The Warriors of the Gods

by Jacob Peppers

  Alesh’s scrambled thoughts were still trying to catch up. “What…Hank what’s happened here—”

  Alesh grunted as the shadow that was the innkeeper suddenly stumbled forward and would have fallen had Alesh not caught him. His fingers where they grasped the old man were instantly coated in something warm and tacky. “Hank? Are you hurt?”

  The man raised his head slowly, as if even so small a motion pained him, and leaned away from Alesh, using the wall for support. “Sure,” he agreed. “It ain’t the first time…my blood has been spilled in half a dozen countries at least…first time it’s ever been spilled in my own inn though. Still, you want my opinion, hurtin’ ain’t the sort of thing you get better at with practice.”

  Now that the man had leaned back against the wall, the moonlight illuminated the front of him, showing that his chest and stomach were coated in blood. “Hank, we’ve got to get you to a healer’s and—”

  “There’s no time for all that,” the old man wheezed, and Alesh was disturbed to see a line of blood tracing its way out of his mouth. “I’m done for boy; I’ve seen enough folks off to the Keeper to know my own invitation, when it comes. Listen, there’s more of ‘em downstairs—I gave ‘em somethin’ to think about, but they’ll be up any second. You got to get…got to get yourself and the others out of here, while there’s still time. I ain’t sure, but I might have seen some goin’ into the girls’ room and…you gotta get ‘em out of here, boy.”

  “Hank,” Alesh said, still hesitating, “there’s got to be something I can do, I—"

  “Oh, there’s somethin’ I can do, alright. I can die, and I’m doin’ it. Now, unless you want your friends to see the same fate, you need to get them and leave. Now.” He grunted what might have been a laugh. “Guess I got my wish—I got to die fightin’ after all. I’ll tell you, lad, just now, I’m thinkin’ dyin’ in bed mighta been better.”

  Before Alesh could answer, there were the unmistakable sounds of footsteps coming up the stairs. They both turned to regard what looked to be at least a dozen robed men as they spread out on the landing and stood, studying Alesh and the dying innkeeper.

  “Well, well,” a voice said, and Alesh’s eyes were drawn to a gray-haired man who stepped in front of the others. “If it isn’t the Son of the Morning.” He grinned, his teeth glistening in the moonlight. “And here I thought you would have been taller.”

  “What do you want?” Alesh demanded.

  “Oh, it isn’t about what I want, Alesh,” the old man said in a satisfied tone. “It’s what Shira wants. We, you see…” He paused, gesturing to those other men gathered around him, each of which held a sword or knife in their hands and looked all too ready to use it. “We serve the goddess. And what the goddess wants, Alesh, is you. You and those fools who have elected to travel with you.” He turned to those others with him. “Take him, but don’t kill him. The goddess wants this one alive.”

  Alesh bared his teeth. “Come on then. Who dies first?” Then, in a lower voice, “Hank, get out of here while you can I—” Alesh paused. He’d turned to regard the innkeeper. The man had slumped to a sitting position against the wall. He was still, and his scrawny chest did not rise or fall with his breath.

  Hot anger flooded Alesh then, and he growled, rushing toward the nearest robed figure. His blade flashed out. The priest managed to get his own blade up in time, but Alesh’s strike was driven by his not inconsiderable strength and by his anger, and his sword knocked the other man’s weapon away before driving further, cleaving into his arm. The priest screamed, stumbling backward, and he fell over the railing. Alesh was already moving to the next one but stopped as the old priest who’d spoken shouted.

  “Wait! Unless, that is, you want to watch your friends die in front of you.” A moment later, two robed men appeared from the room beside the priest. One held his arm wrapped around Sonya, the other Marta, and both had knives poised at the girls’ throats. Alesh was still trying to decide what to do when Darl was also led out by two men, both coated in blood, and holding blades at the Ferinan’s back.

  “Put the blade down, Alesh,” the old man said. “Now.”

  Alesh knew that, if he didn’t, Sonya and the others would be killed, but he also knew being killed might be preferable to what this man, to what Shira, had planned for him and the others. So he hesitated, unsure of what to do.

