Live Like a God

by Taylor Kole

  “There is hope, certainly. She lived when Flavius escaped. That is what we know.”

  “Eight suns have risen. With the boy’s story, the ridges for hope are sharp and slender.”

  “I must go with this party,” Cronin said softly as his mind moved beyond the immediate.

  Orion sniffed and studied his mayor. “You can not.”

  “If RobertJohnson hears of this, Reysona will burn. Many will die. If they have her, I will surrender myself to Atlantis and tell them the truth. The citizens of Reysona had no knowledge of Junea’s condition. I sent her away in secret with the only people left in confidence. With that out, I will beg mercy for the innocent.”

  Orion looked out to the rising suns.

  “With eight days gone, the golden guard could arrive at our gates at any moment,” Cronin said. “If they do, my death will not quench their thirst.”

  “One death will not suffice no matter the circumstances, but perhaps you’re right. I will go with you and bring all of those involved in the cover up. We will pay the price together and save the innocent.”

  Fighting the revulsion of their plan—it was Reysona’s best hope—Cronin extended his hand and they shook.

  Blowing out the lantern, Cronin stood. “We will bring four guards and two maidens. We meet here in two shadow bars, ready for the voyage.”

  “It will be done.”

  Nodding to the spare room in his home, Cronin asked, “Will he survive?”

  Orion exhaled. “He made it this far and he is young.”

  “And as stubborn as a goat.”

  Orion coughed a laugh, “That he is.”

  Moments before dismissing his sergeant-at-arms and looking to identify a successor, a knock sounded at the door. Cronin heard his servant open it. Urgent whispers ensued and then the flap to his chamber was pulled back.

  A youthful warrior dressed in the armor of the city guard entered. “Sire, there is much commotion at the main gate. You must come quickly.”

  Cronin looked to Orion. Had they acted too slowly, was the slaughter at their gate?

  “Lead the way,” Cronin said.

  Orion followed.

  Outside, Cronin saw heightened activity. He sensed a jubilance to the tumult, which seemed directed at the main gate. Had Junea returned? He smiled, then frowned. The town seeing her pregnant would only add her name to the sacrificial list, and condemn many.

  JoshRidley, battered, filthy, and wounded, stood within the open gate—bigger and broader than Cronin remembered.

  His crashing fears met a wall and washed over him from a new perspective. He dropped to his knees. Tears blurred his vision.

  JoshRidley had dragged a muddied bolder by a pair of ropes. Overcome with wonder, Cronin could think of no reason to lug around a rock the size of a hut.

  Making eye contact, JoshRidley nodded once, then searched the crowd, presumably for Flavius or Junea.

  A trio of guards splashed water on the massive object, washing off the caked-on dirt. Cronin made out the smooth shape of eyes larger than a man. The boulder narrowed into a violent mouth of black teeth the size of a man’s arm that curved to razor points. His breath caught.

  JoshRidley had killed a Mantis. The vilest devil in all of Betaloome.

  With two obvious miracles on display—the death of a devil god and the return of a just one—Cronin abolished his plan of forming a rescue party with a subset of sacrificial lambs.

  The town, perhaps all of Betaloome, had a chance at salvation.

  If Junea still breathed, all he loved could be saved.

  XXXIII

  Having anticipated down time upon reaching Reysona—not being rushed off to unspeakable possibilities without preparation—JoshRidley asked Cronin and Orion to reconvene in his temple, to allow him time to catch his breath and digest their heartbreaking update.

  The village stayed quiet as they walked through town. Many citizens showed the wide-eyed openmouthed look of shock. In all his visions, JoshRidley had expected a warmer welcome—something short of a parade. Frowning at the let down, he worried coming back had been a mistake, that their world operated under philosophies and rules too foreign for his comprehension.

  Perhaps he should have considered the broader implications of his return. He had envisioned returning to what he left: a simple village, a happy baby mama, and an exuberant Flavius.

