The Warriors of the Gods

by Jacob Peppers

  Katherine was shaking her head slowly, her own eyes wide with fear. “I…I don’t think so. I’m not sure how I even did it the first time and with so many…” She trailed off, not bothering to finish, and Alesh nodded, giving her the most reassuring smile he could manage which wasn’t much of one, considering the circumstances.

  He looked around at each of them, saw them watching him, waiting for him to tell them what to do. A thought came into his head, and he looked at Darl. The Ferinan gave him a calm smile and inclined his head, as if he knew what Alesh was thinking. “Okay then,” he said, mostly to himself. “This is the way it’s going to be. Darl, you’re with me—we’ll buy the others what time we can. The rest of you, head into the city. Split up if you have to. You’ll need to find another way out as soon as you can because they’ll be combing the city looking for you.”

  “What about you, Alesh?” Sonya asked, and he hated how timid, how afraid her voice sounded.

  He wanted to smile, to tell her everything was going to be okay, but he could not. Any assurances he could give would be lies.

  “You mean to die,” Katherine said, her voice at once terrified and accusatory.

  “No,” he said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “No, I don’t mean to, but I don’t think what I mean to do matters now. Now, look, we don’t have much time.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Katherine said, “I—”

  “No,” Alesh interrupted. “You can’t.” He leaned in close, grasping her hand in his. “I need your help, Katherine. I need you to look after Sonya, to…” He shook his head, suddenly unable to finish what he’d been about to say. “She won’t understand, when I’m gone,” he said finally.

  “There’s got to be another way,” Rion said, “something—”

  “There’s not,” Alesh said simply, not turning away from Katherine’s gaze. “This is it. Get them out of the city, Rion. If you can.”

  Suddenly, Sonya was embracing him, and he felt the wetness of her tears against his shirt. “But, Alesh, I don’t want you to go.”

  “I know, little one,” he said softly, patting her head, “but there’s no choice, and we’re out of time.”

  “I love you, Alesh.”

  He smiled. “I love you too, sister.” He glanced at Katherine then, saw her studying him with something like horror on her face. “I wish…I wish there was more time. There are things I would say but—”

  “I’ve got to admit I’m enjoyin’ the melodrama,” Marta said, speaking for the first time since they’d entered the carriage, “but might be there’s another way.”

  They all turned to look at her, and Alesh saw her frowning as if she wasn’t excited about whatever way that was. “What do you mean?”

  She rubbed her temples. “Well, thing is, they’ll check the carriage in a minute, yeah? And when they do, if they see us here, they’ll kill us.”

  “Yeah, that about sums it up,” Rion muttered, rolling his eyes.

  “Well,” she went on as if he hadn’t spoken, “then the way I figure it, it’s best if they don’t see us, yeah?”

  “It’d be best if they all died on the spot,” Rion said. “Since we’re wishing.”

  “What are you thinking, Marta?” Alesh asked, choosing to ignore the nobleman.

  “Well, we’d have to lie to ‘em, wouldn’t we? Have to make ‘em think we aren’t here, when they look for us.”

  Alesh frowned at that. Rion opened his mouth, getting ready to speak, but Alesh held up a hand, silencing him. “I’m…I’m not sure they’d believe us, Marta.”

  She rolled her eyes as if he was dense. “People will believe just about anything, if you lie good enough. Why, once I convinced an old woman I was her granddaughter, and she took me into her house for over a month, fed me and petted me and all. Finally, it got to be too much—she was always fussing over my hair, dressin’ me up in this dress or that one—and I had to leave. Still…” She shrugged. “It was nice enough, while it lasted.”

  “Wait a minute,” Alesh said, “you mean you told the woman you were her granddaughter, and she…she believed it?”

  Marta gave him a sly grin. “No, it never happened. But you believed it, didn’t you?”

  Rion made a disgusted sound in his throat, but the girl went on. “Anyway, we can lie to them, at least I think so. The hunched god told me as much.” She glanced between him and Katherine. “It will work. I…I think.”

