"Marked By the Gods" A Myth in Eight Parts
By ThePhallocrat (email: thephallocrat@gmail.com)
PART TWO
The years had barely touched her, and Commander Damek found himself wondering with his characteristic cynicism what exotic paints and make-ups she had discovered to hide her advancing age. Certainly Damek himself looked not a day younger than his fifty-odd years - he had seen himself in a mirror often enough and knew it to be true. Graying hair, wrinkled and sun-beaten skin, eyes tired from too many campaigns and battles. He made no effort to compose his appearance for beauty was not a virtue for a soldier, and if anything the men respected the ugly commander more than the pretty one. Ugly men are best suited to be warriors, he reflected. Had he been born more attractive perhaps he would have found another calling.
Still, he had done something right to land such a famed beauty in Calla, his wife. Whatever tricks or, he thought with a smile, female sorcery she employed to maintain her youth, they did their job admirably. Her strawberry hair still flowed as thick and lovely as on the day they had met. Her skin was as smooth and ivory as the day they had wed. And her lips were as full and red as the day, so many years ago, when she had told him to leave and never to see her again.
It was the memory of that day that hung in the air with great weight, though not a word had yet been spoken.
He poured her a cup of wine, and she murmured her thanks before taking a sip.
"Well," she said at last, considering him with a mysterious look on her face, "I hear congratulations are in order. You have proved victorious at Nathar. Another conquest to add to your impressive military career."
He snorted, certain there was sarcasm in her words though her tone sounded genuine enough. There was too much bitterness of old for him to take anything she said at face value. "I did what had to be done," he replied, "I may have taken the city but the campaign continues. We are still at war. You should not have come, it is not safe."
She laughed, and for a moment Damek could hear the carefree laughter of the girl who had stolen his heart so many lifetimes ago. He had been just a young soldier. So young, and so stupid. "I do not fear for my life, I assure you," she smiled, "Not anymore. Well. How fare you, husband? Your health is well I take it?"
Damek's mouth twisted into a sour grimace. "Am I to believe you came all this way to trade civilities? What do you want?"
"Always the blunt and tactless soldier. I found it charming, once. I ask after your health as a subtle invitation for you to ask after mine. I should have realized that subtlety would be lost on you. I do not know what I was thinking."
"Are you ill then? All the more reason not to have undertaken this journey."
"You would be correct," Calla replied, taking another sip of wine, "Such strain would certainly complicate my recovery, if recovery were possible. Alas, in the present case, it seems it is not. Or so the finest physicians of the Empire have told me."
Damek froze, his tongue suddenly thick. The tent seemed to swirl around him. "What was that?"
She smiled sadly and brushed her hand against his cheek. "How pale you got just now. Oh, Damek, it is gratifying to know that after everything you really do still care. That will make this much more pleasant. I knew I had to see you one last time, and now I know I was right."
"How..." his voice caught. Where was the confident voice of the commander now? "How long do you have?"
"Difficult to say," she replied, turning her back to him. "A year or less, depending. No, I don't expect you to come visit me and I'm not here to ask for money or anything like that. I came because I wanted to tell you and I thought a letter the wrong way to do it."
"You are not well," Damek said, "I would have understood."
"Oh not that," she said, shaking her head and laughing again, "had my illness been all then I may not have had word sent to you until I was dead. As an afterthought, really. My final demonstration of how little you matter in my life now. Something bitter like that. How silly how long we bear grudges, but it can't be helped you know. No, there's something else I want to tell you."
"Something... else?" Damek shook his head. She was dying, what in the name of the Gods could there be to talk about besides that?
"When we split," she said, "I was very angry with you. I wanted to deprive you of happiness. I tell you this so you will know why I did what I did. Why I never told you about your son."
"My...." Damek reeled again as though struck. Then he swore, loudly. "You heartless bitch!"
"Yes, yes. I am. I came to terms with that long ago." She smiled again, a smile so serene it wrenched the old commander's heart. "When I found out about my sickness I knew I had to see you one last time and tell you the secret I have been keeping all these years. You have a son. He is a man grown. He is a soldier like you. He fights for the Emperor in your war."
