Kill the Gods

by E. Michael Mettille

  Another bright flash lit up the great waste. This one was not so brilliant as to induce temporary blindness, but more than one member of Bom’s group found cause enough to shade their eyes. Once the light faded, the tiger was gone. Bom gasped. He had never seen the god outside of his animal form. The creature standing where the tiger had been looked like nothing more than an old man.

  Though Brerto had abandoned his guise, his voice remained as powerful as ever, “Ah, Cialia, the twin. This is not your fight. These giants and trogmortem would destroy those you protect. Your talents would be best suited to helping those men of Havenstahl rebuild and prepare for the coming storm.”

  “Like all gods, you are a vile and treacherous deceiver who has long abandoned his role as teacher, nurturer, and guide to the Lake and Coeptus. You must pay for your failure,” Cialia’s tone remained flat as she accused the god. “I stand in judgement against you.”

  “You stand in judgement against me?” Brerto’s words dripped with rage. “I am a god. I answer to none, not even Maelich, and he is the Dragon. You are nothing more than an afterthought.”

  Despite his anger, Brerto realized he was outmatched. Cialia had found her flame and proven to be a powerful adversary. That very flame began swirling around her. In a moment, she would burn him to dust. He had no choice but to retreat. His staff pulsated with white light as his eyes gently closed. When he slammed the staff against the ground, that light erupted with a concussion which blasted all but Cialia onto their backs, and he was gone.

  Bom quickly scrambled to his feet. Despite his fear, he called out to the Dragon, “Cialia, the great tiger lied. We seek to help the men of Havenstahl rebuild and defend against the invaders from across the great sea.”

  Cialia turned toward the brave, young giant and shook her head, “You have nothing to fear from me. No giant does, not even your grandfather. The goal he seeks to fulfill is not his own. While he plots and schemes against the men of Havenstahl, my father plots and schemes against your kind. Neither is any better than the other, and both are driven by the whims of violent and jealous gods.”

  “Your father seems an honorable man. He fights to defend his land,” Bom disagreed. “My grandfather came to conquer and steal land.”

  “Perhaps we can discuss the idea of laying claim to something which rightfully belongs to all creatures another time,” Cialia allowed a shallow smile. “Even if you grant ownership of land, this is not my father’s city. His home lies hundreds of miles from here. He fights for the desires of a god just the same as your grandfather. They have both been manipulated into a playing a game neither can win.”

  “You mean to kill the god,” Lito-Bi piped in.

  “Gods cannot be killed. I mean to scatter him to the wind and sentence him to a limbo where he can do no more harm to any of the creatures I protect,” she corrected. “Now, I bid you farewell. It heartens me to know you seek peace with the men of Havenstahl. I pray the men of Havenstahl welcome the peace you promise,” she added before vanishing in a flash as bright as that with which she arrived.

  Overwhelmed, Lito-Bi grabbed a firm hold of Bom’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. “Glorious day,” he shouted as he released his grip on the giant and turned toward the group following them. “The great Dragon herself has blessed our mission.”

  “Yes,” Bom smiled wide, “she will bring peace to this place, and we will help.”

  Chapter 10

  Tears for the Dragon

  Helias, terrifying and beautiful, perched atop the stony hill at the east end of the Lake of Dragons, the queen of Dragons, the first, sitting on her throne. She, like all Dragons, seemed a contradiction. The first creatures born of the Lake, the most powerful, were bound by love to never destroy. Their great power, their flame, was a threat never spoken. She looked out at her sisters, her loves. Thousands upon thousands of Dragons lounging or laughing or soaring to the great heights of a cloudless sky. There was no hurt, no pain, no suffering, only peace, until…

  A great surge of emotion swept through Helias. Burning with the heat of Dragon’s Fire, this mixture of feelings seemed to have mass. It was like anger and hatred, and more she could barely name, all wrapped into a desire to destroy. It was no idle thing. It felt like action. Helias cried out. Her wail born of the most pitiable suffering.

