The Gods Beneath Read online

  "You mean the Madness?" Laurel interrupted.

  "If that's what you call it, sure. Back then, our people weren’t always in this predominantly feline form. Back then, we shifted."

  Hannah hummed under her breath when she realized they were like Olaf, changing back and forth from animal to human.

  Vitali continued, "That was when the Lynqi—and even the Muur—were in our prime. Whatever suited the environment and the context best was what we adapted to. Human one minute, cat the next. It was our time of greatness. But greatness always fails."

  "Does it?" Hannah said.

  Illah shrugged. “As far as I've seen, it has."

  "Anyway," Vitali said, "back then we knew who we were—descendants of the line of a Sacred Clan. The cat-shifters were worshiped by ancient kings and queens. Our people would rule the city by day as humans, and the fields and forests at night as mighty hunting cats.

  "Sounds pretty badass." Hannah lifted her mug to toast the old days of the Sacred Clan. "What went wrong?"

  Illah licked the back of her hand, wiping it across the side of her face to flatten the fuzzy hair. "We grew too bold, or at least that’s what the legend says. We believed we had a right to the whole world, and we tried to take it. As a result of our pride the gods cursed the Sacred Clan, locking us into this form.”

  Vitali looked down at the table, and Hannah could almost see him blushing through his thick fur. She wanted to reach out to him. To comfort him, and tell him that there was nothing wrong with the way they were. That they were made like this for a reason.

  Finally, Laurel spoke up. “We’ve come across creatures called ‘lycanthropes.’ Their story sounds a lot like yours, and yet they are almost completely beast. They’re cruel, vicious creatures. You, on the other hand—except for your badass claws—have kept your humanity. If the gods cursed you, perhaps they left you like this so you could redeem yourselves. Use the power you have to make Irth better.”

  Illah said, "Maybe, but I can't help but think this story is just a big pile of horseshit. I can’t imagine the gods, if they are good, doing something so terrible to an entire group of people. Want to hear my version of the story?"

  "Of course," Laurel said.

  “Some people are born human, and some people are born Lynqi. Easy enough. I think we make up stories like that just to make ourselves feel better." Illah sighed. “Or worse. You know, we like being the perpetual underdogs, but we are simply who we are. Real story. The end.”

  “I don't know,” Vitali said. “Sounds a bit too random to me. What I've come to know about this world is that there are always people in power, and they want nothing more than to keep it. Like the Muur. Right now they have the upper hand, and they'll do whatever it takes to keep us in our spot. Makes me think the old stories about the evil of the Sacred Clan are true.”

  Hannah shook her head. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Then I guess you've never lived under an oppressor,” Illah responded.

  Laurel nearly snorted her wine. “Now that's a long-ass story. Going to need more wine.”

  Vitali tilted the bottle, which was damned near empty. He glanced at Illah, who shook her head in the negative.

  “If we want more to drink, we'll have to go to Stan’s place.”

  Laurel’s eyes got wide. “Is that your local bar?”

  “First, I have no idea what a bar is,” Vitali said, his furry cheeks curling up in a smile.

  “And second?”

  “I think this means we don’t have one.”

  “Stan is kind of like the grandfather you never wanted,” Illah said. “But the good news is that he always has a ton of booze and no one to share it with, so I’d say we’re golden.”

  Hannah finished her mug and brought it down hard on the table. “To Stan’s, then.”

  The rest followed her lead, slamming their mugs down and shouting, “To Stan’s!”

  “But first,” Illah reminded them, “we have to clean this place up before my father gets home.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Gregory stepped onto the broad front deck just as the sun poked its head out from behind the mountains. The Heemites weren’t exactly industrious, in Gregory’s short experience with them, but that morning the streets were filled with people running in every direction, readying the town for tomorrow’s festival.

