Of Gods and Men
Of Gods and Men
Stephen Aryan
www.orbitbooks.net
www.orbitshortfiction.com
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Stephen Aryan
Excerpt from Battlemage copyright © 2015 by Stephen Aryan
Author photograph by Hannah Webster
Cover design by Elena Kidman
Cover images by Shutterstock
Cover copyright © 2018 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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ISBN: 978-0-316-52133-8
E3-20171129-JV-PC
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Meet the Author
By Stephen Aryan
A Preview of Battlemage
About Orbit Short Fiction
Orbit Newsletter
Chapter 1
Vargus spared the dying mercenary only a brief glance as the killer gasped his final breath. He was more concerned with cleaning his sword and checking it for nicks. There were one or two which he carefully set about fixing, keening the edge of his blade with a whetstone until it was razor-sharp. By the time he was finished, the building was silent and he was the only person still alive.
Moving from room to room, stepping over the staring bodies, he collected up all the food and money he could find, plus their weapons, which he wrapped in a blanket. Breaking open the oil lamps, he trickled the contents across the floor in every room. Next he stacked up all of the clothes, sheets and firewood in the centre of the main room and splashed the pile with any remaining oil. Lighting it was easy and he didn’t have to wait long before flames were starting to lick around the edge of the door-frame. Collecting up the six horses, he tied their reins together and then set off at a slow pace down the narrow, rocky track.
The remote mountain cottage had been a secret hideaway for many seeking to escape the King’s justice. It had taken a particularly dim group of mercenaries to lead him straight to the front door. Vargus had been searching for the cottage for years without any luck. At least he had the mercenaries to thank for one thing. The next time some murderer made the long and difficult trek up the mountain, expecting to find a nice cosy place to hide, all they’d find was a pile of blackened timbers and an icy death. That thought warmed Vargus even as he contemplated the long journey back home.
It took him two days to come down the mountain and two more before he reached the village of Elmsbrooke. The damage the mercenaries had inflicted was limited to a bit of horse theft and one or two broken bones. Thankfully it wouldn’t leave a permanent mark, unlike some of the other places the group had passed through.
The Elder, a severe man with a haggard face, was waiting for Vargus when he reached the village green. None of the villagers, apart from the Elder, knew Vargus’s name. To them he was just the Gath. A figure from legend who turned up to solve difficult problems and punish those who escaped justice.
Some people were watching from inside their houses, peering at him through windows. A few more were lurking in doorways, pretending they were busy and not eavesdropping. The Elder looked past Vargus’s shoulder and counted the horses, before grunting in satisfaction.
“Gath,” he said.
“Reuben.”
“Any problems?”
“Not really.” Vargus got down from his horse and stretched his legs out before handing the reins of the horses to a young lad who had been lurking nearby.
“See that they’re all well fed. Don’t be stingy now,” Reuben warned the boy. The lad nodded vigorously before leading the horses away.
Vargus followed the Elder into his house, a modest but tidy home identical to those around it. Reuben had no airs and graces like some who thought they were entitled to more because of their position.
“Any news while I was up there?” asked Vargus, accepting the offered seat.
“Some.” Reuben took a long green bottle down from a high shelf before pouring two short measures. He set one glass down in front of Vargus and nursed the other with both hands, staring into the tawny liquid.
“That bad.”
“Confusing, mostly.”
Vargus sipped at the rye whisky, savouring the rich flavour before the warmth seeped into his stomach and then his extremities. He wondered how many years it had been aging in the barrel before Reuben had finally decided it was ready to drink. For a little while, it was pleasant to just sit quietly and rest. He was also giving the Elder time to find the right words to explain what was bothering him so much.
“I got word from Maire Tallerman in Washburn. I think you should pay her a visit before going home.”
Vargus’s good mood turned sour. Even without hearing the details, he could predict some of what had happened. Reuben wasn’t struggling to find the right words. He was genuinely scared. It was something the man didn’t understand and couldn’t fit into his practical view of the world.
“Who else knows?”
“No one here. Just the folk in Washburn.”
“I’ll deal with it, but I’d appreciate it if the story didn’t go any further.”
“Of course,” promised Reuben, finally downing his whisky in one big gulp. “It would only raise more questions. Nothing good comes of gossip.”
That was the kind of talk that led to whispers in dark corners which spread like wildfire. It was also the kind of talk that ended with people being drowned, hung or burned at the stake.
“I’ll be on my way in the morning, if that’s all right with you,” said Vargus.
“Sounds fine. Sonja’s got you a room in the Frog and Crown. I’ll have the boy draw a bath.”
