She swiped one of the Twins before her, then sheathed both swords before jutting her chin at the brash young soldier. “Who are you and why are you here?”
Quester’s grin faded ever so slightly, and he cast a doubtful look at Peytr. This one isn’t used to his advances being thwarted.
“I am Quester Billings, milady,” he said. “The Crimson Sword of Riverrun, sworn shield of House Connington.” He bowed to her. “Pleased to be at your service.”
Rachida turned to her husband. “You have some explaining to do, darling.”
“I do.” Peytr cleared his throat. “The men you see before you are sellswords formerly in the employ of the merchant families throughout Neldar. Karak’s acolytes conscripted them weeks ago, with the intention that they would march west as reinforcements to assist in the war against Ashhur.” His face scrunched up as he considered Quester again. “Though I don’t see Bren Torrant here or any of Matthew’s other swords. Are they still on the ships?”
Quester shook his head. “They never arrived. In fact, the acolytes never returned either, nor did the regiment Karak kept in Neldar. Our brave dead captains waited for them for a week, then decided enough was enough. We set sail without them.”
“Strange,” said Peytr. “Without them, how many are you?”
“Six hundred,” Quester answered. He glanced at the raging sea and the three galleys floating in the distance. “Those of us before you, plus an additional four hundred on the ships.”
“I thought you said you were supposed to march west,” Rachida said, resting her hands on the Twins’ hilts. “Why are you here?”
“Ah, a stroke of genius.” The smile returned to Quester’s lips. “The conscription was predicted by my masters as well as your husband. After we were gathered up, I informed the magister in Omnmount that I knew precisely where the Haven deserters had fled. I also told our brave captains that we could perform double the good service to our beloved Divinity—destroy the blasphemers and attack Paradise from the other side, hemming in Ashhur and his children. It took a little persuading, but in the end, here we sailed.”
“Why wait until now to turn on them, if you outnumbered them so?” Rachida asked. “It shouldn’t have taken any persuading at all.”
Quester winked at her.
“Turn on our captains before making sure your husband here could make good on his extravagant promises? My dear, do you think us fools?”
Rachida leapt forward, snatching the gold nugget from Quester’s hand. The sellsword stumbled backward, surprised at her aggression, and almost lost his footing. She held the gold in front of Peytr’s face, ignoring the oaf with the forked beard.
“And how long have you had this?” she snarled.
“The mines have been in operation for three years.”
Rachida reared back and hurled the gold against the ground, the soft metal bouncing when it struck the rocks. She grabbed Peytr by the collar of his heavy jerkin and pulled him close. Spit lathered his cheeks when she shouted.
“All along you’ve had this . . . this fortune! You pled poverty to Matthew—you said we had nothing but Moira to give. You told me that it would take decades to mine the gold from these islands. You gave Moira away for nothing!”
“I had no choice,” Peytr insisted.
She shoved him, sending her husband stumbling. Bryce caught him before he fell.
“No choice?” she said. “No choice! I should gut you for what you’ve done.”
Peytr calmly smoothed the wrinkles in his jerkin.
“I understand your anger, darling. I do entirely. But Moira had her part to play in this game, the same as myself and you and the Conningtons and the Crimson Sword here. The gold I withheld goes to these soldiers, to pay for their services.” He put his hands on his hips and stared at her with equal parts compassion and disappointment. “You have railed against Karak’s duplicity for years. You have decried the way he treats his creations, and preached disobedience to our people. Do you think this defiance comes without a price? In gaining our freedom, sacrifices must be made . . . by myself, by you, by everyone.”
“But Moira—”
“—is a capable woman. And though it was my instruction, she went willingly to Matthew, did she not? Your love understands the dangers of our time. I expect the same from you.”
“You want her dead. You made me lie to her, made me hide from her during my pregnancy.”
“I don’t trust Moira. No matter your relationship, I must have a son and heir. But please, trust me, I wish her no ill will. Do you think she’d live otherwise if I did?”