  “Gods help us,” Rion groaned, “we’re doomed.”

  “And this…this lie, Marta,” Katherine said. “Do you really think you can tell it?”

  The girl shrugged. “Hard to say. Not by myself, I know that much. You’d all have to lie too. Big lies like this take a lot of convincing, you understand.”

  “But…how would we do that?”

  “That part’s easy,” Marta said. “Any good liar knows to make a lie work, to really make it work, you have to believe it yourself.”

  That didn’t seem easy to Alesh, not at all, but there was no point in saying so. They were running out of time. Any moment, the guard would come check the wagon and find them. Besides, the other option was him and Darl trying to hold off an army while the others escaped, and he knew all too well how that would end. “Do you think we can, Marta? Tell this lie, I mean?”

  The little girl looked around at them dubiously, then shrugged again. “Maybe.”

  “What do you want to do, Alesh?” Katherine asked.

  They were all looking at him again, waiting for what he would say. He glanced back at Marta and nodded. “I want to lie.”

  “This is ridiculous,” Orren said, the bishop obviously flustered. “You’re wasting your time. Just give yourselves up—perhaps, they will be lenient on you, if you make it easy for them. If you fight, though…” He trailed off, letting the rest speak for itself.

  “He might be a problem,” Marta said, watching the old priest. “Not part of the lie, a truth teller.”

  “No,” Rion said, withdrawing a blade from his tunic and leaning over so the point rested at the old man’s throat. “He won’t be a problem, and that isn’t a lie, not at all.” He leaned in close, studying the old man. “You believe me. Don’t you, Bishop?”

  The priest swallowed, nodding, and Rion turned back to Marta. “Go on girl, tell your lie. The gods know you’ve had practice enough.”

  “Alright,” Alesh said, “so how do we do this?”

  “Well,” Marta said, her voice low and almost embarrassed. “Probably we ought to all hold hands.” Without waiting, she grabbed Alesh’s and Sonya’s.

  “This will help?” Alesh asked.

  “I don’t know,” she said, flushing, and glancing at Katherine who only smiled, as if some silent communication had passed between them. “Maybe.”

  Alesh shrugged. “Good enough.” In another few seconds, all their hands were linked save for the bishop’s and one of Rion’s, which still held the knife poised at the old man’s throat.

  In the silence, Alesh heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps as the guard had finally finished whatever conversation he’d had with the driver and was now making his way around to the back of the carriage. “Quick, Marta,” Alesh whispered, “what do we do now?”

  “Lie,” Marta said simply, “and do it well.”

  ***

  The Broken watched the guard talk to the caravan driver, taking his time, apparently in no hurry. The Broken could not hear the driver’s words, not from where he stood in the road, but judging by the man’s gestures, he thought it clear enough. Whatever was in the back of the carriage, the driver was trying to convince the guard not to check it. A good sign, one seeming to indicate that the cargo the man carried would be exactly what he was looking for. Which was just as well, for the impatience and frustration of the Redeemers gathered around him was almost a palpable thing.

  The Broken was not normally a man for sentiment or emotion, believing both largely a waste of time, only man’s desperate way of trying to convince himself tha
t the world’s truths were not as dark, as cruel, as he imagined them to be. Now, though, he couldn’t deny a feeling of…not excitement, not exactly, but anticipation. The world was diseased, a malformed, twisted thing, and he had made it his mission to put it out of its misery, to save it—and those who lived and dwelt upon its surface—from the suffering and pain they would endure. And that cure—that mission—began here. Once he had slain the Son of the Morning and those others the gods had Chosen, there would be none to stand in the way of what needed, of what must happen.

  As he watched the guard move around the side of the distant carriage, the Broken’s grip on his god-gifted weapon tightened, the strange metal cool beneath his touch. The guard reached the back, and the Broken started toward the carriage, motioning for his troops to follow. He held his breath, ready for the fugitives—who were assuredly hiding in the back of the wagon—to break free and attempt their escape. But in what was coming, there would be no escape, not for anyone, not even the Broken himself. It was a truth he had known, had accepted, once he had started on his mission of salvation, and one which he had long since made his peace with.

