Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  Arguments abounded. Turock and the spellcasters wanted to head back north to their people; the sellswords wished to return to Neldar and their masters’ employ; and the two hundred turncoats called for pursuing Karak to the east. It was Talon’s men who won that argument, as they were the ones who sided with Rachida. She had stood proudly before her eight hundred men and told them—told, not asked—that they would be staying the course. She reminded the sellswords that they would be burned as blasphemers should they return to Neldar as known betrayers; Turock and his spellcasters she persuaded by promising them their pick of the treasures deep within the Isles of Gold. Peytr might not be happy with the deal, but then again, after she dealt with her plotting husband, he would never object to anything again.

  And so they continued on the course Karak and Ashhur had taken, riding through a razed landscape, only to be thwarted at the Wooden Bridge. The bridge was in tatters, its ropes snapped, half its planks dangling. There was no way to get eight hundred men and three hundred horses across. Going back north was out of the question, for the way was too rough and slow, which left them with only two options: Circle around Lake Cor, which would bring them into the Dezren Forest, a place Talon Blackwolfe had informed them was under the control of Karak’s Army; or march south toward Stonewood, where the elves were supposedly more docile. Again they fell into arguments, and once more Rachida was forced to put her foot down.

  They would head south toward Stonewood Forest and attempt to make passage where the Corinth River was shallow enough for the horses to cross without drowning.

  Now here they were, on the cusp of Stonewood itself, and the only saving grace was the warm southern air. Turock continued his outburst, throwing out curses that made even Quester blush. Rachida rode ahead to get away from him, bringing her horse to a gallop as she neared the huge trees bordering the forest. She sensed eyes on her and felt ill at ease. The only path curved inland, away from the river, and though Turock assured her that the path bent back to the east once they entered the trees, she felt naked without those flowing waters to dive into should trouble arise. The only thing to her right here was a bank of tall trees that sat at the edge of a field, two hundred yards away.

  When she was far enough ahead, she turned her horse around just in time to see Turock angrily flick his wrist while yelling, “Cunt!” A tiny fireball zipped from his fingertips and singed the grass bordering the beaten path they treaded. Young Decker, Pox Jon’s second in command, quickly snuffed out the fire. Rachida looked on as Talon and eight of his men began to sneak up on the spellcaster from behind. Behind them, Turock’s students noticed this happening and themselves began to approach, scowling. It would be all-out war between them if she didn’t do something.

  She drew one of her Twins and urged her horse to gallop toward them.

  “All of you, enough!” she shouted, holding the sword out wide. Turock looked her way, glaring. Talon obediently halted his movements. The other spellcasters, all twenty-two of them, pulled up before they collided with the soldiers’ rears. At the sight of such a display, many in the sellsword divisions laughed.

  Rachida rode sidelong up to the angry and flamboyant man. Turock puffed out his chest as if to challenge her, which Rachida answered by swiping at him with her sword at such speed that he didn’t have time to react. The blade flashed against his cheek, creating a thin red line. The man flinched, his hand coming up to touch the wound as a dollop of blood dripped onto his bright green robe.

  “You bitch,” he said, eyes wide.

  Rachida leaned forward in her saddle, resting the flat edge of her blade against Turock’s neck. “Call me bitch one more time, and I slice your throat. Trust me, as of now nothing would bring me greater pleasure.”

  Turock’s expression suddenly brightened, and he forced a smile. “Why, dear Rachida, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “You best not.”

  “And don’t think to cast some sort of spell, either,” said Quester with a wink. “My man Pox Jon over there is deadly with throwing knives. He can bury four in you before you get the words out of your throat. Isn’t that right, Jon?”

  Pox Jon nodded, reached into his belt, and pulled out three stumpy blades. “Got a few right here, matter of fact.”

  Turock visibly swallowed, looking all around him. His fingers started twitching, and sweat pooled on his collar, even though the temperature during this early afternoon was mild. To Rachida he seemed ridiculous; this was a man of Paradise, surrounded by soldiers from the kingdom that was now, technically, the enemy, and yet it was as if he had just then realized that fact. For an obviously brilliant man, he was rather stupid.

