God's Last Breath

by Sam Sykes

  “Are they moving?”

  A voice, distant and fleeting on a wind that wasn’t there. “They are.”

  “All of them, I trust.”

  “A small force is being left at Jalaang.”

  “To keep guard?”

  “Perhaps.”

  She felt her eyelid twitch. “I did not ask you to return to me with ‘perhaps.’”

  A long pause. And then. “My apologies, mistress.”

  “What else?”

  “The old one is attempting to delay their march.”

  “I trust there is no hesitation?”

  “No. The dragonman is mustering them. They’ll be at Cier’Djaal soon, in the thousands. More clans are joining them each day, as well.” A moment of hesitation. “There might be perhaps more than the humans can withstand.”

  “You do not appreciate the virtue of my strategy.”

  “I admired it. The Candle and the Scarecrow performed as you willed and arranged those little ‘miracles’ for your Prophet.”

  “They all performed quite admirably, if predictably.”

  “And now thousands of tulwar march against them.”

  “Thanks to you.”

  There was silence for a moment, long and labored.

  “The humans have the advantage of terrain, but thousands to hundreds are still poor odds. They’ll eventually be overwhelmed.”

  “Possibly,” Qulon said. “Or possibly, they’ll pull through by the power of friendship or something equally stupid. There’s really no certainty beyond the fact that there must be a winner.”

  “A winner.”

  The word was spoken ponderously, with an emptiness between each letter.

  “You ever hear of the term acceptable losses?”

  “It’s used primarily by merchants, isn’t it?” Qulon sipped her tea. “I have no particular interest in economics.”

  “You might want to find one. The idea is that there’s only so many accidents, so many poor sales that a merchant can take and still do business. After that, it becomes wiser to simply close up shop.”

  “I take it you’ve a point there?”

  “Torture only works if you give your victim the possibility of returning to a normal life. Take too much from him and he’ll simply lie down and die. Same thing with warfare: Victory might come too steep to convince anyone that any good’s come of it.”

  “Typical mortal shortsightedness,” Qulon sighed. “You see things in philosophies and ethics that simply aren’t there. Life and death is simply a matter of who is more worthy to carry the former and deal the latter. Victory and defeat, no different.”

  A pause. “Some victories are losses in disguise.”

  At this, Qulon rose. She turned to face him, the creature wrapped in black rags that clung to him like a shroud. He stared at her through a hood that hid his features entirely. He had a name that she hadn’t bothered to learn, so she simply called him the Shadow—for she required him to be nothing else.

  “You sound as if you know from experience.” She regarded him carefully through one eye. “Anything you’d like to say?”

  The Shadow did not offer his answer, but she heard it all the same. Beneath the black wrap and whatever else was below that, she could hear a heart, faint and weak, begin to beat a little stronger. She could hear blood moving a little quicker. She could hear eyeballs rolling in their sockets as they slid across her body and settled on her jugular.

  A smile tugged at the left corner of her mouth. Her eyelid twitched just a moment. She curled her index finger tightly into a hook.

  And she heard the heartbeat slow, the blood slow, the eyes freeze in their sockets. She felt, as if in her own skin, a throat closing itself shut, limbs going black, a last breath escaping parched lips.

  And it came out of the Shadow’s mouth with a single, choked word.

  “No.”

  She released her finger. The heartbeat resumed. Breath returned. The Shadow stood straight and tall before her.

  Qulon hated to offer these displays of her power—they struck her as just a tad tacky—but she hated ingratitude more. However little the Shadow might appreciate her gifts, she needed him to perform his tasks more than she needed to appear benevolent.

  “Good,” she said. “I’d hate for us to—”

  There was a flash of black. A blade the color of pitch appeared in his hand. Her eye twisted into a scowl. She stiffened her finger, prepared to snuff his dimming light out for good. But then she heard his eyes rolling in their sockets, his gaze drifting over her shoulder.

  She smiled, for there were only two people she knew who could appear behind her without a sound—one stood in front of her now, and the other she was very eager to rub the face in something terribly sweet.

