The Redemption of Calthus
Steve Goble

Later, men would say he had awoken from a sleep of six centuries, but they would be wrong.

He had not slept a moment of all those decades.

The so-called awakening had begun with a cool breeze on his skin; it was a sensation he had forgotten. He had closed his eyes to revel in it, and when he again opened them. . .

All had changed.

Instead of the fire and heat that had engulfed him for ages, he saw gray blurs and felt cool air. He blinked, shook his head, tried to focus. He looked down on arms that were pale, not charred and flaking black dust. His fingers moved without blistering pain.

The gray blurs resolved into things he'd long forgotten: walls of cracked stone, a table of hardwood, dim shapes approaching.

Men.

One of them, his features still vague, asked, "Do you know who you are?"

He thought a moment. "I am Calthus."

"Do you know where you are?" The language was that of Thaal, the homeland Calthus dimly recalled.

"I am. . . back in the world."

His eyes cleared. The arms, indeed, bore whole, unburned flesh. But they were not the arms he remembered; they wore far fewer scars.

"We have pulled you back," the approaching man said, others walking in a line behind him. They were pale, bald, serene, and garbed in gray robes that swept the fieldstone floor. "We hope this body will suffice."

"Why have you pulled me back?" Calthus let his tone convey his suspicion.

"It was needful," the man said. "I am Daion, and these are my brothers, in this sanctum. Welcome."

Calthus looked at his new hands. They were strong, and muscles rippled in his forearms when he flexed the long fingers.

"This body you inhabit," Daion said, "is yours now. It is not as strong, perhaps, as the one you had when you carved legends so long ago. But it may prove adequate to the task at hand."

"Whose body was it?" Calthus demanded.

"He came to us as a boy, an imbecile left by parents who had no use for him," Daion said calmly. Calthus could see now the pale eyes, the utter lack of eyebrows, the hints of stubble on the shaved scalp. "He served us well for years, doing errands and tilling the ground. Now he serves us in another way, by providing a vessel for you."

"What vessel does this servant of yours inhabit now? And what foul gods do you worship, that you take this upon yourselves?"

Daion breathed deeply. "Boll, the boy, dwells in whatever afterlife his gods saw fit for him. As for us. . . we are godless."

Calthus let that sink in. He knew the world to be full of gods, and he knew better than most that to ignore them risked eternal peril. "You spoke of a task. What is it you ask of me?"

"A thing has come down from the dead mountains to the north, and it preys on the villages below," Daion said. "We ask that you slay it, or drive it away from us."

"It does not prey on you godless brothers?"

"It does not," Daion said, "nor will it. We can keep it away. But the people below, who fear us because they know no better, blame us for the thing's assaults. They shout at our walls, threaten us. We wish nothing more than to be left alone. We would not have them attack us."

"Why do I care if they slay you all?" Calthus stared at them, and found their passive calm irritating.

"They will not slay us," Daion said. "Quite the reverse. That is what we wish to avoid."

Calthus stepped forward. He looked over his new body; he wore simple breeches, sandals, and a tunic belted by leather. "If you do not fear the villagers, and do not fear the thing that eats them, why do you need me? Why do you not slay this thing yourselves? If you can resurrect one dead so long as I. . . "

"We are strong in this place," Daion said. "But not so strong beyond our walls. And we are loathe to leave this place, for any reason. We are here because we choose to set ourselves apart from the world."

Calthus glared at him. Daion stared serenely back.

"If you have done the things legend ascribes to you, Calthus, you can do what we ask."

That struck at his pride, one thing that had remained with him through all those burning centuries in the netherworld. "If I attempt this thing, and die in the doing, what becomes of me?"

"I cannot say, for it is beyond us. That matter is between you and your gods."

