Reckoning of Fallen Gods

by R. A. Salvatore

  Bahdlahn had only seen eighteen winters, and doubted he’d see another five. The Usgar would not suffer him to live out his life, he was certain, and if they ever realized that he was not stupid, that he was not a simpleton, that he could plot to hurt them, or to run away, and might just do it, they would murder him.

  “One day,” he muttered, his litany against hopelessness. One day, he would collect his mother and escape, would carry her down the mountain to this lake town he did not know, Fasach Crann, which had been her home, from which she had been dragged by the deamhan Usgar with her belly fat with Bahdlahn.

  “Bahdlahn,” he whispered when he reached his natural shelter, and he smiled as he considered the name. He had been called “Thump.” Just Thump, when he was young, a name aimed as an insult by the Usgar. They still called him that, all of them. Except for one, except for beautiful Aoleyn. To her, he was Bahdlahn, a word for the thundering hooves of a running deer, a graceful name meant not to insult, but to exalt.

  The image of the woman filled his head as he crawled inside—he kept her with him as often as he could, in his thoughts and in his heart.

  He moved through the tangled entry area to his sleeping hole.

  He even started to crawl into it before he realized that it was not empty! He thought it a man, an Usgar, but suddenly then a fine spear set with an intricate and wide barbed tip reached out and stabbed at his face.

  * * *

  Flames ate the fur from the head of the dead creature.

  Tay Aillig watched it carefully, turning it so that all the skin would turn a bright red, but not letting it burn too much so that it would obviously be the work of a fire. The bloat and carrion birds had done quite the mutilation on the bear’s head already.

  What good fortune that the uamhas scavengers had left the head behind.

  Tay Aillig still wasn’t sure what Mairen’s spiritual intrusion into his thoughts was fully about. He wasn’t even sure that he was following her instructions, or to what end. Mairen had told him to take a trophy, and to disfigure it, he believed.

  She was going to try to claim his kill, this piece of carrion, as the dead demon fossa. To steal the glory of the act from Aoleyn?

  He didn’t know, and didn’t believe for a moment that Aoleyn had actually defeated the great demon that had haunted Fireach Speuer from a time beyond the oldest memories of the oldest Usgar. But whatever madness he might find when he returned to the camp, he would trust that Mairen, ever the clever woman, would put things in the best light.

  He had nothing to lose by following her instructions—if the situation became awkward, he could always claim the mutilated head to be that of an ordinary bear, after all.

  He brought the water in the bark-lined hole he had dug to a boil, then eased part of the bear’s severed head into it. He had made the right cuts in the skin and skull—were there any wrong cuts, after all? He wasn’t trying to make it look like anything, for what Usgar alive could give a good description of the demon fossa?

  He was just trying to make it look less like a bear, to instill some doubt, and shrinking this part of the snout, or warping it at least, should do that, as well as making its considerable teeth seem even larger.

  The Usgar-laoch glanced up at the mountain, wholly in twilight gloom now, with the sun beyond the horizon past the waters of the lake. He would stay here this night, he decided, and he hoped that some uamhas would arrive to claim more of the prize, or perhaps return thinking that Ralid’s body was still here.

  Were that the case, he would enter the Usgar encampment with more trophies than the head of a dead bear.

  * * *

  Quick reactions alone saved Bahdlahn in that first moment of battle. He ducked his head and threw himself aside reflexively, and the thrusting spear did not catch him in the face, but got his right shoulder instead.

  He felt the bite of the weapon, but the angle of the attacker was all wrong and it didn’t sink in too deeply—he hoped. He clutched at the wound as he rolled back onto the path, th’Way, and felt the warmth his own blood on his hand.

  He thought to come up to his feet and sprint away, but by the time he managed to stand, the man, or goblin, or creature—whatever it might be—was out of the hidey-hole and facing him, that bloody spear in hand.

