Beron looked at Harper and at Brogan both, but said nothing. He didn’t need to. His expression made clear what he thought of the two of them. Given a chance he would kill them but for now they worked together. That was the way of things for the moment. It would change in time, especially if the slaver had anything to say about it.
Harper did not care. He would keep an eye on the man and make certain that his back was never to his blades.
Beron did not smile. He said nothing and he didn’t need to say anything. That he had been cheated by Brogan and company was a matter of fact in his eyes. The circumstances did not matter. He had paid a fortune for the Grakhul and the He-Kisshi had demanded that the pale people be freed.
He was different now. When they’d met in Saramond the slaver had been beyond confident. He purchased the slaves offered and never hesitated for a moment. He had given over a fortune and done so without concern. He had been the law on his land and he knew it.
Now he was in a different situation. He was not the one in charge but he still stood with confidence. He was not a soldier. He was a commander, just not the ultimate voice in the chain of command.
What the man likely did not know or did not care about was that he and his had tortured several of Harper’s friends. That was a slight that had not been forgotten and would not be forgiven. Harper made sure that Brogan knew what Beron had done as soon as he safely could.
Desmond looked at the slaver with rage in his eyes but did nothing. He was not a fool. He touched the scars on his face and looked at the man, but never said a word.
Bump either did not care or simply did not recognize the slaver. Likely he did not care. There was also the chance that he was simply biding his time. It was hard to say with the short man. He was known for his skills with knives, not for his predictability.
Brogan looked at the slaver and shook his head. “Whatever your plans, if they involve vengeance keep them to yourself.”
Beron towered above the man, but nodded just the same. “I am not here to fight you. I am here to fight with you. That is what my god demands of me.”
Brogan shook his head. “Why are you so eager to serve another god when the last lot have made such a mess?”
Beron laughed deep in his chest. “Loyalty has its rewards.”
Faceless chose that moment to come closer and look down at the both of them. He said nothing but he caught Beron’s attention.
Beron stared the creature over, memorizing him, perhaps, or trying to understand the mystery of the thing that stood before him, returning his scrutiny. Brogan looked from one to the other and said nothing.
His expression did not change by much, but it did change. He made a decision without saying a word.
Whatever his choice, it was one that Harper would follow. Brogan had begun this insanity. He would see it through to the end and Harper intended to be there with him the entire time.
“Madness,” he whispered. And he meant it. They fought gods. Even if they succeeded, most of them would likely die before the battle was done.
Darwa called for everyone to go and looked toward Parrish. “We can take perhaps five…”
“No need. We will meet you when the time is right.” Parrish smiled at the woman. “We will be prepared.”
Darwa nodded and called again for everyone who was going on her boat to join her. Brogan nodded his head and moved toward her. Harper moved too, but was careful to keep his eyes on the slaver. They were not colleagues. They were not friends. He did not trust Beron not to hold a grudge. Few men seemed capable of following their gods blindly and even the most devout were only human.
Beron did not attack. He did not say a word, but merely watched as Brogan and his peers left the shore behind.
It was only after they had cast off and moved to the north that Harper realized Bump was not on the boat.
He said nothing about that fact.
Brogan
“That man does not like you.” Faceless was direct.
“I’d be surprised if he did. I sold him a lie and he paid for it dearly.” Brogan thought about that long and hard. The notion refused to leave him be. He had done many bad things in his life, but selling the Grakhul was not one he regretted. The slavers deserved any pain they endured, based on what they did for a living. He’d seen first hand how they treated their property and he’d known going in that there was a chance the slavers would not be happy with what they bought.
“Why would you sell him a lie?”
He doubted the creature fully understood the concept of lies.
“Because I was angry. The gods killed my family and I wanted them to suffer. I killed all the males of the Grakhul and then I sold the women and the children to Beron. I told him they came from far away, and that I’d purchased them as slaves. He used to sell slaves before the world started ending. I made a great deal of money. The gods wanted their people back and took them from him.”
“Did you know they would do that?” Faceless tilted his head and studied Brogan’s face carefully.
Brogan shrugged. “I did not. But even if I had, I wouldn’t have cared. I wanted those people to suffer. If I had been wiser maybe I would have killed them all, but I wanted them to know my pain, to suffer as I did with the losses I felt. And I wanted to make sure they could no longer make sacrifices to the gods.”
Faceless nodded very slowly. In the darkness, his face almost looked normal.
“I sense a change coming over me, Brogan. I will not be the same soon.”
“Aye? And what will you be, Faceless?”
The creature looked around for a moment and then looked back at him. “I think I will be a weapon for you to use against the gods. Like your axe, or your sword, but designed to cut the flesh of gods.”
Brogan frowned at that notion. “I can’t see me swinging you over my head, if I’m honest. You’re a bit too large.” He meant the words as a joke, but Faceless seemed to take him seriously.
“As I said, I will change.”
