The Dawn of a Desperate War (The Godlanders War)

by Aaron Pogue

  “And?” Corin asked. “You seemed to think you’d found an answer.”

  “It never really occurred to me that the time travel stories could be true. But if you’ve been out of time, then Jessamine could probably track you. You’d be an anomaly of sizable proportions.”

  “Gods’ blood,” Corin spat. “What’s a Jessamine?”

  “A woman,” Jeff said, showing the ghost of a smile. It vanished before he continued. “One of ours, actually, until she went over to the other side.”

  “One of yours? A druid cast her lot with Ephitel?”

  “Yep. The only one across more than a thousand years.”

  “And she can track me?” Corin swallowed hard. Before he had befriended her, Aemilia had certainly shown up a time or two in inconvenient places. She’d had no trouble tracking him across Hurope, thanks to the disturbances created by his use of Oberon’s power. It had been bad enough when the druids’ Council were the ones keeping track of him. Now he learned Ephitel could do it too? He clenched his fists and asked through gritted teeth, “Why has no one mentioned this before?”

  “They don’t like to think about her,” Jeff said. “Same as me. They like to pretend the world still works according to their strictures. Like Oberon is still running the show.” He shook his head in disgust. “Probably never crossed their minds. She’s been out of sight for decades now, so they’ve forgotten all about her.”

  Corin whipped his head left and right. “Aren’t we in danger here, then? If she can track me, I could lead her straight to the circle.”

  “Not a chance. The megaliths themselves warp reality far beyond anything you can do. You’re a needle in a haystack here, but step outside the circle, and you’ll be more like a pin on a map. You’ll have to watch your back.”

  The hairs on the back of Corin’s neck stood up, but he didn’t answer right away. He considered it. He’d been a hunted man all his life, after all. Nimble Fingers learned to keep their wits about them on the run, and pirates thrived on it. He took a deep breath, thinking, then shook his head.

  “It’s not so bad as that,” he said. “I was here three months before she found me. If I keep moving—”

  “Do it careful,” Jeff said. “Hide in crowds. Mix with other outlanders if you can.”

  Corin barked a sarcastic little laugh. “You mean like elves?”

  “That would be perfect. Know any?”

  “I’d hoped the Council would put me in contact with them, but apparently the two sides aren’t speaking anymore.”

  “Then keep on the move. That’s all you’ll have. And don’t tarry. Get to Ephitel as fast as possible and end this. The longer you wait, the worse a threat she’ll be.”

  Corin stared a moment.

  Jeff’s brows were pinched in a frown. “What?”

  “I’ve discussed these plans with half a dozen others, mostly druids, and you’re the first who seems to believe I’ll do it.”

  “I’m the last of us who still believes it can be done. No matter what the others say, they’ve all given up.”

  “Not I,” Corin said. “I’ll die first. He should not have taken Aemilia from me.”

  “Good,” Jeff said, nodding in satisfaction. “But don’t die. Kill Ephitel. Your dying wouldn’t serve me at all.”

  Corin chuckled. “I’ll remember that.”

  “Good,” Jeff said again, then he stepped closer. “How?”

  “I have the sword—”

  “No, I understand how you mean to kill him. But how will you find him?”

  Corin had considered the matter carefully. He’d spent most of his time working on ways to flush out Ephitel, to draw the monster out where he could take him down, but he thought there might be a better way. He’d never hung much hope on it, but he’d seen more than one myth made real in the last year.

  “Will I have to find him?” he asked. “Everyone knows that Ephitel and all the gods live like kings on the highest peak of Mount Attos.”

  He held his breath, half expecting Jeff to laugh away the notion. Instead, the druid frowned in thought and bobbed his head uncertainly. “In a sense they do,” he said at last. “But not . . . not really.”

  Corin raised an eyebrow. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that if a manling climbs that mountain, all he’ll find at the top are bare rocks and an icy death.”

  “I’m no mere manling.”

