The Warriors of the Gods

by Jacob Peppers

  Oh gods, he thought, he’ll go back to Welia, and he’ll tell everyone. He’ll tell…But what could he do? It wasn’t as if he could go chasing after the man, not in his current condition. The man might yell and scream, but the castle servants would believe he had caught a glimpse of Kale’s burned features and panicked…wouldn’t they?

  Kale wished desperately that the Proof was there. For whatever else he was, man or beast, the Proof always seemed to know what to do. He wasn’t though, and so Kale stood, frozen by indecision, until enough time had passed and the decision—as so often was the case when a man hesitated—made itself. When he finally roused himself from his stupor, he knew too much time had passed. The representative was gone.

  Think, damnit, Kale told himself, think. Kale had never considered himself a great mind, had always mocked those scholars with their dusty robes and ink-stained fingers who sat around pondering the meaning of life while others lived it. But now, he needed to think, to consider his options and quickly. Yet for all his desperation and, perhaps, in part because of it, rational thought was slow in coming, drowned out by what he was coming to think of as his animal thoughts. Bestial rage and wild, doe-eyed terror chief among them. Whether predator or prey, animals learned that, to survive, they must be able to hide, whether in preparation of pouncing on their victims or as a means of protecting themselves from those creatures hunting them.

  And he had been discovered. The man with his handsome face and arrogant, melodic way of speaking, had learned the truth of what he was, of what he had become, when those closest to him had not. And what would such a man do with that kind of knowledge? Kale realized the whole situation might have been avoided had he only been polite to the man. It would have cost him nothing to do so, and the relationship that had long been established with Welia had benefited both of them—the Second Word had spoken the truth in that much, at least.

  So why then? Why had he antagonized him so? But he thought he knew the answer to that as well. The man was obviously wealthy—evidenced by the fine robes and jewels he’d worn—and he also had power, though power not as great as Kale himself. Yet, it had not been the man’s wealth or his power Kale had resented. Instead, it had been his looks, his handsome features, no doubt sought after by many women in his homeland just as Kale’s had once been sought after by the nobleborn women of Ilrika. But no longer. Call it the blessing of Shira or being burned in a fire, but either way, gone were the women who had once fawned over him, who had once sought his favor, the son of the richest noble in Ilrika and man destined to take over the rule of Olliman himself.

  Now, he had become a monster, hiding in the darkness, ashamed and hateful. And he had let that shame, that hate, cause him to act recklessly, to lose an ally when he already had far too many enemies with which to contend. After all, Alesh and his companions had not yet been brought to heel, and even that wasn’t the worst of it. There were other cities within Entarna, dozens, hundreds, and far too many, he knew, still worshipped the false god, Amedan. Should they hear of Kale’s true nature, he did not doubt they would gather their armies and march upon the city. They would strip him of all the power he had sacrificed so much to gain all because of a reckless moment of shattered vanity in which he’d lashed out at a man who’d seemed so like the man he’d once been.

  Suddenly, Kale felt weak, and the great strength which he had possessed only moments before abandoned him. He nearly fell but managed to stagger to his bed, sitting down heavily, and bringing his hands to his lap. He saw that one of them—the one that had grasped Representative Lazadar’s arm and refused to let go—held a scrap of something. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a piece of torn fabric apparently ripped free of the Second Word’s robes during the brief scuffle. On a whim driven by some desire he did not understand, Kale brought it to his nose and sniffed it.

  The heady smell of some expensive perfume filled his nostrils but beneath that, there was another earthen smell. A man smell. Kale did not know how he knew that just as he did not know how he was suddenly seized by the thought—the certainty—that the odor, though similar to others, was unique to the man, Lazadar, but he knew it just the same.

  And what of it? he thought furiously. So what if he could smell the man, could pick his aroma out from any other? That wouldn’t help keep those who would come for Kale at bay. Here, the people might not believe Lazadar, if he went about telling them their ruler had turned into a monster. But what of back in Welia, when he told the same story to people who had known him all his life, people whom he trusted and who trusted him?

