Of Gods and Men

By Christopher F Toth

Of Gods and Men is just the start of an epic, high-stakes, high fantasy series combining the fantastical worldbuilding of Tolkien with the wit, humor, and irreverence of Riordan. Eons ago, the world of Shalara was threatened by Katastarof, Lord of Calamity, God of Destruction, and Shalara's panthe

• Language: English
• Publisher: author
• Release date: Feb 14, 2024
• ISBN: 9781958626757

Book preview

Prologue

The only presence on the mountain was the wind. It moaned and howled around the peaks, slithering between cracks in the stones and stirring up the otherwise smooth snow layer. This high up, there was little to stop its journey. The only obstacle in its path was the derelict temple that clung to the mountainside.

Time and the elements had done their work over the countless centuries: crumbling walls and collapsing spires heralded its slow decay. The only thing they hadn’t taken was its pride. Patches of tiles on the roof still rippled like the sea. The spires that remained stood tall above the clouds. It was a battle of attrition, one that any structure, no matter how proud, would lose.

But then, we arrived.

As one of the first deities to appear, I saw it all. There was nothing fancy about my arrival; a simple manifestation, a couple leaves floating around for flavor. I didn’t wear the lovely diadem I had Kovar make for me three millennia ago. My concern was punctuality rather than performance. Oh, how the others would have laughed at that! I watched as they arrived, vaulting through the windows or materializing dramatically. Even after all that happened ten millennia ago, they’re still trying to outdo each other, competing like petty children.

As more of us arrived, the temple hosting us snapped to attention. It was a shoddy affair, an old temple of Napisten’s that fell to the wayside. In fact, I was surprised it still stood.

But as we settled in, time became undone around us. Tiles flew back to the roofs and turrets, shimmering blue as the sky or sea. Collapsed pillars and columns rebuilt; defiled and destroyed mosaics restored themselves to order and beauty. By the time we had all settled in, the temple looked as though finished only yesterday.

After two thousand years, the Council gathered once again.

We sat in the amphitheater, a room made of four Rings. As an important deity, I sat in the Second Ring. But oh, how I wished I could be in the First! Then again, so did many of my fellows, and Napisten would have none of that.

Speaking of whom...

A brilliant blaze of golden light erupted from his empty seat, drawing our attention while we shielded our eyes. A moment later, the spectacle dimmed to show a man with skin of bronze and hair of fire, dressed in a white tunic.

As though his previous dramatics weren’t enough, he banged his war hammer and declared, The Council is now in session! Deities, sound off! Confirmations sounded from us all, myself included. But in the silence that followed, I sensed tension crackling around the Rings; deities traded glares and silent mental messages.

I huffed and put a hand to my head. I told Napisten a century ago to change the seating arrangement, but that stubborn sunspot refused. I heard him sigh to himself as he sensed the tension. Good. Maybe next time, he’ll listen to me.

Alright, everyone, settle down! he ordered, cutting in just before anyone could act on their impulses. He earned a couple glares for his intrusion, but the assembly stilled. Let us clear the air before we blow each other off the mountain.

He weighed his gaze on each of us before continuing, The last ten millennia have been rough, I know. There have been some disputes between us that went too far.

'Carried away,’ indeed, scoffed a voice. It was war! We almost destroyed the world!

Napisten stiffened at the interruption, and I chortled to myself at the fool who dared interrupt him. But all he said was, "Indeed. However, I believe we’re all past that now, and we may resume our divine duties. After all, that is why we formed this Council: to ensure the security of our world, and to govern it wisely."

Another deity, belonging to the First Ring, rose to her feet and challenged, Not all of us can forgive and forget, Napisten. And not all of us want to. Her words stirred our fellows, some scoffing at her words, others supporting them. I rolled my eyes and kept silent. Hemellan was always a catty goddess, fickle as the weather she controlled.

Be that as it may, Napisten said, his own fiery glare matching her stormy gaze, we are a Pantheon. We must put aside individual wants and needs when the Council is in session. You would do well to remember that, Hemellan.

Her porcelain features grew as dark as her hair, but she sat and accepted his reprimand without a word.

Now, does anyone else have a complaint for the Council to address? Funnily enough, no one did. Good. Let us continue. Status reports, everyone!