  “I . . . I’m sorry,” he told Rachida in a low voice.

  “Say it louder,” demanded Talon.

  Rachida held up a hand. “No, that is fine.” She sheathed her Twin and sidled closer to Turock, leaning in. Even though her sword was secure, he still seemed wary. “Listen: I don’t wish to hurt you. But we are about to enter Dezren territory. I don’t know how relations are between elf and human in Paradise, but it is chilly at best in the east. So please, let us not attract undue attention to ourselves while we tread through their land. Once we cross the Corinth, you can go on all you like. Do we have a deal?”

  She stuck out her hand. Turock hesitantly took it, his head cocked oddly to the side.

  “Deal,” he said, though it sounded like his thoughts were far away.

  “Good. Now let’s go.”

  The spellcaster cleared his throat. “Uh, one more thing, Rachida my dear.”

  “What?”

  “What’s happening over there?”

  His eyes glassed over as he pointed across the field at the thickly packed forest that bordered the Corinth River. Rachida followed his gaze, seeing movement within the trees, the branches swaying, and the underbrush rustling. It was probably just a wolf or an elk or—

  It wasn’t a wolf, or an elk, or any other animal for that matter. Instead, a tall elf, with deeply bronzed flesh and long, satiny hair, burst from the foliage. He was a Quellan and therefore very far from home. The elf ran with abandon, his arms and legs pumping vigorously as he crossed the field of swaying reeds. Rachida’s hand fell to her sword, preparing to draw it should the elf attack, but she noticed that he brandished no weapons. He was running strangely, as well, leaping into the air every few moments and waving his arms at them.

  Sensing her men tense behind her, Rachida raised her hand and signaled with a fist.

  “Hold!” she ordered.

  The elf was on them in an instant, and as he passed them by, dashing through the ranks of soldiers and sellswords, Rachida heard screaming, endless streams of syllables that were alien to her ears. The sound of his shouts elapsed as fast as he did, like the screech of a falcon as it soared through the sky and disappeared over the horizon. The men parted for him, allowing the elf to sprint across the opposite field and disappear into the massive trees of the Stonewood Forest. When he was gone, Rachida gawked at her sellswords, confused.

  “What in the name of the gods was that?” asked a bewildered Pox Jon.

  “An elf,” Quester told him.

  “No shit.”

  “He was saying something,” said Rachida. “What was it? I couldn’t make it out.”

  “Sounded like nonsense to me,” Talon said, trotting over toward the spot where the elf disappeared. “Just gibberish.”

  “It wasn’t gibberish,” said Turock. Rachida turned toward the absolutely terrified-looking spellcaster. It made her uneasy to see him so. What’s more, she now heard a steady thrum, one that vibrated her saddle.

  “What did he say?” she asked.

  “Noro, nuru e taryet,” the spellcaster said. “It’s Elvish for ‘Run, death has arrived.’ ”

  As if on cue, a horribly loud trumpeting rang out, causing most of the eight hundred men gathered on the road to cover their ears. Countless birds squawked and flew from the treetops in bunches. Quester clammed up and actually ap
peared frightened for the first time since Rachida had met him. Rachida’s head whipped back around, and she looked on as the tall trees to the east began to sway, their budding branches snapping like so much kindling. Her horse whinnied nervously and then bucked.

  Then, in a flash of dust and an explosion of dirt, the tree line exploded outward. What rumbled out of the forest was huge. Menacing. Evil. Impossible.

  And it was coming their way.

  “Flee!” shouted Rachida. Her mind blank with fear, she spun her panicked steed around and hastened into the forest in the other direction, followed by the soldiers and sellswords, while death closed in from behind.

  CHAPTER

  43

  And so history repeated itself.

  Aullienna Meln, the princess of the Stonewood Dezren, walked along the twisting skywalks that formed the causeways of the city within the trees. Only this time, Carskel didn’t walk behind her, prodding her along. Instead, he was by her side, his hand in hers, a triumphant smile plastered across his face. He looked down, his eyes unabashedly taking in every inch of her.

