For so long they’ve been the dour priests in the black robes. Everyone hates them. Not now. Now it’s . . . different.
The meal ended. Novices swarmed in to clear the dishes and push the tables back. Priests eagerly scooted their chairs into rows to face the fireplace on the south wall. This was the big payoff, what they’d climbed so many steps in the brutal cold to hear.
Abbot Bremmer was about to speak.
He waited in a room adjacent to the kitchen. He could hear the chairs scraping on the stone floor. Bremmer still wasn’t sure what he would say to them. Generally, he played it by ear. He liked to start with a few obvious platitudes to warm up, basic stuff about how being called to serve Mordis was a lonely but important calling, that sort of thing. Something poignant always occurred to him as he went along.
An impossibly young novice approached him, timid as a rabbit. “Sir . . . uh . . . Abbot Bremmer, sir. They’re ready for you.”
“Have the fires burned low?” Bremmer liked it when the lighting was low and mysterious, his eyes shining from beneath the shadow of his hood. He assured himself it wasn’t vanity that spurred such drama. The younger priests listened better when they were on the edge of their seats.
“We stopped adding wood to the fire halfway through dinner,” the novice said.
“Very well.” Bremmer stood. “Let it begin.”
He went out to the main hall, and hushed whispers rolled through the assembled priests. Bremmer stood in front of the low fire and raised his hands.
“Welcome to the mother temple,” Bremmer said. “The cradle of the Cult of Mordis.”
The assembled priests bowed and in unison said, “Peace and rest.”
Peace and rest sound much better than death, Bremmer mused. So much in life is a matter of pleasant phrasing.
“Long have we labored thanklessly, just as our god has worked thanklessly throughout the ages,” Bremmer said. “Praise be to Mordis. Praise be to the thankless tasks. The servant who toils for need and not for praise serves twice as well.”
This was all still pretty standard stuff. Nobody was keen on death. The virtues of doing a thankless—but necessary—job were a popular theme among the brethren.
“There would be no life without death,” Bremmer went on. “We are part of a never-ending cycle. The sunset to the sunrise. The final winter. The cool relief of night. We are death. Men fear death, and so we are shunned. But with death there is release and an end to suffering. The mouse dies to feed the owl. The old die to make way for the new. Ideas die to make way for purer thought. We are the facilitators. We are transition.”
Still pretty standard stuff. If he didn’t stumble on to something new pretty soon, it was going to be a long night.
He lowered his hands.
The priests waited anxiously, leaning forward, eager for Bremmer’s next words.
Bremmer turned his head slowly, eyeing the congregation. “What a lot of bullshit, huh?”
Scattered gasps. A stunned murmur ran through the crowd.
“Everything I said was true. The release, the transition, all that.” Bremmer waved his hand dismissively. “Sure. Of course. But a change has come. Something has happened to remind us that Mordis is fundamentally different from the other gods. He has returned. That is the Great Reconstitution. A return. But have any of you considered the manner of his return? Have you considered what it means?”
More murmuring. This time curious. They weren’t sure where Bremmer was going with this, but they were intrigued.
“Mordis is the gatekeeper,” Bremmer said. “Every god promises his or her faithful a place in their own version of paradise, but how do you get to paradise? You have to die first, don’t you? Mordis is the one who ushers each and every soul from this life to the next. Death is his province. No follower joins his god in the afterlife except when Mordis facilitates it. Many philosophers have mused that this makes Mordis a servant of the other gods. I see things . . . differently.”
He waited and let the silence stretch. The only sound was the pop of the fire behind him.
“Mordis is not a servant of the other gods,” Bremmer said. “Mordis is a check on the other gods.”
Excited talk as the priests turned to one another. Bremmer’s notion was not original. Fringe scholars in the order had suggested such notions centuries ago, and Bremmer had stumbled upon the readings in the order’s archives. He’d found it only a peculiar curiosity at the time, but now, as he spoke, he felt a tingle down his spine. He was on to something. Bremmer felt he was glimpsing some tiny part of a greater truth that was slowly revealing itself.
