“Belief in a cruel god makes a cruel man.”

― Thomas Paine

Chapter 8: The Battle of Dalat (Part II)

I’ll tell you this: No-one, no-one, threw a party like the Twenty-Six Tribes.

Imagine the scene - Thousands of tribesmen, their cookfires lighting the night like stars. The great totems anointed in blood, the symbols of countless warbands fluttering on the wind besides the sacred banners of the Horned Chieftain.

Hundreds of oxen went beneath the knife, spilling their blood for the God and His people. At any other time, it would have been an unthinkable extravagance, the cost of countless seasons of careful tending…But Tauruskhan’s champion had been anointed, and no expense was to be spared.

Sure, the Graven Star was now top dog. But it didn’t mean that the others were walking away empty-handed. This would be a feast to end all feasts, a time for bonds to be renewed, for allegiances to be made. For hatchets to be buried and bad blood to be purged.

Alcohol - Ko, kumiss and ylang - flowed like water, as well as other, more exotic intoxicants. As you may have guessed, the priesthood of the Iron Hoof had the best drugs: Usually, they kept the good stuff to themselves, but were more than happy to share it out on an occasion like this.

High Priest Praya, bless his soul, was shrewd enough to make sure that everyone went home drunk and happy. Not just to take the sting out of losing, mind you, but because it meant less trouble in the near-future.

For bad times were coming. Very bad indeed, for the folk of the Twenty-Six Tribes.

You see, the feasting, the drinking, the music - It wasn’t for them, really. It wasn’t even for me, never mind that I’d earned it. No, it was for Tauruskhan…Because this was the God’s going-away party, and He wanted to make it a bash to remember.

One way or another, their world was about to change forever. Either Tauruskhan was about to take His rightful place in the stars, as a Greater Power of the firmament (incidentally leaving His people behind forever, as I’ve mentioned) or He was about to be diminished forever.

To accept the truth of His impermanence, and to settle down for the long, slow slide into decrepitude and oblivion.

Oh, it wouldn’t happen today, tomorrow, or even in the next few years. But the die had very much been cast, and the Great Horned One was going all-in, now. All that remained was to see how His gambit played out.

No pressure, right?

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I won’t lie - I had the time of my life.

The food came in a series of beaten copper pots, each one so full it had to be carried crosswise on bending poles by pairs of straining men.

Steaming stews of oily fish, poached in grease and mare’s milk. Great haunches of roasted beef, seared dark on the outside, pink on the inside. Beans and pulses, cooked in boiled stock. The ‘lesser meats’ of poultry and mutton, served with farls of fresh, warm unleavened bread, the ovens roaring night and day to keep up with the demand.

There was so much of it that, for a time, I could pretend that the hunger had relaxed its grip.

That I could enjoy the simple pleasure of a full stomach, copious amounts of drink, and good company.

That I wasn’t dying.

I know, I know - It was a grim thought. But surrounded by happy, flame-lit faces…Hearing their laughter, as they drank toasts to the future and cheered past glories…I’d never felt further from home.

Oh, I could fake it, easily enough. Raise a mug with the best of them, swigging down near-poisonous quantities of kumiss to cheers and hooting.

Except…I wasn’t one of them, and I would never be. They didn’t know me, not really, and I didn’t know them.

Soon, I would move on, and the sons and daughters of Tulgar would remain.

That’s the curse of being an educated man, I suppose. Try as I might, I’ve never been able to just…let go, like that. To lose myself in the moment, to go with the flow of things.

It was then, right then, that I told myself: I can do this.

I will do this.

I’d already come so far. If I had to claw my way to the top of the Platinum Spire, over a mound of bodies - By the God, I would do it.

I would claim what I deserved, and nothing and no-one would stand in my way.

That’s what I told myself, at any rate. If I kept at it long enough, I was sure I would begin to believe it.

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For three days and three nights, the Twenty-Six Tribes feasted all together, with a great din of singing and boasting and laughter. The days were filled with rough good company, with tests of riding, archery and wrestling.

The exceptionally brutal ball-game khar - like rugby, but it involves a live (and extremely angry) game-bird as a ball - was a highlight, too. Men slammed into each other in clawing, grappling impacts, lashing out with elbows and knees (blows with the fist were forbidden) as they fought their way to the goal.

Riotous cheers went up, each time someone was felled. Those knocked unconscious in the scuffle were dragged away by their heels, tended to by their fellows or the waiting healers. It wasn’t just about winning, mind you: It was about proving one’s strength, cunning and valor, as well as your ability to withstand severe head trauma.

For the priests of the Great Horned One were watching, hard-eyed in their judgement, and this too was a test. It never happened in the open, or even in the full light of day - But rewards awaited the quick and the brave, further separating the wheat from the chaff.

At night, during the traditional drinking games of ‘hurling axes at a target until one sticks’ (the winner being the one split another’s hatchet in half) and ‘stab a knife between your fingers, as quickly as you can’, the womenfolk of the Sacred Fane made their presence felt.

The youngest and most comely of them, to be specific.

In their robes of white and gold, they moved amid the feast-tables, serving wine and distributing food. Their attention would linger on those who had distinguished themselves in the day’s contests, the men who fought more bravely, more fervently than the others.

Now and again, the priestesses would take a likely-looking tribesman by the hand, leading him away into the cool embrace of the mountain. Each occasion was marked by the cheers and applause of his brethren, or (more rarely) a kind of congratulatory silence.

For the priesthood of Tauruskhan was an unusual lot, you see. They didn’t marry amongst themselves: It was a sacred prohibition, I believe, so that they would remain impartial arbiters rather than a clan in their own right. Their population was kept alive by breeding with the best of the warriors who came to the Firepeaks, the children of such unions raised as part of the priesthood.

To me, that hardly seemed like a healthy upbringing, and I’d said as much to Oloin.