  “You look beautiful,” he said.

  She did her best to force her cheeks to flush, thinking about the first time she and Kindren kissed. “Thank you, my love,” she said, speaking with her best innocent quiver while squeezing her brother’s hand. “It means a lot that you should think so.”

  Carskel beamed and turned away, gazing down the jewel-lined skywalk and the group of elves that had gathered toward the center of Stonewood. “Desdima did her best work. I am glad I spared her life.”

  Desdima had been Lady Audrianna’s personal tailor, one of the original thirty-two that had escaped from Dezerea and the Quellan oppression. The work Carskel referred to was the garb Aully now wore; a gown of spun satin, white as the northern snowcaps, embellished with shimmering crystals. The gown was long and flowing, the train trailing five feet behind her. The sleeves were form-fitted, the material billowing out at her wrists like a flower, and the collar clung tight to her neck all the way to the base of her jaw. The back was bare, though her naked flesh was hidden by her long, golden hair, teased and curled and pinned with roses, cornflowers, and pink silkwood blossoms. The dress was formfitting yet comfortable, a work of art that conveyed the conservative nature of the Stonewood culture while still suggesting the sensual nature of a coupling. It had been made originally for her wedding to Kindren.

  Now, she detested it.

  Aully groaned at his words, a sound that Carskel misinterpreted. He began to rub his thumb along Aully’s palm, causing her to shudder. Again he misinterpreted, and bent over to kiss her on the cheek as they strolled. It was all Aully could do not to turn away in disgust.

  “This . . . this is wonderful, sweet sister.” Carskel rose back up, a jolly hitch in his step. “Today, we announce our engagement to our people. Tonight, we feast. Tomorrow, they love me. And the day after that, we depart for Dezerea for our nuptials. It truly is an exciting time, is it not?”

  “It is, my love,” she replied demurely.

  He glanced down at her once more, this time appearing more somber. His eyes even began to tear up.

  “You do not know how concerned I was, sweet sister. When I entered your chamber to ask of your decision, I was prepared to lash out at you. And then I saw you there, kneeling, hands clasped before you, radiant despite so much filth . . . you were a sight to behold, Aullienna. And when you told me yes, when you whispered those words of love into my ear, I knew you spoke the truth. You must understand that I never wished for you to suffer so. You simply had to learn. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

  Only when your entrails are hanging from the skywalks like garlands. “Of course, my love,” she said. “My own foolishness dictated my punishment, nothing more.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” Her brother released her hand and squeezed her shoulder, pulling her close in the process. She allowed him to do so, just as she had allowed him to embrace her after thirty days spent rotting away in her cellar prison. She performed perfectly, nurturing her malevolent brother’s pathetic need for acceptance, and then spent the following two weeks cultivating her hatred. Every bite of exquisite food she ate, all the primping and preening of oblivious handmaidens, only ripened her rage. She plotted and planned, dreaming up wicked schemes, all the while praying to Celestia for validation. The goddess’s silence was all the answer she required. Her mind was made up; her will, resolute. She would become Jimel Horlyne, the elf who Kindren said had killed one of the ancient demons all by himself. Aully had pictured herself as the statue of that great elf, reaching down from the ceiling, her face warped by both torment and triumph. By the time Carskel had come to her this morning, after Desdima had finished sewing her into the ornate gown, she’d felt primed to burn an entire nation to the ground.

  The sound of clapping filled her ears the farther along the skywalk they tread. Just as before, her people hung from the other walkways, nearly three thousand Dezren gathered en masse. The cheers rose in volume as she rounded the bend, circling onto one of the lower skywalks. Rose and tulip petals were tossed into the air, fluttering down like dead butterflies. Every face she saw was filled with a reserved sort of joy. Aully began to hate every one of them. How can you not see what’s right in front of you? Most have them had lived for far longer than her fifteen years. Surely, they weren’t so blind.

  They will see. When today is over, they will understand.

