Whom the Gods Fear (Of Gods & Mortals Book 3)

by M. M. Perry

  Karl made a move toward the end of the bar. He planned to clear the mug, even though it was still half full. He hoped the fella would argue, complain he wasn’t finished, anything to give Karl an excuse to do something unfriendly. The barkeep wouldn’t mind throwing the man out, but before he made it over to his annoying customer, Karl was distracted by someone entering the front door. The man entering was so large, he had to stoop, and his broad shoulders brushed the doorjambs. His size, coupled with the pale white blonde hair and ice blue eyes, made it easy to guess where he hailed from. He was far from the largest Braldashad the bartender had ever seen, but he knew well enough not to tell the huge fisherman that.

  Karl watched the Braldashad scan the room until his cold eyes settled on the sour fellow who the bartender was so eager to move along. The Braldashad made his way to the end of the bar. The barkeep smiled—Karl knew there was a good chance the northerner would take care of the freeloader for him, and provide a bit of vicarious entertainment to boot. Past experience had taught Karl that Braldashad didn’t have friends, and they only sought people out to settle a debt of blood, money, or, more often than not, both.

  Gunnarr waded through the crowded pub until he was standing behind the man seated next to the freeloader Karl had been eyeing. The man glanced backward and started at the hulking sight of Gunnarr lurking over his shoulder. He turned back to his drink and hurriedly gulped down what was left, stood, tipped his hat and wished Gunnarr a good evening, all in a few seconds time.

  “Ale,” Gunnarr said to Karl, his deep voice startling a few of the other customers nearby.

  Karl pulled a pint for Gunnarr and set it on the bar in front of him, all while scowling meaningfully at the tight-fisted man next to him, hoping to signal Gunnarr that he was quite alright with anything untoward that may happen in the next few moments regarding the brooding customer. Gunnarr dropped a coin on the counter, which landed with the heavy thud Karl immediately recognized as gold. The barkeep began to make change, but Gunnarr waved him off. Karl, startled, looked down at the coin more carefully and weighed it in his hand. It was easily worth five times what the ale cost, even at Karl’s large markup. Gunnarr waved him away again, this time more forcefully. Karl, not wanting to offend a customer that would spend so lavishly, scurried off to put the coin in the till.

  Gunnarr took a sip of his ale. It was so dull it was nearly flavorless. He wasn’t sure what he expected. It wasn’t as if he could demand better out here. He pushed it away from him and turned his attention back to the man next to him. He was shorter than average, with black hair and eyes so dark that in the pub’s light they looked black. His skin, like Gunnarr’s, was the bronze color of a laborer who spent long days in the sun, though Gunnarr doubted that the sun had anything to do with this man’s complexion. He was wearing fine clothes, though they lacked the expensive embellishments that might arouse suspicions of royalty of any sort. Their functional quality and slightly worn-in condition announced him as nothing more than an experienced traveler with a bit of coin. His only accoutrement was the silver medallion hanging from his neck, but silver was common enough and the medallion looked old. A passing traveler would likely take if for a family heirloom, some sort of family crest or the like, and not an accessory chosen to complement a particular outfit. The only thing about the man that set him apart from the crowd, other than his brooding demeanor, was the ornate walking stick leaned against the bar at his side. Gunnarr had seen it once before. The wood was artfully inlaid with a highly polished, smoke colored stone that alternately reflected and absorbed light, giving the surface of the stick the look of a stormy sky hiding the face of the sun. The man turned toward Gunnarr. His eyes widened in surprise and anger.

  “I don’t forget faces. Yours in particular,” the man said darkly.

  “I apologize,” Gunnarr began sincerely, “for throwing you off my boat. I humbly ask your forgiveness.”

  The man glared at Gunnarr. He did not acknowledge the apology. Gunnarr realized that might be as good as it was going to get regarding his act of contrition, so he barreled on into his well-rehearsed speech.