With Creation putting the pieces back together after our last disagreement, it was important we meet universal constants, reestablishing natural routines. And mostly, we had; the seasons were back on track, with winter being cold and summer hot. The tides flowed as they should. The sun rose and set. Everything was returning to normal, thank the Pantheon for that.

And yet, there was still something off with the Council. A poison coursed under the surface of conversation. Jokes and quips were met with forced, halfhearted laughter. Certain deities jumped or flinched when addressed. Even Napisten, as unshakable as the sun, showed evidence of strain. However, he refused to acknowledge it, as usual.

Everything seems in order, he concluded as our last reports came in. Now, we may move onto other pressing matters. The Council grew silent once again as he continued, This war in the Forest of Aldar is troubling. With the—he cleared his throat and rolled his shoulders—Struggle we recently overcame, no one has assessed the situation. What does the Council say on this matter?

Another war is the last thing we need! proclaimed a deity in the form of an animated suit of armor. He banged his fist on the wall separating his Ring and continued, We put the pieces of Shalara back together, and now it is at stake yet again! Cries of agreement and argument broke out, but grew silent as Napisten’s war hammer struck through the noise.

Is there any way we can gain control of the situation? I asked. Once again it was my task to be the voice of reason. What’s all this about, anyway?

Something about territorial rights, last time I checked, answered a scholarly deity from the First Ring. And we can’t, Velstand. They aren’t a part of the Pantheon.

Too right, they weren’t. One was a rebellious child, and the other was a pompous tree! To infringe on the affairs of independent deities right now is the last thing we need.

There must be something we can do, Tiemstan, argued the suit of armor again, his voice hollow like clanking metal. "I refuse to let all our hard work go to waste because of a child and a tree."

If it were up to you, Vormund, Tiemstan said, glaring up at the suit of armor, we would have another crusade, and escalate the situation even more!

Murmurs and mumbles from the surrounding gods grew into shouting matches. Napisten and a few others among the First Ring deities tried to regain order, but to no avail. Tensions and feuds lasting literal centuries were about to burst, and nothing save the mountain coming down around us would stop them.

As the arguing heightened to a fevered pitch, the entire mountain shook. Everything within the temple walls quaked, spires crumbling and tiles sliding off the roofs to shatter on the floor. It lasted but a few moments, but it was enough to silence a now rattled Pantheon.

A goddess from the First Ring, wearing a dress of moss and earth, rose from her seat. Except for her ten-foot height, she almost resembled an ordinary human woman, much different from the many bestial or elemental forms around us. Her face was plain, her body rounded from childbirth, but she radiated power and love.

Calm yourselves, my children! she said in a booming yet gentle voice. "You forget yourselves. You let fear poison you, and I will not let it continue.

Though we have been through much these last millennia, it is not the Struggle, or reestablishing the world order, that has made you fret so. We must discuss the heart of the matter, so we may proceed without fear.

None spoke, too startled or afraid to give themselves a voice. After all, it wasn’t often Muquin, Mother Earth, spoke. But when she did, even gods listened.

Finally, a goddess made of stardust and starlight rose, and the Council’s attention shifted to her.

I will say it, Mother Muquin. I will say what we have ignored, all these years. Her voice, timid for a deity, died at the angry mutters that broke out over her words. But Muquin nodded her head in encouragement, and the goddess found her voice once more.

The last ten thousand years have been a time of conflict, a time of change. But beyond our infighting, and the world healing from the damage we caused, we found ample reason to fear. The Old Ones, our predecessors from time immemorial, were stirring from their slumber. The Pagans sought to move against us, seeking to undermine our power. Yet something else stirred beneath it all. Our oldest, greatest fear will soon come true.

More murmurs broke out, these tainted with fear and dread. I kept silent, holding my breath, hoping beyond hope what Miamai was saying wasn’t true. Yet she continued, Eons ago, when many of us were but concepts, we waged a terrible battle. Worse than the Struggle, worse than any war that has come before, or may come after. We’ve sacrificed much to resolve it, but the stars have aligned, and the threads of fate are clear. All our efforts will soon be in vain unless we act now.

Miamai took a deep breath, to steel her nerves for what she was about to say. The Council held its breath, and with it all of Creation, waiting for her dreaded words to arrive.

