Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2)

by Carissa Broadbent

  Esmaris’s general was deeply displeased, his face growing mottled and purple the longer he talked, flecks of spittle landing on the slim arms of the woman draped beside him. It was an admirable feat of self control, I thought, that she didn’t wipe it away.

  “We will destroy them,” the general spat, bringing his fist down on the table. “Our forces are nearly double theirs in size, and none in Threll are more skilled. We could rid Threll of their house forever.”

  But Esmaris’s rage was cold and calculated. “We could,” he said, calmly. “But we will not.”

  Even I had been surprised by that. The general’s face contorted in confusion. “We can’t let their disrespect stand.”

  “Of course not. But they chose meaningless destruction because they’re too small-minded to think of anything bigger.”

  “They disrespected the Mikov name,” the general growled. “They don’t deserve mercy.”

  Esmaris’s anger struck like a viper. That’s always how it was — nothing but cool serenity, and then suddenly, his hand was at his general’s throat, wrenching him down across the table.

  “Mercy?” he breathed, slowly. “This isn’t about mercy.”

  The general was twitching, struggling to breathe. I couldn’t move. The two other women in the room avoided looking at Esmaris, making a careful show of not acknowledging what was happening right in front of them.

  “What will I do with a thousand dead men?” And then Esmaris leaned forward, and said, “Dead men are useless. Dead men don’t remember your name.”

  He caught me staring. His eyes flicked to me, and I was so afraid of the hatred that I saw in them that I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. I was not supposed to look this cruelty in the face. I was not supposed to acknowledge what I was seeing.

  But perhaps Esmaris thought so little of me that he saw no more judgement in my stare than he did in the faces of his decorative statues. He released the general, letting him fall over the table in a heap.

  Esmaris Mikov did not attack that rival house. He could have destroyed their cities and burned their crops. He did not.

  Instead he had their children taken, mutilated, sterilized. I heard only stories of what was done to them, and prayed that most of it was exaggeration even though I suspected it was not. In one swoop, with merely a handful of lives, Esmaris killed the family legacy. He sent them back the corpses. And he kept just one child from each branch of the family alive — tongue intact — to make sure they knew exactly who was responsible, and just how merciful he was.

  And they did not attack Esmaris Mikov ever again.

  “Tisaanah.”

  My eyes snapped open. I knew right away that something was wrong. My hand was halfway to Il’Sahaj’s hilt by the time the darkness came into focus.

  A silhouette carved from the shadow as my sight adjusted. White skin, white hair, white eyes, white clothes.

  “Get up,” Nura said, and I was already obeying.

  “What happened?”

  I knew, somehow, before the words left her lips. There was a certain buzz in the air, like the kind that lingered before a crack of lightning, one that nagged at Reshaye’s hunger.

  “Kazara struck first,” Nura said. “They’re at our doorstep. Time to turn them away.”

  She said it as if it were a grim chore to be done, the way one might speak of rats that had gotten into the grain shed or a long-overdue need to trim the hedges. I rose and threw on the military jacket that she presented me, shoved my feet in boots, dressed quickly in the dark.

  When I rejoined Nura, she gave me a quick glance that held just a shred of uncertainty. No time to acknowledge it before she Stratagrammed us away, and a wall of cold air hit me.

  The darkness of the bedchamber was replaced by the silver-dipped shadow of the mountains at night, moonlight falling over their peaks like spilled nectar. We stood on one of the outposts, a wall sprawling in either direction. We were surrounded by Syrizen. Their faces were all tilted to the horizon.

  At first, topography of the landscape disguised what I was really looking at.

  And then, all at once, it snapped into focus. I fought the urge to curse.

  How many men was that? A thousand? Two? They spilled from between the rocky ridges in the distance, on horseback and foot, bloody-red torches dotting their lines.

  “How they hell did they make it here so fast?” Nura bit out.

  “Stratagrams. The shelter of the mountains.” Anserra shot me an appraising look. “At least we have our great savior.”