  Kale needed to think, to formulate some sort of plan, but no matter how hard he wracked his brain, nothing would come—nothing, that was, except a weariness seeming to increase exponentially. He realized that he was tired. No, not tired, exhausted. He had slept little of late, so caught up with his own worries, his own fears, that sleep eluded him, a rabbit running from its prey. He would close his eyes, creeping upon that white fluff nearly obscured by the tall grass, but just as his talons were about to close around it, it would seem to sense him behind it, and it would dart away, leaving him frustrated, angry and, most terrible of all, awake.

  It had been this way for days now. In the last week or longer—since Shira had wrought her changes in his body, anyway—he had slept less than a handful of hours altogether. It was probably the reason why he was unable to come up with a solution to the problem the Welian representative posed. In fact, it was probably the reason there was a problem in the first place. Had he been well rested, Kale thought he wouldn’t have acted so rashly, angering and even challenging the man to a fight. That had been foolish, he knew, the impulsive act of a child, not the measured, thoughtful approach of the ruler of Ilrika. Still, the man had been arrogant, and he could not deny that he had enjoyed wiping that smug look from his handsome face. A man, Kale thought, used to getting his way, much as he had once been, and a man who, like him, had been forced to learn that his position—or his relation to people of importance—would not always protect him from life’s dangers.

  A lesson the man had needed to learn. But in retrospect, Kale thought perhaps he should not have been the one to teach it to him. Now, the trade agreements were the least of his troubles. Besides, he could not think of them now, not through a mind growing fuzzier, more muddled by the moment as exhaustion stole over him. He realized he was lying down on his bed without remembering ever doing so. And it was soft, so terribly, terribly soft. As he fell asleep, Kale thought of Representative Lazadar, the Second Word of Welia, and the man who could, if left alone, destroy him. And when he dreamed, the dreams that came to him were crimson ones.

  ***

  He was running. The trees surrounding him were a blur, little more than green and brown splotches at the edges of his vision. Despite his speed he skirted them with ease. He was running on all fours, a thing he had not done before and had never expected to do, but he spent no time thinking of such things just as a wolf, closing in on its prey, thought of nothing but the kill to come. And he was closing in on his prey.

  He paused, the breath smooth and even in his lungs despite his exertions. He cocked his head, listening. He heard the snapping of twigs and rustle of undergrowth as the small animals of the forest fled before his coming. That was as it should be, for such creatures had a bestial intelligence, an understanding that what came was dangerous. And not just dangerous—hungry.

  He bared his teeth, glorying in the freedom he felt, at the feeling of being alive that suffused him. Then he sniffed the air. At first, he did not find what he was searching for, only a green smell. The smell of roots growing in the darkness, of leaves rustling in the wind—an aroma that a man would have been unable to detect. But then, he was not a man. At least, not only that. He had become something more, something better. For him, the smell was unmistakable, and he knew it for what it was, just as he knew that the quiet, nearly imperceptible pitter patter he heard above him was a squirrel rushing up a tree to hide in a hollow.


  The rodent needn’t have worried, for he was hunting bigger game this night. He bared his teeth in a grin at his companion standing beside him, those amber eyes shining in the darkness with an eagerness to match his own. The creature’s tongue lolled from its mouth, salivating at the prospect of the kill, just as he was. His companion watched him, waiting for him to lead, and he sniffed the air once more, catching the faint but distinct smell of perfume combined with a man smell, and not just any man, but the one for whom they hunted.

  He howled at the darkness then charged into the underbrush once more, weaving in and out of the trees with a grace reserved for the true predators of the world. With his powerful muscles propelling him forward, it did not take him long to reach his goal. He was so distracted by the excitement, by the thrill of the hunt running through him, that the light of a campfire in the distance caught him unawares, and he hissed in pain as it dazzled his eyes.

