Sons of the Gods

by James Von Ohlen

  One of them either noticed his comrade falling or heard Eric’s footsteps as he rushed at them. The man turned to look back at him and Eric realized that the raider’s face was obscured by what appeared to be a leather mask. Glass bubbles covered his eyes allowing him to see out and a strange metal mesh covered the mouth and nose. He didn’t think the warrior was particularly interested in discussing his unusual headgear, so instead he swung his blade at him.

  Eric lunged low and to the side swinging his longsword in a wide arc that deftly swept under the raider’s defense and cut neatly through his abdomen. The blade passed through him with minimal resistance. As the tip emerged from the other side a torrent of blood and guts erupted behind it. The man dropped his weapon and tried in vain to stop them as he screamed and fell to his knees.

  Peter and his unidentified comrade double teamed a raider and cut him down, turning aside blows from the other two on their shields. Eric took one of them in the back, running him through with his longsword and piercing his heart. The blade came out easy enough as the raider collapsed.

  The remaining Mountain Man found himself outnumbered three to one. Apparently he didn’t like those odds. He shoved the unidentified watchman out of the way and ran for it, ducking under a swing of Peter’s sword as he leapt out of range. Thunder sounded again, twice in rapid succession. Eric didn’t envy whoever it was that was feeling the wrath of the gray men.

  In a moment’s peace the three soldiers looked to one another for reassurance. Eric recognized the third man, but had never gambled with him, hunted with him, drank with him, or gone whoring with him. Thus the man’s name escaped him. The sounds of alarm bells sounded over the fort and echoed off distant cliffs of granite. They could smell smoke. Something burned. Men screamed and steel rang as arms clashed.

  More hostile faces crested the walls and a fresh wave of attackers arrived. Their respite was over. A voice screamed for help and the three found another watchman pinned by two raiders against a stone wall. They started towards him, but it was too late to help him. His head was crushed by a blow from a huge club and an axe found its mark in his neck on his way to the ground. The spray of blood painted the nearby wall in a manner that some would have found to border on the artistic.

  Eric couldn’t identify the dead man, but suddenly felt anger and the need to avenge him. The magic of a uniform some would have said, but Eric would have ignored things like that if he had heard them. Regardless of the cause, the raiders who had just killed one of his brothers needed to die.

  Peter and the other watchman surged forward, but with steel in his voice from some unknown source, Eric called them back and ordered them into line. By no means did he outrank them. In fact they were absolute equals in rank. But something in his voice stopped them and brought them to heel, like well trained dogs.

  The three of them locked shields as they had trained to do so many times before. Two more men, having heard Eric’s command rushed to join them. The five of them formed a shield wall perfectly sized for the walkway atop the walls of the fort. At Eric’s order they advanced in well practiced formation, keeping their shields locked together and their swords protruding over them.

  They advanced with purpose on the Mountain Men, ruining their moment of victory over the lone watchmen with a much more significant threat. The two raiders battered their large weapons against the shields but found no way through them before they were cut down by thrusting blades.

  After killing the two, Eric and his brothers quickly found themselves facing a much larger number. The Mountain Men were pouring onto the walls virtually unopposed. A few lone watchmen battled here and there along the wall, but they were already doomed. Reinforcements rose from the interior of the fort, but if they were to have any effect something had to be done then and there.

  “Advance and clear the wall!” Eric’s voice rang out. He felt as though it wasn’t even himself speaking. Like someone else was borrowing his voice. The group of five maintained their positions in the shield wall and began their advance. So long as they held formation, they might survive this. A hurled short spear bit deeply into Eric’s shield but failed to pierce it.

  Men crowded the wall before them and shouts of battle came from behind them. Eric and his group found themselves at the fore of the effort to drive the attackers off of the walls. They pressed forward into the fray.

  Weapons repeatedly smashed into their shields and mail, shaking the world and threatening to topple them with the violence of their assault. But the men held firm and answered the blows against them where they could. Their longswords struck out at their enemies, stabbing from underneath and over the shields held before them and in a strange reverse grip by one man using his as he would a spear.

  Not every blow was fatal, but enough accumulated that they were pushing the attackers back before them. Eric stabbed a man wearing another of the strange leather masks in the neck. The mortally wounded man slumped to the ground clutching feebly at Eric’s feet as he died.

  “Forward.” Eric spoke again, reminding the men with him what they needed to do. It was unlikely that any of them had forgotten, but a steady voice that sounded like it knew what it was doing and giving easily obeyed commands was a welcome thing to the four other watchmen.

  They had practiced advancing behind a shield wall ad nauseam during training and drills. Men locked their shields together for mutual protection, forming the wall referred to in the drill’s name. Several men to several scores of men could do this, forming ranks so that if one man fell another could move forward to take his place. During training they used weighted shields and weighted blades that had been dulled, ensuring a thorough workout for all involved and giving every man a hell of a strength training session.

  Groups of men would face one another with the goal of pushing the other side out of the training yard. Losers forfeited their dinners and suffered the ignominy of broken bones and the jeers of their brothers. Men learned to defend themselves properly or they didn’t eat.

