The Dawn of a Desperate War (The Godlanders War)

by Aaron Pogue

  He dodged them easily, tripping up the first as he went by, then nudging the second just enough that he fell across the first. The rest were farther back, and Corin didn’t wait to tangle with them. He wasn’t here to kill the hired hands. He’d done what needed doing. The world was less two rich Vestossis; the seed was sown.

  But now he had to watch and wait. He had to survive. He sprinted up the aisle, past all the wailing courtiers still in their seats, and straight toward the daylight. There would be chaos already down in the piazza, but chaos favored Corin. He would slip away and hide in his alley, where he’d wait for the vengeful god to come in answer.

  A dozen paces from the door, he caught sight of the welcome waiting on the outer stairs. If there was chaos, it waited on the other side of a regiment of halberdiers. Faster than a lightning strike, faster than even Ephitel should have been able to do so, the hapless city guard had somehow caught him in the act.

  They’d brought an army, and Corin only had his knives.

  He charged them anyway.

  Corin saw the soldiers’ eyes widen in surprise, then narrow as they lowered their halberds. They made a fancy formation out there on the marbled stairs, and he knew there was no way he could slip past the long reach of those deadly blades. Instead, he caught the open door in his right hand as he reached it and leaped aside with all his might, slamming it shut in the face of the guardsmen.

  He had no time to think. The halberds’ blades clanged against the doors, but the soldier’s heavy boots would be coming right behind. There was hardly time to hoist the rough-cut bar across the doors, especially with the hostile crowd still in the temple with him.

  That thought came just soon enough. Corin fell to the side as a pair of crossbow bolts slammed into the door where he had been, fired from within the sanctuary. The princes’ guards.

  Corin scrambled up and pressed his back against the door. The soldiers in the street hit it hard, and Corin’s boots scraped six inches across the marble floor. The men outside were gathering themselves to hit the door again, and in the temple’s heart, the princes’ bodyguards were shaking off the last effects of Corin’s dwarven powder. Two of them were frantically preparing their crossbows to fire again, and the other two were charging up the aisle with cudgels raised.

  Cold sweat beaded Corin’s forehead as he tried to judge the timing. He braced himself, ears straining until he heard the pounding footsteps through the door. Then he gulped a heavy breath and dove aside.

  The doors slammed open, sudden sunlight dazing the charging bodyguards. The halberdiers were not so slow. They swung their polearms at the charging threat and felled the princes’ men with practiced precision. Two crossbow bolts fired in answer and dropped as many of the invading soldiers where they stood.

  Corin stared a moment, disbelieving. Cries of anguish and confusion rang out again within the temple, the princes’ men beginning to believe the city guard were complicit in their lords’ assassination.

  Corin slipped into the deeper shadows, farther from the door. The crossbowmen had lost track of him during the excitement, and surely the men outside would hesitate after seeing the first two fall so quickly. He had a moment of confusion on his side.

  But how best to use it? He had to get outside. He’d laid this whole plan in an attempt to draw Ephitel, but he had never guessed there might be such a swift reaction. How many men were waiting in the street? More than a dozen, surely. How could they have come so quickly?

  Corin shook his head. It didn’t matter. He’d summoned Ephitel to face him, and here he was unarmed. He had to get outside. He had to get to Ben, and in this moment of confusion he had a chance. He closed his eyes and wove a glamour, making himself look like a priest of Ephitel again.

  Then he dashed through the door. He went through in a flash and then skipped aside, wary of crossbows in the dark behind him. As he went, he held his empty hands high, palms out before him, and cried out in scarcely feigned terror. “Killers in the temple! The princes’ bodyguards are killers! Don’t let them get away! The king’s sons are dead!”

  As he went, he got his first close look at the forces in the street. Far too many to have come so soon! There were perhaps three dozen men in arms—crossbowmen with long, neat tabards and officers with rapiers on their hips arrayed among the halberdiers more accustomed to patrolling the city’s streets.

  Three dozen men, and at Corin’s final words, the officers cried, “Charge!” and the whole force pounded up the marble stairs and into the temple’s dim interior.

