The Demigod Proving

by S. James Nelson

  His fur rippled again as his body trembled. His wings shook, and he folded them against his back.

  She wanted to reach out to him, to stroke his face and neck, and wrap her arms around him. As a pup, he’d been so rambunctious and such a troublemaker, but also so tender-hearted. Once he hurt a paw and came whimpering to her, and she put her wing about him and licked his face to comfort him. His crying ended fast, and soon he climbed on her back and ordered her around like some kind of draegon-rider of old.

  But she couldn’t do that now. What could a tiny human body do? What was she to do?

  She stepped toward him, reaching out for him.

  “And he put his arms around my neck,” Krack said.

  He fell forward to his front legs, into the dirt he’d cleared the night before. Leenda had to jump aside to avoid being crushed as he settled his belly against the ground.

  “And he said he would break my neck if I fought him. So I did what he wanted. I was weaker than him, and he hit so hard and he tied me up, all the while telling me what he was going to do with my father. He was going to take his soul and put the soul of a dog into his body. A common dog. My father was going to become a dog.”

  She stepped around his front paws to his side, and placed a hand on his body, below his wings. His flesh shook—whether from her touch or from his memories, she couldn’t tell. She craned her neck to see his face, but couldn’t read it. He stared blankly at the rocky wall. She had no idea what she should do, how she could possibly make it up to him or heal his wounds. But she had to do something. She rubbed his fur.

  “Krack, what can I do for you?”

  He twisted his neck around, and for a moment looked at her from above. But then he lowered his face down to her, so she could feel the hot breath from his snout.

  “You think I can help you get father back? You think I can help you fight Athanaric? Maybe I can. I’m bigger now. Stronger. I can use Ichor better. But I can’t face the body of my father. I can’t do that, and I know that is what it will come to. Every time we’ve been near the camp these past days, he’s been riding that zombie. Have you seen those horns? I can’t fight them. I only have these little horns.”

  He rolled his eyes as if to look at the horns that extended down from the top of his head, just past the corner of his mouth. Cuchorack’s horns went down past his lower jaw and the end of his snout.

  Still pressing her hand against his side, she reached out with the other hand and touched his snout. It was nearly as big as her entire body. As she’d learned a week before, he could gobble her up in a few quick chomps. And she would deserve it.

  He flinched at her touch, pulled back. She stepped forward, sliding one hand over a rib and again touching his face.

  “Krack. I’m so sorry. What can I do to make amends? Is it even possible?”

  He didn’t pull back this time, but narrowed his eyes at her and growled softly from deep in his throat.

  “No. I don’t think you can. Unless you can alter the past.”

  She couldn’t alter the past, of course. And it broke her heart. Because he was right.

  In the end, there was really only one thing she could do to make it up to him.

  Chapter 59: The nature of the test

  All rebellions against me have ended in tragedy for those who have opposed me.

  -Athanaric

  Wrend planned his attack as he stood at the edge of the pool and looked over the water.

  It would be over in a few minutes.

  Across the way, at the mouth of a cave, the apostates stood with bows ready. Around them, water rippled against the rocks gathered at the cliff base. The sheer surfaces loomed hundreds of feet above, to the right and left, angling in to form a corner like two walls inside of a house. Near that junction, at the top of the cliffs, a waterfall toppled over the edge, scattering into a fine mist that showered the area and disturbed the surface of the pool like rain.

  A sheen of water covered everything: the rocks lining the far edge of the pool, the red sand, Wrend and his sword and shield, and the paladins that stood in two platoons behind him. The shallow pool stretched a hundred yards long and half as wide, with a narrow stream flowing out of it near Wrend.

  He gestured to the lead paladin of one platoon.

  “Take your soldiers around the left side of the pool. I’ll take the other around the right. Stop out of bow range and wait for my signal. If anyone tries to flee, kill them. No one can escape.”

  The paladin, wearing a red coif and mask, nodded. It motioned for its troops to follow, and they set off around the pool. Their tight formation loosened as they scrambled over the rocks and splashed through the shallow water.

  Wrend motioned at the other leader.

  “Lead the way along the right shore.”

  Paladins could take dozens of arrows and keep going; the only sure way to kill them was to decapitate them or burn their bodies to ashes. They made for good shields to absorb arrows, and served just as well at taking the brunt of pikes and swords.

  After his platoon marched past him, it returned to its formation of five rows and five columns. Those in the front two rows carried pikes and rectangular body shields, and the rest carried swords and smaller round shields with sharp edges. He fell in behind them, looking over the water at the increased activity at the mouth of the cave. Dozens of rebels stood behind a row of waist-high rocks at the water’s edge, readying bows. As he and his contingent had approached, the rebels had retreated back to the cave, gathering their women and children.

  Wrend didn’t like having to kill women and children, but surely that was part of the test, the question the Master wanted answered: could he do what needed doing, make the hard choices, take the difficult actions? That’s what the Master needed to know.