  Winners got an extra ration of ale for the day and bragging rights. The competition had always been intense, ensuring that every man was thoroughly exhausted and badly beaten by the end of the day. That was exactly the effect the fort commander had wanted. Soldiers that were too tired to cause trouble when they weren’t on duty.

  A side effect of the training was that the soldiers of Fort Pleasant were in unusually good shape. Over time the men who took part in the training became much stronger than might be expected from the normal training of garrison soldiers. And though they might be untested in battle, their competency with the shield wall rivaled that of many of the heavy infantry units serving throughout The Kingdom. Weapons and armor might have differed, but in tactics the soldiers of Fort Pleasant were as good as any.

  Each man in the group of five knew well what he was doing. They marched forward, driving their shields as well as their blades into their enemies attempting to seize the wall. Holding against heavy blows and hacking back.

  The trade in violence seemed endless. Bits and pieces of Eric’s shield started falling under the assault of axes and swords as the rim finally gave way under assault and the majority of the blades found their way into the wood. At this rate the blades would be biting into his forearm before too long.

  The five men stabbed without mercy and without pause further than the time required for a new target to present itself. Their arms began to go numb under the blows against their shields and their muscles in their sword arms burned with exertion. Necks and shoulders grew stiff and tight. They drew heavy breaths rapidly and began to see the end of their endurance.

  When Eric thought that they could go on no further, he slipped on the blood of a man he’d just struck down. Shield wall forgotten, he flung his arm out to catch himself and looked up from the spot he had fallen to. The five men had marched clear from one access tower on the wall to the other and killed or maimed everything in their path. A distance of no less than 50 yards.

  They p
aused in their red work and looked behind them. There a few watchmen still stood on the wall finishing off wounded raiders and searching through them. One pushed a few empty siege ladders away from the walls in a nonchalant manner. No more Mountain Men came over the walls.

  “Holy shit.” Peter spoke, giving voice to what they all no doubt thought. The five of them, untested and green as they came, had just cut a bloody path through a few dozen wild savages who had no doubt been killing grown men since the day they could walk and killing bears with their bare hands since they’d been able to speak.

  Peter gave Eric an ear to ear grin and yelled his elation at having survived. He slapped the shoulders of the men around him and leaned out over the edge of the fortifications and began yelling insults at the Mountain Men. A clap of thunder cut his barrage of verbal abuse short as well as his life as his head exploded.

  The four men jumped back in surprise and crouched down to avoid being the next victim of the gray men’s magic. Eric stared with a grim expression as Peter’s headless body slumped back to the ground, trailing blood and gore along with it. There was no way he would be able to collect his debt now.

  Sorrow for the lost money was forgotten as a massive explosion shook the entirety of Fort Pleasant and the village it protected. Smoke billowed into the air from the far side of the complex and alarm bells sounded again. Trumpets carried orders for all to hear. They left no doubt as to what the fort commander wanted.

  All hands to the gate.

  The four remaining watchmen of Eric’s shield wall joined the others running from the walls to the access towers at the double time and into the fort’s interior. Every man made for the front gate as fast as they could. Any threat great enough to warrant calling for all hands to the gate wouldn’t only be a huge danger in itself, but any man who failed to rally and face it tempted the wrath of every officer in the fort. That kind of thing might see a man flogged or hung. Worse yet, broken on the wheel for cowardice in the face of the enemy.

  Even then, if officers planned on such punishments, all parties involved would have to survive the coming fight. Eric had no intention of being punished and shouldered his way among the men moving down the narrow stairwells. They shoved each other at the bottom, vying for position to get through the door.

  He squeezed through with one other man and found himself twisted around, facing a different direction from the dozen or so other men with him. His gaze settled on the smoke billowing from some point on the far side of the fort’s wall. Men screamed in the distance and thunder rolled yet again while trumpets relayed orders. As he watched several streaks of orange light appeared, forming a momentary bridge between the ground and the sky that left its after image dancing across his vision.

  As much as he wanted to answer the orders being barked at him through the trumpets, he simply couldn’t believe what he had just seen. What could it have been? He wondered. He found himself running down a wide street lined with filthy buildings. He didn’t recognize any of them, but that didn’t matter.

  Something was happening ahead, and he needed to see what it was. Needed to be a part of it on some level he couldn’t understand. His lungs burned again and now the muscles in his legs complained with the exertion of running while carrying his gear.

  Further and further he went along the twisting rode until he found himself before the ruins of what had been a mass of makeshift shelters for the refugees pouring into the fort ahead of what was supposed to be just another band of raiders. The collection of tents and shacks had stood in the shadow of the wall. There they were protected from the wind and the sun for most of the day. The fortifications even provided intrepid builders with one wall to work with. Many had done just that and built right up against the stone’s edge.

  Now, the air stank of hot metal, like being near a blacksmith while the forge was being worked. A large section of the wall had fallen and crushed the mass of tents and shacks. The dust sent into the air by its destruction still rose, stinging the throat and obscuring vision. There among the burning, blood soaked wreckage, and in the swirling dust and smoke stood five men. Serene, almost completely still, they stood together. Like the eye of a hurricane in the nightmares of some mad butcher.

