God's Last Breath

by Sam Sykes

  Even when she brought him down.

  Three strokes was all it took: one at his wrist to weaken his grip, another at his calf to slow him down, one more across his hand to knock his sword away. He barely even noticed what had happened before she leapt and delivered a kick to his chest that knocked him to the earth.

  He glanced to his sword, moved for it. Her boot slammed down on his chest and drove him to the earth. Her blade was at his throat. When he looked up it, he saw no tears, no sorrow, no regrets. And he knew that she saw the same in his eyes.

  There was no room between them for that. No room for anything but three feet of steel and a single breath that Lenk held as he waited for it to plunge into his throat.

  Her blow was lightning fast, barely a twitch of her hand. And yet it still was not fast enough to kill him.

  A blur of motion, a great shadow, a scream; he wasn’t sure what happened, or what was happening. Not until he saw a tremendous hand wrap around Shuro’s body and pluck her from the earth.

  And then, it became all too clear.

  The battle ceased all at once. Oerboros and the cold-eyed warriors alike turned their eyes skyward. Mouths and blades dropped alike in awe as a shadow darker than night, vaster than sky fell upon them.

  He loomed over the courtyard as a colossus of naked flesh, growing larger with every breath until Shuro looked like an insect in his grip. Beneath his jaw and above his brow, a halo of serpents writhed, hissed, shrieked in anticipation as he let them loose. His stride shook the earth as he stepped forward and gazed down upon the battle below through eyes the color of a pale moon.

  Mocca.

  No, he thought, correcting himself. The man in white was gone. This colossus, this thing left behind, had a different name.

  “Khoth-Kapira,” Oerboros said. Blood fell from his wings as he rose up into the sky and made a long, courteous bow. “You do take your time, master.”

  “Have you not learned?” Khoth-Kapira’s voice boomed, sending the sands trembling. “In all your years of violence, have you not learned? Have you seen any fruits of your labor beyond bloodstains and broken metal? Have you known anything in your lives but violence?”

  The cold-eyed warriors said nothing—or if they did, they were far too small for Khoth-Kapira to have heard.

  “All your potential,” he rumbled. “All your wasted years. You never stopped to realize …”

  He raised a massive foot.

  “That it all ends the same way.”

  Some ran. Some screamed. Some merely stood and stared, silent, muttering prayers to gods they didn’t believe in. All of them ended the same way.

  His foot came down. The earth shuddered. A cloud of dust erupted to smother the stars. For one brief, merciless moment, Lenk could hear Shuro scream.

  And when he drew his foot back up, nothing remained but broken swords and greasy smears upon the earth.

  Lenk should have fled right then and there, he knew. He should have screamed. Failing all of that, he should have prayed.

  But he did not.

  He knew who would hear them.

  “I am sorry you had to see that.”

  He looked up. Khoth-Kapira’s baleful stare was upon him. All of the serpents blossoming from his face looked down upon him with keen curiosity. Shuro hung limp in his hand, eyes wide with horror, the color gone from her face, as though she had also died down there.

  “I am sorry that I had to resort to it.” He shook his head with a long, ancient sigh. “I was meant to stop all this. And here …” He looked to Shuro in his hand. His eyes narrowed. He began to squeeze. “It seems I yet have gruesome work to do.”

  “NO!”

  Lenk’s own voice sounded small and insignificant against the rolling thunder of Khoth-Kapira’s. He almost didn’t believe that his words would reach a creature so high up.

  And yet the great demon paused and looked down at him.

  “Don’t,” he said. “Please.”

  “I spared her once before. And she nearly destroyed this world,” he said. “Is that what you wish, Lenk? That she should ruin all the great works I will accomplish? That she cost so many precious lives with her shortsightedness?”

  “No,” Lenk said. “But you can’t kill her.”

  “I beg to differ.” Oerboros, wings slowly flapping, hovered beside Khoth-Kapira. “From here, it looks like it would take hardly a flick of the wrist.”

  “Gods damn it, NO!” Lenk roared. He held his sword up, though against such a creature it seemed more an act of petulance than defiance. “No! No more of this! No more blood, no more death, no more massacre! The more you do it, the more you’ll need to keep doing it!”

