THE PALADIN OF GOLOTA

THE PALADIN OF GOLOTA, by Djeli Clark

 

Small clouds of dust kicked up to shouts and cheers as the latest struggle played out on the plain of Golota.

Teffe could just make out bits and pieces, restrained as he was with an arm firm around his head. There was only a stifling darkness, the stink of the other boy’s sweat and his own gasps as he choked on dust. Chip Tooth was bigger than him by at least half a span, as were most other children his age—even some of the girls. But in his brief life he’d learned that size didn’t account for much in a tussle. It all settled on how much you wanted to win, and what you were willing to do to come out on top.

Balling his free hand into a fist, he angled down—not at the bigger boy’s stomach, cushioned well in layers of fat, but lower—and punched. Chip Tooth howled, releasing him entirely and backing away, doubling over to clutch at his privates beneath a set of tattered loose-fitting pants. Teffe didn’t give him the chance to recover, running up lightly on the balls of his bare feet and delivering a swift kick to the chin. The boy’s meaty head snapped up like a struck melon and he stumbled in a daze.

Teffe was on his stunned opponent instantly, knocking him flat on his back and pouncing on his chest, making sure to pin the boy’s arms beneath his knees. Firmly secured, he commenced to slapping—striking each cheek with the flat of his palm in quick succession. Punching would have been bloodier. But he was aiming for humiliation, not brutality. It worked, as the boy’s fierce howls fast turned to yelps. By the time the muffled tears started, Teffe knew he’d won. He jumped up, backing away and breathing hard, making sure to meet the eyes of the small crowd—all Pickers like him.

Most had gone quiet, surprised at this turn of events. Chip Tooth’s small gang of Pickers was there too–Crooked Mouth, Knock Knees, Suck Tongue, and the rest, all easily identified by their given nicknames. They glared at him in open hostility, but they wouldn’t turn on him unless the crowd did. There was a moment longer of silence and then someone laughed, loud and brash. It was joined by more laughter and then even a few cheers. Soon there was the exchanging of goods and coin: bets made on the fight no doubt, and likely against him. Some of Chip Tooth’s gang rushed to the boy, helping him up. One of them, a tall dark lanky girl called Dog Nose came over and threw a few coins at Teffe’s feet.

“Your winnings Bush Head,” she growled, spitting his nickname and staring a challenge.

Teffe spit out a bit of blood and quaj, thinking to remind her that it was their gang leader who started this, not him. He was just protecting his claim. But he doubted that would make a difference. Instead, he dusted off his long shirt and pants then reached to pick up the strewn coins. She sucked her teeth before turning to stalk off. He watched her go, unbothered. One fight counted enough for the day.

Chip Tooth was a bully. He and his Pickers thought they could take whatever they wanted. That they didn’t have to play by the rules. If Teffe had let them have their way, he’d be a mark for every other Picker out here. He’d proven his point, and that was enough. No one was going to try to take a claim from him again, at least no time soon. In short order, the crowd of children dispersed, returning to their work now that the brief entertainment had ended.

“So, you wait for me to die.”

Teffe jumped at the voice, spinning about and searching, only to look down in surprise. It was his claim that had spoken.

The lone warrior lay where he had found her, propped against her mount, arrayed in a coat of green, worn leather and burnished chainmail. The face under her conical helmet was as dark as his own, or any in Am Amara—though none here had those rounded lips or curving wide spaced eyes above a flat nose that seemed to melt into her features. Three black fletched arrows thick as a man’s forefinger pierced her body—two buried in her chest and one through a leg. Gods knew she should be dead. Yet here she was, staring at him openly behind a lidded gaze.

“I saw you fight the others,” she rasped. “The ones who made to cut my throat.”

Teffe sniffed. Chip Tooth and his gang would have bashed her mouth in with a hammer to get at the gems in her teeth. And they wouldn’t have bothered to cut her throat first. Used to be, Pickers only went after the dead. Robbing a wounded warrior was dangerous—who could lash out with a sword of spear in a fever dream. But the crueler sorts now delighted in tormenting the dying, perhaps more than they did scavenging.

The warrior wrestled for breath, speaking in her clipped trader’s pidgin. “You fight well. Dirty, but well. The gods bless your skill and your benevolence. The sages and priests of Umani say to show mercy is—”

Teffe turned back around, rolling his eyes. He hated when the dying talked. Usually it was gibberish as their minds faded. Sometimes they mistook him for a loved one—a son, or, confused by his bushy hair, a daughter. The worst spent their last breaths preaching. Slipping back on his sandals, he sat on the ground with his knees drawn up, trying not to listen as he cast his gaze out on the plain of Golota.

There had been a battle earlier. A real battle, not the feuding games of children. A fresh harvest of the dead and dying littered the parched trampled earth where snaking fissures blistered the red-brown soil. Their bodies lay swarmed by vultures whose bowed forms mimicked black-clad funeral mourners. Others filled the air with screams and prayers that turned to gurgling as blood seeped to fill throats and lungs.

Golota lay just outside Am Amara, the only home Teffe had ever known. The settlement of squat mud brick buildings—called yaddi after the spiced bread of similar hue and shape—was marked on most maps simply as Mara. Trader’s charts commonly indicated it with its goods: potable water, blocks of fire salt, and quaj—the addictive sour-tasting leaf coveted by hermit mystics and banned in larger cities.

But traders were scarce now, preferring towns on well-trodden routes with more to offer than well water that tasted of clay, fire salt that burned the tongue and banned quaj. Am Amara might have vanished from maps altogether, if not for the most recent visitors. They flocked here, to fight and die upon Golota, leaving their bodies as bounty for pillaging. Pickers was what many called the street children like Teffe, who scoured the plain and fought vultures for leavings to barter. Just enough to survive until the next round of fools: who sang hymns to their gods as they ran to the slaughter.

