The Warriors of the Gods

by Jacob Peppers

  “Well then?” he said.

  The bishop nodded. “Yes, Chosen Larin, we are prepared to go. Please, lead the way.”

  Larin turned and headed for the door, thinking they had already wasted enough time. The others followed silently behind him, but that was alright—he might have decided he needed to live what remained of his life among people, but that didn’t mean he wanted to listen to them run their mouths all the time either.

  A thought occurred to him, and he paused in the street, glancing back at the five priests. “Where’s the young one—Fairn, I think was his name?”

  The bishop gave him a humoring smile. “Ah, yes, well, Brother Fairn had some other important business to be about, I’m afraid.”

  Larin narrowed his eyes. “That right?”

  The bishop glanced at the other priests before moving closer to Larin, leaning in and speaking in a quiet whisper. “The thing is, Chosen, Brother Fairn is a good man, but he is young and…timid. I did not want to embarrass him in front of the others here, but, well, I had thought he might be of more use elsewhere.”

  Larin grunted and started down the street again. The streets were empty as they had been when he arrived. Still, this was the poor quarter, and there were always those—thieves and muggers chief among them—who did their business in the darkness. He thought, once or twice, that he did see such men, little more than shadows in the mouths of alleyways, but they were gone a moment later, as if choosing to retreat, and he was left to wonder if he’d imagined it. Still, he supposed such men were used to preying on the foolish or the weak, and they wouldn’t be too keen to trouble with five grown men. It made sense, yet something about it still bothered him, just as he was troubled by the way no whores shouted out from windows.

  Perhaps it was that they saw the priests walking with him and, as a sign of respect, chose not to hawk their wares. Alternatively, they had decided it would only be a waste of their time to offer sexual release to men who had sworn off it long ago. Yet, neither thought set well with him. In his experience, such women were practical, and the world had left them with few illusions about what people were like. Respect was all well and good, but he’d yet to see a merchant who took it in place of coin. The whores—if they had any experience—would know that, just as they would know that, oftentimes, priests and married men were some of their most fruitful clients.

  And Larin didn’t think it was just those things causing a feeling, a premonition of doom to rise in him, though it was true that when a man saw rats scurrying away in the darkness, there was usually reason to flee. There was something else bothering him, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He was a Chosen, had been picked along with the others of the Six, but unlike Alashia, he had never been given visions of the future. His gifts had always lay in more obvious, more direct areas. Yet, for all that, the feeling of foreboding would not go away.

  “Forgive me, Chosen,” the bishop said, pulling him from his thoughts, “but I have been stationed in Peralest for some time and so know the city quite well. Considering that time is of the essence, perhaps it would be wise if you would tell me where we are headed. I may know of a shortcut that could get us there faster and allow us to help your friends.”

  Larin paused, turning to the man at that. “No. Not yet.”

  The bishop, though, didn’t seem ready to let it go, and he fidgeted anxiously. “But, Chosen, if you would only tell us where—”

  Larin frowned, watching the man. Orren had seemed calm enough back at the church when he had given him the news and told him of what he and the others faced. Now, though, the man seemed anxious, and his forehead was covered in sweat. “What’s got you so worked up, Orren?”

  “What? Nothing,” the man answered. “Only…I just worry for your friends, Chosen, that’s all. If the one called Alesh has indeed been Chosen by Amedan, as you claim, then he is the best chance the world has in the coming days. If something were to happen to him, and I could have prevented it if only I had known where they were staying…” He sighed, shrugging. “Of course, it is up to you.”

  “Yes,” Larin said. “It is. And I said not yet.” The bishop looked as if he would say something more, but Larin held up a hand, forestalling him. “Relax, Orren. The world isn’t going to end, not tonight, anyway. They were fine when I left them and nobody knows who they are anyway. They’ll be safe for the few extra minutes it might take us to get to them.”

  The other man winced. “As you say, but I would be more than happy to—”

  “Enough,” Larin growled, losing his patience, and the man recoiled as if he’d been slapped. Larin studied him for several seconds then gave a sigh of his own. “Come on,” he said, turning. “It’s this way.”

  ***

  Orren watched the big man turn and walk away, fury and fear warring within him. The suspicious bastard knew something was wrong, or at least he seemed to, and Orren didn’t like the way he’d looked at him. As if he could see through the carefully crafted mask Orren chose to show to the world, the one that hid his true purposes, his true loyalties. He had wanted to push the man further on the location of Alesh and the others, but had dared not, fearing what the giant might do if he should decide Orren was showing too much interest in their location. And it was that fear that made him angry, coupled with the knowledge that Zane and his men could show up any moment, and if they killed the old bastard before he told Orren where the others were, he would be forced to search the whole city to find them.

  If things went well, Orren could walk away from this night with Shira’s favor, could rise drastically in the ranks of the loyal, but if they went poorly and the goddess found out he had let her most dangerous enemies slip through his fingers…well, that didn’t bear thinking about. But try as he might, he couldn’t get the stubborn man to tell him anything, and all the wiles and tricks he’d learned over the years had done nothing to penetrate the distrust the man wore around himself like armor.