  Two of her sisters, Delcinia and Lameah, rushed to her side. “What troubles you, love?” Delcinia asked.

  “Yes, what horrible thing causes our sweet sister, love begotten of love, to cry out in such pitiable tones?” Lameah added.

  Helias had fallen to sobs. Her sisters silently consoled her as she let the sadness seep from her eyes. When she had finally let enough of the horrible feeling out to speak, she said, “I fear our sweet sister, fair Cialia, in her fearless ambition is walking into a trap set by one so foul I dare not speak his name.”

  “Of course, she is,” Delcinia’s tone was sweet, almost musical.

  “We all know our beautiful kin well enough to know there could be no alternate outcome for her,” Lameah added in a tone just as sweet.

  “But what if that vile monster is able to…” Helias trailed off as her tears gained control of her again.

  “Love, fear is the only enemy who could ever defeat us,” Lameah smiled. “For how long did we languish in that prison built for us by Kallum’s ambition, separated from you and the perfection of our home? And yet, here we are beside you. Everything is as it should be.”

  “Yes,” Delcinia agreed, “imagine if you had succumbed to your fears and attempted to rescue us. You would have left the protection of the Lake and been killed. All would be lost.”

  Helias finally gained control of her tears but remained unable to find peace. “Thank you for the wise counsel, my sweet sisters. It is not our role to interfere, but how can I sit idle. If this is not the most helpless feeling in all of creation, I do not know what horrible thing could be.”

  “Sweet love,” Delcinia smiled, “worrying over an outcome will not change it.”

  “Cialia’s path is her own,” Lameah added.

  “And we must let her travel that path and find herself,” Helias finally agreed. “I know this. Thank you, my sweet sisters, for saving me from my tears. As always, you bless me with wise advice.”

  Chapter 11

  Reinforcements

  The map had been mocking Daritus for the better part of the morning, so he stopped looking at it. Word from the field was coming so infrequently the painted tokens here and there on the thing meant extraordinarily little. The truth was, he had barely an idea of what his forces were up to and where in Havenstahl they might be. The reconstruction effort of the castle was moving along nicely. That was the only thing of which he was truly certain, and that was only because his tent sat just across the great ravine from the castle.

  Daritus was staring at a small slit in the tent when Spang entered, but his mind was not registering it. That was elsewhere, out in the field with his men. Wherever they might be.

  “General,” Spang’s voice startled Havenstahl’s greatest general.

  Once Daritus overcame the surprise, he replied, “Hello, old friend. I hope you come bearing good news. It has been in short supply.”

  “It might be best to keep it to myself,” Spang replied. “Perhaps we could speak about what we might call the book they will write about the greatest general in the history of the greatest city of men. Here are a couple titles I have been contemplating. I like the first one, Daritus, Mighty Slayer of Giants. The other is less appealing, A Boy and His Map. What do you think?”

  “I am afraid I feel like the latter, and I cannot figure out how to feel like the former again,” Daritus chuckled as he tapped his wasted shoulder. “How about we leave the books to men with a mind to write them, and you share whatever news you have, good or bad.”

  “As you wish,” Spang replied, “but the story of a man defeating a giant in single combat is a campfire worthy tale if ever I have heard one. And, whethe
r you feel like that man or not, that is your story.”

  “It is,” Daritus agreed as his gaze found its way back to that slit in the tent. “I promise to work on remembering that if you give me some news.”

  Spang smiled, “Right to business then. I encountered Ycantle’s force on their way to Biggon’s Bay. That beach is no place for any man currently. I instructed him to camp at the edge of what is left of the forest and protect the trail. He will send small forces to monitor the invaders’ movements, but only engage if necessary. Ott’s forces are growing once again as reinforcements arrive from across the Great Sea. We counted at least twenty more ships. This war is far from over. His forces which are already here have been raiding villages all up and down the coast. They now control everything from Castrine in the north to Gorban’s Sound in the south. Meanwhile, a small group is moving through the great waste. They are flying a white flag, but we have yet to confirm their true motives.”