I speak of Katastarof, Lord of Calamity, God of Destruction. He will soon return.

At her words the entire Council fell into chaos. Screams tore through the air as did panicked gibbering, swearing of oaths, and every manner of noise that accompanies a divine rout. Forms changed and wavered as gods sought to flee the confines of the amphitheater, to hide or run or even fight. It took a long time, and a fair deal of magic, to bring us down from our hysterics.

Eventually, everyone returned to their respective Rings, though our panic was only just contained.

We have much to fear from the God of Destruction, Napisten said, his voice grave, his face dire. We all made great sacrifices to ensure his capture and imprisonment. However, we achieve his goals by giving in to fear! We mustn’t let it consume us. We must fight!

No, we must not! Tiemstan countered, and the terror surrounding us broke as we groaned in exasperation. I admit I shared their annoyance; this wasn’t the first time Tiemstan complicated what should have been a simple course of action. When we first defeated—he cleared his throat and forced out the words—when we first defeated Katastarof, the chaos it caused was acceptable. Back then, our world was in its infancy. What we destroyed, we could fix or change. Often, such changes were for the better. But look at us now. It took ten thousand years for us to fix the mess we made. Ten thousand years! And there is humanity and the other races to consider. Another divine war would mean genocide, and that is something I will not allow.

Since when have you—hic!—cared for mortals, Tiemstan? challenged a swaying, drunken blonde goddess. You’re more in love with—hic!—your books than any mortal.

"Since nearly half of us are only here because of mortals, Melodine, we should care a great deal." To our delight, Melodine rocked back from my retort and grew silent. But the pleasure was fleeting as the gravity of the situation weighed us down again.

I agree with Tiemstan, said a deity from the First Ring. Ela, Emissary of Humanity, rose to her feet, drawing our attention. Hers was a humble form compared to some of those present: that of a slim young woman with chestnut hair. But the weight behind those eyes, the power behind all of our gazes, would correct any mistakes one may have about her true nature. Humans, and other races besides, have many strengths, but are only mortal. They lost much of what they once were because of our infighting. They’ve only just started relearning old truths. Another divine war with the Lord of Calamity would mean their end.

My realm is backlogged as it is, added Daibas, the horned, shadow-cloaked god of the dead. Adding all of mankind, elfkind, merfolk kind, and all the rest at once would be disastrous. He sniffed and shook his head, adding, Not that it matters. That monstrosity would destroy everything. Even the dead.

A ray of sunshine, as always, Daibas, Ela snarked. Daibas, however, was unflappable, only replying with that fathomless, penetrating stare of his. Not even the spunky Emissary could hold out against those baleful orange eyes, and she wilted under his gaze.

Those are good points all around, but there’s an even more important reason we shouldn’t just off the mortals, commented Commerciant, the literal golden god of trade.

Their extinction means the extinction of business! The Pantheon rolled their eyes as one, until he added, It could even mean the death of the Pantheon.

Silence, save the faint moaning of the wind.

And I thought I was dramatic, muttered Aistor the peacock, ruffling his feathers.

Alright, alright, everyone! Napisten snapped, returning our attention back to him. So, an all-out assault on Katastarof is out of the question. What does the Council propose we do, then?

What of the Keys? I asked. Are they safe?

It was a good question, seeing as they were the only things keeping the world from utter annihilation. The Keys, objects of incredible magical power, bound Katastarof to his tomb. But we looked among each other in confusion for confirmation. Despite their importance, much to my chagrin, no one had checked them for millennia. By the Plains, I doubt anyone even thought to check until now! We turned our attention to Miamai for answers.

Her gaze became blank as she looked into planes not even we gods could peer into, then sharpened again as she said, The Keys remain, for now. However, Katastarof seeks to retrieve them, to free himself from his prison. And I fear, unless we act, he will succeed.

Impossible! Hemellan cried out. How can he act, bound and asleep?

Nothing as powerful as a god truly sleeps, Tiemstan said. It is the same with the Old Ones. There is always a part of them awake, scheming and plotting and dreaming.

Either way, we have a crisis on our hands! Vormund shouted again. We can’t sit idly by whilst this happens. We must act!

