Clash of the Geeks by John Scalzi Page B

Chosen. Their blood ran, like a river, down the path and over the side. He reached to touch it, but it flowed away from him. His father walked out of the Bentclaw Pass, atop the now-raging torrent of blood. 
    “You are Chosen, my son,” he said, more softly than he ever spoke in life, “it is a great honor for our family, and a terrible price for us to pay. Do not forget this day. Do not forget your brother.”
    “I am not afraid, father,” he said, in a voice he hadn’t heard since he was a child.
    Before his father could reply, the bloodriver surged and frothed and carried him over the edge. Izlac ran to the edge of the path, the blood spreading before him, never touching him, and looked over, into darkness. The sound of Mak’s heartbeat echoed up the steep, basalt cliff.
    Izlac woke from the dream with a start, covered in a greasy sheen of cold sweat, his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, a visceral reminder of Mak’s.
    “I am not afraid. I am not afraid. I am not afraid,” he spoke to the wind, as it whipped up the mountain and swirled dust all around him.
    The wind spoke back, with the voice of a UnicornPegasusKitten, distant and mournful. Izlac wrapped his arms around himself and leaned up against the rock wall of the alcove. Sleep did not claim him again that night, and for that he was grateful.
    •••
    Dawn broke over the valley, casting red and gold light across his village, and the destruction around it. Izlac picked up his axe and shield, and did his morning exercises. He heard Rek’s voice commanding and correcting him, as it had since Choosing Day. His axe was an extension of his arm, his shield light and ready. 
    His exercises completed, he looked back at his village. A thin line of smoke climbed out of the chimney from one of the few houses that had not been destroyed in the last attack.
    “I will be home soon,” he said. He turned, and began to climb the twisting, narrow path toward the Bentclaw Pass.
    As day neared its end, the ground beneath his feet began to level out, and the tall walls around him grew steadily farther apart, until he knew he had reached his destination. Mount Kryuzhire belched smoke into the sky, covering the Kryuzhire Valley with a grey blanket. Dark red lava ran down its sides, and the air smelled of sulfur and something he could not identify, but knew he would remember for the rest of his life.
    There was a beating of wings, an angry scream, and the Wee-Tin Rider burst through the cloud, climbing upward above him. The smoke swirled in tight, spiraling eddies, and trailed behind him as he raced into the sky. He wore the traditional armor of the Wee-Tins: bright red shoulderpads, a mask of terror and horror painted across the chest. The sheer wrongness of the armor was something taught to all Scalzorc warriors, but all the lessons and tests and drawings he had seen did not prepare him for just how disgusting and horrifying it was when seen with his own eyes…yet he refused to
look away.
    The Wee-Tin Rider circled twice, then dove toward him. 
    “I am not afraid,” Ilzac said, defiantly. He gripped his axe, and planted his feet.
    The Wee-Tin Rider pulled up on the reins, and his mount hissed. “RAWR! PFFT!” It beat its wings, blowing dust and stink into Izlac’s face. He turned away and blinked until his vision had cleared. When he turned back, the Wee-Tin had dismounted and stood next to his UnicornPegasusKitten, stroking its fur.
    “Why are you here, Scalzorc?” He demanded.
    “Mount Kryuzhire awakens, and the hatch is coming. I am here to battle you for the last UnicornPegasusKitten, as is the tradition between our people.”
    The Wee-Tin laughed, a deep, throaty, mocking sound that stirred anger in Izlac’s belly. “You mean you are here to die, like those who came before you!”
    Before Izlac could respond, the ground beneath them shook violently, knocking them both off their feet. A mighty cloud of ash exploded from Mount Kryuzhire and turned the sky