The Warriors of the Gods

by Jacob Peppers

  Kale felt a flash of anger at the man’s condescending words, anger that found its way past the fear, confusion, and self-loathing. “Oh, are you pleased?” he demanded. “As if your pleasure is my concern. You work for me, Proof. You serve me. Do not forget that.”

  “Of course not, Master,” the voice said, and though the words themselves were deferential, Kale didn’t think he was imagining the amusement he heard in them. This creature served him? No. It was a lie and they both knew it, but he decided to leave that alone for now. There was too much else to worry about. “I have to…I need…” He cleared his throat, rising to his feet. When he spoke again, he focused on making his voice sound strong, sure. The voice of a leader, the voice of the ruler of Ilrika. “Go and fetch Barnabis, Proof. I would have him clean this mess up—I cannot abide the smell.”

  “Forgive me, Master, but which mess?”

  There was no mistaking the amusement in the Proof’s voice this time. Taunting him, laughing at the fear that kept him from even so much as glancing at the foul puddle. “You know well what mess, servant. Now, do as I say.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot.”

  Kale turned then, and despite his fears, the anger grew, making him clench his fists at his sides. He felt his muscles thrumming, eager for action. “What?”

  “That is,” the Proof went on in what might have been a conciliatory tone, “it is not that I choose not to serve you, only that I cannot do you as you ask. You see, the old man you speak of, Barnabis—he is dead.”

  “Dead?” Kale demanded in surprise. “How?”

  “You know how.”

  Kale frowned at that and was just about to ask the Proof what he meant, when a memory returned to him. It was unclear, as if he were watching events through a grimy windowpane, but it was there.

  Running. The red taste in his mouth making him feel strong, invincible, his thick, tireless muscles propelling him through the city streets, avoiding the light of the hanging lanterns, for such light meant pain and death. A homeless man on the street screams at his approach, at their approach, for the one who runs is not alone, there is another, he with the amber eyes, who stalks at his side.

  The homeless man tries to flee, to run, but has barely made it to his feet when the other pounces on him, ripping out his throat with one savage twist of its jaws. Amber eyes stare back at him, watching, waiting, and they feast. Then they are running again. Few walk the streets so late at night, and of those who do, almost none notice the two shadows streaking by in the darkness, so quick and sure. And if they do notice, they believe them no more than a wind that seems to carry the scent of carrion, and never mind the hairs rising inexplicably at the back of their necks.

  He and his companion pay them no mind, for the night has been full of blood and flesh already and, for the moment, they are sated. They rush on to the castle. Guards stand ready at the gates, but creatures such as they have no need for doors or gates. He crouches, gathering his strength, and a moment later the powerful muscles of his legs propel him over the wall to land in the courtyard. His companion lands beside him a second later.

  Into the castle then, toward his rooms, for it has been a long night full of fighting and the chase and even his muscles, even his prodigious strength, have their limits. A serving woman is in the hall, a pungent smelling rag in her hands as she wipes at the floors. She hears them at the last second and only manages to widen her eyes in surprise before they are on her. A moment of tearing, ripping, and then they leave what remains behind.

  The vision blurred then, and Kale could see little of it past a crimson haze settling in his mind. He remembered moving, remembered a man standing outside of his rooms. He wasn’t sure it had been Barnabis, but he thought that probably it had. He swallowed, turning to the Proof, his anger forgotten at this new, unwanted revelation. “How…how many?” he croaked.

  The slightest motion of the shadow’s shoulders in what might have been a shrug. “Perhaps a dozen. Certainly no more.”

  Said as if it made no difference at all, as if even considering it was a nuisance. “Twelve?” Kale rasped, his words forced past a throat suddenly gone terribly, painfully dry. “But…how is that possible?”

  “All things are possible with the new powers you have been given, Chosen,” the Proof said. It was not what Kale had meant, but he thought the creature knew that well enough, so he did not press the matter.

