landbeastnovel Epilogue 2: On the Horizon
Epilogue 2: On the Horizon
Epilogue 2: On the Horizon
Hrothgar put his fifth finger down for the tenth time. The fact that he could even conceptualize this simple act in such a way, much less recognize what it signified, still filled him with wonder. But he worked to set the sensation aside. He had more important matters to tend to.
The finger tapped dully against the rock formation beneath his elbow as the orc passed before him, head hung low. In his brother’s eyes, he saw emptiness, a haunted look of defeat. The unsettling realization of just how many of their people they’d left behind, swaying in the breeze like so much of the humans’ wheat. Their shoulders stooped uncharacteristically with the burden of knowledge—of knowing just how few of them remained.
Hrothgar lifted his five fingers once more, slowly placing them down one at a time as more orcs filed past. Fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three. They shuffled forth, retreating into their lands. Practically all of them bore the same curled fox brand somewhere across their body, shining bright upon hands or foreheads like a beacon. Yet not all hung their heads in shame. A few couldn’t help but swivel their heads in wonder as though looking at the world for the first time.
Hrothgar understood the sentiment. He wanted nothing more than to do the same. Even those orcs with downcast eyes would likely raise them to do the same in the days and months to come. They all shared the same spark now, after all. The spark of enlightenment.
He glanced at the curled fox brand across the back of his hand. As one of the first orcs to awaken from this strange fever that had overcome all of them, Hrothgar had seen no choice but to take command of the situation himself. It was not a choice he regretted. Even before Grund had approached him, Hrothgar had been… different. More inclined towards watching and surveying the situation rather than charging in headfirst. At least, when his mind was clear. Though that condition persisted so rarely that it was a small miracle he’d survived this long. It was only because of the warchief’s blessing that he managed to escape those shackles.
He couldn’t help but wonder—what of the few orcs that hadn’t joined the assault? Would Hrothgar and the others look down upon them with pity in their eyes? Or would they be made to undergo the same trial? Should they?
It was a question he didn’t know the answer to. Even his newfound intelligence made such matters feel more complex to untangle rather than less. It was a decision that would be left to the warchief… If they could afford to do so.
His attention drifted toward a jagged formation of rock nearby and the figure sitting cross-legged in its shadow. His diminutive frame and small tusks should have marked him as a whelp, a weakling. Yet this small orc had managed to not only claim the title of chieftain but also defend it against all comers. A master tactician and a brilliant mind, one whose like had never before been seen among the orcs. At least, he didn’t think so. Their race wasn’t exactly known for keeping detailed histories.
So why had he not awoken yet?
“Any change?”
Hrothgar looked up at the tall, wiry orc clad in mottled hides. His usual full belt of axes was considerably lighter than before the assault, most of them either hurled at the humans or the pointy-eared ones that composed their ranged fighters. The brand on his arm was covered, a move meant to prevent him from being targeted. But Hrothgar could feel it nonetheless.
“Nox.” Hrothgar greeted the orc and shook his head. “No. The warchief remains trapped.”
Nox snorted. “I wonder about that.” At Hrothgar’s frown, he continued. “The warchief’s way beyond any of us in ability. That’s not up for debate.”
“I agree. Which is why I am concerned.” Grund’s blessings had allowed them to escape the maze of information that had enraptured their minds. It only stood to reason that the one who had granted them would be even less susceptible.
“Hmph. Then maybe it’s not that he can’t escape. Maybe he just doesn’t want to.”
Hrothgar’s brow furrowed as he looked back toward the warchief. It was true that Grund’s bearing was unlike that of the other orcs. He sat motionless, as still as a rock viper preparing to strike, with eyes closed in peaceful meditation rather than staring in unfocused wonder. Yet the effect was the same. No amount of verbal or physical prodding could awaken the orc from his state.
“That… But why?” Hrothgar pressed.
“Is it really so strange? You saw how wondrous that place was.”
“Of course. But he is Warchief. He’s needed here.”
The tall orc grunted. “Is he? Seems to me like there’s not much for him to do. There are few enough of us that wrangling everyone is a one-person job. One that you’ve already taken care of. Maybe he’s making the most of the experience.”
Hrothgar’s frown deepened as he considered the idea. It was true that they had things handled. He didn’t need Grund’s tactical mind to recognize that pulling back was the only viable move right now. And it certainly did make more sense than the brilliant orc somehow finding himself more ensnared than his brethren. But could the warchief really take advantage of these visions in such a way?
Nox followed his gaze. “We have trusted in him this far. Do not lose faith so easily. Trust in his plans.”
They spoke for a little longer before another pair of dejected orcs appeared around the bend. Hrothgar resumed his counting, adding them to the tally. He realized that he’d forgotten what finger he was on during his conversation, but the number of total orcs came to his mind easily when he searched.
Fifty-four. Fifty-five.
