God's Last Breath

by Sam Sykes

  “Your sword, Marcher!” the speaker demanded, pointing to the body.

  “Speaker,” Pathon whispered. “He didn’t die … I stabbed him and he didn’t … he didn’t …”

  “Indeed.”

  The speaker’s voice was as grim as the scene around him.

  The sands began to give way, illuminating the carnage around him. Gaambols lay dead in heaps, spears and bolts jutting from their hides. Karnerians were cleaved, hacked apart, or torn by massive claws. Sainites waded into the fray, discarding crossbows for swords. The few that still stood wore desperation on their faces as they pushed against their foes.

  And the tulwar simply laughed.

  The shafts of bolts peppered their bodies. Broken spear hafts dangled from their abdomens like macabre jewelry. Wounds without blood decorated their bodies. They fought without flinching, without falling, their fanged mouths wide and open with shrieking laughter.

  “Demons,” Pathon whispered. “They’re demons. They don’t die! They don’t—”

  “Everything dies, Marcher.” The speaker ground his boot onto the tulwar’s shattered skull. He reached down and pulled the sword from the now-still carcass. “The Eternal Army awaits even us, should we fall here. But it will be a dark and cold place we send these pagans to.” He thrust the sword’s hilt at Pathon, pressing it to his chest and closing the Marcher’s hand around it. “Every savage has its limit, Marcher. But the Empire does not.” He lowered the visor to his helmet, nodded. “Heaven is watching.”

  Pathon returned the nod, shakily. “Heaven is—”

  “THAT ONE! THAT ONE’S MINE!”

  A shriek in the sand. They whirled to see the creature charging forward. A gaambol, huge and hulking against an orange-colored sky, came rampaging toward them, kicking corpses out of the way as it did. Its rider, a female wearing coarse armor and holding an impossibly huge sword over her head, kicked it forward. And over the beast’s howl, her laughter was long and loud and black as her.

  “With me, Marcher! Get ready!”

  The speaker raised his sword, meeting the beast as it came rampaging forward. Pathon joined him, his own weapon looking feeble in comparison. And, as the gaambol approached, he knew what he had to do.

  “Now!”

  As one, the speaker and he leapt aside. They thrust their blades out, punching through the beast’s hide and letting its momentum tear its own entrails out. With a death shriek, it collapsed, skidding across the earth and painting the sand a foul red as it did.

  Its rider leapt from its back, expertly twisting through the air to land on her feet as she did. Her eyes were upon the speaker, her blade heavy and ungainly in her hand. Pathon saw her exposed back. He saw his chance.

  He rushed forward, taking his blade in both hands and lunging forward, aiming for her spine and—

  “No!”

  She spoke as if scolding him. Her hand lashed out as though she meant to slap his hand away, chidingly. But instead of slapping, she caught his wrist. She whipped her blade about, bringing the pommel of it down on his elbow.

  The sound of his arm snapping echoed in his ears for so long that he couldn’t hear himself scream as he fell to the ground.

  She cast a sneer at him, fraught more with annoyance than actual hate.

  “Chakaa is not here for you, little man.”

  She turned toward the speaker, thrusting a black, hairy finger at him.

  “You,” she said. “Are you the strongest one here or is your armor simply the shiniest?”

  “The Empire is strong, pagan,” the speaker replied, raising his blood-slick blade. “I am a vessel of its fury and a speaker of its god. Daeon himself speaks through me.”

  “Oh!” A smile spread across Chakaa’s lips. “Oh, oh, oh! That does sound very important.” She hefted her blade, a massive wedge of metal hammered to roughly look like a sword, in both hands. “I have been looking for you all my life, my friend.”

  “You have found only your death, savage.”

  “Does your god give you such witty dialogue? Or did you have to work on that?” She shook her head. “Ah, but hear me prattle. In all this excitement, I almost forgot that I came here to rip your head off.”

