by Taylor Kole
He found Flavius in the center of town, circled by a small crowd, featuring more women than men, and couldn’t keep a smile from his lips. Flavius still wore the original bandages, now brown and tattered, around his midsection as a medal of valor.
“JoshRidley,” Flavius called with his own slanted grin. “As I live and breathe. A god with the strength of a hundred boars finally breaks the tether of his bed.”
The crowd around him retreated to create room for the two men.
Rather than correct Flavius as to who tethered him, for Junea warned him many times to never mention their relationship in the village (a topic he needed to explore further), Josh closed the distance with the intention of an embrace.
His scrunching nostrils and a horrid stench stopped him at arms length.
“I’d say a bath is in order if you ever hope to travel with me again.”
“Two days ago, I’d have thought you mad, but a distance has grown between myself and my admirers.”
One of the women sucked air in through her teeth and crinkled her nose. All of them nodded.
“And I was alone in my chamber last night.” He sniffed under his arm, but seemed unfazed.
Josh realized the disparity between lord and page had diminished. They felt more like an uncle and his favorite nephew—a relationship Josh had always longed for.
The feast in honor of the queen-slaying was larger than that of the first night. It seemed the people had grown more comfortable with Josh, their god. From stories he heard of previous gods, it made sense to wait and learn the visitor’s demeanor.
Three pitchers of wine caused little more than a lightheaded giddiness in Josh. At night’s end, he spied Flavius, face down, inebriated, mumbling to the two women attending him. One poured water over his body. The other carefully clipped the filthy bandages off and scrubbed the flesh underneath, giving him a bath right in the street.
The next two days included more hibernation and lying with Junea, talking about everything.
Her main interest was in the engineering and physics of automobiles, planes, and all modes of transportation. Unfortunately, Josh possessed limited knowledge on that technology.
Using a template of moist mud, and a knowledge of parts accessible to them, they designed the blueprints for a mountain bike, which, if constructed and functional, would provide another lasting benefit of his visit.
The downside to those days of tranquility was the increase of Bellora’s jealousy. He came close to barring her from the temple, but Junea always stayed his decision. She sympathized with the girl. She wouldn’t fault a beautiful young lady for wanting Josh. His disinterest in a number two for adding variety and another offspring of legend amused Junea (and, he suspected, filled her with pride).
On day sixteen, he met with the bear-like Orion, and received an update on the benefits of his work. Fourteen demons had stumbled into traps around Reysona and been killed. There were rumors that hundreds of others had wandered into enemy territory and battled their neighbors. The relief and gratitude at these findings brought many citizens to the point of tears. It was difficult for him to consider how much he impacted their world with a single afternoon of effort.
They also discussed raiding another mound. The thought of creating more chaos in enemy ranks and increasing Reysona’s buffer thrilled Josh. Depending on the travel and recovery time, he figured he could eliminate three additional queens in his remaining days. More if things became as smooth as he envisioned.
On day seventeen, when he was scheduled to leave on his second hunt, Bellora woke the couple. For once, there was no disdain in her voice, no evil eye for Junea, no pleading smile or careful posing for Josh.
Some of her tight braids were undone at the ends. She wore a robe that covered completely and an expression of fright.
“M’lady, they are here!”
Even though Josh hadn’t allowed her much sleep, Junea bolted out of bed.
Junea asked as she dressed in a rush. “How far out?’
Following suit, annoyed at his raiding teams’ temerity, Josh stepped into his trousers and addressed Junea. “A bit impatient aren’t they?”
“This is not Orion, my love,” Junea said with obvious anguish.
Bellora added, “RobertJohnson and his golden guard approach from the north. They are less than half a shadow bar out.”
Cold fear raced through him, and he reached up in search of his scimitar. Finding only air, he dropped his hand and discovered his fear rapidly turning to indignation.
How dare that man come to Reysona? It’s like a reverse breach of the first law—no gods interrupt Josh’s time here.
