God's Last Breath

by Sam Sykes

  There was simply no more room for anything else.

  The shadow was running, leaping from roof to roof. It barely even looked like it was there as the moonlight struck it, a hazy thing like a candle flickering in a strong breeze. But Gariath could still feel the echo of bone on his knuckles, the weight of the dagger in his hand.

  It wasn’t a bad dream.

  It wasn’t a candle.

  It was real, flesh and blood.

  He knew this because he needed to kill it.

  He roared and took off running. He drew closer, his heart pounding. He saw the shadow slowing, his blood pumping. He leapt across a gap and landed on the same roof as the shadow, claws stretching.

  He reached out. He caught something solid. He pulled hard, drew the shadow toward him, opened his jaws wide and lunged.

  And that was when his leg gave out.

  He fell to the roof first, heard the meaty smack next, felt agony lancing through his thigh last of all. He looked down at the crossbow bolt jutting from his leg. Across many roofs, so far away, he could barely make out the sight of a human—a human woman, tall and skinny with a massive crossbow.

  He saw her wave at him as she disappeared off the edge of the roof.

  When he looked back at his hands, they were empty again. The shadow was at the edge of the roof, staring at him as he lay there, crippled. Its arms slid out of the black cloth. It stretched them wide.

  And made a dramatic, sweeping bow.

  “The Prophet sends her regards.”

  A deep voice. A male voice.

  A human voice.

  And then, the shadow was gone. Like it had never even been there. He might even have believed that were it not for his wounds and his pains and the knife in his …

  He looked down at the knife in his hand. Like a sheet of paper, it crumpled up and folded, turning to ash in his hand that blew away in a strong breeze.

  And Gariath was left with the sound of his blood pattering on the roof as it wept from his body and the cries of alarm growing louder as the tulwar rushed toward him.

  ELEVEN

  THE BENEFICENCE OF TYRANTS

  It didn’t look like an army.

  At least, not like any army Lenk had ever seen.

  There were no long, orderly rows of soldiers awaiting orders. There was no structure to the camp at all, truth be told. They all gathered down in the valley in loose clusters, chatting away and dancing as though they were at a social ball and not in the middle of the desert.

  There were no armories, no weapons, not even a single tent. The Chosen didn’t seem to need tents; they barely even seemed to need the few fires they had lit. The cold of the night didn’t bother them. They danced, they sang, they laughed. They were happy, they were free.

  Shuro’s wrong.

  And that thought came creeping up into the base of his skull on cold, cold legs.

  She’s wrong about them.

  He looked at them now, as he had been doing for the past hour. In the valley, the Chosen looked no different from most humans. They were taller, to be sure, and perhaps a little too … perfect. Their skin was clean and soft, their musculature lean and graceful. But they had hair, eyes, arms, and legs, like any other human.

  And they used them.

  Every day seemed to be new for the Chosen. They greeted each sunrise with gasps of delight. They heralded each night with a song. They clung to each other with no regard for who might be watching.

  And why wouldn’t they, Lenk thought. It wasn’t so long ago, after all, that they couldn’t do that. They were monstrosities: malformed and twisted with eyes that hated the sun. And before that? They were Khovura, deranged and desperate. And before that? The dregs and filth of Cier’Djaal from which the Khovura had plucked them.

  Why shouldn’t they dance? Why shouldn’t they sing?

  Why was it that when Shuro had looked upon them, she had sneered and called them abominations?

  Because she’s wrong. That cold thought needled him again. She doesn’t understand yet.

  And again, he thought, why would she?

  She had grown up in a monastery, surrounded by rhetoric and cloistered away from the wars, the diseases, the murderers.

  She hadn’t seen what he had seen. She hadn’t known what he had known. How could she understand?

  And why, he thought, could he never think of her without feeling like an iron spike was being jammed into the back of his skull?

