The man grunted. “It’s not the same, boy, not even close. The Ekirani are a close community. They aren’t like us—all grasping for coin and caring nothing for each other except for how we might benefit from the people we meet or know. They don’t care about their station, noble or commoner, and they have no kings or queens.” He barked what might have been a laugh. “Shit, you’ll never see them throw a ball, get all fancied up at the tailors with new suits and dresses, and I don’t imagine they’d know what to do with face paint, if you gave it to them.”
“My name’s Alesh, not boy. And does any of this have a point?”
Larin raised an eyebrow. “Argumentative too. No wonder Brent liked you.” Alesh started to ask him what he meant by that and how he knew of Olliman taking him in, but the giant waved it away. “My point is, the Ekirani are not like us. They don’t care anything about fancy things—all they care about is the Dance. Oh, everyone in the world knows they’re good with weapons, but that’s not why they do it. To them, the Dance—what they call their sword forms—is more than just combat training. It’s a religious rite, a symbol for how they believe one should live their life. Simple, graceful, and at peace with themselves as well as the world around them.”
“Peace,” Alesh said. “With a sword.”
Larin shrugged. “I’ve been around a long time, b—Alesh. I’ve seen horrors you couldn’t imagine, and in my experience, most of those horrors started not with a sword or axe, but with a pen or a speech. No matter how you feel about the way the Ekirani do things, there’s no denying that they don’t squabble and fight as we do, and not a single one of the histories says any word about wars between them. Perhaps they’re right. It may be that the way to peace—to true peace, isn’t with a pen at all, but with a sword.”
Alesh considered that. Certainly, the sword would answer many of his problems. If, of course, that sword was used to cut down Kale, to make him pay for his treason, and to do likewise with Tesharna, Amedan’s Chosen who had betrayed her calling, her god, for her own selfish desires. But then, he didn’t think that was what the Chosen meant. “Maybe,” he said doubtfully.
“Regardless,” Larin went on, “the man you fought has been cast out from those people, meaning there was something about him went against all their beliefs of peace and discipline. And if what you all told me about what happened to the Ferinan’s people is true,” he continued, pausing to nod at Darl where he walked in the back of the procession, “then I think it’s obvious enough what it is. And that, boy, should be enough to keep you up at night, if nothing else is.”
Alesh grunted. “Why? We’ve got damned near an entire country chasing after us already, Larin. What’s one more man? Even if he is Ekirani.”
“Not just a man,” the giant said, “and not just Ekirani. You see, Alesh, an Ekirani’s tattoos tell his story—they are a language, a document for any with the knowledge and understanding to read. That man isn’t an average Ekirani—he’s a Blademaster. It means he’s one of the best at the Dance that the Ekirani ever produced. Even among the best fighters in the world, he ranks the highest. From what I hear, they only choose one, maybe two Blademasters each generation, and they are revered, seen with an admiration only just shy of worship. For, you see, the Ekirani believe the Dance is the closest men can come to speaking with the gods, and therefore those who know it best, those who are counted its master, are reckoned to be nearly god-like themselves.” He shook his head. “I’m only surprised you managed to survive against him at all.”
Alesh rubbed at his temples where a headache was beginning to form. “Okay, so he’s tough. I get it. But he’s still just a man; he can be killed like any other.”
Another snort from the giant. “Best do it while he’s sleepin’, lad. Though I’ve heard it told Ekirani are impossible to sneak up on. Still, I suspect it’s the best chance you’ll have.”
“Thanks for the talk,” Alesh said sourly.
Larin grunted. “Truth hurts sometimes, boy, but in my experience, I’d take it over a sword in the stomach any day. I just want to make sure you know what you’re up against, what you’re walkin’ these others into. That Sonya’s a sweet girl, and with the enemies you got…well, they’ll try to use her against you. Her and the others, if they can.”
Alesh gritted his teeth. “I’ll keep her safe.”
