The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  You wouldn’t keep such an artifact lying around for butchers to find, Ventus’s words echoed.

  A sudden rush of adrenaline drew Sable’s hazy world into sharp focus. She was in Ventus’s wagon, which meant she was most likely on her way to his temple at Tül Bahn, along with Velik, Brinn, and Lucan’s dead bodies. Because—somehow—they had found her flute, and they’d paid for it with their lives.

  Maker’s Mercy. She had to get out of there.

  She arched her back away from the wagon’s wall, pressing herself against Velik’s dead body. She squeezed her eyes shut, turning her face away as the stench assaulted her—the ale, the rot, the mildew and blood. Some of Brinn’s hair tickled her cheek, and Sable cringed, holding her breath and revulsion as she strained to reach beneath the cuff of her boot, where her small knife should have been. It wasn’t.

  Sable cursed just as the wagon creaked to an abrupt halt.

  “…move it,” a man’s voice was saying.

  More voices murmured from the front of the wagon, leather creaked, and a pair of boots landed with a thud.

  A bird whistled nearby. Sable whipped her head toward the sound, eyes narrowed. She knew the birds of this forest well, and she’d never heard that particular intonation before. The intervals were too long, the notes too purposeful.

  The air pulsed, followed by a wet snick. Someone cried out.

  “Secure the wagon!” another voice yelled.

  All around her, leather shuffled and metal scraped. Carefully, so as not to draw attention to the wagon, Sable scooted nearer the slats, where she spotted a small hole. She peered out, but a guard blocked her view.

  “Watch the trees!” someone yelled.

  The silence breathed with anticipation, horses snorted, and Sable wondered who was stupid enough to intercept Ventus and his lethal entourage.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” boomed a big and unfamiliar voice from up ahead, “but you might wanna watch the road, too.”

  Shouting erupted all around her.

  Sable craned her neck, frustrated by her blindness and her bindings, and something flat and glossy caught her eye.

  Nightglass.

  It wasn’t more than a forgotten shard, probably meant for an arrowhead, but it would work. With renewed hope, she inched herself forward and grabbed the shard. She moved fast but carefully, slicing her wrists free. She ripped the gag from her mouth, untied her ankles, and lifted the tarp’s edge just enough to peer out.

  A felled tree blocked the road ahead—the reason the wagon had stopped in the first place.

  And then she spotted a mountain of a man with reddish hair and a beard to match, swinging a hatchet into one of Ventus’s guards, while another cloaked figure—equally tall, but leaner—was caught in a whirlwind battle with a Silent. The lean figure ducked, his cowl fell back, and a knot of bronze hair gleamed.

  Jos.

  By the wards. What was he doing here, and where in the world had he learned to fight like that?

  The tarp pulled back completely, and Ventus loomed over her. He noted her unbound wrists and ankles, and his dark eyes narrowed to slits.

  You will come with me.

  She winced from the sudden intrusion and scrambled away, but pain seared her skull like a hot iron, knocking her flat. Ventus leapt into the wagon’s bed and clamped a firm hand around her wrist.

  “Let me go!” she yelled as he dragged her out of the back of the wagon, his grip like a steadily winding chain.

  He led her to an unmanned horse waiting at the side of the road. Its rider—one of Ventus’s guards—lay sprawled on the ground with an arrow through his skull.

  Mount, his voice snarled in her head.

  With a burst of resolve, Sable reared her head back, right into Ventus’s nose. He growled, his grip loosened, and the stabbing in her head faded. Sable seized the opportunity. She dove beneath the horse and rolled back to her feet, but her temples wrenched again. Spots danced before her eyes, and she collapsed on all fours, heaving.

  You will not escape me, sulaziér.

  That word. What did it mean?

  Sable clenched her teeth against the pain, curled her hands into fists, and crawled away from him. Bursts of heat shocked her skull like lightning, and Sable fell to her side, her insides on fire.

  A man’s dying scream cut through the blaze—the sound of life being cruelly stripped away—and it’d come from the trees. It had to be one of Jos’s men. A Silent must’ve found him.