  Another thought struck him then and, accompanying it was a dizzying wave of terror. “But…but the dead…they’ll leave a trail pointing directly to my chambers. At best, the guards will want to come in, to know that I’m okay, and they’ll discover the truth. At worst…” At worst, they’ll know it was I who killed them, will have discovered their Chosen is a monster in truth and he has feasted on the blood and flesh of the very ones who served him.

  “Yes,” the Proof said, again as if it mattered little. “But no mob waits outside your quarters with torches and blades, if that is your concern. I have made sure of it.”

  Kale’s relief at the first part of the man’s words vanished at that last. I have made sure of it. He thought to ask what that meant but decided not to. He thought—he was afraid—that he knew all too well. “But more will come…it’s a big city, and more will come and then…”

  “And they will discover you for what you are,” the Proof said. “And, once they have, they will hate you. They will envy you, and in their jealousy, they will destroy you, for even the goddess’s blessings cannot protect you against so many, not yet.”

  “So…what do I do?” Kale asked, hating the weakness in his own voice but unable to repress it.

  “What any might do, should he find himself facing an enemy army.”

  An enemy army. Kale didn’t like the sound of that, not at all. After all, he had spent nearly his entire life training and conspiring to reach the position of Chosen Leandrian, ruler of Ilrika. Now that he had finally attained his goal, it seemed he would lose it.

  “What does such a man do?” he asked, feeling numb.

  “Well, that’s simple,” the Proof said, leaning forward enough that his scaled face was visible in the shadows of his hood and now he did bare his fangs. “He seeks shelter with his own army.”

  Kale frowned. “I…I don’t understand. Ilrika’s army is my army and—”

  “No,” the Proof hissed. “This smattering of men wielding their blades and shields is not your army, Argush. Your army awaits you, even now, in the woods, in every dark corner and shadowed cave throughout the whole of Entarna. They wait for you, your troops, their claws and fangs ready to deal destruction to your enemies. You need only go to them, and they will follow you.”

  “You mean nightlings,” Kale said, at once astonished and not surprised at all.

  “Your kin,” the Proof said, “those who will follow their Lord Argush through blood and fire and death. Those who will kill—will die—at his command.”

  “Stop calling me that,” Kale snapped. “My name is Kale Leandrian, not Argush. Argush died years ago in the Night War!”

  “Yes,” the Proof said. “Argush fell due to the meddling of foolish gods who should have known better. But he is reborn now, in you. Look at that puddle lying at your feet, the one you have so feared.”

  Kale swallowed hard at that, turning away. “No, I will not. I do not—”

  “Look!” the Proof growled, spinning Kale against his wishes. His eyes went immediately to the puddled foulness in the floor as if of their own accord, and Kale screamed.

  Once his eyes had fallen on that puddle, they would not be moved, could not be moved. Blood and mucus and bile, all terrible enough on their own, but that was not the worst of it. The worst of it was that there, scattered among that puddle, was that which Kale had feared seeing, that which, he realized then, he had known he would see. Flesh. Skin. Bits and pieces of what had once been a man or a woman, a beggar or a castle servant. Now, only flesh. He screamed again then, trying to break away from the Proof’s grip. Finally,
the fingers let him loose, and he stumbled and fell on his bed, burying his head in his sheets as if in doing so he might somehow wipe even the memory of that puddle from his mind.

  “A dream,” he rasped desperately, “it’s only a dream. That’s all. This isn’t real, any of it. I’ve dreamed and—”

  Hands jerked him to his feet again, and the next thing he knew, he was staring into those lambent amber eyes, inches away from his own. They shined with a ferocity and a wildness so terrible that it was all Kale could do to keep from screaming again. “You have dreamed, Argush. You dreamed you were a selfish noble with selfish goals. A man who cared nothing for the glory of any save himself, who spent his hours, his days striving to prove something to himself, to the world. To show he was smarter, better. Kale Leandrian was a dream and nothing more. A dream from which you have awoken. You are Argush now, Lord Argush of the nightlings, and it is time you were awake.”

