much tulwar yell, I wouldn’t have bothered with any of this shit.”

  “I mean accepting them into your army,” the old tulwar said. “If word has spread to the Nak Chamba, then it’ll have spread to many other clans, as well.”

  “Word of a fight spreads quick.”

  “Word of a victory spreads quicker. Win this, you’ll have even more warriors answering you.”

  Gariath snorted. “More yelling.”

  “More people.”

  “Mo
re fights.”

  “More tulwar.”

  “More deaths.”

  “That is also true.” Mototaru puffed on his pipe and shrugged. “Ah, well. Maybe we’ll all be massacred and you can be spared the trouble. Think positive, hm?”

  Gariath folded his arms and stared out over the river of tulwar. “They’re moving quickly.”

  “They’re ready,” Mototaru said. “Delaying was wise. They’re hungry for battle. We’ll march through the night, reach Cier’Djaal by morning, as expected.” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “It’d be wiser if you let them sleep, though. Wait one more day.”

  “No,” Gariath growled. “I’ve had enough waiting, enough thinking.” He drew in a deep breath and swallowed the stink of smoke, of weapon oil, of body odor. “Every moment we’re on this road is another moment to—”

  He paused.

  His nostrils quivered. Through the many base reeks and seething stink of anger, he caught something. Faint, barely there, and fading with every breath. He would have called it nothing and thought nothing of it, if it hadn’t smelled exactly like …

  “Where are you going?”

  He ignored Mototaru’s question as he trudged off down the dune. Just as he ignored Mototaru’s shout as he stalked away.

  “All right, then,” the old tulwar called after him. “I’ll just be over here. You know, leading your army while you stalk off without a word and disappear on the eve of battle. While I’m at it, I’ll compose a song about your leadership! What rhymes with goatfucker?”

  Gariath didn’t hear.

  Just like he didn’t hear the hundreds of roars and blades raised in his wake as he passed through the river of tulwar and emerged on the other side. Sounds were fleeting things—here and gone in an instant—but scent persisted. And the scent he chased now, the faint reek that seemed to grow no stronger even as he followed it up the hill on the other side of the road, was impossible to ignore.

  Rainwater and mud caked on boots. Blood on metal and salt on skin. Never by itself, always hidden beneath common scents. He never gave it a name.

  But he knew it by the memories that came with it. He smelled it when he emerged from a dark cave and stung his eyes with sunlight. He smelled it when he first extended a hand to a human without the intent of ripping something off. He smelled it when he held two small, still, breathless bodies in his arms and could do nothing for them.

  And he smelled it now as he came upon a large rock, where a short, scrawny thing in dirty clothes and wearing a sword on its back looked at him from beneath a mop of silver hair and grinned.

  “Hey,” Lenk said.

  Gariath simply stared for a moment.

  This human, too, seemed a hazy and insubstantial thing, like his scent. Gariath barely recognized him—thinner than he was before, dirtier, carrying a few more wounds, and his scars stretched a little longer.

  Gariath could hardly remember the last time he had seen him. How long ago had it been? Weeks? Months? The night it happened, he remembered him looking much as he always had: rigid if short, relentless if weak, fierce and always ready to fight, no matter how badly he would lose.

  And he had lost badly. Gariath could still remember the sound of his jaw cracking beneath his fist, if nothing else.

  This human—this creature—wasn’t the strong warrior he remembered. This human wasn’t the only one whose name he spoke. And so, for a long time, he said nothing.

  But not too long.

  “You’re not dead,” he observed.

  “Yeah.” Lenk rubbed the back of his neck. “Not so far, anyway. It was close a few times, though.” His grin grew a little wider. “I could have used you around.”

  “You would still have failed,” Gariath growled. “No one uses me.”

  “No, it was just a figure of speech.”

  “You failed at that, too.”

  Lenk regarded him carefully for a moment. “I’ve missed you, Gariath.”

  Gariath met his eyes before glancing around. “How did my scouts miss you?”

  “Your scouts, huh?” Lenk looked long over the dunes, toward the rising sound of drums. “That whole … thing belongs to you, then?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I do. But I shouldn’t.” He sighed. “You always said you were going to kill a lot of humans before.” He made a gesture to himself. “Well, I’m not running. If you want to start with me, go ahead.”

  It wouldn’t be hard, Gariath knew—it wouldn’t be long until one of the tulwar discovered Lenk and then a hundred more did. Or, hell, he could just rip the human apart himself—it looked like it would be even easier than it had been before. And it wasn’t like a lot of humans weren’t about to die.

  What was one more?

  But Gariath did nothing.

  “How did you hide from my scouts?”