  Carskel steered her toward the forest city’s central causeway. Ethir Ayers and Mardrik Melannin guarded the entrance to the walk, the rough elves like stone guardians staring straight ahead. Both bowed when she and Carskel passed them by, and Ethir’s mouth twitched ever so slightly when his eyes met hers. He doesn’t trust me, thought Aully.

  He was right not to.

  Aully’s uncle Detrick once again waited on the causeway’s central platform, dressed in a long, flowing brown robe with deep green stripes running up the sides. He held a book in his mangled right hand, appearing eager as he watched his niece and nephew approach. Aully had to refrain from scowling at her uncle. She’d come to despise him over her time in seclusion, perhaps as much as she hated her brother. Carskel was an evil, plotting bastard, but at least she knew where she stood with him. Detrick was a craven weakling with the face of a friend.

  Detrick dropped to one knee when they reached the center platform, planting a kiss first on the back of Carskel’s hand, then on Aully’s. Then he stood and faced the crowd that surrounded them. He raised his hands, and the mob quieted. Aully glanced about her. She saw Desdima standing on one of the middle skywalks, along with the others that had escaped Dezerea with her, but Kindren and Lady Audrianna were nowhere to be found. She shuddered.

  “Nervous?” Carskel whispered.

  “Yes,” she responded. This time, she didn’t lie.

  Detrick drew their attention. “We come here today,” he said, patting the book in his hand, “to celebrate a return to the values of old. It was written by Ignacious Thyne, the first of our race whom benevolent Celestia blessed with life, that the royal house was to stay united, the family line kept pure. For five hundred years we held true to those teachings, until our people strayed, thinning the royal blood. That thinning has left us weak, and we refuse to be weak any longer! Today I announce, in the spirit of Ignacious himself, the betrothal of Carskel and Aullienna Meln, whose marriage will lead our people to a great and bright future!”

  The massive gathering of elves broke into soft applause. Aully could plainly see at least half of those packed onto the skywalks looked confused, a couple even disgusted. “Brother and sister?” she heard someone proclaim. “Unnatural!” It was all Aully could do not to grin.

  “However,” said Detrick, ignoring the objectors, “there is a slight problem that must be overcome first. Our texts say that when a Dezren is betrothed, there are only two instances in which the promise can be broken: by death or a renouncement. Princess Aullienna has already agreed
to forego her engagement to the Prince of Dezerea.” He turned to her, and she nodded, though her stomach was clenched with dread. “However, it takes two to enter a pact and two to break it. Now bring forth Kindren Thyne!”

  Aullienna looked away from him to see the dullard Dukat and one of Ethir’s sentries escorting Kindren and Lady Audrianna along the adjacent skywalk. Her mother was in front, Aully’s betrothed three steps behind, and both walked with their heads held high, needing no prodding. A collective hush came over the throng of elves as Aully’s jaw clenched. Come on. You expected this. It changes nothing.

  Detrick gestured for the pair to be shepherded onto the causeway. “And what betrothal is complete without a blessing?” he bellowed to the crowd. “Audrianna Meln, the former Lady of Stonewood, is here to provide it!”

  That statement drew even more hesitant grumbles from the throng. Even those who had been cheering so vociferously before stopped. Aully realized that almost no one was looking at her anymore, but at her mother. A great many gawked with what could only be described as reverence.

  Kindren and the Lady of Stonewood made their way down the gently swaying causeway, holding tight to the rope handrail. Kindren stared intently at Aully, as if no one else existed. He blinked three times in rapid succession. At first Aully couldn’t decide whether he was nervous or trying to send her a message, but then he nodded to her while grimacing, and she understood, right then and there, that he knew what she was about to do and approved. As if to prove his point, he held up his spoiled hand, of which only his thumb and little finger remained. Aully grimaced at the sight, then gathered herself and blinked, telling him silently that she understood.

  Her mother, however, was a different story. Audrianna waved to her people, her lips parted in a kind smile. It was her mother’s public face, similar to the one she would wear when the Lord and Lady of Stonewood held court during each Spring Festival. When she had that familiar face on, it was nearly impossible to tell how she truly felt. Cleotis had often joked that if his wife were to put on that expression for him, she would be just as likely to bludgeon him as kiss him.