PREROGATIVE OF GODS

PREROGATIVE OF GODS, by Nathanael Green

 

 

The gods are all of them gone to ashes. Some sent there by my own hand. Once, though, they were Twelve, often among us.

That morning, the first time I met the god I would serve, was sharp with the frost of autumn when I went to the stream, leaving my husband and children in the cottage. The stones of our house and the grass, still high and fading green, shone like it was strewn with the frozen tears of all the Twelve. And there, a dozen strides from my house was the hawk, enormous with patient, watching eyes.

He followed me, then us, as we cleared the last of the harvest from the field. He eyed us as we ate our midday meal in the final moments of the season’s warmth. Later, I squatted beside my children and pulled the entrails from fish we caught and he watched from the branches of a bare, gray tree.

When we passed beneath him and back to the cottage with our catch, I hurled a trout as high as I could. He watched the fish sail through the air and land again with a thud in the dirt. Hardly a proper offering to a god, throwing a fish at him, I know. Somehow it seemed fitting.

He regarded that fish with the sharp, thoughtful eyes of a predator, but without interest, before he looked back to me. My youngest asked if she should fetch the fish, but we left it. I don’t know if the hawk ever did eat it, if it rotted to its bone, or if scavengers came to lap up my pitiful offering to the lord of justice.

And the lord of justice he was, though I didn’t know it then. He loved justice and law above all things and he chose those to serve him from among the righteous and fair, bidding us mortals to deliver his favor and punishment among ourselves. Often, though, the power he gave to my brothers and sisters twisted their hearts. They became angry and swift with their swords. Righteousness became a vice to be indulged in as often, as swiftly, and as brutally as possible.

Such was my god’s justice and law delivered by mortal hands.

The hawk was the first day. I used to revel in that memory once I knew it had been a god come to visit me. And not just any of the Twelve, but the god that I loved above the others.

The next time he came, he came as a wanderer. A crooked old man with cow-eyes and a blanket too thin for the biting autumn. Nothing strange about this. We’ve all seen wanderers begging for bits of food and shelter, and so we cared for him.

Once, we believed it was the gods’ will that we care for one another and open our homes to those who have none.

The gods’ will? To strew famine and disease among us, to fight their wars on our world with us as their tools, and then enjoin us to be hospitable to those they chased from their homes with fire, sword, and drought.

Gods’ will or not, hospitality was, is, law for me. So when my god came to our house, I treated him like any other wanderer—with the fire and food I would hope others would offer my children if the gods’ feuds sent them from a charred home.

The third time he came, he came to me alone. He simply stepped from the forest as if he had been a tree a moment ago and barred my path.

I knew I was in the presence of a god. I didn’t know which, but his bearing, his crafted and clean breeches and tunic, his beard and hair with no trace of gray, despite eyes that seemed older than the stones—it all belied his authority. Too, there was a strength that seemed to rumble from him to vibrate in my chest. He was tall, yes, but not massively so. I had seen broader shoulders and thicker arms on other men. Despite that, power and authority swirled around and through him the way a storm rumbles in the bones of the hills before the winds rise.

I fell to my knees, bruising them against frozen mud, and I bowed my head. I dared not say anything. What would you say to a god? How would you sort your words to praise or salute and be sure to not spill some unintended insult or incur wrath? I did not know which of the gods stood before me, and so I waited.

He called me by name in a voice sharp as ice and told me he had chosen me as one of his. That I was to join him and be his sword among the mortals to dispense justice and keep the rule of the gods’ laws.

Then I knew him and my heart flew. From excitement, pride, or trepidation, I don’t remember. But I answered him.

Of all the Twelve, he had always been dearest to me, the one I prayed to most, and the one the priests saw least among the pestilence and plagues. I flattered him as best I could, though I now forget my exact words. I will swear I did not lie or wheedle. Then, at least, I could be truthful to a god, this god, and still flatter.

But I didn’t understand his choice. I feared I couldn’t uphold his tenets and deliver the justice he was asking. I was no warrior.

“You have seen battle,” was his answer, and it seemed enough. That much was true. I had seen bloody, rancid battle. My hands had been torn and bleeding from the rough haft of a spear. I had seen the brains of beardless boys dashed out onto the earth, smelled the fear as my sister pissed herself, felt the warm, slippery offal spilling from my enemies’ guts as they fell, dying against me.

I had seen battle, and so I said nothing more.

The god of justice drew a sword from beneath his cloak and offered it to me. Only kings and warlords carried such weapons, and this was more exquisite than any I had seen. Iron smooth as glass, hard and unbendable with a hilt of some red wood. A guard and pommel crafted in bone.

