The Hollow God (Swords and Saints Book 3)

by JA Hutson

  “Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. I wouldn’t have given us much of a chance of reaching Valyra if we’d had to cross Zim again.

  “Forget it,” he says gruffly. “We’re allies in this. The demons open a door here and I’ll never enjoy a nice black stout again. I might just throw myself before the Devourer if that happens.”

  I nod and turn back to the barrow. “The poelthari is gone and I made peace with the ghasts last time I was here,” I say to my companions. “Should be nothing that can hurt us.” Squaring my shoulders, I stride forward into the portal. The world ripples again and then I’m stumbling over scattered books. The air here is musty and cold, and I shiver. Footsteps and surprised gasps rise up from behind me as my companions follow me through the doorway.

  “It’s freezing,” Deliah mutters, rubbing her bare arms. Beside her, Xela is glancing around uncertainly, the light from the hovering crystal glittering on her bared dagger. Bell looks like she’s going to be sick, staring bleakly at the long table with the slumped corpses.

  My eyes are drawn to the huge skeletal figure looming over us. We’ve emerged from the doorway embedded in the base of the throne, and the skeleton’s yellowing tibias flank us like pillars. It’s surely my imagination, but it almost looks like a slight smile is curving the creature’s tusked mouth.

  “Looks like a giant kvah,” Bell murmurs with a shudder. “I didn’t notice this thing last time I was here.”

  “You were more than a little distracted,” I reply, attempting a smile.

  She frowns and turns away, rubbing at her bare arms. “Let’s go. I want to see my father.”

  I nod and begin moving towards the chamber’s arched entrance, gesturing for Xela and Deliah to follow. My eyes flicker among the mounds of discarded books, searching for any hint of movement, but without the poelthari and its slaves the barrow is as quiet as . . . as . . . well, a barrow. The ghastss must still be keeping away from where the strange entity had laired, and the centipede monster we encountered before doesn’t seem to have had any friends.

  I lead them through the twisting corridors, surprised that the way to the entrance is etched so clearly in my memory. Our path is illuminated by the glowing insects scurrying along the walls, and if the other denizens of the barrow are aware of us, they’ve decided to keep their distance. Nevertheless, I keep my sword drawn, its glistening green radiance helping to push back the darkness.

  I can smell the outside long before the tunnel begins to lighten. Some flowers or trees must be blooming in the Necropolis, as the slight breeze carries a sweetness. It’s refreshing after the mustiness of the barrow, and beside me Bell draws in a deep breath, then slowly lets it out.

  “The silverbarks are blossoming,” she says in satisfaction. “More than a few months early, though. Must be unseasonably warm these days.”

  She’s almost running now, obviously excited to be free of this place. I have to jog to keep up, and it isn’t until the corridor suddenly jags and we’re spilling out of the barrow’s mouth that I suddenly remember that a contingent of Ysalan warriors had been stationed near the entrance to keep the foolish from venturing inside. Last time we emerged the guards were surprised, and only the quick talking of the scholars we’d rescued from the poelthari had avoided bloodshed. I’m about to shout a warning to Bell when I see that the small hut where the warriors had been stationed looks to be abandoned. Above that guard post, shreds of a purple twilight are fading into night, and the air thrums with the sounds of insects. The campfire the guards once clustered around is cold and dead.

  Bell doesn’t give the empty guard post a second look as she strides past, her sights set on the black towers of Ysala picked out against the gloaming. I’m a little surprised by the lack of soldiers here, but perhaps with the disappearance of the poelthari the Trusts decided the barrow is no longer worth guarding. They might have even cleared out the ghasts that nested inside, though that thought saddens me – my brief interaction with those creatures had made it clear that they were greatly misunderstood by the citizens of this city.

  “And back where we started,” Xela mutters as she pushes past me, following Bell. The scientist’s daughter begins to pick her way through the graveyard, wending between listing headstones and the crumbling monuments to the dead.

  Deliah has paused, her lips pursed and her shoulders rigid as she surveys the Necropolis.

