Godwyn glanced down at the injured boy on the floor. Poison darts. He could still feel the wounds on his own arm. Though he wanted to relieve his own pain, he would not partake of any of the healing medicines in his bag. There wasn’t much left, and Dokie needed every drop.
“Yes, I’d say the figure with the ax could definitely be Nail,” Liz Hen said, placing the drawing in the center of the table, genuine concern in her tone now. “Do you really think the White Prince destroyed Gallows Haven and killed my whole family because he was searching for Nail?”
Godwyn contemplated her question, wondering how to answer, for her question smacked of the truth. “The destruction of Gallows Haven was no fault of Nail’s.”
“But I heard you and the dwarf talking about Nail at our camp above Ravenker one night. You thought we were all asleep. But I heard both you and Hawkwood say some things. . . .” She paused, meeting his gaze with purpose now. “And I am pretty sure Nail heard you talking too.”
“What did you hear?”
“Stuff.” She shrugged nonchalantly. “You all talked about Nail’s parentage some. Said that you needed him for some purpose. Said that he’s been told his entire life he was naught but a bastard boy, but that he is actually someone far greater. Said that Shawcroft’s life was sad because he had to look after Nail. Said Shawcroft had to raise Nail hard because he was so special.”
Godwyn sat back. If Nail had indeed heard the conversation, what must he think? A thick pall of wood smoke was filling the hazy cabin. He realized they would soon have to either open the door for ventilation or put out the fire.
Liz Hen’s gaze remained on him. “You said that Nail was a danger to me, to Dokie, to Stefan, that we would all die because of him.”
“But yet you all still live, no?”
Her eyes settled on Dokie’s sleeping form. She said no more. She didn’t have to.
He watched her for a moment. “I know you have harbored some resentment toward Nail ever since Gallows Haven was destroyed,” he said. “But I repeat, none of it was Nail’s fault. In fact, Nail did all he could to help in your escape. He is honorable and he is brave. As are you, Liz Hen. Stefan, too. And Dokie.”
“But did Aeros attack my home because of Nail? Is he special, as you say?”
“Nail is important to the Brethren of Mia,” Godwyn said without reservation. “And yes, Aeros landed at Gallows Haven in hopes of finding Nail. But I repeat, that is not Nail’s fault.”
Liz Hen’s face twisted in anger. “Then why did you talk behind his back? There is nothing more worse and harmful in this world than lies. It seems deception and half-truths are what you Brethren of Mia are all about. Why didn’t you or Roguemoore or Culpa or Hawkwood ever tell Nail the truth of things?”
Godwyn was surprised by her multiple accusations. He was also surprised by her impassioned defense of Nail. Fact was, he didn’t really didn’t know much about Nail’s true parentage himself. Other than what Shawcroft had told him—that the boy and his twin sister were possibly kin to Aevrett Raijael. That the birth and subsequent fate of the twins had become an ethical dilemma for many, all shrouded in mystery. Bottom line, Shawcroft—or rather, Ser Roderic Raybourne—watched over Nail at the behest of two men; his brother, King Torrence Raybourne, and King Borden Bronachell. As far as Godwyn knew, those were the only three men who knew Nail’s full heritage. He wagered Roguemoore possibly knew, his brother Ironcloud, too, as both dwarves were deep into the inner workings of the Brethren of Mia. Godwyn had never pressed the issue himself, figuring Nail’s parentage had something to do with the return of the Five Warrior Angels and the retrieval of the weapons and angel stones. And that was enough for him. He’d also heard the rumors that Hawkwood had been in Arco when Nail’s mother had died. And the rumors that the former Bloodwood had assassinated Alana Bronachell—something he hadn’t been able to forgive the man for. So in a way, he understood Liz Hen’s distrust of the Brethren of Mia.
“Well,” Liz Hen huffed. “Are you going to answer my question?”
“We did not tell Nail the truth.” Godwyn met her gaze steadily. “Probably because none of us ever really knew the truth of things.”
She hung her head some, then glanced back at Dokie. “Will you pray with me, Godwyn?” She held her hands across the table for him. palms up. “I’ve no idea if my prayers are ever even heard. But I still must try. For Dokie.”
He nodded, placing his hands in hers.