Action without thought is nothing short of foolishness, Tiemstan chided. There are many variables, many details we must consider before we take any course of action.

Easy for you to say, you dusty bibliophile, Vormund retorted. You sit and read your books, while we remain below, doing something proactive!

Oh, go polish yourself, you creaky piece of scrap metal, Tiemstan snapped.

Like oil to fire, the Council once again erupted into arguing. With the truth out in the open, any desire to hide frayed nerves fell away. The air, already charged with our collective power, became saturated with magic as some prepared to attack. My own temper surged within me, sharpened by fear and exasperation. I rose to my feet, shouting an arcane command and waving my hand. Vines erupted from the stonework surrounding the shouting gods. Even those in more ethereal forms were bound. Everyone glared at me, their collective wrath enough to crush entire nations into dust.

But I stood firm, saying, I’m not letting you out until this Council has regained control over itself! One might ask how I could trap all these deities. Simply put, I couldn’t, but they were so distracted by their panic and wayward emotions that they forgot they could very easily escape. Like a slow wave everyone stilled and grew calmer. Another wave of my hand, and the vines retreated, repairing the stonework in the process, as though they’d never existed.

Thank you, Napisten said, nodding in gratitude. I nodded in acknowledgment, smoothing my dress as I composed myself, and sat once more.

While we may not endanger our world or its mortals, we must still act. I’m willing to hear any thoughts on how to best proceed, as is the rest of the Council.

Well, it’s obvious, Commerciant said. We must protect the Keys! As long as they’re safe, that old shafthead can’t wake up, right?

Yes, but do we still know where they are? I asked. Call me mad, but I doubt several powerful relics would stay in the same place for thousands of years. Who knows what could have happened?

I assume they’re well protected. I made them, after all, said a muscular, dark-skinned god. He tapped the handle of his own hammer, its head resting on the ground, with one long, calloused finger.

"Yes, we noticed you had little to do with this after you played your part, Kovar," I said.

Kovar shrugged, his bare muscles rippling. I did my job, same as everyone else. I’d have kept them in my forge, where I’d know they’d be safe.

Ah, yes, what a great idea! Let’s keep them all in one place so anyone can just waltz in and take them, I scoffed, shaking my head. Talk about putting all your eggs in one basket.

Anyway, Napisten interjected, before the Council could blow up again, we must assume the Keys are at risk. We must retrieve them and bring them to the Council. I suggest we choose a champion to retrieve them.

Why bring a mortal into this at all? Commerciant asked. We’re gods, aren’t we? Why not just pop in and take them? Everyone looked at their neighbors and shrugged, as though asking, Why not?

Tiemstan sighed and rubbed his temples, saying, When we made the Keys, I enchanted them to keep that from happening. If any divine entity were to approach the Keys, except their guardians, they’d vanish and reappear in a random, equally perilous location.

You enchant them, you un-enchant them. Easy.

Tiemstan huffed and muttered, How are you such an idiot, yet so good with money? In a louder voice he continued, "I would, but no deity can approach them, myself included. A mortal agent would have to remove the enchantment first. Then we may handle them and hide them again."

I still think they’d be safer at my forge, Kovar said to himself.

Tiemstan heard, turned to face him, and countered, That’s exactly why I enchanted them in the first place! Then, fearlessly addressing the entire Pantheon, he continued, Aside from Katastarof, and perhaps a Pagan, the greatest threat to the Keys is ourselves. Unlike the rest of you, I acknowledge my own faults and sins. Any one of us can fall to corruption and use the Keys for our own ends.

Silence descended upon the Council, either in quiet contemplation or offended speechlessness. While I didn’t think his words applied to me, I understood his thinking. Most of the troublemakers weren’t a part of the Pantheon. But I could think of a few idiots who would try something like that.

Napisten broke the silence and asked in a weary voice, Then what shall we do with the Keys?

After a few awkward moments of silence, Tiemstan answered, I agree we must retrieve them. But I refused to let any single deity have them. They must stay with the Council until we find safer resting places for them.

Then all that’s left is to choose a champion. The moment those words left his lips, Napisten regretted them, I could tell. The Council broke out into a dissonant chorus of voices, each trying to shout their idea louder than the rest. Opinions clashed, as they are apt to do, and discord broke out once more.

