“The last time you saw me, you had just hurled me down an alley in Turill and I would like to know, why?”
He looked her in the eye and gave her half a shrug. “My reasons and they are my own.”
“Could it have anything to do with that mortal woman? I was going to kill her and you intervened. I have never known you to be protective of any mortal woman or goddess, save Syann. I would know your purpose.”
Nikodemos dismissed her question with a smirk. Putting his helmet under his arm, the Lord of Vengeance started for the doorway. The Mistress stepped in front of him, blocking his exit. “I know those lying little harlots are spreading the rumor that your father is free and he bred with that human whore, but it was you, wasn’t it?”
A smile of pure satisfaction spread across the face of the God of Vengeance. “Father is still imprisoned, Mother. You know that, yet you still fear him. Oh, to be able to inspire that kind of terror from a cage, I truly envy Father. As for Raven and the other sorceress’s gossip, I seldom listen to their slanderous deceits and you would do well to do the same.”
“Answer my question, Nikodemos,” his mother said with contempt.
Her son brushed at the elven-haired crest of his helmet. “Saving the woman was a whim. She can be used later. As for who sired her children, your guess is as good as mine. Ask Airius, he seems to breed quite frequently. Now stand aside unless you want to be manhandled again.”
The veiled woman put her finger on her son’s chest. “Careful who you threaten, boy, you aren’t your father.”
Nikodemos rudely brushed past her and headed for the door.
***
Syann sighed as she watched her daughter leave with Airius and Valintina. No doubt to drink a toast to Penelope’s memory and carouse with the others. She was losing her daughter and she didn’t know how to win her back. Her mind was a jumbled heap of conflicting feelings. They would have to be corralled before she attempted to make amends with Helana.
“She has been fine. I have kept an eye on her since the two of you quarreled.”
Syann closed her eyes, a shallow smile crossing her face. Valdrey was the last god she had taken to her bed. What they had shared had not been love, but it had been pleasant. “She hates me now, Valdrey. She thinks me no different than Mother and Father.”
“Time will take care of it, have patience. Your girl is no fool.” The handsome blonde man fastened his cloak and adjusted his sword belt. “The queen has ordered us to use no more mortals as our champions or to intervene with any human's behavior for the time being. Do you plan to obey?”
Syann didn’t deceive herself. Valdrey was wise; the Lord of Victory was interested in more than her opinion. He wanted to know about her plans for Kian. Everyone knew she had forged a bond with the Slayer, and it was no secret she had helped him in the past. Many were curious if she planned to use him to gain power. Valdrey had an agenda. As they all did. “I have never had a champion, you know that. I fight my own battles.”
“An admirable quality,” the god said, cocking his head and bowing slightly.
She rolled her eyes and started to walk away, but Valdrey grabbed her arm. “Do you think we can seize this world again, Syann?”
She looked down at his hand and he released her arm. “I don’t even know if we should try. Maybe our reign should come to an end. Sometimes I think we should go beyond the veil and never return to this world.”
Valdrey jerked his head back in astonishment. “That would be pure foolishness. This world belongs to us. The humans would still be lorded over by the elven nations, sitting in smoke-filled caves and eating raw meat, if not for our mercies and your father’s heavy hand.”
“True, we gave them civilization and helped them throw off the yoke of the Elven Lords, but what other gifts did we bestow on them for their worship, Valdrey?”
The God of Victory shook his head, unable to answer her question.
Syann’s eyes went cold. “We brought them war, hatred, and death. The world was dark then, Valdrey, and so were we. The humans should loathe us.”
“So are you saying you won’t try and rebuild your temples and take your place as the Goddess of Justice?”
Syann gave him an ironic smile. “I didn’t say that. I am Death’s daughter and I will do what I must. I just hope Hesperina can achieve her dream of creating a benign pantheon. She wants to try and bring the world peace, ushering in a new age where we nurture and guide mortals, not use and destroy them for our own vanity and petty struggles for power.”