“How many of the golden guards?” Junea asked as she tied her hair, now fully dressed.
“All of them, with Gatacon at their head.”
“Oh, dear, no.” Junea looked to Josh with open worry. “I must go.”
She gathered her things. Even the various combs and brushes. Servants darted from the shadows, removing all other evidence, as if the uninvited god might enter Josh’s temple.
“For my sake,” Junea beseeched, “do not allow yourself to be provoked. By his own law, he will not harm a god unless they return to Betaloome or enter Atlantis, but if you attack him…”
Accepting that Junea intended to flee, Josh stepped in front of her, and told a small lie. “I do not fear that man. He is a god. As am I.” Having corralled her, and shocked himself with his words, Josh moved to his scimitar and put it on.
“He is a champion fighter,” Junea said, “who has trained daily for centuries, and he is not alone. The golden guard is made up of his own sons, half-gods known to enjoy dashing the skulls of their unwanted sisters against stone at birth. I must be far from you when they arrive. Do not let them know we are intimate, even cordial.”
“Gatacon is the cruelest guardian to ever draw a breath,” Bellora added as she wrung her hands. “He has killed a dozen of his own siblings and a nation’s worth of others.”
Junea raced to Josh, kissed him full on the lips, and found his eyes. “Do not rise to his bait, JoshRidley. Noble tidings are not what summoned him. Whyever he is here, he will not stay long. Remain controlled, and allow him to go on his way, for my sake.”
She searched his eyes until, reluctantly, he nodded.
Then she turned and ran from the chamber.
Watching her race away in fear of another man scathed his soul. His woman should fear no man.
The servants stepped forward and helped adjust his tunic. Josh clipped the sword behind himself and dismissed his aids. Once alone, he tested his injuries by stretching, felt nothing, and thought about his situation.
Learning that RobertJohnson and his sons were cruel made Josh resentful. Josh had never dreamed of being a hero, but he was learning that seeing bullying first hand, and having the ability to interject and defend the weak, motivated him.
Over the past few weeks, horror stories about Atlantis conjured fantasies for Josh of traveling to the fabled nation and setting straight the elites who ruled. Cluing them in on how to treat others. At sword point, he would obtain RobertJohnson’s word that all nations deserved his care. After chastising the man, and perhaps cutting down the dangling golden arms, he would yell a final diatribe of wit grand enough to echo for years, and storm out.
But those were daydreams.
In reality, he had wanted, hoped, and expected to spend his time in Reysona, making it safer by killing a few queens, maybe hunting another trapper, earning himself a place in their lore. Those accomplishments would allow him to return to the real world with enough awe to lift him out of his daily rut—to negate his self-loathing, elevate his career, find meaning in a nine-to-five, smartphone-obsessed, prime-time world.
Standing alone, an enormous sword on his back, a psychopathic god en route, he focused on slowing his booming heart by pacing the cavernous hall. He pondered what topics RobertJohnson wanted to discuss, the temperamental approach Josh should take, what Josh’s main goals sh
ould be.
In the best case scenario, RobertJohnson’s personality would conflict with the rumors. The heinous stories would be nothing but exaggerations of incidents involving the treatment of hardened criminals. Perhaps the sitting god wanted to invite Josh to Atlantis, give him a guided tour as they discussed their old world. Afterwards, he would promise to look after Junea, Reysona, and all of Bristalius, for he appreciated Josh exposing the dangers they faced.
Worst case, he wanted a golden arm for his Hall of Distress, to know who Josh had slept with, and finally to use his golden guard to hack Junea, and what remained of Josh, into hundreds of pieces.
Missing a limb upon his return would heavily obstruct his intended line to Karen about losing the money he’d spent coming here in a shady investment.
“JoshRidley.”
He looked up to find Bellora waiting near the entrance.
She pulled her robe tighter and stepped closer. “I must have an answer from you.”
A deep breath. “Answer to what?”
