Fallen Gods

by James A. Moore

  It was wrong to say that there were truly five kingdoms in the land. In truth the Kaer-ru were not a kingdom, but several island states. Just the same, they chose someone to speak on their behalf and that person was treated as a king by the king.

  The official who spoke for the Kaer-ru was Jahda, a dark-skinned man of the Louron, who dressed in the loose-fitting clothes of his people and whose hair was always a sight to Bron, as it was incredibly long, and fell in thick braids down his back. The braids were not even and most were adorned with rings of stone or metal. The entire affair was then tied back to make sure it didn’t interfere with his ability to move his head freely. The gray that was starting to show in that wild mess balanced out the occasional gold thread spun through this braid or that. Jahda, as always, had a soft smile on his face that mirrored the kindness in the man’s soul. He was a good ruler, and wise. His people loved him. As far as Bron was concerned, the man was a wonderful example of how to lead.

  Next to him at the table was Parrish, the king of Mentath, who had been a guest of Bron’s for several days. Considering their bloody history, Bron found it interesting that he and the man were getting along so well. Perhaps it was the pending end of the world that brought them together. Parrish, along with several of his elite guards, were all Marked Men. They were considered the very finest fighters in Mentath. There were also rumors that through sorcery or other dark means, they had developed secret skills. He had no idea of the truth to that, but Parrish himself moved differently than he had once upon a time. He carried himself with greater confidence and certainly seemed convinced of his own invulnerability.

  Bron had no notion if the rumors were true. All he knew was that Parrish and his favored were indeed marked. They sported strange symbols tattooed into their flesh and some of those glyphs seemed to shimmer and move when one caught them from the corner of the eye.

  He watched as Parrish took a cut of meat from a roasted boar and settled back, his eyes moving slowly over the group.

  The man next to Parrish was a well-seasoned fighter. He carried himself like one at least and he was wearing a sword that was not for show. It was hard and dark and the hilt was well worn from use.

  The man himself had short, dark hair and a receding hairline. His face was clean-shaven and his eyes were a very light brown. He did not smile. He had no reason to smile. Pardume had been crowned king of Arthorne only two days earlier. As most of Arthorne was currently being assaulted by the worst storms anyone had ever seen, he was effectively king of nothing. The gods had destroyed Saramond, the capital city of Arthorne, along with King Frankel, who had been a pawn to the slavers and his own vices. Even if the gods had not torn Saramond apart, had not sent endless storms to flood the plains, Pardume’s kingdom would have been in a sad state of affairs.

  No. He was not a happy man, but he seemed very determined.

  Hillar was next. Not a queen but as powerful as any of the leaders, she too was treated as an equal. She was a force to be reckoned with. Torema was not a country, true enough, but if one counted all the port towns under Hillar’s sway it had more people than most of the kingdoms. Torema was very nearly the heartbeat of all things in the Five Kingdoms. Every person that wanted to get anywhere else in the land eventually had to pass through Hillar’s territory, or use her harbors to sell their wares, unless they wanted to risk all the dangers of landbound caravans.

  Hillar’s barons ran most of the seaports along the eastern stretch. Money was in constant flow through her territories – technically the property of Saramond and Giddenland but long since held in her sway – and if people were not happy, Hillar did not seem to care. Money bought answers. Those without money worked to earn it. Torema was nearly lawless, but Hillar made that lawlessness work to her advantage.

  Hillar was not a woman to anger. She was handsome, not pretty. Her face was made up of hard lines and her hair was kept short and functional. She sported little by way of armor, but she traveled with an entourage that was both loyal and lethal.

  Lastly there was Opar, the king of Giddenland. He was the very height of sophistication. He was intelligent and carried himself with poise. He sported a sword but wore no armor. Opar was handsome. He was lean and hard, yes, but it was rare that a woman looking at him wasn’t enchanted by his wit, his charm, and his striking features. Sandy blond hair, green eyes, and a devilish smile. Of course Bron hated the bastard. He was too perfect.

  Opar had won his place among the five kings by right of birth, and with a little help from his sword. Duels were an acceptable form of meting out justice in Giddenland, though few took advantage of that fact. Mostly it was the very wealthy who fought duels and remarkably few of them enjoyed the risk. Opar was very good with a sword. He’d been trained from the time he could walk.

  Giddenland was the finest gem in the Five Kingdoms. The weather there was nearly perfect the year round; the people were educated and wanted for little. They’d built their world on slaves, of course, but that was their decision. There were still a few slave owners in Stennis Brae, but only a few. Most people agreed with Bron: slaves seldom made good workers. They’d work, yes, but there was nothing in it for them beyond food and a roof. They also paid no taxes.

  “We are all here.” Opar spoke calmly and smiled. “I appreciate the hospitality, of course, Bron, but shouldn’t we discuss what must be discussed?”

  Bron nodded and leaned forward in his seat. “The world is ending. The gods are angry.”

  “My latest reports from my homeland say that Edinrun has been driven to madness,” Opar said. “The people I call my family and friends are currently killing themselves and each other, burning down buildings and quite literally painting walls and trees with blood.” He looked at each of them. “I am awaiting confirmation from a source other than the scryer.”

