Courage

by Angela B. Macala-Guajardo

  “I have nothing left to prove!” Nexus said with a dismissive wave of an arm. He didn’t want to discuss this anymore. It was putting him in a foul mood when he should be nothing short of excited. He put his back to the satyr. “Vancor, you were the last to finish building an army, even before switching out Elves. What took you so long?” He looked over his shoulder just enough to see the satyr in his peripheral. “I was hoping my father would be the slowest.”

  Vancor twirled his short beard. “I was waiting for a certain mortal to mature,” he said smoothly. There was no hint of confusion at the sudden shift in conversation, nor terseness at Nexus’ borderline rudeness. “He needed time to grow and learn, and otherwise prove that he could lead an unbeatable army. I wanted to insure victory, so I bred the best of tacticians and leaders into one. I’m quite pleased with the results.”

  Nexus turned, piqued by the time and effort poured into one mere mortal. There was reverence in Vancor’s voice. How could a god feel reverence for something so insignificant, something that was supposed to be just an entertaining pawn?

  “You’ll be glad you’ll waited.”

  “You’ll have to introduce me to this masterful war creature. But first let me initiate the summons.” Nexus turned once more to the empty battlefield. He brought the palms of his hands within an inch of each other and focused on the gap between them. A deep blue ball of light the size of a walnut sparked to life, then grew and forced his hands apart. It felt like someone was inflating a prickly balloon between his hands. Nexus interlaced his fingers and cradled the orb to his throat. He heard Vancor’s hooves clop a few cautious steps back.

  The next part made it perfectly clear as to why gods almost never employed prophecies: it took every ounce of his will to harness the power of the Voice of Prophecy. The first time, when he’d formed the prophecy, the effort has pushed him to the brink of insanity. Insanity would be a worse fate for a god than never becoming a Creator. Insane gods were scarier than mortals watching their world slowly get devoured by a black hole. Nexus shuddered and almost pressed the orb into his throat before he was ready. That close call brought him back to the present. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and focused all his will on the orb. He refused to be reduced to some mindless god who babbled random bits of madness in the form of prophecy. That would be no fun at all. He pressed the orb to his throat.

  Pain. Immeasurable pain seared his vocal cords, but one little vocalization would release the Voice of Prophecy’s potency, tearing apart the force of what he wanted to say and rendering it useless if he lacked the mental faculties to utter it. One couldn’t hold a casual conversation while endowed with the Voice of Prophecy. He had to say exactly what he meant to say, then release it. The first time Nexus had let out a silent scream, cutting off the use of his vocal chords just in time. Another silent scream escaped him as the Voice tried to make him to speak. Clenched his teeth, he sucked in a breath and focused on the right words. Unlike his intrusion on his father’s chat, this time he could speak the words when ready.

  The time has come. You gods are done

  building armies in hopes of this battle won.

  The battlefield is now revealed:

  summon them to my realm, where life’s fate is sealed.

  The war is nigh.

  The Voice of Prophecy reached every last deity to whom it pertained to. There was no possibility for anyone to miss the words, and the prophecy itself made the location of Nexus’ realm known to them. He removed his hands from his throat and the power of the Voice of Prophecy left him with one last jab of pain, like it had torn out his larynx in the process. The orb shrunk into nothing. Nexus clamped his hands to his throat and dropped to his knees, gasping for breath. Vancor clopped over and lowered to one knee beside him. Nexus gave the satyr a cursory glance, then whispered, “Just have to do that one more time, then never again. Never, ever, ever again.”

  “Be glad you’re one of those who succeeded. I taught you well.”

  Nexus let go and made himself stand. He had to be strong. He couldn’t afford to look weak in front of any deity or mortal. “How many have failed?”

  “A few. All were killed by Aigis.” Vancor glanced at the storm. “Even I would hope for that outcome. It’s pure chaos.”

  “Even my death if I failed and went insane?”

  Vancor gazed levelly at Nexus. “Yes.”

  * * *

  Baku’s blood ran cold the moment his son finished delivering the next phase of his prophecy. His son’s voice rang clear in his head like music through headphones. The sudden intrusion of telepathy startled him, and his flinch had caused Tucker, who was on the couch with him, to flinch as well. It was now or never for Aerigo and Roxie, but they were nowhere to be found and still lacked the power to stop Nexus.