  As it stood, his future involved him storming off to confront a psycho, maybe embark on pyrrhic mission of revenge, if Junea or Flavius had been hurt, as seemed possible by the anxiety on Cronin’s face.

  Hopefully, Junea was unharmed and he could find a diplomatic solution with RobertJohnson. Regardless, his action jeopardized the safety of Reysona, and he had to find a way to negate that.

  A citizen yelled across the silent morning, “Thank you, JoshRidley!”

  “We love you, JoshRidley,” another chimed.

  Josh raised his hand and lowered his head to hide his smile.

  Reaching the middle step to the temple, he stopped. A gift waited at his doors. JoshRidley’s scimitar rested across two wooden stands. The foot-wide blade and white handle had been polished. Approaching slowly, he paused as he met his reflection.

  With Reysona lacking an abundance of mirrors, this was his best view of his new body. His muscles seemed more defined from a straight-on angle. His hair shone more blonde, his skin appeared almost oiled and blemish-free. Hopping in place, nothing jiggled. Twirling, he spun as smooth as a ballerina.

  Spotting the harness in the corner, also polished, he unhooked the smeared and nicked katanas. Unable to set these items—which had served him well—near his temple door, he retreated to the base of the steps and stabbed a blade on each side.

  Moving farther down the road, he propped the harness against a fence post.

  Cleared to wear his true extension, he hurried back up the stairs and lifted the sword. The cool ivory seemed to blend with his skin. Invigorated, he hacked the air, stabbed.

  Before his third chop, Cronin said,

  “A happy reunion.”

  JoshRidley nodded. Possessing brute strength, the speed of a bullet, and having his pearl-handled beauty instilled confidence. With a little training, he could kill a mantis every week until they were gone.

  Crossing two full nations helped JoshRidley hone his skills.

  “Let us move inside,” Cronin. “We have much to discuss.”

  Ten minutes later, JoshRidley knew all Cronin had to share. Being back in his chamber reminded him of his previous mistake. He should have beheaded Bellora, Junea would be safe, Flavius would be strong enough to talk, and men would still be alive.

  Pushing aside the could-have-beens, he accepted that even knowing the outcome, he couldn’t behead someone.

  Lacking servants, JoshRidley lit a few lanterns, lifted a table with one hand as easily as lifting a notepad, and set three chairs around it. The trio spent the next two hours breaking down all Flavius had shared, Junea’s potential, and the multiple problems each presented. As they talked a healer attended to the increasingly tender hole in his leg and servants arrived to work in the temple.

  Orion wanted to bring every able-bodied man to the pointus ascendus, enlist other villages, and with JoshRidley as their leader, form a resistance. Unfortunately, rebellion wasn’t a grounded concept in Betaloome. A monarchy had ruled for generations.

  Cronin told of the time RobertJohnson slew thirty armed criminals in a coliseum match. Suffering many minor wounds in the process didn’t detract from the carnage Josh envisioned during, and—perhaps more disturbing—after, such a match.

  “War is suicide,” Cronin said. “The golden guards could decimate a hundred hunters by themselves. And every man in Atlantis spends years in the army. They have over one thousand soldiers.”

  “’Tis true that talk of uniting Betadrius into defeating Atlantis is reserved for the tail-end of a stein,” Orion said. Making eye contact with each man, he added, “I’ve had no wine this morning.�
� A shy grin at JoshRidley. “I fear your return energized me too greatly because I want this fight.”

  “Today has brought big surprises for us all,” JoshRidley said, and the men nodded. “We all agree we cannot invade a nation, nor defeat the golden guards.”

  “That’s right,” Orion said. “We must reserve you for defensive and protection missions.”

  “We will select five men and two maidens, patch JoshRidley’s leg and make our way to the Pavilion of Parturition at sunrise.”

  “We must leave today,” JoshRidley said.

  Cronin studied JoshRidley before nodding. “Orion, you will remain here and see that those loyal to Reysona are armed and aware of the possible danger.”

  “We need you as well, Cronin. Word is spreading of JoshRidley’s arrival. People will fear RobertJohnson’s reprisals,” Orion said. “Disorder will follow.”

