by Brian Braden
“Come here, you little devils, and let me pop one of you into my mouth.” But they easily eluded him, parting before the once mighty god like the grass. Unable to quench his searing hunger, Fu Xi fell face down into wet, sandy soil.
After resting several moments, he spotted a fat worm snaking toward a puddle. He pounced, pinched it between his fingers, and began to slurp it up. That’s when he came face to face with a ghoul.
Forgotten, the fat little worm dropped away. At first, Fu Xi thought the terrible visage another demonic apparition. Bulbous, bloodshot eyes blinked at him in disbelief, as if Fu Xi were the monster. Skin stretched over its skull like a drum and cracked, bleeding lips pulled back over shriveled gums barely able to retain their teeth.
Horror and sympathy filled Fu Xi’s heart for the suffering creature, obviously closer to death and in worse shape than himself. “I had a worm,” he said, patting the ground. But his prey had already burrowed into the soft loam. “It was very fat, and I would be glad to share it, but I believe it has escaped.
“I think we may be able to dig up another, maybe you can help me. If I can get my strength back, I may be able to fashion a weapon, and we can hunt antelope.”
The ghoul smiled at him. He reached out to touch his new companion, but his new friend vanished in muddy ripples. Like the last wave from an ebbing tide, a moment of lucidity washed over Fu Xi.
I will go mad before I starve.
He rolled over and stared at the sun. A flicker of grey caught his eye. Fu Xi turned his head to see snarling teeth. A wolf protruded from the tall grass only a few feet away.
***
“Let me come with you!” I followed Leviathan outside onto the grand promenade where a host of Obsidian Warriors waited, commanded by Quexil.
“Patience,” Leviathan turned, replete in the Red Armor and long crimson cape he had worn when I first encountered him. “I must sail north on urgent business. I insist that you remain here.”
“Why? Are we not brothers? Is there any task, any burden you cannot share with me?”
He leaned in and whispered where the others could not hear, “There are big brothers, and there are little brothers.”
I would have been insulted if it were not for his playful nature.
“The duties of the Empire are mine alone. I must be seen by my subjects as solitary in the administration of Imperial rule. You must be properly presented to Poseidon before you can assume the duties of a god beyond Cin’s borders.
“Would you have me running about your lands, giving those in Cin the impression another god held imperium?”
“I understand now. How long will you be gone?”
“A month, maybe two. Autumn storms may delay me longer.” He winked. “What is a month to a god?”
To be alone again for a month, without the company of my kind, filled me with dread.
“What would you have me do in your absence?”
He laughed and grasped my shoulder, leading me to the edge of the steps overlooking the palace grounds. “Enjoy! Live like a god. No pleasure will be denied you.”
He led me down the steps. “Before I sail, I give you four gifts.”
The Chronicle of Fu Xi
***
Fu Xi became the worm squirming in the sand. This wolf wasn’t an illusion, a trick of the mind summoned by a dark god or starvation. It intended to make an easy meal of him.
With only moments left to live, Fu Xi began to laugh. “You might not like the way I taste. I don’t suppose I could talk you into helping me dig for worms?”
Looking about for danger, the wolf inched forward, jaws dripping. Fu Xi turned back to the sun, thankful to view it one more time before he passed into true eternity.
A dark blur erupted from the nearby grass. Fu Xi squeezed his eyes against the dirt and grass being thrown over him. He heard yelps and felt shaking ground before passing out.
***
Leviathan nodded to Quexil, who clapped sharply twice. Sunnah strolled from behind a hedge, leading the black and gray horses I’d learned to ride.
My beloved horses were the first two gifts.
Leviathan then drew a crimson sword similar to his from the scabbard tied to the stallion’s flank. He offered it as if it were holy.
“This is an orichalcum blade, wielded only by the gods. You’ve seen its power; you know what it can do. When the world was young, Father Poseidon crafted one set for each of his children from dragon fire. This sword and the matching armor,” he nodded to the bundle on the stallion’s back, “belonged to my sister. I now give them to you.”
“Why?” My astonishment at the majesty of these gifts was immeasurable.