  His stomach turned over at the thought of what lay ahead. Hannah had entrusted him with one job—return with the crystals. When she had put him in charge of the mountain team he had known that the task would be taxing, but he couldn’t have imagined just how delicate a situation he would find himself in. Fighting monsters and men seemed easy now, compared to navigating the backward religious corridors of a people so foreign to him.

  He decided to stretch his legs, and stepped from the deck. He pulled his cloak more tightly around him, trying to keep out the cold mountain air while hoping at the same time it would prove effective in clearing his busy mind.

  Most of the Heemites ignored the tall outsider as he meandered through the winding streets, although some took a second to offer a brief hello before turning back to the tasks at hand. The pure energy was palpable, which made sense to Gregory—at least theoretically. The gods were these people’s reason for being, and the festival was both a symbol of their devotion and a sacrament to honor their underground deities.

  Naturally, Gregory’s questions were numerous. He was only just beginning to believe in the existence of Bethany Anne and Michael, and it had taken personal interaction with Lilith to make this seem almost reasonable to him. But he had to wonder what the hell was in those mines.

  The one thing he knew was that twice a year the Heemites sent their people’s finest fighting specimens into the ground, and they were never seen or heard of again. There had to be an explanation for the entire thing, but it would take one of them getting underground to untangle the Gordian knot of this tale.

  He walked down the main road that cut through the town and the buildings got smaller and more spread out. Soon he came to a short stretch of rocky ground, after which the cliffs dropped off for a hundred feet. Gregory walked as close as he could to the edge without vomiting down his shirt, and took in the enormity of the mountain range. The vista was so perfect that it looked more like a painting from a master artist’s imagination than a real landscape.

  After a few minutes of taking it all in, Gregory turned right and headed toward the path that had led him and his friends into Heema. It felt good to push his body as he half-walked, half-scrambled up the incline that overlooked the bowl where they had found the men training. As he neared the top he could hear faint shouts, but he couldn’t make sense of the words.

  “Unguard,” a voice yelled. The words echoed in the bowl as Gregory reached the top.

  He held his breath, wondering if he was about to find a real battle or just another pair of Heemite men training for the festival. But when he got to the top, he found only one—a sole figure practicing swordplay against an imaginary opponent. He shouted and cursed all the while.

  At one point the Heemite dropped to a knee, sword held overhead as if warding off an opponent’s attack, only to then spin out with his right leg, sweeping the foundation of the imaginary foe from underneath him.

  Gregory found the lonely practice both hilarious and inspiring—and he thought that maybe this was someone he could get some information from. As he walked down the hill he coughed loudly, trying to alert the swordsman to his approach. The last thing he need was a length of steel through his gut, placed there by some startled pugilist.

  The figure sheathed his sword in one fluid movement. Gregory found this funny. Anyplace else in the world, an unknown entity approaching would make a man draw his weapon, not put it away.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Gregory called, realizing who the young man was.

  Broderick blushed, embarrassed to have been caught in his vigorous solo practice.

  “Sorry to walk in on you,” Gregory said as h
e drew near. “I just needed to get out of the town for a little bit.”

  Broderick’s breathing was heavy, and his face was pink with exertion. For the first time, Gregory noticed that the young man’s face had a pronounced look to it, even by Heemite standards. His eyes were deep-sunken like the others’, but they were distinctly—almost unnaturally—close together, a feature emphasized further by a long razor-thin nose. It gave him a hawk-like appearance—as if he were always searching for a fight. “It’s a free mountain.”

  “No Hendrix today?”

  Broderick looked down at his feet. “No. Training with him was a little…”

  “Intense?” Gregory offered.

  The young man smiled. “Yeah, intense. That guy could break rock with his head. He’s this year’s favorite to win, so I had hoped he’d give me some pointers. Instead I just got bruises.”

  Gregory nodded. He’d had experience with bruises. “Well, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  “Not at all. I needed to stop for a drink anyway.” He nodded toward a rucksack leaning against a rock a few yards away. “Join me?”

