Some had fallen along that journey never to rise again, and part of the despair of the men, the Broken believed, was because he had not allowed them time to help their comrades along, nor to bury them. Illogical, of course, for should they try to help those too weak to help themselves they would, themselves, be weakened, and more would die. As for burying, what was the point? No need to dig a grave for each bag of flesh, for the world itself was a grave, and they its occupants. That, too, the Redeemers were learning.
They looked exhausted, haggard, for he had allowed only a few hours of sleep over the last days. Some slumped against the thin, sickly tree trunks dotting this forbidding landscape between the desert and the lush forests of Entarna. A few crouched while still others had collapsed to nearly lying down completely, not bothering to so much as remove their armor or sword belts, only determined to take advantage of this brief respite while they could.
They were worn-out, many fevered from the exertions of the past days, but their weary desperation wasn’t the only thing he saw in their eyes. There was something else there, too. Hatred. They hated him deeply, would love nothing more than to see him lying dead at their feet. Yet for all their hatred, none had challenged him since the last, choosing instead to keep their hatred close, in their hearts and in their gazes.
If this went on much longer, he knew another challenge would come, and that, like the pain and the hatred, was as it should be. Not that he cared much either way. These men were getting the excess fat—hopes and dreams, all which bloated a man and made his journey through the world more difficult—stripped from them by their hardships, but the Broken had been stripped of his own naivety long ago.
“Peralest lies only a few hours ahead,” he said. He spoke at a normal volume, yet he could be heard clearly, for the men waited without any sound save their gasps for breath. They were like prisoners being led to their own execution who had done all the protesting and begging they could already, and had long since learned it would make no difference. “There, our prey awaits us. We go,” he said into that silence. “Now.”
There were no complaints, no arguments, only groans and the quiet sounds of weeping as some of those men who could not lift themselves from where they had collapsed—whether from exhaustion or pain at the blisters so many of them carried—begged for help. They did not receive any, those well enough to stand not even bothering to glance in their direction, for they had been through this several times over the last few days and had become inured to their comrades’ desperate calls. Those who could rise did, ignoring the cries of those who would be left behind and turning to face the Broken.
And then they were moving again.
Chapter Twenty-Five
As the carriage hit a bump in the street, bouncing Marta up so her head struck the inside of the compartment’s ceiling for what was at least the fifth or sixth time, she decided she didn’t like carriages. Or horses either. Or Peralest, for that matter. If she was being honest with herself, the truth was she didn’t like much of anything just then.
Her talk with the geezer of a god had left her in a foul mood. He had spoken quietly, softly as was common among the most wretched and destitute, for they, unlike some of the more privileged of a city’s people, had learned long ago the dangers of attracting attention, of being noticed. Such notice usually ended with a guard’s boot in their backs as they were forced to scurry away.
But despite the softness of the god’s words, each of them had struck her like a physical blow, each infused with a power at once subtle and profound. Yet it wasn’t just the words which had so effected Marta, but the message the god had given her. The truth of which had been obvious no matter how much she had tried to ignore it.
Marta and her companions would not make it to Valeria. They would be caught before they ever left the city, for a large force was approaching, one the streets whispered about. Some people might have thought it ridiculous to claim streets could whisper, but Marta knew better. A city and its streets had many stories to tell, many truths, most of which involved back alleys and bloodshed. The trick was knowing how to hear the voices, but Marta—like most orphans who had grown up homeless—had learned it long ago.
They would not make it to Valeria. Not, at least, without Marta’s help. And that thought—that they would all be depending on her—was what had put her in a foul mood. It was also what terrified her. She had learned long ago how to take care of herself—lies, mostly. And, of course, there was keeping your eyes on the shadows, always, for it was within the dark corners of side streets or inside lightless buildings, which danger lurked. Danger that might, at any moment, decide to come for a single, lone orphan.
There was the listening, the lying, the watching, and, of course, sometimes, there was the running. Running from guards, sure, but that wasn’t the worst of it. Thieves, muggers, men with dark grins and darker intentions. All of these were dangers she had faced many times over the years and, so far at least, she had overcome them all. The lying had helped, lies to get food, to find shelter. Lies told not just to others, but to herself as well, convincing herself the mold on the piece of bread which was her only food was only spices, telling herself she had a mother out there, somewhere, looking for her desperately and one day, one day, she would find her. Yes, the lying helped, but mostly she had survived because she’d stayed light, stayed ready to run at the first sign something was wrong. And when running was called for—as it often was—a person had to be willing to leave everything else, everyone else, for the dangers an orphan faced cared nothing for nobility or heroism, and those who tried to help others were nearly always taken as well. Taken and not seen again.
Attachments were dangerous. Attachments made a person slow, vulnerable. And though she lied often, Marta had promised herself years ago—and this, at least, she had fully meant—that she would stay light, stay mobile. Over the years, she had seen many of her peers taken for growing too complacent, too attached, the darkness reaching out and gobbling them up. But not her. When the darkness came, when those men with their sharp smiles and cruel eyes came, she was always ready. They were shadows, darkness but she was the wind, weighing nothing, bringing nothing with her, and they could not catch her.
