Chapter 3

  Rasmus: five years BK

  Young Rasmus climbed the mountain of the Thunder God. He approached by the front, the most difficult way, the way without paths or stairs. The Thunder God honored those who took not the easy route. The Thunder God honored strength and persistence. Rasmus saw the Thunder God in his dreams. Those dreams had brought him here, to this mountain, beneath a dim and ever-stormy sky.

  Rasmus began his climb, seeking handholds and footholds in the steep stone. He fell and fell again, but arrived at last at the top of the dark cliff. He approached the great iron doors of the temple of the Thunder God, planted his feet on the rocky path, pressed his palms against the cold metal, and pushed. He heaved and strained, but despite his great size and strength, the doors would not budge.

  Then came the guardians of the temple, machines of clockwork and steel, afire with lightning within. Rasmus battled them, but he was yet young. They beat him down under the storm and the wind and threw him from the top of the cliff.

  But Rasmus had decided that he would open those doors. He got himself up, checked for broken bones, and set himself once more up the steep cliff. He fell and fell again, compounding his injuries with each tumble down the rocky slope. Every time he found himself at the base of that cliff, gazing up at the flashing sky above, he growled like a beast and forced himself back to his feet.

  He came once more to the top, and once more ascended the stony path to those monumental doors. This time he set himself low like a wrestler, and with one shoulder heaved at a single door—only half of the entrance. The weight of the door shifted, but no more. The guardians came, and they beat him down, and they broke several of his ribs, and they flung him from the top of the cliff.

  Rasmus slept there in the open, for night had fallen. And despite the flashing lightning which never ceased, and the crashing thunder which pummeled the face of that mountain, he slept well.

  The next day, stiff and sore, he stepped again to that cliff, and again he ascended. He knew the best way up by now, and he fell only once. When he came to the doors, he understood where he had been wrong before. Opening one door did not show true strength. Both must be opened together. He planted his feet, gently placed his hands against the cold iron, and with a roar stepped forward into them. The doors moved, and a thin crack of darkness appeared before Rasmus. But he could not sustain the force. The doors closed, threw him back, and the guardians of the temple came. This time Rasmus tore one of them apart before they hurled him from the top of the cliff.

  He went up again, and again he fell once, for his fingers ached and bled from the many ascents. At the top, he stepped again to the great iron doors. This time the guardians waited for him, but they did not attack. They watched to see whether he could open the doors. If he could, he would be welcome here in the temple of the Thunder God. He would be shown worthy.

  He planted his feet on the rocky ground, found leverage on the best-angled rocks, buried deep, that jutted above the dirt. He readied himself, took a deep breath, and heaved with all of his strength, hands splayed against the doors, fingers leaking bright golden blood. Again the great weight of the doors shifted, again the darkness of what lay beyond appeared for a moment, again the doors closed on him and he fell to the earth. Again the guardians beat him down. Again he took one of them down with him, rending it asunder with his fearsome strength.

  The guardians broke his left arm, and the fall from the top of the cliff broke two of his ribs and dislocated a knee. His breath came ragged as he pushed himself back to his feet and limped toward the cliff.

  It all happened again. And then twice more the next day.

  On the day after that—the third day after first coming to the mountain – Rasmus awoke and lay under the thundering tempest without moving. The dark clouds glinted with flashes of lightning above him, and thunder vibrated in the stones below like laughter in the bones of the mountain. The storm had given him the strength to continue. But now he did not know if he could continue any more.

  A tale was told of the Thunder God: that the Laughing God once deceived him, out of boredom (the Laughing God’s oldest and greatest foe), into believing that he must hunt the legendary Dahu. The Thunder God chased the beast from mountain to desert and from sea to sea for many weeks. He was not the quickest of the gods, nor the cleverest, but of them all, he was last to surrender. The other gods watched him hunt the beast. Some laughed at him, others offered to help out of pity or amusement. At length the Laughing God relented and told the Thunder God that there was no need to hunt the Dahu after all. But the Thunder God had decided.

  It was three years before the Thunder God brought the hunt to a close. He had learned that the Dahu loved stories, so every night for a year he rang the gongs at his temple and told a story. Many daimon traveled from far and wide to the temple of the Thunder God to hear his stories, for they were magnificent, and no creature in all the stars above nor worlds below could spin a tale as could that mighty god. Dragons came to listen, and foliots, and norns, vesta, efreet, sphinx, manticore, and all manner of beast, and even the other gods. At last, even the elusive Dahu could not resist. It came to hear the tales of the Thunder God. And the Thunder God wove a net of stories with which to entrap the great beast: tales within tales, stories told by characters in their own stories. At last the Dahu was transfixed, and the Thunder God sprang like lightning upon it, and he wrestled it into submission. He made Dahu tell him a story he had not heard before, and he let it go. And for a time it was a task given to all who would seek out the Thunder God to hunt the Dahu. None succeeded, but only those who had made the attempt for three years were considered worthy.