  Orren needed to find out where the others were before Zane and his men arrived, but he could think of no way of doing so without arousing the Chosen’s suspicion, so he walked on in anxious silence, his priests—all loyal followers of Shira, hand-picked to do what must be done, should Zane and his men fail—following after.

  He and the others followed the Chosen into an alleyway, and they were halfway down it when, as if summoned by his own fears, two men materialized at the other end. No, not yet. We’re not ready

  ***

  “Wait!”

  Larin heard the bishop’s shout, but he was barely listening, too focused on the two men who had stepped into the mouth of the alley, blocking his path. They wore leather tunics and jerkins, dusty and old looking, and despite the darkness he could see that their faces were cold and hard. The faces of men who had killed, who had every intention of doing it again. More troubling, though, were the swords they held ready, wielding them as if they knew how to use them.

  He glanced behind him and wasn’t surprised to see two more shadowy forms blocking the entrance he and the others had come down moments before. Larin didn’t waste any time asking them what they wanted or what they were doing—he knew all too well. Such men wouldn’t have attacked five grown adults, preferring easier, less dangerous prey. Unless, that was, someone had paid them to do it. With a growl, Larin charged at the closest two who seemed surprised by his reaction.

  Their surprise didn’t last long, however, and both reached into their tunics, producing long thin knives with simple handles. Even in the weak light of the moon, Larin’s mind, that of a craftsman, recognized them for throwing knives, and this was proved true a moment later when the men hurled them in his direction. Both struck him in the chest, staggering him, but he charged on, knowing he had to close the distance between them as quickly as possible, before the other group managed to come up from behind.

  ***

  Orren watched, stunned, as the giant reacted almost instantly to Zane and his mens’ appearance, charging toward the closest
group. He was even more stunned when the two men let loose with the throwing knives they produced from inside their tunics, the blades spinning through the air with deadly accuracy to stick into the giant’s torso. But Larin didn’t even seem to notice, only charging onward, barely slowed by the impacts.

  “Wait!” Orren shouted again, but if Larin or the assassins heard, they gave no sign, and a moment later, the Chosen was barreling into the nearest. His hand moved with surprising quickness, slapping against the flat of his opponent’s blade and knocking it wide half a second before he struck him. It was like watching someone get struck down by the hand of some mighty, angry god. Orren thought he heard something crack even over the sound of the assassin’s scream of surprise and pain, and an instant later the man hurtled through the air. He sailed through the darkness and struck the cobbled street nearly twenty feet away, bouncing and rolling until he finally came to a stop, motionless.

  Orren was still staring at that, stunned, when he heard another shout and looked over to see that the Chosen had somehow gotten both his hands around the other assassin’s throat and had pinned him against the wall, his feet dangling more than a foot above the ground.

  The assassin had dropped his sword, but he produced another dagger from his tunic—this one longer than the one he’d thrown—and stabbed desperately into the giant’s side, again and again, but it was as if the old Chosen was invincible. Larin gave a savage twist, and there was another crack. A second later, he released the assassin who fell, slumped against the alleyway, the limpness in his limbs making it clear he was dead.

  Then, the giant turned back toward Orren and the others and even through the darkness, Orren could see the look of rage on the man’s face. He wanted to run, to flee, but his feet felt as if they were rooted to the ground, and he could do nothing but watch as the giant stalked toward him, his fists knotted at his sides, blood—either his or one of the assassins’, Oren couldn’t tell—streaming down one arm.

  Orren still couldn’t bring himself to move just as he couldn’t stop the pathetic mewling sound coming form his own throat, and he was sure when the giant was only a couple of feet away that somehow the man had discovered his treachery, that Orren would be broken and killed just as easily as the first two men had. Instead, the giant walked right past him as if he were invisible. There was a click, and something whistled by Orren, seemingly inches from his face.

  He cried out in surprise, recoiling, and saw the giant stagger, a crossbow bolt sticking from his chest. The big man grunted in pain, but he did not go down. Instead, he kept moving forward, one thick-fingered hand on the wall of the alley as if for support as he moved toward the two men further down it, both of which now held crossbows. The second man pulled the release of his own crossbow, and another bolt flew toward the giant. This one, though, was off-mark, and instead of burying itself in the giant, it struck the throat of one of his priests.

  Orren had seen death before, of course, but not for many years. Suddenly terrified, he forgot all about his carefully laid plans for rising in Shira’s ranks, forgot even what the Goddess of the Wilds would do, if she found out he had failed her. The only thing he could think of was surviving the next few moments and apparently those priests with him felt the same. Two of the men backed against the alley wall with him while the third went running down the alley at a sprint, away from the giant and the two remaining crossbowmen.

  Orren barely had time to register this when he heard another click, then another, and two more crossbow bolts flew through the air. One struck the giant in the chest and stuck there, quivering. The second hit him in the arm, embedding itself there, and the man grunted, finally going down to one knee. The two bandits, apparently satisfied he was no longer a threat, slung their crossbows back over their shoulders and drew their swords, starting toward the Chosen who only knelt with his head bowed, the blood leaking from his arm where the bolt had stuck almost black in the moonlight.

