Fallen Gods

by James A. Moore

  He stared and crossed his arms. There was little he could do and he’d been told to hold his tongue, so he waited. While he was silent, however, he looked at the walls and considered where there might be a hidden passage. The fragments of quartz were not translucent. They were flawed and shattered by time. Those closest to the ground had been smoothed by years of water, but even they were murky and worthless in the eyes of any collector or jeweler.

  Anna stood up and looked at the long tunnel dubiously. She sucked in a very deep breath and then exhaled in a hard rush, blowing dark power from the palm of her hand. The cloud did not obey the winds, which, like the waters, were flowing to the west. Instead, it defied the breeze and moved in an arrow-fine streak to hit the far side of the arch of crystal, approximately halfway down the passage through the mountain. Where it struck, the crystals blackened.

  Brogan stared at the spot, awestruck. His arms fell to his sides and his mouth opened.

  Anna tsked. “It’s not that impressive. It’s a parlor trick, really. The stones have been covered with the dust, but it won’t last long. You should cross, and get to that spot before it’s gone. I only packed enough to do that the once.”

  Brogan did not question. “Be careful while I am gone. The horse will help where he can; he’s well trained, but he’s hardly a defender of women.”

  “Then what is he?”

  “A horse, you fool.” The words were said without malice.

  Anna, in response, made an obscene gesture that he would have expected from the likes of Bump, not from a woman as lovely as his friend’s wife.

  Ignoring her, Brogan lifted his axe and his sword in one hand and his bundled cloak and the hide of the He-Kisshi in the other, and started across the frigid waters, gasping as the cold sank into his legs and manhood alike. He gritted his teeth and began to wade carefully across the fast-running waters. The current was strong. He was stronger, but not foolish enough to test that thought for long.

  One foot forward, then planted carefully, and then he moved again. The entire time he sensed Anna watching him, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. He did not have to look back to know it was true. He’d already seen the expression on her face a dozen times.

  He stepped onto the dry land and turned to face her. By then Anna had crossed her arms over her chest and was frowning at him. “Best get going then. The skies won’t get any lighter.”

  Had she been his Nora, he’d have made a comment to ease her mind. A jest, or a few words to let her know he would be safe. Those words were not meant for Anna. She was wed to his friend. It was Desmond’s place to give her comfort.

  Instead he spoke a hoarse order. “Stay safe, Anna. Desmond will kill me if you are injured.”

  “I’ve your horse. I’ll be fine.”

  The horse snorted and stamped a hoof as if daring him to disagree.

  Instead, he nodded once and looked for the flaw in the blackened area. She’d been right. Most of the powder had already been removed by the wind. There was some, however, trapped in the fine line that hid the opening.

  It was made by someone’s hands, though he could not have said for certain if they were human. Perhaps the pale Grakhul or the hooded He-Kisshi had reasons of their own for putting a door in the side of the cavern. Whoever it was had been gifted indeed.

  The opening was hidden well. He could have looked for hours and never seen it. Only Anna’s powder had revealed the spot. Even then, it took the blade of his axe being wedged into the fine opening before he could manage to force the spot open. The murky quartz came toward him a small amount and Brogan took advantage, working the blade in deeper until the heavy stone revealed an opening. It was not large. Brogan had to crouch to enter the tunnel that allegedly led to his prize.

  Once he was through, the stone door swept back, perhaps pushed by the wind, perhaps weighted to close. In any event, he was sealed into the mountain in seconds.

  Around him, the interior of the mountains was revealed.

  There was little light from the east, but what was captured from the west was enough. It ran through the gigantic shards of crystal and glowed with enough ambience to let Brogan see. It would not last, of course, but he would take it as long as he could.

  When he was a younger man his father had brought home a rock from the Broken Blades. The rock was called a “giant’s tear,” and Brogan had no idea why until his father struck the stone with a small hammer. One blow and the large stone fell into three pieces. Each section was filled with crystals, some clear and others a deep, blood red.

  His father said, “These are rare, but not so rare that they have worth. They are merely pretty to look at.” Brogan’s mother agreed. She’d placed the three fragments around the edges of the fireplace and they cast brilliant light whenever there was a blaze.

  The inside of the mountains was similar, but at insane proportions. Enormous shards of crystal thrust from every surface of the nearly endless cavern that made up the center of the mountain where he stood. The rising crystalline blades were rooted deep in the ground and above as well, and jabbed at the mass at the center of everything. They rose hundreds of feet into the air and came down just as far, penetrating the impossibility that he was staring at. All of the people in his hometown of Kinnett could have joined together on only one facet of the nearest crystal, with room for most of their houses to fit beside them. The mountains were gigantic, as befitted a burial place for giants. They were also hollowed out.

  No, more likely they had grown around the figure he stared at.

  The scope was impossible, of course. His mind hurt to look at the thing. He could recognize that what he looked at had been alive at one time. It was a skeleton. He stood near what might have been a forearm, or possibly a lower leg. He could not say. What he knew for certain was that there were two bones that were far too large for him to see them completely.