He wasn’t just delivering a nightly sermon. He was discovering something.
“Remember, the mother temple is not just a temple,” Bremmer went on. “It’s a tomb. For centuries Mordis’s remains were kept here. Bones and dust. The remains of a person. Let me say that again. We don’t know who he was. That’s lost to time. Perhaps he was a powerful sorcerer, maybe a king, maybe a wise man. Whatever else he was, he was a person just like you and me.”
The priests buzzed excitedly. They were approaching some emotional peak.
“Unlike any other god, Mordis started as a person, a human.” Bremmer let his voice rise. “In each of us, in me and in you, there is a spark of that, something small, a seed, the same thing inside of us that was in that human who became a god!”
The priests were almost on their feet now. Bremmer’s words had awakened something in them, not just piety, not just fate, but some dormant pride they hadn’t even known was there.
“This is the time of Mordis!” Bremmer shouted. “And that means it’s our time too. In each of us is the potential, maybe distant and remote, but the very real potential to be more than we are.” He lifted his hands, voice filling the hall like thunder. “To walk as equals among the gods!”
The priests sprang to their feet. The cheering was so loud and sustained that it shook the dust from the rafters.
EPISODE SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY
Giffen’s eyes flickered open.
It didn’t help. He closed and opened his eyes again.
Darkness.
He remembered the tavern and the gorgeous red-haired woman. The fight. Something smashing into the side of his head. He ached all over, bruises and scrapes covering him head to foot.
And he was cold.
He felt himself up and down, discovered he wore only a loincloth. He felt around some more. Dirty stone floor. A pile of straw behind him.
Ah, yes, the dungeons. Well, that’s just typical.
He explored his cell. Small. Stone walls on three sides, and a heavy wooden door on the fourth. A bucket for his waste. There was a small window in the door. Giffen put his face to it but saw and heard nothing in the hall beyond, where it was equally dark.
Giffen returned to the pile of straw, curled up, and waited.
Most of his best operatives had been in the tavern. There were others who served him, scattered about the city, but none with the wherewithal to break him out of the dungeons, even if they knew he was here.
He needed some kind of plan. Giffen was a great believer in his own cunning, but nothing sprang to mind.
A couple of hours passed, or maybe it was only thirty minutes. He hadn’t realized how difficult it was to mark time in total darkness.
The distant turn of a lock, the clank of a chain.
Giffen stood, cocked one ear to listen.
Boot heels on the stone floor echoed, a glimmer of orange light in the little window. It grew brighter until it was obvious there were people standing right on the other side. The jingle of keys and the tumble of the lock. The door creaked open slowly on rusty hinges. Torchlight and jagged shadows flooded the cell.
Two armored guards appeared. One carried the torch. Both carried swords.
“Move back,” one of the guards told Giffen.
“I demand to see—”
“Get the fuck back,” the guard said.
Gif
fen stepped back until his back touched the wall opposite the door.
The guards moved from the doorway and a woman appeared, took one step into the cell, stood primly with hands folded in front of her.
Giffen didn’t recognize her. “Who are you?”
“I’m the woman who has your old job.”
Giffen sneered. “The whore peddler.”
Stasha Benadicta’s smile was tight and controlled. “Just so.”
“Where is the duke’s brat?” Giffen asked. “Didn’t she want to come herself to gloat?”
“She’s away,” Stasha said. “She doesn’t even know you’re here.”
Giffen waved her away with the back of his hand. “Then piss off, slattern. I’m sure your better has plans for me upon her return.”
“The duchess might be away for a while,” Stasha said. “Whatever happens to you is up to me.”
That gave Giffen pause. “Oh?” He had an animal instinct for self-preservation, and something told him this wasn’t good news.
“Tell me what it was like,” Stasha said. “When you slipped the knife into the duke. Did you feel pleasure? Were you proud of yourself?”
