No More Kings: A Fantasy Short Story
By Marc Corteguera
A short story in the world of Kruxia, the setting for my upcoming book. See a teaser of it on my website, madebymarc.net, and view the short story below to get a glimpse into what this world entails.
Ditrovus awoke to the sound of someone coughing blood.
Across the barracks, a soldier hunched over a bucket, his shoulders shaking. Nobody bothered to even look at him. The barracks had forty beds, twenty-three occupants, and a roof that leaked whenever it rained. There were worse places to sleep in Caldris.
At nineteen, Ditrovus was among the youngest of the Tithe Breakers. He had enlisted the morning he became eligible, much to his mother's dismay. His father had died fighting the gods before Ditrovus could remember his face, and he intended to finish what the man had started.
He pulled on his uniform, patched twice at the elbows, and fastened a breastplate whose previous owner had been considerably broader. The leather straps had been shortened with some crude twine he had found. His sword was little better. Rust had gathered around the hilt, though the blade itself was sharp enough.
"Looking handsome, Dit."
Brennik sat on the neighboring bed, struggling to reapply the bandages to the sweeping burn wound on his leg.
"Better than you."
"That's not difficult."
Brennik had fought for sixteen years. He liked to remind Ditrovus that when the war began, the boy had still been drinking his mother's milk.
"Patrol today?" Brennik asked.
"Western quarter."
"Lucky guy. Might find something worth eating."
Ditrovus laughed, fastening his sword belt.
Outside, Caldris was waking.
Smoke rose from the furnaces where the army melted down whatever metal it could find. Women queued outside the ration house, clutching wooden bowls. A pair of children dragged a cart of broken masonry through the street.
Beyond the walls lay fields abandoned to ash and weeds. Beyond those, Ditrovus could only imagine.
He had heard the names of cities that no longer existed. Vaeloria, whose white marble towers had once stood taller than the mountains surrounding them. The great port of Merath, where ships from a dozen kingdoms crowded the harbors. And Kessarin, a city said to have held more people than all of Caldris. Ditrovus had never seen any of them, only heard the stories passed down by soldiers whose fathers had watched them fall.
The old soldiers spoke of them sometimes, usually after drinking. None agreed on what had happened to them. Some said the gods had burned them. Others said the people had done it themselves, desperate to deny the gods another stronghold.
Whatever the truth, Caldris remained. The last great city of mankind. And mankind was winning.
"Ditrovus!"
A captain emerged from the armory, waving him over.
"Change of assignment. Dungeon watch."
Ditrovus stopped.
"Sir?"
"New prisoner. Third chamber. You're relieving the men downstairs."
"What sort of prisoner?"
The captain studied him.
"A god."
For a moment, Ditrovus forgot how to breathe.
He had never seen a god. He had seen what they left behind: fields of blackened earth, soldiers carried home without limbs, a woman whose skin had turned to stone during an assault three winters earlier.
But never a god itself.
"Is it dangerous?"
"It's chained, isn't it?"
The captain turned away. Ditrovus hurried toward the dungeon, his hand resting on the sword at his hip as its rusty hilt thumped a fast beat on his belt with every step.
He imagined a towering beast with antlers of iron, or a serpent large enough to swallow the city. Perhaps it would speak into his mind. Perhaps it would promise him riches, or threaten his family.
He reminded himself of the Tithe Breakers' oath.
No more rulers. No more kings.
The gods had demanded worship, tribute, and obedience for centuries. His ancestors had given them grain while their children starved. When the first people refused their tithes, the gods had answered with slaughter.
That was why the Tithe Breakers existed, and why Ditrovus wore their uniform.
He descended the dungeon steps.
The first thing he heard was laughter.
"Go on. Do it again!"
A sharp crack echoed through the corridor, followed by more laughter.
Ditrovus entered the third chamber.
Three soldiers stood around an iron cage. One guard held a wooden stick, which he was using to prod something curled against the far wall.
"Speak, you idiot!"
"—you idiot!"
The voice was soft, almost musical.
The soldiers roared.
Ditrovus stepped closer.
The creature inside was scarcely larger than a man. Its body was thin and pale, with long limbs folded awkwardly beneath a gray robe. Two delicate, featherless wings hung from its shoulders, their translucent membranes torn in several places.
Its face was almost human, except for the narrow slits where ears should have been and the strange, glassy eyes that reflected the torchlight. Around its throat was an iron collar.
One of the soldiers struck the bars.
"Tell the boy what you are!"
"—what you are!"
"See? Stupid thing."
Ditrovus stared.
"That's a god?"
"One of the little ones," the soldier said. "Caught it hiding in a ruined chapel. Didn't even put up a fight."
