Lost Gods

  “He has a demon weapon?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “But . . . that don’t make any sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t. When we pressed him he said he got it from an angel. Figure that.”

  “What sort of man was he?” the Colonel asked.

  “That’s what I want to know.”

  “Well, what’d he look like?”

  “Lean, not much taller than you. Shaggy head of red hair. Young, like I said, early twenties. Oh, and the palest damn eyes you ever saw.”

  Gavin turned, then looked at Carlos, finding it hard to believe what he was hearing, wondered if it could be the same boy from his vision. Seemed unlikely, yet something in him felt sure there was a connection.

  “Said his name was Chet. Didn’t get a last name. If we’re lucky, he’ll still be with Veles when we take him. We’ll sure get some answers then.”

  The Colonel nodded, his face troubled.

  “Well,” Carlos said, “the last thing I feel like doing is putting my sore ass back in a saddle, but it’s best we be on our way.”

  “You’ll need fresh mounts,” the Colonel said, somewhat distractedly, and called for horses to be brought round. “One more thing I’ll need you to do for me. The prisoners there. Need you to take ’em into the canyon and leave ’em.”

  Carlos raised his thick eyebrows.

  “It’s ugly business, I know. But we can’t risk word getting back. Not now, not with everything at stake.”

  “Colonel, don’t worry about them. I’ll see to it they don’t tell anyone . . . anything.”

  “No,” the Colonel said, looking levelly at Carlos. “Don’t kill ’em. I’ll not have that. Just leave ’em in the canyon. Our business will be done by the time they make it out.”

  Carlos shrugged.

  “Do not kill them. Are we clear on that?”

  “Yeah, we’re clear, Colonel.”

  “Good. There’ll be killing enough before all’s said and done and we need to remember, that it’s these souls we’re fighting for.”

  A man brought the horses around. Soul-shifts crafted by Lord Horkos himself, magnificent beasts with sleek black coats and long legs.

  Carlos and his men each picked one and started saddling them up.

  “Ansel,” the Colonel called. “Load up the prisoners.” He stepped toward the front of the wagon, next to Gavin. “Gavin, I want you and Ansel to go with ’em.”

  Carlos turned around. “Colonel, I appreciate that offer. But I got my own men.”

  “Things get tight, you’ll be glad to have their guns along.”

  Carlos started to say more, but the Colonel cut him off. “I want the extra guns along, Carlos. This thing’s just too important.” He didn’t say it was an order, but you could tell by the way he said it, it was.

  Carlos grimaced, a man not used to taking orders. He set eyes on Gavin, making no effort to hide his contempt.

  Carlos walked away to saddle up his horse. The Colonel leaned closer to Gavin. “No need to pretend. I got a pretty good idea how you must feel toward me right about now. Colluding with demons and these lowlifes. I might be foolish, Gavin, but I’m not a fool. We need their help. It’s the only way. And in the end, if we play our cards right, then you mark my words, this land will be free of god and demon alike.”

  Gavin didn’t say anything.

  “Look here,” the Colonel continued. “I know the sort of man Carlos is. But sometimes the spirit of revolution can change a man. I’ve seen it happen. I’m holding out hope that’s gonna be the case with Carlos. But for now, I’m wanting you to keep an eye on him. Anything that don’t seem right, I need to hear about it. Can I count on you for that?”

  Gavin nodded.

  “Good. And Gavin . . . you be careful.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Hold up,” Carlos called.

  Gavin tugged the reins, pulling the wagon to a halt.

  A howl echoed from somewhere behind them. They’d been heading down the canyon trail going on two hours now, and he guessed by the dim purple glow peeking over the steep ledges that they might have another hour, tops, before everything was pitch black.

  Carlos rode back down the line, pulled up to the wagon, and dismounted. “Hugo, Steve, Justin, here, get the prisoners down. Line them up and put them on the ground.”

  The three men dismounted and unloaded the prisoners from the back of the wagon. The prisoners were still strung together, their hands tied behind their backs. The rest of the Defenders stayed in their saddles, keeping sharp eyes on the surrounding caves and crevasses.

  The prisoners glanced fearfully about at the deepening shadows.

  “Check them, Hugo,” Carlos said. “Bound to be a few.”

