The Demigod Proving

by S. James Nelson

  “I have to obey the Master. As you should have.”

  Yet, Wrend could see in Teirn's face that he didn't want to do this.

  “Just walk away,” Wrend said. “I spared your life when a simple word could have led the Master to kill you.”

  Teirn's eyes flicked to Leenda and Calla, who moved into Wrend's peripheral vision on his right. They rolled into the dirt, entwined in each other’s arms in a vicious brawl.

  “I have to obey,” Teirn said. But his voice bore more reluctance than resolve.

  “The Master’s ways are not the right ways,” Wrend said. “Do you really want the Master’s brutal ways to become yours?”

  Teirn trembled. Moisture gathered in his eyes. Again, he looked over to Calla and Leenda.

  And Wrend understood.

  It was Calla. She drove Teirn ever onward. She held sway over him. Years before, she'd taught him how to become the Master's heir. She dominated him, commanded him. And he had to obey her.

  The realization settled over Wrend like a shroud.

  Teirn was truly lost to him. He could not combat the influence of both a father and a mother.

  He steeled his will and applied Flux to the center of his body as Teirn sprung at him, sword flashing. It was a clumsy blow, one that exposed his belly to a slice. Wrend nearly brought his sword up to end it, but the anguish on Teirn's face stopped him. There was so much rage and reluctance and sorrow.

  Wrend kept his sword down and dodged aside, letting the Thew and Flux carry him. The blow missed—but only barely. Teirn's momentum lifted him past where Wrend had stood, and he spun and struck by lifting his blade high overhead—again exposing his stomach. He moved so fast he had to be using Flux.

  But so was Wrend. It was easier than he’d anticipated—easier than Thew. He skirted aside and back—again not taking advantage of the opening Teirn had given him. Was Teirn doing it on purpose? Was he trying to let Wrend kill him, or was he simply so emotional that he couldn't focus on his form?

  “Teirn,” Wrend said. He stood with his back to the wall of yucca and poison sage. “Don't do this.”

  But Teirn roared and lunged again. Wrend jumped aside.

  And just like that it was over.

  Teirn plunged into the wall of yucca and poison sage. The needles of the yucca dug into his clothes and face. The poison sage seemed to lean into him, press their spiny leaves against his legs and torso and arms, as if wanting to pat him everywhere. Like a feeler bush. He screamed and turned around to get out of the thicket.

  His eyes met Wrend's and pled for help. A yucca needle had poked one of his eyes. Blood and other fluids oozed from its center and down his cheek. Other yucca needles had scratched his face and the backs of his hands, and blood formed a web of thin lines over his skin.

  He'd already started to swell from the venom of the poison sage. He dropped his sword as his fingers began to puff. He stretched his arms out for help. The cuff of his sleeve exposed his wrist and forearm, which had already become bloated.

  Wrend couldn’t deny him succor. He released his own weapon. It clattered to the dirt as he moved to the edge of the thicket, careful not to touch any poison sage. Teirn fell forward, his hands barely reaching Wrend's. One missed, but the other caught hold, and Wrend pulled his brother out.

  He fell backward into the dirt, with Teirn—already convulsing—on top of him. He rolled Teirn off of him, and came to his knees.

  He could do nothing.

  The spines had ripped Teirn's clothes in many spots. Blood seeped from jagged cuts. Tremors ran through his torso. His arms shook at his sides. His feet bounced on the dirt. His head moved back and forth as if he vehemently wanted to tell Wrend, “No.” His face had already become unrecognizable, his lips and cheeks and forehead swollen, almost consuming his nose and eyes.

  His gaze met Wrend's.

  Maybe it was his imagination. Maybe it was his unwillingness to hate his brother, but in those moments Wrend saw repentance in his brother's eyes. Regret for what he'd done.

  And, as if to confirm it, his brother's face contorted. His arms—still shaking—lifted up. His hands fell on Wrend's shoulders with great weight. In his final act, Teirn pulled him down in an awkward embrace.

