“Wrenk, be calm. What is coming?”
“Burning blue disk, rising over the world!”
“Shut up, Wrenk!” said First Wife, scratching her right tit as she noisily scraped her teeth against a fragment of skull. “We’re eating.”
But there was indeed something coming, Wrenk hadn’t been wrong about that.
The light that flooded down into the hollow was like nothing Scaroth had ever seen. Its azure brilliance picked out each individual amongst the stark rocks, highlighting them and making their dark-green flesh shimmer. The sphere that rose high above them was much much larger than Small Yellow Fire God That Comes With Day. Maybe, Scaroth thought, this
is
our god. Maybe he has returned to us now that times are so bad.
But when he looked to his shamans they seemed as unsure as he. Indeed, nobody in the tribe knew how to react to this divine arrival. Some had taken to fucking, rutting as though their lives depended on it, as though the end of the world was here and this was their last chance; others glanced up and then continued eating, while others sobbed, rocking back and forth in the dust as tears rolled down their dark cheeks.
“You!” Scaroth called one of his shamans over. “What is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it our god?”
“The old stories say that the god of our people was much smaller. And red.”
“But this
is
a god, right?”
“Must be.”
“Then we make an offering. See what happens.”
The wives of Scaroth collectively breathed a sigh of relief when the sacrifice was not chosen from amongst their number. Instead, it was decided that as Wrenk had been the first to see the god, then it should be he that was offered up to the deity. This had to be explained to the boy several times, but when it sank in he gave himself gladly, even smiling as the bone knife was plunged deep into his chest. Scaroth wasn’t sad to see him go. Once the ceremony was over, they could feast on whatever the god did not take.
The shamans danced. The shamans pulled out Wrenk’s guts and held them aloft. The shamans dabbed the blood from the corpse on the forehead of every member of the tribe. The shamans burned the sacred bones of the First and inhaled their smoke.
The shamans might as well have done nothing, for all the effect it had. The god hung there, silent and impassive, oblivious to what was going on below him. So, they waited. But eventually the tribe got bored of waiting for divine intervention and began to fight over the remains of Wrenk. His corpse was quickly pulled apart and consumed.
Some time later, despite his full belly, Scaroth had to concede that he really was not happy. He looked around at the tribe and saw again that their numbers were dwindling. He would only be able to slaughter his wives to feed his people for so much longer before they began to eat themselves into extinction. Few children had been produced in the last season’s couplings and only a fraction of those had survived.
Though their sacrificial ritual had borne no fruit, Scaroth still looked up and offered a prayer to Big Blue God, asking that there be good hunting or, failing that, many more children.
S
CAROTH’S TUMMY RUMBLED.
It had been several days since the slaughter of Wrenk and he had eaten nothing but dried toad flesh and some moss. The latter had made him feel distinctly strange for a time, and he had looked up at Big Blue God, terrified that he would fall into his azure clouds and be consumed. The feeling had passed, however, leaving him nauseous and weak.
Now the tribe was growing restless as hunger began to take hold. Squabbles had broken out when it was revealed that someone had been hoarding a strip of flesh from Wrenk’s corpse. This wouldn’t feed anyone for long, though, so, after calming the dispute, Scaroth had gathered the wives together in order that he might choose one to feed the tribe.
He’d just singled out Twenty-Third Wife when Third Wife let out an almighty yell and hurled a rock at his head. He ducked in time to avoid it braining him, though it nicked his ear and hot blood dripped onto his shoulder. The rock that Third Wife had thrown, however, was just the first drop of rain before the true storm struck; a hail of stones pounded down around him, the thud as they struck the earth only fractionally louder than the cries of rebellion from the angry wives.
