The Godborn

by Paul S. Kemp

  Zeeahd’s satiety unnerved Sayeed almost as much as his appetite. Having spat his pollution into the young girl, Zeeahd seemed almost giddy. He whistled as they plodded over the plains, saturated by the rain. The cats seemed gleeful, too. Their bloodlust temporarily sated, they fairly pranced around Zeeahd, tails held high.

  For his part, Sayeed could not rid himself of the foul taste of the devourer’s flesh, the memory of the girl’s screams of terror, his brother’s wet grunts as he expelled the evil in him.

  “Her name was Lahni,” he said to himself, not understanding why he felt the need to say her name aloud.

  “What’d you say?” his brother asked, looking back, his voice high-pitched, irritating.

  “Nothing,” Sayeed said, knowing Zeeahd would not understand. “Protesting the rain.”

  The cats eyed him suspiciously, their fang-filled mouths more devilish than feline.

  Zeeahd held his hands out, palms up to the sky. “I like the rain. Renews the spirit.”

  Sayeed said nothing. He feared he had no spirit to renew. He feared the Spellplague had stripped him of his soul and left a moral vacancy filled now by only his brother’s ambition and his own resignation. He lived, but he did not live. And so it would go, forever. He swallowed down the despair evoked by the thought.

  Zeeahd stopped. “I smell wood smoke.”

  The excitement in his voice made Sayeed nauseous.

  Sayeed smelled it, too, the faint hint of a chimney’s exhalation. Breakfast fires, maybe. Once, the aroma would have made his stomach growl with hunger. Now, he barely tasted the food that passed his lips. To the extent his senses let him perceive anything with acuity, it was invariably something foul. Like devourer flesh.

  “Come, come!” Zeeahd said, and picked up his pace. “A village is near.” He chuckled. “Perhaps Lahni’s village.”

  Hearing his brother speak the girl’s name sharpened Sayeed’s irritation. He stared at his brother’s cloaked form, Zeeahd’s soul as distorted as his flesh, and wondered how it was possible to love and hate the same person so much. He flashed on an image of his sword driven through his brother’s back, the blade exploding out of Zeeahd’s chest in a spray of blood or whatever foul ichor now flowed in his brother’s veins.

  “Come on!” his brother called.

  Sayeed came back to himself to find three of the cats sitting on their haunches before him, slit eyes staring at him knowingly. They lifted paws to fanged mouths and licked at the mud on their pads. Their eyes never left Sayeed’s face.

  “Out of my way,” he said, but they did not move and he walked around rather than through them.

  The smell of breakfast fires grew stronger with each step they took. And by the time they reached the village, the rain had sputtered to a stop. A dozen or more ancient elms sprouted from the plains, noble looking trees with vast canopies lost to the shadowed air, giants compared to the meager broadleafs that predominated elsewhere on the plains. They must have been saplings when the Spellplague struck.

  Within the circle of the elms was a large pond and the village whose breakfast fires they’d smelled. A few dozen single-story wooden homes huddled around a common pasturage. Bark shingles covered the roofs. Smoke rose from several chimneys. Post fences made from stripped broadleaf limbs delineated small fields and gardens. A few rickety wagons sat here and there, small chicken coops, livestock pens. The village was so small Sayeed could have run from one end of it to the other in less than a fifty count.

  The overgrown cart path they walked carried them between two of the elms, which formed a kind of natural gate. Sayeed heard voices coming from the village center, the chatter of earnest conversation punctuated with laughter and the occasional jovial shout.

  “A collection of hovels,” Zeeahd said, eyeing the village contemptuously. His good mood was already fading. Probably his hunger was already returning. “It smells of peasants and shit.”

  A herd dog stood in the open door of a rain-sodden woodshed, eyeing them, its hackles raised. Zeeahd’s cats stared back at it as they walked past and the dog tucked tail and retreated into the shed.

  No one seemed to be around. As Sayeed was about to announce their arrival, as was the custom, a boy of maybe ten winters with a too-large cloak thrown over his homespun hurried around the corner of one of the fences ahead. Head down, he clicked at a thin sheep that trailed him. When he caught sight of Sayeed and Zeeahd he froze, ten steps away but a world distant. The sheep, its head down against the rain, walked into him and bleated.