  He jerked his face to the side at the surprising agony. The light pained him, but that was as it should be, for he was not a creature of the light but of the darkness, and the light was ever jealous of the shadows’ power. Slowly, he brought his gaze back to the fire and the small camp spread out around it, avoiding looking directly at the flame. The caravan had camped on the side of the road, its passengers believing, perhaps, that the clear ground around them would keep them safer than traveling into the forest itself. Yet, in the end, it would make no difference. He and his companion had come to hunt, to feast, and so they would.

  Several torches had been shoved into the ground around the camp, creating a perimeter along which four men patrolled. Despite the lateness of the hour, these four seemed alert, ready. Elite soldiers then, far above a city guardsman who struggled to stay awake on his watch. And why not? They would have been chosen specifically for the task of defending their charge, a man considered of great importance in his home country.

  The swords they held were strange, not as long as the ones common in Entarna but with a dramatic, sweeping curve starting around the upper half of the blade. They wore little armor, studded metal jerkins and shin guards, but no more than that, perhaps to retain their speed and freedom of movement should a fight come. And it would come, of that there was no doubt, and they would discover no weapon made by man could ever be as sharp, as deadly, as one fashioned by the gods themselves.

  Still, there was the light, and that was a problem. Flames, bright and fierce, and he knew to draw close to that flame would mean pain, that to stay within its circle of light would mean eventual death. He looked to his companion and saw his teeth were not bared in a grin, not now. Instead, his amber eyes were studying, watching to see what his leader would decide. The lights were a problem, but all problems might be solved with ferocity and power. The men too might have been an issue, for it was clear they would have been enough to stave off a random nightling attack. But he was no regular nightling. He was Argush, the Bane of the Light and blessed Chosen of the Goddess, and he would not be stopped.

  His companion turned to the darkness behind them, to the woods spread out as far as his heightened sight could detect. Argush followed his gaze and saw them waiting there, his brothers, dozens, hundreds of eyes shining in the darkness, waiting for what he would do. The sight of them, his brothers, his army, pleased him, and he bared his teeth in another grin. He was Argush—and he was not alone.

  There was a scream then, and he spun back around to look at the camp once more. At first, he thought the guards had noticed him or one of the others, but he realized immediately that he’d been wrong. The scream had not come from them, had not come from a man at all, but a woman. And it was not a scream of fear or pain but of ecstasy. Argush’s gaze drifted to the ostentatious caravan at the center of the torches. No sooner had he looked than another woman’s voice filled the night, this one different from the first, but also full of ecstasy and pleasure. Two at least, then, and it was from that caravan that his prey’s smell came.

  Fresh hate roiled through him as he realized the man was coupling, seeking the pleasures of the flesh in the darkness, unconcerned and unafraid. But he was a fool not to fear the darkness. Before the night was through, before the man’s blood stained the dark grass of the forest, he would learn of that fear, would understand that the shadows never tire, and that they do not always cower before the light.

  With an effort, Argush pulled his eyes away from the caravan, not pushing away his anger, but tempering it with bestial cunning. Hate, like his fangs and claws, was a weapon, and he would use it, when the time came. He could feel the eagerness of those creatures behind him, perhaps rising in response to his own roiling hatred. One started forward, a small creature compared to many of its brethren. Little more than the size of a dog. Its flesh was the color of midnight and slick like a toad, with none of the scales which protected his own body from harm. It moved forward warily, glancing at him to see if he would object.

  When he did nothing, only watched, the creature grinned, revealing several rows of small, pointy teeth while creeping closer to the camp. Argush glanced back at his companion, and saw his amber eyes studying him, waiting to see what he would do to this challenge. For it was a challenge, one all the creatures present understood.

  He did not hesitate. He pounced, his powerful muscles propelling him more than a dozen feet to land atop the small creature. The nightling was knocked sideways, rolling across the ground, and then it rose to its feet once more, a scratch along its flank where his claws had scored it, studying him with green eyes shimmering with hate. It bared its teeth again, rushing toward him, and he met it halfway. His teeth sought his challenger’s throat, found it, and sank deep into the slimy flesh. The creature screeched in pain and terror, but the sound was cut short an instant later when he clamped down fully and gave his body a savage twist, ripping its throat out.