A knee was planted firmly in the small of Scaroth’s back. Thirty-Second Wife had him by the throat and was just about to stick him in the eye with a knife, when his soldiers finally mustered themselves and waded into the melee. Though his men were well-trained and armed with the finest blades, in the wives of their leader they faced a force fuelled by a deep hatred, fermented over many, many years. With naught for weapons but the stones that surrounded them, the angry women were able to kill a quarter of Scaroth’s men before they were finally suppressed. The slaughter that followed was perhaps the worst in the tribe’s history. It only ended when the remaining wives fled into the hills. Scaroth watched them go, too demoralised to send his men after them.
“At least we have plenty of food now,” said one of his sons, only to be clipped around the back of his head for his stupidity.
“Idiot! How are we going to eat all this before it goes bad?” Scaroth gestured at the red earth and the mounds of sundered limbs. “And once this is all gone, what then?”
“We make more wives?”
Scaroth could do little but shake his head and go and find a distant rock upon which to sit and contemplate the tribe’s fate.
It didn’t take him long to come to the conclusion that he just wasn’t a very good leader. He was certainly nowhere near as able as such legends as Thangar Void Eater, or the much-vaunted Onth of the Mountains, who had ruled over a vast settlement back when food had been plentiful and their god’s face had shone down upon the earth. It was clear that this world and his people were done with Scaroth, and so he put his back to the setting sun and walked away.
Scaroth hadn’t been walking for long when he came to the edge of a pit he was sure hadn’t been in this part of the range the last time he had come this way. He got down on his belly, shuffled forwards and looked down into the earth.
It was then that he realised that Big Blue God really had answered his prayers, for here was good hunting indeed.
Three of the biggest lizards Scaroth had ever seen lay sleeping at the bottom of the pit, curled around one another and accompanied by a small pink-skinned creature covered in black marks. It did cross Scaroth’s mind to wonder what this runt was doing with such magnificent beasts, but that didn’t really matter. What did matter was that here was enough food to feed his tribe for a long time to come. He had to return to his people and tell them the good news. They would sing his praises for delivering them from hunger. Now they would show him true love and respect, and Scaroth would become a great leader after all. All thanks to Big Blue God and the gifts he had bestowed.
Pride swelling in his breast, Scaroth stood and raised his arms to the azure sphere, sending up a prayer of thanks – silently, lest he disturb the creatures sleeping below. When he turned and started for home, his foot dislodged a rock and it went tumbling down the pit, bouncing off the head of the yellow one before clattering to a halt.
Scaroth froze, praying anew that he hadn’t woken the slumbering beasts, but this was one prayer Big Blue God was not about to answer, because the giant yellow lizard opened its eyes and let out a piercing howl that shook the very ground upon which he stood.
When his legs began to work again, Scaroth ran, hoping that he would have time to mobilise his tribe before the fearsome creatures were upon them.
E
MUEL WAS WRENCHED
out of sleep by Anania’s cry, scrabbling to his feet as the dragon clawed its way out of the hollow. Piotr and Calabash weren’t far behind, the latter pausing only briefly to allow the eunuch to climb onto its back. Emuel caught sight of something green darting into the foothills as they crested the lip of the pit. Anania went after it like a hunting hound after a hare, its enraged cry echoing from the surrounding terrain.
As he was jolted about on Calabash’s back, Emuel’s hand ventured to his belt, checking his sword there. He had little idea how to effectively wield the weapon, but he found the weight of it reassuring. If it came to a fight, though, he doubted he would need it. After all, what more effective weapon could there be than the three dragons?
From ahead of them, where Anania had just disappeared over the brow of a hill, came the sound of voices raised in horror and surprise. Emuel could hear the clatter of weapons being unsheathed.
The stench reached Emuel shortly before they entered the valley: burning flesh, faeces and unwashed bodies. Had he been to the deepest part of the World’s Ridge Mountains, he would have recognised the creatures that surrounded Anania. As it was, he had no idea that the savage green-skinned humanoids clambering all over the dragon and jabbing at it with their weapons were orcs. Anania was staggering beneath the weight of them and Emuel wondered how the dragon had allowed itself to be so overwhelmed. Did it not know how to fight? Then he saw the ropes that bound Anania’s jaws together. Somehow the orcs had managed to muzzle the dragon, and now they were concentrating on tripping it, weaving a cat’s cradle of ropes between its legs and slashing at it with their swords.
