“How may a mortal fight an Immortal?”
“This shell is mortal. It can be killed as easily as yours.”
“That may be true. But if I lose, which surely I must, I will be sent to Tartarus. You can simply return to the Holy Mount.”
“Shrewd as old Odysseus,” he laughed. “Very well. At stake is your immortality. Your name. Nothing more. If you lose, you shall be sent home, only no longer remembered as the greatest of warriors.”
“If I win?”
“Riches? Fame? The love of a woman? All of these you possess already. What more do you want? If you win.”
Without warning Akhillios struck. Leonides barely parried the blow but quickly responded with a counter attack. He was plagued by too many questions to fight effectively. Why did he have to fight? Why couldn’t he just live? Was it real? He wondered what would happen if he didn’t fight, but the warrior in him would not allow him to stop. And more than once, he had to remind himself that it was not actually Akhillios he fought — he guessed his opponent, real or imagined, to be none other than the War-Maker himself.
As the combatants waged back and forth, fatigue slowly crept into Leonides’ mortal limbs, but he refused to think about defeat or victory. As always, he simply fought.
The War-Maker’s blade slipped past Leonides’ defense, slicing tunic and flesh. It wasn’t deep but would certainly hasten his fatigue. Instead of pressing the attack, the Immortal hesitated, as mortal soldiers sometimes do, to revel in the moment before victory. In that very instant — not even the length of a single heartbeat — Leonides’ blade cut across his opponent’s forearm. The War-Maker cursed, his eyes wide with surprise.
Or was it doubt?
Leonides’ limbs and mind numbed as instinct took control. He felt the familiar stirring deep within. Questions no longer mattered. The warlike spirit awakened. He parried a slice aimed at his throat then unleashed a roar so fierce that it forced the Olympian to stumble backwards.
Leonides immediately lunged forward. He slashed and thrust without any regard for his own defense, striking both of War-Maker’s arms and scoring him across the ribs which allowed him to force his foe’s sword aside. He punched the Immortal in the face with his free hand, knocking him down, and moving with feline swiftness, he straddled War-Maker’s chest, pinning his sword hand to the earth with a knee while placing the point of his own sword at the god’s throat.
The War-Maker’s eyes widened, his fear evident, as he awaited Leonides’ final plunge.
“Enough!” The voice boomed from every direction with the power of rolling thunder.
Panting, Leonides looked down on the fallen deity, one thrust away from final victory. The spirit craved his enemy’s blood, but Leonides did not. Sweat dripped from his brow as he fought a second battle within himself. Beads of blood formed around the sword’s point as it sank into the god’s throat. No, he screamed silently, but the word became an incoherent, animalistic noise. It emerged as a mighty roar that shook the earth. Then it was over.
“Enough,” the voice repeated, but this time it sounded tired and worn.
Leonides stood and threw his sword far out onto the dimly lit plain.
Patroklos approached, or rather, a figure that looked like Patroklos. His youthful eyes were black, timeless depths radiating power and danger that forced Leonides to avert his gaze.
Patroklos studied Leonides then War-Maker, who struggled to his feet. “You have defeated one of us only.” His voice reverberated like thunder. “Do not think you can stand against all of us.”
“It was never my intention, All-Father. I was brought here against my will.” Head cast down, Leonides hesitated a moment unsure whether to say more, but decided to do so. He no longer cared what was real. “It was the spirit invested in this body that defeated War-Maker, not me. It is not my will to fight, but you have made it my nature.”
“Do not listen to him,” War-Maker pleaded. “Destroy him now, or he will destroy us all!”
Patroklos pointed at the god of War. “Leave.”
The War-Maker vanished. There was nothing magical as Leonides had heard in stories about the gods: no light, no wisps of smoke, no crash of thunder. He was there one moment and not the next.
Patroklos chortled, his eyes gleaming slyly in acknowledgment that he was whom Leonides suspected. “Let it not be said that the great Achaian Lion is too proud. Too clever perhaps — that you argue the gods have defeated themselves.”
“I say nothing of the sort, All-Father. I am a simple man.”
