Sons of the Gods

by James Von Ohlen

  “Mordechai’s hand at work. The fool thinks his symbols and petty magics give him power. I have found the sorcerer’s trail now. Burn this place.”

  Torsten emerged from the shack, already beginning to smoke behind him and met the rest of his crew assembled in the yard.

  “What now?” Asked Eric.

  “Now,” Torsten began, eyeing the goats in the yard. In particular the one who had rammed into him during his approach. It puffed up its chest and pawed at the ground, seemingly in preparation to renew its assault. “We eat.”

  THE sorcerer fled in the only direction he could. Up. Onto a narrow, rocky trail ascending steeply into the mountains. Torsten’s crew followed, spurred on by the knowledge that their prey was so close to hand after so long on his trail. Something felt different this time, as if they knew with certainty that the man would not escape them. Could not escape them.

  Once Torsten thought he caught sight of the man they followed, perched precariously on the trail far above them and peering out into the vast empty space of cold air that continually buffeted the exposed stones of the granite face they ascended. He doubled his efforts in climbing, leaving his crew behind, only to lose sight of both his prey and his men. As slow as the boy seemed to move, Eric was still one of his and he did not leave men behind.

  Skull Face wasn’t going anywhere they couldn’t follow and showed no signs of leaving them behind. They would keep pace with the mortal for the time being. With the mortal, Torsten caught himself thinking. Am I beginning to believe that I really am one of the Sons of the Gods? Somehow better than other men?

  There was no doubt in his mind that he was better than other men, but he wanted that to be by his own hand, a result of his own work. Not the gift of some supernatural monster seeking only additional slaves to do his bidding in the world of men.

  Snow began to fall as he waited for the others to catch up to him, sticking to his skin for a moment before melting with the sensation of pins and needles in his flesh. He took a deep breath. The cold thin air was unlike any he had tasted before. Whether because of its purity or because of some contamination he couldn’t tell. He could only say that he enjoyed being here. Now only if he could find some women and a decent beer.

  His moment of solitude was ended with the arrival of the scouts. Together they began their ascent again. Within the hour they could see the end of the trail. It led to a high plateau, rimmed with ice and thick with snow upon the trail towards its end. There in the snow were the unmistakable footprints of a man struggling to climb through the thick, freezing mess.

  Just before the footprints reached the top they could see where Skull Face’s mounting frustration had caused him to unleash the demon’s breath on the obstacle before him. Snow bank became thin layer of ice edged by rock smoothed by the heat of the blast. There were scratch marks in the ice where someone had fallen and tried to stop their slide downwards before they were carried off the edge of the cliff. It looked like they had done so, but only just barely. Somehow Torsten wanted to kill Skull Face slightly less. But only very little.

  Carefully the sextet ascended, reaching the end of the trail and taking in the new land before them. The first men from The Kingdom to behold what they saw. Likely the first men other than Skull Face to set foot here since the Ancients. The land gently sloped away from them, spreading out and down from their vantage point.

  The interior of the high plateau resembled a great bowl, not unlike the construct of the Ancients that Anhur had warned them away from. Only a natural occurrence of stone and soil, not a manmade arrangement of steel. In the center of the depression, some miles away still, stood a Graveyard of the Ancients. A sprawling mass of crumbling stone and indecipherable constructions.

  Massive steel structures lay about the ruined city as though they had been cast there by some angry child of a giant. There was no reason or rhyme in their placement. They simply did not fit there. They reminded Torsten of a group of ships he had seen, brought inland during a hurricane and left grounded far from the sea afterwards. In the low light of the late afternoon a blue glow suffused from the entirety of the ruined city. An eerily beautiful sight.

  Thin foliage gave way to barren ground as the edges of the forest stopped. Possibly the Ancients had not been gone long enough for the forest to reclaim this place. More likely whatever had destroyed them had poisoned the land, driving away the forest. Preventing the return of any of the Ancients who might have survived the destruction of this city.

