The Warriors of the Gods

by Jacob Peppers

  “How can I?” Javen asked honestly. “Perhaps if you show yourself, I will come to.”

  He caught sight of something then, what might have been no more than the darkness gathered at the edge of one of the cave walls, but he did not think so. “You should not have come here,” the figure said again, and despite the echo, there was no mistaking that the figure stood there. “This is no place for gods, Javen, Son of Amedan.”

  Javen did not like the sound of that. “Where are we?” he asked, looking around the large cavern. The ceiling of the cave seemed to go on forever, and even his god-sight could not penetrate the darkness to see where it ended. Tunnels stretched out in all directions, but his eyes fell on one wall in which deep scratches had been made as if someone—in pain or madness or both—had spent years raking at it with their fingernails. There were dried streaks of what could only have been blood embedded inside those gouges. On closer inspection, he saw scraps of cloth too, tattered and filthy, lying in a pile near the wall. It was hard to say for sure as the passage of time had done its work, but he thought it might once have been a blanket, the small kind used to swaddle infants.

  “Ah,” the figure said. “You begin to see. This place is not wholly dead, Javen Son of Amedan. There is a kind of life here. Or, at least, there was. Once.”

  “Do you mean…something was born here?” Javen asked, finding it difficult to reconcile this terrible place—even the air of which was full of despair—with a place in which any creature or mortal might choose to bear a child.

  “Not something,” came a hiss, and Javen turned at the sound to see that the figure—if that was what he’d seen against the far wall—was gone. “Me.”

  This sounded as if it was from only inches away, and he spun around only to find nothing there. Laughter echoed in the cavern then, but there was no humor in it, only a hatefulness he felt as much as heard. “That…I am sorry,” Javen said and meant it. “No creature should be born in such a place.”

  “Sorry?” came the voice from the darkness. “And do you think your apologies somehow help that little one who found itself here, alone and afraid, cast off by the world? Do you believe your sympathy eases that one’s pain or makes that water you hear—oh yes, for all its faults this place does have water—taste any less like death? Does your pity,” the voice went on, getting louder and angrier with each word, “soothe the terrible cramping pains of hunger and loneliness which grow so bad the child must often curl in on himself, unable even to cry out at his own suffering? For the truth about shadows, Javen, is that they are always hungry.”

  There was such anguish, such pain in that voice, mixed with the anger, that Javen felt his heart go out to that suffering child. “No,” he said finally. “No, it does not. But I would help it, help him, if I could.”

  “Oh, but you can. You can do much for that child, Javen, Son of Amedan.”

  “What?” Javen asked. “Tell me what I can do, and I will do it, for no creature should suffer in such a way.”

  “You ask what you can do,” the creature said, “and so I will tell you. You have come to this place, to my place, uninvited and unwelcome. What you can do, Javen, is die.”

  Javen started to open his mouth to speak, but suddenly the shadows stretching across the cavern surged forward in a wave coming from all directions. He staggered, calling on the power with which he had been born to take himself from this place, but the power would not answer him, slipping through his fingers like sand. He cried out as something struck him in the stomach then went through him. Pain, hot and fierce, and then he was lying on his back, something warm and wet spreading beneath him.

  Gasping, Javen stared up at the hooded figure standing over him in shock. “It…it cannot be. You can’t…”

  “Oh yes, Javen, Son of Amedan,” the figure whispered in a voice full of malicious pleasure. “Gods can die. You said as much to your Chosen long ago, did you not? When first you picked him. But what can kill a god?”

  Javen tried to answer, to ask the creature what it wanted, but the pain was terrible, and his strength seemed to drain out of him with his blood, and he could not speak.

  “Do not strain yourself,” the figure said in a mocking tone, “I will tell you. What can kill a god, Javen, Son of Amedan? Well…another god can.”

  Javen forced himself to concentrate, to fight down the fear and confusion threatening to overwhelm him. A wound such as the one he had taken might have been fatal for a mortal—might, in truth, be fatal for him as well—but gods like mortals, were creatures of will. And while mortals could affect their own reality with their wills—making themselves sick, making themselves feel pain—few knew how or even understood it. What’s more, even those who did could not use their will so singularly as gods could, for it was their will that made them. And so he called on his will then, reached out for it, but there was no answer.