Calthus spat. "Haak and Vind. They love me not." He thought, and came to a decision. He did not care for these godless monks, nor did he see why he should risk his life for villagers he did not know. But there was a world beyond these walls, and he had not seen green grass nor tasted hot meat nor smelled a woman's hair in ages. The sooner he left this place, the sooner he could rediscover life. So he would fall in with their plans, at least for the moment. "I will try it," he said. "Give me weapons."

"We have none," Daion said, "but we can give you sufficient coin to purchase what you need."

Daion led the way to a door that opened onto a sunny courtyard. Calthus squinted in that light, so much brighter than the flames he had known for centuries, fires that had illuminated nothing because there was nothing there to illuminate. Once he could see clearly, Calthus gazed upon the mountains that lined the north and tore like fangs at the sky. They stretched east and west; to the south only open sky and vultures could be seen above the wall that surrounded the sanctum.

"Tell me of this thing I would battle," Calthus said.

"It is a remnant from days long gone," Daion said. "Perhaps something from your own time, perhaps older. Bones we've seen, but never a living beast such as this. And we brothers have not seen it; we know only what the villagers scream at us. It is winged, and strong, and the villagers say it has carried off youngsters who have never been seen again."

Calthus nodded. He saw a barrel in the courtyard, and a ladle hung on it. He ran to it, nearly crushing a fowl beneath his sandals. He drank greedily, for his mind remembered the parched throat from the netherworld. He gulped, and caught his reflection in the water as he dropped the ladle. The perfect sky rendered the reflection mirror-sharp once the ripples settled. He saw a man of twenty or so years, brown of hair and beard and eyes, with no sign of scar or broken bone. The hair, straight and long, tumbled onto shoulders like a bull's, and the massive chest swelled with each breath.

The godless brothers formed a line nearby, and one handed a leather pouch to Daion, who held it out to Calthus. "This will buy you arms in Cosyris, below. We've a meal for you, too, before you go.

"Fighting is hungry work," Calthus said, taking the pouch. It was heavy; he hung it on his belt. "I will eat, and you will tell me more about this beast of the air."

Calthus walked in wind that swept dust from the road and into his eyes. He welcomed the stinging sensation, another reminder that he lived.

The mountains loomed to his left, the valley to his right. Cosyris, a village he had never heard of, awaited at the base of the mountains.

He had thought of stopping in Cosyris, finding whatever pleasures were to be had there, and wandering on to leave these godless men and cowardly villagers to their fate. He lived, and wished to stay alive. But memory of the long darkness, broken only by the flames that had tormented him, would not let him leave this place.

He had to atone.

His earlier life had been far from spotless, but he knew well the deed for which Haak and Vind had damned him. He had slain a man so that he could bed the widow. Nothing less than murder, it had been; Calthus the soldier had easily slain Warmah the poet, despite the appearance of a fair duel. For that, Haak and Vind had denied him the warrior's afterlife of mead and women and plenty. His fate had been torment, born in silence.

And he would not go back to that flaming netherworld, not even if he had to carry mountains to avoid it. Or slay a dozen beasts, or a hundred.

"By all gods," he swore aloud, for he knew gods always listened, "I'll not miss this second chance. If amends will change my fate, I will make them. I told the brothers I would face their beast, and I will do it."

He walked onward, the heavy purse banging his thigh. He had no idea how much its contents might purchase, for the coin was of make and metal unknown to him. But if it would buy but one good sword, sharp and heavy, he would have all he needed.

The clop of hooves told him there were travelers coming, although he could not see them beyond a bend in the road. Calthus stopped and waited; hiding did not occur to him. Two mounted men, with leather greaves on arms and legs and mail covering their broad chests, rounded the sharp turn. Sword hilts rose from holsters in their saddles, and burnished helms glinted in the sun. They pulled reins to stop their mounts and regarded Calthus with amusement.

One, blond, turned to his darker companion. "It's the idiot who serves the sanctum. I recall him well. The brothers would not deign to come outside and treat with us like men, but they sent this one out to bid us go away. He could scarce remember the words."