  It was taller than tall Bahdlahn, but much thinner, with tightly corded muscles showing under its strange clothing: fine fabric, black leather vest and strips about its bare arms, and what seemed to be a breastplate of wooden armor, a line of thin and small dark green branches or sapling trunks tied in a row down to its waist. Even in the dimness of the early-morning light, the golden color of its skin beneath the halo of thick gray hair was striking, but not nearly as much as the markings running down the center of the creature’s face, where its flat and wide nose shone a brilliant red, abruptly shifting to flanks of pure blue, like the shallower waters of Loch Beag under an afternoon sun. Bahdlahn thought it a sidhe, a mountain goblin, one painted, perhaps. He had seen several of the monsters after a battle, when the Usgar warriors had carried some carcasses to the camp as trophies. This opponent did not look like them, though, other than its basically human form. The mountain goblins exuded crudity and brute force, but this creature moved with grace, and wore clothing superbly and intricately stitched—finer than the Usgar, even. Its nose was not long and crooked, but flat and wide, and its ears more resembled that of a human than a goblin.

  “Lakeman?” he asked, for though it didn’t seem human, it was much more so than the monsters the tribes called sidhe.

  In response, the creature, or man, leaped at him, stabbing hard, and only good luck saved Bahdlahn from getting skewered by that surprisingly quick attack. For as he started to dodge, he rolled his ankle and pitched over sideways, tumbling down the decline of th’Way, which was steep enough at that point to put enough ground between him and the attacker for him to regain his footing.

  Perhaps he should use the other language, the lakeman language his mother had taught him. He considered, but only briefly, for he had no time, as his opponent came on fiercely, stabbing repeatedly and driving him backward.

  He started to turn and flee, but reconsidered immediately, having no idea of how fast this creature might be, or how well it might throw that spear, which was truly beautiful in design and would fly a long, long way. Would he take a few retreating steps, only to catch that deadly missile in the back?

  Legs wide for balance, hands up beside his shoulders and wide, ready to strike, Bahdlahn danced around, side to side, trying to present no easy target.

  The creature curled back its lips, revealing a set of shining white teeth, with fangs top and bottom. Not human teeth, surely, but they seemed too clean and straight and delicate for the mouths of the sidhe. No, these appeared more like those of the monkeys that the Usgar hunters sometimes brought back from their hunts.

  “Don’t get in close,” Bahdlahn whispered to himself, not wanting to get bitten by that formidable maw.

  But his own words rang hollow. Bahdlahn was no trained fighter, and he didn’t know what to do!

  His opponent stabbed straight for his gut. He threw his left arm across to slap the spear aside, at the same time throwing back his hips and sucking in his belly. He did manage to push the weapon off to his right, but his attacker stepped forward and bent low, surprisingly, turning with the blade. Before the unskilled Bahdlahn could understand the movement, the attacker came up fast, leading with its right elbow, which slammed Bahdlahn in the face, and sent him staggering back a step. Around and over went the creature, bringing its left hand, still holding the spear, in hard for a follow-up punch, and when Bahdlahn, hardly able to see and sort out the flurry of movement before him, tried to slap and punch to drive his opponent back, he hit nothing solidly. For his opponent was already falling back, leaping and straightening. It slipped its hands down to the base of the spear’s shaft and swung it across down low like a cudgel, not a spear.

  A cudgel with a sharp end, Bahdlahn real
ized as it strafed across his shins, cutting a long line across his trousers and his skin, both legs.

  Stung, but not crippled, Bahdlahn fell back and straightened once more. His shoulder burned, as did both legs, and he tasted the blood flowing from his nose.

  He didn’t know what to do. He knew he couldn’t fight this … whatever it was! He had often heard the Usgar warriors demeaning the mountain goblins, calling them weak and feeble, and unimpressive foes. Most of that was likely simple boasting, he understood, for if this warrior before him was indeed a sidhe, it was none of those things, its movements fluid and fast, and nothing weak about it.

  Bahdlahn had to run. He knew the creature would cut him down with its spear, but he had to hope that it would miss that one throw, and that it couldn’t catch him.

