Eve of Snows: Sundering the Gods Book One

by L. James Rice

  “These possessed, they feed on the dead?”

  Mecum grimaced. “Even on each other. Grikarn took me to see, the things sat around gnawing on each other, themselves.”

  Tokodin’s stomach turned.“They want me to betray the Church. Tell the Choerkin, why?”

  “They call it Zwimfokum. They fear Ulrikt will summon this beast from the land of Shadow.”

  Tokodin remembered the bodies in the Omindi, the empty sockets of the miner’s eyes. “If you’re so convinced, why didn’t you go to them when you were healthy?”

  “With one scroll and conjecture, what proof? They’ll take you to the Steaming Lakes, so you can see the camp yourself, maybe get a glimpse of something you can use.” The old priest hacked and gurgled, the sound of drowning in his own phlegm.

  A dark-furred Colok trotted into the cave, excited. Snarls, growls, and hand gestures passed between the newcomer and Zjin.

  “What’s happening?”

  “Shush, I’m trying to figure it out.”

  Zjin turned to them, a snarl twisting his lips. “Time.”

  Mecum bowed his head. “We’ve run out of time. The scout says they’re breaking camp at the Steaming Lakes.”

  “They’ve found the sliver?”

  “Seems so. When the Colok locate wardens, they’ll take you to ‘em.”

  Tokodin slipped from his stone perch to the ground, burying his face in his hands. Defying the Church could condemn his soul to the Slave Forges. But what if Ulrikt betrayed the gods in the name of personal power? How many lives could he save?

  Zjin and the other Colok walked from the cave, speaking to one another and Mecum’s eyes darted and he ducked, reaching into a boot to produce an engraved silver flask. He handed it to Tokodin.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s poison. Shush. It ain’t my idea to help the godsdamned Choerkin. Maybe the Colok are right, maybe not.”

  “What—”

  “Shut up, you peccant mooncalf. It ain’t much, but it’ll kill you if need be, you get me? I don’t need no help getting out of this world no more, but you might. Turns out you’re betraying the will of the gods…” He nodded with a wink.

  Tokodin slipped the flask into his cloak next to his dice and squelched any questions as the Colok returned.

  The notion horrified him, but he understood his predicament. Better to die able to navigate the Road of Living Stars than betray the gods and plummet into the hells. He stood at a moral impasse, to die rather than betray his gods, or live to stop a revered lord priest from doing the same.

  17

  SLING SWING WASTING WHISKEY

  The righteous song rings sure in the ears,

  the certain believer, the severe beleaguered.

  Do your eyes believe what your ears tell you?

  More a fool than I. No small feat.

  Trust not the song your eyes see in the chamber of echoes.

  —Tomes of the Touched

  Nine Days to the Eve of Snows

  Solineus’ soul rolled on pellucid blue waves like a stretch of seaweed riding the surf. The roils warmed and soothed, lulling him into meditative peace.

  “Hello, my love.”

  “You warned me?”

  “Saving the girl earned the family’s trust.” The woman’s smile was an ideal of beauty and sincerity. “Our presence resulted in her risk—”

  “‘Our’ presence?”

  “I am with you always, in my way.”

  “Then we got three men killed.”

  Her smile turned sardonic. “No men, those, and hardly missed. The girl is important, or she will be.”

  “You know the future?”

  Her long blond hair danced in the swirling blue universe. “There are likelihoods.”

  “The surviving raper—”

  “Is not a concern.” The lady appeared in front of his face as the distant vision faded, and she lay a finger to his lips. Her touch was hot, yet sent chills down his spine. “You will receive a gift. You must leave this family and reach Istinjoln before the Eve of Snows.”

  Eve of Snows, a celebration on the autumnal equinox coming up on the twenty-fifth of Yistole. He’d heard of this while staying with the family. “On your word alone?”

  The woman’s smile curled. “I gave you a name, led you to rescue the girl, and still you do not trust me?”

  “Tell me your name.”

  “For the girl or for you?”

  The woman knew his promise to Kinesee. “You want me to trust you.”

  “Travel to Istinjoln, or stay. Only by leaving can you save these girls. Do as I ask, and the girls have a chance, and someday you may tell her my name.”

