Fallen Gods

by James A. Moore

  A moment later the things came for them again. Mosely reached for his axe, missed and fell unconscious. The tide turned. More of the damned things came, and try though he might, Harper could not save the boy.

  Two of the things grabbed Mosely at the knees and shoulders and scuttled backward like crabs dancing with the tide.

  Harper didn’t have time to worry about that. More of the things appeared.

  His swords rang out and drew blood.

  For a time the only thing that mattered was the fight.

  Myridia

  The city was close. Myridia was grateful for that, because the cold was becoming more than a nuisance. Between the whole lot of them they might have had enough clothing to keep four people warm. They were over a hundred now, and all the moving in the world would only warm them so much, especially burdened as they were. Most of them carried food, or occasionally weapons, and five at a time carried the unmoving body of the He-Kisshi.

  It would awaken eventually. Until then their duty was to keep it safe. They couldn’t very well drag it across the stony ground, and so they lifted the shape and placed it on shoulders and walked it slowly across the terrain.

  “This is not going as quickly as I’d hoped,” said Tyria.

  Lyraal nodded and said nothing. She carried her sword over her shoulder, and eyed everything around them. They had been too long without any sort of trouble and they longer they went, the more Lyraal grew agitated.

  “There’s nothing out here, Lyraal.” Myridia regretted the words as soon as she said them.

  “There’s something. I can feel it in my guts. Something is nearby. I don’t know if it’s friend, or foe, or doesn’t care. I’m not taking any chances.”

  In the distance the city stayed where it was. They’d walked for a day and a half and the damned place seemed no closer.

  Behind them, Lorae cried out. She knew the girl’s voice well enough to identify her instantly.

  Myridia turned and Lyraal did, too. The great sword strapped loosely to Myridia’s back came free, scabbard and all, with one shrug of her shoulders. Her hand gripped the hilt and she stopped herself from drawing the blade only when she realized what was happening.

  It was the luck of the draw, perhaps, or the will of the gods. The great winged shape of the He-Kisshi was surrounding Lorae’s body and she had time to cry out once more before the thick, furred hide covered her terrified face.

  Very nearly as one the women stopped their moving and lowered their heads. It was a solemn thing. It was a joyous thing. To be in the presence of the He-Kisshi was always a sign that the gods were close. Lorae would be joined with the Undying. Her essence would become a part of it. In the process, she was sacrificed as surely as the humans. She lived forever, but she was never herself again.

  Myridia clenched her teeth and held back a sob. She’d grown very fond of the child. They’d even practiced swordplay together a dozen times since fleeing their captors. Dead. Not dead. Either way, she would be missed.

  The Undying fell to the ground and shuddered as it took Lorae’s body. Myridia had seen one of the Undying take a body once before and had been horrified and fascinated. It spit out a corpse, withered and wet and steaming, and had covered a boy no older than ten. Smaller bodies seemed the preference of the Undying. A thousand small wounds covered the body it released. Flesh had rotted in some places, peeled back in others. The eyes stared blankly from the corpse. In a matter of minutes the boy who’d been taken rose as the Undying, covered in the furred, hooded form.

  Now was mostly the same, though there were differences. This time the shape that rose had a hood that was slightly different in color, with fresh, wet fur slicked to the head. The body they’d been carrying had not had a head at all. The Undying grew a new one when it took over Lorae’s form.

  The He-Kisshi stepped toward Myridia, not looking around, not seeking who was in charge, but knowing that she was the one who spoke for the group.

  “I am Ohdra-Hun.”

  She lowered her head and the others followed suit. “As you serve the gods, so we serve you.” The words were a formality.

  “Most of your kind come this way. They’ve been freed by the slavers. They will join you at the Sessanoh, if the gods will it.”

  “Do you know how far we must travel yet? We have come so far, and I fear we will not arrive quickly enough.”

  She looked into the great, gaping mouth of the Undying as it studied her with its tiny dark eyes. “Continue on your path. The gods have granted you extra time. The humans must make sacrifices of their own as atonement for their sins.”

  “What of the Night People, the things that follow us? They are bred of demons.”

  “What of them?”

  “Do you know how we can stop them?”

  Ohdra-Hun tilted its head and considered her words. The hands of the thing, nearly lost in the folds of flesh it wrapped around itself, clenched and released, fisted and relaxed as it thought, or perhaps even spoke to the gods.

  Finally it said, “They are a threat, but the gods say you have what you need to stop them. I leave you now. I have… unfinished business with the humans.”

  “Thank you, Ohdra-Hun, for all that you have offered.” Formality again. In truth it had offered little.

  The He-Kisshi stepped closer, until she could feel the heat of its body. “It is cold here. Lorae leaves with me and asks a boon. She says she is filled with sorrow for leaving you. A parting gift, from her, and a thank you from the gods.”

  It spread its great wings and the wind caught it and lifted it high into the air. The wind was warm and it lingered around them. A hundred feet beyond where the last of them stood the air moved violently and snow fell from the sky. Where they stood, the snow did not fall and the air was warm enough that Myridia could no longer see her breath.

  Around her the other Grakhul relaxed and a few even smiled as they savored the warmth.