Valdrey chuckled. “And do you believe that this grand new age will ever truly come to pass, Syann?”
Her expression went flat when she met his gaze. “No, Valdrey, never.”
***
The Mistress slipped behind the veil of Hell. The domain her husband created was comforting to her. She loved the smoke and fire and the way the smell of death lingered in the air. It made her remember who she was.
Lava angrily bubbled up from the flaming lakes that made up this part of the realm. She walked along the shore of the largest of the bodies of smoldering magma till she came to the dark path that led away from the heat and fire.
The farther she followed the path the colder and darker it became. A sickly grey mist settled around her feet, keeping the ground from sight. All manner of strange and unsettling sounds could be heard out in the darkness, but she had no fear. She was the Mistress of the dark, the Queen of Hell, and this was her kingdom. Nothing here would dare offer her harm.
She came to a large bridge that had been constructed from the bones of the elves and dwarves that had stood against her husband in the beginning time. The gruesome span stretched out into a great red lake, and she could smell the sweet stench of blood that filled its depths. The Bridge of Fallen Enemies would lead her to her destination, a small island that rose out of its gory waters, the center of Hell.
She let out a shallow sigh as she approached the island. A slight smile lazily came to her lips. A massive black tree, twisted and lifeless, grew out of the island’s center in an effigy to the Reaper’s merciless character. The Tree of Torment, Octavian’s prized creation, feared by both man and god alike, had been the death god’s dreadful punishment for those who incurred his wrath. There was little worse than crucifixion on the Tree. She had watched the bravest of men and gods scream and beg for death as they hung from its corrupt branches.
Two great thrones sat at the base of the tree, each made from the skulls of elven royalty. Her eyes were drawn to the larger of the two, the Reaper’s throne of skulls. She wanted to deny it and believe it not true, but she missed her husband.
The goddess felt her stomach flutter remembering how much she had loved Octavian when they had been young. There was a time she would have done anything to feel the power of his lovemaking. When he was inside her, she had felt as invincible as he was. In the end, she had won the right to become his bride, but she had never truly won his heart. His fierce love was for another. It always had been.
She knew he would most likely kill her now if he could, and the truth was if she died by his hand, she would die content.
The Mistress put her hand on her stomach as if the gesture would quiet her emotions as well. She didn’t have time for reminiscing about the past or pondering what could never be. The goddess would not let love slack her thirst for power, that time was over. The other side of the island was her destination. She needed to check on her prisoner.
On the far side of the island, a god sat chained to a great stone. He was heavily muscled and had a full beard, greasy black hair hanging past his shoulders. He would have looked like nothing more than a thick brute except for the kindness in his dark eyes. “So how was the gathering?” he asked as the Mistress approached him.
“No one asked about you, Ranjan, if that is what you mean. They think you're dead, just like the others.” She waved her hand, conjuring food and water for her prisoner. He fell on it greedily. When he was finished, he tested the strength of
his magical chains like he always did after she fed him. They were unyielding as ever, even to his great strength.
Ranjan sat down on the stone he was chained to and stared at his meaty hands. The dark grey boulder was not much larger than a barrel, but its magical properties made it unmovable, even for a god. He looked at her, confounded. “How long will you hold me here? Say what you want me of me and I will gladly fall to it, there is no reason to keep me prisoner. Haven’t I always made anything you asked for?”
She stood next to him and brushed his cheek with the back of her gloved hand. “You have always been very accommodating, Ranjan, that is the problem. You are our artisan, the smith of the gods, and you have been generous with your gift. For now, I can’t have you making your wonderful weapons and devices for just anyone. Once I have established my power again and you have made the things I need, then I will see to your freedom. Till then, your home will be here with me.”