  Khoth-Kapira’s face was unreadable from so high up. His eyes, along with those of his serpents, were locked upon Lenk.

  “Whatever you want to do,” Lenk said, “whatever you want from this world, you’re not going to get it by killing.”

  A long silence.

  And then a longer sigh, a dark and ancient sound, like a mountain settling upon the mountain of the world. And despite the thunder that was his voice, when Khoth-Kapira spoke, it was with tenderness.

  “As you have so often shown me.”

  He drew a deep breath and, with it, seemed to diminish. And with each successive breath, he grew smaller and smaller. Until finally, Khoth-Kapira was gone and Mocca, naked and small, stood before him once more, the limp form of Shuro in his arms.

  The serpents disappeared, slithering back into his flesh. What remained was a soft smile.

  “For all my centuries, I still have so much to learn,” he said. He looked down at Shuro, frowned. “But I cannot let her threaten me again.”

  Mocca glanced skyward. And as though this were enough to summon him, Oerboros descended to land in a flutter of wings and a cloud of dust beside him. His empty bronze face looked over the paralyzed woman in Mocca’s arms. Then, slowly, he looked to Lenk.

  The Aeon’s stare, empty and black in his mask of bronze, betrayed no emotion. So perhaps it was just Lenk’s imagination that he suspected the creature was smiling at him.

  “Curious,” he said, in his chiming brass voice, “how often the master seems swayed by mortals.” He glanced to Mocca. “One would expect you’d learn.”

  “If we are to spare mortals the agony of their deaf gods,” Mocca replied, “we must strive to show a better example.” He offered Shuro up to Oerboros. “Let ours be a portrait of mercy and hope.”

  “Of course.” Oerboros took the woman in one arm, cradling her like an infant. He glanced to the bloody mass of broken bones and shattered swords upon the sands. “Such fine examples we are setting tonight.”

  His wings stretched out, bearing him and his prisoner aloft. He ascended into the night sky and took off, flying in the direction they had come from, back toward the camp of the Chosen. Lenk felt a pain in the back of his head.

  “He’s not going to hurt her, is he?” he asked.

  “The Aeons, for all their gifts, were cursed with a desire to be loved,” Mocca replied. “Even when he wished me dead, Oerboros never had a desire to disappoint me.”

  “And he did hate you,” Lenk said. “I heard him say it. Yet here he is.” He glanced to Mocca. “What happened?”

  Mocca offered him a smile. “Perhaps I have a talent for persuading people to see things in a larger perspective.” He laid a hand on Lenk’s shoulder. “You, for example, did more than you realize by standing up to her.”

  Lenk looked to the empty sky where Oerboros had flown. “She’ll be all right, won’t she? I have your word?”

  “She will. The entire world will, thanks to you.” Mocca’s smile grew broad, almost ecstatic. “You found your purpose tonight, Lenk. Weapons are used for many reasons. If yours can save more lives, then that is a noble goal, is it not?”

  Lenk returned the smile, though it felt heavy and tired on his face, like it might slip off at any moment and land with a thud on the bloody dust. He believed Mocca, for what Mocca
said was true, yet a part of him felt worse for hearing it.

  After all, no matter whom it saved or killed, a weapon was still covered in blood at the end.

  SEVEN

  PROPHECY, FRAUD, WHATEVER

  At the height of his reign, the sixtieth Emperor Karner claimed that Karneria’s strongholds numbered as countless as the stars across the face of the sky.

  Of course, after many years of shict raids, slave uprisings, tulwar incursions, and Sainite offensives, the seventy-fifth Emperor Karner brought that number down to something a little more reasonable.

  While Karneria was still strong, the Empire’s designs for their outposts switched from quantity to quality. And when it came to quality, the Karnerian definition consisted of being big, black, and imposing as shit.

  Such as the one Asper stood before.