  She catches me looking at her and shakes her head. “An unnatural place. Why put the dead under the ground to be eaten by worms?” The lamias shudders. “Their spirits must be trapped forever. I can hear their cries in the wind.”

  I listen, but all I hear is the breeze slithering through the long grass. “What do you do in Vel?”

  “We burn our dead so their souls can fly free, then scatter their ashes in the forest loam. Promise me, Talin – if I perish on this quest, do not imprison me in such a place.”

  Deliah looks at me with such intensity that I can only stammer my agreement. Then she nods curtly and moves to follow Xela and Bell. I hesitate for a moment before continuing – the seriousness of what the lamias has just said has shaken me. It’s clear that she is prepared to die by my side, helping me fulfill my vow to the Red Sword to keep her daughter safe. A wash of guilt goes through me as I gaze upon my companions – how could I drag them into this madness?

  “Hurry up!” Xela cries, turning back and beckoning me on.

  Shaking myself, I push aside these dark thoughts and follow.

  On my first visit to the Necropolis of Ysala, I’d been surprised at how crowded it was. This time we barely see anyone, even after we find the main avenue slicing through the heart of the graveyard. I do catch a shiver of movement out of the corner of my eye, a glimpse of some dark shape receding into the gathering shadows. From its misshapen form I think it may be a ghast scavenging for freshly interred bodies, but it could also be the strange hunchback that tricked Bell and me. My unease, kindled when we found the abandoned guard post, is slowly growing. Where is everyone?

  I let out a small sigh of relief when a shrouded figure suddenly appears ahead of us on the path. One of the Sisters of Sweet Oblivion, the Necropolis’s caretakers. When she sees us she raises a slim white hand in greeting, but then a jolt goes through her and she whirls, running back the way she came, her long robes flapping.

  My companions and I share looks of confusion. What about us could terrify someone who spends their life in a graveyard? I glance behind us to see if a ghast or some other monster has trailed us from the barrow, but there’s nothing.

  We find her again at the entrance to the Necropolis, a soaring gate of twisted black iron. She’s standing just on the other side, speaking animatedly with a trio of young men in leather armor and spiked helms. As we approach, she catches sight of us and points a shaking hand in our direction.

  Steel scrapes as the warriors draw their blades. One of them wears a bright red cape, and he pushes her behind him in a very heroic manner.

  What is going on?

  “Those are Ghost Boar men,” Bell says, squinting through the thick lenses of her spectacles.

  I’ll have to take her word for it – from this distance, the Trust insignia pinned to their armor is just a smear of silver.

  “They look like someone poured vinegar into their sap,” Deliah says as the warriors start to advance towards us.

  “I’ll take it that means they want to fight,” I say, restraining myself from drawing my own sword. I’d prefer to avoid bloodshed – this must be some sort of misunderstanding.

  Bell steps forward. “You’re with the Boar, yes? Why are you threatening us?”

  The Trust warriors pause in their approach. They look confused, as if they did not expect to be challenged. Then their leader throws back his red cape flamboyantly and strikes a pose, his sword extended towards us. He sneaks a glance behind him, perhaps hoping that the Sister of Sweet Oblivion is still watching, but the girl has vanished down the street leading to the city proper.


  “Do not think you can talk your way out of this, traitor. You are all coming with us to see the Warden.”

  “Warden?” Bell says, and I can hear the surprise in her voice. “There hasn’t been a Warden in Ysala for over twenty years, not since the Yellow Kvah came down from the Wall. Wardens are only appointed during times of war.”

  The warriors glance again between each other, their brows furrowed. Then Red Cape shakes his head vehemently. “You are all coming with us,” he says with a snarl. The point of his sword shifts to indicate Xela. “Be lucky we are taking you alive – we could collect the same bounty with only her head.”

  Sighing, I draw my sword. “You heard the fool,” I say to Deliah, whose hand has gone to the haft of the glaive sticking over her shoulder. “They were going to take us alive. So let’s not kill them.”

  “No promises,” the lamias replies as the three Trust soldiers charge towards us.

