Date: Sun, 30 Jun 2013 16:14:47 -0400
From: M Patroclus <thephallocrat@gmail.com>
Subject: Marked By The Gods Chapter 2

"Marked By the Gods"
A Myth in Eight Parts

By ThePhallocrat (email: thephallocrat@gmail.com)

PART TWO

The years had barely touched her, and Commander Damek found himself
wondering with his characteristic cynicism what exotic paints and make-ups
she had discovered to hide her advancing age. Certainly Damek himself
looked not a day younger than his fifty-odd years - he had seen himself in
a mirror often enough and knew it to be true. Graying hair, wrinkled and
sun-beaten skin, eyes tired from too many campaigns and battles. He made no
effort to compose his appearance for beauty was not a virtue for a soldier,
and if anything the men respected the ugly commander more than the pretty
one. Ugly men are best suited to be warriors, he reflected. Had he been
born more attractive perhaps he would have found another calling.

Still, he had done something right to land such a famed beauty in Calla,
his wife. Whatever tricks or, he thought with a smile, female sorcery she
employed to maintain her youth, they did their job admirably. Her
strawberry hair still flowed as thick and lovely as on the day they had
met. Her skin was as smooth and ivory as the day they had wed. And her lips
were as full and red as the day, so many years ago, when she had told him
to leave and never to see her again.

It was the memory of that day that hung in the air with great weight,
though not a word had yet been spoken.

He poured her a cup of wine, and she murmured her thanks before taking a
sip.

"Well," she said at last, considering him with a mysterious look on her
face, "I hear congratulations are in order. You have proved victorious at
Nathar. Another conquest to add to your impressive military career."

He snorted, certain there was sarcasm in her words though her tone sounded
genuine enough. There was too much bitterness of old for him to take
anything she said at face value. "I did what had to be done," he replied,
"I may have taken the city but the campaign continues. We are still at
war. You should not have come, it is not safe."

She laughed, and for a moment Damek could hear the carefree laughter of the
girl who had stolen his heart so many lifetimes ago. He had been just a
young soldier. So young, and so stupid. "I do not fear for my life, I
assure you," she smiled, "Not anymore. Well. How fare you, husband? Your
health is well I take it?"

Damek's mouth twisted into a sour grimace. "Am I to believe you came all
this way to trade civilities? What do you want?"

"Always the blunt and tactless soldier. I found it charming, once. I ask
after your health as a subtle invitation for you to ask after mine. I
should have realized that subtlety would be lost on you. I do not know what
I was thinking."

"Are you ill then? All the more reason not to have undertaken this
journey."

"You would be correct," Calla replied, taking another sip of wine, "Such
strain would certainly complicate my recovery, if recovery were
possible. Alas, in the present case, it seems it is not. Or so the finest
physicians of the Empire have told me."

Damek froze, his tongue suddenly thick. The tent seemed to swirl around
him. "What was that?"

She smiled sadly and brushed her hand against his cheek. "How pale you got
just now. Oh, Damek, it is gratifying to know that after everything you
really do still care. That will make this much more pleasant. I knew I had
to see you one last time, and now I know I was right."

"How..." his voice caught. Where was the confident voice of the commander
now? "How long do you have?"

"Difficult to say," she replied, turning her back to him. "A year or less,
depending. No, I don't expect you to come visit me and I'm not here to ask
for money or anything like that. I came because I wanted to tell you and I
thought a letter the wrong way to do it."

"You are not well," Damek said, "I would have understood."

"Oh not that," she said, shaking her head and laughing again, "had my
illness been all then I may not have had word sent to you until I was
dead. As an afterthought, really. My final demonstration of how little you
matter in my life now. Something bitter like that. How silly how long we
bear grudges, but it can't be helped you know. No, there's something else I
want to tell you."

"Something... else?" Damek shook his head. She was dying, what in the name
of the Gods could there be to talk about besides that?

"When we split," she said, "I was very angry with you. I wanted to deprive
you of happiness. I tell you this so you will know why I did what I
did. Why I never told you about your son."

"My...." Damek reeled again as though struck. Then he swore, loudly. "You
heartless bitch!"

