God's Last Breath

by Sam Sykes

  When the heat dissipated and the hissing ceased, he looked down at the thing that had once been a rodent in his hand. He unclenched his fingers, dropping the blackened, withered branch at his feet to join all the others.

  Rats. Roaches. Seagulls. Vermin—or they had once been, at any rate. Now they were all twisted husks, solidified ash that gathered in a small heap around his boots.

  But he could feel it.

  Blood rushing through his veins. Heart beating strong and steady in his chest. Skin alive and tingling. Breath deep and clean. Muscles taut, bones solid, even his eyes seemed clearer; he could see every maggot crawling through every scrap of decaying meat in every trash pile at twenty feet.

  He felt it. The life. The health. The power.

  Well, he admitted to himself. It’s not real power. Not yet, anyway. It’s not as though rats are a particularly grand source of magic.

  He smiled to himself. He felt red light burst from behind his eyes, his power all but erupting out of him. He extended his hands to the ground and willed the magic out of his fingers. The air rippled, forcing him off the ground. He raised himself off the ground, hovering three feet above it, and laughed.

  All so effortless. He hadn’t even needed to speak a word. Just a few flicks of his fingers and the power came leaping to his fingers. He felt stronger, more alive than he had when he had first arrived in this decrepit trash heap of a city. His previous weakness felt almost like a dream. He could scarcely recall the numbness creeping into his limbs, the feel of his organs shutting down, the reeking decay coming from within his body.

  And he would have called it a dream, had it not been for the sudden pain in his belly that shot through his bowels and brought him back to the earth.

  The hunger.

  An endless pain inside him, which no food or drink could soothe. A great gaping pit yawning open, into which everything disappeared. A furnace burning so bright he could feel its fire through his skin.

  Whatever it was—whatever that woman had given him—he didn’t know, no matter how many canny metaphors he could come up with for it. All he knew was what it could do … even if he had no idea how.

  It’s not possible, of course, he told himself, as he had told himself so many times. Energy merely changes from form to form. It cannot be … eradicated, such as it is. What you’re doing here, old man, it’s not possible. Not by any law of magic.

  He stared at his hands, felt the heat boiling beneath his palms.

  But then, he thought, what good have any laws done for you lately?

  He called the power to him, willed himself to rise from the ground. He flew higher this time, rising above the alley, above the buildings that formed it. There, his coat flapping in the breeze, he surveilled the city.

  Had it always been this small, he wondered? Back when they had arrived, what felt like years ago, the city seemed so massive: a hive, teeming with people who, too, seemed so large with their big coin purses and their big talk and their big powers.

  Now, though …

  Everything looked so empty from up here. The shops, those few that hadn’t been savaged by the war between the Karnerians and Sainites, stood darkened. The harbor was empty of ships but for a few pleasure barges and fishing craft. The streets bore so few people, so very tiny.

  They can’t even look up and see you, old man.

  He turned. Looming large over the city, untouched by war or poverty below, the Silken Spire rose high. Its thousands of silks continued to blow in the breeze, its dozens of giant spiders unmoved by the chaos that had ensued in the city they had made rich. They continued to amble lazily across the silk, spinning as they would.

  Enough silk to make a city a jewel.

  And even that seemed so pitiful.

  He stared down at his hands. Faint wisps of steam rose from his fingertips, lost in the breeze. Beneath his palms, he could feel heat rising and flames stoking. He drew in a breath and felt clean air turn to hot smoke inside him. He seethed with power.

  Too much power to be wasted on this petty, tiny hole of a city.

  So much of your energy, of your time, of your life poured into this pit. He sneered down at them, those tiny creatures who couldn’t even behold the marvel looming over them. Let us be rid of it, old man.

  Just a thought and he was flying. The wind whipped through his hair, his coat flying behind him like great, leathery wings. High above the fires of little men and their little wars, the air tasted clean up here. He smelled the salt of the sea as it stretched out before him.

