The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  “Stovich ain’t gonna do scat,” Keffyn said. “Man’s all talk.”

  “Man also owns most of the agriculture,” Rosin commented.

  “Yeah, and who staffs his slaves?” Keffyn asked rhetorically.

  “Speaking of Stovich, you hear what happened in Reichen?” Dev asked, all seriousness.

  “Careful, Dev,” Grag warned.

  “What?” Dev defended with a shrug. “The way these rumors’ve spread, it’s practically public knowledge.”

  “Except it’s not.”

  “The five hells are you talking about?” Klaus demanded, looking from Grag to Dev.

  Dev had everyone’s attention now.

  Despite the gravity in Grag’s eyes, Dev pushed on, “All the townsfolk were found dead. Men, women, and children… left in a heap on the temple steps.”

  “What?” Rosin gasped.

  “I think you’re full of scat,” Keffyn remarked.

  “Swear to the gods,” Dev said.

  “And the Scabs?” Rosin asked.

  “Gone. Like they vanished.”

  “Well, this just gets better and better,” Klaus murmured sardonically.

  “If that’s true,” Rosin said, “no wonder Stovich’s been clawing at Hagan’s back for reinforcements.”

  “If that’s true,” Keffyn added.

  “And you know what else I heard…” Dev dipped his head conspiratorially. “The bodies… their eyes were missing. Like they’d been ripped from their sockets.”

  Rosin made a gagging sound.

  “No…” Klaus shook his head with disbelief.

  “That’s what I heard.” Dev held up a surrendering hand.

  “That’s the creepiest piece of scat I’ve ever—” Keffyn started.

  “What is it, Grag?”

  All eyes looked to Grag, who’d crouched, parting the grasses as he stared at a thick trail of mutilation.

  “What in the…” Klaus started, and he followed after Grag.

  The others followed, too, Dev’s macabre story forgotten.

  Blood stained the earth and grasses in a crimson trail, littered with flecks of skin and hair, and—Grag stepped around the tree—muscle and intestines. So terrible was the carnage, Grag wouldn’t have known the poor creature had he not spotted the wolf’s mutilated paw.

  “Lina’s Mercy,” Keffyn whispered behind him, crouching low. “What did this?”

  Corinth was famous for its wolf population. Wolves roamed these woods in packs, though they rarely brought Grag and his men any trouble. As long as Grag minded his own business, they minded theirs. But they’d yet to see any wolves on this hunt.

  Grag frowned and searched the trees for answers. “I don’t know.”

  The men stared at the grotesque canvas of death.

  Fyrok crouched nearby, touched the blood, then wiped it on grass. “A gray wouldn’t do this, would it?” His question was for Grag.

  Grays—bears indigenous to these parts—didn’t travel this far from the mountains, and he’d never seen a gray act in this way. “No,” Grag said. No creature indigenous to this world would do this.

  A stiff wind pushed the trees, and the pine needles rustled, sounding like rain. Grag glanced up and scanned the thick boughs.

  What are you hiding?

  Jeric had never known pain like this.

  From his toes to his fingernails, an immeasurable force pulled him apart. His bones were like cord, pulled taut enough to snap. Fire scorched his veins, and when he opened his mouth to scream, water rushed in.

  No, not water. Blood.

  The taste of it filled him, drowned him as it slid down his throat and into his belly, yet repulsed as he was by the taste, he wanted more. Thirsted for more. Needed more.

  His stomach clawed for it, demanded it. Yearned for it. A savage creature raged inside of him, caged only by the thin shell of his will—a will he clung to with hopeless desperation. He could not let it break. He didn’t know why, only that he could not.

  And then he saw faces. So many faces, floating before him like a mirage, fading from one to another. All people he had killed, lives he had stolen. So many lives, and he remembered every one.

  He hadn’t expected to remember.

  He shouldn’t remember. They meant nothing to him.

  Their blood flooded him, and their dying screams played like a terrible symphony in his mind, screeching and discordant.

  Red.

  Red.

  Red… Beautiful, intoxicating red.