“-It’s their way,” he said, with a shrug. “The God demands it, see? Keeps them under His own thumb. Less chance of a disagreement, that way, particularly if the father takes issue with it. He gets no claim, even if he wanted his child back. Wouldn’t even know where to start looking, in fact.”

The shadow of some emotion passed across his features, and he spat out of the side of his mouth. Like he’d tasted something bitter, and only a swig of ylang could wash it away.

For a moment, I nearly asked why. Who’d he been, before he’d taken up the life of an itinerant Godbinder. What great tragedy had led him to leave the tribe of his birth, and strike off on his own.

Instead, I merely grunted in acknowledgement, and demolished another great bowl of simmered beef and long-grain stew. Everyone had their own cross to bear, I supposed, and knowing wouldn’t change a thing.

After all, I already had enough on my plate. More, Oloin’s usefulness was rapidly coming to an end. Soon, I knew, there’d be a final parting of the ways: I just hoped that the venal old shaman wouldn’t find a way to stab me in the back on the way out.

In that, I would be disappointed.

But I find that life is a lot easier to bear if you’re an optimist.

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I know what you're thinking. And no, I didn't indulge.

Not because the idea didn’t appeal to me. It did, but it was the consequences that held me in check.

It's a relic of my life on Earth, I suppose. I like my relationships to either be meaningful, or to be strictly transactional. There are many ways to fuck yourself over, and heartbreak is one of them.

Even though the priestesses would've been happy to bed me, knowing their intent killed any lust I might've felt.

Now, I'm not naive about such things. I may - may - have sired a bastard or two, here and there, though I usually made an effort to avoid it.

But wanting to conceive a child, to be raised in the shadow of the Bull-Cult...I don't think I was callous enough to do that. Not when I had some idea how fucked-up things could get.

How much worse they would get, if I succeeded in my task.

The weird thing is, I don't even like kids. Not particularly. I've never felt ready to be a father - Too self-absorbed, I guess.

But even I know that it isn't fair to punch someone's ticket, before they've had a chance to see the show.

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It can be funny, how some things are the same across worlds. Not repetition, so much as recurrence - Similar patterns, things that line up in ways that are almost but not quite the same.

In my fifth world, the Esaal - In their own language, it meant ‘the Pale’ - lived much the same way. Their graceful, delicate females were confined to their great Manses (mountains made hollow over the course of centuries, with room to house thousands), set to the eternal task of Shaping their home into ever-more-deadly, ever-more-elaborate configurations.

They were the keepers of memory, the weavers of the impossibly intricate tapestries that marked the living history of their people: While their males endlessly prowled the adjoining forests, seeking out and destroying material threats, their concern was for the spirit of their race and the endless erosion of time.

Every few decades, the Vrasa (males of mature age) would make the long and dangerous pilgrimage to another Manse of the Pale, for the purposes of breeding. The mechanism by which they chose their destination was obtuse, almost deliberately arcane, but I understand that the intent was to prevent inbreeding.

Not every union led to offspring, of course. The Esaal were never a particularly fecund race, and with lifespans spanning several centuries, I suppose they didn’t feel the need to rush. More, they had a tendency to pair off for life, though the Easria (mature females) never left - were never allowed to leave - the Manse in which they had been born.

Oh, did I mention that the Vrasa had to fight their way into the Manse? Some might call it survival of the fittest, I call it insanity.

The couples parted when the breeding season ended, of course. That meant a long, slow wait of anywhere between decades to centuries for their next meeting. It seemed like an incredibly inefficient way to go about things, but it was their way.

Gilead had tried to explain it to me, when we’d been hiding from the Empire’s janissaries. There’d been five of us in that garret, taking turns to stand watch - And believe me, the place would’ve been a tight fit for two.

Before I left Earth behind, I never realized how addicted I was to instant gratification. I always had my phone to distract me, to while away the long periods of dead time. I’d shaken the instinct somewhat, but like every recovering addict, the urge never went away. Having to wait, actually wait, was anathema to everything I’d ever known.

Oscillating between boredom and nervous energy, I’d been sweating bullets, expecting the Seran to bust down the door and pump us full of crossbow bolts. Letting him go on about the life and times of his people was a somewhat-welcome distraction.

To him, it made perfect, poetic sense. So much of Esaal culture was tied up in yearning, in longing - A perpetual mourning for what once was, but would never be again. They had epic song-cycles about lovers parted by fate and providence, forever dreaming of each other, forever striving to reunite.

Hell, their creation myth was about how their people had once been far, far more than they currently were, only to be severed from that exalted status and left to wander the world. The Esaal knew their race was dying: They just couldn’t seem to muster the energy needed to save themselves.

Therein lay the seeds of disaster, of course. But wasn’t that always the way?

By the standards of the Esaal, Gilead was a young firebrand. He’d pledged himself to Neloiala, the first and only love of his life, and had honed himself into an absolute killing machine. He wasn’t about to let anything get between him and his true love, and God help anything that tried.

At any rate, Gilead and his followers (for it was a team effort, and he was smart enough to make sure that everyone was pulling their weight) had been on the long pilgrimage to the Manse of Azastari, ready to take a crack at the deadly forest that warded it. He’d been training for this for decades, and probably thought that this time, this time, he was going to get lucky…

When they arrived, they found that the Empire of Iron had got there first.

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Since time immemorial, the Empire of Iron had ruled the known lands of Calaria. In their tongue, the name meant ‘Cradle’ - For in their hubris, the potentates of the Empire thought that the world existed solely for them, to nourish their legions and give succor to their bloodline.

There were a myriad of reasons why the Empire’s dominion extended across the entire continent. The main reason, however, were the Zmei: Great, winged serpents of lightless black stone, bound eternally to the will of the Imperial bloodline. They were massive things, larger than a house, with fangs, claws and a great barbed tail that could devastate entire phalanxes of men at once.

