Song Of Fury (Gods Of Blood And Fire Book 2)

by A. J. STRICKLER

  The pontiff gave Fawkes a look of contempt. “I wouldn’t count on that, Lord Marshal, but in time I may have something that will make this Masarian dog raise his ears. For now, attack as soon as the army reaches the border. I will send you further instruction after I see what the usurper plans to do.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness.”

  The Holy Father put his hands behind his back. Fawkes thought he looked pleased. “One more thing, Alistair. You did choose one of our more…unrefined generals to lead the army.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness, I did as you asked.”

  “Well, man, who was sent?”

  “General Kattan, Your Holiness.”

  A wolfish grin spread across the Holy Father’s face. “Perfect.”

  ***

  The small chains that dangled from his warhorse’s bridle jangled as the big animal plodded down the road. The man was dressed in a combination of plate armor and chain mail, wearing the gold and white colors of the papal army.

  His helmet hung from his saddle. He had always liked to feel the wind on his face and the great helm was too confining for anything but combat. Dark curly hair fell to his shoulders, having been oiled to give it the look of being wet. A neatly trimmed goatee circled his thin lips and gave the man a distinguished appearance. He would be considered handsome by most women if it weren’t for the scar that crossed his face.

  The old jagged wound ran the length of his face, standing out clearly against his dusky skin. The other trait that put off the fair ladies of Asqutania was the permanent scowl he wore; it gave him a cruel and sinister look.

  His mother had been from Sidia and his father a Celonian. He had inherited her coloring and his features. The man who sired him had been a pirate and stolen his mother from a ship he and his crew had boarded near the coast of Quintar.

  He had never really known his mother, as she had died when he was very young. His father, having little use for a bothersome child, had sold him to slavers for a handful of gold when he was nine years old, but things had changed.

  Now Kago Kattan was a general riding under the banner of the Church. He looked up at the silk standard the knight riding beside him carried. The three-tined crown symbol of Holy Mother Church.

  He had been taught by the priests what each tine represented: God, the pope, and man. He had nothing but contempt for all three. The only thing the general believed in was himself.

  Kago had never aspired to be anything but a warrior. He had won his commission in the papal army though his daring and skill at arms, not through the circumstances of his birth or the gold in his pocket like many of the Church’s officers. He was not like them nor did he wish to be counted among their ranks. He had always held himself above the other commanders of the pope’s armies.

  The officers of the papal army had standing permission to participate in the tournaments held by the king. While the events were for nobles and knights of the Church, the pope had honored his officers by giving them his blessing to take part in the contests. The powerfully built Kattan was a fearsome opponent, but Kago had never entered one of the elaborate affairs, finding the contests a foolish waste of time. However, he had killed thirty-one men in personal duels in the streets of Asqutania.

  Most people stepped softly around the quiet officer. He was easy to offend and never forgave any slight. He was known throughout the Church as one of the most dangerous men in the ranks of the papal armies. He had few friends and many enemies in Tyro. He liked it that way.

  “General, may I have a word?”

  Kago looked to his right and saw the king’s lackey, Captain Dayton Gladwin. The King of Tyro always sent an officer with any campaign the Church launched. He was to report back if the papal army needed any reinforcements or supplies sent from Tyro, and to aid in battlefield strategies. Kago didn’t believe Gladwin was able to strategize how to pull his pants on in the morning. The captain was nothing more than a spy for the king. He was there to keep an eye on any spoils of war Kago and his army may acquire, nothing more.

  “No, you may not speak to me, Gladwin.”

  The captain frowned and pulled his horse alongside the general’s. Captain Gladwin was short, with straw-colored hair and had a weak chin. Kago thought he had more the look of a merchant than a warrior.

  “General Kattan, you know King Arundell expects you to treat me with respect. I’m his proxy on this campaign, as you well know.”

  Kago's lip curled. The man was noble born and like most, it had gone to his head. “The king will get his take of the loot I bring back from Masaria. There is nothing else we need to discuss.”

  “I think there is, sir. We have a war to plan. You have not consulted me at all in how you plan to unseat Malric from his throne.”

  “I don’t need to consult you or anyone else. I have been given command of this army by the pope’s order. Besides, I don’t need your help.” There was acid in the general’s words, but Gladwin did not seem to notice.

  “I have attended the military academy in Asqutania and received the highest honors in my class. I think I know what I am talking about, sir.”

  Kago leaned close to the captain and spoke though gritted teeth. “You will ride along with my army in silence, Captain. If you speak to me again, I will cut out your tongue and feed it to my horse. Do you understand what I am saying, Captain?”

  Gladwin nodded, shocked by the general's words. “Run along, Captain, or I will see if they taught you how to fight in that academy of yours.” Captain Gladwin turned and rode quickly away. Kago sucked in a big breath of air. God but he loved going to war.

  ***

  Octavia had been waiting for the Mistress for days. The Queen of Hell had just disappeared not long after Hesperina had held her first court. Octavia had decided to wait at the mountain until she returned, which she hoped would be soon.