  Hugo, unlike the other Defenders, wasn’t bulked up on ka. He was lean, clean-shaven, wiry, and had a cocky swagger to his stride. His wore a dark green jean jacket, stovepipe pants, and pointed boots. His Stetson sat low on his head, keeping his eyes in shadow, his long dark hair out of his face. But the thing Gavin took note of was the gun hanging low on his hip—a real revolver—a rarity among the dead.

  Hugo walked down the line, kicking the prisoners in the back of the knees and shoving them to the ground. “On your belly!” he shouted. “Face in the dirt. Anyone caught looking up will lose their eyes.” He grabbed each prisoner by their right wrist, checking their palms until he came to a woman who wouldn’t open her hand.

  “Let loose,” Hugo said and punched her twice in the back of the head.

  Still, she refused.

  He slipped out his knife. “Last chance.”

  “No,” she pleaded, then screamed as he sliced off her fingers. He held her palm up. “Got one.” He dragged her over, shoving her up against the wagon wheel. “Sit tight, little miss. We’re not done with you.”

  She crumbled there, clutching her mutilated hand, sobbing.

  By the time Hugo was finished, they had two more. “Hell must be bursting at the seams,” he said. “Swear there’s more of the damned escaping every day.”

  Carlos dismounted, pulled his saber, and walked up to them. “Thought the gods would protect you? Huh?” He stuck the blade under the woman’s chin. “Gods don’t give a shit about you. About any of you.”

  “Don’t send me back,” she pleaded. “You got no idea . . . no idea. Listen to me . . . it’s like being smothered, buried beneath all the earth, burning while you’re slowly crushed to death . . . only there is no death, no end . . . never.” She was bawling now. “Send my ba into chaos, anything you want, but for the love of Jesus, please, please, don’t send me back to Hell.”

  “It’s a little late for Jesus,” Carlos said, and swung the blade, slicing her head clean off. Before it hit the dirt he’d decapitated the two souls next to her. The woman’s head tumbled up against a rock, her eyes wide with disbelief.

  Gavin’s hand dropped to his gun. He felt a hand on his wrist. “Nuhuh,” Ansel whispered. “We ain’t after soul hunters. Not today we ain’t.”

  Gavin ground his teeth. There was plenty of bad that he understood, souls did cruel things to one another, but a soul willing to hand over another to Hell, to endless torment for a few bullets or a spot of copper—that was beyond him.

  She began to wail.

  “You need to shut up,” Carlos said.

  “Don’t take me back!” she screamed. “No! No! No!”

  Carlos picked her up by the hair and whacked her twice against the stone, turning her face into pulp, her wail into a low moan.

  Gavin’s grip tightened on his revolver.

  “Hear me, Gavin,” Ansel whispered. “You do this and everything the Colonel’s worked for is lost.”

  Hugo held out a sack and Carlos tossed the head inside, then picked up the other two, shoving them in with her. Hugo threw the sack into the back of the wagon behind Gavin.

  “Just you remember where you’d be if the Colonel hadn’t found you when he did,” Ansel added.

  Slowly, Gavin’s h
and fell away from his gun.

  “There a problem?” Carlos asked, eyeing Gavin.

  “No problem,” Ansel replied. “We were just discussing how pretty your little outfits are. How that green brings out the color of your eyes and all.”

  Carlos’s face soured. His men glanced back and forth between their boss and Ansel, their hands near their weapons.

  Carlos shook his head. “Looks like the Colonel sent along a couple of clowns. Isn’t that just grand.” Carlos returned to the souls on the ground. “Hugo, toss me your ax.”

  Hugo slid the weapon from his belt and handed it to his boss. Carlos hefted it, and brought it down on the first soul’s ankle, cutting his foot clean off. The soul’s howl was quickly joined by the rest, as one by one, Carlos cut the right foot off each one.

  “There, that should slow them down,” Carlos said. “Untie them and let’s go.”

  Carlos mounted up, rode over next to the wagon, and set eyes on Gavin and Ansel. “Either of you got a problem with my way of soldiering, you just let me know. Hear me?” He stared at them—waited.

  Gavin didn’t even bother to look over.