  Baku was still with Eve, both of them keeping an open ear to the news as Eve weeded her garden that lined the back porch. There’d been no point in returning to his realm or searching for his Aigis, or further talking individually with his small army. He’d only been able to hope and wait. Now with waiting over, there was only hope left. He got off the couch and woodenly headed out onto the back porch.

  Eve peered over her fragrant rhododendrons and Baku couldn’t bring himself to look optimistic or confident as he approached her, each step of his bare feet another step towards resignation. Eve stood, brows furrowed, and brushed her hands together to remove dirt, then put her fists on her hips.

  “I have to go now. The summons has been called.” He descended the few steps and gave the old woman a hug. “Please keep looking for Roxie. I’ll know right away if you find anything.”

  “I will.”

  Tears stung his eyes and he hugged Eve tighter before letting go. He took a deep breath to steady himself. “Good bye.”

  “Good bye.”

  There was a momentary blackness between Baku losing sight of Eve and gaining sight of Roger sitting with his uncle in a nondescript room adjacent to the oval office. The room was lined in cheap wood paneling with lots of patriotic memorabilia hung on it, and no windows. Baku placed himself just outside the room’s door and slipped the illusion around himself that would make him appear exactly as anyone would expect him to look like when they laid eyes upon him. For Roger, it was an older version of his Italian father; for the president, himself, but with the glint of ageless wisdom in his eyes. Even with all that ageless wisdom Baku had, it did him no good in the face of Nexus’ prophecy. Baku knocked on the door then walked in.

  The President furrowed his brows a moment, and then his eyes widened. Roger paled, then swallowed and stood.

  Baku stopped beside Roger. “It’s time to go,” he said, then to his uncle, “Mr. President, your troops are being sent to war now. I don’t know when they will return. It could be hours, days or years. However long they’re gone, never lose faith him them. Never give up hope. Can you do that?”

  President Alcadere did nothing but stare with his mouth ajar.

  “Can you?”

  The President snapped himself out of staring with a shake of his head. He stopped gaping, but his eyes stayed wide open, topped by half-circle brows. “Who are you?” There was awe in his voice.

  “You already know.” In truth, the President did. He simply dared not feel sure of it. “Say your final goodbyes, Roger.” Baku left the room, then waited outside the door as Roger gave his uncle a long hug. Thankfully, his immediate family had flown into D.C. hours ago. Roger moved to a room adjacent the one the President stood in and said a tearful goodbye to his aunt and grandparents. They were all remembering the loss of Lena and fearing another on the horizon. Baku found himself crying with them, along with all one thousand families going through something similar. He could promise no family a body to bury or burn after all was said and done.

  The door next to Baku opened and out came Roger, red-eyed, yet stoic. His military training was easier to keep a hold of with no family around. He looked at Baku with no regret or resentment and hike
d up the duffle back slung over his shoulders. “I never pictured you crying.”

  “I have the same emotions as all of you,” Baku said in a tight voice. Horrible and wonderful things happened at any given moment on all four of his worlds. “They’re a gift and curse, but right now they’re a gift whether you agree with me or not.”

  Fresh tears welled up in Roger’s eyes. “I agree.”

  * * *

  At the same time as Roger was saying good bye to his family, Baku had brought himself to collect Fleet Admiral Reginald Whitman. Whitman and his wife, Big Mama, had done some private celebrating last night, then had a hearty breakfast as a family an hour ago. The Whitman family’s dishes done, the kids were blasting each other apart in some war imitator video game downstairs. Whitman and Big Mama were cuddling on a love seat in their room upstairs, Whitman in his full BDU’s and Big Mama in a teal dress and her hair done up. The illusion spell on this fragment of himself, Baku once again knocked before entering. The couple both saw a black Jesus, but with varying bodily features.

  Before Big Mama could finish asking who Baku was, Whitman scrambled to his feet and yelled, “Jesus!” He put on a proud grin, marched over, and shook Baku’s hand. Baku smiled back with as much genuine warmth as he could muster. Whitman’s expression remained unchanged.