  The challenger’s body fell dead to the ground, and he stared at it, reveling at the taste of its blood in his mouth. Then he howled into the darkness, and the creatures with him answered his call with cries of their own, rejoicing in the kill. They did not mourn their comrade, did not regret the loss of another that might have fought, for the truth they all understood, the truth he had only recently learned, was that shadows were not born—they were made. And where one was made, so might another.

  The men at the camp heard their calls, and they turned, speaking to each other in quick words. A moment later, the four guards formed up side by side with practiced skill, facing into the darkness, their long curved blades shimmering in the light of the fire. In seconds, four more men, equally well-armed and well-trained, appeared from one of the two tents sitting on either side of the caravan, and then there were eight. The other tent, Argush suspected, would hold a servant, probably several. One now stood on the outside of the caravan, an old, dusky-skinned man with thinning hair who gazed out into the darkness with wide eyes. He, at least, feared the darkness though the others did not. Not yet.

  Go. Argush thought, sending the command silently to a dozen or so of his kin, the nearest lurking in the trees behind him. It would mean their death, of course. They knew it, and he knew it, for the men were ready as were the lights, but that was of no consequence. Their master had given an order, and so they would obey.

  They charged forward, some on four legs, some with three, and one, he saw, with only two. A pathetic creature then, one to which the change had not been as kind as it had been to its brethren. Yet, it ran on anyway, its form hunched, its unnaturally long arms hanging at its side. Argush’s kin struck the ring of lights in an ebony wave of flesh and teeth, screeching and howling in pain and hate where the light touched them. But they went on anyway, charging the line of eight men standing between them and the object of their master’s desire. Their skin burned in the light, and the men moved with efficiency and an economy of motion that confirmed his suspicions about their skill, cutting down the first that came upon them with ease.

  One nightling managed to break through their line, his claws
raking across one of the soldiers. The nightling was cut down by the man’s comrades an instant later, but too late to save their companion, whose throat had been severed. The man collapsed, blood sluicing from his throat in a crimson flood, and several of his kin snorted and snuffled as the tangy scent wafted into the air.

  Come, he thought, and the others did not hesitate, screeching and roaring as they charged toward the waiting soldiers in a flurry of claws and teeth. Dozens—hundreds—had come to their master, and they charged the soldiers in wave after wave. The defenders fought with skill and grim determination, cutting down many more, but the battle could only end one way.

  They seemed to realize this, for one of the soldiers—an older man whose body and sword were covered with the blood of nightlings—motioned to another, younger soldier, barking an order in a language Argush did not know. A second later, the young one disengaged and, without argument, rushed toward the caravan, heading for the front and the horses still tethered to it.

  Argush called on his goddess-blessed power and leaped over the fray, sailing above the heads of his kin and those soldiers who stood hopelessly against them. He landed crouched on all fours between the soldier and the caravan. The soldier came to an abrupt halt, his eyes going wide with surprise, but he had been trained well and he recovered quickly, drawing his blade and facing Argush in a fighting crouch.

  Argush began to circle him, darting forward only to leap out of the soldier’s reach to make the man tire himself. The young soldier was not fooled though, standing his ground and waiting patiently even while his companions fought and died less than twenty feet away, slowly being overcome by the greater numbers of the nightlings. The soldier watched him, waiting for him to attack, suspecting—rightly—that he would have the advantage in such an exchange. No doubt, he expected Argush to charge him, to act like the beast he appeared to be. And had he been one of his other kin, the man would have been right to expect such a thing…but Argush was not a nightling, just as he was not a man. He was the best of both, so instead of charging the waiting soldier, he bared his teeth in a grin and started toward the caravan in a loping run that would bring him directly into contact with the old servant who stood with a sword shaking in his hands, his face pale and ghostly with terror.