She saw him look down at the stone, no doubt pondering a way to break free of its power. She did not dislike the smith, but she could not have him using his skills for Hesperina and her cronies. He would just have to remain bound till she was in control. “There is no escape from the Stone of Subjection, Ranjan, you know this. So I would find some other way to pass the time till I have need of you.” He nodded and hung his head. The Mistress smiled with satisfaction beneath her dark veil. She was very pleased with the way things were unfolding.
In a small clearing a short distance from Bandara’s southern border, thirty men busied themselves with chores that needed doing; some tended to their horses and tack, while others sat sharpening their weapons to a keen edge or repairing broken laces and removing dents from armor. No matter the task, each made sure they were keeping themselves on it. Their captain was in a foul mood and none wanted to provoke their ill-tempered leader.
They were called the Dark Cloaks, a name that they had been saddled with by the people of the villages and small towns they had passed though. It was due to the fact that K’xarr had them all wearing black cloaks to give the semblance of order and organization, and the fact they had yet to come up with a name of their own. No one liked the Dark Cloak nickname, least of all their captain.
Most of the men that followed the Camiran were cutthroats and outlaws, with few having known anything about military discipline before joining the Camiran’s company. The cloaks had given the lawless men a sense of brotherhood and helped turn the group of unruly brigands into a unique fighting force.
Few had ever served in a real army and those who had were deserters or worse. With Cromwell as their enforcer, K’xarr, Ivan and Rufio had trained the ruffians relentlessly over the last two years.
K’xarr was pleased with them, although he knew they still had a long way to go before they would be the kind of mercenary company he dreamed of. It had been hard to find good fighting men that would join him, superstition had caused many sellswords to shy away at the first glimpse of any of their black blood and then, of course, there was Kian.
Many of the men he had tried to recruit wanted no part of the inhuman killer. Stories of the Bandaran and Abberdonian conflict had spread through most of the southern kingdoms over the last couple of years and had left Kian with a grim reputation.
The tales left K’xarr with only outcasts and desperate men to fill his ranks. He took what he could where he could; using Ivan and Rufio’s military background, he tried to forge those he had found into a company of reliable fighting men. What he came away with was a band of thirty cold-blooded warriors that feared no one but their leaders and Kian Cardan.
“Where is he? We need to get moving.” K’xarr paced through the short grass of the small meadow where he and his company had made camp. The sweet air and warm sunshine of early spring did nothing to ease his foul mood. “Damn it, he was supposed to meet us here at sunrise.”
Cromwell stood up from the old log he was sitting on and stretched his heavily muscled frame. The Toran grinned from ear to ear. “Maybe the queen has worn him out. If that beauty was my woman, I would tell you to ride on and leave me nestled right between her soft thighs. Any man would be a fool to hurry away from a sweet little woman like that to ride along with this ugly band of toads.”
K’xarr gave his friend a look of disdain. “Whoever said the queen was sweet?”
Cromwell chuckled “She can get bit puffed up, but I could endure it if I got to shag that little peacock.”
“I don’t think the Phoenix of Bandara would care to be called a peacock, and the only thing you could shag in that palace would be one of her washer women and then only if she was blind.”
The Toran let out a booming laugh. “I wouldn’t complain, washer women have strong backs.”
K’xarr pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a deep breath. “Look, all I am trying to say is, these trips back and forth to Bandara have to stop. This is the third time in two years we have taken him to visit her, and each time, we have had to fight off attacks from the Hands. The Church has bands of them skulking around all over Bandara trying to kill us, knowing we keep returning.”
“So that’s why we waited at the border this time. I like killing the Church’s bastards, we should have ridden on in,” Cromwell said, thrusting out his chin.
“Killing them isn’t making the men or us any coin. We have had little work as it is. No one wants to hire a company that brings trouble from the Church along with it.”
Cromwell’s eyebrows rose and he chuckled deeply. “I don’t think our employers like your Dark Cloak’s character much either, they think you lead a band of outlaws by the look of these motherless dogs.”
