Kill the Gods

by E. Michael Mettille

  “Lies,” Kallum’s eyes were suddenly keen. “You have never been so ambitious, hiding out here at the edge of nothing in a broken tower abandoned by a failed magician.”

  “If only you were as wise as you were strong. Where you see nothing, I see everything,” the god smirked and was gone.

  Ijilv materialized in a small, circular room atop a tower taller than anything else ever made by men. It had once belonged to men as his brother had alluded, but that was before Kallum had spoken the words, “No more magic,” and the elemental mysteries were lost to those who believed it.

  Four obelisks surrounded a sleeping young man. A glowing orb hovered above each of the four pillars. Each transitioned from the darkest black to the brightest white so quickly the two conditions seemed to travel simultaneously down a parallel path rather than exist during separate intervals, one replacing the other and so on. Geillan, the young man hovering between the obelisks, had been a babe only weeks prior. Every day he grew, and every day his will became stronger. With each passing moment, it became increasingly more difficult for Ijilv to maintain control of the sleeping creature.

  “Soon, my child,” Ijilv smiled, “soon I will unleash you on this world and all will burn in the brilliance of your flame.” He closed his eyes and addressed the presence which had drawn him away from his brother’s cell, “Why are you here?”

  Moluam stepped out from behind one of the obelisks near Geillan’s head. Her hair was a mass of luxurious black waves. The face peeking out from those random curls carried the wisdom of a thousand generations without losing the soft, innocent beauty of youth. The gown she wore was as black as her hair and seemed to move under its own will. She looked at the sleeping young man and commented, “He is growing so fast. How much longer can you control him?”

  “Time works differently here. That is what drew me to this place,” Ijilv commented. “You need not worry about the boy’s size nor his strength. I have consumed the god. Kallum is with me and under my command. My strength has doubled since last we spoke, and soon it will grow again. Cialia battles with Brerto as we speak. Soon he will be one with me as well.”

  “I pray you are correct,” she replied without much confidence.

  “I am,” Ijilv grew bored with the conversation. “You have yet to explain your presence in this place.”

  “I have found the lost Dragon,” she touched Geillan’s face as she spoke. His skin grew brighter where her fingers connected with it. “Maulom interfered. It seems he is filling Maelich’s fragile head with nonsense.”

  The god moved around the room until he stood next to her looking down on Geillan. Then he said, “Maulom has his role, and you have yours. That is how it has always been. Why should this mission be any different? He will drive Maelich on toward his inevitable meeting with the fabled red people, and you will help him understand his pain. He will feel the pain of all the faces you show him in time, but now is not that time. You and Maulom must continue your game, your forever dance. The lad of the Lake must be completely broken when he faces my Dragon, his son.”

  “I hope for all our sakes this game you are playing ends the way you expect. It seems not all the players are playing by the same rules,” Moluam replied.

  “There have been surprises to be sure,” Ijilv nodded, “but everything is proceeding as it should. Keep to your task. Men and dwarves and giants and all the other creatures who inhabit this place will continue to kill each other. When they do it to the ones he cares about, you show them to him.”

  Chapter 25

  Beyond Control

  Hiding, sitting idle, and waiting for others to act is something most despise. It is worse for a god. Unfortunately for Moshat and Kaldumahn, hiding away on their thrones protected behind multiple levels of enchantment to keep out the prying eyes of even the most powerful of creatures had become their lot. Cialia was a force of nature, and she had made it her mission to kill the gods.

  Kaldumahn looked to his brother and said, “The loose Dragon battles the great tiger, and our brother is winning.”

  “But for how long?” Moshat asked as he absently toyed with his white beard. “He has her trapped in a spell. Will he maintain the illusion until the end of time? We should attack him now while Cialia has his attention. Together we could destroy him.”

  “Folly,” Kaldumahn scoffed. “Once that Dragon is loose from Brerto’s spell, she will turn her rage on us. I would never presume to speak for you, but I certainly would prefer not to be scattered to the wind as was our brother, Kallum.”

