Sons of the Gods

by James Von Ohlen

  There must be more to it than that, he thought as his hands moved beyond his control.

  The heavy spikes emerging from the intricately wrought maw of the beast surrounding the opening where the demon’s breath originated showed their recent use in battle. They were bloodied and a scrap of flesh hung from one. Mangled skin with gore still clinging to it. Torsten lifted the weapon against his will.

  He feared few things in life, but he knew a bad idea when he saw one. Handling such a powerful weapon without knowing fully how it worked was only asking for trouble. Anhur laughed in Torsten’s head as he lifted the weapon and aimed it at the remaining Mountain Men. His hand found the activation rune and pressed it. Something clicked under his thumb and the caster roared to life. A wave of heat washed over him, evaporating the sweat that had collected on his brow and forcing him to narrow his eyes against the stinging air.

  The remaining Mountain Men became ashes in the blink of an eye as he moved the demon’s breath back and forth over them. The rocky rubble that the Mountain Men had stood on, all that was left of a vast span of the fort’s walls, glowed white hot beneath the weapon’s assault. They hissed and spat, several flowing like molten lava for the space of a few breaths.

  A fleeting thought of the southern islands passed through Torsten’s mind at the sight. He’d seen lava flowing into the sea there, as he pursued a fleeing merchant that The Kingdom decided would be better off as a corpse. The plume of steam and caustic smoke marked the birth of a new land, putting lie to the old saying “they aren’t making any more of it.”

  The man had deserved to die. Even if he hadn’t been ordered to do so, Torsten would have hunted the merchant down and cut his throat sooner or later. He had been known only as “Asher”. Asher had unleashed something that could very well have killed Torsten himself. Something the warrior did not appreciate.

  An outbreak of hemorrhagic fever that killed thousands had been traced back to goods brought into port by that merchant. That in itself was no death sentence, but the man had also been selling a fake cure for the same disease.

  The merchant had planned to infect various cities in The Kingdom and then make his fortune on his fake cure and be gone before anyone realized what had happened. An attack against nation and people. A chance encounter with a drunken crewman of the merchant’s vessel set the conclusion of the tragedy in motion. His confession was gained through Torsten’s and Ed’s hand of work. After that a lengthy pursuit had taken place as the swindler and murderer attempted to flee. Many med had died along the way, but none in Torsten’s crew. Hard men were hard to kill. Soft men, not so much.

  Torsten had been the first to spill blood among the jagged obsidian rocks of that new land, killing a whimpering man that blubbered and pleaded for his life. Without exception, the frail ones always did. A knife drawn across his victim’s throat brought the months long voyage to an end and consecrated the new island with the blood of the weak. The final piece in that story that spanned the deaths of so many.

  The merchant’s ship was taken as a war prize by Torsten and the survivors among its crew were sold as galley slaves. The profits had been divided among the five men of Torsten’s crew tasked with finding the man, Asher, and delivering The Kingdom’s justice to him. A few of the men spent every penny of their war booty on drink and whores, wasting the rest of it on expensive clothes and jewelry. Torsten had set aside a good amount of it and invested in a few toys. The kind that killed other men.

  Somewhere, somehow, Torsten knew that Anhur was smiling at the memory of it.

  Voices screamed in surprise and fear from within the fort as people drawn to the commotion witnessed the deaths of the Mountain Men and the power that Torsten now held in his hands. He held the breath caster high above his head and fired a blast into the air, sending a searing wave of heat washing over everyone and everything around him.

  “Let them see. Let them see and fear me!” Anhur’s voice roared in Torsten’s head. Stones grinding against one another. Torsten dropped the weapon and strode to the remains of the gray man he had killed in the fight. He knelt and hacked the warrior’s head from his armored shoulders and cradled it like a baby before finding a suitable hold on it and raising it above his head for all to see. A change in the direction of the wind quickly shrouded him in dust and smoke.