  “Problem?” Ansel said. “Why, can’t recall the last time I seen such smart soldiering. By golly if it were me in charge of medals I’d pin one on you right now.”

  “That smartass mouth of yours is going to say the wrong thing one day,” Carlos said and spat. He turned away, spoke to the souls. “I’m not putting coin on any of you making it out of here, not even making it through the night, but if any of you do, you spread the word . . . those who serve gods are traitors and will be treated as such.

  “All right, boys,” Carlos called. “Let’s move out.” He kicked his mount and rode on.

  CHAPTER 33

  The rain picked up, the runoff swelling, and the wagon slid farther over the ledge.

  “Pull!” Seet shouted at the slaves. “Pull!” The wagon continued to slide. “All of you!” Seet cried, shoving the remaining guards forward. “Now!”

  The guards dropped their spears and grabbed hold of the rope, pulling, fighting for purchase. Chet saw his chance, didn’t think he’d ever get a better one—Seet had his back to him, the knife, it was right there shoved in his belt.

  Chet let go of the rope and made it one step for Seet before a bloodcurdling cry came from behind him. He spun about in time to see a man coming at him with a shovel raised over his head. The man brought the shovel down and Chet dodged to one side, sending the man crashing into Ana and Ado, knocking them and several other slaves off their feet. The cart teetered on the brink.

  The man leapt back up, his eyes wide, wild, manic, and swung again, catching Chet in the shoulder, knocking him into a tumble.

  “Son of a cunt!” the man screamed and Chet felt sure he knew that voice. The man brought the shovel high overhead and down for Chet’s skull with all his weight behind it. Chet rolled and the shovel plowed deep into the mud next to his head. Chet kicked out, driving his boot into the man’s gut, knocking him back. The man crashed into the line again, knocking over two guards. The cart lurched forward, yanking the rope from their hands.

  There came a loud pop as one of the wheels snapped and the cart toppled over the ledge, sending slaves and guards alike diving out of the way as the rope whipped along after it.

  The man tried for his feet, slid in the mud, and several guards rushed in, wrestling him to the ground.

  Chet stood up, getting his first clear look at the soul, and there, beneath the soot and mud, was the man he’d hit with his car. “Coach?”

  “HIM!” Coach screamed, still struggling to get at Chet. “That fucker right there! He killed me!”

  Seet stomped over to Coach. “What madness is this?”

  “He killed me!” Coach yelled at the goblin man. “Him! He’s a murderer! A goddamn murderer!”

  Understanding dawned on Seet’s face and for a moment he actually appeared amused. “Pick him up.”

  The guards lifted Coach, held him.

  “You are mine now,” Seet said, striking him hard across the face with the bludgeon end of the lash. “You go to the games with the horsekiller. You can kill him there, kill him all you want.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Chet glanced over at Coach’s battered face, at the collar now strapped about his neck. Coach hadn’t spoken a word since Seet chained them together.

  The whistle blew, steam billowed. Chet and most of the slaves ducked. Coach didn’t. He hardly flinched as Priscilla blew her stack, raining cinders down around them.

  The caravan once again moved out, rolling along to the drum of the golem’s heavy footsteps. They passed the remains of the cart, nothing but a splintered heap, the caravan steering well clear of the treacherous ledge.

  Chet glanced at Coach again. The man’s head hung low, staring at his shuffling feet. Chet thought he might be crying, but it was hard to tell in the drizzle.

  “I didn’t mean to kill you,” Chet said.

  Coach didn’t reply, just kept staring at the mud.

  “It was an accident. I swear. Things . . . things just got out of control. Maybe if—”

  “Fuck you,” Coach said, said it without any emotion, just cold, dead words.

  “Okay,” Chet sighed. “Sure. Why not? Why not? Go right ahead. I’m already about as fucked as I can be.” Chet’s eyes fell to the chain swinging back and forth before him. He grabbed it, gave it a hard yank. This one was solid; there’d be no breaking loose.