"A soldier." Damek sighed. "Naturally. What else could he have been, with my blood in him? It is my family curse. Very well, I am sure I can get him transferred away from the front lines. That's why you've come, isn't it? I can protect him after you are gone. What is the name of his commanding officer?"
At this she smiled, widely and with deep pleasure. "Commander Damek," she said, and after a moment Damek realized she was not calling his name, but answering his question. She said nothing further, and with sudden insight he knew she wouldn't no matter how he threatened or raged. He stared at her, stunned, and she smiled back. Her final revenge, he knew, was complete. ______________________________________________________________
"Quiet now," Joren said. Calder could hear the man's breathing slow and willed his own to follow suit. He felt like he should be scared, but he was gripping Joren's hand and it wasn't trembling. If the older man was not afraid, Calder wouldn't be either. Of course, it was easier being blind, in a way, since he couldn't see any danger. Instead he trusted his protector utterly, his complete faith in Joren had become comforting.
"They've gone," Joren said after a moment. "Probably just travelers like us, but best to stay unheeded just in case. Let's move a bit further off from the road, and then we can get some sleep. Sound good?"
Calder nodded. "Whatever you say, my friend." Joren squeezed his hand, then helped him to his feet and led him on. Calder's feet crunched on grasses and leaves, much more treacherous footing than back in the city. Joren was careful, whispering out warnings of any obstacles in their path, but Calder still wasn't used to be blind and stumbled several times.
"I wish I'd found us horses back in Nathar," Joren lamented, and not for the first time.
"You did your best," Calder said reassuringly.
"The damned army took them all," Joren explained. "Here, this spot should be good. We'll eat and then get some sleep for a bit. No fire, though. Wouldn't want to attract the wrong kind of attention. Now that the army has headed out, there's sure to be some chaos in their wake. Robbers and bandits and the like."
"Whose army attacked Nathar?" Calder asked, when they were chewing on some of the dried meat the temple had provided them.
"The Emperor's," Joren answered, then grunted ruefully, "Well, one of the Emperors."
"Is there more than one?"
"Depends on who you ask. There used to be just one, but he died a few years back. He had two sons, you see. Twins. Both wanted to be the next ruler. Some cities followed one brother, some the other. So now there's all this fighting."
"Who is winning?" Calder asked.
"Does it matter? We're all losing." Joren sounded upset. Angry, even.
"Did the soldiers kill my family?" Calder asked after a moment.
Joren was quiet. "Yes," he said.
"But why? Were they soldiers too?"
"No. It's difficult to explain but... there was a siege of the city, you see. The soldiers who were attacking were very tired and many of them died. So when Nathar finally fell, a lot of built-up anger was unleashed. There was a lot of violence against civilians, looting and worse. It's called sacking - it isnt right, but when soldiers have suffered that much they start thinking they deserve to do whatever they want to their defeated foes, things they'd never do normally."
"So my parents didn't do anything wrong?"
"They lived in the wrong city, a city that declared for the wrong side. That's all the soldiers needed for justification."
"Is that why the Dark God cursed me? Because I was on the wrong side too?"
Joren pulled Calder close and wrapped his cloak around the two of them, and the blind young man could hear his protector sigh. "I don't know. Enough talk now, let's get some sleep."
And Calder did sleep, after a while. It wasn't a particularly cold night, and Joren's cloak kept the two of them warm enough. Sleep came, and with it, dreams. Again, the vision of flames, and the angel of death with his twin swords dripping blood, coming for him. Calder ran from the monster, but he couldn't get away, he was just not fast enough. As the swords lowered with deadly speed, he burst from sleep into the waking world to find a hand clamped over his mouth. He was about to scream when Joren's voice whispered into his ear.
"Quiet," the man said, "Somebody is coming."
Calder forced his breathing to still and his heart to slow its pace. Then, suddenly, he could hear it: the sound of footsteps in the distance, snapping twigs and leaves, growing louder. Slowly, Joren removed his hand and rose to his feet. Calder stayed put on the ground, curled up into a ball in fear and listening as attentively as he could while staying as quiet as possible. He could hear Joren unpacking something from his bags, then stepping away even further from their small camp.