  “I agree,” JoshRidley said. “But Reysona needs both of you more than I.”

  Cronin grudgingly agreed.

  “How long until I can leave?” Josh asked.

  “Give me a shadow bar to gather your party and supplies,” Orion said.

  The healer, who washed his hands at a nearby basin, spoke. “I will need the same time to gather salve and bandages for your upcoming week.”

  “Bring them to Cronin’s home,” JoshRidley said. “I want to see Flavius.”

  “Of course.” The healer said, but before he rushed off he added, “The boy will remain asleep for hours.”

  “Okay. I will rest. I am tired. Wake me when it’s time.”

  He moved to the bed and collapsed.

  JoshRidley found the scouts and maidens packed and sitting on benches near the gate. Four hunters, what he took to be a young healer, and two maidens. Before he joined them and learned their names, he realized something greater than a god’s approach held their attention. He followed their gaze.

  The original pair of men had washed the Mantis head immaculately and were in the final stages of applying something—which he took to be a preservative, perhaps wax—to the green-plated souvenir.

  Another team of men toiled nearby, following diagrams etched into a tablet.

  Judging by the straps near the head, the system of pulleys, and the placement of the boom, they intended to mount the enormous ornament over Reysona’s main gate.

  Josh approached the demon face. The head was taller than him. Light flecks of green dotted dominant black eyes. They resembled ancient stars receding into a distant galaxy. The rounded and smooth pyramid shape drew his gaze down, toward the mouth. Two obsidian fangs, slanted down but near horizontal, covered a small opening that seemed designed for crushing logs. The teeth matched the length and circumference of his arms. Curved, they ended in points fine enough for needle work.

  If JoshRidley survived the upcoming challenges, or if luck followed him and he negotiated a treaty, or if any scenario allowed him to return to this monument, this sight would fill him with pride.

  Turning back to his crew, he found half watched him. The other half was still mesmerized by the head of a demon lord.

  “Are we ready?” JoshRidley asked.

  A man with curly black hair and features reminiscent of Dr. Ferrel stepped closer. “I am Agrippa, our lead guide. We are ready at your word.”

  One final inhale, and JoshRidley motioned toward the village gates.

  XXXIV

  Junea marked the tablet that tracked her days. She had three more until the next rain.

  Heading out under the first drizzle had been harrowing. With the bright suns illuminating the area around the pavilion, she quickly learned she lived in demon country. Trapper nets glistened in the trees. Various paths had been trampled down by who-knows-what type of monster. The wet forest seemed to breathe. Her entire body quivered as she gathered water from curved leafs or a puddle. Returning, having left the stone door ajar each time, made her physically ill with fright.

  With the door securely closed, she searched her home a dozen times, and still wasn’t completely sure a demon hadn’t sneaked in, and now waited under a bed or in a closet.

  The goods was she had gathered more water than she needed for the two week stretch. If she collected at the same rate, she would have enough to last her bed ridden months by the rain after next. Just in time for her limited movement phase.

  Having never ventured beyond the gates of Reysona—she hardly left her house on days following the rain—she lacked the courage to venture outside the pavilion on any other day. Hearing a demon scrape against the stone door one night didn’t help.

  She stayed busy reading information on the floating mattress and about the difficulties of birthing a half-god. Thankfully, there had been a plate dealing with her exact situation—birthing a half-god by oneself.

  She read aloud, so her son could hear. She calculated her food and water needs multiple times a day.

  She would store enough water to last. It was insatiable hunger that caused concern. The hunger coming on so rapidly and unpredictable threw off her math. During the water gathering, she had plucked a small critter from the ground and consumed half of it before she realized she was eating a raw, still squirming mite. She planned to hunt for more, bring in some dirt, and try to farm them. Perhaps they would taste better cooked.

  The real problem lay next to her stomach. The life growing in her drained all energy. Its weight hampered her movements and brought sharp pains. With her approaching the third month, she was supposed to be preparing for bed rest with a team of servants pampering her and placating her fears of moving to a metal vat, where she would float in a potion that eased weight until the birth of JoshRidley’s offspring.

