Together they turned away from the shore, taking the path through the thick forest back toward Ang. Bardiya gradually loped along while Onna used his walking stick to limp beside him, taking two strides for every one of the giant’s. In a matter of moments Onna was out of breath. The dark skin on his cheeks gained a reddish hue. Fearful that the older man’s heart would give out, Bardiya offered to carry him, but Onna refused. Onna was a proud man, a loner for nearly all of his fifty-seven years, more content to spend his days aboard his tattered cog, Kind Lady, than to break bread with his fellow man. The murder of Bardiya’s parents by the elves, Karak’s march west, and the constant fear of a lurching death had changed that. Not that Bardiya was surprised. It seemed that everything changed after the brother gods clashed in the shadow of the Temple of the Flesh.
You should have stayed your course, Ashhur, the giant thought. Had you remained true to your teachings, we would still have peace.
He shook his head and pushed through the final copse of tall evergreens as Ang came into view. The village sprawled out before him, tiny cottages haphazardly dotting a landscape of pines, tropical broad-leafed trees, and lush green grass. His people greeted him as he walked through the settlement, the fear plain on their faces when they peered toward the north and heard the steady thrum, thrum, thrum.
The villagers gathered in the center square, a wide, circular thatch of grass surrounding a giant fire pit. Gordo Hempsman, Tuan Littlefoot, and Allay and Yorn Loros were leading the charge, urging the frightened citizens to stay calm as they congregated. Bardiya and Onna remained on the outskirts of the square, allowing the stragglers to scurry past. It was only when all of Ang was present that he, the spiritual leader of Ker, took his place at the head of the assembly. Onna fell into the swelling ranks of his brethren, leaning against his walking stick once he found a suitable place to rest.
A myriad of dark, alarmed faces stared up at the giant-men, women, and children alike. Bardiya gazed on them and frowned. There were at least three hundred in attendance, which seemed like a copious number, but he knew better. Ang had once been home to a thousand strong, living, breathing, praying, and breeding by the cliffs overlooking the Thulon Ocean. Yet over the past three weeks, those numbers had dwindled as frightened individuals left the village, seeking safety in the desert, the plains, and the crags and cliffs bordering the water’s edge-anywhere but the one place Karak was sure to visit when he invaded their homeland. Some departed under cover of night, but most chose to leave in full display of their fellow Kerrians, words of warning on their lips and scowls on their faces.
Again Bardiya thought of Ki-Nan, and his frown deepened. The last time he’d seen his friend was on the craggy beach when the Stonewood elves had shown him the massive crates of weapons nestled between the rocks. “Gifts from Celestia,” as Aullienna Meln, the little princess of Stonewood, had called them. He and Ki-Nan fought about those weapons after the elves departed, and his friend stormed away in a huff. At the time Bardiya hadn’t thought much of it; he and Ki-Nan had developed an adversarial relationship when it came to what they believed to be right and wrong. Despite his friend’s words to the contrary, he expected to see Ki-Nan again that night at supper, sitting down and laughing off the disagreement as he always did.
But that never happened. Ki-Nan stayed away, his hateful, blasphemous words echoed by all who left after him. It is his doing, thought Bardiya. He is stealing my people’s hearts and minds, leading them on a path to ruin. He closed his eyes and prayed that they would all come back into the embrace of Ashhur’s love, prayed that all of Ang could share the burden of horror soon to come, but when he opened his eyes again, all he saw was the same small congregation. They fidgeted and squirmed, sniveled and hitched, nervous as a herd of antelope surrounded by a family of sandcats.
These are my people. I must comfort them.
Bardiya raised his arms above his head, casting an imposing shadow over his flock.
“Brothers and sisters,” he said, his voice booming and confident. If only they could see how frightened I am on the inside. “Dire times have come to our land. You hear Karak’s soldiers now approaching from the north. When they come, we will face them as one, with Ashhur’s grace in our hearts, as our deity always intended.”
“Is it really them?” shouted one voice.
“They want to kill us!” cried another.
“You said they would leave us alone!” accused a third.
Bardiya shook his head and held his arms out wide. He wished he could hold them all in a single, protective embrace.
“You are wrong, Grotto. I said Karak may leave us be. I do not speak in absolutes, unless I am speaking of the grace of the gods.”
“But Karak’s a god,” said Onna. He leaned forward against his walking stick for emphasis.
“He is.”
“Does he still have grace if he wants us dead?” asked little Sasha, her black curls glistening with sweat, though the air was cool.
Damn you, Ki-Nan. In a time not long passed, such concepts would never have crossed his people’s minds. There was no sickness, and none of them had died before their time. Yet that all changed when the renegade elves murdered Bardiya’s parents in the mangold grove, coupled with the news of Ashhur and Karak’s battle after that. At first he’d tried to allay their fears, but as time went on and his relationship with his friend soured, he saw that more and more of the populace not only understood these concepts but also felt the fear and doubt they caused. Someone had been feeding it to them, preaching violence and terror just as he taught love and forgiveness. Why could you not leave well enough alone, my friend? Why did you not trust me?
“All gods are glorious,” he told them. “All gods are mighty, the images of perfection.” He swallowed hard, not wanting to say the next part. “But that perfection is only an image. While a god’s ideals are flawless, the gods themselves are not. Gods can be wrong. Ashhur was wrong for turning his back on his flawless teachings, and Karak is wrong for marching into our lands.”
A collective gasp came over the crowd.
“But if the gods are amiss, what can we do?” someone wailed.
“We turn the tables. We teach them both the glory of grace and peace.”
A couple began arguing, followed by a pair of brothers. Then a group of elder women, their hair white as down, joined the fray, and soon the clamor of the throng overtook that of the approaching force. Bardiya tried to call out for them to stop, but they were deaf to him. A fist flew, striking Yorn Loros in the jaw. The violence of the display froze Bardiya. He had never seen his people like this before. He knew not how to react.
Just then he spotted Gordo Hempsman on the edge of the assembly, leaning heavily on his cane while his wife Tulani and daughter Keisha walked beside him. The family of three had been the only survivors of Ethir Ayers’s attack on the mangold grove that claimed Bardiya’s parents; Gordo’s limp was a result of a wound he’d received there.
The three of them reached the giant’s side. Keisha craned her neck to look up at him. Her eight-year-old body was tiny in contrast to his, no more than a fly that he could crush with a single hand, and yet the courage reflected in her eyes made her look as colossal as Celestia herself.
Gordo caught his eye next, then Tulani. The family nodded to him and faced the crowd. Bardiya could not hear Keisha as she began singing, but when her parents joined her, the thin vibrato of Tulani’s voice broke above the din. Bardiya listened to the words, let them envelop him-a sermon of Ashhur, sung to the sweet tune of a lullaby. He began to sing with them, and soon the angst of the crowd broke. One by one, the residents of Ang turned their attention to the singers, falling silent, allowing their voices to flutter across the plains, through the trees, into their hearts. At first only a few joined them in singing while the rest watched sorrowfully, but soon nearly all of those gathered in the square had their chins lifted into the air, their mouths opening and closing as they sang Ashhur’s words of love.