The Gods Mistake

By Montsho Shelby

The heart of the book is of gods and men, the evils they do and how they cover their sin. There’s a disgraced elven hero and a long range dwarven scout, but even that small bit doesn’t explain what it’s all really about. It’s interwoven tales that don’t really seem to mesh, it’s magic and technology, and forgotten planets the gods put to rest. It’s a story of the sword crossed with the gun, a story of a dying land with alien sun. It’s strengths is the fact that fantasy and technology rarely touch, a tale where the beginning of the story doesn’t affect the end very much. Montsho writes compulsively and has written 7 books to date. He does not comfortably talk about himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Sep 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483455532

Book preview

Epilogue

CHAPTER

1

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CHAOS TO CONFUSION

F ire burned the naked sky, like a beacon of despair. A lone barbarian watched the fire in the heavens from the safety of a tree. He watched as the flames spit out a tiny nugget of earth. The thing pounded into the land with the intensity a gods wrath might have. Had the gods been fighting again… no, if that were the case the whole forest would surely be leveled. Rung blasted down the tree not leaving a branch unmolested, and crept to the rock like a cat stalking meat. He drew his bow because this territory was not the most kind to unannounced guest. Rung’s left hand crushed a bush for sight, and his right gripped a bow, the barbarian moved in cautiously. Rung was a bear of a man, he stood seven feet in height, and though he tried to conceal his presence, the clan of the mammoth were not known for their nimble steps. The rock lay their in a perfect bed of earth to contrast the destruction it left behind it. Rung kneeled beside the stone. He could hear the thing sizzle as if it had been forged in hell. The peculiar rock was as big as the base of the tree, and depth of impact masked the height, but that didn’t stop Rung from wondering if he could carry the whole thing. The barbarian may have been bold but he was not stupid enough to attempt to pick up the huge boulder. He peered over his bear skinned shoulders ever so often, knowing that he had not been the only one to witness this event. Rung decided that it would be best to take a tiny chunk to his clan just so they would even believe his outrageous story. The huge man drew his two handed swords with muscles big enough to choke a deer to death. He rose the sword over his head and began to pound the rock, until a shards of mineral chipped off in all directions. A hunk of the smoldering sphere tumbled away, but the barbarians eyes were transfixed on the contents inside of the rock. Their was a sparkling black obsidian, but intertwined in the mess were tiny little swarming creatures. Their weren’t that many of the bugs, but it was enough to make a barbarian ponder. Rung snatched the piece of rock, but he instinctively recoiled and dropped it. A commotion happened in the brush. Rung felt a critter bite him. He looked down and it burrowed under his skin. The barbarian grimaced, not from the pain but from his momentary lack of judgment. The rustle got stronger, and Rung could hear a language foreign to him. The barbarian grabbed his chunk of rock and went back the way he came. A bush stirred and four greenish humanoid creatures appeared. Their noses were pushed back far on their heads and their eyes reflected back an ominous blood red. One spoke to the other in a harsh language, Garush needs to see this.

A diminutive dwarf crawled from the dead rock that used to be the home to living breathing things. Brigonrock could smell the death in the air even though it was a hundred years hence. The night air tickled his short beard, but this was no longer a place for the living, only ghost dare reside in such a place. The dwarf ducked his strong hand under a secret compartment under his leather armor, and when his hand returned he held three well crafted daggers in-between each knuckle. I should’a came for ma dagger years ago, a’ boys, Brigonrock said to his daggers as if the daggers could speak back.

