by Brom
Her lips tightened. She hefted the sword and stepped forward.
“WAIT!” came a booming voice. All turned to see a great stag marching up. Veles looked to the Watchers. “What say you to this soul’s claim? Can a ring-bearer be the victor?”
“No!” It was Mortem who spoke. “This is madness. He’s a slave. He’s insulted—”
“Silence,” Veles snapped, setting unforgiving eyes on the giant.
Mortem fell back a step.
“Veles,” Hel said, giving him a scathing look. “It is not your place.”
Veles nodded to the Watchers. “Answer me.”
“The rules are as stated and are as all the gods have agreed. The first contender to gather and drop six rings into the coffer wins the trial. Rings may be gathered by any means.”
“Contender?” Veles repeated, looking at Chet. “Can a ring-bearer not also be a contender?”
“There is no precedent,” the Watchers answered as one. “No ring-bearer has ever placed the rings before. The rules do not state that a ring-bearer can be a contender—”
“There!” Mortem shouted. “A slave can’t—”
Veles drove his fist into Mortem’s face, knocking the giant to his knees, then looked back up to the Watchers. “Please continue.”
“Nor do the rules state that a ring-bearer cannot be a contender.”
“There!” Veles shouted, scanning the stands. He raised an arm and the crowd quieted. “What say you?” he cried, his big voice echoing up the towering stands. “Is this soul a contender? Has he displayed the boldness and courage worthy of a champion? Does he deserve victory or death? Victory or death? Which shall it be?”
The crowd threw their thumbs skyward, pressing against the rails and balconies, shouting victory, over and over until it became a chant.
Hel watched the cheering souls; slowly, a thin smile broke across her hard face. She raised the sword, pointed it at the dark clouds above, and cried, “Victory!”
The crowd burst into fresh cheers and began stomping their feet. The sound thundered up the towering walls, so loud as to make the very ground shake.
Hel handed the broadsword back to the minotaur, signaled two guards waiting at the red door. There was some confusion, but a few moments later two Trow came running onto the field, followed by a young woman, a girl really, carrying a tray.
Hel leaned over to Veles. “You have played your hand well.”
The great stag grinned.
“Now tell me . . . what is in it for you? What are you up to, you old dog?”
“I love the spirit of the games. That is all. My motivations are pure.”
“Purely selfish,” she replied.
Veles shrugged. “I am a god.”
She laughed, setting her chilling eyes on Chet as the Trow unclasped the shackle from around his neck and the ring from around his wrist.
“What is your name?” Hel asked.
“Chet.”
“Your full name.”
“Chet Moran.”
“Rise, Chet Moran. You are a free soul.”
Chet hesitated. Free? He could hardly believe it.
“Rise, victory is yours.”
Chet stood.
The young woman arrived with the tray. A reef of young spruce limbs lay atop green velvet. Hel lifted the wreath and placed it over Chet’s head so that it rested upon his shoulders. He took in a deep breath and his eyes widened—the spruce was real.
The crowd began chanting his name.
“Do you feel that, Chet Moran?” Hel said. “You have awakened their spirit and for this moment at least, they are alive. Any soul that can do that deserves to be a Grand Victor.”
Hel folded back the velvet, revealing a short sword of polished steel laying atop a black scabbard and belt. Next to it a leather pouch with gold stitching. She lifted the weapon; it appeared sharp, as thought meant for battle, not parade. She held it up and the crowd quieted somewhat. “Let it be known that I, Hel, queen of death, hereby decree Chet Moran to be the Grand Victor of these trials.” She touched the blade to each of Chet’s shoulders, then handed the sword and belt to Chet.
The crowd again cheered.
Hel picked up the pouch and hung it around Chet’s neck. It was heavy. She clasped him on each shoulder, pulled him close, spoke in his ear. “If we but had more spirit like yours, the netherworld would sing as earth.” Her breath smelled of wet leaves in the fall.
And there, in her glow, it felt almost like sunlight, almost as though he were alive again.