Leviathan grasped me behind the neck, his grip like steel. Foreheads touching, he held my face close to his. “Because you called me, “Brother” and asked nothing in return.” He stabbed his finger at the distant horizon. “I have ten blood brothers who would gladly remove my head for one more ounce of power. My sister tried.
“You are worthy of the Red Sword, Fu Xi…,” He embraced me and whispered in my ear, “…as long as you never betray me, Brother.”
Glory and red metal blinded me, as Leviathan forged me into a tool serving his naked ambition. My heart shouted for me to throw down the Red Sword, to dig in my heels against the unrelenting tide that was his will.
Instead, I rejoiced.
He relaxed his grip and placed the hilt in my palm, tenderly closing my hand over the silken grip. “Brothers. Two gods, born to rule.”
“Brothers,” I nodded and embraced him.
Leviathan seemed to fight for composure as he gestured to the horses.
“Practice both horsemanship and combat until my return. Together, we will make plans for an expedition next spring to complete your quest for dragons. They are sacred to my people, too. Perhaps you will let me accompany you to Nushen, where you can present me to the Goddess Nuwa.
“Afterwards, we will return to Father’s empire. On that day, we shall ride side by side into Poseidon’s Temple. On that day, my brothers will remember what it once meant to be a god.”
Quexil stepped forward and bowed. “Great Paqua, the tide will only be with us a little longer.” A name only the Obsidian Warriors were permitted to call him, Paqua meant ‘Flat Nosed God’ in the Olmec tongue.
Leviathan ignored him. “It was no accident we found each other. It could only have been destiny, set in motion by Nuwa and Poseidon themselves. The world was put here for us to take.” He grasped my forearm. “Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Did I see greatness or madness in my brother’s eyes?
On the jetty I watched Leviathan’s ship sail beyond the sea wall. His spell seemed to fade as the crimson sails vanished over the horizon. Quexil escorted me to the palace as emptiness settled in my soul.
In retrospect, I am both ashamed and unapologetic regarding my affection for Leviathan. I was one who’d never known the taste of water, and now could not live without its life giving elixir. For thousands of years I walked alone, neither true god nor mortal. I never wanted to walk alone again.
“Lord Fu Xi,” Quexil called as I climbed the stairs into the palace. “Great Paqua bid that I obey your word as if it where his, but with one exception. You are not to leave the palace grounds.”
In the days that followed, I busied myself on horseback, with swordplay, and concubines. Sometimes, I ventured out to explore, but Quexil always appeared to remind me of Leviathan’s edict, or distracted me with ‘urgent’ matters needing my immediate attention.
Eventually, wine and women kept me in the palace as the days and nights became one. Soon, the quarry, the city and my home were all but forgotten. And so it would have remained if it had not been for Amiran.
The Chronicle of Fu Xi
25. The Fox and The Snake
When the red moon first kisses a Scythian maiden’s thigh, her mother bestows upon her the four daggers she will carry for the rest of her life. If she is of royal blood, s
he will receive five. The first dagger is named Vengeance, and must taste an enemy’s blood before the girl can taste the lips of her betrothed.
A Scythian maiden must take life before she can give it.
The Chronicle of Fu Xi
***
The slaver stewed in his own hate; rage rekindled against the Lo with every swell and each flash of lightning, a hot, irrational hate in a coldly rational man.
Why did he save me?
That question infuriated Virag more than his perpetual sea sickness, Spako’s snoring, the unceasing rain, or the excrement dumped an arm’s reach from his head every few hours.
Why did Aizarg spare my life?
A few weeks ago he would have attributed the Uros’s mercy to weakness, but now he wasn’t sure. Maybe it wasn’t a sign of weakness, but it was still a mistake.
Virag pushed thoughts of Aizarg out of his mind and peered from under the canopy, occasionally wiping the water from his eyes and trying to forget his misery. His head pounded in a never ending headache. The contents of his stomach, a few chunks of rancid fish, banged against his gut, begging for release.