  Corin let them go. His eyes were searching still, trying to find the leader of this force. He’d spotted Ben already, but the dwarf could not have known him through his glamour, and Corin had no wish to draw attention to his friend until he had good cause.

  But for all the army waiting in the street, Corin saw no sign of Ephitel. He drifted away from the charging column and toward a curious crowd gathered to one side. None of the soldiers moved to stop him, and he thanked his priestly robes for that. But halfway to the safety of the onlookers, a woman stepped in front of him, bringing him to a halt.

  She was tall and strong, despite her frail build, and she held herself with a surprising confidence. Long blond hair and smooth, golden skin should have made her a beauty, but ferocity flashed in her green eyes. Corin tried to slip politely past, his eyes lowered, but she dodged right in front of him and stopped him short with hands on his shoulders.

  “Please,” he said, eyes still downcast, “let me by. I must summon aid.”

  “Who are you, stranger?” the woman asked, and she spoke with an air to match her powerful stride.

  “I am but a humble priest of Ephitel—”

  Pain exploded in Corin’s jaw, and colors flashed behind his eyes. He reeled a step backward, blinking furiously, and it took a moment before he understood that she’d backhanded him. A powerful woman indeed.

  “Do not lie to me again,” she said. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

  “I am an innocent bystander, caught in the temple when those murderers attacked. I donned a priest’s robes in hopes of escaping.”

  She swung again, but Corin anticipated her this time. He ducked the blow and shrank away, but she knotted her other fist in the fabric of his cloak and held him trapped.

  “One more lie, and I will throw you to the crowd. Do you understand? I’ll tell them you’re the murderer and let them do justice for me.”

  Corin gaped. How could she know? The second lie had been almost a useless one, suggesting guilt if not confirming it, but it should have been easy to believe. For her to see through it with such confidence, to stop him in the street with such authority—

  “You are a justicar,” he breathed.

  She nodded. “And I’ll ask you one last time. Are you the man I seek, or are you the accomplice?”

  Fear flared hot and hard behind Corin’s breastbone. A justicar in the flesh, and more than that, she knew his secrets. He forced himself to keep his eyes locked on her, not a sideways glance to show her where Ben was hiding, but she already knew he had a helper.

  A justicar. Rumor said they could see a man’s sins like a living stain upon his garments; that they could taste lies in the air and feel a traitor’s plots. They were the enforcers of the gods, blessed with a holy strength to match their unearthly skills, and they were ruthless and unyielding in their hunt.

  Corin’s sins were dark enough to match his midnight cloak, and he used lies and plots the way a carpenter used hammer and nails. He’d hoped to never meet a justicar at all; worse by far was facing one who knew his name.

  Did she know his name? He considered her question and cocked his head. “Who is the one you want?”

  “He has a certain sword.” Her eyes fell to Corin’s side, slipping past the rapier he’d concealed beneath his glamour, but that was not the sword she wanted. She wanted Godslayer. She’d come for it, not for the princes’ killer. She hadn’t known.

  But surprise at that revelation be
trayed him. Although he’d restrained himself before, when he thought of the sword, his gaze cut toward Ben’s hiding place across the plaza. It was only for the barest instant, but for a justicar, that was enough. Her jaw clenched and she nodded.

  “The accomplice, then. I’ll find him. Captain!”

  “Captain?” Corin’s heart sank. She called a captain to her aid. She had a little army here, but she was the true force. “Ephitel isn’t here? He isn’t coming?”

  She narrowed her eyes, confused by the question, but still Corin spotted confirmation in her expression. Ephitel had sent a justicar. He had no reason to come in person.

  And now Corin found himself in her power. Captains were coming at her call, and she’d consign him to them and then go for Ben. If she put her hands on the sword, then all was lost.

  A justicar. He’d never planned to face a justicar. The fear within his breast had turned to anger and frustration, but it still burned just as hot. He tried to tamp it down, to no avail.

  “Tell Ephitel I’m coming for him,” Corin said. He’d given Ben clear enough instructions; now he had to trust the dwarf to get away. Ben’s best chance was for Corin to distract the justicar, to leave her with a puzzle strong enough to slow her down.