  ***

  Katherine heard the sounds of fighting from outside the door and was just about to charge out to help when she heard the old man’s voice. She listened in horror as the man threatened to kill Sonya and the others if Alesh didn’t do as he was told, and she knew, in the end, what Alesh would do. It was one of the reasons she cared for him so much, the way he put others before himself. But there was nothing to keep the man from killing Sonya, Marta, and Darl once Alesh did as he asked.

  Nothing except for you, she thought. But what could she do? She had no sword of her own, and even if she had, it wouldn’t have mattered. Her talents lay in different areas. A quick glance around the room showed nothing—not even a chair—she might use as an improvised weapon. There was nothing but a bed, a small nightstand on which a lantern sat and…and her harp. In her panic, she had nearly forgotten about it, sitting as it was underneath the bed where she had slid it the night before. It seemed almost ludicrous to her then that she had carried the harp all this way, through all the dangers they had faced, and had not thought to get a sword or a knife, any weapon that might help them.

  But you have a weapon, a voice said inside of her head, and she wasn’t entirely sure it was her own. Her gaze fell on the harp and stayed there. Unbidden, the memory came to her of when she and Rion had been being smuggled into Strellia and her music had convinced the guardsman to help them. So much so, in fact, he had given his life to protect her and Rion, something Katherine never would have believed had she not been there to see it herself. Yes, the harp was a weapon, one blessed by the Goddess of Art and Music herself, and unlike a knife or a sword, this one, at least, she knew how to use.

  Not daring to hesitate any longer, she grabbed the flint and steel from the drawer of the nightstand, lit the lantern, then, when its light allowed her to see better, she bent down by the bed, sliding her harp out from underneath it and opening the case. Music, songs, were often used to inspire, to lift people up from their mundane existences, to give them life. But there was other music, other songs, and where some gave life, others might take it.

  ***

  “I said drop the blade. Now!”

  “You’ll just kill them anyway,” Alesh growled, trembling with rage and helplessness.

  With a grunt of frustration, the old man turned to the one holding Marta. “Kill her.”

  The girl cried out, struggling against her captor’s hold but a twelve-year-old girl, however intelligent and gifted, could do little against the strength of a grown man, and the priest brought the knife closer to her throat.

  “Wait!” Alesh shouted. “Just wait!”

  The priest looked questioningly at the old man who gave a single nod before turning back to Alesh. “Well? How’s it going to be, Son of the Morning?”

  Alesh looked to Darl, hoping for some answer, some solution, but the Ferinan had a dazed, confused look, and it seemed all he could do to keep his feet underneath him. Alesh felt his anger give way to resignation, and the sword slipped from his fingers, dropping to the landing beneath him.

  “Very good,” the old priest said, spreading his mouth wide in a grin. “Take him,” he said to his companions.

  Two men started forward, and Alesh felt his shoulders slump, knowing he had just doomed them all to death but knowing, also, he would have made the same decision again, for he could not watch Marta and Sonya die because of him. Not yet, a dark voice said inside of him, but you will watch it, and it will be because of you. Soon enough.

  The priests were nearly on him when a single musical note sounded in the air, and they froze. A mournful, somehow terrifying sound. That note w
as followed by another, and Alesh tried to turn to look behind him from where the music was coming but his body felt frozen. There was the sound of a door opening and light blossomed at his back, illuminating the priests who looked over his shoulders with wide, frightened eyes. They all seemed to tremble, as if they were attempting to move, but were gripped, as Alesh himself was, by the power of the song. It wasn’t until Katherine came to stand beside him that he saw she held the harp pressed against her body, playing it with one hand while the other held a lantern aloft.

  Without missing a beat in her playing, Katherine set the lantern down on the bannister railing, taking her harp in both hands. She played faster now, the notes rising and falling in the air, and invisible hands seemed to wrap around Alesh’s heart, squeezing it. His breath was shallow, ragged, and he’d broken into a cold, fearful sweat. He tried to struggle out of the paralysis which the song’s melody had seemed to work on him, but his body still would not obey his commands. In fact, as the song went on, he realized he didn’t remember why he’d wanted to move in the first place.

