Fate of the Fallen

by Kel Kade

  “You throw the same party every day, Araya. What more is there to be discussed?”

  “It’s not the same party. Yesterday, the theme was reptiles from the planet Teguei. The day before, it was the forest giants of Byganth. You know the easiest way for me to encourage growth and evolution in my wildernesses is by throwing a party. It requires less of my energy when the other gods are gathered.”

  The goddess admired herself in a full-length mirror, twisting back and forth as pale wings suddenly erupted from her back, the tips delicately brushing the floor. Myropa stared in awe at the misty fall of cascading feathers.

  Trostili grabbed the goddess by the waist and kissed her slender neck as she giggled. He brushed a thumb across her clavicle and stared into Arayallen’s golden gaze as he spoke.

  “Human, do you find it strange that the God of War and the Goddess of the Wilderness should enjoy such devotion?”

  It took Myropa a moment to realize he had been speaking to her. She ducked her head and said, “I wouldn’t know.”

  He grinned sardonically. “No, you wouldn’t know the value of love, would you?”

  Myropa felt her heart clench. The words stung because they were true.

  Arayallen playfully slapped his chest. “You antagonize her.”

  Trostili sighed and turned toward Myropa. “Yes, but she never bites. You would think she’s intimidated by me.” He chuckled and leaned down to look her in the eyes. She was not short for a woman—a human woman, anyway—but the top of her head barely reached the god’s chest. His gaze nearly brought her to her knees as he said, “You’re not intimidated by me, are you, Reaper?”

  Myropa’s mouth hung silent as she tried desperately for an answer. She wanted to please him, needed to please him.

  “Turn it down, Trostili,” said Arayallen. “I can feel your influence from here. The reaper can’t even speak. Get on with this silly game so we can finish planning the party.”

  Suddenly, Myropa could breathe again, and she hadn’t even realized she’d stopped. “I come with news,” she sputtered.

  Trostili turned and grabbed a couple of persimmons from a bowl before stretching out on a cream-colored divan positioned just barely within the shade of the open room. “Of course you do. Why else would you be here? Speak.”

  Myropa was overcome with the need to comply, and her lips began moving on their own. “The one Pithor refers to as the Lightbane has been collected.” She held up the pale blue vessel that dangled from a cord at her waist. “Obriday and his team are also dead, killed by a sorceress and the Lightbane’s companion. Verus still seeks the Lightbane in the north. He is unaware of the success of the mission.”

  Trostili nodded with a pleased grin as he gazed across the open expanse of lawn and gardens toward the lavender sea. “Excellent. I never cared for Obriday, anyhow.”

  Arayallen strolled over with a couple of goblets and handed one to Trostili. She took a moment to adjust her new wings as she sat and drew her legs up beneath her on the seat next to him. “Of course you didn’t care for him, Trostili. He was human.”

  He looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean? I care for humans.”

  “Pff, you do not. You’re always pitting them against one another.”

  “Ha! They do that on their own. Well, mostly. That’s what makes them such wonderful creatures. I hardly have to work for my power.”

  Arayallen nodded thoughtfully. “Well, you do spend an ungodly amount of time on them.”

  Myropa’s gaze bounced back and forth between the two gods. She was mesmerized by the power that radiated from them. She felt its calescent touch wash across her skin, which warmed the longer she stood in their presence.

  Trostili leaned in to kiss Arayallen, then brushed the strap of her gown off her shoulder. The goddess placed her slender fingers over his wanting lips and said, “Your pet is still here, Trostili.”

  He sighed again and turned to Myropa. “Is that all?”

  She stared at him for a moment, then shook herself free of his thrall. “Shall I inform Axus and Pithor of the success?”

  Trostili twirled one of Arayallen’s caramel curls around his finger as he absently replied, “No, let them figure it out on their own.” Myropa didn’t realize she was smiling until he said, “This pleases you?”

  “Yes,” she said, but stopped upon feeling the quaver in her voice. She gripped the silky skirt of her burgundy dress and bit her lower lip.