  Myridia nodded her head, gave silent thanks to the gods, and started walking. The warm air moved with them and kept the snow at bay. She did not know how long the blessing would last, but she planned to take full advantage. Unburdened of the Undying’s form, they moved faster.

  Beron

  Beron looked at the body and nearly screamed.

  “Why is this man dead?” he asked the men who’d brought it to him, the same ones that had failed him on two previous attacks, and pointed at the corpse. There was a deep wound in the forehead that ran down to the bridge of the nose and nearly split the face in two.

  “We found him that way, Beron. Wasn’t anything we did.” The man was nervous. He had every reason to be.

  “Meace, is it?”

  Meace nodded. “Meace, the problem here is that there are twenty men we need alive. If they are dead, we can’t offer them to the gods. If we can’t offer them to the gods, they will keep up their plans to wash us all away, as they did Saramond. Do you remember Saramond? Do you remember when it was destroyed?” He gestured around them. The waters were not quite at flood levels but they were trying. The storm they had been riding away from was closer again and the rains spit and drizzled at them. Within two days those rains would surely be dropping lightning and shattering the peace.

  Meace nodded. “Aye. We were told not to kill anyone.”

  “And yet, this man is dead.” He looked hard at the slaver. The man had served him for five years or more. He was a good worker. A decent enough sort when it came to training and breaking.

  “Yes. Well. Thing is, I think the man that did that was killed. Lawrence said he took an arrow in the throat after he threw his axe.”

  Beron leaned forward and smiled. “Excellent. Did that bring back the dead man?”

  “Well. No, Beron. It did not. But we don’t know for certain he’s one of the chosen twenty.”

  One of the three hellish things that now walked with Beron and stayed with him almost everywhere he went, like his own personal Undying, looked down at the body. Something crawled out from t
he hooded face of the thing and buzzed away into the wind.

  “This one is not among those chosen for sacrifice.”

  Beron felt his muscles relax. The thought that his stupid men would execute one of the chosen sacrifices and ruin his chance of gathering back his monies was one that did not sit well. Oh, and there was the entire end of the world issue to consider. That was still weighing heavily on his mind.

  “Meace?”

  “Yes, Beron?” Meace was nervous. Beron liked that. He wanted his men properly scared of him.

  “I need you to find Lawrence. I need you to bring him to me.”

  “Right away. Absolutely.”

  Meace couldn’t have moved faster if he tried. Beron saw the relief on his face. The man thought, rightly, that Lawrence was now going to be the target of his anger. Why? Because Lawrence had seen the incident and had not mentioned it to Beron. Lawrence would pay for that. Examples had to be made.

  The cloaked thing looked his way.

  “I can’t remember your name.” Beron was direct.

  “I am Porha-Sede, the second blossom.” There was something to the voice that made Beron uncomfortable. A hint of insects clicking over each other. A dash of the buzz of a swarming nest of hornets. The thing that had spilled from the hood had not returned. He couldn’t help but wonder if more of the things crawled inside that dark space.

  “Do the gods tell you which of these men we look for? Which ones are safe to kill?”

  “No. Ariah does that.”

  “Excellent. Please, if you can, write a list of names for me?”

  “Find me a scribe and I shall offer all that I know. I cannot write.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I am here to serve you, Beron of Saramond. You have called, and Ariah has answered, in his wisdom. Together we shall see your quests through.”

  “Wonderful.” Beron looked into that darkened hood. “You are a blessing, indeed.”

  The men started chattering closer to the mountains and Beron smiled as he saw the pale things coming back. They carried several forms with them. Not all of the people they’d been chasing, but Beron remembered the faces well enough, if not the names.

  His smile grew.

  From the other direction came horses. A great many horses. Men rode those horses and carried the black banners of the slave houses. There were wagons, too. Wagons meant more supplies. That was good. They’d been running low.

  At the front of the line came Argus. Argus was one of only a few men Beron had met in his life who was physically larger than he was.

  “Did you sell the whelps?”

  Argus looked at him and spat. “Gave them to the Undying. Turns out the bastards are vicious.”

  Beron nodded his head. Argus was a businessman. He cut his losses.

  “So now you’re here and ready to fight hill men?”

  “Now I’m here and ready to make money. I don’t much care how.”

  Beron squinted. “Do you have more tattoos?”

  “After meeting those things, I figured a few more wards couldn’t hurt.”

  Beron chuckled. Argus had not met his new companions as yet.

  Before the conversation could continue, Meace came back with Lawrence in tow.

  “I found him.”

  “I can see that.” Beron nodded and smiled and Meace would have wagged a tail if he’d had one to wag.

  “Lawrence, is it?”

  Lawrence nodded. He did not look anywhere near as happy as Meace.

  “Lawrence, why didn’t you tell me that one of the men we have been chasing after was dead?”

  Lawrence cringed. “Mostly because I knew you’d be angry. I’m sorry. It’s just… Well, you scare the piss out of me.”

  Beron nodded. “I have been told I’m scary.”

  Argus said, “Well, you work at it.”

  Beron cast him a dark look and then turned back to Lawrence. “I tend to be scariest when I’m angry. Right now, I’m angry.”