Suddenly, Joren spoke, so loud that Calder jumped. "Who's there?"
A strange voice, a bit further away, responded. "Well, what have we here? A deserter?"
"Refugees," Joren replied, "We've nothing worth stealing. Move on and let us be."
"Right," came another voice, this one in a different direction. Calder trembled - were they totally surrounded? "Refugees don't wear army uniforms. What have you got there?"
"It's a kid," said the first voice, laughing. "Pretty young thing. You in love, deserter?"
"They're eloping!" joked a third, new voice, "It's so romantic!"
The others barked in rough laughter, coming even closer now.
"I'm warning you," Joren said, his voice a quiet growl.
"Look out, boys," said the first voice, "Lover boy here is going to challenge us!"
"Get rid of him. I want to take his boytoy for a spin."
"Come on, then, deserter. Let's see if you even know how to use those, coward."
Suddenly, all the voices were silent save for the sound of laboured breath and grunts. There were feet scuffling on the earth, and the occasional clang of metal on metal. Shouts of surprise, gasps, and then a scream. A pained curse, too low to make out clearly, then a wet gurgle. Then utter silence once again.
Footsteps came closer to Calder, and instinctively the young man lashed out with clenched fists.
"Easy, easy," Joren said, "It's alright. It's over."
Calder gasped with relief. "What... what happened?"
Joren did not respond, but started packing up their meager supplies instead. Calder caught the scent of something new in the air, something metallic and sweet, and knew immediately without knowing how he knew that it was blood. ______________________________________________________________________________
Rannell Kent had just gotten dressed for the day when the messenger arrived at the Prince's tent. He barely looked up long enough from lacing up his boots to say, "Yes? What is it?"
"Urgent message for the Prince," the man said, "From the Emperor."
"His Grace has not yet risen," Kent replied, "But if you will hold for one moment I will awaken him."
The messenger's eyes widened, and he took in the Guardian of the Flame with a new, appraising stare. Kent sighed at that familiar look. Those generals and dignitaries who traveled with the Prince's forces had long since grown used to seeing the Guardian in the Prince's tent at all hours of the day and night. Their curiosity or amusement or disgust at their royal leader's fascination with Kent had long since been spent. The messenger before him was fresh from the capitol and no doubt scandalized by the implications of Kent's presence. It did not matter. There were whispers throughout the army filtering, no doubt, all the way back to the homeland - thus the Guardian of the Flame already fully expected to face the Emperor one day to answer for his actions. But that was a worry for another time.
Turning away, Kent slipped through the curtain that covered the Prince's sleeping area. He was naked and uncovered, soundly asleep and drooling onto a silk pillow. He looked more the foolish boy than a prince, Kent reflected, and despite himself he could not prevent an affectionate smile from growing on his lips. There was so much potential in the lad, that was the most aggravating part. His father was sure to be the winner in this war - once Kadnaris was conquered that would be certain. Thus, Tytus would one day be the ruler of the entire Empire. And he could be the kind of leader the people needed after such a divisive time, or at least that was Rannell Kent's secret hope.
With a gentle nudge, the Guardian roused his liege into the waking world. Tytus blinked wearily up at him, then grinned with impish desire and raised his head off the bedding for a kiss. Kent leaned back apologetically. "Your Grace, there is a messenger here. From your father."
The Prince's face changed immediately, the eagerness draining away to be replaced with an anxious pallor. He rose at once, wrapping a robe about his nakedness and splashing his face with water from a basin the corner.
"Stay here," Tytus said. Kent, who had come to know his liege like a second self, understood at once and nodded. The young man walked through the curtain.
"Welcome," Kent could hear the prince say, "What news of my father?"
The other man cleared his throat uncomfortably. "He sends his greetings and asks what has caused the delay in your forces. You were expected to have reached the Green River ford by now."
"We have been awaiting the arrival of Commander Damek and his expeditionary forces," the prince replied. Tytus sighed and shook his head. This paltry attempt at misdirection would not work.