In a quaint little Inn on the edge of nowhere sat a rather vibrant watering hole, it was the only Inn in town. It hung desperately close to a 150 foot drop off of a cliff. The waves of the Sarengal ocean crashed violently below, in contrast to the peaceful mounds of lush green hills rolling along the landscape. A young man poured his heart into a mural on the wall while patrons had nothing better to do then watch. One old man commented that it would be an eagle catching a fish, while another thought it was a dragon in a furious battle. The young man labored on, oblivious to his captive audience. A mysterious figure also sat in the Inn. He was slight, but had an air of haughtiness, his hair was short and bristled spikes almost as if it would be sharp to the touch, and his ears were pointed as all of it kind. It wasn’t his characteristic’s that made him mysterious it was the company that he chose to keep. He was an elf, beautiful, graceful, magical, and ever elusive, but he chose to surround himself with humans. Denitheal lived here in Alston amongst these humans for many years. He was loved and hated by everyone in his presence. Why an elf would chose to live in the open plains with humans was the biggest mystery, but a mystery that no one bothered to look into. Most of the towns people figured, that when the elf was ready he would open himself up, but even after twenty years their was nothing that would loose his lips. Denitheal, hey Denitheal, what would you figure that is that the boys drawing. I wouldn’t know, Denitheal lied, for he knew damn well what the boy was painting on that wall, and the mere sight of it took him back to a nightmarish place that the guardians of his sanity struggled to protect. What’s that Ren, we’re getting mighty tired of guessing’ and we ain’t got enough patience to let ye’ finish. Well if you must know, Ren smiled, this is a rendition of the war of the titans fought in the Gods speak. Denitheal turned his head and clenched his fist, hoping to Santyra that no one saw his distress. Denitheal boiled over with hatred, he seeved with rage, but it wasn’t rage towards any of the trustworthy farmers, or the boy, but it was an anger towards himself. It was a rage coming from the realization that he had made a mistake, one of which would never resurrect all the lives he took… if he had just did one thing differently. But his pain had deep roots, roots that shaped him into the elf he was today. Denitheal spoke, not out of courtesy, but out of need, if his mouth was different from where his mind was he’d be in a much better state. Are those dragons, or dangerous pigeons, your scales are all off. Ren flushed with a quick jolt of rage as if he had been struck, but he was in a sense. Not dangerous enough you say, so you’ve seen a dragon. Denitheal smiled, No unfortunately, he lied, but I have seen many such depiction’s. So you think you could do better. Oh, this is no contest my young friend. Ren smiled, because he felt as if he backed his aggressor into a corner, Oh, why, because you’d lose. Denitheal smiled, I painted portraits a century before you were even born, and still I could pick up that brush and put you too shame. Oh is that a fact, then here, Ren protested, as he shoved his paint brush towards the elf. Denitheal took the brush hesitantly, he could hear the disbelieving snickers flow on the air like an airborne plague. Denitheal dipped the brush on the wooden palette and confidently dabbed the bristled wand on the mural, but before the first stroke fell, Denitheal spun around, as if preparing for a speech. What will this solve… art is subject to ones interpretations. Then the laughter spilled over like a damn that had taken on too much water. Ren smiled, but did not laugh, he was comforted that the elf learned just how difficult his job truly was. Denitheal smiled too, but on the inside, as if that had been his intention the entire time. The lone elf sat down and coped with an entirely different emotion, it dulled his pain… barley. Tonight was the night an elven performance troupe came to town. This would be the first elves he had seen in twenty years, and that’s if he was going, his heart was still being pulled in two directions. Maybe it was time to face down his demons, maybe he could face the world again.

