Kill the Gods

by E. Michael Mettille

  Doentaat had turned out to be a great king, caring, honest, and fair. Bindaar knew he would. Just then, he wished he knew where that king could be. Five generals led dwarves into battle at Fort Maomnosett. Despite his counseling, the king was one of those generals. Bindaar had wished his former housemate to remain safe in the castle while his generals conducted the work of pushing the invaders back to their boats. Unfortunately, if a more dutiful dwarf than Doentaat existed, Bindaar had never met the bloke. After the battle, that dutiful dwarf was nowhere to be found.

  Bindaar had not heard Lentaak enter, so when the thin, sly dwarf said, “My lord, I bring word,” he nearly jumped out of his boots.

  “Aye, you sneaky bastard,” Bindaar nearly shouted. “How do you get around without them damned boots making a sound?”

  “Please forgive me, general,” Lentaak bowed. “You know my father, may Coeptus rest his soul, had been quite an accomplished thief before Ahm ordered him strung up on the Sacred Pine. He taught me how to keep my steps quiet. I never unlearned the skill.”

  “Your father had been more than just a simple thief,” Bindaar replied after composing himself. “We all did things we weren’t proud of when Ahm was king here.”

  Bindaar patted Lentaak on the back before draping an arm across his shoulder and leading him toward the gates at the edge of the grand courtyard. “Let’s step over to Boonda’s Pub, and you can catch me up over a pint.”

  The road leading out of the palace was far too quiet. Normally, at this time of day they would be bustling with dwarves gossiping or shopping, grabbing a meal out for the mid-day, or maybe even challenging a chum to a feat of strength before heading back off to the mines. Too many of Alhouim’s sons were off helping Havenstahl rebuild or searching the surrounding lands for those who had yet to report back in after the battle.

  Boonda the bald—the youngest of three dwarves all bearing the same name, one the son of another and so on—perched atop a wobbly ladder touching up the paint on the wooden sign hanging in front of it. The entire sign was looking a bit worn and weathered. The happy dwarf clicking his heels at the center of the thing looked no worse for wear, but the ale splashing up from the pint he toted looked a bit more like foam than the healthy amber of a good ale. A stiff breeze picked up just as Boonda was stretching a bit too far and blew the hat right off his head exposing the bright pink bald spot right in the middle of his white hair. The hat swirled a bit as the teetering dwarf swiped at it and nearly fell from his perch.

  “Blasted wind and bastard hat,” the embarrassed dwarf grumbled as he helplessly watched the thing drop to the ground at Bindaar’s feet.

  Bindaar chuckled as he stooped the pick the tattered thing up off the dirt, “This battered old rag getting the best of you?”

  “It ain’t that hat what’s got me all riled,” Boonda snarled back, “Alenaat, that scrappy waste, was supposed to have this old sign all prettied up even before that horn of Havenstahl called all able bodies to help in fighting them giants.”

  Alenaat was a dwarf for which Bindaar had a bit of a soft spot. Scrappy waste was more than a fair description, too thin, too scruffy, and at least a week from his last bath no matter what day of the week you crossed his path. He reminded the old dwarf general of himself at a younger age, back before Doentaat was king and nothing more than his housemate. “Alenaat hadn’t been on the battlefield with us fighting folk. That bloke couldn’t lift a mighty dwarf axe past his belt,” Bindaar shrugged. “Why ain’t he up there in your stead?”

  “Probably off smoking fairy weed and looking at clouds,” Boonda growled as Bindaar and Lentaak passed by him and entered the pub.

  Boonda’s was the largest building in the city besides the palace. More like a hall than a pub, there was ample room for more than three hundred dwarves to drink, eat, arm wrestle, or dance a jig. Rows of long tables made from wooden slats, sturdy and stained with a deep glossy finish, stretched from the front to the back. A bar, equally dark and equally glossy, ran the length of the place on the right side. Fifty dwarves could sit shoulder to shoulder along the thing with room to spare between them. On this day, only one dwarf sat in front of it. He was the owner of the place, Boonda the bored, and he was face down, fast asleep on the bar. His son, Boonda the round, stood behind the bar chuckling and counting pub crisps as he stacked them up on his father’s cheek.

