Kill the Gods

by E. Michael Mettille

  A furious howl erupted from Brinzo’s mouth as he unleashed a barrage of attacks. They were random and uncoordinated but came rapidly enough to force Chagon to retreat and defend without opportunity to respond with attacks of his own.

  Tarantian coached as he watched his new pupil fail miserably against a meek amateur, “Bend them knees, lad. Lower your center of gravity. Counter them attacks. Move your body. He charges like an animal. Use that momentum against him.”

  It did not show in Chagon’s expression, but he was listening. He allowed his knees to relax and began bouncing on the balls of his feet. He kept track of where his opponent’s attack began and where it ended to better gauge his response. He dodged and twisted his body instead of just blocking strikes and retreating. After roughly thirty seconds of bending, twisting, and parrying attacks, he made his move. Brinzo only employed three different attacks. One began from far above his head and slashed down, like his initial attack. Another was an awkward backhand which slashed from high on his left side to low on his right. The last was a straight lunge aimed for Chagon’s heart. Each of the attacks came in the same order every time.

  Once Chagon had studied his opponent long enough to develop a proper response, he unleashed it. First the overhead slash came, then the backhand, and finally the stabbing thrust. However, this time when the stabbing thrust came, he did not parry the blow. Instead, he stepped left and slashed toward Brinzo’s throat with a backhand.

  Brinzo’s body fell to its knees before falling flat onto its chest while his head arced through the air. The lips moved around soundless words and the wide eyes darted about even after his head thudded dully against the dirt. The sound that roared past Chagon’s lips when those eyes finally stopped rolling about in their sockets was foreign to his ears. He had never roared so mighty in his life. It was his first battle cry.

  As the farm boy turned warrior worked to bring his breathing under control, Tarantian walked over, glanced down at the young man’s work, and asked, “How do you feel?”

  Chagon did not immediately respond. The only other man he ever killed had not truly been a battle. What he did may have been honorable, but his methods had been anything but. This was a true battle, a fair battle. He was a swordsman who had bested another swordsman in one-on-one combat. The fact neither of the combatants were true swordsmen did not matter a lick. Once he had firm control of his voice and his tongue, he replied, “I feel like a warrior, a swordsman. You’ll teach me to wield this blade properly, and I’ll do it with honor.”

  Tarantian allowed the slightest of smiles to crack his grim expression, “That might be, but we need to work on your technique.” Both men laughed far harder than the joke deserved. They needed it. Their time in that horrible place had been joyless. Once the laugh was finished, Tarantian retrieved his sword, draped his arm across Chagon’s shoulders, and said, “Come, let us get as much distance as we can between us and this place.”

  “Can you make me good enough to ride under the banner of Druindahl, as a defender of Dragons?” Chagon’s boyish grin made him look as green as the farm boy he was.

  “When I finish with you, any city would be proud to have you riding beneath their banner,” he smiled right back before adding, “but we are not headed for Druindahl.”

  “What,” the smile fled from Chagon’s face. “Why not?”

  “The grizzly mongs were headed toward Havenstahl,” he shrugged. “It is our duty to warn them if we can.”

  Chapter 41

  The Mother of Gods

  The forest glowed in filtered sunshine streaming through a canopy of green glowing like gold in the light. A handful of experienced soldiers marched up and down columns of young recruits. The oldest of these recruits had seen thirty summers, but he was the exception. Most had yet to see their twentieth, and far too many were not far enough removed from their twelfth—which the youngest had celebrated only days prior. Boringas led his queen among the columns, as he updated her on the progress he and his men had made in filling out their ranks.

  “They are all so small,” Leisha remarked as she looked over the sweaty lads working through sword techniques. “More than half look lighter than their swords.”

  “Most of Druindahl’s men are warriors, even those who double as baker or smith,” Boringas shrugged. “Cialia’s rage burned most of them to ash. These young lads before you are what remains.”

  The comment stung, but she could not argue against truth. Though she had come to grips with what her daughter had done, the wound it left had yet to heal. The closest she could come was acknowledging Cialia’s reasoning had been just. However, she would probably never forgive her technique.

  As Leisha resumed the internal debate she had been having with herself ever since she learned of the horrible thing her daughter had authored, she noticed a young lad who stood out from the rest. He moved like he had had training, not like the training the recruits in the forest were getting that day, but real training with a dedicated mentor. He looked familiar. She could not place from where, but she knew his face somehow.

  “That boy,” she nudged Boringas and pointed. “He looks familiar. Who is he?”

  Boringas’ face reddened slightly, “You remember my father?”

  “I do. He was not an honorable man,” she failed to hide a sour look as she replied. “You were quite young when he left your mother to raise you on her own. You followed my husband around like a lost scrod.”

  “Your husband is an honorable man,” Boringas smiled, “like a father to me. If not for him, I would not be who I am today.”

  The queen gently touched his cheek and offered a smile warm and genuine, “You have grown into an honorable man.”

