Sons of the Gods

by James Von Ohlen

  Greasy smoke poured from the remains of some great metal structure on wheels. Men leapt from the interior, still clad in their peculiar plate armor and battled men emerging from building which shifted from the pristine vision of its spirit only moments before to a battered and broken thing. No windows remained and no light came from within.

  Beams of light stabbed into the men emerging from the burning steel monstrosity, coming from the park behind Torsten. Men clashed with one another, locked in mortal combat a few feet from where he stood. Unable to look away he watched intently as the men spat familiar curses at one another.

  One side seemed to be taking a sound beating. The men who had arrived not from within the building, but from elsewhere, were dying in the scores. They seemed to be attacking the building, likely after some general or prince holed up inside. The high priority target’s bodyguard seemed to be doing their job quite well.

  Two more of the steel constructs rolled onto the street and began pouring beams of light into the building and the men around them. Stone, steel, and flesh melted under the assault. Such powerful magic, Torsten thought as he watched, rapt in the moment.

  A shrieking noise, very different from the one he had heard while the boys spoke a few minutes before, pierced the air and something moving incredibly fast shot from one of the broken windows in the Ministry of Defense. The speeding monster lanced directly through one of the wheeled constructs. There was a great clang of metal on metal as they collided and suddenly the carriage was a burning mass of twisted metal and dying men. Two more streaks destroyed the other carriage and the steel clad men clashed in the streets once more.

  Just like that, the building was gone and a distant pillar of light rose repeatedly from the earth and into the sky. Is that happening somewhere else, Torsten thought for a fraction of a second as he watched the beam rising. No, it’s not actually there, he realized. Perhaps something that happened in the past, like everything else I’ve seen. Something about the location relative to where he stood clicked in his mind and he remembered the vast metal bowl with the single spire in the center. He had been forbidden to investigate it by Anhur.

  It made sense now. Anhur claimed to have battled the Ancients and destroyed them when their weapons became too powerful for his liking. When they became a threat to the Gods. The giant bowl had indeed been some kind of weapon built by the Ancients, meant for doing battle with the Gods. And so that likely meant that the men Torsten had just witnessed dying were none other than the mortal foot soldiers of the Gods.

  Rapid visions now. Blurring. Ghosts warring with one another in fast forward. More men in their strange armor killing one another with beams of light. With glowing swords. With explosions. Steel monsters without wheels moving through the streets and destroying one another. Destroying men. And women. And children. Gray men dying in hordes while few of their enemies fell. But the numbers of the attackers never seemed to diminish. Battle after battle in the streets of this city.

  Gray men on their knees being executed. Heads taken by grieving mothers of dead children. Crowds cheering.

  More beams of light stabbing into the sky in all directions. Frantically. Other beams of light falling to the earth amidst the buildings of the city that this Graveyard of the Ancients used to be. As though trying to destroy the Gods before the Gods could destroy them. Something big, something bright. Falling onto the city. Not a weapon, not the wrath of a god.

  Trailing flames and fire across the sky as it fell.

  A massive fortress of steel falling to the earth. The size of a mountain. Had the Ancients actually managed to destroy some stronghold of one of the Gods during their war against them? Breaking into smaller parts, but still far larger than the city. Its impact destroys most of the city, and fragments of the shattered stronghold spill across the countryside about the smoking ruins. The objects that had reminded Torsten of ships run aground.

  Despite the destruction, men still men survive here. For a short time, at least. Poison seeps from the fallen fortress and life ends here. Refugees flee from the venomous destruction. Gray men fall upon them and slaughter them without mercy. Men, women, and children are lined up on their knees and their heads are taken with beams of light that sever their necks.

  A sudden gust of cold wind washed over Torsten bringing him back to the here and now. Tears froze in his eyes and he couldn’t say why. What he just witnessed? And why?

  Footsteps behind him. Not like in the spectral visions. Someone was there. Turning fast and raising his sword, ready to kill.

