The Valley of Ten Crescents Series (Box Set: Books 1-3)

by Tristan J. Tarwater

  “So, why did we walk into the middle of this?” Tavera whispered, drawing closer to Tender.

  “Too confident, too stupid?” Tender answered, a hint of a squeak in his voice.

  “I do believe it’s too late to back away slowly,” Tavera muttered, wishing she was in the hallway. Her stomach turned as one of the cultists approached them. He was younger than Cy, probably just a few years older than Tender. His rough black robes were pulled down and tied about his waist exposing his sweaty chest. Long lines of red gore streamed down his torso. His face was smeared red as well, his one eye shimmering with energy, blood collecting in the ragged scar that ran down the side of his face. As he set his eye on Tavera, his expression dropped. He looked confused and then horrified. He stepped back in an exaggerated way, recoiling in terror. “You are not Cyric!” His shriek, roused some from their ecstatic stupors, the volume in the room dropping. “What have you done with our High Priest?”

  Tavera looked down at her robes. “Tits,” she cursed, realizing all too late that by taking robes from his trunk, she had probably made herself out to be the leader of the cultists. By this time, all the bloodied people were looking towards the three of them. Some looked confused by their presence. Others looked around the temple, as if surprised to be there. Tavera looked at the floor for a second before her mouth popped open, a quick lie at the tip of her tongue but Tender pushed past her, pulling his hood back for all to see.

  “Cyric is dead!” he shouted, addressing the crowd. He waited for a moment as his statement rolled over their ears, the people looking at each other. “He is dead. He was killed, and you know how. He bled to death from his wound. While I realize now this might not be an altogether bad thing to you people,” Tender said, looking around the room. No one was moving. Tavera didn’t think she could move now if she wanted to. “He is still dead,” Tender continued. “Your leader is gone. You have no one to guide you down your errant path.

  “What you are doing here is WRONG.” He said the word so loud Tavera jumped. He took another step forward, the fire in his eyes rivaling that of the torchlight. “You are kidnapping people, in the name of your depraved and horrible Goddess! This aspect you revere, it is disgusting and manipulative. It is willing to poison the minds of people for worship, thirsty for blood and hungry for sacrifices from the unwilling!” At this, he pointed his table leg at the pregnant girl. For the first time, Tavera realized she had no weapons. The twenty or so cultists were starting to stir, looking to one another. Several started walking towards them.

  Tender seemed oblivious to everything not in their favor about this situation. As he spoke, a slight breeze seemed to waft through the room. “I am urging you, in the name of the good Bosom, to turn from this evil and to live lives that do not harm other people or yourselves. And for the love of Tits, Little, I hope you’re out there!”

  Their backs were to the altar now, at the base of the steps leading up to the platform. They were surrounded. Tavera heard Sister Kella praying under her breath; she didn’t dare take her eyes off the crowd starting to press in on them. Faces were twisted with rage and offense. Some of them growled, bloodied saliva dripping from their mouths as they gnashed their teeth. Tender grabbed Tavera by the arm and put himself in front of her, urging her toward the pregnant girl. His knuckles were white as his hand gripped the table leg. “Point, get her loose. Sister, stay behind me. Little, HURRY UP!”

  Tavera ran up the steps to the altar, her breath tight in her chest as she rushed to the side of the girl. She heard shrieks, the cultists’ cries even worse than their worship. A single cry was cut short as the smack of wood against flesh and bone ended it. Tender grunted. Tavera felt something behind her and looked out into the rest of the temple. A shimmer of a shadow in one of the corners tightened and turned into the point of a blade, the forms of Little and Gaela emerging.

  Little said nothing but charged noiselessly forward, his blade a low, shining arch as it swept upward and across the back of a cultist. The haggard-looking old man screamed in pain but wheeled around to face him. Tavera gulped, wanting to watch Gaela and Little, wanting to help them fight back. But the girl was first.