Spako groaned, curled into a ball so tight Virag would not believe it if he didn’t see it. Spako’s enormous bulk forced Virag to pull up his restless legs, desperate for relief from the occasional cramp. He would order Spako out to fend for himself among the Lo, but he needed the brute. Without Spako, he’d be defenseless. Spako was a witless oaf, but also the only leverage Virag still possessed.
The more you walk the decks, the faster you’ll grow accustomed to the sea, and the sickness will pass, Aizarg had said.
Another of the man’s lies.
Virag wanted nothing to do with walking the decks. All his warriors, save Spako, had walked the decks. Now they were gone, taken by the waves.
Sickness or no sickness, I prefer this hell to the one exposed to the sea.
He hated the tiny boat, but he loathed the thought of drowning even more. Virag had come to hate many things and many people since Aizarg appeared at the outset of the flood.
The days following Virag’s confrontation with Ghalen blurred together. He ventured forth very little, dividing most of his time between vomiting and bailing. He passed the days doing exactly what he did now, peering out from under the canopy, watching the coming and goings on the adjacent rafts.
The nations surrounding the Great Sea, from Lo to Sammujad to Scythia, all knew him as the Marsh Fox. Before the Deluge, secure in his cocoon of power, the title amused him. Now he clung to it like a lifeline. The title held salvation. Virag must now become the Marsh Fox if he were to survive and exact his revenge.
Safe in his soggy den, the Fox listened and watched and waited.
Be quiet, be still. Let them forget I am here.
His stomach rumbled. Judging by the dimness of the light and restlessness of those on the surrounding rafts, the hour of rations drew near.
He kicked Spako. “Get up!”
The giant stirred, rocking the boat uncomfortably.
“Wake up, you idiot.”
Spako’s eyes glinted in the darkness. “Lord?”
“Make yourself useful and draw our rations. And be quick about it.”
Spako slowly crawled from under the tarp and slipped on the nearby raft with a thud. Virag noticed how much weight his body guard had lost since the Deluge began.
If he starves, he won’t be of much use to me.
He also instructed the oaf to listen and watch, but Spako wasn’t terribly useful in that regard. Virag needed news from beyond the cesspool, of what Aizarg and the men were doing. He also told Spako to bring back any reeds he could manage to steal.
No one knew when the rain would end. No one knew when they would make landfall. And no one knew when the fish would return. Rations grew thin, and bellies began to ache. Fear would soon take root among the Lo.
Virag counted on it.
He stretched his legs into the warm void left by Spako’s absence. Blood filled his knobby legs, and his joints cracked. The slaver lifted the blanket off the bulge he’d been reclining against and patted the carefully wrapped horde of dried fish.
Virag horded three-fourths of his ration, and half of Spako’s. Food would soon become the most precious of commodities. Virag grew up hungry. Famine was an old friend, and he’d come to relish the burning in his belly, a fire to keep his mind keen and hatred hot.
The sound of women’s voices approached above the noise of the rain. The Fox peeked from his den’s shadows. The wind and waves did carry most of the excrement way from Virag’s boat, but that didn’t matter. The women took pleasure in dumping their refuse as close to his boat as possible. Green slime and flecks of brown, peppered the bow, regardless of the unrelenting rain. Now, he didn’t care.
The closer, the better. I can hear them more clearly. His razor-sharp mind cataloged every person, each passing event. In only a few days, he knew every Lo woman by sight. The Lo women often spoke freely among themselves, forgetting the slaver reclined unseen only a few feet away.
They think of me like a dog.
Now the Fox waited in eager anticipation for the unsuspecting herd to come to the watering hole, carelessly dropping morsels along with their filth.
He quickly recognized the two approaching women as Minnow Clan, each bearing a clay pot on their hip.
A tall woman clothed in long, winter garb glided effortlessly over the rolling decks. Wild, gray hair framed her sunken, downcast eyes.
That hag is Ro-xandra, Ba-lok’s aunt. The Great Wave swept the barren widow’s husband, a Minnow elder, overboard. She’s quiet, but the Minnow bitches listen to her. Her bitterness may prove useful.
