Fallen Gods

by James A. Moore

  “Aye.” Harper would not look at him. It was a simple fact. The man did not like to part company. One thing to spend a few days alone in a house when the snow fell too hard to let a person travel. Another to be parted for a long while. They were grown men. They had different parents. They were brothers just the same, and Harper hated being away from all that was left of his family.

  “Watch over them, Harper.” He was repeating himself but some things needed to be said twice.

  “Have a care, Brogan. Look twice before you take a step.”

  Brogan nodded and moved to his horse. Time to go.

  He was looking for power and there were only a few places in the world where he might truly find it, according to the Galean witch.

  He intended to find those places.

  He rode down the side of the mountain with ease. There was little to it, really, for a man with a well-trained warhorse. Brogan’s had been trained very well indeed. He saw to it himself. No fear was left in the animal that he had found, at least none for natural things. The animal had shown a few skittish steps when the He-Kisshi attacked, but then so had Brogan.

  Still, it was an odd thing to place his person on the Mentath side of the mountains. The Broken Swords were massive; they broke the continent in half, albeit unevenly. They thrust high enough into the air that breathing became a challenge for people from the lowlands. Being from Stennis Brae, that was not a problem. Brogan had lived high enough into the mountains that he never had a difficult time with breathing even the coldest air.

  Most of the day was wasted climbing down, and when he was finished the sun was setting and his horse was tired. He took the time to groom and tend to his animal. It was only fair. They worked together, after all.

  Many of his associates named their animals. Brogan did not. Give a beast a name and others might learn it and call the animal closer. Also, names held memories and responsibilities that he did not approve of. The animal was just an animal, not a person. They worked well together because he had trained the brute to obey. That did not mean he wanted a sentimental attachment.

  Why? Because he’d had horses cut out from under him too many times. He saw what it did to the foolish and unwary, who were not prepared for combat’s results.

  Worst situations? Brogan had watched his animal die once, and had then eaten the meat of the thing rather than starve to death. Name an animal and that was a harder choice to make.

  The sun set and while the air was cold it was much warmer than in the mountains. He settled for the night and wrapped himself in his cloak, resting as best he could against an outcropping of dark brown stone. The axe stayed near his hand. The sword he sheathed.

  With sleep came dreams. No voice challenged him this time around.

  With dreams came family and moments of peace.

  The next day he traveled alone, walking as often as he rode. There was no trail, and much of the time he was forced to lead his horse to avoid calamity on the narrow, stony paths he could find. Moving north through the foothills. By noon he realized that he was being followed. By the time the sun set again, he knew who was following him.

  He made his camp and when the fire was large and warm and inviting in the chill air, he moved away from it, circled around and crept up on Anna Harkness’s location.

  Anna Harkness was one of the most striking women he had ever met. She was, in point of fact, the first woman he actually noticed since Nora’s death at the hands of the Grakhul. He was aware of other women, but he did not notice them for their appearance, not until he met Anna. She was traveling with him and the rest.

  She was also traveling with her very jealous husband, Desmond. Or she had been. Desmond was nowhere to be seen.

  Anna let out a gasp when Brogan walked into the ring of light around her small fire.

  “Why are you out here, alone, and following me, Anna? Desmond must be furious.”

  “Desmond is always furious.” She waved the comment away as one might a pesky fly. “Desmond constantly assumes that every man wants me.”

  Brogan did not answer that comment. He was smarter than that.

  “I’m here because you will never remember everything you need to remember in order to achieve your goals.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know why you’ve gone off, Brogan. You have to get beneath the mountains. You have to find the Fallen Gods.”

  “Aye.”

  “And what are you supposed to do after you find them?”

  “Gather their hearts.”

  Anna shook her head, and a small smile moved over her heart-shaped face, and sent the rings of dark curls around that face rocking back and forth softly. Brogan looked away, lest she distract him, though it was already too late.

  “You are to gather the heart of their power. That is not the same thing. You’d spend hours or days looking for a heart and never find it.”

  “So why you? Why not Darwa?”

  “Because Darwa must prepare for if you are successful.”

  He leaned back. “If I am successful?”

  Anna shook her head. “You could fail, Brogan McTyre.”

  “Not if I’d like to live. Failure will not happen.”

  “You see? You and Desmond. The both of you. You act as if thinking it makes it a truth.”

  Brogan shrugged. “I will believe in failure only after I fail. Until then I believe that I will succeed. If I do not do this, doubt slows my arms, blurs my eyes and makes my knees weak.”

  Anna listened to every word and smiled softly when he was finished. “Usually, when I yell at Desmond about being too sure, he simply says that he will not fail. You at least have reasoning behind your foolish words.”

  “If you’re going to follow me, we may as well stay by the same fire.”

  Her eyes narrowed a bit. This close in, near a bright fire in the darkness, he could see the few silvery hairs that mingled with the black. He could see the fine crow’s feet around her gray eyes. They did not detract from her beauty in the least.

  “To what end?”

  “I’ll not worry so much about someone finding you in the night if you are near the same fire.”