Hesitantly, he curled his fingers into a fist and laid it atop the axe in his lap. The next few orcs he added to the tally mentally, astonished at the sheer ease of doing so. How large a number could he keep in mind like this? Was this how the humans functioned, how they managed to organize so well? Grund’s gifts had granted him clarity, but this… this was true enlightenment.
He continued counting, making mental notes of each face he saw. Many glanced toward the warchief in curiosity or worry as they walked by. But a jerk of the head from Hrothgar had them moving on. Part of him feared that someone would take advantage of Grund’s state to kill the warchief and claim the title for themselves. But it never happened. No one so much as reached for their weapons. They were too smart for that, now. Even the rare unbranded orc walked calmly, without the jitters or itchy fingers that indicated one spoiling for a fight.
Hrothgar remained there, guarding his warchief and keeping his tally, slowly watching the number rise from two digits to three.
***
The vast, unrelenting expanse of dark space stretched out for an eternity in every direction, hungrily consuming any semblance of light that dared show itself. Only a scant few islands shone defiantly within the void, each one so distant and disconnected that the others may as well have not existed at all.
One such island shone a brilliant white, with marble columns that soared to impossible heights. Murals depicting an entire civilization’s worth of myths in perfect detail scrolled across the walls, each one wrought in gemstone hues more brilliant than any craftsman could dream of creating. The blue-and-white-tinged flames of divine fire roared within a central brazier with an intensity that would have blinded any mortal. Around it were arranged a circle of resplendent thrones.
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Their restoration had seen much progress in the past months, thanks to the efforts of the Legion and the figures sitting atop them both. Yet some remained more dilapidated than their neighbors, their former glory still a way off. Still, the progress could not be ignored.
Mars sat atop the ring of black iron shields that formed the base of his throne. The olive branches that decorated its surface seemed small beneath the looming wall of spears that formed its back—not withered, simply receding in deference to the weapons of war, at least, for now.
“You have not selected a champion yet.”
Mars looked up toward the towering golden oak tree that occupied the centermost position within the room. Jupiter’s regal form sat in his living throne, shaded by the bright green of new leaves clustered overhead and the clouds that gathered about the topmost branches. An eagle made of pure lightning crackled at his shoulder, preening itself.
The king of the Roman pantheon remained as imposing as ever. Even more so than before, now that he’d integrated the portion of power he’d wrested from their foes. It imbued his words with authority, as though they alone could warp existence to his own ends.
“I see no need to rush things,” Mars replied. “The Romans have made acceptable offerings to me, both in substance and in deed.”
More than acceptable, in fact. Given the Legion’s respect for the war god, he still remained one of the most powerful of their pantheon, second perhaps only to Jupiter himself.
“Oh, come on,” Apollo called over from his own ornate throne. “Just pick someone and get it over with. What’s the big deal?”
Mars frowned. “Selecting a choice is a matter of great import. A poor choice will not simply rob me of my investment—it will open me up to retribution from our enemies. It is not a decision to be made lightly.”
The last words were delivered in a meaningful tone. But Apollo waved a dismissive hand. “Pssh. Just because I’m decisive doesn’t mean that I rushed it. I made a great choice. The entertainment value alone is worth the investment.”
Mars stifled a snort. He personally preferred the warriors, the brave individuals who knew only the song of blade and steel. But that was his domain. Given Apollo’s, perhaps his brother was satisfied with the choice.
“While I disagree as to Apollo’s reasoning, I do agree that it would be beneficial.” Ceres chimed in from her artfully woven throne of wheat. Ripe, juicy fruits adorned its surface like jewels. “My own chosen has been instrumental in my continued existence for all these years.
“Hear, hear!” Said Pan. The satyr didn’t have a throne of his own. Rather, he simply sat on the armrest of Ceres’s own, his hooved legs dangling.
Apollo gestured around the room. “See? Just pick. Even Vulcan has made a choice. You’re pretty much the only holdout.”
The war god raised an eyebrow and shifted his attention. Vulcan didn’t even raise his head at the mention of his name. The blacksmith god simply focused on the intricate piece of metal that his massive hands were tinkering with. His throne was a simple seat of polished metal—simple, yet impeccable.
“Got my eye on one.” The brawny god muttered, his gaze still fixed on his latest project. The metal itself glowed orange in his grip. “Just gotta talk to him. Right after I finish this…”
Apollo’s cheeky grin broadened. “If there aren’t any humans you like, you can always choose something else. I’m sure Pan would be more than happy to introduce you to a promising wolf…”
Mars’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
He avoided looking toward Neptune and his oceanic throne as he made his denial. Honestly, he couldn’t believe that the god had actually chosen a horse as his champion. He’d never been one much for humanity, but still…
“I have considered my options,” Mars admitted. “But I have not yet finalized a decision. They will need to prove themselves further during the remainder of this campaign.”
Ceres tilted her head. “The remainder? Nephew… are not the Romans pulling back to consolidate their gains? Even as we speak, their foes flee or are cut down where they stand like wheat before a scythe.”
