THE BURIED GOD
Chapter 18: The Road East
The road east was nothing but a scar.
Damon had walked it once before, when he was young, when his father was still alive, when the world was still ordinary. He remembered the cobblestones, the waystations, the inns where travelers gathered to share stories and ale. He remembered the merchants with their wagons full of silk and spice, the soldiers with their swords and shields, the priests with their prayers and incense.
Now the cobblestones were cracked, overgrown with weeds. The waystations were abandoned, their doors hanging open, their hearths cold. The inns were empty, their signs faded, their windows shattered.
The world had moved on.
Or the world had died.
Or the world was hiding.
“The priests did this,” Lyssa said. “They fed the god. They starved the land. They killed the people.”
“Why?”
She was silent for a long moment.
“Because they believed the god would reward them. Because they believed the hunger would spare them. Because they believed the sacrifice would save them.”
“Did it?”
She looked at the dead fields. The bare trees. The empty sky.
“No.”
They walked for three days.
The sun was weak, the sky was gray, the air was cold. Damon’s legs ached. His feet blistered. His back screamed.
But he did not stop.
He could not stop.
The scar on his chest was still there. Small and silver, like a tiny crescent moon. It did not hurt. It did not itch. It did not bleed.
But it reminded him.
Of the seed. Of the blade. Of the hunger.
Of the god who was sleeping.
Of the god who might wake.
On the fourth day, they saw smoke.
Not the silver smoke of the mountain. Not the black smoke of the hunger. Ordinary smoke. Cooking smoke. Chimney smoke.
A village.
Small. Huddled. Hidden in the bend of a frozen river.
“The last village before the pass,” Lyssa said.
“The pass to where?”
“The pass to the sea. The pass to the other kingdoms. The pass to the rest of the world.”
“Is it safe?”
Lyssa was silent for a long moment.
“It was. Once.”
They approached the village.
The gates were closed.
The walls were high.
The guards were armed.
“Halt,” one of them said. “State your name and business.”
“My name is Damon. I’m a gravedigger. These are my companions. We’re traveling east.”
“From where?”
Damon looked back.
At the mountain.
At the darkness.
At the hunger.
“The God’s Grave.”
The guard’s face went pale.
“You’re from the mountain?”
“I’m from the village at the foot of the mountain. The one they call the God’s Grave.”
“Why did you leave?”
Damon touched his chest.
The scar was cold.
“Because the god is waking.”
The guards exchanged glances.
The gate opened.
The village swallowed them.