  Kale’s mind raced, searching for some means of escape, for some way to flee from this terrible creature with its terrible amber eyes. But even if he managed to break free, what difference would it make? The truth of the Proof’s words, the truth of what Kale had become was all around him. It was on the blood-stained pillow on which he had rested his head, in the ragged and torn clothes he wore, and the puddle at his feet. It encased his body in scales that could not be broken or removed, and even should he leave the Proof, even should he flee, he could not escape himself. “Very well,” he said after a time, and he was surprised by the feeling of calm that overcame him. “What would you have me do?”

  The Proof bared his teeth in a wide grin. “Not I, lord, but our goddess. She would have you leave this place. Your kin wait for you—it is time you go and meet them. It is time you lead them.”

  He studied the creature before him for several seconds then nodded. He took a slow, deep breath, then exhaled, and in that exhalation was carried the last memory of the man, Kale Leandrian. In it were all his hopes and dreams, all he had once thought himself to be. And when he stepped from the door of his quarters, he was that man no longer. He was Lord Argush in truth, Ruler of the Nightlings and Bane of the Light, the being sent by his goddess to destroy all that her husband had created. Such a one had no time for the weaknesses and frailties of men and no use for them.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  He chased his quarry through the woods. He knew it was there and never mind what his sister thought. Never mind what his father thought. He would find it, this thing for which he searched, and he would drag it back to them, if need be. When he lay it at their feet, all doubt—including that which, he had to admit, he had begun to feel himself—would be erased.

  The early morning light fell onto the forest floor in patches, scattered and broken by the canopy of leaves overhead. Shadows danced and swayed beneath the branches, a hundred, a thousand of them, and in one, he believed, was the creature he sought.

  But which one? he thought angrily. For whatever the creature was, it hid well, was able to conceal itself even from the eyes of a god who had lived hundreds of years, eyes able to see through the hearts of men. But this thing he hunted was no man, of that much he was sure. It was something…else. Another god, perhaps? It should not have been possible, for he knew the names of all his brothers and sisters, knew, too, the feel of them, a sort of current of the kind that filled the air before a storm that was, for one who could feel such things, unmistakable and instantly recognizable.

  It should not have been possible for this god to exist—for as it continued to elude him, he grew more and more certain that god it must be. He had asked his father of it, and he had said there were no others, none save those he knew. Yet, it did exist, and as well as it might conceal itself, it could not hide completely its true nature.

  “I know you’re there,” he said, turning and scanning the shadows, searching for any unnaturalness in their movements. There was no answer save the shifting of the tree branches in a wind, the rustle of golden brown leaves falling around him in a slow autumn shower. He frowned. “I know you’re there,” he repeated. “Why not show yourself? I will find you, in time. What will you do, I wonder, when all your running and hiding is for naught?”

  Still no answer. But then, he had expected none. “Fine, you need not answer. Still, I will find you. A small chance, given all the shadows in which you might hide but then…” He paused, grinning. “A small chance is all I need.” He called on the powers that were his birthright, that felt as natural to him as breath. He felt the world twist as he bent it to his will. Bent, but did not break, for such a thing lacked subtlety and, anyway, was beyond the power of chance and luck and therefore beyond him. As he worked his will, he spun slowly in a circle until, finally, his eyes settled on a single leaf about halfway up a tree, near its trunk. A tiny shadow flitted underneath the leaf. This shadow felt somehow heavier, more real than the others, and he smiled. “A small chance,” he muttered. And then began walking toward the tree.

  He was nearly upon it, no more than a dozen feet away, when there was a sudden flurry of motion. The shadow beneath the leaf seemed to grow, to stretch until, it resolved itself into the shape of a man. The figure wore a hooded robe. He thought at first its face was hidden in shadow, but that did not seem right. Not hidden, not truly. Its face was shadow. Now that it had been revealed, that crackle of energy, once so faint, grew stronger, and he knew this thing was no mortal man. A god in truth then, and one that should not exist.