  He wanted no part in this woman’s plan. “I’ll consider whatever you have to say.”

  “There is a road to the north, journey there and wait for Ears the Elder to carry you to Istinjoln. Once there, you must kill Lord Priest Ulrikt before the Eve of Snows. Fail, and we must find another way.”

  Solineus awoke with a start, eyes locked on shadows dancing on the ceiling in the Koest home. Kill a man he’d never heard of to save the girls. I’m not an assassin.

  It was dark outside but the hearth in the family home burned bright. Solineus sat with a yak-pelt from his makeshift bed wrapping his shoulders. Iku prodded the flames with a stick, and satisfied, tossed it into the embers.

  Iku said, “You are leaving us. A woman whispered it so, in my dreams. You truly are God-touched.”

  Solineus scoffed, but right or wrong the conclusion became harder to dismiss. “She spoke to you?”

  “She said you’d save my daughters, and even if you could not save me, you will free me. Do you know what she meant?”

  “No.” Solineus leaned into the fire until the pleasant warmth became hot enough to sear away the cobwebs of sleep. “She told me to find a place called Istinjoln.”

  “A monastery, farther to the north than I’ve traveled. Be wary.” Iku snorted at the choice in destination. “I’ve a gift for you.” He lifted a longsword clad in a plain leather sheath from the ground. “My great-grandfather fought beside the Choerkin and they honored him with this weapon.”

  “I don’t deserve an heirloom.”

  Iku tapped the guard. “If he ever knew how to use a sword, not a soul in this family has a hint these days. It may as well be a stick. Though perhaps I always underestimated sticks.” He offered the hilt, and when Solineus hesitated he struck the hammer blow. “Save my girls.”

  Solineus smiled and took the sword, flattered but uncomfortable with the man’s confidence. Am I a father, too? Do I have children, missing me? No other words were acceptable for a father. “I will.” The simple wire-wrapped grip fit his hand well, but instead of examining the blade he slung the belt over his shoulder. “I should wait, say my goodbyes to the girls.”

  Iku shook his head, handed him a waterskin, a sleeping roll, and a sheepskin haversack. “Hard rolls, jerked chicken, enough to see you through a couple days. I don’t want to tie my girl down to keep her from following you come dawn.”

  The lady played her game well. He didn’t understand every ramification of killing a lord priest, but one would be a price on his head. The task sounded daunting, if not impossible, but if indeed the lady knew the future, he needed to try.

  They clasped forearms, mutual nods their final communication before Solineus walked into the chill predawn air. He wanted to turn around, to wake the girls and say his farewells, but their father was right. A cloud of breath caught the moon’s light as he huffed and turned north, long strides hastening an end to the urge to double-back.

  The moon traveled the sky and disappeared before sunrise. He came upon a wagon-grooved dirt road a half candle after dawn. It cut through tall brown grasses and spruce shrubs and sported battered thistles on the strip of dirt between ruts. He took a seat on a rock too small to be comfortable, but preferable to the ground.

  The sun was full on the horizon when the clangor of metal on metal rattl
ed him from his thoughts. The surprise brought a chuckle. Large ears appeared over the rise of the road, giving way to a shaggy two-donkey team pulling a wagon, its bed converted into a box to store goods. Whatever the wagon held banged and rattled with every bump and sway.

  Solineus hailed the driver and smiled as they stopped strides in front of him, the big man setting the wheel-break. Solineus eyed the team, one donkey more grizzled. “And you must be Ears the Elder.”

  The man’s girth betrayed his appetite, but his broad leather belt held two knives unsuited for the dinner table. Easy to take him as a soft man, considering his plump round face and extra chins, but the determined squint to his eye spoke of grit. “You know us?”

  “No, but a friend suggested you might see me to Istinjoln.”

  “How the hells…?” The man spat on the road. “Who sent ya?”

  “A woman, don’t know her name. I might be handy if the din of your passing attracts the wrong sort.”

  “Thieves round about these parts are a cowardly lot. Still, they been thicker than normal of late.” The man squinted, licked his lips as he eyed the sword over Solineus’ shoulder. “Know how to use that damned thing, do ya?”

