Off Darius’s order, all emotions were gone and chaos resumed. The wolves below were riled up again. Again spears were pointed at Nisha and Fenrir, and Ramus—the runt—was already charging her.
No one seemed overly threatened. Ramus, being overly self-conscious and feeling like he had something to prove, was always brasher and more foolish than the rest. So his attack wasn’t really that surprising, nor was it very swift. But… it was as brash and sloppy as you’d expect. So, with a weak war-cry that wasn’t really necessary, Ramus was charging Nisha with his spear ready to thrust.
Not really surprised, Nisha looked at Ramus and raised an eyebrow. She was always a step quicker than her brothers, and this time was no different. As she scanned the room and watched Ramus charge her, time seemed to slow down. His form is all wrong, she thought. He’ll be lucky if he doesn’t trip over his own feet.
Ramus was still charging, his face contorted as he yelled angrily, trying to psych himself up—like they do in the movies. With two hands on his spear, it hung just over his right shoulder, ready to plant the sharp end in Nisha’s chest. And with that, Nisha decided that it was time. But first…
In her left hand, Nisha spun Arrous’s spear around, high above her head, and she decided to give it back to him. With another spin, Nisha flung the Arrous’s spear at him.
Arrous collapsed and rolled back-and-forth over the floor, and he had a new hole in his other leg. But at least he got his spear back. Grunting, he bit down on the corner of his lip and hummed loudly, containing the urge to scream. He glared up at Nisha, and while it was as painful as could be expected, he yanked the spear out of his thigh and huffed in painful relief.
Nisha glanced back at Ramus. He was still yelling and still charging. Granted that he was a few steps closer, she still had time. And when Ramus’s spear shot towards her, Nisha was already ready for it. She casually stepped aside and slammed her own spear into the back of his knees. The blow dropped Ramus, and he came smashing down on the ground.
She kicked away Ramus’s spear then slid the sharp end of her spear up to Ramus’s neck, next to the throbbing vein on the side of it. “So,” she said, “who’s next?”
There weren’t any takers, and the renewed idea of mutiny slowed down again. Smartly enough; Brontus, Glenstark, and even Darius took a step back and waited. Ramus wasn’t that smart, and his hurt pride fueled his defiance. Instead, Ramus the runt, having suffered a monumental episode of embarrassment took a different route. Despite Nisha’s spear at his neck, he bellowed out a string of loud, crude curses (not worth repeating) at his sister.
Nisha’s response was calm and simple enough. “Ramus, if it makes you feel better, you can call me whatever names you like. it really doesn’t matter to me, not too much. But you should remember that your rudeness is impolite, and it will only create more dissention.” The sharpened edge of Nisha’s spear squeezed against the plump, throbbing vein on Ramus’s neck. “And if that happens, I’ll have to open your neck and turn it into a geyser.”
Ramus’s lips quivered with fear, and it was obvious to everyone that he was afraid, deathly afraid. Still, pride is a dangerous beast, and Ramus started up with another stream of insults that ended with “You don’t have the balls to kill me”.
Nisha shrugged and casually replied, “Well, at least you’re half-right.” Then, as smooth as her reply was, a flick of her wrist sent her spear down to Ramus’s chest, splitting open his armored chestplate and sending a splatter of blood across the marble floor.
Ramus let out a whiny grunt and grabbed at his chest, sloppily swinging at Nisha’s spear, to knock it away. Nisha’s spear wasn’t there, and Ramus was left swiping at air. Fearful of where her spear might hit next, Ramus’s eyes franticly darted around and looked for it. It wasn’t anywhere he looked, but when black-steel dashed past his eyes, he knew he’d found it, and Nisha’s spear cut into the fat vein on his neck.
As expected, Ramus’s neck turned into a busted water mane, and pulses of bright red shot through the air like a sprinkler. Then, with three more pulses, blood splattered across the white marble floor, leaving streaks of splattered red on it.
After that, Ramus finally reacted. Still squirming around as he grasped at his neck with one hand, Ramus grabbed at his wounded chest with his other hand. Finally, after some significant fumbling around, he had effectively stifled the bleeding. And, also and almost as importantly, Ramus learned to keep his mouth shut.