Calabash roared, and though the orcs turned to look at the new arrivals, for Anania it was too late. The dragon crashed to the ground, and was swarmed over by the savage creatures and dispatched by a thousand cuts.
Emuel was almost hurled from Calabash’s back as the dragon barrelled down the hill and into the melee. The orcs threw themselves at the creature with vicious delight, but Calabash was not as unprepared as Anania had been, and it slammed into the greenskins, scattering them and crushing them underfoot. As Calabash reached the edge of the encampment it swung round, almost unseating Emuel in the process, and turned to face its aggressors. More orcs were swarming towards them, seemingly undeterred by the slaughter of their comrades. Calabash stood stock still, watching them come, and Emuel was about to kick the dragon’s flanks and urge it onwards when Calabash took a deep breath. The loose flaps of skin on either side of the dragon’s throat inflated, the flesh distending like the skin of a balloon, and there was a sudden sharp smell in the air that reminded Emuel of grain alcohol. The orcs were so close now that Emuel drew his sword, ready to meet their charge. But the orcs didn’t get the chance, for Calabash let go the breath it had been holding – the pouches on either side of its throat collapsing as it did so – and a torrent of fire poured forth from its jaws. Emuel threw his arm up to shield his eyes from the brilliant glare, and the sleeve of his cloak began smouldering from the intense heat. When the inferno dissipated, he looked up to see the smoking, burnt charcoal forms of hundreds of dead orcs. Calabash looked back at him then, an expression in its eyes that almost looked like concern.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” Emuel said, patting its side. “Just give me more warning next time.”
Piotr hurried in on their flank, dispatching any orcs not taken by the conflagration. Emuel swung his sword as Calabash waded once more into the melee and was amazed when a few of the creatures fell to his blade. Something like glee burned in him, before he realised that he was –
had been
– a man of the cloth, and that murder was prohibited by his vocation. In any case, the matter was taken literally out of his hands when the tip of the sword lodged in the breastbone of an orc and the weapon was dragged away as the creature fell.
To Emuel’s right, Piotr smashed a wooden tower to splinters with a swing of its tail, the orc that had been guarding it flying into the air like a rag doll, only to be snatched up in the dragon’s jaws before it could hit the ground; even over the cry of the enemy and the clash of weapons, Emuel could hear the crunching of bones.
The greenskins had been pretty well routed by now, although a motley group of them remained: encircling the dragons, wielding spears, occasionally shuffling forwards with threatening gestures. Its meal now done with, Piotr made to charge the line, but a bark from Calabash put paid to that, and the dragon came meekly to its companion’s side.
Emuel slid to the ground as Calabash settled back on its haunches, hurrying away as he realised what was about to happen. He quickly scanned the area for a weapon, and spotted a curved shard of bone, inscribed with a strange script and with a rough wrap of leather for a handle. It felt wrong in his hand somehow, but it would have to do for now. He found himself to be unafraid as he faced the orcs. They weren’t so evil-looking really, not in comparison with the Chadassa. He’d faced worse odds before.
As Piotr and Calabash took deep breaths, Emuel raised his weapon and screamed defiance.
D
ESPITE EVERYTHING –
S
CAROTH
considered – it had actually gone quite well. He had been as surprised as the rest of them when they had downed the first big lizard so quickly. And now they had the final two monsters encircled, even with the casualties they had suffered, he felt a renewed pride in his men.
Oh, but they would eat well tonight. And then they would give much thanks to Big Blue God for his gift of good hunting. Yes, today was a good day. Today was a day the shamans would commemorate with their songs and rituals.