  They were spattered with gore and their weapons had obviously been used recently. A piece of metal seemed to be stuck in one man’s face, surrounding one of his eyes. A sword held by one of the men glowed red hot and steam rose from it as something sizzled on the blade. The remains of what appeared to have been humans at one point lay strewn about them. One of them who looked oddly familiar to Eric casually tossed the head of a gray man away from him like it was a half eaten apple he had lost interest in.

  Their eyes met and Eric froze, unable to look away. An eerie red light showed there the briefest moment, as if the inside of the man’s head was on fire. Darkness surrounded the man. A tangible aura of violence that made the hairs on Eric’s neck stand on end. The ghostly image of a skull swept across the warrior’s face. Eric dared blink only once and it was gone.

  Meeting his gaze was the man he had seen ride into the fort some weeks ago at the head of the scout unit sent to deal with the raiders at the nameless fort. There was no mistaking his face and the way the man stood. Like some great predatory cat. Though relaxed, ready to strike at all times. The man’s name leapt into his mind, unbidden.

  Torsten.

  “YOUR time has come, warriors. Serve me well and you will know my rewards. Fail me and you will die.” The War God’s voice reverberated inside Torsten’s head. Anhur was nowhere to be seen, but his words could be heard by all of Torsten’s crew. Like a thought implanted there in another’s voice.

  Torsten clenched and unclenched his right hand feeling the strength there. The constant alien sensation of the living steel was an unending reminder that a piece of him had been lost. Taken from him in battle. He had lost fights before but had managed to survive them all in one piece. This new turn of events was unsettling.

  After recovering from the initial shock of it all, his thoughts had turned to vengeance. Whenever his mind lingered there he could almost hear Anhur chuckling somewhere.

  “Yes” the granite voice would speak in whispers in his mind. “Focus your energy on destroying them. Avenge your defeat and do my bidding.”

  Torsten was never sure if the War God actually spoke to him or if it was a figment of his imagination. At this point he didn’t think anything would shock him. He and his crew had spent who knew how long in the halls of the God of War and had seen many things that defied description.

  They had been given new weapons that seemed familiar yet strange all at once. A longsword with good balance and a fine cutting edge, but that burned so hotly that it seared flesh as it cut it and set clothing on fire. Given a little pressure and elbow grease, the blade even cut through other weapons. Regular steel became as butter under the cutting edge of the weapons granted by Anhur.

  A steel rod that could be used to release a demon’s breath, much like the weapon the sorcerer of the Mountain Men carried. The demon’s breath came from the likeness of an appropriately decorated monstrous maw set on one end of the rod. Between the gaping teeth and snarling face the breath emerged. Like the weapon had begun to physically manifest the demon trapped inside of it. The stylized head was weighted as well, providing a weapon during the moments when the breath was unavailable. Anhur assured them that the demon bound within the rod was firmly held and posed no threat to any who wielded the weapon. Even then only one man had dared claim it as his. Styg had gripped the weapon with white knuckles, wary of accidentally setting it off and incinerating himself or his friends.

  A warhammer that would have not been out of place in the hand of a knight fighting his way through other heavy infantry on a crowded battlefield was given to them as well. It was a fine weapon, forged of some mysterious alloy and well balanced. Its likeness would have cost a fortune in the heart cities of The Kingdom. Only this hammer didn’t just smash whatever it hit. Solids
plates of steel simply shattered into tiny pieces under its assault. Torsten’s crew had been told it would have the same effect on flesh. None had yet tested it in that regard.

  Another sword and a large two handed axe rounded out the main weapons gifted by the War God. Both appeared relatively normal weapons until a rune was pressed on the handle. As well as being supernaturally sharp, when the rune was activated lightning began to crackle and dance along the cutting edges of the blades.

  A new found strength flowed through Torsten and his crew as well. None among them would have been mistaken for a weakling before coming to the Hall of Iron. But something had happened to them as they stayed and trained with the bronze knights. They began performing feats they shouldn’t have been able to. A single man lifting several times his weight overhead with a single hand. Such was unheard of save in the most outlandish boasts voiced by drunken men in taverns. Only this time it was real.

  “The one the Mountain Men call sorcerer. This one is the servant of my enemy. I have found him. He dares bring war to your kingdom. As I speak he lays siege to a place called Fort Pleasant.” The commanding voice spoke to Torsten and his crew in an almost reasonable tone.

  “It is in my power to send you to wherever two men clash against one another. Wherever there is battle and war. Once you arrive you will kill this man and his gray men. You will bring me their weapons and the sorcerer’s skull. You will bring me what has been stolen from me and you will bring me the Nexus that they seek.”

  Something buzzed in Torsten’s head as Anhur’s disembodied voice continued. His skin grew warm and he found himself breathing deeper and faster. The air in Hall of Iron seemed to grow colder by the second. He looked to the eyes of each his crew in turn. His stare lingered on the strange metal piece that had taken the place of Ed’s eyepatch.

  Almost as long as he had known the man, Ed had worn the eyepatch. It was as much a part of him as his luck. Though it struck some as odd that a ‘lucky’ man would have lost an eye, when Ed told the story of how he lost it, it made him sound lucky to have survived at all.