The god’s sigh seemed weighted with the weariness of ages. “We wanted a hero for the ages,” he said, “one that would be remembered and idolized through time. This war was to be his time. Your time.” He clasped his hands behind his back to watch the battle. “And because the hero would be remembered, so too would the gods. Otherwise, we will not last. As times change — as men change — so too the gods. We will change, be replaced, perhaps ultimately forgotten.” He looked into Leonides’ eyes. “Unless, of course, something happened — something so great that the story would be passed through the ages.”
He stared off into the distance. More to himself, he asked, “What are we to do?”
The ring of combat filled the silence that followed.
Leonides stared at the Immortal, trying to identify the emotion he felt. Was it disgust or pity? In many ways, he was reminded of Akhillios’ longing to be acknowledged. Loved.
“It is too late now,” the god said. “You must return.”
“Wait,” Leonides pleaded. He thought madly for something, anything to keep from going back to the madness.
He went before the god, daring to look into the depths of his eyes. “My Lord, the sword is powerful but the words are more so, for with it a man may not only destroy but also create. A song can outlive the life of its singer. It can inspire others to feel, to think, or even to live. Words are the great immortalizer, All-Father. Let me serve you with words.”
The Immortal clasped Leonides’ shoulder. At first Leonides feared he had gone too far and would pay for his brashness. Instead the immortal said, “Ares grew afraid of you, believing you would overshadow us before the war had ended. But now you speak of life and verse.” He laughed. “We, who schemed for vanity’s sake, were destroying ourselves. We have forgotten from whence we came — we have forgotten the hearts of men.” He smiled and a gleam of light shone briefly in his sky-blue eyes. “Sometimes the simple man can be the wisest of all.”
Then the light faded as grief spread across his countenance. “A generation of men will die in this war,” he said. He turned his back to Leonides, staring blankly at the warring men.
For the first time in his life, Leonides could find no words.
It may have been minutes, hours or ages, before finally the god spoke. “Your passion led us to choose you, Lion. We chose wisely. Though what was given unto you cannot be destroyed, it may be re-forged. Use it.” The god looked across the Ringing Plain. His chest swelled as he took a deep breath. “Use this destruction, Leonides Homeros. Inspire men. We no longer matter.” Thunder filled his voice. “Do not let them stray as did the Olympians.”
The Achaian was about to respond, but his thoughts suddenly left him. At that moment the eagle screamed again. He shielded his eyes with a hand to watch it soar across the clear evening sky then . . .
Then he returned his attention to the battlefield where Akhillios stood upon a stone, roaring at the backs of the Trojans as they fled toward their city, the sun gleaming off his bloody sword. Corpses carpeted the plains of Ilios around him.
“Mark this well.” Menelaos’ voice startled Leonides. “Though this bloody battle was brief, I fear the war will be very long.”
His words triggered something deep within the young poet-scribe, something he knew he must do. Contemplating both the living and the dead, he said, “Aye, my lord, but I am certain some good will come out of it — later, if not now.”
“Let us hope so, Homero
s.” The king-general laid a hand on the poet’s shoulder as they turned toward the row of tents being erected. The setting sun bathed the land in crimson. “Let us hope so.”
Jeffery A. Sergent lives in a small town tucked away in the hills of southeastern Kentucky with his wife Kim and daughter Arwen. He has taught at the local high school for twenty-four years now, and has been a fan of science fiction and fantasy since grade school. For the past fifteen years, he have sponsored, edited, and contributed to the school’s SF&F fanzine Fantasm. In the past, he's had a scattering of stories published, including “The Dragon” for Alienskin. This past September, “The Young God’s Tears” appeared in Swords & Sorcery Magazine. He is also a contributor to Nerdbloggers.com, and Absent, his first novel, was published by Whiskey Creek Press.
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The Vilkacis
by Konstantine Paradias; published December 24, 2013
Third Place Award, December 2013 Fiction Contest
"Pa! Billy-Bob is eatin' roadkill again!" said little Jemima, as she watched her older brother tear at the rabbit carcass that had been transfixed to the pavement by virtue of a passing eighteen-wheeler.
Jebediah Vilkacis, hard at work scolding his youngest son, stopped mid-rant and broke into a four-legged sprint at his eldest.
"What the hell you think yer doin', son?"