Also, just to make things even more unfair, they could breathe petrifying mist too. Some property of their breath turned matter to stone, then blasted the stone apart like ash in a gale. As you imagine, that made them an utter terror on the battlefield. Entire armies would surrender, when faced with the prospect of taking on one of the Zmei…

But all was not well in the Imperial household. With each generation, it became harder to command the carved serpents. You needed the right stuff to get them to do anything - If the would-be scion lacked the nameless, ineffable properties required, the Zmei simply lay in place like…Well, like rocks.

No amount of orders, entreaties, threats or sacrifices could get them to budge. Without someone to command them, they wouldn’t move, not even to defend themselves. After all, they weren’t truly alive, and lacked any sense of basic self-preservation.

Given sufficient time, a score of men with sledgehammers and picks could reduce a Zmei to rubble. That, of course, was a serious problem: There were only ever so many of the serpents, and it wasn’t like the Empire could make more.

Some of the ones they did have - truly ancient things, rocky carapaces scarred and chipped from countless impacts - had suffered substantial damage over the centuries, with no apparent way to repair them. What magics that might have sufficed, if any, had long been lost.

Between the ravages of time and ever-hungry War, it was all beginning to add up. The imperial bloodline, despite careful shepherding, had thinned with each generation. Less than three hundred (at a guess) men and women still possessed the capability to command the Zmei, and the prospects for the next generation looked even bleaker.

Three hundred, across an entire continent. Let me tell you: That’s a drop in the ocean.

It was clear that something had to be done, or the great, tottering edifice of the Empire would soon come to a bloody end. The serpents were the very symbol of Imperial might, and their power had to be preserved by any means necessary.

‘Any means necessary’ is rather understating it. I never got a full picture of the dark, dire lengths they were willing to go to, but the fact was that nothing worked. There was no magic bullet, no miracle cure for the grinding erosion of time.

And then some bright spark got a truly awful idea into his head: Why not breed magic back into the Imperial line? After all, the first Emperor had wed a purportedly-divine bride, who had worked miracles in support of the Empire’s relentless conquest of the known world. The legends weren’t just superstition, either - Magic might have been a fading force on Calaria, but it had existed, once.

As it happened, the Esaal were well-known for their sorcerous ways. Their workings, great and subtle, featured prominently in the histories. Some were exaggerations, but it didn’t change the fact that they did have magic, even if they weren’t keen on sharing it.

You can probably see where this is going.

The Pale had centuries to defend their mountain homes from intrusion, and they hadn’t spent that time idle. The forests surrounding each Manse were a nightmare of weaponized flora and fauna, shaped by generations of careful manipulation into a deadly labyrinth: If an army went in there, it wasn’t coming out.

But the Esaal hadn’t - could not have - accounted for the Zmei.

Three serpents were sent, but even one would have been sufficient. Bearing two-score of the vaunted Kalandar life-wards, they swept over the mountain’s defenses and into the Manse itself, with the singular purpose of pillaging the greatest treasure of the Azastari…

-The Easria themselves.

Every female was carried off, at sword-point. I would like to say they went kicking and screaming, but in truth, they must have been too terrified to resist. Armed men invading their sanctuary, their world, shouting orders and brandishing weapons…

It must have been shattering.

It must have been like Armageddon.

Then there was the Prince-Imperial himself, Ramus Dar-Iseun. Striding like a conqueror, sizing up the women he’d seized. Checking their teeth, possibly, like a herder evaluating livestock at the market.

These ones for the harem.

Those ones to be divvied up among his allies, all eager to get their hands on the rumored beauty of the exotic Easria. For they wanted magic-blooded heirs too, you see, and promises had been made.

This one for his own bed.

Did he drag Neloiala away, kicking and screaming? Did she go willingly, knowing that all hope was already lost? My guess is, there was no show of defiance, other than a few desperate prayers to the uncaring ancestor-spirits.

The implication was enough.

The males of the Azastari were slaughtered. Most were honored elders, truly antediluvian creatures that had seen generations of mortal lives blink past like mayflies. I can’t imagine the horror they must have felt, knowing that the outside world had beaten down their doors, and was coming for them.

Some of the Vrasa survived, to their eternal shame. Enough to tell the Pale of the Qhoxul of the appalling offense, beyond all notion of sanity, that had been committed against them.

It was Gilead who rallied the shattered warriors of both Manses. Gilead, who led them in a blood-oath of dark and terrible vengeance. He vowed he would never rest, not until the Empire had been brought to its knees.

Until the damned souls of every member of House Dar-Isun was driven, screaming, into the howling darkness that lay beyond life.

The insult would be repaid, at any cost. Honor would be avenged.

This Gilead swore, on the living tetza of his ancestors. All would be made well: He would find Neloiala, the light of his life, and deliver her from the dread prison she languished within.

He would take her in his arms, and all that was ruined would be restored.

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Later in the feast, as the merriment slowed with drunken torpor, the time of pledging began.

You see, this wasn’t just about celebration and renewing the bonds between tribes. It was also a chance for many aspiring warriors to find employment, or for hard-bitten veterans to commit themselves to a new campaign.

Alliances could be fluid, in the Grazing Lands. While clan affiliations were the ultimate decider of loyalty, the horsemen of the Twenty-Six Tribes had a fearsome reputation as premiere light cavalry: It wasn’t uncommon for warbands to venture beyond the steppe, to sell their skills with horse, lance and recurve bow for a significant sum.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Those who covered themselves in glory, or at least plunder, tended to find much favor in the eyes of their clan - And, of course, the God. It was a great way of ensuring that the men of the tribes retained their edge with ever-renewing experience of modern warfare. Moreover, it prevented any one clan from becoming too isolated, which was always good if you wanted to know what your neighbors were getting up to.