  “Savior indeed,” a familiar voice purred, and I turned to see Zeryth approaching, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his long white coat and a smile twisting his lips. And yet, as he stepped closer, I could see something simmering beneath the surface of that smooth voice, that smirk, souring them to an off-color pantomime of his usual manner.

  “Do you know the things I laid at Esmee Varnille’s feet in exchange for Kazara’s alliance? And this is how she repays me for my generosity.”

  “Word spread fast,” Anserra said. “They’d know that your armies had left yesterday.”

  “So they think I’d be stupid enough to present myself up like a little lamb for slaughter. They don’t know who’s on the butcher block.”

  When his gaze fell to me again, all traces of that smooth exterior were gone, replaced only with ragged steel. Something was different about him, rougher, sharper, less carefully controlled. He pulled close, and when he did I saw nothing but hatred in his eyes — eyes that were ringed with uncharacteristic darkness.

  “I saw what you did to those slavers,” he snarled. “I want what you do to them to be worse.”

  Reshaye shivered, stirred to hunger by my fear or the promise of blood, or both.

  I looked to the armies. Thousands of men. Thousands of lives.

  “The slaver hub was fifty men,” I said. “These are thousands.”

  {Nothing, compared to what we can do,} Reshaye hissed, as if insulted by my hesitation.

  Zeryth let out an ugly chuckle. And his fingers tilted my chin towards him, as he leaned close enough to have kissed me. “Don’t act as if I don’t know exactly what you’re capable of.”

  This close, I could see spiderwebs of dark veins beneath the pale skin around his eyes.

  He released me and turned to the others.

  “They’re coming through the Ervai Pass,” Zeryth said. “If you bring down the cliffs there, you can crush them.”

  Crush them.

  Literally crush them.

  Bile rose in my throat. Suddenly my nostrils were filled with the overwhelming scent of smoke.

  “That would be a waste,” I said. “If Esmee Varnille surrenders to you, you take Kazara and all of its armies. Why would you destroy what would be yours?”

  “Esmee Varnille, and the people that populate her city, made it very clear that they have no interest in being of any use to me.”

  “You’re allowing your spite to cloud your decisions,” Nura said. “Tisaanah is right. You’re throwing away precious resources.”

  Zeryth let out a low chuckle. “My, Nura. To think, is that a soft heart I hear beating beneath your cold little breast?”

  “These are Arans, Zeryth,” she hissed. “The very people you’re trying to lead. Think about this.”

  These are people, Nura. The memory hit me fast, gone as soon as it had arrived. Max’s words in Sarlazai, before Nura forced him to slaughter a city.

  {And they never forgot him,} Reshaye whispered. {He showed them what he was capable of. Now, he is remembered. Those deaths bought victory.}

  “Are you questioning my decision, Second?” Zeryth’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “I have thought about it. I thought about it every time Varnille threw my negotiations back at me. I thought about it every time she called me low-blooded trash. Bring down the cliffs. Give me a victory that shocks the world.” He reached into his pocket and shoved a vial into Eslyn’s hand. “Go with her,” he said. “And use
this to help.”

  Eslyn frowned at her hand. “Is this—?”

  “You know what it is,” Zeryth said, but I could barely hear him, my blood now pounding in my ears.

  “This is a mistake, Zeryth.”

  He whirled to me, anger finally sparking. “Do not question me. These are your orders. And I invoke your Pact, Tisaanah.”

  A rough gasp escaped my lips. The words snapped something around my throat, like a leash yanked suddenly taut. I could feel Zeryth’s magic, too, reaching for me — reaching for my mind, and squeezing, squeezing.

  “Give me a victory, Tisaanah. Give me a victory that leaves Varnille and all of her noble-blooded friends quaking in fear at my name. Make me someone to fear. And do whatever it takes. Those are your orders.”

  Those are your orders.

  Those are your orders.

  Every word was a link in a chain, one that bit into my skin, sawed at my thoughts. Everything was suddenly foggy.