"Where do you go?" The dark one eyed Calthus. "Do you carry word from your masters?"

"I have no masters," Calthus said.

"That purse, coin is it?" The blond man pointed. "Buying something for the brothers, are you? Bring it here, let me see."

Calthus noted the glance the men exchanged, and the hands that moved so near the hilts of their long swords. He stepped forward, pulling the pouch from his belt and dangling it from his fingers. The blond man was nearest, and he leaned from the saddle and reached for the pouch. The darker man slipped his fingers around the hilt of his sword and began easing the blade from its holster.

"Cowards," Calthus said. "Be damned." He flung the leather sack like a missile with such force that it tore open on the nose guard of the blond's helmet. Sunlight danced in the shower of golden coins and red blood that filled the air as the blond toppled from the saddle and his horse reared.

Calthus sprang at the horse's flank, and it turned away. Calthus rammed it, pushing the horse hard against the dark man's rearing steed. The riderless mount kicked at air, then bolted, leaving space for the darker man to attack--if he could. He struggled to control his mount, and raised his blade high, but his frightened horse had moved too far toward the slope and its rear legs fought to prevent a slide down into the valley. Calthus charged and bellowed, and the startled horse backed away further. The dark man and his mount tumbled in a cloud of dust flecked with blood as sharp rocks tore at their skin.

Calthus whirled, kicking sand and rock toward the sound of the blond man's grunts. That man already was rising, dirk in hand, but the grit hit his bloody face and stayed him a moment. A moment was all Calthus needed, and he lunged at his foe. Calthus caught the dirk arm in one strong hand, and the man's throat in the other. He pulled the man to his feet, then drove him backward hard against the rock face that lined the other side of the road. Air gushed from the man, spraying bloody spittle at Calthus. A knee in the crotch blinded the man with pain; a fist in his chin drove his head against the rock; a violent twist of his arm broke bones and sent the dirk clattering. Calthus picked it up, and finished the man with a quick slash across the neck.

Calthus wiped blood from his face and licked it. He walked across the road to look down upon his other foe. That man lived yet, but his leg was trapped beneath the weight of his horse. The roan twitched violently, and red foam gushed from a leg wound where jagged bone peeked through.

Calthus walked down the slope, and the dark man stared at him. Calthus found the fallen sword and picked it up. It was not as heavy as he would have liked, but it was lengthy and sharp and its hilt was long enough to let him swing it with two hands. It would serve.

Calthus approached the man, and stood over him silently.

"Please," the man said, "help me. Help me and you may take me to justice. I will not resist."

Calthus knelt by the horse; its twitches had subsided, but its eyes rolled wildly and its snorts bore foam. Calthus stood and swept the blade through its neck. "A faster death for you," Calthus said quietly. Then he stood, and turned back toward the road.

"Wait!"

Calthus strode onward.

"Wait, I beg you!" Fear carried the man's voice to a higher pitch, and nervous laughter made his words waver.

"Why?" Calthus stopped, but did not look back. "You thought me an imbecile, and thought to rob me, probably slay me. What mercy have you earned from me?"

"I've not earned the fate that will come if you leave me here," the man said. "I cannot free myself, and night will come. The thing hunts by night. Please, you must. . ."

"Do not tell me what I must do," Calthus said, turning. "The thing hunts by night, you said."

"Yes. Always by night." The man spoke with an eagerness, and his eyes pleaded with Calthus.

"You speak of the thing that flies, that kills children."

"Yes. Children, and the old. Any who are weak and small, or. . ."

"Or trapped beneath a dead horse."

The man gulped. "At least show me the same mercy you showed my horse."

"Your horse did not try to rob me. Tell me your name, thief."

"Kirn," the man said, his voice weak. "Kirn of Cosyris."

"Have you seen this thing, Kirn?"

"N-no. I have not."

"Does it hunt every night?"

"We have heard its wings flap over our roofs every night, and heard its call," Kirn said. "And others have seen it in the night, winging back to its perch up there." He pointed toward the mountains behind Calthus.