“I must know if you will lay with me before you leave? You have my lifelong devotion. Grant me this small favor and I will flee this village and ensure your heir is safe and loved fiercely until my final days.”
Running his hand across his face, he quelled the chastising that brewed inside of him. Calming, he gathered his words and said, “Bellora, I do not have time for this. You are a beautiful girl, but I am here to help your people, not—”
One of the maidens ran through the doorway at the end of the chamber and yelled, “They are approaching the outer gate, JoshRidley.”
“I will meet them there,” Josh said with authority as he strode toward the exit.
“JoshRidley.”
He turned to Bellora and saw fire in her eyes.
“Do not make of me your enemy,” she said as her expression hardened. “I ask but one favor. A reasonable request that benefits all.”
Rather than answer, he made a mental decision to have her barred from the temple as he turned to meet the real threat.
“Gatacon might be interested in learning of you and Lady Junea’s passion,” she called after him. “Perhaps RobertJohnson would give me my god-son as a reward for such important information.”
He stopped at the threshold. His blood ran cold. She had the power to get his new family killed.
She continued, “The choice is yours. Lay with me before you leave and earn a follower. Do not, and what choice do you leave me? I am destined to birth a god-child.”
As the silence dragged on, he tried to remind himself of youthful ignorance. He also envied the sociopaths of the world. They would handle this pragmatically—turn around, cut her head from her shoulders, and have one less complication.
Clenching his jaw, he continued out of the chamber, down the hall, and exited through the double doors.
XIII
Stepping from his temple and finding the normally bustling town deserted was like waking up to discover that all your neighbors had vanished during the night. Without the strum of life, the dirt roads, silent buildings, and gentle breeze were reminiscent of an abandoned movie set from a 1970’s western.
Six paces from the door, he heard a servant pull them shut and engage the locks. Pausing, he noticed even the dozens of communally owned dogs had vanished.
He had a clear line of sight from the top of the temple steps to the main gate. A lone figure, who he couldn’t make out, stood near the entrance. He was relieved to see someone on his side would be there to support him. Beyond that brave soul, the gates yawned open. Josh wiped moisture from his brow.
Roughly two dozen invaders marched through the opening in a tight formation. They wore a style of armor reminiscent of the soldiers of Troy. Shaped steel protected their chests, wrists, and calves. From his distance, Josh saw the sun reflected off the high-polished gold and silver pattern.
Once through the gate, the warriors formed a square around two men riding armored steeds. The squadron converged on the lone Reysonan.
Taking a deep breath and swallowing the lump in his throat, Josh trekked toward the confrontation. Squeezing his hands into fists, he used the contraction of power to instill the confidence necessary to walk toward a gang of armed adversaries.
Reaching the halfway point, one of the riders nodded toward Josh. The man was bald on top. The dingy gray hair ringing his head hung down to his broad shoulders. His skin was pockmarked. His nose bulbous. His chin too small. Yet his massive frame—a trait universal with the troops—turned the unattractive features into the menacing characteristics of an ogre.
The older rider beside him had even less hair on top. What remained circled his head like a crown worn by Julius Caesar. By the posture, and place of honor amongst the pack, Josh imagined the second man was RobertJohnson, and his sidekick was the feared Gatacon.
Swallowing, Josh accepted that the men were bigger than anyone who entered the Mr. Universe each year.
Gatacon wore the same armor as the soldiers around him, gold accented with silver. As he drew closer, Josh saw the insignia on his chest: a silver arm bent at the elbow and ending in a fist.
Josh also noticed that he was wrong about the horses. They were not armored. A modified structure braced their undersides. RobertJohnson rode the larger of the two stallions, whose belly rested on a cart. As ugly and menacing as the half-gods around him, RobertJohnson also exuded a smugness that worried Josh. The color pattern on his armor was inverted: a majority silver, the arm on his chest gold. Sunlight reflected off of his right gauntlet, temporarily blinding Josh.