  “Who are you?”

  The figure cocked its head to the side as if studying him but did not respond. Unnerved and suddenly angry at his own fear, Javen took a step forward. “You will tell me who you are. What you are.”

  “Soon,” the figure hissed back, and there was something about its voice—like the sound of snakes slithering together in the darkness—that made him feel unclean. “But not yet.” There was a blur, and the figure was gone. Or, at least, it appeared so. But not gone, not completely, and that much he knew, for it was held near to him by the random—or not so random, as the case may be—workings of chance. And with luck, he would find it.

  He paused, concentrating, and in another instant, he vanished, appearing near a large rock less than a mile from where he had started, a rock under which a shadow lurked. “Not so easy as that, I’m afraid,” he said.

  Then his quarry was moving again, fleeing. He chased it but not as a man might, crashing through the undergrowth and knocking limbs aside, for he was not a man but a god. He did not shout or curse, and there was no sound save that hum of power in the air as Javen chased his prey. It might have gone on for minutes or hours. Javen did not know and did not care, for gods did not feel the passing of time as men might. He knew only that, in the end, the thing he hunted was forced into an open field.

  Unlike the forest, the sunlight here was not occluded by the tops of trees and so there were few places for shadows to hide. None, in fact, save for a single large boulder. Javen made his way to it, taking his time now, for the thing which sheltered there had nowhere else to go. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking, if only I had gone left instead of right. If only I had taken a crooked path and not such a straight one. And perhaps most of the time you would have, maybe nearly every time. But there is a chance you would not have, you see? A chance you would have gone right and not left, stayed straight instead of turned. Always a chance. It is within those small, seemingly unimportant turns of chance that the fate of lives, the fate of worlds, is decided. And in that small space, creature, I rule.”

  He was nearly at the boulder now, nearly upon that pool of shadow beneath it. “Now, will you speak?” he asked, regarding the shadow that seemed to bubble and seethe like boiling water. “Will you tell me of yourself?”

  Nothing from the darkness, no response. But that was of no great surprise. The darkness was ever covetous of its secrets and guarded them jealously. “Very well,” Javen said, sighing. “If you will not come to me, I will go to you.”

>   He reached his hand into that pool of shadow and grunted at the surprising coldness there, as if that place which he touched had never felt the warmth of the sun upon it. There was a shifting, and Javen was no longer reaching but being pulled, and then it was he who was trying to flee, he who was trying to escape. But only for an instant, then it was over, and he stood in a field no longer. Instead, he was in a cave. One buried deep in the bowels of the earth, one that had never known the light of the sun, one in which darkness ruled eternal. There was a smell in the air like freshly turned earth, coupled with another odor, the smell of old blood and old pain. It was so thick, so powerful, the air felt choked with it. Water dripped somewhere, the sound of it splashing on the stone echoing in the stale stillness.

  This was not a place for the living, creature or man or even gods. Javen did not have his father’s wisdom and experience, nor his sister’s ability to see so clearly to the heart of things, but he knew that much. A place inimical to life, a place of quiet, looming menace, one in which even the very stones seemed to seethe with hate. Each breath he took fell heavy on that air, and there was a taste in his mouth of something foul and rotten.

  “You ask me, who I am. What I am.”

  Javen jumped at the unexpected sound, for had he been asked, he would have felt certain none were present in this place save himself. “Yes,” he said, scanning the large cave, searching for the source of that voice but finding nothing. Frowning, he tried to call on the power of chance to guide his sight, but nothing came. He tried again, harder, but was rewarded only with a sharp pain in his temples, one that surprised him with its viciousness.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” the shadows asked, the words echoing around the cavern. “You should not have come here, Javen, God of Chance and Luck. For those things for which you stand are for the living, and there is no life here, only stillness. This is a place which the rest of the world has forgotten and so it is no longer a part of that world—your world—at all. Do you understand?”