by Barb Hendee
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
ROC
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First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, January 2008
Copyright © Barb and J. C. Hendee, 2008
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Hendee, Barb.
Child of a dead god: a novel of the noble dead / Barb & J.C. Hendee.
p. cm.
eISBN : 1-4295-5765-6
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For J.P. Our sibling by choice
CHAPTER ONE
Chane stood in the hidden mountain gorge amid the Crown Range. Light snow drifted down around him as Welstiel’s mad shout rose into the night sky.
"No more! I am finished with you! Go back to where you hide. Find another toy . . . to cheat!”
Chane lifted his eyes to the dark expanse. The winter storm’s cloud cover left the sky black but for one small space that exposed the stars.
Welstiel stared upward, his eyes filled with hate. His disheveled dark hair almost hid the white patches at his temples. Finally he lowered his head, and Chane followed his manic gaze to a switchback path leading up along the gorge wall.
One lone building stood halfway up, cut straight into the ancient stone. A small flicker of light traveled up the path’s last leg, and then a figure stepped out of the structure’s narrow door. Dressed in a pale blue tabard over a dark robe and full cowl, it lifted a torch high to greet two similarly attired figures ascending the path. All three went inside.
“Lock them all in,” Welstiel whispered. “Feed if you must, but leave them alive . . . for now.”
For too many days, Chane had fed only from Welstiel’s life-conjuring cup. At the promise of fresh blood, he dropped his baggage and trotted toward the switchback path.
As he rounded the last turn, dim light spilled from the crack beneath the weathered front door. He slowed and crept quietly up to listen.
More than three voices sounded within. At first he couldn’t follow the words, then realized they spoke Stravinan—of which he knew enough to understand simple conversations. Only the smell of life beyond the door mattered, and he gripped the cold door latch, senses widening. In one fluid move he squeezed it and shoved the door in. It clattered against the inside wall.
Three men and one woman in dark robes and blue tabards stood before a narrow hearth within a small room. All stared dumbly at him. One more elderly woman sat upon a long bench to the left, frozen halfway through pulling off her soiled boots. They took in the sight of him, tall and long limbed, with red-brown hair beneath a hooded wool cloak, and a longsword’s sheath tip peeking from beneath its soiled hem. He was clearly no mountain dweller.
Chane rushed them before he even distinguished their faces and lashed out with both fists.
A woman and a man went down before anyone could flee, and he found himself toe-to-toe with a cowled old man. Tufts of cropped gray-white hair stuck out above a deeply lined face. Then the last of the standing four darted for a stairwell.
Chane had not seen these steps from the entrance. He lunged after the slight figure, grabbing the robe between the shoulders as the man cried out.
“Help! Bandits are upon us!”
Chane braced a foot on the second step and jerked back hard.
The frail young man shot across the entry room. His head and shoulders struck the far wall among cloaks and coats hanging from wooden pegs. He slid down and tumbled off the bench, flopping motionless upon the stone floor. The elderly woman who had been sitting there was gone.
Chane twisted around the stairwell’s partition wall.
Welstiel stood inside the open front door, holding the woman by her throat. His eyes roamed the entry room. Clipped choking sounds rose from the woman’s gaping mouth as she fought for air. She pulled at Welstiel’s grip, but he didn’t notice. She grew weaker with each incomplete gasp, until her hands dropped limply to her sides.
As she sagged in Welstiel’s grip, he released her. She fell, and her head smacked sharply against the stone floor. Chane turned back to the elderly man.
The old priest, monk, whatever he was, watched him with horrified fascination and lifted shaking fingers to his mouth. Chane realized what the old man was truly looking at, and stretched open his jaws, displaying sharpened teeth and elongated fangs.
The old man stiffened, eyes round in his wrinkled face as the scent of fear thickened in the room. It smelled so good that Chane almost felt i
t on his skin.
“Lock them up,” Welstiel said quietly.
Chane whipped around. “I . . . you . . . said I could feed!” he rasped.
“Too late, too slow,” Welstiel whispered. “You wasted your chance.”
Chane took a quick step toward Welstiel. Pounding footfalls echoed down the stairs from above.
A crowd of people in dusky robes and blue tabards gathered at the top of the steps. One young man backpedaled at the sight of Chane, and then tripped and fell against two others behind him. A clattering of wood filled the entry room as Welstiel slammed the front door shut.
“Finish this!” he snapped, and kicked the crumpled old woman.
The impact lifted her from the floor. She landed across the room atop the bodies of her unconscious companions, and the old man backed away.
Chane looked up the stairwell. He could not count how many were huddled there. When he lunged upward, the tangled mob fled amid panicked cries. Chane crested the stairs before the last one bolted beyond his reach.
Old wooden doors lined the upper passage, each opening into a small stone chamber. He drove the shrieking robed figures before him, and though they struggled to escape, not one struck at him. These mortal cattle would not even fight him for their lives, and Chane grew more spiteful and brutal with each one. He wrenched and flung them into the small cells, their fear-scent making him nearly manic to be finished.
All he could think of was the taste of terror-seasoned blood tingling down his throat to fill him with euphoria. Not for release from hunger but for the pleasure of feeding.
He heard Welstiel’s footfalls behind him, and the cracking of wood. When he pulled the last door shut, and shoved back a figure trying to emerge from the previous door, he was shaking with a wild appetite.