  He was nearly at the carriage when the guard came back around. The Broken met his eyes, but the man shook his head. The Broken frowned at that, feeling another emotion now—disappointment. “You’re sure?” he asked.

  “Nothing there,” the guard said, shrugging. “Nothing except some rope.”

  The Broken had been certain, absolutely certain the carriage contained his fugitives, so he moved past the guard—keeping an eye on him in case of treachery—and came to stand at the back of the wagon. Inside, things were as the guard had said they were. An empty carriage save a coil of rope lying in one corner. He stared into that empty space, those empty benches, and it was a day of wonders, for the Broken, a man who might move through the world for weeks without feeling any emotion at all, felt another one—anger.

  He clenched his jaw, taking a tight hold of his anger as he had learned long ago and forcing it down. He glanced at the guard who shrugged again then walked up to stand beside the driver. He studied the man, searching for some sign of deceit, of trickery. The man was sweating, that was sure, and he looked terrified. Though, to be fair, the Broken supposed that might have only been because he was surrounded by armed men whose haggard state made it appear that they had just come from battle.

  “You gonna tell me what all this is about now?” the driver asked, and though he tried for annoyance, his voice cracked with fear.

  The Broken was suddenly filled with the urge—very strong and very real—to kill the man outright. But he did not. That would be giving into his anger, letting it control him, and once a man gave over his self-control to his emotions, it was no easy task to get it back again, for emotions—anger in particular—were jealous things and loathed relinquishing what control they were given. “Go,” he said.

  The driver must have seen some of his thoughts on his face, for he swallowed hard, and a moment later the carriage was in motion, rocking back and forth precariously as he urged the horses forward. The Broken watched the carriage go, thinking.

  “What now?”

  He glanced to the side to see the guard looking at him. “Now, you get back to your post.”

  A frown came to the man’s face, and he opened his mouth, perhaps to tell the Broken that he wasn’t his boss, and he wouldn’t be ordered about by some filthy Ekirani in ragged clothing. But the man must have thought better of it at the last moment, for his mouth clamped shut once more, and he turned and walked silently back toward the gate.

  The Broken glanced at the sky. Another few hours, and it would be daylight. He didn’t think the fugitives would attempt their escape while the sun was high in the sky, thought they would believe—rightly so—that it was far too likely they would be discovered. By now, the men he’d sent into the city had carried the word of those they were looking for to the city guard. Soon, they would go out searching the city in force, and should Amedan’s Chosen and the others be within the city, they would be found.

  The guards stationed at the city’s different gates had been told what to look out for, and the Broken and his men stood at the gate which the shadow had said the fugitives would use. It should have made him feel confident, assured of victory. It did not. For one, he had thought they’d had their prey cornered before only to have them elude his grasp. For another, he did not much care for the shadow man.

  The creature was on the same side as the Broken, the side that would bring a desperately needed cleansing to the world, yet the Broken still did not like him. It wasn’t a matter of trust. At least, he didn’t believe the man would ever betray his cause. Rather, even during their brief conversation, the Broken had gotten an impression of the man—if the creature, consisting half of shadow and half of flesh was still a man at all—and what he had sensed had not left him at ease. Hate. Anger. Despair. All welling up inside of those shadows, shifting and writhing like the dark clouds of some great storm. Such a man, driven by his hate, his anger, could not be wholly trusted, for when decisions were to be made, it would not be he who made them, but that storm. That anger.

  But there was nothing else to do. What could be done had been, and however little he trusted the shadow man, he could think of no way that the Chosen and his companions could escape without him knowing. The Broken stared at the gate, waiting for what would come, and as he did, he thought of the time in the desert, the time when he had thought he had them cornered only to find they had blown up a castle by some magic arts he had never seen before and seemingly vanished into thin air. He was not reassured.