  “Ho there, boy,” Sayeed said, raising a hand in greeting.

  The boy’s sleepy eyes went wide. Sayeed and Zeeahd must have looked to him like ghosts stepping from the shadows.

  Sayeed tried to look harmless, despite his armor, sword, and wild hair and beard. “There’s no need to be afra—”

  The boy turned and ran off toward the center of the village, slipping in the mud as he went. “Mother! Mother!”

  The sheep trotted after him, oblivious.

  “Fly back to the nest, little bird,” Zeeahd said softly, and Sayeed knew his tone promised blood. “Predators are afoot.”

  They followed the boy’s shouts toward the center of the village. The few local dogs and cats they saw slinked away as Sayeed, Zeeahd, and their cats drew near. Scrawny livestock lowed or bleated in their pens as they passed.

  Ahead, they saw the village center. A raised, planked deck and a bell on a tall post had been built under the canopy of a large elm. It looked like the entire village had gathered there. Women, children, and men sat on stump stools or stood about, their eyes on the deck, where stood a large, fat man with a thick moustache, holding forth about something. A rickety peddler’s cart stood to one side, still yoked to a large, graying mule. Some of the villagers were examining the cart’s wares, smiling.

  The boy Sayeed had frightened stood at the edge of the gathered villagers, a woman kneeling before him, probably his mother. The boy pointed back at Sayeed and Zeeahd while his sheep nibbled the grass.

  “See! I told you more travelers had come! See!”

  Dozens of eyes fixed on Sayeed and Zeeahd, questions written in their expressions. Eyes widened at the brothers’ blades, their unkempt appearance.

  The brothers walked toward the gathered villagers. The crowd formed up to await them, shifting on their feet, children hiding behind parents.

  The peddler standing on the deck bowed and doffed his cap. “Minser the Seller at your service, goodsirs. This gem of a village is called Fairelm. And if I may be so bold as to speak for these good people, we bid you welcome.”

  The villagers did not echo the welcome.

  Sayeed did not bow in return. His gaze swept the villagers, looking for anyone who might have been other than they appeared. He saw no one of note.

  “My name is Sayeed,” he said. “This is my brother, Zeeahd.”

  Their foreign sounding names caused a murmur of discontent to move through the crowd.

  “Well met,” Minser said. He waited a moment for a return greeting that didn’t come, and the brothers’ silence seemed to take him aback. He looked around at the villagers, perhaps hoping one of them would speak, but none did. He cleared his throat.

  “Oh, yes, well. What has you two walking Sembia’s plains under this bleak sky? There are dangers on the plains, although you look like a man familiar with a sword.”

  “We are merely travelers,” Zeeahd said.

  “We’re just passing through,” Sayeed added. “It is custom, is it not, to offer shelter and a meal to travelers?”

  No one offered either. Eyes found the ground. The silence thickened. Finally the boy they’d frightened piped up.

  “Those are strange looking cats.”

  Nervous laughter greeted the boy’s words.

  “Strange looking men,” said a man’s voice in the back.

  Zeeahd stiffened at that, craned his neck. “Who said that?”

  Sayeed took his brother by the arm, but Zeeahd shook
it off.

  No one responded to the question.

  “Who spoke so?” Zeeahd said. “It seems the custom in this stinking mass of hovels is to speak rudely to strangers.”

  Lots of angry looks, but no words, until a woman’s voice from off to the side said, “And now who speaks rudely?”

  Sayeed and Zeeahd turned to see a tall, strongly built woman with long red hair walking toward the crowd. Sayeed would have thought her attractive had he still felt such things.

  The cats at Zeeahd’s feet hissed at the woman as she approached, and her step faltered, her eyes on the creatures.

  “You mind your tongue, woman,” Zeeahd said. “Lest. . . ”

  Sayeed’s hand on his brother’s arm halted whatever threat he might have uttered, but the woman took his point and would have none of it. She put her hands on her hips and stuck out her chin.

  “Lest what, goodsir?”

  “Elle,” said another woman in the crowd, a small, mousy looking woman with a mane of black tresses.

  “No, Ana,” Elle said, and glared at Zeeahd. “Say what you would, sir.”

  “Yes, lest what?” said another man in the back.

