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

by A. J. STRICKLER

  The general shrugged. “Who can say with Malric? He might want you to come back and have a drink with him, or he could have another task for you and your men. There is no understanding the working of Malric’s mind. He is just as secretive as he is cunning.”

  “Well, I guess we can deliver the news in person. He should be pleased with our victory.” K’xarr shrugged.

  “Aye, he will be. I think I will head back with you. My officers can handle things here. I want to tell Malric in person, so I can see the look on his face.”

  “Is it the look on his face you want to see or the fame you will get from defeating the Church?”

  “I am Dragitan, Strom, of course I want the renown and praise that goes along with victory. Hell, I would like the city turned out to throw rose petals from the rooftops like they do in my homeland when a conqueror returns, but don’t worry, Strom. I will see you get your share of the glory as well.”

  “I had no doubt about that, General.”

  K’xarr gathered his men and told them where he was going. Ivan would be in command while he was gone, the former Asconan knight was a fine commander and a good man. He had little worry that the company would be in good hands.

  He decided to bring Rufio along; the lovestruck fool would want to see his woman. Rhys and Endra were added to the party as well. Rhys needed a break from his work and K’xarr wanted to keep an eye on sullen shield-maiden, not to mention bringing her along would please Cromwell as well. The small group joined Achillus later in the afternoon and rode for the capital.

  ***

  General Achillus’s officers issued orders the following day that the remaining Masarian forces were to garrison at the forts that stretched across the northern part of the kingdom. This would be the last night the soldiers would have to sleep under the stars. K’xarr and his officers had left for the capital and the camp was in good spirits.

  The Sons of the Reaper sat around several small fires, drinking and talking about their exploits. As the ale flowed, many exaggerated their role in the astounding victory. Shadows from the firelight danced on the faces of hardened warriors as each stood to tell their tale.

  She gazed across the smoky flames at the two love birds, huddled so close together, as they listened to the mercenary’s lies. The whore sat in front of him, letting his arms wrap around her while he whispered in her ear.

  Ursula bit her lip and dug her nails into the palm of her hands hard enough to draw blood as she glared at the happy couple. It was her that should be sitting there with him, not that little strumpet.

  She could love him like he deserved to be loved. That chicken-faced wench didn’t know the first thing about pleasing a man. Lucan had said they had yet to even make love to each other. What kind of woman was it that would not offer herself to the man she claimed she wanted to marry?

  For now, she would bide her time. The chance would come, then she would slit that bitch’s throat and leave her in the weeds somewhere to rot. It would be all too easy to make Lucan love her with Ashlyn dead and gone. She rubbed her hands up and down on her strong shoulders; the thought of him touching her was exhilarating.

  The whore had gotten up and was coming towards her with a bottle in hand. How she dearly wanted to cut the pig up here and now and listen to her scream, but she would have to wait.

  “Upton, would you like some more wine?” The mercenary smiled sweetly at Ashlyn and shook his head.

  Pope Ammiel grinned like a naughty school boy as he quickly scanned the message that the vicar had brought him. He sat down at his desk and gave the man sitting across from him a satisfied look.

  “Well, Dracen, everything seems to be falling into place. Bishop Carter reports that Malric has accepted my offer and as we speak, Strom and the Toran are on their way to Gallio.”

  Dracen inclined his head toward the pope. “Masterfully done, Your Holiness, perhaps now we can bring this sordid business to an end. With Strom gone, the monster might be easier to destroy.”

  Tapping his finger on the ornately carved arm of his overstuffed chair, the pope leaned back and looked up at the painting on the ceiling. It depicted Saint Horus defying the Beast and bringing the word of God back to mankind in the form of the Holy Tome. It was pure fantasy but he had always liked it. “The half-breed is a matter for another day. The important thing now is that the army from Quintar has rendezvoused with what remained of our forces near the border of Masaria. I believe Prince Cullen is leading them. Clovis said the prince was more than efficient mustering half of the Quintaran forces in a matter of days. I got the impression that Clovis was not overly fond of the prince but thought he could finish off what was left of the Masarians.”

  Milara’s eyes narrowed. “I remember Cullen now. He is King Hugo’s eldest son, a very ambitious young man if my memory serves. I am not surprised Hugo sent him.”

  The pope cleared his throat. “I have instructed Clovis to give the prince command of our forces, since General Kattan had to be…relieved, and I offered all of Masaria to King Hugo if his son can manage to secure it.”

  Dracen gave the pope a sour look. “I am not surprised about Kattan. He was gutter trash when Father Cheridan brought him to Asqutania as a boy. A vile man by everyone’s account, I am more than pleased he has been dealt with and Masaria is more than enough incentive for the Quintarans to destroy their remaining forces. Hugo’s kingdom will double in size with its acquisition.”

  “Yes, and now that Kattan has chewed on them a bit, Prince Cullen should have little problem dealing with the remaining Wardogs,” the pope said, still staring at the ceiling.

  One of the monks from the new order came in and bowed to the pope. “How may I serve God, Holiness?” the man said in a monotone voice.