  She was surprised to see the pregnant girl was young, younger than Tavera. If she hadn’t known any better she would have thought the girl was inebriated. Incense burned, thick and sticky, making the girl cough. All along the start of her scalp were the telltale scars. One of her scars was jagged, broken. She had resisted at some point. The pregnant girl wasn’t bleeding and both her eyes were intact. Her hands were free and her dark, long hair covered her face, as if her head had fallen forward with sleepiness. “Hey,” Tavera said, trying to stay calm. “Hey, wake up. Rise and shine. First meal time.” The girl picked her head up slowly, her eyes fluttering open. “Whatever you’re on, I could probably get a pretty grip for it in the ‘Wicks,” Tavera tried to joke, smacking the girl lightly across the face. Her pupils were so dilated Tavera couldn’t tell what color the irises were. “Tits,” Tavera cursed, trying not to think of what the cultists were going to do to this girl in this state. Behind them was the altar, the plate laid out with various knives and other sharp instruments. Tavera racked her brain on how to wake up the girl.

  The bottle of vile-smelling liquid. Maybe that would work. Tavera threw the pack to the ground and rummaged for what seemed like far too long. There was a rumble and a crash behind her. “To Her Hems with you!” she heard Tender curse, followed by the sounds of fists and kicks. Tavera pried the stopper off, putting it under the girl’s nose and moving it around. The girl’s head jerked up suddenly, revealing drowsy eyes. They focused on Tavera for a moment, then jerked to the side, looking at something that was apparently drawing closer.

  Tavera stood up and wheeled around in time to face the cultist running toward her, his blood-splattered body making her cringe. She ducked as he dove for her, sinewy, blood-stained arms outstretched. “You will not take her from us,” he shrieked, diving at her again, arms flailing. She dodged out of his grasp, rolling off of him before kicking him squarely on his backside, pushing him down and to the ground. He screamed in pain this time, his knees driving into the stone of the temple stage.

  “Toss off, I’m trying to do just that,” Tavera joked nervously. She set her feet firmly on the ground, waiting for him to attack. The cultist scrambled up, grabbing one of the tools from the altar. Tavera reached for her own, gulping as she remembered she was unarmed.

  “You shall be purged and we will have our avatar!” He screamed again as he rushed forward. Tavera stepped aside and tripped him, hoping he would stay down this time or at least be discouraged. She kicked him hard in the stomach, not able to help but snarl as her boot made contact with his gut.

  The man gasped and coughed as he clutched his midsection. Tavera turned around to deal with the pregnant girl but felt the man rise behind her. She turned around quickly to face him. “I’d stay down, if I were you,” she threatened, trying to focus on him and not the swinging swords and arms in the temple. His eyes gave away his plan before he executed it. The cultist rushed the girl in the seat, his arm raised to strike her with the knife.

  It was Tavera’s turn to rush him. She leapt forward, intending to shove him with her shoulder. Perhaps a trip down the stairs would stay his hand. But he raised the knife to defend himself, so Tavera had to change plans. As the man dodged, the knife sliced across her hands and arms, barely missing her face by a hands’-width. Still Tavera managed to grab hold of his wrists. The cultist struggled. He moved the knife, trying to slice at her wrist, teeth bared. She saw the muscle and sinew in his arms ripple as he pushed against her and Tavera strained against him, her adrenaline posing only some match for his zeal for the Goddess.

  “Do not resist,” the cultist hissed. His blue eyes were intent upon her and he spit when he spoke. “I have already begun the process on you.” Tavera winced, feeling the cuts on her hands and arms burn as she fought him, blood dripping down her skin. “Do you not feel the fil
th of your self draining from you?” he hissed. “Ecstasy awaits as the body is purged and the spirit comes forward. Fear will be forgotten, regrets. Do you not wish this?”

  Tavera eyed the sharp blade one more time before she shifted her weight, ramming her knee into his groin. He doubled over and she head-butted him as hard as she dared. The man slumped to the ground, clutching his groin, the knife at his side. Tavera kicked him in the gut again, stars circling in her eyes.