  The scouts enjoyed the view for a moment, wrapped tight in furs and blankets against the cold of a persistent wind. Breath freezing and hanging in the air about them. Pier was the first to see him.

  Skull Face, barely visible at this distance, moved along at a moderate pace. He looked back once, seeming to make eye contact with each of them before he disappeared amidst the ruins.

  Through the rest of the night, they descended cautiously. There was no doubt that the sorcerer was now aware of their presence and there was concern of being ambushed or attacked. The time passed without incident. As the sky lightened behind them, they reached the edge of the ruins.

  Streets not obscured by rubble seemed to run in a grid pattern as was typical of the Graveyards of the Ancients with a large loop running around the edges of the city. Important buildings seemed to be located centrally, though it was anyone’s guess as to what the buildings actually were. The mayor’s palace or a military command center. There was debate among scholars. They probably knew better than Torsten and anyone in his crew.

  Buildings far taller than any found in The Kingdom stood here, like the skeletons of some dead monsters. It was clear that some were only a fraction of what they had once been. Testaments of the power and knowledge of the Ancients. Of their hubris that saw them destroyed by the Gods. The buildings lay broken, shattered in the cataclysm that had destroyed their race or ravaged by time. The end result was the same.

  The internal buzzing. Ants crawling over skin. Wind in their heads. Anhur was with them. Torsten looked up to see The Lost Star making its solitary path across the sky above them, always traveling in the wrong direction. This one was Anhur’s. Of that there was no doubt.

  “Your paths part here. For the time being.” The rumbling bass of the War God’s voice spoke in the heads of the scouts. Pier, closest to Eric, relayed the God’s words to him. He had never heard Anhur’s voice, save as a distortion of Torsten’s when the scout leader was used as mortal vessel of the divine.

  He had begun to question the sanity of the men who claimed to hear voices in their heads, but dared not share such thoughts with them. Besides, there was always the slim possibility they weren’t actually crazy. And orders were orders no matter what voice a superior officer delivered them in.

  “I’ve several tasks for you.” Stone grinding against stone. “Torsten, you will follow the sorcerer and you will kill him. Bring me whatever he carries. The rest of you will search the ruins. The Ancients have left behind much that will aid my war against Mordechai.” With the final word the men looked to one another, several nodding their acknowledgement, and broke apart into several groups.

  As Torsten looked into the ruined city a series of faint red footprints became visible, marking the path the sorcerer had taken. The path chosen for him by Anhur. Stark contrast with the blue glow of the city. Easy to see. Without thought his feet began to follow.

  Cold wind in his face. Whistling between bones of giants. At this distance he could tell they were the steel bones of the tall buildings of the ancients. What timbers were used for now in most lands of The Kingdom. A simple observation, but none he had ever heard spoken before.

  Sword in hand, warm despite the frigid air. Snow in hair and beard, tingling on skin. Ice crunching beneath feet. Sublime blue glow surrounding everything, eliminating the need for Anhur’s vision to push into his eyes.

  The streets met one another at right angles. Far wider than they needed to be for men on foot or for traffic of horses and car
ts drawn by beasts of burden. Ruined buildings and piles of rubble blocked Torsten’s view of what might lay on the intersecting streets until he was almost upon them. If anyone had been waiting for him, they would have come to grips in a matter of seconds.

  Except for a thin covering of snow, less than the width of the soles of his boots, the streets stood empty. Strange that falling snow seemed to avoid the city. As if even the snowflakes feared the magic that had destroyed this city so long ago.

  Eyes to the horizon. Something moved there. Silvery light. Too distant to make out what it was. No Lost Star. Hopefully, no wrath of a god descending to destroy him. Anhur’s voice echoed through his mind, but it was distorted. Distant. He couldn’t tell what was being said. The God’s grip on his actions slackened, but he still felt compelled to obey his orders. To carry them through to the very end.