"Yes, yes. I am. I came to terms with that long ago." She smiled again, a
smile so serene it wrenched the old commander's heart. "When I found out
about my sickness I knew I had to see you one last time and tell you the
secret I have been keeping all these years. You have a son. He is a man
grown. He is a soldier like you. He fights for the Emperor in your war."

"A soldier." Damek sighed. "Naturally. What else could he have been, with
my blood in him? It is my family curse. Very well, I am sure I can get him
transferred away from the front lines. That's why you've come, isn't it? I
can protect him after you are gone. What is the name of his commanding
officer?"

At this she smiled, widely and with deep pleasure. "Commander Damek," she
said, and after a moment Damek realized she was not calling his name, but
answering his question. She said nothing further, and with sudden insight
he knew she wouldn't no matter how he threatened or raged. He stared at
her, stunned, and she smiled back. Her final revenge, he knew, was
complete.  ______________________________________________________________

"Quiet now," Joren said. Calder could hear the man's breathing slow and
willed his own to follow suit. He felt like he should be scared, but he was
gripping Joren's hand and it wasn't trembling. If the older man was not
afraid, Calder wouldn't be either. Of course, it was easier being blind, in
a way, since he couldn't see any danger. Instead he trusted his protector
utterly, his complete faith in Joren had become comforting.

"They've gone," Joren said after a moment. "Probably just travelers like
us, but best to stay unheeded just in case. Let's move a bit further off
from the road, and then we can get some sleep. Sound good?"

Calder nodded. "Whatever you say, my friend." Joren squeezed his hand, then
helped him to his feet and led him on. Calder's feet crunched on grasses
and leaves, much more treacherous footing than back in the city. Joren was
careful, whispering out warnings of any obstacles in their path, but Calder
still wasn't used to be blind and stumbled several times.

"I wish I'd found us horses back in Nathar," Joren lamented, and not for
the first time.

"You did your best," Calder said reassuringly.

"The damned army took them all," Joren explained. "Here, this spot should
be good. We'll eat and then get some sleep for a bit. No fire,
though. Wouldn't want to attract the wrong kind of attention. Now that the
army has headed out, there's sure to be some chaos in their wake. Robbers
and bandits and the like."

"Whose army attacked Nathar?" Calder asked, when they were chewing on some
of the dried meat the temple had provided them.

"The Emperor's," Joren answered, then grunted ruefully, "Well, one of the
Emperors."

"Is there more than one?"

"Depends on who you ask. There used to be just one, but he died a few years
back. He had two sons, you see. Twins. Both wanted to be the next
ruler. Some cities followed one brother, some the other. So now there's all
this fighting."

"Who is winning?" Calder asked.

"Does it matter? We're all losing." Joren sounded upset. Angry, even.

"Did the soldiers kill my family?" Calder asked after a moment.

Joren was quiet. "Yes," he said.

"But why? Were they soldiers too?"

"No. It's difficult to explain but... there was a siege of the city, you
see. The soldiers who were attacking were very tired and many of them
died. So when Nathar finally fell, a lot of built-up anger was
unleashed. There was a lot of violence against civilians, looting and
worse. It's called sacking - it isnt right, but when soldiers have suffered
that much they start thinking they deserve to do whatever they want to
their defeated foes, things they'd never do normally."

"So my parents didn't do anything wrong?"

"They lived in the wrong city, a city that declared for the wrong
side. That's all the soldiers needed for justification."

"Is that why the Dark God cursed me? Because I was on the wrong side too?"

Joren pulled Calder close and wrapped his cloak around the two of them, and
the blind young man could hear his protector sigh. "I don't know. Enough
talk now, let's get some sleep."

And Calder did sleep, after a while. It wasn't a particularly cold night,
and Joren's cloak kept the two of them warm enough. Sleep came, and with
it, dreams. Again, the vision of flames, and the angel of death with his
twin swords dripping blood, coming for him. Calder ran from the monster,
but he couldn't get away, he was just not fast enough. As the swords
lowered with deadly speed, he burst from sleep into the waking world to
find a hand clamped over his mouth. He was about to scream when Joren's
voice whispered into his ear.

"Quiet," the man said, "Somebody is coming."

Calder forced his breathing to still and his heart to slow its pace. Then,
suddenly, he could hear it: the sound of footsteps in the distance,
snapping twigs and leaves, growing louder. Slowly, Joren removed his hand
and rose to his feet. Calder stayed put on the ground, curled up into a
ball in fear and listening as attentively as he could while staying as
quiet as possible. He could hear Joren unpacking something from his bags,
then stepping away even further from their small camp.