Rachida’s shoulders slumped. Her hatred and anger gave way to frustration. “Fine,” she said.
Peytr shrugged out of Bryce’s clutches and went to her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Amazingly, his every action conveyed compassion.
“I have given up my home, darling. I have given up safety and comfort and much of my fortune. If worst comes to worst, I will give up my life. But I will never give up hope, and neither should you.” He looked at the handsome young sellsword. “As for Moira . . . tell me, Quester, what was the last you heard of our dear exiled Crestwell?”
“My masters say she is fine,” he said. “Matthew’s wife sent a letter stating as much.”
“See?” said Peytr. “All is well with her; now put her from your mind. Your role in things is about to increase tenfold, and I must have you trust me if we are to succeed.”
Rachida glanced up at him, confused.
“What do you mean, ‘my role’?”
He squeezed her shoulder and then let her go. His compassion seemed to recede, replaced with a hunger she both feared and envied.
“As it is said throughout the Wardens’ stories, every revolution requires a figurehead to lead the way, an individual of noble birth who will guide their people to glory and freedom. What better leader could there be than the lost daughter of our gods’ First Families, one who is beloved and admired by her people? You will lead the charge, my darling. You will pave the way for a Dezrel free of the bonds the gods have placed on us. So smile, Rachida Gemcroft; smile and prepare to take sail, for the gold you would have used to buy Moira’s freedom instead bought you an army.”
CHAPTER
6
His body was covered with cuts and bruises from the beatings he’d been given, his wrists and ankles chafed and bloody from the irons that bound him, and yet for Ceredon Sinistel, dismay was the worst of his pains.
The prince of the Quellan elves had been tethered to the back of a supply wagon and marched endlessly south through Ashhur’s Paradise, made subservient to all present. Quellan, Dezren, or human—it didn’t matter; all who happened upon him abused him, striking him with reeds and whips, spitting in his face, shattering a few of his teeth, and some even going so far as to run their blades across his flesh, opening small wounds that would weep and sting as sweat rolled over them. He was theirs to torture, yet he didn’t complain, even as he lay there in the sand beneath the light of the moon, parched and unable to sleep. His hatred would be sated in time, as would revenge for the murder of his father; the lord and lady of Dezerea; and Tantric, the rebel leader. “Become like the mountain I love so dearly,” his goddess Celestia had whispered to him. Mountains did not weep. They didn’t scream and kick. They waited. They watched. They endured.
Ceredon had lost count of how many days it’d been since they left Dezerea, but it had to be at least twenty. Their march had started out quickly, the force of a hundred human soldiers, four hundred Quellan Ekreissar, and another three hundred conscripted Dezren moving across the forests and rolling hills of eastern Paradise, passing by many abandoned or decimated townships, until they reached the Gods’ Road. The demarcation line was the husk of a lone, gigantic cypress tree that loomed on the south side of the dusty road, its trunk scarred, its leaves burned; an omen of the land they would soon cross. After they passed through miles and miles of scorched landscape, tall prairie grasses rose up to meet th
em, and the procession slowed to a crawl. They were in Ker now, the unofficial province where Ashhur’s dark-skinned children resided. Ceredon had never been here, and despite his pain he could recognize the beauty of the place. In many ways Ker seemed like elven lands—the earth sparsely farmed, the wildlife free to roam wherever it wished. There were none of the fences, stone buildings, or clear-cut fields that had become common in most human lands, which made Ceredon, for the first time, feel a sort of kinship with the poor doomed souls. The settlements they came across were akin to those of his people; the land unaltered to suit their needs, with each simply built domicile nestled into the earth as if nature itself had given birth to them.
