Way of Gods

by Rhett C. Bruno

  “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mea…” he coughed, then his eyes drooped. “I…” He looked down at his hands. “What is go… ing… on?” The shell-bowl slipped through his fingers and shattered on a stone. He joined it soon after, rolling off the bed and splashing in the shallow water.

  Mahraveh fell to his side and propped a pillow under his head. His lips trembled as he struggled to speak.

  “Shhh.” She placed a finger over his mouth. “I’m the one who’s sorry, sweet Jumaat. But it’s my father’s afhemate. It’s my responsibility.”

  His eyelids flickered, then his head rolled to the side. He’d survive. It was only a bit of laca cactivicus leaf. She’d seen Shavi use it to keep injured warriors unaware during treatment for amputations. He’d wake up in a few hours, unable to stop Mahraveh from what needed to be done.

  As she dragged Jumaat’s body into the corner, out of clear sight, she recalled those many years ago, dragging pit lizards back to Saujibar.

  It was strange, stripping him down of his armor after they’d just shared their first kiss. He’d been her friend since childhood, and while she’d never really thought of him that way, watching him train the last week changed things. Even her father might finally approve of the boy who he felt lacked ‘true Shesaitju spirit.’

  Adjusting the armor on her frame, she thanked the God of Sand and Sea for Jumaat’s lack of muscle. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it was enough. She also thanked Him for her age and the relatively flat chest it afforded her.

  A knock came at her door while she was in the midst of tying her braids atop her head so they’d be hidden by the full, nasal helmet Jumaat had chosen to wear, so he’d appeared more mysterious and frightening.

  “Ayerabi, it is time,” a guard said.

  “Coming,” she replied, doing her best to imitate Jumaat’s voice. It wasn’t too deep, so as long as she kept her words short, she’d be able to pass for him. She lowered the helmet over her head and made sure none of her hair showed, then went to the door. Drawing a deep breath, she opened it.

  The guard looked her over once, then turned to lead her through the arena’s underbelly. The ground beneath her shook with the gathered crowds’ roars. Battles had already begun, and she could smell the blood in the air, pungent as the salt of the water.

  She’d never been inside the arena, much less the caverns beneath. As they made their way toward the sounds, a loud rumble made the black walls quake, and dust dropped from above, making Mahraveh sneeze. The guard eyed her appraisingly. She thought she’d blown it, but he turned, and they continued.

  At the end of the hall, she reached a large, nigh’jel-lit cavern filled with men, each of which more impressive than the next. They were all covered in tattoos, except on the crowns of their heads—a spot reserved for afhems. Straightening her back, determined to look like she belonged among them, she forced her way through, careful to not make eye contact with anyone.

  A row of weapons lined the back wall. Mahi approached and reached out for a spear when she felt a hand snatch her wrist. She looked up to the ugliest face she’d ever seen. The man was huge, both tall and wide, but little of his girth was fat. Dark eyes stared out of darker sockets. His head was tipped low. He had giant earlobes, the kind a man would spend years stretching.

  “Don’t touch my weapons, pis’truda,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” Mahi started. She cleared her throat and lowered her register to sound less like a woman and more like Jumaat. “I’m sorry. Thought I was to choose.”

  “Did I call your name?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Then don’t touch my weapons.”

  Mahraveh turned and started back toward the far side of the cavern where a giant portcullis opened up into the arena. From there, she could see the crowd in all its raucous glory. More people attended than she’d ever seen in her life. Enough to dispel the Glass Army without breaking a sweat. Several levels up, a balcony with a long walkway extended out over the lower stands. Mahi could see Babrak seated amongst the other afhems. In the middle of them sat a man in gold robes and a tall, angular hat. Behind him stood two Serpent Guards.

  Above the center of the black sand pit hung a glass globe the size of a fully grown pit lizard and filled with nigh’jels. So many that even during the day they painted the arena in a greenish, vacillating hue that almost made it seem like they were among the weeds on the seabed. Colorful coral, like that in her bracers, helped form the cage which held it, and thick ropes held it taut, stretched to the arena’s upper cliffs in equal intervals.

  Two men fought. One was huge, but not as big as Babrak. The other was thin but agile.