  She still had one fist knotted in his cloak, holding him at arm’s length. He pushed against it to face her nose to nose, and growled at her. “Tell Ephitel I mean to see him dead.”

  Corin jabbed her with his left fist, hard in the short ribs, and though she gasped, she did not let go. He threw an uppercut that clipped her jaw, sparking anger in her eyes, then barely caught her answering haymaker with a block. He twisted his arm around, trapping hers against his side, then slammed a head butt at her pretty little nose.

  She saw it coming and pulled away, but still his forehead split her lip. She spat a curse and released her grip on his shoulder, so she could strike at him.

  But before she could do anything, he dove beneath her grasp, rolled back to his feet, and dashed toward the watching crowd. He glanced back once and found her hard on his trail. He also saw Ben slipping out of the alley beyond her, running as hard as his little legs would carry him in the other direction.

  Perfect. Corin barreled in among the crowd, spilling spectators to the left and right, tearing away from grasping hands. He’d have faced a challenge to escape them, but he didn’t need to. He tangled himself in their midst, just enough to baffle the justicar. Then he closed his eyes and stepped through dream.

  He did not go far this time, only to the shadowed depths of the alley Ben was hiding in. That didn’t matter much, in his experience. Hopping across a room could cost him moments or days, the same as stepping across the Medgerrad Sea. He’d never found a rhyme or reason to it, or any rules to the twist of time when Oberon’s magic was involved, so every step brought the same degree of risk.

  This time he could not bring himself to care. He had a war with Ephitel, and if he waged it in the spring or in the fall, in this year or in the next, nothing would change. Aemilia was lost to him, and nothing short of Ephitel’s blood would satisfy his vengeance. He’d pay any price at all to see that justice done.

  Still . . . it would have been nice to step through dream and end up within arm’s reach of Ben. Corin didn’t want to lose that sword! The dwarf had his instructions, and Corin could think of no one he would trust more, but everything depended on that blade. Corin opened his eyes upon the darkened alley.

  He was alone. Full night had fallen, and whatever furor the day’s attack had raised, whatever crowds it had drawn, no sign of them remained at this late hour. Corin spotted a glint of moonlight on steel and the faint shadow of a man across the way—one of the Vestossis’ investigators—but there was none close enough to see Corin. He shook his head and sighed. Benny was long gone. Corin raised the deep cowl of his black cloak, another shadow in the night, and slipped out of the alley’s mouth and down the road.

  Half an hour brought him to the dwarf’s workshop, but it was empty. The door was locked, but that did not slow Corin. He had it open in a dozen heartbeats and found the room inside left in its usual disorder, but clearly uninhabited.

  Just as he was turning to go, Corin spotted a crumpled scrap of paper fallen from the edge of Ben’s worktable. He stooped and grabbed it, smoothed out the wrinkles, and read one word in Ben’s tiny, strangely delicate hand:

  “A’roving.”

  Corin nodded. He’d not thought to suggest it, but Ben had left a note. That was good news; it meant he’d escaped the little alley and the justicar’s attention. And if she’d somehow followed him here, if she’d read this very note in her investigations, it would have told her nothing. But it told Corin all he needed to know. Ben was on his way to Raentz, to the desperate little farms on its western border, bearing the sword Godslayer to the home of the only true hero Corin had ever met among the Godlanders.

  High time Corin went that way himself. He licked his lips, weighing the risk, then tossed it aside with a shrug. He closed his eyes and imagined a pretty little farmhouse within sight of the treacherous Dividing Line. It was a simple place, but strongly made, much like the man who lived there. It was a place that spoke of endurance and hope, of warmth and welcome. And Corin had been ordered in no uncertain terms to stay away forever.

  But who was he to bow to the whims of a Vestossi princess? A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Maybe Ben would be waiting for him there. The princess didn’t like the dwarf any better. Corin barked with laughter and stepped through dream.