Giffen shrank into the corner of the cell. This was bad. He fell back on defiance. “I don’t answer to you.”
“Don’t you? You’re going to tell me the names of the rest of the traitors in the city. Then we can be rid of you once and for all.”
Giffen’s mind raced. “I’m more useful to you alive than dead. Your murdering whore and her men killed all of my minions. There are none left. But I know the plans of the Perranese. I can tell you what they’ll do next. Harming me would be foolish.”
“You will tell us how many traitors remain in Klaar,” Stasha said. “Their names and where they can be found. Lubin?”
She stepped aside, and a gigantic bruiser entered the room.
“Wait!” An edge of panic in Giffen’s voice. “Don’t do anything rash.”
“Lubin, beat this man,” Stasha said. “Don’t stop until he’s told you the name of every traitor he’s employed. Do you understand?”
A lopsided grin spread across the bruiser’s face. “Yes, ma’am.”
“But don’t you see that would be a waste of time?” Giffen said, suddenly desperate. “I’ve told you there aren’t any more traitors. This lummox would be beating me for nothing.”
The smile on Stasha’s face was warm and genuine this time. “That’s fine too.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The screams.
Bishop Hark’s eyes popped open. The feast had gone later into the night than he would have liked. He’d always gone to bed early, risen with the sun. Dumo frowned upon the man who frittered the day away, favored he who made hay while the sun shined.
More screams. The clash of steel. The animal scream of horses.
Yes, something was definitely amiss.
He sat up in his cot, blinked, looking around the tent. He’d gone to sleep in his breeches and undershirt. That would have to do. No time to don armor, and only Dumo knew where his lazy squire had gone to. He pulled on his boots and grabbed his mace.
Hark stepped out of his tent and into chaos.
A half dozen tents on his row burned, flame and smoke swirling into the night. Half-dressed soldiers ran in random directions, shouting to one another, each more bewildered than the next. A junior officer appeared, trying to bring some kind of order to the madness, but with little success.
Blast it! I wish I had my horse.
It had been years since he’d been in a major battle, but Hark preferred to fight from horseback. He wished he hadn’t let his idiot squire take his mount away to be fed and watered with the other horses halfway across camp.
More screams and shouts two rows over in the tent village told Hark he was only on the edge of the conflict.
The high-pitched whinny and snort of a charging steed drew his attention.
A warrior rode toward him, sword raised high to deliver a deathblow. Hark recognized the style of his opponent’s armor immediately, the overlapping plates of metal on his arms and legs, the flared helmet. Perranese. Hark had lived through the occupation of Klaar, and there was no mistaking the trappings of the enemy.
The mounted warrior was about to ride him down when the bishop moved—not to one side, but sideways in front of the charging horse. He grabbed the reins, and they almost jerked out of Hark’s hand as the horse thundered past, but Hark hung on with a white-knuckled grip.
The horse’s head wrenched to one side, tossing the rider from his saddle. He clattered along the ground, dirt kicking up, weapon flying away. Dazed, the Perranese warrior lurched to his hands and knees, trying to orient himself.
Hark didn’t give him the chance. He moved in fast, swinging the mace down hard with both hands, crushing the man’s helmet and skull. He went down, legs twitching, and Hark finished him with a second blow.
The bishop mounted the man’s horse and spurred it toward the heart of the battle.
Hark saw that the fiercest fighting focused on the tents two rows over, where the ladies were sleeping. A coincidence? Or a deliberate attack on the duchess? It didn’t matter. She was in danger. He raised his mace and rode faster.
A line of foot soldiers in Perranese armor stormed across his path. The horsemen must have been clearing the way for them. Hark wondered how many. Was the entire camp overrun?
He swung the mace just as one of the warriors turned to him, lifting his sword. The bishop caught him square in the face, nose flattening, teeth shattering, blood splashing to both sides.
On the backswing, Hark smashed another one on the collarbone, the crunch of armor and snap of bone clearly audible above the din of the battle.