  Wrend's breath caught in his throat. It seemed he couldn’t fill his air with lungs. But he didn't care. He lifted his brother's body into his, and wrapped his arms around him, holding his torso tight against his. The trembling increased, and Wrend held him tighter, trying to still his brother's shaking frame. He rocked back and forth, gritting his teeth and clenching his eyes closed.

  Desperate, having no hope, he bound Thew to Teirn’s body, and applied. He feared it would do no good, that it wouldn’t heal him, but couldn’t stop himself from trying. He pushed the power out of himself, letting it flow like water over a cliff. On and on it went as Wrend held his trembling brother to him. Wrend's body felt lighter and weaker with the power leaving him—his soul felt deflated, like a wineskin that had become half empty.

  And—how much longer he didn't know—Teirn's body gave one last shiver, and became still. Wrend continued to let the Ichor pour out of him, clutching Teirn for another moment, unwilling to let him go. A tingle rose along his skin, perhaps from the residue of poison that had rubbed from Teirn onto him. But he didn't care.

  Never again would they joke or master a skill together. Never again would they look into the future and wonder what their lives held. Never again would they do anything together. All because Teirn could not deny the will of his mother.

  Calla.

  The thought snapped Wrend to the present. He opened his eyes and looked up and around. Tears blurred his vision, but down the rise, on top of a large rock, he spotted Leenda leaning backward over a rock, her back bent at a dangerous angle. Calla's legs straddled Leenda's torso. Her hands clutched at Leenda's neck. Leenda clawed at Calla's face and pushed with her legs as if to throw Calla over. But she didn’t, and Calla pressed down hard.

  Calla.

  She'd nearly cost Wrend his Mother. She had cost him his brother. Now she threatened his mate.

  Wrath consumed Wrend. He finally cut off the flow of Thew to Teirn, and let Teirn's mangled corpse down. His sword sat in the dirt, half a dozen feet away. He crawled to it, took it up from the dust, and stood. He bound and applied Flux and Thew, taking two steps to gather his speed, and soared through the air at Calla.

  Chapter 80: Too far away to help

  Common men and demigods may never learn that they cannot defeat me.

  -Athanaric

  Athanaric paused to catch his breath. Naresh and eagle-face—the only two remaining Hasuken—did the same. They stood thirty feet away, swords ready, bodies heaving with deep breaths. Eagle-face had long since broken his pike.

  Athanaric had known he could handle these Hasuken. But they'd proven more problematic than he'd anticipated. He’d taken a dozen wounds on his arms and legs, and one in his side. If not for Thew, he would’ve already succumbed, but his stores of Thew and Spirit wouldn’t last very long. He’d depleted them too many times in the last few weeks, and hadn’t replenished them as much as he would have liked. Naturally.

  Behind Naresh and eagle-face, Cuchorack clenched the body of a Hasuken in his jaws, and shook his head back and forth. The body flailed and blood splattered, sprinkling the desert carnage like pepper. The last of the standing demigods, Vreckor, stood over the body of the Hasuken he'd just killed. He held one arm close to his torso, whether from a wound in the arm or one in his ribs, Athanaric couldn't tell. But he looked up and started toward the backs of Naresh and eagle-face.

  Athanaric shook his head.

  “Vreckor, go to the army. Order it to attack.”

  He glanced from Naresh to eagle-face, and hefted his sword; in the fray, a Hasuken had cut his staff in half, and now he only had his sword to fight with.

  Vreckor nodded. In three quick steps, he started to soar through the air fifty feet at a time. He would reach the army in moments
. The demigods would know what to do and how to engage the Hasuken army. The battle would prove short unless a great number of the Hasuken troops could use Ichor like the delegation to the parley could. But Athanaric figured that few would have the ability. It surprised him that the entire delegation had the powers; their god had borne few children and they would be the only ones with the power to harvest and apply Ichor.

  Although, something that Athanaric had seen—just a glimpse in the midst of the fray—had caught his attention. He chanced a glance toward the butte, in the direction Wrend and Teirn had gone. He’d thought he’d seen Calla soaring through the air on the wings of Ichor, pursuing Leenda and Wrend. But that couldn’t have been right. It had been some kind of visual trick of the surrounding landscape. She couldn’t possibly have that power.