  “I’ll go!” yelled the mountain with red hair. He climbed the embankment, but Sable knew he was too late.

  Jos staggered before the remaining Silent, blood dripping from his temple, his expression murderous. He spat on the ground, then charged the Silent with a fury Sable had only guessed at before. To see it in full was terrifying.

  I said mount! Ventus’s voice snarled in her mind, twisting and squeezing it into a pulp.

  “What… do you want?” Sable growled as a wailing filled the air.

  It was the sound of a dozen strings, screeching dissonant intervals in the highest pitch, suddenly cut short. The Silent’s head bounced to the ground and rolled to a stop at Ventus’s feet.

  Never, in all her ten years of living here, had she seen anyone kill a Silent.

  Jos wiped blood from his forehead only to smear it with more blood. He was covered in it. Sable didn’t know how much of it was his.

  “Call back your Silent,” Jos said through his teeth. His blue eyes looked black.

  Ventus cocked his head to the side.

  Jos’s next step faltered, and he steadied himself against the wagon. “I said—” He gasped, his features twisted with pain, and his bloodied sword clattered to the ground.

  Ventus had lifted his hold on Sable to focus on Jos.

  Jos yelled through his teeth, hands curled into fists.

  She could run, but even if she got away, Ventus would never stop hunting her. Proof of that lay dead in his wagon. Making a sudden decision, Sable pulled the nightglass shard from her sleeve and crept forward, her steps falling with practiced silence. Ventus didn’t notice. He only had eyes for the man who’d killed his Silent, and his vengeance would not be swift. He would make Jos suffer.

  Ventus’s vengeance would be her redemption.

  Jos doubled over and fell to his knees, fists pressed to his temples as if could physically push Ventus’s power out of his skull. Ventus took a step toward him, reveling in Jos’s agony, and Sable jammed the nightglass shard into the bend of his neck, where an artery pulsed.

  Ventus jerked and staggered; Jos collapsed with a gasp. Ventus whirled on Sable, eyes livid, black teeth bared. He reached for her, but his body flinched. He hiccuped in surprise, slumped to his knees, and fell face-first to the ground. A hilt protruded from his back. Sable looked up and met Jos’s severe gaze. Held it.

  “What are you doing here?” she yelled at him.

  “You’re… welcome,” he hissed, rolling his shoulder, then clenched his teeth. “I need to find my men.”

  Sable surveyed the carnage around them, the broken bodies, the blood. She’d worked with death—witnessed brutality of the worst kind—but she’d never seen so much at once. Jos and his men had taken on seven guards, two Silent, and Ventus. And won.

  She looked back at him, eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “Now’s not the time to chat, healer.” He grabbed the reins of a nearby horse. “Get in the saddle.”

  He expected her to go with him.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  His eyes darkened, violent and storming. “I just saved your life.”

  “And you have my eternal thanks.” She turned away from him, plucked a couple of daggers off of Ventus’s fallen guards, and shoved them in her belt. She approached Ventus and considered searching him for her flute but decided against it. The last thing she needed right now was for this lethal Provincial to witness some Liagé artifact illuminating at her touch. Besides, history had proven that if it me
ant to find a way back to her, it would. Without her help.

  “Get on the godsdamn horse.”

  Sable pulled the dagger from Ventus’s back, then faced Jos. “I see that I didn’t make myself clear. When I say I’m not…” Her voice trailed as Ventus’s hand twitched.

  She gaped at him. It wasn’t possible. She’d severed his carotid artery… but even as she stared, the skin at his neck was knitting itself together, and his fingers began drawing symbols on the ground, in blood.

  “What in the five hells…?” Jos said behind her.

  Trees rustled above, bending toward each other, whispering secrets, and a shadow fell over everything. Jos’s horse whinnied, ears twitching, and she jerked against the reins.

  Ventus began to chant.

  Sable punched him in the face, silencing him. He smiled up at her with bloodied teeth. Before Sable could wonder, the crimson symbols flashed white. Energy pulsed in a shockwave of power, a wall of wind barreled through the trees, and all fell still.

  “The horse,” Jos said quietly, pulling a knife from somewhere on his bruised and battered body.

