Context for the short story 

While the story is NOT necessary to THE GODLESS, it introduces the TOLFAH, a race of subhumans who become a major threat in a future volume, and shows the differences between the Sa’ba Taalor and the people of Fellein. It is a straightforward sword and sorcery tale, with a heavy twist of Grimdark!

Though I have written about all of the Fellein Empire, the eastern coast has barely been touched in stories, until now. This is the story of one young woman caught in the wrong place and one young warrior trying to prove himself worthy of his gods.

Revan of the Sa’ba Taalor finds himself facing an army of cannibalistic subhumans as they attack a caravan traveling through the Dark Passage, a place altered irrevocably by the appearance of one of the Seven Forges. This is his coming of age, his chance to prove himself worthy of the gods he worships, and he is the only chance of survival for the caravan of farmers seeking refuge from the Tolfah.

The winds in Morwhen blow to the south on most days, and drag the plague winds through the lower valleys of the Arkennen Mountains. Those winds, dark and cold at the best of times, bleed through the mountains in whispers and moans and most of the people who dare travel through the lower areas know that they have to beware the Tolfah. 

The Tolfah, according to local legends, were all that remained of the once vast army of the Wellish Overlords, the creatures that very nearly toppled the Fellein Empire almost a thousand years ago. They are savage things, and if the rumors are true, they eat what they kill and often play with their food.

Marah was young and had never encountered the Tolfah, or their dark ways. She knew that traveling through the lower areas of Morwhen was dangerous, and so when they had to make the journey her people always traveled in larger groups. 

She had made the trip before. When her father traveled, he almost always took her along. He claimed she was a good luck charm, and he always smiled as he said it. The difference this time was that the new mountain had grown in Morwhen, the mountain that was said to be home to one of the gods of the grey-skins, the people called the Sa’ba Taalor.  The greys called the mountain Paedle, and claimed a god rested at its heart. Even miles distant the glow from the towering volcanic mountain lit the underbelly of the clouds and turned them a bloody shade of red. 

Had anyone asked her, Marah would have claimed to know very little about the grey people. She would not have been lying. They were fighters. They were soldiers. They served gods of war and lived on the slopes of the great volcano. Mostly, they were to be avoided, as they killed her kind whenever they found them. 

That was all she knew and all she needed to know. As with the Tolfah, she wanted to stay as far from them as possible.

The road to Nostfer was clearly marked by a long stone wall that had several towers, stops where they could rest for the next stretch of the journey. The towers were maintained by the people who lived along the route, and for a few coins anyone could stay well-sheltered from the worst of the winds. The stretch of road was called the Dark Passage, because it was almost always hidden by clouds, and because the area below that stretch of highway was a known haunt of the Tolfah. 

 It was a cold, dark road through the Arkennen Mountains. That was the only kind of passage that existed near as she could figure. In all of her years of traveling she had never seen the way lit well or warmed much by the sun. That was the problem with Morwhen, it was always cold and near as she could tell the sun didn’t much like to linger. 

“My father says the mountains here are tainted.” Jesper was talking. He liked to talk. That was all well and good as it meant she could simply listen and nod along with what he had to say. Jesper was a pretty lad, tall and lean, with a bright smile and a sense of humor that matched the mountains around them. She could listen to him talk all day long and never grow bored of the words, even when she didn’t pay them the least bit of attention.

“How can mountains be tainted?”

“He says it was the Overlords that did it, back when they were a threat. They stole the sunlight from Morwhen, left us with the clouds and the dark and took the best of the sun away with their curses right before they were killed off.”

“Aye. That sort of makes sense, I suppose.” It was true. Near as she could tell the sun broke through the clouds in Morwhen only as often as one day in twenty. The rest of the time the clouds held sway and blocked the sun from being seen except as a distant glow. Oh, to be sure the sun was there, but the clouds were closer and did what they could to hide away the best of the light and warmth. 

Still, when it showed itself the sun was a glorious thing. Almost as bright as Jesper’s smile.  