“Relax,” Nisha told him. “It’s just a prick. But...” she took a step closer to him and slid her spear beneath his chin again. “Say the word, and I can end this now, right now.” Though her eyes never left Ramus, her words weren’t for him. They were meant for Fenrir, and two simple words—do it—from him would result in Ramus becoming a bigger, messier fountain, and their oath of Seven are One would become nothing more than just a slight overstatement.
Though they weren’t the ones Nisha was expecting, Fenrir did have some words for her. “That’s enough,” he said as he slid his meaty hand over her spear and gently guided it away. “There will be no more bloodshed.” His words were sad, and he still sounded defeated. “Darius. Darius?”
“Fine,” Darius huffed. “We’re done.” He reluctantly lowered his spear but was sure to add, “For now.”
Nisha’s eyes were still cold, and her azure pupils twitched with anticipation. Her lips were pursed with the same fury, and her nostrils flared, pulsing with eagerness—eagerness to end this charade. With her spear still at Ramus’s throat, she was ready to end him as well. They made their choice, she told herself, and they’ll die for their defiance.
Then she felt Fenrir’s hand on her shoulder, and her rage fell off of her. While she was as reluctant as can be, Nisha didn’t fight the calming effect of her loving father, and she removed her spear from her brother’s neck.
The cease-fire wouldn’t last long, and they were soon interrupted.
CH 10: Queens of the Stone Age
The wind whistled loudly and came in from nowhere. A schoolgirl’s giggle followed, echoing down from the lightless cavern roof. The sounds swept through the cavern, and hints of swaying wolf-fur and the subtle brushback of Nisha’s hair were the only signs that any of it was real.
Another giggle echoed through the cavern, and a woman’s voice followed. “Wow,” she said. “It’s the end of the world, and you guys are hanging out, in here… having some sort of a redneck Tennessee Thanksgiving. So unprofessional.”
From the dark shadows painted over the curved stone ceiling, Lilly emerged and floated down, drifting towards the raised platform that was home to all of the commotion. All eyes were on her, but despite her beauty, the drifting waves of golden hair that topped her head, or the elegant red ribbon on her wrist that was wildly whipping around her; her missing arm was still the most noticeable thing about her.
Drifting down like a feather on a calm summer’s day, Lilly’s descent was lazily slow and confident. Landing near Fenrir’s throne, she jabbed her finger at the busted armrest. Despite still being broken, the armrest had mended itself quite nicely and was almost completely intact. Lilly ran her thumb over pieces of broken stone that were still there and admired the engraving and the parts of the throne that were still intact. Smiling, she said, “Hello, Fenrir, and Fenrir’s children.”
The wolves were angrily stirred, and a plethora of grunts and growls rumbled from below. “Quiet,” Fenrir told them, again trying to extinguish the flames of rebellion. “Quiet down now, all of you.” He then addressed his six rebellious, anointed children. “It’s okay. It’s fine. Steady yourselves. Glenstark, Brotus, tend to your brothers. Go, go now. Take your Ramus and Arrous to the side and tend to them.” To Nisha, he only said, “Nisha,” and she understood.
Nisha glared at Lilly then turned back to Fenrir and nodded, conveying her compliance. I won’t start anything. Aggressively, she yanked her spear to her side, and with heavy footsteps, she stepped towards the back of the throne room. All the while, s
he kept one unblinking, watchful eye on Darius and the other one locked on Lilly.
Having settled the crowd, Fenrir addressed Lilly. “Lilith,” he growled.
“It’s Lilly but… go on.”
Fenrir growled again and slid his glaive over his back, beneath his heavy fur cloak. Sticking to Fenrir’s back, the glaive’s wide black edge hung just behind his left shoulder. A sharp shadow, of sort. Fenrir scratched at his beard and studied Lilly, pondering her potentially wicked motives. She’s missing an arm, he realized. Tilting his head to the side, he got a better look at it, her missing arm, and stated the obvious. “You’re missing an arm.”
Lilly rolled her eyes and huffed at Fenrir’s lack of subtly. Really? “Yes, I’m missing an arm, or so I’ve been told.”
“What do you want?” Fenrir repeated.