  A single old man stood staring at him. This one at least seemed almost flesh and blood. Though something about him struck Torsten as very odd. As though the man weren’t actually there. No footprints behind him, Torsten noted.

  “Torsten.” A familiar voice. A woman’s. Pleasing to the ear. With a hint of sadness. He turned to the voice and saw Modi. Blue eyes shining bright in her pale face. Her battered plate mail had been replaced by something more fitting of her beauty.

  A long dress of some strange material clung to her form, leaving just the right amount to Torsten’s imagination. Great, he thought, I’m so desperate for a woman right now that I’m checking out a dead one.

  She stepped towards him amidst the tinkling sound of crystals as the material of her gown flowed over her form like liquid silver. Her breath froze in the air, just as his did, just as the other man’s did. A dead woman and an imaginary man breathing just as a living man did.

  “I’m glad that you’ve arrived here. I did my best to try and lead you to us.” She spoke, her perfect smile causing Torsten’s heart to skip a beat.

  “You led me here?” He asked in disbelief. “The War God forced me to come here.”

  “Indeed he did, Torsten. But I have drawn the man you hunt to this place. Thus bringing you here.” She answered.

  “And to what purpose have you brought me here? That I might have visions of dead men dancing and slaughtering one another long ago?”

  “That you might finally know the truth, Torsten. That you might be free.” She spoke, her voice a mixture of compassion and sadness.

  He realized he was still holding his sword at the ready and lowered it. She stepped forward again, drawing to within arm’s reach of him before stopping. She looked deeply into his eyes, seeming to search them.

  “There is much we must discuss. Much more I must show you. If our people are ever to be free of the Gods.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and he could have sworn he felt warmth there. Possibly the early stages of hypothermia, something in the back of his mind said.

  “Please, come with us.” She motioned to the old man, still silent, as she spoke.

  “And who are you?” Torsten asked the man. No hardness in his voice, just curiosity. The old man looked like a warrior. Tough. Hard despite his years. Potentially a powerful enemy. He carried himself in the way Torsten had learned meant he was a predator. Like himself.

  The old man said nothing in response.

  “He is Vidar, The Silent.” Modi answered. The old man nodded once, not taking his eyes from Torsten. He seemed to be studying the younger man, looking for something about him. Something inside of him.

  Modi reached out to take Torsten’s hand. To lead him away. Roaring thunder and hurricane winds shattered the serenity in Torsten’s mind. Millions of flies buzzing over the corpses of men dead in battle. The cry of the raven before it feasts on the dead.

  Modi and Vidar vanished without a trace and granite boulders grated against one another in Torsten’s head. Pain surged through Torsten and the War God’s collar flared to heated life, burning against his skin.

  “You have work to do, child. Quite wasting time staring at trees and find the sorcerer.” Anhur’s voice roared through Torsten’s mind. He looked about him at the empty park, the small group of ugly twisted trees still there.

  Something had just happened here. He was about to go somewhere, but now the memory of it eluded him. Like trying to grab a handful of smok
e, he simply couldn’t grasp the moments that had just passed. His mind drew a blank as a cold wind stung his eyes.

  He shook his head once, clearing his thoughts as much as possible and then turned back to the trail. Skull Face. The sorcerer was near. The journey was drawing to an end. Likely a bloody one at that.

  The back of his eyes burned and the tracks of the sorcerer flared to brilliant crimson life once more. Torsten began running, following the trail. Not bothering to attempt to hide his advance from any who might be watching. A foolish thing a small voice said in the back of his mind. His own voice he realized. The thought was drowned out by a peal of laughter from the War God.

  Footprints led the way, staying true to their course. Straight down one street and then down another. Veering off to pass a mountain of snow-slicked rubble. Directly along cardinal directions and aimed at landmarks. Torsten’s own advance matched that of the sorcerer and he quickly gained on his prey.