  “I come on behalf of the King of Faylendar. He wishes you to visit his court so he might discuss joining your war against your brother. The kingdom of Faylendar is eager to declare its allegiance to the great god Chort, ruler of the skies, wielder of lightning, stormbringer.”

  Chort stared up at Gunnarr, searching his eyes for mirth. When he was satisfied, he smiled.

  “Now of all times, human? Surely you don’t expect me to believe it’s coincidence, you coming here to find me as the gods are on the cusp of war?”

  Gunnarr nodded and feigned contrition, “You are wise. Too wise for my feeble ruse. Indeed, the king wishes to align his kingdom with you, great Chort. In this upcoming war, it would be prudent for lowly mortals to court greatness, and who can doubt that you are among the greatest of the old gods?”

  Chort looked down at his ale then back up to Gunnarr. His expression betraying none of his thoughts, he spoke.

  “I shall grant your request for an audience, human.”

  Karl, who had lingered close enough to eavesdrop felt a mixture of annoyance, awe, fear and disbelief. Who could have guessed the unassuming, dour customer was a god, he wondered, glad he hadn’t had the chance to try ejecting him. Not him, he silently answered himself, since he would have expected a god to tip better.

  Viola poured over the images before her, trying to ignore the scholars milling about her workspace in the study. Normally, since Callan had graciously given her the room years ago when she had been researching ways to find Cass, the room seemed excessively spacious. Until recently, Viola had regarded it as her private sanctum—a welcome retreat from the pestering machinations of the lesser nobility, always eager to ingratiate themselves with someone who had King Callan’s ear. Almost no one ever disturbed her while she was there. But since Cass’s return and revelation that the gods were about to go to war, her private study seemed, at least to Viola, to have become the locus of all the castle’s activities. She couldn’t have named even a fraction of the people tramping through the study, knocking over her carefully organized piles of books and then horrendously misshelving them, but at least she had Manfred there with her now.

  It had taken her several hours, time she would have rather spent furthering her research, but she had finally found him sulking in a shaded, secluded corner of the palace gardens. Rather than approach the issue of Cass and her absent memories directly, she instead asked him to help her work through the djinn scrolls. He had quickly consented, happy to be of use. Viola wondered what he could possibly be withholding from Cass. It didn’t seem that it could have anything to do with the scrolls and their prophecy, as he had rapidly proven himself knowledgeable and insightful. In the hours they’d spent pouring over the scrolls, Viola hadn’t detected even a hint of deception or obstruction on the djinn’s part, save for his resistance to letting her handle the scrolls more than absolutely necessary. Even when he did let her handle them, to peer more closely at faded or missing portions, he insisted she wear special gloves he produced, but Viola found that understandable. The scrolls were unbelievably ancient, older than any of the most moldering tomes she had plucked from the obscurity of Callan’s library by far. She attributed their durability to their composition—they weren’t made from parchment, but a cloth-like fabric she’d never encountered before. They were easily the oldest written thing she had ever seen, that any human had seen, she guessed, though she couldn’t exactly call what was on them words. The story they presented was formed of small, impossibly detailed pictures. She had managed to sort out that the Djinn factored heavily in the prophecies. The small blue people were the easiest images to sort out. The majestic dragons were equally clear. Other items, which her best guess pegged as idealized symbolic representations, likely precursors to a more abstract, ideographic written language, were not so easy to discern.

  As Viola squinted down at the scroll in fro
nt of her Cass walked in the room carrying a tea service. She saw Manfred and looked away, unable to meet his eyes without feeling anger well up within her. Cass wished she could just push aside the idea that something had happened that he was unwilling to tell her, but she couldn’t. She assumed it was her gut telling her it was something to be wary of. She set the tea service down and looked over Viola’s shoulders.

  “Are things going well?” she asked.

  “Yes. Manfred has been really helpful. You guys can go,” Viola said turning her attention to the scholars in the room. “Take a break for a while. We’ll pick back up tomorrow.”

