Gods and Men
“I -” Ali began, but got no further before the voice cut him off.
“Silence! You will not question, or you will die. Remain perfectly still, small one.”
Ali did as instructed; it was said the gods could be as cruel as they were kind, and Zehar, father of them all, was known for his indiscriminate attitude when it came to killing humans. History recorded more than a few conflicts that began as a result of Zehar's exhortation, and ended when both sides realized the elder god had promised them both the same things. Sometimes, a tentative peace was the result, but all too often more bloodshed was the outcome as once-strong powers vied for the fickle affection of their god.
The hut began to shimmer, and Ali cast quick looks at his wife and daughter. They at least would survive, cared for by other villagers in the absence of a father and husband. Luck might bring him back someday, but his fate was more than likely sealed.
Drab wood was replaced with shining walls of gold, marble floors and an open ceiling that seemed to stare directly into eternity. Though stars shone and light flashed above his head, Ali's attention was riveted on the large figure sprawled across a steel throne at the room's head. Zehar.
“Welcome, puny one!” The god bellowed, tossing a large bird-wing he'd been gnawing on over his shoulder where it vanished in a puff of blue smoke. “I am pleased you accepted my offer.”
“I had no choice, Lord,” Ali said sharply. Though the eldest god could easily wipe out anyone who dared defy him, death was almost a certainty no matter the number of polite words mouthed. “Tell me what I must do or kill me – there is nothing else left.”
Zehar laughed, a broad thing that filled the room and doubled back on itself, assaulting frail human ears. Despite the pain, Ali refused to raise his hands, refused to give the god satisfaction in suffering.
“You are bold one, I'll give you that, mortal – but that's why I picked you. I've been watching you and your mate struggle to feed that child of yours, eke out a miserable existence in the fields, and I've been ever so slightly impressed with your determination.” Zehar rose, gesturing as he did so and the room's back wall thinned to transparency, then lit up with the image of a strikingly beautiful woman.
“My daughter,” Zehar said by way of explanation. “Cresidae.”
Ali drew in a sharp breath – Cresidae was second only to the eldest himself in power and influence.
“We have had...disagreements of late,” the god went on, “messy things that killed many of the mortals under our control. My child,” Zehar said the word heavily, as if it pained him, “insists that there is a better way and will no longer face me in the time-honored ritual of mortal war. Instead, she demanded I choose a champion, a creature I will pit against one of hers to decide the outcome of our argument.”
It took all the strength in Ali's legs to keep from falling forward – he was no fighter, no great weapon-master. Why would the god choose him?
“My Lord,” he said with barely concealed fear, tempered only by the hot rage burning in his throat. “Why me? I am hardly as fit as others, hardly as quick-witted.”
“I know,” Zehar smiled down at him, too-perfect face a suddenly grotesque sight. “Truthfully, I've had other things on my mind – many of my younger progeny have sudden taken up the idea of rebellion as well, and I've had to put them down rather hard. As a result, I haven't had the time to find a suitable champion. I selected your village at random, and two days of observation was enough to tell me of your worth.”
“Wait!” Ali cried. “You should choose again – clearly, there are better choices, men more suited to your cause. Perhaps I could see one out for you.”
“No,” the eldest god said firmly. “I have chosen you, and you will perform as directed. Frankly, I no longer care about the outcome of the dispute. I've long since made my peace with the petty demands of my daughter. You are here simply to appease her sense of honor.”
“May I -” speech was suddenly difficult, “may I see my opponent?”
“Of course!” Zehar boomed, and then waved one large hand. The scene on what had been the back wall changed, replaced by a half-man, half-ape creature with a prominent jaw, huge hands and thickly muscled legs. He was casually tossing rocks into the air with his feet, catching each one in a large hand and easily crushing them to dust. Ali swallowed hard.
“My Lord – there is no way I can defeat such a creature, and I thought your agreement required mortal champions!”
“Oh? Yes,” the glowing deity shrugged. “The Mathor is mortal, but no one has ever been able to kill it. To do so would require it be stabbed directly through the heart with a golden spike. I made it on an off day, and I can't recall exactly what its other abilities are, but suffice it to say you have a difficult task ahead. Here,” Zehar stepped forward and placed a large hand on Ali's shoulder, “let me give you what little our rules permit.”
A sudden power flowed, only a trickle but to Ali it was a flood, a torrent, a stunning wash of sensation and image. Muscles bulged as his mind expanded, and small hope flared. Perhaps he could win, after all.
“Begin!” Zehar called, and the Mathor leapt from the screen, roaring.
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