I realized then that Vormund was right. We had to do something, and soon. While the Council—or rather, the Pantheon as a whole—was formed to promote democracy, we would sooner fight among ourselves than decide on a course of action. We would do nothing, and all the while Katastarof would continue unchallenged, rising once more to destroy the world.

My solution was borderline blasphemous. It meant going behind the Pantheon’s back, a nearly guaranteed way to find myself expelled, even stripped of my titles.

But I had not spent the last ten thousand years healing our world to see it undone in a few short years, or even months. This was something that required both mortal and immortal hands: a thought that many, if not all, of my fellows would laugh at.

Either way, the time to act was now. Katastarof was stirring. Neither divine nor earthly forces could prevent it alone.

This was to be of gods and men.

Chapter I

The spring air was warm as John broke the earth, tilling up reluctant soil. He’d only done a few rows, but sweat already trickled down his face and back. A playful breeze and merciful clouds helped shield him from the unrelenting heat.

Napisten must be in a bad mood today, he said to himself as he dug up the dirt. His body acted without thought, bringing the hoe down again and again. The gardens had to be ready for spring planting, as wheat alone wouldn’t provide for his small family. His thoughts drifted over to his father, who was out in the fields taking care of the livestock. It was a chore he was grateful to avoid; the fields reeked, and he was certain the donkeys had a vendetta against him.

More soil flew into the air in the wake of John’s hoe. After a time, he straightened his aching back and wiped the sweat from his face, dragging his gaze around the property. The gardens were a short way west from the humble abode that housed the Strait men. The barn stood farther back in the east, a sturdy structure with corrals and pens branching off it. A chicken coop clung to the side of the barn like a growth.

Beyond them were the churned fields meant for wheat, and farther back still were lush hills, vibrant green with growing grass. From the gardens Jonathan could just about see his father tending to their sheep, guiding them into their pastures to do as flocks do. From afar he looked like the young, strong man he still believed himself to be. But his son knew otherwise.

That’s why John was out here, his father had told him this morning. He was to learn how to work his own land, plant his own seeds. A hard task, but necessary.

Still, if given half the chance, he’d much rather leave the fields to fallow, free to go where the wind took him as his father had years and years before.

John left his musings to the wind and returned to work, but even that short rest was enough to leave his body aching in protest. He regretted ever stopping, but it was too late now. Besides, the more he worked, the duller the ache became. Halfway through, his father joined him to survey his son’s progress. At first, his face was impassive. Then it broke into a smile.

You’ve done fine work, John, Arigo said, his voice hoarse from shouting at the flock. These rows are pretty as a picture.

John beamed at his praise, breathing hard from the work. Do you think we’ll have a good harvest this year, Father? he asked. Arigo chewed on the question in silence. His large hand went through a head of hoary hair before stroking a beard of the same hue.

I’ve yet to try reading the signs, and there’s been no word from Father Tully. He spat at the mention of the priest’s name in disgust before continuing, But honestly, I believe this year will be fine. Velstand, may the Green Lady be praised, has always blessed our dear town of Bailnor. I see no reason it’ll be different now. The name of the goddess reminded them both that the offerings haven’t been given yet. Arigo gave his son a sly look and asked, Why don’t you give the offering this time, on your own? A man must worship his own gods and work his own soil, after all.

John didn’t know how to react. To give the offerings was a great honor, especially for the first time alone. And he’d always jump at a chance to take a break from work. However, the possibility of botching such a vital task worried him. What if Velstand grew angry? What if she cursed their land for an honest mistake?

Are you sure, F-Father? John asked. Who will p-prepare the garden, then?

I may be old, but I can still work. Arigo clapped John’s back and added, Go on, son. You’ll be all right. Nodding his head, John gave Arigo the hoe, and made his way from the half-finished garden to their altar.

Churches, temples, and cathedrals were the main places of worship in Shalara, but every home had its own altar or shrine. Some were beautiful masterpieces of precious metals and gems, while others were crude constructs made by a farmer’s bare hands. The Pantheon wasn’t picky about craftsmanship; just having one was enough, as long as it wasn’t shabby on purpose.