Given the Graven Star’s recent windfall, I wasn’t surprised to see a near-constant stream of supplicants. The process was simple, comparatively: Petitioners would present themselves before Chieftain Shahin or one of his lieutenants, recounting their bona fides, explaining their earnest desire to fight beneath for the Graven Star, and negotiating the terms and conditions of their service.

If their pledge of loyalty was accepted, a shrine-priest would officiate the swearing-in. There’d be a manly hand-clasp, a round of toasts, and the new warrior would get a place at his war-leader’s table.

That way, it was easy to see who was especially desired as an employer, and who might drive a hard bargain. After all, there were only so many places at each table, and things could get competitive.

I had my own table, of course, beneath the banner of the God Himself. The sun-and-horns standard was an old one, one of the many designs workshopped by Tulgar the Invincible - It was the one the tribes had fought under while the nascent cult of the Horned Conqueror was still finding its footing, and held a certain place in the hearts of many.

At some point, it’d become associated with the priesthood, the clan-that-was-not-a-clan. It was symbolic, more than anything: A reminder of the compact between Tauruskhan and the legendary progenitor of the clans, one that bound them to His worship to this day.

It was considered something of a faux pas for a warrior to make pledge to Tulgar’s own banner. The Father-of-Tribes had been Tauruskhan’s own avatar, personally appointed by the Iron Hoof: Any warlord who took up his banner was, implicitly, claiming the same.

Back on Earth, claiming to be God’s own Chosen isn’t especially hard. It just requires a certain degree of self-belief (or self-delusion), the charisma to pull it off, and the panache to see it through.

After all, it’s not like there’s going to be any definitive word from On High, is there? In the end, it usually comes down to a popularity contest. Failing that, it’s all about who holds the bigger stick…Though the same could be said

On Phosphiach, however, where the Gods were very much real, one needed huge balls or blithe stupidity to openly defy them. As such, most aspiring war-leaders went to great lengths to avoid accidentally adopting elements from Tuigar’s own flag. Just in case someone saw it, and chose to take offense.

I’ve worked in intellectual property before. Preventing the dilution of one’s brand through terror was certainly something I’d never seen before, but I couldn’t deny it was effective.

All that being said, I was content to simply sit and watch the going-ons, with only Oloin to share my table…

-Until Ganezzar Man-Killer decided to drop by.

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In his gold and bronze wargear, the giant Altai tribesman was an exceptionally impressive specimen. His heroic proportions dwarfed even my own enhanced frame, and the feasting crowd parted before him like the waves before a ship’s prow.

He’d shaved his hair down to the stubble, except for a single dark topknot - It rose from his head like a great plume of horsehair, jet-black and bound with iron trophy-rings. Each one represented a victory over a prominent foe, and such a collection spoke for itself.

“Look alive, now,” Oloin muttered, as Ganezzar strode towards us. The old Godbinder looked a little nervous, and I could guess why: I’d broken Ganezzar’s jaw in our brief, abortive fight, and it occurred to me that he might still be a little upset over that.

If it came to it, I’d beat his ass again. But I would much rather not - I’d gotten lucky with a sucker punch, but I had a feeling that he was the kind of man you couldn’t fool twice.

“-I see him,” I said, under my breath. Sizing him up, as he drew close.

Even for a man of means, it must’ve cost Ganezzar a small fortune to set his jaw to rights. His kind healed fast, but it’d been less than a month - Only a minor miracle could have let him sidestep a long, agonizing convalescence, in favor of the shorter but rather more intense suffering of Tarushukan’s healing touch.

When you got down to it, war-gods were all the same. They’d heal you, certainly, but they’d make sure you remembered it. Either to remind you to do better next time, or because they just wanted to watch you squirm. One way or another, you didn’t get to walk again unchanged.

In fact, I sensed the hand of Praya at work. After all, who else could have arranged something like this?

For a moment, I met - and held - Ganezzar’s level gaze. His face was set in a careful mask, revealing nothing. Around us, a silence gathered: The sounds of revelry and rough good humor faded to a background hush, to be replaced by a different, sharper kind of intensity.

You could hear a pin drop.

I felt the instant stretch into infinity, as I said-

“Lo-”

“You beat me,” Ganezzar rumbled, rubbing ruefully at his chin. He grinned, wide, smiling without the slightest bitterness. “-Fair and square. No man has done that, not since I was a whelp.”

He nodded his big head, a low chuckle in his throat. There was a gravelly quality to his voice, like he’d been chewing rocks. Then again, given what he’d been through, I suppose it was better than the alternative.

I felt my chest unclench, the invisible vise of tension ebbing. An approving hum rose from all sides: Everyone loved a good sport, after all.

“As the Iron Hoof wills,” I said, lifting my tankard in salute. “What brings you to my table, Ganezzar-son-of-Torak?”

With the weighty thump of a falling axe, Ganezzar dropped to his knees. Caught off-guard, I blinked: This, I hadn’t seen coming.

“I pledge to you, Morgan Graven-Star,” he said, low but firm. “I would ride with you. Fight for you, in the God’s name.”

There was a frightening earnestness to his tone, as he stared up at me.

“My axe is yours, sulde. Wield it as you will.”

Now that got heads turning, as the whispering began. Normally, a reaver seeking employment would recite a litany of his deeds, going over the highlights of his career. The battles he’d fought in, the foes he’d triumphed over, the times he’d cheated death.

But someone of Ganezzar Man-killer’s calibre had no need to present his bona fides. I mean, his appearance spoke for itself: His fists were fully the size of my head. There was absolutely no doubt that he’d be one hell of an asset in a fight-

The only thing I couldn’t figure out was why.

Big bruisers like Ganezzar held a special place in the Altai, as they would in any warrior society. Being able to crush a man’s head like a grape meant that he was overqualified for the role, and he’d been rewarded accordingly.