  A large pile of rubble marked by a number of giant’s bones blocked his view. He ran to clear it from his line of sight and he realized that he was nearing the edge of the Graveyard of the Ancients. Beyond, the snow fell harder and faster. Piling up deeper upon the ground. The red light of the trail began to fade, occasionally flaring back to life with angry intensity before fading once more.

  Cresting a low hill Torsten stared out into the snow covered plain bearing the remains of the astral fortress destroyed by the Ancients in his visions. The misshapen chunks of steel stood as a city of their own. The smallest larger than most merchant ships. The largest among them spanning the length of a city block in the heart cities of The Kingdom. And there, on the edge of the field of ruin, Skull Face advanced.

  Slowly but surely the sorcerer picked his way up a low, rocky rise. As he reached the top he looked back to Torsten and waved casually to him, beckoning him to come join. The sorcerer didn’t wait for a response, instead he turned and pointed to one of the pieces of the ruined fortress. A second later he was on his way, moving directly towards it.

  Torsten began running to close the distance, but Skull Face disappeared from view before he could make up the distance between them. There in the shadow of the fallen stronghold Torsten stood, taking it in.

  Entirely constructed of steel, or at least what looked to be steel. The mines and foundries no doubt exhausted in the excavation and construction of such an immense structure must have been truly monumental in scale. Just like the finished product.

  He realized that all of the pieces he saw sprawling across the plateau around him, leading back into the city and into the distance were all from one massive object. But his mind was unable to form a proper estimation of its size. He simply had no basis for comparison. No manmade object he had beheld in his entire life could have been of the same scale.

  And all of it seemingly cast from a single piece of some incredible steel. Steel that had not corroded over the passing centuries. He looked at the section towering above him, seeing no seams or rivets where plates of steel might be joined. Jagged edges showed where the fortress had been sundered by the weapons of the Ancients. Blackened and twisted pieces had warped under some immense pressure or heat. Perhaps Anhur was right to fear the weapons of the Ancients.

  “Caution is not fear, child. Now enter and end this chase. Before I grow angry.” The War God’s voice rumbled through his thoughts. The collar grew hot and Torsten could feel his eyes glowing. The angry red that he had almost become accustomed to.

  Approaching the shattered ruin before him, he found an opening. Footprints in the snow led into the shadows. Into the interior. Drawing his sword, Torsten entered.

  Immediately the air smelled different. It spurred memories of having been in a blacksmith’s shop before while the man repaired armor. Hot metal. Something in the air that stung the back of his throat. The floor beneath his feet angled down and to the side. As if the foundation had begun to sink beneath one side of a hallway, leaving it uneven.

  Sounds of something moving came from ahead of him and Torsten advanced. The area around him constricted as he moved further along, narrowing and growing shorter. He found himself in a rectangular hallway, twice as far across as his shoulders and a foot taller than the top of his head. Despite the growing darkness he had no problem seeing. The War God’s magic at work.

  There were no footprints to be found here, but there was only one way to go. He could hear gentle footsteps ahead of him, echoing down the hallway. The sounds were distorted by the confined space and it was difficult to say how far ahead of him they came from. He saw nothing in the space ahead of him though.

  A strange groaning sounded from within the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. All about him as if the ruined fortress was an old man complaining of aching joints in the cold. Something sounded like it was moving through the wall to his right, but it was too small to be the man he sought. He ignored it.

  More twists and turns. Side passages, ruined and of no use to anything larger than a rat. The clanging of metal from somewhere ahead echoing back to him. A man growling in anger or frustration. A final turn in the path and Torsten emerged into a larger room.

  Witchlight illuminated the space, emerging from strange linear grooves around the edges of the room and showing a jumble of broken metal. Scrap was piled on the floor and what looked like bent and twisted chairs lay stacked to one side. A large metal table was piled high with things that looked like the object Anhur had sent him into the ruins to retrieve. And there at the table was Skull Face. The man stood with his back to Torsten, but there was no mistaking him.