  She hated the dark, dismal mountain. Her room, though decorated with all manner of finery, was still nothing more than a cave to her.

  She loved the outside, the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. Living inside was like a prison to her. She never could understand man's need for shelter.

  If one looked, nature provided everything a god or man could ever want, but who was she to judge? If people wanted to live in the confines of four walls, so be it. For her, the four winds were walls and the sky, her roof. The world itself was her home and she loved its freedom more than anything.

  The thought made her wish for some fresh air. She moved to leave when her door opened and the Mistress stepped in. She looked the Queen of Hell up and down; Octavia hated not being able to see the woman’s face. “Why do you still wear that veil and depressing gown?” she asked.

  The Mistress waved her hand, ignoring the question. “Did you secure the child? I assume that is why you wanted to speak with me.”

  Octavia sighed. “Yes, I did, but that vile creature of Shiavaka’s stole her from me. He took her to his tower to do who knows what. That man is completely insane, I don’t know why Shiavaka dallies with him. Anyway, I was planning to take her back when the Queen of Bandara and her handmaiden rescued the girl. That devil had kidnapped Queen Raygan and…”

  The Mistress held up her hand to silence the goddess. “This all sounds like a wonderful tale, but I couldn't care less about it. Where is the child now?”

  “I gave her to the queen, who in turn gave her to the Korlest woman. She travels with her now as a daughter.”

  “Well, that is just grand, Octavia. Your luck seems to have saved you once again. I do detest the Korlest woman, but I suppose it matters not. As long as the child is not in the hands of her true mother, that is what counts.”

  “What do you mean to do with the child? I won’t stand for any of your evils visited on the poor little girl.”

  The Mistress snorted. “You sound just like Syann. I plan no misdeeds for her. I was just keeping her from being used against me in the future. I have no further interest in the girl. As long as her father can’t get his disg
usting hands on her, I am content.”

  Octavia nodded. “For once, I agree with you. I hated to steal the girl away from her mother, but you were right. There was no alternative.”

  The Goddess of Nature shook back her black hair and cleared her throat. “Now would you like to have lunch with me? I mean, we could talk and…”

  The Mistress cut her off before she finished her invitation. “No, I don’t want to have lunch or anything else with you. I asked you to do this thing for me. It is done. Our business is finished.”

  “I only thought…”

  “I don’t care what you thought, sister. I despise you and I will never forgive what you did to me. You may have everyone else fooled with your pretentious concern and false compassion, but I truly know you.

  “You have the heart of a common whore, Octavia. You’re a self-serving harlot that plays at being virtuous and magnanimous to the entire world, but we both know what kind of woman hides behind that hollow facade.”

  Octavia’s lip quivered as tears ran down her beautiful face.

  The Mistress grinned wickedly. “That’s it, cry, you wretched bitch. If I had the time, I would lick those tears from your cheek and spit them in your face.” The Queen of Hell slammed the door as she left the room.

  Octavia fell to her knees, racked by sobs, and covered her face in shame, knowing full well she deserved her sister’s wrath.

  ***

  Unseen music played and the bodies of several men and women swayed in time with the melody. All dressed in finery befitting nobles of any court, their movements were a bit jerky but the dead stayed in time with the music.

  Siro stood on the stage of the tower’s small ballroom. The wand he held was carved from the femur bone of a former necromancer of his acquaintance. He had carved magical runes into it and enchanted the ghastly token to aid him in controlling the dead when a delicate touch was needed. “Do you like the dancing, Master?”

  Tavantis sat in a huge, overstuffed chair, tapping his finger on its arm with the beat of the music. He watched the little man smiling as he rocked back and forth with the corpses. “Very impressive, Siro, but the smell is unbearable. Send them away, the party is over. We have matters to discuss.”

  Siro frowned and waved his hand. The music stopped. “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, that will be all.” He raised the wand and pointed to the arched doorway. The dead formed a crude line and shuffled out.

  “You really should stop talking to them like they understand,” Tavantis said as he rose from his chair. “It makes you sound insane… Well, more insane.”

  “They do understand me, Master, as I understand them.”

  “Stop being so peculiar and come with me. I have defeated the sun, now I must make plans to break free from the other chains that bind me.”

  “What chains, Master? You can go into the light now, you’re free.”

  Tavantis’s pale lips pressed into a white slash. “No, not yet. The sun was nothing. The fetter I speak of will be much more dangerous to free myself from.”

  Siro looked at the wizard knowingly. “Lord Malaiss.”

  “Yes. As long as my so-called master exists, I’m a slave to his will.”

  Siro giggled. “You have a master.”

  Tavantis slapped him across the face hard enough to make his mouth bleed. “Not for long. He is little more than your rotten dancers. The man is a corpse, nothing more. ”

  Siro wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe. “He is a powerful vampire, Master, and very old.”

  “He is no sorcerer. Old or not, he has no defense against a wizard of my skill. All I have to do is get close. For that, I need you.”

  Siro swallowed hard. “What would you have me do?”

  The vampire’s mouth twisted into an unsettling grin. “You enjoy pretending, don’t you, Siro?”