  She swept forward: no sound but her massive blade dragging in the dirt, no emotion but the ax head of a grin plastered across her face. She leapt for the speaker. He was ready, just as he had been for the last. He raised his sword, waited for her momentum to carry her to him, and thrust his sword out for her midsection.

  She took the bait.

  She leapt.

  She spun.

  Surprise painted the speaker’s face as she twirled out of his sword’s path, letting her speed carry her into a wicked spin as she brought her blade up and around, right for his back. He turned, bringing up his own blade to block.

  Her blow didn’t land neatly, but a weapon that size didn’t have to. The mighty blade knocked him aside, slamming his sword against his body and shaking him in his armor.

  He recoiled, staggering away from her. The plate of his gauntlet was shattered, exposing a deep red gash in his arm. It was only by the clumsiness of her swing that such a gash wasn’t across his throat instead.

  That much was clear to Pathon, as it clearly was to Chakaa.

  And she moved to remedy it.

  She took her blade up in two hands. She rushed forward, hefting it up over her shoulder. She closed the distance in a few strides, twisting away from his sword as he lashed out at her. She moved with her spin, bringing the blade down in a savage blow.

  He only narrowly darted away from it, but there was no shock on his face. Strange as her technique was, it no longer surprised him. He waited, he watched.

  And when she swung again, he struck.

  She spun forward, the momentum carrying her forward. He ducked under her blow, brought his sword up, and aimed for her rib cage. Her spin carried her back, her blade coming up to meet his in a spray of sparks. He was not deterred; his hand shot out and seized her by the throat. His neck snapped forward, the ridge of his helmet smashing against her face.

  The sound of bone crunching was loud enough to be heard over the screams of the dying.

  She staggered backward. Pathon felt a surge of hope—for he couldn’t feel much else in his body—as she reeled. But it wasn’t pain or even anger that was on her now visibly dented face. Rather, she looked confused, not quite certain what had happened. It didn’t seem to dawn on her until she reached into her mouth with two hairy fingers and pulled out a pair of sharp, yellow teeth.

  “Oh.” She looked at the speaker with a broad smile. “I like you.”

  She leapt at him, swinging wildly. Rage carried her where momentum no longer could. Her blade, huge as it was, moved like a gale: sweeping in massive arcs and sending the grit in the air wafting away in dusty plumes. The speaker was quick, darting away, parrying where he could, striking where he must.

  His sword sang a discordant song across her flesh: a dozen black notes carved across her skin in a jagged harmony. Glancing blows, but more than enough to slow a warrior. Yet she didn’t so much as flinch, continuing to wade forward, heedless of the many wounds he carved across her.

  The speaker did not panic. He watched. Every wound that failed to kill, he looked for a new opening that would. When he had painted her arms, shoulders, and legs with wounds, it was clear on his face that he knew there was no slowing her.

  Only stopping her. In one blow.

  Chakaa swung again, spinning in a violent arc, aiming for the speaker’s knees. He leapt over her blade, but she was faster this time. As he had watched her, she had watched him. Her blade swung again, caught him against the side of the head.

  The helmet fell in metal splinters. He rolled with the blow, tumbling across the sand and leaping to his feet. Sand plastered the side of his head where a great gash wept blood down his temple and into his eyes.

  But behind the red and brown smears, his eyes were as calm as ever.

  He watched.


  He waited.

  She was bold now, grinning widely as she lunged forward, swinging to finish it. He did not let her. He lashed forward as she spun, arcing his sword up to thrust up through her armpit. The sword burst out of her shoulder and, for the first time, she screamed.

  Not out of pain, but out of frustration. Her momentum came to an awkward and ungainly halt as the sword embedded inside her sinew brought her to a halt. She snarled, flailing impotently to dislodge him as he twisted his blade. He waited for her fury to become a frenzy, a wild twist of limbs and metal until she wasn’t even trying to hit him anymore.

  He jerked his sword out. He planted his boot against her spine. Her back folded as she launched forward. She scrambled to her feet. She brought her sword up. She whirled about.

  She never even saw his blade until it was lodged to the hilt in her chest.