  “I’m so very sorry, Beron. I have no just excuse.”

  Beron nodded and then pointed to Porha-Sede. “Punish him, won’t you?”

  Porha-Sede moved forward with that unsettling grace, his cloak-like shape opening and showing more darkness. “Do you want him alive?” That soft, sibilant voice.

  “Make him an offering to Ariah.”

  “Excellent.” The hood vomited out a cloud of black that buzzed and hummed and immediately covered Lawrence. The man screamed as he backed away. It was far too late, of course. The swarm of buzzing things landed on his body and hid him under their mass.

  Despite himself, Beron watched. It wasn’t that he had a problem with violence. He was far too used to violence to ever have issue with it. It was the bugs. He loathed them. They appeared somewhere between an ant and a wasp, with massive cutting mandibles and stingers in addition. They were as black as midnight, and glossy, and their bodies made a thousand tiny clicking noises that he heard even over their victim’s shrieks of pain.

  Meace backed away and then turned and ran.

  Argus watched on, but his face was even paler than usual.

  All around them the slavers watched, most of them losing their usual calm. It was one thing to kill a man and something else to watch him consumed alive by living nightmares.

  Porha-Sede shivered and shook as still more of the things spilled from him. The sheer volume of insect shapes coming from within that cloak should have left it hollowed out, a rag on the ground.

  For three minutes the forms covered Lawrence. Long before that time was over he’d stopped screaming and fallen to the ground. After they were done with him, the swarm moved back to their master and hid within the cloak again.

  All that was left were white bones and those looked as weathered as driftwood.

  The hood of the creature turned to face Beron. “Ariah is pleased.”

  Beron said nothing. He nodded instead. He wasn’t sure he could actually talk at that moment without screaming himself. One thing to think of serving a demon. Another to see the dark miracles one of its creatures could perform.

  Porha-Sede moved away, sliding toward its brethren. Beron remembered to breathe.

  Argus looked at him and spoke as if nothing was out of the ordinary. “I think I need more tattoos.”

  “They serve me.”

  The man looked at him and nodded. “I still need more tattoos.”

  “Right now we need to make sure our new captives stay locked in chains.”

  Argus spat and contemplated the bones nearby. “Now that I can do.”

  “Excellent.” Beron thought about it. “And Argus?”

  “Yes, Beron?”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Well, you still pay better than working as a tavern wench.”

  Beron laughed at that and shook his head. Argus was good for him. He helped keep Beron from growing too angry.

  “We’re bound for Mentath in the morning! Be prepared!” Several others repeated his command. He looked at the men who had been captured for him. Neither Brogan McTyre nor Harper Ruttket were among them. Still, it was progress.

  Brogan McTyre

  When the sun set, the darkness was nearly complete. The crystalline shafts that ran through the interior of the mountain still offered a faint glow, but it was not enough to let Brogan travel.

  It was only enough to allow him see his surroundings. The vast skeletal form was semi-prone and the crystals pinned it in place like a hundred sword blades impaling a man. They came down from the ceiling of the cavern, from the sides and up from the ground, and it seemed that all of them made contact with that gigantic pile of bones. He could not decide if they grew into the form or from it.

  With the darkness came sounds. There were things moving in the vast cavern. He knew it. He could sense them well enough and hear them as they slithered across the soft ground, but he could not see them in the growing darkness.

  Brogan stood still for a while, his axe in one hand, his sw
ord in the other, and he waited.

  After nearly ten minutes something hard and cold touched his leg. Brogan brought the sword down six inches from his foot and felt the impact as the blade carved through something that made a cracking noise and then writhed and shuddered. Whatever it was, it had substance and weight enough to stagger him when it hit his leg, but it was already dying and that had to be enough.

  Three more times during his first night he found things that needed killing. He surrendered himself from the notion that sleep would be possible and then continued on.

  As it turned out, the first limb he’d encountered was apparently a leg. As he traveled he finally found the crotch of the giant’s body and above that the hips and then the ribcage. He could only see them sparingly through the vast shafts of crystal that blocked most of his view. That was probably a blessing. Somewhere further along he suspected he’d find the head and for the life of him he could not decide if he wanted to see the skull of a dead giant. The sheer scale of the body was still overwhelming after hours of travel.

  Even worse than that were his thoughts. When he was alone, Brogan considered too many things that were discomforting. He was haunted by his lost family, and again sorrow warred with rage with neither a clear victor, though both filled him with as many pains as if he had been impaled on the crystals that ran their course through his only companion in the mountain’s interior. He considered the gods, and felt his anger grow warmer.

  The notion of the body he walked along sent shivers through him and left his mind playing tricks. Truly, he was an insect beside it. What if the body moved? What if, after all of this time, it grew flesh and came to life? Surely the gods had the power to do that. Perhaps they’d bring it back from death just to crush him like an ant.

  He contemplated the people he’d left behind to fend for themselves while he sought whatever it was that was supposed to help him fight the gods. That was a problem. He had endangered all of them. To be sure, they’d agreed to help him, but that wasn’t the point. They were all at risk because he wanted to save his family.