I was to bring this sword against his enemies. The god’s enemies. Capricious kings and cruel warlords. The enemies of justice, the wicked, deceitful, and disloyal.

That, I did. Of that I have no doubt. Those I slew were better gone from this world than here, but never did I take a liking to it. Each time that fine blade darkened with blood, my guts churned as if I’d been the one pierced. I felt the turn in my stomach as if as-yet unborn children shrunk away from my deeds. I could neither eat nor rest for days. But I saw my brothers and sisters wear their righteousness like a crown, delivering blows for the slightest insult or perceived threat to our god. I envied them their certainty.

I saw more battle. And ever it seemed the same. I screamed my god’s name and my enemies screamed theirs. It ended with crows and children picking through the blood and limbs for soft flesh and hard coins. More offal cooling on the ground and more wanderers, widows, and cripples running from burned fields to beg from their neighbors.

In the service of one god, I saw the vices of all Twelve. Like so many cats chasing one another, the gods feuded and fought and bonded and broke faith. And ever was their battleground here among the mortals, their weapons those who worshiped.

One of the Twelve, a mischievous and sly thing, once stole a sacred bowl from one of his brothers. The gods used the Urn of Storms to stir the winds and rain and pour where they willed, and this he hid in the temple of his brother’s rival. Mortals greedy for the favor of each of the bickering gods flocked to form armies to return or protect, or try to use, the stolen bowl. The gods basked in the adoration and mingled among us on the battlefields. They called for more sacrifices, for the devout to prove their worth and dedication. They heaped praise and glory on those who pleased them and wrath on those who didn’t see the worth in a war for a bowl.

I’ve seen gods walk among the men of a line, sprinkling courage and strength. I’ve seen them rush faster than thought to guide a thrown spear into the neck of a champion. They stalked the battlefields, those who had the taste for it. But never did I find them among the corpses. At least, not then.

I served my god, trying to deliver order to a maelstrom, until my children had baby children of their own. I fought on his side, by his side, for the wronged parties and to protect the innocent. And, then for no reason I can see, he called me to higher service.

He came again in his mortal form and asked me for my sword. Without question I returned it, though my guts trembled at the thought that I had somehow displeased him, or else might be released from his service.

He held the sword before his eyes, reversed it, and held it out to me.

When I took it, it had changed. It was the same weight, balance, and brilliance as before. As much as I abhorred the use of it, it was a beautiful thing. It felt right and strong in my hand as if it asked my muscles to use it. I loved the blade itself for its beauty and power and I loathed myself for the inspiration it fed me.

But now, it felt bitter. More powerful, hungrier. And with the change to my weapon, my god put me into a new service.

I came to be a hunter in the final war of the gods.

The time had come, he said, when one of the gods was too lawless and wicked to remain. His frivolity and strife had caused too much pain and harm among the gods and he was to face justice.

He did not say how many mortal lives, families and children had died because of this god’s wretched sense of fun. I knew, though. I had seen it. And I had cut down many of his mortal allies.

My god could not come close enough to the other Eleven without alarming them, and so he sent me, a mortal armed with his sword, to do the deed. I found the god I sought on yet another battlefield, and I challenged him.

His laughter shook the earth. His eyes, the dark, searing orbs bore down on me so that I was forced to look away and steady myself with a tighter grip on my sword. I braced my feet.

The god, and then his army, laughed as he strode forward. He was tall, taller than I, and carried both a massive spear and sword. He wore no armor, but the muscles in his chest and shoulders seemed stronger than any metal. I felt my heart stumble then. My lungs would not draw breath, but shuddered uncertainly.

As he came nearer, I saw his twisted, thirsty grin of malice. That grin crashed against me and the army behind me. I heard shuffling feet as the men around me stumbled back. I could not bring myself to look a god in the eyes beyond that first glance, and so I stared at the wretched curve of his maw.

I believe he meant to toy with me, for his first spear thrust was slow and easily blocked. Again and again he swung, half-heartedly, laughing and taunting. I moved as best I could, blocking, swinging, until my arms burned from the effort.

Soon, the god grew bored or frustrated, I’ll never know which. He stepped away for a moment and regarded me with a frown for the length of a breath, then leapt into the air, spear held high. He roared as he came down on me, but somehow, I wrenched away. I twisted and swung my god’s sword as I spun.

His head fell from his body. It thumped against the ground and I saw the mouth move, but heard no sound. His body softened and slumped, limp and bleeding into the earth. Blood flowed from his neck for a moment and his eyes became loose and empty like so many others I had seen on the battlefields.