  What lay beyond it, he wondered? Perhaps now he could finally find out. With this power coursing through him, the gift she had given him, he could do anything. Even flying felt effortless.

  He could do it forever.

  And he just might have, had the air before him not suddenly turned pitch-black.

  A man?

  A shadow?

  Dreadaeleon would have called it someone’s laundry, flown off the line and flying high in the breeze, had it not appeared right before him. He came to an abrupt halt as it hung in the air before him and, from beneath a dark hood, regarded him with a canted head.

  “Nice day, isn’t it?”

  His voice came hollow and fleeting.

  His knife, less so.

  Dreadaeleon barely managed to twist out of the way as the blade came flashing out from nowhere. The blow missed his throat but caught his cheek, casting his hot blood out on the wind.

  He cried out.

  It hurt.

  How could it still hurt? With this power?

  He roared, the power flying from his head to his hands. He hurled his hands out, letting loose a torrent of fire that swallowed the clean air and churned out columns of black smoke.

  But the shadow was already gone.

  Dreadaeleon snarled, whirling about in the air, searching for his foe through red-tinged vision.

  He did not search long before the blade came flying toward him.

  Unerringly true, it missed his heart only by a word of power and a flash of his hand. The blade struck rippling air, went spinning into the wind. Dreadaeleon scowled down, toward the roof of a nearby building.

  The shadow looked up, raised a hand, and offered a dainty wave.

  And, with a howl, Dreadaeleon flew after him.

  The shadow vanished in the blink of an eye and reappeared on another roof. Dreadaeleon spun, turned, pursued. His foe disappeared again, emerging on another roof and again, Dreadaeleon altered his course. Across two more roofs, on the streets, through the alleys, he pursued his foe at speeds unheard-of for any wizard, yet the shadow was always ahead of him, stepping in and out of sight.

  Dreadaeleon didn’t care.

  He didn’t care that such magic as this was impossible. He didn’t care about the power he burned to keep up his pursuit. He didn’t care about where the shadow was leading him.

  All he cared about was that it still hurt.

  After all this power, after being given this gift, people as small and weak and petty as this … this coward could still hurt him.

  No more, old man, he told himself. No fucking more.

  He chased, twisting and turning through the alleys and the streets, fire on his hands and the wind at his back and a scream in his throat.

  The shadow appeared before him at the mouth of an alley, closer now. So close, he could almost reach out and …

  He roared, hands aflame as they thrust out and sought his foe. His fingers barely brushed against the black cloth, drawing the tiniest whisper of smoke, before the shadow vanished.

  Dreadaeleon’s feet struck the street, skidding to a halt. He whirled around, eyes alight and smoke churning from his hands as he searched for the shadow.

  There.

  A flitter of movement at the end of the street, a darkness disappearing around a corner. He snarled, stalking forward, pouring everything into the fires in his hands. He rounded the corner and raised his hand, his vision clouded by the power pouring out of his eyes.
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  The word of power was halfway out of his mouth when he noticed the child.

  The fire on his fingers sputtered out. The crimson faded from his eyes. The word died on his lips, along with every other word he might have had for what he saw.

  A child, appearing no older than seven, hauling a large bucket full of scraps of wood and nails. She was thin, though she had once been well fed. Her clothes were once nice, now worn and tattered. But if either of these bothered her, she didn’t seem to notice as she pulled her burden toward the center of a square.

  A square he remembered, once, from very long ago.

  It had looked different back then. There had been neatly trimmed bushes around, where there were now squares of dirt. The scent of perfume riding on vents of steam had risen from high and narrow windows, instead of the reek of cooking fires and tar. The people here had been clad in finery and walked with high and noble bearings. Now many people, all of them wearing a shared expression of desperation, milled around the cobblestones toting hammers, saws, and lumber.

  But the sign was still there. He remembered it clearly.