Suddenly, Joren spoke, so loud that Calder jumped. "Who's there?"

A strange voice, a bit further away, responded. "Well, what have we here? A
deserter?"

"Refugees," Joren replied, "We've nothing worth stealing. Move on and let
us be."

"Right," came another voice, this one in a different direction. Calder
trembled - were they totally surrounded? "Refugees don't wear army
uniforms. What have you got there?"

"It's a kid," said the first voice, laughing. "Pretty young thing. You in
love, deserter?"

"They're eloping!" joked a third, new voice, "It's so romantic!"

The others barked in rough laughter, coming even closer now.

"I'm warning you," Joren said, his voice a quiet growl.

"Look out, boys," said the first voice, "Lover boy here is going to
challenge us!"

"Get rid of him. I want to take his boytoy for a spin."

"Come on, then, deserter. Let's see if you even know how to use those,
coward."

Suddenly, all the voices were silent save for the sound of laboured breath
and grunts. There were feet scuffling on the earth, and the occasional
clang of metal on metal. Shouts of surprise, gasps, and then a scream. A
pained curse, too low to make out clearly, then a wet gurgle. Then utter
silence once again.

Footsteps came closer to Calder, and instinctively the young man lashed out
with clenched fists.

"Easy, easy," Joren said, "It's alright. It's over."

Calder gasped with relief. "What... what happened?"

Joren did not respond, but started packing up their meager supplies
instead. Calder caught the scent of something new in the air, something
metallic and sweet, and knew immediately without knowing how he knew that
it was blood.
______________________________________________________________________________

Rannell Kent had just gotten dressed for the day when the messenger arrived
at the Prince's tent. He barely looked up long enough from lacing up his
boots to say, "Yes? What is it?"

"Urgent message for the Prince," the man said, "From the Emperor."

"His Grace has not yet risen," Kent replied, "But if you will hold for one
moment I will awaken him."

The messenger's eyes widened, and he took in the Guardian of the Flame with
a new, appraising stare. Kent sighed at that familiar look. Those generals
and dignitaries who traveled with the Prince's forces had long since grown
used to seeing the Guardian in the Prince's tent at all hours of the day
and night. Their curiosity or amusement or disgust at their royal leader's
fascination with Kent had long since been spent. The messenger before him
was fresh from the capitol and no doubt scandalized by the implications of
Kent's presence. It did not matter. There were whispers throughout the army
filtering, no doubt, all the way back to the homeland - thus the Guardian
of the Flame already fully expected to face the Emperor one day to answer
for his actions. But that was a worry for another time.

Turning away, Kent slipped through the curtain that covered the Prince's
sleeping area. He was naked and uncovered, soundly asleep and drooling onto
a silk pillow. He looked more the foolish boy than a prince, Kent
reflected, and despite himself he could not prevent an affectionate smile
from growing on his lips. There was so much potential in the lad, that was
the most aggravating part. His father was sure to be the winner in this war
- once Kadnaris was conquered that would be certain. Thus, Tytus would one
day be the ruler of the entire Empire. And he could be the kind of leader
the people needed after such a divisive time, or at least that was Rannell
Kent's secret hope.

With a gentle nudge, the Guardian roused his liege into the waking
world. Tytus blinked wearily up at him, then grinned with impish desire and
raised his head off the bedding for a kiss. Kent leaned back
apologetically. "Your Grace, there is a messenger here. From your father."

The Prince's face changed immediately, the eagerness draining away to be
replaced with an anxious pallor. He rose at once, wrapping a robe about his
nakedness and splashing his face with water from a basin the corner.

"Stay here," Tytus said. Kent, who had come to know his liege like a second
self, understood at once and nodded. The young man walked through the
curtain.

"Welcome," Kent could hear the prince say, "What news of my father?"

The other man cleared his throat uncomfortably. "He sends his greetings and
asks what has caused the delay in your forces. You were expected to have
reached the Green River ford by now."

"We have been awaiting the arrival of Commander Damek and his expeditionary
forces," the prince replied. Tytus sighed and shook his head. This paltry
attempt at misdirection would not work.

