“No, no, no, no!” Joabis gabbled. “It’s not what you think!”
“Then tell me.”
“I’ll be breaking a promise to Vindrash,” Joabis quavered, backing up a step. “A sacred vow.”
“You can break a vow or I can break your head,” said Skylan. “If it is any comfort, I think I know the truth already.”
Joabis heaved a doleful sigh. “Come with me.”
He set out along one of the paths, indicating that Skylan should accompany him.
“This better not be a trick,” Skylan warned.
“No trick,” said Joabis wearily. “I’m through with tricks.”
The path led to the center of the garden, to a small longhouse made of timber that reminded Skylan of the Hall of the Gods in his own village. The longhouse was well kept, lovingly tended. Joabis opened the door. The interior was in shadow and smelled of cedar and roses. Joabis paused, waiting for Skylan to enter.
“You first,” said Skylan, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.
Joabis inclined his head and walked inside. Skylan followed more slowly, remaining near the door, keeping it open to let in the sunlight.
A statue of Joabis, carved out of marble and looking very sleek and regal in festive garments, stood in the back of the hall. The marble god was holding a marble mug in one hand and a sheaf of marble barley in another and was wearing a marble sword hanging from a marble baldric. Joabis regarded his own image with affection.
“I commissioned the statue from a renowned artist in Sinaria. Royal sculptor to the Emperor. Before the arrival of Aelon, of course,” Joabis added hurriedly. “This was done during the classical period when—”
Skylan interrupted. “Why bring me here?”
Joabis fetched a deep sigh. “Look at the brooch I am wearing.”
The god was apparently referring to a large brooch carved out of marble that adorned his festive raiment. Skylan propped open the door with a rock and drew closer to the statue.
“Don’t you see it?” Joabis pressed.
“I see a brooch such as a young girl might wear,” said Skylan, adding drily, “It would look well on a young girl.”
Joabis hesitated, then, seeming to steel himself to bold action, he reached out his hand and touched the brooch.
The marble vanished. Skylan could see now that the brooch was made of rubies set in gold flowers surrounded by golden leaves. In the center, a golden dragon wrapped its tail around what appeared to be a sliver of bone.
“The fourth Vektan spiritbone,” said Skylan.
“You don’t seem surprised,” said Joabis, disappointed.
“I’m not,” said Skylan. “Your dragonship wasn’t raided by Hevis looking for jewels. Your crew wouldn’t have been afraid of Hevis or any other god of the Vindrasi. The souls would be afraid of Aelon. That was the god who searched your ship and there could be only one object in your possession the god sought. What I don’t understand is why would Vindrash give the spiritbone to a drunken sot?”
“Vindrash thought the spiritbone would be safe with me. After all, who would ever think to look for something this valuable here on the Isle of Revels?”
“Aelon apparently,” said Skylan in grim tones. “And the god is coming to claim it.”
He watched the sunlight glimmer in the heart of the rubies, warm as blood, and suddenly everything made sense.
“This is the reason you are keeping my men and the other warriors here,” he said. “This is why you wanted me here. You are afraid Aelon will attack and you have surrounded yourself with warriors. Why not just take the spiritbone to Torval for safekeeping?”
“No one except Vindrash is supposed to know I have it. After Hevis betrayed his trust and summoned the Vektan dragon and killed all those people, Vindrash made all of us who have the spiritbones in our possession swear an oath of secrecy. As for taking it to Torval, I don’t dare risk moving it for fear Aelon would catch me,” Joabis added in plaintive tones. “The god would kill to get it.”
“What you say makes sense,” said Skylan. “I knew about the oath.”
“I brought all these dead warriors here,” Joabis continued dolefully. “I hoped they would help me, but all they do is drink my ale and fight.”
Skylan snorted. “You throw humans, ogres, and Cyclopes together, of course they will fight. But you didn’t do this alone. The ogres say their gods brought them. What have the Gods of Raj got to do with this?” He frowned at Joabis. “Are you such a coward that you conspire with our enemies?”
