There were a little over forty immortals in our group when we ascended the dormant volcano. There was myself and Zenzele, Tapas, Irema and Aioa. Drago and Rayna, along with Eris, Neolas and Hammon. The Clan Mistress Wen, who had the form of a beautiful young woman, had joined us, along with her co-conspirator Druas, a tall, portly and plain-featured man with a morose demeanor. The two Eternals had assisted Irema with the slave uprising, and accompanied us now to help depose their former ruler. There were several other blood gods, as well as a handful of new-blooded slaves, including the leader of the slave caste rebels, a fierce-eyed and very hairy man named Bronan. Even Vehnfear had joined us. The wolf came loping around the corner of a sprawling private dwelling as we headed across the Arth, tongue lolling, tail thrust stiffly in the air. The animal's muzzle was glistening with mortal blood, but he was grinning and his gray eyes were bright and excited, like a child that had been playing some happy and energetic game.
"Vehnfear!" Zenzele cried, and dropped down to one knee to embrace her old companion. "Where have you been? I was getting worried." The wolf lapped her cheek, smearing blood across her face, then came and danced around my legs, hopping and wagging his tail.
"Are you coming with us?" I asked.
The wolf dipped his head and sneezed, as near an emphatic yes as the intelligent beast could manage.
"Let's go then," I said.
The slaves, mortal and immortal alike, had run amok through the district. The corpses of freemen lay strewn through the streets, throats slashed, heads bashed in, bodies pierced by arrows and spears. There was blood everywhere, splashed on the walls like sloppy graffiti, running down the gutters in glistening rivulets. The smell of mortal blood was overpowering. It was all I could do to keep my mind focused.
About halfway across the Arth, we came upon a group of mortal slaves in an open plaza. The mob, which was probably close to a hundred strong, was systematically marching their masters over the side of the mountain. One by one, they prodded their Arthian oppressors to the edge of the drop off, forced them to climb the balustrade and shouted curses at them until they threw themselves to their deaths. Those who couldn't bring themselves to leap were prodded until they lost their balance and fell. And any who refused to approach the ledge had their throats cut and their jerking, spurting bodies heaved over the side. None were spared. Not the women. Not the children. It was a horror to me, this cold-blooded slaughter, but I was not obliged to interfere. The freemen of Uroboros owed these men and women, their former slaves, a debt of blood, a debt that had finally come due. It was not my place to judge the recompense too high. It was not me they'd oppressed. It was not me they'd beaten and murdered and raped for untold generations.
An old man, naked and bloodied, was climbing onto the parapet as we passed. He was having trouble mounting the stone barrier. Legs kicking feebly, he scrabbled ineffectually at the wall. The rebels urged him on with their spears, poking him in the ass and the back of his thighs. Finally, he managed to climb onto the barrier.
Standing up straight, hands cupping his genitals, he gaped at the crowd in disbelief. "Why are you doing this?" he cried. The wind whipped his white hair around his head like tattered bandages, made him totter on the edge. "Haven't I been a good master? Haven't I treated you well?" His crinkled cheeks were wet with tears. He seemed honestly bewildered.
Their answer was an incomprehensible howl.
Someone lunged forward and stabbed him in the belly with a spear. The old man tipped over the side with a squawk. The rebels fell silent, listening to the old man's trailing cry with cocked heads. They grinned in anticipation, as if waiting for the punchline.
Thud!
The rebels cheered, and then hustled their next prisoner towards the wall.
"This is wrong," Wen objected. "Liestro was a harmless old man. He never mistreated his servants."
I shot the Uroboran a blistering glare. "Slavery in itself is a form of abuse," I said.
The Clan Mistress looked at me thoughtfully for a beat, her lips pursed. I thought she would dispute my assertion, argue that there were degrees of cruelty, but she did not. "I agree," she said. "If I did not, I would not have helped your granddaughter." She looked away then, gestured to the city below. "I just did not imagine it would be so… terrible."
Terrible seemed a gross understatement, but how else describe the chaos around us? The violence. The loss of life. It was astounding. The Shol was burning, the conflagration spreading like a grass fire through the tiny crowded tenements. The Arth was a slaughterhouse. And I had orchestrated it all. As much as it pained me to admit it, everything was going according to plan.
The rebels cheered as another former master met his fate on the stony earth below.
I have become my enemy, I thought.