  At least it looked like bone. When he dared touch it, his fingers ran over something as hard as the hardest stone he had ever seen. The surface was pitted and curved like old bone. He wished his horse had come with him, because he suspected he would be walking for a long while to find what he was looking for.

  Far, far above him, barely visible through the thrusting blades of crystal, Brogan could see the arching curves of what could be ribs, rising into the top of the staggering cavern. When he looked, he saw what could be vertebrae in the distance. He had seen enough corpses in his time. He knew well enough what animals and men alike looked like when the flesh and meat were gone and all that remained was bone and gristle.

  Whatever it was he looked at, it had once walked the lands. It had stood easily three to four times the height of the mountains.

  That thought terrified Brogan McTyre.

  If this was a giant, how vast were the gods? How could he ever hope to slay them?

  The witch told him it could be done. He would trust the Galean. What choice did he have? His faith had to go somewhere and it would not go to the gods.

  Myridia

  Though they swam to get the distance they needed, Myridia and her gathered Grakhul did not sleep in the water. The currents were treacherous and the waterways unknown. They would likely get battered to death on stones if they tried to sleep in the newly formed river.

  The seas were better for that. When they’d fled Brogan McTyre and his slavers, they’d traveled for days, far away from the grip of the undertow near the shore and they’d slept while traveling.

  This was a different place. They were obligated to rise from the waters and camp on land.

  The air was far colder now, and Myridia felt the chill try to bite its way to her core.

  “Lyraal? Can you make a fire?”

  The other woman nodded as she shivered and called to two of the others to help her find wood. It was not difficult. The area where they rose from the nameless river was covered in low trees and bushes, many of them dead and well dried. The land, she suspected, was cursed. She could not have said where the demons released
by the gods had touched the world, but she could guess when she came across an area that was very nearly blighted. Of course, not every area near death was a sign of the gods’ punishment. Some were merely not healthy. They lacked water, or the ground would not give the plants enough to eat. Here the ground was green, but it was not grass, it was fine lichen. Not all that different from the slick mosses she’d seen her entire life.

  The others returned by the time she’d looked over the area. The land was too flat to allow for ambushes. It also offered little by way of shelter and the women had little by way of clothing.

  Myridia thought for only a moment before unwinding the heavy oilcloth around her sword. She looked at the fine scales imprinted on the metal of the blade and ran her fingers gently over the pattern. It was a stolen blade. Taken from a blacksmith who had threatened her. Had he left her alone she’d have let him have his life, but the weapons were necessary, as the women had already learned.

  Memni stayed in the water as the others gathered firewood. Someone had to, in order to make certain the waters were clear of threats. Several times she lowered herself completely into the waters and stayed below the surface longer than any human possibly could. Once the fires were set properly she’d be allowed to surface and sit with the others. Until then, it was her turn to stay alert for the Night People. They did not know that the shadow creatures could travel by water. They did not know that they could not. All they knew for certain was that the shadowy forms did not like the light of day, or a good fire.

  The fire was for warmth and for more.

  Memni’s head came out of the waters and the girl smiled. “I hear the song!”

  “What song?” Myridia was tired and had no patience for games.

  “The song of the gods!” The girl pointed with her webbed hand, the thick talon showing clearly in the moonlight. She pointed the way they had come.

  Lyraal looked toward the waters and then walked away from her fire, trusting the others to feed it and tend to it now that she had started the blaze with her flint and steel.

  They did not disappoint.

  Lyraal dove into the river and stayed under, barely even visible in the reflected light.

  She came up a moment later and nodded, smiling. “She speaks the truth. There are more of us coming. Singing. We will soon have company.”

  Myridia smiled and nodded, silently thanking the gods. She did not know how many of her sisters were coming, but any and all would be welcome. They needed to gather their strength. They needed to prepare for the Night People and they needed to find the Sessanoh, which even now tugged at her insides and called to her soul. The Mirrored Lake had to be prepared. The sacrifices had to be found.

  Now, maybe, they would have a decent chance.

  The fire grew, casting flickering light in all directions, and Myridia waited within the ring of warmth the blaze offered.

  Somewhere out in the darkness Garien and the Night People lurked. They were in the distance, she could sense that, but they would continue to hunt for her and the rest.

  The He-Kisshi were gone, sorting out what had happened to the others. Perhaps they would come with the travelers dropping in, but she could not trust in that notion. One way or another, she needed to speak with the He-Kisshi or with the gods themselves to find a solution to the shadow forms that were coming to take them all down.

  In the meantime, however, “Lorae! Stand first watch on the plains. We do not want any surprises from the south or the east.”

  Lorae nodded and took her weapon with her. The short scythe was wickedly sharp, and the girl had taken the time to sharpen the outer edge as well. It would still thresh long grains, but it would cut flesh easily enough. When they had stolen their weapons each of them found what they could.

  The sword in her lap was her weapon of choice. According to some a good weapon needed a name. “Unwynn,” she sighed. “I will call you Unwynn.” The woman who had sacrificed herself so that Myridia and the others could escape when they had begun their journey. She had been a brave leader and a strong warrior. She would be remembered, and if her name had power, perhaps she would not mind sharing it with a sword used to defend her people.

