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

by A. J. STRICKLER

  K’xarr vigorously shook his head. “No, Kian is my friend. I would never try and force him to do anything he didn’t want to do.”

  “You didn’t use the harsh methods I did, no. You covered your exploitation in the cloak of acceptance and friendship.”

  Planting his feet wide, he leveled his sword at the goddess. “I will not listen to your lies. Kian is my sword-brother, I would never try to trick or manipulate him.”

  The Mistress raised a finger. “I know the truth is hard to swallow, so I will overlook your insolence and let you think on what I have said. A moment of thought might make the reality of what I imparted become more palatable.”

  K’xarr didn’t like what the goddess was implying and he wanted nothing more to do with her. “Kill me or let me leave, I will never serve you or any other god.”

  “I am not here to turn you into one of my vassals and I have no desire to kill you, at the moment. No, Captain Strom, I want something entirely different from you.” She walked a step closer and folded her gloved hands in front of her. “I’m not asking for nor do I need your worship. All I desire is your ambition, and for you to have enough vision to see the benefits of my patronage. Take my gifts, Captain, and simply do what you will do. I can hold no sway over you by your acceptance of what I have chosen to freely give. By the heavens, mortal, can’t you see I want to help you?”

  K’xarr looked back to the altar at what the Queen of Hell offered. Even though the armaments belonged to this wretched woman, he desperately wanted to possess them. “I won’t be a party to your evil,” he muttered, more to himself than her.

  The goddess laughed heartily. “You are evil, mortal. Why is it you think you’re not? Tell me what trait you possess that makes you believe you are a virtuous man?”

  His jaw tightened at the goddess’s accusation. “Just being a warrior doesn’t make me evil.”

  “No, but what motivates you does. Why didn’t you go with your so-called sword-brother when he scurried off to help the villagers in Quintar?”

  K’xarr said nothing, but he knew the answer.

  The Mistress pulled at her gloves and tapped her foot. “If you won’t admit it then I will explain it to you. There was no glory or profit in the endeavor. You cared nothing about those peasants or their plight. The cold truth is you didn’t go because there was no benefit in it and you, my good captain, simply didn’t care.”

  K’xarr looked away from the veiled woman, shamed by the hint of truth in her words.

  “You and I are of the same mind, Captain. We both believe we owe the weak nothing. Their pathetic lives are to be pitied; laboring away night and day in the miserable drudgery of their lives, their only reward being the continuation of their meagre existence. Never daring to take what they want from life. Believing that one day, if they are wholesome and honorable enough, they will receive their just desserts.

  “They are sheep and will always be dominated by the wolves of this world. We are not evil, mortal, we are fierce and powerful. Only the craven and self-righteous see our strength as an iniquity. The truth, Captain, is a simple one: the weak fear those who are willing to stop at nothing to achieve their desires. It’s easier for them to call us evil than to face the reality of their own cowardice. We are the world’s wolves, Captain.”

  K’xarr was taken aback by what the goddess had said, but he still didn’t trust her. “Why offer me your help? I’m not a king or even a noble and I am assuredly not the mightiest of warriors, I’m only a savage from the north that commands a band of sellswords.”

  “I have many reasons. One is we share a common enemy: the pope and his vile Church. It would be in both our interests to destroy it,” the goddess said casually.

  It was K’xarr’s turn to laugh. “That is not possible. If you fight the Church, you would be taking on most of the world. It is a fool's dream; no one has even beaten one of their armies in hundreds of years.”

  “Yet you fight against them now, do you not? Nothing is impossible, Captain. I know you thrive on the impossible, even if you won’t admit it to yourself. Glory lives in the unachievable. You are a man who knows this; it is another reason why I have chosen you.”

  K’xarr threw up his hands. “I am no one to take on the Church. You would need an empire for that.”

  “Then be bold, Strom. Take what I have given you, ride out, win or steal what you need. No enemy is too great to fall. One with your blood should not be so timid about who their enemies are.”

  K’xarr’s eyes narrowed. “What do you know of my blood?”