  Zeryth was gone fast, leaving me swaying as he strode away. Just as quickly, Eslyn was beside me.

  “Looks like we have our commands,” she muttered.

  “Wait,” I said. My head was pounding. “Wait, I—”

  I can’t do this.

  I couldn’t speak the words aloud — they got caught somewhere between my mind and my lips, like flies stuck in honey.

  {Yes we can. We can do all he asked, and more.}

  That was what I feared.

  {Humans. Always so afraid of what you are capable of.}

  The soldiers were spilling through the pass, faster and faster. Eslyn gave me a look that veered on pity.

  “What did you think you signed up for?”

  Nura yanked me aside, pulling me close.

  “I know it’s hard,” she said. “Believe me, I do. But what he is asking for is a decisive victory. The more force we show today, the sooner the war will be over. And the sooner you can go fight your war in Threll, Tisaanah. Just think of that.”

  Gods, the way she rationalized it. As if it were a simple equation, a scale to be tipped, a game to be played only in numbers.

  And yet…

  I thought of the people who were waiting for me, and the promises I had made. Was this it? Would I have to clear their path by burying this one in bloody rubble?

  {Do you think any of those people would have cared about you or your people?}

  I didn’t have time to question.

  Eslyn grabbed me, and the two of us disappeared into the air.

  These are your orders.

  The words were a collar, a heartbeat, a promise, and a curse.

  I didn’t think. Il’Sahaj was out, my muscles barely my own. The violence hit Reshaye like a drug, its rage-soaked satisfaction flooding me.

  These are your orders.

  Eslyn and I landed in the middle of the fighting.

  Already, Zeryth’s other troops had begun to spill forth from the outposts, defending the wall. Before Max left, we would have outnumbered our opponents many times over. Now, our defenses were noticeably weaker. Even through the fog of my command, I could acknowledge that in this, Zeryth had been right — I was the difference between victory and defeat.

  These are your orders.

  “We need to fight our way up,” Eslyn said, her voice nearly lost beneath the chaos. “We travel along the ridge. I can place Stratagrams. You can help weaken them, and we push through.” Something must have looked strange on my face, because she said, “Don’t worry. We can do this.”

  Of course that was what she thought I was worried about. Under any other circumstances, it would be insane for any Wielder to take down an entire cliff on their power alone — let alone a Valtain, who would have limited control over stone.

  But I had Reshaye. And I knew what Reshaye was capable of.

  It had taken a moment for the opposing soldiers to realize we were here, in their midst. Right after we landed, so did other Syrizen — stepping out of the air with their spears drawn, leaving bloody bodies like morbid gifts. So quickly, it devolved into chaos.

  The first man I killed, I killed because I had to.

  He came at me with his axe raised, and I struck before I could think. By the time I had turned to meet his face, it was slack, his leather armor rotting, Il’Sahaj covered in blood and blackened flesh. The magic was at my fingertips, in my skin, running through Il’Sahaj’s veins.

  These are your orders.

  I had forgotten what this was like, the heady intoxication of it, the way Reshaye reveled in it. It pried away little pieces of control until I didn’t know where its thoughts ended and mine began. {Let me help you,} it whispered. {Let me do this.}

  Funny, how it seemed like an oddly tender offer, as if it was offering me mercy from my guilt. But I held onto my control — no matter how hard Reshaye fought for more.

  Eslyn and I reached one side of the cliffs, where she withdrew the bottle that Zeryth had given her and crushed it in her palm, blood and silver liquid mingling together over her sliced-up skin. She drew in a little gasp, her body lurching, as if she had been struck with a greater force than she was expecting.

  But she righted herself quickly. She pressed her palm to the rock and drew a ragged Stratagram in her blood.

  “Help me,” she ground out.

  These are your orders.

  I pressed my hand to rock.

  At first, I felt nothing. I was a Valtain, after all. I did not speak to stone, and it did not want to listen to me.