Around them the horses were calm, and the winds were fair. It was cold, yes, but not so bad that she had to hide her head in her cowl. The sun was closer today, and the skies were light. 

And Jesper was still smiling and talking. She had half a mind to give him a kiss. She might even do it, if they could find a spot that was quiet enough. 

When the horde came, they came with thoughts of blood and death.  

There was no warning. The storms did not come first, and the Storm Crows did not fly up from their perches in the trees, calling out for all to hear. The bastards simply showed up in overwhelming numbers and started killing everything in their way. 

She saw them as a wave of flesh and teeth, with what seemed a thousand arms, reaching for everything at once and drowning the whole of the world. They forced themselves between the heavy trees that lined the passage, pushing past the shrubbery and thorn bushes, making quick work of climbing over the wall, howling and grunting as they spilled into the areas where civilized folk traveled. 

“The Tolfah! To arms!” Bester was the man who called out, standing in his saddle and raising his hands to his mouth, the better to make sure all heard his words. 

The spear that killed him came from behind and drove through his breastbone, piercing his body and his armor alike.  Bester died quickly. That was a blessing of the gods, indeed. Marah had heard horror stories of what the Tolfah did to their enemies. 

She would have gratefully gone her entire life never meeting any of the raiders. They were dressed in skins and furs. The dried leather was rough and tied around legs and arms in an effort to protect them from the meager light, for it was said the Tolfah hated the sun. The furs wrapped around them like cloaks, tied to their bodies in an effort to ward off the worst of the chill. 

The beast men were ugly, and they stank of the plague winds. The Tolfah ran low to the ground, their faces half buried in shadows, their skin flaking and diseased, and their teeth bared in ferocious grimaces. They looked enough like men to seem familiar, enough like beasts to steal away that familiarity. They were ragged things, with crude weapons and wild eyes.

Jesper drew his sword and let out a battle cry as he turned in his saddle and tried to look everywhere at once. It was impossible to see them all as they came closer, but he did his best and his sword lashed down and struck the closest of the savages a telling blow across the brow. The brute fell back, his scalp bleeding, his mouth opened wide to show teeth that were too wide, too round to be fully human. 

Even as he fell back, three more of the Tolfah charged at Jesper. One of them carried a club. He used it to smash down on Jesper’s knee. Marah saw the blow, watched Jesper open his mouth in a cry of pain, and then watched on, horrified, as the next of the attackers hacked into Jesper’s chest with a crude axe.  The edge was sharp enough and Jesper fell from his horse as the third of the savages caught his fur cloak and pulled him from the saddle. 

In a matter of seconds, the handsome boy she’d come to admire was down on the ground and dying. It happened so fast she barely had time to register the danger before the three that had attacked him were standing on his corpse and looking for the next victim.

They cast their eyes toward her, and Marah did what she’d been told to do before every trip into the mountains. She ran. The horse beneath her was well-trained and listened to her commands, riding over the closest of the Tolfah, crushing the beast man under its hooves and pushing through the gathering crowd of savages. 

Marah held her place in the saddle and prayed for all she was worth for some form of salvation from the Tolfah. Somewhere behind her she could hear her father crying out, and knew he was alive, fighting to be free from the bloodthirsty wave of barbarians. 

But there were so many of the things, oh, so many and only twenty fighters in their group. She pulled the sword her father had given her, a weapon she knew well enough how to  use, and let out a shrill scream of outrage as more of the things came for her, rushing forward as if the thought of being crushed under her horse was of little consequence. 

The first of the creatures to try for her pulled back a badly wounded hand and hissed as it glared at her. The thing next to it reached for her and caught her boot, her leg in a hard grip, throwing its weight back in an effort to unhorse her. 

Marah let out another scream, this one higher in pitch and far more desperate. Her sword flicked out and hacked into the thick fingers of the monster’s left hand and it let go her leg, shrieking and gnashing its teeth. 

