Godfang: Ch. 01 Fertile Fantasy Epic

PROLOGUE:

Anton Gusch knew the world was going to end. Knowing didn't make things easier. But for Anton--unlike most in his village--the knowing brought with it a strange solace. Sure, there was much to be mourned. But only if one became lost in dwelling on the inevitable. But the end? Firm and fixed though it was, the end was still years away--a pinprick of light in the distance.

Of course, you'd never know that with the way townsfolk were acting. There was a look of doom, frenzy on every face that passed. Even the mayor, old Dijin Flang, up and resigned the same day the Queen's men posted her reward proclamation on the doors of the gathering hall. One might have thought there was an invading army two days east and riding hard. Folks were loading wagons, dropping tools in half-sown fields, abandoning linen half-washed. Even the air, growing brackish with the smell of food left to char on open flame, hung thick with the fever of anticipation and anxiety.

He could not be the only rational person left in Ta Glen. Tiny gods, what did such a thing say about the place where he'd grown up? He might only be a month to the sturdier side of his eighteenth year, but they must have realized the world itself wasn't going anywhere. Every living animal would go on about its business. It's just there wouldn't be a man, woman, or child left to pester gods creatures.

He'd be a fool to yearn for the apocalypse, to greet the end with open arms. But at the same time, it suddenly seemed as though the shackles of obligation had shattered, releasing a weight that had long pressed down on the shoulders of young Anton Gusch. No, not obligation exactly but a heavy cloak of duty.

Duty was the thing that had kept Anton up at night, a presence as constant as the stars above, and a reminder of the first moment he'd looked into his father's callused hands and felt a sense of awe. Duty was a legacy, a formidable mountain of expectation silently transferred from the broad back of the family's patriarch to a reluctant son. And it happened suddenly... when his father didn't return from the War of Eights.

Anton Gusch had worshiped the ground his father walked. The void left by his absence was vast and echoing. Gosrick was a great man, they'd tell Anton when he was about his chores. You have big boots to fill. Their words brought only more weight and little comfort, for no amount of praise could raise the dead.

In the wake of his demise, Anton became the caretaker of more than just memories. He shouldered duty and tended to the ancestral home, helped out his mother and twin sisters, and shepherded the flock that was his father's life before the Queen called her lands to arms. His father's life.

Numbly, Anton watched his mother hastily packing the mule cart with the family's belongings. His elder sisters--The Twins--dutifully helped, but no one exchanged a word.

"But why are we leaving?" he finally asked his mother.

"There's nothing left for us here."

"Where will we go?"

Carimeen Gusch tied a neat knot in a potato linen. She paused a moment and looked up. Meeting Anton's eyes, she shook her head. "I don't know, Anton. But as sure as the gods curse the old tree on Gilmillin's Nob, we'll be on the wayroad at dawn. And it's there we'll find our new purpose."

Purpose. The word rang in his head. He followed his mother outside with the potato sack and hefted it onto the cart. Across the thoroughfare, he spotted a fire-headed pair of women mirroring efforts with a mule cart of their own. Liga Flang and her mother hoisted a cookpot between them but couldn't quite manage it. Without thinking, Anton hurried across the thoroughfare to help.

After offering her courtesies, Liga's mother returned to the thatch-roofed inn the family had owned for six generations. Liga listened intently for her mother's heavy footfall on the stairs before grabbing Anton's hand.

"Come on, then."

They walked beneath the great pantchoke and tatterglum trees at the edge of Bygully River. Dark strands of flame licked Liga's fair-freckled shoulders where her hair tumbled. Anton's sisters did not much like Liga Flang. She was the twins' age. Once, they'd all been friends, attending lessons and etiquette together at the Women's Circle. But something split the trio, something about a boy. And the twins had never been in the habit of explaining themselves to their younger brother. Suffice it to say, they'd ordered Anton to give Liga a wide berth. Even he could see the girl was as wild as they came, always courting trouble. Still, he thought she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

"Your family's leaving, too?" he asked.

"On the morrow."

"What about the inn?"

"Da's taken coin for the whole place. Land as well. Administrators from Ladd'ar Harbor. They mean to turn it into an outpost for the royal barracks."

"The Queen's Army?" Anton asked incredulously. "In Ta Glen?" He couldn't begin to imagine a royal detachment way out here. Gods, how things changed. Gone were the days when quiet folk could govern after themselves.