  Moshat shook his head in disgust, “Your cowardice stinks like flesh rotting in the sun.”

  Kaldumahn was undaunted by the barb but changed the subject just the same. “What about the new eagle I faced over the castle at Havenstahl?” he asked.

  “If you are truly convinced it was not Kallum you faced in the skies over that broken place, it could only be Ijilv,” Moshat shrugged.

  “As much as I wish I could disagree, I fear your words ring true,” Kaldumahn smoothed a hand over his white beard. “If it is, he is even more powerful than Kallum.”

  Moshat considered the idea for a moment as he looked out over the smooth stone surrounding them. When he and his brother had envisioned the place, it was a stronghold, a fortress. Hiding from their enemies made it feel more like a prison. Neither dare leave for fear of the great powers stalking Ouloos. “Should we confront him?” he finally asked.

  “Could we defeat him even together?” Kaldumahn provided no answer.

  “We cannot know that until we face him,” Moshat replied soberly. “I would prefer that to cowering in a hole.”

  “Whether we could defeat our brother means very little. We cannot find him. That tower he likes to haunt at the edge of Ouloos and time has vanished. I have looked everywhere for him. All my attempts have failed. He and his tower are nowhere,” Kaldumahn shifted in his throne so he faced his brother.

  “Show me,” Moshat replied.

  Instantly, the two gods stood at the edge of a constantly shifting landscape. A black expanse stretched before them interrupted only by stars, moons, and shifting lights. The spot where they stood was the exact spot where the tower at the edge of time had stood for centuries. Now it was gone.

  “He hides as we do,” Moshat sighed.

  “He does,” Kaldumahn agreed, “and we should scurry back off to our pit.”

  Moshat looked out at the cosmos, the vast expanse stretching for eternity before them. It was different there than west of the Lake where stars and planets traveled set paths across the black sky. The scene before him was chaotic, celestial bodies forming out of nothing while others evaporated or blinked out of existence. Those which remained for any amount of time followed no obvious rules. They zigged this way before spinning that. Some slammed into others and pushed them off course. It was a macabre dance orchestrated by an insane choreographer.

  “I feel sick looking at this chaos,” the god whispered.

  “Nonsense, we do not feel things like that,” Kaldumahn argued.

  Moshat closed his eyes, “What you say is true. However, what I feel in this very moment staring at the violent fury before my eyes is precisely what I have heard men describe as sick. We have no control of the events unfolding.”

  “We do not,” Kaldumahn agreed. “However, we must remain vigilant. Never forget the vow we made to each other. No matter what events unfolded or what dramas Ouloos or our brothers created to torment each other or us, we would not intervene in the course of the physical unless our brothers did the same.”

  “And what does Ijilv do right at this moment?” Moshat slapped his hand against his forehead. “The time for heartfelt declarations has long since passed, brother. Havenstahl has fallen. Giants threaten that great city from the west while grizzly mongs and other even more horrible things threaten from the north and the south. Maelich is lost. Ijilv has dropped his disguise and proclaimed himself our enemy. The child who is key to all of this is lost beyond our reach
. Now is the time to act.”

  “That sounds like fear. We are gods, brother. We do not fear. The Dragons are safe, guiding souls home to the Lake. Ijilv occupies himself with Brerto while that pathetic worm occupies Cialia. I agree we should not sit idle but attacking the Dragon or our brothers would be folly. The cities of Havenstahl and Druindahl still worship us. They are key to our strength. We must bolster the forces of Havenstahl and prepare them for the coming storm. I have seen a great army marching from the south. Armies of men from the great coastal cities all march together to aid in the defense of the greatest city of men. They need our strength,” Kaldumahn placed his hand on his brother’s shoulder as he finished.

  Moshat sighed long and deep. He did not like it one bit but said, “Fine, brother, we will try it your way. You will travel to Druindahl and test their readiness, while I venture to Havenstahl to reinvigorate their resolve. But if we fail…” he trailed off.

  “We will not,” Kaldumahn’s tone carried as much confidence as he could muster just then. “We cannot.”