The fist that struck the side of her head felt like a hammer. Marah saw the beast man jump from the ground, one thick arm swooped around in a wild arc, and had no chance to defend herself before the heavy fist of her enemy struck. She fell from her horse even as the world faded to black.  

***

“Why do you stand there?” Swech spoke to him, and Revan blinked and shook his head. The sight was not what he’d expected. There were dozens of Fellein, but it looked like many more of the feral beast-men who attacked them. They were a living flood of foul creatures, overflowing onto the pathway the Fellein traveled and spilling across both sides of the road.

His heart thundered. 

“So many of them.” His lips trembled slightly at the thought.

“They are for you, Revan. They are here for you. Go, prove yourself to the gods.” Swech stood by his side and looked down the hillside. They were far from Paedle’s embrace, but that did not matter. These were, indeed, a gift from the gods.  His entire life he had learned, had fought, had prepared for this moment, the chance to prove himself before the gods, to honor them with blood and combat. 

His fingers moved over his lower jaw, along the sides of his smooth skin, where stubble grew. No Great Scars. He had not yet earned the right to hear any god speak to him. That was why he was here, that was his great gift.

There had to be over a hundred of the animals attacking the Fellein, dragging the pink skins from their horses, beating them with clubs and crude swords. The Fellein tried to fight back, but they were easily overwhelmed by the sheer numbers before them. Horses reared and riders fell, the great beasts kicked and struck out with their hooves, maiming their enemies even as they ran from the area.

For the first time in his life, Revan would truly be on his own, and the thought excited him.

How long? How many years of training? How many times had he forged new weapons, until the feel and balance of the blade in his hands was perfectly suited to him? How many battles until he felt capable of fighting an enemy? 

There was only one answer. A lifetime. Revan looked upon the vast wave of flesh and felt his blood surge in response. This then was the time. Paedle and Durhallem and Truska-Pren looked upon him as he stared down at his enemies. Wheklam called for his rage, and Wrommish for his discipline. The armor he wore was forged by his own hands, and the horned helmet was crafted by him, for him. It fit exactly as a helmet should. 

Below him the starving, bestial victims of the plague-winds brought down the pale skins and prepared to drag them back into the lower depths as food for their kind. They overwhelmed the Fellein, crushed them as easily as a hand crushes a flower’s bloom.

The Fellein fought, to be sure, but the numbers against them were simply too great. 

Revan bared his teeth in a feral grin and thanked his gods for this opportunity.

What better way to prove his mettle than to turn the tide of the battle?

He fell upon the beast-men like the wrath of the gods.

***

Marah hit the ground and felt her lip split against a moss-blanketed stone. The pain was exactly sharp enough to draw her back from the brink of unconsciousness. The creature that had struck her down now towered over her, screeching past bared fangs, a crude knife held in one hand. 

Marah wanted to move. She willed herself to stand, to grab up her fallen sword, but her body twitched, and her hands stayed where they were. 

She was a dead woman and she knew it. So did the knife-wielder. 

The arrow slipped through the beast-man’s neck as easily as a fish moves through water. One moment he was leaning down toward her and roaring his victory and the next the arrow had done its work and the savage dropped the blade as he reached up to stop the sudden explosive flow of blood erupting from his ruined throat. He took two steps forward and then fell to his knees. 

She saw the archer behind him, watched as he smoothly aimed and fired three more times and killed three more of the brutal beast-men. She heard the faint thrum of the bow’s string twang three times and watched the deaths as they occurred. Twang, and one of the brutes fell down, an arrowhead protruding from his chest. Twang, and another fell forward, lifeless, an arrow through the back of his head. Twang, and another dropped to the ground, screaming soundlessly, and dying, and crawling across the roughly paved road as pink froth spilled from the sucking chest wound. 

Three more arrows flew from the archer before the closest of the Tolfah turned to face the dark shape that came for them. Three more of the diseased beast-men died.

The closest of the Tolfah, a creature covered in lesions and wrapped in bands of fur and leather, let out a roar of challenge and loped toward the armored shape coming its way. 