I had hoped with his death that his army would flee. Instead, they rushed to take up his spear and screamed vengeance. The battle was as bloody as any other.

Quickly, other gods and goddesses learned of what happened and created their own hunters to rid the ether of their nemeses. The wars resurged, bloodier and wider than ever before as now the gods themselves were hunted and killed. I slew two more of the Twelve by my own hand and saw six more die before me.

My god, the god who loved justice and law above all, was the last. A lone god after the death of his brothers and sisters.

I choose to believe he once strove, like I did, to end suffering and injustice, to order the chaos and cease the bickering and pettiness that led to such sorrow for the mortals. But after the other Eleven were turned to ashes and wind, he saw the sorrow he himself had wrought and it twisted him into a petulant tyrant. He struck at entire kingdoms with disease and starvation. Mortals quibbled and fought about who carried more of his favor. Earthquakes destroyed cities that provoked him. Those who did not worship fervently enough were stricken with blindness or stillborn children.

Years passed after the last of the Eleven fell until he called on me again. A scourge burned through the land led by an unholy king and a heretic priest. I was to gather warriors and champions and end their rampage.

We met them beside a river. A huge flow so wide I could barely see the far side as it gushed past. We stood there in flat, silty earth with low grasses on our legs, two armies facing one another, with a god beside me.

In the distance, I could see little of the other army, but it was far smaller than ours. One man began a lonely walk toward us, and as he neared, I recognized him. This king carried a red-hilted sword like mine.

I had known him. Briefly in person, and more by the tales the wanderers told at my fire as they fled the drought and sickness that clawed at his kingdom.

This man, this king, had always held our god’s laws and enforced them. His people sacrificed calves and wine, fasted and worshiped. And when his land fell into a drought, he prayed and worshiped more.

In the second year of the drought, all his people who hadn’t wandered for hospitality elsewhere had wasted to bone. The king broke then, I learned. Some said it was a death of a loved one. Others said it was the sight of the skeletal children strewn in the streets. Others not from that land said his people had begun to eat their dead to survive.

Whatever the cause, he cursed and railed, and gave his mind to a priest who swore that, if the king helped him find it, he would use the Urn of Storms to save the land, though no mortal could use such a vessel.

Now, the strode across the field, alone and solemn. My throat tightened and I glanced beside me. My god scowled with distaste as he watched the king. He did not move to meet him, but waited, silent and with arms folded.

I wondered then, as the king crossed the field to us, that he had come this far. That no storm or wave of disease had dashed his army. No hunter or other army had been called to oppose him until today.

He knelt and bowed his head. Our god walked forward, a few quick, irritated paces. He spoke, then, though I could not hear what was said.

He raised his hand and there was a sword in it. Then he plunged the blade through the king’s back and pinned him to the earth. The god leaned in to hiss some last word, and then, with two hands on the hilt, he heaved the sword and flicked the king from his blade. The dying man turned in the air, blood flecks spraying, and splashed beneath the river.

The lord of justice stalked back toward us. He spoke, and his voice was both sour and dismissive. He rumbled with discord, like rage overlaid with supreme disinterest.

“Kill them all.”

At this command, my sword flashed and I charged.

That terrible, beautiful blade, surged with power and I drove it through his throat. It broke through his spine and he sank, spiritless, dragging the blade, and me, to the earth.

Once, the Twelve schemed and brought war and death among us, but they are no more. With the fall of the last, I felt the shackles of the gods’ fickleness and greed slough away. Yet, for years after they were gone, I waited, afraid of what might be or what might come. The tides and swing of the moon, the roll of the seasons, all that they had set into motion, continued. Harvests came in, or failed. Children grew, or took fever in the night.

Mortals’ fortunes no longer lay at the gods’ feet. We are free to seek the justice and hospitality of mortals.

And yet I wander, and ever, ever, do I find battle.

 

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Nathanael Green writes fantasy, historical fiction, marketing and advertising copy, and comments on student papers. His current novel in progress expands the world and characters seen in “Prerogative of Gods.” He’s the co-author of three novels with Evan Ronan, and when not busy with writing and teaching writing, he competes in bagpipe competitions–yes, that is a real thing. You can find him at nathanaelgreen.com.

Audio by: Karen Bovenmyer.  She teaches and mentors students at Iowa State University and serves as the Nonfiction Assistant Editor of Escape Artists’ Mothership Zeta Magazine. She is the 2016 recipient of the Horror Writers Association Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley Scholarship. Her poems, short stories and novellas appear in more than 40 publications and her first novel, SWIFT FOR THE SUN, an LGBT romantic adventure in 1820s Caribbean, debuted from Dreamspinner Press March 27, 2017.