Realm of Monsters - Chapter 682: A God and the Damned

Chapter 682: A God and the Damned

  “I can’t see!” screamed a sailor as he swung his sword haphazardly in front of him. His blade struck something soft. A shout of pain echoed beside him.

  “Argh, my arm!” yelled a familiar voice.

  The first sailor grimaced in realization at what he had done. “John, is that you—?” His voice was cut short as a hand snatched his throat and tore it out. The sailor staggered backwards and bumped into one of his mates, who flinched and stabbed him in the back. The dying man collapsed, unable to make a sound.

  Panicked voices had turned to shouts and no one could hear each other over the clamour. A few men, who weren’t deep into their drinks, and knew the tavern well, stumbled towards the door and windows.

  “Just hold on!” shouted one of the few mages among them, though her voice was drowned out by the others. She cupped her hands together and channeled Orange. It wasn’t her forte, but she could use it in a pinch. A ball of flame sparked to life between her hands and she held it up, a beacon in the darkness.

  “Look!” One of the sailors pointed at her. “It’s Alice!”

  “Group around me!” Alice shouted triumphantly. A blur tackled her from the side, snuffing out the flame in an instant. There was no sound of her body crashing into the ground, nor the noise of a scuffle. She was simply gone.

  Another mage conjured a ball of light and for the briefest moments, the mage saw a figure above him, hanging from the ceiling. Any man who blinked would have missed it, a creature wreathed in shadows, save for its eyes that reflected the cold light. Shadow tendrils snatched the mage up into the monster’s embrace, smothering the light. And before a single man or woman had taken a breath, the mage was gone.

  “Get me out of here!” “Run!” “We’re going to die!” “No, stay together!” “We have to fight!” “Where is the door!?” Countless voices screamed for help, yet they fell unheard, like a cry in the middle of the sea.

  Slowly, the panicked shouts dwindled until only a few remained. Yet now their voices were quiet, paranoid. They whispered, searching for one another blindly. Until even their voices were silenced; the only semblance that they had been there was their sharp gasps before something took them. 

  Only a handful remained, each smart enough to have stayed quiet when the white mage had disappeared. Most were women, barmaids who had hid under the tables when the fighting had started.

  Two barmaids hid behind the bar. Sisters who had worked by each other’s side for years. Vira held a small dagger she always carried in one hand and with the other, she held her little sister’s hand. Marcy could not stop shaking, no matter how hard she tried. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears so loud that she could hardly hear her own thoughts. She cried in fear, tears burning down her cheeks. 

  Vira leaned close and covered her sister’s mouth. “Shh,” she whispered as quietly as she could. “Don’t cry, don’t cry. It’ll hear us.”

  Marcy sniffled and nodded. Though it was pitch black, she closed her eyes and prayed silently to the gods for deliverance. Scarlet or ebon, she did not care from what pantheon they hailed from, only that they answered.

  “I heard… your prayer…” whispered a voice into her ear.

  Marcy opened her eyes, a spark of hope flaring to life in her chest. But there was nothing there, only darkness and a cold breath running down her neck. She gripped her sister’s hand tight, but Vira’s grip had gone limp.

  Sharp teeth sank into Marcy’s throat. It was not the sharp pinpricks of a vampire, no, it was a dozen serrated teeth tearing into her flesh and bone. She seized up and suddenly went limp as the creature’s maw bit through her spinal cord.

  The few remaining survivors stayed hidden where they were, too afraid to utter a word. Silence reigned in the tavern that only minutes earlier had been filled with boisterous laughter and song. 

  A sickening wet crunch resounded in the tavern. It was quiet, but in the silence it bounced off the walls and floor. A haunting echo that continued with a persistent eeriness, that was accompanied only by the noise of something dripping.

  “Is it over, Tauri?” A feminine voice asked after a few more minutes.

   “Yeah, I think I heard some of them run upstairs,” Tauri replied. 

  “What’s that noise?” asked the first woman.

  “Your guess is as good as mine, Freya.”

  “I can’t see shit. One sec.” Freya clapped her hands together and conjured a ball of light that floated above her golden head, illuminating the tavern. “Ah, that’s better— what the fuuuck…” Freya’s voice trailed off as the shadows retreated, revealing a blood-stained floor.

