The Demigod Proving

by S. James Nelson

  Goat guts. The last thing she needed was for Krack to cause trouble. She’d told him to stay out of sight. If word spread that a draegon was terrorizing the countryside, no doubt Athanaric would take steps.

  “Yes, he probably would.”

  “You brought a draegon out here?”

  Leenda gave Rashel an un-amused look. She needed to get to Krack, to stop him from doing something rash.

  “Go back to Wrend. Tell him the truth. It’s your duty to ensure his happiness.”

  The hypocrisy of the words burned in her heart.

  Perhaps worse, she hated to return to Krack without good news. He wanted to leave her. She knew it. Would he, now that she’d failed again?

  She found out when she reached him.

  Chapter 38: Killing a son

  Successful completion of the Strengthening is the crowning accomplishment of any demigod's life. It is the way whereby a demigod can prove utter devotion to me. The slightest flinch at the last moment can invalidate an entire life of service and dedication. This is a high standard, as it should be.

  -Athanaric

  As the demigods bound Wrend with ropes, they murmured about his foolishness and gave him baleful looks. They commented among themselves that the Master would deal with this barren tree when he returned.

  They piled the rebels’ bodies a short ways back from the altar, and placed Wrend kneeling near the carnage. Then they fell back to the positions they’d occupied during the ceremony. The reek of blood and guts, mixed with grass and dirt, filled Wrend’s head.

  Everyone around him thought him a turncoat. The Master had thought it too, in that instant when he’d nearly killed him. Wrend had seen the shock in his face, and confusion as he stayed his sword.

  A dull murmur lifted from the crowd. Wrend felt every eye on him, each like a small weight on his shoulders. But thousands of pebbles made for a great burden, and he had to force himself to keep his head high and his shoulders straight.

  He looked out past Steffan and the altar, trying to find Teirn in the crowd. Not only could his brother corroborate his motives, but he could give Wrend advice. He’d always had good ideas for what to do in tough situations. But Wrend couldn’t spot him anywhere among the people.

  One of the bins of seeds had been overturned in the fight, and the few remaining priests spent several minutes scooping the seeds up with their hands and picking as much out of the crushed grass as they could. When they finished, they placed the bin back with the others by the silver bowl at the altar’s head, and retreated to the front of the crowd.

  Steffan, still lying with his hands over his stomach, had adjusted his position so that his head rested on the stone. For a while he looked at Wrend, his eyes confused and accusing, but he never spoke, and Wrend didn’t dare say anything. What could he say? Eventually the demigod turned his head toward the people.

  By the time the Master appeared, walking around the base of the opposite hill, Wrend had imagined a thousand ways in which he might explain himself. But none of them would save him. He’d once seen a brother killed for questioning the Master's suggestion on how to place the sticks to start a fire.

  Wrend didn’t expect mercy or understanding, but he hoped for a chance to explain his actions.

  The crowd fell silent. For a moment, the sound of kneeling was the only noise, and a hush fell over the hillsides. The people scooted aside as the Master made his way through them, along the base of the hills. When he came even with the altar, he turned uphill, taking the same path the priests and Steffan had taken. His shirt and pants bore great rips and holes, with dried blood crusted along the cuts. His face bore no expression, and not until he reached the altar did his eyes meet Wrend’s.

  He stepped around the altar, furrowing his brow, and stopped between Wrend and Steffan. He blocked out the sun from Wrend’s view. His shadow felt cold and harsh.

  Wrend held his breath.

  The Master looked down at him and shook his head. “For a moment I thought you were one of them.” He gestured at the corpses. “But then I saw in your face that you weren’t trying to kill me, but Steffan.”

  Wrend didn’t respond. He didn’t even nod. He could only meet the Master’s gaze and hope his love was obvious.

  “I think,” the Master said, “you owe us an explanation.”

  With permission to speak, Wrend let everything spill out. In just a few breaths he told of the conversation he’d overheard that morning, his efforts to find the Master, and the note the priests had dropped. The Master listened in silence, his face unreadable, although at the end he stepped aside so that Wrend could see Steffan. He lay in silence despite the accusations, his expression one of disgust and rage.

  The Master took the note from Wrend.

  “What do you say to this accusation?” the Master said, looking from the paper to Steffan.

  In response, Steffan scooted up on the altar, so that his head hung over the edge, above the silver bowl.

  “I’m no traitor, Master. Finish the ceremony.”

  “It’s easy," Wrend said, "for you to say that now that your allies are dead. You have nothing left to lose.”

  “Wrend, what proof do you have that this note is authentic?”

  Wrend blinked. He hadn’t thought to question the letter’s authenticity. Back in the Seraglio, no one would have ever forged something like that. He felt painfully inexperienced. A churning nausea rose in his belly.

  “I have no proof, Master.”

  “We can test it,” Steffan said. “Let me write the words of the note, and compare the handwriting.”

  The Master assumed a ponderous look and shook his head. “I don’t question your loyalty.”

  Steffan sighed and shot Wrend a triumphant smirk. Wrend looked down and bit his lip. He had so little experience with these things, with people who purposefully misled. Had the rebels done it, hoping he might prove a distraction while they attacked? It seemed like the best possibility. But why him? Why not any other number of people? Or had it simply been coincidence that he’d found the note?