  Emblazoned across the biggest building at the end of the square was a sleek black cat, curled up with its eyes half-closed in slumber.

  “The Sleeping Cat,” he whispered. And then, unbidden like a bad dream. “Liaja …”

  That was her bathhouse, the one where she worked—he could see from here the window to her room. The same window he had stared out of in those dreamless mornings, watching the sunlight seep in and slide across her naked body tangled in the silken sheets.

  He didn’t remember the boards over it, though.

  Nor did he remember chains across the door. Nor spikes jutting from the front porch. Nor the courtesans—once lovely and fragile and painted—hammering barricades into place beneath the windows, their robes tattered and their once-elegant hairstyles drooping with sweat.

  And not just courtesans. There were merchants there, putting more boards over the windows. There were children there, hauling sheafs of arrows and bows into the bathhouse. There were elders, counting potatoes and cooking chickens on makeshift fire pits. There were …

  “Liaja.”

  There. On the roof, with three other women hammering stakes into the eaves. She was thinner than he remembered, her paint replaced by sweat and grime, her hair in ropy, unwashed strands. But that was her.

  His empress.

  His courtesan.

  The woman who called him northern boy in such a way that he forgot it wasn’t his real name.

  It was her.

  “Liaja,” he said. He stepped forward, hand raised. “Liaja!”

  “You’re not really going to do this to her again, are you?”

  He whirled about at the sound of the hollow voice. The shadow was there, sitting on a barrel with more casual haughtiness than a man wrapped in a heap of filthy black rags ought to be capable of.

  “You!”

  Dreadaeleon roared. The power rushed to his palm. He thrust it out toward the shadow, let the flames burst from his hand. They stoked to a great blaze as he spoke a word of power and—

  He let out a cry. A sharp pain opened in his belly. The fire died on his fingers as the word died on his lips. He bent over, clutching his stomach and drawing in a sour breath. He fought to keep off his knees, to keep his eyes on his foe, expecting a dagger in his neck at any moment.

  But the shadow merely stared at him from behind his black hood, unmoving but for a simple cant of his head.

  “Takes a toll, doesn’t it?” he asked. “She didn’t tell me about the finer points of the power you were given, but it seems even Amoch-Tethr had limits to what she could do.”

  Dreadaeleon raised his hand, as if to strike. The shadow raised one in return, though with far less urgency.

  “Calm down, boy. I’m not here to fight.”

  Dreadaeleon mustered the energy for a sneer. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Reasonable.” The shadow inclined his head. “But I’ve had ample opportunity to kill you by now and haven’t. And it’s not as though this is the strangest thing to happen to you even this month.”

  Dreadaeleon paused. “Reasonable.” He narrowed his eyes. “So what the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Yes, yes, you’re very forceful with your bad language and your labored breathing.” The shadow made a gesture. “Calm down. Give yourself a moment. Take a few breaths.” He glanced over toward the square. “But make them shallow, hm? I don’t think our presence here would make things easier for them.”

  Dreadaeleon wanted to snarl, to curse, to spit—he managed that last part, at least, while he continued to draw in sour, stale breaths. The great pain inside him let out a soundless moan, a gaping plea to be fed. He fought that pain down for a moment as he looked out toward the square and its construction.

  “What are they doing?” he asked.

  “Building,” the shadow replied. “Fortifying, I suppose you could call it.” He pointed to The Sleeping Cat. “Back before bathhouses were legal, the various proprietors of whores would make their places of business sturdy, in case a rival broker would attack. Makes them ideal places of defense.”

  “Defense,” Dreadaeleon gasped, “against what?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” The shadow chuckled. “Cier’Djaal’s about to be burned to the ground.” He pointed high over the rooftops, toward the east. “An army of tulwar, a red-skinned demon at their head, is marching against the City of Silk, murder in his eyes and a torch in his hand. Of course, the brave Prophet stands against him, but with a fraction of his numbers, what can she truly do?”

