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Of Gods and Men - Volume II (Post for 8/4/18)

CHAPTER I
The White Mare

        The white mare cantered softly up the Green Steppes.  The great hill extended so far in each direction, and rose to so great a height, that it forced travelers journeying south to ride leagues out of their way to round it.  For although it was not a difficult terrain to traverse, it was a sea of green that rose steadily up; like a wave that offered no easy road down the other side of it.      
To reach the crest of the hill, however, would yield a majestic view of the city of Malmot.  Half encircled by the Green Steppes, the small, crescent shaped city resembled nothing so much as a child nestled peacefully in the crook of its mother’s arm.  
The sun was setting, yet even in the encompassing dark the mare shone as a perfect streak of white.  It would have been easily discernible by any mortal eye, had there been mortals on so remote a height.  Yet there were none near the crest of the Green Steppes to trouble the mare’s trot, and that was very much to her liking.
She came to the crest and halted, bowing her proud head toward Malmot in the valley below, as though in watchfulness.  
This was the city of the GodQueen Malmira, who raised the Steppes when the world was young.  For it was said that she had foresight enough to know that if she took dominion over a small kingdom far away from all the other gods, and sheltered it, it would be a great while before trouble found what she had founded.     
She was right.  Malmot, and the land around it, grew and thrived even unto this very day.  Life, though not perfect, was as close as mortal-kind could make it.  But that was all about to change.  For Malthus had been slain by something dark; and that darkness was more vast and deep than even a god’s imagining.
The mare looked down on Malmot, its myriad lights dancing reflections in the horse’s inky black eyes.  It rose and lowered its head slowly, as though blessing the city with its favor.  
A light breeze blew past the mare, prickling the hair on its neck.  The beautiful creature’s head rose and she was still; a stark white standing out in the encroaching night.  There was change in that faint breeze.  Trouble had finally found Malmot.
“My lady,” a courteous voice called out with purpose.  “I have come seeking your guidance.”
The mare turned.  The shape of a mortal man greeted her eyes.  He was tall and broad, with olive skin, kissed by the sun.  His dark hair belied his youth, but his golden eyes; alight with the fire of fervor, betrayed his divinity.  He was dressed all in simple shepherd’s greens and browns, with a dark green cloak that opened in the front exposing the hilt of a sword at his side.
The mare knew that sword.  It had belonged to Malthus once.  And though it looked different now, there was no mistaking the power it bore: the power that this young man bore. “Hail, Malthus,” the mare said.
“I ask kindly that you do not call me by that name,” the man said.  “For I have renounced it.”
“You may renounce it all you like, but there is no escaping that name.  You bear his power,” the mare explained.  “But you are newly born in your godhood.  So I will grant you this courtesy.  By what name are you to be called?”
“I have christened myself Shepherd,” the man replied.  “After who I used to be.”
The mare lowered its head, motioning to the sword at his belt.  “And that?  I suppose it bears a new name as well?”
“It does,” Shepherd said, drawing the sword out slowly to show it to her.  “This is Brand.”
“Hm, a shepherd’s brand is an instrument of herding, no?  A tool used to guide and defend one’s flock.”
“And so do I intend to use this,” he said, offering up the sword with both hands.
“It may be that you speak truly,” the mare mused.  “But only time will tell.”
Shepherd lowered the sword and gently slid it back into its scabbard.
“What brings you here?” The mare asked, her voice grown hard with intent and accusation.
“I come seeking wisdom from the oldest of the gods,” Shepherd proclaimed.  His voice wavered slightly with reverence.  He lowered himself to one knee, and looked up into the endless black of the mare’s eyes.  “I need your help Lady Malmira.”
The mare did not blink at being so named.  She only stepped closer to Shepherd, closing the distance between his golden eyes and her own.  “You bring great change with you.  And with it, great suffering.”
“But at the end of it all, freedom,” Shepherd cried, more plea in his voice than power.
“Freedom for whom, young god?” 
“For them,” he said as he held out a hand to the nestled city below.
“From what,” Malmira asked without turning to indulge him.
“From us, Malmira,” the younger god said, his golden eyes growing hard with resolve.  “From the gods.”

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