3.10 - God Head

     Idir pointed out the grave to the soldiers carrying their fallen general. The last corpse of the day. The battle yesterday clearly did not go well. Only those who were born in Iken were given proper graves, and even so, it took Idir and his team of thirty the entire day to dig enough graves. The rest of the army who came from surrounding towns or regions were either sent back by request of their families upon death or if no requests were made, burned. The soldiers carefully laid their general down in the grave, one of them openly weeping over her body. Idir waited patiently for them to say their goodbyes. He was a Dynasty Child, blessed with immortality from birth. He thought himself best fit to usher mortals off to the afterlife, as one of the few beings incapable of experiencing it himself. Death was beautiful, in his eyes. It was a brief pain that brought forth endless peace. Freedom from the hollowness of humanity. A hollowness he is bound to suffer until the tether of the world is cut, and it is returned to the waters of chaos from which it was once birthed. But for now, he would praise the honorable dead, and help guide them towards independence from the war of gods they so bravely gave their lives for. It had intensified since the entire left paw of the lion god Duathor was discovered. Iken fought on behalf of Kandu, the hyena god, while the city of Buhon fought for the snake god Sitathor. Each god laid claim to the pieces of Duathor strewn about the world, and when a new piece was discovered, they would fight relentlessly for them. Idir was a gravedigger, nothing more. He did not dare question the will of the gods. 

He did, however, question the will of the people around him. Each body brought to him was accompanied by a chorus of wails. In less time than it took for grass to grow over the grave, the wails shifted to warcries once more. If they revered death as Idir did, there would be no wailing. Each body would be put to rest to the sound of joyous howls, as their family celebrated the victory of passing beyond mortality. Their willingness to throw themselves between the needs of gods was strong enough, even, to overcome their crippling fear of death. It mystified Idir. He truly loved Kandu, as he had for hundreds of years, but he questioned if his own faith would carry him to the lengths that it carried the mortals around him. Kandu was a being beyond Idir’s understanding and he doubted that he would so willingly surrender what he held dearly to something or someone he couldn’t even begin to comprehend. Those around him, however, showed no signs of slowing. They furiously threw their lives away in service of Kandu, despite it being their most prized possession. Even after all his years, it was still a mystery to Idir. Slowly, it was transforming from confusion to a feeling of awe. In that way, Kandu and the mortals around him were a perfect match. Idir didn’t understand any of them but was in awe just the same. 

Mayet wept as they lowered her mother into her grave. The finest general Iken had seen in generations, ended by a stray arrow from a friendly archer. The boy, Torel, stood at the edge of the graveyard looking on. He was bound by honor to make his presence known in the great looming shadow of his mistake, but too overcome to attend the burial. Mayet didn’t blame him, for some foolish reason. Her mother’s death was directly his fault. Perhaps it was because of how pathetic he looked, desperately clutching the fencepost and sopping up his snot on the darkened sleeve of his shirt. Perhaps it was because she found better targets for her wrath. The captain in charge of Torel’s battalion, who should never have brought him out of the barracks. The explorers who were discovering pieces of Duathor at a pace more than double what it used to be. The rash of fall rain that made conditions on the battlefield worse than they’d been all season. The fletchers who, because of the spike in battles, hadn’t prepared enough bows and arrows for the new recruits to be serviceably trained. No, Mayet knew that the disgust Torel was feeling for himself was enough. Her anger would be better suited elsewhere. She could feel it inside of her, warming her tears as they fell. She imagined a lake before her. She had never seen one, but she could imagine it. Like a tub, but larger and stiller. She watched as her tears fell from her cheeks and hissed as the cold water of the lake quenched them. There was only one thing in her life wide and deep enough to quiet the fire of her mother’s death. Revenge. She would become the greatest weapon Kandu had ever wielded. For every piece of Duathor her mother claimed, she would claim three. Before her death, she would see Duathor completed before the throne of Kandu. She would be remembered, and in turn, her mother would be. Forever, Iken would honor Mayetta and Mayet, the greatest military blood known to mortals. The ceremony had ended, and only Mayet, Torel on the other side of the fence, and the Dynasty Child who ran the graveyard remained. She couldn’t remember his name, but he smiled during burials and she hated him for that. He nodded to her and then to her mother lying in the open grave as if asking for permission. She nodded back to him, and he slowly, methodically, with the comfort of a man who had buried thousands, buried her mother. 