"What's its name?"
"Who cares?"
The soldier jabbed the stick between the bars again and the creature recoiled.
"Careful," Ditrovus said before he could stop himself.
The man turned.
"Careful?"
"It might attack."
That earned another round of laughter.
"Well, you can watch for that, hero."
The soldier tossed his stick aside.
"Execution order's coming down. Probably an hour, once the officers finish arguing over whose signature goes where."
He gestured toward the others.
"Come on. We can get a drink before they call us back."
They left Ditrovus alone with the prisoner.
For several minutes, neither moved.
Ditrovus stood beside the cage, his hand gripping his sword.
The god sat with its knees drawn against its chest.
Eventually, Ditrovus spoke.
"Can you understand me?"
"Understand me?"
The creature raised its head and nodded.
"Then why don't you answer?"
"Don't you answer?"
Ditrovus frowned.
"Are you mocking me?"
"Mocking me?"
The god shook its head vigorously.
"Then you can't speak normally?"
"Can't speak normally."
Another nod.
Ditrovus loosened his grip on the sword.
"You can only repeat things?"
"Only repeat things."
"Anything you hear?"
"Anything you hear."
The god nodded again.
Ditrovus considered this.
"That's a rather useless power."
"Rather useless."
For the first time, the creature smiled in an amused, agreeing way.
Ditrovus almost smiled back, but he caught himself.
"What are you the god of?"
"God of?"
"Yes. Fire? War? Something like that?"
"Something like that?" the God said, raising an eyebrow.
Ditrovus sighed.
"Right. Stupid question."
He looked at the god for another moment.
"Echoes?"
"Echoes."
The creature nodded eagerly.
"You're the god of echoes?"
"God of echoes."
Another nod.
Ditrovus stared at the pathetic figure before him.
"That's all?"
"That's all."
He had imagined the gods as beings of immeasurable power, capable of crushing armies with a gesture. Yet this one could do little more than repeat his words.
"Do you have a name?"
The creature opened its mouth, then closed it.
Ditrovus waited.
"Well?"
"Well?"
He thought for a moment.
"Is it something I have to say first?"
"Say first."
The god nodded.
"Then how am I supposed to know?"
"Supposed to know?"
It lowered its head.
Ditrovus sat on a stool beside the cage.
"Fine. I'll call you Echo."
"Echo…"
The god made a sour face.
"Not Echo?"
"Not Echo."
Ditrovus laughed despite himself.
"Well, at least you have standards."
"Have standards."
The god's mouth curled upward again.
He noticed then that the creature's wrists were bleeding. The chains had been fastened so tightly that the metal had cut through its skin.
"Does that hurt?"
"Hurt"
The god looked down at its wrists and nodded.
Ditrovus glanced toward the corridor; there was nobody there.
He approached the cage and examined the lock. The bars were too narrow for him to reach through comfortably, but he could get his hands around the chain where it passed between them.
"Don't try anything."
"Try anything."
The god nodded.
Ditrovus unfastened the outer length of chain and loosened it enough to give the prisoner some room to move. The creature stared at its wrists, then slowly turned them over.
"Better?"
"Better."
It nodded, and Ditrovus returned to his stool.
For a while, they sat in silence. "Why didn't you fight when they captured you?" he eventually asked.
"Captured you?"
"Yes. Why didn't you fight?"
"Didn't you fight?"
The god shook its head.
"Can't fight?"
"Can't fight."
Another nod.
Ditrovus studied the creature's wings. "Could you have flown away?"
"Flown away?"
The god extended one of its damaged wings. The membrane trembled before it folded the wing against its back again, shaking its head.
Ditrovus looked away. He had grown up hearing stories of divine cruelty. The gods had torn apart cities, demanded sacrifices, and made slaves of humanity. His father had died because of them. Yet the creature before him looked like it would struggle to hurt a fly.
"Have you ever killed someone?"
"Killed someone?"
The god looked frightened by the idea and shook its head.
"Never?"
"Never."
"Not even during the war?"
"During the war?"
The god shook its head again. Ditrovus wanted to believe it, and that frightened him more than anything.
"Did you know what the other gods were doing to us?"
The creature stopped moving. Its eyes fell to the floor.
"Did you know?" Ditrovus repeated.
"Did you know?"
A long silence followed. Then, very slowly, the god nodded.
Ditrovus felt his jaw tighten. "And you did nothing?"
"Did nothing."
The god's voice was barely audible.
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
For a moment, Ditrovus hated it. He thought of his father, the ruined fields, and the soldiers returning from battle with empty sleeves and bandaged faces.
"You could have helped us."
"Helped us."
"Why didn't you?"
"Why didn't you?"