  But what he saw now startled him. To the north and on the far side of a rise, perhaps a quarter mile away, Calla sat atop Leenda, straddling and strangling her.

  He didn’t have time to process it, however, because Naresh and eagle-face looked at each other, as if conferring on who should pursue Vreckor. Athanaric couldn’t give either of them the chance to stop his son.

  “Cuchorack,” he said, “help me kill these last two.”

  The draegon tossed the body aside and roared. He spread his wings like he always did when threatening his prey. The battle had taken a toll on the beast: the canvas of one wing was shredded into strips; he wouldn’t fly until Athanaric could sew the skin back together. Beyond that, one long gash on the draegon’s belly allowed nitrate to flow out of the body in a steady stream; that would also need repairing.

  But that didn’t stop the draegon from lunging. Neither did it prevent him from moving with grace and speed at Naresh. Athanaric darted forward at the same time.

  Naresh and the Hasuken dodged in opposite directions, predictably fast with the Flux. But Athanaric had anticipated it, and applied Flux so his path veered to the right, in the direction eagle-face went. He harvested Flux even as he used it; he’d practiced the skill for so long that it was automatic, even in the height of battle. He would almost never run out of Flux—unless he applied a great burst all at once.

  Eagle-face hit the ground a moment before Athanaric, and lifted off backward, swinging his sword as he did. Athanaric—not seeing what happened with Naresh and Cuchorack—landed where the man had jumped from—he would have crushed him if he hadn’t leapt backward—and parried the blow as he, too, lifted off. The man flew away, just out of reach, applying Flux to pitch from side to side. Athanaric kept with him, sword ready to slash the moment the man came within reach.

  Eagle-face’s eyes became panicked as he touched down. He tried to switch his path, to duck forward under Athanaric as he landed; but either his luck or an Ichor store had run out, for he didn’t move fast enough to escape, and Athanaric’s feet caught him in the chest, crushing him into the ground with a crunch of bones and squish of flesh. His head cracked against a rock in the dirt, and his eyes went blank. The soul rose out of his body, a formless mass glinting in the sunlight.

  Athanaric turned to look at what had become of Naresh and Cuchorack. Naresh had fled south, toward the Hasuken army, pursed by Cuchorack. The draegon half leapt, half flew over the ground, flapping his tattered wings with little effect. He would not catch Naresh before the Godslayer reached the army.

  “Cuchorack, return to me,” Athanaric said.

  A shout arose to his right, from a distance, but his fine-tuned hearing caught it with clarity. The sound bore so much agony and rage that it distracted him from the pleasure of his kill, and he looked toward where Calla and Leenda struggled.

  And his heart dropped.

  Wrend soared through the air toward Calla and Leenda, his sword poised for the kill. The scream came from him, and it tore at Athanaric’s heart to hear that noise from his son. But equally distressing, Calla had no idea that he headed for her. Teirn did not grace the scene.

  “Calla!” he shouted. His voice could reach that far, but Wrend moved so fast—he’d obviously figured out how to use Flux—that his warning couldn’t possibly reach her in time.

  Chapter 81: Never again

  I knew in that moment that I could never kill another person.

  -Wrend

  Leenda couldn’t breathe. She could only move her legs—but not enough to do anything against Calla.

  Goat guts!

  The rock she lay on, bent over backward, had several jagged points that dug into her spine and inflicted considerable pain as she tried to push off of them and throw Calla. But Calla held her down with Flux, and strengthened her hands and legs with Thew, to prevent Leenda from pulling her off or yanking the hands away from her neck. She clenched and bared her teeth, and her eyes bulged. Against the vibrant blue sky, she was almost nothing more than an angry shadow.

  Leenda had thought for a moment that she had Calla, that she’d defeated her; but in an unusual surge of Flux, Calla had flipped her around in the air and slammed her down into the rock. The impact had made her vision go black and sparkly. Before she could recover, Calla had straddled her and grasped her neck. Leenda couldn’t fathom how much Flux the woman had to be using now. In three surges, each larger than the last, Leenda had almost depleted her remaining store trying to get Calla off.