She gripped tight, closing her eyes in supplication. “We beseech you in your glorious goodness to deliver Dokie from the pain and misery of the dread poisons that eat at his flesh and brain, dear Laijon. Hasten the powers of thy kingdom on high, so that what sickness afflicts him may depart his body. We ask this of you in true faith and in thy holy name. Dokie is our best friend. He is kind and he is innocent. We would ask that you spare him and take us if you must, take Godwyn or me if another life is due unto you. Take me, dear Laijon, if you must. Leave poor Dokie out of it.” The girl choked up, struggled to continue. “We also grant thee grace and thanks for delivering us so far from our enemies, dear Laijon, those wretched foul oghuls. With thy divine powers, keep us free from any more oghuls and the miseries of this sinful, cruel world. And may you consummate our prayer with bliss both body and soul in eternal everlasting glory through you, Laijon, forever and ever, amen.”
“Amen,” Godwyn muttered, and let go the girl’s hands. Tears had formed in his own eyes over Liz Hen’s heartfelt prayer.
A guttural shout followed by a loud boom! startled Godwyn out of his seat. The two mules jumped and brayed as a giant ax blade split the cabin’s wooden door nearly in twain, splinters of wood flying across the room and peppering their table. Liz Hen let out a yelp and reached for her sword against the hearth. Godwyn snatched up his blade too.
Another bloodcurdling shout and the rusted ax blade was wrenched free, taking most of the door with it. Outside were the blocky gray forms of three howling oghuls. What remained of the door clattered inward against the stone wall as the howling beasts burst into the cabin, all three bristling with rusted armor and crude weapons.
One of the frightened mules jumped, back legs kicking out, knocking the first oghul straight into the sharp end of Godwyn’s upraised sword. The oghul staggered back, blood gushing from his gut as Godwyn stabbed his sword straight into his grimacing face. The beast dropped, falling right on top of Dokie’s sleeping form with a thud. The second oghul shoved past Godwyn, knocking him backward on top of Dokie too, then leaping toward Liz Hen, broad curved blade arching straight down at the girl’s head. Liz Hen parried the blow with her own sword before she was pushed over the table and nearly into the fire. The third oghul swung his rusted ax straight down at Godwyn, who rolled, and the ax blade cut deep into the armor of the oghul atop Dokie.
Godwyn spun to his feet and swung his own sword at the ax-wielding brute. The blade glanced off his stiff armor, causing scant harm. The irate mule, still braying and kicking, struck the ax-wielding oghul in the chest with a stiff hoof, knocking the beast almost out the doorway. Godwyn took the advantage and swung his blade again, connecting with solid armor. He swung a third time, only to have his sword bludgeoned from his grip as the oghul recovered more quickly than he’d thought possible, the whirling ax heavy and cruel. His sword spinning across the room, Godwyn stumbled to the side, clutching at the wall, trying to regain his balance.
The second oghul with the curved blade had backed Liz Hen into the corner, his wicked weapon swiftly battering her blade as she struggled in defense.
Reaching for his own sword, Godwyn tripped and went down again. The oghul with the ax loomed over him with purpose. The beast reached down and snatched Godwyn by the collar of his shirt and hauled him up from the floor with one powerful hand. The oghul’s rank mouth stretched open with a revolting roar, two sharp, pointed fangs jutting from under bloated black lips.
And then the beast bit down, sinking his teeth deep into Godwyn’s neck and sucking with a thro
aty gurgle. The initial pain was almost unbearable as Godwyn felt his entire body clench and stiffen in agony. The total shock and paralysis to his system was such that he couldn’t even move. He couldn’t gulp or gasp for air through his nose or even his mouth. A rotten, putrid stench engulfed him as he hung limp in the bloodsucking oghul’s clutch. He couldn’t tell if the decaying stink was from his own bowels emptying or the oghul’s rancid, bloodsucking breath.
But there was as sudden sweetness to the entire experience too . . .
. . . and that horrified him even more.
Dangling limp in the monster’s grasp, Godwyn could see Liz Hen. The girl was still backed into the corner, still gripping her sword in both hands, her expression desperate as she fought for her own life with every block and parry she’d ever been taught. Then the oghul struck the sword from her hands. It clanked to the floor near the fireplace. At the same time, the beast reached out and snatched the girl by the hair, pulling her neck toward his own wide and gaping maw.