  Another bout of harsh, hissing laughter from the figure above him. “You still do not understand, do you?” the shadow asked. “You say it is within those small turnings of fortune, of chance, that you rule, Javen, but you are not there now. Now, you are in my place, my world and here I rule.”

  A tendril of darkness seemed to come out from the figure then, in a fluid, swift motion nearly too quick for his eyes to follow; it solidified into a shaft of midnight which drove into his chest. Javen screamed in pain, but it was not just the piercing which hurt. Instead, everywhere that shadow, that darkness touched seemed to writhe and twist, as if being corrupted by some terrible malady in an instant. Pain worse than any he had ever known, worse than he had believed a god could know wracked Javen then, and he shook and trembled as that darkness, that sickness began to spread through his body.

  “You asked who I am, you said you would find me,” the shadow said as Javen gasped on the floor. “And so you have.” The figure leaned forward then, so its face was only inches from Javen’s own. “You have found me, brother, and in doing so, you have found your death.”

  Javen was half-mad with pain, and he felt hot and fevered, as if he had at once been overtaken by some terrible plague, yet he retained enough of himself to be aware of nearly half a dozen shadowy tendrils beginning to rise over the figures head. He knew that, in moments, they would come down on him, and he would die. Frantically, he called on his failing will, gathered the remnants and tatters of it. It was like chasing leaves in a heavy wind, the darkness, the sickness that spread through him scattering the pieces of will, the pieces of himself with powerful gusts. Yet, he fought desperately, reaching out and grabbing what he could and just as the tendrils were beginning to move toward him in a blur, Javen closed his eyes and brought what he had gathered together, hoping, praying it would be enough.

  ***

  “Rion? Is everything okay?”

  Rion frowned, confused. He didn’t know what had happened. One minute, he’d been walking with the others as they had been for the last several hours, combing the city around the Drunken Bard in hopes of picking up some trace of Alesh or Katherine. The next thing he knew, he was lying on the ground, his head spinning, a dull, painful throbbing in the back of it. He stared up at Darl’s face, etched with concern. “What…what happened?”

  “You tripped, that’s what,” Marta said, coming up to stand beside Darl.

  Rion was troubled. His head hurt, but that wasn’t it. He had…lost himself there for a time. It was as if he had been pulled away, as if someone or something were trying to rip him apart. “Help me up.”

  Darl pulled him to his feet. Rion blinked, for some reason expecting to find himself in a cave and was more than a little surprised to see they were still within the city of Peralest. Shops and taverns sat on either side of the road in which he had lain, and people moved to and fro, going on about their days, the closest of which had stopped to look at him suspiciously, as if a man who stumbled and fell in broad daylight must be up to no good.

  Rion ran a hand across his suddenly sweat-sodden forehead and looked around the street. Those f
ew who had stopped began to move past again. He could hear their murmured whispers and laughs as they did, could hear the buzz of conversation common to heavily-trafficked city streets. Not words so much, nor single voices but a combination of them that created a susurration that always made him think of a hive of pissed-off bees. But beneath that noise, he thought he could hear another sound, something that did not belong. He could hear water. Dripping. Old water, old and foul, dripping with a steady plop unto stone. He searched for what could be causing that sound, and his breath caught in his throat as his eyes fell on a nearby alleyway and a robed, hooded figure standing there regarding him.

  The figure did not move only stood, watching him, and the shadows around it seemed to writhe as if alive. Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, and Rion nearly screamed, spinning with wide eyes to see the Ferinan looking at him, the worry in his face more pronounced than it had been. “Friend Rion, what’s wrong? You have gone pale.”