  He waited. He watched the gate. And the gaze with which he studied it was a grim one, indeed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  They were at the door. He could hear them knocking.

  Others had come over the last few days, some that he supposed must have been those of his father’s loyal customers or friends. These knocks were soft, and the voices raised in question were kind, concerned. Eventually, when they received no answer, these voices, these knocks, went away.

  Then there were the other visitors. Loud, imperious knocks to go along with loud, imperious voices. Noblemen—some of whom Odrick recognized from their arrogant shouts—looking to procure a new piece of work from his father’s shop, a sword they might show off to their friends, a weapon with which they never meant to fight, but used to bludgeon those around them with their importance. These took longer to leave. Such men were not used to having their will denied, but eventually when no answer came they, too, left.

  This knock, however, was neither of those. A flat, dull knock, somehow lacking the ringing sound of a noble’s haughtiness or the meek thump of a commoner. This instead was a purposeful knock, the knock of a man—or men, he supposed—who had not come for horseshoes or nails, for swords or daggers, but for answers.

  Odrick glanced to the corner of the cellar to where the Lord and Lady Tirinian huddled with Fermin standing beside them. The manservant’s hands were clasped behind his back, his expression calm as if he weren’t hiding in a cellar at all but safely sequestered within the Tirinian household and only waiting for his master or mistress to express some need he could satisfy.

  There was no lantern to light the gloom—not much point, hiding in a hidden cellar, if you light a beacon to show everyone where you are—but there didn’t need to be for Odrick to see the fear on the faces of the two nobles. Unlike the brick floor of his father’s workspace, the floor of his shop proper was made of slatted wood, and enough light made it through the cracks to show their pale expressions and wide eyes. Not that he could blame them. Odrick, too, was gripped with a quiet terror. It was one thing to stand and fight a man, even knowing that you might—that you probably—would die. It was another to like a rabbit in a hole, hoping the wolf doesn’t sniff you out.

  These men weren’t satisfied at the knock, and he could hear a rattle as they tried the latch. It was locked, of course—they had latched it
tight days ago before climbing into the cellar. Yet, if they wanted in badly enough, they would get in. A latch, no matter how well made, could not keep such men out for long. Odrick glanced at his father and saw the same thought, the same worry writ plain on his features as he stared at the ceiling.

  There was silence for several seconds, and Odrick was just beginning to hope the men had left when a loud crack filled the air as something struck the door with significant force. He jumped startled, and turned at the sound of a whimper to see lord Tirinian, Rion’s father, with his hand covering his wife’s mouth, whispering something—perhaps words of reassurance—into her ear. Odrick wished he knew what the older man was saying as he too could have used a bit of reassurance just then. The first crack was followed by another, then another, and on the fourth hit, Odrick heard the unmistakable sound of wood shattering as the lock, the door, or both finally gave way.

  Then there were footsteps, unhurried, above his head, and through the slats in the ceiling Odrick could see at least three sets of boots, though there might have been more. He tensed in anticipation. They had done their best to hide the cellar entrance, sliding a rug over it and a table over that, but if the men looked closely enough, they couldn’t help but find it. And if they did, Odrick knew what would happen. He might be killed outright—probably would be. After all, as far as these men knew, he was the one responsible for killing those who had tracked him through the streets. But he thought that, should that happen, he would be the lucky one. The Tirinians would be taken, hidden in some place where their screams would not be heard as they were asked questions about their son’s whereabouts.

  The men moved further into the shop, still saying nothing, and their silence unnerved him further. One came to stand practically directly above his head, only inches of wood separating him from the cellar where they all hid, and Odrick held his breath for fear that the man would hear it. Still, no one spoke.

  Not normal guards, not these, Odrick thought frantically. They were more of Tesharna’s “special” guards, those men who Armiel and Bastion had told him about, the men with hard eyes and harder questions. Amedan give me strength, he thought. The silence dragged on and on, and with each passing moment Odrick felt his nerves grow tighter, thought he would go mad from the waiting.