  Suddenly, the music began to come faster, so fast it seemed impossible it was created by any mortal. As it increased in tempo, so too did Alesh’s fear grow, a tangle of cold, will-stealing darkness spreading through his body like some disease.

  His trembling now was not from any attempt at movement but from sheer terror. Something was chasing him, pursuing him. It was no man, this thing, and no beast. It was something…else. Something worse. He knew that, heard the truth of it in the music’s song, and he thought he could even hear its footsteps as it padded up behind him. He had never heard something so terrible, so terrifying. Then Katherine began to sing.

  Her voice, the voice he knew could be as sweet as a crisp apple on a hot day, as smooth as a river gliding gently over stones, was not so now. It was a terrible voice, beautiful and terrible, and within its terrible beauty was a deadly promise, one of death and destruction, one without hope of salvation. The priests must have heard it too, for they began to mewl and whimper in terror, their mouths working, their faces pale in the orange glow of the lantern. Katherine’s gaze fell on Alesh then, and she did not look at all like the woman he had come to know. She looked…different, as beautiful and as terrible as the song which she sang.

  She wore her night clothes, and her long dark hair hung about her shoulders. Her emerald green eyes seemed to shine in the lantern light like twin gems. Normally, her beauty was like the first flowers budding in spring, sweet and innocent and pure. Now though, it was of a different kind. It was the cold, harsh beauty of winter. It was as if Alesh stood on a plain of nothing but ice, as if he had been transported there by her song, by her, and from that wind-swept wilderness there was no escape, could be no escape.

  Then she was moving again, stepping toward the nearest priest. She reached out, toward the knife the man held, and Alesh wanted to cry out, to warn her. But no words would come, and he was forced to watch as she reached for the blade, sure this would surely goad the stricken priest into action. But the man only stood there trembling, foamy drool and blood coming from his mouth, and Katherine took the blade from him easily, as if he had meant to hand it to her all along.

  She turned back to Alesh then, a look on her face that his mind—befuddled and confused by the song—couldn’t comprehend. Then she buried the blade in the priest’s throat and blood spurted out in a line, coating her and the bannister railing. The priest did not scream, did not so much as grasp at the wound in an effort to stem the crimson tide. He only collapsed to the ground and lay there unmoving. Katherine knelt and took the knife from where it had lodged in the man’s throat, the song never faltering.

  No, Alesh thought, not Katherine, not any longer. She had transformed into some vengeful goddess, her pale skin covered in blood, her hair bathed in crimson. She rose, the bloody blade clutched in one hand, her harp in the other, and moved to the next priest. The man’s eyes went wide with realization, his mouth working soundlessly as if he tried—and failed—to beg for his life. But the goddess ignored his silent pleas, plunging the knife into his eye.

  And on and on it went, the song hovering over them, casting its spell, and the goddess doing her bloody work, reaping that which she had come to harvest. Alesh was forced to stand and watch in silence, feeling as if he were in some sort of dream, one of those dreams in which a man was powerless, saw his doom coming and yet could do nothing to stop it. For surely this creature, this goddess would turn on him once she was finished with those others; there could be no doubt of that. For it was why she was here, why she had come.

  Half a dozen priests were dead now, their corpses littering the landing, their blood spreading out in a growing pool that had now reached Alesh’s boots, staining them crimson. Yet still the song, still the killing, went on, and the goddess’s clothes, which had been of a pristine white, were now coated in blood. It dripped from her hands, from her hair, and the harp itself looked as if it had been painted a deep red. And still it went on.

  The song filled the air. The blade flashed out. Men died. Then, suddenly, there was movement from the cluster of priests, movement the goddess could not see for it came from behind her, and Alesh stared at it. He watched the priest, somehow not frozen as the rest were, separate himself from the crowd and step out behind her. Alesh wanted to scream, to warn her, but his voice still would not work, and a moment later the man raised his hand and brought the handle of the knife he held down hard on the back of her head.