  Chapter 26

  Rage and Sadness

  The sacred pine soared up toward fluffy clouds lazily strolling across a blue sky. It still had scars from the shackles Ahm used to torture subjects who failed to follow his rule. Removing the metal straps, chains, and the spindle to pull a dwarf body across the massive tree had been Doentaat’s first act as king after Maelich had cut down the cruel giant, Ahm. Bindaar touched one of those scars. That had been the lowest point in his life, the moment he realized what a waste he had become. In some strange way, it had also been his highest point. No dwarf had ever regarded him as anything more than a useless waste of space. The only one who had ever shown him any kind of love had been Doentaat, and that was clearly due to pity not any kind of admiration or respect. That changed while the heavy chains that left the scars on the massive tree had tugged his arms and legs out near to the point of dislocation. It may have been pity in the eyes staring upon him that day, but it looked close enough to caring that it changed the way he saw himself. When Maelich came to set him free, to set Alhouim free, that was the stiff kick in the rump he needed.

  Bindaar strained his neck to look up through the branches. The top was too high for him to see from where he stood. It was the tallest tree on Mount Elbahor. No one had ever measured it, but it had to be at least four hundred feet tall. Dwarf myths say the tree was planted as a gift to the fairies who lived on the mountain before dwarves came to carve it up and free the precious pord it housed deep in its bowels. The dwarf is never named in the story, only ever referred to as the first one. It was a great story to tell young dwarves around a fire, but Bindaar never really believed it. Fairies were made up, some fanciful dream of a dwarf high on fairy weed more likely than not, and if the first one had been a real dwarf someone would remember his name.

  “They should be here any moment,” Lentaak’s voice startled Bindaar out of his reminiscing.

  “Damn your quiet feet,” Bindaar jumped.

  Lentaak failed to hide his smirk, “Forgive me, general. I sent word to Ghordaan to prepare a bed for the king.”

  Bindaar’s eyebrows dipped so deep they nearly reached his nose, “I told you to call for Hagen.”

  “As I did, but Hagen is out to field assisting as many as he can. The injured are strewn about the hills and forests. His tents overflow with the injured,” Lentaak shrugged.

  “We should count ourselves lucky Ghordaan is with us and not out to field with Hagen,” he sighed. “The report Daanlioc gave before losing his consciousness to fever was grim. Three besides him and a dying king is not what I wanted to hear.”

  Before Lentaak could attempt any reassuring words, he noticed a small group approaching on the road. “There,” he pointed.

  Three dwarves slowly trudged up the hill toward the tree. With brown tunics ratty and torn and blood-stained beards equally disheveled, the group appeared to have lost everything they had to the trail. Even the sturdy pony looked less than a whisper from the Lake. Bindaar gave the briefest moment of concern for their condition. The body strapped to the light brown pony was what really concerned him. He knew it was his king and former housemate fastened there, and the body was completely still. They were still a good way down the trail making it difficult to ascertain anything about Doentaat’s condition, but Bindaar suddenly felt sick in his stomach and tasted bile at the back of his throat. He ran toward them.

  As Bindaar neared the group, Glaadrian jogged up to meet him. The concerned look, outstretched arms, and reassuring nonsense the dwarf babbled on with only served to increase his fear. None of what Glaadrian was saying registered in his head. The words did not matter anyway. He knew his oldest, dearest friend was dead as soon as he had made eye contact with Glaadrian. By the time the two met in the trail, the sick feeling in Bindaar’s stomach proved stronger than his will. He spilled the contents of his gut out onto the dirt splattering Glaadrian’s boots as well as his own.

  “Bindaar, calm down please,” Glaadrian’s voice sounded as if it were coming from inside his own head which had suddenly began throbbing. His eyes burned like he had stared at the sun for hours, and the tears came. He did not care who saw it. He wept, and he howled. He pounded his fists into the dirt and screamed. Glaadrian had kept talking, but Bindaar logged none of the information the sound carried to his ears. It was all just noise.

  Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was a gentle touch, but it burned him to his very soul. Condolences were the last thing he wanted. What good were they? He wanted revenge. He wanted to chop down giants, stab trogmortem, and rip grongs limb from limb. They would all die.