  “It’s time to go,” Baku said.

  Big Mama got up and started heading for the bedroom door, her round face solemn. “Let me go get the kids.”

  “Don’t, baby.” Whitman slipped his arms around his wife and kissed her. “I don’t think I could keep myself composed. I want breakfast to be their last impression of me.”

  Tears welled in Big Mama’s dark eyes. She hugged her husband tighter and rested her chin on one of his shoulders as she watched Baku. She was crying hard on the inside, but doing her best to be strong for her husband. She knew it in her heart that this was the last time she was ever going to see him. She also knew without a doubt who Baku was, but was too preoccupied with her husband’s departure to have much of a reaction towards being in the presence of divinity. Baku told them of the same uncertainties he’d told the President, and asked her to hold onto hope and faith for as long as it took.

  “I can and I will,” Big Mama said in an even voice. Taking her husband’s face in both hands, she planted a prolonged kiss on his lips. He kissed her back just as fervently, both with tears meandering down their cheeks. Big Mama gently pulled away. “I love you, honey, and I’m already proud of ya. Now let me see that smile I fell in love with.”

  Whitman put on his charming smile, the one where he cocked his head slightly and raised an eyebrow just enough to look inquisitive, and his lips curved into a crooked smile. Even after all their years, the smile still melted Big Mama’s heart. Baku caught himself thinking of Kara and their days before Nexus, when their romance ran deep. He pushed the thoughts aside, having too little room left to mentally spread himself.

  “Good bye, honey.”

  “Good bye, baby.” Whitman planted one last kiss, then turned to Baku and followed him out the bedroom door.

  The two men exchanged wordless glances as all went dark around them. Inside the bedroom, Baku mentally watched Big Mama crawl onto her husband’s side of the bed, then wrap her arms around his pillows and bury her face in them. She began crying as hard as any person could.

  Baku put a hand on Whitman’s shoulder, as he did with all one thousand soldiers, and transported them to Nexus’ realm, equipment, artillery, and all.

  * * *

  On Sconda, the city of Ormolu’s ceremonial field was alive with clashes of wood on wood, and staccato yells accenting the heavier clangs and even the swishes of pure misses.

  Five hundred Scondish men and women from various clans occupied the grassy field basking in the evening light. The field lay west of Ormolu and its bamboo and thatch homes. Hundreds of people sat in the stands, watching friends, family and complete strangers preparing for an otherworldly war. The volunteer soldiers practiced offensive Ambura magic, sparring unarmed, or with a pair of curved daggers no longer than a hand. Many also limbered up in pairs, ran through warm-up sprints, or decorated each other’s faces with war paint. The last few were donning leather armor embroidered with geometric patterns, and tied down salvaged dragon scales of various sizes to serve as extra armor. The leather was formfitting. The lightweight scales covered the chest, back, shoulders, forearms, shins, thighs, and the tops of their elongated feet. In the end, a Scondish soldier had to rely more on their amazing speed than their armor to survive. Every clan who’d tried to sacrifice speed for safety in open battle never won a war.

  Yayu, already garbed in his dragon hide uniform, was getting in another round of dagger sparring with his eldest son, Roshi. Since they were fighting with blunt wooden daggers, their movements were unhampered by safety, slashing with the blinding speed that Roxie and Aerigo had to train to keep up with. To Yayu, his son looked like a multicolored leaf caught up in a tornado as he tried to outmaneuver his father, but with decades more experience under his belt, Yayu knew how to predict his son’s attack sequence. The rest of the family watched on from afar, the older ones’ eyes able to keep up. The younger ones paid attention in short bursts, lacking the ability to see the fight, much less the attention span.

  Yayu threw a crescent kick that hooked inside one of Roshi’s elbows. It was a bold move, but he knew exactly where any opponent would strike next. With one dagger, Yayu blocked the blow aimed for inside his thigh, then slashed the air in front of Roshi’s throat. Both men stood still a moment, until Roshi had a second to register his mock-death. Panting, his son’s brows arched and eyes widened. They disentangled and bowed, the sign that mutually ended sparring, then helped themselves to a pair of ceramic jugs of water waiting for them on the manicured grass.