There was a flash of gray. A streak of snarling, raging fur launched itself onto the oghul’s back an instant before he sank his rotted teeth into the girl’s neck.
Beer Mug! The shepherd dog ripped into the back of the oghul’s skull, powerful jaws chomping through rusted helm and bone, tearing and shredding violently. Blood sprayed as the creature dropped like a stone, falling dead in a puddle of its own brains, limbs twitching.
Godwyn’s vision blurred as all strength left his body, his oghul captor sucking his blood. A euphoria like he’d never felt before filled him. There’s an addictive toxin inside each oghul fang, Roguemoore had told Liz Hen on the trail above Stanclyffe. A pleasing chemical that over time a bloodletter cannot live without. Godwyn was horrified at the thought. And then he felt himself falling, the oghul attached to his neck dropping with him, foul fangs slipping free of his flesh as they thudded to the hard floor together side by side.
Liz Hen, standing over them now, yanked her sword from the bloodsucker’s back, shouting, “Fuck you and the hoary oghul trash-barrel cunt you slithered out of!”
Godwyn grabbed a huge breath of air, gulping it down, the dead eyes of his attacker staring back at him as they lay on the tattered wood together.
And the sweet euphoria gone . . .
He tried to raise himself up on his elbows to no avail, then rolled over onto his back. The same toxin also seals off the vein after a feeding, the dwarf had said A bloodletter won’t bleed out. Still, Godwyn could tell he was bleeding pretty good, and he had no idea how long those toxins took to do their job. His every limb was numb. One useless hand wobbled up, trying to stanch the scarlet pumping from his neck.
The sharp fangs in my neck . . . both the most horrid—yet most grand—feeling of my life . . .
The first oghul, the one atop Dokie, moaned, still alive. The foul-smelling beast slowly crawled off the boy, making his way on hands and knees across the floor toward the door, his many wounds leaving trails of thick blood.
Beer Mug responded with a venom-laced growl of his own. Those growls were quickly followed by hoarse oghul screams as the dog viciously attacked.
“That’s right, Beer Mug!” Liz Hen hollered in savage triumph. “I wager you’re one hungry dog! You’re a good boy and a hungry boy! Go ahead and eat his ugly fucking face right the fuck off!”
* * *
For human and Vallè to procreate is as it should be: impossible. But before that great day of Absolution, beware alchemy and the great deceptive nature of the fey.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER FORTY
STEFAN WAYLAND
12TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
SKY LOCHS, GUL KANA
Their camp was set atop a broad wooded hill overlooking a small dale of tumbled-down trees and thickets of spindly briar. The hail had eventually subsided into a steady, yet unpleasant, sideways drizzle that thumped against Stefan’s armor under his cloak. Despite the fire before him, and the two hefty draught mares blocking the wind behind him, he just couldn’t get warm. Even the shimmering of the trees trembling in the stiff wind made him shiver. He drew the cloak tighter around his neck. Isn’t it summer everywhere else in the Five Isles?
Seita sat on the birch log next to him. Culpa Barra was across from him, large black sword resting on his lap. The crossbow, Blackest Heart, was strapped to the Dayknight’s back, the black angel stone secured in a leather pouch tied to his belt.
“Why has Laijon cursed us?” Culpa cast his gaze at the starless sky. “All our hard work and sacrifice for naught. Just when all the prophecies of the Moon Scrolls were falling into place, only to suffer such massive failure.” He looked back down at the flickering flames of the fire. “What test from God is this?”
Neither Seita nor Stefan said a word, just huddled in the cold.
“There must be some lesson in this,” the Dayknight muttered. “But what, I cannot fathom.” The look on his face went from sheer defeat to utter resolve almost in an instant. “But I will not let it be over. No matter what occurs, we will press on.” Culpa was clearly struggling with the futility of their situation, trying to convince himself there was still hope. Trying to convince his travel companions too. But the horrid weather had done enough to dampened all of Stefan’s resolve.
“We were fortunate to have found horses, at least,” Culpa said as the tree branches above groaned in the cold evening currents, resolve in his voice, as if having horses now meant all the difference. “Our one good fortune. Finding those mares.”