  He gulped it in like a starved man, reveling in the symphony that’d seemed so terrible before. It was not terrible now. It was a masterpiece.

  The glorious rise and falls of their cries, the raw pulse of distant screaming. It was the anthem of a hunter—his anthem—and he would have more. He would engorge himself with it.

  A firm voice cut through the chaos. A woman’s voice. He only caught one word, but it seemed important, and like the faces, he didn’t understand.

  His bones stretched farther, and new pain pricked at the fringes of his awareness. The monster inside of him ravaged his will. Cracks splintered his resolve, and the monster poured through the holes, flooding him with insanity, consuming him with bloodlust. It needed to feed. He needed to feed. He needed blood, and he would have the woman’s first. How sweet it would be.

  Jos.

  There was that word again. Why did he know it? Why did it matter?

  Red.

  Red.

  Red.

  A sharp crack reverberated through him, bold and thunderous and bright.

  Lightning.

  It pierced the red and broke it apart, like a sun bursting through clouds. In that moment, in the spaces between red, he saw hazel eyes.

  Her eyes. Angry and demanding and clear.

  Brilliant.

  He suddenly remembered that Jos was the name he’d been called as a boy, by his mother. A wave of heat engulfed him; something inside of him shattered. And he felt himself falling… falling…

  Then…

  Nothing.

  A whisper. Warmth and then…

  More nothing.

  Light flickered far away, but it dissolved even as he turned toward it. The darkness stretched, cold and infinite.

  Lonely.

  He had never felt such loneliness before.

  Murmurs aroused the silence. He felt a brush of warmth, followed by gentle touch and a song—a beautiful song. The notes wrapped around him, lending him strength, lighting a path and coaxing him forth. This time, he grabbed hold. He clung to the notes, refusing to let them go, gripping until his fingertips bled, and they carried him onward. Song seeped into his skin like rays of sunlight; the light turned blinding. And then he opened his eyes.

  19

  Sable knelt beside Jos and checked his stitches. Three black lines were all that remained of the horror that’d almost taken his life. She wondered if they’d remain black for the rest of his days. Regardless, it was a small price to pay.

  Jos had been sleeping solidly for the past four days, though Tallyn assured her Jos would wake. After that first night, Tallyn had pulled a straw pallet from beneath his bed and spread it before the fire, and together, they’d lifted Jos onto it. Sable had been surprised that a recluse like Tallyn would keep one, but when she voiced as much, he explained that he’d always kept it for Tolya.

  Even in this, the old woman seemed to be looking out for her.

  Tallyn’s home proved to be a sanctuary, exempt from the cruel laws of nature that pervaded over The Wilds. Not even shades encroached upon his land, though their distant howls echoed throughout the night. Tallyn’s power seemed a convenience—one that allowed a person to hide from the world—and Sable almost envied him for it.

  Tallyn remained a steady and quiet presence, as if he’d said all he meant to say that first night and had decided to give Sable space to sort through it all. And it was a lot to sort through. She still didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t go back to Skanden,
and according to Tallyn, who’d ventured into Craven to purchase clothing and supplies for them, Ventus was very much alive and searching every town in The Wilds for her. If she chose to stay with Tallyn, she might be safe, but she’d be a prisoner. It would be no different than her life in Skanden, but she was so tired of that life, of hiding. Of survival.

  She wanted to live.

  Which meant she’d have to leave The Wilds altogether. But this left her with the same questions as before: Where would she go? Istraa? Would they even let her return? And how would she get there? She had nothing. What little items of value she owned were still at Tolya’s, and she didn’t dare go back there. She thought of Jos’s offer, but she couldn’t think on that offer without also remembering the harsh words he’d spoken.