He was a large man, tall and heavily muscled. Armor covered his vitals, his shoulders, and a shirt and skirt of chain protected most of his flesh. A great horned helmet covered his head. What skin Marah could see was the color of ashes, and she knew him for a Sa’ba Taalor in that instant. 

Three more arrows and the tide of flesh was too close for any more ranged weapons. Three more bodies fell even as the brutes charged toward the stranger, and he lifted the spear he’d planted in the ground beside him and caught another of the Tolfah as it ran toward him, shrieking in outrage. 

The spear’s tip punched the savage in his chest and drove through meat and bone, piercing the entire body of the creature.  The stranger shoved his dying opponent backward and dropped his spear as the next of the creatures came closer. 

He pulled his sword from where it was strapped to his back. It had a long, curved blade that ran past the hilt, and a second gripping spot higher up for the other hand to brace. As she watched the blade swept through the air and caught the charging Tolfah in the stomach, slicing through leather and meat as the brutal wielder attacked. 

His blade was held in his left hand, and the right hand caught the next of his enemies, blocking a knife strike that scraped along his gauntleted fist. Before his attacker could recover his balance that odd blade swept up and cut into the beast-man’s face, slicing through jaw and cheek alike as the armored man stepped forward. 

Marah finally managed to move, to retreat as the man stepped forward again, throwing aside the bloodied Tolfah.  Several more of the things came for him, barking, snapping their teeth together, and charging toward their mutual enemy with bloody intent.  

One foot lashed out and kicked the first of the Tolfah in the thigh, staggering it. The sword went up and came down in both hands and another of the brutes died, its head split in two. The weapon tried to stick but he yanked it free and spun in a half circle as the next one came for him. Blood flowed from a third of the creatures and the rest backed away, suddenly cautious. 

The attacking man was not as careful. He charged forward, slamming his shoulder into the next enemy and sending the brute staggering. His left arm chopped down with the blade and carved a trench into the face of one of the Tolfah even as he followed the one he’d knocked aside. 

Marah might have watched on, mesmerized, but the Tolfah were everywhere and a few of them decided to concentrate on her, ignoring the more obvious threat of the armored stranger. She grabbed for her sword but missed, and the closest of the enemy was upon her. Strong fingers clawed at her flesh, rough, thick nails scraping along her arm and drawing lines of fire and blood. The scrapes were not deep, but they hurt. 

Marah screamed and lashed out, hitting the bastard in his left eye. He let out a scream of his own and tried to bite her face off with his broad teeth. Marah pulled back, but only just. 

He tried to bite her again and Marah retreated, stumbling, barely keeping her feet. She’d had run ins with wild dogs that weren’t as persistent. The bastard lunged for her, both thick arms sweeping the air and trying to grab. Marah dodged, lost her footing and fell down. The ground was not soft, but still better than being caught by the savage trying to tear into her. 

Down on her side, Marah kicked out with her left leg and caught the bastard in his neck. He fell back, coughing, trying to breathe past the sudden blow. 

Blood spilled across Marah’s face and she flinched. Part of a body fell across her path, and Marah stared, horrified. The other part of the body fell the other way and the armored man came on, throwing one of the Tolfah aside and charging into the next in line, hacking down with that heavy blade of his, carving a wedge through the man’s body and yanking back his bloodied weapon. 

The Tolfah raged forward, pushing past each other in their effort to reach the cause of so much violent death. Marah would have gleefully run as far as she could to get away from the armored killer, but the Tolfah wanted to get closer, to kill the very being destroying so many of their kind in a wanton spree. 

And he embraced their desires, moving into their ranks, wading through them, cutting and hacking as he roared out his rage upon them. By all rights he should have been dead. He swept into the hoard. The tip of his blade punctured meat and bone. The edge slicing through muscle and sinew, carving into the squirming bodies of his enemies even as they attacked, stabbing, biting and clawing at him. His breaths bellowed from his body in great plumes. His muscles shook with effort as more and more of the brutal under dwellers tried to take him down. Though only a few seemed able to get past his defenses, the stranger was bleeding now, and slowing down. The larger weapon seemed too much for him, and so he dropped it and grabbed up a hand axe and a heavy dagger. 