The Dayknight had been their leader ever since the glacier, pushing them ever onward at a brisk pace. It had been two days since they had last seen Godwyn, Liz Hen, and Dokie heading west across the glacier, two days since they had lost Nail, Roguemoore, and Val-Draekin to a violent crushing death.
Stefan still couldn’t believe his friend was actually gone. Nail’s death tore at his heart. Then he thought of Zane, and Gisela, and his own family, and all the other Gallows Haven dead. What random luck has kept me alive?
Seita claimed to have seen all our fates. The fates of three . . .
Nail. Val-Draekin. Roguemoore.
After witnessing the horror of his three companions being sucked down into that savage maelstrom of ice and water, Stefan had hiked from the glacier in a numb stupor, one weary foot in front of the next, silently plodding along, emotions suppressed. Culpa had guided them swiftly from the frozen wasteland, pushing the limits of their endurance until they finally reached the loch waters and the safety of stable land.
Last evening, just before dusk, at the southernmost end of the loch, they had come across a logging camp resting idly in a grove of trees and a green meadow. The encampment looked recently lived in, yet nobody was around. The camp consisted of two wood cabins and a stack of long pine logs stacked at the loch’s edge near the head of a river. As they’d trudged up to the two cabins, Stefan noticed a scraggly dog lying under the ragged wood porch of one. The dog lifted its nose off the ground and scuttled from under its protection, wagging its tail in hopes of a friendly pat on the head. Culpa and Seita had ignored the dog. Stefan had stopped and let it lick his hand. Then the three of them had searched the cabins, but found no food.
After that, Culpa guided Stefan and Seita east up the slope behind the camp, through a field of grazing goats and chickens, toward the mountain range beyond. The goats scattered, bells about their necks tinkling, chickens clucking in their wake. The lone dog followed them. Culpa tried to capture a chicken, but the few nearest him darted from his grasp and he soon gave up. They stumbled upon a stone barn dug into a small hill not far behind the cabins. The barn housed two healthy draught mares. There were two empty stalls, recently used, as if two other horses were normally stabled there too but were now out at work. They stole the mares from the barn, along with several coils of rope, three torches, a canvas tarp, and ten arrows for Stefan’s quiver.
Stefan had used an arrow to shoot
one of the chickens. But he’d felt guilty, as the hardworking mares they’d stolen likely represented a fair portion of the workload and overall sustenance of the loggers, and the ten arrows in his quiver perhaps their only defense, and the chickens their only food. “Probably naught but filthy oghul loggers anyway,” Culpa said once they were miles from the camp, cooking the chicken over a warm fire. “The vile beasts seem to be reclaiming most of the north.”
Culpa had explained the direness of their situation that first night. There were three great lochs that made up Sky Lochs. The glacier under D’Nahk lè covered the far eastern loch. And that was where they were, at the bottom of that loch. They could either follow the River Vallè directly south to Port Follett, or head southeast toward Deadwood Gate and attempt to finish the quest and find Afflicted Fire. Either way, with the horses, they were looking at a journey of about four days, depending on weather and stray oghuls. Culpa convinced them Deadwood Gate was the way, though Stefan thought the entire venture pointless.
Now here they sat, huddled against the cold.
“Can I look at the crossbow again?” Seita asked.
“It’s best it stays with me.” Culpa unflinchingly met the Vallè maiden’s gaze from across the fire, hand straying to the leather pouch at his side.
“I did my part in finding it.” Seita glared right back at him. “I should be given the honor of, at the very least, looking at the crossbow. Perhaps even holding it. Perhaps figuring out what type of bolt or quarrel fits its strange mechanisms. For I know you do not know how to use it, how to arm it with the right-sized quarrel. Yet you’ve been guarding those relics as if you expect me or Stefan to snatch them at any moment and run off into the night.” Seita pulled the hood of her gray cloak back. “Why?”
“For your own safety,” Culpa answered. “The Moon Scrolls of Mia speak of a curse. The first person who touches an angel stone with the bare flesh of their hand is doomed to die. The dwarf knew of this curse. All the Brethren of Mia knew of this curse. It is why none of us should handle the crossbow more than need be. It is why I keep the stone wrapped in its silk.”
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