Speaking of which, this one was still talking.

“Stop.” He kept his back to her, setting his voice hard. “I don’t want to hear about this Umani. Or any other god. I don’t want to know your prayers. I didn’t save you from Chip Tooth and his gang out of mercy. I’m a Picker, just like them. And you’re nothing but a claim to me. When you die, I’ll pull out your teeth, cut your hair, take that gold collar from your neck and that dagger with the ruby hilt in your waist sash. I’m not your friend. Understand?”

 

That sent her silent. Good, Teffe thought. That fight had winded him. And a bit of rest and quiet would be good. No such luck, however.

“Not just like them,” the warrior countered finally. “Or you’d have finished me already.”

Teffe said nothing. Theft was one thing and murder another. He never bloodied his hands with taking their lives—they did that to themselves.

“Gold and jewels sell,” she mused contemplatively. “Along with good teeth. But hair?”

“Old women use it to make wigs,” he muttered back.

“Why not sell your own hair then. You’ve got enough.”

Teffe sighed. “No woman is going to wear a man’s hair. That’s ridiculous.”

“You’re stealing my hair to sell it and that’s what’s ridiculous?”

He didn’t deign to reply. Another stretch of quiet. It lasted so long Teffe risked a peek, thinking the warrior had died. They could go sudden like that. Her eyelids sat heavy and low. But her gaze was very much alive, sharp bits of brown that pinned him.

“Where is Ooli, boy?” she demanded.

“I’m not a boy,” he shot back. He had turned thirteen this past year.

To his annoyance, that made her chuckle.

“Very well, man,” she mocked. “Where is Ooli?” At his blank look, she licked dry lips and tried again. “I was riding Ooli, before…” Her eyes wandered to the arrows that jutted from her like thin black limbs.

He pointed with his chin. “You’re lying against him.”

The warrior’s eyes widened. She twisted her head about, grunting at the effort before letting out a mournful whine. Lifting a hand, she stroked her mount’s hairless hide just beneath the straps of a decorated saddle.

“Ooli wasn’t a him,” she whispered. “Ooli was a her.”

Ooli was in fact a giant lizard covered in red and yellow stripes. Teffe knew their kind—able to walk on two legs but truly galloping on four. This one was fitted for battle, its claws sharpened and a curved silver horn strapped to its snout. The beast lay on its side, a spear driven through a ruined eye.

“She was a gift from my family,” the warrior related with surprising affection. “On completing my first sacraments. Took a full season to break her in. She was a good fighter. And friend.”

Teffe frowned and, against his better judgment, ventured a question. “Your family gave you a gift for becoming a… fanatic?”

The warrior twisted back around, resting her chin on her chest. “They paid my passage to train at the holy monastery of Umani, Mistress of Battle.”

He furrowed a puzzled brow. “Were they angry with you?”

This time she made a sour face. “Not everyone is as faithless as you, little skeptic.”

Teffe let out a huff. “Don’t understand why anyone would follow some god who makes them prove their devotion through an ‘offering of tears.’” She raised an eyebrow at the invocation. He shrugged. “You lot tend to prattle on. I’ve picked up a few things.”

“Not enough,” she chided. “We don’t come here to prove our devotion. That is given through steadfastness. When we are ready, we choose to devote ourselves to reclaiming the Third Heaven. You know of that at least?”

Teffe gave her flat look. He wasn’t a dolt.

The story had been told and retold for the past two hundred years: that one day a light appeared in the skies all over the world, turning those places where it was night into morning and those places where it was morning to almost blinding. In that light, great and terrible shapes thronged in battle amid the clouds while a shining city burned. The Third Heaven had fallen, the priests and sages decreed: lost to demons crawled up from the Under Realms. Now the gods summoned their believers to help take it back, offering promises of life everlasting. There was, however, one catch: you had to die to be chosen a holy warrior of heaven. On battlefields like Golota the world over, the faithful now butchered each other, hoping to attain eternal glory. The gods, Teffe had decided long ago, were monsters.

“It all seems pointless,” he murmured.

“And I suppose, stealing from the dead is a nobler purpose?”

“It puts food in my belly.”

The warrior clucked her tongue. “For some men and beasts that’s enough.”

Teffe scowled. Was this fanatic judging him? “I’m no sage. But from what I hear the gods war often. This is the Third Heaven after all—because they destroyed the last two. The gods can wander as vagrants for all I care.” He gestured to Am Amara in the near distance. “They want a home so badly? Let them come down and sleep in my alley. Maybe do a few miracles for food!”

The warrior pursed her lips tight. “You’re right. You’re no sage.”

Teffe started a retort then clamped his mouth shut and spun back around. It was his own fault, arguing with a fanatic. A half-dead woman! A stupid claim! His anger was broken by the sound of laughter.

“Don’t be so easily wounded, little skeptic,” the warrior rasped. “You provide good sport as I near the end. But enough banter. More important things for the doing. Tell me, when do the worms come?”

Teffe turned back slow. The mirth had died from the woman. And the look she gave him now was so intense, he answered without thinking. “When the sun sets.”

She squinted up at the sky. “Not too long then. Good. I mean to kill a worm today. A big worm.” She said that as if it were the most common thing in the world, before cocking her head, looking him over and asking: “Want to help?”

Teffe could only gape.