  Qulon made a gesture to the Shadow. His blade disappeared into his black wrap and he, too, vanished a moment later.

  “Mundas.” She turned, her smile as broad and cruel as could be perfected over her many years. “I had hoped to see you. But I really wish you had approached in the normal way.”

  Mundas’s face, dark and empty, was twisted into a noncommittal frown as he stared at her.

  “You wasted no time, Qulon,” he said. “In but a few days, you have managed to do an immense amount of damage to what took us years to craft.”

  “Impressed?”

  His frown sank a little deeper. “I am not.” He shook his head. “You will spend countless lives that we could protect.”

  “Life spent in service to others is no life,” she snapped back. “The answer is not to replace deaf gods with more gods. They must find their own path.”

  “And what good is a path that kills them all?”

  “Not all.”

  “Then how many?”

  “As many as it takes.”

  He shook his head. “I do not understand, Qulon, how we could have drifted so far apart. We all renounced for the same reasons.”

  “Renouncers cannot define themselves by what they are not, but by what they must become. I renounced because I knew mortals must be free of all gods.” She thrust a finger at him. “You merely wished to trade one pair of shackles for another.”

  Through the many years she had known him—and they had been many, indeed—Qulon had seen the dead-faced emptiness of Mundas’s expression betray the mortal he had once been only three times: once when he renounced, once when the Renouncers drifted apart, and now.

  Now, as a little color returned to his face and as his frown grew slightly more shallow, something old, tired, and very, very sad pulled itself across his face.

  “Do not persist in this, Qulon.”

  “We swore an oath not to interfere with each other directly,” Qulon replied, icily. “It is not in your power to command me.”

  “I do not command. I request. I plead with you to see the folly in your plan. What we have crafted is too strong to be undone by your recklessness. You will purchase nothing but a patch of blood-soaked sand that will be wiped away in time.”

  She narrowed her eye. “You speak as though you know something I don’t, Mundas. You know I dislike secrets.”

  “I know mortals, Qulon,” Mundas replied. “I know them and their fears and their hopes in a way you never shall. They are not animals to eat or be eaten. The more death you foist upon them, the more they shall seek meaning in it.”

  “And they shall find it,” Qulon replied, “in the living. Do not come to me with empty pleas of emptier morals, Mundas. This is how they came to labor under deaf gods to begin with.”

  He sighed. Sadness drained from his face, replaced by an emptiness unfathomably deep.

  “In time, you will see the wisdom of this, Qulon,” he said. “When the time comes, I hope you will admire the good we have done.”

  In all the many years she had known him, Qulon had felt anger at Mundas many times, but only once could she remember feeling such fury as she did now. Shortly before they renounced, she recalled, when he spoke with such sweeping declarat
ion as he did now. Back then, he had pronounced gods impotent. And now, he was declaring them to be the only way forward.

  It seemed unfair now, as it did then, that a man so devoid of emotion could sound so smug.

  And she was very ready to tell him such when he disappeared, as he always did, right before she could deliver her retort, the image of his sadness still hanging in the air in his wake.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  HEROISM, BUT FOR ASSHOLES

  So …” Lenk began to speak through a mouthful of pomegranate, but manners caught up to him in time. He held up a finger, chewed, and swallowed. “Sorry about that.” He licked red juice from his lips. “So, the tulwar are attacking Cier’Djaal?”

  Nezhi quirked a single eyebrow at him. “That’s the rumor, anyway,” he said. “You understand, I wasn’t keen to stick around to find out. I barely got out of Jalaang in time. My contact wanted to haggle on another bushel of pomegranates. If I had lingered to indulge him, I would be dead, too.”

  “Yeah, good thing you didn’t.” Lenk took another bite of the fruit and swallowed. “These things are delicious, by the way. I bet they’ll sell fantastic.” He pointed to the canteen sitting beside the merchant’s feet. “Hey, could you—”

  “Oh.” Nezhi plucked up the flask and handed it across the doused remains of the fire to Lenk. “There you are.”