  Wrend would make sure it got done, but he wouldn’t do it himself. He would let the paladins do most of the killing, and numb his heart against it by telling himself they were the spouses and children of murderers, of renegades that needed to perish lest they throw the country into chaos. There was no way around it. The Master had made his decree. These people—the men, women, and children—needed to die.

  “Remember,” he shouted out over the water, to the paladins on the opposite shore, “save the leader for me.”

  Wrend would kill the leader and take his head back to the Master.

  The small rocks along the shore were uneven and difficult to traverse, so he stepped out into the shallow edge of the water, where the way was easier. The water went up past his ankles. Its chill stung his feet and sent shivers up his spine.

  He’d never killed anyone, but as all demigods did at the Seraglio, he’d received combat training and instruction in using all manner of weapons. He also had light training in tactics. The Master reasoned that in an all-out war with another country, his children would function as the generals in his army. Wrend had never anticipated having the opportunity to fight, and he’d never fathomed that he would travel to a remote area of the country to slaughter his own countrymen.

  Ahead, the paladins splashed through the water. The mist from the waterfall had grown thick on Wrend’s skin; he cleared the film from his face as if wiping tears away. The closer his army drew to the base of the cliff, the thicker the mist became.

  Across the water, the paladins stopped fifty yards out from the cave. The ones in the front row held their pikes up, with the points aimed at the cliff. They readied their shields. The paladins behind them lifted their round shields up over their heads. The shoreline arced around in a smooth curve to the cave. Half of the rebels had trained their arrows on the far paladins, and the other half aimed at Wrend and his group.

  One of the men stepped forward, lifted his arms, and shouted in Wrend’s direction. He wore dark clothing with a vest of green. He probably had no manner of armor. None of the men seemed to.

  “We’ll surrender if you let us live!”

  Wrend had nearly come within range of accurate bow-shot, so he commanded his
troops to halt. Water rippled away from his legs, and he shivered.

  “There will be no negotiations!” he shouted back.

  He saw no point in a parley. Under different circumstances he might have offered them the opportunity to surrender—given them the chance to repent—but the Master’s orders prohibited that. These people needed to die.

  “That one,” he said to his troops, “is the leader. Save him for me.”

  “Please!” the leader shouted. “We have women and children with us. Let them go.”

  Wrend licked his lips and raised his sword in preparation to give the signal to the paladins opposite him. How many of the women here hadn’t known their husbands were renegades? How many had disagreed with their husbands on the matter and come to this place out of loyalty? And the children. Certainly the little ones, at least, had done nothing worthy of death.

  Wrend held his sword overhead, his arm bent so his blade pointed up and behind him. The Master had given him the specific and firm command, and he needed to obey. Besides, if these people had wanted, they could’ve fled the country and the Master’s rule. They didn’t have to try and kill him. Their leaders—the demigods and priests—who’d led them in their rebellion, had already died. Why should they escape the same fate? The Master needed them wiped from the earth, as if they’d never been.

  And he couldn’t hesitate. Couldn’t think too much about it.

  He brought his hand down in a chopping motion, directly toward the cave.

  “Kill them. Everyone but the leader.”

  The paladins in front of him started forward, half of them on the shore, the other half in the shallow water. The ones in the front row lowered their pikes. Across the water, the other undead soldiers shouted and started forward.

  Wrend didn’t move. He wouldn’t enter the fray unless he had to. He had no desire to.

  A youth on the shore released an arrow. It cut through the mist toward the troops in front of Wrend and fell short into the water, disappearing as if it had never been.

  One of the men lowered his bow and pointed with one hand out across the water, to behind Wrend. His frantic motioning and obvious fear made Wrend turn back to see what was behind him.

  Two more platoons of paladin approached the pool, in the shadow of the cliffs. The ones in front carried pikes and rectangular shields, and they all wore their faceless masks. Just the sight of them made Wrend think he could smell nitrate and salt. A rider on a horse led them.

  For a moment, Wrend thought he looked at the past, at a re-creation of just minutes before when he’d led his troops up to that end of the pool. He’d dismounted, not wanting his horse to spook in the battle, and now it waited off to the side, tethered to a tree. But without pausing, this new rider motioned for one platoon to go around the left side of the pool, and plunged forward down the right with the other platoon. The way he sat in his saddle, Wrend couldn’t mistake his identity.

  It was Teirn.

  “Hurry!” Teirn called, looking at his troops behind him.

  Wrend only barely heard the command over the sound of the waterfall and splashing troops. He didn’t hear the next thing Teirn said—he only saw his lips move—for the sound of arrows striking shields punctuated the sound of the misty waterfall.

  On both sides of the pool, arrows bounced up and around the paladins at bizarre angles as they deflected off of shields. A few shafts stuck into paladins, but the paladins continued to advance. They’d moved within twenty yards of the cave, and closed in fast.

  One of the heretics retreated into the cave. Darkness swallowed him. Then another followed, and over the din the leader shouted for a retreat. He motioned for men to get back into the cave. Some of them heard him, and after taking another shot fell back, but two of them, standing side by side and firing arrows in a flurry, must not have heard, for the leader leaned in close to them and pulled on their shoulders. They looked up in surprise and retreated with the leader into the cave.