  Her kin moved around her, settling themselves by the fire and gathering more wood for the blaze. They would want the light and the warmth throughout the long night, just in case the Night People showed.

  For a moment Myridia remembered Garien’s warm smile, his beauty. Then she shoved those thoughts aside. He’d have been a worthy mate, perhaps, but that time was gone. He was taken by shadows and had become one of them. Should she see him again, she would have no choice but to cut him down. When she stood again, Myridia wrapped her oilcloth around her body like a toga and walked down to the water’s edge. Lyraal was still in the river along with Memni.

  They had heard the song of their people in the waters. That should, if it pleased the gods, mean reinforcements, but until they were seen and identified, whatever came from upstream might have been touched by shadows and it was best to be wary.

  It was over one hundred of her people who climbed from the waters when they saw Lyraal and Memni. They carried little with them, though a few had kept their clothes. Two of them dragged a heavy form to the edge of the river and pulled it to shore, panting and grunting despite their strength. Three more joined them and pulled the waterlogged shape into the dry area around the fire. She recognized all of them, of course. Not all by name, but their faces were familiar.

  Despite herself, she felt tears sting her eyes. To finally know that others were alive and had escaped…

  They were all sisters in purpose, of course, but her actual sister, older by four years, came toward her and they embraced. “Tyria! The gods are kind this night!” She wrapped her sibling in her arms and held her tightly, feeling the damp fall off her older sibling, feeling the cold of her flesh and the way her muscles shivered as they adjusted to being on land again.

  “Myridia! You are so good to see! I thought you dead.” She did not weep. Her wide, sweet face wanted to cry, but did not. Tears were for men.

  “Did you escape them?”

  “They sold us to slavers. The slavers grew wise and let us go before the He-Kisshi caught up with them.” Tyria spat. “I hope the filthy city where they took us drowns!”

  “You are here now. So many of you! I thought we’d never see anyone again.” All around them the others came from the water and ran to meet each other. It was not much of a reunion in the grander scheme, certainly not all of the women and children of the Grakhul; still, it did Myridia good.

  “We bring the body of Ohdra-Hun with us. He is among them and planning revenge.”

  Myridia saw the heavy thing and moved to it, eyes wide. Ohdra-Hun was among the harshest of the He-Kisshi, but he was also wise. If he were alive, she could have spoken to him, but for now he was merely an object that did not rot, and one they were tasked with by the gods.

  “How is it that he is not here?”

  “He took the shape of one of them. He rides with them. I do not know why, I only now that he will return to his body when the time comes.” Tyria looked out over the plains. “Do you know how far to the Sessanoh?’

  “No. We are getting closer. I can feel the pull. It draws us closer. We have lost so much time. I was foolish and walked with their people for a while, seeking protection in numbers.”

  “You are all alive. That says all I need to know of how well your plans worked.” Tyria paused a moment and looked at her little sister. “Do you lead?”

  “Yes. The gods alone know why. I will gladly step aside for you.”

  “No. You are here, you were chosen by Unwynn for a reason. We will follow you now.”

  Oh, the desire to protest.

  Instead she asked, “Do you have weapons?”

  Her sister shook her head. “There has been no time to seek them. We have traveled fast and far.”

  “We have seen no cities here. We have no gold, no means of paying. What we h
ave, we took.” Myridia pointed to where her sword rested on the ground.

  “We need to find weapons somewhere.”

  “More than you know, I fear. There are armies massing on the other side of the mountains. It is inevitable that they will gather here as well.”

  “Why do you say?”

  “The gods are shattering the world, Myridia. The humans are going mad, trying to find the ones who started this. Their kings demand it and offer rewards. Every one of them that wants to live will fight for the chance to bring us the slaving bastards that ruined the last sacrifice. The gods say it must be them that die next, or the world will still end.”

  She had heard the same from the gods, but the thought that the humans sought Brogan McTyre and his band had not occurred to her. She had been too foolish, too smitten.

  “There must be towns here. Somewhere. In the meantime we stay near the river, where our bodies can become weapons.”

  Closer than she’d hoped, the sound of horses and wagons came echoing along the river.

  Tyria looked back the way she’d come and frowned. “That noise again. I haven’t seen them, but I think some of the slavers might have changed their minds.”

  Myridia nodded at her sister’s words but knew better.

  The Night People were closer than they should have been. Close enough to be a problem. In the distance she heard voices that sounded like echoes.

  From the east she saw the shadows. They moved like people. They walked like people. And horses and wagons. And oh, there were so very many of them. More than all of her sisters combined.

  To the south they saw the lights of a city shining.

  “There!” Tyria pointed to the distant glow. “There we will find weapons.”

  Myridia agreed. “Gather what you have, our journey this night is not done. We move for the city!”

  They did not hesitate, her kindred; they obeyed. Within ten minutes they were on the move, jogging and fast walking for the distant city lights.

  To the east the first of the storm clouds pushed over the Broken Swords and started creeping down the mountainsides.