"Damek was to join up with the other forces at the ford, as previously discussed," the man said, clearly struggling to find a balance between conveying his master's sentiments and attempting not to offend the Imperial heir. "Your Grace, I saw signs of festivity in the camp, including drunken soldiers."
Though he could not see his lord's face, Kent knew it had gone pale again, knew as well that his bottom lip had stiffened in childish defiance. "A minor celebration," he said, clearly defensive, "to commemorate the fall of Nathar and to improve morale."
"The Emperor ordered no such celebration."
"The order came from me," the Prince said, annoyed and frightened, though he hid his fear well. Perhaps only one who knew him as well as Kent did could have sensed it.
"So I shall report to the Emperor, then," the man said, and the hint of a threat was unmistakable. "He bids you make full haste to join him at the Green River at once."
Kent felt himself jump in alarm, and heard a similar shock in Tytus's voice as he responded. "My father has left the capitol?"
"I believe he has decided to oversee the siege of Kadnaris personally. He is at the ford already, awaiting the presence of his armies."
"If I had known... No, I am Chosen of the Flame, it is my command...!" Tytus began, losing all composure. Kent stiffened and drew a deep breath, fearing another tantrum, but at the last moment he heard the prince catch himself. "Very well. We will depart at once and march for the river at double pace. Inform my father he will not wait long."
"Very good, Your Grace. I wish you well," the man added, lamely, as though apologizing for standing in the middle of this familial dispute. Kent certainly did not envy his position. The clink of armor indicated the messenger had left, and suddenly the prince appeared, his face red.
"He is taking my command!" Tytus raged.
"Your Grace..." Kent began, but his liege interrupted.
"No, Rannell," he snapped, "Don't start with your lectures. You were right about the celebration, and don't think I don't know you'll be eager to tell my father all about how you tried to talk me out of it."
"You cannot think me so disloyal."
"You won't have to put up with much longer, you'll be happy to hear," the boy moaned,throwing himself face down onto the bedding, "My father will judge me a failure, despite our successes. He's only ever seen me as a failure, and I was a fool to think otherwise. He'll take the title of Chosen for himself, then you'll guard him and be done with me and I'll never see you again."
"You are Chosen of the Flame," Kent said sternly, "I will serve you and only you. Your father has bodyguards enough. I am your man, until my dying breath."
At last Tytus' rage and misery stilled, as he stared up at Kent in shock. "You mean that, don't you?"
"I do."
And the spoiled, impatient, and beautiful young prince could no longer hold back his tears as he threw himself into his guardian's arms. ____________________________________________________________________________
It was an uncomfortably hot day, and Mouse was drenched in sweat. He would kill, literally kill, for just a sip of water, just the smallest taste of it on his lips. That, unfortunately, was not likely to happen. The guards who rode horses alongside the long train of slaves were quick enough to use their whips on any who slowed or showed signs of insolence, but they would only offer their skins of water to those who collapsed from the heat. Mouse did not wish to give them the pleasure of laughing at his weakness, swore he'd rather die of thirst than allow that to happen.
It was a month-long journey to the mines and now, one week since departing from Prince Tytus the Brat's encampment, Mouse wondered if any of the slaves would make it there alive. Already some of the oldest of the group had dropped to the ground, never to rise again, their bodies abandoned along the side of the road without burial or ceremony. Likely their guards were already weaning out the weakest members of the group, those who would be of no use in the Imperial Mines. Mouse wanted to rage against the injustice of it all, but he was too tired and famished to summon much indignation. Mostly, he just wanted water and sleep.
"Hungry, slave?" a guard taunted. The man was holding some leftover meat from the previous night's impromptu feast. One of the guards had managed to slay a lone wolf with a well-aimed crossbow shot. Mouse took the fact that the other guards had jumped at the chance to share the wolf meat as a sign that even their food supply was dwindling. Still three weeks to go, and already shortages. Mouse had no idea if there were to be stops for resupply, but it seemed impossible that they should reach the mines or anywhere near them unless there were. Maybe, he told himself in some distant corner of his brain, maybe such stops would provide an opportunity for escape.