  “You are a far braver dwarf than me,” Lentaak commented quietly.

  “Aye,” Bindaar agreed. “Your father might be the eldest of you three Boonda’s, but he’d be the first one I’d be picking to my side if a fight were brewing. You’ll have your ears boxed if he ever wakes from that nap.”

  “Twenty-six,” Boonda chuckled through a sly grin. “Have you ever known my father to wake from any nap for any reason other than he’s all done sleeping?”

  “Might you see fit to break from torturing your father long enough to draw a couple pints for a couple of thirsty dwarves?” Bindaar asked as he and Lentaak took two stools a bit farther down the bar. Once seated, he looked over at Lentaak and said, “Alright then, let’s have that update you promised.”

  Lentaak took a swig from the shiny cup Boonda had just set in front of him, wiped his mustache off on the back of his sleeve, and began, “Fifty or so of our best craftsmen be about the work of rebuilding the castle at Havenstahl.”

  “Fifty?” Bindaar’s shocked tone—just shy of a shout—caused a stir in Boonda the bored, who grumbled an inaudible response, scratched his cheek, and promptly got back to snoring.

  “Aw, piss off,” Boonda the round complained as pub crisps scattered from his father’s face. “Now I need to start all over.”

  Bindaar continued in a quieter tone, “Why so many for building when lost dwarves be littered all about the surrounding hills and valleys?”

  “Ain’t a one of them builders built for fighting or riding, strong arms but ain’t none of them got no kind of stamina,” Lentaak shrugged. “Helping get that castle back up suits them just fine. Sooner the better if you’re asking me.”

  Bindaar thought on it for a bit while he took a long drink. After wiping a good bit of foam from his mustache he added, “Aye. The quicker they get that castle back together the less chance we have them giants will turn their vile gazes toward our palace. Go on.”

  “Another one hundred dwarves scour the pines on our hill and down in the river valley below,” Lentaak continued. “They find a few injured here and there, but far too many dead. Two more groups of equal size search the forests to the north and south of the clearing in front of Fort Maomnosett, or what’s left of it. Then we have five and twenty working with an equal force from Havenstahl. They monitor the comings and goings of them bastards still anchored at Biggon’s Bay.”

  Bindaar had been leaning in as he sipped from his cup and listened. His left eye squinted a bit when Lentaak failed to continue. “Well, what more have you got?”

  “Ain’t no more,” Lentaak shrugged, chugged the last of his pint, set it down on the bar, and waved Boonda over to pour him another.

  Bindaar’s gaze dropped to the floor, “Them ain’t no kind of numbers.”

  “Many a stout dwarf found their way back to the Lake that day,” Lentaak agreed. “How many more remain lost or still fighting is hard to know. The men of Havenstahl fared no better. A giant of a man,” he paused trying to recall the name. After a moment, and a few more chugs off his pint, he continued, “Tarturan, that was it. Damn near scared the beard right off my chin. Thought him a giant as big as he was. Had five other men with him. They were all big, but this one was massive.”

  “Aye, I remember that one from the battlefield at Fort Maomnosett,” Bindaar chuckled. “He stood out like a tall oak in a sea of maples in them columns. What did he want, supplies, pord, something else? Why didn’t you bring him before me?”

  After a long sigh, Lentaak scratched his head and said, “I’d been afraid of what you might say to him. He came calling for more dwarves to aid in defending Haven
stahl.”

  “Every able-bodied dwarf is out to field aiding in their fight and protecting, or rebuilding, their city. Did you ask if the men of Havenstahl will be there when them bastards from across the Great Sea turn their wicked eyes on us and our castle?”

  “I did,” Lentaak nodded, “but I didn’t yell, threaten, nor strike him. You might have done any or all of them things.”

  “Aye, that was wise,” Bindaar grinned briefly. “That big one, he’d have been a tough tree to chop down.”

  Bindaar grew grim as the room shifted and dizziness swept through him. It was not the ale. He had only put one away at that point, and he could match any dwarf drink for drink. It was not even the sheer number of dwarves who had given everything at the battle of Maomnosett. He had yet to take any time to grieve, but he was on the field that day. The ridiculous ask from Havenstahl was enough to get his hackles up, but that was not it either. As much as he hated hearing Lentaak’s report, it contained no real surprises. None of the things he said were the cause of the bile at the back of Bindaar’s throat threatening to pour out over the highly polished bar. The empty throne, his missing chum, and his dearest friend, the king, had not been mentioned at all.