  “You and I will speak shortly,” the Master said to Wrend. “I have questions for you before I decide what to do with you.”

  Wrend nodded, helpless to do anything else.

  The Master stepped around the altar to where the sapphire blade lay in the dirt, where Wrend had dropped it. He picked up the knife by the hilt and wiped it off on his pant leg.

  He gestured at the four priests in front of the crowd, and pointed at the bins of seeds. They gathered around the bins. The Master motioned for a handful of demigods and demigoddesses to take up the positions of the slaughtered priests. By the time he knelt in front of the altar, three of the priests and two demigoddesses had lined up in a circle around the silver bowl. They took up the silver chalices and held them ready to scoop and pour blood. One priest stood at a bin with a wooden paddle, ready to stir the blood into the seeds. The six demigods formed a semicircle behind the Master.

  “Begin the chanting again,” the Master said.

  The priests and demigods and demigoddesses looked at each other, and after a moment the one closest to Steffan nodded and began the chant.

  “Praise our god,” he said.

  After a moment, he repeated himself. The others joined him.

  It only took a few repetitions for the mantra to spread to the crowd. They knew their role. In seconds the ceremony had picked up where it had left off. The people alternately knelt and chanted.

  Wrend did the best he could to join them. He spoke the words, but with his arms bound behind his back, he could not slap the ground and join that sacred rhythm. He could only lean forward and straighten himself, and he did it with such enthusiasm that on his fourth bow he lost his balance and toppled forward into a patch of blood-stained dirt. His face came to rest so he almost kissed the gaping mouth of a traitor.

  As he struggled to rise, the Master lifted the knife high over his head. It looked tiny in his hand. Steffan didn’t flinch or loo
k away, but stared at the Master with utter devotion.

  Wrend watched and held his breath. He hoped that Steffan would turn on their father and god.

  But he didn't.

  Not a pinch of fear touched his face as the knife came low, and he did not convulse or cry out as the azure blade found his neck and blood spilled out into the chalice and silver bowl.

  Wrend nearly vomited. Not from the blood, but from knowing someone had tricked him.

  What punishment awaited him?

  Chapter 39: Nothing beats a good cow

  Draegons, the pinnacle of life, merit honor and obeisance on the part of all lower life forms. The moment a human disrespects a draegon, that human's life is forfeit.

  -Vrendrick, father of Cuchorack

  When Leenda saw the carnage spread throughout the town, the strength—what little she had left after the three-mile walk to the village under a burning sun—drained out of her legs. She dropped to her knees, her mouth gaping. In utter disbelief, she held her hands out, palms up, and tried not to vomit.

  She failed.

  The remains of scores of cows littered the street. Krack had apparently turned many of them inside out, dismembered a good portion of them, strewn the guts of several more all over the street, and performed all manner of maiming on the remaining cattle. Hides, heads, bones, and bodily organs glistened red in the afternoon sunlight. Blood splatters stained the wooden buildings. The limp corpse of one cow even lay half in and half out of one broken window on the second story of a building. The reek of bovine and gore hovered over the area like a curse. Flies already buzzed up and down the street. Dark shapes wheeled in the azure expanse above.

  In the midst of all the butchery, an old man, an old woman, a teenage girl, and a young man huddled together in the center of the street in the back of a wagon. The young man sat with his arms around the girl’s shoulders, his lips moving by her ear as she cried into his chest. The old man and woman stood above the couple, facing Krack with trembling stubbornness. The old man held a pitchfork ready.

  “Run, girl!” the old man said. “If you still can!”

  Leenda couldn't respond. Her body tightened as she fell to her hands and knees and everything she had in her belly splashed onto the dirt road. Then she puked some more. By the time she finished, Krack had loped down the street toward her. The ground shook with each languid step.

  She sat up, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her dress, and cleared the tears from her eyes with her fingers. Krack lay in front of her, a mutilated cow between his forepaws and a leg and hoof hanging out between his teeth. Blood matted his fur, stained his claws, and dripped from his lower jaw. If she hadn’t known what color his fur was, she might have thought it was simply a discoloration of his hair: deeper red on red. He cocked his head to one side and looked at her.

  “That’s not usually what humans wear, is it? Because if it is . . . well, it looks ridiculous.”

  “What have you done?" She motioned past him, up the road to the carnage.

  Krack’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and his teeth bared in a draegon-smile. He spoke in draegon, mumbling because of the food in his mouth.

  “I haven’t been this full in years.”

  Leenda staggered to her feet, looking away from the mess in Krack’s mouth. What would drive a draegon to do something like this? She could see a human doing this, or a ratch or a bogg. Those were stupid animals, with the basest of instincts mixed with a little intelligence—not a draegon.

  “Why? Why do this?”

  Krack glanced back at the mess. “I was hungry, and so came here for some beef. You can’t beat a good cow, now can you? As I carried two off, that silly old man came out shouting at me, and even shot a pair of arrows at me. I didn’t appreciate that much, so I decided to show him I could take whatever I wanted.”