  This time, Sable didn’t argue. She started backing steadily toward him, and a click sounded nearby. A yip echoed opposite. And then a black form melted from the shadows of a tree.

  A shade.

  Here, in broad daylight.

  It crouched upon all fours, swaying back and forth, back and forth, its head cocked to the side with animal curiosity, yellowed eyes fixed on them. Its slitted nostrils flared as it sniffed at them, and its black lips curled with a deep and rumbling snarl.

  “I thought they only hunted at night,” Jos said behind her.

  “I did too,” she said.

  Another shade materialized from the shadows, beside the first. And another, and another, blocking the road while more lined the crest of the escarpment.

  Sable had never seen so many at once.

  Her gaze met Jos’s. Wordless understanding passed between them, and in a whip of motion, Jos leapt into the saddle and clasped thick fingers around Sable’s readied hand. She jumped, letting him swing her onto the horse’s rear, and Sable had barely secured her arms before he kicked them into a full gallop. Shades snarled and bounded after them.

  The shades on the ledge leapt down, tearing up clumps of earth as they sprinted. Jos urged their horse faster when a handful of shades appeared ahead, blocking the road.

  Their horse skidded to a halt and reared.

  Jos cursed.

  Sable just tried to hold on.

  Their horse landed on all fours again and bolted into the trees.

  Jos regained some control, deftly maneuvering through the thick trees, but the horse couldn’t run fast enough. Not while carrying the weight of two bodies. Shades flanked them on both sides, pressing in closer and closer.

  “Do you have nightglass?” Sable yelled.

  “My belt,” he yelled back.

  Sable felt around his waist and jerked the nightglass dagger free right as a shade closed in. It swiped, but Sable hacked off its hand.

  It shrieked and fell back, but another sidled up to replace the first. Jos positioned himself to kick it away.

  “Careful!” Sable yelled. “Their claws are poisonous!”

  Jos hesitated, and Sable threw the nightglass. It landed in the shade’s shoulder, and the shade staggered and fell back.

  “That was my last nightglass blade!” Jos yelled.

  “Then run faster!”

  “This is as fast as it gets, healer!”

  The shades were gaining on them.

  Sable scanned the landscape. The Kjürda snaked through this part of the woods. If only they could find it…

  The sound of rushing water whispered through the trees, and Sable felt a surge of hope. A song of salvation.

  “There!” Sable pointed.

  Jos veered their horse in the direction she pointed. In a sudden burst, a shade pushed closer, all saw-like teeth and snarls, but Sable knocked it away with the sole of her boot, careful to avoid its claws.

  “Get ready to jump!” Sable said.

  The trees broke, and a narrow canyon stretched before them.

  The shades closed in.

  Sable grabbed Jos’s arm. Their horse skidded to a halt, and they leapt from the saddle. Sable landed with a stagger, but Jos landed on his feet and pulled her forward, and the two of them charged the cliff.

  One shade leapt, claws open and greedy.

  They jumped.

  Nails sliced air; a snarl raged in defeat.

  The moment froze. Jos and Sable hung in the air, silhouettes suspended between gray sky and rapids. They dropped like arrows, boots piercing the frothy surface of the Kjürda, and ice-cold water swallowed them whole.

  13

  Prince Hagan leaned his head back against the bathtub while a Scab girl rubbed soap into his hair. Her fingers moved to his temples, and he let out a soft moan. His headaches had intensified ever since Jeric had left. So had the tension in court.

  Since the horror at Reichen, the city of Dunsten had met a similar fate. Per the commander’s report, Scab slaves were nowhere to be found, and the bodies of the townsfolk had been left in a heap at the foot of their temple. Corpses with skin like ash, stained by a web of black veins, eyes missing. Rumors of the atrocity circulated throughout Corinth, and the jarls were quickly losing faith in King Tommad’s ability to protect them from the enemies within their own borders.