  He started to turn, but found himself leaping instead, throwing himself into a dive to the other side of th’Way to avoid a sudden and ferocious charge and thrust, almost as if his opponent had read his mind and guessed his intent.

  His eyes had tipped the creature off to his plan, he thought, but fleetingly, for he had no time to consider anything. He had to get up from his dive and roll. The creature was certainly pursuing and would have him easily if he lay on the ground!

  He clawed at the ground as he tried to rise, his hand closing on a stone.

  Bahdlahn was a very strong young man, but he didn’t know how to fight. He had no knowledge at all of weapons, or of using footwork to gain leverage on an opponent.

  But there was one thing he could do, one thing he had learned quite keenly from his weeks up here clearing th’Way. One thing he had done a thousand times a day, every day.

  Bahdlahn could throw.

  He came around, falling back as fast as he could, managing to get one foot under him, to press him upright and further back.

  His opponent smiled toothily, white teeth shining in the midst of that bright red central patch of skin. In no apparent hurry, and clearly with great confidence, it stalked in for the kill.

  Bahdlahn pegged a stone into its chest.

  It cracked loudly against the wooden armor and his opponent, as surprised as hurt, stumbled backward.

  Bahdlahn was near his hidey-hole, near the place where he kept many small stones he had saved to use in propping and securing logs along th’Way. He dropped low to grab at his cache, and came up throwing, firing missile after missile at the creature.

  He clipped its skull with one, hit it about the chest and torso with others, cracked some against blocking arms, drawing gasps and “oofs” and shrieks of surprise and pain.

  Bahdlahn nearly fell down to his knees and cried in relief when his obviously superior opponent turned and fled, leaping and sprinting up th’Way.

  But Bahdlahn knew better than to let up, and he kept the barrage flying, even giving chase for a short way, until the creature broke off the path and leaped through some brush, which sent it on a long tumble down a grassy slope.

  Bahdlahn threw one last stone and stood at the hedgerow, watching the creature regain its footing, far below, and disappear into the cover of some small trees and rocks.

  “What do I do?” the young man asked himself, shaking his head, completely at a loss.

  The question was answered for him, though, as the rush of battle faded and the wound in his shoulder, torn wider by his repeated throwing, sent him down to the ground in pain.

  * * *

  U’at was confident that he could have killed the human—it had to be a human, he believed. But he was mundunugu, riding at the command of an augur who served the old augur they had named the Last Augur of Darkness.

  U’at and the other followers of that particular augur were not numerous—the old one was considered crazy and foolish in most xoconai circles. And his followers were often derided as fools for listening to his ranting about old traditions cast aside and the weak ways of the modern xoconai. Thus, this mission was critical. The day of the prophecy fast approached. If the old one was wrong, his interpretations erroneous, then U’at might find his path forward very different from that which he hoped.

  His head had been filled with visions of great Tonoloya, an empire so vast that xoconai would see the sun climb out of the waters of Ilhuicaatl, the Great and One Ocean, each morning, and slip back beneath the waters in the west at day’s end.

  He loved the old augur. He so desperately wanted the prophecy to be correct, the vision fulfilled, the Glorious Gold returned.

  If that was to be, then this place, if it was Tzatzini, would command the empire of the xoconai.

  If this was Tzatzini, then U’at was the first xoconai to stand upon it in more than fifteen centuries, more than seventy generations—seventy-seven, if the old augur had correctly fashioned his prophecy.

  With all of that at stake, U’at simply could not take the risk. He believed that he could have defeated the human, yes, but he took great faith that his spears and macana club would be stained with human blood soon enough.

  4

  UNCOVERED

  She sat on the ground somewhere within the grove where the Usgar kept their slaves, her arms bound behind her to the trunk of a pine tree. Aoleyn was sure the uamhas, like Bahdlahn’s mother Innevah, could hear her whimpering, and could hear the sharp questions her interrogators were hurling at her—but of course, since uamhas were considered no more than animals, Mairen and Connebragh didn’t likely care.

