He spoke again, but it was barely a whisper. “First the gods.”
Chapter Three
Sacrifices
Myridia
Myridia stared out at the sea with a sense of dread that she could not understand. The ocean had always been her home as surely as the land, and here, on the far side of the continent from where the gods had started their destructive rampage, the waters were calm and promised nothing but easy fishing and pleasant weather. The fishing was true. The weather was deceptive, but still, as servants of the gods, the Grakhul seldom had to worry about the destructive forces the gods amassed.
The trouble seemed to come from the north. She looked that way and saw nothing amiss. The weather was calm. The seas unmarred by disaster.
The rest of her people worked. She would join them soon enough but for the moment she had to worry about what it was that filled her with such a deep and abiding dread.
Brogan McTyre had killed her world. Her life mate was gone. The gods had leveled the land where she’d been born, and raised. The man who’d tried to save his family, and failed, had destroyed her people in retaliation, killing the men and enslaving the women and the children. The gods had ordered the women to come to the Sessanoh, to restore the place called the Mirrored Lake and to prepare for sacrifices again. There had never been a time in her life when Myridia did not follow the orders of the gods and there was no reason not to listen now, but that dread kept circling around in her heart and mind. It was not the end of the world she feared. It was something different. Something she could feel and yet had no precedent for.
Lyraal walked toward her, the wind ruffling her pale hair. Her sword was held in the usual position, wrapped in linen and carried over both shoulders. The other woman, who should have been the leader as far as Myridia was concerned, looked out over the ocean for a long moment before speaking. She was always wiser that way. That was only one of the reasons Myridia would have preferred to defer to her. “We are as prepared as we can be. The Sessanoh has been sanctified in the eyes of the gods. All we can do now is wait.”
Myridia nodded her and then answered, “There is something wrong. I can feel it in my guts.” She placed her hands on her abdomen and looked at her friend and second in command.
“Others feel it, too.” Lyraal shrugged. “I feel nothing, but I am not a cautious sort.” She touched the hilt of the heavy sword over her shoulders, one finger tapping the oiled leather wrappings. “We should all remain prepared. It is too easy to think we are safe from danger this far from anyone else.”
Myridia sighed heavily and nodded. “Best we be prepared. Double the sentries. No one stands alone.”
Lyraal looked into her eyes for a moment and slowly nodded. “I’ll see to it.” The woman pointed at Myridia with her chin. “You see to being prepared yourself. When the gods make the demands, we must be ready to offer them what they require. We are the last chance this world has, Myridia.”
“Yes, I know.” She also knew why her friend was speaking to her like she might be a simpleton. She’d allowed a troupe of humans close and before all was said and done those humans, possessed by something else, had tried to kill them and partially succeeded. Her own sister was dead now and that death weighed heavily on her. Bad choices had been made because she was frightened and lonely. That could not happen again. She had to be stronger than the others if she was going to lead them, and as the gods had decreed she should be the leader, she would listen and obey. That was her place in life. The gods made demands and she made certain those demands were answered in kind.
Something had happened the day before. Something vast and terrifying had occurred to the north and east. Though they were far from the Broken Swords Mountains, they’d felt the earth shake, had seen the waters off the shore vibrate with unseen violence. That was not the source of her growing dread, but she suspected the two were likely connected. Everything was connected in the eyes of the gods. The He-Kisshi had not yet shown themselves and she worried about that, too. The Undying were the messengers of the gods, the voice with which the gods spoke to the Grakhul and she had already caused enough troubles. She wanted advice. She wanted to be told how to handle the dread that threatened her and her people.
Myridia did not wear a crown and she did not want one. She had no desire to lead her people in anything, and yet here she was, chosen by the gods.
She prayed they had not made a mistake as she once again turned to the northern waters and sensed something coming her way
Bron
He burned. Every inch of his flesh, the blood in his veins, the teeth in his mouth and the eyes in his head, all of him burned and in the burning was remade.
Flames sculpted new nerves, new sinews, and the very hairs on his head. The pain was incandescent and he glowed along with it, screaming in uncountable agonies with his newborn throat and howling his pains to the god that made him anew.
Sometimes a king had to suffer for his people.
Was he a king?
Yes. He believed that he was.
Did he have a name?
Yes, though it took time to remember it. Bron McNar. He was the king of Stennis Brae and he’d offered himself to Theragyn, the demon, for a chance to escape the fate the gods offered. What choice did he have? The gods had gone mad and torn the world asunder. His home and his castle were besieged by storms and ice and the infernal He-Kisshi had come into his home not once, but twice, and made threats, demanded that he kill his own blood if he wanted his people spared for another month.
He breathed in fire and coughed out something dark that soured the air around him.
The pain was impossible, but he endured. He had no choice. This was the test that Theragyn had given him. He either endured, or he failed his kingdom. He endured or he died.
In the end, he endured.