  He felt whatever it was that Anhur was doing through him withdraw, leaving him in control of his own faculties once more. Though he had no choice but to do as he was commanded by the God of War, at least now he could control his actions.

  The cloud of dust and debris that circled about him parted and he lowered the severed held. He realized with disgust that he still held it. Such things were better mounted on spikes for warning or dramatic effect. Actually holding them, well, that was just distasteful. He tossed the head away from him and met the eyes of a soldier in the uniform of the armies of The Kingdom staring at him.

  Wide eyed and seemingly disbelieving of the carnage he beheld in the shadow of the ruined wall, the soldier stood. Torsten noted that the man was armed and armored and spattered with gore himself. He had seen heavy fighting very recently and come through unscathed. An ally if not a friend, and perhaps a useful one at that. Something burned behind Torsten’s eyes and passed. The color drained from the soldiers face, but he held his ground.

  “You.” Torsten spoke to the man. “You’re coming with us.”

  FIVE of them moved together. Advancing from cover to cover through the crowded streets of Fort Pleasant. To Eric’s eyes it seemed as though they were expecting men with longbows to open fire on them at any time. They hugged the walls lining the streets, three on one side of the street and two on the other, leaving a few strides spacing in between themselves. Always a foot or so off of the walls. Something about incoming fire sliding along the walls and catching those who stood too close had been mentioned.

  A few moments before Eric had been drawn to orange stabs of light descending from the heavens, and now here he found himself conscripted by men of far superior rank and who had slaughtered a trio of the gray men as easily as he would have slapped down a child. Well perhaps not quite so easily, he thought. He doubted a child would have been able to cut his throat in a fight. One of the scouts hadn’t been so lucky.

  Despite the man’s seemingly mortal wound, he had been moving under his own power when Torsten had suddenly ordered the remaining men to move and had taken Eric with them. As if on cue, Eric looked back over his shoulder as the men in front of him leap-frogged down the street from cover to cover and saw the fifth man from the group of scouts making his way down the street to catch up to them.

  Impossibly the man was not only up on his feet, but now rushing to rejoin the fight. Eric had heard the people speaking in muted tones after they beheld the destruction of the Mountain Men and the gray men in the rubble of the freshly breached wall. ‘God spawn’ they had said. ‘Sons of the Gods’ they had said.

  He wasn’t sure if he believed such things. He’d always heard the stories as a child about how the Gods had descended among mortal men and taken mortal women as their brides long ago. How their children had been superhuman and had carved the mighty empires and kingdoms of the world out of the untamed and barbaric lands with their bare hands. Their bare hands, and weapons fitting of the bloodlines of Gods.

  Eric had thought the stories fanciful enough when he was younger. He even spent hours a day daydreaming about what it would be like to have such power at his disposal in his early years. But it had passed with age as thoughts turned to more immediate and real concerns. Survival for one. When he heard the stories again in the mouths of children or in the people who tended to them, he began to hear just that. Children’s tales.

  But now seeing a man wounded like that returning from the brink of death and back in the fight after only a few moments, he reconsidered. Men with glowing eyes who moved too quickly for the eye to follow and who wielded weapons that seemed like something out of legend. Was it true? Did the Gods rea
lly descended among men and spread their seed? Would a mortal woman even be able to survive the act, he wondered.

  “Move, soldier.” Torsten’s voice carried back to Eric with authority. He leapt from his cover and sprinted up the street as fast as he could while carrying his gear. Bow clasped in his left hand, a loose arrow held by the shaft in his right. He felt like he was flying, running on adrenaline and no small amount of fear. That still wasn’t fast enough in his mind. He seemed like a slug compared to the way the other men moved. Covering vast distances in scant seconds and easily leaping over obstacles that would have taken him some time to climb over.

  Eric had no idea what was expected of him, so he did his best to replicate the way the others moved. The way they chose cover and their movement patterns. The way they scanned ahead of them for enemies and advanced at irregular intervals.

