DEFEATED VICTORY
by
Gabriel Archer & Jack Canaan
SmashWords Edition
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On his journey here, Lark felt confident that he would secure the Goddess’s favor. And why not? He was a young, handsome prince with a bright smile and a brighter future. More importantly, he had suspended his dignity and was willing to grovel for her favor even as he tried to buy it with a pouch filled with gemstones that his father had procured by doubling the taxes on their subjects (and suppressing revolts that accompany such events) for five consecutive years.
Now that he stood in the long – the ridiculously long – line of supplicants, Lark realized that mayhap his optimism was fueled solely by hope and delusion.
There is little a man would not do to obtain victory. Stinginess and restraint were not welcomed here. And so, flinging greed to the wind, petitioners brought their riches to the Goddess. Some of these came in the form of laden caravans, others in bolts of golden silk or bejeweled tapestries - things of wonder and legend. With these treasures newly minted in Lark’s eyes, his pouch of gems became smaller and the stones lost their glitter, becoming just so many opaque pebbles.
What was I thinking?
Lark felt dread slowly wrapping its fingers around his innards. Not only were his gifts quite modest - to exaggerate a bit - he himself was of the same poor quality as the gems. He was an obscure prince of second-tier, third-world kingdom lost in the company of heroes and kings. The men to the front and back of him might have been statues brought to life, for all their glamour and muscle. All wore regalia of the battlefield: scars that proved their worth and bravery; swords and armors not forged for them but rather taken off dead kings and emperors as battle trophies. In comparison, Lark’s own sword had seen only one battle, in which its less-than-gleaming tip pointed out targets for the archers and nothing more.
The splendid sight before him only refined the notion that this was not the place for him. Her palace, the legend went, was a gift from one of her former lover - the God of Masonry - who had carved it with a star plucked from the heavens.
The palace proper was situated on the plateau that crowned a majestic mountain, and, as if wine overfilling a chalice, it spilled over to the stoney face. Marble, golden-veined steps would lead to plazas and galleries etched into the sides of the cliff. Here and there, in artificial alcoves, flowering gardens bloomed and hid within their depth the golden glitter of gentle luminous waterfalls. Every place that required a column to bolster rock was instead occupied by intricately sculpted stone giants. There were granite pavilions and delicate walkways; there were monstrous gates and delicate porticos; there was majesty and power. Some even whispered that there was a hatchery of Crimson Eagles warmed by natural gazers in the bowels of the mountain.
Nothing lost, Lark thought and turned to depart. Might as well not embarrass myself in front of the divine. Just as he did, however, some fellows that had already been granted audience were hastening away. Most were red from shame and indignation, some were so pale that it spoke of deep fright, while yet others were wiping away tears. The stories are true, she’s a vengeful mistress, even more vengeful than the God of Retribution. A smile then split his lips.
With renewed determination he turned towards the entrance and patiently awaited his turn. Vengeance.
In thirteen hours Lark was by the golden gates of the throne room. Before his turn came, a beggar, lame and half-blind, who was spat upon from all the directions of the compass, came to plead for a bronze coin. A pouch of gems landed in the beggar’s shaking hand. The wretch was given everything the prince brought to buy the Goddess’s favor. Lark was sure that in the beggar’s eyes the jewels lost all their flaws and shinned as bright as the poor man’s sudden future. Lark was ushered in even before shock switched places with gratitude on the beggar’s face.
He sauntered in like he owned the place, except that even if he sold his whole kingdom he would only be able to afford a few dozens stairs, and a waterfall perhaps - for nature provides such things freely. A pipe came alive in his hand and quickly exuded a caustic cloud of smoke that mercilessly ousted the perfumes and incense that burned in golden vases around the room.
Then Lark saw her. Well, as much as the you-are-not-worthy curtains allowed him to. She lay half-sprawled on a half-couch, perching on a mountain of pillows. One of her feet was thrown over the side of the divan and the toes of the other were tangling the fur of a mountain lion with platinum eyes and claws. Her face was totally hidden by the gauzy material, yet her shadow on that same fabric bespoke boredom.
He took his time admiring prior gifts that lay ignored in pyramids and piles around her gazebo.