  She blinked, not quite sure what was happening. She opened her mouth, as if to protest or curse or simply ask what had happened. But neither words, nor blood, nor breath came out. She made an airy, rasping sound as her body swayed on the blade, her legs shaking.

  The speaker’s own face betrayed no joy. His eyes were steady, his mouth a hard line across his lips as he pushed the sword forward a little more. She sank to her knees, her heavy blade falling limp in her hand, her fingers still straining to hold on to it even as the light left her eyes.

  The speaker held on to his blade as she slumped over. He watched her as her head hung limp, lolling from her neck. He did not relax until she hung, limp and dead upon his blade.

  Only then did he allow himself to close his eyes and let out a long, slow sigh.

  “CAREUS!”

  Only then did Pathon find the voice to scream.

  Careus’s eyes snapped open.

  Chakaa’s did, too.

  Her body snapped back upright. Her eyes were bright and red. Her mouth was gaping in a wide, wild smile.

  “SURPRISE!”

  Her arm swung. The speaker’s hands fell. Her blade flashed. The speaker’s mouth hung open.

  “Daeon …”

  This was the last sound he made before his head flew from his shoulders.

  His blood painted the orange sky, flecked the grit with red. His body fell limp in a clatter of metal. His eyes were still open, still wide with disbelief, as she took his head in one hand and held it up.

  Pathon was screaming.

  “MAK LAK KAI!”

  His brothers were dying.

  “MAK LAK KAI!”

  Bodies were falling around him.

  “MAK LAK KAI!”

  And he could hear nothing but the sound of her voice as she, standing tall with Careus’s sword through her chest, held his severed head to the sky and laughed wildly until the sound of her joy was just one more horrific noise in the carnage surrounding him.

  THIRTY-SIX

  THE ASPIRANT, FILTHY AND HOPELESS

  It was just a little before sunset when they finally arrived.

  It had taken more hours than it should have, he had spewed more curses than he should have known, and he had made more deals with gods than was probably wise, but they had finally made it.

  The scraw flapped his wings, letting out a shrill cry as it sailed low over the rooftops of the city and came to an awkward halt, stumbling into a landing in the center of an abandoned square.

  The creature clawed the ground anxiously, folding his wings against his body. He cast a glance over his shoulder at his rider, who grunted a few words of encouragement and stroked the feathers of the beast’s head. His rider, in turn, cast a glance over her shoulder. This time, though, with a few less encouraging words.

  “We landed.” Kataria’s broad grin told her she was enjoying this a little too much. “But if you want to perfect your impression of a screaming little girl, I can always take him back up.”

  Lenk looked up at her—crouched low and tight across the scraw’s body, his hands wrapped around her waist with his head pressed firmly into her back—and glared.

  “Don’t even fucking joke,” he snarled. “You couldn’t control this thing if it was fucking talking to you.”

  “I think I’ve just about figured it out.” Kataria bunched up the reins in her hand. The scraw raised its head in response. “I mean, we made it, didn’t we?”

  “After taking the tiles off several roofs, nearly plowing into the Silken Spire, and that little bit where we were upside down for a few breaths, sure.”

  “So you admit you’re overreacting. Besides, spinning upside down meant you didn’t get any of your vomit on Colonel MacSwain’s nice coat.” She purred, stroking the beast’s neck. “And he loves his coat, doesn’t he?”

  The scraw let out a chirruping noise that might have been described as “cute” in an animal several sizes smaller and possessed of significantly fewer means of evisceration.

  “Colonel MacSwain?” Lenk asked, spitefully wiping the last dried flakes from his lips on the back of her shirt.

  “He brought us here. I wasn’t just going to keep calling him scraw.”

  “No, I get that. But why that name?”

  “I don’t know. Why are you called Lenk instead of General Squealy Baby-Man?”

  “For one, I’ve never even fought in an army, let alone commanded one. And for two, fuck you.” He glowered down at the beast between his legs, the creature stamping its hooves. “I ought to carve him up.”