“The Gods of Raj hate Aelon as much as we do,” said Joabis. “At first they thought they could coexist with Aelon. The god promised to let them have their own followers, but he broke his promise. Priests of Aelon are in ogre and Cyclopes lands, trying to convert people and demanding that they pay tribute to Sinaria.”
“What did you promise the Gods of Raj in return for their help? Do they know about the spiritbones?”
“No, no, of course not,” said Joabis hastily. “I didn’t promise them anything. And I have kept the location of the spiritbone a secret.”
“How did Aelon find out about it, then?”
“I don’t know!” Joabis cried. “Does it matter now? You have to help me stop Aelon!”
“Me? What do you expect me to do?” Skylan demanded. “I cannot fight a god!”
“Let me explain. I was going to talk to Torval about the warriors,” said Joabis. “I knew he would rant and rave and make me grovel, as he always does, so imagine my joy when I saw you standing in front of his Hall. ‘I don’t need Torval,’ I said to myself. ‘Skylan Ivorson is a mighty warrior, a Chief of Chiefs! He will be perfect!’”
“Perfect for what?” Skylan asked suspiciously.
“To lead my army,” said Joabis.
“Army!” Skylan repeated, gaping at him. “You don’t have an army! What you have is a bunch of humans, ogres, and Cyclopes who have been fighting ever since they arrived. The only reason they stopped was because they were bored with cracking heads and decided to get drunk. Once they sober up, they’ll be back at each other’s throats. I can’t help you. Go back to Torval. Throw yourself on his mercy.”
Joabis groaned and sank down at the foot of the statue. Putting his head in his hands, he groaned again.
“You are right. I am lost. I will keep my bargain. When your wife arrives, you may leave with her.”
Joabis lifted his head slightly, peeped out between his fingers. “I only hope your beautiful wife doesn’t meet with Aelon and his warriors. I would not want Aelon to find her or the other three spiritbones…”
Skylan glared at the god, so angry that he couldn’t speak or even breathe for a moment. He clenched his hands into fists. Joabis jumped to his feet and began backing away from him.
“You can’t blame me! You told your wife to follow us here,” Joabis protested, adding slyly, “Now I guess you’ll have to fight…”
Skylan drew in a seething breath, trying to keep from throttling the god and choking the immortal life from his fat body.
“Very well. I will fight your battle for you, but I have conditions.”
“Name them,” said Joabis.
“First, you must give Aylaen the spiritbone.”
“She can take it!” Joabis cried. “Torval knows I don’t want it. I will be glad to be rid of the damn thing.”
“Second, you must give me my life back.”
“Done!” Joabis said immediately. “Provided Aelon doesn’t kill you.”
Skylan ignored that last remark. “Third, you must return the lives of my warriors and the ogres and the Cyclopes who agree to fight for you.”
“Certainly, certainly. Do you think I want these brutes on my isle slitting throats and bashing heads? They’re ruining my afterlife! Wait,” Joabis added as Skylan started to leave. “I want you to have this.”
Joabis indicated the marble sword on the statue with his fingers.
“Take it,” said Joabis.
“A sword ma
de of stone,” said Skylan.
“Just … take it.”
Skylan, extremely doubtful, grasped the cold marble hilt only to find, to his astonishment, that he was holding a sword made of steel, one of the finest he had ever seen. The blade had been forged with a pattern in the steel as of running water and was sharp and unblemished. The grip was of leather bound with gold wire. The pommel served as a counterweight. Skylan tested it. The balance was perfect.
“I have never seen a sword as fine as this,” said Skylan, marveling.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? It is very old,” said Joabis. He regarded the sword with a wistful pride. “The sword comes from a different time, a different world. It was mine once, long ago.”
Skylan regarded the god in astonishment.
“I was not always what I am now,” said Joabis. “I was a valiant warrior who fought at Torval’s side many eons ago when we were young. For we gods were young, once. We were going to do great things. Our world was going to be fruitful, blooming, prosperous, shine as a jewel in the heavens. Our people would thrive and prosper, live forever in peace…”
“What happened?” Skylan asked.