  The pontiff scribbled a quick note, sealing it with wax from a candle and stamping the sacred emblem of the Church into the hot goo. “Take this message to the grand inquisitor.” The monk bowed without question and vanished before their eyes.

  The lord justice shook his head in wonder. “The Blessed are truly amazing, Your Holiness. God has given us a wonderful gift, everyone is talking about them.”

  The Holy Father stared at the place the monk had been standing. “Truly divine blessings, aren’t they. I am very pleased they were received so well. Their angelic power will help us rid ourselves of these black-blooded vermin once and for all.”

  “Are theses abominations truly that dangerous to us, Holiness? After my encounters with them, I can see the risk on an individual level, but the Church’s forces are invincible and our faith is steadfast. I just find it hard to believe this handful of warriors could pose such a grave threat to our very beliefs.”

  Pope Ammiel smiled with practiced courtesy; he had been asked the same question many times by many members of the Church’s hierarchy. The buffoons just didn’t seem to understand; then again, they didn’t know the truth. “First of all, my friend, who said it was just a handful? We have put more than a hundred of them to death. Not all the Beast's children are warriors and sorcerers, my friend.”

  “I had no idea, Your Holiness. I thought there were just those I had been hunting.” The lord justice was astonished.

  “I assure you, Dracen, there is a great deal you don’t know. These creatures are hiding all around us. Their numbers are few but they could destroy the very foundation of our faith. The children of the Beast are like a wildfire. If they are not extinguished, they will spread and turn everything they touch to ash. Is that dangerous enough for you, Lord Justice?”

  Milara said nothing, but the Holy Father didn’t miss the hint of fear on his face.

  “Don’t worry, Dracen,” the pope said. “I have things well in hand, just pray that Clovis and Bishop Carter have better luck than you did.”

  ***

  The immense throne room inside Shadow Dragon Mountain was devoid of furnishings or decoration. Thirteen gigantic pillars supported the stone ceiling. The columns had been magically set into the obsidian floor, which ha
d been smoothed and polished to a mirror finish. A large dais with thirteen steps rose from the far end of the room. On it sat a throne of simple design carved from a single piece of black onyx. Voices echoed off the room’s stone walls as the three mighty gods spoke of their concerns.

  “She has gone too far this time.” The queen’s voice reverberated loudly as she stood up from the throne.

  “I told you she would never conform to or obey any decrees you made,” Satron said from the foot of the dais. Hesperina looked at her brother. With dark hair and beard, the powerfully built God of the Sea stood bare-chested with a simple blue skirt and sandals. The frown on his face reminded her of the warning he had given after the first court she had presided over. Satron had cautioned her that the Mistress would be difficult to deal with during their second rise to divinity.

  “She wants power, sister, plain and simple, and she will use the mortals to get it,” Galames added with convection. The God of the Sun was dressed in striking contrast to Satron. Galames look more like he was going to war than counseling his sister, encased in the golden armor Cem had given him when they had laid claim to the mountain. The sun god was clean shaven, with his butter-colored hair tied back to reveal a handsome bronze face. He and Satron could not be more different in looks, but their opinions about the Queen of Hell were identical.

  Hesperina walked down the dais, her white gown dragging on the floor. She was headed for the throne room’s massive golden doors, and her two powerful brothers fell in step behind her. “You are both right. If she isn’t reined in, she will cause the deaths of millions. We will be the gods of an empty, bloodstained world if that wretched woman isn’t stopped,” The queen hissed.

  “It’s not just the Mistress, it is all of them, Octavian’s whole vile line. They have always been bloodthirsty and mad, we are lucky most of them have killed each other off. They should have all been put to death long ago, Hesperina. Cem chose to fight on the wrong side of the rebellion, he should have sided with the king and put the prince down at the first sign of his uprising.”

  Hesperina paused with her hand on the throne room’s golden doors; she looked at the engravings that Ranjan had carved into great doors so long ago. It was all of them, each god and goddess, after they had won the world of Saree for their own. The Reaper gave them a world and made them divine. It was the God of Death’s greatest triumph. They had all loved each other then, how had they come to this? “You know it is forbidden to speak of the time before he brought us across the Forever Sea, Satron,” the queen all but whispered.

  “I know the law, sister; I just regret ever supporting that bastard.”

  She turned, eyes flashing. “Have you forgotten what it was like? If not for Octavian’s insurrection and his courage, we would still be living under the depraved rule of that tyrant. I loved him then, Satron, we all did. He was our hero, our champion, our prince, and he wanted us to live in the light. Have you forgotten the darkness, brother?”

  With downcast eyes, the sea god shook his head. “I never desired his imprisonment, brother; I wished he hadn’t forced it on us. Only Cem’s death and now Penelope’s murder could have made me hate him.” Hesperina paused, her throat tightening with emotion. “We must leave the past to the dead. The future of this world is in our hands. If the Mistress has her way, it will be no different than the land we escaped from, dark and brutal.”

  “I would die before I let that happen,” Galames said with conviction.

  Hesperina touched his sun-kissed cheek. “There should be no more death, we are too few, but make no mistake, I intend to stop her meddling. The mortals must be left to their own fate; all we should offer is gentle guidance. We want their worship, not their servitude or enslavement, and I want no more of their blood on my hands.”