Worms had appeared after the first clashes on Golota. Some believed they were called here by the screams of the dying. Others that they’d always slept beneath the earth and were awakened as blood watered the soil. Whatever the truth, worms ruled the plain at night. They burrowed up to devour anything on the battlefield—living or dead, flesh and bone, even steel.

“Keep your mouth open like that and flies will lay eggs there,” the warrior taunted.

Teffe closed his mouth, opened it again, hesitated, then blurted out the question: “Why in every god’s name do you want to kill a worm?”

The warrior gave a knowing smirk, like an earth fisher set to reel in a mud squid. “Some think you go off and die in battle and pfft!” She pointed a forefinger upward. “You enter the Third Heaven, just like that.” Her generous nostrils flared in a snort. “Ridiculous. What if you trip and impale yourself on your own sword? Or your mount tosses you and you break your neck? No glory in that.” She shook her head. “Those who say such things haven’t truly studied.

“When I left Umani’s temple, I didn’t go seeking death expecting a waiting reward in the next life. I prepared. I did combat in the fighting pits of Mura, where you descend naked and weaponless as you were born. I rode with mercenary bands in the Splintered Isles, hired out to chief-lings in their ceaseless wars. I sailed beside the pirate queen Xasha-Ro herself, with the Golden Fleet upon Sea Lords’ Bay.”

Teffe had never heard of these places. All he knew of the world beyond Am Amara came by way of traders, who spoke of the great sprawling port cities to the east. And of vast bodies of water called “seas.” He truly took in the warrior for the first time: the scars and age etched onto her face; the strands of gray lacing her black braided hair. She had counted enough years, perhaps, to have done much of what she claimed. Perhaps.

“I trained,” she went on. “Until I earned the right to be called a great warrior. Now I am left to do one last thing to win my place among the honored dead.” There was a pause. “Do you know why we come here, to this Golota?”

Teffe nodded. He’d heard it from the first warriors who’d arrived in Am Amara three years back. Some holy mendicant had proclaimed that those who wanted to reach the Third Heaven should seek out Golota. They believed it was sacred ground, touched by the gods. He related as much.

She gave another cluck of the tongue. “Most who make pilgrimage don’t know the full story. This place—this plain, your town—was once a city called Am Bedanadou, home to a race of giants, formed by the gods before man. It’s said that the walls of Am Bedanadou glowed white like the moon at night. That its towers ended in golden bulbs and its paved streets were so wide twelve men could stretch its width.

“In that age, gods walked the world, and demons with them. They warred here and the people of Am Bedanadou fought alongside the gods, aiding in their victory. It was the demons, in their vengeance, who summoned the worms. They turned the soil fallow so that nothing could grow, and made Am Bedanadou a defiled place. The people fled, leaving their city to the worms who devoured it stone by stone—until nothing was left.”

Teffe glanced to Am Amara, with its modest walls and jumbled cluster of dwellings and tried to imagine a glowing city in its place. He tried to imagine gods and giants and demons waging war across this barren land. It seemed impossible. “How do you know all of this?” he asked, unable to rein in his curiosity.

“I told you,” the warrior replied. “I studied. Umani was among the gods who battled the demons before the walls of Am Bedandou. And she wept for the city’s doom. Those who fell were taken into her embrace, to become her most devoted warriors—her paladins, who now storm the Third Heaven at her side. When I heard that the worms had returned, I knew this was where the goddess wanted me to be—where I would make my last stand, to fight on this consecrated soil and face her ancient enemies!”

A burning entered her eyes: a certainty that she’d found her path to heaven. To Teffe, it looked almost feverish. He turned away, shaking his mind free of fabled cities and giants. These fanatics would turn him mad if he let them!

“Nice story,” he replied. “Best fortune with that.”

“You could help me!” she called out. “Aid me in fighting this evil!”

It was Teffe’s turn to snort. “I’m just a Picker. Gods and demons aren’t my problem.”

“This war is all of our problem!” she shouted, heat filling her voice. “Do you think the demons will stop with the Third Heaven? They’ll come here! Mankind will be swept away, and the world will be left to worms and carrion!”

Worms and carrion might be an improvement, Teffe thought cynically. A quiet returned, and soon all he could hear was the warrior’s labored breathing. He glanced to the sky. He was running out of time. And she didn’t appear to be any closer to dying. Well, if it came to it he’d just grab what he could—the collar about her neck, the knife certainly. She was in no state to stop him.

“You say you sleep on the street,” the warrior remarked. Teffe turned in confusion. The fever had gone from her eyes, replaced by something curious. “Your mother and father, then, are dead?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he replied tight.

She nodded slowly, those brown eyes measuring. “I have heard in this part of the world, children are abandoned for carrying an unfavorable mark or illness.”

Teffe frowned. Did she think because Am Amara was a backwater town they were all superstitious peasants? “They abandoned me because they couldn’t feed me. Children get put out for that alone. Better one starve, than all. I was sent to market one day and when I returned my family had gone.” He shrugged. “Could be worse. Some get hired to caravans and are never seen again.”

“I’m sorry,” the warrior said. The sincerity in her tone made him uncomfortable and he shrugged again. “Umani is a great warrior,” she continued. “But she is also a matron of lost children.”

“I’m not lost,” he snapped. He knew exactly where he was. He’d just been left.

“Lost or abandoned,” she countered. “All the same, when it comes to children. There are orphanages bearing Umani’s name scattered across two continents.”

Teffe scoffed. “A Mistress of Battle takes care of orphaned children? Don’t wars make lots of orphans?”

The warrior winked. “Who better then to care for them?”

He rolled his eyes. “Strange for a god.”

A throaty chuckle passed her lips. “And would you even know a god if you saw one, little skeptic? Tell me your name, so that I may offer up a prayer to Umani to look after you.”