  It didn’t matter, he told himself. What she understood or didn’t understand, what she believed or didn’t believe, that didn’t matter. He knew the truth that she would someday understand. He knew the war that was coming that could only be stopped by the actions he had taken.

  Lenk had made his decision.

  And that thought brought him comfort.

  And that comfort was colder, still, than the night.

  He set off down the dune and into the valley. He felt an uncomfortable lightness on his shoulders. It was harder to walk, it felt, without the weight of his sword on his back. And despite the fact that he was in friendly territory, the absence of it was still keenly felt.

  And no more keenly than when he entered the camp of the Chosen.

  A shriek filled his ears. He tensed up, fighting the urge to reach for a blade he knew wasn’t there. All he could do was steel himself as they came rushing toward him.

  Long legs carried them in a writhing swarm. Long arms reached out for him. Mouths twisted into smiles and poured out formless squeals of excitement that writhed into each other. Within a moment, he was surrounded and their hands were upon him.

  They reached out toward him. Some grabbed his hands and pressed them to their foreheads. Some tried to embrace him as he tried to step out of their reach. Some simply were content to lay hands upon him and let out a delighted shriek.

  He tried to laugh as they did, tried to offer a congenial smile. Failing both of those, he settled for just trying not to look so horrified.

  Since their return from the Temple of Darior, word had spread of how he had saved Mocca from Shuro’s attack—largely because Mocca had spread it. The Chosen made their gratitude known quickly. He couldn’t get within twenty feet of one of them without them swarming over, shrieking and squealing, and the rest of them following like a herd of swine following the scent of filth.

  So many bodies so close to his set him on edge, yet he found he could tolerate their affection.

  So long as he didn’t look at their faces.

  Even catching glimpses out the corners of his eyes unsettled him. Their smiles were a little too wide, showed too much teeth. Their eyes grew too big, blinked too infrequently. Their expressions trembled with elastic enthusiasm, made their skin shake and their cheeks grow too bright.

  Like children, he thought. Big, excited, wild-eyed children who couldn’t hear a damn thing outside their shrieking.

  And if they got just a little too excited, if they reached out toward him with one of those big hands with their long fingers just a little too swiftly, grabbed him just a little too hard, and pulled …

  No. He shook his head angrily. They’re not like that. She’s wrong. She’s wrong!

  He pushed his way out of the crowd of Chosen. They let him pass with little more protest than a few dejected moans. And within a few breaths, they had found something else to distract them: a fire to dance around, a new song to sing, another ferocious copulation to join …

  Just as well, he wasn’t keen on them following him as he trudged away into a corner of the valley. He had told Mocca to keep them away from this part, and he had no reason to doubt that Mocca could do just that.

  He came to a halt. In the shadow of a looming dune, a small tent rose.

  Whether Mocca would do just that, though, he had his worries.

  He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the Chosen were still busy with their jubilations. Satisfied, he reached toward the tent flap. His hand lingered there, unwilling to pull it back. After a moment, he snort
ed.

  Come on, he said. It’s not like she’s going to hurt you. He paused. That is, it’s not like she’s physically capable of hurting you. He pulled the tent flap back. Unless she got loose, that is. He stalked inside. But if she has, it’s not like you’d see it coming before she killed you.

  The tent flap closed shut behind him, bathing him in a darkness the oil lamp overhead didn’t do much to counter. Several breaths passed and he wasn’t dead, so he suspected she hadn’t escaped.

  And that was pretty much confirmed once he felt the cold, seething resentment settle around him like a cloak.

  She didn’t struggle as he approached her. She didn’t curse his name. She didn’t demand to be released, didn’t threaten him, didn’t vow vengeance against him.

  Shuro didn’t so much as move.

  Her eyes were closed. Her head was lowered. Her hair hung around her still face in thick silver strands. Her blade and armor were gone, leaving her in simple leggings and a half shirt, exposing lengths of pale skin. It seemed, for a moment, that she was only held up by the chains that raised her arms above her shoulders, each one secured to one of the tent’s support poles.

