by RG Long
“Stupid,“ he hissed under his breath.
“Saying what?“ he heard behind him.
Snart had thought he was by himself. The only good thing that had come out of the fear these Webbed Ones had was moments where he did not have to be in their presence. Snart was standing in the brightest area of the cave he could find. The mouth of the tunnel was just a few paces away from him.
He looked back to see that the monstrosity known as Vallin was making his way towards him. The great lizard creature still bore the mark of the scar Snart had given him. The leader of the Veiled Ones did not take kindly to being threatened to be eaten. He had, at that moment, decided that not getting eaten was more important than preserving a relationship with the leader of the Webbed Ones.
He had blasted Vallin with a burst of his magic. The effect was immediate. Vallin had stopped threatening to eat their party, perhaps wrongly assuming that all of their lizards were as skilled with rimstone as Snart was. As far as Snart knew, he was the only Veiled One to wield magic in such a way. Still, it had been enough to have the Webbed Ones concede to follow him. And that was all he really cared about.
Snart could think of all manner of curses he could wish upon the great beast who waddled up beside him, but for now, he simply nodded his head towards the opening.
“Smell man flessssh,” he said. This was not altogether a lie. As soon as they had come to this area, Snart had definitely tasted the presence of men. He had sent several scouts out ahead to investigate. They had come back to report that the armies of the island and the mainland had indeed passed this way only a few days ago.
For one who had never smelled a man before, Snart hoped Vallin would not be able to distinguish how far away they were.
The large creature took in several deep breaths. His eyes were closed in concentration. Snart impatiently tapped his spear on the rock he was standing on.
“Eating man,“ Vallin said softly licking his enormous lips a tongue equally as large. “Tasting warm?”
“Yessss,“ Snart replied. Perhaps if Vallin could be persuaded about how delicious a fresh man could taste, they could speed up this agonizing process of gaining only a few yards a day.
“They taste best warm, warm. Not good cold. Makes you strong, strong.”
Snart beat his chest for good measure. It was true. Whenever his kind could feast on the flesh of men, they did grow stronger. Whatever ancient law or magic was at work within that, Snart didn’t care. All he wanted was to be strong.
“Webbed Ones become strong, strong too,“ he said. “Vallin convinces his lizardssss. It’s time, time. We must march to eat, eat.”
Vallin opened his eyes and narrowed them. Snart could tell the lizard beast was not as convinced as he was about the taste of men.
That would change.
“Sending a few for you,” Vallin said after a considerable time had passed.
Snart picked up his head a little at this prospect. It was something.
“Yesssss,“ he said thankfully. “Send them to taste man, man. Tell you about the tassssste.“
Vallin nodded his massive figure.
“If tasting good,“ he said. “The rest of us will be coming. “
“Good,” Snart said, taking the few paces required to get to the mouth of the cave. “Send your best, best lizardssss.
Before Vallin could respond, Snart was out of the mouth of the cave. He had been underground too long. He wanted to feel the suns.
“Stupid,” he muttered under his breath.
“Saying what what?“
Snart ignored the question and threw his spear straight at the heart of a nearby bird. An explosion of feathers told him he had hit true. It wasn’t the flesh of men, he thought as he bit into the fowl. But it was warm.
32: Throne of Their Fathers
Prince Dram looked at the gates of Prommus that lay in ruins before him. They had marched up to the wall of the capital city without so much as an arrow being flung in their direction. Farnus had no good reason to know why this had been the case. There were soldiers on the walls. They did not fire on them. Perhaps it was because of the banner of Juttis they had flying in front of them.
Perhaps it was because of the brutal fight they had experienced when Isol had attacked them. During their day of marching, Dram had seen so much devastation that looked like it was caused by magic. The walls of Prommus were in even worse condition than he had first realized. Large chunks of it were blown completely away.
It was the condition of the plains in front of the city that had confused him. It looked like magical destruction had happened there as well, but that could not have been the case. The Theocracy had no way of dealing a magical blow to the Island nation.
Had there been a rebellion in the ranks of the speakers of Isol?
It was not until they had reached the gates of the city that Dram would get his answers.
A captain rode out to meet them with a few of his guard. Dram couldn’t tell if the look on the captain‘s face was one of relief or worry. It was likely to be both.
“We thought the blasted heretics had returned,” he said, looking at Prince Farnus and the others who were around him. His gaze lingered on Dram’s cloaked visage for a just a fraction longer than the others. “Those two blasts yesterday were very much like the cannons they used on us during the siege.“
The captain inclined his head from on top of his horse.
“Prince Farnus,“ he said indicating the white-haired man. “You are certainly a sight for the eyes. And this must be Prince Dram of Juttis? I do not believe I have ever laid eyes on you, my lord, but I will admit another prince of the Theocracy is welcome here.“
Dram very much doubted that would be the case for long.
The captain swallowed hard as he looked back and forth between Dram and Farnus. He had apparently run out of things to say. Dram noticed that they were not being offered to come into the city of Prommus. Were they, perhaps, being stopped?