  The poor young woman could barely breathe through the cloth gag they had tied so tightly, let alone answer the questions. But those questions kept coming anyway, fast and sharp, and often followed by a slap or even a knee into her armpit.

  “You stole crystals!” Mairen shouted in her face. “From where?”

  “Where did you get those wounds?” Connebragh demanded before Mairen had even finished speaking—a tremendous breach in protocol that again reminded Aoleyn that this part of the interrogation wasn’t really about gathering information.

  They didn’t want her to answer.

  “Where did you get these?” Mairen demanded, holding up the three pieces of jewelry she had taken from Aoleyn. “How did you get these?”

  “And where are the others?” Connebragh added. “The wedstone crystal? You were wounded, but now are healed! Do not lie. The tender skin is clear to see.”

  She smacked Aoleyn across the face.

  It went on and on—to Aoleyn, it seemed like half the day. They kept coming at her with questions and sneers and threats and slaps. Aoleyn had struggled against her bindings at first, and had tried to work her head and mouth to dislodge the suffocating gag, but to no avail—she had been bound by Usgar warriors, expert in handling slaves. She had even tried to reach out to the crystals and her gemstone jewelry which Mairen held—she could hear the vibrations of the magic, the song of Usgar.

  But to no avail. She was battered and exhausted, and the Usgar-righinn held her own magic, too, and would allow no such connection.

  It took the poor young woman some time to realize that only Connebragh was now battering her, both with questions and physically. She couldn’t even see Mairen—had the Usgar-righinn left the natural chamber, its walls the drooping branches of the pine to which Aoleyn was tied?

  If only she could speak! Connebragh was closer to her age, and she had never known the woman to be hateful. Seonagh had trained Connebragh not long before she had tutored Aoleyn, and had spoken highly of Connebragh’s character. On the night of Aoleyn’s testing in the crystal caverns, she was certain, Connebragh had been hoping for her to succeed. She was certain that the woman, as brutal as she was now being, would truly listen to her side of the tale.

  But no, she could not speak, and could not interrupt the continuing verbal and physical barrage. On and on it went, and Aoleyn could hardly keep her head up, and forgot her earlier warnings to herself about why these two were treating her in this manner.

  She had anticipated what might come when they exhausted her, but now, exhausted, she had all but forgotten, and so whe
n Mairen was there, so suddenly, Aoleyn was caught completely off her guard.

  Because Mairen wasn’t beside her.

  Mairen was inside her.

  Connebragh’s questions kept coming, and Aoleyn tried to ignore them. But she couldn’t ignore them, not wholly, not in her thoughts, and so images swirled and memories lit up.

  And Mairen was in there, exploring.

  Aoleyn saw through the eyes of a bear, and sensed the confusion of the intruder. A paw swatted, breaking a man—Ralid—and throwing him. She turned from that thought as quickly as she could, and she was other animals, then, like a bird flying along the mountainside …

  She felt Mairen’s delighted disdain.

  Aoleyn knew she was doomed.

  * * *

  The warriors who had ventured down the mountain walked back into the Usgar encampment that same night, faces grim, with Egard carrying the body of Ralid over his shoulder.

  Gasps and wails and empty stares followed their every step, with many Usgar being swept up in their wake as Egard led them to the tent of the Usgar-laoch.

  “Tay Aillig is not here,” one man told Egard. “He left earlier this day.”

  “To gather Elder Raibert,” another offered, though there seemed disagreement on that matter.

  Egard didn’t really care about the details at that point, as his entire action this day had been orchestrated wholly by Tay Aillig, and neither he nor the Usgar-laoch held any surprise as to the fate of Ralid.

  “Where is Tay Aillig’s wife?” Egard asked sharply, ending the budding debate.

  The gathered Usgar turned their heads as one toward the pine grove off to the side of the encampment, where the uamhas were kept.

  “With the Usgar-righinn,” a man said.