  Rasmus considered this tale as he bled onto the stones and watched the sounding gale above.

  One more time. Just as Rasmus had told himself every time, after each failure: one more time. One more effort. And one after that, if necessary. As many as he required. As many as it took. Because he had come here to open those doors. Although still young, although still small, or small at least compared to what he might become, he would open those doors. The fact that he had tried and failed many times did not deter him. The fact that he had never done it before did not discourage him. The lack of any evidence to suggest that he would be successful this time did not prevent him from rising, inch by painful inch, back to his feet.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  He paused partway up the cliff face, for his single good arm had no strength left, and his single good leg trembled with the effort of supporting his weight. He could not go on up. He would not accept a retreat. A stalemate. He clung to the face of the stony cliff, unmoving, gazing up into the dark thundering void.

  For a long time, he silently struggled on those grey rocks, fighting his own broken and tired body. His good leg gave out, and he hung by a single hand, the torn skin of his palms and fingers leaking blood of molten amber over his wrist and down his corded arm, tendons tight and muscles aquiver. He could not continue the ascent. But he would not let go.

  The Thunder God on his mountain had seen all of this, and he smiled on Rasmus.

  A bolt of lightning struck swift and bright through the blood and bones of the daimon struggling on the rocks.

  Rasmus roared, and his roar rang like thunder. The lightning struck for only an instant, but the power it left behind coursed through his veins, and it rang in his bones like the sound of a gong, and it flickered in his eyes like the clouds above glinting with hidden fires. The spines bristling from his chin and shoulders crackled, abuzz with new energy.

  His countenance became that of a tiger, enraged. Renewed with life and energy, he pushed on and completed his ascent of the cliff.

  The guardians waited for him amidst the wreckage of their fallen brethren, which had perhaps been left as a reminder. Rasmus limped beneath their watchful gaze.

  Again he stood before the great iron doors. The dull and smeared imprints of his large hands, left by his own golden blood, stained them.

  He knew he could not open these doors. He had not been able to when at full health, and he certainly had not held back. Now, bruised, broken, and tired, and with only one good arm, he stood no chance. He knew it. But that did not matter to Rasmus. He had decided to come here and open these doors. Therefore, this he would do.

  Rasmus took a deep breath. Then another. He felt and heard the storm all around him; the lightning in his blood. He cleared his mind of all but this: that he would open this door. Was he strong enough? It did not matter. He would open the door. Was it possible? It did not matter. He would open the door. He placed his right hand across the intersection of the two great slabs of iron.

  He pushed. With every ounce of his strength and more, he pushed—until his good bones creaked and his broken ones screamed. The doors shifted in response to his explosive force. They caved inward, inch by inch, and Rasmus did not let up the assault. But the doors stopped moving when just a crack showed through to the place beyond.

  He did not give up his ground. He strained and roared like a wild beast.

  He could not do it. It was a fact—like the stars above, like the earth below, like the storm around him. Not strong enough. Not strong enough.

  It did not matter. He would open this door.

  He would open this door.

  And he did.

  At the very end of it, when he had had nothing left but his resolve, no strength left but the strength of his will, it became strangely easy, the door strangely light. This came about not because of intervention by the Thunder God, nor by any hidden trickery or magic in the doors themselves, but by the might of Rasmus’s unbreakable will.

  The two doors swung inward, and young Rasmus collapsed onto the warm stone floor of the temple. The guardians came to him and carried him through the temple, up through the Forge of the Storm, and up further still to the crown of the mountain where lived the Thunder God.

  The Thunder God lived in the crater, shrouded in storm and lightning and the crashing of thunder, ringed by the ever-present maelstrom of the mountain, ringed also by the great gongs.

  The Thunder God saw Rasmus; Rasmus saw the Thunder God. Neither spoke, for neither had anything to say.

  The Thunder God reached out a mighty hand, and many bolts of lightning struck from the darkness of the storm. They crashed upon Rasmus, who roared a final bestial roar, lost in the concussive cacophony.

  The Thunder God died then atop the mountain. Though no one saw it, tears dripped sizzling from his cheeks. He was the last of the gods to die.

  Rasmus awoke with his bones unbroken, and engraved, though he did not know it then, with runes of thunder. Jagged burn scars gleamed from his hands and arms, a gift from the Thunder God. The guardians of the temple had fallen silent and motionless with the passing of their lord and master.

  For the first time in unknown and uncounted centuries, the storm atop the mountain began to dissipate.

  Rasmus did not have the strength even to stand. He rested there for days until weak from hunger and thirst. He then returned to the temple of thunder, to the cold and quiet forge, and he made it his home.