Hidden Gods

A fantasy fiction short story.

Owen slammed the shovel blade down into the dirt and wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked over at his wife, Diana, who hung laundry while their two daughters fed the chickens. She smiled, with eyes drawn down, an expression that said she could no longer hide her disappointment in their teenage son Allister. Owen scanned the long rows of wheat leading toward the edge of the forest. Chaffs wavered in the breeze, golden guardians watching and waiting for Allister to return. A thick fog hovered near the base of the old Woodknot¹ trees, a persistent blanket of malevolence threatening the family’s existence.

Owen expected Allister to traipse through with quiet resignation, but his patience thinned after a few hours of digging up Spragweed² alone. A figure finally manifested from the fog, conjured out of nothingness, but he was too big to be his son. Instead of a guilty conscience, or a mouth full of empty apologies, the man carried an emotional weight, which he finally lifted by screaming in terror. He trod closer, wheezing and coughing up blood, until Owen recognized him as his neighbor and close friend Tanner.

Diana rushed the girls into the cottage, issuing them several short commands. She exited their home and slammed the door shut behind her, running out to bring Owen his sword.

“Is anyone pursuing him?” Diana asked, while Owen fastened the scabbard to his waist.

“Not that I can see. Go back inside,” Owen commanded.

“I will not. You may need my help.”

“Ugh, stubborn as a mule, just like your mother.”

She didn’t argue and they walked briskly together as Owen scanned the horizon, eyes fixated on the fog, waiting for marauders to overtake Tanner. His friend stumbled once more and fell headlong into the wheat, their stalks bending beneath his weight, a bed incapable of providing warmth or comfort.

When it seemed nobody was in pursuit, Owen picked up the pace. He arrived by Tanner’s side, gently turning him over, uncertain of any sustained injuries. His friend lay with a troubled face toward the sun, eyes bulging and watered. Owen grabbed Tanner’s hand, and he squeezed it in response. Diana pulled a rag from her waist and dabbed away the sweat and blood from Tanner’s face, an action that calmed his breathing.

“I’m sorry old friend,” Tanner’s voice cracked.

“What could you possibly be sorry for?” Owen asked.

“I wanted to see for myself… had heard about the citadel, their gracious acceptance of all villagers. The work is so tiring these days. You know it well. But I questioned their motives, and they answered in the most terrible manner.”

“The Founders did this to you?”

“They didn’t have to. Their servants were more than willing—” Tanner said, coughing up more blood. His breathing intensified, and he continued, “Their eyes were coal black, the fog a poison from their lips. Everything they touch decays, and they are consumed by maintaining the citadel walls.”

“Did you see Allister?” Diana asked.

Tanner turned to the boy’s mother, disheartened by the news he carried. He shut his eyes and spoke out into the void, “Yes, but it’s too late. No one can be saved. Leave. Go far from here…” Tanner trailed off as his hand slipped from Owen’s. A final breath expelled from Tanner’s mouth, his last words bringing tears to Diana’s eyes.

Owen stood, facing the forest and a swirling fog that appeared to retreat at the sign of the man’s anger.

“I can’t believe him. I won’t,” Diana said.

“I’m not coming back without Allister,” Owen said.

“We’ll wait for you both.”

“Tanner was a good man. Bury him here if you’re able.”

Diana hugged her husband, but he did not return the gesture, intent on letting the fury burn deeper, unwilling to let the flames cool. The motivation drove him onward as Diana returned to the cottage and comforted the girls. The three watched through a small window while Owen disappeared into the fog. A face contorted in anguish pushed through the vapors. The gaunt visage with hollow eyes and a mouth stretched too wide, froze in a silent scream, then disappeared in a puff of white.

Before the sun rose, Allister snuck off to be with his friends, many of whom claimed life was better outside the village, carefree, where the Founders of the Pyrite Citadel provided for a growing community. The dense fog had rolled off the Thalvoss³ shoreline in secret and from the sea emerged the citadel’s spires, announcing their presence and a subsistence devoid of any real responsibility. In return for this lifestyle, they demanded unceasing loyalty and upkeep of the citadel walls.

The fog had spread outward as more citizens embraced complacency. From its origins, then into the forest and surrounding lands, it attracted mostly youth who were tired of convention. It would not encroach on Owen’s property though, mocking him from a distance, if not you, then perhaps your children. Allister succumbed to the temptation.

Ramshackle dwellings eventually emerged before Owen, constructed of rotting lumber, barely capable of providing shelter or supporting a family. A few inhabitants milled about, their deep set eyes filled with either madness or the emptiness of a young child lost and alone in the forest. Thick fumes escaped their lungs, suspending in the air before being inhaled again. Owen feared its influence.

Lost souls watched, weary of the new visitor who could steal their share of limited supplies. A slick, black oil clung to their exposed skin in splotches, a flesh-eating bacterium, a living organism moving in unison across their bodies. Owen removed his sword from its sheath, at the ready for any attack, uncertain of the contagion or its purpose.