Welstiel carried shards of thick wood in his hands. He shoved one through each door’s iron handle and braced its end against the stone frame. Anyone who tried to pull a door inward would need enormous brute strength. Welstiel passed his gaze over each door along the passage’s sides.
“Seventeen candidates,” he muttered, absorbed in thought. “Adequate . . . since we had no opportunity for a more studied selection.” He lowered his head. “There are several still below, incapacitated. Drag them up and lock them away.”
Chane wanted to snarl, but didn’t. Instead, he pushed past Welstiel for the stairs, numbly following orders.
By his second trip down, only two priests remained in the entry room— the elderly woman and the young man Chane had thrown aside. Welstiel knelt on the floor by the latter, unpacking his little brass cup.
“Take the woman,” he said. “Leave the man.”
Welstiel refused to feed directly on blood, preferring his arcane methods to draw concentrated life force. He began chanting softly.
Chane snatched up the woman, dragging her limp body up the stairs.
By the time he returned, Welstiel had finished. The young priest was a desiccated husk, and the cup brimmed with red liquid so dark it looked black in the entry room’s low hearth light. But Welstiel did not drink. He poured the cup’s contents into a brown glass bottle and pressed a cork soundly into its neck.
“You will remain here, out of my way,” he said.
Welstiel headed for the stairs, but he paused at the first step. A shiver ran through his back. He lifted his head, staring up the dark stone staircase for a long moment, and then resumed his ascent.
Resentment could not stifle Chane’s curiosity. He drew close, watching.
Welstiel climbed in a slow, forced gait, as if bearing a weight that grew with each step, until he slipped into the upper passage beyond sight. A door creaked above, followed by a dull thump.
Chane’s suspicion sharpened, but he felt compelled to follow Welstiel’s orders not to pry—at least for now. He scanned his surroundings.
A passage ran along the building’s front from left of the front door. The stairs were set farther back on that same side and ran upward in the same direction. An old bench stood against the opposite wall, with three cloaks and a long-haired goatskin coat hanging on wooden pegs. In the rear stone wall, between the small hearth and the stairwell’s base, was an opening leading deeper into the structure.
Chane was in no mood for poking about, but he did not care to just stand there, waiting, so he stepped through the rear opening.
The passage immediately turned left, ended in a right turn, and spilled into a wide chamber behind the entry room. A lantern on the nearest table offered enough light for Chane’s hunger-enhanced sight.
Bundles of drying leaves, flowers, and branches hung from cords strung loosely across the ceiling. Below the dangling harvest, pottery and glass jars sat atop wooden tables along with rolling pins stained from long use, polished marble pestles, knives, and other instruments. It was the priests’ workshop.
Chane stepped back and retreated down the passage, and as he reached the entry room, a muffled clatter sounded from above.
He looked up the dark stairs, wondering again what Welstiel was doing. Curious, he climbed until he was high enough to peer over the last step. He saw the doors along the upper passage. A sharp squeal of panic came from somewhere behind one of them. Silence followed, and Chane crept farther up. He smelled the rich, salty blood even before he saw it.
Smeared trails led from a dark pool at the passage’s far end to the second door on the left. Chane’s longing began to build as he stared at one door after another, trying to discern which cell Welstiel was in.
The wood brace was missing from the second and third doors on the left.
The third door jerked inward and Welstiel emerged.
His cloak, shirt, and sword were gone. He braced one hand on the door frame and gagged with his mouth tightly shut. Fresh blood seeped from between his clenched lips and ran down his chin to drip upon his bare chest.
Welstiel had been feeding, while Chane had been denied a chance to do so himself.
Welstiel’s eyes rolled up, and his clear crystal pupils vanished, leaving white orbs. He faltered, wavering near collapse, then turned back to heave something from the cell’s floor. Welstiel dragged a young priest to the first door on the left, and kicked it open.
The dead youth’s eyes were frozen wide in astonishment above the red mess below his chin.
Welstiel tossed the corpse in and jerked the door shut, not bothering to reset a wood shard in the door’s handle. Instead he staggered away until his back struck a door on the passage’s opposite side. Small startled whimpers answered from within that cell.
Chane took a step, unable to hiss even one resentful word, and then Welstiel stumbled.
He fell to his hands and knees and crawled to the passage’s far end. His back arched as he vomited out blood, heaving violently. Finally, in a shadow of living habit, Welstiel drew a breath into his dead lungs and toppled.
He tried to fall clear of his own mess, but there was too much blood. It spattered across him as he landed, convulsing in the pool spreading down the passage floor. Finally, he crawled into one far corner and propped himself up against the walls.
Chane couldn’t fathom what was happening. His mind was too clouded by the smell and sight of the red trails creeping down the passage, as if seeking him out.
“One . . . mine!” he rasped. “One should be mine!”
“Get out,” Welstiel whispered and lifted a hand to hide his face. He recoiled at the crimson running down his bare arm.
“No,” Chane answered. “No more drinking from your filthy little cup! I want one of them . . . now!”
He bolted for the door across from where Welstiel had tossed the dead priest. Before Chane’s fingers touched the handle, Welstiel was there, and his hand closed in a crushing grip on Chane’s wrist.
“I said no,” Welstiel growled.
Chane lashed out for his throat.
Welstiel’s head twisted aside like a serpent weaving upon its coiled body. He heaved on Chane’s arm, turning it back and behi
nd, and pulled it taut with a crack.