  To look at her, one might have thought her dead. It’d be certainly less awkward if she were, Lenk thought—or if he were. Either of them, really; he wasn’t picky.

  But as he approached, he could see small signs of motion. The slight quiver of tense muscle as her body held itself rigid. The slow curl of hands into fists.

  And that was to say nothing of the cold.

  She seemed to drink in the warmth of the tent, of the sand, of the lamp. As if she were drawing inside her every little bit of heat to stoke a fire fierce enough to burn the chains from her wrists.

  And as she held her breath at his approach, the night did the same. He was left standing before the woman he had betrayed twice, granted no sound or warmth to distract him from her hatred. And in that silence, he could almost hear her hatred being forged inside her, sharpened to a fine point and aimed right at his skull.

  He shook his head to dispel that thought.

  The thought departed, but the chill remained.

  “Are you thirsty?”

  Not the most graceful way to start, but he had to break the silence. And that seemed better than Hey, sorry for betraying you and forcing you to watch your friends get crushed under the heel of a demon.

  Not that it mattered. Shuro didn’t answer.

  “You haven’t had a drink since yesterday,” he said. “I told Mocca to keep the Chosen away, so I’m the only one who’s around to give you water, so …” He cleared his throat. “If you want any, I’ve got some. You know … here.”

  He found his eyes drifting to the dirt, as if to avert her gaze, even though her eyes were shut.

  “Mocca wants to move tomorrow, to head toward Cier’Djaal,” he said. “He doesn’t anticipate much trouble. We’ll go slow. And there’s an ox cart you can ride, so you won’t have to …” He looked to her chains, frowned. “Yeah.”

  She said nothing, did not move a hairbreadth. But still, he could feel her anger. He could feel the razor-thin spike of her hatred, boring into the base of his skull, forcing his eyes to the ground. And with each cold breath, he could feel it growing heavier, until he thought he might collapse under the weight of her fury.

  “I’m sorry.”

  Her anger, that cold spike, knifed through his neck, pushing the words out of his mouth until they fell and lay cooling on the dirt, lifeless and impotent.

  “I should have thought of some other way,” he said. “I should have tried harder to convince you to … or Mocca not to … or …” He shut his eyes and tried to ignore the sounds of bone crunching in his head. “I wish it had ended differently. I wish I weren’t even here. I wish I hadn’t ever been made into …”

  He looked at her with pleading eyes. She didn’t look back.

  “Don’t you?”

  Every word he spoke, she seemed to grow harder, colder. And he felt himself grow heavier, weaker. Until he thought he might collapse right then and there if he breathed too hard.

  “I just want it to end,” he said. “I want the killing to stop. I want people like you and me to be able to do something else.” He swallowed something bitter. “I know you don’t believe me when I say that. But you’ll be safe until you see for yourself, at least. Mocca promised me that—”

  “Listen to yourself.”

  Her words came softly, yet they made him take a sudden step backward.

  “Giving it a name like that.”

  Her eyes opened, looked toward him. And beneath her gaze, cold and endlessly blue, he could feel something inside him wither.

  “Like it’s a person.”

  He could but look at her for a moment, barely able to meet that stare. But something inside him drew in a long, dark breath, forced him to look at her. And when he spoke, he was surprised to feel the heat in his words.

  “He is,” Lenk said.

  “He’s a demon.”

  “He can’t be both? You only know what you’ve read about him. I’ve spoken to him. I know what he thinks, he feels, he regrets.”

  “And when did you learn this?” Something strained at the edges of her voice, a single crack across a sheet of ice. “When you were walking with me in the jungle? When were fighting alongside each other in Rhuul Khaas? When you claimed to be like me?” Her hands clenched into fists, sent her chains rattling. “How long have you been speaking to him? How long has he been twisting you?”