  “You’re not. I’m convinced of that. But there’s strong fairy magic at work there. I’m not convinced New Soelig is even in this dream. It might be back in Faerie proper, with the mountain serving as a crossing point. Can you cross into Faerie?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Most of the elves cannot. Not at Mount Attos, anyway. Even the ones who’ve sworn allegiance to Ephitel need an appointed guide to cross over into the high city. Nor can any among the druids. We tried back in the dark days after Gesoelig’s fall. We tried, but Ephitel has made New Soelig safe so that only his followers may enter there, and only the most trusted of them may go unescorted.”

  Corin closed his eyes. “That cannot be the end of it. I will find a way in.”

  “I’m telling you, there’s no way in. For all your strange powers, do you really believe you know more about the ways of Faerie than I do?”

  Corin leaned back against one of the standing stones. He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t think that. He barely understood the powers he did have.

  But he was not about to abandon his quest either. He shrugged and spread his hands. “In all honesty, I never really believed it would be as easy as storming Ephitel’s palace in righteous justice. If I cannot go to the mountain, I’ll bring Ephitel to me.”

  “How? Do you mean to pray to him?”

  “No, I have a more compelling means than that.”

  “You think you can provoke the Lord of War?”

  “I’ve done it once before.”

  Jeff considered him a moment, then he sighed. “Ephitel is arrogant and cruel, but he’s no fool. He won’t come at your summons, and if he does, he’ll come in force. You’re lucky to have survived him once.”

  Corin didn’t answer that either. Lucky? Lucky enough to see Aemilia dead. Lucky enough to inherit all the miseries of this broken, worn-out world and its miserable masters.

  “I won’t rest until he’s dead,” Corin said softly. “I plan to draw him out and put him down. Are you with me? I could use your skills.”

  “I’m not a soldier, Corin, but I will fight for you.”

  “How?”

  “Here. I only came to say good-bye to Aemilia. But if you will keep your promise, if you’ll commit yourself to ending Ephitel, then I’ll abandon mine. I will return to the Council and do everything in my power to sway them in your favor.”

  Corin shook his head. “I have no desire to wait for that.”

  “And I wouldn’t want you to. I only hope that when you need us, the druids will be ready to stand behind you.”

  Corin nodded, satisfied. He pushed himself away from the standing stone and caught the edge of his cloak against a sudden gust of wind. He closed his other hand around Godslayer’s hilt and nodded to the druid.

  “Fortune favor you,” Corin said. “While you begin your work, I go hunting for a god.”

  Corin stepped through dream and traveled all the way from the Dividing Line in southwest Raentz to the bustling heart of Aerome with just a thought. He had not visited the city often, but he knew well the place he meant to go.

  His memory and Oberon’s power brought him to a narrow hallway in a rundown apartment complex. The corridor was dark and close, and floorboards creaked even under Corin’s careful step. The pirate winced at the noise, but only out of ancient habit; he was not in Aerome for any clandestine purpose. On the contrary—he meant to get caught.

  But first he had to lay some plans, and that was why he’d come to this third-story hallway in the least fashionable part of town. He strode forward through the
shadows, peering closely at the numbers scratched into the crude doorposts until he found the one he wanted. He rapped on the door.

  A woman answered; a pretty little slip of a thing. In itself, that was no surprise at all, but Corin felt a touch of shock when he recognized the girl.

  She clearly did not recognize him. She frowned out into the hall, the door opened just a slit. She clutched a linen bedsheet around her, and in her other hand she held a narrow-bladed knife with tracery in gold and silver. Corin raised his eyebrows, admiring, until she gave a quiet growl.

  He cleared his throat. “That is quite a piece of handiwork.”

  “You had better mean the knife.”

  “Oh, I do,” he answered earnestly. It was a bauble fit for a prince, but Corin had no doubt it held a perfect edge. Dwarven mastercraft.

  “Well,” she said, only slightly mollified. She hid a massive yawn behind a delicate fist. By the look of her, she’d been several days without much restful sleep, and the snippy tone in her voice suggested she was most anxious to get back to it. “Do you have some business here, or have you only come to ogle?”