Bron walked out of the flames and into gloriously cool air. He breathed out the heat and sucked in fresh, painless breaths.
The pain faded as quickly as an ember tossed in a pail of water cools.
Parrish looked at him and smiled softly. “Welcome to the fold, Bron.”
The words were genuine. He stared at the other king, once his enemy, and nodded. There was an awareness inside of him that had not been there before. The world itself looked different to Bron and he saw with more colors than he had ever noticed. Every sense was keener. He could smell more than he should have, and his hearing, which had never been all that good after he was struck on the side of his head by a very heavy shield, was sharper than he’d ever thought possible.
“Give yourself a moment, Bron. It will take some adjusting to.”
Bron nodded without speaking, looking down at his arms. They were covered in the same markings that covered Parrish and the other Marked Men.
His discomforts, the signs of a man who had lived a long and often violent life, were gone. His muscles did not hurt. His scars did not sting, and his knees no longer carried the perpetual ache that had haunted him for years.
“Impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible for gods, Bron. Theragyn is a god.” Parrish shrugged his shoulders. “He has remade you. Just as he did me. Close your eyes and think of the north.”
He did as he was instructed and saw the ruin of the Broken Swords in his mind. The vast mountain range was shattered. The stone and crystal that had once been the barrier that protected Stennis Brae from eastern attacks was gone. The vast spine of the range was crippled and where the highest spires of stone had been there was now a gigantic hole filled with water, and the shape of something long dead and impossibly large rested in that turbulent sea, half-submerged but riding atop a form he could not clearly define. Two corpses of impossible scale, where once had been mountains.
Stennis Brae should have been ruined in that moment. He could see where the castle he called home had been, and where the towns around his vast keep had rested, but there was no sign in that spot of any structures.
T
hey were to the west, beyond the mountain range instead of nestled within it. The growing horror he’d felt was washed away with that simple knowledge.
Bron dropped to his knees and looked around him at the stone interior of the place simply called the Cauldron by Parrish and his new god alike. The stone tower was impressive from the outside, but impossible from within. He could see miles of stone passageways ahead of him and behind, interspersed with trees the likes of which he had never seen before and firepits that lit the world for as far as he could see.
None of that mattered. He could close his eyes and see his kingdom, his people, safe from the devastation that had literally shattered mountains and felled gods.
Parrish put a hand on Bron’s broad shoulder.
“Now you understand. Now you can see why I turned my back on the gods of old. They are weak and they are tired. Theragyn grows stronger by the day.”
Bron nodded but did not speak. The world was too new, too fresh and his people were safe.
Whatever Theragyn demanded would be his so long as the god could accomplish that. He swore it silently and felt the god’s sigh of satisfaction.
Light and flame flared into a tower of fire a dozen steps away. Within that conflagration flesh burned and a man screamed. Whoever he was he tried to suck in a fresh breath and inhaled heat and fire.
A moment later the flames faltered and the body of King Pardume of Saramond crashed to the stony ground. He did not breathe. He did not move. His flesh was burned and blistered and his skin was not Marked.
Bron stared down at the dead man and shook his head.
“What happened to him, Parrish?”
Parrish looked at the smoldering corpse and sneered. “He was weak.”
Bron nodded and said nothing more.
Beron
The restless masses stood behind him and Beron allowed himself a smile. Lightning shattered the calm and thunder followed shortly after, a wild storm, a fury that was terrifying.
He knew exactly how that storm felt. It was time. Behind him they stood, waiting for a single gesture. He would not disappoint.
He raised his sword and pointed toward the city’s center. Nothing more needed saying.
They moved and followed him as he started riding forward. Those few that still had horses rode at the front. It was a sight to behold, really. He had led many people into combat before, but never so many followers.
Some had weapons. Others found whatever they could use. Impossible numbers marched with him as he stormed toward Torema proper, and as his horse moved faster, they began to run.
He called out, “Ariah!” and the people around him took up the demon’s name as their own chant.
The first person to stand in his way had no part in the battle that he could see, but the man was in the wrong place, and so he killed him with a swing of his sword. The blood that hit the blade seemed to hiss and smolder, though he could not have proved that in the excitement. All he knew, all that mattered, was that the man died and in so doing fed Ariah.
And Ariah was so very hungry. Gods, it seemed, could be nearly insatiable.
A small touch of each life given to the god was granted to Beron. Every death made him feel stronger and bolder and so he charged harder into the fray, his sword and spear both tasting flesh and stealing lives.
And all around him the rabble grew bolder as well, screaming out the demon’s name as they bashed in heads, or cut throats. It wasn’t long before the people ahead of them grew wise enough to flee, running away from the massive tide of people determined to take the city at any cost. The waters washed down from above and Beron saw the growing crimson stain that ran through it.
Small wonder then that Beron grew bolder still, and sought to take all that he could possibly want.
When he finally met resistance, he was genuinely surprised.