Hel turned, strolling from the ring, and Chet was surprised to find that part of him wished to follow.
Veles stepped over to Chet, looking up at the cheering crowd. “The sweet nectar of victory. Savor it,” he said and followed Hel out.
The band began to play, a loud, marching beat, and one by one, the remaining champions, those who could walk, left the arena.
Mortem got slowly to his feet, clutching his face. One of his tusks was broken. He gave Chet one last dark look and followed the other champions away.
The Trow entered the field, began clearing the weapons and carnage as the spectators exited the stadium. The gods left their booths and their servants began breaking down their banners, packing furs, goblets, and other items into baskets.
The drums fell silent, replaced by the deep tolling of bells. Chet walked slowly across the field until he found Ado’s body. He knelt down next to his friend and just sat there in the dirt as the stadium slowly emptied. Finally Chet removed the wreath from around his neck and placed it atop Ado’s chest.
PART FOUR
God Slayer
CHAPTER 44
Joshua stood behind a gravestone in the middle of the little cemetery, watching Senoy. He’d been watching the angel since before daybreak. It was well past noon now. Senoy sat hunched on the stone bench just outside the graveyard, hands clasped together in his lap, staring at the ground. He had not so much as blinked in all that time.
Joshua stepped up to the iron gate. He knew it best not to disturb the angel, but he’d not spoken to him since Chet had gone below and was anxious for some news. The boy glanced wearily about, searching the nearby woods and fields for any sign of the demons. He bit his lip and slipped out through the gate, drifting like a shadow over to the bench, taking a seat next to the angel.
Senoy had never looked well to Joshua, but the boy was shocked at just how emaciated the angel had become—his eyes sunken and his skin shriveled around his bones.
Senoy didn’t stir and it took Joshua another long minute to gather the courage to speak. “Mr. Senoy? Sir?”
Not so much as an eye flutter from the angel.
“Mr. Senoy? Are you okay?”
Still, no response.
Joshua reached for the angel, stopped, his hand hovering above the angel’s arm. He’d never dared touch Senoy before. Didn’t know if he should or even could. A moan came from far down the hill, deep within the trees. The boy tensed, then quickly tapped the angel on his shoulder, surprised to find he could indeed touch him.
Senoy blinked, sat slowly up, his eyes—stern and dangerous—coming to rest on Joshua.
Joshua recoiled. “I’m mighty sorry, Mr. Senoy. Just checking on you.”
“Joshua,” the angel said, his voice soft like the wind.
Joshua waited for the angel to say more, but when the angel’s eyes began to drift again he spoke up. “Mr. Senoy, I was wondering. Have you heard anything about Chet? Y’know, one of them feelings you sometimes get?”
Senoy nodded listlessly. “I have sensed him. When he holds the knife.” Senoy’s words rolled slowly out, like a man in a trance.
“So did he find it?” Joshua asked, trying to contain his excitement. “The magic key?”
Senoy shook his head. “No. Not of yet.”
“Oh,” Joshua said, unable to hide his disappointment. “But he’s getting close?”
Senoy’s eyes drifted up the hill, toward Lamia’s house. “I was a
fool, Joshua.” Senoy’s voice turned sullen. “Such a fool.”
Joshua knew where this was headed. “Don’t say that, Mr. Senoy.”
“My arrogance cost me everything.”
“She tricked you, Mr. Senoy. That’s all.”
“So, now, here we sit . . . trapped beneath my shroud.”
Joshua had heard many versions of this tale from the angel over the long years. The shroud hid the island from Heaven’s light, from all the other angels, so that they couldn’t find them, and wouldn’t be able to cross through even if they did. But it also meant that Senoy couldn’t pass through, even to leave, and that Joshua couldn’t go home to his mother in Heaven.
“It was meant to be her prison,” Senoy said. “Lamia. So that I might play with her . . . just a little . . . without Gabriel knowing. She was so interesting. But it was not her prison that I built. No.” Bitterness edged into his voice. “It was my own.”
Joshua shook his head. Hearing Senoy talk like this always made him sad.