  Corin swept a bow. “My dear Lilya, I have come a thousand miles to speak with Master Strunk. Please tell me he is taking visitors.”

  She pulled the door wider to gain a better view. She frowned at him a moment, then shook her head. “How do you know me?”

  He showed her a winning smile. “I have an eye for craftsmanship, my dear, and a good memory for names. More to the point, I will not soon forget the night that Giuliano Vestossi met his end, and you played a noble part in that particular event.”

  Her eyes shot wide at that. “You know? Oh, but you are him. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Perhaps the evening didn’t register so strongly for you.”

  Another voice answered Corin, lower in register and lower to the ground. “Perhaps her eyes were full of better men.”

  Corin grinned. “Or dwarves.”

  “Or dwarves,” the other agreed. He stepped up to the girl’s side and slapped her bottom with the same care and precision he had used to make that blade. She gasped, then grinned and blushed by turns, and the rascal dwarf chuckled in reply.

  “Might as well find some clothes to keep you warm, darling. I have a feeling Corin here intends to put me to less worthy tasks.”

  “Alas, I do indeed,” Corin said. He tipped his head in a bow to Lilya. “A pleasure meeting you again.”

  She answered with a curtsy that nearly lost her the bedsheet. “Milord.” Then she gave a giggle and scampered off to an inner room.

  Ben stood a moment evaluating Corin, then came to himself with a shake of his head and stepped aside. “Come in! Come in. Gods’ blood, it’s good to see you, Corin!”

  Corin stepped past him into the artist’s studio. It was a wide, open room divided into four quarters by its furnishings. The nearest corner on Corin’s right was lined with low tables that supported potters’ wheels and plaster molds, a goldsmith’s tools and magnifying lenses. Beyond that stood a mostly empty corner in front of a tiny brick fireplace, but Ben had assembled some strange manner of forge right there on the faded hardwood floor. Wide pipes of copper rose above the forge, then twisted down to empty into the fireplace. Spots of char marred the floor all around the forge, and soot had stained the ceiling and nearest walls in streaks of black despite the makeshift chimney.

  The nearby anvil was a small one, topped with a jewelcrafter’s delicate tools rather than an armorer’s, but two huge quenching barrels stood nearby. There was also a bucket that Corin suspected had been needed more than once to douse a fire started by the indoor forge.

  A row of narrow windows in the outer wall lit the other half of the apartment. One corner held a fainting couch, a huge bronze standlamp, and half a dozen easels. The canvases they held all showed the girl Lilya in different poses. Ben had a true talent for painting, and several of these images undermined the noble work of the bedsheet she had borrowed.

  The bed and the model both now hid in the back corner, surrounded by tall folding screens. As Corin stepped into the room, he heard the soft sound of the girl snoring delicately behind the screens.

  Ben gave a shrug of perfect innocence. “Gods bless her, the poor thing is all worn out.”

  Corin shook his head. “I can hardly believe you’re still playing with Blake’s old serving girl.”

  Ben frowned at him. “You must admit she makes a lovely model.”

  “Aye. But she belongs to the Vestossis.”

  A touch of ice entered Ben’s tone. “Her affections have shifted. And she never did belong to the Vestossis. One does what one must to survive in a city like this.”

  Corin could appreciate the sentiment—he’d stained his soul at times to survive the streets of Aepoli as a child—but his sympathy was not enough to make him overlook her recent association with his bitterest enemies.

  He opened his mouth to say as much, but Ben’s flashing eyes suggested the dwarf would not take kindly to further talk in that direction. Corin tried another tack. “Still, it’s hardly decent. She’s two hundred years too young for you!”

  Ben snorted, dismissive. “I’ve had to learn to count in human years.”

  “But to a dwarf—”

  “She is just as much a woman as she is to you. What can it harm her that I have the perspective to appreciate her charms?”

  “Surely—”

  “Surely you should bite your tongue, Corin Hugh. You won’t win this fight as long as you’re still toying with the druid girl. She’d seen a thousand years before I was even born.”