  Abruptly, the song cut off, and Katherine—for now that the song was gone, she was only Katherine once again—stumbled drunkenly before falling to the ground, her harp landing beside her. Alesh blinked dumbly and, slowly, he felt the numbness in his limbs begin to dissipate. He saw the priests also begin to stir. The old man who had spoken for them let out a sound that was a mixture of anger and fear as with what seemed to be a great effort, he glanced down at Katherine’s unconscious form. Blood coated the man’s face from where the priest beside him had been killed, and Alesh thought he understood the man’s pale features well enough, as he would have been the next one to die.

  Alesh staggered toward Katherine, meaning to check that she was alright. Each step was a terrible struggle as his legs felt as if they’d had lead weights tied to them, but he managed one, then another, leaning heavily on the bannister railing for support. He was just about to take his third, when the old man spoke in a breathless voice. “Another step…and they die.”

  Alesh paused at that, examining the priests. There were a dozen left standing, and the ones holding Darl, Sonya, and Marta were still holding their blades ready. He would not be able to make it to them in time, would not have been able to even had his movements not felt incredibly sluggish and slow, so he stopped, studying the old man. “But…how?” he asked. “The song…”

  The old man grinned. “You see, Brother Dunner, here, is a good priest, a good servant of Shira, too. Unfortunately—or fortunately, in this case—the gods saw fit to strike the poor man deaf upon his birth. Now,” he went on, turning to his companions, “take them and load them into the carriages—they should be out front by now. Make sure no one sees and kill anyone who does—there can be no witnesses of what has happened here. Brother Kanad?”

  One of the men stepped forward. “Bishop?”

  “When we’re safely away, burn the place to the ground.”

  “Of course, Bishop.”

  Alesh watched, helpless, as Darl, Sonya, and Marta were led down the stairs toward the inn’s common room. “What do you want with them?” he demanded.

  “Them?” the old man asked as if surprised. “Oh, nothing. They will die as all must who oppose the goddess. My men will take them somewhere else in the city—somewhere a couple of dead children and a man are, unfortunately, not particularly unusual. You though…” He paused, grinning. “You will be kept alive. At least, for a little while. The goddess wishes to see to you personally.”

  “What of this one, Bishop?” The ol
d man grunted and turned to the priest who was gesturing at Katherine.

  The group’s leader seemed to consider that. “She is clearly god-blessed…” He shrugged. “Bring her along. Shira will, I suspect, be pleased to have two false worshippers on which to demonstrate her displeasure. But if Alesh here gets any ideas—kill her.”

  Alesh couldn’t stop the growl that issued from his throat, and the old man grinned his vulpine grin again, clearly pleased at the reaction. “Ah, but you care for her, don’t you, Son of the Morning?” He shook his head. “It is foolish, you know? To care. It only invites pain. But do not worry—the goddess will teach you as much soon enough.”

  He motioned to several of the priests and they came forward, moving toward Alesh warily, as if he might change his mind at any moment and attack them. But he would not. If he did, they would kill Katherine—he didn’t have any doubt of that. So he stood there, trembling, watching them stalk toward him, did not move even when one raised what looked like a wooden truncheon over his head.

  The man brought it down, and pain erupted in Alesh’s head, followed an instant later by a blackness, a numbness, rushing through him like a tidal wave. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his stomach, the side of his face pressed against the tacky, blood-coated landing. He heard the muffled sounds of walking, and his blurry vision could just make out the old man’s form as he knelt in front of him. “You are a fool, Chosen,” the man said in a matter-of-fact tone. “You would have been better to fight, to have died and watched your friends die with you. It would have been a kinder fate, I assure you, than the one which awaits you and yours. A fool,” he said again, then paused, grinning. “And soon a dead one. Just like your father.”

  At the mention of his father, an old pain, one he had carried with him since he was a child, cried out. Alesh opened his mouth, meaning to ask the man what he knew of his father, but his tongue felt impossibly thick in his mouth, his head as if it had been stuffed with wool, and he couldn’t manage to get the words out. He was still trying when the bishop gave another nod, and the man with the truncheon brought it down again, and Alesh knew nothing more.