The angel held up his shriveled hand. “An angel’s spirit cannot last without Heaven’s light. I fear my time is running short.”
This wasn’t something Joshua had heard before and it scared him. What would happen if the angel passed on? How would he ever get home to his mother? “But once you get that key back, you’ll be okay? Won’t you? We can go on home then?”
Senoy blinked, looked at Joshua as though just seeing him. “Yes . . . the key will bring down the wall, Joshua. Set us free. And then the angels can descend and carry you to God’s kingdom to be with your mother once more.” The angel’s eyes grew distant and his words slurred. “Lamia . . . she was just so . . . interesting.”
Joshua watched the sun beam through the late afternoon clouds, wondered if Heaven was up there somewhere. “Mama,” he whispered. “I wanna come home.”
CHAPTER 45
A man approached Chet from behind.
Chet stood, hand on his sword.
The man made the slightest of bows. “My name’s Martin,” he said. He appeared to be Indian or maybe Pakistani, and he stood rigidly, almost at attention, arms pressed tightly against his sides. A small man, narrow through the face, shoulders, and hips. He wore sandals and a knee-length, embroidered silk shirt over a colorful sarong. “I’m Veles’s steward. He sent me to bring you.”
“Bring me where?”
“To him. He’d speak with you.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Ana there? At the caravan?”
“Who?”
“Ana? The woman I was with.”
“Sorry, but I’ve no idea who she might be.”
“She went into the arena with me.”
Martin shook his head.
“Seet’s there?”
“Yes. Seet is there.”
“Good,” Chet said sharply, buckling the sword belt around his waist. “Let’s go.”
The man nodded and led Chet toward the red doors.
A group of Trow women watched them approach. One of them, the old woman who’d doled out the ka coins, stepped in their way. She touched Chet on the forearm—a light touch, the way a mother touches her child. “You blessed by gods,” she said and smiled; all the Trow smiled at him. Chet didn’t know what to say to that, just nodded and kept going.
They left the field, marching down a long hall lined with iron doors. Four armed guards, dressed in Veles’s colors, waited near the end of the hall. Chet recognized two of them: the heavyset man with the bulbous nose and the kid he’d first met back in Styga.
“These men here are your escorts,” Martin said.
“Yeah,” the kid said with a smirk. “Y’know, in case you didn’t want to come along.”
Martin scowled at him.
The older, heavyset guard greeted Chet with a warm grin. “The gods have sure smiled on you, son.”
“Yeah,” the younger guard put in. “You’re a damn hero.”
“Have you seen Ana?” Chet asked. “The woman I was with.”
The guards glanced at each other but neither answered.
“The young Puerto Rican woman with short hair?”
“We know who you’re talking about,” the older guard said. “Well, just—”
“Seet’s got her,” the younger guard said. “It’s not been real easy for her. Y’know how he is.”
Chet’s mouth tightened and he pushed past, heading quickly down the hall. Chet wasn’t sure where he stood, what rights his newfound status would afford, only knew he had to get Ana away from Seet.
He came out onto a wide avenue; a lively crowd of souls moved up and down the cobblestone street. It was day, as day went in netherworlds, thick rust-colored clouds drifting low across the city. The black stonework was wet from the light mist, and the buildings, walls, and statues were all draped in colorful banners.
The guards caught up with him.
“Which way?” Chet asked.
The younger guard pointed down the hill and Chet headed on, walking purposefully through the crowd. Souls stopped at the sight of him; many just stared; others called out to him, called him by name. Several even touched him, their faces full of awe as though he were some sort of prophet, or a rock star. But Chet hardly noticed—he couldn’t stop thinking about Ana, couldn’t get away from the image of Seet yanking her away on a rope, the look of pain on her face. And the more he thought about Seet the faster he walked until he was all but stomping down the street.
“Not sure what you got in mind, Chet,” the older guard said. “But if it’s that girl you’re after, you’re going to want to take it down a notch.”
“Yeah,” the younger guard added. “Rub Veles the wrong way and he’ll have you back in chains.”