  “You failed to mention anything of Doentaat,” Bindaar’s voice was barely more than a whisper.

  Lentaak sighed, drank his freshly poured pint, and waved for another before answering just as quietly, “Ain’t been no word of the king.”

  “That ain’t no kind of answer,” Bindaar began shaking his head. “You had best come up with something a just a wee better than that.”

  Boonda quietly set two fresh pints down before patting Bindaar on the hand and giving him a somber look.

  “Is that pity, Boonda? Why look at me with them sad eyes like I suffer the loss of one dear to me?” Bindaar’s tone echoed how offended he was at the thought.

  Lentaak replied as Boonda failed to find the words. “Old friend,” the solida began, “the time to consider what we might do if facts would have it our king found his way back to the Lake is upon us.”

  The tone of Bindaar’s reply did not slowly mount to a loud crescendo. It began the same as it ended, as a shout. “A stronger, stouter dwarf than our king ain’t never lived,” he pounded his fist against the table before adding, “You’ve no cause for worrying over what we might do if my old friend is dead, because he ain’t that. We all be bound for the Lake, but it ain’t his time yet. And you’d best not go around suggesting anything different.” His cheeks shook as he grabbed hold of Lentaak’s shirt, and Boonda quickly scurried away.

  “Forgive my foolish words, Bindaar,” Lentaak remained calm as he gently placed his hand on Bindaar’s. “I’m sure we’ll get word of the king’s whereabouts in short order.”

  Bindaar seemed to deflate like an empty waterskin as he released his grip on Lentaak’s shirt. Though admitting the solida beside him gave sound advice was the last thing he wanted to do, each passing day made it difficult to think otherwise. The odds of Doentaat being found shrunk with each passing moment.

  ***

  The pain had returned with a vengeance by the time Doentaat woke in the orange glow of a healthy fire. He would rather have held in the howl with which he greeted the waking world, but it got away from him before his wits had fully returned. The flickering flames cast eerie shadows all about the trees as his orange-haired savior worked feverishly over him to save his mangled leg.

  “What in sweet dragon’s tits are you doing to my leg?” Bindaar groaned.

  “They call me Banch, my lord,” the man replied without looking up. “Based on your markings and that mighty axe you wield; I assume you to be King Bindaar of Alhouim. I’m humbled to be at your service. You’ve had a rough go of it. I used the fire to stop the bleeding from your leg, but infection is setting in and moving fast up toward your heart.”

  “You’d best be telling me you ain’t suggesting…” he trailed off before saying the words he did not want to hear.

  Banch finally made eye contact. His green eyes glowed like emeralds beneath the flames of his orange hair as he replied, “Aye. You ain’t making it back to Alhouim with that leg. If you’re going, that leg is staying in this forest.”

  Doentaat laid his head back against the ground. The trees reached toward the star-speckled darkness above him. If only he could fly up into that darkness and escape the reality suffocating him in the orange dome of flickering fire light. This big orange-haired bastard wanted to have his leg off. The option seemed worse than the agonizing pain radiating from that spot. Unfortunately, there was no denying the young soldier’s prognosis was correct. The leg would have to come off if he wanted to live.

  “Fine,” Doentaat’s whisper was barely audible over the crackle of the fire.

  “Forgive me, highness,” Banch leaned closer, “What was that you said?”

  This time the dwarf king shouted, “Have my damn leg if that’s what you want, you grim bastard!”

  Crestfallen, Banch replied, “It ain’t my desire to have your leg. My only desire is to see the great king of Alhouim safely back to his throne.”

  Doentaat struggled up to a seated position and grabbed hold of Banch’s shoulder to pull him close. A tear tickled his cheek as it slipped down his face to moisten his mustache. Normally, the thought of showing any kind of weakness in front of any man would seem a fate worse than death. Right at that moment, he did not care. He was quite fond of that damned leg, and the thought of losing it was sad, at least sad enough for one lousy tear.