Respect, position, his pick of women…Everything a full-blooded clansman of the Twenty-Six Tribes could ever want. Anything he could want, because the world was his oyster.

So why set it all aside to-

I followed his gaze, as those dark eyes stared right through me. Past me, really, to the banner that fluttered in the warm breeze.

Ah, I thought, as realization dawned.

-So that’s how it is.

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It should have been obvious, really. Ganezzar wanted something more, more than just being the greatest warrior of the Altai. Like all fools and heroes, he longed to be part of history. For his name to live forever, far beyond his allotted span of days.

To do something that mattered, to play a part in the shaping of history as it was struck out - hot and hard - on the anvil of fate.

For I carried the Bull-God’s most keenly-held desire with me, and anyone - anything - along for the ride would become part of that last and greatest of all tales.

Sometimes, it takes a moment for things to snap into perspective. To me, Phosphiach was merely a stepping-stone to something greater. After all, I’d been to other worlds before, and I knew - with rock-solid certainty - that there would be worlds yet-to-come. New worlds, with new magics, new adventures and yes, new Gods.

More than anything, all I wanted was to save my own life. Becoming the champion of Tauruskhan was just a means to an end - The pageantry of it, however, I could do without. The world would keep turning, with or without me, the same way the other five had.

But to Ganezzar, Phosphiach was all he knew. It was all he would ever know, barring a miracle. This mattered to him, in a way I could never, ever hope to understand.

It was a cause he’d give everything and anything for, like the countless generations before him.

The way Kayla, the Ihulian Horde and the sons of Rastuvia already had.

For a moment, just a moment, I felt the crushing weight of it all. The burden of expectation, the hopes of untold thousands, of history.

All of it, riding squarely on my shoulders.

The grand finale of a centuries-long epic, filled to bursting with swords, sorcery and mighty oaths. A star-studded cast of warriors, conquerors, priests and kings, give or take a few thousand spear-carriers.

And me. The perpetual understudy, thrust into the title role at the last minute. Wondering how I’d got here, and whether I was - in any way at all - ready for the challenge ahead.

That shook me, believe me. All I could think, right then, as Ganezzar knelt before me was:

You poor bastard.

You have no idea what you’re signing up for, do you?

It was customary, at this point, to give a speech that would capture the spirit of the undertaking. To proclaim how we would crush our enemies, see them driven before us, and hear the lamentations of their women.

Instead, all I said was:

“Make it heart-truth, or not at all.”

A murmur rose, from the gathered crowd. It was no small thing that I was asking for: It wasn’t uncommon for petitioners to claim that they’d ride with the warband through thick and thin, only to make an exit when the odds got bad. In a way, it was even expected - Every man had his limit, and a half-decent sulde would know when to cut his losses before things went too far.

What was uncommon, however, was holding them to it.

A heart-truth meant that you’d be there all the way, unto the end and the death. You swore it on your soul, and breaking that oath invited a terrible and agonizing doom.

To his credit, Ganazzar hesitated for mere moments. Then he raised his right hand, his axe-hand, and brought it to his heart.

“-I do pledge,” he said, his features as solemn as a graven mask. I accepted his homage with a nod, extending a hand for him to clasp.

Closing his great paw around mine, Ganazzar rose: Upright, he towered over me, but my enhancements meant I could support his weight without flinching.

“For the God, Morgan,” he rumbled, grey teeth bared in a smile.

“For the God,” I said, with all the bluff, hearty poise I could muster.

His grasp tightened, pulling me close. Our arms locked, bicep-to-bicep, in the brief but highly-symbolic test of strength known as the Bull’s Horns. Like a handshake, but with far more machismo.

For a moment, we clinched - Muscles tensing in silent effort, sinew popping as our arms strained. Ganazzar was an old hand at this, but Praya himself had taught me a few tricks of positioning and grip to make a good showing: I dug my feet into the ground, joints creaking alarmingly, and held on for dear life.

It made all the difference, believe me. Just as my arm was beginning to go numb, the first vein pulsing in my temple, the Man-killer’s mighty thews ceased to flex. Blessedly, that bone-crushing vise eased, merely becoming the iron grip of a farrier’s tongs.

I was, apparently, worthy of his service.

Around us, the crowd cooed and muttered, recognizing the moment’s import. Once again, honor had been satisfied: Two mighty souls had found their new places in the totem pole, with one firmly above and the other squarely below.

Same as it ever was.

----------------------------------------

There’s a saying I learned on Caldera, one that I’ve become quite fond of: Measure is unceasing.

The demon-haunted infernalists of the Wrack knew, better than anyone, that it’s not sufficient to prove yourself just once. The tests never end, not really: If you’re in a position of power, you can expect to have to show your mettle over and over again.

Don’t get me wrong - They didn’t consider that to be a bad thing. When it came to sorcery or high ritual, getting careless or sloppy meant disaster. The consequences tended to be immediate, horrific or fatal.

Most of the time, it was all three, and that was if you were lucky.

Then again, considering the ultimate fate of all sorcerers, I suppose ‘lucky’ was never part of the equation. All of them, every single soul who’d ever polluted the fabric of Creation by uttering a spell, were doomed to spend an eternity burning in the Thousand Hells as soon as they shuffled off the mortal coil.

As you can guess, this meant that they had a vested interest in staying alive. They took exacting care in whatever they did, and were quick to point fingers when they suspected someone wasn’t quite up to snuff.

What I’m getting at is this: You know the little testosterone-fueled display above? That wasn’t the first time I had to do it, and it wouldn’t be the last. For even though the issue of Tauruskhan’s champion had been settled, there were plenty of people who wanted a piece of me. Either to knock me down a few pegs, or to carve out a place in history for themselves.

Ganazzar was the first man to pledge his sword, but he wasn’t the last. A day later, I had a dozen men sworn to my banner - And that was after turning away scores.