  The compliment darkened the warrior’s cheeks all the more, “Well, it turns out my mother was not the only one my father loved briefly and abandoned. As fate would have it, I have many brothers. They hail from far and wide. Most find me while searching for my father. Some stay. I train the ones who do. That one is named Sozmet. He hails from Belscythia. After my father left, his mother sold him for some bread and a frilly dress. He ran away and wound up here.”

  “That is beyond honor, sweet Boringas,” Leisha glowed. “You are a good man.”

  “I would make a good husband,” he quickly countered.

  Leisha chuckled, “You would make a fine husband, and I would bless Coeptus every morning when the sun rose and each night when the dark chased it away if I could call you son. However, we both know that day will never come. My daughter…”

  “The Dragon,” he interrupted.

  “That she is,” the queen nodded, “and she will never give up the life of a warrior. As much as I wish it were not so, she will never submit to marriage and be your wife.”

  There was no humor in Boringas’ chuckle, “No. No she will not. She will forever own my heart but never accept it.”

  The forest air suddenly grew heavier. A stiff wind picked up, the kind of gust which heralds the coming of a furious storm. Though a storm seemed the least likely cause of the heavy breeze. Based on the amount of light penetrating the thick canopy above, there could not be more than a random cloud lazing about here or there in the sky above. An odd smell accompanied the wind whipping through the trees. It was foreign and primal.

  Boringas breathed deep through his nose. “What is that smell?” he asked.

  “Power,” Leisha’s smile fled as she looked in the direction of the stiff gale.

  A voice from the crowd called out a command, “Men, defend.” Some of the lads training to be soldiers still had a way to go before calling themselves soldier, but they all understood the command as well as the proper response. They seemed a well-oiled fighting force rather than a pack of green recruits as they formed up in columns between the queen and whatever danger approached from the trees.

  “Very good,” Leisha commented quietly. “However, I fear they are terribly outmatched.” She raised her voice and called out a command of her own, “At ease, men. Knee
l.”

  Before Boringas could offer a shocked expression at the way his queen had assumed command of his men, even before the words finished leaving Leisha’s lips, the great lion loomed above them. His head easily sat twenty feet above the forest floor with his silver main flowing behind it and glowing from within. Mighty claws dug into the dirt and glinted like metal in the filtered sunshine. He gazed down at the crowd bowing before him with eyes as horrible as they were beautiful, as full of color as they were black and empty, as impossible as they were incomprehensible.

  “Men, kneel,” Boringas called out to the handful of recruits who had missed the queen’s command due to shock.

  Once all before him had fallen to their knees and bowed their heads into the dirt, the great lion, Kaldumahn, graced them with the glory of his voice, “Mistress of the Lake, queen of Druindahl, defender of Dragons, mother of gods, and my chosen, I bless thee.” As the final word left his mouth, the monstrous, silver lion vanished. At the very same moment, the god assumed the guise of a man—his eyes as beautiful and horrible but his hair and robe as white as fresh snow—and stood before her.

  Leisha kept her head bowed as she addressed him, “My lord, Kaldumahn, great silver lion who stalks the skies, though we are not worthy, you bless us with your perfection. You bless us with your presence. You bless us with the glory of your voice.”

  “Rise,” the god commanded her. “I seek a private audience.”

  Leisha did as commanded. However, she kept her eyes down. Beholding a god was at once wonderful and terrifying. She recalled the first time he had come to her. It had been the same, only in a dream. He arrived as the silver lion, giant, terrible, and perfect but quickly morphed into a form resembling the man standing before her. Of course, he had been no man all those summers prior, nor was he a man just then. No man could emit perfect light, brighter than the sun like that, and no man had eyes which posed such contradictions being both beautiful and horrible, and both empty and full of life at the same time.

  Leisha paused for a moment, searching for the perfect words. When words worthy a god’s ears failed to come, she spoke plainly and hoped for his forgiveness. “Of course,” she said. “Please accompany me to the throne room. It is but a short journey up that…”

  Kaldumahn interrupted Leisha’s words by slamming his staff into the dirt. The bright flash which followed forced any open eyes in the forest closed with its brilliance. When Leisha dared to open hers again, she was in her throne room, comfortably seated on her throne. Kaldumahn sat on the throne beside her.

  “You may dispense with pleasantries from this point on,” he spoke plainly. “We have little time.”

  “You honor me,” she replied. “The last time you spoke to me, my children had just bested your brother over the Forgotten Forest and scattered him to the wind.”

  “I recall,” he nodded.

  An awkward smile slipped onto her face, “You told me I had raised noble children, true Dragons. You commended me for raising champions. You claimed Ouloos owed me a debt. I wonder,” she paused as her smile fled, “what do you think of me now?”

  “A god’s mind seldom changes. You have raised champions, and Ouloos is forever in your debt,” his voice remained flat and plain. “Never forget, you are my chosen.”

  “And the fact my daughter desires to kill all the gods?” Leisha managed to keep the fear coursing through her veins from slipping into her voice. “She believes you and your brothers to be the authors of all the challenges Ouloos faces claiming herself a champion of all creatures. She views you as enemies.”

  “You have seen her?” the slight crack in the god’s perfect tone was nearly imperceptible.

  “No,” Leisha shook her head, “but news travels quickly, even here at the edge of the known world.”