The explorers continued their frantic pace, discovering a dozen more pieces of Duathor in the span of four years. Mayet, on behalf of Kandu, claimed all but one. The left haunch. It was the first piece discovered after she took her mother’s place in the army. Immediately following her silent dedication at her mother’s open grave, she had failed. It only proved to fuel her more. The next four pieces were the most decisively won pieces in the history of the Iken-Buhon War, to a degree that Buhon doubled their war efforts, and began enlisting mercenaries. Even so, Mayet was always a step ahead. The fury inside of her had never subsided, which pushed her to commit resources beyond what the Buhon generals would consider. She didn’t necessarily outthink them or rely on grand strategies. In fact, more often than not, the Buhon forces would be more strategically minded than hers, catching her off guard. Partly due to Sitathor, as he was a far more conniving god than Kandu had ever been. It never made much of a difference, however, considering Mayet would train and prepare twice, three times, even four times the forces needed for any given raid. The entirety of Iken was being trained for military duty, from a young age. That way, Mayet didn’t need to rely on sellswords quite as much as Buhon did, which resulted in more trustworthy troops. All of the work she had done in the last four years quickly faded in the presence of the messenger before her. A girl, not much older than ten, shaking beneath the weight of the message she carried. 

“Duathor’s head has been found, general,” she said, her voice quivering like an earthquake.  

“Surely not,” Mayet said. It was said that Duathor, when he upset the council, was beheaded, and the head was given to the ape god Bolerak who threw it into space. There was no way to kill a god, truthfully, but by removing its seat of power and spreading its body parts throughout the world, you could diminish it. The entire council was then equally as diminished in the god coup, and now gods throughout the world fought for the scraps of power left in the pieces. 

“They say...hmm…” the girl paused. 

“Spit it out. You aren’t paid to deliver stutters,” Mayet said. She heard her mother’s voice, saying the same thing. It seemed that in four years she had almost entirely become her. 

“It crashed down from the sky a few nights before last, deep in the desert,” the messenger said, the fear in her voice vanished and replaced with confidence and a noticeable amount of anger. Good. She would need that in her life. 

“Thank you,” Mayet said, hiding her shock. “You may be on your way.” 

The girl nodded, and notably did not thank Mayet for her dismissal. The girl wouldn’t last as a messenger, there was too much fight in her. Mayet made a note to inquire about her later. The important thing now, was that the god head was found. The only piece that meant much of anything. If they were able to control Duathor’s head, the Iken-Buhon War would shutter to a screeching halt. The other pieces were valuable to Kandu and Sitathor, but largely made no impact on the people of their respective cities. The head, though, could cement Iken’s dominance over Buhon forever. This was the moment she had been working towards. Four years of tireless dedication in pursuit of revenge, and now revenge in its fullest form, was in the desert waiting for her. She would amass the largest force Iken had ever mustered, and take the head one way or another. Buhon and Sitathor be damned. 

“Morning general!” Captain Set-Bora said, saluting. 

“Good morning captain,” she answered. “At ease. How goes the assembly?” 

Set-Bora relaxed his posture and smiled, showing off the gaps in his teeth. “Folks are hungry, general. Even ones we’ve had to coerce before. Nearly the entire city has reported in, on top of every mercenary we could buy. As you directed, we cut into the city coffers to buy out some of Buhon’s mercenaries as well.” 

He motioned to the braided curtain hanging in front of the balcony entrance and bowed. Mayet walked forward and swept open the curtain, revealing the staging area below the balcony. As she did, a roar erupted below. Assembled before her, bellowing, were at least six thousand. They stood shoulder to shoulder, crammed into what were typically the training grounds. Their battle cries rattled her bones, and it felt magnificent. Surely Kandu would feel it as well. Once more, before her, she saw a lake. This time, of shimmering silver spears, held high in the air. The sun glinted off of them, blinding, brilliant. Waves of light rolled through the ranks as arms pumped up and down with unbridled ferocity. Aside from Kandu himself, it was the single most stunning thing Mayet had ever seen. As if an answer to the thought, she saw a cloud of dust kicking up in the distance. Quickly and as gracefully as ever, Kandu emerged from the cloud he had created, bounding over the dunes toward Iken. The roars of the army doubled, as Mayet pointed to their god. It was deafening. There was a staggering power in the image. The foreground, Mayet’s entire people assembled to fight for her, and beyond, her god, leaping through the sand to accompany his champion into battle. At that moment, Mayet could finally feel it within reach. She opened herself up to the moment four years ago as she watched her mother be buried. It had been tightly locked away in her memory, a weakness she would not indulge. In her grandest moment, however, she allowed it. Only for a moment. She imagined, hoped, that by opening herself up to it, her mother would feel it as well. Ikenites were always taught that even in death, a thread remained between your loved ones and you. If measured and channeled, they could feel you in the beyond. 

“My grand champion.” Kandu’s voice boomed throughout the desert and instantly quieted the masses. “You have accomplished far more than any before you, and yet you continue to surprise me. Never before has Iken gathered such a force.” 