His moves were a symphony of violence. The axe rose and fell, the dagger darted out like a striking serpent, and his powerful body struck where neither weapon seemed capable of going, knocking the Tolfah back and leaving them vulnerable to his weapons. One of the brutes captured his strange blade and tried to use it against him, but he moved too quickly, striking with his elbow and then following through with his dagger, opening a deep wound in his enemy’s throat.

Still, he was wounded and slowing down. 

***

Revan was weakening and he knew it. His arms shook, and his breaths ached. Sweat spilled across his face inside the helmet he wore, and the beast-men kept attacking, with claws, teeth and weapons.

The Tolfah were everywhere, a rising tide of flesh that threatened to drown him. 

He buried the blade of his axe in the chest of one of the things and released the handle. Before he could celebrate the death of another enemy, something struck a telling blow across the back of his helmet hard enough to leave him blurry eyed. Revan fell forward and barely managed to keep his footing. 

Enough!

He roared out Paedle’s name in fervent prayer. If he was going to die, he wanted to last long enough to have revenge on the creatures seeking to kill him. He lashed out with his left hand and slashed his gauntleted fingers across a bestial face, blinding dark eyes and sending the beast back, yowling in pain. Revan hurled the dagger at another of the Tolfah and barely watched as the blade drove into the savage’s skull.

They came for him and he forgot all about the weapons he had forged and instead focused on using his body as a weapon, as Wrommish taught. Weapons had their place, but sometimes the body was enough; His elbow lashed out, struck at an angular face, and his body slipped sideways and crashed into another. 

One of the damned things caught him from behind and pulled the helmet from his head. He turned his body and shifted, letting the creature pull his helmet away and immediately following, his hand sweeping across the creature’s face and knocking aside its triumphant grin as he temporarily blinded the Tolfah. It threw his helmet at him and Revan dodged aside, before driving the ridge of his hand into the beast man’s throat and crushing soft cartilage. 

Still they came and he attacked, using his hands to knock aside the limbs that reached for him, and his legs to strike at the bodies that got too close. 

He would not be able to continue at this pace. He knew that. His limbs shook, and his heart thundered and still they came for him. The savagery of his enemy was impressive, but their skills were lacking. Still, there were so many of them. 

Another came for him and caught his left arm, wrapped its limbs around his arm and pulled savagely, trying to tear his limb free. Instead of fighting, he pushed into the attack, lifting the Tolfah from the ground and then dropping it into another of its kind. The two collided and Revan twisted his arm to slip from the grip of his enemy. 

A blow lashed across his head and sent him staggering back. He could not see clearly, and the next strike shook his eyes in their sockets. 

He would fall soon and he knew it. 

The wave of attacking Tolfah surged into him and Revan staggered back, trying to maintain his balance as they came for him. 

“Swech!” He called to his king, not to beg for assistance, but to let her know that he was failing her. 

***

Marah watched on as the Sa’ba Taalor fought against the Tolfah, and she saw him stagger and falter as they slowly overwhelmed him. Before he fell, he called out a strange word that meant nothing to her, and he broke several more of the beast-men as they overtook him with sheer numbers.

She expected to see his corpse dragged away or torn apart, but instead several horns sounded, and roars like thunder echoed from the nearby hills.

She had never seen the Sa’ba Taalor before today, but she recognized them from the stories and those tales included descriptions of the beasts they rode into combat. They were not cats, but moved enough like them for her to identify the things as predators, with clawed feet and muscular bodies hidden under different types of armor designed to protect their vitals and to also support riders. 

The Grey-Skins came in fast, roaring out battle cries and attacking the Tolfah with savage efficiency. The brutes quickly retreated as the great, predatory beasts and their riders attacked, Though the riders carried weapons, the mounts had thick claws that tore meat from bone with frightening ease.