  “What is it?” He flicked a finger at her. “You always do that when you are eager to speak.”

  Again, her mouth rambled of its own accord. “The Lightbane’s friend has taken up his cause. He carries the Lightbane’s head to the Uyanian king in hopes of finding another savior.”

  Trostili raised a brow. “Oh? Tell me of this friend.”

  “He is a forester from the village where the Lightbane was reared.”

  Arayallen sat up, her interest piqued. “A forester? One of my foresters?”

  Trostili pulled her back into his embrace and said, “You suddenly care for the humans, dear?”

  “Well, no, but the foresters are the least offensive. They, at least, respect me. I have little hope for, nor interest in, the rest.”

  Trostili waved his hand toward the portal. “You may go. Keep this between us.”

  * * *

  After the reaper left, Arayallen turned to him and said, “What are you up to, Trostili?”

  He laid his head back and closed his eyes. “What I do best, dear—war.”

  “Why do you not tell Axus that his plan worked and be done with this already? If you keep it from him, he will delay the assault.”

  “The longer the war, the more power for me. Besides, I am not keeping it from him. I’m just not doing his work for him. Are you so eager to see the humans destroyed?”

  Arayallen pursed her lips. “I have no interest in your little game. I had such hopes for the humans. They were my favorite, you know. Their design was nearly perfect—the closest to our own that I’ve made. I blame Iochtheus. He made them too self-aware. Not only are they aware of themselves, they are aware of us!”

  Trostili rolled his eyes. “They are not aware of us.”

  “Well, they know we exist.”

  “They think we exist. There’s a difference.”

  “Not by much,” she said as she fisted her dainty hands. “Barbach. He filled them with ambition … and pettiness … and arrogance. They are nothing like us. What was he thinking?”

  “He is the God of Desire. What would you have him do?”

  “Keep it to himself,” she said.

  “It’s good that they aren’t perfect, Araya. We wouldn’t want them getting it into their heads that they are gods, would we?” Trostili swirled the amber liquid in his goblet. “Axus won’t be satisfied with the humans, you know. He intends to take the entire world.”

  She turned to him with hesitance. “All of it? All my creations? The plants as well?”

  Trostili tilted his head, studying her reaction carefully. On which side of the war would she fall? If anyone felt an interest in challenging Axus for the welfare of Aldrea, it would be Arayallen. Discontent fluttered across her face; then she shrugged. She tugged a length of filmy material from a table and wrapped it around herself as she twisted in front of the mirror.

  She said, “Aldrea is just one little world.” She then turned to him with a burst of excitement. “Did I tell you? Olios has created a new sphere. It’s a lovely blue with spots of green and swirls of white, and he’s placed it around a golden star at just the right distance. Truly, the Worldmaker has outdone himself.” Her eyes widened, and she slapped her hands together. “I could start again—with the humans, I mean. We could adjust the recipe, bring them better into balance with the wilderness.”

  Trostili smiled. “Think of the glorious battles.”

  “You will stay out of it,” she said.

  He laughed aloud and thought, Not likely.

  CHAPTER 6

/>   The journey to Tyellí was long, and Aaslo tired of the incessant wind that rattled the prairie grasses. Beyond haggling with a few shopkeepers, he spoke with no one besides Mathias. He could not even escape the phantom in his sleep. His dreams were haunted by bloody battles, each of them different, but always ending the same—with a beheading. Sometimes it was Mathias’s, sometimes his own. Day after day, Mathias droned on about the most trivial things. The phantom voice wondered about the origin of the stars, pondered why most animals had four legs, calculated random currency exchanges, and told the story of Parshia at least twice per day. Aaslo wondered why he chose that particular story. They had read it together years before, and it had only come up again on the last day they had truly spoken—the last day of Mathias’s life.

  “You think I’m dead?”

  The voice roused Aaslo from his reflections. “Are you saying you’re not?” he said as he stared down an empty road that was little more than a set of wagon ruts through a field.