  “That is dire news indeed,” Daritus’ expression somehow became even more grim as he continued to stare at the slit. “What of our men? How many have reported? How many have we confirmed returned to the Lake?”

  Spang scratched his head, “Those numbers are a bit more difficult to know for certain. We have a few thousand around the castle guarding what is left of it and aiding in the rebuilding effort, and I just finished speaking with a scout sent by Ygraml. There are slightly more than one thousand more who have been instructed to work their way back to the castle.”

  “Of course,” Daritus agreed. “I receive regular reports about their progress. Please tell me something I do not already know,” he paused long enough to sigh and scratch his head. After a few moments of quiet contemplation while still staring at the same small slit which continued to hold his gaze, he proceeded in a more agreeable tone, “What about the fallen? Have we identified all who have journeyed home to the Lake?”

  “I could scarcely venture a guess, but I am certain that number far surpasses the number still among the living,” Spang shrugged. After a few moments of silence, he followed Daritus’ gaze and strolled over to the small slit in the tent which had the general’s attention. After examining the thing for longer than a small slit in a tent truly deserves, he stuck his finger into it and tore the slit a few inches bigger. “There, now it is a proper hole,” he proclaimed.

  “Why on Ouloos would you do that?” Daritus shouted a bit louder than he intended.

  Again, Spang shrugged, “Forgive me, general. That slit had gained so much of your attention I thought you were trying to see outside the tent. Now you can.”

  Daritus sighed and shook his head, “No, old friend, forgive me. I have been distracted. Perhaps, we should rally the men, and I can ride out with you to gather our lost.”

  “I would welcome the company, but no. You need to remain here. That shoulder needs more time to heal. I will do my best to get better information from the field. We are spread thin, but I know we have men yet unaccounted.”

  Before Daritus could answer, the flaps of the tent’s entrance snapped open with Kantiim stalking in behind them. His armor did not shine. It bore the markings of more than one fierce battle. Somehow, his tattered condition made him look the titan all the more.

  “Kantiim’s force has returned, general,” Spang smiled. “There is some news for you.”

  Daritus finally allowed himself a chuckle before addressing Kantiim, “Your face is truly a sight to behold. Do you have news from the front?”

  “Not much is new,” Kantiim replied. “We have been sweeping the forests around Elzkahon and gathering up troops as we find them, healing those with fight left in them, making those with no fight left comfortable until the Lake calls them home, and shaming those in hiding until they pick their swords back up and fall in line. Sadly, the latter counts most of what we have found.”

  “Do not forget those men have looked upon the eyes of a god,” Spang replied flatly as he left the tent.

  “What?” Kantiim asked, as he watched the old warrior leave. Then he looked over at Daritus and repeated the question, “What?”

  Daritus stood and draped his good arm across Kantiim’s shoulder. “You are a noble man, and a fierce soldier who has had the good fortune to survive many battles.”

  Kantiim nodded, “I appreciate the sentiment, but what does that have to do with deserters?”

  “Do you recall the first time you witnessed the fury of a god on the battlefield?” Daritus asked.

  “Of course, it was the battle at the forest’s edge fighting against the great city we now defend,” the old general replied flatly. “It was terrifying. I had hoped it would remain a once in a lifetime experience.”

  “As did I,” Daritus smiled at his old friend. “Try to imagine if that had been your first battle. Do you suppose you would be as eager to get back to that battlefield?”

  Kantiim’s face twisted as if he were working through a doozy of a puzzle, but no words accompanied the various expressions.

  “There is no need to answer, just think about it the next time you are…shaming a young soldier you find hiding in the woods, terrified by the sight of their bosom chums trampled under the feet of a vengeful god,” Daritus added.

  “You are a wise man,” Kantiim finally said, though his expression failed to match the sentiment.

  “Perhaps, a bit too soft?” Daritus chuckled.

