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Torn God: Watcher of Deep Places (Web Novel) - Book 5: Chapter 22 The Lion [Part 2]
Book 5: Chapter 22 The Lion [Part 2]
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True mastery was over the understanding of Mana allowed one to sing to the very spirits of the land. The elven masters had said, however, that he lacked the voice for it, but he believed they were lying. He was sure that they feared teaching him the rest of their secrets.He did not neglect his body amid these studies. Like a smith forging iron, he tempered both mind and muscle. His strength increased by more than training alone, for beneath ancient trees and on hidden altars, he offered bloody sacrifices to the gods of this realm—men, women, even children. Broken souls, criminals, or mere slaves, the elves told him; “lesser” creatures unworthy of pity, a casual afterthought in the grand tapestry of the world. Alexandros, who had known his share of cruelty, rationalized it as mercy. Had he himself not been granted a new life? Perhaps he was only hastening these wretches toward a kinder fate in some yet undiscovered afterlife.
And for each sacrifice, the gods rewarded him. He moved swifter than a deer and lifted boulders that mortal men could scarcely budge. In life, he had been formidable; in this new existence, his strength matched the legends of Herakles himself.
His ambitions grew alongside his power. Why not ascend to kingship over this entire world? And, why settle for one world? The elves’ ancient tomes spoke of gates and fogs that led beyond entire worlds. Alexandros’ mind raced with possibilities. He imagined armadas crossing cosmic seas, armies arrayed at the edges of reality.
Yet he reined himself in—he must learn patience. The elves lived slow lives, and power in their society coalesced like drifting silt. Their king, in particular, controlled the pace of their grand designs. Alexandros chafed at the arrogance of elven nobility. Their condescension, their self-styled superiority, only stoked his desire to one day shatter their stagnant ways. Let them hiss and snarl at his refusal to even take an elven name.
Alexandros was his name, and he would never forsake it. The Elven King’s anger over his insolence was well-known, but eventually the monarch ceded the matter. On the surface at least, but all knew that something seethed beneath the surface. All the King’s ire accomplished was to give Alexandros another reason—someday, when the time was ripe, he would take the crown himself.
***
It was a mix of the King’s recent displeasure and his adventurous nature that spurred Alexandros to volunteer for a mission of conquest across the wine-dark seas. At the insistence of their oracles, the elves had forged pacts with the sea-dwelling Nereides to assault the human city of Al-Lazar. The reason for this upcoming conflict was unimportant, but such a campaign promised him firsthand insight into elven naval warfare. Alexandros welcomed the chance to study how they fought upon Poseidon’s realm.
And so he found himself on a vast vessel, larger than any trireme he once commanded in his fleet—a floating fortress hewn from a material that seemed like the very bones of the earth. Giant leviathans towed it through the wine-dark sea, occasionally let loose by their masters to hunt or rest so they could regain their monstrous strength. Everything about the enterprise awed him.
His new body, however, betrayed him on the open sea. Seasickness clawed at his guts, and he spent days in wretched misery. Arimea nursed him with gentle hands and a soft smile, though he snarled at her to go. “You are not my wet nurse,” he grumbled more than once, and she only laughed, golden curls swaying as she coaxed him to sip stale water.
“Is this the fierce conqueror who took the make-believe city of Tyre by siege?” she teased. “The mighty general who braved storms for the thrill of victory?”
He rolled his eyes. The warmth in her gaze unsettled him more than any wave could. She was nobility, once betrothed to another, yet she had set aside even her own wedding to serve him. Devotion like that he had rarely encountered among men—and never among women. With a resigned sigh, he accepted her ministrations. “I will drink your sour water, but I have a better cure. Wine.”
“You know as well as I do it will only worsen your sickness,” Arimea chided, smiling as though she were gently scolding a child.
He did not truly expect her to give in, but he grumbled nonetheless. “Then what of my other request? My…design?” He longed for a symbol of home, a balm for his roiling stomach and restless heart.
“It’s already done,” she assured him, her sorrowful eyes bright with pride. “Exactly to your specifications.”
Relief spread through him, momentarily outshining his discomfort. He cradled the cup of brackish water, feigning annoyance to mask the gratitude that burned in his chest. He had asked for a banner, one to replace the pale, sterile sigil of the elves. It would bear not a lone star, but the great shining sun—bold, unbowed, and supreme in the sky.
Soon, he told himself, he would stand on some distant shore and see that emblem aflutter, proclaiming that Alexandros the Great had come for conquest once again. The Lion of Macedonia would roar anew, and this time, he would not falter at the edge of the world.