  Rion shot a look back at the alleyway in which the figure had been standing but saw that the shadow he had taken for a man was no more than a shadow after all. You’re worrying over nothing, he told himself. But he couldn’t quite believe it. After all, he had seen enough to know that the shadows were rarely benign and the monsters one imagined were usually real. Still, he did not think any nightling or servant of Shira would be crazy enough to accost them in broad daylight in the middle of a crowded street, for the greatest advantage of those things which lurked in the darkness was that most people did not believe they existed at all.

  Still, whether it made sense or not, the disturbed feeling did not depart. After all, the last weeks of his life had been one unlikely, nonsensical event after the other. “Blood,” he whispered, “blood on the cave wall. And on the floor too. And pain. Gods, the pain.” He wiped a hand across his eyes and was surprised to find that tears had gathered there—but for whom or what he did not know.

  “Forgive me, Rion, but I do not understand,” Darl said from directly beside him, yet his voice sounded as if it came from miles and miles away, from another world.

  Rion shook his head as if to clear it then turned to the Ferinan. “Something’s wrong.”

  “I’ll say,” Marta said in an exasperated tone. “We’re out lookin’ for our friends, got folks chasin’ us who I’m fairly sure don’t want to just have a nice chat, and you’re tripping when there’s nothing to trip over and actin’ like a rabbit gettin’ ready to run. Or a chicken. I like chicken. I stole…I mean found one once, a lady had left—”

  “You’re right,” Rion said, a part of the girl’s ramblings sticking out in his mind. “I tripped.”

  “Well, sure,” Marta said watching him warily as if she thought he might be going insane. “Folks trip sometimes. Though, usually they got something to trip over. Still, I wouldn’t worry about it all that much. Just bad luck is all, ain’t that right, Sonya?”

  “I trip over air,” the younger girl pronounced proudly, then when they looked at her, she cleared her throat. “And um…sometimes, when I do, I fly.”

  Marta gave an embarrassed look. “We’ll keep workin’ on it,” she said to the girl, patting her on the shoulder. “Lyin’ ain’t easy, but you’ll get there.”

  Sonya said something else, but Rion was barely listening. Whatever had clicked in his mind had clicked again as Marta spoke and it wasn’t just clicking, not now. Now, whatever it was was running at full speed. “Just bad luck,” he said, repeating Marta’s words. He turned to Darl, “I think something’s happened to Javen.”

  The Ferinan’s expression looked even more troubled at that and why not? It seemed nearly everything—god, creature, and man—in the world was trying to kill them, and Javen was one of the few who hadn’t tried it. At least not yet. “What should we do?”

  Rion shook his head, frustrated. “There’s nothing we can do. Nothing, at least, except find our friends. I think we need to get out of Peralest…soon.”

  “Fine with me,” Marta said, frowning around at the crowded street. “Folks here watch their coin purses far too close, you ask me. As if they think someone’s just goin’ to reach into their pockets and take them.” She winced. “Not that I’ve tried, of course. That would be stealing.”

  “But where else can we look?” Darl said. “We’ve been at it for hours now and—”

  “Of course, he’d be here,” Marta said suddenly in an annoyed tone.

  “What?” Rion asked. “Who’s here?”

  “That old bastard,” Marta said, gesturing toward a nearby alley with disgust. “Like I ain’t got nothin’ better to do than listen to him talk. Though,” she said, frowning, “I suppose since we don’t know what we are doing, I ain’t got nothin’ better to do. Quick, somebody think of somethin’ to do.”

  “We could fly,” Sonya said, rallying from her latest failure at lying. “I’ve always wanted to…I mean, I’ve always enjoyed it. Flying, that is.”

  Marta gave the other girl a skeptical look then glanced back at the two men, an apologetic expression on her face. “She tries. Honest.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rion said, peering at the alley where she’d gestured. “There’s no one there.”

  “Oh, he’s there alright,” Marta said with a sigh. “You just can’t see him. On account of, well, you know, you’re not lookin’.”