“Is something wrong?“ Farnus asked.
Dram could feel the magic coursing through the air. He wondered if the captain could tell that something has shifted too, because he began to look uncomfortable in the saddle of his horse.
“My...” the captain standard. “Forgive me, Prince Farnus. It is strange to see you. We spent a full week mourning your death. There had been many reports that you had died in a siege fighting the heretics.“
Dram wondered what else had been reported.
This was not the relieved face of a captain seeing a prince returned from the dead. This was a man who was trying to stay calm in what he understood to be a dangerous situation.
“Then by all means, invite us in for a feast,” Farnus said. He motioned to the army that stood behind he and Dram.
“My men are hungry. They could use a good night’s rest before we continue onward.“
The captain cleared his throat.
A shadowy moving above Dram showed him that the city of Prommus was not as unguarded in the streets as he had thought.
A cloak shifted overhead to his left and on his right, dust moved as if someone had just changed where they were standing. Farnus was looking up as well.
The prince brought his attention down to the captain and clicked his tongue.
“Tut-tut, Captain,” he said, sounding more dangerous with every syllable. “Is this a way to welcome a prince?“
Farnus raised his hand into the air and shot several small bursts of magic out from his outstretched fingers. Four spread out to the top of the wall and exploded there. Shouts of pain that were quickly cut off echoed down to them.
Before the captain could even draw his blade, a magical burst ended his life and knocked his dead body off his horse.
The guards who had accompanied him on foot put their hands on their blades, but Farnus directed his palm at them.
“Bow before me,“ he said, magical energy filling the air. “Or die before me.“
THE CITY OF PROMMUS had not put u
p much of a fight after their entrance. Word of the return of Prince Farnus was met with jubilation by some, but most of the city greeted their return with fear. Word of his aligning himself with the heretics spread quickly. It was understood that the White Lion had returned. It was also known that he had become that which the Theocracy had hated.
A Speaker.
Dram knew it to be much more complicated than that, but, the men who remained in Prommus needed a little more explanation. The men who were left in the city, as well as their wives and children, bowed before Farnus as their prince. Dram knew that soon they would bow before him as their king.
Dram walked into the throne room of the King with Farnus out in front of him. The two had walked right past the guards of the city. Not a single man dared defy them. News of Farnus’ new power and the man covered in wrappings who was a prince from the north spread quickly.
Farnus had always been the favorite prince. Whereas he had once been treated with reverence and respect, those feelings were now replaced with fear and terror. With just a few guards behind them, the two men climbed the tall dais of the throne room up to the very top, where the throne of the king sat under the watchful gaze of previous kings and the gods of the theocracy.
Dram stopped to look down at where he guessed his father had sat for decades. He had never seen the throne room before and the place gave him both chills and an elated sense of purpose. This was the throne from which he ought to rule.
Farnus spent much less time taking in the moment. He sat on the throne and looked well at ease.
“This is the seat from which I will rule,” he said, looking at Dram.
There was no ‘we’ mentioned at all this time. Dram had come to expect that. He knew that only one could sit upon the throne. For a thousand years the Theocracy had been ruled by a High Priest, the Voice and the King.
But everyone knew who the power truly belonged to.
At least, that’s what Dram always believed. What could the church do but instill fear of the afterlife in its adherents? What could the Voice do without the blessing of the king? It was from the throne that a man could rule one of the mightiest nations on Gilia.
And Farnus had placed himself on it without a second thought.
“The people will recognize my rule,” Farnus said. “They will turn from my father as soon as he is defeated in battle by his own son.”
“You fear no words of rebellion or dissension?” Dram asked. The words left his mouth before he had fully thought them over.
Farnus snapped his fingers and a magical bolt of lightning sailed from his hand to the nearest idol of the god of war. It disintegrated into powder as soon as the bolt hit it. Dram did his best not to flinch, knowing full well that the bolt could have been intended for his own head.
“I think the people should fear me before they do any rebelling,” Farnus said with a smirk. “For I am not only king of the Theocracy. Rayg has granted me a great power and responsibility within the ranks of the demons. He has named me the king of those who dance in purple flames.”
Dram looked at the statue of the god of war whose head was now a pile of rubble and dust on the ground. Who could possibly be the king of the demons?
“Farnus...” he began to say. He was cut off by the entrance of a handful of guards.
“My Lord Farnus,” he said, bowing as he came inside. “There’s something you need to see out here.”
Farnus took his time standing from the throne. It seemed that he loathed leaving the seat of power to inspect some nuisance. Dram allowed him to walk down first and followed in his footsteps.
The guards led them to the nearest balcony that overlooked the city.
“There My Lord and Prince,” the guard said, pointing east. It was quite unnecessary.
A giant beam of light pierced the sky. Though it was midday, there was no mistaking the brilliant beacon of light that shot up past the clouds.