  Gregory said that he would be glad to, and the two young men walked over to the bag, each taking a seat on a boulder low to the ground. Broderick pulled out a canteen, uncorked it, and took a long pull.

  “You need some?” the kid asked, holding the bottle out toward Gregory after he had finished.

  He shook his head and held his hand up. “I’m good, and it looks like this little workout of yours is going to require you to drink as much water as your stomach will hold.”

  Broderick pushed his sleeve over his forehead, wiping away the sweat that had gathered during his session. “Nah. I should be done here soon anyway. I need to save some strength for the festival.”

  “You’re fighting?” Gregory asked, shifting on the hard rock to try to find a more comfortable spot.

  “Hell, yes! It’s my first festival.” He paused and laughed, mostly to himself. “Well, second really, but nobody would call the last one much of anything. I got my ass kicked in the first minute of the initial round. But not this year! Been training daily for six months now.”

  “You really want to do this?” Gregory asked. “I mean, go down into the caves?”

  “Course I do,” Broderick said with a laugh. “Everybody wants to. Granted, half the town knows they can’t win the festival, so they live with wanting to see what it’s like to dwell with gods but knowing they will never get to.”

  Gregory narrowed his gaze, lines formed on the bridge of his nose. “You really believe this stuff?”

  Broderick looked at him, half-confused. “Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because you haven’t seen them.”

  He laughed again, this time smacking his knee with his hand. “I’ve never been down the mountain either. Doesn’t mean I don’t believe there’s something down there. I’ve been raised to believe in the gods and their dwelling in the caves. Everyone believes in them. Don’t you believe in the gods?”

  Gregory had to admit to himself that Broderick’s question held some weight. After all, he was on a quest for the Oracle. But for some reason, being up here with a different story of different gods made it that much harder to believe.

  “Okay,” he finally said, “what’s it like down there?”

  “I haven’t been,” Broderick replied, “of course. But…it’s paradise. The perfect world, where man dwells with the gods. No one is sick or hungry or tired. It’s heaven. That’s why we all want to live there.”

  “So why don’t you all just go down?”

  Broderick snorted. “You serious? You have heard the legends about the queen and king from the old days, right? Are those the kind of people whose rules you’d break?”

  Gregory nodded. The kid had a fair point. The Queen Bitch was rumored to be as exacting as she was just. If she put a rule in place, he’d follow it.

  He had seen a lot since he had joined Hannah and Team BBB, but much of it—even the magic—could be explained with at least theoretical science. Still, his scientific mind was churning. “But what proof do you have that the gods exist and there is a heaven waiting for you underground.”

  The kid stared at the massive range that spread to the north and south. Gregory was just about to ask again when Broderick finally answered, “My dad told me about it. I trust him. That’s all the proof I need.”

  Searching Broderick’s face, Gregory found a look of utter resolve. The Heemite believed the words he spoke…believed without reservation.

  “Then I guess he’s OK with you competing in the festival? With the chance you might leave him forever?”

  The kid shrugged. “Don’t know. He won four years ago, been in paradise ever since. My dad was the best damned fighter in Heema. Everyone was just waiting for him to step into the ring, but he waited. Wanted to make sure I was old enough to take care of my ma and my sister. His first year fighting he won, and he left for paradise.” Broderick stood, grinning from ear to ear. Pride swelled in his narrow eyes. “Guess I’ll ask him when I get there.”

  Gregory grinned back. The kid had balls, he would give him that, but with Karl in the ring, Gregory was sure his chances of seeing his father anytime soon were slim to none. Nevertheless, he stood and patted him on his broad shoulder. “May the gods be with you.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in the gods?” Broderick replied.

  “Well, I’m not convinced they’re under your mountains, but I believe they exist. And after what I’ve seen on these crazy travels, I’m open to almost anything.” As the words came out, he realized they were truer than he wanted to admit. “I’m heading back. Practice well.”