He wavered before answering, “Teffe.”

“Teffe,” she repeated. “I am Zahrea.” Closing her eyes, she moved her lips in a silent prayer. When she finished, she stared again. “Tell me Teffe, abandoned child of Am Amara, what do you dream?”

“You want to know my dreams?” he mocked. “Will you tell my fortune?”

“No, I mean what do you dream—of doing. Or do you intend to be a Picker all your life?”

Teffe eyed the warrior warily. No one ever asked him such questions. Certainly, not the dying he planned to rob. Not even the few other abandoned children who he wouldn’t dare call friends, but who at least weren’t enemies. None of them knew that he kept most of his earnings hidden, going hungry some nights to build up his meager hoard. All for one purpose.

“I want to leave Am Amara,” he said simply. He wanted that more than anything. To get out of this half-dead town. To see the rest of this world. And buried deep in a place where he kept his dearest secrets, was a hope that he would find his family—who would cry and rejoice and welcome him with open arms.

The warrior considered him. “Help me and I will see your dream fulfilled.”

Teffe rolled his eyes anew. “Through prayer? I already told you—”

She shook her head. “Prayer is good. But the world has more tangible needs. I am offering you payment— enough to leave this place, to never need sleep on the streets, again, to never wonder how you will feed your belly. Give me your aid, and that will be your reward. I swear this on Umani’s holy name.”

For the second time this day, Teffe gaped at the woman. From her set face, he didn’t think she was lying. No, he was certain she wasn’t. Not with such an oath. These fanatics prided themselves on their vows.

“Again, the flies and your mouth,” she teased.

He pressed his lips together. “How did you gain such wealth?”

She grinned wide now, flaunting the glittering gems fitted into her teeth. “I never fought for cheap. And pirate queens can be quite generous.”

Teffe licked his lips, a tickling in his stomach. “How much did you say again?”

“More than you can imagine, little skeptic.”

She was wrong there. He could imagine quite a lot. He licked his lips again, trying to figure out when he’d tumbled over the line to considering her mad plan. He stood a likelier chance of dying before he could collect any payment!

But if he lived…

“Can you even kill a worm?” he asked. He set his dubious gaze to her wounded body.

Zahrea looked down at herself and sighed. “I’d hoped to come out better in this last battle, my final offering to Umani. Never even saw the fool with the arrows!” She shook her head irritably. “But, I have rested. And I am stronger than I appear.”

Now that he thought on it, she did seem more talkative—if not exactly spry. Or it could just be, he wanted to see that.

“It is much to think upon, I know,” she said, eyes darting to the descending sun. “But I’m afraid time is not on our side.”

“Why couldn’t you have asked me this earlier?” he demanded in exasperation.

She shrugged faintly. “I didn’t know you as well. I might have offered you payment and you would have just taken it and gone.”

“How do you know I won’t do that now? I’m not held by any god’s oath.”

That knowing smirk returned. “But you keep your own oaths. The one who would not slit my throat won’t break those.”

Teffe grunted in answer, allowing his mind to race only a short while longer. On the streets, there was little time for vacillation. Quick decisions often had to be made, and the consequences dealt with later. No other way around it.

“I’ll help,” he said, managing to keep his voice steady. “But! If I see you’re too weak and you can’t fight, I’m running back to Am Amara. And I still get the money. I won’t be worm food!”

Zahrea gave a deep nod, and when she spoke her tone matched the solemnity on her face. “I will allow no harm to come to you. Umani’s oath on my next life.”

In that flickering moment Teffe wished he was the religious kind. Maybe then, that vow would assure him his choice wasn’t folly. “Where’s this money?” he asked instead.

She tilted her head at her mount. “Look closer at Ooli’s saddle. There’s a hidden place, just beneath the pommel.”

Teffe stood, dusting off and walking over to the dead lizard. Placing his feet on its scaled hide, he climbed up to bend over the saddle. The pommel ended in a curved horn of polished ivory. But just under it was a fold in the leather. He reached his hand inside to draw out a small cloth pouch that jangled heavily and a scroll of brown parchment with a red wax seal. When he opened the sack, he gawped—there were gold pieces enough to fill both his hands!

“The coins will buy passage from Am Amara,” Zahrea told him as he climbed back down. “But the scroll is the greater prize. Present it at any counting house in the port city of Jaavish and you’ll be granted all my holdings. A sizeable sum, along with ownership in a mining company in eastern Gulat, a spice plantation on the Baleen Archipelago, shares in several shipping and insurance concerns and an estate granted to me by the Potentate of Ar-Abas. I ask only that you set up a yearly tithe of fair amount to a local temple of Umani in my name.” Seeing his dizzied look, she added: “I suggest the first thing you do in Jaavish, is hire a tutor. And an advisor of finances.”

Teffe shook his head to keep it from spinning. He’d need ten tutors! His legs felt weak, like he needed to sit down again. Pushing away the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him, he asked instead: “What now?”

Zahrea looked him up and down. “First, some water. Second, find proper protection.” She pointed a chin at his clothing. “That won’t do. Look for light armour. Some mail maybe. Nothing too heavy. And find a weapon. Don’t get fancy. Stick to something you can handle. Quick now!” She spoke like someone used to giving orders and he jumped in spite of himself to go when she stopped him with a call. “And a knife! Sharp!”

Gathering what he needed wasn’t hard. He was a Picker after all, and the dead were numerous. He returned shortly to find the warrior wriggling the two arrows stuck in her chest.

