Fallen Gods

by James A. Moore

  “The first house of slavers spent a fortune buying the pale people. The ones you saw us with in Hollum. The Undying wanted them. They came and they got them and no one was foolish enough to offer any resistance.” He pointed toward Stanna. “That fine lady, she has always paid me well for my services. I’ve been promised fair coin for this job, despite the lack of profit, and I’ve no doubt that she’ll do right by me, and the others. She’ll make no profit here. She’ll lose a great deal of money. If I were in a place where I could say to her that I did not need the pay I would do so, but as it stands, we are likely the last of the slavers.”

  Rhinen smiled. It was not a harsh expression so much as a sad one. “Are there slaves and slavers in those distant lands, you ask me? I’ve no way of knowing. All I know is that Lady Stanna has treated me well over the years I’ve known her, and now we will part ways. She has no more work for me. So I go to Torema. There, I will try to find work.

  “Unless the gods kill us all before that happens.”

  Stanna clapped her hands and smiled briefly. “I’d remind you I’m no lady, Rhinen.”

  “You are to me, Stanna. Anyone pays me is automatically royalty.” He smiled at her and offered a salute.

  Niall tried to find the right words to say. He didn’t know if he should apologize or admit defeat or simply hide himself away. Tully was looking at him and her face was surprisingly neutral.

  Up above them the clouds were coming their way, gathering slowly, but starting to form directly above them as if they were there to hide Niall’s shame from the rest of the world.

  Tully leaned toward him and said, “Why is it you want to anger our companions today? Have you a desire to ride alone? Or walk, for that matter, as the horse is only a loan to you.”

  “I’m a fool. My mind wants to linger in darker places.”

  “You’ve suffered losses. I understand that. I feel for you. So has Temmi. She lost everything. So has everyone here. I lost my safety in a town where I lived my entire life. Stanna lost her business, as Rhinen just pointed out.” She did not yell. She did not have to. His shame was heavy enough and loud enough without screaming.

  Rhinen looked his way and then reached out and cuffed him lightly on the shoulder. “You’re hardly the first person I’ve argued with about being a slaver. Won’t likely be the last. I come prepared for it these days.”

  “Your arguments are sound. I never gave much consideration to the idea before.”

  “There are wars, there are slaves. It’s that or let the losers stay where they are, and no one has been willing to do that before. If there was money to be made transporting horses, or carrots for that matter, I would do the same job.”

  Thunder rumbled above them and Niall looked up just in time to see the shape dropping from the skies. He felt a huge knot instantly form in the pit of his stomach. Would this never end?

  Even healed of its wounds, he recognized the Undying that dropped toward him. Ohdra-Hun lived once more.

  “Don’t you ever die?” He cried the words as he reached for his spear.

  Ohdra-Hun’s clawed hand grabbed him by the throat and lifted him from his horse. He was unseated with ease and the spear he’d sought fumbled free of his grip.

  “I am Undying!”

  Tully cried out and reached up toward him. He could see her eyes looking in his direction as he was lifted into the winds. He stared hard as she grew smaller and smaller and the horse and land he’d been touching shrank away as well.

  Niall’s stomach now felt like it was dropping and the fear he felt blossomed into a full panic.

  Had he ever dreamed of flying? To be sure, but not like this. The air was so bitterly cold, and his eyes felt as if they had never known the moisture of even a single teardrop.

  They rose into the clouds themselves and Niall could barely catch a breath.

  “I have grown tired of your games, boy. You have escaped me too often.”

  “I’ve done nothing to you!” He screamed to be heard; the wind was shrieking around his head as they rose higher still. By the gods, the world in the distance was vast and he could see the ocean stretching away far to the south.

  “You killed me.” The voice came from that horrid maw amid a stench like death and decay.

  “You took me from my home! You were making me a sacrifice for the gods.”

  “And now, I make you a sacrifice to my rage.” The clawed talon that gripped his tunic released, and Niall scrambled, reaching for the hand, the cloak that whipped the air, anything at all that would stop him from falling.

  He missed.

  The ground came back to him quickly and he screamed the entire way down.

  Tully

  Tully’s scream was the loudest. She had been right next to the poor bastard when he was hauled into the sky. Temmi screamed too.

  Stanna looked her way and her face became a mask of sorrow. She’d heard the stories from Tully herself and now she saw the end result of those tales. Niall and Tully, stolen by the Undying for sacrifice and escaping: how the very same thing had killed all of Temmi’s family in an effort to get to Niall and Tully. It was the very stuff of nightmares, and Stanna’s anger showed through the mask of sorrow.

  “We’ve got to go after him!” Temmi’s voice broke and she looked to the west and prepared to ride.

  Stanna shook her head and caught the horse’s reins. “No. We don’t. There’s nowhere to go.”

  Tully was not close enough to hear the conversation, but she was wise enough to understand. She lowered her head for a moment and then raised it and looked in the direction the Undying had taken their friend, while Temmi tried to argue the point.

  Stanna looked at Temmi and scowled. “We’ve no way of knowing where they’ve gone. No way of knowing if Niall is still alive. No way of following them. That means we go on and we do our best to keep you safe and to keep Tully safe.”