  “Chew Her Hems and stay down,” she mumbled, picking the knife up off the ground. Out of the corner of her eye she saw two cultists rushing her way. Without hesitating she threw the knife at one. The blade sunk into the man’s belly, his hands wrapping around the hilt of the blade while he grimaced terribly. The woman still advanced. Tavera balled her fists, ready for a fight when the woman fell forward, as if struck squarely between the shoulder blades. The woman’s face twisted in pain, though no sound escaped her mouth as she fell forward.

  As the woman fell away, Tavera spied Gaela, her hands spread in some arcane gesture. Tavera watched as Gaela stamped her foot, then slid it across the ground. A ripple of motion shot its way toward a half-naked man waving his arms wildly at Little. As the force hit him, he toppled over, almost falling onto Tender’s brother, who let out a string of impressive curses. Tavera raised her eyebrows at Gaela before getting back to the girl. The girl seemed more coherent now. “Come on now,” Tavera said. “Time for us to calmly slip away while those folk do the hard work.” Tavera snaked an arm under her shoulder, helping her up.

  She looked over the room, noticing Tender and Little were drawing most of the attention. The barkeep had sufficiently enraged them with his speech and Little made a good show of his sword work. The cultists seemed afraid of Gaela. Her hand gestures drew curses from them but they didn’t draw near, deciding to take on the two physical foes instead. Sister Kella stayed at Gaela’s side. She couldn’t tell if Kella was afraid to fight or afraid to start fighting. Tavera hoped Tender and Little would give her the chance to slip out with the girl.

  She glanced toward the plate, noticing a hint of red light shining on the silvered surface. Tavera looked up quickly, shifting the girl’s weight as her eyes went big, the red cusp of the full moon starting to make its way into view through the skylight.

  The eclipse was happening. Had the moment to perform the ceremony passed entirely?

  The fight raged on. Tender and Little were splattered with blood. Whether it was their own or from the cultists, Tavera couldn’t tell. Gaela moved her hands and two cultists fell head over heels, crying out in pain. If Tavera could get the girl out before the eclipse was over, perhaps the bloodshed would end.

  A shrill cry escaped from the throat of one of the cultists. Tavera wheeled around to see where the threat came from. An older man with stringy hair, his pale face streaked with the red of blood and firelight, pointed at them with a bony, gnarled hand. “You shall not take her from us! You shall not deny us our avatar!” he shrieked. A strange quiet stretched through the temple as he reached within his robes. What he drew out made Tavera catch her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. It was a sickle, like the one Cy had used when he cast his spell on her.

  The old man flourished the curved blade and Tavera felt her skin crawl. She stepped back, the silver metal starting to glow as his lips spoke words she could not hear. “Point!” Tender shouted as he rammed his shoulder into the adversary he was fighting, throwing her aside. He hurled himself at the old man just as the ball of light licked off the tip of the blade.

  The ball seemed to shoot toward Tavera in slow motion, her eyes starting to cross as she followed its straight path. She had been hit by one of these before. What had the cultists talked about? Fear, purging, freedom. What had the spell done before? It had made her face her greatest regret and her greatest fear. The light came closer. Her mind buzzed, though her body wouldn’t move.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the plate glow red, the full moon’s light pouring into it from above. Her fears, her regrets, could she give them up? Or would she fall victim to them all the rest of her life? She closed her eyes as the ball of light struck her with a force not felt by her skin but by her mind. The same pain seeped through her eyes, nose and mouth. It swam around her head, trying to wrap itself around something, some thought.

  Tavera’s head jerked back and her grip on the girl loosened. She fell to the ground, her hands going to her face to try and pry the pain out of her head. Her breath came in short gasps as the light danced within her eyes, but she forced her mind to push her dark thoughts out, purging them herself before the light had its way with her mind. No regrets, no fears.

  What was done had been done. Stabbing Lori, leaving Derk, keeping secrets from Tender…they had not been selfish acts, any of them, though to an outside eye they might seem that way. She knew they weren’t. Her head hit the ground, bouncing against the cold stone. She smiled as Tender drove Little’s sword into the side of the old man, his eyes aglow with triumphant rage. The man slumped down to the ground, his open mouth foaming with blood and spittle.