The creature stared at him, unable to give him an answer he could understand.
Ditrovus stood and paced the length of the chamber. "You're all the same," he muttered.
"All the same."
He turned sharply. "No. Don't repeat that."
"Don't repeat that."
"Stop!"
"Stop!"
The god flinched, pressing itself against the bars behind it.
Ditrovus fell silent. He suddenly understood why the other soldiers had found the creature so amusing. It was easy to make it say whatever you wanted, to turn its voice into a joke and forget that it was trying to speak at all.
He returned to the stool.
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry."
The god looked up and, after a moment, nodded.
Ditrovus reached into his satchel and removed a small piece of bread left over from breakfast.
"Are you hungry?"
"Hungry?"
The god nodded. He broke the bread in half and passed one piece between the bars. The creature accepted it carefully, holding it in both hands.
"Thank you," Ditrovus said, testing the words.
"Thank you."
The god smiled, and this time Ditrovus smiled too.
He wondered how many centuries the creature had spent repeating the words of others. How many prayers it had heard, how many arguments, songs, and declarations of love. He wondered how often anyone had bothered to listen.
"Do you want to die?"
"Want to die?"
The god shook its head immediately.
Ditrovus swallowed. "They're going to execute you."
"Execute you."
The god glanced toward the axe mounted on the chamber wall, then back at him.
"Are you afraid?" Ditrovus asked.
The God paused for a moment, and suddenly had a look of unbearable sorrow in his yes that he had not seen before.
"Afraid." it said in a small voice.
Ditrovus had never considered that gods might be afraid.
A moment later, footsteps sounded in the corridor, and the creature retreated to the back of its cage. Four soldiers entered, the same three from earlier, accompanied by a broad-shouldered officer carrying a folded parchment.
"Order's through," the officer announced. "Execution's approved."
Ditrovus rose. "Sir."
"Prisoner still secure?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Get it out."
Two soldiers unlocked the cage and seized the god by its arms. It stumbled as they dragged it forward.
"Easy," Ditrovus said, but the soldiers continued pulling.
One of them noticed the loosened chains. "Who did this?"
"I did, sir. They were cutting into its wrists."
The soldier snorted. "Well, isn't that sweet?"
The officer turned toward Ditrovus.
"How old are you, boy?"
"Nineteen, sir."
"Ever killed a god?"
"No, sir."
"Ever killed anything?"
Ditrovus straightened. "I've fought in three engagements, sir."
"That's not what I asked."
Ditrovus said nothing.
"Well, there's a first time for everything." The officer gestured toward the axe on the wall. "Give it to him."
One of the soldiers lifted the weapon from its hooks and brought it over.
"Sir?" Ditrovus asked.
"You've been guarding it. Seems fitting you finish the job."
The axe was placed in his hands. It was heavier than he expected. The soldiers forced the god to its knees in the center of the chamber. Its wings spread involuntarily across the stone, their torn edges dragging through the dirt.
“Do your duty." the guard said.
The officer stepped aside, and Ditrovus approached the kneeling god. Its eyes followed him as he took his position, the axe resting against his leg.
He remembered the oath. No more rulers. No more kings. He remembered his father, whose face he knew only from a faded drawing his mother kept beside her bed, and the stories of cities turned to ash, of children buried beneath their homes, of gods who demanded everything and gave nothing.
He tightened his grip on the axe. The creature trembled.
This isn't right.
"Go on," the officer ordered.
Ditrovus raised the weapon, and the god's eyes widened. He tried to think of the ruined battlefields he’d seen all his life, but instead he remembered the bread the creature had held so carefully in its hands.
This isn't right.
"What's taking so long?" one of the soldiers demanded.
Ditrovus glanced down at the prisoner. Its mouth opened, and for a moment he thought it might finally speak for itself.
"Isn't right."
The words came out in his own voice, repeated softly. Ditrovus froze, the axe still raised above his shoulder.
The officer stepped forward. "Finish it!"
"Finish it!" the god repeated, recoiling at the sound of its own voice.
Ditrovus looked at the soldiers surrounding him. Their swords were sheathed, and their attention was fixed on the prisoner. One stood close enough that Ditrovus could see the frayed stitching along his collar.
This isn't right.
The god looked up at him. Its glassy eyes were wet, and its mouth trembled as it searched for words it had never been given. Ditrovus could hear the officer shouting, but he could no longer make out what the man was saying. The chains rattled against the stone as the prisoner shifted beneath him.
This isn't right.
He adjusted his grip on the axe. The officer was still standing to his left, close enough to maybe swing at. Behind him, the other soldiers waited for the execution.
This isn't right.
Ditrovus opened his eyes, grabbed his axe, and swung.
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