  The big man swung, his bandaged fist aimed at his opponent’s head. The thin one brought his shoulders up. The blow connected with his upper arm, no doubt hurting, but doing a fraction of the damage, it would have had it met its intended target. The big man menaced toward his opponent, limping—Mahi missed the part where he’d been injured.

  He had a flat nose, jaw like an anvil, and skin the color of burnt zhulong skin.

  The smaller of the two recovered just in time to intercept another punch. Skinny as he was, he managed to counter and return with a punch of his own. It didn’t even faze the big one. The small warrior shook his hand, tilted his head back and forth, loosening his neck.

  That would have been Jumaat, she thought.

  Mahraveh wondered where their weapons were just as the thin man rolled and retrieved a long sword from the sand, bringing it up to bear.

  One of the contestants sidled up to Mahi.

  “Who you rooting for?” he asked.

  She cleared her throat. “Not sure, you?”

  “Sands and sea, of course, I’m hoping the little one wins. I don’t want to fight that giant, do you?”

  Mahi snorted. “I suppose not.”

  The big combatant smiled and circled his opponent. He was holding back, waiting like a sand snake for the little one to attack again. The size difference was laughable, half-a-meter in height, easily. It dawned on Mahraveh that the thin one was likely still taller than she was and probably twice as strong.

  It didn’t matter. She’d been trained by Muskigo himself.

  “What’s your name? Afhemate?” the man asked.

  “Mah—Jumaat. Ayerabi.”

  “One of the rebel’s own?”

  The accusation brought a twinge of anger, and then pride. “The bravest of all afhems, yes.”

  “You have my deepest sympathies for what happened at Saujibar.”

  “You heard about it?” Yuri Darkings wasn’t lying when he said he’d spread the word about the attack, considering a man confined to the arena somehow knew.

  “I’ve heard a few rumors,” the man said. “Glass or not, traitor or not, no afhemate deserves to have their women and children butchered so.”

  “A good afhem would have been there to defend them,” Rajeev said, stepping up beside them. Mahraveh built her distance away from Babrak’s man, realizing he may recognize her up close. She also quelled the sudden desire to slit open his throat.

  “Not everyone is born into the Trisps’I afhemate, Rajeev,” the man she’d been speaking to said. “I thought about forsaking all to march with Muskigo, Jumaat. My father died fighting the Glassman.”

  “Whose didn’t, Khonayn?” Rajeev said.

  “Well, mine still fights,” Mahraveh said. “For all of you.”

  “For a fool. When I am afhem, Babrak and I will show the Black Sands our true destiny.”

  “To cower here underneath a Glass boot?”

  Rajeev whipped around, but Khonayn was in his way.

  “Well, the Jalurahbak afhemate may be small,” Khonayn said, “but I’ll prove we groom the best warriors.”

  “Not if you face me,” Mahraveh said. She may not have been to the arena in her life, but she knew men. Knew how they poked and bragged and goaded when it came to fighting. It was all part of the process.

  Khonayn
laughed. “Gone with civility, I suppose.”

  Back in the arena, the thin one lunged, and the big man sidestepped, then brought a heavy fist down onto his opponent’s bare back. The thud was loud enough to echo throughout the crowd but was drowned out by hundreds of voices gasping.

  The smaller one was tough. He took the hit, rolled, and bounced back to his feet before the big man even had a chance to bask in his triumph.

  “Dracir is going to lose this I think,” Khonayn said.

  “The big one?” Mahraveh asked.

  “He may be big and strong, but he’s already growing tired.”

  A hard kick exploded into the back of Dracir’s bad knee, dropping him to a more manageable height. Dracir breathed heavy, his chest heaving.

  “I can’t watch,” Rajeev said, then laughed. “Do it, Amoud!”

  The thin one who Mahraveh now knew was Amoud brought his long sword up high over his head and jabbed it down hard into the base of Dracir’s skull, the tip exploding through the big man’s throat.

  The crowd roared, and Amoud pumped his fist high as he kicked Dracir’s corpse to the sand, relieving his sword at the same time.