Night fell like a stone, it was quiet and serene, but Denitheal was at war with his demons. The past was so alluring, but the present reeked of common sense. In the end Denitheal found his way to the lone Inn. The prospect of seeing another of his kind far out weighed the dangers. The windows served as a beacon for those with wandering souls, and Denitheal was just that. He could see the smiling faces in the light. He could hear the sounds of delight, but that was the very reason he could not take part. To live his life with too much joy would be a mockery of all the lives that he did not save. But, the wanders life was wearing thin, it just was not enough to punish himself, he needed another way to atone. The inn door opened as soon as he turned his back. A hand grabbed the elf and pulled him inside. The joy was overwhelming, it reminded him of his home in the forest of dreams. Denitheal smiled under his cloak, a smile that he desperately struggled to contain. Ruffin was the young inn keeper, that drug Denitheal into the inn, he watched over the place as if it were an outpost in enemy territory, but that only managed to give him a fatherly appeal, despite his young age. Were you planning on letting me go friend, Denitheal asked rather politely, but silently, hoping not to stir anyones curiosity, but he could have yelled and no one would have even bothered to turn around. The elves were a sight to behold, they made every inch of the inn their stage. They flipped in unison, starting from each corner of the quaint inn. The sound of elven music entranced anyone in it’s earshot, the beauty of it was beyond belief, their was a crisp ring to every note. It was quite obvious that elves lived for hundreds of years, because the music was so cultivated it could be almost considered magical. Denitheal kept out of the way to the back of the inn. He was so low key it was almost as if he were a shadow of some sort. The farmers had never seen a show so intense, with acrobatic displays so graceful, it was a minor mystery how Ruffin even got the elves to play at such an out of the way locale. Their were ten elves in all, four women and six men. The three female elves that performed were as beautiful as they were graceful. Their faces seemed to be untouched by time, their bodies visions of perfection, and their pointed ears gave them an exotic symmetry like no other. Denitheal was just as beautiful as these elves, but his eyes were ancient, it had seen centuries past. He could tell that no one was as old as he, with the exception of the male playing the drums. The elf on the drums must have been the one in charge, because the drums set the tempo, it was the heartbeat of almost any elven performance. Denitheal glanced at the head drummer a few times, and he saw him glance back at him a few times… this was no good. He would definitely have to slip out before the show came to a close, but as if to read his mind the music stopped. Denitheal was on the opposite side of the inn, the side with no exit other then a drop off a rocky cliff, so their was no way to elude contact with the elves. He leaned back in his chair and pulled his cloak securely over his face. The elf stood over Denitheal, his arms were humongous for an elf, but not so much for a drummer. He wore all black as did the other three musicians, while the tumblers wore multicolored ensembles. You are the one they call Denitheal, are you not, the elf spoke clearly. The cloaked elf thought to lie, but it would only serve to alienate those people that he lived with. Yes, Denitheal spoke with a defensive tone of voice. This was the night that he knew would come, this was the night that he would have to leave, and wander the land again like a restless spirit. What is it that you want from me, Denitheal asked reflexively, knowing what the answer would be. Why would an elf call himself Denitheal, the mere thought of it reaches beyond my conception, the drummer responded. Denitheal looked to the other elves that finished the show. They were scattered throughout the inn, most were either sitting down to cool off, or getting drinks, but some managed to find their way over to Denitheal’s secluded little area. Ruffin too made his way over to Denitheal’s table, curious of the words exchanged. Why is a name so important to you friend, I didn’t even bother asking you yours, nor do I plan to, Denitheal spoke with a smile despite the venom in his words. The name is Lethan Deionathlis. Are you daft friend, I don’t want to know you, now remove yourself from my presence, or I’ll do it for you. Ruffin could see where this exchange might go, but never would he believe that those words would come out of Denitheal’s mouth. Thank you Lethan, I truly enjoyed your show, I will set you up with the finest room in the inn… follow me good elf, Ruffin spoke calmly, but calm words could not brush away such an insult. If I were you I would chose very carefully the kind of elves you make friends with, Lethan said, painting a portrait of doubt so clear their was no way it could not to draw Ruffins attention. What do you mean?. I mean that this… Denitheal is a fool. It seemed a very childish accusation coming from such an elderly race, Ruffin thought. A fool, what has that to do with anything, Ruffin asked, his loud voice receiving the attention of others. No, it’s more than just his attitude, it’s his name, his name in elven is loosely translated as one who’s life is a mockery. Ruffin glanced over to Denitheal as if to ask with his eyes if the accusations were true, but Ruffin would get no reassurance this day, only more questions. Denitheal drew back his cloak, and held his chin high as if his name were a badge of honor. The disgraced elf said nothing. His silence