Yet despite their beauty, these settlements were the root cause of his dismay. Most whose path they crossed were abandoned, some with cookfires still burning in their large communal pits, but in others people still remained. These unfortunate souls were fallen upon in an instant, the flesh flayed from their bodies, their corpses hung upside down from the branches of the small, twisted trees that dotted the plains. It went like this for miles, a slithering militia bringing death, seeking out those who fled, to put them to the sword, even when the grassland was slowly overtaken by desert sands. At first Ceredon had counted the dead, but he stopped when he reached one hundred. It was too macabre to keep up the count.
Through it all Darakken, the demon in a human shell who led the charge, fed. Every time Ceredon saw the creature, riding high atop his palfrey like a pale courier of disease, with lumps shifting beneath his flesh, he would close his eyes and whisper a prayer to Celestia for strength. Sometimes she would answer, and renewed vigor would fill him. Most times, he heard silence. Do not abandon me, goddess, he silently told Celestia’s star, glittering in the heavens. I am not ready to meet you just yet.
These were his thoughts as the prince of Quellassar drifted off to a fitful sleep. He was awoken some time later by rough hands lifting him into a sitting position. Groggy, his head lolling, he choked as liquid was poured down his throat. Ceredon coughed and struggled in his restraints, the chains clinking with his every movement. His mouth felt as if someone had stuffed it with cotton. His right hand grabbed a fistful of leather, but he hadn’t the strength to push whoever it was away.
“Quiet,” a kindly voice whispered. “Stop moving. He’ll hear.”
Ceredon ceased at once, blinking the world back into clarity. It was still night, the half-moon high in the blackened sky. The camp slept all around him. He smelled shit and sweat and charred flesh. The one standing before him was Boris Morneau, the young soldier with the diamond-shaped scar on his left cheek who had arrived to inform Darakken of Karak’s orders to invade Ker. Ceredon had not seen much of the young soldier during their long march, but on occasion he spotted Boris riding at Darakken’s side. Though he had not noticed the soldier taking part in the various slaughters, Ceredon knew he had played his part. On seeing him, he hacked a wad of phlegm into Boris’s face.
“That was unnecessary,” the young soldier said, wiping the spit away. “I was trying to help you.”
“Get away from me, human,” Ceredon growled in the common tongue.
Boris put a finger to his lips. “I told you to be quiet. Should anyone notice what I’m doing, we’ll both be punished.”
“I never asked for your help.”
Boris let out a long, slow breath as he shook his head.
“You elves are impossible.”
Ceredon didn’t argue.
The soldier leaned forward again, holding out a wooden bowl filled with water.
“Listen, believe me or no, I do care what happens to you. I won’t try to make you drink again, but if I leave the bowl here, will you take it?”
Ceredon nodded.
“Good.” Boris placed the bowl down within his reach and then leaned back against the cropping of desert stones to which Ceredon was tethered. It was cold at night in the desert, a stark contrast to the day’s oppressive heat. The young man shivered, let out another long sigh, and closed his eyes. “I wish it wasn’t this way, you know.”
“Are you tired of sucking the demon’s cock?” Ceredon asked.
Boris laughed at that. “So you do know what he is. I’d wondered. The rest of the soldiers call him Crestwell, but they know his true nature. As for your elven brethren, well . . . I think they know something is wrong—how can you not? But I feel they are denying it to themselves.”
“They are self-righteous and blood hungry,” said Ceredon. “Bloody fools, all.”
“Even the Dezren who joined the march?”
Ceredon hung his head. “No. Those are simply weak. And tired of the torture, the pain, the agony they endured for over a year. Their involvement is understandable . . . though they deserve death just the same.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“What do you deserve?”
Ceredon opened his mouth, then shut it. Finally, he mimicked Boris’s position, leaning against the rocks and sighing. “I allowed countless Dezren to be tortured and executed. I murdered my uncles in cold blood under the pretense of justice. I deserve death, but when it comes, I will serve my goddess.”
Boris chuckled.
“What?” Ceredon asked.