Most of the Perranese troops swarmed past him, but a few stopped to engage, trying to hack up at him with their curved swords. He batted their blades away with the mace, maneuvered the horse away, but took a shallow slice down his thigh. He winced, immediately lamenting he hadn’t paused to put on his armor.
Hark swung wildly. Everywhere the mace rose and fell, skulls caved in and bones broke. He smashed open a hole in the ring of soldiers and was about to urge the horse through.
An intense blue light exploded with a crackling roar two rows over among the tents, blinding all who saw it.
The light seared Hark’s eyes, and the world disappeared in a flash of white.
***
The smell of fire brought Talbun immediately awake.
She threw the covers back and bolted from her cot, nude, and grabbed a thin robe, cinching it at the waist. Stepping into velvet slippers was faster than lacing up her boots.
Talbun swept the tent flap aside and stepped out into a battle.
A wave of Perranese warriors crashed into a line of royal troops. Swords clashed against armor. Men screamed. An entire row of tents across the row from her was completely engulfed in flame.
Most of the king’s men went down immediately, a few others striking back at the Perranese before being overwhelmed. The few remaining turned and fled. There seemed to be no leadership among General Inshaw’s men at all, no officers to rally them. They ran, dozens of howling Perranese warriors on their heels.
In the blink of an eye, a score of the invaders pressed close to her. Their swords sheathed, they ringed her in, hands up to make a grab for her in case she tried to dart past.
No, thank you. If it’s all the same to you gentlemen, I don’t feel like being taken prisoner this evening. Especially if it had been a while since they’d had a woman.
Rapid-fire syllables flew from her mouth, and her right fist became a ball of orange flame. She lunged at the closest warrior, punched him in the face, his flesh sizzling as he fell back screaming.
They were already coming at her from the other side. She swung her fist back, the flames flaring. The Perranese warriors fell over one another to get out of the way. Another who made to leap at her from the other direction hesitated when Talbun brandished the flame fist agai
n.
They had her surrounded, pausing, not quite willing to risk the fire.
Another warrior rode up, abruptly reining in his horse. He was a tough-looking customer with a patch over one eye, the sort of man who might eat a handful of rocks for lunch. He pointed a lethal-looking war axe at his men and bellowed his displeasure in their native tongue. He didn’t bother to see if they obeyed before turning the horse and galloping away toward some other part of the battle.
Fairly easy to guess what the man’s orders had been—the circle of warriors immediately rushed her. She smashed a warrior in the face with her fire fist, and he spun away screaming and clawing at his eyes.
Others grabbed for her.
They still haven’t drawn weapons. They want me alive.
They grabbed her from all sides, awkwardly trying to hold on to her while simultaneously dodging the fire fist. She clouted one on the ear, burning away his hair and half of his flesh on that side of his head.
There were hands all over her now. Her robe ripped open, exposing her. Hands on her legs trying to lift her. Two of them had hold of her right arm, bending it away so she couldn’t use the flame fist against them.
I hope none of the king’s men is nearby. If they are, I’m sorry for this.
She spat the words to another spell. A ball of blue light surrounded her. When she uttered the final word, the ball expanded with a roar, and the entire world seemed to fill with blinding light.
Talbun blinked, spots in front of her eyes. For a moment she panicked, thinking herself blind, but slowly the world came back into focus.
The bodies in a ten-foot circle around her were nothing but ash. Beyond that, the bodies were more recognizable but still charred and smoking. Talbun lifted her head, scanned the area. The ground was scorched ruin for a hundred feet in every direction. Even the tents that hadn’t already burned were blasted flat.
Weylan, you had a few surprises in your spell book, didn’t you, you cranky old son of a bitch?
She trudged through the ash, careful to step over and around the scorched corpses. In the distance, the sound of screams and the ring of metal on metal told her the battle raged on in some other part of the camp.
The Tattooed Duchess (A Fire Beneath the Skin Book 2) Page 23