  Wrend’s paladins advanced at an even pace, with pikes low and shields ready. Wrend had fallen twenty-five yards behind them.

  The thundering and splashing of a horse descended upon Wrend, and he turned in time to meet Teirn’s determined eyes. The horse splashed water up into Wrend’s face. The new platoon of paladins pursued, twenty feet behind. Teirn passed by.

  “Wait!” Wrend said. He leapt after his brother. “What are you doing here?”

  Teirn turned to look back as his horse went on, his face twisted in a scowl.

  “I have a task to do!”

  With those words, Wrend understood the true nature of this task.

  He had to best his brother.

  Chapter 60: On the inside

  When someone makes themselves an enemy to you, sooner or later you cannot ignore it. Despite your best efforts, it will come to conflict. Be ready when it happens, or you will pay the price for your benevolence.

  -Wrend

  “Faster!” Wrend shouted to his paladins. “Enter the cave and kill the heretics!”

  He churned his legs in the water, and his sword and shield pumped at his sides. If only he’d kept his horse, like Teirn had, he could’ve stayed ahead of his brother.

  Although the rebels had disappeared into the mouth of the cave, arrows flew in a stream out of the dark opening. Most bounced away from the paladins' shields; dozens of shafts already floated in the water. The paladins had nearly reached the cave, but Teirn, on his horse, had passed their rear ranks, entering the thickest part of the mist with his shield held ahead and his sword back and ready for a swing.

  He would reach the cave first.

  Wrend redoubled his effort, lifting his legs high and fast through the water. He heard the words of the Master again, like whispering in his ear: This is your task. You need to do this. No matter what obstacles are in your way—no matter who tries to stop you—you need to do this.

  What kind of mad test was this, to pit brother against brother and to slaughter women and children? Wrend wanted to be done with it, to get away from it.

  But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t disobey the Master. He’d been raised from his cradle to live in obedience.

  Teirn reached the mound of rocks in front of the cave, and his horse began to clamber over them. He kept his head low, close against his mount’s neck. Arrows sheeted from the cave. Several of them bounced off of Teirn’s shield, but others found place inside the horse’s body. It reared up and squealed. Teirn tried to dismount, but couldn’t move fast enough as the horse toppled backward into the water.

  The horse convulsed. Teirn struggled to get free. Water splashed up around them. The paladins from both sides of the lake converged on the cave, pouring over the barricade of rocks and into the rain of arrows. A chorus of thuds—arrowheads striking bodies and shields—filled the air, and a few of the paladins faltered. But none halted.

  Wrend headed for the thrashing mess of horse and man in the shallow water. Teirn’s curses rose over the sound of the waterfall and splashing soldiers, and as the horse became still he stumbled up from the water to sit on one of the rocks. The broken shaft of an arrow stuck out of one thigh. He’d dropped his shield and sword.

  Paladins hollered as the dark cave swallowed them.

  Wrend halted, seized by indecision. He needed to do this thing, but his brother sat there on a rock, screaming as he clutched at his wounded leg. Two weeks before, Wrend wouldn’t have questioned what to do. He wouldn’t even have hesitated.

  And that made his decision for him.

  He leapt toward Teirn, past the now-still horse and the blood coloring the water. He sheathed his sword and threw down his shield. Water covered everything. The mist made the air thick and foggy.

  “Let me help,” he said.

  As he reached Teirn, holding out his hands to offer assistance, his brother roared and surged at him, shoving him back and away. The rage in his face startled Wrend just as much as the push, and he fell away. The water cushioned his fall and rushed up his che
st; he sat there almost up to his neck, staring up at his brother. His sword, belted on at his waist, bent at an awkward angle, the pommel jabbing his ribs.

  Teirn stood above him, his shoulders heaving as he glared down. Drops of water from the splashing rose up around him, mixing with the fine mist. Behind and above Teirn, the cliffs gleaned. The black streaks running down them made it look like they wept. Teirn clenched his fists, so his arms trembled. He bared his teeth and screamed a wordless roar at Wrend.

  Wrend knew if Teirn had held a sword, he would have used it to chop off Wrend’s head.

  His paladins continued to funnel into the cave. Teirn fell back on the rock, clutching at the shaft with both hands, and yanked. Even over the commotion and his brother’s scream, Wrend heard the tearing of flesh.

  Indignation overcame Wrend, dropping a red sheet over the world. He found his feet and lunged at Teirn, who rose to meet the attack. Their bodies collided. Wrend had the greater momentum, and pushed Teirn back to his sitting position on the rock. He knocked Teirn’s hands away and slammed his fist into Teirn’s jaw. He struck again and connected with Teirn’s ear. Teirn’s head and body flew back, striking a rock.

  Wrend’s soldiers finished entering the cave, and the shouts and cries of battle echoed out of the darkness. Teirn’s paladins had also reached the entrance and swarmed around Wrend and Teirn. None of them stopped. They didn’t pause to help Teirn or to pull Wrend away. Water splashed around them; like Wrend’s paladins, they yowled, brandishing their weapons as they poured over the rocks.