  He grabbed hold of Glaadrian’s arm, dragged the dwarf close enough the tips of their noses touched, and growled, “We will kill them. We will kill them all.”

  The raging dwarf rose back to his feet dragging Glaadrian with him. Then he tossed the solida into the trunk of a thick pine. More gentle hands, more consolation, and Lentaak’s voice soothing and reassuring in his ear. He spun, grabbed him by the collar, and pounded his forehead into the poor dwarf’s nose. Everything was red as he charged toward the two dwarves accompanying the pony—a sorry mount for a dead king.

  Muljaak was the first. Despite being a full head taller than Bindaar and stout enough to cradle the dwarf general in his arms like a baby, he raised his hands in submission and backed away from Bindaar’s rage. Whether or not Muljaak wanted to fight was immaterial. Bindaar did. He charged the big dwarf and rammed him in the gut with the top of his head. The attack left him woozy, but it sent Muljaak tumbling down the hill. Chialdaan tried to help but earned only fists for his effort. Bindaar left him with a black eye and a sore jaw.

  Everything remained red before Bindaar’s eyes. Logic had fled. All he wanted was to hurt something, anything. In some hidden place in the darkest, deepest depths of his mind, he probably realized he would come to regret the abusive behavior once his wits returned. The idea was completely inaccessible in that moment. All he knew just then was rage, furious, stomping, spitting rage. And then he saw Doentaat. The swollen, bruised, and battered thing barely resembled the face of his old friend, but he knew it was him. A pitiable cry roared from his mouth as his eyes leaked water and globs of snot dripped from his nose. He cut the ropes holding the king in place and dragged him down from his mount.

  “I told you,” he shouted at Doentaat’s dead face. “I told you to stay here, stay in the castle and let your generals do the work of pushing the monsters back to the sea.”

  Nothing else mattered in that moment. The king was dead. Doentaat was dead. It did not matter how much Bindaar shouted, how many tears he cried, or how many times he pounded his dead friend in the chest. He would still be dead. He remained there, crying, shouting, and pounding his fists until he ran out of energy. Then he just laid his head down on Doentaat’s chest and cried.

  He should have taken time to think. He should have met with the other generals and planned a proper response. He should have
sought advice. He did none of those things. Instead, he stood up, wiped his eyes, and growled to the sad group who he had just abused, “Round up all available solidas and prepare them for battle. We march at dawn.” His eyes became slits as a sneer crept onto his face, “Do any of you have anything to say about that?”

  None did but Glaadrian. “No prisoners. No mercy. We kill them all,” he growled through a deep scowl.

  Chapter 27

  Sound the Alarm

  The sky above Tiegran was a thick bank of gray as he sat on a log scraping mud off the bottom of one of his boots. The ground was already good and soggy from rains the prior evening, and the air smelled like more was on the way. A slight rumbling distracted Tiegran from his work. He would have thought it was thunder, but the ground trembled enough to wobble the thick log beneath his rump. It was a subtle vibration but undeniable. There were only two things he could think of that could make the ground vibrate like that, a herd of wild tubber—there were no wild tubber for miles and miles in any direction—or giants.

  Tiegran barely had time to panic over the idea giants were marching on the castle when Tarturan ran by him, sword drawn and shouted, “Giants march on Havenstahl. To the castle, men. Form up on the high ground.”

  More men ran by shouting similar things. Some looked ready for war. Others looked ready to cry. As Tiegran struggled back into his boot, he decided he was the former. Standing shoulder to shoulder with Daritus the giant slayer, he would chase glory until he found it on the battlefield, or the quest led him to the Lake. Whichever ended up his destination, he would fight with everything he had until he arrived. Hopefully, someone would tell stories about him in the orange glow of a healthy fire someday.

  By the time Tiegran made it up near the main gate, hundreds of men had already formed into tight columns in front of it. Daritus ranged up and down the ranks shouting out the glory of Druindahl and Havenstahl. Even limping the man appeared invincible.