  Fortress Diplomacy, as it was officially deemed by its occupants, was built not so long ago as an embassy in Cier’Djaal in what was then Temple Square. When the Sainites moved in across the street in what had become Temple Row, it had quickly built up: a tasteful iron gate being replaced by wooden palisades, then by stone walls, then towering iron-reinforced ramparts. And from behind it, construction had begun on the massive statue that now scraped the sky far overhead.

  Asper craned her neck, looking up at Daeon the Conqueror. Towering, muscular, clad in dark armor with a pair of horns thrusting from his imposing brow, the stone god had seen better days. Sainite attacks had scorched his face clean off, shorn one of the horns from his head, and broken off his left arm and shoulder.

  Still, she thought as she looked to the pile of rubble across the way, he wasn’t doing as bad as the Sainite garrison.

  The war between the two armies had left Cier’Djaal scarred. Its citizens today lived in constant terror, wondering when the next clash between them would occur and who would be killed in the crossfire.

  Asper, as she looked up at the towering metal doors of Fortress Diplomacy, had a different question in mind that day.

  “So,” she said aloud, “do I just knock or …”

  She glanced to her side.

  “Or what?”

  Her companion offered her an unhelpful look. Or what Asper assumed was an unhelpful look, anyway; it was hard to tell from beneath the hood. But she could clearly make out Scarecrow’s unpleasant sneer.

  “Ain’t our problem,” she grunted. “We took care of our part ages ago.” She glanced around the square warily. “Ain’t even supposed to be here. Ain’t supposed to be seen together.”

  Asper cast a look around Temple Row. Where the cobblestones had once thrived with priests, penitents, and the faithful of a dozen different deities, all that remained was rubble, scorch marks, and bloodstains painting months of warfare across the roads.

  “I doubt that’ll be a problem.” She quirked a brow at Scarecrow. “Why did you come, anyway?”

  “They wanted t’make sure ya got here all right.” Scarecrow sniffed. “And ya did, so I’ll be on my way.”

  “Wait, who’s ‘they’? You never said—”

  Asper was cut off by the sudden thrust of a skinny finger in her face.

  “Ya just worry about yer part. We did ours.” Scarecrow pulled her cloak tighter around her body, turned, and began to stalk away. “Stick to the plan. You’re good at that, I hear.”

  “But what if it doesn’t—”

  “Then it was nice knowin’ ya.”

  Scarecrow rounded a corner and disappeared before Asper could call out again. She fought the urge to go chasing after her. Not that she expected Scarecrow would provide any more answers, but …

  She glanced back up at the looming walls of Fortress Diplomacy.

  Just how the hell am I supposed to do this?

  She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

  Calm down. You know the plan. This will work. You can make it work.

  There was a pause as she held her breath. Usually, this was the part where she offered a prayer to Talanas. But this time, she refrained.

  On the off chance anyone in heaven was listening, she didn’t want them to see this next part.

  She raised a hand and rapped an echoing knock upon the iron door. A long moment of silence passed. She glanced around the ruins of Temple Row, glancing at shadows, looking to the alleys and corners. With every passing moment, they seemed to stir of their own volition, seemed to creep a little closer every time she took her eyes off them.

  Her paranoia was interrupted by a creak of metal, then deafened by a great, rusted groan. The doors slowly eased open, pushed by three Karnerian soldiers—dark-skinned, fine-boned youths in black armor.

  As the door swung open, they released the handle. With rehearsed order, they immediately drew swords and swept toward her. She almost turned to bolt when they swept past her, forming a protective ring around her. Their eyes were on the shadows and alleys, just as hers had been.

  “Priestess! Madam! Thank you for coming!”

  Her attentions were seized by another soldier who came rushing toward her. He stumbled to an awkward halt, fired off an even more awkward salute, and flashed an unbearably awkward grin at her.

  “Marcher Pathon, at your service!”

  His voice was too shrill, Asper thought, cracking on the last syllable. He was too skinny for his armor, too gangly for the sword at his hip. But it was his grin, so broad as to threaten to burst out of his helmet, that brought a frown to her own face.

  Too big, she thought. His smile’s too big for a soldier.

  Only when he started shifting uncomfortably did she realize she was staring.

  “Marcher Pathon.” She thought to ask him how old he was but realized she couldn’t bear the answer. “Your garrison called for me?”

