God's Last Breath

by Sam Sykes

  She shot him a sidelong glance.

  “And what have you been up to?”

  “About the same,” he replied. “I went to an ancient city, betrayed the only person who believed in me and everything I knew to be right, released an ancient demon into the world, and now he’s coming up behind me with an army of flesh-changed monsters who are probably going to overrun everything in an attempt to reshape the world into his vision of paradise.”

  She looked away from him and sniffed.

  “It’s not a contest,” she muttered.

  He would have laughed at that, too, if he’d had the energy. As it was, the water had given him just enough strength to sit there with his eyes open, staring out over the endless dunes as the wind blew ghosts of dust across it, with her beside him.

  Her, warm and filthy and smelly, just like he remembered her.

  And, for a while, it felt good to just let her be there.

  “I didn’t leave on purpose,” she said.

  “I know,” he replied. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “I know.” He sighed. “I made some mistakes.” He looked down at the earth. “A lot of mistakes, actually. I …” He shook his head. “I don’t fucking know what I did. I don’t fucking know what I’m doing anymore.” He clutched his temples. “I thought you were going to die if I didn’t … I thought I was going to be a weapon … I just wanted everything to be normal and—”

  “Hey.”

  He looked up. She was looking at him. Her eyes were bright and shining. Her lips curled up into a smile, softer and gentler than anything she had ever shown him. Her ears drooped slightly against her head, like wilting flowers. She reached down, took his hand. It felt warm.

  “Shut up, all right?”

  He opened his mouth to take offense, but all he could do was nod.

  “All right.”

  “This all sounds pretty bad, what happened,” she said, “what with shicts and demons and …” She squinted at him, searching. “What’d you say? Flesh-something?”

  “Flesh-shaped monsters, yeah.”

  “Whatever. We’ll handle it.”

  “I don’t know if I—”

  “I do.” She yawned. “But I also know I’ve been running all fucking night, so the end of the world can wait for at least two hours, right?”

  “I mean, maybe but …”

  She didn’t hear him. With the smile still on her face, she closed her eyes and toppled over like a stack of bricks. She lay against his shoulder, her hair, thick with dirt, falling over him and the stink of her sweat in his nose. And she breathed deeply and did not move.

  He should shake her awake, he knew. He should tell her that there wasn’t time for this, that she didn’t understand what he had done, that even two hours was too much time to waste. He should …

  But then, it had been a very long time since he had smelled her, had felt her warmth, had heard the sound of her breathing. And it had been a very long time since he remembered feeling like he needed those things.

  And so he sat there. He shut his eyes. He laid his head against the stone.

  And he waited.

  ACT TWO

  THE CHOIR’S LAST HYMN

  INTERLOGUE

  OUR FATHERS, LONG DEPARTED

  Thraatu,

  I will allow myself to be optimistic for a moment and assume that you did not immediately crumple up this letter, throw it in a fire, or use it to wipe yourself with. Perhaps that is unjustifiably hopeful, but I find myself believing in many strange things these days.

  I know we have not spoken in … how long has it been, anyway?

  We knew each other first, two lifetimes ago. I have memories of a young woman, proud and tall, the colors in her face bright and her blade stark and shining against the sun. I was a different person back then, with a different name, one better composed to poetry than I am now. It is strange—I can recall the letters I used to describe you, but I cannot recall how they fit together. And I find that, if I focus on them for too long, your face, too, fades and I cannot recall what you look like.

  Two lives. One hundred years. So many famines and wars and births and weddings we have seen. It feels odd that the two decades or so since we have spoken should feel like an eternity for people like us.

  Yet it does.

  Every year, every month, every day that has passed since the Uprising, since I came down and let our people die, I have longed to speak to you. I have longed to tell you why I did what I did. I have longed to beg your forgiveness.

  But even now, I cannot tell you why.

  And even now, I cannot beg your forgiveness until I beg it of every one of the clans that died because of me.

  But I must speak with you.

  And you must speak with your clan.