  As much as Hagan was loath to admit it, Jeric’s presence at Skyhold held the vultures at bay. He was the silent threat, the swift blade in the dark, the thread that pulled the delicate scales in perfect balance. He was the promise fulfilled, the secret weapon, the one who secured the Angevin reign. Without him, the jarls squawked and bit and raked their sharp talons, each vying for the largest piece of the king’s withering body. And how it withered.

  Rasmin had better be right about the girl, Hagan thought. Because he didn’t know how else to combat the power this mysterious army wielded—a power Rasmin believed to be led by a Liagé.

  The Scab wrung water over his hair, rinsing it clean, and then stepped away.

  Hagan lazily opened his eyes and watched her retrieve one of the towels. She was a new servant. Murcare, who oversaw the skal mines and their laborers, had pulled her from one of the mines, thinking Hagan might find… use for her. She was a pretty thing. Large, dark eyes and full lips. Her shape was soft and slender with dawning adolescence, yet supple where it mattered most. She returned with the towel, but Hagan reached up and wrapped his fingers around her wrist.

  She stilled at his touch, and the pulse in her wrist quickened.

  “Undress,” he said.

  Her gaze dropped to the floor, and she swallowed.

  He squeezed her wrist harder. “I don’t like to be kept waiting, Scab.”

  With her free hand, she fumbled with the ties of her dress. Hagan released her wrist and watched hungrily as she slipped out of her clothing. Jeric didn’t understand his appetite for the Scab girls; Hagan didn’t understand why Jeric didn’t have one. Scab girls were like wild horses. Hard bodies and iron wills. Difficult to break. Each time, Hagan felt a sense of triumph he was certain Jeric would relish, if only he tried.

  The girl crossed her arms over her young breasts.

  “Don’t cover yourself,” Hagan commanded.

  Her arms fell awkwardly to her sides. His eyes raked over her, and his body responded. Not for the first time, he thought the gods had given a disproportionate amount of the world’s beauty to the Sol Velorian women.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  Her dark eyes lifted to his. Through the tears, he saw the iron will. The flame of defiance—a flame that only aroused him further.

  “Join me,” he said, motioning to the tub.

  She didn’t move.

  His eyes narrowed. “I won’t ask you again.”

  She stepped closer, trembling, then stepped into the tub. He grabbed her arm to steady
and guide her into his lap, her back to his chest. She sat rigid, her eyes shut tight as he pulled the clip from her hair. He combed his fingers through her thick mane, then grabbed a handful and pulled it back, exposing her neck. A tear leaked down her jaw and dropped into the bathwater.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said, licking the salt from her cheek. “In fact, I believe that, in time, you’ll come to find it rather… enjoyable.”

  Her breath quivered. “Fava…” she pleaded in her native tongue. “A’noi.” Please. Don’t.

  A sharp knock sounded on the door.

  Hagan ignored it.

  The door flung open.

  Hagan growled and looked up as Astrid breezed into the washroom. Astrid never visited him like this, alone. She regarded the girl with disdain and regarded him with something far worse.

  “Get out,” Astrid snapped, snatching a towel and tossing it at the girl.

  The girl barely caught the towel before it hit her in the face.

  Hagan grabbed the girl’s arm, holding her firmly in place. “You don’t give the orders here.”

  Astrid’s expression darkened. “You know I wouldn’t come here willingly if it wasn’t important.”

  Hagan studied his sister, then batted a dismissive hand at the girl. “Go.”

  The girl hurried out of the tub, wrapped herself in the towel, and scurried out of the room.

  “Honestly, Hagan,” Astrid said scathingly. “Brevera is attacking our roads, our allies have knives at our throats, and you’re in here bathing a Scab. If you’re not careful, one of these days, you might discover your Scab is really Liagé in disguise, and she’ll kill you in your bed.”

  He would’ve argued that Rasmin sifted through every Scab, searching for the Liagé among them, but considering the recent events happening in Reichen and Dunsten, he was beginning to lose faith in the Head Inquisitor’s abilities. Instead, he leaned back and stretched his arms along the rim of the tub. A cord of silvery skin stretched from his elbow to his wrist—a scar, a reminder.

  “I’m not really in the mood for your admonishment this morning,” he said, eyeing her. “Say your piece and leave.”