  Most of the villagers’ expressions grew vaguely hostile, although a few looked frightened. The children in the crowd, perhaps sensing the rising tension, looked upon events with wide, fearful eyes.

  “Now, now,” Minser the peddler said, as he lowered himself from the deck, huffing with the exertion of moving his fat. The crowd parted to let him through. He wore a fake, vacuous smile that annoyed Sayeed. “Things have gotten off poorly for no reason that I can see. I can assure you, goodsirs, that Fairelm is a village of unparalleled hospitality.”

  “Our homes are not hovels,” spat a large, bearded man near the front of the crowd. Nodded heads greeted his assertion.

  “Nor our women to be threatened,” added another.

  Minser gestured grandly, a king granting dispensation. Sweat beaded his brow. “Of course not! And I’m sure these men meant no offense! They misspoke, is all.”

  The cats lined up before Zeeahd, eyeing Minser coldly. The peddler’s eyes went to them, to Zeeahd, back to the cats. He licked his lips nervously.

  “Yes, well, um, perhaps you two could explain what brings you to Fairelm? If the good people here can be of assistance, I’m sure you’ll have it. Within reason. And if not, well, then you can be on your way. Much of the day remains, and this is the best time to be traveling.”

  A round of “ayes” arose from the villagers.

  Zeeahd stiffened, leaned forward, looking at Minser closely. “What’s that?” “What’s what?” asked Minser.

  “On your neck, what is that?”

  Zeeahd advanced on the peddler, who nearly stumbled over himself backtracking. The crowd surged forward a step, but that was all. Sayeed put his hand to the hilt of his blade.

  Zeeahd snatched at a lanyard hanging from Minser’s neck and yanked it hard, snapping it.

  “Sir!” Minser said, his face blotching red.

  Zeeahd held the lanyard before him. A medallion hung from it, a medallion that featured a rose and a sun. The cats crept forward, gathering at Zeeahd’s feet. Zeeahd’s tone was sharp enough to cut flesh. “How did you come by this?”

  The peddler stuck out his chest. “That is none of your—”

  Zeeahd grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close. His brother was much stronger than his slight frame would suggest. “How did you get this, peddler?”

  “Let him go,” Elle said, and angry murmurs formed in the crowd. They moved closer.

  “Aye! Let him go.”

  The cats at Zeeahd’s feet arched their backs, hissed, showed fangs. Sayeed moved to his brother’s side, eyes cold.

  “Keep your distance,” Sayeed ordered them.

  “Speak, Minser,” Zeeahd said. “Your life depends on truth.”

  The peddler sputtered, terrified. “My life? You threaten me? What is this?”

  “Speak!” Sayeed said, his eyes still on the crowd.

  “I got . . . I got it at an abbey.”

  Zeeahd’s hand gathered more of the peddler’s shirt into his fist. His voice was as tight as bowstring, his eyes on Minser’s face. “The Abbey of the Rose?”

  Minser hesitated, nodded, his eyes moving from Zeeahd to Sayeed.

  Sayeed glanced at the peddler, hope rising in him, making him as giddy as his brother.

  “And while you were at the Abbey of the Rose, you saw . . . the Oracle?”

  Several in the crowd made a sign with their hands: three fingers raised to the sky.

  Minser gulped, nodded. “And . . . the sacred tomb of Dawnlord Abelar.”

  Sayeed whirled on him. “Who?”

  “Did you say sacred?” Zeeahd asked, his voice low.

  “He did,” Sayeed said.

  Sweat poured off of Minser’s brow. He swabbed at it with a dirty hand, streaking his face with filth.

  Hearing the name of Abelar Corrinthal, hearing him given a hallowed titled, his resting place called “sacred,” all of it made Sayeed want to puke.

  Zeeahd released Minser, and the fat peddler adjusted his shirt and his dignity.

  “Thank you, Minser,” Zeeahd said, faking a smile. “You must know where the abbey is, then.”

  Minser huffed. “No one knows where it is exactly. The Oracle sees who will come and sends Dawnswords to fetch them. But I doubt that you two—”

  “And they fetched you?” Zeeahd asked.

  Minser’s mind seemed to be catching up with his mouth, so he held his tongue.

  “Speak, man!” Sayeed said, his shout startling the peddler.

  “Yes, they fetched me. I . . . wanted to see the Dawnlord’s tomb.”