"Damek was to join up with the other forces at the ford, as previously
discussed," the man said, clearly struggling to find a balance between
conveying his master's sentiments and attempting not to offend the Imperial
heir. "Your Grace, I saw signs of festivity in the camp, including drunken
soldiers."

Though he could not see his lord's face, Kent knew it had gone pale again,
knew as well that his bottom lip had stiffened in childish defiance. "A
minor celebration," he said, clearly defensive, "to commemorate the fall of
Nathar and to improve morale."

"The Emperor ordered no such celebration."

"The order came from me," the Prince said, annoyed and frightened, though
he hid his fear well. Perhaps only one who knew him as well as Kent did
could have sensed it.

"So I shall report to the Emperor, then," the man said, and the hint of a
threat was unmistakable. "He bids you make full haste to join him at the
Green River at once."

Kent felt himself jump in alarm, and heard a similar shock in Tytus's voice
as he responded. "My father has left the capitol?"

"I believe he has decided to oversee the siege of Kadnaris personally. He
is at the ford already, awaiting the presence of his armies."

"If I had known... No, I am Chosen of the Flame, it is my command...!"
Tytus began, losing all composure. Kent stiffened and drew a deep breath,
fearing another tantrum, but at the last moment he heard the prince catch
himself. "Very well. We will depart at once and march for the river at
double pace. Inform my father he will not wait long."

"Very good, Your Grace. I wish you well," the man added, lamely, as though
apologizing for standing in the middle of this familial dispute. Kent
certainly did not envy his position. The clink of armor indicated the
messenger had left, and suddenly the prince appeared, his face red.

"He is taking my command!" Tytus raged.

"Your Grace..."  Kent began, but his liege interrupted.

"No, Rannell," he snapped, "Don't start with your lectures. You were right
about the celebration, and don't think I don't know you'll be eager to tell
my father all about how you tried to talk me out of it."

"You cannot think me so disloyal."

"You won't have to put up with much longer, you'll be happy to hear," the
boy moaned,throwing himself face down onto the bedding, "My father will
judge me a failure, despite our successes. He's only ever seen me as a
failure, and I was a fool to think otherwise.  He'll take the title of
Chosen for himself, then you'll guard him and be done with me and I'll
never see you again."

"You are Chosen of the Flame," Kent said sternly, "I will serve you and
only you. Your father has bodyguards enough. I am your man, until my dying
breath."

At last Tytus' rage and misery stilled, as he stared up at Kent in
shock. "You mean that, don't you?"

"I do."

And the spoiled, impatient, and beautiful young prince could no longer hold
back his tears as he threw himself into his guardian's arms.
____________________________________________________________________________

It was an uncomfortably hot day, and Mouse was drenched in sweat. He would
kill, literally kill, for just a sip of water, just the smallest taste of
it on his lips. That, unfortunately, was not likely to happen. The guards
who rode horses alongside the long train of slaves were quick enough to use
their whips on any who slowed or showed signs of insolence, but they would
only offer their skins of water to those who collapsed from the heat. Mouse
did not wish to give them the pleasure of laughing at his weakness, swore
he'd rather die of thirst than allow that to happen.

It was a month-long journey to the mines and now, one week since departing
from Prince Tytus the Brat's encampment, Mouse wondered if any of the
slaves would make it there alive. Already some of the oldest of the group
had dropped to the ground, never to rise again, their bodies abandoned
along the side of the road without burial or ceremony. Likely their guards
were already weaning out the weakest members of the group, those who would
be of no use in the Imperial Mines. Mouse wanted to rage against the
injustice of it all, but he was too tired and famished to summon much
indignation. Mostly, he just wanted water and sleep.

"Hungry, slave?" a guard taunted. The man was holding some leftover meat
from the previous night's impromptu feast. One of the guards had managed to
slay a lone wolf with a well-aimed crossbow shot. Mouse took the fact that
the other guards had jumped at the chance to share the wolf meat as a sign
that even their food supply was dwindling. Still three weeks to go, and
already shortages. Mouse had no idea if there were to be stops for
resupply, but it seemed impossible that they should reach the mines or
anywhere near them unless there were. Maybe, he told himself in some
distant corner of his brain, maybe such stops would provide an opportunity
for escape.