The day passed in a blur of dizziness and sweat, one foot in front of the other in an eternity of aching pain and weariness. As the sun slowly set, a wolf cried in the distance. One of the guards laughed.
"Sound pretty pissed at you, Shorty," he said. "You killed their friend and all."
The other cackled at that. "Well, I got more bolts here for them all, so they are welcome to join him." There was a general round of laughter.
Mouse found himself hating the cruel men even more. In his thoughts, he reached out to the crying wolf and shared in its grief and hatred. Come get your revenge, he thought. Come kill us all. It would be a mercy, and he'd rather die in the jaws of a wild animal than work out his days in some dark cave. Just let me live long enough to see you tear apart Shorty and his friends. Then I can die happy.
Night fell at last, and the slaves were rounded up and tied together for the night as usual. Most of them collapsed almost at once into a bone-weary sleep. In the morning, the cycle began again, another day or marching, another endless stretch of pain, hunger, and thirst, and then night would come again, until Mouse could no longer remember how many days it had been since the journey began.
At night, despite his weariness Mouse found it difficult to slip into the mindless sleep that overtook the other slaves. Instead he would lie awake in his misery and listen to the wolves howling in the distance. He decided, in those fevered moments of half-sleep, that he hated everybody and everything. The world had given him nothing but pain, after all. No humans had shown him any compassion. His own parents had sold him off as a boy in order to pay their debts, and he had since been the property of somebody or other for as long as he could remember. Some of his owners were kind to him, some were not. All of them, kind or not, had of way of looking right through him. It was not an accident that he had been renamed Mouse. He was no more than an animal, unworthy of notice, of love, or even of hatred. He was not a human at all. Serving the prince had had its perks, of course, but he had lived in constant fear of earning Tytus' disapproval - as had, of course, actually happened in the end. And after his many years of service, this was his reward? One mistake, and he was to be discarded? Such were his thoughts in those long, miserable nights in which true sleep seemed remote, even though every day of marching took an even greater toll than the one before, even though he began to feel certain that he would not survive the journey if he could not manage to rest. But sleep was impossible, there was only rage, despair, and thoughts of impossible revenge.
The nightly howling of the wolves began to take on a new meaning, then. Mouse could hear in their mournful cries the same emotions raging in himself, feelings so personal and intimate that he began to believe the beasts howled for him alone, giving voice to all that Mouse himself could not. And then his previous thoughts inviting the wolves to come and take their revenge changed from an idle fancy of hatefulness into a serious desire and then into a prayer, whispered over and over through the night. The wild beasts of the forests were his only brethren. He would gladly submit, gladly die with their jaws on this throat, their attack bringing not pain but the end of pain, a final release. Honorable. He loved the wolves.
And then finally came a night when he was certain that it was he who was howling, and then he was, braying at the moon with all his might, waking the slaves around him and bringing the cursed admonitions of the guards. The wolves out in the night howled back, and in their cries Mouse could hear a new pitch and tenor: they heard him, they understood. The guards threatened, commanded him to be silent, but Mouse ignored them. He shouted to the wolves again, their wordless conversation now the most important thing he had ever known.
"In the name of all the Gods," a guard swore, closing in on him until Mouse could tell that it was Shorty himself. "Shut that noise or I will throttle the life out of ya, I swear."
Mouse bared his teeth and snarled at the man.
"Right," Shorty said, pulling a short dagger out of his belt, "I've had enough of you. I'll give you plenty of reasons to howl for real before I'm done." The other guards came up to flank him.
Mouse felt hands holding him down, hands raining down blows. He felt Shorty place the knife against his face and cut, drawing a line of blood down his cheek and jaw, and heading for his neck. He heard himself screaming in pain.
And was not surprised when the wolf appeared out of the darkness and ripped out Shorty's throat.
The other guards shouted and pulled out swords and clubs, but then the other brethren appeared, and the night sky filled with the screams of the panicked and dying. The wolves fell upon guards and slaves alike, and there were many of them, more than Mouse could have imagined, and now all the humans were dying, blood everywhere. And when the last screams were silenced and all the bodies were still, the wolves disappeared as suddenly as they arrived.
Leaving only Mouse alive