  “She may not give you a choice, sister. She will want war.”

  Hesperina closed her eyes. The thought of conflict among the gods tore at her soul. She pushed the golden doors open. “Let us speak with the others. I must make some amendments to my decrees.”

  ***

  He felt more himself as the monster inside him slept. The black sword at his side whispered to the beast, trying to wake it from its slumber, but he held firm. The sword had a sly nature, not brash and impatient like Malice had been. Silence was cunning and measured. Slowly trying to gain control of the darkness that lay dormant in the inner most places of his heart, it was patient and indomitable. It felt as if the sword had put him back together, made him whole again, but Kian could feel the lie. It was a trickster. The sword didn’t want to influence or manipulate any one part of him, it craved everything. The blade wanted the sum total of the creature called Kian Cardan. He knew he could not rid himself of the darkness inside of him any more than he could have left the sword in the canyon. They were children from the same mother, meant to be together and incomplete without each other.

  He would find a way to control them both, even if it killed him. The darkness wouldn’t win, no manner what the cost. He owed that to Gildor and himself.

  For now, he felt good. Syann had brought him clothing and armor, a short-sleeved shirt of elven chainmail. Where she had found it, Kian could only guess, but it was magnificent. Light and well-oiled, he could move unencumbered in the armor of his mother’s people. The boots he wore were supple and fit him well, as did the black cloak he now sported. Walking along the plain, the swordsman adjusted the steel vambraces that covered his forearms. They were a little tight but would serve their purpose.

  He and Syann had not spoken since she had returned with the garments. Her continued glances at the dark blade told him that its origin was still on her mind. He too wondered about the sword that made no sound, but only patience would bring the truth to light. Time would tell who had delivered it into his hands.

  Kian’s attention was on her. He studied the goddess beside him intently. Syann was striking, her blonde hair fluttering in the gentle breeze undecided of where it would land on her face. Her features were flawless and her tan skin unblemished. The swordsman found himself stealing an occasional look at her hips, their rhythmic swaying was mesmerizing. As fair as the goddess was, she only brought his mind back to Endra.

  “I see you still wear the ring I gave you.” Her voice pulled him from his daydreams. Kian looked down at the heavy black ring on his finger. She had given it to him the day before he had killed Tavantis.

  “You said I may need it someday. It also reminds me of the brother I once had.”

  “I know about regret, Kian, and understand, but Tavantis betrayed you, killed people you loved. He earned the fate you gave him. Let’s not talk of past sorrows. Tell me again how you came to possess the sword.”

  “I have told you, some sort of shadow devil made me pull it from a magical pool. He called himself a Herald from the night or dark, something like that. He said we would one day share a common enemy. The thing beat me in the head so many times I don’t remember exactly what it said. When he finished, I put the sword through him and pushed him into the pool.”

  Syann pursed her lips in thought. The goddess looked at the sword and shook her head. “It is like nothing I have ever seen before. Even our smith Ranjan, an artisan whose talent I thought I would never see matched, could not have forged such a flawless blade. I can feel the sword, its power is dark and immense. It is like a great sleeping evil. You should cast it into the sea and forget you ever laid eyes on it.”

  “I may do that very thing, but for now, I think I will keep it close.”

  “I will tell you this, Kian Cardan, I don’t like that thing one bit. It is nefarious and unnatural, I have stared into the eyes of death and I see little difference between the Reaper’s gaze and that dark blade.”

  The goddess said no more. She sat down on a large flat rock and stretched her back. Syann had traveled with him for days. The goddess had treated his wounds and brought him all he needed. She had helped him in every way but one. “Why have you not offered to take me to Endra? I know you
could bring us together with a mere thought.”

  Syann leaned back on her hands and looked away, not offering to meet his questioning look. “Queen Hesperina has forbidden us to meddle in the affairs of mortals.”

  “You have supplied me with water and food, and kept us unseen to the denizens of the Waste. I would say that is more than meddling.”

  “That is different, a simple gesture of good will. If I took you to that woman, it may change the course of natural events and bring the wrath of Queen Hesperina down on me. It is best we get there without using my power.”

  Kian wasn’t prepared to dispute the goddess’s explanation, but he didn’t believe a word of it.

  There was little fanfare when they rode into the city. A few hundred people cheered and waved from the main thoroughfare of Gallio, but the majority of the citizens disliked Malric too much to celebrate his unprecedented victory. In truth, many would have been happier if the Church forces had been victorious.

  K’xarr chuckled to himself as they rode through the palace gates. Malric Denn was no Phoenix Queen. If Raygan had won an embroidery contest, every one of her citizens would have been in the streets throwing rose petals and chanting her name. Few rulers enjoyed the unwavering love of their people like the Phoenix of Bandara, and Malric was not one of them.

  He had only managed to capture the ire of the Masarian people, he would never have their love or support. K’xarr thought it would be little different for him if he was a king. He would rule with an iron fist just like Malric, using fear and a strong army to govern his subjects. It was just their way.