“Very kind.”
Vargus finished the last of his whisky, raised his glass and made a noise of appreciation. Just as he was heading for the door, Reuben asked the questions that must have been lurking in the back of his mind for the last fifteen years.
In all the time they’d known each other, the Elder had never asked. Not once. He was a quiet man who never pried into other people’s affairs. As long as they weren’t hurting t
hemselves or anyone else, he wouldn’t interfere. His job as Elder was to protect the people, not criticise them for their bad decisions. Curiosity had finally burned away all his remaining caution and now the words came tumbling out of the normally taciturn man.
“How old are you? I wouldn’t ask, but stories about the Gath have been around for a long time. Since before I was a boy. So it can’t be you. You’re at least ten younger than me. Was there someone who used the name before you? Was it your father? Your grandfather?”
Vargus paused at the door with his hand resting on the handle. Many in the village were a little intimidated by Reuben, but they all knew him to be fair and dependable. That was just one of the reasons he’d been the village Elder for the better part of twenty years. Also he didn’t scare easily, but now Vargus could hear the fear in his voice.
“It’s probably better that you don’t know. You’ll sleep a lot easier at night.”
“I suspect you’re right,” said Reuben.
In the morning, while Vargus’s farewells from the villagers weren’t unfriendly, it definitely felt chillier than normal. Most had no idea and Vargus knew the Elder would keep his word. Even so, he doubted he would ever come back to Elmsbrooke. He took one last look around the village, shook a few hands and got back onto his horse. Reuben shook his hand and managed to smile, pretending that nothing was amiss. He promised that he’d send word the next time they needed the Gath, but they both knew he wouldn’t. Vargus turned his horse and rode away without looking back.
Chapter 2
Two days later, Vargus arrived in Washburn and was met with a tense silence and icy stares. The people were trying their best not to show it, but they were more than a little afraid. There were no children running around outside. Instead they were being kept indoors while they stared at the clear sky with puzzled and forlorn expressions. Clothes were hanging on lines, but the streets were eerily quiet and still. No one was talking or getting on with their chores outdoors.
Wasting no time, he rode directly for Maire Tallerman’s house and tied up his horse outside. The Elder’s husband, Cobb, answered the door and let Vargus inside while he went back to gutting fish. A pot of stew was bubbling over the fire, filling the room with a garlicky smell that made his stomach rumble.
Maire came into the room from the back, wiping her hands on a towel. She was much the same as the last time he’d seen her almost five years ago, a stocky woman with a shock of red hair and broad shoulders.
“Good to see you,” she said, offering a hand which he shook.
“Is it?”
Maire raised an eyebrow. “Always, especially after all you’ve done. A lot of folks around here owe you their lives, my youngest included.”
She sat down at the table with her husband and they began working together as a pair, gutting the fish and dicing them up with uncanny speed. Maire barely even looked at what she was doing, her hands moving with muscle memory.
“Did he hurt someone?” asked Vargus, fearing the worst.
“Oh no, nothing like that,” said Maire, and Vargus heaved a sigh of relief. “He’s been a good boy. On his best behaviour.”
“Then what happened?”
Maire dropped the last fish into the pot, smelled the concoction and added a handful of chopped herbs. “Lately he’s been saying some unsettling things.”
“Unsettling?” said Cobb. The man was practically mute and he managed to convey a number of emotions with that single word. Disbelief. Surprise at his wife’s understatement. A hint of fear.
“He doesn’t know what he’s saying,” said Maire, but even she didn’t sound convinced. Cobb said nothing but he gave her one of his looks that said plenty. “Oh shut up, Cobb. Make yourself useful. Go and fetch him.”
Cobb washed his hands and went out the back door without saying another word. Maire fussed around the room for a bit, tidying up, keeping herself busy. She poured two mugs of ale before finally sitting down again.
“At first it seemed harmless. They were just stories.” Even now she was still defending him. It told Vargus how much she loved the boy and how difficult this was for her. “All children make up stories and, despite the obvious, he’s really no different. My youngest tells stories all the time about the monsters he’s killed in the woods with his friends. Huge ten-legged beasts and flying serpents that are tall as houses. We all know none of it is real.”
Very few of the people living in Washburn or the surrounding villages had ever travelled further than Charas, the capital city of Seveldrom. A few ventured out to find their fortune, or chase a passion that put a fire in their belly that wouldn’t be quenched by staying at home. Some came crawling back, defeated or just worn down by the cruelty they met. Others never returned and were soon forgotten. But time kept moving forward and quiet communities, a little off the beaten track like Washburn, tended to have a limited view of the world.