  “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion. What is death, anyway? I mean, you’re alive and going about your business…”

  Aaslo did his best to tune out the monologue, as he had for more than three weeks. His horse tripped over a nonexistent rock—again—jarring him and everything else it carried. The heavy burlap sack smacked against Aaslo’s thigh as it swung down from its perch. He kept it secured to his belt at all times, never certain the horse wouldn’t run away. He pulled the bag into his lap.

  “You’re not paying attention.”

  Aaslo sighed as the guilt churned in his stomach. “You’re right. I apologize. Tell me again.”

  “As I was saying, Bougliet never truly understood the Siderian cultural obsession with carrackac hats. I can’t blame him, really. They look ridiculous. You should get one.”

  “You just said they look ridiculous.”

  “Well, yeah, but it’s not like you’ll be worse off than you are now. Besides, you like functional things, and you like plants.”

  “I don’t live in the desert. I can get water from the streams and rivers. We cross at least two every day.”

  “But if you strap a carrackac plant to your head, you wouldn’t have to wait to find one or clean the water before you drink it.”

  Aaslo said, “With this much water in the air, a carrackac plant would be the size of this horse within a couple of weeks.”

  “I see your point, but it would still fit your head.”

  “We’d best not argue over who has a bigger head, seeing as how I’m bearing the weight of both.”

  Mathias did not respond, and Aaslo found relief in the silence that loomed over his guilt. At least, he did until his stupid horse mistook a porcupine for grass. The rest of his afternoon was spent plucking quills from the beast’s muzzle. He couldn’t imagine how the horse had survived for so long. By the time he was finished, the sun was nearing the horizon, so Aaslo decided to make camp. Thus far sustained by rabbits, squirrels, and even rats caught in traps he set each night, he decided to use the extra daylight to hunt for something more substantial. With his bow in hand, he left the road to seek prey near a small pond. He missed a pheasant on the way and realized the distance to his target was harder to estimate on the open prairie than it was in the forest.

  “And you always said you were better with the bow. That was pitiful.”

  Aaslo didn’t protest, seeing as how it was true. He tied Dolt’s reins around a thick stand of reeds on one end of the pond, hoping the horse didn’t get himself stuck in the mud, then waited for something edible to appear from the other side. As the sun dipped below the horizon, six pygmy deer, small enough to hide in the thigh-high grasses, cautiously approached the pond in a tight group. Just as he released his arrow, the herd startled. He swiftly released a second, picking off the rearmost doe. He turned to see what had spooked the creatures just as the sound reached his ears. Not far in the distance, a group of riders was approaching from the north. They had likely spied him already—or at least his horse, who had managed to get his bridle caught in the reeds so that he was pivoting in circles trying to free himself.

  Aaslo figured that leaving the ideal campsite as the sun was setting would only raise the riders’ suspicions. After collecting the doe and Dolt, Aaslo waded through the tall grass to make camp at least a hundred yards from the pond, hoping the riders would leave him alone. He had no such luck. By the time he had finished dressing the small deer and started a fire, two of the riders were headed his way. Nine men, seven of which appeared to be soldiers, remained at the pond watering their horses, unloading a wagon, or divesting themselves of their armor and clothes. Aaslo’s sword was at his waist, and he gripped his axe as he awaited their arrival.

  The two riders stopped several paces from him and dismounted. Each drew a sword, and the man in the lead, an officer, judging by the shiny medallions on his breast, said, “Throw down your weapons and identify yourself.”

  Aaslo glanced at the soldiers beyond these two. While they appeared relaxed and tired at that moment, he found it suspicious that they were bothering with him. He knew the small army would be upon him if he caused trouble. Still, he had a task, and he couldn’t afford an inspection. If he killed a soldier, he’d be captured and hanged. “I have no problem with you, and I’m minding my own business. I’ll move on down the road if it’ll make you feel better.”

  “Drop the sword, too.”

  Aaslo straightened and lifted his chin as Cromley had taught him. He said, “You have no cause to divest me of my weapons. A man is entitled to arm himself on the road.”