  “What?” Dreadaeleon asked. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “These people …” The shadow pointed to the square. “They grew up hearing the same stories that we all did. They know that the ones to survive this battle will be the heroes, the lovers, the brave, and the determined. Common folk like them? The whores, the mongers, the families?” He shook his head. “There’s no story for them. They get to look out for themselves.”

  “So they’re digging in,” Dreadaeleon muttered, “building a bunker.”

  “Something like that. The guards can’t protect them. The fashas have holed up in Silktown behind their dragonmen. The only thing between the tulwar and them will be however much wood they can put up. Of course, it might not be much. But the ships have left and the tulwar are coming. They’ve got no other choice.”

  Dreadaeleon watched her there for a moment, atop the roof. Liaja hadn’t noticed him yet. She hadn’t even looked in his direction. Her eyes were fixed on her task, her every thought plain on her face: escape, defend, survive.

  “You tricked me into chasing you,” Dreadaeleon muttered. “Because you wanted me to see this.”

  “I did,” the shadow said.

  Dreadaeleon fingered the cut on his cheek, glared at the shadow. “You could have just asked, you know.”

  “Given what we know about you, wizard, I am almost certain that I couldn’t. To get the attention of a man of your talents requires something even more forthright.”

  He’s got you there, old man, he admitted. What was it you called them? Petty? Small? Weak? You wouldn’t have listened to them, would you? He glanced at the shadow. Granted, not all of them can do … whatever it is this shithead does. But still …

  He looked out toward the square again, to the people there. They still looked small to him. They still looked weak. But he saw something else in the desperation across their faces and the fear in their movements. Something perhaps not quite so petty, perhaps not quite so weak.

  “They need you.”

  The shadow’s voice again, no longer quite so far away. The creature in black had appeared beside him, staring out at the square with him.

  “They need someone to protect them,” he said.

  “Isn’t that what they have Asper for?” A note of bitterness crawled into Dreadaeleon’s voice. “Their Prophet?”

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nbsp; “Their Prophet will one day sing their glories when she seeks to atone for her failure to save them. I’m sure their deaths will be excellent motivation for her. But, inconveniently, they’d rather live.”

  “And what do you expect me to do about that?”

  “Expect? Me?” The shadow chuckled. “What expectations could I heap upon a man who can fly? I would, instead, implore you to consider what you can do for them.”

  He leaned closer, his whisper like ash on the wind.

  “I know what power she gave you, wizard,” the shadow said. “I know who died to make you whole.”

  Dreadaeleon’s eyes widened involuntarily. The memory came flooding back to him. The Librarians, lying still and broken upon the floor, barely alive. He could still feel his hands burning, their skin parting as his fingers sank into their flesh with plumes of steam. He could smell the smoke as he broke them down in his hands: flesh to water, water to steam, steam to light. He could feel the strength returning to him, fresh and alive, as he breathed their light in, as he drank them as though they were water.

  He could still see the fear etched on their faces …

  “Don’t presume to threaten me …” Dreadaeleon growled.

  “If I can’t expect anything of you, I can’t expect to threaten you, either,” the shadow replied, backing away. “But I can tell you that you alone have a power that can save them. Greater than faith, greater than steel, greater than anything is what you hold inside you, what you can do.”

  “And why would I want to save them?”

  The shadow looked at him for a good, long moment.

  “Are you not capable of it?”

  Dreadaeleon stared at them. For a much longer moment.

  He could see their faces from here: their fears and their desperations and their hungers worn like masks that they didn’t dare take off, or couldn’t. And they still hadn’t even noticed him. They hammered wood, sharpened stakes, cooked chickens like there was nothing else more important than that.

  He could destroy it all with a wave of his hand, if he wanted to. Their wood would be turned to ash. He would tear off their doors with lightning. A mere breath of frost would extinguish their fires forever. He could kill them. All of them. With this power inside him, he could turn them all to blackened husks, like so many dead rats.