  Corin grunted. He had not expected Ben to bring her up, and certainly not in such a casual manner. Corin had done his best to force Aemilia to the farthest corners of his mind, but Ben’s words brought back a memory of their last adventure together. Ben, Aemilia, and Corin had infiltrated a party at the home of Ethan Blake. That was where Ben had met Lilya. And where Corin had committed the murder that eventually brought Ephitel to their little cottage in the woods.

  The memory of it staggered him, and in an instant Ben was at his side, peering up in worry.

  “What’s caught you, Corin? You look black as midnight. Something I said?”

  “Aye,” Corin answered. He took a slow breath and shook his head. “Aye, you put your finger on it. Aemilia is dead. Ephitel came for her.”

  “Gods’ blood! How did he find her?”

  “I don’t quite know. The druids think he might have had the help of one of theirs—a traitor by the name of Jessamine—but all I know is that he came to punish me for killing Blake.”

  “He came for you? But how—”

  Corin shook his head. “He came because of me, but Aemilia was always his target. He thanked me for giving him a druid to kill.”

  “By the rings, Corin, I didn’t know. You have my sympathy. Can I do aught to help you?”

  Corin glanced toward the back corner of the room, still suspicious of the serving girl, but her gentle snores continued behind the folding screens. Despite them, Corin asked, “Will you take a walk with me? It . . . it would help to clear my head. And we do have much to discuss.”

  “Aye. Of course.”

  They left the artist’s studio and descended the narrow, creaking stairs of the tenement building. Ben Strunk liked to spend his evenings hobnobbing with the wealthy and the powerful, but he’d always said he preferred to live and work among the poor. There’d been a time when Corin thought it was a careful plan to preserve his artistic hunger, his perspective for the plight of the common man.

  One day he’d commented on it, and old Ben had chortled heartily. No, he explained, he preferred to do his work among the poor because his wealthy patrons hated visiting him there. That kept them from interfering in his works in progress. That had been the day Corin and Ben became true friends.

  Now they walked in icy silence, leaving the rundown building for an alley just as foul and claustrophobic. Corin set the pace and chose their p
ath. He turned left at the first intersection, then right. Ben only walked along beside him, keeping his pace and holding his tongue. Dwarves were masters when it came to patience and ancient friends with stony silence.

  Corin’s path might have seemed random at a glance, for he followed no major thoroughfare. In fact, he was aiming for the highest of the city’s seven hills, tracking like a bloodhound straight as the ancient, twisting streets would allow him.

  They’d left the studio more than a mile behind before Corin finally drew a heavy breath and turned to his companion. “I want justice, Ben.”

  “I hate to be the one to tell you, but you’re in the wrong world for that. There’s no justice here. There’s just Vestossis.”

  “I’ve tried my hand at them,” Corin said, casting his voice lower. “They die easy enough. Now I want to aim a little higher.”

  “I can hardly say I blame you, but it’s a fool’s errand, boy. Believe me. I’ve met the man. He won’t die easy.”

  “He’d better not,” Corin said. “I want him to die hard and weeping.”

  “It won’t bring her back.”

  Corin clenched a fist and bit his tongue. Shouting at his friend would do no good. He was not a sentimental child chasing satisfaction. He’d seen more than his share of misery, and he knew just how bone-deep wicked Ephitel’s Ithale was.

  But he was not willing to accept that anymore. The time had come for change. He took a calming breath and answered levelly. “It’s not revenge I’m after, Ben. It’s justice. Oberon himself gave me this task. You’ve had a glimpse of the power he gave me, and he gave it to me for this very purpose.”

  Ben walked several paces in thoughtful silence. He knew the name of Oberon, knew its significance, and he’d heard some portion of Corin’s impossible tale. He chewed on Corin’s plans awhile, then asked with all the curious care of a master craftsman, “How?”

  “Another gift of Oberon’s,” Corin told him, hesitating over his words. He had told no one but the druids about the sword Godslayer. It was his secret weapon, and he hoped to keep it that way.