  She placed her hands on her hips and gave him the coldest look she could. He couldn’t read human facial expressions, but it made her feel better.

  “You were supposed to wait for me. I almost got killed because you weren’t where I needed you to be.”

  “I got hungry and had no idea how long you would be.”

  “Miss,” the old man called. “You’d better run.”

  She waved at him, but focused on Krack. “So you decided to torture the livestock and terrorize the people?”

  “He provoked me.”

  With his eyes still on Leenda, he lifted the carcass from his feet and tossed it into the air. It spun and twirled several times, spraying blood in a circle until it dropped right into Krack’s gaping maw.

  This was going nowhere, accomplishing nothing. She could berate him all day, but it would do no good. She could try to use guilt again, but would that work beyond cowing him in the moment? Was there anything she could do to help him understand that on a fundamental level this kind of behavior was un-draegon-like and despicable? Did he even care?

  No, he didn’t. He didn’t care what being a draegon meant, and that created her problem.

  She’d learned from her mother’s teat that draegons lived noble lives and waited for the day when they would once again rule humans in justice and honor. Krack had gotten that same education during his first three years of life, but had lived fifteen years by following the basic survival instincts that all draegons had to learn to overcome.

  Could she fix that? Was it even possible for her to overcome his last few years of riotous living by lecturing and setting a good example?

  Probably not. It especially didn’t help that she didn’t have the form of a draegon and hadn’t exactly served as the best example. After all, the ignobility of leaving her pup offset the nobility of saving her mate.

  Nevertheless, she had to do something. She was with him, now, and had to try and teach him.

  “Listen, Krack. I’ve told you this before, and I’ll tell you as many times as it takes for you to get it. Draegons are noble. We do noble things. Slaughtering a herd of cattle and frightening humans to prove your strength—that’s not noble.”

  “He provoked me. He disrespected my strength and need to eat. So, I’m setting him straight. What’s dishonorable about that?”

  She started to speak, but paused with her mouth wide open. What kind of warped mind thought that wasteful killing and senseless bravado qualified as noble?

  “Listen, Krack—and listen well. To be noble means to not abuse your strength and power or to lift yourself above others by hurting them. This—” She frowned and gestured at the scene. “This is a gross display of power to gratify your own ego. It might have made you feel better and stronger, but it was really only an abuse of your strength.”

  He paused his chewing. His eyes tightened and his lips puckered. He was thinking about her words. That was good.

  She had so much more she could say. But how much should she risk?

  “No draegon I’ve ever known would’ve done this. They would’ve taken the cows, ignored the arrows, and moved on.”

  He huffed. His meaty breath blasted her face and splattered chunks of cow on her blouse. His eyes narrowed.

  “I didn’t hurt them. Just their cows.”

  She pointed at the people in the wagon.

  “You’ve almost scared their souls out of them.”

  That did it. She’d gone too far.

  Krack reared up on his hind legs and stretched his neck high. His body blocked the sun, and he snapped his wings open so they spread over the roofs of the two-story buildings on both sides of the street. He took a great breath and released a deafening roar that rattled the windows of the buildings and made Leenda’s ears ring. The old woman clutched the old man, who dropped his pitchfork and clung to the woman. The roar extended for fifteen seconds.

  Leenda stepped back, overwhelmed by the sheer power of her son. He was a handsome creature—as beautiful a draegon as she’d ever seen. Misguided, yes. But majestic.

  And she was just a little human. A snack if he wanted.

  As he finished his roar, he folde
d his wings and dropped to all four paws. He lowered his head and brought his snout up to her body. He stared her in the eyes and didn’t blink.

  “I’m tired of your lectures.” He spoke in a quiet voice. “And I’m tired of you.”

  Leenda didn’t back away, flinch, or even cry out. After all, a draegon wouldn’t cower in the face of death, but would die with a demonstration of courage.

  Krack opened his maw and came toward her.

  Goat guts!

  Chapter 40: A tasty draegon treat

  Here is a sure sign that you've failed as a parent: your son eats you.

  - Leenda

  Leenda stood her ground. She’d done her best. Given the circumstances, she’d do it again—try to save her mate. Of course, knowing what she knew now, she might have gone about it differently, but her intentions had always stayed pure. Too bad the execution of her plan had gone awry.

  Krack didn't so much as blink his glassy eyes as he twisted his neck, stood, and brought his mouth down on Leenda. Damp darkness surrounded her as she closed her eyes and hugged her arms close to her body. The sound of him breathing surrounded her, and the wetness of his tongue pressed against her face and torso.

  But he didn't close his mouth. His teeth didn't clamp shut on her legs. He hadn't decided to eat her. The warmth of his mouth and the reek of cowhide and guts enveloped her. She kept her eyes closed and held her breath, and listened to the deep breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Ten seconds. Twenty.

  She stood there inside his mouth, trembling, long enough that she began to wonder. Maybe he was still considering eating her. Maybe he was debating.

  The space around her tightened. His tongue pressed against her front, and the roof of his mouth against her back. His teeth jabbed into her shins and calves.

  She began to scream. She couldn't help it. She screamed like a little human baby and wished that Wrend could be with her in her last moment.