  Oberon’s magic was not enough to overcome Corin’s ignorance. Because Sera had never let Corin set foot inside the farmhouse, his step through dream deposited him at the front gate instead. He took advantage of the opportunity to consider this place.

  It was not what he would have expected. The only time Corin had ever spent in the countryside had been his recent weeks in hiding with Aemilia. The druid had shown a knack for rural life, but Corin had struggled with it.

  By the look of it, Sera had had no such struggles. The pretty little princess had abandoned her family’s palaces and estates without so much as an hour’s notice, but she’d settled into this three-room farmhouse as though it were home.

  It showed in the little touches. The windows boasted lace-trimmed curtains that hadn’t hung there when last he’d visited. The front door had a fresh coat of paint, and new flowers in a dozen shades lined the graveled walk to the front door.

  Corin let himself through the gate and started up the path. Auric had made his mark as well, though Corin had to look harder to spot it. A pair of muddy leather boots beside the front door sported the worked-silver spurs of a Dehtzlan free lance. The axe he’d used for splitting firewood—still leaning near the woodpile—had a wicked half-moon blade that had been made for battle. Corin knew from recent experience the importance of a wood axe’s shape in its use. Fine though the weapon was, it might require twice the effort to split a log with that thing.

  But this farmboy was just the sort to spend that extra effort just to make something harmless—something useful, as he would see it—out of a device designed for killing. That was precisely the sort of romantic nonsense the farmboy would go in for.

  Corin could use that sentimentality. He’d taken advantage of it once before, when he’d convinced the farmboy to rescue a total stranger against the advice of his more careful friends. That time, Corin had left the man for dead. A week later, he’d tried to impersonate the farmboy to the princess, but even wrapped in Oberon’s powerful magic, he’d failed to deceive her. That small deception played some part in her continuing distrust of him. As for the farmboy, Corin could only guess how he’d respond. Corin hadn’t shared a word with him since he’d left him for dead.

  He squared his shoulders, caught a calming breath, and rapped on the door. Beyond the farmhouse, the sun set.

  A voice called something indistinct through the sturdy door, and Corin waited. Then at last the door swung wide.

  It wa
sn’t Auric. Princess Sera was a living portrait. Even standing there disheveled—hair tied back and sleeves rolled up, with suds all to her elbows—even standing there disheveled, she looked like oil on canvas. Her hair was gold, her eyes sapphire, her skin a sun-kissed amber.

  And though she had despised the darker natures of her name, she still stood proud and angry as any man who ever wore the name Vestossi. She spent one heartbeat on surprise, then threw her shoulders back and glared at Corin down her lovely nose.

  “Master Hugh,” she said in icy tones.

  And then she slammed the door.

  Corin grinned and knocked again. She didn’t answer. He shouted through the door, “Sera, please! I bring grave tidings and important news!”

  But still the door didn’t budge. He waited through long minutes, then pounded once again. “I only ask for a moment!’ The sound of footsteps answered him this time, and then the door opened to show him the farmboy.

  That was the first name Corin had ever heard him called, but looking on him now, it seemed ludicrous. This man was a warrior. He was a hero. He stood head and shoulders taller than Corin, broad of shoulder and sure of stance. His hands and forearms showed the scars of hard years as a free lance, though he could not have seen two dozen summers yet.

  Sera lurked in the corner behind him, arms crossed beneath her breasts and an angry pout on her regal lips. Auric threw a nervous look her way.

  “Master Hugh,” he said by way of greeting. And then, a touch embarrassed, “Perhaps we should speak outside.” He squeezed out through the door and pulled it delicately closed behind him.

  Corin suppressed a smile. “It is a lovely night.”

  “It is,” Auric said, eyes darting nervously toward the door. He shook his head in apology. “Forgive me, Master Hugh, but Sera—”

  He flexed his hands, helpless. Corin could only stare. Here was a man who’d faced death for Corin’s actions, a man whom Corin had impersonated to deceive his bride, and a man whose bride had nearly died for Corin’s actions as well. And yet Auric was flustered at her honest display of discourtesy. It wasn’t in his nature to speak ill of his lady, but neither could he let her rudeness pass without apology.