  “Twisting me?” He took a step toward her, snarling. “You and I come from a dead god who built us to kill things. I’m not okay with that and I’m the one who’s twisted?” He shook his head. “Whatever that monastery did to make you think that, it fucked you up fierce.”

  “That is my home!”

  He took a sudden step back as she roared, lunging at him. Her chains snapped taut, holding her back. But her face was a mess of anger, her eyes shining with such heat that he feared they’d melt.

  “Those were my friends you killed!” she said. “I grew up with them. I learned with them. And you and your fucking demon killed them!”

  “I didn’t!” he shouted back. “I told him to spare you back at Rhuul Khaas! You could have told them not to pursue! You could have gone anywhere, done anything and just left it alone!” He thrust a finger at her. “You came after us. You refused to listen. You attacked us and I wish you could have just fucking stayed away.”

  His breath tasted cold on his tongue. Her gaze hadn’t softened in the least. He could still feel it in his back, keen as any knife, as he turned away from her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe that, but it’s true. I’m sorry.”

  “Sorrow means nothing,” she spit at his back. “Your sorrow, even less. We didn’t stay away because it was our duty not to. And because of you, my friends are dead and this world will suffer in a way thought possible only in stories.”

  “And what stories have you read?” His voice was heavy, dragging his shoulders down as he looked at her. “How many murders have you seen in stories? How many books talk about famines? On the page, they’re just a number. Out there, they’re bone and flesh.” He gestured to the tent flap. “They’re people killing each other for coin, people watching their homes burn. There isn’t a poet born who could tell a story that would tell you even half the suffering that goes on out there.”

  He sighed, rubbed his head. It felt painful to the touch.

  “That’s why I had to do it. Mocca’s going to fix that. Or try his best.”

  “How?”

  The word came without force or malice. There was so little anger in it that he had to turn face her to make sure she had been the one to speak it. But she stood there, staring at him, right through him.

  “How is he going to fix it?”

  “He has a plan,” Lenk said.

  “What kind of plan?”

  “A plan. He’ll … he’
ll make them stop.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll find a way.”

  “How?”

  “He’ll figure something out.”

  “HOW?” When he didn’t answer, she shook her head. “The demons are full of empty promises, Lenk. That’s how they ended up in hell. We put them there because they sought to rule mortals, not help them. It’s our duty to—”

  “I AM NOT A WEAPON!”

  She was struck mute by his roar, recoiled as though he had struck her. When he spoke again, all the wounds and all the scars and all the years came out with it.

  “I’m not,” he said. “I don’t care about duty, what god gave it to me or who died to make me this way. I’m not going to do it anymore. I’m not a weapon. Not anyone’s.”

  It wasn’t a softness that crept into her face. Her eyes grew no warmer as they looked at him. But it wasn’t the same piercing chill that stared at him. Rather it was something quiet, something heavy, the last snowfall on a dead tree.

  “You’re not a weapon, Lenk,” she said. “He is.”

  His face twisted in confusion. “What?”

  “You and I, we have duty. We do things no one else can. Whether we choose to do it is up to us.” She looked toward the tent flap. “But the demons were created for a purpose. This is how they came to resent mortals. They were given all the power to rule us and were forced to use it to serve, instead.”

  He shook his head. “I’ve heard the same legends. I’ve fought demons. I know what they think and he’s not like that.”

  “I don’t doubt that at all.”

  Her reply nearly knocked the wind out of him. “Then how—”

  “Other demons see us a prey, as obstacles, unworthy creatures tainting their earth,” she replied. “But I’ve seen the way he looks at us, at you.”

  “He doesn’t see us as any of that.”

  “He doesn’t. I don’t know what he sees us as, but he doesn’t see us as what we are. He sees us as he wants us to be, as he needs us to be.” A flash of pain creased her face. “When he looks at you, Lenk, what do you think he sees?”

  All the insults, all the accusations, all the curses she had spoken or could have spoken didn’t hit him quite like that question. It knocked his mouth open, hanging dumbly for a reply.