The Warriors of the Gods

by Jacob Peppers

  The soldier cried out, shouting something Argush did not understand. However, though he may not have known the man’s language, might not have known it then even had the man spoken in the language of Entarna with which he was familiar, his heightened senses couldn’t miss detecting the sound as the soldier abandoned his defensive stance and started forward at a run, meaning to protect his charge.

  Argush planted his feet instantly, spun, then launched himself at the soldier. The speed with which he flew at the man left him no time to react, and before he could bring his blade to his defense, Argush’s claws raked across his stomach leaving deep furrows through which blood and intestines spilled.

  The man screamed, collapsing to the ground, his sword falling beside him, forgotten in his agony and shock, but Argush paid him no mind, turning back and charging the servant. The man swung the sword he held, but he lacked the soldiers’ training, and the attack was clumsy. Argush dodged it easily, leaping to the side only to charge back at the man in the next moment, ripping out the guard’s throat with his fangs. Blood, warm and satisfying, filled his mouth, gushed into it, and he drank it down greedily. Then, sated for the moment, he raised his head and howled his pleasure at the moon as the servant’s body twitched beneath him.

  He spun at the sound of the caravan door being thrown open to see his prey standing there. The man was shirtless, displaying a torso wiry with muscle. His dark, oiled beard shimmered in the moonlight, and the hoops hanging from it shone bright gold. The man stared at him, on his handsome face a look of surprise that quickly turned to anger. “You,” he growled.

  Argush did not answer, for his mouth was not made to form words but to destroy flesh. Instead, he bared his teeth—coated crimson by the blood of his victim—in a wide grin. Then, he pounced.

  The bare-chested man moved with impressive agility, leaping into the air in a somersault that carried him over Argush, and Argush struck the side of the caravan hard. Wood splintered at the impact, and the caravan rocked precariously but held. He felt pain then as some of the impact made it through the protective armor of his scales, and he growled in rage, spinning to see that his quarry had rushed to the front of the wagon and, as he watched, snatched up a whip left there.

  Argush, angered by his pain, rushed toward the man, but his prey snapped the whip with practiced ease, and a line of agony traced along his side. Argush howled in pain and impotent rage and was forced to leap away before the whip could find him again. He began to pace around the man then, looking for an opening, but the bare-chested man put his back against the caravan, and Argush growled, walking back and forth, waiting for a sign of weakness. If the man was afraid, he showed no sign of it, only standing with the whip ready in his hands.

  “Lazadar? What’s happened?”

  A woman’s voice, coming from inside the caravan. The bare-chested man let himself become distracted, glancing at the caravan, but only for a moment. Yet, a moment was all one such as Argush needed, and before the man could fully turn once more, he charged forward in a blur. His prey cried out, leaping to the side but not quickly enough to avoid his claws raking across the arm holding the whip.

  The man shouted in pain and dropped the whip, the arm that had held it now cradled against his body, bleeding profusely. Argush took his time then, seeing no need to hurry, for he knew it was over. The look in the man’s gaze showed he knew it too, yet he crouched in a stance, his good arm forward, and waited for his death to come.

  Argush braced himself, preparing to pounce, but just then arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling him back an instant before his feet left the ground. He howled, thrashing in an attempt to break free, but his attacker, though weaker, had wrapped his arms around him, and held on grimly. Argush was still struggling when something struck his face, bringing hot agony with it, and he screamed out his rage and pain as his blood splattered the ground. He saw that the shirtless man now held the whip in his other hand, and blood—Argush’s blood—dripped from the end of it. Mad with fury, he fought the grip of the man holding him, his sharp scales tearing into the man’s flesh. Finally he broke free.

  He reared, spinning, to see the young soldier, the one he had thought dead, in front of him. The man’s face was slack, his eyes looking confused as if he wasn’t sure where he was, and the flesh of his arms hung in strips from where it had pressed against Argush’s scales, yet still he stood. Argush brought his claws up to cut deep into the man’s throat, and he did fall then. Pain lashed Argush’s back, and he screamed, turning and charging his prey. The whip struck him twice more before he reached the bare-chested man, but even that terrible, sharp pain would not stay him, not now, and he barreled into his prey with all the force he could muster. He heard multiple snaps as he hit the man in the torso, cracking ribs, and the man screamed as he was thrown backward to fetch up against the caravan with such force that it teetered, flying up on two wheels before finally settling once more.

  The man collapsed in front of it and watched as Argush approached. His breath rasped in his lungs, and his chest had a sunken, caved look to it, but the man bared his teeth. “You are a monster,” he hissed, “and all…will know of it.”

  Argush moved forward, the man’s words meaning nothing to him, not then, but the bare-chested man held up a shaking hand. “The women…my wives…they have nothing to do with this. Let…let them go…please. They are not…warriors…I ask…mercy.”

  Argush pounced, and the man could not defend himself as the teeth found his throat. Argush hesitated for a moment, glorying in the feel of his prey’s flesh beneath his fangs, then his jaw clamped down. He twisted his head, tossing the empty flesh aside and turning his gaze back to the caravan’s door. He could hear the terrified whimpers of the women coming from inside.