  I loosened my grip on Reshaye. Let a little more of its power surge through me.

  A crack. Not enough. Eslyn whirled, pressing her back to the rock, forced to split her attention to defend us.

  “We don’t have time, Tisaanah,” she ground out, pushing a lifeless body off her spear.

  {Let me do this,} Reshaye snarled.

  These are your orders.

  I gave up control. A smile that was not my own spread over my lips. Power spilled through me, like light decimating shadow. Tentacles of black crawled from my hand until the stone began to crumble.

  These are your orders.

  Something snapped into place. Something terrible, something I couldn’t control. The world became a smear. Blood was hot on my face. Eslyn and I turned, and Il’Sahaj was raised, and its hilt was so slick my palms slipped.

  I could tell myself that it wasn’t me. That it wasn’t my own hand guiding them to death, but Reshaye’s. And I could let it all blur around me, the death and the stench and Reshaye’s glee and the desperation on the faces of the slaves, the ones who were waiting for me, the ones who didn’t have time for me to waste.

  These are your orders.

  {There is nothing to be ashamed of,} Reshaye whispered, as another body fell.

  {These men would have cut you down without hesitation. They would never have respected you. They would never have considered the lives of your kin. Let them fear us. Let them see what we are.}

  One more Stratagram, then two. Eslyn struck with lethal precision, the two of us slipping through the air like a needle passing through fabric. With every hit, the cliffs grew weaker.

  And I let myself go.

  It was easy, in some ways, to just let Reshaye do it. Easy to cede responsibility. If I were to let myself slip a little further, I could fall away from my own body completely — let Reshaye do the dirty work of Zeryth’s command, let it win the war, let it bring me back to my people with good news.

  Why not? I couldn’t fight it anyway. Reshaye was in my bones. Zeryth was at my throat. Magic was at my fingertips, magic that did nothing but kill. And the lives of a thousand slaves were at my shoulders.

  These are your orders.

  Until I looked down, and saw a face that made my heart lurch.

  The young man was on the ground, there between me and my goal. He was wounded, his leg shattered by some strike I didn’t remember making, or perhaps by one of the Syrizen. Blond hair caked with mud fell over his forehead, framing a pair of large, watery
-blue eyes.

  A spark of recognition tore through me. Reshaye’s pull faltered.

  He looked like Serel. So much like how he’d looked the day I first met him, years ago, the day I begged Esmaris for his life.

  I froze.

  These are your orders.

  {Do not stop!} Reshaye roared.

  Seeing the opening, a soldier opened a slice across my shoulder. Eslyn pushed me out of the way, buried her spear in my attacker, yanked me against the cliffs. We slipped through nothingness, reappearing near the top of the ridges.

  “What are you doing?” she hissed. “We don’t have time to stand around. One more and this comes down.”

  Reshaye’s magic was already throbbing at my fingertips.

  These are your orders.

  I closed my eyes, and remembered the exact words of Zeryth’s command.

  Give me a victory, Tisaanah. Give me a victory that leaves Varnille and all of her noble-blooded friends quaking at my name. Make me someone to fear. And do whatever it takes.

  “No,” I choked out.

  “No?” Eslyn repeated.

  {No?} Reshaye hissed.

  “Take me to the front,” I said to Eslyn. “Quickly. Over there, beyond the forts.”

  We had distracted most of the soldiers in the pass, but many more were still pouring through, making their way towards the outposts on the Korvius border.

  “But the orders were—”

  “I am following orders. Now, Eslyn.”

  After a moment of hesitation, she obeyed.

  We landed on the ground, looking out at the narrow path cutting through the rocks. The soldiers pouring through it were a tangle of flesh and steel, like a bloody, writhing serpent.

  I knew that even without the cliffs, I could take them. I could take them all. With Reshaye, I was that kind of powerful.

  {They could not defeat us,} Reshaye whispered. {Bring them down. Show them all what we are capable of.}

  No.

  I was shaking. Control was wavering.