“Just like you did from that shadow man?”
The question was asked without any blame or recrimination, and it struck Alesh more powerfully for that. He wanted to protest, to answer the man’s words with anger, but it did a man no good to argue with the truth. Alesh thought of all he had already lost, of all Sonya had suffered, and his hands knotted into fists at his side. “I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt her.”
The old giant studied him for several seconds then finally nodded, starting forward once more. “Gods bless it don’t come to that, but it may. And I believe you.”
They walked on in silence again, Alesh thinking of how close he had come to losing Sonya already, of how close he’d come to losing them all. He couldn’t shake the feeling that they had already lost the war before the battle had even begun. How was he—how were they—supposed to stand against so many? You will, that’s all, he told himself, thinking of the Ekirani, of Kale, of Tesharna and all the others who would make the world suffer for their own desires. You’ll stand until you can’t anymore. After all, someone has to.
“You got just about the whole world against you. You know that don’t you?”
“Yes,” Alesh said. “I know that.” And he did. Yet, in that moment, it wasn’t fear that gripped him, nor was it that dark anger which had consumed him before, when Sonya was taken. Instead, it was a simple understanding, a simple truth. Kale and the others would not stop, would continue their crimes until someone made them stop. It wasn’t enough to survive—it never had been. He had to stop it. Besides, he was tired. Tired of being hunted, of being chased. He couldn’t recall, just then, the last time he hadn’t been afraid. Well. It was time for them to be afraid; he would see to it.
“How far until we’re out of these tunnels?”
Larin stared at him then, as if knowing the direction of his thoughts. “Half a day, no more than that. What do you aim to do, lad?”
Alesh considered the question as he walked, and when he finally answered it was in a low, strong voice that seemed to echo through the tunnels. “What I have to.”
Chapter Four
Sevrin lay in the damp cave, whimpering softly. His face was pressed against the cool wetness of the stone floor, and he basked in the small relief it gave the burning, fevered sensation he’d felt for the last several days since the old man had thrown the Evertorches at him. His throat was parched, and his stomach rumbled from lack of food. Since his god had taken him, blessing him with the gifts of shadow, he did not need as much sustenance as a normal man, but even his supernatural reserves had been depleted by days spent lying in this cave, nursing his hurts. A problem compounded by his wounds.
He could hear water dripping somewhere, deeper within the cave, but so far he had not been able to muster the strength to find it. The light of those Evertorches—gods how bright it had been—had been excruciating, filling him with a pain he had not believed possible. It had felt as if he were being torn apart, as if the very fabric that composed him was being ripped away by that harsh, unforgiving radiance.
He had fled as quickly as he could, forgetting, in his agony, his master’s orders, forgetting the girl and the man, Alesh. Forgetting, even, Rion, and his need to see the man suffer. There had been only the pain, that and nothing else. He had run like a mad, wild thing, charging through the desert until sand dunes gave way to scraggly growth and scraggly growth to tall, snow-capped mountains. He had become an animal, knowing nothing but its own hurt, having no feeling but an overwhelming desire for it to end.
He had run until he could no longer, and just when what was left of his strength was giving out, he had stumbled on the cave. This fa
r away from civilization, miles and miles away from any town or city, he was alone. Here, at least, no one could hurt him. He had staggered into the cave until he could stagger no longer, fleeing the slowly rising sun. Then, when his legs had given way beneath him, he had crawled, dragging himself along the jagged rocks of the cave floor, oblivious of the scrapes and cuts they’d left on what remained of his human flesh, ignorant of the trail of blood—nearly black in the gloom—he had left in his wake.
He had ventured into the cave as far as he could, the small, still sane part of him understanding that he was in a place no man had ever been before. The frigid cold and unforgiving landscape would have been fatal to any who did not possess the gifts of darkness he had been given. But even such a thought had been no comfort, no balm for the agony that blazed all over his body. He’d crawled until even crawling was beyond him, then he had collapsed in the same spot in which he now lay, whimpering and screaming as the pain seared his body, flesh and shadow alike.