As you may have guessed, once word got around that I was hiring, there was something of a rush to sign on. There were several fistfights and at least one stabbing that I knew of, all from men eager to jump the queue.

No-one died, but it was a close-run thing: At least one man would walk with a perpetual limp after, and the seeds of more than a few grudges were sown.

Fortunately, the shrine-priests were on-hand to turn it into a more formalized competition. Think of it as a cross between an equestrian event and a series of bare-knuckle fistfights. A kind of “You must be this tall to ride”, if you please.

You’re probably wondering - How did I draft my picks? Well, it was easier than you might expect. I recognized a few faces from the Summertime War, some of whom I’d bested before, and those I favored over all others.

Mostly, I wanted men whom I knew could take a punch, and who were good sports about the whole thing. If someone was willing to go through all that and still swear absolute loyalty…That was good enough for me.

Interestingly, the Graven Star took no part. I suspect it was an order from on-high: I may have fought with them, but I was the God’s, now. They had other, more worldly concerns to worry about, and they couldn’t risk weakening themselves further.

That, or they just didn’t like me.

Part of me expected to see Rarga Kul amid the petitioners, but he never showed. None of the Jarrow did, as a matter of fact. The Clan of Kings had decided to give me a wide berth, and I honestly couldn’t blame them.

It must’ve stung to have been knocked off their perch, after so long. For their chance at eternal glory to be snatched away, at the last moment, by some outsider.

But that’s life. One minute, you’re on top of the world - the next, someone’s taken a baseball bat to your kneecaps, and you never even saw it coming. All you can do is to grin and bear it, and roll with the punches as best you can.

At any rate, I didn’t discriminate. In short order, I had the Kubah twins (of the Nhaji) and Braze Jai of the Cloud Riders in my service, along with Zisithras and Kalich of Clan Mayank. Vorth of the Accomi was a late pick - I didn’t know much about him, but Maka the Younger spoke highly of the bronzed, taciturn archer and I wasn’t about to turn him away.

Who else? I didn’t know Layak, Uclid and Mowynk as well as I’d have liked to, but they’d distinguished themselves in the ceremonial games and I’d have been a fool to turn them down. All three were young and bright-eyed, almost painfully eager to please, hardly believing that they’d made it this far.

I could sympathize.

Rodo was an old hand at reaving. Too old, in fact: He’d seen nearly fifty summers, and - let me tell you - on the veldt, that was a long time. He gave his alliance freely, almost cheerfully, for he didn’t expect to live much longer and wanted to give a good account of himself before he reported to Tauruskhan’s halls for his eternal reward.

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, if we succeeded, Tauruskhan wasn’t long for the world. My guess is, he already knew, and he didn’t particularly care.

And then there was Nilquit. He was young, for a shrine-priest, but extraordinarily talented. According to Praya, he was one of the most gifted acolytes of his generation - To me, he seemed young and fierce, more like a warrior than a witch-priest, and disquietingly devout.

He’d gone so far as to tattoo his face with sacred script, a harrowing task he’d accomplished through careful application of a mirror, a hot needle, and extremely steady hands. It was as appalling as it’d been impressive, and it’d marked Nilquit for greater things.

After all, a man who could do that was capable of anything.

I say ‘man’, but in truth, he was little more than a boy. I’d have put him anywhere between fifteen to eighteen, but it was possible that he was malnourished or stunted. Still, he was steeped in the ways of the priesthood, and knew the rites, the catechisms and the litanies like the back of his own hand.

More, he could recite the tales from memory, and that was a useful thing to have.

I’m not much of a leader, but even I can recognize the importance of morale.

All-in-all, that made thirteen of us. At that time, I didn’t even consider the symbolism of the number: That was just how things shook out.

But it was an omen, and I probably should have seen it coming.

----------------------------------------

Another thing I should’ve noticed: Oloin got grumpier as the day went on. By nightfall, he was positively curmudgeonly, swigging down sap-beer like water. It may as well have been water, for all the effect it was having on him - He was deep in his cups, but he spoke like he was stone-cold sober.

“Quite a crew you’ve put together,” he said, taking a hit from his pipe. “You sure you have what it takes to handle them, boy?”

I gave him a sidelong look. It was late, enough that most of the revelers had retired for the night. I’d sent Rodo and Nilquit off to ensure that we were amply-supplied for the long trek ahead, though it’d be a day or two before everything was in order.

The Cult of the Iron Hoof was footing the bill, of course. The God demanded nothing less.

“What’s it to you?” I said, my curiosity piqued.

It wasn’t like Oloin would be joining us, of course. After all, he’d been amply rewarded for his service: I fully expected him to take his cargo of furs, amber, drugs and ivory to some far-off city, where he could make a tidy fortune. He was well set-up for a comfortable retirement, his every whim catered to…but the prospect didn’t seem to please him in the slightest.

If anything, it seemed to have pissed him off.

“You know how far it is to the First City, eh? With His own brand on your hide? Further than you think, boy. Pah!”

He narrowed his eyes, the crows-feet on his wrinkled features more pronounced than ever.

“You’re leading them to their deaths, boy. You know that, don’t you?”

I did. Believe me, I did.

Even then, I knew - with a cold, quiet certainty - that none of us would ever see the Grazing Lands again. Just getting to Adrijanopolj would be a tall order: Thanks to Praya, I had a very good idea of the dangers that lay ahead.

Being filled with Tauruskhan’s own power made me a target. It was like lighting a signal fire, one that could be seen for miles in every direction. Predators great and small, would be drawn to me like a beacon, made ravenous by the chance to gorge themselves on His essence.

If I wanted to do right by Ganazzar, Kalich and all the rest, I’d tell them to fuck right off. Their lives would be immeasurably better for it. If nothing else, they’d be a lot longer. Quality may beat quantity most of the time, but a few more years are always nice.