Behind Ro-xandra a short, frumpy girl, barely a woman, followed along, chattering incessantly. Clothed only in a summer loin cloth, her dark features and long, black hair hinted at a strong streak of Sammujad blood.
Ahh! Doinna, my stupid little songbird. He’d learned more gossip from this girl than any other Lo wench. Engaged to a Crane man taken by the demons, her fate was now very much in doubt. Virag’s ears perked up, trying to pick out her words from the rain.
“You don’t think he likes her, do you?”
Ro-xandra shrugged. “She’s beautiful and wild. Men often desire the exotic. Perhaps Ghalen is one of those men, I do not know.”
“But she’s a-g’an...” Doinna sputtered and looked down insecurely at her small breast and formless hips. “A Scythian!”
Ro-xandra’s lip lifted, as if she were too tired to manage a full smile. “Yes, but a penis doesn’t care about that, does it? And you are not the only eligible young Lo maiden in the arun-ki. Ghalen spends much of his time with the Crane. His loyalty lies with Aizarg and not Ba-lok. Su-gar is also beautiful and unmarried. When she ceases mourning, she may win Ghalen’s hand.”
“What does Su-gar have that I don’t?”
Virag stifled a laugh. Squat Doinna would have barely been suitable as a serving wench in his yurt.
Su-gar, however...I could have fetched excellent trade from any Scythian lord for a night with her.
“Anyway,” Doinna shrugged and stuck her nose up in the air. “I hear tell Su-gar has eyes for another man.”
Ro-xandra raised an eyebrow. “Be careful what you say, girl.”
“It’s true! Everyone knows it.”
“Atamoda owns the Uros’s heart.”
“I wish Ghalen would notice me,” Doinna sighed and poured her pot into the sea.
Ro-xandra put a hand on her hip and considered the girl with contempt. “We’re running out of food, the men struggle to keep the arun-ki afloat, and all the young worry about is what is between their legs.”
Doinna harrumphed, and then turned back toward the Minnow Clan’s rafts. “At least what’s between my legs still works. Anyway, there isn’t anything else to do, so I might as well find the pleasures of a man to keep me busy.” She walked away, leaving Ro-xandra staring incredulously after her.
Ro-xand
ra spoke softly, never taking her eyes off Doinna’s receding figure.
Virag heard every word.
“Laugh and love now, foolish girl. Let Ghalen, or any man for that matter, drop his seed between your thighs. I hope you enjoy it. When your belly swells like Sahti’s, and your stomach burns with hunger, you will curse every second of that pleasure. When you hold your emaciated infant to your dry breast, do not come begging me for morsels.”
Ro-xandra spit into the water and slowly followed Doinna into the crowd.
She knows the food will soon be gone. Virag sensed deep bitterness dwelling in Ro-xandra, and, if properly bent to his will, it might prove useful.
He smiled to himself, taking pleasure in turning Okta’s insult into strength. He was about to recede into the boat’s depths when she emerged from the arun-ki’s warm heart, small pot in hand. Judging by the way she casually swung her arm, he knew it wasn’t full. The dark beauty gracefully traversed the pitching decks, casually glancing everywhere except toward his boat.
She never comes here.
He planned to eventually seek her out, but it pleased him she made the first move.
The slaver recognized a fellow predator. Like him, she had no place among the gentle Marsh people. She slithered in plain sight for all to see, but only Virag recognized her.
“She wants to know what I’m doing,” he muttered to himself. “I want to know what she is doing, too.” The Fox leaned forward, barely sticking his snout from the den.
She held the pot out into the rain and dumped its meager contents into the water. Their eyes briefly met before she looked away and disappeared into the ruddy light, never looking back.
The Snake slithered away while the Fox crept back into the den.
Perhaps it’s time I learn a thing or two from the Snake.
Virag’s stomach growled. Irritated, he wondered what kept Spako.
***
The Sammujad giant towered over the Lo at the end of the line snaking into the arun-ki’s center, where the holy woman they called Atamoda doled out the daily food ration. The decks buckled more than usual as he cast a wary eye on restless white caps, which seemed to glow in the gray twilight.