“Many things,” Lilly sighed, “many things.” Then, with more than a hint of royal arrogance, she began strutting around the elevated platform of Fenrir’s throne room, and like a curious child and quite melodramatically, she inspected her surroundings. She looked over the sea of sitting wolves below her—and with their golden eyes, they stared back at her with their drifting heads following her every move.
Lilly chuckled lightly at her audience then continued her examination. She took a few steps and examined Fenrir’s six anointed gods, his chosen children. Still holding onto his busted neck, a sour look was painted across Ramus’s face. Glenstark was next to him, on a knee. Bother were diligently watching Lilly. Brontus had just finished dragging Arrous off to the side, a few feet away from Ramus. Applying pressure on Arrous’s wounded right leg, Arrous did the same to his left thigh.
Darius, the lone wolf, was coolly standing on the other side of the room. Ten steps further than he was just seconds ago, he had effectively slinked away and was stealthily sliding along the shadow-soaked wall. Now leaning against it, Darius was quietly watching—and plotting, no doubt, as he often did. Lilly gave him a sideways look, grinned, and let out a curt and curious “huh.”
“Lilly,” Fenrir said, this time with more authority and irritation. “What do you want?”
“What do I want,” Lilly echoed and spun around, still grinning. She walked over to Fenrir. “What do I want? Like you, I want many things. Although… from the looks of it, it seems like you’d settle for a more loyal fan base.” Smiling, Lilly fake-shivered and shimmied her shoulders. “Quite the chill factor in here.”
Fenrir snarled, and Lilly moved on from the subject and moved on to scratching at her armless stump of a shoulder. “I am only kidding, Wolf.”
Fenrir growled again then said, “Get to the point, Lilly.” Still worrying about Nisha and what she might do, Fenrir glanced over at her and saw her hands grinding against the shaft of her spear, hard. Her face. The bottled anger caused by Nisha’s forced politeness was chiseled across her face. An errant wave of Nisha’s shimming Zebra-striped hair had drifted over half her face and gave only the slightly concealment of Nisha’s narrowed eyes, tightly pursed lips, and flaring nostrils. Sensing that his daughter was about to erupt, he subtly shook his head at her. No, Nisha. Please, not now. Then he found him repeating himself, again. “Lilly, get to the point. Why are you here? What is it that you want?”
Fenrir finally turned towards Lilly. When he saw her grinning and where her eyes were directed, he realized that he wasn’t the only one that noticed Nisha’s anger. Observing Nisha’s hands grinding against her spear, like Fenrir had noticed, Lilly quipped, “Trying to start a fire?”
Nisha swung her head to the side and huffed, flinging her drifting hair out of her eyes. Sizing Lilly up, Nisha grinned at her while her eyes held on to her fierceness. She huffed and jabbed her spear in to the ground, for later, if need be. Then, obligingly and irritated, she showed Lilly her palms.
Lilly nodded at her then turned back to Fenrir. “Wow, Fenrir. These new gods of yours, they’re so wild, so full of vigor, brimming with bravery.”
“Aye, they are. As we were … once.”
“Yeah, but that was a long time ago. A long time ago. The world was still young back then. When was that? Four, five, six cycles ago? Young and full of vigor—you were at least.” Lilly smiled at him as she reminisced. “You were just a pup.” Studying Fenrir’s face, Lilly thought: he looks just like his father, Aslern. She remembered the old-wolf and how Aslern always laughed so loud and boisterously, slapping his armored knee as he told his stories. She remembered the old days, when Aslern would leap across the icy planes of the old world and climb its mountains of crystal-clear ice, like a mountain goat—just to slide down the smooth side of the mountain and into the icy oceans, all with the happy youthfulness of a wolf-cub.
Lilly remembered when the old-wolf would drag his giant, limp, prehistoric prey hundreds of miles—across grassy plains, frozen tundras, and deserts of crystal sand—just to get them back to his cavernous home, the Mountain of Bones. Even before he went mad, Aslern had collected the bones of his prey, at least the ones worth collecting. That damned giant wolf would drag his massive prey halfway across the world, she remembered, what a sight, it was.