"I was just getting me a bite to eat Pa, is all," Billy-Bob said, the rabbit-leg sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Jebediah willed his paw to shift into a facsimile of a hand, just so he could smack it upside his eldest son's head.
"Well we ain't eatin' things off the road! How many times do I gotta tell you boy, we ain't like that!"
"Grampa tol' me he done eaten things off the road. He tol' me you done eaten things off the road too!" Billy-Bob said, rubbing at the back of his head in mock pain, his muzzle buried against the asphalt. To Jebediah, the sight of his eldest son trying to pull off a puppy-eyed look was all the more infuriating.
"Well we ain't doin' that no more! We ain't like Grampa no more!" Jebediah snarled at the cringing Billy-Bob. Something inside him, something feral, urged him to lunge at his son, to sink his teeth in his ear and make him go belly-up in defeat. Jebediah summoned his near-endless reserves of strength and choked it down. "We are civilized. We are proper werewolves, ya hear?"
"Yes, pa." Billy-Bob said, unaware of the thrashing he'd just been spared. With a sigh, Jebediah went back to his youngest son, his rant half-forgotten. Somewhere behind him, little Jemima let out a little cry as Billy-Bob snarled at her for telling on him. He wouldn't dare raise a finger against her, of course. Like his Grandfather, Billy-Bob was a scaramoush, all bark and no bite.
Elijah, his youngest son, had remained seated on the jagged rock at the edge of the highway where his father had left him, impassively looking out into the desert. The events that had transpired had barely registered to the boy. To Jebediah it seemed, at times, that even his own life seemed to Elijah as a series of unconnected events, a crude precursor to adulthood.
He understood his son's way of thinking: his indifference was a defense mechanism rather than a personality trait, something to keep out his family life, his social circle, his own awkward and shifting destiny. Like him, Jebediah had also considered his childhood and teens a dream, a series of events tailored to someone else's specification, the waiting room to a better life just out of his reach. A life outside the pack. Jebediah had dreamed of life away from the desert. He'd dreamed of the big city, its spires agleam under the midday sun, set ablaze by neon at night. He'd dreamed of his very own pack, head of a motley crew of mangy creatures that would make that concrete jungle their own by tooth and claw. He'd dreamed of a secret life, a great life, one filled with adventure and peril.
But then reality slammed into Jebediah, shattering his fantasies into a million pieces by virtue of responsibility. His father had grown old and arrogant, a danger to the pack as well as to himself. Suddenly, the cub had found himself forced to confront the father, to best him in combat and then, having done that, to lead the pack. Then, to care for a brood of children. Afterward, to mourn those who were lost to the highway or to hunters and their snares. Once that was done, to care for those that had been left. To keep his job. To tread the twilight world between night and day.
Elijah, Jebediah knew, was too much like him for his own good. Which is what made this that much harder.
"So, where were we?" Jebediah asked.
"You were just about to start screaming at me, dad."
"What for?"
"'Cause I'd told you I didn't want to be a werewolf."
Jebediah's growl bubbled up from his throat before he even knew it, his fur bristling. He was on his hind legs the very next instant, his forelegs shifted into hands, a great clawed index finger pointing at the boy.
"You insolent cub! Where do you come off?"
The boy only shrugged, looking apathetically up at his father. Jebediah deflated once again, returning to his four-legged pose, his wrath quenched.
"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to snap atcha like that."
"It's okay, dad. I probably had it coming," Elijah said, stroking his dad's fur right at the base of his head just like his mother did, when she was soothing him from one of his tantrums. "I'm sorry."
"But why, son? What's wrong with bein' a werewolf?" Jebediah asked, his eyes half closed, his thoughts sloshing around inside his head in a pool of calm.
"There's nothing wrong with it, dad. Jemima loves it, Billy-Bob loves it, mom loves it, you love it; I just don't. That's all," Elijah said.
Jebediah looked at his boy: a child of fifteen, barely a man, not yet transformed. His first shift was coming soon, with the new moon. He would turn then, his body transmuting from man to near-beast, changing him into the thing that he and his father and his father before him had been. Unlike his sister, Elijah was going to be a late bloomer but Jebediah could tell that he would be a fine specimen, a proper alpha male.