  Mercy, the man had asked of him, but the darkness had no mercy to give, and compassion meant nothing in the shadows. Argush stood on two legs then pushed open the door. When he entered the caravan, the women began to scream, high-pitched, terrified sounds echoing in the night, begging for a help that was not coming. But they did not scream for long.

  Mercy, the Second Word had asked, but there could be no witnesses, that much Argush knew. Besides, he was hungry. Outside the caravan, Argush’s companion watched with amber eyes, his teeth, bloody from the soldiers, the last of which was being feasted on even now, bared in a wide grin. Argush did not see him standing out there, too caught up in his own task and wouldn’t have cared, even if he had.

  ***

  Kale awoke with a gasp, jerking up in bed. Just a dream, he thought wildly, struggling to bring some semblance of order to his frantic, disrupted thoughts. He hissed in pain, jerking away as light fell on him, and glanced over to see that the shade of the room’s single window had been pulled back, though he didn’t remember doing it. Weak, early morning light filtered inside, and he rose from the bed, his body seeming to ache everywhere as he made his way to the window and pulled the shade down once more. He groaned in pain as he did, for his back hurt. From the whip. The whip he used, he thought wildly. No. No, he was only sore from his brief scuffle with Lazadar when the man had visited his quarters, that was all. With Chosen Olliman gone and in his current condition, Kale had not been training as he should have been, scared to even so much as leave his rooms, let alone find a partner with whom to practice.

  Just the soreness of muscles used more than they were accustomed to, that was all. He told himself this as he made his way back to his bed and sat down heavily. He had nearly even convinced himself it was true, but then he became aware of the burning in his face. Frowning, he reached up, hissing as he touched the scales there. He pulled his hand away and saw the tips of his fingers were coated in blood. No muscle soreness did that, no matter how much he might want to believe it. “It…it can’t be,” he whispered, and hesitated at a strange taste in his mouth. Sharp, coppery. Oh, gods, not blood. Don’t let it be that—it was only a dream. I fell asleep after a violent scuffle, worried and afraid. It’s no surprise I woul
d have strange dreams. Anyone would, given the stress I’ve been under.

  “Bright One.”

  Kale nearly screamed at the unexpected voice and turned to see the Proof standing in the corner among the shadows where he had not noticed him in his distress. “You,” he growled. “And just where have you been? I’ve been needing you—everything is falling apart.”

  “No, Chosen of the Goddess, everything is coming together. You are coming into your power, the power promised to you.”

  Kale wanted to scream, but he forced himself to remain calm, not liking, just then, the idea of letting his anger control him, making of him a…a beast. “You still have not explained where you’ve been.”

  The man’s eyes flashed with what might have been amusement. “I’ve been with you, Chosen. But then, I believe you know as much.”

  Kale frowned, knowing what the man meant but refusing to believe. “With me? I think I would have known, if you were with—”

  “But you do know,” the Proof insisted. “You have known since first awakening. Do you not, even now, taste the blood of your enemies within your mouth?”

  “What?” Kale stumbled backward, his hand coming unconsciously to his lips. “No, it’s not…it’s not blood. I…I must have had wine before I went to sleep or…or…”

  “You did not,” the Proof said, his voice steady and implacable. “You know that as well as I. What’s more, that is not the taste of wine in your mouth, Bright One. It is the taste of victory, the heady sensation left by your enemies when you crushed them beneath you. It is a fine thing.”

  Kale felt a wave of horror and revulsion. “But…no. You’re saying…we ate them?”

  “It is the way of the wild,” the Proof said, “the strong feast on the weak. You did well, Kale Leandrian. The goddess is pleased. Lazadar would have been a problem, might have raised all Welia against us, but you dealt with him. I admit, Shira was angry at first, full of wrath at your impudence to so antagonize the Second Word, but no longer. The danger has been averted, and you once more stand in her good graces.”

  Kale wanted to argue with the man, to tell him he was wrong. After all, Kale Leandrian was the son of the richest noble in Ilrika, a young man who all had known was destined for greatness, even from a young age. A man who had been groomed and trained to lead the city when that old bastard Olliman died, a man who caused women to swoon when he walked by. But they’re not swooning now, are they? some cruel, amused part of him asked. Not swooning, but they would scream quickly enough, if given a clear view of your face. Yet, even that was not the worst of it just as it was not the reason why he held his tongue and offered no objection. The truth was the taste of blood and flesh still mingled in his mouth and now that the Proof had called it what it was, Kale could not deny it, no matter how much he wanted to.

  The next thing he knew, he was on his hands and knees. He didn’t remember falling off the bed, but he could feel the cold stone of the floor pressing into his palms and the skin of his knees. Not skin any longer, that malicious part of him corrected. Scales. Kale gave a strangled sound somewhere between a gasp and a grunt, and then heaved the contents of his stomach out on the floor. Again and again, his stomach heaved, a foul-taste flooding his mouth, and liquid and matter spattered the floor in a growing pool. Some of it struck his hands and arms, his face, but he did not notice, was instead too focused on the terrible clenching of his stomach. It seemed it would go on forever, and he began to grow sure he would die here, would puke out his insides until there was nothing left, then collapse on the floor in his own foulness, a disgusting monster that would be found by someone in a day, perhaps two, and oh how they would scream.