What wouldn’t a general give to assure victory? What wouldn’t a king sacrifice to save his throne? All the baubles and rubies and jewels that make men smile so, all the trophies collected over the years, were placed at the feet of the Goddess who was Victory. Tapestries and paintings, depicting her flying over armies and sunrises, covered the tiled walls. She appeared as he had always seen her portrayed - with a golden helmet and flowers beneath her feet. Lark’s trek around her riches continued, marked by ashes he meticulously cleaned out of his pipe. When he finally glanced back, the Goddess was sitting more at attention, her head turning to follow his path. The cat also sat more rigidly, almost as if awaiting an order to pounce on him.
“You think you are clever, mortal? You think none tried irreverence before? Once in a decade it always happens. Some general or prince or baron comes here, feigning disrespect, thinking its fresh and novel.” Before he could distinguish words, he thought he heard a harp’s chime, so melifolous was her voice. “They thought me nothing but a woman, though immortal, and thus susceptible to their rough charms. Your head will soon join theirs.” Even death threats from her sounded melodic.
“I see I have already earned your disfavor, that’s all I ever wanted.” He kept his voice relaxed, though his heart raced like a horse. He turned to leave without even a hint of a bow when all others crawled out on all fours.
“Now this is fresh and novel.” She laughed throatily. “You begin to amuse me. Come here.” He did as he was told. He felt himself being studied from beyond the veil, knowing that from that side the material was more transparent. He stood indifferent, once in a while running a hand through dirty black curls.
“Your name?” she finally uttered.
“Lark vi’Gawin, son of King Degeron,” he humbly recommended himself. “The kingdom that is my inheritance is probably unknown to you. It is small and crowded with smelly farming folk.”
“So you say you do not wish to gain my favor and be victorious on the battlefield. What is it that you desire then?”
“Just the opposite. Soon we will face an enemy which has been raiding the local islands. My father charged me with the command of the army. If I win, my ascension to the throne is assured.” Lark sighed.
“What more can you hope for?” The ‘you’ sounded a more than degrading.
“I can hope that I do not become the next king. I see my father drowning every day in matters of state. He gave up his youth to count sheep and taxes. I wish to live free, through the will of my pants and the whistles of my flute. If I am defeated, my father will deem me unfit to be his successor and pass the throne to my younger brother.”
“This is ludicrous,” she concluded after a moment of thought. “I’ve never seen a man, never thought a man existed, that would turn away power. It is your birthright and your duty.” He almost detected anger but it was softened by her concern for preservation of order. If a father was a serf so must his son be. If a father was a ruler so must his son be
come. Things are so simple for Gods.
“It is all different to each’s eye,” Lark vi’Gawin, son of Degeron, mused out loud. “Here, in this palace of vanity, one might think that the goal of any life, even a divine one, is to collect these trinkets.” He swept his arm around the room, indicating the glittering, sparkling treasures. “Men who bring you these things spend their lives hoarding and looting, collecting and recounting, and for them it is the greatest joy. For you it is nothing. Not anymore. I would wager that you would sacrifice all these treasures for something that could entertain you even momentarily. I would wager all this gold that all this gold has lost all flavor.”
For a dozen or so minutes everything remained quiet. He stood before the silky cocoon, feeling as if he was a boy again being schooled by his father. She had the time to ponder his words - after all, she was ageless. The prince wondered what those in line thought about this delay. Usually the protocol allowed but a few minutes to state your case and be ridiculed or rewarded... more often than not, ridiculed.
“I hope I have offended you enough to be defeated in the upcoming battle, allow me to leave. I am sure men of greater stature and valor have brought you more shiny toys.” The prince knew what a tightrope he was walking. The balance had to be precise.
“A goddess’s amusement and her rage were two different sides of the same coin,” his wise father used to say.
When the veil was pulled back by spectral fingers of an unheard wind, Lark was sure that he had miscalculated. In a moment, his corpse would be a lesson for others and the lion’s plaything. But it wasn’t the huge cat that was approaching him, though the lion could envy the Goddess’s grace.
Could there be anything better in a warrior’s life than standing over a fallen enemy when the sun awoke to see you alive and not him? Could anything parallel the feeling of accomplishment and pride after a hard won triumph? It is what poets whisper about in their verses; it is what historians describe with their dry facts. It is that overbearing feeling of conquest - when you know that it was your courage and strength that had felled a worthy adversary. It is this sort of beauty that radiated from her presence. All that was mixed together with what the bards call ‘feminine charms.’ Namely: breasts the size of honeydews and the finest pair of lips to ever suck earth’s air.