  “That is not what I said.”

  Daritus finally lost himself to a hearty laugh, “But it is what you meant. I know you too well, old friend. No matter. Just please do me that favor. Try to put yourself in that young man’s war tattered boots as you make an example of him.”

  “I will,” Kantiim promised.

  Satisfied his general would do his best to execute the command, Daritus moved on to other matters, “Spang brought word of a small force of giants and trogmortem moving through the great waste toward the castle.”

  “Invaders?” Kantiim asked.

  Daritus shook his head, “It does not seem so, or at least they want us to believe they are not. They march under a white flag. I would much prefer to find out if it is a ruse or if they can be trusted well before they get near the castle, or what is left of it.”

  “Say no more. I will lead a small force out to the bloody waste and have that question answered,” Kantiim replied before Daritus could levy the command.

  “Very good,” Daritus smiled as his old friend moved to leave the tent. “One more thing. Have all who are unable to fight been evacuated?”

  Kantiim nodded, “I expect them to be halfway to Druindahl by now. They have supplies and a solid escort. All remaining are able-bodied men who are ready to fight,” he paused, smiled, and added, “or they will be once I finish convincing them of such.”

  The flaps of the entrance snapped back into place after Kantiim left. Daritus continued to stare at the spot for a good while after his old friend had gone. The slightest breeze toyed with the corners. It would have been unnoticeable had his eyes not been trained on the spot. As it were, the corner of each flap danced the tiniest waltz imaginable as the weak current barely moved each in opposite directions.

  Daritus finally shook his head and turned his attention back to the map. A small force was moving through the great waste under a white flag. He dared not wish for peace, but the group was taking a major risk. Even if they had employed scouts who managed to remain unseen, he trusted his generals to hide their numbers. This group from Biggon’s Bay could have no idea what kind of resistance they would face if their flag was a ruse.

  He knelt and picked up a smooth stone out of the dirt beneath him. After rubbing it between his fingers for a few moments to dust it off, he placed it half-way between Fort Maomnosett and Biggon’s Bay. The space appeared a forest with a trail running through it on his map. In reality, most of that forest had been mowed down prior to the Battle of Fort Maomnosett.

  After staring at the unremarkable stone far longer than the thing deserved, he turned his attention
to a wooden token carved in the shape of a fallon and painted blue sitting just south of the clearing in front of Fort Maomnosett. Sliding the thing over to the smooth stone he said, “Hopefully, I am not sending you into a trap, old friend.”

  Chapter 12

  Grizzly Mongs

  The sky remained bright above the trail, as thousands of tired, hungry souls moved slowly toward Druindahl. Black clouds on the horizon promised those bright skies would not last. The entire trip would take weeks Tarantian had said when they were packing up for the long trek. Apparently, the dark-haired titan—the only member of the company who could count himself a rider of Druindahl, and the military leader of the group—had overestimated the speed of a few hundred wagons loaded down with enough supplies for the thousands of beaten refugees making the journey. Word around the previous evening’s fires suggested his estimate of the time remaining had not changed. They still had a few weeks ahead of them.

  Chagon, a blonde-haired farmer, was among the tired mass trudging along the trail. He was young and burly. Had his father not taken ill and made his way to the Lake at the beginning of his sixteenth summer, the brawny lad would have petitioned to march under the banner of Havenstahl. Though he was only a short bit into his twenty-fourth summer, that felt like a lifetime ago. The idea had recently been rekindled when the monsters from across the Great Sea came to kill his mother, sisters, and brother and destroy his land. There was nothing left for him in that scarred waste. Given the current state of things, there were no guarantees he would ever make it back to the city he had called home for his entire life up to that point. Hopefully, he would love his new city as much as the one he had left. According to Tarantian, the queen was actively seeking new recruits. Coeptus willing, he would ride under the banner of Druindahl. Years tending fields had done nothing to improve Chagon’s sword skills, but it had kept his shoulders and back broad and strong.