"You know you don't have a choice," Jebediah said.
"Yes I do. I can just not go out into the moonlight. I can avoid it and then it won't happen, and I won't change, that's all." Elijah retorted.
"And what makes you think you could do that?" Jebediah said, the anger in him rising once again. "What makes you think you won't see the moonlight?"
"Well, because you'll agree it's what I want to do. Because you're my dad, and you're going to be okay with it, is all."
"And what if I drag you out, kickin' and screamin'?" said Jebediah, his voice a near-snarl.
"Then you won't be better than Grampa, I guess."
"Pa! Pa! Look what I found, Pa!" screamed little Jemima at the top of her lungs, a raven caught between her teeth, madly flapping.
"That's great, sweetie! Keep at it!" Jebediah shouted back at her.
"Pa! Pa! Look at me! Look at me!" Jemima said, as she let go of the raven once, then snapped it back in her teeth just as it beat its wings and tried to fly away.
"Way to go, sweetheart!" Jebediah said, dismissing her with praise, turning back to Elijah. "You know yer going to be a better werewolf than yer sister or Billy-Bob, don'tcha? And a better alpha than I could be?"
"I don't think so, dad. Jemima was born to this. And Billy-Bob ... well, Billy-Bob wants it more than I do, that's for sure."
"And what if I don't want you to be a normie, huh? What will you do then?" Jebediah said, ham-handedly attempting to threaten the boy.
"Then I guess you'll just have to get over it, dad." Elijah said. "But I'm still going to love you for it."
The perfectly rehearsed speech that Jebediah had been preparing over the last two weeks for just this occasion now died in his throat. His arguments, all perfectly chosen and painstakingly crafted, simply fell to a million pieces. Suddenly he knew that little boy with the auburn hair and the tarnished-silver eyes had won this battle, perhaps even the war.
"Jemima! You let go of that damn thing, we gotta get home!" Jebediah
shouted at his daughter, who was hard at work chewing at the dead raven.
"But Paaaa!"
"No buts! Get Billy-Bob!"
His head hung low, Jebediah led his cubs back home to the desert, feeling (for the first time in a very long time) mightily uncomfortable in his own fur.
~~~~~
"So the boy doesn't want to be a werewolf. So what?" said Edna as she lay by her husband at the foot of the hill, spent after their lovemaking.
"Are you serious? Am I even hearin' this?" Jebediah squealed, his voice bordering hysteria.
"Don't shout, honey. You'll wake the kids," Edna said, laying her paw on her husband's muzzle. Jebediah couldn't help but notice the silvery sheen of her fur under the moonlight.
"Elijah can't not be the next alpha," Jebediah whispered. "I can't let him be a normie."
"And why not? Why can't someone else be the alpha? Billy-Bob is raring for it and so does Jemima."
"Billy-Bob ain't fit for it. Too much like my father, that one. And Jemima's a girl," Jebediah pouted. The look that Edna gave him made his tail tuck itself between his legs.
"And what's wrong with a female being an alpha? I'll have you know, my mother was an alpha in her own pack!"
"Yes, sweetheart, but your pack was from Utah. This is New Mexico. You can't have a female alpha in New Mexico."
"Says who?"
"Says a hundred years' worth of history, honeysuckle."
"Well, history is written by the victors. And if Jemima kicks every other male's butt, then she can be alpha fair and square," Edna said.
"Yer changin' the subject, bottlebrush," Jebediah said. "The point is that Elijah doesn't want to be one of us."
"I can't blame him."
"Scuse me?"
"I said, I can't blame him. The boy wants to be his own man. You don't expect he'll want to spend his days in a trailer home, trawling round in the desert, scared of fringe journalists and truckers now, do you? Boy's got his own plans, Jebediah. He don't have to be an alpha if he don't want to. Let him be a normie, let him live in the big city, what's wrong with that?"
"What's wrong with that? I'll tell you what's wrong with that! It's wrong 'cause I tell him it's wrong and I tell you it's wrong! Because he'll go out there and be a boring little bastard, living in the big city while the pack gets torn apart! Because he'll go there and get lost in their world, while we stay out here, forgotten!"
Fiction Vortex - December 2013 Page 8