Calthus looked beyond the man, down the slope where the village straddled a river that skirted the mountains. Cosyris looked large enough for a couple of hundred families. "Why do you not band together and fight it?"

Kirn looked at him blankly. "Fight it? A tentacled thing from nightmare, sent by godless men. . . fight it?"

"Coward! You were willing to fight an unarmed imbecile."

"I will pay for that," Kirn said. "In Cosyris. Take me there. The judge will see that I pay."

Calthus sat on a large stone, and enjoyed the breeze that tickled his sweaty skin. "What I know of judges, they seldom pay heed to strangers' tales. I have my own idea of justice."

"You will leave me here, alone?" Kirn wept. "Alone to be eaten. . ."

"Not alone," Calthus said. "Not alone."

He looked around, and found a pair of boulders nearby that would serve well for cover. He sat there, out of sight from anyone--or anything--approaching from the crags, while the thief who would be his bait wailed to his gods.

Night, the first Calthus had seen in centuries, brought a cool wind and diamond-sharp stars. Kirn's wailing had subsided to a whimpering, barely heard. Clouds, only a few, drifted like ships in the air. They passed a full moon that glowed lantern white.

Calthus sat quietly, holding the keen blade and learning the ways of its balance, its grip. It felt good to clutch a sword again.

The day's battle had whetted old appetites, and he mused over bloody memories. Of old, life had always seemed more vivid, more real, when risked. Now that he had drawn blood and sung survival's song, this new life seemed all the more real to him.

He'd thought of donning the slain man's mail, but it was built for a much smaller man than he. The leather greaves did not cover his forearms entirely, but he could wear them with the thongs let out as far as they could go. The greaves would afford him some protection.

He'd gathered as many of his scattered coins as he could find, and filled the blond man's purse with it.

He gazed at the moon, where Haak and Vind were said to dwell. Were they watching now? He hoped so. He would show them.

Stars vanished as a darkness sailed overhead. Calthus saw it, wings spread on the wind like mainsails, ropy tentacles trailing in their wake. Huge, silent, it glided overhead and toward the village of Cosyris. Calthus had not expected such size; it had preyed on babes and the weak. But he realized any predator would take the easiest meal it could find, and this thing was no different.

But this thing was large enough to feast on a man, he had no doubt.

No matter, Calthus thought. He had told the monks he would do this, and do it he would. And in keeping his promise, and saving this village, he would take a first step toward an afterlife other than the hellish one he had known.

The thing glided onward, unaware of the easy banquet Calthus had prepared for it. A few yards from where Calthus sat, Kirn fought to control nervous laughter, clenching his teeth against any sound that might betray him. Calthus hid behind his boulders, and whipped the dirk from his belt. He stared, prepared, and hurled the dirk into the meat of Kirn's outstretched arm.

"Gods!" Kirn screamed. "By all the gods, you. . ." He choked off his words as he realized what his cry had done. Calthus smiled as the thing whirled in the sky, its tentacles coiling behind it.

It sailed toward its newfound prey. If it was a remnant from the days when Calthus led armies and hewed necks and sailed unknown seas, it was a creature Calthus had never heard of or seen. It soared vulture-like on vast, membranous wings, but its body was more snake than bird. It had legs, where a bird would have them, but instead of talons those legs ended in whips of tentacles, three on each foot. The tentacles swirled, prehensile, now that the thing prepared to drop on Kirn.

Calthus gripped his sword tightly throughout the monstrosity's slow decent. Its head, viperish, stretched downward on a serpentine neck. Darkness would not reveal the thing's color, but moonlight made its pale scales seem wet.

Kirn screamed and covered his face. Calthus could smell the sudden stench of urine.

Calthus resolved to pounce at once, for he did not know if the creature would feast here, or tear off a hunk of Kirn to carry to its lair. Its snake-like aspects made Calthus suspect the latter, for snakes consume their prey slowly. If that was true for this nightmarish thing, it would rip off its meal and take flight in an instant.