  It would be nice to have one last look at Wrend before she died. He was such a handsome man. Even in a human body. His eyes shone with such determination and intelligence.

  But Calla gripped her so that she couldn’t turn her head.

  How long had it been since she’d taken a breath? A minute? Three minutes? Fifty years?

  Would Krack mourn her death? Would he even wonder about it when she didn’t show up at the lair? He was a good draegon, all things considered. She couldn’t blame him for what he’d become. He’d spent the last few years raising himself, after all. He’d lost his father, and his mother had left him with an aged, tired draegon. What a fool she was. What a goat-gutted fool.

  Above the pounding in her head, a scream pierced her ears, long and drawn out, and very near. For a moment she thought it came from Calla, but then realized that it grew louder as the person screaming drew nearer.

  And Wrend arrived.

  He had a sword in his hands but it missed Calla, and his body rammed into her. He grunted and Calla screamed, and the two of them tumbled to Leenda’s left.

  Leenda could finally breathe.

  She inhaled through her mouth, simultaneously relieved that her lungs could fill, and terrified that Wrend would break his neck as he reeled through the rocks and sagebrush. She rolled to the side, off of the rock, and staggered to her feet. Her neck throbbed and a cloud shrouded her mind, but she could breathe.

  Calla screamed. She lay in a tangled mess in the dirt as Wrend found his feet. Her dress had settled to the ground around her, concealing her legs; but her feet stuck out from the hem at such unusual angles that something had to be wrong with her legs. Both of her hips or knees—or all of them—had broken or dislocated.

  Wrend stood above her, looking down at her, his body heaving. He held his sword in both hands.

  “Are you hurt?” Leenda said.

  Her voice sounded scratchy and distant. Spots still filled her vision.

  He didn’t seem to hear. The sword slipped from his hands and fell into the dirt. He spoke to Calla.

  “He’s dead. He’s dead because he couldn’t disobey you.”

  Leenda glanced back up the hill. Teirn lay in the dirt, his body bloated and disfigured. She looked away and pushed the nausea down.

  “You killed my boy?” Calla said.

  She tried to adjust her position on the ground, as if wanting to try and stand, but winced and sucked in a sharp breath as her body’s movement shifted her hips and legs.

  “You killed him.”

  “He killed himself,” Wrend said.

  Calla began to wail and curse, and Wrend looked down at her with a hard face. Why he hadn’t killed Calla, Leenda couldn’t
guess. She surely deserved it, but for some reason he’d pulled his blow, and spared her life.

  Leenda stepped to his side and touched his arm.

  “Are you hurt?”

  He gave her a sardonic smile as he spread his arms wide.

  “My body hasn’t taken a wound.”

  His tone didn’t reassure her. His body was fine, but his heart wasn’t. But she couldn’t dedicate the energy to analyze it; her head throbbed too much.

  “Come on,” he said, looking away from her and taking her arm with one hand. “We have to get away from the Master.”

  Still gasping for air, she followed his gaze. Immediately, the fog lifted from her head. Of course it did. Athanaric on Cuchorack, lumbering over the desert ground and foliage toward them, would bring anyone back to their senses.

  Chapter 82: God rage

  The wrath of god is a terrible thing. Do everything within your power to avoid it.

  -Calla

  Wrend led Leenda as they fled over the desert toward the butte. He took her hand and started off, slow at first, as she took several moments to recover her breath, but then faster.

  “Where are we going?” she said.

  “No idea. Any suggestions?”

  “Far. Far away.”

  They lifted off of the ground, and Wrend applied Flux in a forward and upward direction, in the center of his balance. His leap—also supplemented with Thew—lifted them over a boulder surrounded by bushes of poison sage. Beyond that, they flew over a handful of yucca trees. As their shadow passed over a rock, a lizard sunning itself slithered to safety. Wrend’s motion produced more Flux than he'd ever discerned. It emanated from his body in fast, irregular waves of white, and he harvested them so his store of Flux remained almost constant. It almost seemed he could fly perpetually once he lifted himself off of the ground.

  Leenda squeezed his hand tight. Whether to keep herself from letting go, or in a gesture of affection, he didn't know.