The Strait family had a shrine dedicated to Velstand, as did every home in Bailnor. Her grace was crucial to keeping the village alive. Without it crops would wilt, families would starve, and many souls would go to Daibas. However, she had competition. The seasonal goddesses were also present in the Strait home: Zella ensured an early spring, and Naithama a gentle summer; Thela provided a bountiful harvest, and Marmalone kept her grief to herself, thus keeping winter mild.

Today, John decided to give the offering to Velstand. Zella had done her part, and his father could always pay respect to Naithama in the evening. She was a secret favorite of Arigo’s, as summer was his late wife Zari’s favorite season.

His face twisted at the thought of his mother, a dull ache in his gut. It had been over ten years since her death, but the pain never left. John doubted it ever would.

Along with the ache of grief came another feeling. A strange, powerful, dangerous feeling.

I love your father very much, she’d told him one night, when he was small, but you know how he can be with magic. He wouldn’t understand. Now, without his mother to guide him, John believed he would never understand, either.

Those dark thoughts vanished as he entered their small house. The altar was little more than a sectioned off corner of the sitting room, bordered by a crude screen of wooden planks. It wasn’t elegant, or stylish, but it served its purpose. Behind the screen was a forest of candles, with six silver idols standing tall above them. At a distance, they all appeared to be the same female form. But a closer inspection revealed masterfully crafted details, down to their dresses and layers of hair. The seasonal goddesses flanked the left and right sides, with Velstand and Salune, the head goddess of the seasons, standing in the center. The idols cost a small fortune, most of the little savings they had. Yet to keep the gods’ favor, it was worth it.

John opened the barrier and lit the candles around Velstand. There wasn’t much for the offering as winter left their stores bare. But Arigo always kept some in reserve: the freshest grains of wheat, the brightest apple, the most seasoned pork. The gods didn’t care what people offered, so long as it was the best. What truly mattered was worship itself.

He placed a few eggs, some wheat, and an apple that survived the winter in front of the altar, then sank to his knees and prayed.

May you always bless our fields, Velstand the Loving, Velstand the Kind, John chanted. It was tempting to allow the words to flow without thought, but he made sure each word was sincere. May the Green Lady always be loved and cherished. Your love is our love; your happiness, our happiness. You we cannot live without. You, Velstand, we need.

Prayers came in a variety of forms, from epic ballads to a few soft words. The Strait family kept it short, sweet, and to the point. After the prayer, John was to sit in silence: a contemplative silence, said Father Tully, so the gods’ will may be heard and done. And for several long moments, John held his breath as a charge entered the room. It held weight like a person’s presence, but there was no one there. It considered him, the prayer, and the offering, like a cat deciding whether to spare the bird it caught or kill it. Thankfully, it seemed satisfied with John’s devotion, for it left as indifferently as it came. It was always indifferent, never saying or doing anything of worth. Eventually he rose, blowing out the candles with a small puff. He left in that same silence and closed off the altar.

No matter what that strange phenomenon was, there were other matters to attend to. Despite his assurances, Arigo couldn’t hoe the gardens by himself.

Father and son completed the hoeing far more quickly than they could have on their own. Sweat still ran, muscles still ached, but it was done.

A fine sight, Arigo half-panted next to his son. And it was, if you were into that sort of thing. I couldn’t have done it without you, John. Thank you.

Bah! It was nothing! Nothing we couldn’t handle, John boasted, puffing himself up. The pain from doing so made him grimace, which spoiled the effect.

Arigo barked a laugh which caused him to groan, and that made John laugh, who groaned himself. Soon they were both laughing and groaning at each other.

A father couldn’t ask for a finer son, Arigo said once he caught his breath. Tell you what. Why don’t you go run off and explore some? I know you love doing that. John’s eyes grew wide, and he nodded in delight. With a smile and nod of his head, Arigo sent his son off into the hills and thickets surrounding his home.

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As he watched his son wander off, Arigo leaned against his hoe and stroked his beard, lost in thought. John was almost a man; no, he was a man, and had been for over six years now, since his thirteenth year. Still, Arigo kept him close, teaching him everything he knew about his trade, about life. If there was one thing he wished he hadn’t given John, it was the insatiable wanderlust he himself had at that age. When John was small, Arigo loved telling him tales of his travels, as any father would with his children. He intended them to be bedtime stories, nothing more, something to preoccupy a child’s dreams until he aged enough to put them behind.