  The necromancer nodded slowly.

  ***

  She had taken the stone staircase that led to the bowels of Shadow Dragon Mountain.

  The underbelly of the mountain was nothing like the quarters that had been created at the top of the great spire.

  The caverns below still retained their natural form and had none of the opulence of the rooms above. Stone stairs had been carved out long ago by the elder gods, but to her recollection, the huge subterranean cavities had never been used for any practical purpose.

  The gods rarely even came down here, only her father. Why he frequented the dark and dismal grotto was a mystery. It was here she had seen him last. It was here that she had betrayed him.

  Syann remembered it all too well. She had asked him to meet her, but when the death god had arrived, he had found not his beloved daughter but an angry pantheon of powerful gods.

  Unable to kill the mighty lord of death, the others had bound him with magic and forced him inside a sarcophagus created by Shiavaka and her mother where he still laid captive, a prisoner of the dark.

  Syann waved her hand and the torches along the walls sprang to life. In the soft glow of their light, she could see the huge iron coffin-like box her father rested in.

  The top had been set in place and magical spikes driven into the base. It had then been bound in enchanted chains and steel bands created long ago by the smith Ranjan. No one could escape from it, not even the Lord of Death.

  Syann slowly walked around the iron coffin, dragging her hand along its smooth contours. Tears filled her eyes. “Why did you make us do it, Father? I never wanted this,” she said to the darkness.

  “Don’t cry, Syann.” The Goddess of Justice whirled around, startled by the voice. She saw the woman standing in the shadows, dark wavy hair falling past her shoulders and a gentle smile on her kind face. Celestia was ravishingly beautiful inside and out.

  The goddess wore a simple, sleeveless, white gown and strand of white pearls adorned her neck. In the center of the necklace a black pearl hung in stark contrast to the others.

  Syann could not remember a time when she had seen the goddess without the odd strand around her neck. “What are you doing down here, Cousin?” she asked the goddess as Celestia walked into the light.

  “I knew you would come here sooner or later, and that you would need comfort when you did.”

  Syann looked at Celestia with wet eyes. “I didn’t think anyone else cared about what we did to Father?”

  Celestia put her hand on Syann’s shoulder. “I care. I loved Octavian when I was young, he was like a father to me, why would I not care about what befell him?”

  “He was mad. He killed Cem and the others with no more remorse than if he had squashed a bug. He hates the other gods and wishes them dead.”

  Celestia nodded and laid her hand on the Reaper's massive prison. “That is what many believe, but who can say what was in his mind?

  “He was not always that way, Syann. The others may have forgotten what he did for us, but I haven’t. I don’t remember the world we came from and as you know the elders never speak of it. I was just a babe when we came to Saree, but I do remember as I grew, watching your father fight for us time and time again. This world did not want us here. The elven nations and dwarven clans hated us.

  “I was too young to understand why, but I can still remember how desperately they fought us, trying their best to destroy our people. It was your father who put an end to it.

  “It was his idea to bring civilization to the humans and lead them against our enemies. I abhor war and violence, but we had no choice but to fight back. It was Octavian that defended us till we came into our power. Without him, we would only be a memory to this world.”

  “Do you know where our people came from, Celestia? The elders guard it like a dark secret. When I asked as a child, I was told never to speak of it again.”

  “No, I do not know any of our history before we came to Saree, but I know without your father, we would have not survived here.

  “It was by his design that the elders created the veils and his boldness that allowed us to rule over the humans.
It was your father that made us gods, Syann.”

  “Then why did he become a monster?”

  Celestia fingered her necklace and smiled sadly. “Do you know it was he who gave me this strand of pearls? I was just a young girl, not yet a woman but not a child either.

  “I had found out about my father and the circumstances of my birth, and why sometimes mother looked at me the way she did.

  “I was a child of rape Syann, unwanted and conceived in violence. The knowledge crushed me and I wanted nothing more than to die. It was your father that saved me with this simple strand of pearls.”

  Celestia laid both her hands on the sarcophagus, caressing the iron box as if it was the man inside. “It was the year my father broke with the others and set off alone. One night I could bear the shame no longer. I stood on a high cliff and prepared to fling myself into the sea, but Octavian stopped me. He took me home and gave me the pearls. I asked him about the black one in the middle. He said, “Tell me what you see when you look at it.” I said that it was not like any of the others, it stood out and I noticed it first when I looked at the necklace. He asked me if it was less beautiful than the others or if it’s worth was less. I told him, no, it was just different.

  “Then he took my face in his hands and said, “You too are just different, girl, you are just as beautiful and as valuable as anyone else, perhaps more so. I want you to wear these pearls and when you see the black one, remember what I have said.” And so I have, from that day till this one, I have worn the necklace and remembered your father’s words.”

  Syann was choked by emotion. Celestia had brought back memories of her own childhood. “What else did he say?”

  “He said if anyone tormented me or treated me unkindly to tell him and he would rip out their living heart and feed it to Shadowdancer.”

  “Ugh, that awful horse. Father has always had such a delicate way with words,” Syann said, straight-faced.