“When did this appear?” Farnus asked.
“The guards noticed it this morning,” the guard said again. “It’s been growing steadily brighter as the day has gone on.”
Farnus nodded.
“Then call the captains and the generals,” he said. “It seems we are being summoned to war.”
33: The Lost
David walked, though his feet bled and the suns had long since set, through the plains of the Theocracy. He had lost all sense of where he was weeks ago. Every traveler unfortunate enough to cross his path had met the same fate.
In his wake, he left a trail of blood and pain.
But he continued to walk.
His lips were caked and dry. A trail of blood ran from his mouth down his chin. Some animal that had wandered too close had become a meal. Whether it was a week ago or a day ago, David could no longer remember. Each day and night was the same. He walked until he fell over from exhaustion. Then he woke feeling a little rested and much more tired. Yet he continued to walk.
The voice of his goddess called him. Graxxin called him to her. She needed him. If he didn’t come, his mother would die. Like so many he had killed. She was all he had left. A vision of a past he could hardly recall.
David would fight for the vision of the woman he kept in his mind. He could no longer remember her voice. It was only her screams that he could hear. Whenever he wandered too far in the wrong direction, her screams would echo in his mind until he found his way. Whenever he fell to the ground, too tired to walk another step, her tormented cries would keep him awake until he had crawled enough to satisfy the goddess of blood.
So he walked.
It was this night that was different than others he had encountered.
The trampled ground beneath his feet was no longer dirt, but an ancient road. The stones were smooth, but uneven. He continued on.
Something hard grazed his foot. A metal thing. He didn’t stop, but he did look down to see what it was.
The thing appeared to be a helmet or a shield. Something a soldier of the Theocracy would carry. He didn’t bend to pick it up to protect his own sunscorched head. It would mean he would hear the screams again.
He hated the screams.
Men must have come this way.
David continued to walk.
After a few hours, or maybe days, he couldn’t tell, other shambling feet joined his own. Instead of feeling the need to lash out and destroy these travelers as a sacrifice of blood, the overwhelming need to not look at them at all came over him.
David didn’t want to see who belonged to those shambling feet. He didn’t want to see. They all walked as he did. It wasn’t just one pair of feet, or even four. It was several dozens. Even though he desired to look away, David turned his head, only once, to see who was behind him.
Hollow, sunken-eyed youths followed in his wake. One who could be only a year younger than he was carrying a shovel caked with blood. Another had a sickle in two hands. A girl whose hair was long and matted had arms covered in blood up to her elbows. Long nails had grown from her hands and were the darkest of reds.
Many more came behind them. All wore clothes that were ragged and hung off of them in hunger. David turned his eyes forward again. He felt no pity or fear. He only understood one thing.
They were all marching for the goddess of blood. For Graxxin. They would all do her bidding.
These were his family now.
An army of blood.
34: The Light
Snart felt his body acclimating to the light of the suns. He felt alive again. It had been far too long since he had not had to use his energy to create heat through the stones. Now he could use his mind to think of other pursuits.
Like how he might be rid of the giant Vallin and his great complaining.
“Burning, burning,” the lizard said infuriatingly.
Snart wished he had brought the underlings out from the caves in the summer, rather than in this beginnings of winter that appeared to be coming over the land.
Yet the suns still came down on them w
ith warm beams of light. Snart’s lizards all appeared in the highest of spirits. They could feel the suns and smell the flesh of men nearby. This was certainly all they needed to survive.
Sun and flesh.
Yet the Webbed Ones moved with a slowness that irked at Snart’s being. He wanted nothing more than for the lizards to follow him without complaint and Vallin to burn up under the heat of the suns he complained for days on end about.
“Men close, closssse,” he said impatiently. “We could be closssser if Webbed Ones moved fast, fast.”
“It’s burning,” Vallin said again. “Lizards need resting.”
Snart hissed. He was sick of resting. He wanted to see the armies of men and to taste their spoils of war. Once they had done so, he was sure the Underlings would give up their desire to stay out of the suns’ rays in order to feast.
His mouth was becoming wet just thinking of the desire to eat the flesh of men. Snart would be strong, this he knew. All he needed was to use the desire to eat to help both the lizards he commanded and the underlings to rally to him. To call him leader.
“Very burning.”
Snart whipped out his tongue twice in irritation. Hopefully every lizard would deny Vallin his next breath. That was certainly his greatest desire.
“We musssst march on, on,” Snart ordered. The men were gathering somewhere. He was sure of it. The tracks of the armies from the south went further and further on than he realized. They would continue on until they reached the cities of the north. If the lizards hated the suns, Snart thought, he would certainly not want to see them get under the cold winds of the north. They would turn around and defect if they didn’t taste meat soon.
They had to taste the flesh of men before such a time came.
Snart moved forward again, ignoring Vallin’s continued strains of complaints. If only there was a village somewhere within the range of their marching. If only some of the underlings could taste flesh. That would have them moving forward.