  “I know you should revel in it. Those possessing it are blessed by the heavens.”

  “You call it a blessing? It’s a curse that has plagued me my whole life. If you know what it means, where it comes from, tell me now.”

  “Not for me to say, Strom, though I think you will find out soon enough, Farewell, warrior.”

  “Wait, you’re just going to leave?”

  “I don’t have time to stand here and try to convince you of what you already know. You are what you are, Captain, and there is no shame in wanting what you want. Power and glory have a price and I think you are one to pay it. I will leave the sword and armor, if you wish take them. I ask but one small thing: if you accept my gifts, I you want to change the name of your company and ride under a different banner.”

  “We don’t even have a name or a damn banner.”

  “That will make things so much the easier.” The Mistress reached out, placing her hand on his forehead. “When you stand before your men clad in my armor, you will know what to call your company, Captain Strom.”

  K’xarr shivered at the goddess’s cold touch. “And if I don’t accept your offer?”

  “I won’t hold it against you, Strom. I will simply find another that seeks greatness,” she said, taking a step back.

  “Wait... Were you the woman in my dream?” K’xarr shouted before the goddess could vanish.

  The Queen of Hell slowly shook her head. “No, mortal, if I ever appear while you slumber, it won’t be in some calming dream or carnal vision. I assure you, it will be a bloody nightmare.” The Mistress flipped her hand and faded without a sound.

  K’xarr sat on one of the broken column as the last glimmers of the sun sank below the horizon and he pondered what the goddess had said. He had never been one to lie to himself. He had used Kian in Bandara, of that there was no doubt. He had needed the swordsman and he had exploited the half-elf’s honor and his need for acceptance. He thought back on the path of his life: The murder of his parents, the countless men he had killed, and the laws he had broken, it all came flooding back, culminating with the murder of Cade’s son. Was he evil?

  He spent the night among the ruins of the temple considering the nature of his soul. When the first rays of the morning broke the horizon, he donned the armor and belted on the sword.

  Untying the roan from the crooked tree, K’xarr pulled himself up into the saddle. He took one last look at the ruins and headed back toward the city.

  ***

  Drusilla lounged on an overstuffed divan, drinking a large glass of wine. She had concluded that her room needed a little spicing up. It was so small compared to her home in the veil, but she had done her best to make the tiny chamber appealing. There was just something missing. The floors were covered with thick dark rugs from Kahira and the walls and ceiling had been draped with the finest silks from the kingdom of Zae, dyed just the right color of silver. Her ornate furniture was gray, as was the quilt that covered her huge oval bed. It needed a splash of color, that’s what it was, but which one? She was thinking of a red or orange when a knock came at her door. “Enter,” she said in as sultry voice as she could manage.

  Tasel poked his head in. “She has returned.”

  “Good. Ask her if she would come see me, please.”

  Her son smiled. “She is already on the way.”

  Drusilla waved the dream god away with a smile. Tasel closed the door, leaving his mother to
await her guest.

  In spite of herself, the moon goddess was curious about her sister’s plan. The Mistress had been gathering power like a farmer harvesting a field of wheat. She had done her part with the mortal and wanted to make sure she received her share of whatever rewards the Mistress’s latest scheme produced.

  Her sister entered her room without a knock. “Your airheaded son said you wished to see me?” the Queen of Hell said as she glanced around the room with her hands on her hips. “This place looks like a silken brothel, Drusilla. You are the goddess of the moon not the goddess of whores. You should think of a different way to present yourself. You would be taken much more seriously by the others if you would stop behaving like you were eternally in heat.”

  She ignored her sister’s insults and counsel. It would be much too tiring to argue with her ill-tempered sibling. “How did things go with the mortal? I wanted to find out if our little plan turned out the way you wished.”

  The Mistress’s veil trembled from her deep sigh. “First of all, Dru, it was not our plan, it was my plan. And yes, Strom took the bait as I knew he would. Power and glory are two gifts a man like the captain could never turn down. He has an insatiable appetite for fame and conquest inside him that even he has yet to discover. I believe that ruthless bastard would have made a fine lieutenant for the Red Handed.”