  “Ah, yes, priestess. Thank you for coming.” He paused, blinked. “Oh, shit. Sorry, I already said that.” He coughed. “Not that it’s not true, madam. Priestess. Madam.”

  “Right.” She shot him a peculiar look. “What’s this all about, then?”

  As if you don’t already know, she thought, scolding herself inwardly.

  “I was sent by our Foescribe, madam,” Pathon said. “I’m not permitted to speak casually on the subject.” He glanced to the three other soldiers. “All clear?”

  “Clear,” they grunted, one after the other.

  Slowly, they backed away, ushering her into the interior of the fortress. Together, they seized the door and hauled it shut with a massive crash of metal. They swiftly ran to the side, two of them sliding a great metal bar across the door to secure it while the third started hauling what appeared to be heavy sandbags in front of the gate.

  Lot of security, Asper noted inwardly. More than I’d expect, even for soldiers at war. She swallowed hard, winced. They did it. Son of a bitch, this might actually work.

  “Priestess?”

  She glanced over at Pathon, who made a gesture to follow him. She reached down to her medicine bag and gave it a brief jostle; it weighed exactly as much as it did when she left the temple.

  All up to you now, she told herself. And with that, she nodded toward Pathon and followed him as he led her through the courtyard.

  With conquests as widespread as theirs had been, there were more than a few legends about the Karnerian Empire: their ferocity, their fanaticism, and their absolute disregard for the rights of anyone outside their empire chief among them. But it was their discipline, the iron machine of their great marches, that was the most renowned.

  Asper had often wondered what it might be like inside one of their fortresses. She had always imagined them as bristling with activity: phalanx squares running drills beneath the gazes of bellowing commanders, archer squadrons firing relentlessly into targets, forges belching smoke into the sky in an attempt to slake the Empire’s endless thirst for steel.

  Funny, she thought, never once had she considered that a fortress full of warriors would look more like people who had just seen war.

  The courtyard of Fortress Diplomac
y might very well have once held endless drills and marches. Of course, it probably looked a lot different before three months of warfare.

  The forge had gone cold but for one haggard-looking Karnerian wearily tending to a pile of damaged armor. Whatever straw targets had been used for archery had been broken down to be used as kindling for impromptu campfires. The stones were seared with scorch marks from Sainite fireflasks, the barracks had been consumed by flame, and the soldiers …

  Well, there were still plenty of soldiers, at least.

  Far from the disciplined squares she had been expecting, the Karnerians huddled around their fires. Some wore bandages that had been soaked through, some lay unmoving on pallets, and even the most hale-looking among them looked like they hadn’t slept in days. Only a few wearily looked up as she and Pathon passed, sparing no more than a grunt for Pathon’s enthusiastic salutes.

  “Talanas,” she whispered. “What happened here?”

  “Hm?” Pathon glanced over his shoulder. “Ah. Right. Well, the battle to secure safety for the people of Cier’Djaal remains … difficult. We struck a mighty blow in the early days of the war, taking the enemy garrison and bringing low their cliff god. Many of us thought the pigeons would crumble shortly after.”

  “Pigeons?”

  “The Sainites, madam,” Pathon replied. “We called them that for those birds they ride. Kind of ironic, isn’t it? We didn’t even think they’d use them to mount a counterattack.”

  He gestured to a pair of nearby burnt-out buildings, blackened by long dead fires.

  “They dropped a heap of fireflasks on our barracks, burnt us out.”

  He pointed to the far end of the courtyard, where a marble building rose up, scarred by scorch marks.

  “Their fires couldn’t get our temple, fortunately.”

  “So why not put the wounded in there?”

  Pathon shot her a queer look. “The wounded? In a temple to the Conqueror?” He shook his head. “We sons of Daeon are hardy. We made do.”

  He gestured to the various pallets and bedrolls around the courtyard. She didn’t doubt that Karnerians were a hardy lot—she had seen them fight, after all. But many nights of sleeping on the cold ground would hinder anyone, even people who weren’t living with the fear of fire falling from the sky.