  “Forgive me,” Doentaat had gained control of his tone, “You seem a fine man. This thing you want me to do, well it ain’t wrong. I know that. It’s just…” Doentaat trailed off as he turned his gaze toward the fire and stared for a moment before asking, “How good are you with that blade?”

  “I ain’t promising you won’t feel it, but you will have no unnecessary pain,” Banch replied earnestly. “The flame I’ll kiss it with after, now that is…”

  “I know,” Doentaat interrupted. “Get to it.”

  Banch did just that. He sized up a girthy branch lying just outside the fire’s glow. It would do. He dragged the heavy thing over to his injured new friend. The dwarf king lost another pitiable howl when Banch raised the wasted leg up onto the thing. He paused for a moment, waiting for another verbal assault. When it did not come, he grabbed a thick stick from a pile of firewood he had gathered and stuck one end deep into the hottest part of the fire. Then he disappeared behind a tree.

  “Hey,” Doentaat hollered, “you’d best not be leaving me out here. If that’s your plan, you could have just let them damned, scaly bastards finish me off.”

  Banch quickly returned with a leather strap and a water skin. The latter he handed to Doentaat and said, “Here, take a good long pull off of that.”

  “I’d been hoping for something stronger than water,” Doentaat grimaced.

  “Aye, fairies tears,” Banch replied, “It’ll help to ease the pain.”

  Doentaat finally smiled despite his pain. “Ah, fairies’ tears, much stronger than ale, mightier than wine, forget your fears with fairies’ tears and all will be just fine,” he finished with a wink. “An old barker came through my city some years ago selling this beautiful concoction. Lost me many a night to this beauty.”

  Banch chuckled as Doentaat took a good, long pull. “Just let me know when you’re ready, highness.”

  Doentaat nearly drained the entire water skin before he decided to grit his teeth and get it done. He nodded to Banch as he handed over a significantly lighter container than he had received. Banch, in return, handed him the leather strap. The dwarf king bit down hard on the thing as he clenched his eyes tight and nodded again. Time slowed. His cheeks grew sore with the weight of his bite. A hint of oil entered his awareness. Whether it was a taste or a smell, he really could not tell. Just get on with it already.

  Then the sound, sharpened steel slicing through still air a split second before the thump. His leg un
ceremoniously flopped to the ground. It must have been a clean cut. He had not felt a thing. Though he knew it was over—one big piece of him missing—his eyes refused to open. The sharp stabbing pain that remained seemed far too low, probably phantoms. How long would those last? His grandfather, Coeptus rest his soul, had complained regularly of itching in the leg he had lost to a mining accident many summers before Doentaat had even been born. Would his missing leg cause him grief for the rest of his days? The thought died a quick death when the burning came. It took all his attention. He did not want to open his eyes, but the pain seemed a million times worse than what the cut was meant to fix. He saw no joy on the face of his savior when his eyes did snap open, just a young soldier doing a job that needed doing. In that moment of blistering agony, Banch’s motivation meant nothing.

  “You cowardly bastard,” Doentaat howled, the strap slipping from his mouth. “Get me while I’m down at my lowest, will you? I promise you this now, if ever we meet on a battlefield, my hungry axe will have both your damn legs off, you pretty son of whore!”

  Banch’s tone remained measured as he struggled to finish cauterizing the wound with the flaming brand, “It ain’t no good to have you bleeding out all over this forest floor, highness. Once we get all this mess behind us, she’ll be smarting for a time, but you won’t die on account of infection. We’ll get her bandaged up good, and you’ll be on your way to healing.”

  Doentaat gave up complaining. The deed was done, and he was less one leg for it. He knew as well as the author of his pain that it was a necessary loss. Somehow acknowledging the necessity of the deed did nothing to make him feel any better about it. Nor did it dull the pain at all. However, as the moments shuffled by, he slowly got used to it. The initial shock of intense pain is always the worst. Luckily, the mind has a way of dealing with things once a tragedy has finished. He laid back and let the lad do his work. Before long, his lids grew heavy. Whether it was the pain, all the blood he had lost on the forest floor, or the fairies’ tears, sleep seemed about the best option just then.