The army roared once more, this time quick and concise, allowing Kandu to continue. 

“The head of Duathor has returned to us from the cold oceans of the sky, like a fish floundering on the shore. When we claim it, I will take it to the core of the earth. There, I will warm it on the molten soul of the planet until the smoke curls around the moon, then I will consume it. In my belly, it will shudder to life and whisper its powerful secrets. They will crawl through my veins and immerse themselves in my blood until we become one. Sitathor will have no choice but to bow before my strength, and our war will end. Then, only then, will you have the peace you so deserve, my children.” 

He ushered in a brief silence, which was quickly devastated. Mayet was enthralled by the sound, once more. Her skin crawled, and her heart pounded. She tilted back her head, and closed her eyes, letting it envelop her. She sank deep into the sound of her people, feeling it in every inch of her body. For a moment, it separated, creating thousands of weaving threads spinning around her, tangling along her arms and legs and through her hair. She could pick out individuals, find their voice, pluck at it like a string. Each one was a simple one-note shout. It could be broken, interrupted, covered up, drowned out. But together, each string coiled tight into an unbreakable tangle. This moment, this sound, this feeling, she would carry with her to the afterlife and serve it to her mother. This was a feast enough to satiate her for eternity. Slowly, mournfully, she raised a closed fist to silence it. 

“Iken! It is time. Move out!” she shouted. The sound returned.  

The smell was dizzying. Sand and sweat and something that smelled like cold iron. It burned Mayet’s nose. Kandu said it was Duathor’s head. His mane, splayed out across the desert like thousand-year-old vines, was covered in dust from space. It drifted upward, floating back towards its home, filling the air with sparkling dots like an entire galaxy suspended between the two armies. Duathor’s eyes spun furiously in his head. His great maw was open, and from it, there came a wail. It was not loud, or desperate, or shrill. It crept outward like a slow wave and burrowed beneath the sound only to emerge in fits and bursts throughout the battlefield. The sound was deep and mournful. Its tone pulsed in rhythms and reflected off of the other gods and the forces before them, creating a thumping dirge. Kandu’s shadow fell over Iken’s forces, his paws twisting in the sand as he prepared to bound forward. Across the sand, Buhon’s forces, four thousand strong at least, stood beneath the spiraling shadow of Sitathor. His pale green scales glittered in the midday sun, his head like a shield rose high in the air, his tongue flicking in and out. Mayet took a deep breath, and for just a moment, appreciated the elegance of the moment before bloodshed. She took a step forward and it began. Brutally and without mercy, it unfolded before the severed head of Duathor, until the sands were covered in blood and bodies and weapons. A collective human corpse for the god head. 

Idir pointed out the grave next to the old general. It seemed just yesterday he had buried that one, and now he prepared to bury her daughter. Iken was a pendulum, rapidly swinging from exhaustion to grief. They had claimed Duathor’s head, and in doing so, brought an end to the Iken-Buhon war. They had suffered greatly for it. Idir hadn’t inquired of the numbers, but it seemed that only a fourth of the army had returned with the head in tow. Even Kandu had been severely injured. Of the losses, none were greater than the one they called Mayet. The one Idir was preparing to send off. He smiled. She had experienced such pain and torment throughout her life. He had buried dozens of her family, her friends, her comrades. Finally, she would see them, and be free to rest. He remembered her weeping for her mother, not because it was remarkable, but because it stood as a solitary moment in her lifetime. From that moment on, every other burial she met with no tears, no wailing. The other gravediggers frequently pointed her out, and spoke of her resolve. They were fascinated by her resilience in the face of loss. Idir saw something else in it. She was a cold human, but that wasn’t it. She was strong, there is no doubting that. But no, Idir saw a deep jealousy in her eyes. For hundreds of years, he watched humans bury their own. Most of them were easily categorized into reckless distress. Some came before him with disinterest or even joy at the death of another. And others, like Mayet, harbored great jealousy for the dead. Not as Idir did. No, in all his years, Idir had never met a human who loved the glamor of death as he did. She was jealous not for the gift of death, but because of the curse of life. Each one that passed before her represented another who had escaped the spiteful condition. Idir slowly twisted the shovel in his hands, feeling the porous wood. It had been many, many years since he had felt so eager to bury someone. Until she was properly laid to rest, and he had time alone to say his prayers, a fiber of her remained. He was certain that she was impatiently waiting between lives, eager to leave this one behind. He nodded to her body in the grave, then to her second in command, who would take over as general moving forward. The man through bloodshot eyes looked back at him. Idir could see the fear of letting go, and the anger that it was manifesting towards him, but he didn’t mind. They always did this. Finally, the man nodded back, and Idir smiled, then began to work.