  They marched on in silence, Chet forcing his thoughts away from what lay ahead, trying to think of Trish, her warm, sweet smile. For a horrible minute he couldn’t remember what she looked like; she seemed so far away as to not be real, as though she’d never been real. He closed his eyes and it was the patter of the rain that brought her to him: a summer night and him helping her sneak out of her bedroom after her father had once again forbid her from seeing him, the deep soothing purr of the 302 as they sped down that lonely highway in his Mustang, her singing along to Zeppelin while the wind tousled her long curly hair, feeling like they were the only two people in the world. A summer shower had sprung up and they’d pulled over and just sat there holding hands, mesmerized by the distant lightning as rain pattered on the windshield. He remembered how, at that moment, there was nothing else he needed or wanted in the whole world.

  Chet heard a deep bong and opened his eyes. The rain had stopped and somewhere up ahead, a great bell tolled.

  A tall archway lined with torches emerged out of the mist ahead and a cheer went down the line. As they drew near, Chet saw hundreds of eyes carved into the arch’s facade. The eyes followed them as they marched through. Chet shivered, feeling as though they were all, every one, on him alone.

  They passed into a great courtyard occupied by several groups of wagons, each flying its own banner. Guards stood sentry near each encampment, wearing the colors of their camp, some in ornate armor, others in road-worn leathers. The air was alive with music—drums, flutes, guitars. Souls in all manner of garb hurried about, along with creatures Chet found it hard to believe he was seeing: cyclopes, horned men and women, a man with black-feathered wings.

  A group of gossamer-clad girls, with skin so white it glowed, skipped out of the way as four heavily armed centaurs galloped past—fearsome-looking creatures brandishing spiked clubs. A smell struck Chet, almost stopping him in his tracks—flowers, a gold vase full of lush white flowers. Chet inhaled deeply. Life, he thought. It smells of life. And a wave of longing threatened to overwhelm him, not for his life, but for life itself.

  The caravan pulled around, forming a circle. The great golem came to stop with a loud groan and sat down. Workers and slaves began unloading the carts and wagons.

  “Where are they?” a woman shouted, running up to Seet. “Where are our ring-bearers?”

  “They are here,” Seet snapped.

  “Well, hurry. They won’t allow Veles entry, not without his offerings.”

  Seet shouted at the guards
. “Get the slaves! Need sixteen! Quick, now!”

  “No, just twelve. There are only twelve gods this year.”

  “Twelve?” Seet frowned. “Every year, there are less.” He shook his head and yelled to bring twelve.

  The guards began unlocking chains, rounding up slaves.

  Seet walked over to the row with Chet, Coach, Ana, and Ado. He fixed his cold eyes on Chet. “Enjoy yourself, horsekiller.” He unlatched the post. Nodded to the guard. “Take them.”

  The guard pulled all of them from the line and led them away, herding them out from the yard through another arch. Jagged keeps and spiraling ramparts towered above them, spanning massive craggy boulders, the ornate structures adorned with uncountable stern-faced demons and dancing beasts. The buildings leaned at odd and precarious angles, as though the whole city were sinking into the ground.

  Ahead, a giant contorted face was carved into a rock wall, a gate set in its gaping tormented mouth. Two minotaurs, thick-chested beasts armed with axes, stood on each side. They looked the slaves over with dark, dispassionate eyes.

  “These are Lord Veles’s offerings,” the guard said.

  The minotaur nodded and took the slaves, driving them down a short flight of steps and into a damp underground passageway. Drums echoed up the tunnel, growing louder as they were rushed along. The passage opened into a large chamber full of cages and cells.

  Dozens of gnomish creatures—none taller than Chet’s waist—rushed up to meet them as they entered. Spots covered the creatures’ rust-colored skin, their tiny black eyes hid beneath long, oily hair; stumpy tails jutted out from robes made of hide and what appeared to be human hair. Their features varied widely, some with snouts full of sharp teeth, others actual beaks; a few even had talons instead of fingers. They reminded Chet somewhat of Seet, only much smaller and without the horn. Yet, there was something distinctly feminine about these and he realized that they must be female goblins or gargoyles. He tried to remember the word Ado had used—Trow.

  The Trow women herded the slaves into a line, gabbing away in some guttural tongue that was closer to barking than speaking. They yanked and tore the slaves’ clothes from them, hurriedly stripping them down. More Trow women came up carrying buckets and splashed the slaves with lumpy grease that smelled of burnt meat, then doused them in brown powder that turned bright red on contact.