K’xarr nostril’s flared. “I told you not to call them by that name. We are not the Dark Cloaks.”
“You are a humorless man, K’xarr, even for a Camiran,” the Toran said, clapping the mercenary captain on the shoulder.
“It’s not just us now, you overgrown buffoon. We can’t travel around living off berries and rabbits, we need work. We have men that look to us to fill their bellies and their pockets. I wanted to head south at first light, Rhys knew this.”
Cromwell waved his hand as if shooing away flies. “Like I said, he should just stay with her. I don’t know why he keeps coming back.”
“She’s still married to King Talorn. I don’t think he would approve of Rhys shagging his queen.”
“Then he should just kill that blonde dandy and take Raygan, she’s willing enough. If the healer doesn’t want to do it, then all he has to do is ask me for the favor. I never liked that self-righteous coxcomb. We should have killed him when we put the girl on the throne.”
K’xarr rubbed at the back of his neck. “Bandara’s not the Harsh Coast and that’s the Phoenix Queen, not some Toran whore. Now shut up before…”
“Riders coming.” Both men turned at the sound of Rufio’s shout and the mercenaries scrambled to arm themselves. They looked on as three riders broke into the clearing. K’xarr’s warriors quickly lowered their weapons as they recognized their wayward healer.
Rhys had shaved the beard he had sported over the last few months and his brown hair was tied back and combed. He wore a set of new clothing and a very expensive pair of riding boots. K’xarr gave a half-grin knowing the queen had something to do with his healer being so well-groomed.
Rhys had two young women riding along with him. The first was thin and fine-featured as she dismounted her horse. K’xarr could see she was small at the waist and had narrow hips. The pretty girl had long brown hair similar in color to Rhys’s. The lean woman was a striking contrast to Rhys’s other female companion. She was much taller and stoutly built, with large soft curves and a heavy chest. The most pleasing thing about her was her smile. One could tell it came easily to her face as if it was meant to always be there. The only similarity between the two women was the color of their hair. “You’re late,” K’xarr said, pointing at Rhys.
“It could not be helped. When I arrived in Turill, I found both my sister
s waiting for me.”
K’xarr did not hide his displeasure. “So you brought them back with you? Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Rhys’s face reddened. “No, Commander, I haven’t. Both of them will be very helpful to me. Besides, it’s only till we get to Gallio. Once we’re there, I intend to pay for their passage back to Tara. I promise they won’t be a burden.”
“They won’t be any trouble for me. Introduce us, Rhys,” Cromwell said, leering at the young women.
The healer stepped closer to the two women as if trying to shield them from the Toran’s carnal gaze. “This is my younger sister Rachael.” The thin woman blushed slightly and gave a slight nod to the men. “And this is my older sister Morgana.”
The larger of the two women moved forward as if she had known the warriors her whole life. “I have heard so much about all of you. Rhys speaks very highly of all of you and I promise you, Captain Strom, I can pull my weight, so if there is any way I can be of service, don’t be afraid to ask.”
Cromwell started to speak but K’xarr cut him off. “Just don’t.”
The Toran bull smiled and winked at Morgana, making the thick woman giggle. “This is going to be quite an adventure, isn’t it?” she said, looking at her brother.
Rhys sighed. “I’m afraid it is.”
***
Rhys and K’xarr walked across the meadow as the men readied their horses and Cromwell introduced Rhys’s sisters to the rest of the company. They could hear the Toran giving the mercenaries a stern warning about keeping their hands off the two women.
K’xarr gave the healer a stiff slap on the back. “I see the queen cleaned you up. Didn’t like the beard, eh?”
Rhys shook his head. “No, not at all. She said I looked shabby and that traveling with you was doing little for my manners.”
K’xarr chuckled. “I see she hasn’t changed much.”
“Nothing has changed,” Rhys said, looking at the captain solemnly.
Song Of Fury (Gods Of Blood And Fire Book 2) Page 3