  She turned to Tully at that thought and then rode close with her horse. “You, come on over here.”

  Tully looked at her and shook her head, uncomprehending.

  “You ride in front of me from now on. You’ll not ride alone. This way you can keep your eye out for that bastard thing and keep your weapons close. You see it, you hurt it. It keeps coming, I’ve been warned and I kill it. Again.”

  Tully managed to climb over easily enough with Stanna’s help. A moment later the reins for Tully’s horse were in the hands of one of Stanna’s boys, the better to make sure they didn’t lose any of the beasts.

  “We ride! We’re done being on the road. Off to Torema.”

  Stanna urged her horse to go faster, and her people followed suit. Loyalty was a hard thing, but even the least faithful among them knew they wouldn’t get paid until they reached Torema and the banks there.

  Tully rode in front of the woman, feeling small and insecure, but comforted by Stanna’s presence.

  Interlude: Morne

  “Is it true what they say about Torema?” Broyton looked directly at Morne as he spoke. Broyton was younger than most of the Marked Men. He’d had a gift with the sword since before he was fully grown and when he asked to join their ranks, he proved it in singular combat with Cantin Hallsy, one of the captains of the elite forces. To the surprise of everyone but Broyton, he won the fight easily. He disarmed the captain and then gave him back his sword. The second attack ended the same way and Broyton was allowed to enter the black stone tower they called the Cauldron and prove his worth.

  He was worthy, but he was also a pain in Morne’s side. His questions were endless and normally revolved around what all boys his age thought of. That is, anything at all involving sexual relations.

  Verden answered for her. “If you’ve heard rumors of fantasies fulfilled, sexual desires sated, exotic women, men who look like exotic women, rare and precious foods from other lands, women from those same places, smiths that can make any weapon you can imagine, sweet wines, rapists, cutthroats, blackguards, murderers and the sort of people who’d kill yo
u for as little as a copper, then yes, it’s all true.”

  Broyton listened and went from looking excited to positively depressed. Morne made a note to herself to thank Verden for that later.

  They’d ridden through the storm and made good time. Now they waited at the edge of the road leading to Edinrun, and prepared for war. They’d been commanded by none other than Parrish to come here and clean up the city and that was exactly what they intended to do. One hundred and ten Marked Men and two thousand horsemen. There was no city left to worry about from all they’d heard. The people in Edinrun had been driven mad by the gods. Those that entered were also driven insane. For most that was a problem, but not for the Marked Men or those riding with them.

  They had protection from their own god. That was the claim and Morne saw no reason to doubt it. From the moment she had walked into the Cauldron and been tested, seen her new god and come out with the brands on her flesh, she had known the peace that comes from being among the elite and the chosen.

  “You’re young. You’ve likely never been with a woman.” She looked directly at Broyton as she spoke. “You want to try new things. You want to hear about a thousand tales. Right now, we are busy. We have people to kill. When we are done, perhaps, we can take you to Torema where you can finally have your every desire slaked. Until then, still your mouth about what you want from Torema and women in general.”

  Verden snorted laughter and Broyton blushed furiously. He did not like being told what to do by a woman. He liked it less when he’d been desperate to lay with her since they’d first met. Morne knew he wanted her. She didn’t care. He could keep close company with his hand. Unless she was dead, he’d never have his way with her.

  “It’s time!” The call came from Cantin and a moment later they were mounting their rides and preparing. Helmets were put in place, visors were lowered. Whatever any of them might want to discuss was forgotten.

  Around them, the stragglers who’d been on their way to Edinrun before everything went wrong looked on and then carefully backed away. They were not fighters, or even if they were, they were not Marked Men. The soldiers from Mentath were intimidating enough, but she’d seen the helmets that the other Marked Men wore and knew how intimidating they could be.

  The locals parted like water around the troops as they started to move.

  They rode in formation, as always, and as they rode the walled city came into view.

  The walls were intact. From beyond them smoke rose here and there. On the walls themselves someone had meticulously hung bodies by arms, legs, or necks as they saw fit, and left the corpses and the living alike to rot and fall away.

  Perhaps thirty people stood at the open gates, some of them victims to the others, some active participants in atrocities best not studied too carefully. The signal was given by the captain, a silent gesture this time. And as one the Marked Men moved forward and charged.

  Morne felt her heart pound and her blood sing with the possibilities of combat, life, and death.

  Thirty people stood before the open gates. Two of them had the good sense to move out of the way. Horses knocked the others aside, and anyone who managed to stand after that was taken down by the long horseman’s picks the Marked Men carried. Morne felt a woman’s head shatter with her only blow as she moved through the gates.

  In moments Morne and those closest to her were inside the city and looking upon the wreckage that had been one of the shining jewels of the Five Kingdoms. The academic knowledge in Edinrun was second to no other place in the world, and there was little doubt that all of that was gone now, ruined by the gods and whatever they’d done to the people. The roads leading to the city were marred by blood and bodies, but that wasn’t the reason the Mentath were there. They had been given orders to take the city back from the mad and that was their goal. King Opar asked assistance from King Parrish and the Marked Men would do their best.