  Red Cape rushes straight at me in another display of bravado, his sword a blur in the evening’s failing light. My green-glass blade chimes as I catch his steel and turn it away, and I glimpse surprise in his face at the unexpected sound. A less brave or perhaps less stupid fellow might have reconsidered fighting someone who has emerged from a graveyard wielding an unnatural sword, but Red Cape seems to have bravery and stupidity in abundance as he lunges at me again.

  He also has some training. I quickly recognize a pattern after our swords come together a few times, but he has neither my speed, strength, nor skill. After a few ringing clashes I catch his cross guard with the edge of my blade and send his sword spinning into the dark. His mouth gapes as I close, but instead of gutting him I smash the hilt of my sword into his face. I’m hoping to stun him so that the fight can end without serious injury, but my blow is a bit too enthusiastic and his nose crumples, blood spurting. He drops like a sack of grain, knocked out cold.

  “Damn,” I say, staring down at his splayed body.

  “I was faster,” Deliah says, and I turn to see her leaning against her glaive, another of the Trust warriors at her feet. The warrior’s pointed helm is missing, and half his slack face is covered in a rapidly purpling bruise.

  The last Trust soldier has dropped his sword and is standing rigid. For a moment, I wonder what happened, and then the darkness behind him writhes and Xela is revealed. A dagger that must have been pricking his back shifts to his throat, and as the cold metal touches his skin he whimpers in fear.

  “At least one of you has some sense,” Bell says, rolling her eyes at the warriors Deliah and I have laid out. She stalks over to the shaking Trust warrior, putting her hands on her hips as she glares at him.

  “How dare you assault us, Ysalan? I am a citizen of the city!”

  The warrior swallows hard. Even in the fading light his sheen of sweat is evident, and I’d wager that his breeches weren’t quite that dark a few moments ago.

  “Answer my friend,” Xela says lazily, the edge of her dagger scraping up and down his neck like she’s finishing off a close shave.

  “You!” the soldier gasps. “You, Zimani!”

  The dagger pauses in its wanderings. “Me?” Xela says in surprise.

  “Yes! We . . . we were told to look out for spies . . . saboteurs . . . infiltrators . . .”

  Xela shakes her head slightly. “From where?”

  The Trust warrior blinks. “From . . . from your legions.” He must see the confusion in our faces, as his own brow crinkles. “The ones camped outside our city walls.” Now he sounds unsure of himself, as if our ignorance has made him question his own reality.

  “The legions of Zim are besieging Ysala?” Xela nearly shouts, her tone incredulous.

  “Yes?” the warrior says, as much question as answer.

  From Xela’s expression she finds the idea both horrifying and impossible. “How long have Ysala and Zim been at war?”

  The warrior licks his lips. “Uh, the Purple Emperor crossed Hesset’s Wall about a fortnight ago . . ”

  “The Purple Emperor is here!”

  I’d never imagined the usually unflappable shadowdancer could look so shocked.

  “Y-yes. With about seventy thousand soldiers. And war lizards. And battle pachyderms.”

  “I think you can lower the dagger,” I tell Xela. The Zimani sheathes her dagger and steps away from the warrior, who honestly seems just as lost as us.

  “Did you truly not know?” he asks, rubbing at his neck with a trembling hand.

  “We just arrived in the city,” I say distractedly, trying to figure out how what he said could be possible.

  “Wait,” Bell says suddenly, addressing the warrior. “What’s the date today?”

  He licks his lips uncertainly. “Um, it’s the third . . . no, the fourth Husking Day of Everfall.”

  That means nothing to me, but Bell and Deliah gasp.

  “What?”

  Deliah turns to me, her amethyst eyes wide. “We were in the House of the Gods for nearly half a year.”

  5

  We leave the Ghost Boar warrior with his unconscious fellows after Bell attempts to make him understand that we are not, in fact, infiltrators from Zim. From his expression, he’s skeptical of the convoluted story she tells about a smuggler tunnel into Ysala, but if she told him the truth about doorways to other worlds and demons and sorceresses then he’d think us mad. I can sense he’s wondering why we are apparently unaware of the massive Zimani army encamped outside the city, but with an eye on our weapons – and perhaps fearing what will happen if he expresses his incredulity – he finally accepts Bell’s story with a nod.