But there was safety in numbers, or - at least - company in death.

“They know the risks,” I said, shortly. “We all do. Getting to the Spire? That’s worth anything. It’s worth everything.”

I cast my gaze skyward, where stars shed their fitful light behind great banks of cloud.

“It’s what He wants, after all. If you’ve got a problem with that…Well, I guess you’ve got a problem with Him.”

Oloin didn’t answer, not right away. He was silent, long enough that I began to wonder if something was wrong. When I looked back, the old Godbinder was chewing his lip, a strange expression on his face. His pipe hung loose in one hand, scrawny fingers curling around his battered staff.

“Maybe I do,” he muttered. “Maybe I do.”

He fixed me with a gimlet eye, withered lips pressing together in a thin line.

“Maybe He should be held to account, eh? All those centuries spent ruling His people, making them follow His laws, taking their children to raise as His own…All that, and He just walks away? Ha!”

Spittle flecked the corners of Oloin’s mouth, running down to his chin.

“Off to better things, too. In His mind, He’s already up there. Conquering the stars, and getting up to Gods alone know what. Never a thought for the mess He’ll be leaving behind.”

He thumped his staff against the ground, as if the weighty thud lent strength to his argument.

“And none of the People can see that. They love him for it, fools that they are. All He’s done is take and take from them, and now - now He’s bored of the games - He’s going to drink them dry, and throw them aside. Like a sot with an empty cup, I don’t doubt.”

I stared. This was the first time I’d seen Oloin like this, over something that wasn’t wine, gold or his craft. I wasn’t sure I liked it: This outpouring of emotion was actively unnerving, a world away from the sly, venal old charlatan who always seemed to have one more scheme, one more grift, bubbling away somewhere.

“That’s just the way of things,” I said, trying to calm him. “I think you’ve had too much to drink-”

“You think I like living this way, boy?” Oloin said, his lips twisting in a sneer, and I thought: Oh shit.

“Forty years. Forty years, and I remember it clear as day. All because I wouldn’t bend the knee - Wouldn’t let them take our daughter! They said it was against His will, that she belonged to Him…After all we’d done for them!”

His scrawny shoulders heaved, gnarled hands twisting his staff so fiercely I feared it would snap.

“Tell me: What kind of God does that, eh? What kind of God punishes a man and his wife, for-”

The old Godbinder’s words caught in his throat, as he fumbled for his flask. He took a long draught, a desperate pull, like it held the elixir of forgetfulness.

“It killed her, you know. They let us go, but not knowing…It ate her up from within. She withered away, day after day. She never ever stopped asking for our little girl.”

He wiped his mouth with a shaking hand, staring into the distance at something only he could see.

“What kind of God does that to His own priestess?”

I winced. Now, there was a lot I didn’t know about the faith of Tauruskhan. Praya’s crash-course in thaumaturgy had been focused more on the practical aspects of the religion, rather than the esoteric ones-

But I was pretty sure this was blasphemy. And while I knew Phosphiach’s Gods rarely took a direct hand in things, I was beginning to wonder if I should keep an eye out for imminent thunderbolts.

“You can’t blame yourself for-” I said, trying to calm him down.

For we were veering into dangerous territory, now, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the rest.

----------------------------------------

Over time, that had become my guiding principle: If I didn’t need to know, I didn’t want to know.

For me, professional apathy was more than just a way of life. It was a carefully honed skill, as essential to survival as knowing how to throw a proper punch.

It took work, believe me. When I’d started out, I’d learned - very quickly - that my comfortable, thoroughly mundane white-collar existence had not prepared me for the realities of my new career.

Across the vast span of the cosmos, I’d seen more human misery than I’d ever imagined possible. Not just the obvious, mind you - cities on fire, armies on the march, the sound a gut-shot man makes - but smaller, more personal horrors.

A famine so extreme, vermin ate other vermin for sustenance.

Men selling their children into slavery, to spare them death by starvation.

A brothel staffed by the walking dead, all-too-aware of the indignities inflicted upon them as their bodies and minds rotted away.

The bleak despair in the eyes of lamed slaves, left limping from the tendon-severing cut that would mark them all their days.

Things like that stayed in my mind, no matter how much I tried to push them down.

I’d tried to grow a thicker skin, but even that had limits. No matter how inured to it all that I wanted to be, that I told myself I was, each world still found new ways to rattle me.

Everyone’s got problems. Keep that shit to yourself, and we’ll get along fine.

----------------------------------------

I’d known Oloin for nearly a year, now. He’d taken life as it came, with a kind of cynical good humor: Like he didn’t have a high opinion of anyone, and they rarely let him down in that aspect.

This, however, was different. This was deeply personal to him, and had been gnawing away at him for some time.

More alarmingly, I was getting the feeling that he expected me to actually do something about it.

“Blame myself? Why, by the ten thousand names of Yarra, would I ever do that?”

There was an ugly, flat note to the old Godbinder’s voice, his nostrils flaring. The carved-bone charms that hung from his headdress glowed with ghostly blue light, lending a ghastly pallor to his features. They were the same ones he’d hung up in his yurt, as a ward against prying eyes.

“He’s the one I blame, boy. Not just Him, but every one of His rancid ilk. They feed on us, you know? Those bloated fuckers gorge Themselves on our blood, like a tick on a cow’s ass-”

Here it comes, I thought, as Oloin scowled up towards the distant fires. There was a purpose in him that I hadn’t seen before, something that made the hairs on my neck stand on end.

“They’re Gods, old man,” I said, putting a hand on his shoulder, right on his ratty, worn-out old pelt. “I’m sorry about your daughter. Really, I am. But getting mad isn’t going to help matters.”

Especially not mine.

“Look, I know you’re angry. But there’s nothing to be done, and-”

His fingers dug into my arm, his eyes suddenly wide and bright.