said what words could not, it told of a past that no one would ever know but him. Lethan smiled, he considered his insult vindicated. He had no intention of making this matter so public, but since this… Denitheal coveted his privacy so much he didn’t believe that he could have hurt him more. Ruffin looked to Denitheal while showing Lethan to his room, his face wore a look of shock and confusion. Hello… Trix, whispered a faint, yet familiar voice. The elf turned his head slowly. Anyone who knew his true name would surely wish him dead, and he didn’t care to see the dagger pierce his back. When Denitheal turned around, he still lived… to his surprise. Their was a four foot dwarf looking back at him. He was as wide as a tree trunk, but graceful. His black beard was short, he wore brown leather, and a thin brown leather cap that allowed only two long braids to escape. I thought I was rid of you. Smile elfy, cause yer’ not. Why are you here. I would think it’s pretty obvious. For you maybe, but not for people with common sense, the elf said raising his voice more than he had in many years. A nearby farmer stood up as if to help the elf out of an altercation, but Denitheal raised his hand to diffuse the situation. Why are you sweatin’ elfy, you got somethin’ ta hide, huh, Brigonrock taunted. Keep yer voice down, Denitheal retorted, damn it, your bad common is a contagious. I want’s ma dragon. What. Don’t play dumb wit’ meh. Oh, your dragon dagger. Now yer gettin’ it elfy, Brigonrock said with a smile. Brigonrock…was it not, you gave that dagger to Arcush one hundred years ago, I think it’s safe to say it’s gone now. TRIX, Brigonrock said loudly,I think it’s safe to say you better be handing over what’s mine, before I gets’ drunk and starts tellin’ old stories… if ya gets ma meanin. Trix settled down immediately, not wanting more of his past on the table for the world to riffle through. So you’ve been tracking me for one hundred years, you are persistent aren’t you. Not one hundred years six months. Just for a dagger?, Trix smiled to belittle his quest. Not exclusively nah, ten years ago we had a whole orc tribe up an relocate on us, an guess who was sent ta go and finds ‘em, gettin ma dagger back is justs a perk of tha’ job. Brigonrock’s face darkened, as if the whole conversation was leading to this emotional question, is it true Trix, just tells me it ain’t. Trix took a deep breath, but that was all that was necessary to answer all of the dwarf’s urgent questions. Brigonrock slowly reached his hand under a flap in his leather armor, and pulled a throwing knife, with the head of a half dragon on the metal hilt. Trix tensed, ready for the dwarf to toss the dagger between his eyes. The elf waited patiently, unsure of his fate, but not at all ready to lay down and die. Rock looked out the window to the starry night wishing to Omegus that the work of hero’s would be rewarded in the next life. He twirled his dagger between his fingers to settle his nerves, and to commemorate the dead, killing Trix was the last thing on his mind. Tells me what happened, and tells me the truth, Brigonrock said with his head to the stars. Everyone’s dead, Trix said in a whisper. Then who’s alive, Rock said with built up agitation. Do you know of Attorney’s woman. I’ve heard the stories times and times again, just tells me the truth. Trix smiled out of habit, he had been so used to infuriating people that he reflexively smiled even in the most awkward of situation. The truth is really subjective. But an asswhippin’ ain’t, Brigonrock said manor of factly. Trix knew that he was staling now, and that he was trying to anger the dwarf on purpose just to get him to change the subject… oh how different his motivations were now. We all stood on the highest mountain of the Gods speak, me, Attorney, Arcush, Jal, Cinema, and the then god Arin. We were their on a hunch from some old dragon of some sort, his name escapes me now. The titan of titans avatar’s head peaked over the clouds, and some old prophecy said that four would sacrifice themselves to save the entire world, Trix chuckled, but Rock looked him in his eye so that he would not change the subject. Attorney, Arcush, and Jal stabbed themselves with that dagger of yours, while Arin gave up his godhood to transform their spirits into a titan to fight the titan of titan’s avatar. Why didn’t you go with the rest, Brigonrock asked softly. Did you hear what I said, they killed themselves to evoke that titan spirit. I remember that time too, and all the water turned to poison, so what the hell did it matter. Trix smiled, Oh, I do find your dwarven logic refreshing, but lets say, I hadn’t given up on the idea of sticking it out to the end just yet. I ain’t judgin’ ya, I’m just sayin’ is all. The titan of titan summoned a comet to destroy the entire world, but after Attorney, Arcush, and Jals spirit beat him, they dove into the air and attempted to push the comet back in a single leap. It’s said that our the savior titan died instantly, but managed to knock a good deal of the comet back to the heavens, and that small piece that fell from the sky created the dead lands. It killed Modervon, Stoke’nor, most of Marr…. I get it, I gets it. You ever thought that thats how it was supposed to be all along. Constantly, but what if it wasn’t, what if all it needed to push that comet back was that extra strength from me. Well we ain’t never gonna know so it seems ta me you needs ta gets over it. Rock’s thinking was a logic he hadn’t heard in years, and for some reason it was time for him to hear it. So people don’t like ya, so what, they didn’t like ya before, hell I don’t like’s ya. Are you sure you’re a dwarf. Why you askin’ elfy. Because you’re actually making since.