The day passed in a blur of dizziness and sweat, one foot in front of the
other in an eternity of aching pain and weariness. As the sun slowly set, a
wolf cried in the distance. One of the guards laughed.

"Sound pretty pissed at you, Shorty," he said. "You killed their friend and
all."

The other cackled at that. "Well, I got more bolts here for them all, so
they are welcome to join him." There was a general round of laughter.

Mouse found himself hating the cruel men even more. In his thoughts, he
reached out to the crying wolf and shared in its grief and hatred. Come get
your revenge, he thought. Come kill us all. It would be a mercy, and he'd
rather die in the jaws of a wild animal than work out his days in some dark
cave. Just let me live long enough to see you tear apart Shorty and his
friends. Then I can die happy.

Night fell at last, and the slaves were rounded up and tied together for
the night as usual. Most of them collapsed almost at once into a bone-weary
sleep. In the morning, the cycle began again, another day or marching,
another endless stretch of pain, hunger, and thirst, and then night would
come again, until Mouse could no longer remember how many days it had been
since the journey began.

At night, despite his weariness Mouse found it difficult to slip into the
mindless sleep that overtook the other slaves. Instead he would lie awake
in his misery and listen to the wolves howling in the distance. He decided,
in those fevered moments of half-sleep, that he hated everybody and
everything. The world had given him nothing but pain, after all. No humans
had shown him any compassion. His own parents had sold him off as a boy in
order to pay their debts, and he had since been the property of somebody or
other for as long as he could remember. Some of his owners were kind to
him, some were not. All of them, kind or not, had of way of looking right
through him. It was not an accident that he had been renamed Mouse. He was
no more than an animal, unworthy of notice, of love, or even of hatred. He
was not a human at all. Serving the prince had had its perks, of course,
but he had lived in constant fear of earning Tytus' disapproval - as had,
of course, actually happened in the end. And after his many years of
service, this was his reward? One mistake, and he was to be discarded? Such
were his thoughts in those long, miserable nights in which true sleep
seemed remote, even though every day of marching took an even greater toll
than the one before, even though he began to feel certain that he would not
survive the journey if he could not manage to rest. But sleep was
impossible, there was only rage, despair, and thoughts of impossible
revenge.

The nightly howling of the wolves began to take on a new meaning,
then. Mouse could hear in their mournful cries the same emotions raging in
himself, feelings so personal and intimate that he began to believe the
beasts howled for him alone, giving voice to all that Mouse himself could
not. And then his previous thoughts inviting the wolves to come and take
their revenge changed from an idle fancy of hatefulness into a serious
desire and then into a prayer, whispered over and over through the
night. The wild beasts of the forests were his only brethren. He would
gladly submit, gladly die with their jaws on this throat, their attack
bringing not pain but the end of pain, a final release. Honorable. He loved
the wolves.

And then finally came a night when he was certain that it was he who was
howling, and then he was, braying at the moon with all his might, waking
the slaves around him and bringing the cursed admonitions of the
guards. The wolves out in the night howled back, and in their cries Mouse
could hear a new pitch and tenor: they heard him, they understood. The
guards threatened, commanded him to be silent, but Mouse ignored them. He
shouted to the wolves again, their wordless conversation now the most
important thing he had ever known.

"In the name of all the Gods," a guard swore, closing in on him until Mouse
could tell that it was Shorty himself.  "Shut that noise or I will throttle
the life out of ya, I swear."

Mouse bared his teeth and snarled at the man.

"Right," Shorty said, pulling a short dagger out of his belt, "I've had
enough of you. I'll give you plenty of reasons to howl for real before I'm
done." The other guards came up to flank him.

Mouse felt hands holding him down, hands raining down blows. He felt Shorty
place the knife against his face and cut, drawing a line of blood down his
cheek and jaw, and heading for his neck. He heard himself screaming in
pain.

And was not surprised when the wolf appeared out of the darkness and ripped
out Shorty's throat.

The other guards shouted and pulled out swords and clubs, but then the
other brethren appeared, and the night sky filled with the screams of the
panicked and dying. The wolves fell upon guards and slaves alike, and there
were many of them, more than Mouse could have imagined, and now all the
humans were dying, blood everywhere. And when the last screams were
silenced and all the bodies were still, the wolves disappeared as suddenly
as they arrived.

Leaving only Mouse alive