  “Dear gods…” Tauri whispered.

  There was hardly any spot on the wooden planks that wasn’t covered in blood. Most of the tables had been overturned or shattered. A bloody arm hung from what remained of a sconce. Only the front door was pristine, without a speck of blood in sight in a wide ring around it, as if it had been shielded.

  “I don’t think they managed to get upstairs,” Freya pointed to the staircase.

  The stairs had been barricaded by what seemed to be a slab of stone that had sprung from the ground, ripping through the tavern’s foundations and planks. Several bloody handprints and scratches were sprawled over the stone slab, yet there was no body in sight. 

  “Where is everybody?” Tauri asked with a sickening feeling.

  Drops of red falling from above caught their attention. The duo slowly looked up to find several dozen bodies hanging from what seemed to be their own swords, stabbed into the ceiling. Bodies were a stretch, most were mangled beyond recognition. 

  And in the middle of the all gore sat Stryg upside down. His feet were dug into the ceiling by the claws of his toes. His clothes were drenched in blood and his hair stained a ruby red. He was crouched over a body, woman or man, it was too mutilated to tell. He was drinking its blood, though it was more like he was digging into the flesh with his teeth, ripping it apart more than swallowing.

  “Holy shit,” Freya mumbled.

  “Stryg…?” Tauri called out.

  He stiffened and tilted his head up, looking straight down at her. He swallowed the mouthful of blood and gore, before speaking. But no words came out of his mouth, at least none she could understand or pronounce. They were deep, guttural, primal.

  “Stryg, it’s me, Tauri.” She raised a hand towards him, fingers outstretched, palm open wide.

  A second pair of translucent eyelids blinked over his lilac eyes. “I know,” Stryg said, his voice still deep, but his words clear. He unclenched his toes and dropped from the ceiling. He spun in a circle and landed on his feet. 

  “What happened to you?” Tauri whispered.

  “I helped. Isn’t that what you asked me to do?” Stryg said.

  “You’re covered in blood,” Freya gestured in disgust.

  He glanced down at himself. “Oh. I guess I am.”

  “You killed all of them.” Tauri looked around the tavern, hoping to find a body that wasn’t attached to the ceiling. She tried her best to ignore the mangled array of bodies above her, lest she vomit.

  “Yes,” Stryg said.

  “What of the servants?” Tauri asked, still searching.

  “They were our enemy,” Stryg replied.

  Tauri stopped, realizing their fates, then glared at him. “They were unarmed.”

  “Some of them.”

  “They didn’t ask to fight. They weren’t soldiers. How can you just stand there so casually as if you didn’t just kill forty-some people!? This wasn’t even a battle. It was something worse, much worse,” Tauri said.

  Stryg glanced at the ceiling. “Is this one of those things that usually bothers people?”

  Tauri paused and stared at him. He didn’t seem in shock or unhinged. He was calm, maybe even a little confused. Tauri was suddenly reminded that her lover wasn’t a mortal, but the child of Death. He struggled to connect with others, or rather, he struggled to connect with mortals. And now she was beginning to understand why. At his core, his mind simply wasn’t like theirs.

  “So are you two okay or not?” Stryg asked.

  “What? Are we okay?” Freya threw her arms up. “Are you serious, right now?”

  “Yes. How many times do I have to ask you the same thing?” Stryg frowned.

  “You only asked once,” Freya snapped.

  “Twice,” Stryg said.

  “Wait, is that what you were saying? When you were on the ceiling?” Tauri realized.

  “Yeah, did you not hear me?” Stryg asked.

  “I mean, we heard you. But you weren’t speaking in common.”

  Freya nodded, “Yeah, it was some creepy voice.”

  “…Huh. I didn’t notice.” He blinked with his second eyelids once more.

  “And what the fuck is that thing with your eyes!?” Freya pointed at him wildly.

  “My eyes?” Stryg touched his face. “What’s wrong with my eyes?”

  “You’ve got some weird stuff going on with them!” Freya said.

  “Owls have second eyelids…” Tauri muttered.

  “Huh?” Stryg blinked, this time with his regular eyelids.

  “You said your father can shapeshift into an owl?” Tauri asked.