  Theragyn, the lord of the Cauldron, demanded no less.

  There were people aplenty moving along the roads. Most of them seemed dazed, or simply stumbled around, lost in their own thoughts, talking to themselves, or in some cases clawing at their own flesh. Morne’s pick took care of three of them. When it became stuck in a skull she switched to her sword. Each blow was hard and broke bone or drew blood. The people behind her followed along and struck again at any she did not kill.

  Each time a wretch died at her hands she called out to Theragyn and felt the power pulse through the markings on her body. It would not stay with her but she felt it. She knew it meant she had succeeded in her task.

  The first few died easily. After that, the more dangerous inhabitants of the city of madness took note and started their own attacks. Some used weapons, but most attacked like rabid dogs, screaming and clawing and biting at whatever got their attention. The tactic was likely very successful on most.

  The Marked Men were trained better than that. They struck down even the most savage assailants with relative ease, aided by their horses and their armor. The horses often forced the attackers aside and the swords did the rest.

  Theragyn reaped what they sowed. Morne knew that, and reveled in the knowledge. Every life taken in the demon’s name added to his power and he was a generous god who shared his bounty. There had been a time, not so long ago, when she feared what would happen to her in this world. That was no longer the case. She was skilled, she was powerful on her own, and she was blessed by her new god.

  The arrow that came for her should have been her death, but Theragyn was a kind god. With his blessing she saw the shaft moving through the air and had time to escape it. Her eyes saw the beating of a fly’s wings, could count the scars on a man’s hand from fifty paces away, and her reflexes were very nearly as fast and sharp.

  The madman that leaped for her with an axe in his hand could have been her downfall, but the same still stood true. Her blade blocked him easily and the man’s throat opened like a blossom before her on the return stroke.

  So it was with all of the Marked Men. Around her the armored soldiers they led did excellent work. They were trained well, they were armored and they were desperate. Only the finest among them would join the ranks of the Marked. Only the best would ever have a chance to enter the Cauldron and be reborn.

  Broyton, a young fool in conversation, was a harbinger of death on the battlefield. Every person who came for him died quickly and those who tried to run were trampled under his horse. In that moment, she might well have considered him a proper mate, but she knew he’d speak sooner or later and ruin the perfection of his slaughtering skills.

  The captain called out orders and they listened, wheels in an infernal killing machine, cogs in a weapon forged by Theragyn.

  Verden stormed across the landscape, carving a bloody path through any meat that came his way. A spear broke against his breastplate and the man wielding it was nearly split in two by the return attack. Trained horsemen had every advantage over the mad and they used those advantages.

  Around her the Mentath joined in savage, wondrous combat, all for the glory of their new god.

  And older gods remembered how to be jealous.

  Beron

  Most of the people in Beron’s camp trembled as he walked.

  Five of the twenty that the very gods demanded had been in his grasp and they’d escaped. One of his new servants, a gift from Ariah, had not returned, and the other two were sent out into the snow to find what had been taken from him.

  And Beron took out the losses on the fools who had failed in their duties. Three men had been set to watch over the prisoners and they got lazy. Silence had convinced them that they could wander off together and drink wine to warm up.

  Now all three were staked in the snow, naked as newborns and freezing to death.

  Beron stared at them for a long while, not speaking, just enjoying their moans, and finally walked away. There was something bothering him, something at the edge of his senses, and he hated when that happened. It meant distraction if n
othing else, and he did not want to be distracted.

  Time was too short to allow him to fall off track.

  “Argus!”

  “There’s no reason to scream. I’m right here.”

  “Right fucking now I feel like screaming!”

  Argus smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “It’s your coin either way. How can I help?”

  “Ten best trackers. You brought dogs?”

  “A half dozen.”

  “Use them. Send the dogs and the trackers out and find those bastards. I want them brought back to me. I want them in chains this time.”

  “Still alive?”

  “What did I fucking say before? They’re useless dead, so yes, alive.” The man was still smiling. Sometimes he wanted desperately to punch him in the face.

  “I already sent them, with orders to keep the fellows alive. Wouldn’t want you to have to return your fortune to the Mentath. Kind of surprised they didn’t take the damned gems back.”

  “I imagine they were distracted.”

  “One of the lads came back and said they almost lost the trail. It was a lot of Mentath that came by and a lot of horses. But they found the trail again.”

  “It was forty. Forty horses. If the dogs and trackers can’t handle that–”

  “It was forty came to camp. The rest rode right on past. Hundreds.”

  Beron spat. “Then maybe we’ll get lucky and the bastards will start another war. We could use more slaves.”

  Argus chuckled, but nothing more.

  Perhaps ten minutes passed before one of the dark shapes that had been gifted to Beron by Ariah showed itself. It moved so quietly that he didn’t see or hear it so much as he sensed it. Glossy and black, the thing opened its arms and dropped a dark cloak across the snow.

  “They killed Porha-Sede.”

  Beron looked at the shape and scowled. The cloak was all that was left of one of his Undying? “How?”