  “I might.”

  “A hungry rat is less likely to steal from two dogs than one, if you take my meaning.” Air trilled between his teeth. “See to not pokin’ me with it, and I might see you to Istinjoln, by way of Choerkin Fost. Fast a route as any.”

  “A fair bargain.” Solineus rubbed the donkeys between their ears before vaulting on the wagon with hand proffered. “Solineus Mikjehemlut.”

  “Ilpen Gurer, tinker by trade.”

  Solineus felt the glow of Kinesee’s pearl in his veins as the wagon pulled away. It tugged his heart, calling him back, but he knew the emergency was a young girl wanting her new friend. He smiled, bemused at how a girl could gain hold of his feelings in such a short time. Despite not knowing if she could hear him, he closed his eyes and projected a single thought: Don’t worry, girl, I’ll be back when you need me.

  “What by the gods sends you to Istinjoln?”

  “I could ask the same.”

  The man laughed, a sign of joviality to come. “S’pose so. I met a young girl, not far from this road. An orphan. I couldn’t leave her to the winter, so I brung her to Istinjoln, where an old priest I know prays. She’s lived there since, and I visit each year.” The man glanced at him. “You don’t look so much the holy type. Despite your name.”

  “No. Not hardly.” His gut squirmed as he searched for a lie, so he told something approaching the truth. “Someone told me to go, so I will. A voice in a dream, and I know, sounds crazy.”

  Ilpen snorted, leaning over his belly to release the wagon’s break. “No more crazy than I’ve heard afore. The girl, well… never mind. Just rest assured I won’t judge a man crazy over quick.”

  They shared a chuckle as the wagon rattled and bounced along the road.

  Solineus learned much of the man over the next several candles. How Ilpen’s wife sat at their home to the west with their only surviving son, his two other children dead from consumption, a boy and a girl.

  Ears the Elder, as it turned out, was once Ears the Younger, until the eldest passed on. For more than thirty years the man only owned donkeys named Ears, way back to the original, now called Ears the Exceedingly Ancient and Deceased.

  Solineus, Ilpen, and the donkeys met few travelers on the road until they reached a dirty village the locals named Red Rock, but Ilpen called Bloody Pebble. It was evening, and the tinker greeted several folks seeking his wares, so Solineus hopped to the dusty street and stretched his legs. Two dozen buildings hammered together from skinnier trees than ideal and roofed with bark lined a single dirt street, homes and businesses alike.

  A large red boulder sat in what passed for the village square, an odd sight in this land of gray. Shackles and chains dangled from spikes driven into the stone, a namesake and a punishment. On the east side of town an inn and eatery sat across from each other, both doubling as taverns. These were the class establishments in town with clay-tile roofs and painted shingles hung over their doors. To the north a yellow bird’s wing and across the road a dog chewing a meaty bone.

  A breeze wafted his nose with the acrid odors of a tannery and human refuse. A dirty, stinky village with little to offer, in particular without a coin to his name.

  There was a commotion and two men tumbled from the tavern and into the street, waving at each other with stumbling, drunken haymakers. They needed a quality kick to their asses, but it was none of his business… until he recognized one as the slinger in the woods.

  Solineus grinned and strolled back to Ilpen, who stood in the midst of selling several items and disappointing a couple folks still clamoring about needing their wares repaired.

  “Quit your whining, Be. I ain’t staying long enough for repairs. I’ll get to it next time I’m through.” Ilpen turned his back on the yammering crone with a hole in her pan, and said to Solineus, “We can leave any time; won’t earn me nothin’ staying to repair a few pots and pans.”

  Solineus scratched his head, pointed to the inn. “Getting dark. Why not stay the night?”

  The hefty man pulled his britches up, adjusted his knives. “The Bloody Pebble is dangerous after dark.”

  “Not so dangerous as me.”

  Ilpen gave him a troubled squint, and Solineus shot him an innocent smile.

  “All right, you say so. Don’t mind a hot meal m’self. Cook down yonder at the Dog and Bone ain’t half bad, but the beds are full of bugs, so you won’t mind sleeping in the stable to guard my wagon. I’ll take the team to the stable, you get me a room. I’ll meet you there and we’ll eat.” The man handed him several coins.