  “For you to hurt him, you’d need your hands.” She reached down and patted his fingers. “Really, I’m not even sure you can move them by now.”

  He followed her hand to her midriff, where his arms were—and had been—locked around her in a death grip for the past few hours. She was right—he could barely feel them by now, but he could feel when she patted them. And soon, he could feel other things: the warmth of her skin beneath his forearms, the slow rise and fall of her belly beneath his palms, the way she tensed just slightly as he squeezed his fingers and—

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  He all but tore his hands away, his skin slick with the sweat of hers. He tried to ignore the smell of her body that still clung to them as he slid from the colonel’s haunches and landed on bloodless legs.

  He leaned hard on the beast, checking to make sure his sword, satchel, and intestines were all where they should be as he tried to find his balance after the flight. After a few moments, he found everything where it should be, and looked up.

  And there, he found nothing.

  The buildings were still there, of course. Some of the windows had been smashed. Some of the doors had been boarded up. Some of them were shops with signs still swaying and pottery and cookware and rotted sweets in their displays. Some of them looked to have been singed by fire, and some of them had crossbow bolts lodged in the doorframe.

  The city was still there, more or less as he had left it.

  But the people were gone.

  Silence echoed around him. The sounds of bustle and markets were gone; the vocal panic of war and strife was absent. The disaster of their landing should have drawn some attention—or at least a few screams.

  “Be good. Stay here,” Kataria murmured behind him. There was the snapping sound of the scraw’s beak taking something from her hand. “I’ll be back soon.”

  These noises, too, were drowned out. As the moments grew long and the sky turned orange, it was a living silence that descended over the city: not merely the absence of sound, but something vast and unseen that drew in sound and breath and prayer in a great inhale and smothered everything left behind beneath it.

  “Where are they?” It felt somehow profane to speak in the presence of this silence, as though doing so might attract its attention. “Where are all the people?”

  He turned toward Kataria. The shict shouldered her bow, glanced around at the empty square, and shrugged.

  “We’ve been gone for a long time,” she said. “When we left, the city was being torn apart by war. When we came back, it was about to be torn apa
rt by a much bigger war. Maybe everyone’s left.”

  “Cier’Djaal is one of the biggest cities in the world. Even gone as long as we were, they wouldn’t all just leave like that.”

  “They might if they knew their homes were about to be put to the torch.”

  “They wouldn’t.” Lenk hiked his sword up and set out toward an alley.

  “How do you know?” Kataria called, hurrying to catch up.

  “Because you don’t give up a home until it actually is put to the torch.”

  Through the alleys, festering with trash and debris. Across squares with the skeletal remains of stalls stripped bare. Around fountains babbling to themselves. Beneath the shadows of homes staring at them through broken-window eyes. Past shrines bereft of long-looted offerings.

  It was always the same.

  Wide-open streets. Empty buildings. Not a soul in sight. Not a sound to be heard.

  He thought he saw flashes of movement from the alleys—shadows that fled when he looked toward them. He thought he heard signs of life over the roofs—banging of hammers or cries in the night. But if he saw anything, he couldn’t prove it. And not even Kataria said she heard anything.

  “Was this Teneir’s plan, then?” she asked as she followed behind Lenk. “To just … remove everyone? Empty the streets so she could have the city all to herself?”

  “Don’t be stupid. How would she even do that?”

  “How should I know? You’re the one who swore she was up to something.”

  “Oerboros said she was.”

  “Oh, well, if a winged, naked guy said it, it must be true.”

  “Khoth-Kapira’s coming. We have to stop him and we have no other leads.”

  “That’s just my point.” She sighed. “Khoth-Kapira’s coming to do something you don’t know. You’re going to stop him by coming here and stopping Teneir, who’s also doing something you don’t know. For world-ending powers, these guys are awfully fucking vague, aren’t they?”

  “You could have stayed behind,” Lenk said as he pressed on through another alley. “You could have let me handle it.”