Life around here was simple and most people were happy with how things were. But it meant that not many of them were worldly, especially when it came to anything that didn’t fit comfortably into the natural order. Monsters weren’t real. They couldn’t be. But if someone said a thing with conviction, then kept on saying it, eventually you might start to wonder.
Just as they were finishing up their ale, Cobb returned, leading a tall figure into the room by the hand. Even with his head bent forward until his chin almost touched his broad chest, Lanny nearly clipped the top of the door-frame. Meek as a lamb, he shuffled into the room as if he was about to be scolded for doing something bad.
Lanny was twenty-five years old but had the mind of a small child. Despite being as strong as an ox, he’d never hurt anyone intentionally and would cry when he accidentally stood on an insect. There wasn’t a drop of malice in the boy and yet Vargus knew there were many who would take advantage of him. It was why he’d been careful about who he chose to look after Lanny.
Vargus forced a smile and stood up. “Hello, Lanny—did you miss me?”
The mournful expression evaporated as the boy finally lifted his chin and saw who else was in the room. “Uncle!” he whooped, rushing across the kitchen and enveloping Vargus in a crushing embrace. Vargus felt his feet lift off the floor and he braced himself against the power of Lanny’s strong arms.
“Gently now, gently,” he wheezed.
Lanny quickly released him and stepped back, suddenly scared in case he’d been bad. “I’m sorry. I’m very, very sorry.”
“It’s all right,” said Vargus, maintaining eye contact until Lanny grinned again and everything was back to normal.
“Are you staying to eat? We’re having spicy fish stew. It’s my favourite!”
Vargus glanced at Maire over the boy’s shoulder and she inclined her head slightly. “Of course I’ll stay.”
“Lanny, how about you help Cobb get a bed ready for your uncle?” suggested Maire.
“Come on,” said Cobb, tugging Lanny by the hand, who let himself be led away. If he didn’t want to go, Vargus knew there wasn’t much that could move him. When Lanny stopped suddenly in the doorway, Cobb was jerked backwards.
“Promise you’re not going to leave when I’m in the other room,” said Lanny, suddenly afraid.
“I’ll be right here,” he said, gesturing at his chair and taking a seat. Only then did Lanny relent and allow himself be led away again.
When they were alone again, Maire sighed and ran a hand across her face, chasing away some unshed tears.
“I always knew there was something special about him,” she whispered. “I’m still not sure what it is, but I know he’s not just anyone.”
“No, he’s not,” said Vargus, keeping his voice low. The house wasn’t that big and sounds carried easily. “Did you explain why he shouldn’t tell his stories?”
“I did, and for a while he stopped. Then he started again, like they’d bubbled up from somewhere inside. It was as if he couldn’t help himself.”
They were getting very close to some dangerou
s ground. Vargus decided to change the subject before Maire asked him something that he couldn’t answer. Or before she looked a little more closely at him and wondered why he looked exactly the same as five years ago, or even slightly younger.
“Does he understand why he has to leave?” asked Vargus.
“He did when I explained it to him a few days ago. He was sad for a while and lay in bed all day, but the next day he was back to normal. But it’s too late. The children wouldn’t play with him any more and then the parents came to see me. After that, we’ve kept him busy at home, but I think he knows.”
“Where are your children?” asked Vargus, realising that the house was unusually quiet.
“Staying with their aunt for a few days. It was easier this way than trying to answer four sets of questions. I can handle Lanny by himself, but when he starts crying the others follow and it just gets messy.”
A short time later, Lanny returned with Cobb. Although he’d not said anything, it was clear from the way he looked at Lanny that despite everything, Cobb was going to miss the boy as well.
After a delicious meal, with Lanny often speaking with his mouth full about what he’d discovered living under rocks in the woods, Vargus was shown to his room for the night.
“Lanny,” he said, interrupting the boy’s endless stream of consciousness. “Do you remember what Maire said to you about tomorrow? About where we’re going?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Think very carefully. It’s important,” said Vargus.
Lanny scrunched up his face, trying to recall the conversation. Slowly his expression transformed, all emotion draining from it until even the childish gleam had faded from his eyes. Looking into them, Vargus saw someone much, much older than twenty-five years.
“I have to leave. It’s not safe for them any more. I did this. I put their lives in danger,” said Lanny. His voice was suddenly deeper and more cultured.
“Not on purpose.”
“That doesn’t matter. When I slip away again, remind him that they could be hurt if we stay here. That should get through to him.”