  Solineus eyed the songs in his palm. “You trust a man mighty quick, don’t you?”

  “I’m already trusting you with my life, what’s a few songs?” Man and donkeys sauntered to the stable.

  Solineus liked him, hard not to. Honest and straightforward, jovial, the reception he received in even this ugly town spoke well of him. He clamped the coins tight in his fist and meandered along the street.

  The fisticuffs left one man lying flopped over the boardwalk while the slinger leaned against a hitching post, rubbing his jaw and paying attention to no one.

  Food, a half night’s rest, and murder were on Solineus’ mind. The sword wasn’t his gift, the slinger was.

  SOLINEUS SAT OUTSIDE in a chair borrowed from the stable. He leaned back, chin tucked, and waited. Patience is key for any predator, he repeated in his head, but now and again it took deep breaths to keep calm.

  In Bloody Pebble carrying a sword earned respect and glances. Solineus found plenty of liquored tongues willing to wag because of the heirloom. The slinger’s reputation as a tough guy with a temper meant the locals gave wide birth while keeping an eye on his comings and goings. They weren’t shy about cussing him, nor revealing his habits.

  His woman worked at the Yellow Wing Tavern across from the Dog and Bone where Ilpen slept. Part serving wench, part whore, with a room on the second floor, the slinger spent every night in her bed when in town. The plan to remove a threat to Iku’s girls relied on straightforward simplicity.

  Not a soul wandered the black streets as he stood and walked to the Yellow Wing. A freezing night with straight-line gusts that forced him to lean to stay upright meant smart folks were in bed or fireside. He opened the door, met by a drunken, burly guard and the stench of stale beer and cheap tobacco.

  The hulking man gave him a grin and glance.

  “Any ladies available?” Solineus asked.

  The man snorted, plopped back in his chair. “Nah, not this late. Whiskey, beer’ll have to do ya.” He leaned, his chair wobbling under his weight. “Stay away from the clear bottle, that piss might do ya blind,” he said with a nod and wink.

  A fire blazed at the back of the common room, but only ten patrons and a barkeep remained, and most rested their hea
ds on tables or floor. Not one of the few conscious folks paid him any mind, and even if they noted his face they wouldn’t be awake at dawn when Ilpen intended to ride out.

  He tapped a drooling man’s shoulder who didn’t budge, nabbed the green bottle of liquor from his table and moseyed to the stairs. The woman’s room sat smack in the middle of a row of doors and pressing close, he caught the rhythmic drone of snoring. The door gapped with a gentle push, jiggling a lock, and he slipped his finger inside, catching the hook and flipping it free.

  The door creaked open, and the slinger stood naked, leaning against the wall, pissing in a bucket. Solineus stepped into the room and its weak lantern light, closing the door.

  “Hey, no. This room’s taken, hear? Son of a bitch! It’s you!” Shards of green glass flashed in the firelight as the bottle felled the man into a lump.

  A quick glance to the bed. The woman’s sleeping breaths sawed from her gaping mouth. Blind drunk turned out to be handy. He had no idea what he’d do if she awoke, but Solineus figured she’d be happier not finding out.

  He cracked the door and peered into the hall. If anyone heard, a breaking bottle didn’t raise much suspicion. He grabbed the sling and coin pouch from the table, bound the man’s wrists and ankles with twine from the stable, and stuffed the thug’s mouth with the lady’s smallclothes. He raised the window, gazed into the empty back street, and chucked the man headfirst into frozen dirt with a thump.

  Solineus dropped to the alley in a crouch, checking if the man lived; the bastard’s one chance for an easy death passed with his neck intact. Solineus grabbed his feet by their bindings and dragged him from the village, through rocks and prickly grasses and sedge until reaching a small stream. He hefted the man over his shoulder and hopped across, spotting a tree with an ideal branch. He dropped the man in the brook, shattering the veil of ice covering the slow waters.

  The slinger awoke in a fit, sucking icy water up his nose as he flailed against his bindings. He sputtered, desperate and drowning. Solineus grabbed a foot and hauled him onto the bank, and by the time they reached the tree, the man quaked from cold.