“They haven’t reached flesh,” she told him. “Or I’d be dead by now. Picked up this cuirass quilted from some fiber in the Splintered Isles. Lighter than steel and tough as—” She stopped as she took him in.

He was wearing an oversized shirt of chainmail, which still stooped his shoulders. He’d found some leather forearm guards that fit well over parts of his thin legs and a decorated rectangular shield of wood covered in the hide of some spotted beast. But he thought the reason for the splitting grin on her face was the helmet with a plume of purple feathers sprouting from the top.

“It was the only one that would fit over my hair,” he muttered.

“Fine choices for my armour-bearer,” she commended. “Know how to use that?”

Teffe held up the short broadsword she was eyeing. It had been one of the few he could even lift. Though he’d chosen it, admittedly, for the two long-billed birds engraved in silver on the hilt—omens of luck. “I’ve watched you fanatics slaughter each other with swords for two years,” he replied.

Zahrea chuckled. “Watching isn’t doing, little skeptic. In the coming fight, the edge will serve you better than the point. Use it first to chop, then to stab. Give me some drink, and let me see you go at it.”

He tossed over a water bag which she caught nimbly. Then bracing, he brought the sword down in a chopping motion. Zahrea drank and barked corrections, chiding him to swing harder and not as if he were just cutting tubers for a soup. He was breathing heavy and soaked in sweat by the time it was done.

“That will have to do,” she said. “You have a fighter’s spirit. Should serve you well. Come, bring that knife. There’s work to be done.”

He spent the next half hour working on the arrows. She’d been right about the ones in her chest. The quilted armour had stopped them, though the impact had likely fractured bone—like being kicked in the chest by a mule she’d claimed. He cut down the one in her leg, as removing it would probably bleed her to death. Just touching the shaft had sent her into agony, and she’d bitten down on her mount’s leather reins and writhed through the ordeal.

Sometime later, he was sitting against the giant lizard with his knees drawn up, as the sun touched the horizon, turning the sky a faded gold. He watched the earth begin to swallow the orange orb just behind Am Amara and counted the paces it would take in a run to reach the town. When he was smaller, children would dare each other to stay out on the Golota as dusk approached. Then they’d race back, dodging the emerging worms as they went. The creatures had been smaller then, but it was still foolish. Now here he was, set to do something perhaps even more foolish.

“What fills my young armour-bearer’s mind on the eve of battle?” The warrior’s voice was muddled, one cheek bulging from a mouthful of quaj. Teffe had given her some of the sour-tasting leaf to dull her pain; it also granted stamina. The amount she now chewed was almost half what people gave their burden beasts to relieve weariness. It kept her eyes wide and her face no longer looked so wan.

“I was thinking on foolish things,” he replied, chewing on his own bit of quaj. He had a habit of putting a leaf under his tongue just before a fight. It took away the fear. But it wasn’t working as well as usual. Fighting toughs like Chip Tooth was different from this. “I won’t say I understand what you’re doing.” He barely understood what he was doing. “You have what many people would want—enough wealth to be secure, even happy. Why throw it all away?”

Her lips formed a smile. “I was younger than you when I set on this path. The pampered daughter of the head of a merchant house, when I first heard wandering monks telling stories of the Fall of the Third Heaven, and of warriors like Arat the Brave and Ki-Li and her Faithful Band—who had ridden into battle and certain death to storm the ramparts of the celestial halls. Their deeds were pointed out to me among the constellations. I knew then that is how I wanted my life to end.” She put a hand to his arm, and Teffe was surprised at the strength in that grip. “We all die, and turn to dust. That is the final gift of mortality. A few of us will die great, so that our names will be remembered and people will look to the night skies, and see us—forever.”

“You’d die just to become a hero?” he asked.

She sat back and closed her eyes before saying: “Heroes give the world hope. They fill our tales and stories. There is a reason we do not make gods our heroes, but instead mortals who became more.”

Teffe shook his head, trying to make sense of her reasoning. Together they sat in silence, chewing quaj as the shadows of dusk took hold. A few other Pickers ran past, some sparing an enquiring glance his way, their arms laden with their spoils as they sped back home.

The first worms came before the sun had even fully set.

Teffe was on his feet, watching as two of the creatures pushed up out of the earth near one of the dead. The red-brown soil fell away as they were birthed into the world. These were the smaller kind, each about quarter the size and length of a man. Their bodies were made up of segments that undulated as they moved. They reminded him of large squat maggots, but with even paler skin—so translucent the faint outlines of pulsing organs could be seen beneath. They shuffled and slithered towards their unmoving prey and when they reached him, began to feast.

Teffe clenched his jaw, trying to keep down the sick rising in his throat. The worms’ mouths were hideous things, extending as the skin on their heads peeled back to reveal a long, pink and fleshy tube. It parted in four directions like the petals of a flower to reveal hooked barbs on the undersides. The dead man’s head disappeared as one of those ghastly mouths closed over it, while another enveloped half a leg.

“There’s no shame,” Zahrea consoled. Teffe heard her between his own choked gagging, as he bent emptying his stomach. He’d seen the dead on this battlefield cut open and pilfered their eviscerated bodies. But this, was something else entirely. “I’ve known warriors who’ve survived countless battles lose their bellies before a fight. And none faced this. Breathe deep. You’ll find you’re better hollow, than full.”

Teffe wiped his mouth and took a breath. She was right. He did feel better. He was about to say as much, but she had begun to sing. It was a song with long deep melodies that rose and fell in waves. He didn’t understand the words, for it wasn’t in trader’s pidgin. Here and there, however, he caught the word Umani. A hymn then. She carried it better than he’d thought her able, in a clear and unwavering voice. He was so caught up by the song he just stared at her for a moment—until catching something at the corner of his eye. The two worms that had been feeding on the dead man had gone still, their mouths extended as if tasting the air. Their undulating bodies twisted suddenly, leaving the half-eaten carcass and moving straight towards them.