  Rion frowned. “But I am looking and—” He cut off, thinking, perhaps, he had seen something for a moment. He couldn’t be sure, thought it possible it had been no more than his imagination, an imagination that, just then, was working overtime, but he didn’t think so. He’d seen what he had taken to be an old man standing in the mouth of the alley. He had been covered in rags, with a stooped posture as if from carrying a heavy burden without surcease for many years, and in one hand he had held a cane. “Wait a minute,” he said, “do you mean, this man you’re talking about…it’s Alcer? As in the God of the Poor and Destitute, Alcer?”

  “It’s always ‘god’ this or ‘god’ that with you all, ain’t it?” Marta grumbled. “Anyhow, I guess I’d better go and see about what he wants.”

  “We’ll come with you,” Darl offered.

  Marta winced. “Probably better if you don’t. Not much a one for entertainin’, the old man. I reckon on account of he’s a beggar and ain’t got nowhere to entertain in.” She grinned. “Get it? Entertainin’ and enter—”

  “You’re sure?” Rion interrupted.

  “All I’m sure of is he’s a patient bastard—I’ll give him that much, at least,” the girl answered. “Besides, the way you’re walkin’ just now, might be a good idea for you to take a few minutes, maybe try to remember how your feet work.”

  With that, the girl turned and started away. Rion stared after her stunned, before an idea struck him and he ran toward her, grabbing her by the arm. “Marta, see if he’s heard anything about Javen or…or, well, if he knows where the others are.”

  “Sure,” the girl said studying him with an insulted expression, “and maybe, I get done with that, I can do somethin’ else obvious that I don’t need nobody to tell me. Like make sure to breathe, maybe.”

  “Sorry,” Rion said. “Oh, and Marta?”

  “Yes, Mother?” the girl asked, blinking her wide eyes in an affected manner.

  Rion sighed. “Maybe try not to call him a bastard too much, alright?”

  She shrugged and started away. Rion watched her go, hoping the god would know something that could help them. Mostly, though, he was worried that dealing with the girl might be enough to make Alcer decide maybe Shira’s side was looking better after all.

  ***

  Alesh tied off the last knot in the rope. “That should hold him, I think.”

  Katherine raised an eyebrow at him, and he followed her gaze as she took in the old bishop lying on the bed. Alesh had bound him with rope which he’d tied underneath the bed, six loops across in total, enough to keep a man twice the bishop’s size and strength pinned to the mattress and unable to move.
Or so he hoped. He had also gagged the man, stuffing a long strip of cloth into his mouth and securing it with another rope wrapped around his head.

  “Sure,” Katherine said, “but…you don’t think it’s maybe a little excessive?”

  Alesh shrugged. “Maybe, but remember, we were chained and manacled to a wall not so long ago, and we got out of that.”

  A pained look came across Katherine’s eyes then, and Alesh cursed himself for a fool. She was thinking of Larin as of course she would be. “Anyway,” he went on, “I think that’ll hold him. At least until we find the others.”

  “And the blindfold?” she asked.

  He shrugged again. “He likes the darkness—I don’t think he’ll object. And if he does…”

  “Then we won’t be able to hear it,” she said.

  He grinned. “Right. Now, we need to go fi—” He cut off, and both of them shared a wide-eyed look as a knock came from the other side of the room’s door.

  “Who could it be?” Katherine whispered, and he could hear the fear in her voice. Not that he blamed her. There was no telling who in the city might serve the Dark and for all he knew, there could be an army of insane priests waiting outside the door. Even if those on the other side weren’t allied with Shira, it wouldn’t matter much if they got a look at the man—still wearing his bishop’s robes—bound to the bed. If someone ran to the guards to tell them a man and woman were keeping a bishop held captive, he doubted the guards would let them explain before hauling them to the dungeon or cutting them down outright.

  “I don’t know,” he answered back.

  “So what should we do?”

  “I don’t know,” he said again. He hadn’t expected a knock on the door. After all, that was the primary reason he’d chosen to sequester the bishop in the city’s poor quarter. In his experience, the people who frequented such places made a habit of not seeing anything more than they had to and certainly didn’t go around knocking on strange doors looking for friends. As for someone seeing the bishop’s robes and calling the city guard, he didn’t think that could have happened as he had made sure the inn was empty before leading the bishop inside of it.