  Lenk nodded his appreciation before draining the canteen dry. He would have felt bad about it, but his days in the desert had left him with a powerful thirst and Nezhi had plenty more. Besides, it was only his second.

  Men like Nezhi, a Djaalic man blessed with ample supply and generosity, were the sort of people who rekindled one’s faith in the divine. It was good luck that Lenk had found the merchant and his two wagons’ tracks and followed them, but the fact that Nezhi happened to have carts full of food and water to trade with the villages along the Lyre River seemed more like divine providence.

  “So, they seized Jalaang and now they’re on the move?” Lenk asked.

  “Not when last heard, but it can’t be long now,” Nezhi said. “I’ve met refugees who escaped and were heading south to Karnerian-held lands. They said there were even more tulwar gathering in the city. For what other purpose could they be gathering?”

  “Probably not a picnic,” Lenk muttered.

  “Indeed,” Nezhi replied. “I have heard only stories, but it’s said a demon leads them. A great horned beast, skin like blood, wings that blot out the sun, and a fiery temperament.”

  Lenk paused midchew. “Come again?”

  “A monster,” Nezhi said. “It all but killed the Prophet at the gates of Jalaang. But she has since rallied, calling the armies of Cier’Djaal to her.”

  “Right,” Lenk muttered. “The Prophet. Tall girl, brown hair?”

  “Mm. A shkainai, like yourself. Perhaps you know her?”

  “I should have known better,” Lenk muttered. “How long ago was it that you heard this?”

  “Mere days. Another merchant I passed on the road informed me. He was chasing rumors of war, hoping to make a few coins off people’s desperation.”

  “Shameful.”

  Nezhi fixed him with a very severe look. “Indeed.”

  Lenk pointedly looked away as he finished his pomegranate. He sucked his fingers clean, wiping them off on his trousers before extending his hand across the fire to Nezhi. The merchant warily took it, cringing as he did.

  “Nezhi, you’ve been an absolute blessing to us,” Lenk said. “You’ve given us what we desperately needed and more. I can’t ever thank you enough.” He stood up, taking his naked sword up with him. “And once again, sorry about this whole …”

  He gestured toward the merchant’s carts, where Kataria was busy rummaging around in his various goods.

  “Robbing you … thing.” Lenk cleared his throat.

  “For the record,” Kataria called out, “I said we should just kill him.”

  “We’re not savages,” Lenk called back.

  “You called me a savage last month.”

  “Not the point.” Lenk looked back to Nezhi. “Listen, I mean it. We really wouldn’t do this unless we needed it. But we have a long way to go and there’s more at stake than just tulwar attacks.” He scratched his head. “See, there’s this ancient demon and …”

  Nezhi’s expression betrayed nothing but contempt. Lenk sighed and waved a hand.

  “Forget it. Look, we won’t take much. Just enough to get to Cier’Djaal quickly: some food, a few canteens of water, and your horse.”

  “And these arrows,” Kataria called out.

  “Right.” Lenk smiled sheepishly. “She needs arrows.”

  “This sword’s scabbard I found might fit yours,” Kataria added.

  “No, not …” He paused, looked at his sword thoughtfully. “All right, I’m getting tired of carrying this around, so—”

  “This dagger looks real nice, too.”

  “No!” Lenk snapped. “We’re not bandits! No dagger!”

  “If you get a scabbard, I should get something nice, too!” Kataria snarled back. “It’s not like he’s going to—”

  “Take it!” Nezhi threw up his hands. “Take whatever the hell you want! I don’t care! Just leave me alone!”

  “Right.” Lenk rubbed the back of his neck. “Thanks. Listen, we’ll send coins back—”

  “I won’t!” Kataria interjected.

  “Please.” Nezhi put his hands together, pleading. “Just go. Run to the tulwar and die, run to your demons and die, run into the desert and die. Just let me be.”

  “Sure. Thanks again.” He began to walk away, paused a moment, then looked back. “So, sorry, I’m usually more certain about this, but Cier’Djaal is …”

  “That way.” Nezhi pointed west. “Go.”