Teffe cursed. “They’re coming!” he shouted.

“I know,” she said, pausing. “They hear Umani’s song, and come to battle.”

He spun back to glare at her, incredulous. “You’re calling them?”

“Just one,” she replied in a calm voice. “The one I seek. But the rest will be drawn.”

Teffe looked to the approaching worms and felt his insides quiver. Gods! What had he gotten himself into! The woman was insane! He glanced to Am Amara. Just a bit of sunlight was left. If he ran now maybe he could make the town. He could leave her here to find her god and live.

“Don’t let fear make you an oath breaker,” Zahrea warned gently. “I’ve promised you, I won’t let you be harmed.” Her voice turned hard, the commander once more. “Now stand and fight! Your enemy is upon you! Forget your fear! Fight!”

Teffe pulled his gaze from the town, to find one of the worms just a span away, moving faster than the other. Gods! How had it gotten so close! The sword felt heavier than he remembered, and his palm was slick with sweat. But there was no more time to think. With a cry, he leaped forward and brought his blade down. He swung so hard, the weapon passed through flesh and didn’t stop until it struck the earth with a dull thud. Foul, dark ichor coated the broadsword, and he reared back at the stench as the creature shrieked its death. The second worm peeled back its skin to reveal a hungry mouth, searching for him. He plunged his sword directly through the front of its head, thankful it had no eyes to see.

“Are you readied now?” Zahrea asked.

Teffe breathed heavily as he stepped back, surprised to find that though his heart pounded like a drum he was now more anxious than afraid. Looking to her he nodded and she began her song again.

The worms came.

Teffe struck them down, one, sometimes two at a time. He had drawn a curving half-circle in the dirt and he fought to make certain none of them slithered past. Whatever words the warrior sang in that hymn, he began to believe it contained some magic. For he could feel a power flow into him, guiding his hand and filling him with a euphoria beyond simple quaj. Time slowed, and he wasn’t even certain how long he fought. His movements became a rhythm, as he darted here and there to lop off sightless heads and reaching mouths. He thought he might have killed tens of them, dozens perhaps, as he was caught up in the frenzy and the god’s hymn that filled his ears with the satisfying shrieks of the dying.

Then, abruptly, the tide broke—and fled.

Pale squat bodies turned away, no longer seeking the song. They pushed back into the soil, squeezing and flattening their plump shapes impossibly into fissures, and returning to their lightless world.

Teffe gave a shout that was part laugh and part triumph, lifting his sword. His chainmail armour was stained in gore that assailed his nostrils. And he should have been terrified. But he’d never felt so alive! Was this what it was like to have a god work through you? To feel so sure and emboldened?

“They’re running!” he exclaimed. “I managed to—”

He stopped as a deep rumble cut off his words.

The plain of Golota rippled as what seemed a wave passed beneath, and he stumbled to keep his footing. Behind him, Zahrea’s song stopped. He turned to her, realizing they were now in the dark. It hadn’t even struck him that night had fallen. He could still make out her face, however, as set as stone.

“They make way for another,” she said. “Behind Ooli, now.” He began to protest, the lingering god’s power still coursing through him. But she shook her head. “What comes is for me to face. If I should seem ready to fall, make for the town. I will shield you with my last.” She put on a smile. “You have done your part, and well. There is more of the fighter in you than you think. Now, give me all the quaj you have.”

“You’ve already chewed enough for ten men,” he commented.

“And I’ll need the stamina of ten more to face what’s coming, with these wounds,” she remarked, her open palm waiting. Teffe handed over a fistful of the dried leaves, making certain to keep a few for himself. No one ever gave away all their quaj. Zahrea stuffed the entire amount into her mouth, biting down hard and chewing until her eyes seemed to glaze over. Then, she did something Teffe had not yet seen her do. She stood.

It wasn’t graceful. Pain showed visibly on her face, and the leg with the embedded arrow made her lean a bit on the one opposite. But stand she did, and for the first time he took in her impressive height. She was nearly as tall as most men, at least the men of Am Amara. Her shoulders were broad and the arms beneath her long coat looked strong.  There was a way that she stood, even so wounded, that spoke of danger—like a sword pulled free of its scabbard.

“My weapons, armour-bearer,” she commanded.

Teffe ran fast to retrieve the weapons she had made him set aside: a spear with a long gleaming blade, and a broad rounded shield that spiraled into a jutting spike in the center. She took them, and holding each aloft looked to him now like something out of a story. He opened his mouth say as much when the world exploded.

He was thrown back, falling as a great shape burst from beneath the plain of Golota. Earth and rock was thrown up in a billowing shower as the thing heaved itself into the world, rearing higher still before coming to a stop. Teffe felt the blood drain from him as he stared at what now lay before them.

It was a worm. A great monster of a worm— thick around as two oxen, maybe three, and jutting from the earth like a long vine. It towered into the night, its pallid skin expanding and contracting with its breathing.

Teffe scrambled up to his feet, and Zahrea pushed him stumbling behind her towards her fallen mount. Holding her spear high she shook it at the monster and shouted words in a tongue he didn’t understand. The quaj high made her voice quaver, but it still came strong—sounding like a call of challenge ending in the name of her god.