  The last thing she saw was Tender running for her, his bloody hands stretched toward her as he mouthed her name.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  No Regrets

  The sound of scraping chairs, a raucous singer and a barkeep’s shouts of orders mingled with the aroma of frying bread and stewing rabbits. This was fine by Tavera. She was lost in her thoughts, wondering what the strange dream she’d had the night before meant. In her dream, she was naked and standing with the man who had led the ceremony of her initiation into the Cup. They were kissing when suddenly she was wheeled around. A woman stood in front of her, an elven woman with long dark hair and sad eyes. The woman smiled as she placed a crown on Tavera’s head and when she did, thousands of elves came into view behind her.

  They stood, their ears growing, large and wide, and when they were as big as they were tall, the elves’ ears began to flap, like the wings of a bat. One by one, they began to flit up into the air, flying up and away. The woman also flew up, holding her hand out but Tavera’s ears hadn’t both grown. Only one had, while the injured one remained small. The large ear flapped, lifting her part-way off the ground but Tavera flew in circles, unable to get anywhere. All of the elves fluttered away into a forest of green-and-white leaves, dappled light seeming to swallow them as they flew farther and farther away. The woman watched her with haunting eyes as she flew backward until she was out of sight.

  A mug of ale was set before Tavera, rousing her from her thoughts. Her eyes caught Tender’s and he smiled at her from across the table, sitting backward on his chair before taking a swig of his ale.

  “How is it?” she asked, staring down into her mug. Tender smacked his lips, looking to the side as he analyzed the taste, taking another swig and swishing it around in his mouth before giving his verdict.

  “Not as good as mine, but not half bad,” he said, setting his mug down on the table. “But hey, this drink is practically free, so I won’t be overly harsh.”

  “I can’t believe you tried to turn down the money from Sister Fera’s father,” Tavera laughed, some of her seriousness melting away. “You’ve a lot to learn. If a man offers you a reward for returning his pregnant daughter after her being missing for a year, you take it!”

  “Her temple offered us room and board for no cost, didn’t they?” Tender said. “They were glad to have the young sister back.”

  “Free food from a temple ain’t pay, Tender,” Tavera sighed, resting her chin in her hand. “It’s charity. Charity for hard work. We were dealt a hardship and we dealt with it well, considering. I’d like a bit more than a bowl of soup after my sword eats a bit.”

  “Well, we didn’t do it for money, Point, we did it…because it was the right thing to do.” He took another, slower sip from his cup as he looked at her, biting his top lip. “You…do you agree?”

  “Of course I do.” It had been the right thing to do. �
�No regrets. We couldn’t rescue Kella just to have Fera turn out like her or worse.” Tavera finally managed to drink her ale, making a face as she swallowed. “This ale is too watery, Tender, how dare you say it was fine?”

  “There’s a law about the contents of the beer in this town,” he said, draining his cup and setting it down with a bang on the table top. “Something about moderation…I dunno.” He shrugged, looking at her cup. “You don’t like it?”

  “Ah, it’s…it’s fine.” She took another gulp, stifling a grimace as she swallowed and feigning a smile as she looked to Tender. He hadn’t shaved in a while and his face was starting to catch up with his mustache, his dark eyes still merry in the light of the tavern.

  “I know you just miss Tender’s drinks, you do.” He smiled and winked at her, taking her mug from her and downing it. Tavera just laughed, drumming her fingers on the table top. Her face became serious again as thoughts of the previous phase swam around her mind.

  “Do you think…do you think Kella will find her child?” Tavera blinked as she spoke, finding the words harder to say than she thought. As much as she had figured out reading Kella’s journals and interacting with the cult, what they had learned afterward had been more astonishing. Cyric had not only been her husband but the father of a child Sister Kella had seen for a brief instant before her fellow priestesses had whisked it away. The older priestess had been rescued years ago in the last stage of her pregnancy. Tavera remembered Sister Kella’s face as she recounted the ordeal. Members of the church had insisted her child could not stay with its mother. Sister Kella’s face had darkened when she let slip the sinister truth. Some of the older members had even insisted the child should not live.