After shielding his eyes and seeing RobertJohnson smirk, Josh realized the glance had been intentional. Flexing his forearm in time with his rising annoyance, he discarded the idea of a friendly afternoon sipping tea, and talking about the Cubs.
To avoid a blow-up, Josh focused on the mass and grace of his own form.
The guards surrounding RobertJohnson had physicality only possible with genetic alterations, or fourteen-hour days in the gym. They lacked the ease of movement he possessed, and their skin didn’t glow like his and RobertJohnson’s.
Josh started to understand why cavalry men earned such respect throughout history. The two mounted men loomed over the crowd. Their added height made Josh feel subservient.
Josh’s scimitar was twice the size of anything the golden guard carried, but their weapons were larger than normal and of immaculate craftsmanship.
Cronin had been the lone man in white waiting to greet the new arrivals. The mayor spoke with assurance, but the fast clip and ramrod stance revealed his concern. With Josh on scene, the diplomat spoke.
“It is a great honor to have the one true god of Betaloome bless us with his presence.”
If RobertJohnson heard him, he gave no indication. Nudging his horse forward, he parted his men, dismounted with a resounding thud, and glared at Josh, who stopped ten paces from him.
RobertJohnson stood a half-foot taller than Josh, and carried forty additional pounds of muscle—which in this state could equate to hundreds. Scars overlaid his unnaturally toned muscles. From chest to back he was as thick as a tree.
“JooossshRidley.” He drew out his words. “Peculiar name for these parts. How were you addressed in your world? Josh? Joshua?”
Josh didn’t reply because he was often called both names.
“I bet you have some lazy girlfriend who calls you her Joshy-poo and pokes all your soft spots.”
Josh searched the other faces. He saw cruelty, hate, and an eagerness to spill blood. Yet, excluding the mounted riders, caution lurked beneath the surface. Josh was a god, more than twice as fast and powerful as any man here, save RobertJohnson.
“JoshRidley,” RobertJohnson said as if testing the word. “Makes me think of a homosexual baseball player.” He smiled. “A gay ball player. I like that for you. It has levels.”
The supported war-horse beside him knickered as if understanding the insult.
The edge guards crept outward,
careful not to cross their feet; all had their eyes locked on the visiting god.
Josh visualized how this would go if things got physical. All these enhanced men versus him. An experienced god leading them. Josh couldn’t fool himself into predicting victory, but he would take a few out as he ran.
“Where is your acolyte?” RobertJohnson asked, making a display of looking around.
How does he know about Flavius, thought Josh.
Before he could answer, Cronin chimed in, “He was killed while raiding the mound. A young lad. Terrible death.”
A coy smile crossed RobertJohnson’s lips as his eyes bored into Josh. “Is this true Joshua? Did you cause a young man to die?”
He had caused a man to die, but not a young one, not Flavius. Unsure of the specific necessity of this lie, yet believing fully in its merit, Josh allowed the shame in him to show on his face, and nodded.
“Young men sound like women when they scream,” Gatacon said from atop his mount. He then spat in Josh’s direction.
RobertJohnson cocked his head as if pondering the statement. “Did he scream like a woman, JoshRidley?”
Josh remembered Artemis squirming in the jaws of the beast, and in the next moment, dangling lifeless.
“Ant got your tongue?” RobertJohnson said.
What could Josh say? Rather than become the bunt of their joke, he said, “He died with great courage.”
“Are you enjoying the whores of this stank village?” Gatacon asked.
Sweat broke out over Josh’s body. His asking could indicate RobertJohnson had fewer spies in Reysona than feared, or at least that they hadn’t yet identified Junea. However, the venom in Gatacon’s tone revealed how important the answer was.
RobertJohnson scrunched his features as if annoyed by the interruption, and continued. “You do understand that you are in my world? That you’re a guest. Nothing of importance happens here without my knowledge. I knew you were here days after you arrived. I heard about your killing a queen shortly after it happened. What I came here to verify…” He stepped closer.