Brogan felt a nervous shiver in his stomach. “Do you know how, or when?”
“I cannot say. I will remain with you, Brogan McTyre, but I will not be the same.”
He had grown rather fond of the creature. It was supposedly demonic, but had never been anything other than kind to him. Still, he would keep his eyes open and see what happened. If he could find a weapon that would wound the gods, all the better.
“Where do we go, Brogan McTyre?” The woman, Darwa, spoke harshly. He had never heard her use soft tones.
“The Gateway of the Gods, according to Harper. It’s supposed to actually be the way to visit the lands where they live.”
“It is indeed, according to Galea.”
“I intend to kill the gods.”
Darwa nodded. She was near the front of the boat and he walked closer to her. “Yes, you said that before. I have seen no sign that you’ve changed your mind.”
“You said I needed to find the weapons I needed. Have I found them?”
“You have. You can now touch the gods, as we have already seen. There is a weapon coming to you that will aid in this quest. If the signs I’ve seen are correct, that weapon is a gift from the demons who mean to overthrow the gods.”
“That is not a comforting notion.”
“Nor is it meant to be. They’ll take the place of the gods. It is what demons do.”
Brogan stared out at the dark seas, watching as the occasional flash of distant lightning made the waves visible before vanishing.
“I don’t want more gods. I don’t want more of the same.”
“You can touch the gods. You can touch the demons, too, but I don’t think you are strong enough to kill them all.”
He said nothing.
“I don’t think you are strong enough at all, Brogan. They have something that you do not, they have sacrifices.”
“I’ll not kill anyone to make me stronger.” He pulled at his beard as he t
hought. “Can demons be sacrifices? Can gods?”
“I’ve no idea. Possibly, but who can say with such things? I have never seen anything in the writings of Galea about either. And believe me, I am one of the best read among the Galeans.”
Brogan shook his head. Roskell Turn was dead. That was something he was still trying to absorb. The man had not been around him long, but he had helped him on his path to revenge.
Of course, a great number of people were dead. More than he could likely count in a day. More than he ever wanted to count.
Guilt tried to rise inside of him and Brogan shoved it angrily away. He did not start this war. He would end it. That was all.
“What waits on the other side of the Gateway, Darwa?”
“It is said that the gods offered many answers to Galea because they loved her. They did not love her that much. That is a secret they did not share.”
“Whatever happened to your Galea?”
“She wrote her stories down and she died.”
“The gods didn’t love her enough to keep her alive?” The words were meant as a barb. He couldn’t quite resist. There was a bitterness in him that anyone was so important to the gods when his family was seen as little more than a meal.
Darwa chuckled and shook her head. “They loved her too much to keep her around for eternity. The Undying, they are designed to live for eternity and not care. Humans are not made that way. There have been tales of immortals before and the one thing they all have in common is that the endless seasons eventually drove them mad.”
“And yet the gods are happy with their immortality and fight to keep it.”
“That is their nature.”
Brogan spat into the waters.
“We are hours from where you want to be, Brogan McTyre. This would be your chance to rest before we reach the Gateway.”
“I cannot sleep. I am not tired.”
And that was the truth of it. He had closed his eyes several times since returning from the tomb of Walthanadurn, but he had not slept deeply even once and he was not tired.
“‘Those who are touched by the gods are never quite the same,’ according to Galea.”
“And she was touched by the gods?”
“Of course.”
Brogan nodded his head.
“So are you, Brogan.”
“What’s that then?”
“You are touched by a god. Walthanadurn chose you for his revenge.”
“A dead god chose me?”
“As you were already told, gods never truly die.”
“Then where are the remains of Walthanadurn? Still stuck in those old bones of his?”
“He is with you. He chose to help you and that required all that was left of him.”
She said more, but he did not hear her words. All that was left of the god resided within his body? The thought sickened him. He was grateful for the chance to fight his enemies on a level field, but that he was tainted by a god was disturbing. He wanted to fight the gods and now, in order to do so, he was infected by the very beings he meant to slay.
“Do you hear me, man?”
Brogan shook his head. “Say it again if you will.”
“I said he is dead. He is not listening to your thoughts. He cannot celebrate your victories and call them his own. Gods cannot die, but they do, just the same. All that is left is the remains. Like the bones you saw and watched collapse, all that remains of Walthanadurn is what held him together. What he gave you is a gift, Brogan. Not a curse.”
“How do you know what I think?” The Galeans unsettled him at the best of times.
“There’s no sorcery here. I see the look on your face and I understand your concerns. Walthanadurn is dead. He cannot come back to life. The Hahluritiedes are what is left of other gods. Gods that died or were killed. They have more left of them. Think of it like this: the Hahluritiedes are like candles that have mostly burned away. There is still wax. There is a wick. They can be lit and they can cast light across the world. Walthanadurn was nothing but a wick, no candle. The god was murdered and he died violently. He died and remained because he was once a god. There was less of him than of the Hahluritiedes, and according to the Books of Galea, there is no mind left to the creatures. They are merely power that obeys.