The worm’s head peeled back with a fleshy sound that made his skin crawl. When its long blood-red mouth extended and opened to reveal a mass of tendrils that ended in hooked barbs, there were a series of shrieks that cut through the air. Teffe stared in shock. The thing was talking! Giving answer to the warrior’s challenge. He knew then that this was no simple beast. It was a demon, some horrid thing crawled up from the Under Realms and called to do battle with a champion of its ancient enemy on the plain of Golota. With a final scream of fury, it dived back into the fractured soil, moving beneath the earth towards them.

Whatever god’s power had suffused Teffe moments past, vanished. He clambered atop the dead lizard as the ground shook, laying his body flat and holding on for dear life. Zahrea had begun to run, chanting the name of her goddess as she went. His heart clutched in his chest as the worm burst from the earth, mouth wide and already lunging for the warrior. He was certain it would snatch her up and end this fight before it even began. But at the last moment, the woman dodged its reaching tendrils. The monster’s momentum sent it speeding forward, and as it passed she slashed its flank in a run with her spear—opening a deep cut that released a spurt of colorless ichor.

The worm shrieked anew, this time in pain. It pulled itself fully out of the earth now, twisting its long body in one swift motion like a whip and catching Zahrea fully. Teffe gasped as she was struck and sent flying, losing her spear and tumbling end over end. She rolled and managed to get back to her feet, just as the worm turned and lurched for her, those hooked tendrils reaching out like darts but only striking and raking at soil.

Now she had her sword out and her shield held up. She yelled something at the worm that sounded like a taunt, and it let out another shriek that ended in a rumbling bellow. Rearing up, it came for her again—this time directly, intent on latching on with its tendrils. But she had her blade at the ready, and there was a sharp ringing that sounded each time the iron sword swatted away a hooked barb on the worm’s fleshy, reaching mouth. One swipe sheared away a length of tendril completely, sending it spinning into the night. She turned, parried and hacked off yet another length.

Teffe watched in unrestrained wonder, as the woman stood and held her own against the monster. It was like something from a storyteller’s tale come to life. She had not lied. She was great!

Her skill, however, only seemed to further enrage the worm. Frustrated, it threw itself fully at the warrior, heedless of her stinging sword—seeking to overpower her by its sheer weight. Her shield was all that saved her, its sharp point piercing the worm and goring it anew. But the size of the monster was too much and it had the momentum. She staggered back as it pressed its impressive bulk forward. Teffe watched in dismay, as one of her legs began to tremble. The wounded leg, the one with the arrow. His heart sank, knowing it wouldn’t hold. Even as he thought it, she was driven to a knee and the shield cracked under a harsh blow—splitting in two and falling away. The force of it sent Zahrea onto her back and once more she rolled, moving to her hands and knees and scrambling for something. Teffe saw what she searched for, even in the dark. Her spear. But she was too far away!

He wasn’t certain he could say when he had moved from atop the dead mount. But he was running out onto the plain of battle. A small voice inside cursed him for a fool. Did he think he was someone out of the stories now, it chided? But another part urged him on, to help this warrior who had shown him that there were still great things in the world. That true heroes might yet exist. Somehow, impossibly, he reached the spear, picked it up and stood to find himself only a short distance from Zahrea—and the worm reared up before them.

The demon stood coiled, its sightless head moving between he and the warrior, as if trying to puzzle out his unexpected presence on the field of battle. Slowly it opened a bloodied mouth to reveal its remaining tendrils, writhing with eager barbed hooks. It took all of Teffe’s strength not to turn and run. Lifting the spear high he yelled out at the worm—mimicking what he’d heard from Zahrea. He had no idea what he said, but it was enough to make the monster screech in new rage and it lunged towards him, reaching out with that ruined mouth. He wasted no time, heaving the spear to the nearby warrior with both hands. She rose up and caught it, turning fast to place herself between him and the approaching worm.

The hooks intended for him latched onto her, digging through chainmail and into flesh. She screamed as they took hold, like a dozen knives piercing her at once. Blood wept from the wounds and her cries cut off, her body going limp. Teffe could only stare in horror, helpless as the worm lifted Zahrea from her feet and drew her eagerly to its waiting orifice in triumph.

It was over, was all he could think. So quick. Just like that. Over.

The warrior’s body entered the worm’s tubular mouth feet first, and it sucked her almost a third way in with one strong pull. Its body heaved, set to take her in further—when suddenly she yelled.

Teffe felt Zahrea’s battle cry shiver through him as it echoed across the battlefield. She was still alive! Bending, she twisted her body impossibly upward while held in the worm’s mouth. She had never dropped the spear. Now, lifting the weapon with both hands, she drove the long blade through the front of the worm’s head, pushing it in deep and twisting with a hard wrench. This time fluid black as the night spurted from the wound. There was a high whine as the creature began to spasm. Its mouth went slack, dropping the warrior who fell to the ground as it whipped about like some maddened beast, sending black liquid everywhere. When the whine stopped, the worm went deathly still for a moment before slowly falling to strike the ground in a thunderous crash.

Silence now.

Teffe ran, staggering to his knees as he reached Zahrea. The worm was dead, the spear still protruding from the killing wound that even now ran with black fluid. The weapon had pierced an organ. Likely the brain. He pulled his eyes from the thing and looked down at the warrior. She had won, but at a price. Her body had been mangled in the worm’s mouth and she bled from more wounds than he could count. Uncertain what to do, he took her head in his arms and watched as her eyes swiveled to stare up at him. He had not noticed before that they were the same shady brown as his own.

“You did it!” he told her, tripping over his words. “You killed a worm! The biggest worm I’ve ever seen! It was amazing!” His enthusiasm made her smile. But it fast turned to a grimace as she coughed, bringing up fresh crimson to stain her lips.