The old times were better, she thought to herself. They always are. The likes of Aslern, the beasts of the old world, the carved mountains that stretched past the clouds and into the heavens, the great grass tunnels that weaved through the earth, the underground forests alive with purple-leaved trees and indigo grass, the way the tunnels lit up lime-green when the moon-lilies came into season; such wonders would never be seen again.
Lilly’s smile disappeared when she remembered the end of her story, when the old-wolf went mad. She remembered: when Aslern would tear through whole villages and leave them lifeless, when he hunted down any-and-all creatures that had even the slightest bit of god’s blood in their veins, when the giant wolf leapt into the ocean and swam hundreds of miles—just to tear through an island that was vibrant with life, just to leave it desolate and destroyed. She remembered when he’d finish off one island and move on to the next one, just to do it again, and she remembered how the old-wolf spent his final years, burrowing through the dirt and digging his network of tunnels beneath and through his mountain home.
Lilly remembered Fenrir as well. She remembered the younger version of him—the skinny, beardless one. She remembered the somber version of Fenrir—from the years he spent cleaning up after his insane father. She remembered when Fenrir cried, cried in her arms as he agonized over his father’s actions and what he had to do. And when Fenrir decided to kill Aslern, and when he actually did it; Lilly remembered those moments as well.
Finally she remembered the aftermath, when she found Fenrir. Deep within the Mountain of Bones, Fenrir had just finished consuming his father’s remains, and though empowered by the new god-blood in his veins, Fenrir’s injuries were still quite severe, and he was still near death. When Lilly found Fenrir, he was face-down in a large black puddle, his glaive was an arm’s length away, lying useless in the same puddle as Fenrir. And when Lilly nursed him back to health from his near-fatal wounds, she remembered that too.
The memories of Aslern sparked Lilly to think about her own predecessor, but she couldn’t. Try as she might, she couldn’t remember a thing about them. Her mother, her father? Did she even have such things? Had she ever? Nothing rang a bell. What she did remember was: for as long as she could remember, it was always just her, only her. For the most part, she was perfectly okay with that. I’m young at heart, she told herself, and I still look young (especially for my age). And that was enough for her. She was Lilith, Lilly, the God of Vengeance, the Mother of Retribution, the Reckoning of the Scorned. She was… the Queen of Sorrows.
Lilly shrugged off her trip down memory lane and smiled sweetly at Fenrir, her old friend. Cleansings were always hard on him, she knew, just like his father. Then she shrugged and thought: but I still need an arm.
“Yes,” Lilly said, “Once we all were young and full of vigor… once.” Pausing before she finished speaking, Lilly re
alized something she hadn’t originally noticed. Fenrir looked old. While he was younger than her—too many cycles to count, he looked twice his age. The wrinkles near his piercing blue eyes were deeply chiseled canals. His beard and slicked back hair seemed to be turning grayer by the second, ever since he awoke. He had bags under his eyes, and he looked tired and beaten. He was.
Lilly wrinkled up her forehead and ran her tongue back-and-forth across her bottom lip, thinking. Then, as she scratched at her stubbed shoulder again, she glanced over at Nisha, then over at Darius. Then, still scratching, she spun around and looked at the other anointed-wolves—the two healthy and the two injured one. Still trying to put the pieces together, Lilly turned again and studied the sea of wolves waiting below them, at the base of the stone staircase. “Wait,” Lilly sighed, realizing something else. They’re not strong enough. They’re all going to die.
With a pondering, half-fearful look, Lilly’s eyes snapped over to Fenrir before snapping back to the sea of the wolves. She spun around and looked back at Fenrir again, this time locking eyes with him. When he looked away, she knew. He hadn’t told them, but he already knows. He knows they’re not strong enough. He knows they won’t make it. Lilly quickly trotted over to him, her shoes clacking loudly on the marble floor. “Fenrir, “she whispered, her voice heavy with concern. “My dear boy, what have you done?”
Fenrir sighed and gave Lilly a heart-breaking look that only confirmed her suspicions. Again he looked away, ashamed of himself and of his failure. I should have done better, he thought. I should have raised them better, made them stronger. We should have awakened sooner.
The Awakening of the Gods (Forgotten Ones) Page 21