  She sighed and regarded Jos. He didn’t look so frightening now. Sleep stripped years from his life, making him appear almost youthful, and, somehow—painfully—even more handsome. That first night at Tallyn’s, sleep had tormented him. Sable had woken to his thrashing and cries, and the only thing that’d calmed him back to sleep was her singing. She’d pressed her palm to his cheek, but she hadn’t sung the lullaby she’d sung to Jedd. It hadn’t felt right for Jos, and so she’d let her heart guide the notes until Jos’s body relaxed and he drifted back to sleep. Every night she’d done this, though each night he’d responded faster. It also meant she’d had to arrange her bedding on the hard floor beside him.

  She’d cut away his tunic and left his chest bare in order to have easier access to his wound, and she’d thrown the scraps of fabric into the fire. Sometimes when she looked at him, the sight of him filled her with wonder. She’d seen many bodies over the years, all shapes and sizes, but she’d never seen anyone built like Jos.

  His body was a weapon, his torso a trained landscape of hard rises and sharp creases. There was no waste, no excess. Even his shape was a discipline. He bore a handful of scars, but the one beneath his left pectoral often drew her attention. It was a flat bubble of silvery skin. A knife wound, she imagined, that’d come precariously close to his heart. She wondered who’d made it, and thought that, perhaps, this trouble with the shade wasn’t the first time Jos had tempted death.

  A tattoo of a sword ornamented his left bicep. It encircled the rounded muscle, hilt to tip, and the hand guard had been artistically drawn to resemble a wolf’s head. Sable wondered why this symbol was important to him. She wondered what all of his markings meant, for each told a story about a life that remained a mystery to her, and it made her think: had the scars made the man, or had the man caused the scars?

  She dipped her fingers in a salve she’d made with lavender and gently wiped it over the stitches. She’d done this three times a day for the past four days to help the skin heal, and so far, it seemed to be working. A few days more, and she’d remove the stitches. She glanced at the scar beneath his chest, dipped her fingers in the salve, and rubbed some of it there as well.

  A prickle of awareness tickled her mind. She stopped humming and glanced up to find Jos watching her.

  She had a feeling he’d been watching her for a while.

  He didn’t speak, didn’t move. He merely looked at her, eyes deep and shifting like the seas, his expression unreadable. The words he’d spoken stood between them like giants, and Sable drew her fingers from his chest and glanced away.

  His hand came to rest upon her shoulder.

  She looked at his hand, at him.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  The words fell out in a pained whisper, wrapped in apology, and as she held his gaze, she saw that the man who had closed his eyes on this world wasn’t the same as the man who had woken. Jos had been a storm, raging and deadly, ripping the world apart with his power, but this Jos stood like a survivor in the aftermath, in quiet surveillance of all that had transpired, his body ripped open, soul laid bare, looking at her with nothing but gratitude.

  She placed her hand over his, surprised by his warmth. “You’re welcome,” she said quietly.

  The silence breathed, their gazes held, and Sable felt something thaw between them. Jos pulled his hand away and glanced down at himself, at the shade wound. A crease formed between his brows.

  “I’m doing everything I can to help them fade,” she said, “but you might have those lines permanently.”

  His fingers trailed over the stitches, but he held his thoughts close. Still, they draped a heavy blanket of solemnity over him.

  “You should eat,” Sable said, standing. She walked to the stove, spooned leftover stew into a bowl, and snagged a hunk of bread.

  Jos was sitting up when she returned, though the exertion had cost him some of his color. He crossed his legs, rest his elbows on his knees, and pressed his fingers to his temples.

  “Here,” she said.

  He glanced up. His eyes focused on her a second later.

  She held out the bowl and bread. “Try to eat.”

  Jos’s gaze shifted to the bowl, but he said nothing, did nothing. Sable didn’t take offense; he hadn’t meant any. He was a man come back to life, having a difficult time accepting the gift he’d been given. Having a difficult time believing it. She placed the bowl beside him on the floor and sat opposite him. His gaze flickered to her. He dropped his hands and let them dangle.

  “How long have I been asleep?” Jos asked quietly, clearing the rust from his throat.

  “Four days.”

  The blue in his eyes deepened. He looked to the fire. “We’re in Craven?”

  “Just outside of it.”

  He glanced back, curious.