  “Kat dropped me off a few hours ago,” Lenk replied. He pointed off toward Cier’Djaal. “I figured, since this is your army, everyone under your command would be pretty eager to get into combat. I just waited out of sight until your scouts got bored and left for the front. Then I came out here and waited for you to show.”

  “And what made you think I would?”

  Lenk shrugged. “We six have always had a way of finding each other, haven’t we? I guessed things hadn’t changed that much.” He stared out over Gariath’s army and frowned. “But I’ve been wrong before.”

  The dragonman stared at him, this scrawny creature that he had once known. His nostrils quivered, drawing in the faint scent of rain and dry earth. Still so faint, still so fleeting, still so weak.

  “We have rear guard scouts, too.” Gariath turned away and began to head back toward his army. “They’ll be here, soon. If you’re stupid as you look, you’ll stay.”

  He had taken perhaps five steps before Lenk proved that, in fact, he was more stupid.

  “So how many of them are you planning on killing?” Lenk called after him.

  Gariath paused. “Many.”

  “They aren’t all fighters, you know. The city’s full of merchants, civilians … children.”

  Gariath simply began walking again.

  “What’d she do?” Lenk asked. “What could she have possibly done to make you do this?”

  At that, he stopped.

  “What, was it something she said?” the human asked. “Something she did? Or was it … was it us?”

  Gariath’s hands curled into fists.

  “I remember the last night I saw you,” Lenk said. “It didn’t end well. I just wanted a new life so badly. If that’s what all led to this, I’m sorry and—”

  “How is it,” Gariath growled, “that things as small as you always think that you’re bigger than the world?”

  “What?”

  “She did nothing.” Gariath cast a glare over his shoulder. “There was nothing she could do.” He whirled on Lenk, teeth bared. “That any of you could do. I didn’t leave because of you. I didn’t find the tulwar because of you. I didn’t survive because of you.” He snarled. “You are small. Weak. Stupid. This is not about you. It never was.”

  Lenk hopped off the rock and stepped forward. He was short, always had been, but he strode toward Gariath with all the confidence of a man who was not about to be pounded into the earth like a stake.

  “Oxshit,” Lenk spit. “I’ve fought with you. I’ve bled with you. I’ve killed with you. You might have spit out curses the entire time, called me stupid with every breath you could spare, but you stayed. Through all of it, you stayed. And then you left.”

  “I left,” Gariath replied, “because I killed for you. I defended you when you were too weak to do it. I saved you when you were too stupid to live. Every drop of blood I spilled and every bone I broke for you, for them, and you all wanted gold.”

  “We did.” Lenk shook his head. “I did. I wanted to stop killing. I wanted …” He held his hands out and sighed. “For fuck’s sake, Gariath, we’ve been fighting and killing since we met. Didn’t
you want it to stop, too?”

  Gariath didn’t answer.

  He had never considered it, really. To humans, he supposed, fighting was something exciting. It sent them coursing with fear, with anger, made them cling to a life that was fast slipping out of their hands with every breath.

  To him, fighting was just something he did.

  He fought. He won. He survived. And they survived because of him. So long as he kept killing, they lived.

  It was simple. It was perfect. Or it had been.

  “Gariath, listen,” Lenk said. He reached out, as if to touch the dragonman’s shoulder, but stopped. “I didn’t come here to try to guilt you. Whatever happened, it doesn’t matter. It’s what’s going to happen that matters. I need you to stop your attack and get ready for—”

  Gariath didn’t hear the rest of it. He was already turning and walking away.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  Lenk came rushing forward, running in front of him and holding out his hands, as though that would stop Gariath from trampling him outright. Gariath couldn’t say why he did stop.

  Maybe he was feeling nostalgic that day.

  “Listen to me, Gariath!” Lenk said. “It’s a long-as-hell story and I’ll tell you all about it, I swear, but something’s coming. A demon’s been unleashed. Khoth-Kapira—you remember, we fought his Disciple in the Souk—is coming to Cier’Djaal. He’s coming and he’s going to kill—”

  Gariath placed a hand on Lenk’s shoulder.

  Gariath shoved.

  Gariath did not remember Lenk flying quite so far the last time he shoved him.

  “I am tired of it,” Gariath said. “I was tired of it when I first met you. I was tired of it when I lost my sons. But it was always easy for me … killing. So if it kept small and weak creatures like you alive, I could do it.”

  He stared out over the road as the river of tulwar began to thin out, converging farther down as they marched toward their target.

  “Gariath, you have to believe me, there’s a demon—”

  “I believe you,” Gariath replied calmly. “But there have always been demons. Or monsters. Or other humans. Whatever needed killing, I killed it. We killed it. And there was always more to kill.” He close his eyes. “There will always be demons.