  “And what do you think someone would do to me?”

  “If they caught you asleep? Anything they desired. If they found you awake and tried to attack? I suspect they would suffer greatly, or die.”

  She stared at him a moment longer. “Well, I do like sleep.”

  “On my honor, I’ll not try to have my way with you.” He stared into her eyes and did not flinch. As striking as she was, she was not Nora, and for now at least the loss he felt outweighed foolish desires to be closer.

  Also, Desmond would cut his manhood away. Or die trying.

  She stared back, studying him with an intensity he actually found uncomfortable, until, at last, she nodded.

  Within ten minutes her fire was extinguished and her supplies were stowed with his. She did not have a horse. Anna had walked down the mountain after him, never bothering to hide. Her horse was with Davers.

  “I’m still having trouble believing Desmond agreed to this.”

  “He didn’t have a choice.”

  “Really?”

  “Either he lets me do as I need to do, or he accuses me of cheating. I told him once that if he ever accused me of cheating on him, I would surely cheat on him as soon as I could because I’ll not be punished for a crime I have not committed.”

  “He seldom wins arguments with you, does he?”

  “He never wins arguments with me.”

  Brogan nodded his head. “That explains a great deal.”

  “Keep that sort of logic to yourself, Brogan McTyre, or I’ll wither your penis.” He stared at her long and hard and finally she responded, “The only way you’ll know if I’m telling a truth is to test me.”

  In the long run, it wasn’t a test he wanted to attempt.

  Beron

  The rains caught up with them, which did not put Beron in a good mood. He
’d known the respite would be brief, but he was tired of being wet, tired of wringing out his clothes and tired of looking for high ground so he could avoid drowning while he stalked Brogan McTyre and his people. Oh, and he was tired of failing to get anywhere along those lines.

  Earlier they’d set up another raid, careful that they approached without horses or dogs. The finest cutthroats among his people were promised a proper reward for each and every one of McTyre’s men they captured and for McTyre himself the prize was preposterous.

  They found a camp that was empty of any people at all. Just a few tents and a fire that was burning down to little more than ashes. From what they said, no one had been there for hours.

  Beron left his sword sheathed. His hand found the handle of his whip, however. He raised the whip over his head and promised a flayed back to the next person who failed him.

  Not a single person there was foolish enough to think he was bluffing.

  Three trackers were trying to find their enemies. They were very good at their jobs. He reminded himself of that fact as he waited for their return.

  In the meantime, it was raining hard and they headed south again, as there was nowhere else to go that did not involve riding up the side of the steep mountains or riding back to Harlea’s Pass, and he had no desire to waste the time. The water was cooler than it had been and that was a relief, but he had doubts it would last.

  The rain was out of season and the gods were at work, making certain that the land was a misery even before they ended the world.

  Time was becoming a serious concern.

  Even if he captured all of the bastards, it would take time to get them to Mentath, where a reward would be waiting.

  “We’ve soldiers approaching!” The voice belonged to an old-timer named Roy. The man was not in his prime any longer, but he was loyal and he was an excellent watch.

  With no hesitation at all, the older man pulled his short bow and settled a few arrows nearby. He did not draw the bow or notch an arrow, but he could with ease, and Beron knew the man was fast.

  The soldiers wore the colors of Stennis Brae. There were roughly fifty of them, enough to be a problem if they decided it was time to cause trouble.

  The man in charge was lean and hard, with dark blond hair and a full beard. The men with him looked as grim as he did, and not a one of them was unwounded.

  Beron said nothing, but he rode to the front, along with Levarre and four others.

  The man watched them and nodded. “Well met.”

  “I suppose time will tell.” Beron kept his gaze leveled at the man like a weapon. Fear and intimidation were tools of the trade. He would offer the man nothing.

  “We seek a fugitive from our lands. A man named Brogan McTyre.”

  “You are hardly alone.” Beron shook his head. “Should we find him we’ll take him to Mentath, alive and bound. We’ve been promised a handsome reward.”

  “Bounty hunters?”

  “Hardly. We are slavers. McTyre and his filthy curs sold us a false bill of goods. We intend to be compensated.”

  “Whatever Mentath offers, Stennis Brae can match.”

  Beron shook his head. “Doubtful. They offer us three times the sum we paid. We paid a great deal for the slaves we received.”

  “We want Brogan McTyre and his people alive. Bring them to us and the offer Mentath made will be honored.”

  Levarre smiled and spat. “It’s a point of pride then? Whoever gets these bastards to offer over for sacrifice? Perhaps we should offer to the highest bidder when the time comes.”

  Levarre was always too fast with his tongue. Still, it was a lovely notion. Start at three times and see how high the offer would go. The problem was, the Marked Men of Mentath were not the sort who would tolerate a change in agreed-upon tactics. They were reputed to be hard killers, and most of the soldiers in Mentath were already known to find torturing their enemies a lovely hobby.

  What could the Marked Men do? Beron had no idea, but he’d heard they were unstoppable in combat and he didn’t much like the idea of fighting against people he could not kill.

  “You’ve seen the traitor?”