  Drusilla’s brow furrowed. “Why did it have to be him, sister? There are countless warriors who would have taken your offer in a second, men even more unsavory and capable than the dear captain.”

  “He has the blood and the right companions. Besides, he is already an enemy of the Church. And, my dear sister, there is a hidden hate inside him that can easily be tapped. He feels cheated by fate; there is a rage that dwells in his heart born of vanity and feelings of superiority. He believes in his heart of hearts that he deserves more than what the world has given him. Pride and aspiration are Strom’s weakness. I will use that to get the prize I truly want.”

  Drusilla cocked her head in confusion. “And what is it you really want?”

  “The Slayer.”

  ***

  “Where the hell did you get that armor? I have never seen anything like it,” Cromwell said with a raised eyebrow.

  “I will tell you all about it later,” K’xarr said, pushing Rhys’s hand away from his face.

  The healer’s lips tightened into a thin line. “I told you not to get out of bed, but did you listen to me? No, you got on your horse and rode to who knows where and did who knows what. Sometimes I wonder why I waste my time on you. Now stop fidgeting and let me take a look at your eyes, I need see if you have set yourself back. Head injuries can be tricky.”

  K’xarr gently shoved the healer back. “Damn it, not now. Later I will let you inspect me all you want. For now, what I need is all the men to be brought to the Wardogs’s training field.”

  Rufio picked up his helmet and headed for the door. “You want the new members too.”

  K’xarr nodded. “Especially them.”

  ”Can I ask why, Captain?”

  “It’s important that I address them right away. Things are going to change for the company, starting today.”

  Cromwell laughed heartily. “A speech, this should be good for a laugh.”

  ***

  Dark clouds had gathered over the Sea of Fins. The storm rolling in from the south would be a bad one, and there would be little time to speak with his men before it hit. Rufio had formed them up in ranks, the Wolves and Silver Swords along with the original members of his company. His officers stood in front of the formation, awaiting his words.

  Cromwell and Ivan had found a few crates. Stacking them together, they had built a makeshift platform that he could address the men from. K’xarr was no speech maker. In fact, he had never delivered one in his life. He hoped he could find the right words to bring him the desired outcome.

  The wind picked up and the thunder grew closer as he pulled himself up on top of the crates. Looking out at the hard faces of the mercenaries staring at him in anticipation, the goddess’s words began echo in his mind and he knew of what he was going to say.

  “I know some of you don’t know what to expect from me as your new captain, so I will tell you. I will give orders and you will follow them without question, that is all I ask of you. In return for your hard won loyalty and obedience, I must provide you with something. I will make you an oath here and now. As payment for your blood and valor, I will give you gold and glory.” The mercenaries roared with approval.

  The new armor he wore grew warm and comfortable as K’xarr raised his hands to quiet the men. “Today, three companies are one, and we all have become brothers. For make no mistake, each of us has suckled at the breast of the same mother and rode into battle alongside the same father. Our dark parents have fostered all of us our whole lives.” Lighting crashed wildly into the sea, but the eyes of the men gathered on the field were riveted on their captain. “For if we are anything, we are the children of death. From this day forth, my brothers, we will be known as the Sons of the Reaper. May the gods grant our enemies mercy, for all we will give them is fire and steel.”

  K’xarr pulled Crimson Wave from its scabbard and held it high for all the men to see. The heat coming from its hilt nearly scorched his hand. The men on the field mimicked their captain, raising their weapons in unison and beginning to chant his name. The rain started to fall and their wild cheers were quickly lost in the howl of the wind and the crash of thunder.

  Clovis Bedgood had been summoned by the Holy Father. The vicar who delivered the message had not disclosed to him the reason for the pope’s unexpected request. Most likely, Milara had bungled something again and His Holiness needed Clovis to fix it. He didn’t know why the pope tolerated his blundering colleague. His Holiness must have a soft spot in his heart for the arrogant priest. It was the only explanation he could think of for the Holy Father’s continued tolerance of Dracen’s repeated debacles. Perhaps the pontiff had fallen prey to the lord justice’s charming demeanor and striking good looks, like so many others of the Church’s hierarchy had.