  Mahraveh glanced up at the stands and saw Babrak whispering to the man in gold robes. She now recognized him as one of the Caleef’s personal council. A eunuch, robbed of his manhood so he could want for naught but serving the Caleef. The eunuch stood, then walked out onto the walkway. When he reached the end, the crowd grew still and quiet.

  “Latiapur!” he shouted. The crowd erupted in response. He pumped his hands to quiet them. “Amoud of the Avassu, victor!”

  Avassu? Mahraveh thought. That was Jumaat’s afhemate when his father and mother had chosen to leave to pursue greater endeavors amidst Muskigo and the Ayerabi. It was rare that one abandoned an afhemate for another without repercussions or war, but Jumaat’s father was persuasive, and Muskigo’s legendary victory on these very sands inspired many men to do the same.

  “Well done, Amoud. Well done. We honor your brethren. May his soul find it’s way along the eternal current.” The entire crowd recited those words in Saitjuese, and Mahraveh found herself doing the same. “For your great victory, we have chosen a fitting beast.”

  “Now what?” Mahraveh asked Khonayn.

  “Have you never been here before?” he replied.

  As if in response to her question, a gate to a cavern on the other side of sunken arena cranked open, and a giant zhulong charged out.

  Amoud dove out of the way, and the beast slammed into the sandy wall, making the very floor beneath Mahraveh shake. Amoud rushed it as it was dazed, leaping and driving his spear into the fatty area above its shoulders. The beast squealed but didn’t go down. She’d never seen a zhulong so massive.

  With the spear lodged in, it gave a mighty shake and sent Amoud flying. His knee smashed on one of the many rocks littering the sands. He flipped over it and hit the ground, but couldn’t stand. He crawled for a war hammer seemingly dropped by his fallen opponent. The enraged zhulong didn’t give him the chance. The moment he got a hand around the grip, he was gored by a massive tusk through the hip. Blood sprayed, saturating the already dark sands as the great beast shook him from side to side.

  The zhulong acted with murderous intent. Nobody stopped it. Eventually, it flung him against the wall, and if he wasn’t dead, he would be soon.

  “But he won!” Mahraveh shouted, not concerned with the timbre of her voice.

  “Boy, he will fight until he kills us all or dies trying,” Rajeev said. “That is our destiny.”

  “And what, the zhulong wants to be afhem of al-Tariq?”

  “No,” Rajeev said. “That was just for fun. To weed out the weakest of us.”

  Mahraveh scanned the upper decks, and in the middle, spotted Babrak laughing and eating like he was watching a play and not the death of good warriors who could help in the fight against the Glass. All Afhems were equal under the eyes of the God of Sand and Sea, but he comported himself like a caleef.

  “This really is your first time here, isn’t it boy?” Khonayn said.

  Mahraveh nodded.

  “Muskigo’s throwing out a prayer. Dracir and Amoud were the final two out of a bout of ten,” he explained. “Each of the seventy-nine Afhems has presented a champion, as well as a single markless volunteer.”

  “Right.” Mahraveh knew that much. There were seventy-nine Afhems and always would be—one for each of the islands dotting the Boiling Waters, as the first Caleef dictated millennia ago. Their followings and holdings were not equal, but if one afhemate ever fell in totality, another rose to take his place on these very sands.

  Until now, it was always a he. Mahraveh aimed to put an end to that.

  “Why help the child?” Rajeev said. “He won’t last a second.”

  “I prefer to beat the best,” Khonayn said. “The winner, if he survives a beast of the sand or sea, then rests while a fresh ten battle.”

  “And the winner?” Mahraveh asked.

  “The same. After everyone fights, the surviving victors must face each other. Only he who stands in the end will be crowned, and al-Tariq will have a new afhem.”

  Or she, Mahraveh thought. She could feel sweat building beneath her helmet. She looked at the ranks within the bunker. Twenty men at least. Some were bloodsoaked and gravely injured.

  “Four have survived their beast so far,” Khonayn said.

  “Poor Amoud,” Rajeev said. “I’d fight in every round if I could, and still kill all of you.”

  “Pride is a warrior’s downfall,” Mahraveh said.

  Rajeev chortled. “Who said that?”

