Belly of the Beast by Warren Thomas (story books for 5 year olds txt) 📕

around Them, just as He took it by devouring souls. Different methods, same results. But the bitterest aspect of the continuing deaths was that everyone killed on both sides strengthened His enemies.

            Only the desecration of the Arisen Gods’ altars made the mortal war of any use to His cause. Each altar lost was like a knife in the heart to a God. And for each altar the Arisen lost, He gained an altar and grew in power. True, individually the Arisen weren’t losing that many altars since the loss was spread among Them all rather evenly. But He was gaining altars, and power, at an enormous rate in comparison. So by the time He reduced Them to mere Godlings, He would be the mightiest God to have ever existed!

            The thought cheered Him, even as He watched the flickering flames of His enslaved soldiery slowly snuffed out one by one along the perimeter of His domain. It was a small sacrifice for the prize He would eventually gain. Besides, with victory their souls would still be His to devour, for when He killed or captured other Gods, He could take over Their Realms of existence, too. He could then feast upon the souls They had gathered around Them.

            Shifting His perspective, Dakar narrowed His sight to a tiny village not so far away. Narrowing it still more, He found the hut He wanted, then a host. The half-elf was awake and alert. Quinn surrendered control of his body without struggle.

            It was dark, but the elven eyes saw well in the meager light. The fire was reduced to hot coals beneath a layer of ash. The Ashtarite was also on guard, sitting cross-legged in front of the closed door. There was a long silvery blade lying across her lap that He recognized as the swordsmith’s personal sword. He could see by her posture, by the way she moved, that He had hurt her neck badly.

            He smiled.

            Turning, He looked down upon three forms curled up beneath blankets around the dying hearth fire. Delving into the half-elf’s memories, he was able to identify them. Tane Kyleson, the failed hero of the Arisen, was the middle form, on the opposite side of the hearth from Raven. The swordsmith was mumbling in his sleep. A dream? No, more likely a nightmare by the sounds of distress and the half-elf’s memories of past nights.

            Quinn’s mind held memories of Tane’s past nightmares. He had no doubt that Kamain had sent those dreams to the human. The Arisen despised weakening Themselves by actually leaving Their personal Realms. And like petty humans, the Arisen considered it demeaning to go before a mere mortal and ask for help, so sent Their wishes in the form of dreams. In all likelihood, they would prefer to perish than beg for mortal help face to face.

            It would be helpful to be able to enter Tane’s mind, to see his nightmares, to know His prisoner’s deepest fears and secrets. But Tane had not given himself to Dakar, and He understood the human never would. Oh, He was sure Tane would say the words if his friends were threatened, but words alone were less than useless. A mortal had to willingly give devotion, had to want to give his or her soul for a God to have power over it. While fear could inspire devotion in a human, Tane despised Him too much to ever do that.

            It was a shame Tane wasn’t a dwarf or elf, or at least part elven or dwarven. Those two races were open to Him in ways humans would never be, devotees or not. Dwarven minds were the easiest to “read,” surrendering their innermost thoughts and memories without struggle. Elven minds could also be delved into, but it took considerable effort on the God’s part if they fought back. Quinn being an enchanted slave, despite being half-human, allowed Dakar to sift through his mind without a fight. Humans were harder than elves to enter and examine, and their minds were chaotic cesspools in comparison to elves and dwarves.

            Dakar mentally shook Himself. Lamenting His situation didn’t change a thing. He would use the tools He had available, and prevail despite their failings.

            Now that He was more powerful, Dakar could “see” many of the Elder Races further north and west. From his priests he learned of the Elven Empire. And just south of that, a land utterly forsaken by the Arisen and inhabited by outlaw elves, dwarves, and humans, not to mention goblins, ogres, and other younger races of created by diabolical minds. It was a land ripe for a God like him.

            Tane’s devotion or lack of devotion would have no bearing on the strength of the Swords of Power he would make. Such swords, alone in all the Realms, could kill Gods. The power they gave mortals over Gods had made the mere thought of making them too terrible to consider by the Old Ones. The Arisen were taking an appalling risk to save Themselves by granting Tane the Gift to craft such talismans.

            When Dakar first learned of what They had done, He had been horrified. Even now, had He such knowledge to give, He didn’t believe He could even trust High Priest Mogens with such a Gift. Such knowledge, such power, was a threat to Him as well as Them. True, the Arisen hadn’t told Tane the true nature of the swords he was to make. And the Swords of Power were only meant to be used to reseal the Gate and trap Him in another Realm. But if Tane should make more swords afterwards...

            No. Impossible.

            Dakar had no doubt the Arisen Gods planned to kill Tane afterwards, if he had been successful. They would’ve had no other choice, for his Gift and the human need to do their best in all things would give Tane no other choice but to continue to make the best sword he