The dense cloud did not suffocate, but it did poison the mind with confusion, broadcasting a progression toward a promising ideal. As a community, nothing could be more important than maintaining the safety and security of the citadel. The Founders would provide, the Founders would lead, the Founders would endure. The thoughts burrowed deep into Owen’s subconscious, leading him toward the shoreline, where he was certain Allister could be found.

The Pyrite Citadel rose above the fog, its towers a mesh of bright metallic, built on a foundation of gleaming sedimentary rock. The tarnished mineral glittered with flecks of gold, tainted only by the same black ooze the villagers carried on their bodies. Owen didn’t understand how it could be built so quickly, but its preservation relied upon the efforts and limited wealth of citizens. These workers toiled away near the base, capitulating to hidden gods who lived in high rooms as overseers, never interacting with the populace.

When the workers were not toiling, they slept on the ground, unsheltered and shivering near open fires. As the tide rose their encampments would be washed out to sea, and they were forced to return to the forest to sleep and eat scraps that had been tossed down from above. Owen scanned the faces of the men, mostly young and distressed, until he recognized a frail complexion nearby. Allister hunched over a small fire with a few companions, trying to draw warmth from damp coals.

Before Owen could approach Allister, a woman blocked his path. Onlookers wavered nearby, heads down, waiting for the outcome of their interaction. Unlike the golden wheat in the garden, grown with affection, these were harsh products of a deception.

“Give yourself to the citadel,” the woman said.

“You’re free to do as you please, but I won’t have my son lulled into an illusion,” Owen said.

“He’s no longer yours to command. His responsibility is to the Founders, to the citadel, to its upkeep and maintenance, and to the brothers and sisters in its midst.”

A few people stepped closer to the woman as the black splotches on her face and arms merged, propagating across her flesh, forming pools darker than starless night skies. The others gathered collectively and locked arms, their bodies writhing, morphing into a single entity as the ooze spread out, boundless in its effort to unify. Whatever dark magic controlled them birthed an unnatural mess of heads, large limbs and a torso, ambling and disproportionate. It shifted to swing at Owen, but his movements were calculated. He ducked and swung his sword as the creature’s arm passed by, slicing through sinew and bone. The heads cried out, but he wouldn’t relent his attack. He sliced across the leg, hoping to topple it, but it turned quickly with a backfist, knocking him to the sand and the sword from his hand.

The beast stumbled back, unable to keep its balance with the wounds inflicted. Another woman advanced and let herself be consumed, a sacrifice sinking into the ooze, which helped it grow in stature, but did not heal its wounds. Owen stood, pulled a dagger hidden under his tunic and took careful aim. He flung it end-over-end and hit one of the heads sticking out from a crook in the shoulder. It fell limp and the misshapen abomination rushed forward. Owen turned to find his sword, which Allister held pointed at his chest.

Allister’s eyes were clear and genuine green like his mother Diana’s, a pair of gleaming emeralds, full of life in contrast to the tarnished surface covering the Pyrite Citadel. Owen recognized the hint of desperation mixed with a yearning for familiar surroundings and the forgiveness of father.

The monster closed the distance, ready to crush them to death, unsteady but still gaining momentum. Owen smiled at his boy, who steadied his glare, and then he ducked and rolled to the side as Allister thrust the sword through the beast’s heart. The force tossed him backward while the mutation cratered into the sand beside him, the accumulation of lives in part and in whole, dead.

A small portion of the Pyrite Citadel cracked and fell away into the ocean below, frightening the others. Several retreated into the forest, escaping the uncertainty, while others rushed to make repairs. Owen picked Allister up from the sand and gave him a hug.

“I need a farmer just as I need a swordsman. You’ll become a fine provider and protector for a family of your own someday,” Owen said.

The two strode off into the forest, the fog parting as they reclaimed their bond. Owen recognized further conflict would require cunning and reinforcements. The citadel’s strength, a sturdy foundation propped up on the backs of laborers, was also its weakness. The structure could be toppled by defeating the slave horde. With no one left to maintain the walls, it would crumble, hurling the Founders down into the waters below.

Father and son would lead the attack together.

1. Woodknot is the strongest known wood, with interwoven grains fused by an internal resin. It’s used primarily as a building material and to make shields. Unfortunately, it’s so dense it does not burn and can only be cut by carpenter’s tools infused with magic. This makes it durable and desirable, but prohibitively expensive. Nobody knows exactly how old Woodknot trees are because they don’t contain rings and saplings are non-existent. “As tough as a Woodknot,” is a compliment.

2. Spragweed is a deep root, invasive species. It can sprout up overnight, and if not removed, will choke out other vegetation by removing nutrients from the soil. However, households can easily grow Spragweed in secluded pots to make tea from the leaves. It’s an antioxidant, antiviral and analgesic, a natural miracle vegetation used for hundreds of years. The root is poisonous and must be burned… or used to murder unfaithful spouses.

3. Thalvoss is a province bordering the ocean. Large bodies of water are not named by Thalvossians because it would give order to chaos. The deep sea is unpredictable and unfathomable, and therefore malevolent. Fisherman only fish the shallows of the Thalvoss shoreline and seafood is not a staple. Turtle eggs are the only delicacy from a creature spending most of its life in water, and that’s because the eggs are hatched on land.