  But despite all his fears, his stomach finally subsided to an uneasy cramped feeling, and he sat back against the bed, gasping. “I-it can’t be,” he managed, pointedly keeping his eyes away from the mess he had created as he ran an arm across his mouth. “I’m…I’m not a monster.”

  “Monster,” the Proof said in a mocking tone. “Demon. Evil. They are just words, Chosen, nothing more. Labels placed on the strong by the weak, the stuff of scared, barroom whispers and tales to frighten children. There is no such thing as evil, not truly. It, like so many other beliefs of this world, is only a figment of old, frightened men’s imaginations, a figment which they have forged, link by link until, now, they use it to entrap and bind any who might threaten their suppositions or, worse yet, their preeminence. Do you think the wolf, while it stalks its prey, thinks itself evil? Do you think the lion which gorges on the flesh of its kill stops to consider if what it does is moral? And, if so, how could it not be? After all, every beast must eat to sustain itself, and it is ever the destiny of those unable to defend themselves to be the food of their betters. There is no cruelty or malice in what the beast does, only an understanding that to eat is to live. There is only one single law of the Wild which will never change, Kale. It is that the strong live and the weak die. And this is as it should be.”

  Kale noticed the Proof had used his given name instead of his title. Normally, such an impropriety would have caused him outrage, and he would have let his displeasure be known. Now, though, he couldn’t seem to summon the energy to care, was too focused on keeping his gaze pulled away from that foul puddle in front of him for fear of what he might see there. He thought that, should he look, and should he catch sight of an ear or bit of flesh or skin, he would go mad. “I…I need…” He trailed off, suddenly unsure of what to say. It wasn’t that he didn’t need anything, but that he needed so much that he could think of no starting point. There were a thousand things he wanted to change, a thousand thoughts and questions and fears he wanted to address, but they were tangled together like a great ball of yarn, so tightly packed he could not find so much as a single stray end to begin the unraveling.

  “You did well, Kale Leandrian,” the Proof went on, either unknowing or uncaring of the tumultuous storm his words had roused in Kale. “Silencing the Welian representative was the right thing—the only thing. He would have caused us—and our goddess—difficulties, if he had been allowed to carry his discovery back to his homeland. This way is better, cleaner. Welia’s military might not be known for its strength, but a man can find anything, if he has money enough and swords are no different.”

  Kale thought then of the dream—even now, he wanted to believe it a dream and nothing more than that—when Lazadar had been dying. “You are a monster,” he’d said, “and all will know of it.” Perhaps, they had just been the words of a dying man, a final taunt the pleasure of which he might carry with him to the Keeper. But Kale didn’t think so. The words had been said with conviction, with a satisfaction that made them not a threat but a promise, not a hope but a guarantee. He considered telling the Proof about them, but quickly dismissed the idea.

  Kale had stumbled into the darkness, been led there bit by bit over the years, and the worst of it was he didn’t even know who had been doing the leading. Had it been Shira, all along? Had the Proof always been standing in the shadows of his life, stalking him and whispering dark truths into his ear? Or had it been himself? In the end, he decided it did not matter. Whether he had walked or been carried, he had found himself in the darkness of strange woods just the same, a deep forest, the mystery of which was unknown and unknowable. A forest where men did not live. A forest full of monsters.

  But he remembered another thing from the dream, remembered the way the Proof—for surely the creature with the glowing amber eyes had been the Proof—had grinned widely with blood on his snout, crimson glistening in the moonlight. The way he had watched when Kale addressed the challenge of the other, weaker nightling. Always watching me, always studying what I do. And perhaps that was a greater truth than any yet revealed to him—the Proof, whatever else he was, was not Kale’s friend. Nor, he had to admit to himself with more than a bit of chagrin, was he his servant. He was Shira’s creature and hers only, and Kale did not doubt that should he show a willingness to go against Shira’s will, sho
uld he balk and refuse to accept such “gifts” as she offered, then the Proof would not just be Shira’s servant, not then. He would also be her assassin.

  The Proof was a weapon lying on the table unsheathed, waiting to be grasped, to be used. And Kale suspected that should he speak the truth, should he make Lazadar’s final words known, Shira would be greatly displeased. Displeased enough, perhaps, to reach for the weapon where it lay and wield it against Kale.

  “You appear troubled.” The Proof’s voice, from right behind him, and Kale nearly screamed. He had been so caught up in his own thoughts, his own fears, that he hadn’t noticed the goddess’s servant stalking closer. “What ails you, Kale?”

  Kale did not think he imagined the suspicion in the Proof’s tone, and suddenly he did not like the feeling of this thing standing behind him, not at all. He thought that, should he turn, it was all too likely he would see the Proof’s teeth bared, much as they had been in the forest. “N-nothing,” he managed, “it’s just…I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I…did that.”

  The Proof waited for several seconds before speaking, perhaps looking for any falsity in his words. But when he spoke, his voice was almost soothing. “You did only what you had to, nothing more. I am pleased, Kale. Shira is pleased.”