  “I’d never want to be your enemy, visco,” Roshi said with a smile. “No matter how hard I try I can never beat ya.”

  “You’ve gotten much better over the years,” Yayu said. “Part of me wishes you were comin’ with me.”

  “Me too.”

  “But it’s best you stay here,” Yayu said firmly, putting on his best paternal voice. “It’d break me to find ya dead, or even watch ya die. You hear me?”

  “Haz, visco. I will take care of the family if the worst happens to you.” He took a quick drink and looked around the grounds. “Now I understand why Aerigo made a big deal about you volunteerin’ to fight. I just want to turn into a little boy, cling to your leg, and yell and scream and beg ya to not go. I know it would be an honorable death for the sake of our freedom from an evil god, but...” Roshi sighed in frustration and hopped to his feet. “Maybe I’m just bein’ selfish.”

  “I want to live long enough to grow old,” Yayu admitted, getting up as well. “You’re all as important to me as your mum. But... now what did Aerigo call it? Yoo-verse?”

  “Universe.”

  Yayu nodded. “Universe.”

  “I’m surprised I remembered,” Roshi said lightly. “And you’re the one who taught me the word.”

  Yayu couldn’t help but laugh. Laughter, smiles, and the likes were the best things in the world-universe. “Well, there’s somethin’ out there in the universe threatenin’ not just our family, but all of Sconda and many other worlds. I’m willin’ to die for all of ya.”

  “Koshan, visco. I just wish you didn’t have to.”

  Before Yayu could reply, the whole ceremonial field got buffeted by a strong gust of warm, divine wind. All activity came to a conclusion, and everyone shielded their faces as they looked skyward. Din materialized as his giant self, radiating white light, yet something in his appearance was different from Eisisumet, the midsummer celebration. The way the light radiated off him made his features look sharp and heavy, instead of soft and light. His giant face projected love and determination, instead of excitement.

  The gravity of the situation finally hit Yayu. Din had explained it before, after Aerigo and Roxie had left, but Ae
rigo had made him feel safe enough not to worry by just being on Sconda, despite the few times he’d caught him brooding or being pensive. That was just his personality. But Din being anything but cheerful and enthusiastic... that meant there was true cause for worry. Sconda might have a new god soon, and someone far from pleasant. Well, Yayu would just have to do everything in his power to make sure that didn’t happen.

  “It’s time,” Din said in his rich, vibrant voice. “Gather your equipment and say your final goodbyes. It’s time for Farsyssa.”

  The grounds broke out into confused exclamations, then a buzz of activity. Farsyssa was the traditional parting ceremony to bid farewell to warriors. It also provided closure between family members in case the worst happened, and to assert who the interim patriarch and matriarch were. Yayu looked at Roshi, who looked back, all pale. Yayu grabbed his son by the wrist and led him at an all-out sprint to where the family sat waiting in the stands. They bobbed and weaved among the chosen warriors, who were moving just as fast.

  “For those of you going off to fight,” Din said, his tone serious, “take pride in your courage and determination to protect your world and many others. For those staying behind, find strength in those fighting for not only your wellbeing, but so that I may forever be your god.”

  The whole family was standing--everyone in the stands was on their feet, a sea of colorful hair and worried faces. Yayu waved them over and they met in a small circle on the grass. Issa was holding her toddler, Napora, who was the epitome of cute with her mane of orange hair, big eyes, and face Yayu wanted to smother with kisses every time he saw her. Issa was the spitting image of her mother, but hadn’t yet grown into the same serene grace she’d had. Yayu’s second son, Soen, stood beside Issa. He and Roshi could pass for twins as a quick glance, but Roshi was two fingers taller and their facial features varied, not to mention they had personalities all their own. Roshi was more serious and reserved, kind of like Aerigo, but only to the degree that anyone from Ormolu could muster. Life was too full of wonderful things to waste on seriousness. Soen was the explorer who always came home with one scrape or another. Scondish people were graceful by nature, but Soen had found a way to bypass that, which never failed to amuse the family. His sons’ children must be with their wives, which was tradition during war. Under normal circumstances, Yayu would’ve had a chance to say goodbye to them as well.