  The red outline of Skull Face’s footprints vanished, but the equally easy to see actual footprints in the snow remained. They followed a very distinct course. All straight lines and precise turns as the path made its way further and further into the ruins. The man knew exactly where he was going.

  Torsten came to a large clearing. No ruin marred its surface. It was simply a large open square. A park at one point in time, he realized. A few pines had taken root there. Twisted and stunted, they bore little in the way of leaves. But somehow they had managed to survive. The only things growing in the entire Graveyard as far as he could tell.

  Empty streets surrounded the park. Rubble lining the other sides of the streets with the occasional giant’s bone sticking out at an odd angle. Torsten stood and stared at the group of pines impossibly growing there. The Graveyards of the Ancients were poison to any and all who lingered too long. It was known by all.

  The Graveyards that had the blue glow, such as the one he stood in now, were deadliest of all. Not even plants grew in them. He didn’t want to be here, yet here he was, compelled to pursue a man he didn’t know through this place. How much longer could he spend here before it became a death sentence? Would the War God favor him enough to save him from the rapid decay and painful death that would come from this place?

  The War God, he thought for a moment. His presence was fading from Torsten’s mind in a way it had not done before. As if something else was forcing it out. Torsten watched his breath frost in the air, looking through the cloud of it at the pines. The seething storm just beyond full perception receded further and as he relaxed and breathed deeply it vanished altogether.

  Torsten enjoyed the first true moment’s peace he had known in months. Since he had been summoned before the men he answered to and been sent to The Western Fringe to deal with what should have been a problem for the local militia. Thoughts clearer now. How much had those same men known of what was happening here? Why was he, valuable asset that he was, sent to put out a brush fire of what had appeared to be nothing more than raiders?

  Had they known the hand of Mordechai was at work?

  Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed that the snowfall grew thicker and thicker. Before he was aware of it, a storm was upon him. Near whiteout conditions blocked his view of everything and a strong wind raised, blinding him.

  Fuck, he thought. To come all this way, and be so close to his prey, only to get lost and freeze to death? What a waste. He turned a few times, looking for a recognizable landmark, but saw only driving snow in all directions. Even his footprints seemed to have been lost.

  As suddenly as the storm came it was gone. The park and the streets and ruins surrounding him seemed no worse for the wear. The light dusting of snow they carried had grown no larger. He looked down and saw his footprints behind him, still there and unaffected as well. Had he just imagined it?

  The unmistakable laughter of a child broke Torsten’s reverie and the shock of it sent him into a fighting stance, blade held high and at the ready. He turned in the direction the sound had come from. Something moved there, fading in and out of view.

  Shimmering. Ethereal. Ghostly.

  Like the spirit of the woman Modi. The air in the park before him wavered as though it was above something hot, though snow covered the ground. Suddenly the park was full of children. Strangely dressed, running, playing, living. Not quite living though. The blue glow that touched everything around him passed through them as if they were not actually there.

  More spirits, then, Torsten concluded. At this point, such things were beginning to cease to shock him. Had he not been rattled by the destruction of Fort Pleasant and his near death at the hands of an angry god, he likely would have reacted very differently when he realized what Modi was. Now, the novelty was beginning to wear off.

  He watched for a few moments as the children played games familiar to him from his youth. Leapfrog, hopscotch, duck-duck-goose, footy. An involuntary smile crossed his features as he saw a boy and a girl wrestling for possession of a ball.

  Two women appeared, as ghostly as the children, walking through the park clad in dresses that were scandalously short by the standards of The Kingdom. At least outside of the confines of a whorehouse. He could almost see their knees.

  The women stopped the impromptu free for all spreading among a larger group of children equally interested in the ball and quickly began herding the children away somewhere. One by one they disappeared from Torsten’s view, vanishing back into the nothing they had come from. An ear splitting shriek unlike anything he had ever heard sounded, seeming to come from all directions at once. High pitched then low pitched, repeating over and over.