  We decide after a quick consultation that Xela should remain out of sight until we reach Poz’s laboratory, where we’ll get answers about what is truly going on. With dusk quickly giving way to night that’s simple enough for the shadowdancer, and she slathers herself in darkness and recedes into the shadows before we pass beyond the boundaries of the Necropolis.

  The Ysala we move through bears only a passing resemblance to the vibrant city of my memories. I remember streets swirling chaotically, dozens of peoples and races jostling cheek-by-jowl as they shopped and hawked and thieved with abandon: the gleaming carapaces and clicking feet of the arachnia, the tall Zimani traders wearing garishly bright robes covered in geometric designs, the laughter and shrieking of ragged urchins as they dashed in and out of shadowy alleys.

  The streets are nearly empty now, most of the stalls and storefronts boarded up or abandoned. The few merchants with wares on display seem to be selling charms and idols claiming protection granted by the saints. One gnomish fellow with wild tufts of white hair who may or may not be human is standing before an array of strange little metal contraptions that he is proclaiming in a wheezy voice can spit fire. He calls these devices flintlocks, and from the small crowd gathered around his cart he seems to be doing brisk business.

  “Folks are terrified,” Deliah mutters, the few pedestrians in the street giving the lamias and the glaive slung across her back a wide berth. “Afraid to even venture out of their homes. They must believe an attack is imminent.”

  Bell gives an affirming grunt. “It does seem strange to feel so much tension in the city right now if it has been under siege for months.”

  The scientist’s daughter leads us down a tangle of narrow streets hemmed by squat, prosperous looking buildings. This neighborhood is far nicer than the Blight, the slums where we stayed our first time in the city, but also magnitudes more humble than where the Trust manses are located. Bell describes this district as the Lapidary, home to well-to-do merchants and tradespeople. I notice that carved into many of the doors we pass are symbols that must correspond with the business of their residents, such as an anvil, a loom, and an elaborate vase. This is where her father rented a space for his experiments after we rescued him from the Red Trillium Trust.

  Lamplighters are circulating in the streets at this hour, kindling flames within lanterns hanging from metal poles, and by the time Bell stops in front of
a simple red entrance set in a house of white stucco night has fully enshrouded the city. An overflowing potion is incised into the wood of the door. It doesn’t look like the abode of a scientist, but Bell steps forward and lifts the iron knocker.

  Before she can drop it a muffled explosion comes from within. The ground trembles ever so slightly, and dust sifts down from the tiled eaves. We share a look of alarm as trickles of smoke escape around the edges of the door.

  “Papa,” Bell murmurs nervously, then has to jump back as the door swings violently open. More smoke billows out, thick and choking, and when it clears there’s Poz, doubled over in the entrance coughing, his hands on his knees. The scientist’s robes may once have been white, and there’s so much filth in the old man’s tufted hair that he looks several decades younger. The tips of his pale whiskers have been singed, and his spectacles are coated as well.

  “Hello? Mistress Garples, is that you? Terribly sorry for the noise again, had a bit of an accident. And please excuse my rudeness, my ears are ringing and I seem to have gone blind. Unfortunate.”

  Bell steps forward and uses her thumb to wipe away the grime covering his glasses.

  “Oh, that’s better,” Poz says, blinking. “I must say, Mistress Garples, you’re being far more reasonable –” His words fade as he realizes who is standing in front of him. Then he lunges forward and wraps Bell in an embrace, nearly toppling her over. “My girl!”

  “Hello, Papa,” she replies, trying to avoid putting her face in her father’s matted hair.

  “I feared the worst,” the scientist says, then steps back to get a good look at her. When he does this he catches sight of us. “Talin! So good to see you, lad! And the lamias – a pleasure to meet you again, good lady.”

  Deliah arches a perfect indigo eyebrow as Poz bows awkwardly. When the scientist straightens, he removes his spectacles and wipes away tears. He looks the opposite of a raccoon, the eyes in his blackened face ringed by perfect white circles.