  “I believe it was Afhem Muskigo before he routed your leaders’ people on the sands.” Khonayn threw Mahraveh a nod of acknowledgment.

  “I just don’t want to cheat myself out of any glory,” Rajeev said.

  “Nor I,” Mahraveh said.

  Of course, she didn’t mean it. She enjoyed the thrill of battle as much as the next, but the thought of needing to slaughter so many men—plus worthy beasts—didn’t feel like the battle she’d signed up for. However, she didn’t honestly know what the battle she signed up for was, not really. She only knew what she’d win.

  She’d been so lost within her own head that she hadn’t realized names were being called.

  “Usef,” said the ugly man with huge earlobes standing by the weapons. A soldier that must have been from the Usef Afhemate stood and approached the weapons wall, selecting a fauchard.

  Mahi watched as man after man heard their names and did the same before lining up at the portcullis.

  “Jalurahbak.”

  “May the God of Sand and Sea be with me,” Khonayn said. He spat into both his hands as was customary among Shesaitju warriors—to surrender some of their salt and water to him. Then he slapped Mahraveh on the back. “Wish me luck.” Just as Mahraveh turned to watch him line up to enter the arena, she heard the final name called, and the chortle from Rajeev which followed.

  “Ayerabi.”

  XXV

  THE KNIGHT

  Torsten felt the warmth return to his limbs, and all around, over the ringing of the church bell, he heard people start whispering that the monsters had disappeared.

  “My Queen?” he rasped. He couldn’t hear her anymore. His body felt like it had after battling Redstar atop Mount Lister, broken. Freezing to the core.

  He planted a hand on the stone of the courtyard and felt cool liquid run over it. Finger’s quaking, he brought them to his mouth. It was water, bubbling forth from the broken fountain. He sighed in relief.

  A cacophony of whispering broke out all around him, all blending. He could perceive none of it over toll of the bell or the deep ringing in his eardrums from hitting his head.

  “Oleander…” Torsten said.

  He crawled further, until his knuckles brushed against hair, soft as velvet. He patted along it, finding her face. His palm covered a patch of mottled, scarred skin, finding the smooth side as he
stretched his fingers across. Her skin was colder than the stone beneath him.

  “Oleander?” He said, drawing himself closer, wrapping his massive hand around the back of her neck and lifting her head with no resistance. With his other, he patted for her chest, desperate to hear a heartbeat, but instead, he found the shaft of an arrow sticking from the center.

  Suddenly, form came to the whispers closing in all around him.

  “She’s dead.”

  “The Queen’s dead.”

  “By Iam, the monsters did it.”

  Fear caught in Torsten’s throat and made him feel like he was drowning. He pulled her closer and pressed his ear against the top of her chest, scratching his cheek against the arrow as he did. Blood filled his earlobe, still leaking from a pair of fang-marks on her neck—marks, which Torsten shared.

  “Sir Unger!” Lucas called out. “Sir Unger!”

  Torsten could hear the boy’s injured foot dragging along the stone but didn’t care. Guards barked for citizens to get out of the way, and nobody dared resist this time.

  “Sir Unger, Sir Hystad will make it, he—” Words got stuck on the tip of Lucas’s tongue as his voice grew nearer. “By the light of Iam… What…”

  Torsten felt hands on his shoulders. He shook them away and pressed Oleander closer.

  “Oleander…” Torsten whimpered, strands of her hair stuck on his bloody lips. “Oh, my Queen.” He squeezed her face against his, feeling all the valleys and crags of her scars, and her tears running through them.

  “Sir Unger, you must—”

  “Don’t touch her!” Torsten shouted, silencing Lucas in an instant. All the gathering crowd gasped and backed away in the face of his thunderous roar.

  Torsten turned back toward his broken Queen and ran his fingers over her forehead. Her eyes remained open, gazing upward into the darkness of the night sky. He fought his uncontrollable shaking to close them.

  “Is this what she deserves?” Torsten asked in the direction of the church spire. Since he’d lost his sight, he’d found solace trusting in Iam again, knowing it’d been for a purpose, that it was the cost for his shattered faith when he lay locked in the dungeon of his own kingdom, branded a traitor.