  “The sacred tomb,” Zeeahd said, closing his fist over the medallion. “Of Dawnlord Abelar.”

  Minser chewed the corner of his moustache. He seemed unable to make sense of things. “You . . . think him other than a good man?”

  Zeeahd smacked Minser across the face, eliciting gasps from the crowd. “I know him to be other than a good man!”

  Minser’s mouth moved but no word emerged. A trickle of blood leaked from the corner of his lips.

  “Something to say?” Zeeahd asked. “Say it, fat man.”

  The peddler’s face reddened but still he made no sound.

  Sayeed, caught up in Zeeahd’s growing anger, held up his maimed hand, showing the stump of his thumb. “Your Dawnlord took my thumb and that of scores of other unarmed men. He was a coward.”

  Gasps and uncomfortable expressions answered his proclamation.

  “You’re mad,” someone said. “Leave here!”

  “Dawnlord Abelar died a hundred years ago,” said a burly man in a thick homespun, probably the village’s smith.

  “He’s jesting,” said the fat peddler, rubbing his cheek, then blanched before Sayeed’s hard gaze. “Aren’t you?”

  Another man’s voice from deeper in the crowd said, “You look hale for a man of a hundred winters.”

  Uncertain laughter.

  Sayeed sought the source of the voice in the crowd. His gaze killed the laughter.

  “Jest?” Sayeed snarled. “You think I jest? About this?”

  The smith’s wife, Ana, tried to pull the man away from the front of the crowd. “Come on, Corl. Let’s go now. Breakfast is ready.”

  “No one is going anywhere,” Sayeed snapped, and whisked his blade free. He knew now how events would unfold. The cats did, too, for they meowed in excitement.

  The crowd went wide-eyed at the sight of Sayeed’s blade. A child wailed.

  The red-haired woman, Elle, stepped forward, her arms held out to her sides as if she would protect the entire village with them.

  “Why don’t you put your blade back and be on your way, now? Please, just leave.”

  The villagers nodded heads, murmured agreement.

  Zeeahd shoved Minser away, causing the fat man to stumble, and glared at Elle until she took a step
back.

  “I take no orders from you, woman.”

  “I meant no offense.”

  Zeeahd paced before all of the villagers, staring at them, fists clenched.

  “Ah, but now I am offended! By this place! By all of you!” He glared at the crowd. “My brother spoke truth. One hundred years ago Abelar maimed unarmed men, us among them.” He held up his own severed thumb. “Dawnlord Abelar stole our livelihood, stole our lives.” His voice rose as he spoke, spit flying. He made wild gestures with his hands. The cats trailed him like angry shadows, hackles raised, hissing. “Dawnlord Abelar condemned us to a cursed existence, a living hell, with only a devil’s promise to give us hope. And you venerate him. You simplistic idiots. You wish to see? Do you?”

  No one spoke. Everyone stared at Zeeahd, wide eyed.

  “Then see.”

  He threw off his cloak, untied his tunic, and tore it from his body, revealing his torso.

  The villagers gasped, turned away. Children screamed, started to cry. Sayeed simply stared, dumbfounded. He’d not seen his brother’s exposed flesh in years.

  Fissures and scars deformed skin that was the color of an old bruise. In places the flesh looked melted, like candle wax. Tumors bulged, the largest in the small of his back, and here and there were malformed lumps of vestigial tissue. A few red scales covered the flesh in places. His distended stomach looked like that of a starving man, like it would pop if it were pierced. Blue veins, visible through his skin, made a grotesque net on his flesh.

  “You see now what your Dawnlord wrought? Do you?”

  As they watched, his skin bubbled and rippled, as if something moved below the surface of his tissue. He laughed, the sound manic, filled with rage.

  “That is what Abelar did to me!” Zeeahd was respiring heavily, the sound wet and bubbling. He whirled on Minser, who quailed before his wrath, and pointed a finger in his face. “You will take me to the abbey, peddler. And I will see the Oracle. And while I am there, I will also visit the sacred tomb of Abelar Corrinthal.”

  Minser sputtered. “I . . . I told you, I don’t know how to find it. And even if I did—”

  Zeeahd stalked forward and slammed the medallion into the peddler’s brow, knocking the fat man to his knees and causing him to exclaim with pain.