  People milled about the streets ahead of them. Behind the scouts the streets were clear. No one wanted to be anywhere near these seemingly mad men, looking dangerous as they sprinted through the streets brandishing strange weapons. None wanted any part of this business. The men moved faster than word of their approach though. The refugees and residents of Fort Pleasant liked their gossip as much as anyone else, but it could only travel so fast.

  The others held their position until Eric reached the spot he had been ordered to. He nocked an arrow and peered from behind his cover to search out potential threats. Once again, he saw nothing. Just like the other two or three dozen times he had done so. Some part of him thought the advance to be slowed by paranoia, but then he remembered the headless corpses of his brothers struck down by the gray men and their thunder. Eric pulled his head down slightly at the bloody thought.

  There was a moment’s pause and the muscles in his right shoulder began to burn and threaten to cramp as he held the arrow back at full draw, ready to fire at any target that showed itself. Somewhere behind him trumpets sounded again, repeating the order for all hands to the gate. What could be happening there, he thought, that would require the entirety of Fort Pleasant’s military might? Nothing short of multiple battering rams backed by the hordes of savage raiders and crumbling defenses came to his mind. How were they unaware that the walls had been breached? A hand touched his shoulder and he nearly let the arrow fly as it startled him back to his immediate surroundings.

  “Relax.” A new voice spoke to him. He turned to see Styg, the man who had been wounded crouching next to him. In only a few seconds since Eric had spotted him, he had caught up to the front of their advance. “I don’t think that will do any good against the men we are hunting.” He spoke in a low tone. Not quite a whisper. His voice sounded rough. Eric couldn’t tell if it had always been that way or if something in the man’s throat had been damaged when the gray man’s blade had passed through it.

  A group of two more of the scouts moved rapidly from their position to another further up the street. They conferred with one another for a second then signaled back. This time Torsten ran to their position by himself and knelt with them behind an ox-drawn cart, minus the ox.

  Torsten spoke to the others and signaled back. Styg grabbed Eric’s shoulder and pointed him towards Torsten and the vanguard of their advance. With a gentle tug he pulled Eric out from behind their cover as though he was a child and was off down the street.

  Eric tried desperately to maintain the distance between them as they ran. He knew better than to close that distance, even if he could. Crowding another soldier wary of being shot at by what he suspected were either bows or thunder wielding demigods just came across as unprofessional. Better to keep the space so that a lucky shot didn’t take them both out. But that was just wishful thinking. At a full sprint the scout still easily outpaced the soldier.

  He arrived at his goal, a neatly stacked pyramid of barrels likely packed with preserves or grain for the trip back east. For the time being it provided concealment for the men of The Kingdom. A second or two later the other two scouts arrived, completing their group.

  An unpleasant buzzing feeling passed over Eric as he crouched and tried to catch his breath. Like a swarm of flies passing through his head while ants crawled over his skin, and then it was gone leaving a rising gorge in its wake. Torsten looked back at the assembled men and Eric swore his eyes turned red for a split second. Best to do what this one says, he thought. At least until I can get myself the hell out of here.

  “Up there.” Torsten spoke, pointing to a warehouse on the crest of a hill that looked over a busy intersection. Interestingly enough, no one entered of left what should have been an otherwise busy building. People moved about their business ahead of them oblivious to the fact that the walls had been breached and the gates were under attack. Oblivious, or they just didn’t have anything else to do but to pretend to go about their normal business. A coping method, perhaps, Eric mused.

  “Aye.” Pier spoke as he gazed upon the building, two hundred yards or so down the street. An easy shot with a longbow. The thought passed through Eric’s mind and he crouched a little lower. “At least three men dead or on the way near the main door.” Pier continued.

  Eric looked back up the hill. He couldn’t see shit besides a large wooden building. Could these men who moved so quickly and seemed so terrifyingly strong see better than other men as well? Why not, he concluded.