  After the scholars left Viola turned back to Cass.

  “It’s not that I don’t trust them. It’s just I think the less people know the full extent of our work here, the better. You never know who might get snatched up by a god.”

  “That’s probably for the best,” Cass said.

  “And Manfred warded this room for us. It’s god proofed, so to speak.”

  Cass nodded in Manfred’s direction but did not look at him. The djinn remained silent. Cass tried to remain civil. Gunnarr and Nat were still away and Cass couldn’t help but hope their particular plans were going well. She knew she would feel a lot better when they returned. With them gone, she felt unsettled and exposed in Manfred’s company.

  “It’s at least as secure as the other room you already created. The one I can’t see into,” Manfred said stiffly.

  Viola and Cass shared a guilty look.

  “Don’t worry about it. I don’t care. I’m here to help, not quibble about how you go about your tasks,” Manfred said as he studied his nails.

  “How long will it last? Your god-proofing?”

  “For as long as the room remains, the warding will persist. Though if someone were to tear down a significant enough portion of it, the wardings will weaken, and at some point break,” Manfred replied. “I’d recommend against any ambitious remodeling projects in the near future.”

  “Okay,” Cass ignored Manfred’s attempt to lighten the mood, though Viola smirked, “What do your kin know about the scrolls?”

  “Alright, I guess we’ll get right to it,” Manfred said sitting down on a chair. His legs dangled like a child’s over the edge. “When I first saw you all those years ago, I knew there was something different about you. I could see it. You weren’t quite human. I couldn’t tell what it was, but you told me where you were found, at the base of Timta’s statue, and a few other things you mentioned… your first trip to Oshia’s temple and how you simply walked out. Well, I’m apparently smarter than that fool of a god Oshia because I put it together pretty quick. You were Timta’s daughter. It was one of the many things I had to keep secret.”

  “I don’t remember discussing my lineage with you,” Cass said coldly.

  “No,” Manfred said slowly, “You wouldn’t. We didn’t talk about that until much later. In any case, it was your celestial descent that made me suspect you were part of the prophecy, but that alone wasn’t enough to take to my people. I wasn’t going to be able to shift millennia of common knowledge on just my suspicion. It wasn’t until your friends came to find me that I knew it was time. I told my people the prophecy had begun, which was easy enough for them to read into the events at hand. They could all look into your life through my eyes and see you carrying the sunstone, which matched so perfectly with imagery in the scrolls. A woman atop a dragon with the sunstone. They all assumed the popular belief among my people was about to come true.”

  “And what was that?” Viola asked before Cass could interject. She asked kindly and placed her hand on his indicating her support. Manfred smiled at her, a little more at ease.

  “Here,” he said pulling out one of the heavily burnt sheets. He started to point to one of the images when they were interrupted by loud voices in the hall. Callan was yelling at the top of his lungs to somebody nearby.

  “I don’t care. The beasts need to come back. They can even stay right inside the city walls if they have to. If the gods find out the dragons have gone into the mountains, they will be on us! They’ll destroy everything in their path to get to get to her in particular. She’s enemy number one. That old hag as much as told me so. I can’t take that risk! Send a teeton! Send all the teetons, just them back!”

  “Good King Callan,” Cass said wearily, “and it sounds like Issa has made another visit to Faylendar. I’ll take care of it,” Cass said, putting her tea cup down.

  “Don’t be too hard on him,” Viola said softly, “he comes off rough, but remember, he spared no resource to help find you. He’s just frightened. You remember how he gets when he’s frightened.”

  “Yes. I do.”

  After Cass left the room, Viola turned to Manfred.

  “I’m never going to figure this out,” Viola said gesturing to the scrolls in front of her. “The Djinn had… thousands of years maybe? I don’t know, you say you stopped keeping track of time ages ago…”

  “I’ve found the entire concept of time losses it sense of importance when you’re immortal and isolated from the rest of the world,” Manny defended himself and his people.