CHAPTER

2

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V ertigo, I haven’t heard such bullshit. If the kill is clean it doesn’t matter how fast it is done, Traxel yelled calmly. Vertigo shifted his scaly body, his green eye shimmered, while his blue eye entranced. I do it for love, and get paid for nothing… If the kill is rushed not only did I miss out on fun that I may have had, but it also shows no respect for your opponents courage, Vertigo explained. Please, enlighten me farther oh wise one, Traxel said sarcastically. The dragon’s eyes hypnotized as it shrugged off the insult, If your victory is assured their is no need to boost your ego, if the crowd doesn’t enjoy the fight it doesn’t matter how skilled you are, Vertigo said with a voice that rumbled the ground. Traxel smiled, he had to respect his friends age and wisdom. A half dragon woman, who’s body sparkled orange as a raging flame, but her torso seemed to cool her muscular body down with a crisp blue, walked past. Her shoulders were big for a woman, half-dragon or not, and was covered by rigid scales that gave the appearance of armor. In her hand she walked proudly with an S shaped blade. Hello, Traxel said with a sly smile. The proud half-dragon woman turned to regard the red half-dragon, then kept on moving. Leave her alone my friend, that ones made of ice, Vertigo said in a voice incapable of achieving a whisper. Traxel looked back to Vertigo, but his thoughts were still on her. Are we to fight on the barge tonight. Vertigo smiled, we are.

The rocking of the great ship soothed Traxels nerves, he had no fear of death, when his mind was still, but sometimes it sway to thoughts of the past. When he was young his mother told him of the great warrior his father had been before him, but he rarely thought of such things, in fact he felt as if their was no place for great men or their deeds. He was a warrior, a gladiator, here to perform an opera of death for whoever may be waiting on that top deck. Traxel was a massive red skinned creature, half dragon and half something else. Two horns twisted from his head like a ram, and his muscles were massive from a need to survive the bruatality of his life. To Traxel their was nothing noble or great about anything that he may do this night. The only heroic deed he could even picture as great would be to swiftly dispatch all those who would watch unwilling men kill one another. Traxel began to move with the massive crowd of foul smelling killing machines, he could smell the open sea. The red half-dragon looked up and back, and realized that their were few of his kind here, most of the bunch were humans. Though young Traxel was still three generations older than the oldest human. And for all the reasons that he should be angry, or even outraged at his situation, their was one reason he was not… revenge.