Liga shrugged. "Everything's falling apart. Can't cross the common room without hearing merchants, travelers, sell swords--everybody's saying the same thing. The roads are choked with people, and no shortage of highwaymen circling like ravens. Da's hired an escort for when we go." They walked in silence for a moment. "What about yours?"

Anton rubbed his neck. "Mother's set on leaving as well."

"And strongmen?" Liga asked, looking up at him with startling green eyes. "For vigilance?"

"My uncle. He's got riders. The families are meant to join at Ahn Plains."

"Ahn Plains? Why, that's a day's ride."

"I expect we'll try to stay close to others like yourselves." Anton stopped in the middle of the path. "Do you know where you're all going, Liga?"

"Da has his sights fixed on Ladd'ar. Means to open an inn in the capital and have us wait for a miracle. Says if the Queen's physickers come up with a cure, we should be close at hand. Da swears... 'the Flang line won't end on my watch!'"

"Maybe I should say the same to Mother. She doesn't seem to have a plan, just a will to uproot everything and go."

"And you?" she asked. "You don't agree with going?"

"Nothing feels a surety since I gave up hoping for my father's return."

Liga reached up to cup Anton's cheek. "I'm sorry."

Standing on her tiptoes, Liga surprised him with a kiss. Anton stared into those color-shifting eyes. Eyes that captured the light of the sun through wafer-thin leaves, changing from green tinged with auburn to emerald flecked with gold. He marveled at how such a small mouth could have such full pouty lips. How he longed to kiss her proper. They had walked together before but never shared a kiss.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"We'll probably never see each other again."

He felt her squeeze his hand. The pressure was insistent, the question smoldering behind those eyes. Rumors about the village womenfolk had been swirling for some time. A change had come over them. Anton had eavesdropped on a lady from the Women's Circle, speaking to Mother. The worry in her voice edged on resignation. One could marry only once, she'd said. But women were realizing that choosing wrong was tantamount to conceding the end of the family line. Assuming it was a problem in the Men. Just as many folks were fervent in their belief that the issue lay in the womb.

Anton had dreamed of marrying Liga. Until a few months ago, she had never given him a second glance. He had changed, of course. The ache in his bones sought to stress that point all too often. Over the span of a winter, Anton had filled out, grown tall and broad across the chest. His late father was an axeman, but to his endless amusement, Anton was called to the quarterstaff, featuring himself one of the roving Sahtozsman out of the tales. When they sparred, his father teased Anton by calling him Lak'an, the most famous of the Sahtoz, a fearsome fighter known by his cloak of many colors.

Anton allowed Liga to lead him into the deep grass at the edge of the Black River. He felt nervous when he watched Liga's dress pool at her feet. She seemed a water nymph, kissed in reds and pinks on otherwise porcelain skin. He hurried to shed his shepherd's clothes, nearly toppling a couple times and causing Liga to giggle. That laugh was the only reserved thing about the fire-haired girl. Wolfish eyes consumed his every movement, and Anton found himself stiffening as he imagined his mouth on her small breasts or, gods allow it, his hands sifting the strawberry fur nestled at the juncture of her thighs.

Gathering their clothes, Liga made a nest for them before drawing Anton into it. "Everybody is scared," she said, "and we're all just trying to find our way in darkness." Was she afraid Anton judged her? His heart beat wildly as he lay into her arms. The farmers had taken to calling it the grass lusts--women, like sirens of myth, leading men into the cavernous whisper reeds, rutting for... hope. No, he didn't judge her. Didn't judge any of the women who'd come looking for a miracle.

"If things were different," Liga whispered, guiding him. She seemed on the cusp of finishing her thought but trailed off. Anton felt the delicate, almost feathery touch of something wonderful at the tip of his staff. It couldn't be skin--too soft. He looked between them to see his thick, angry crown parting a pale seam dusted with wild berry hair, then beheld a flash of blistering pink before his wand disappeared.

He drew deeply of a breath that tasted like every sweet aroma he had ever known. It was met at half-gasp by the uniqueness of Liga's taste, and then her mouth was on his, kissing him hungrily. He felt her tongue pass his lips and a spark set him burning like the lightning oak on Gilmillin. Eyes blurring, his mouth fell to Liga's chest as he gasped and sheathed himself fully. Anton could barely see, but that the spray of freckles across her heat-blotched chest was searing itself into his mind.