  Kataria came scurrying over a moment later, thrusting a quiver, a sword, and a sack full of goods at Lenk. He slung them over his shoulder as she spared a grin and a brief bow for Nezhi. She pulled him by the arm around to the carts.

  They found Nezhi’s beasts—two oxen and a horse—tied to a nearby stone. The horse whinnied nervously as she approached, but a few whispered words and a stroke on the snout calmed it enough for her to untether it and lead it away, Lenk right beside her.

  “You heard all that, I hope,” Lenk muttered as they wended their way through the dunes.

  “Yeah,” she grunted. “The bits about the monster, anyway.” She glanced at him. “You don’t think that’s Gariath?”

  “Do I think that Gariath would go out and rally a bunch of tulwar for the sole purpose of killing a lot of humans and destroying all their shit?” He cast her a sour glare.

  “Point taken,” she sighed. “But what about the other part? With the Prophet? You think—”

  “I don’t know,” Lenk said. “Maybe it’s Asper, maybe it isn’t. I’ll count myself fucking lucky if Dreadaeleon isn’t involved in this somehow.” He rolled his shoulder, readjusting the load on his back. “Either way, it means we’re all dead.”

  Kataria snorted. “I ever tell you how much I missed these little talks?”

  “Khoth-Kapira is on his way to Cier’Djaal,” Lenk said. “And he’s going to find nothing to stop him.”

  “What can stop him?” Kataria asked. “He’s a living god, isn’t he?”

  “He’s a demon.” Lenk held his sword up and glanced it over. “We’ve killed demons before.” He hefted it over his shoulder. “But if he comes upon two armies tearing the shit out of each other, it becomes a lot harder to do that. So the first thing we need to do is get to Cier’Djaal and …”

  He trailed off as soon as he realized Kataria wasn’t walking alongside him anymore. He looked back. She stood there, holding the horse’s reins, staring at him. Staring through him, past his skin and bones and into some part of him he worked very hard to pretend didn’t exist.

  She hadn’t done that in a long time.

  He hadn’t thought she’d do that ever again.

 
“What?” He knew the answer, but he asked, anyway.

  “You never thought I was dead.” It almost sounded like an accusation coming from her.

  “There were times,” he said. “Sometimes, late at night, I would fear—”

  “You’re lying.” She spoke as if she could see the falseness wriggling in his throat. “You never thought I was dead, even after I vanished. If you did, you wouldn’t have turned that demon loose to try to save me.”

  He looked away from her and nodded weakly. “Yeah.”

  And he could still feel her stare, keen as any arrow in his skin.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” he asked.

  “Why would you do that? What did you think happened to me?”

  He had a few answers to that, a few more lies that he had told himself so many times they almost sounded true: that she had been killed, that she had plotted to betray him all along, that she had never really cared for him, that he had been an idiot to trust her. He opened his mouth to say one or two of them.

  But it felt like she could see each of them, those wriggling lies, crawling up his gullet. And, bceause he was too ashamed to meet that long, hard stare of hers, they slid back down his throat and disappeared into whatever dark place inside a man where lies were born.

  “I thought”—he let the words fall out of his mouth and lie on the sand—“that you were gone.” He finally looked up at her. “And that I wanted, very badly, for you to come back.”

  Kataria was a shict. And though he hadn’t known many, he knew they weren’t a people prone to softness. Their bodies were lean and hard, their ideas rough and flinty. And the frown that creased her face was nothing tender.

  “Everyone tries to do things for me,” she said. “The world fucking falls apart around my ears and all anyone can seem to think about is what they can do for me.” She shook her head. “And every time they try, I lose more of them.”

  “All I wanted was—”

  “I don’t care what you wanted,” she interrupted. “I care what you want.” The horse snorted at her snarl, and she stroked its muzzle, calming it. “If you want to stop this demon, then I’m with you. I’ll stand beside you and keep shooting until my quiver is empty and I have to start stabbing. But …”