  The officer stepped forward and motioned for the other to flank Aaslo. Reminded of his practices with Cromley and Mathias, Aaslo knew better than to let the soldier get behind him.

  “Ha ha! They’re going to take you down, just like I always did.”

  Aaslo backed away so both men stayed within his sight. The evasion did not sit well with the officer, who issued no further warnings. The man advanced on him, covering the distance between them in a few quick steps. Aaslo drew his sword in time to deflect the first overhead strike, then twisted and ducked beneath their joined blades to avoid a second attack from the other soldier. He quickly backed away, nearly tripping over a clump of grass, and collided with his horse, who had not been there when last he looked. Dolt chose that moment to nip at his hair. Aaslo pushed his muzzle away, then ducked beneath the beast to avoid the advancing soldiers. The horse stood swishing his tail and chomping on grass as if he weren’t standing in the middle of a sword fight.

  The officer skirted the horse’s head, while the other soldier went to the rear. Without warning, Dolt kicked the soldier in the chest hard enough to send him sprawling and gasping for breath. Aaslo jumped back as the officer swiped at him from the side, then parried another high strike. The officer delivered a gut swipe and then a jab. Aaslo managed to avoid the brunt of both, taking only a small cut across his stomach. He parried another strike, then saw movement from the corner of his eye. He realized more men from the camp were headed his way. His best bet was probably to end the fight, jump on Dolt, and flee the scene. Unfortunately, on the open prairie, there was nowhere to hide, so he would have to ride until they gave up pursuit.

  “Focus.”

  Aaslo ducked just in time to avoid decapitation.

  “Come on, Aaslo. Stop playing around.”

  He swallowed the bile that had made its way up his throat and hardened his resolve. He gripped his sword and pounded forward. Taking the officer by surprise, Aaslo commenced a flurry of strikes he couldn’t possibly maintain for long, but that wasn’t necessary. If he didn’t finish this quickly, he might as well drop his sword and let the man kill him.

  “Remember that dead tree? The big one you took down in one swipe?”

  With another glance at the approaching riders, Aaslo pummeled the officer with such ferocity that the man couldn’t manage a counterattack. He gripped his sword and swung with all his might, smashing the man’s sword from his
grip and toppling him to the ground. Aaslo stood poised with his sword hanging over the man’s head, ready to deliver a final thrust.

  “Halt!”

  Aaslo was too late. The riders were near enough that he wouldn’t be able to run. Frozen with his sword in the air, he imagined how he looked in that moment, like the beast that had taken Mathias. Breathing heavily, he didn’t take his eyes from the downed man as the others arrived.

  “Drop your weapon!”

  “This man accosted me with no cause,” Aaslo said. “I was minding my own business.”

  When no response came, he glanced up at the newcomers. Mounted before him were five men. The man on the right carried a short sword and bore a smug expression over a haughty bearing, the impact of which was thoroughly ruined by his servant’s livery. The one on the left was rough and wore heavy leather armor over chain mail. Two more had the appearance of personal guards. One of the guards circled around to Aaslo’s rear. It became apparent that Dolt didn’t appreciate the intrusion, since he proceeded to intermittently gnash at the other horse’s tail.

  The lead man in the center, a young man no older than Aaslo, calmly surveyed Aaslo’s camp and then the scene of the battle. Sitting tall upon his impressive steed, he stroked his short, perfectly trimmed beard and adjusted the emerald-green felt hat that hung over his right ear. Then he tugged at the high collar of his cream-colored tunic, which was partially covered by a dark green, sleeveless overcoat. The man’s attire appeared expensive but still practical for traveling. He said, “Is that a deer I spy? Shall I arrest you for poaching?”

  “Obviously he’s a noble. It’s practically written on his forehead, not to mention the crest on his overcoat.”

  “Which one?” Aaslo said as he lowered his weapon and took a few steps away from the officer on the ground.

  The noble surveyed the scene again. “Are you saying you killed more than one deer?”