“Walthanadurn gave up what little remained inside of him that you might have your revenge.”
Brogan nodded his head. Still, his hands clenched and his teeth ground against each other at the thought.
“The gods will not welcome you, Brogan.”
“What will I face?”
“There is no way to know. The gods have kept some secrets to themselves. If they had kept more, you would not be as prepared as you are, and yet there are more things that must happen.”
“Like what?”
“You are able to touch the gods. They can touch you, as well. You must have a proper weapon to fight them.”
He thought of Faceless’s words but said nothing. “Like what?”
“The shape is unimportant. If you would fight the gods, you have to have a weapon that can touch them as you can, or you just use your bare hands.” That thought actually made him smile. He’d delight in breaking their bodies with his hands if he thought he could manage it.
“Do the gods have weapons?”
“Oh, yes. They do. Sepsumannahun broke his great sword when he killed his father, Walthanadurn, but he did once have that sword. All of the gods will surely have weapons.”
In the distance, closer than he’d expected, Brogan saw the arch that was the Gateway of the Gods. Lightning licked across the surface, danced along the edges, and ripped into the clouds above. It was still a long way off, but the brilliance of the electrical flares seemed like sunlight after so long in the semi-darkness.
“How does this end?” Brogan spoke mostly to himself.
“How else? With violence and death.”
Beron
The thought of letting those bastards leave unharmed cut at Beron more than he wanted to admit. More than he wanted to ever think about. In the world left to them now, money and gold meant nothing, but that wasn’t the point. They’d cheated him. They’d sold him worthless property and then run away before he could do anything about it.
He wanted the whole lot of them dead.
“No.” The one word rang through his skull loudly enough to make the slaver wince.
“But–”
“They are nothing. All that you have lost will be as nothing when this is all done, but for the present time Brogan McTyre and his companions serve a purpose. He is the Godslayer as he was meant to be the Godslayer. He is to kill my enemies for me and I will be free of my prison and I will rise up and have dominion over this world. When that happens, you will serve with me as you have served faithfully until now, but you must forsake your revenge for that to happen.”
Beron closed his eyes and felt the way his hands clenched with the desire to crush McTyre. Still, he nodded. “As you wish, Ariah.”
In an instant Beron felt the world shift and when he opened his eyes he stood once again within the domain of Ariah. The air was thick with the scent of rotting blossoms. The trees were redolent with their bizarre, writhing fruit and the ground was nearly hidden under a carpet of fallen petals. Ariah himself stood before Beron, dressed in intricate armor. The filigree showed serpents and vines intertwined. His sword looked exactly like Beron’s. “The gods must fall. His is the hand that should slay them. He is the weapon the demons have forged for that reason.”
“The demons? Not just you?”
Ariah allowed a small smile that was as beautiful as the rising sun after days of darkness. “There are many demons. There are ten locked into this world. Three of us have worked together to make this happen. Together we will rise and strike, when the time is right.”
Beron said nothing to that. What could he say? That his was the sword that should serve the demons? He’d been serving
as best he could and so far the cost had been high. His mind tried to slip past the moments when he was bloodied, cut, torn and slain. Still, the memories lingered. He closed his eyes and felt the Bitch hacking through his neck. Stanna was a terror and he’d always known that. But she beat him in combat and he’d always known in his depths that he could take her.
His heart had lied to him.
“Then what would you have me do, Lord Ariah?”
“You are my eyes, Beron. You are my strong right arm. You serve me already. Without you, I would not know where to send the armies of Theragyn. Without you I would not know what Brogan McTyre was doing and how to aid him if aid he needs. In a moment I will call on you again. I will send you and the Marked Men to wait at the final battleground.”
“The final battleground?”
“The Gateway to the Gods. You will wait there for Brogan McTyre. You and the Marked Men will ride into combat with him and make certain that he lives long enough to face the gods.”
His stomach felt like it was falling over the side of a cliff.
“I am to enter the land of the gods?”
“That has always been your destiny, Beron. You are my right hand. You are the sword that smites my enemies.”
Beron blinked and was once again in the darkness. Fires burned around him and the Undying lay dead, hacked into pieces and literally nailed to the ground, their various parts twitching, but unable to rejoin.
“First, however, I give you a gift.” Ariah’s voice was soft and sweet with promise.
Beron frowned, uncertain what the demon meant.
“Take your sword. Drive the tip into the skull of each of the Undying.”
Beron walked to the first of the He-Kisshi heads and did as he was instructed. The blade drove deep and the sudden rush of energies was as sweet as honey pouring into him.
The He-Kisshi mouth opened and closed in a silent scream. The countless round eyes around that orifice shuddered and then burst like overripe fruit.
In seconds the energies were gone and the head turned gray, the flesh and the fur alike, leeched of their vitality.
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