  Now wasn’t the time to share Tallyn’s story. Jos had plenty of other details to sort through, and Tallyn’s past was a difficult thing to digest even when one was in a strong frame of mind.

  “This house belongs to an old friend of Tolya’s,” Sable continued carefully. “His name is Tallyn. We’re lucky he found us. He had a curative I’ve never seen.” She held his gaze a moment more. Her eyes kept wanting to drift lower, to his bare and muscled chest, so she looked pointedly at the fire.

  Flames crackled; a log popped.

  “You were right,” Jos said. “About Gerald. I should’ve listened to you.”

  “Probably,” she said with a dash of spice. “But. I live here. I have the advantage—I guess you could say—of seeing what it does to people. I can’t fault you for doubting.”

  “But you fault me for my words.”

  She looked back at him.

  Conviction filled his eyes and made them shine. “As you should. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I…” A pause. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

  Those last two words came out rusted and unfamiliar. But also genuine.

  Sable held his gaze a long moment, then nodded curtly and looked back to the flames. She bent one leg and wrapped her arms around her knee, though she felt Jos’s eyes on her every movement. At last, he reached for his bowl and dabbed at the soup with his bread. For a few moments, they sat in a companionable silence while he ate.

  “How far are we from Craven?” Jos asked, setting the bowl down.

  “About an hour,” Sable replied. “Miraculously, it hasn’t snowed since we arrived, so the roads are still clear. Otherwise, we’d be trapped here for winter.” She wondered if Tallyn’s power had something to do with this, too.

  “Two days from Craven to White Rock?” Jos asked.

  “Yes, and about that… traveling from here will be a challenge. Ventus is searching for us.”

  He looked straight at her, eyes sharp as knives. “I killed him. With your help.”

  Sable considered her next words. “How much do you know about the Shah?”

  His head cocked to the side. “More than I would like.”

  She’d assumed the subject would make him uncomfortable—it made most Provincials uncomfortable—but for Jos, she sensed that discomfort ran far deeper than most. She proceeded with caution. “Ventus has the ability to heal himself.”


  “From a knife to the heart?” Jos asked, incredulous.

  “I know,” Sable said, with empathy and a sigh. “I wouldn’t have believed it myself if Tallyn hadn’t seen him riding out of Craven with two Silent.”

  Jos stared at her. “Ventus is Liagé.” It was a question, a statement, and a threat.

  “No…” Sable hesitated. “Ventus is… something else. He’s always done little things. Tricks with fire, shows of illusion. Never anything like summoning shades or healing fatal wounds. Whatever he is, he’s alive, and there’s a very large bounty on our heads.”

  Jos didn’t speak immediately. He looked like he was still battling fatigue while building his thoughts. “I’m assuming this… Tallyn told you this?”

  “Yes.” Sable tucked a clump of hair behind her ear. “He and his Silent are searching every village, and the guards have been alerted.”

  Jos leaned back on his hands and inhaled deeply. After a long moment, he said, “All my coin was on that horse.”

  “I might be able to help there,” Sable said. She’d given this a good bit of thought while Jos had been sleeping. “At least until we reach the Provinces.”

  Jos looked intrigued.

  “I’m one of two healers in The Wilds. I’ve earned a few favors over the years.” She winked.

  He raised a brow. “And how do these favors compete with a very large bounty?”

  “That’s why I said might.”

  Amusement brightened his eyes. Just then, the front door opened and Tallyn stepped through, bringing winter with him.

  Jos went completely still.

  The door closed, a breath passed, and Jos was on his feet rushing Tallyn with a poker from the fire.

  “Jos, wait!” Sable shouted, bolting after him.

  His speed never ceased to amaze her.

  Jos shoved Tallyn against the door, one hand gripping Tallyn’s shoulder while the other pressed the tip of the fire poker to Tallyn’s neck. Tallyn’s hands opened in surrender, and the cloth bag he’d been holding fell to the floor.

  “Jos, he’s not what you think!” Sable gripped Jos’s arm.

  His gaze whipped to her, lethal and deadly, every muscle flexed to kill.