  “We’ll find Skull Face there. And at least four more of his gray men.” Torsten spoke. His eyes burned with intense concentration for a few seconds. As though someone else was peering through them. They darted back and forth over the building and seemed to lose focus before he turned back to his men.

  “Smoke. Beginning to emerge. We’d best move fast.” Torsten spoke as if he was mentioning that the sky is blue. A nod of agreement all around, though Eric saw no smoke. If they hadn’t been moving fast already, then how in all hells was he supposed to keep up with them now he wondered.

  Torsten looked directly at Eric before continuing.

  “With me, soldier.”

  PEASANTS scurried to move from his path as Torsten moved, sword in hand and ready to use at a moment’s notice. Somewhere in the back of his mind it registered that he had never referred to anyone other than landless serfs who fit the literal description of a peasant as a ‘peasant’. Perhaps later he might have a moment to think about such things. Now, however, he had more immediate concerns.

  Things buzzed and burned inside of his head and the collar of the War God grew warm against the skin of his neck. The God’s hand was at work here, in some way. Torsten chose his own path, but he knew that something was being done through him. It was the stuff of mythology. Man as pawn of the Gods. Mythology playing itself out in his flesh. Perhaps his contemptuous thought reflected that of the War God.

  The warehouse rapidly drew nearer as he ran down the center of the street, not bothering to hide his approach now. This close, the War God could somehow sense that no one stood sentry. Torsten could see that Pier had been right as they approached the door, if it could even be called that, slightly ajar and hanging crooked in its frame. It was larger and stronger than the gate that had held the Mountain Men at bay in the crumbling tower. Dead men lay just outside the building in pools of slowly spreading blood. Wounds from a blade hung heavy upon them.

  Splintered wood showed that the door had been forced open. Thick and heavy, no normal person could have done so in any reasonable amount of time without bringing the fort’s garrison down on them like a fist. A very angry, very bored fist. Perhaps the work of a man in gray steel or of Skull Face himself Torsten observed as he looked at the broken and bent timbers.

  Déjà vu.

  His own or Anhur’s it was difficult to say. A vision of armored men in line, filing through a crater in a wall of some fortress one at a time. Men clad in steel battling one another in the dark surrounded by walls of iron. Demon’s breath darted back and forth between them. Some survived the assault. Some did not. The vision passed in the blink of eye, leaving Torsten disoriented. If the War Go
d saw into his mind was it possible for him to see into the God’s? Would he even be able to comprehend anything he might see there?

  Sword held at the low ready, Torsten was the first through the door. A large area full of cargo for transport back east. Important things like gold and diamonds for lords and ladies to wear about their necks like peacocks of stone and metal. Iron to make steel. Bones of Mountain Men, or simply ground limestone claimed to be the same, for the powders of snake oil salesmen. Whatever else found in the Western Fringe that might be worth a few pennies.

  A few more dead men laid about the room in the passages formed by piles of wooden crates. They showed little signs of struggle. Either they had been unaware they were being attacked, or whoever had done it was too fast for them to defend themselves. The part of Torsten that loved to fight was hoping for the latter. The part of him that had no interest in losing a fight was hoping for the former.

  Iron. The smell of it burned Torsten’s nostrils. The smell was so intense that at first he didn’t recognize it. Blood. No stranger to that. But so much of it in one place. How is it possible?

  Torsten and his crew stepped into a large clearing among the cargo destined for export. Some type of refugee camp had been setup there. Scores of men, women, and children from all over The Western Fringe had come there for safety from the Mountain Men and their sorcerer. Skull Face as it were in Torsten’s mind. Or was it Anhur’s, he wondered.

  They had been granted entry to Fort Pleasant and the owner of the warehouse, or probably more accurately, the owner’s wife had been sympathetic to their plight. It wasn’t enough that they had relative safety behind the walls, but they needed decent shelter as well. The warehouse had been converted into a small town unto itself.