  “I can see that,” Viola said tapping her chin before she returned to her thought, “Too bad though. A more exact date might help give us a frame of reference for some of these less obvious ideograms. Well, a lot of years anyway, by the look of these things. Not only do I doubt I’ll be able to replicate your research in such a short time, I just don’t know what I can bring to the table.”

  “Fresh eyes,” Manfred said sipping tea, “and a different perspective. It can’t hurt in any case. Remember even the dragons admit there could be something to learn from us even though they come as close to omniscience as it gets. Complete assurance that you know all there is to know is just as bad as ignorance if you ask me. And it helps that you think differently than we blue creatures that can have anything we want at the snap of our fingers. Once we knew what the value of work was. It’s been a long time since that’s been the case. You humans have to work harder for what you get. I think you’d be surprised at what you might come up with because of that. My people only ever saw how any of this pertains to them—what was obvious and easy. They weren’t looking for anything else, so they didn’t find it, and assumed that they had sifted all the information from these scrolls long ago. But they were very wrong.”

  “And… you’ve always thought they were wrong,” Viola probed gently, keeping her eyes on the scrolls, trying to impart as much casual disinterest in the conversation as she could.

  Manfred sipped his tea again, eyeing the redhead sideways.

  “I know what you’re after, Red, and I can’t tell you either. I can’t reveal my secrets, but I can tell you that they are the reason I would never betray you… never betray her,” he trailed off, and Viola could tell he was momentarily lost in a memory.

  “You know,” he recovered, “I never thought it would be so hard to keep this secret. Maybe I should have made myself forget those days as well.”

  Viola looked up from the scrolls. Days he had said. Could it have been just a slip of the tongue? Or was there more than just a few hours in a pub missing, as Cass had thought. She tucked it away, not wanting to press the djinn. Too much, too fast, and he’d close up again.

  Viola sighed as she pushed herself away from the table. She rubbed her eyes, changing the subject.

  “I wish I had your confidence in my ability to read the scrolls. I hope Gunnarr is having more luck with Chort than I am with these scrolls,” she said as she rubbed.

  “Chort,” Manny said, making the word sound like an insult. “He’s petty and powerless, which might leave him overly eager. If Gunnar can stomach showing him some faux respect long enough to convince him he’s got a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of his fellows, it might prove irresistible bait, but… gods. You never know with gods,” Manfred said. “Chort is on the outside as much as we are. The gods do not count him among themselves. That much, I do
know. I’m not really sure why Cass has interest in him. He’s got next to no power and certainly no sway with the gods. I’ve heard that he can’t even muster the magic to get back to their haven, the River. He’s bound here to the mortal plane, unless someone were to help him get there.”

  “I don’t get it either, but I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough,” Viola said, speaking honestly. “Let’s get something to eat. We can go over these scrolls when Cass is done with Callan.”

  Chapter 3

  Cass sat at one end of an extremely long dining table, Callan at the other. She had managed to convince him it might be best to move his shouted discussions out from the hallway and into a place more suited for deliberations, and he had taken her here. She felt sure he’d chosen the royal dining hall, normally reserved for important events of state involving foreign dignitaries, to remind her that he was king in this castle. Cass stared down from her end of the ridiculously long table, which could easily accommodate fifty people comfortably, at him on his raised seat at the opposite end. Cass found the entire setup ham-fisted allegory. His seat at the table was elevated, much like his throne, on a raised platform, two steps above the ground. This necessitated that his end of the table have a smaller table, just for him, essentially built on top of it, or he would have had to reach down past his knees to reach his food and drink. Cass could easily imagine him looking down on all his guests, quite literally, from up on his perch. She wondered if this arrangement had pre-dated Callan’s ascent to the throne, or if he personally had commissioned its construction while he nonchalantly sipped at his tea.