Though kept captive by her beauty, Lark heard the gates shut behind his back with a merciless finality. The petitions for today were over. When she led him to her lofty divan, the prince knew that Victory was defeated.
In the pool, on the cliffs, atop piles of coins - their lovemaking took a little tour around the palace. Prince Lark - though of not a low opinion of himself - knew his limits. He was just a mortal, after all. Stamina and prowess were going to fail him eventually. Besides, in all her eons, Victory went through whole provinces worth of lovers. He could not obviously bring her down to his mortal level and so, Lark elevated himself to a status of a god. If he took her as an equal… no, more than an equal, if he took her as her better, as he used to take peasant girls in barns, he stood a chance. Easier said than done. His attitude was firm; it was his body that began to soften - two days with a goddess would do that to a man.
Everyone knows that gods have attention spans of small puppies, but what really held her interest were not so much his skills in bed, but rather the conversations shared in-between their erotic gallops.
“The more we shun a woman, the more we shine in her eyes,” his wise father used to say. A woman has power over you if you desire of her gifts. Lark had rejected victory, the only thing the Goddess could bestow on him. It drove her wild. In essence, it made her powerless. He brought a goddess to her knees… twice.
“When is this battle?”
“Never, if it was up to me, but in reality probably in a month or so.”
“For the pleasure of these days, let me grant you victory. It will be the greatest achievement in the history of your people. Not a single of your soldiers will die, while the enemy will not find a warrior who still has all his limbs intact.” She tempted him, gazing into his eyes with her constantly changing orbs, in which colors shifted like the tides of battle.
“You could do better.” He smiled while lighting his pipe. “You could drag your fingertips over my soul so that people will cry or laugh at the tune of my flute. That would truly be power.” She wrinkled her delicate nose and her eyes suddenly became depthless black, no longer shifting colors.
“The Muses live elsewhere,” her words leaked anger and jealousy. “Let me make your sword the greatest in the world. You would be mightier than Krovion the Fierce. Island by island, continent to continent, you will sweep this world unchallenged. By the time of your sunset years, there will not be a village left unbowed to you,” she almost begged, unable to comprehend how anyone could resist that which all other men ever dreamt of.
He did not respond, instead he gently nudged her off his chest and went to the meager pile of his clothes and possessions. In the same sheath as his sword was a pocket for his flute. He sat next to her, playing a sad melody of lovers doomed to part.
“I would spend an eternity here with you, for your beauty and your love. But not a blink for your virtue of victory.” Soon they fell asleep, each thinking on their own problems.
At dawn, while she flew over fields saturated with blood and capriciously switched her allegiance back and forth, Lark woke up, got dressed, and left. The sword and flute he left for her.
He knew that this act of treason - departing without leave and leaving without even a kiss - would infuriate her. In her spite she could kill him as he stood. But scorned women, especially goddesses, are far too sadistic to end it so swiftly.
Hours turned to days, days transformed to weeks and even weeks became months.
Lark vi’Gawin, son of King Degeron, grinned into the faceplate of his helmet. Before him was a field filled with mutilated corpses of his enemies. His outnumbered, peasant army had bested the fierce raiders that were rumored to be born in the heat of battle. The victory was easy, but he wanted more. He wanted more from the very beginning. Soon islands, then countries, then whole continents - everything that the Goddess offered him.
The Oracle of the Goddess of Victory was bewildered. Triumph fell to the simpleton prince who had offended the Goddess beyond all others. Out of foolish, mortal pride, he refused to seek forgiveness or bring sacrifices of good will. In turn, out of righteous, divine fury, she would not relent either. And whenever the Oracle confronted him, Lark demanded an immidiate end to these victories.
But at night, ah, at night this mere mortal slept as gods do: peacefully and happy. “A man can’t count on the favor of women, but he can always count on their vengeance,” his wise father used to say. Lark knew that love is fleeting and ephemeral, especially with gods. But their hate… their hate can span centuries. The favorite weapon of deities has forever been irony. So, thinking that all he wanted was to play the flute like a lice-riddled shepherd boy, Victory had forced his army to defeat anything that came its way, forcing more and more glory and power to a man that professed not to want any.
Oh, how sweet her vengeance is, Emperor Lark vi’Gawin thought as he approached yet another throne, in yet another conquered kingdom.
An Excerpt from
ASHES OF HEROES
Book One of the War of Regret Series
By Gabriel Archer & Jack Canaan
Defeated Victory Page 1