  She tried to always steer her mind to the positive. She had more than enough material to read—even a collection of stories dealing with the gods of Earth. She remained enraptured by their world of electricity and intercontinental travel.

  Judging by the stacks of scrolls and the number of hours she slept each day, she should be able to—

  The clear sound of a shouting voice echoed behind the stone door.

  Excitement filled her. She prayed for help before each and every meal.

  But she knew it could as easily be RobertJohnson or his guard.

  Yet RobertJohnson should have arrived two days after Bellora’s betrayal, not ten.

  Perhaps frozen in fear, she stayed on the edge of the mattress in the first room down the main hall.

  “Please be my father. Please be my father. Please be my father.” Or anyone from Reysona.

  Another shout, much clearer than the first, echoed outside.

  Junea controlled her trembling legs with her hands and swallowed as someone wrenched open the main door.

  She heard metal rub against stone, as if Atlantean armor brushed a wall. Breathing deeply, she told herself it could as easily have been the scrape of a salca, or any weapon.

  The next sound brought a smile to her face.

  Though crazy and irrational, she heard the deep base of JoshRidley’s voice and pushed herself out of her bed.

  There it was again, a whisper too deep for a common man. She laughed out loud.

  “Is that you, wench?” Gatacon’s cruel voice yelled. “It’s time to pay for your wicked deeds.”

  XXXV

  Agrippa stopped what remained of JoshRidley’s party near the Pavilion of Parturition. Agrippa seemed to understand JoshRidley needed a moment to gather his courage.

  Due to caution, the journey had taken three days, placing them on a patch of open land under high noon suns.

  One hundred yards of foliage separated them from the best—or worst—news imaginable.

  Resting now, JoshRidley appreciated Agrippa’s caution. Unfortunately, neither it, nor JoshRidley, were able to prevent the two casualties they suffered.

  A maiden as young as Bellora froze at the sight of an eviscerator. Her scream had turned JoshRidley. A distance the length of three tennis courts separated them.

  Without having
spotted the danger, he bounded toward her. He might have closed the distance in time had she run toward Josh, but she had run away.

  His blade severed the beast a second before its jaws clamped around the woman’s shoulders, ending her with a sickening crunch.

  The girl had been mortally wounded. A hunter stayed by her side, attempting to calm her, to soothe her final moments. He was kneeling beside her when the ant exploded its alarm.

  To be fair, JoshRidley hadn’t seen the man die. He last saw the hunter running away from them in an attempt to draw the ants away.

  JoshRidley had grabbed two people, ran two hundred yards, dropped them, and went back for the others, arriving just as some ants did

  Being unable to recall either of their names shamed JoshRidley.

  Moving out of ant territory lent them greater safety, but guaranteed nothing. Josh paced their perimeter, listening.

  As he neared the pavilion, he heard voices.

  Apparently having noticed his destination, Agrippa appeared beside him, tilted his head as if listening, and said, “Allow me to scout in silence.” The man pushed through the brush.

  Minutes later, he returned. “Four Atlantean guards are posted outside of the pavilion,” he whispered. “A golden guard stands with them. The door is open. I believe others are inside.”

  JoshRidley looked back at the three faces and frowned at their obvious concern. It was on him to decide their next action.

  He gestured for everyone to huddle together. “Wait here, and stay silent.”

  The men grabbed their weapons tighter. To help occupy their minds, he added, “Protect the maiden at all costs.”

  JoshRidley unclipped his scimitar. He traveled in a wide arc so that when he encountered the men, it would appear he approached from an opposite angle.

  Ten steps from the pavilion’s path, JoshRidley stopped. Examining the enormous sword in his hand, he decided to increase the odds of diplomacy and sheathed the weapon.

  He sought a peaceful resolution with a rational man from his own world. Brandishing a sword and jacking himself until he felt like a supreme killing machine lessened that possibility.