  Perhaps you have heard the stories. Perhaps you have heard the songs. The stories are still young and the songs do not quite rhyme, so I do not blame you if you do not believe them. But for all my failings, Thraatu, I have always been honest with you. Even when I could not explain myself, I could not lie. And I do not lie to you now.

  The stories are true.

  We left Shaab Sahaar, its many clans—Rua Tong, Tho Thu Bhu, Chee Chree, Yengu Thuun, and even Mak Lak Kai—united for the first time in ages. We marched on the human city of Jalaang and took it from its dragonmen protectors. More clans came from the mountains and the hills and joined us. And we marched on Cier’Djaal once more, against its many humans, against its magics and its gold and its monsters.

  We rose up, Thraatu. All of us.

  We fought. We died. We survived.

  And this time, it was different.

  You have heard of the daanaja, I am sure: a great beast that stands taller than any tulwar, his skin painted the color of blood, head like a lizard, wings that block out the sun. They say he tore out the throats of a hundred humans with his teeth and that he broke a dragonman with his bare hands. There are songs about him. They do not rhyme.

  I will not tell you they are true, either. But as far as any tulwar is concerned, they are.

  He is a monster. He is a demon. And he led us to a battle we thought we could not win.

  And I want you to meet him, Thraatu. I want you to come and see what he has done, as I have. I want you to come and see what he can do, as I wait to. I want you to follow him to the next battle, as you could never follow me.

  Perhaps things are still idyllic in your mountains. Perhaps your goats are fat and there is plenty of milk to feed your children. But I do not think so. I think life is hard for you, as it always was. I think life will only get harder.

  For all of us.

  Whatever else we did at Harmony Road, we bloodied the humans’ noses. We rose up, as we always said we would, and showed them that we are not the backward savages they thought we were. We showed them what the tulwar were capable of. We spoke. They listened.

  And their retort will be bloody.

  And should they not kill us, the shicts will. What we witnessed on that red day, I cannot explain. The tribes have always hated us and wanted us dead, but never have they tried so hard, committed so much. Humans can merely kill us. But after what I saw at Harmony Road, I am convinced only the shicts can truly destroy us.

  And this is all beside the … how to explain it?

  You have heard the story, yes? The one of the day turning dark as night and the creature that bled serpents? I do not blame you for not believing it. It is insane. It is ridiculous.

  And it, too, is true.

  Perhaps your world is still small, Thraatu. Perhaps you still have your goats and your milk, and your clan is still concerned with things like the snowmelt and if they will have their children before winter. If so, I envy you.

  And I am sorry, but it will not remain that way for long.

  The daanaja has made us into something more than clans. More than tulwar. We are proud. We are ferocious. We are many. And the humans and the shicts will not ignore us any
longer. Not me. Not you. Not our clans.

  You asked me why I abandoned the Uprising. I want to show you.

  Come to me, Thraatu. Bring your clan. Bring all that you can. Let us stand together, as we never could.

  Rise up with us.

  —Mototaru Humn Muusa Gon

  TWENTY-FOUR

  A CIVILIZED GAME

  There were, as far as she could tell, three major roadways into the city.

  Through the high dunes and bluffs that surrounded the Green Belt, there was only one natural path. But as trade had boomed and Cier’Djaal needed more room for all the coin and suffering it brought, the Djaalics had dug two more large roads through the earth to accommodate.

  A good strategy, Qulon thought. More roads meant more trade, more collections, more means of farmers in the Green Belt to take food to the city itself.

  In the dim of the evening, a bright red flash bled across the sky. She glanced southward, toward the southern road—one of the man-made ones—just in time to see it crumble.

  The air shimmered around the earth, pulling it down in a landslide. Rocks came groaning down, carried by massive piles of sand. More red flashes erupted in the night and, though it took some time, eventually there was nothing more than a bunch of dirt where a road had once been.

  She squinted through her one good eye. It was hard to tell this far away, but she could make out figures in brown coats pulling themselves free of the rubble and walking around, waving their hands and moving earth with a few thoughts.