“Serve your goddess,” he said. “Tell me, how does one serve a goddess while imprisoned in chains?”
Ceredon felt his neck flush, and he remained silent at the mockery.
“Thought so,” the man said. “All bluster, no plan. I swear, you elves are better at acting indignant than actually doing something about whatever bothers you. Let me see if I can get the wheels turning in your head. Start with this one, elf: Why has the demon kept you alive?”
“I will not pretend to guess the motives of a demon,” Ceredon said. “He must seek to humiliate me. What other reason could there be?”
Boris narrowed his eyes. “My prince, you know what the beast is. Do you really think that he would keep you alive for such a petty reason? If he wanted to humiliate you, he’d eat you, shit out your corpse, and then piss on it before his army. Try again, and this time, give it some thought.”
“If you are so wise, then tell me, and stop with the games.”
The young man shook his head. “You’re no child, and I’m no mother to spoon-feed you. Put some thought into it, elf. Stay aware. You want to serve your goddess, do it with your eyes open and your mind moving.” Boris paused, and he looked to the stars. “We’re close to our destination. Come tomorrow morning, we will be upon something called the Black Spire. The village of Ang is half a day’s march from there. I thought you might like to know.”
Ceredon thought to be snide, but he fought the reaction down. This man . . . something was different about this man. By no means was he trustworthy, but he seemed more aware than the others, more . . . mischievous.
“And why is that?” he asked.
Boris shuffled over and knelt before him. The solemn expression in his eyes only made Ceredon further concerned.
“Because Ang won’t be enough,” Boris whispered. “Because after Darakken destroys Ker, he’ll turn his back on his promise to your people. He will fulfill the purpose he was created for: devouring elves. Stonewood will come next, then Dezerea, then Quellassar. With Ashhur preoccupied and Karak not caring, there will be nothing to stop him.”
“My goddess will intervene.”
Boris looked at him queerly. “Something you shouldn’t hold your breath for, I think. Celestia has done little to protect your people so far.”
Celestia, keep Aullienna and Kindren far away from here, he prayed. Please, keep them safe.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked Boris. “Why do you not warn the others?”
Boris shrugged and then stood.
“Not my place,” he said. “And besides . . . do you really think it’d matter? For an elf to listen to a lowly human soldier like me, I think I’d need to tie them up, beat them, starve them, and then drag them through a dese
rt. But well, it’s laughable to think I’d find an elf like that whose opinion would matter. An elf his people would listen to. Just laughable.”
He walked away, and as much as Ceredon hated to admit it, the wheels were indeed turning in his mind.
It was midday when the strange sounds first reached Bardiya’s ears. He’d been sitting on a cliff with Onna Lensbrough, overlooking the emerald-green waters of the southern Thulon Ocean, when he heard it. His first thought was that a distant storm approached from the north, but when he turned to look that way, there were blue skies and thin white clouds as far as the eye could see.
“Not thunder,” he said.
“A different kind o’ storm,” said Onna.
Bardiya nodded at the older man, whose skin was dark and rough as leather and whose hair and beard were white as bone. “ ’Tis true, Onna. Remember that Ashhur loves you, no matter what occurs.”
“What do we do?”
“We stay strong. We stay true to the teachings of the one who created us.”
Even though he meant what he said, inside Bardiya wavered. It had been difficult to trust any of his preachings of late. His mouth would speak the virtues of love and forgiveness and decry violence, yet at night his dreams were filled with blood. From outside his body he watched himself crush the heads of his enemies with the trunks of trees, his massive hands ripping entrails from their stomachs. Over the last few weeks, he’d often lain awake beneath the stars on a bed of moss, pricking himself with a sharpened stick to stay awake. He was exhausted because of it, but he would take grogginess over those terrible dreams.
But this time, it was no dream. Karak had finally come for them all, and it’d be either the peace of his sermons or the bloody massacre of his dreams.
Blood Of Gods (Book 3) Page 8