But John never did. And this wouldn’t be a problem, if John were truly the adventuring sort. Arigo sighed as he considered his son’s goodhearted but ultimately soft nature. He’d never left Bailnor in his life. He still suffered nightmares from stories of creatures from the Forest of Aldar, just within the town’s shadow. And Arigo feared that, if he did really try to go off on some adventure, he’d return in a casket, or not at all.

He wasn’t the best father, Arigo knew, but he hoped he’d raised John right.

Let it be enough, Rozina, Arigo said to himself, invoking the goddess of families. With no one around to see, he let his age show, and stood as a monument to the vigilance of fatherhood.

Chapter II

John weaved through the trees and groves outside his village, lost amid fantastical reveries. In his mind, each step was a bold stride into the unknown; every tree he dodged was another foe conquered, every log he scaled an impossible mountain to climb. His imaginary adventures took him all across Shalara, from the deadly Forest of Aldar in the east to lands distant and unknown. And on the tragic day of his death, he instead rose to take his place among the gods.

What a thought, John said to himself as he leapt over a mossy log. His thoughts wandered from dreams of a hero to being a deity. But they were dangerous thoughts; Father Tully had told him that such blasphemous musings might count him as a Pagan, a would-be deity who sought the Pantheon’s power. Such thoughts would not do, and the gods had struck down men for far less. But despite the dangers, John found his mind gravitating toward the idea. He was hard-pressed to think of what deity he could be; there was a god for everything you could think of, from war and peace to food and trees and love. After a few minutes, he gave up on it. He didn’t like the roiling in his stomach the idea gave him. Well, not him, exactly. That strange, unknown force within him seemed to roll about in its sleep.

When winding through branch, stone, and stream, time runs like quicksilver. With a start John saw the day slipping out from under him. The sun was about to set, and panic set in. Where was he? Had he wandered too far? His eyes darted to and fro, looking for a landmark. Then his ears picked up the faint sound of music and laughter. With a sigh of relief, John made his way toward the nearby tavern, the Summer Harvest.

The music grew louder as the tavern came into view, a sprawling building of stone that could have housed a dozen families. Warmth, the soft glow of lantern light, and a barrage of noise swamped John as he entered the main door into the common room. As always, the iconic building was full of patrons of all sizes, creeds, and genders from all across Illano. Barmaids picked through the crowd, serving drinks, smiles, and the occasional kiss.

John grinned as he settled at the bar, a long stretch of polished redwood crowded by stools up front and shelves filled with bottles behind. The Summer Harvest was his favorite haunt, an opinion shared by everyone in town. And it wasn’t just the drinks or the atmosphere that made it so.

Evening, Johnny! greeted the bartender, a porky, mustached man dubbed Francis Frank Teller. How’s work on the farm?

B-Backbreaking, John replied with a laugh. Same as always.

Sounds like you could use a drink. The Usual? Frank’s mead was so popular in Bailnor that he called an order of mead The Usual. John nodded with an eager smile and Frank obliged, filling a cup and setting it in front of him.

Don’t drink that all in one place, Frank said with a grin. John laughed and drank it down anyway, warmth spreading from tip to toe. Despite being old enough to drink, John was what his father would call a small bottle, but that didn’t stop him from enjoying himself.

Another, if you p-please! John cried out, already feeling fuzzy from the drink. Frank once again obliged, this time adding some extra flair to the serving.

Cup and bottle hovered around him as Frank juggled them with deft hands. Afterward, the tankard landed on the bar, the bottle in Frank’s hand, and he poured the shaken mead.

You should have stayed in the circus, F-Frank! John said with a laugh.

Too noisy, he replied with a toothy grin, which made John laugh even harder. Others around him laughed too, and Frank was more than happy to refill their glasses. Thanks to his first drink is half-off policy, veterans and newcomers alike were instantly hooked, and the tavern was ensured many long, prosperous nights.

Eyes slightly crossed and laughing as easily as breathing, John decided it would be a good idea to stand on top of his bar stool. He wobbled but did not topple as expected.

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