  A group of older boys, not really boys anymore, but not quite men, strode into the parking lot. Their clothes were equally odd. Pants and shirts to be sure, but of a strange style that Torsten couldn’t place. A few of their shirts bore words written on them, but they didn’t mean anything to him.

  Crank Energy Drink, one said. Nonsense to Torsten. Perhaps it was the boy’s name and he wanted others to know. What other reason could he possibly have for the writing to be there, Torsten wondered. The boys looked to the skies above, speaking to one another.

  Their words seemed odd and the accent was something Torsten couldn’t place, but the meaning was clear. They spoke what could be considered a dialect of the same language spoken in The Kingdom. Looking upwards together they spoke.

  “It’s the Dominion this time. A superheavy. They say the Coalition is putting everything they have left into the fight.” One boy said, speaking in a matter of fact manner.

  “Yeah. My Dad says they’re getting desperate. The war has grown far beyond what they expected and they’re both paying for it.” The others nodded in agreement, still looking upwards.

  “My Dad says the same thing. That when this is all over, no one will ever dare to fuck with us again.” More nods.

  “There!” One boy almost shouted, speaking excitedly while pointing up to the sky. Torsten couldn’t help but look up to see what the spirit was pointing out to his friends. Nothing but empty skies above him, dotted with pale blue light reflected from falling snowflakes.

  “Wow…that’s a huge one.” One boy said nervously.

  “That’s the biggest I’ve ever seen. Even bigger than your mom’s fat ass!” Another added to general laughter. The boy joked, but even now Torsten could see the fear and worry on the faces of all of them.

  A blinding light flashed from above, intense and incredible. Like the sun had suddenly gotten several times bigger and parked itself above this Graveyard of the Ancients in the middle of a snowy night. But only for a second. Torsten’s vision cleared and the boys still stood there, looking up. The odd shrieking continued in the background, as though the source were growing more and more distant from him.

  “The shield stopped it.” One of the boys said, with no small amount of relief in his voice. Nervous laughter came from a few of the others, followed immediately by a barrage of pulses of light that left Torsten nearly blinded and disoriented. A few of the boys screamed in terror. When Torsten’s vision cleared they were gone. />
  The park was normal again. Ancient. Dead. Snow covered and silent. What did any of this mean? A sound of storms and conflagration from behind him. Torsten turned.

  There stood a building, ghostly pale and ethereal like the people he had seen. Like Modi, the children, and the boys. It towered above the rubble that stood in its footprint now. A few of the window frames on the ground floor remained, matching those of the spectral building now occupying the same place.

  So buildings can have ghosts as well? Torsten couldn’t help but chuckle to himself over that one. Who would have thought? Did he have to worry about distant future generations learning his secrets from the spirit of his house appearing to them and wailing while divulging debauched tales?

  He looked over the building, noticing the figures of people in a few of the windows. Backlit by what looked to be witchlight. He’d never seen so much of it one place before. There was an incredible amount. Like it could drive away the dark of the night itself.

  The shadows moved. All of them. More ghosts or was someone about to descend on him? Large formal letters like those found in only the most expensive block-printed manuscripts stood above the gleaming glass and polished metal doors at the front of the building. Torsten struggled to read it for a moment before he could decipher the script.

  MINISTRY OF DEFENSE

  The words seemed to jump out at him. He knew what a ministry was, and what defense was, but what did the two combined mean? Some type of euphemism for an army headquarters, he finally concluded. The sound of roaring flames and suddenly the street was filled with men.

  They were clad in gleaming steel, not unlike the figures of the gray men, but in two very distinctive styles. Apparently the different styles marked the two sides in a battle, as the steel clad men cut one another down with blades that danced across Torsten’s vision. Strange lances spat out beams of light that cut men as surely as any sword. Explosions ripped along the street and something large burned.