The red warrior was excited not happy to kill, but, excited. He felt a tingle in his fingers every time he touched his sweet lover… the blade. His serrated and hook swords were the only constants in his life, it was like they had personalities of their own that demanded attention. Every time he fought he danced with his lover, every strike a gentle kiss, and every kill was a moment of ecstasy. Traxel watched the wooden boat churn with it’s human inhabitant, so immersed in their activities they were oblivious to the world. The red gladiator walked proud through noblemen and noble women as if he had some power over their lives, but that couldn’t have been farther from the truth. The nobles may have felt intimidated in the moment, but in the larger scheme, Traxel was less than nothing to them. Traxel then had a feeling in his gut, a bad one. He could feel an impending doom, but he pushed it aside for the time being, or he wouldn’t enjoy invoking fear from these rich bastards. He shifted his arm violently and a scrawny man dropped his drink. Traxel would never invoke so much fear in his audience if he knew that was one of the reasons so many people came to watch him. Traxel saw a rope sectioned off into a rectangle, this was the ring no doubt. Who would be his victim today, it didn’t really matter, he considered himself as dead anyway. Every time he stepped into the ring he was joyful and ashamed. When he had no fear of death he was calm and free, but in his mind he believed that death should not feel better than life… or what’s the point of living. Traxel climbed in-between the loose brown ropes. A short fat man appeared at Traxel’s side, he grabbed the half-dragon’s arm. No weapons, he said while rubbing his thumb and forefinger through his thick mustache. Traxel reluctantly detached his weapons from his belt, then he spoke, though the excitement of the crowd muted his words. If I don’t get these back-. I know, I know… something horrible, the pudgy man said while waving his hand dismissivly. Traxel looked back to the fight at hand, and there stood two humans in breaches. They each wielded a blade, they nervously, but confidently began to flank. Traxel smiled, only two, this would end easily. The half-dragon ran at full speed, and let his instincts guide him. He split his opponent’s, and left them spinning. The red warrior twisted his waist, opened his mouth and spewed an orange flame from it. One warriors was slow to react. He died with only his screams to comfort his failure. The other warrior struck swiftly. Traxel was in prime position to die, his back was turned and their was no time to react. The blade descended but Traxel did a quick roll to evade, and that had been his intention the entire time. The roll lead to a deflection of the elbow, which lead to a powerful spin kick to the head. The force alone was enough to send a noblemen’s head soaring into the punch bowl, but for a well tuned gladiator it was enough to knock him unconscious. Traxel growled, and wisps of smoke escaped his nostrils like dark storm clouds. For a moment their was silence, but only a moment. The red warrior eased his way out of the ring. The little pudgy man smirked under his thick mustache, but Traxel knew he’d be furious. Through gritted teeth the little fat man spoke, didn’t I tell you not to finish so early, he said while holding his smile. Traxel smirked, what do you mean quick, I can feel sweat beading up, now give me back my swords, the pudgy man couldn’t have moved faster, if he did it five minutes ago. Maybe you won’t get them back until you do what I ask next time, the pudgy man said with a smile. Traxel’s mood didn’t change. The warrior grabbed the little mans fine robes. Don’t take my swords unless you’re ready to die, Triaker. Triaker smiled, while calmly stroking his mustache. I only push your buttons for my amusement, Triaker chuckled out. Triaker rose his voice, as loud as it could go, the main event is outside, he announced. The rich voyeurs were then herded to the top deck. Traxel was unsupervised for that moment, and their was never a time when he didn’t imagine himself running away again. He ran away a lot in the beginning, but he was always caught, wizards were the bane of his existence. Triaker started to get smart, every time he ran he killed someone he knew, and an escape attempt had to be more thought out. Traxel didn’t really make friends anymore, and the time for escape was looming near.

Shots of light erupted in the air. The interplay of light and color was dazzling… hypnotic. The crowd bubbled in awe. Triaker smiled, with each amused grin he was mentally counting up the money he would make at his next event. Vertigo screamed through the air, with the light of the explosions flickering off his scales like a pool of clear mountain water. The huge spiked collar on Vertigo neck weighed down on him even after all the years he wore it. One word from Triaker and Vertigo’s ample neck would separate from his immense body, and if the fat little slaver died Vertigo would as well, their fates were locked, molded in a forge of mutual hatred. Vertigo was getting old and his health was failing if not from natural age then surely from the wounds he wore proudly to battle. Vertigo kept his pain to himself, as close to his heart as an assassins blade, because essentially when he felt he would die Triaker would be no more.

Through the darkness of night, and the loud blare of fiery color there was another, who it was Vertigo could not know. It was another dragon, and a familiar one at that. Vertigo knew this dragon, and killing him would be his gift to the world.

Out of the corner of Traxel’s eye was a figure that had climbed his way onto the boat from the downed anchor. Traxel felt no need to protect these people on the ship, but their grew an insatiable feeling of dread in his mind, and it would lay their comfortable in a deep dark corner of the half dragons brain if only he would allow it. Traxel drew his weapons in a swift fluid motion, and pressed on into the darkness