  This was the second roadway the wizards had brought down, leaving only the big one in the middle. This also made sense to Qulon. Cier’Djaal was not a defensible city; the defenders’ best bet at keeping the approaching tulwar hordes at bay was to meet them at these dunes and force them into one road, funneling their numbers into something manageable. The other roads could be reexcavated later.

  Not a bad strategy. Qulon, in her many years, had certainly seen worse. She had seen mighty generals and kings rise and fall, campaigns rust and crumble, and kingdoms conquered and reconquered. It was exciting at first, but somehow it always seemed to end in a bunch of burly people hitting each other with sticks.

  For all the tactics and strategies that could be invented by what passed for their greatest minds, the true secret to victory forever eluded mortals. To win was not a matter of resource, or of positioning, or of numbers.

  “To win,” she muttered, “one must rewrite the rules.”

  “Huh?”

  Qulon glanced over at her companion across the table. The Scarecrow, as she was so aptly called, glanced up from the game board. Boredly, she fiddled with one of the pieces with one hand, the other pressed against her face. A thin trail of drool leaked out the corner of her mouth.

  “I said it’s your move,” Qulon replied, taking a sip of tea. Another pot boiled on a low fire behind the table and chairs she had brought out. Though she wasn’t sure why; Scarecrow continued to refuse all drinks that weren’t alcoholic.

  “Oh. Right.” The tall, rangy woman looked at the board with a sneer. She picked up a Red Regent and moved it forward three spaces. “Uh … here.”

  “What?” Qulon made a clicking sound. “That will leave your entire flank open to my attack.”

  “Fine. Here.” She moved the piece three spaces to the left.

  “That will leave your Blue Prophet open. Has it not occurred to you that the winning move might not be to move your Red Regent?”

  “I thought you said he was the most important piece.”

  “He is. If you lose him, you lose the game.”

  “Well, if he loses the whole fucking game, he can’t be that important, can he?” Scarecrow collapsed in her chair. “Why can’t we ever play anything fun? Like dice or daggers or skull-thwomp.”

  Qulon raised one eyebrow. “I am unfamiliar.”

  “It’s a game where you take turns kicking someone in the head and the one to make ’im stop movin’ is the one that wins.” She grinned. “One time, we had this prick with a big melon for a skull, I kicked him in the head till he was dead! Hah!”

  “How is that a game?”

  “It was fun.”

  “Well, Regents is a more strategic game,” Qulon replied. “It was crafted by the finest generals at the dawn of the first mortal empires. Time was, no one could be considered even a novice at strategy unless he had spent hundreds of hours playing. Alas …” She thoughtfully fingered one of the pieces. “One wonders how many boards are left in this world, let alone how many players.”

  “I’m guessin’ interest in it died off right around the time they discovered literally anything else.” Scarecrow let out a long moan as she slumped backward in her chair. “Why couldn’t youa’ asked Sandal to do this shit? I’d be better at scoutin’, anyway.”

  “He’s not particularly bad,” Qulon said, smirking. “And I only require two scouts and one person to keep me company. That latter position is more difficult to fill with someone whose words I can’t even understand.”

  Footsteps on sand. The faint odor of oil and ash. The familiar, unintelligible cursing drew Qulon’s eyes down the dune.

  “Speak of carrion and the vultures shall converge,” she hummed.

  Sandal came trudging up the sand, his stout form bent over from weariness. And though his head was obscured by a greasy wrap, it was evident enough by his posture that he was clearly annoyed. Through his wooden visor, he turned his gaze to Qulon.

  “Are you not hot in that?” Qulon asked, quirking a brow at Sandal’s choice of attire.

  “The Candle ain’t never gets hot,” Scarecrow grunted. “Be one shitty arsonist if he did.” She sniffed. “What’s the word?”

  “Thf cfth’s rfllhfng, lfkh yfh wfnthd,” the man spoke—possibly—in reply. “Frmf’s mhvfng fht.”

  Qulon sighed. “I have given you so much, Sandal. I pulled you and your friends out of the smoldering ruin that was your gang. I gave you gifts beyond the ken of mortals. I do not feel I’m asking much when I tell you to remove your headwrap when you speak.”