Now, though, she had grown attached. The old bastard of a god had told her as much, and she could not deny it though she wanted to. She liked Sonya with her terrible lies, liked Katherine with her beautiful smile and infectious laugh. She liked Alesh too, confident but not arrogant, brave yet not pompous, and Darl. Quiet, steady Darl. She had even grown, despite herself, to like Rion. Figured she probably had to like him, since he had saved her life. She liked each of them, cared for each of them, and each of them was a weight tied to her, slowing her down, making her vulnerable.
She had wanted to tell the god as much, but she had not been able to find the words, and it hadn’t mattered, for he had known in any case. No creature, little one, he had said, can run forever. Not man nor beast, not woman nor child. For what kind of life, is that? Running is not living—it is only running. Those weights you have so worried over, those ropes which tie around you and slow you, they come with dangers, it is true, but they do not just threaten life, little one. They are life.
Spoken as if the bastard were so damned sure, so damned confident. And the problem was Marta had been thinking over those words for the last several hours, and she grudgingly had to admit the withered old fool was probably right. I’ve been running from my life all my life. There was something almost lyrical about that, silly in a way that, at another time, she might have enjoyed. But not now. Now, she was far too focused on the weights tied to her, weights she could feel dragging at her and never mind that they weren’t real.
“Marta, what’s wrong?”
Sonya sat beside her, a concerned expression on her face. The adults were all huddled together, whispering quietly. Talking about the plan, she supposed, and they had apparently decided she and Sonya needn’t be asked for their opinion. Sighing, she turned back to the
young girl. “I’m fine,” Marta said.
“Really?” Sonya asked, doubtfully.
Marta couldn’t help smiling. The girl might be the world’s worst liar, but she had a knack for telling when someone else was lying. “No, not really,” she admitted. “But sometimes, when worrying over something isn’t going to change it, when life sucks, well, it’s better to lie to yourself. If you’ve got to smell shit anyway, then what’s the point of knowing it? Better to tell yourself it’s flowers, maybe ones carried by your long-lost mother who is even now walking toward you, a wide smile on her face, her arms open and waiting.”
The girl’s face screwed up in thought as she considered Marta’s words. Then, finally, she looked at Marta once more. “Do you smell flowers now, Marta?”
“Oh yes, Sonya,” Marta said, glancing sidelong at Alesh and the others where they spoke in whispers, the old evil priest tucked into the corner of the carriage and seemingly forgotten, yet she didn’t miss the way he studied the others, the way he seemed to be plotting. “I smell flowers alright,” she mumbled. “A shit ton of them.”
***
Sevrin watched from his place in an alleyway as the carriage slowly trundled past, the two horses led by a scowling driver who rubbed wearily at his eyes. The doors were closed, and the shades were drawn, blocking the carriage’s occupants from view, but Sevrin knew who it was just the same, for he had watched them enter it. Eriondrian and his companions. His god had told him to follow the carriage, to report back to the Broken, and so he would obey. He would always obey. Trying to run from his responsibilities, from his vengeance, had been a mistake, and his god had gone to great trouble to show him the depth of his error. It had been foolish, he now knew, to attempt to hide from his god in that distant, lonely cave, for such places, those which the world had forgotten, those were his god’s places, shrines to him and never mind that no altar had been built, and no worshippers knelt in prayer. They were shrines just the same. For while there were places in the world men may not traverse, places no mortal step had ever reached, the shadows were everywhere.
As he watched the slow progress of the carriage, Sevrin could hardly believe he had been so foolish as to try to run, to think he could abandon the purpose for which his god had spared him. And even had he been able, what then? Would he have lived out the rest of his days in desperate squalor, a hermit dwelling in some mountain cave subsisting off mice and stale water tasting of dirt? And all this while Eriondrian, the man responsible for his suffering, lived on, never giving answer for his crimes? Crimes such as bringing Sevrin to this point. After all, had Eriondrian not sided with the traitors, Sevrin would never have ventured into the woods that day what felt like a lifetime ago. He never would have watched as the fool Falen Par and the other Redeemers were slaughtered by nightlings, would never have been forced to flee into the darkness with only a single burning torch standing between him and the night’s many dangers.
A road which had led him to pain, a world of it. Even now, he could remember the feel of the nightlings tearing at him, ripping him apart. And it had not been the pain that had been so terrible. Or, at least, not only that. Instead, it had been the knowledge that some part of him had been stripped away, irrevocably torn from him and that now he was less. That knowledge, that understanding, had been a torment all its own. Sevrin lifted his right arm and looked at the place where his hand had once been. The creatures had torn it away as they had so much of the other parts of him, and while there was something like a hand there, it was composed not of flesh but of shadow.