  Broderick threw his things in his rucksack and slung it over his shoulder. “I’m done here. If I’m not ready for tomorrow now, I’m not ready.” The two started to walk up the steep incline and out of the earthen bowl which had served as Broderick’s practice field. Gregory’s breathing grew shallow, but the young man breathed steadily, talking as they climbed. “Tell me about your city to the west.”

  Holding up a finger, Gregory wheezed, “Sure, once we get to the top.”

  ****

  “Scheisse, woman! Watch them damn pins or ye’ll jab me in me manly parts.”

  Karl stood on a stool in some back room of the king’s residence. He was surrounded by a horde of women, each of them attending to a different part of his body. They measured and estimated and trimmed swathes of beautiful cloth, shaping Karl’s wedding suit by hand. If he hadn’t been so pissed off, he would’ve been impressed by the whole thing.

  “Well,” the oldest woman said, “we wouldn’t want to harm those goods of yours, would we? Mariah would never forgive us. A man needs his most valuable tool on his wedding night.” She looked up at Karl with a pin hanging out the side of her mouth and winked. “Need any advice?”

  Karl turned bright red. “Don’t screw with me, lass.”

  The old woman jabbed Karl’s inner thigh with a pin, this time sinking it deep into his flesh and drawing a high-pitched scream from the rearick. “Oh, my, I guess that got away from me. Amazing how a little prick can hurt so much when you’re not used to it.” She gave a sly smile, making her look younger than her seventy years. “Remember that tomorrow night, rearick. The king’s daughter isn’t one of the whores from the brothels I imagine you frequent when you’re back in your homeland. It is custom that the ruler’s daughters remain pure for their wedding night, and I am certain that Mariah has kept her oath.”

  Karl mumbled unintelligible curses under his breath, but otherwise kept his mouth shut. He almost felt badly for all the work the women were putting into making him a dream groom. In a day’s time he would descend into the mines to complete their mission, leaving the blushing virgin topside.

  Or at least that was what he told himself.

  During their stay, he’d studied the men of the town every chance he got. After sizing them up, he had decided there were a precious few who c
ould best him in battle. But he also knew that looks could be deceiving. Losing a fight based solely on hubris was an error of his youth, one which he had sworn more than once he wouldn’t repeat.

  Another woman, younger than the rest but still probably in her thirties, walked in with a basin in one hand and a pair of sheers in the other. A straight razor hung by her side on a thin leather belt. With pristine makeup and perfect hair, she looked more like a member of the court than an attendant.

  “Why, girls, no one told me what kind of challenge I had in store.” Her smile faded as she crossed the room. She stood before Karl and looked at him like a hunter eyeing a wild boar in the wilderness. “The hair is certainly lopsided, and the beard…” She looked Karl in the eyes. “Has it been burned recently?”

  “Aye, ma’am.” Karl had decided to try to mind his manners. “I spent a day many miles ago pullin’ babies out of a burnin’ buildin’.”

  The woman stepped back half a pace and smiled. “Well, then I believe I will take this as a hero’s challenge instead of a fool’s journey.”

  The older woman, Esder, glanced up from working on the trousers. “Careful, Clarisse. The rearick might just turn on you. We’re finding he’s more beast than man.”

  Clarisse snipped the sheers in the air close to Karl’s face. “I’ve faced more than one beast, and they were a lot less ghastly when I was finished with them.” She walked around Karl, observing her project. When she had finally returned to face him she asked, “Will the groom be needing a full treatment?” Without taking her eyes off him, she pointed to his crotch with her shears and patted the blade hanging from her side.

  “Hell, no!” Karl snorted. “I’m a damn man, after all. Where I come from, no self-respectin’ rearick would consider trimmin’ the hedges.”

  Clarisse shrugged. “Have it your way. Mariah likely won’t know the difference one way or the other. That is, if she’s kept the oath. But she’s a bit of a live one, and the way the other men look at her… Let’s just say, you never know.”