  His body language. The way he moved, the way he breathed. It was him. Wrapped in furs that showed the tattered remains of the black robe he had worn the first time Torsten had seen him. Leading a band of raiders on the open plains beneath The World’s Spine. How long ago had that been exactly? Torsten didn’t know. There was simply no telling how long they had been held by Anhur.

  A gap between the sleeves of Skull Face’s furs and the thick leather gloves he wore showed symbols drawn there in his flesh. The same symbols drawn above the entrance to the hut where the hermit had been murdered and mutilated. Torsten’s eyes locked on them for a moment and he experienced Deja vu. The gears in his mind shook loose the cobwebs of the War God’s presence for just a moment and he remembered where he had seen the symbols before.

  The crewmen of the dead merchant. Asher. They had worn necklaces with such a symbol. Some brass, some silver. All the same though.

  Torsten moved silently in the chamber, closing on his target. Just like he had done many times before. Often to eliminate an enemy without raising an alarm. Sometimes just to take a better look at what they were doing. The sword in his hand served unneeded reminder of what his goal was on this occasion.

  The sorcerer took his arm and swept the collected objects off of the table with an angry shout, turning the Demon’s Maw on them and reducing them to glowing slag in the blink of an eye. The floor beneath them was white-hot in an instant and then began flowing like liquid. The reflected heat from the weapon washed over Torsten and his skin tingled at it. He instinctively moved to find cover, but there was none to be had. His foot struck a loose piece of scrap sending it skittering across the floor.

  Skull Face turned to face Torsten and didn’t move. The man seemed frozen, but not with fear or surprise or even anticipation of a fight. He seemed as though he simply didn’t know what to say. Torsten hefted his blade to begin his work.

  KILL.

  The command of the War God raged through him and he shifted his weight to do just that with a flurry of blurred strikes that would leave the sorcerer in pieces upon the floor. As he did so Anhur’s presence vanished from his mind once more. His muscles relaxed and the point of his sword lowered slightly.

  The sorcerer breathed a heavy sigh and dropped the Demon’s Maw. He raised his hands to the steel helmet he wore and worked at the fittings holding it on. With a hiss of air the front piece fell away and the man made no attempt t
o catch it. A second later the back piece did the same, clanging to the ground behind him.

  A pale face, tired and depressed. Sweaty and coated with grime beneath the stubble of a reddish beard. Broken in spirit. The face of a man who has given up.

  “I believe it’s time we were formally introduced.” The man spoke to Torsten in the language of The Kingdom, in an accent that suggested he had grown up in The Western Fringe. A gloved fist rose and opened in a traditional warrior’s salute.

  “My name is Kal. From the Mountains. Slave of Mordechai.” He spit the last word from his mouth as if it were vile poison. “Lord of all of… this.” He shrugged and gestured about him at the room. “And you, scout of The Kingdom’s armies, you who have hounded me all the way to the middle of nowhere, what is yours?”

  Torsten instantly suspected treachery, but the man’s voice gave away no such motive and he seemed completely unarmed. There could be no harm in a moment’s parlay. But keep on guard.

  “Torsten.” A one word reply. Not quite relaxed.

  “Torsten, then.” A deep breath. Shoulders slumping forward. “You’ve been following me a very long way. I guess I should be flattered. Though it is likely that you had as little choice in the matter as I did.” A pause and he rubbed at the stubble on his face, smearing what dirt there was on his glove across what was possibly the last clean spot on his face.

  “Is my esteemed master correct?” The way the man spoke the word ‘master’ made his contempt for the person bearing that tile more than apparent. If possible, he would sink a blade in his master’s back at the first opportunity. “Do you serve the War God, Anhur?”

  “I do.” Torsten clinched the grip of his sword hard with his right hand, the living steel and the blade feeling like extensions of the same limb as he did so. The War God’s gift to him. To make him whole. Or possibly just a monster.

  “And is your service as forced and as unwilling as mine?” Kal’s voice was so soft it was barely a whisper.