Chapter 5 - Godkiller

Skiz still remembered the claustrophobic feeling from the shaman's hut. The smoke he had inhaled in that hut was not any natural smoke. It felt like there was something stuck in his lungs and every time he took a breath, that something took more hold of him and his own ability to understand and act felt diminished. 

Even with the lightheaded feeling in his head, Skiz knew he had to act bolder for his tribe. All his warriors were looking up to him to lead them in the charge against the invaders that had dropped from the sky on pillars of smoke and flame. The rest of villages had also sent their chiefs with a pick of their best warriors. While many of them chose to lead from behind the lines, Skiz would not do anything like that. He meant to lead from the front. If there was blood to be spilled on the battleground, he would rather he was the first to bleed. 

He had counted the invaders. There were twelve of them. He knew that the numbers were in his favor, but he had doubt that the odds were in his favor. Skiz gripped his spear tight as he heard the booms of the invaders landing on the earth of his home. One by one, twelve loud sounds, like thunder and falling trees. 

From the corner of his eye, he saw the shaman scuttle out of his hut. The old bastard squinted in the bright sunlight of the day, quickly dropping a hood on his face to shade his eyes. He held a stone tray in his hand with a small mountain of white powder. From beneath the hood, Skiz could see the smile on the bastard's face. 

"What is this, Shaman?" Skiz nodded toward the powder on the tray. 

"This is battlelust, honored dimwit in chief. Tell your warriors to take a pinch of this powder and inhale it. But only a pinch and nothing more."

Skiz was doubtful, but he took the tray from the shaman. "Why should I?" he hazarded. 

"Because if you don't, we are all dead." The shaman turned around and hobbled towards his hut. Skiz stared at the small mountain of white powder on the tray. Then he lifted a pinch to his nostrils.     

His second took the tray from his hand, took a pinch and passed the tray on to the next fighter in the line. 

Skiz squeezed his eyes tight and then opened them wide as a wave of lightning hit his brain and his blood boiled in his veins. A rage against all that was wrong exploded in his belly, traveled up to his lungs, traversed the tunnel of his throat and galloped up his tongue and exited his mouth as an animal yell. 

His ears were pounding with blood, or he would have heard the yells of his fighters joining in with his howl. He raised his stone-tipped spear and pointed to the place where the invaders had landed. 

They might be gods, but even gods died. He had faith in that much at least.  

Chapter 6 - That Girl in Missile Control