  “He says the city’s rallying,” Scarecrow said. “Like you wanted. The shkainai united behind the priestess.” She scratched her head. “Or … are we supposed to call her the Prophet, too?”

  “For all intents and purposes, she is. Get used to the idea.” She turned to Sandal again. “What of their forces?”

  “Bfnch hf scflps, cfhplf hf bfrds, shft thn hf nfthvfs.”

  “A mess of Karnerians, a few of them winged things the Sainites ride, a lot of Djaalics backing them up,” Scarecrow translated.

  “I require more than that,” Qulon said, glaring. “I must know if the Prophet can put up a decent fight for the tulwar. Give me numbers. Chains of command. Leaders.”

  “Fhck, lfdh.” Sandal shrugged. “Cfhplf hfndrfd? Twf? Thrff? Dfdn’t gft clfsf hnfgh th tfll. Sfw f fhw bfg mfthfrfhckfrs wflkfng frhfnd.”

  “He says maybe a few hundred,” Scarecrow said. “But the situation’s unstable and security’s tight. He saw some scary-lookers walking around, though. Guessin’ if they’ve still got big ones walking, the commanders must be on board with the plan. The Prophet’s got backup.”

  “He said all that?”

  “Sort of, yeah.”

  Qulon narrowed her eyes at Sandal. “Now, do not trifle with me, mortal. Given the plan and your abject eye for detail, do you think their armies will be able to hold off the tulwar?”

  Sandal let out a muffled, irate sigh.

  “Lfdh, hf F wfs gfnna trhflf wfth yhf, F’d dh ft wfth shx bfttlhs hf fil fnd h shfrt fhckfng fhsf.” He stomped the earth. “Hf yhf hfdn’t dfnh fs f shlfd, F’d bf fhckfng dfnh wfth yhf rfght nfw.” He made his hand into a fist, thrusting it forward. “Hfhr thft? Mf hfnd gfnf rfght hp yfhr fss. Mfkh yhf fnth f fhckfng mfht pfppht. Yfh’rf lfcky F’m sfch f fhckfng gfntlhmfn fr flsh?” He gestured emphatically to his crotch. “Bfm! Shfw yhf thf fhckfng gfd hf fhrf, gfrl. F’m f sthllfhn fblhzf, bhtch, rfdf mf fnd yhf gft bhrnfd.”
>
  Scarecrow sniffed.

  “He says ‘yes.’”

  Qulon thought to inquire further but opted not to. While she harbored certain doubts about her choice in servants, they had thus far proven capable at what she had enlisted them to do. And while she might second-guess much about them, she would never doubt their loyalty.

  Not after what she had given them.

  The wind changed just slightly. She felt a foreboding feeling behind her, like the sensation of a great empty space where something should be.

  He had returned.

  “This is all I have need of you for, for the moment.” She sipped her tea, making a dismissive gesture with her free hand. “Be on your way. I will get in touch with you through the usual means if I have more to discuss.”

  “Fuckin’ finally.” Scarecrow groaned, knuckling the small of her back as she got out of her chair. She eyed the many bottles and flasks lining Sandal’s belt. “If one of those don’t have something I can get shitty on, you and me are gonna have problems.”

  “Bftch, dfn’t fct lfkh F dfn’t knfw yhf.” Sandal pulled one of the bottles free, gave it a slosh, and tossed it to her.

  They trudged down the dune, their conversation devolved into slurred murmurs as they passed the bottle back and forth. Qulon waited until they had vanished before speaking.

  “I hadn’t expected you back so soon,” she said, without looking over her shoulder. She drained her tea and held out her empty cup. “Kindly refill this for me, won’t you?”

  She began counting breaths. Three passed, this time, before a pale hand took the cup from her. That was better than last time, she thought, but still not as prompt as she desired. She might have remedied that right this moment, had business not pressed further.

  Instead, she let the hand place a warm cup of tea back in her hand. She took a long sip and, staring at the game board, spoke.