Marah dropped down into a crouch and watched on, terrified, frightened that the riders might kill her with the same impunity, or that one of the great beasts they rode might lean over and bite her head off as one of them did, even while she watched, to a Tolfah. It could have been leaning in to whisper a secret but that vast mouth opened wide and bit down with a horrific crunch and removed the head and half a shoulder with one bite.

The beasts and their riders ignored her as they came though, five, ten, twenty of the things, and in moments the Tolfah were dead or retreating. 

A female climbed down from her mount and went to the fallen Sa’ba Taalor, lifting him with surprising ease. She did not look large enough for the task, but when she worked the muscles on her arms and back bulged. 

They spoke to each other in their odd, sibilant language and finally one of them looked her way. “You should not be here. They will return.”

Marah blinked back the sudden sting of tears and shook her head. “I think they killed everyone. My father. My friends.” Marah looked back to where her father had been and saw only blood. There were no bodies, not of the Tolfah, not of her people. Even the remains of the horses had been taken away by the retreating bestial men. Only the very freshest of the dead remained behind, those killed after the Tolfah started their retreat.

The woman who spoke was not unkind, nor was she concerned. “Go home to your village before they come back.”

Without another word she turned back to her odd mount and climbed onto the saddle it wore, the unconscious shape of the bloodied, battered gray man propped before her on the beast’s great back. Marah watched on as the Sa’ba Taalor rode away, leaving a trail of dead beast men behind them. 

She thought about the woman’s words, and then she started back toward her home, eyes burning with unshed tears. They remained unshed until she ran across one of the horses from the expedition. The animal was scratched and nervous, but calmed down enough to let her mount up and ride home. 

She didn’t want to stay along the Dark Passage. She suspected the gray woman was right. They’d be back to take the dead as food, and she did not want to see the Tolfah ever again.

***

Revan woke up in his bed, his body aching and bruised, his left arm wrapped where he remembered teeth biting down on the flesh just above his elbow. 

He hurt everywhere, but that thought made him smile. He was alive, because Swech had decided he deserved to live. That meant that great Paedle felt he deserved to live.

Revan sighed and slowly stretched, keenly aware of the pain in his muscles, his legs, and even the back of his skull. How many blows had he survived? He didn’t know that he could count that high. They had been brutal, but he had fought them by himself, had done well enough that he was permitted to continue fighting despite the fact that the Tolfah had taken him down in combat. His stomach fluttered at the memory of the things overwhelming him, and despite his jubilation, he knew shame as well. 

The voice he heard was new to him. It came from nowhere, but was impossible to ignore.

THERE IS NO SHAME. YOU HAVE DONE WELL, REVAN. 

He looked around his chamber and found no one present. In an instant he understood and closed his eyes, reveling in the voice of a god that spoke to him directly for the first time in his life. 

Without conscious thought he let his hands roam across his face, feeling familiar planes and the light stubble of facial hair. He also felt the Great Scar that ran from below his right eye all the way down to his jawline. The line of flesh opened as his fingers pushed and he felt the gums and teeth growing within that scar, the mouth of a god, present on his face.

PAEDLE. I AM PAEDLE. 

He did not cry tears of joy. Instead he nodded and allowed himself a smile.

YOU HAVE EARNED YOUR PLACE AMONG MY CHILDREN, REVAN. YOU HAVE PROVEN YOURSELF TO ME.

“Thank you, Great Paedle, for the honor of serving you.”

A sense of peace washed through him and Revan lay back on his cot, closing his eyes. 

I WILL TELL YOU A STORY, CHILD. A TALE OF PAST GLORIES. AND I WILL SHARE WITH YOU A SECRET MEANT ONLY FOR MY FOLLOWERS.

Revan relaxed and listened, his heart filled with a deep and savage joy. 

Truly, he was among the blessed. 

The Godless by James A. Moore publishes on Tuesday 28th September from Angry Robot.

You can order your copy on the Angry Robot website.