“Just remember he’s a god,” Martin put in. “If you wish to make an offer, you must be respectful.”
Chet stopped. “An offer? What do you mean?”
“To buy the girl,” Martin replied. “What else would I mean?”
“I can do that? Buy her?”
“You can try,” Martin said. “Why, you’ve just won a god’s ransom.” He tapped the pouch around Chet’s neck.
Chet hadn’t even bothered to look inside. He loosened the string and peered in, found six shiny copper rings and several white coins. He pulled one of the white coins out. “What’s this?”
“Those would be ka coins,” Martin said. “Minted by Lord Horkos himself. They’re white on account of their purity. It’s tradition to give twelve to the victor . . . to heal any wounds sustained during combat.”
Chet put the coin away and started walking again, continuing along the winding street, toward the caravans spread out in the courtyards and grounds below. Chet halted. There, in the yards, along the ramparts and earthworks, sprouting from every balcony and planter were brilliant white flowers, filling the air with their sweet scent. He looked to Martin.
“It’s a magnificent sight,” Martin said. “Is it not?”
“Yeah,” Chet said.
“It’s asphodel . . . real, living asphodel. They come from Asphodel Meadows, and bloom only when the gods arrive.”
Chet marched through the wagons and past rows of merchants. Booths offered weapons, cigarettes, clothing, silk flowers, musical instruments, jewelry, and various other wares; a few offered games and gambling as well as the dark oily-looking drink called Lethe. Drums and pipes played. Souls with animal masks danced about poles and wicker men, laughing and singing. The atmosphere felt like a county fair, so different from back in Styga. And here too, the souls stop to watch him, nodding at him, some even bowing or touching him. A few gave him gifts—necklaces of asphodel and beads, or little figurines made from knots of hair.
Chet saw Veles’s banner ahead.
“His wagon’s this way,” Martin said and Chet fell in line with the steward.
They entered a ring of cage wagons containing various animals. A horse lay on the ground between the wagons, unmoving. It looked to b
e the mate to the one Chet had tried to steal. And there, kneeling with one hand on the horse, was Veles. “It is cursed,” the god growled.
Martin extended an arm, halting Chet.
“No, it is not cursed, just beyond your meager talents to heal,” someone said and Chet recognized the voice. A large bird cage sat on the ground near Veles. Yevabog reclined upon a purple pillow within, weaving a small doll out of silk—the silk coming from her own abdomen. She appeared in good health.
“No,” Veles snapped. “I can do this.”
“Then do,” Yevabog replied. “I would—” She spotted Chet and a wry grin slowly spread across her face. “Seems you have a guest, Veles.”
The great stag turned, setting his golden eyes upon Chet. “Chet Moran . . . champion and Grand Victor. So good of you to come.” He stood up and smiled, but there was nothing about that smile Chet cared for.
“Chet, look upon my animals.” He gestured toward the cages. “The most magnificent in all the nether regions. Sadly, I am missing my favorite steed.” He narrowed his eyes at Chet. “Since someone ran him into a wall.”
“You mean to say he ran himself into a wall,” Yevabog put in.
Veles glared at her. “And it is too bad he did not knock out your spirit when he did.” The god returned his attention to Chet. “Chet, I consider myself a fair-handed god. Why, I even saved you. A man who stole from me.”
Chet didn’t answer.
“See this pathetic creature before you?” He gestured to the nag. “She is . . . how best to put it . . . unraveling, yes. She needs copper. Has anyone yet explained to you why copper holds such value here in the nether regions?”
Chet shook his head.
“It is fundamental to spells, curses, and alchemy, but most importantly . . . it binds ka. It seems I am out of copper.”
“What he means to say,” Yevabog put in, “is he squandered all his copper creating Kwan. And we see where that has got him.”
Veles frowned. “What I mean to say, Chet, is it would be much easier for me to forgive certain offenses on your part if, perhaps, you were to make an offering . . . some noble gesture toward healing this beast before you and my crafting of a new horse. You could think of it as payment for my lost steed. What say you?”