Torema had no army. That was something well-known by one and all. Though there were certainly guards of a sort, they did not wear uniforms and they most certainly did not move with military precision.
The Avenue of Kings – a road named for wealth, not for any sovereign – was as wide as any street in the entire town and moving down it was easy. A dozen men on horses could ride in formation and not block the cobbled street, and yet, just ahead of him the passage vanished, lost behind a collection of wagons and debris.
“Wagons? Is that all you have?” he called out, making certain that his associates could hear his contempt for the barrier.
Rather than answering with words, the fifty or so men behind the wagons rose into view and loosed bolts and arrows from whatever weapon was available. The crossbows did their work and the bolts plunged deep into flesh, often pushing through armor. The arrows did their work as well and it was one of those that cut the throat of the horse Beron rode.
The beast let out an astonishingly human noise and then fell forward, throwing Beron from his saddle.
For a big man he was very nimble and Beron rolled as he was thrown. The sword stayed in his hands, but the spear clattered into the street.
More arrows cut through the air and more bolts followed. Beron stayed low as he moved forward and the people behind him did their best to follow his lead, though it cost several of them their lives.
The mob that followed him faltered, and Beron scowled.
Easy to be brave when there’s no resistance. He had to show them courage, or they would run. Beron reached his spear and lifted it, looking toward the barricade ahead of him.
One throw was all he would get and he knew it.
He hurled the spear at the closest bowman and watched the weapon cut through the air with a flawless trajectory. He’d have bet good gold that his aim was off, but the spear struck his target just the same and the keen tip of the thing cleaved through a rusty breastplate and hammered into the heart of his foe.
He did not wait to see if anyone noticed. There was no time. Beron ran forward, screaming Ariah’s name, and let his sword take care of the next enemy. The blade was true and split a man’s face in two, carving a bloody swath down to the breastbone.
A turn, a swing and the next in line fell.
Beron reached for the haft of his spear and looked toward his enemies, a savage grin on his face.
Most of them were cowed. Behind Beron the people who followed him once again took up Ariah’s name and made it a battle cry.
“Tear it down!” He bellowed the words and they listened, charging at the wagons and the barrier of street carts and debris that blocked them from taking control of the city.
It was glorious!
For all of three minutes. He drove forward and slashed and stabbed and if he should have felt exhausted by the constant motion, Ariah’s Grace kept him going. He gasped for air, he blocked and parried and cut into his enemies, and his heart remained steady instead of hammering away and his eyes remained keen and his blades did their work.
The wave of followers surged against the barrier and shattered it with ease, pushing the wagon to the side, hurling vases and furniture out of the way as easily as Beron himself threw his spear.
As soon as they broke through, however, the far better-organized defenders took to the task of killing them. There were arrows, of course. And spears. Swords aplenty. The people using those weapons were skilled and absolutely determined to stop the would-be invaders.
Ariah’s name stopped coming from a thousand throats, and Beron watched on, more outraged than shocked, as his forces were driven backward. Some retreated, but most died for their troubles. There were no uniforms, no banners. There were weapons and shields, all of the things missing from the forces he led, and there were orders called harshly by a voice that was familiar enough to make the end of his assault feel like a complete betrayal.
“Stanna!” The woman turned and looked his way, her expression as grim as he felt.
There were plenty of people he’d fight without hesitation, but Stanna was not one of them. She was a t
error in combat and even if she were unarmed – which she was not – he’d have hesitated.
Stanna swung the Bitch, her well-used long sword, with all the ease of a dagger, and headed for him. “Retreat, Beron! I’ve no desire to fight you.”
“Then let us pass!” He spat the words and she shook her head, smiling. Around them, her forces were cutting his people apart.
“Hillar says to keep you out and she pays me well. No choice in this.”
“We served together for years.”
“Aye. And you would do the same if the tides were reversed.”
She had him there.
“Stand aside, Stanna. I don’t want to hurt you.”
She nodded. “I don’t want to be hurt, and yet, here we are.”
There was no choice. Beron charged forward, his spear in one hand, the sword of Ariah nearly singing in his grip.
Stanna’s heavy boot caught him square in the testicles while he was looking at her sword. The impact was enough to send him staggering back and the damage done to his nethers came up like a wave and had him vomiting a second later.
“Hunn. Ah.” It was all he could say.
Stanna did not wait for him to recover. Her body slammed into him even as her sword knocked Ariah’s blade aside. The force of the blow dropped Beron into the street, to wallow in the stew of his own puke, and the muck, and blood of his followers.
Ariah’s sword clattered in the road and one of his followers grabbed the blade before Beron could muster the strength to move.
The pain passed through him in pulses that left him half-blind and dry heaving.
Stanna’s sword came down upon his neck and sliced deep even as he saw Ariah’s human form at the edge of his vision.
There was nothing to say as he died.
Chapter Four
Blood, Like Rain
Stanna
Gates of the Dead Page 3