  Clovis had not been blessed with any of those traits. The grand inquisitor wasn’t tall or handsome like Milara, nor had he been blessed with the lord justice’s ostentatious charisma. Clovis was older, shorter, and thinner. He possessed his father’s beak-like nose and his grandfather’s lack of hair. He didn’t stand out nor did he like to, he was just a quiet man who had dedicated his life to his religion. There were two things he did have that Dracen Milara did not: his gift for intrigue, and he was very good at hurting people. He had never failed to wring a confession from any heretic he had ever interrogated for Holy Mother Church.

  There were always two Eyes of God, a lord justice, and a grand inquisitor. Clovis had served in the latter position for twenty-five years. When Harold Rasmorson, the former lord justice, had gone to God, Milara had been appointed by the pope to take his place. Clovis knew then that his new counterpart would be nothing but trouble. The pompous priest was egotistical and self-righteous, and had no real idea about the Holy Father’s true intentions for the future of the Church. The man was more like a haughty noble than one of the Eyes of God. His incessant bootlicking and his father’s gold had propelled Dracen Milara to the position he now held.

  If the pope truly needed something important done, it wasn’t Milara he sent for, it was Clovis. Whether it be tearing the truth from an enemy of God or rooting out some diabolical plot, Clovis was the instrument the Holy Father called upon in the Church’s time of need. He had always been quite proud of the fact that the pope counted on him and trusted his judgement. He was sure Milara did not share that distinction.

  He had been waiting outside the pope's office for some time when the elderly pontiff opened the door. “Ah, my good friend Clovis, I am sorry that I kept you waiting. Do come in.”

  Clovis raised his hand in greeting. “No need for apologies, Your Holiness, my time belongs to you and God. What i
s it you need of me, Holiness?” the priest said, following the pope into the elegant room. He had been in the office on many occasions and always found the pontiff’s taste in furnishings superb.

  “Oh, Clovis, always straight to the point. You should relax more, my son. I know your service to God can be very strenuous and demanding, and it takes a special kind of devotion to do the unpleasant things you must do in the name of Holy Mother Church, but you should find a balance, one can become too driven.”

  “I only wish only to serve you well, Holiness. God and the inquisition are my life.”

  The pope sighed and patted the priest on the shoulder. “So it seems, my son. Well, straight to business then. I have a very important task for you. I usually leave the traveling to Dracen, but he is still away. Before I explain what I wish done, there is something I must show you. I have been keeping it to myself for too long and it's time I share it with someone that I hold in the highest regard. Let me dress for the occasion and then we can get started.”

  The pope summoned one of his vicars. With little help from his assistant, the Holy Father quickly put on the papal regalia over the simple white cassock he wore. Clovis sat quietly as he waited, hoping the excitement he felt wasn’t showing on his face. The pope was entrusting him with knowledge that was known only to the pontiff himself. He silently said a quick prayer, thanking god for his many blessings.

  After being properly attired, the pope dismissed his vicar and led Clovis into his personal quarters. The grand inquisitor had never been inside the pope’s private chamber before; to his knowledge, very few ever had ever seen the holy sanctuary.

  The room was large and its walls were completely covered with bookcases, their shelves filled with hundreds of volumes. Some appeared to be freshly transcribed, others ancient and ready to disintegrate at the slightest touch. There were scrolls and manuscripts of all shapes and sizes. A humbly built but strong-looking table sat in the middle of the room, a chair with a worn cushion pushed neatly up against it. A small bed sat in the corner with several overstuffed pillows laying haphazardly on it along with a dog-eared copy of the Holy Tome. A lavish silver-bound trunk sat at the bed’s foot with an ancient reading lamp on top. The grand inquisitor paid little attention to the sparse décor of the room; it was the books that drew his eye.