Even now, days later, he felt raw, tender, and he was certain that, when he finally roused himself, if he roused himself, he would leave patches of flaked, burned skin on the stones beneath him. Still, he felt no motivation to move, not yet. He thought his body could go some while longer without the water he heard. A comforting sound it had been, at first, but now it was becoming maddening.
Drip. Drip. Drip. The steady sound again and again, unending, taunting him, promising him sustenance but remaining beyond his reach. Yet for all his agony, for all the fear coursing through him, his thoughts slowly began to grow clear again. And the first thought was hate. He hated what he had become, this wretched, pathetic monster. Ugly and pitiable in its ugliness but not just ugly—useless. Afraid. He wondered how he, the son of one of the most powerful noblemen in the world, had come to such a place. He wondered, too, who the old man had been and how he had managed to place himself directly in Sevrin’s path among all that wind-blown, sandy wilderness.
And when he remembered the old man, he could not picture his face. When he tried, he saw not the face of an old man at all, but of Eriondrian Tirinian. And why not? It was Eriondrian, after all, who had brought him to this. Had it not been for his treachery, Sevrin would still be within the walls of Valeria, safe and secure, protected by his father’s name, his father’s money.
Anger then, and hate, hot and fierce. A brief spark, no more than that able to make it past his agony, but he snatched for it, grasped at it the way a drowning man might claw at a bit of floating debris that promised to buoy him above those churning waters. Yes. Eriondrian had done this to him, had brought him to this place of suffering and madness. For if he was not mad, he knew he was growing increasingly closer to it. It was a madness that had started when the nightlings feasted on his flesh, one that had grown in the knowledge that he had become the servant of Shadow, of a twisted, cruel god whose name he did not know. And then, of course, there was the pain. The pain of his transformation, the pain of his god’s punishment and now the pain of the Evertorches. Pain, his constant companion, one that would never leave him, would never abandon him. One that crouched beside him even now, running its hands along his arms and back. And where it touched, it brought fire and heat, eliciting whimpers and pleas that made Sevrin hate himself all the more.
But no matter how much he begged, the pain did not stop, would not. And somewhere, in that tumultuous storm of hurt, came a thought. An idea. He could leave it all behind, the pain, the hate, all of it. Here, in this wilderness, far beyond the reach of men, he could be alone. He could be safe. Surely, so far from everything else, even the gods themselves would forget him.
The thought sent a surge of hope, of strength coursing through his body. Not much, but enough for Sevrin to clamp his teeth together around the next whimper. Enough for him to struggle, shaking with exhaustion, to his hands and knees and then, after a monumental effort, to his feet.
The cave in which he had taken shelter was completely dark without even the barest hint of light, but among the gifts his master had given him were eyes capable of seeing through the darkness. Sevrin scanned the cave, searching for the drip of water to which he’d been listening for the last several days. He did not see it in the cavern in which he stood, but noticed a tunnel running deeper into the mountain.
Slowly, carefully, knowing that if he fell, he would not rise again, Sevrin began to stagger toward it, using the wall for support. The short walk seemed to take forever, and he did not know how much time passed before, finally, he arrived at the tunnel mouth. He paused there, panting for breath, gathering the remnants of his strength. Then, when he thought he was able, he began forward again. Eventually, he came upon the source of the sound. There was a thin crack in the roof of the tunnel, not even so wide as a man’s finger, and it was through this fissure the water came, dripping down slowly and plopping onto the damp stone beneath it in fat drops.
Sevrin licked his dry lips and started toward it, forcing himself to remain calm in his eagerness, to take his time. Another interminable length of time passed then, suddenly, it was before him—the drip of water looking almost perversely divine. He leaned over carefully, conscious of his body’s frailty, and how it would be all too easy to lose his feet and fall on the jagged stone beneath him. He was nearly there, the cool water that promised relief only inches away, when something caught him around the throat.