  Beron nodded his head. “We have.”

  “Where?”

  Beron allowed a small smile that did not reach his eyes. “We’re slavers. Nothing without a profit. Why would we foolishly offer you a target to hunt when we could make a better profit by keeping our tongues?”

  “Because my name is John Leeds and I follow Ulster Dunally.”

  Shit. Second to the king of Stennis Brae and a legend when it came to combat. The sort of man, according to the tales, who had killed hundreds in his time. Hundreds. That was the problem with most of the people from that area. They thrived on warfare.

  “My name is Beron, first of Kaer-ru and then of Saramond. Leader of the First House of Slaves. I remain unimpressed by your lineage.”

  Leeds stared hard at him and shook his head. “Do not make this personal, Beron. I seek Brogan McTyre. I’ll have him one way or another. If I have to crawl over your remains to find him, I will.”

  “No. You will die trying.” Beron shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I have four times the men that you do. And that is being kind.” In truth he had ten times, but not all of them were ready for war.

  “Stennis Brae is not a pack of slaves for you to shackle.”

  “I do not care about your country. We sell no slaves there.”

  One of the riders came closer to Leeds and whispered something too softly for Beron to hear.

  Leeds stared at Beron. His expression was harsh. “There is a charge against you, levied by the scryer who was with us. A claim that you have taken the Grakhul people as your slaves.”

  “That would be the very people that Brogan McTyre sold me. I no longer have them with me, as you can see.” His hand moved to the hilt of his sword. The look on the other man’s face was enough to let him know he would not talk his way out of the situation. The kingdoms were looking to appease the gods by any means.

  “Beron of Saramond. You and your men would be wise to surrender.”

  “Instead I’ll give you one chance to run. Ride back to your king and leave here. We’ll let you keep your lives.”

  “That cannot happen.”

  Beron nodded and drew his sword. Rather than speak, he let out a piercing whistle and the men with him formed into a rough wall behind him.

  “So we fight, Leeds.”

  The man nodded and called out. The men with him formed into a wedge shape behind him and prepared for battle.

  Beron muttered softly, “Ariah, I give these fools to you, in your name. Guide our weapons.”

  His right hand held the sword. His left gripped the spear the demon had offered him. His knees worked at the sides of his horse and the animal moved forward into a fast trot.

  Leeds came for him, swinging his sword in a hard arc. The man was skilled and fast and Beron barely knocked the weapon aside with his own blade. Then he shoved the spear tip toward his enemy and saw the point slide past armor and drive deep into the man’s chest.

  John Leeds let out a soft gasp and fell from his horse. The spear came free as he dropped.

  Behind him another man bellowed out a command and the rest of the men from Stennis Brae charged.

  The slavers moved forward as well, and Beron rose in his saddle, screaming Ariah’s name as his battle cry.

  He could not say that the weapons in his hands were better than any others he had ever held, but they were good weapons and he used them. The second man bared his teeth and came for Beron, holding a pike and aiming for his heart.

  Beron twisted as their horses came closer and the tip of the weapon cut into his shoulder instead of his chest. The pain was a deep, fiery flash. The spear in his hand slid a bit with the impact. It hit the man in his stomach and skipped across the armor. They were close enough that the sword did its work just the same, and hacked into the bastard’s face. Flesh and bone split and then the soldier wa
s howling in pain.

  Levarre rode up on his side and moved past, screaming Ariah’s name. The dagger and the sword in his hands seemed to shine with a dark light of their own, but that could have simply been Beron’s imagination. Whatever the case, he let out another bellow and charged forward as the men behind him came on.

  The enemy did not look comfortable. They shouldn’t have. They were vastly outnumbered and Beron used that fact to his full advantage.

  Interlude: Ariah

  Ariah moved through his endless forest of blooms and plants, touching this blossom or that leaf, caressing the thorns that were too soft to ever hope to cut his flesh.

  Somewhere beyond his prison the slavers had made sacrifices in his name and with each person they killed, he felt his power grow. The spirits bound to his name did not dissipate or move on. Instead they were drawn to his location, dragged through the endless darkness between the realms and forced to come to him.

  Gods ate their sacrifices. Demons did not, or at least he did not.

  His followers slept, content with their actions. He was content, too, but he did not sleep. He never slept. Instead he moved to the He-Kisshi in his possession and the Grakhul women that had been brought to him as sacrifices.

  The Undying were currently flayed open and left on the ground, their hides held by thorns as thick as daggers that cut into the leathery surface of their bodies.

  He had no idea how the Undying worked until he opened their bodies and pulled out the barely living creatures inside of them. The humanoid shapes within did not survive long away from the living cloaks of the He-Kisshi.

  Several of the women stared at him, horrified. He did not hide his true shape from them. They dealt with gods and sacrifices, so they were used to the more visceral parts of his form.

  “What are you doing? The gods will be angry.” The woman that spoke was older than most of those around her. The human eye could barely tell her apart, but Ariah was not human and he saw things differently.

  “They are already angry. And I have been punished for a very long time. What will they do? Imprison me?”