Joabis shrugged. “Torval wearied of peace and fostered a race of warriors. Vindrash enjoyed being worshipped by dragons. I had my drink and my gaming, Hevis had his scheming and conniving. Skoval and Aylis quarreled. Sund went mad…”
Joabis sighed. “I know you despise me, perhaps with good reason. I hope this will help change your opinion of me.”
Skylan wasn’t sure how to react. He tried to picture Joabis as a gallant warrior and failed utterly. He watched the sunlight gild the blade gold.
“Thank you, Joabis,” Skylan said at last. “I cannot think well of you, but maybe I will not think so ill. I will name the blade ‘God-rage’ in your honor.”
Joabis gave him a fine fur-lined leather sheath and a belt for the sword. Skylan thought the tooled leather belt seemed familiar. Looking back at the statue, he saw the marble sword it had once worn was gone. The ruby and gold brooch was once again cold, white marble.
“You had best make haste,” Joabis added. “I have it on good authority that Aelon will attack tomorrow at dawn.”
Skylan gaped at the god. “Dawn! I can’t—”
“Good luck,” said Joabis, patting Skylan on the arm.
The next moment Skylan was standing in the hall, in the midst of a pitched battle, watching the warriors of his new army slaughter each other.
CHAPTER
10
Raegar rode his chariot in a grand procession from his palace to Aelon’s Temple to attend the much heralded audience with the Stormlords. As part of his preparations for declaring war upon these people, he had sent his spies to live among them and spread lies and rumors about them to his own people, portraying them as godless unbelievers who planned to use their fouls magicks to destroy the empire.
Priests of Aelon harangued against the Stormlords in the daily services. Oran’s princes and kings sent ships, soldiers, and gold to their emperor. Few had ever heard of the Stormlords until a few weeks ago, but now they were ready to expunge them from the face of the world.
Raegar made the day of the Stormlords’ payment of their tribute a holiday, asking all to witness his dealings with the dreaded foe. The people filled the streets and cheered him and his soldiers, occasionally breaking through the lines formed by armed guards along the route to try to touch him for luck, or to beg him for his blessing. No Sinarian ruler had ever been so popular—among the people.
Raegar noticed a few sour faces and caught dark looks from some in the priesthood. He had heard their complaints that he was acting as though he were a god, encouraging the people to worship him and not Aelon. Raegar ignored them. Let the priests whine. He was certain of Aelon’s love. The reports he had received from his spies about the Stormlords had been of immense value.
Raegar was in an exultant mood when he reached the Temple of Aelon. He had purposely arrived late, intending to keep the Stormlords’ delegation waiting on his pleasure and giving them a chance to see how much his people loved him.
The audience chamber was crowded. He had invited delegates from courts throughout Oran as well as all the wealthy and influential people of Sinaria. Raegar noted with pleasure how members of the nobility crowded around him, fawned over him, laughed at his jests. He remembered a time not so long ago when these same rich and powerful people had mocked him, insulted him, terming him slave, barbarian.
He was gracious to them, but he let them know with a cool glance in the midst of some hilarity that he had not forgotten. He liked to see them grow pale, hear their nervous laughter, keep them guessing, on edge. They would be all the more eager to please him.
He walked at a leisurely pace through the crowd, making his way to the golden throne, which had been hauled out of the palace and placed on a hastily built dais inside the temple, a move that infuriated the priests. They fully expected Aelon to punish such blasphemy, but thus far the throne had neither gone up in flames nor sunk into the floor. In fact, the rays of light coming from the skylight in the ceiling known as Aelon’s Eye seemed to cause the throne to shine with a holy radiance.