“Ah, Sevrin,” a voice rasped from behind him, “my wayward servant. I am displeased with you, Sevrin. I am very displeased.”
It was his god, come to find him. Sevrin tried to scream, but his god’s grip around his throat was tight, and what came out was a strangled whimper, not just one of pain, but of understanding. For in that moment, he knew there was no escaping his fate. He could travel to the ends of the world, and it would make no difference. He did not belong to himself, not any longer. And as his god began to make his displeasure known, it was not cool, clear water that filled Sevrin’s mouth. It was blood.
Chapter Five
The head of the merchant’s guild droned on from where he knelt in the center of the audience chamber, recounting figures and increases, bragging about surpluses of this and that. Doing it all with a wide smile and plenty of bowing and scraping. Normally, Kale would have been pleased to see the man groveling before him, pleased, too, that the Lightbringers had been brought to heel and trade had resumed between Ilrika and the surrounding cities. But instead he could barely focus on what the man was saying. It was as if he was speaking in a different language, one Kale had heard before, but did not know.
His thoughts were on other things. Things like a smell he could not seem to define, something like meat, but different too, and another, one he was growing increasingly sure was the smell of blood, though none had been spilled here, not at least, of which he was aware. Nor was that the only thing plaguing his thoughts. He noticed, too, how despite all his admiring, flowery words, the head of the merchant’s guild refused to look at Kale directly. Except, that was, for the occasional, furtive glance he shot in his direction.
It was the mask, Kale knew. He had begun wearing it since Shira’s…gifts had become impossible to ignore, since she had named him Argush, Bane of the Light. He’d made sure a story circulated through the city that there had been a fire in his quarters, and he had been badly burned. Not ideal, perhaps, and it had caused rumors and whispers among his guards and visitors to the castle. Still, better they believe him a burned monstrosity than what he was…a monstrosity in truth. Yet, he would not always be so. Shira had promised him the changes would bring power, power enough to defeat his enemies, to defeat even the gods themselves. And once those who opposed him were brought low, he would be his old self again. She had promised him, and he believed her. He had no choice.
Balen had not spoken in some time. Kale looked up from where he’d been staring at his gloved hands—another precaution, lest someone think to ask him how a burn victim might grow scales in place of skin—to regard the guildmaster. The man was doing his
best to look composed, even content, but Kale didn’t miss the way he fidgeted. Small movements few would have noticed, but he did, just as he noticed the smell coming off the man in waves. The smell of sweat and uncertainty. The smell of fear.
“Thank you for the report, Guildmaster Balen,” he said, and the man winced almost imperceptibly at the sound of his voice. Kale understood. Among the many changes Shira’s blessing had caused in him was a shifting of his vocal cords. He knew little of such things, knew only that his voice had begun to sound less and less like a man’s and more and more like the growl of some angry beast. For now, he and the Proof—who had become his closest advisor—had managed to explain the change away, claiming it was no more than the rasp of a throat ravaged by the fire’s smoke and that it would soon heal. But Kale knew such excuses would not last forever.
“O-of course, Chosen,” the other man said, still refusing to look at him.
Suddenly, Kale felt angry, and he was overcome with the almost overpowering urge to pounce on the man, to tear him limb from limb. There would be blood. Sweet, sweet blood, and flesh and—No. He shook his head to clear the alien thoughts from it and found that he was out of breath, practically panting. His mouth, too, had begun to salivate. A wave of revulsion at what he had become rose in him then, and Kale cleared his throat. “You are dismissed, Guildmaster.”
The other man hesitated. “Forgive me, Chosen,” he said reluctantly, “but we have not finished going over the food stores in the city and—”
“Later,” Kale barked, and the man jerked to his feet, bowing his head again and heading for the door, all too eager to be away despite his words.
The Warriors of the Gods Page 3