You cannot imagine the pain you have caused me, Eriondrian, Sevrin thought. But you will learn of it. Soon. He watched the carriage take a bend and disappear down the street, heading for the northern gate.
Then Sevrin turned, not sparing so much as a glance for the dead beggar—the one who had seen him and nearly screamed, alerting the others to his presence, before he’d killed him—then started down the alley. He would have to be quick, to find the one called the Broken and let him know which gate to watch before Eriondrian and the others reached it, but he could be quick, for the shadows were everywhere, and he alone, save his god, could walk among them.
As for finding the exiled Ekirani, that, too, would be no problem, for even though the hour was late and darkness had fallen across the world like a cloak, such would not prove any barrier for Sevrin. The shadows had many secrets, that was true, but they hid no secrets from him. His god had seen to that.
Chapter Twenty-Six
As they approached the northern gate of Peralest, Alesh and the others sat back on the carriage’s benches, abandoning their conversation. There were still some things to work out about the plan, but those things could wait, for none of them would matter if they didn’t make it past the city gate. Alesh felt himself tense in anticipation as they drew closer. Someone took his hand, and he glanced over to see Katherine give him a weak smile that did nothing to hide her worry.
“Remember what I told you, Bishop.” This from Rion. The man had been abnormally quiet since Alesh and Katherine had rejoined him and the others. Alesh suspected it had to do with his belief Javen was in trouble, but he didn’t know what any of them could do about it. Perhaps, once they’d left the city, they would be able to figure out some way to help the God of Chance if indeed he needed help, but they had to get out of Peralest first.
Alesh glanced over at the bishop, one of the men responsible for his father’s and mother’s deaths, and he felt his anger rising, but he pushed it back down. It would not help him, not here. Besides, what was done was done, and he would not become that creature of wrath and bloodlust that his anger would make him—not again. Still, Rion’s words seemed to have an effect on the man, for his face had grown pale, and there was a scared, slightly wild look to his eyes.
“I remember,” Orren said in a quiet, defeated voice.
Alesh frowned, meaning to ask Rion what he meant, but there was no time. He could feel the carriage rolling to a halt as the driver slowed the horses, and they approached the gate. Here it is, Alesh thought. Whatever is going to happen, it’s going to happen here.
“What’s all this, then?”
Alesh recognized the voice of the driver, and he did not like the surprised sound of it. He leaned over toward the window, pulling back the shade to peek out of the carriage. What he saw nearly made his heart stop in his chest. A guard stood beside the carriage, looking up at the driver. He was saying something, but Alesh wasn’t paying attention. Instead, his gaze was settled on the open area in front of the gate in which stood at least a hundred Redeemers, possibly more. And in front of them, standing in the center of the road like some grim statue dedicated to a god of death and battle, was the Broken.
The Redeemers looked exhausted, nearly spent, and had a wild, terrorized look in their eyes as if they had endured some terrible hardship and only just managed to come through it. But whatever misfortune had befallen them seemed to have not affected the Ekirani, for though Alesh suspected the man was a tad thinner than he had been the last time he’d seen him, his stringy, wiry muscles a bit more pronounced, he looked largely unchanged. And while the Redeemers’ eyes and faces looked desperate, possessed of an almost frantic quality, the exiled Blademaster only watched the carriage placidly, the smallest glimmer of what might have been anticipation in his gaze.
The others must have seen some of his distress because Katherine put a hand on his shoulder that nearly caused him to shout in surprise. “What is it, Alesh?”
“They’ve found us,” Alesh said dumbly. He’d known, of course, that the Broken and the Redeemers were looking for them, had known that Orren had contacted Tesharna somehow. Yet he realized that, until that moment, he had held onto some small, nurtured hope—hidden, even from himself, and in that way kept safe—that they would make it out in time. And not just a hope—a belief, one that slowly dissolved like mist in the wind as he stared at the veritable army arrayed before them. Tired the Redeemers might be, but there were st
ill too many of them for Alesh and the others to have a chance of escape. Far too many.
The others were looking out of the windows now, peeling the shades back, and he heard gasps of surprise and fear as they saw what awaited them. All, that was, save for Marta who only sat with a sour expression on her face.
“I told you, Son of the Morning,” a voice said, and Alesh turned to see Orren watching him. The bishop was grinning. “No one can escape the goddess’s clutches, not for long. You never should have placed yourself against her—you were a fool to do so.”
“Gods be damned,” Rion hissed, staring from the carriage. He turned back to look at Alesh and the others, his face ghastly and pale. “What do we do?”
Alesh’s mind was awhirl with thoughts, and he forced himself to take a slow, deep breath. The guard was still speaking in quiet tones with the driver, but in another minute, maybe two, he would inspect the carriage and, when he did, he would find Alesh and his companions—the exact people they were looking for—helpless and without defense. An idea occurred to him, and he turned to Katherine. “Can you do what you did before, back at the inn? The song?”
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