“Yet more remain. Their dregs will scatter and sprout once more if allowed to do so. The same is true of the traitorous priests that nest within their borders. They cannot afford to leave threats and enemies unaddressed in their wake. Especially given the uncertainty of their latest victory.”
Mars turned to look at Apollo. The god shrugged. “Don’t look at me. I don’t know where they got that spell. Definitely seemed fishy, though. Ah, not to implicate you, Neptune.”
A grunt was the only reply from the half-submerged god.
Mars was not foolish enough to suggest that Rome continue on to subjugate the other civilizations of this world without rest. Such things required time and preparation. The dragons were a mighty foe, and the dwarves would only become more difficult to dislodge as they were allowed to fortify their halls. Yet the Legion’s current enemies had been greatly weakened to the point that destroying them altogether was indeed a feasible outcome. A desirable one, even.
His words received mixed feedback. Ceres frowned, but nodded in agreement. There was an assortment of other frowns and nods all around the circle of gods. But they all turned their attention to Jupiter. It was his opinion that would hold the most sway.
“Overextending will only serve to weaken the empire,” Jupiter stated. “It already has. One of the reasons that pulling back is even necessary. But regardless. Such matters are for the mortals to handle. The priests, on the other hand…” A flash of lightning crackled across Jupiter’s knuckles. “The battle with Kyraz and his fellow usurper gods has demonstrated the shifting tides of the heavens. Many of this world’s lesser gods have already bent the knee.”
Ceres looked over sharply. “You intend to have them serve us?”
“Indeed.”
Mars’s jaw clenched. “Father. Would it not be better to execute these gods and consolidate their power, as you did with the false god of justice? To allow them to live is simply to allow them another chance to rebel.”
“On the contrary.” Jupiter tapped a finger against the wooden arm of his throne. “This will grant us leverage. Though we grow in power by the day, it is clear that we are far from a position to contest the totality of this world's gods on our own. Were we to execute all opposition, it would not be long before we found ourselves in that very position. Any future foes will fight to the last to avoid a permanent end.
“No, it is better to siphon away their allies by sweeping them under our own banner. That is the most effective way to ensure our success.”
With each word, Mars found his frown deepening. His father’s words weren’t entirely without merit. Still…
*Such borrowed power is liable to abandon us in our hour of greatest need. Even if we should benefit from it in the present, such an act is tantamount to showing the enemy our backs and inviting them to stab when the opportunity presents itself.”
“While the alternative is to invite their full might upon our heads,” Jupiter countered. “Which is preferable? A future betrayal that may never come? Or an unwinnable fight that is certain to find our doorstep?”
“I would rather face our enemies head-on rather than fall to the same ruse twice. Mercy is not the Roman way. Such an arrangement will only telegraph our weakness. Have we learned nothing from the lessons of the past?” Mars asked.
Jupiter’s eyes narrowed. “I do not approve of your tone, son.”
The air crackled. The eagle at the god’s shoulder straightened suddenly, its feathers ruffling as it turned to glare at Mars.
“It is precisely because of those lessons that we will not be caught off guard again. We have seen our foes for what they are. We will not mistake them for allies in truth again. This arrangement is one of convenience, not of true kinship.”
The war god met his father’s gaze. “Even still—”
“It is already done.” Jupiter’s tone brooked no argument as he turned to address the room. “I inform you all of this not to ask for permission. The arrangements have already been made by my authority. I will ensure that each of you is presented with appropriate subordinate gods soon. That is all.”
The meeting was closed without ceremony. Several of the gods took the opportunity to immediately depart, Neptune and Vulcan first among them. Others were slower to disperse, taking a moment to speak with one another about the future to come.
Mars descended from his throne and headed for the archway. A formality, given that he could appear and disappear at will. But one he chose to observe.
He felt more than saw Ceres move toward him. But before she could reach his side, another presence cut him off.
“Son.”
Mars turned to see Jupiter standing at his elbow. The god’s flowing beard rippled with the grays and whites of storm clouds, his eyes crackling with lightning. He no longer sat upon his throne, yet that did not mean he lost his presence as a ruler.
Jupiter lowered his voice to a low, stern tone. “You are a brilliant tactician and warrior. Yet your domain is one of war, not government. Do not forget that.”
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Then, Mars slowly nodded. “I understand.”
He glanced toward Ceres briefly, then turned back toward the archway. His mind whirled with countless plans, ideas, and ways to ensure this tactical blunder did not result in all of them falling once more to their enemies. More than anything, though, he thought about Jupiter.
It was true that his father was the king of the gods, and a god of kings besides. Yet he could not help but doubt his judgment in this. For Mars was a god of war. And despite all of Jupiter’s attempts to bring order and stability to the empire and the pantheon, Mars could see the war that continued to rumble on the horizon. Especially if they began to entertain mercy.
He stepped through the archway, disappearing in a flash of steel and blood.