  Bron continued, “I have a scryer that can confirm for you, I expect.” He sighed. “We either find Brogan McTyre and his followers, and bring them alive to the Grakhul, or we all suffer the consequences of his actions.”

  Hillar leaned forward. “One of yours, yes, Bron? And you had him at one time. You let him go. That is what my scryers say.”

  Parrish actually answered before Bron could, and to his surprise, he defended the king of Stennis Brae. “Bron discussed that with me. The Undying took the man’s entire family. All of them. Every last one. They were sacrificed before McTyre could get to them. I can understand everyone’s outrage at the situation, but I’d have likely let the man go myself.”

  Hillar leaned back in her seat and placed her hands on the heavy oak table. “I would hardly say you are the best judge of anyone’s actions. As I understand it you’ve broken from the gods and follow something different these days.”

  Parrish smiled. It was a thin curve of his lips and it never reached his eyes. “I follow the laws of the gods. That has never changed. I merely found other possible answers to my prayers, as the gods refused to answer them.”

  Jahda shook his head, sending a chorus of faint tinkling noises into motion as his hair moved. “There is no need for accusations of any sort. No one in this room has angered the gods. No one here is a price demanded by the gods. We should focus on Brogan McTyre and his people. That is enough for now.” His words would have been harsh, but for the faint smile on his face and the kind tone. Not for the first time, Bron thought of his grandfather when he heard the leader of the Kaer-ru speak.

  Pardume shook his head. “They need to be captured. Everyone here has heard of what is happening to my kingdom. Most of you have traveled at least part of your journey through the plains. The gods have ripped away a quarter of my lands. They are gone, destroyed by wind and storm and worse.”

  Parrish looked to the newly crowned king. “There is a great deal of my land that is useless to my people. Should your people need refuge, we can make arrangements.” They all knew the land he spoke about. The area to the south was low hills and large grassy plains. The area could be inhospitable, but surely had to be better
than the flood plain that was left of Arthorne.

  Even as Pardume was nodding his thanks and preparing a proper response – the man was cautious, which was wise of him – the heavy curtains shook and the wind roared into the room. The thick glass of the windows rang out in musical notes as it fell to the ground behind those curtains.

  Most of the people in the room, the entourages of the various rulers, tensed and prepared themselves for whatever might come past the dark blue fabric. None of them were quite prepared for the Undying.

  The hooded shapes moved in from each of the six large windows, stepping over broken glass and looking directly at the large table where the rulers of the mortal realm feasted.

  Bron stared at the closest of them. In response, the hellish thing looked his way, the dark opening in its hood showing a hint of the nightmarish teeth he knew hid in the depths. Hard claws clacked and clicked as they moved over the cold stone floors.

  “I am Dowru-Thist. I speak for the gods.”

  Bron stood and nodded. He didn’t quite bow. Kings do not bow, but he nodded and made clear he carried no weapons. “The gods and their servants are always welcome in Stennis Brae.”

  The He-Kisshi stepped closer, smelling of spices and charnel scents alike. “That is good. The gods are already displeased with you, Bron of Stennis Brae. You allowed their enemy to escape.”

  Bron clenched his teeth, but kept his tongue for the moment.

  Dowru-Thist continued. “Brogan McTyre was held by you and then released. Had you acted properly, all of the strife the world is facing could have been averted.”

  “Had the gods not chosen to take the man’s wife and all of his children Brogan McTyre might not have felt the need to steal them back.”

  The He-Kisshi stepped closer still, trembling with barely suppressed rage. “You dare to question the gods?”

  Bron forced himself not to flinch from the vile thing. This near, its mouth was clearly visible, the rows and rows of sharp teeth, the dark things that moved among those teeth; long, serpentine tongues. The tiny, barely perceptible eyes that surrounded the entire hood-like mouth. How many vile black eyes? He could not say. They were obscenities, that was all that mattered.

  “I do not question the gods. I make an observation. I could not punish the man for doing what I would have done myself.”

  It rose up, very nearly towering over him. “Would you stop us from taking your family, King Bron McNar?” The tone of voice was all he needed. There was a challenge in the words, but there was something more. The He-Kisshi spoke with many tongues and a wise man understood that some of those tongues told lies. Bron did not answer; he knew better.

  “Would any of you fight back if the gods took your kin?” the He-Kisshi spat.

  It was Jahda who answered. “We have done nothing to offend the gods. We have, all of us, been loyal and faithful.”

  Dowru-Thist looked in Parrish’s direction. “Indeed?” Parrish, like Bron, was wise enough to not answer.

  Pardume rose and lowered his head. “I am new to my throne. I know that my uncle was not a strong man. I will do all that I can to serve the gods.”

  “Your uncle has paid the price for his foolishness. Your kingdom, closest to the home of the gods, will continue to suffer as the gods continue to punish the world. That is unfortunate, but cannot be prevented.” It was one of the other He-Kisshi that spoke. Surely the thing had walked, but it seemed to move too smoothly to actually take steps. “Know this, all of you. Should the defilers be brought to us and made to pay for their sins, all will be forgiven. All that has been ruined can be restored. If, however, you fail, the consequences are already known. Your world will end.”