“But there is,” Oloin rasped, a kind of eagerness in his rusty voice. “You could do it, boy. You could beat Them all.”

And here it came.

“-I’ve seen you fight. I know the things you can do. The champions of all the Gods, every one of those rotting bastards, think they can beat you? Pah! You’d tear through them like a wolf through sheep!”

I could have pulled free from Oloin’s desperate clutch, but it’d have meant breaking his arm. I tried to ease him back, but he kept his grip - Dragging me into an awkward hug, his booze-heavy breath hitting me like a squall, as he hissed into my ear.

“You could do it! Burn the Exigence! Put an end to all this!”

My blood ran cold. He’d been planning this right from the beginning, I realized: This was what he’d been hoping for, all along. He’d seen in me the potential for a weapon, one that could deliver his vengeance unto the Gods - The Ihulian Horde, the sacking of Rastuvia’s temple, the long trek to the Grazing Lands…

He’d been testing my mettle. Making sure I was the right tool for the job.

And I could do it, I knew. The God-Maker was likely protected against every harm that could be found on Phosphiach, but I had powers that came from worlds beyond. I’d yet to meet anything that could withstand a distortion blast at full charge - Hell, Oneira’s gun might be able to do it.

In one fell swoop, I could snatch victory from the Gods. Put their prize beyond their reach, forever. Leaving them wailing at the threshold, doomed to eventual diminishment and oblivion.

If enough of their champions died, it would happen even faster. They’d put so much of themselves into their Chosen, every death would mean the loss of centuries of carefully-hoarded power.

There was just one problem.

“And then what?” I said, prising Oloin’s hand free. “What happens when Tauruskhan realizes I’ve fucked Him over? What happens when He decides to take it out of my hide?”

“Why do you think I chose you? You’re a world-walker, boy! You could be beyond His grasp, before-”

“And I’d still be dying,” I shot back, and shoved him off, so hard he stumbled. It took more care than I’d expected: If I’d used my full strength, I’d have crumpled his chest like a drink carton.

“Piss off every God at once, including Him? Save everyone but myself? Great plan, you old fool. No wonder you waited ‘til now to tell me. If I’d known before, I’d have laughed in your fucking face-”

Picking himself up, Oloin leaned on his staff, clutching at his ribs.

“So? You’d still have a skinful of His own power. He can’t take that away from you. You’d be no worse off than when you started, and you’d have done the right thing. You could stop all this! You don’t even like the bastard!”

“I like being alive,” I said, thumping a fist against my chest. “You think I care about anyone on this shit-heap? You think anyone will give a fuck about me, once I’m dead?”

That gave him pause, like I’d slapped him in the face.

For it was reasonable to struggle, to suffer, perhaps even die, in order to see a great wrong righted, for justice done. But only - only - if one had a stake in what was to come.

I had no kin on Phosphiach. No clan.

Nothing to tie me to this place, and no interest in its future.

Nothing, at least, that was worth a slow, agonizing death from cellular degeneration.

“-I would,” Oloin said. Sullenly, like I’d forced the confession out of him.

“I would, boy.”

You know, I think he meant it.

But he’d lost me, and he knew it. I could see him shrivel up from the realization, right before my eyes. On some level, he must have known that it had always been a long shot, that there’d never been more than the slimmest chance.

But, for a time, he’d dared to hope.

Now hope, however faint, was gone. He’d thought he knew me, only to find that I wasn’t the man he’d thought I was - Which, I suppose, made it more bitter, not less.

The question was: Now what?

----------------------------------------

We stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, still in the flame-lit dark. Each waiting for the other to make the first move, knowing that it might mean the end for one of us.

Oloin’s eyes gleamed in his wrinkled face. They slid down to my hand, resting on the grip of my gun.

“You going to kill me, boy?”

I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t considering it. I certainly couldn’t trust him, not any longer: While he didn’t know all of my secrets, he knew enough to cause trouble later down the line.

More, Oloin was a shrewd rat-terrier of a man, tough as an old boot. Who knew what he might get up to, if I let him run free?

Death solved all problems. Death was certain.

A dead man ceased to be a complication.

And yet-

“No,” I said, and moved my hand away. “-But I might just tell the High Priest.”

A short, sharp hiss of breath. “Tell him what, exactly?”

I bit back my first reply, keeping my voice carefully level. “You want a list, old man? Or just the parts that matter?”

“Huh.” A pause. “I don’t think he’d like that very much.”

Nor did I.

“That’s why you should start running,” I said. “I’ll give you a head-start. Best I can do, and it’s better than you deserve.”

“‘Deserve’? What’s deserve got to do with it?”

His snarl bared teeth, lips peeling back from his gums.

“You’re a real piece of work, Morgan. After all I’ve done for you-”

I shrugged. Let the sting of insult roll off me, like water from a duck’s back.

I knew what I was, after all.

“You’ve got until dawn,” I said, but Oloin was already backing away - one foot after another, keeping me in view the entire time - until he was half-lost in the gloom.

Then he turned, and bounded down the stony slope with the spryness of a much younger man. He ran with the absolute abandon of a man being pursued by wolves, who knew that a moment’s hesitation meant an awful, flesh-ripping end.

I could have killed him, then.

I could have shot Oloin in the back as he turned his back on me, as the old Godbinder fled into the looming dark. I didn’t, despite the temptation: I didn’t have it in me to kill him, not yet, though I had the distinct suspicion I would wish that I had.

For even then, I knew that I would regret staying my hand.

The warrior-saints of Vairocana teach the importance of totality. That when the moment of decision comes, you strike. Swiftly, ruthlessly, and utterly without remorse. Everything that you have, everything that you are, must be bent towards the singular goal of victory.

Mercy is a luxury. Mercy is cowardice.

Instead, I said - “You’re welcome, you old bastard,” and strode off into the night.

TO BE CONTINUED