  Kaldumahn smiled briefly as he stroked his beard. The gesture would not have been the least bit noteworthy had it not been committed by a god. Twice he had come to her. Both times he had remained magnificent, beautiful, and terrifying but flat and emotionless. During both prior encounters, his voice boomed like a song both glorious and horrible. On this day, it was quiet, even humble. Taking that with the simple gesture—only awkward because he was a god—and Leisha knew he was afraid. It was the reason he did not demand she kneel and bow and cower before him. He needed her help.

  As if to validate her assumptions, the god confirmed as much, “She does. I would ask your assistance in dissuading her from that desire.”

  “I will try if given the chance,” Leisha shrugged. “However, it seems she is quite sure of her mission.”

  “She is, but you are persuasive,” the god contended. “Convince her Moshat and I are friends to men and dwarves and Dragons.”

  “What about giants or trogmortem or grongs,” despite all her senses begging her to speak as if she were on her knees bowing before him rather than seated next to him, something deep in her soul would not allow it. “My daughter, my Dragon, counts herself champion of all. If you would seek to destroy any under her protection, you may as well destroy all.”

  Kaldumahn cast a casual glance around the room, “These etchings, the story they tell, do you believe it?”

  “With all my heart,” she smiled.

  He returned the gesture and asked, “Why?”

  It was a strange question. The people of Druindahl had told the tale since before the city had been built. It was the truth behind Kallum’s twisted lie artfully crafted in perfect imagery. Of course, the images glinting from the shimmering walls of her throne room did not represent the entire story. Maelich had opened the eyes of all to the truth of Coeptus when he scattered the wicked god. However, adding more to the story did not erase those true parts already known.

  Finally, Leisha confidently replied, “The stories recorded in those images were passed on from generation to generation until finally being recorded along these walls. All in Druindahl know these things to be true.”

  “Faith is important,” Kaldumahn nodded. “Giants, trogmortem, and grongs—along with beings and creatures you have never seen nor imagined—have stories just like these, passed on from father to son or mother to daughter for just as long and in the same fashion. Your son has written a different story, shared it across the land until he left us. His story is just like these,” he paused and pointed at one of the images carved in the shimmering glow of the wall. It appeared an apparition floating amid the glory of a setting sun, “Do you see that Dragon soaring free and belching fire?”

  “I realize no Dragon has or ever would release their flame. They are love, unconditional and forgiving. That flame is recorded in those images merely to express the great power they possess. It does not diminish the validity of the story the image tells,” Leisha frowned.

  “Of course not,” Kaldumahn waved his hand as if swatting the idea away. “However, Kallum used similar images to stoke fear in the hearts of men, to rally them in a campaign to kill all Dragons. He told them a story, they shared it among themselves, and they believed.”

  The queen shifted uncomfortably in her chair, “I know the history. Is this a lesson? We seem to have drifted far from our original topic.”

  “On the contrary,” the god smiled wider. “We are right here in the middle of it. Your daughter is locked in battle with Brerto. She is trapped in a spell he began working on before she was even born. Knowing she desires to kill my kind, now would be the perfect time to attack her, to cut her down and save my brothers.”

  She nearly failed at hiding her fear as she snapped, “Have you sought an audience with me to threaten my daughter?”

  The room filled with light. The flash was brief but blinding, erasing all other images for its duration. When it subsided, nothing in the room had changed. However, Kaldumahn no longer sat beside Leisha. They stood in the center of the room facing each other. He held her hands in his and said, “I threaten nothing. Cialia will defeat my brother. She will scatter him to the wind with the glory of Dragon’s fire. His subjects will b
e free. I will give them a new story. They will worship me as Druindahl always has, and I will be their light. Giants and trogmortem, and even grongs will live in peace with men and dwarves. All the creatures of Ouloos will be one together with Coeptus seeking solace in the glorious light of Kaldumahn and Moshat. Through us, they will know eternal peace.”

  Leisha’s eyes narrowed, “Is it belief in my daughter which gives you pause from taking her life while she remains preoccupied, or is it the fact you believe she is powerful enough to destroy your common enemy when you are not?”

  Again, the room filled with light glorious, pure, and impossibly bright. It erased all lines and shapes. All spatial references to give Leisha’s eyes any visual clues to depth or distance melted away until she cowered in an empty field of white. Though she could not remember physically bowing or falling to her knees, she bowed deep against a floor she could feel but not see. Her eyes, full of horror, stared at the place where a god had stood speaking to her as if they were equal. As she stared at that spot, unremarkable compared to any spot surrounding her, his features slowly materialized from the nothing. They remained washed out like a watercolor painting faded from too much time in the blazing sun, but they were there. His eyes seemed to float amid that glowing perfection, two pits of total darkness, the absence of light. All colors swirled in them. Though an impossible contradiction, there they were.

  Then the sound came, a roar so deep and guttural it shook her insides until they felt like they might burst and spill out upon the floor. A screech so high-pitched and loud it left her ears ringing and her head throbbing accompanied the horrible rumble. Other sounds danced between the two contrasts like a chorus of accusations. The song continued until death seemed a sweet relief.