  Orren knew he should say something, should tell them to stop since he still had yet to learn where Alesh and the others were, but he was too stunned at the sudden violence to speak, to even move, and he watched, frozen, as the two men stalked toward the giant. It’s okay, he thought frantically, there still must be a way. We will search the city, once he’s dead, we’ll—But his thoughts cut off in shock as Larin exploded forward.

  The bandits shouted in surprise at the unexpected attack. The one nearest the Chosen swung his blade, but the giant clamped a hand the size of a dinner platter around his wrist, stopping his strike cold. Then with an inhuman growl, he gave a savage twist, and the bandit’s wrist snapped. He screamed in pain, trying to retreat, but the Chosen wrapped his fingers around the man’s throat, lifting him with his good arm as if he weighed nothing, then slamming his head against the alley wall.

  There was a sickening, meaty thump and when the Chosen let go, the bandit’s body flopped to the ground, his head misshapen. His companion hesitated as if considering whether to run or not, then the giant turned to regard him, and he let out a shout of fear and anger, charging toward him, his sword leading. Larin moved with a speed Orren wouldn’t have credited him, sidestepping the bandit’s lunge. Before the man could recover, Larin grabbed him by the front of his tunic, and in another moment he was flying through the air, finally striking the alley wall only feet from where Orren and the other two priests stood.

  The air exploded from the man’s lungs in a whoosh and he fell to the ground. Orren stared at the giant in shock. Two crossbow bolts protruded from his chest, another from his arm, and though he moved slowly, he did move, somehow accepting what should have been fatal wounds as if they were nothing. Shira help me, he thought wildly as he watched the dark visage of the giant drawing closer, he can’t be killed, he—Suddenly there were hands scrabbling at him, and he spun to see the bandit was halfway to his feet, using Orren for support. It was Zane, the bandit leader.

  A trail of blood leaked from the bandit’s mouth, and one of his arms hung limply by his side at an odd angle, apparently broken when he’d struck the wall. “Help,” he wheezed in a whisper, “Orren…”

  Orren glanced at the approaching Chosen, less than a dozen feet away, and a thrill of fear went through him as he realized the man would have some pointed questions for him, if he heard the bandit using his name. “Orre—” the bandit began again, and the bishop did the only thing he could think to do. He withdrew the knife from within his tunic and buried it in Zane’s heart.

  The bandit leader’s eyes went wide with shock and surprise. “You…traito—” He cut off as Orren yanked the knife out and stabbed him again and again until, finally, he collapsed to the alley at his feet.

  A moment later, the Chosen was beside him, regarding the dead bandit stonily before turning to study Orren. “You should have left that one alive,” he said. “He might have told us something useful.”

  Orren blinked and did his best to rein in the fear rushing through him. “I…that is, forgive me, Chosen. I thought…I only meant to help.”

  Larin watched him for another second, and as he did, the bishop grew more and more sure the man had heard the bandit use his name. But finally, the Chosen only gave a grunt and a single nod. “Well. There’s nothing to be done for it now.”

  “Chosen, if you don’t mind me asking,” Orren said in a gasp, “how did you…I mean, why are you not…”

  “Dead?” the giant asked, then grunted. He gripped one of the crossbow bolts protruding from his chest and ripped it out, tossing it to the ground before doing the same with the other.

  Orren winced, expecting to see blood pour from the wounds, but there was none, and a moment later, he saw why. Larin reached into his tunic and pulled out what looked like a sheet of metal with boiled leather grafted on top of it. The Chosen glanced at it and at the obvious hole where one of the crossbow bolts had struck him, before tossing it to the side. Then he withdrew another sheet of the same make, dropping it to the alleymouth as well. “Something I’ve been working o
n,” the Chosen said to Orren’s confused expression. “I’ll have some nasty bruises, I suppose, but all in all not too bad. Still, the damned things are heavy though, and I can’t say I’ll miss them.”

  Orren blinked. They called Larin “The Builder,” and it was a name well-earned. “That’s…amazing,” he said and meant it.

  Larin grunted, glancing at the bolt still in his arm. Not perfect though. S’pose I ought to be grateful the bastards didn’t aim for the head. Tell me, Bishop, do you have any knowledge of mending wounds?”

  “I’m sorry, Chosen, but my talents lie in different…areas.”

  Larin sighed. “Figured as much.” He grabbed the end of the bolt sticking from his arm, and Orren thought he was going to pull it out as he had the others. Instead, he broke it off so only a few inches remained sticking from his arm. “Not fatal, at least, and I’ll get a healer to give it a look over once we’ve gotten Alesh and the others.”

  “Of course, Chosen.”

  The man nodded, watching him again, then pausing to glance at Zane where he still lay dead at Orren’s feet. Finally, he seemed to come to a decision. “In case I don’t make it, Bishop,” Larin said finally, “they’re at the Drunken Bard. You know it?”

  Orren felt a thrill of excitement rush through him, but he kept it from showing on his expression with an effort. “Yes, I know of it.”

  “Good. Now, come on. We’ve wasted enough time already.”