  Hillar was the one who asked what all of them wanted to know. “You He-Kisshi, you are the ones who choose the sacrifices, yes?”

  Dowru-Thist turned to examine her. It did not speak, but the hooded head of the nightmare nodded.

  “Why did you choose to take his entire family? Why would you provoke a man so, when the plan has always been to take only one from any kingdom at a time in order to prevent this sort of anger?”

  “We collect the sacrifices, but the choice is in the hands of the gods.”

  “The gods chose this?” She looked ready to debate with the Undying. Bron wondered if she would survive the discussion.

  “You, Hillar Darkraven of Torema, you would question the gods?”

  “I would understand why this is happening, that we might never have the situation repeated.”

  The Undying nodded again. “Consider this. Perhaps the gods were answering a prayer. Ask yourself who would benefit from taking a man’s family away from him.”

  Hillar nodded and crossed her arms. Her brow knitted as she considered the words.

  Dowru-Thist spoke again. “I come with glad tidings.” There was a tone of sarcasm in the words, something that few would expect from the Undying. “The gods have offered extra time to you all. One kingdom has already fallen. Another now suffers from the First Tribulation. But your kingdoms can be spared suffering for one month, if you merely sacrifice one of your children, each.”

  “Excuse me?” Parrish spoke again.

  “One of your royal bloodline, one of your offspring. Offer one of your children, King Parrish, and Mentath is spared the tribulations for one month. Offer one child, King Bron, and your kingdom of Stennis Brae is spared for one month.”

  Hillar spoke. “We have long had arrangements. The royal families are spared from sacrifice.”

  “That is in the past, Hillar Darkraven. That was before one king took our Grakhul as slaves, one king let slip the people who had offended the gods, and one king offered himself to a demon in exchange for power.” As it spoke, Dowru-Thist moved toward the window it had used to enter the room. The others followed suit.

  “I have never violated any of the rules of your gods,” Hillar maintained.

  “The offer was made to all of the kingdoms together and now it is withdrawn the same way. One king alone would have ended the protection of your lineage. Three, however, is enough to demand sacrifices if you wish to stay the wrath of the gods.”

  “When would you need your sacrifices?” Jahda spoke as softly as ever, but his smile was gone.

  “You have no children, Jahda. Of all the people here, you are the safest as you have no kingdom that you rule. But one of your islands could offer a sacrifice of a firstborn child to spare the Kaer-ru for one month. One week for travel. Two days after that to decide. On the tenth day, with the rising of the sun, one child must be offered to a pyre, still living, or the gods will forget all mercy.”

  “Mercy?” Bron spat the word. “What mercy?”

  “You have been spared all that Saramond endured. We delivered the message to that city and its true rulers. All paid the price for the foolish that did not listen. You have received mercy so far because the gods know kindness in their way.” Dowru-Thist shoved aside the heavy cloth curtains and looked back once. “Ten days. Find Brogan McTyre. Deliver him to the Grakhul who are spread across your Five Kingdoms, before the gods forget their kindness and tear your lands apart. Should you need more time, you know the cost that will be extracted.”

  The winds that roared into the room extinguished torches and nearly quelled the flames in the three hearths. Those same winds lifted the He-Kisshi into the air and cast them into the wintery air outside the castle.

  Bron stared after the shape of the Undying. He barely breathed as he considered the options before him.

  Parrish said what, perhaps, all of them were thinking. “They go too far. They make foolish demands.”

  Hillar kicked at the table and rocked it enough to scatter the platters of food across the surface.

  The six most powerful people in the lands looked at each other and considered how little power they had in the face of the gods.

  They were not amused.

  Chapter Three

  Storm Front

  Brogan McTyre

  To the east t
he sky was a black caul, occasionally stroked by lightning and constantly dropping a heavy rain. Scintillating lights from the west shone through the depths of Harlea’s Pass, allowing them to see what they could of the bad situation.

  The vast wound in the Broken Swords was lined with heavy chunks of crystal. Some of the fragments were falling as the waters roared along the sides of the channel that was currently rushing from east to west, from Arthorne’s plains to Mentath.

  “Well, this is a problem.” Brogan was eyeing the fast-moving waters and considering the best way to handle the situation. Somewhere, on one side of Harlea’s Pass or the other, there was supposed to be a way to enter the hidden depths of the mountain. Whether or not that entrance was submerged was as potent a mystery as exactly where it might be hiding.

  His horse was having nothing to do with it. Well trained, yes, but not stupid. The animal snorted and stayed firmly on the southern side of the vast cavern.

  Anna Harkness eyed the rushing waters and shook her head. “I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do here.”

  He barely suppressed a desire to laugh. Best not to anger her. There was still the possibility that she could shrivel his manhood, and besides that he’d seen her perform magic before and had no idea what her limitations were.

  “I can’t even decide which side to try my luck with. I can probably walk the length, despite the river’s flow, but it’ll be damned hard.”

  Rather than answer, Anna moved onto a dry section of the crystals and crossed her legs, digging into her bag and searching.

  “What are you…?”

  She silenced him with a gesture.