Hips moving of their own accord, he fed himself into her. He was afraid of crushing her, but Liga was clutching him, drawing him onto her body with all her strength. She was so beautiful, so fair. He felt every bit the clumsy boy trampling flowers. Liga blew wayward hair from her face and grinned up at him. He smiled back and didn't know why either of them were doing it. But grinning at her felt good. She felt good. Miraculous.

He looked down again, watching the way her flowering lips clutched and folded, fighting his every retraction. He marveled at how far he seemed to go, sensing himself behind her small flat tum with every lunge. The tum where she carried hope. Anton had never seen a belly swollen with child. It was nearly two decades since anybody in Ta Glen had given birth. His only notion of the miracle came with the telling and retelling of his mother's experience. She often spoke of the twins, how she'd grown so large. He'd found the idea impossible to imagine. Liga's belly was small--how could anyone her size carry a child? Maybe if...

No. Not anymore. Even rumors carried on the road spoke less and less of a newborn. Hope, it seemed, was faltering. Was that why Liga had chosen him? Was that why those glittering green eyes stared so intently into his? He was a virgin, after all. Did she need his belief?

As Anton's ears began to hum and the tingle of wildness spread through his gut, he tried with all his heart to hold Liga's gaze. She'd moved a hand between her legs and seemed to be petting herself, occasionally bumping his sticky shaft.

"Strong boy," she cooed. "You'll kindle a fine fire in my belly, won't you?" Anton gritted his teeth, nodding to the chant that seemed for her own ears. "Sweet boy. Fill me and plant me."

"Gods," Anton moaned. He didn't want it to end. Wished for nothing but to remain buried in Liga's silky pouch, entwined in her pale arms until the end came. How could the world end when something could feel as wonderful as this?

"Round me out, sweet Anton. Yes, sweet boy. Push a babe into my belly." He gritted his teeth, feeling the sweet pulsating tiny death swimming from the heavy sac clapping Liga's tender bottom. "Empty into me," she chanted. "Give us babes enough to fill a home."

Home? Anton felt a swelling in his heart and thought death really had come for him. Yes! He would seed her, fill her, swell her womb with a litter. She would waddle and he would hunt, and at night, he'd rub her feet and kiss her body, head to toe. He'd come into her every time she wished it and keep her full. They would fill the world with children of legacy. Hundreds of them. Thousands.

"Gods!" he cried out.

"Yes!" Liga whined. Anton groaned as a belch of fire erupted from his cockstaff. He pushed deeply, burying himself so that her fiery fur blended with his dark thatch. He emptied himself, vision blurring for every miraculous lunge of his testicles, every wonderous pulsing that shot into her. Coming. Coming. Gods, it was every dream wrapped in ribbons of fire. He kissed Liga's half-open mouth and drank the near-soundless cry that spilled from her lips.

Our babes. Our home.

At that moment, there was a great peal of thunder. Anton heard a rush of sound--rain drumming the river's surface--and the skies over their earthen sanctuary opened up. Liga began to laugh. To Anton, it sounded wild. His appendage spat still more into her silky keep and he ground against her small figure, urging himself to pain.

Her whole body shook and he felt himself slipping from her. He looked down to see a blinding trickle of white oozing from between her legs. She was still laughing. Laughing so hard that Anton began to worry. Head thrown back as if challenging the heavens. Another crack of thunder and she laughed even harder. Anton clapped his hands over his ears.

***

Anton Gusch sputtered awake as a wall of rainwater poured onto his face. His bedroll was soaked. Clambering out from under the wagon, he saw that the field had become a slow-moving river of mud in the night.

"Oy! See to that wagon before I belt ya."

With numb fingers, Anton set to securing the tarpaulin that had come loose in the wind. The food supplies were soaked. He'd catch his beating anyway. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw the men of his band hustling to and fro, some staggering from too much drink, others matching every step to an invective that cursed his lot in life.

"Form up, you sorry lot! I mean to see Grayshot by day's end. That means if I have to drive you through waist-deep mud, I'll do it!"

Anton took hold of the mule's halter and coaxed her forward. He'd had the dream again. It was a sight better than the nightmare, but not by much. Even against the smell of wet manure and a sea of mud, the girl from Ta Glen had left her scent on his mind. Would he never be rid of it?