“I can get us to town!” he tried. “I’ll carry you.”

Now she managed a laugh, and he realized how ridiculous he sounded. She probably weighed three times more what he did.

“Little skeptic,” she mouthed hoarsely. Then staring past him, she took up a slow mournful chant. A funeral dirge. Tepidly, he grasped her hand and surprised himself when he began to chant it with her. Perhaps she had faith enough for them both. The chant soon ended and became only one word repeated again and again.

Umani. Umani. Umani.

Light suddenly filled Teffe’s vision—so bright it blinded. There was a feeling of a presence and he knew then that something more had arrived upon the plain of Golota. Lifting a hand to shield his vision, he peeked through fingers to see. Was it Zahrea’s goddess truly come? Summoned by her deed to take her into a holy embrace? To make her one of the honored dead? For the tiniest moment, he dared to hope.

What he found stilled him.

The thing that loomed before him was beyond his ability to describe. In the blinding light, he could make out the outline of a serpentine body, greater than any worm, so vast it seemed to take up the whole plain. Eight arms extended wide from its side, each ending in fingers like tendrils, some holding what looked like weapons and other things he couldn’t name. Where a head should have sat were only thick tentacles that writhed about. From beneath them sat eyes in their scores or perhaps hundreds. Each burned with the intensity of stars, enough to sear away mortal souls.

It was a monster. Zahrea had thought she would be rewarded by a god. But another monster had come to claim her. Some new demon crawled up from the Under Realms. The sheer betrayal of it broke a part of Teffe’s mind. He shouted in anger, even defiance, in the face of this horror. When it reached tendrils for the warrior, he held onto her fast, finding a will he didn’t know he had. But a hand lightly squeezed his own and he looked to find Zahrea staring at him.

“Let go,” she whispered. “Just let go.”

Teffe shook his head. Didn’t she see what now tried to claim her? Didn’t she know what it was? But there was no fear in that gaze, just a calm so strong and sure it sapped the fight out of him. He let his arms go slack and watched the writhing tendrils envelop Zahrea, lifting her away. There was the deafening roar of beating wings, and in a blur the great being soared high into the night sky and was gone.

He found himself alone on the plain of Golota, a dead worm for company. There was a numbness inside. Part of it was anger, at allowing himself to believe—even briefly—in gods and their promises. Another was disappointment, in knowing he had been right all along. That heroes didn’t matter. None of them mattered. In the end, they were just motes in a world of monsters.

After a moment, he stood and walked to the warrior’s dead mount, retrieving the sack of coins and the letter before beginning his trek back to Am Amara. He had not walked more than a few paces when the first worm appeared.

The horrid beast pushed its bulbous body through a fissure in the soil and was soon followed by another, and yet more. These were the smaller kind he had fought, though some were larger. They had fled at the coming of the demon, but were now reappearing. And fast.

He broke into a run, a loping sprint to reach Am Amara. He didn’t know if it was his movements that called the worms, or if they somehow knew he had slaughtered many of their kind. But as one they came for him, ignoring the dead that littered Golota. He had to bank and turn sharply as several rose up in front him, hungry mouths reaching. He came up short again as his path was blocked once more, jumping back just as a creature lunged for him. Now he was moving away from Am Amara, running blind. His foot caught on something—one of the dead—and he fell, scrambling backwards. Worms surrounded him on every side, so many that their pale bodies slithered atop each other in a churning mass. He let his head bow for a moment, thinking how it would have been nice to see one of the famed port cities of the East. Or to sail on a sea. Standing, he took off the plumed helmet and hurled it at them in angry defiance. Then he lifted the broadsword he’d managed to hold onto. If he died today, it would be on his feet.

Fire lit up the night.

Teffe reeled, as white flames struck at the worms, burning many to ash instantly. All around him they shrieked in pain and horror, and died. He squinted, straining to discover the source of this fearsome power. His eyes widened at what he found. At the heart of the conflagration, swathed in a shimmering haze of heat, stood Zahrea. She hovered above the plain of Golota, healed of her wounds and adorned in scaled armor that glimmered like molten gold in the night. In one hand, she held her spear, its glowing blade wreathed in flames. She swung it in great, wide arcs, discharging sheets of fire that encircled him protectively. In their blind rage, the worms threw themselves at her, only to be consumed in the swirling inferno. Their anger fast turned to fear and once more they broke and fled, squirming back into the earth, and seeking the welcome darkness.

In moments, the plain of Golota was quiet, the ground about Teffe scoured and blackened. The fire died away, leaving Zahrea like a shining beacon. He gawped up at her, only now understanding. She had ascended. The being that took her away had been no demon. It could be no other than Umani herself. He had borne witness to the passing of a god, and not recognized it! Seeing the dawning realization on his face, Zahrea smirked and he remembered words she had spoken to him earlier: And would you even know a god if you saw one, little skeptic? She said nothing now, for the dead do not so commune with the living. She only gave him a final wink, and then was gone.

Teffe found himself once more alone. Standing there, thinking on all that had passed this day, he did something then that he had not done in a long time. He closed his eyes and said a prayer—not to any god, but to his protector and savior. Zahrea. The greatest warrior he had ever seen. The warrior whose tale he would tell. The Paladin of Golota. He was still saying his prayer as he broke into a run, making his way to the town that waited in the distance.

 

END

 

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P. Djeli Clark is a writer of speculative fiction. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly (twice!), Tor, Lightspeed, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and other literary venues. His debut novella, The Black God’s Drums, will be published by Tor.com Publishing in August 2018. When not creating worlds, he is also a professor of history and blogs on diversity and SFF at pdjeliclark.com.