He had been searching the crowd for the delegation of Stormlords and not paying much attention to anything else, when he happened to glance at the dais and saw something amiss: two thrones stood there, when he had specifically asked for only his own. The second throne was for his wife, the empress, a throne that had stood empty for many weeks. He had made the excuse that Treia was feeling too unwell to attend court functions. The truth was, he had not told her about them.
He turned to speak to his aide-de-camp, a soldier named Eolus, who had once been a slave himself, until he had escaped his master and run off to join the army. Finding that they had this in common, Raegar had promoted the man to commander and placed him in charge of his guard, as well as making him his confidential assistant.
“What is the throne for the empress doing here?” Raegar demanded. “I gave orders for them to bring only mine. The empress’s condition is far too delicate for her to attend.”
“I do not know, sir,” Eolus replied. “But I will find out.”
He disappeared into the crowd, returning in a few moments with information.
“It seems the empress herself gave orders to bring the throne.”
Raegar had to swallow his anger and force a smile, as though this news pleased him beyond measure. “I hope my beloved wife does not overtax herself,” was all he said.
He was taking his seat on his throne when there came a murmur of admiration and the heads of the crowd turned to witness the arrival of the empress.
Accompanied by her own bodyguards, Treia walked slowly, her hand on her belly, mindful of her dignity. As Raegar had done, Treia paused to greet those she knew. Women cooed and asked to feel the baby kick. Treia responded with pride and delight.
Raegar descended from the dais to assist her, knowing the crowd would like it. He took her hand, turning away from her, scarcely glancing at her. Ever since he had heard about her promise of a sacrifice to Hevis, he was disgusted by the sight of her.
“My dear, you look radiant!” he said loudly, for the benefit of the crowd. “How is our child?”
“Your son thrives, my husband,” said Treia.
Together they walked up the three steps toward the thrones.
“Why have you come?” Raegar asked in a low voice.
“I was asked to attend this important audience,” Treia replied.
“I did not—” Raegar began.
“No, you did not,” Treia interrupted him. “But another did.”
She put her hand to a necklace she wore. The gesture drew Raegar’s eye. She was wearing a necklace made of golden serpents twined together, distinctive, easily recognizable. Raegar knew very well who had worn that necklace last, and whatever words he had been about to say rattled in his throat.
He assisted Treia to her throne, then sat down himself. He
searched the crowd, frowned, and summoned Laurentius, the new Priest-General, the head of the Warrior Priests, a rank Raegar had once held prior to becoming emperor.
The priests chose their own leader and they had selected a man guaranteed to displease Raegar. Laurentius had been furious when Raegar, starting to distrust the priests, had removed them from positions of power in the military.
“Where are the Stormlords?” Raegar asked, searching the crowd and not finding them. “They are late.”
“I cannot say, Your Imperial Highness,” Laurentius replied, smiling slightly. “Perhaps they have decided not to attend.”
Raegar saw the smile and was angered. If, after all his elaborate plans, the Stormlords did not show up, he would look like a fool. Having planned on forcing them to await his pleasure, he was left to wait for them.
He had no idea what he was going to do. The Stormlords had been paying tribute to Oran for as long as anyone could remember. The idea that they might not come had never occurred to him. Raegar was starting to sweat when Treia touched his hand and nodded toward the temple entrance.
Raegar had never before met with the Stormlords. The last time they had come with their tribute, they had presented it to the late empress. He had been present, observing them from a distance, and he immediately recognized the two elderly men who had last brought the tribute.
Reputed to be extraordinarily rich and powerful, the wizards were tall, nearly Raegar’s height, and wore long cloaks of black velvet trimmed in gold braid. Golden braided tassels hung from the tips of the black cowls that covered their heads. Beneath their cloaks, their robes were spun of some sort of golden thread that glistened in the sunlight.
Coming to stand before Raegar, the wizards removed the cowls. The men were clean shaven. They wore their gray hair in two thick braids bound with leather. Their faces, seamed with age, were grim, resolute.
When Raegar had last seen these two, coming before the empress, they had brought with them a large wooden chest filled with gold and jewels. They now stood before Raegar empty-handed.
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