Even as it came to rest on tentacles coiled like springs, even as its gaping maw smothered Kirn's wails, Calthus struck. He lunged beneath the great wing that stretched like an awning, and hewed deeply into a neck thick as an old oak's trunk. The beast twisted violently, and sprang into the air. But Calthus whirled and his blade crippled the long, thin arm that stretched the sail-like wing.

Calthus sprang and tumbled as tentacles filled the space he had occupied.

"You'll not fly from me," Calthus said, staring into pallid eyes that peered at him above a mouth that held Kirn. The man's dangling legs kicked wildly, then the beast's head lifted to let gravity help tug Kirn's remains a bit further down its throat.

The monster flapped its wings and leapt in another attempt at launch, but blood poured from the wounded wing. It was crippled at the first joint, and the wing dangled from there like a flag without wind.

The beast's eyes fired with the roar stifled by Kirn's now lifeless bulk, and it sprang at Calthus. He brought the sword down, but the blade hacked through Kirn's dangling leg. The monster's head struck Calthus like a club, hurling him backward. He managed to keep his sword, but he was on his back now and a trio of tentacles writhed in the air above him.

Moonlight revealed wet drips falling from the end of each whip-like tentacle, and Calthus saw that each terminated in a spear tip. The drops that spilled onto his chest had to be venom.

Calthus saw death then, thrice poised to strike. But he would not go back to that place of burning, back to scorching heat and boiling blood that oozed from black, cracked skin. He had not atoned for the crime that had sent him there, not shown Haak and Vind what sort of man he would be now that he walked the world anew.

By all gods, he would!

Calthus swung the blade in a vicious arc that swept through the tentacles like a sickle through tall grass. Blood and venom spewed onto his face and chest. The severed tentacles writhed on the ground beside him, their spikes smearing venom that hissed in the dust.

Coils wrapped his arms, streaming blood that steamed. The creature lifted Calthus into the air, and wriggled its neck until beast and man stared into one another's eyes. Kirn's boot yet poked from the hideous mouth.

The coils lashed, dashing Calthus against a boulder. The thing lifted him again, and swung him again into the rock. Calthus tried to wield the sword, but his arms were useless in the beast's grasp. Dazed, blinded by flowing blood, Calthus screamed defiance.

The coils tightened. Calthus found he could not draw another breath.

Again, the thing battered him against the ground.

Calthus craned his neck, stretched it, until he found the target his blood-blinded eyes could not see. His teeth bit into scales, his jaw clenched. He took all the agony, all the pain, and fought it with the fury of that bite. Blood gushed in his mouth, and he bit harder. Blood poured down his throat, and he bit harder. Venom burned his tongue, sizzled against the roof of his mouth, filled his nostrils--and he bit harder still.

The monster writhed violently, spinning Calthus wildly. His sword arm came free. Quickly, he wiped his forearm across his face, clearing away enough blood and enough matted hair to see a shadow darker than the night. Then he hurled the sword, dagger-like, into the heart of that shadow.

He fell. The thing twisted, rolled. The sword protruded from its torso, amid the muscles that moved the great wings. Dust and stone and blood rained on Calthus in the thing's death throes. It tumbled down the slope, a mass of pale scales and wet blood and smeared mud and tattered membrane.

Calthus sat, and watched it die. Bile rose within him, and he spewed the monster's swallowed blood. Sweat coated him, and blood mingled with it.

But he lived.

In the morning, he would take the thing's head to Cosyris and show it to the people there. In the meantime, he sat and watched until the moon sank beyond the horizon. Had Haak and Vind seen his deed? Was it deed enough to atone for his crime of passion? Had he earned a better afterlife?

Haak and Vind would not answer.

No matter.

"If this be not deed enough," he yelled at the moon, "I will do more!"