  “That’s what Holo said. I’ve never actually seen it,” Stryg said.

  “So can you and your sisters shapeshift into an owl, as well?” Tauri pressed.

  “I mean, theoretically. I suppose,” he shrugged.

  “Some sort of partial transformation then?” Tauri muttered.

  “Wait, you think I’m shapeshifting?” Stryg asked, excitement leaking into his voice.

  She pinched her fingers together. “A little bit. I think whatever happened here, triggered something in here,” she touched his chest. “You’re a god of death, even if you’re just a baby one. Which means all of this is your nature. Ever since you awakened after your fight with the dragonbane, your titan blood has only been growing more potent. You need to be careful when you fight. The last thing we need is you losing yourself to your instincts.”

  “Right,” Stryg nodded.

  Freya stared at the two of them slack-jawed, eyes wide. “Stryg is a god?” she squeaked.

  “Oh. Shit.” Tauri winced. “I mean, um— that’s not really what I—”

  “More like a godling, but yes,” Stryg said.

  “And you’re just telling me now!?” Freya screamed. “I’m the Goldelm to your Veres! Our ancestors have sworn blood oaths to one another for a thousand years!”

  “I was going to tell you at some point. I just didn’t find a good moment to talk about it. These last few days have been hectic.” Stryg gave an apologetic smile.

  “So many things are making sense now. Like how you managed to ever beat me in a duel.” 

  “That’s not why I won,” Stryg frowned.

  Freya shook her head and put a hand to her forehead, “Wait, wait, wait. Your mom is a goblin, well, more like a goblin-vampire, but she’s a mortal, right? Or was that bullshit, too?”

  “No, my mother is mortal.”

  “Then what about your dad?”

  “He is not.”

  “Then is he…?”

  “Dead? No, I thought he was. Turns out he’s just Death.”

  “What? No, I mean, is he a— god?” she whispered conspiratorially. 

  “Oh. Yeah, that too.”

  Freya stared at him with golden eyes as wide as saucers. “So your dad is like, really a god? I wasn’t even sure gods were real… Wait, so which god is he? From what pantheon?”

  “I already told you, he’s Death. And I’m pretty certain he has a spot in many pantheons under different Aspects.”

  “Would I know any of them?” Freya asked.

  “Mortem for one.”

  “Your dad is Mortem!?” Freya stared at his blood-drenched clothes. “Ah, on second thought, that makes sense. Son of the Blood Sovereign indeed,” she said dryly.

  “He’s also Stjerne,” Tauri pointed out.

  “YOUR DAD IS STJERNE!?” Freya screamed. She grabbed Stryg’s hands and shook them frantically, a wide smile on her face. 

  “You don’t seem scared?” Stryg said uncertainly. Everyone he told had been shocked and somewhat scared when they found out his secret.

  “Why would I be scared? You’re my friend,” Freya said.

  Stryg felt his throat tighten up. “Yeah,” he whispered.

  “So can Stjerne bless our caravans and ships? Can you?” Freya asked excitedly.

  “I don’t know how to bless people. I’ve cursed people before, though.”

  “Please don’t curse my people…”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  “What’s he like? Your dad?” Freya asked.

  “I don’t really know. I only met my father once,” he admitted.

  “That makes sense. He is the Traveler. Probably doesn’t stick around in one place for very long,” Freya nodded.

  “Speaking about not sticking around.” Tauri peered through one of the windows. “I really think we should get moving.”

  “It wouldn’t be a problem if Stryg hadn’t thrown a goddam fit— Oh, shit. Can I say that? Goddamn? Does that like invoke something with you?” Freya asked.

  “I don’t know, I think it’s fine,” Stryg shrugged. “And those orcs deserved it. I regret nothing.”

  Freya glanced at the morbid menagerie on the ceiling. “I don’t know if anyone deserves to die like that, but who am I to stand in the way of a god and the damned?”

  “Can we talk about all this god stuff later? We need to get out of here now,” Tauri said.

  “Right.” Stryg walked over to the front door.

  “Wait, don’t go that way!” Tauri yelled, but it was too late.

  Stryg threw the door wide open and was met with a hundred archers aiming their arrows at the tavern’s entrance.