by Ruby Dixon
He recoils, aghast at my response. “You dare?”
“Well, they’re very shy boobs.” I promise. Something tells me I’m not getting picked.
The prelate flicks his gaze over me one more time. “Pleasant appearance…distasteful personality.” And he moves on.
Sounds like my last annual review at work.
Even so, a knot forms in my throat. I don’t want to be his little slave, but I don’t want to die either. This is the medieval equivalent of “Tits or GTFO” isn’t it? My fear gives way to anger.
Fuck this guy.
Fuck all these guys.
I’m going to go out fighting, I tell myself. This isn’t the end. There has to be more to why I’m here than to just die in a pile of anonymous blondes.
I’ve been dragged from Earth, kicking and screaming. I have to be here for a reason. It can’t be just to die because I won’t flash some jerk my boobs.
There has to be a bigger purpose…doesn’t there? My weird aura means something, doesn’t it?
Unless everyone’s just lied to me…which is beginning to look like it might be a thing.
The prelate continues to sweep down the line, talking to some of the girls and taking his sweet time making his decision. I hold my breath as he approaches Avalla, because I want this for her…if she wants it, of course. She looks up at the prelate with shining, hopeful eyes, practically trembling with awe at the sight of him. It’d be cute if circumstances weren’t so dire…and he wasn’t such a dick. I can see her slump with disappointment when he continues down the line.
Then, he finishes talking to the very last girl, the shortest one, and turns. He walks down the lineup of girls once more and pauses in front of Avalla. “Would you like to serve me, my dear?”
She drops to her knees and begins to kiss his hem. “It would be such an honor, prelate!”
“You may rise.”
I do my best not to curl my lip because this is what she wanted, but man, you’d think the prelate was the god being served around here. Prick.
Avalla gets to her feet, and when the prelate indicates she should follow him, she glances over at me with excitement. I shoot her a thumbs up and give her an encouraging nod. One problem down at least.
Except now the rest of us are cleaver brides. I can already hear someone quietly sobbing down the line. I’m not crying. I’m not giving up. I study the room, trying to figure out where we’ll be executed. If enough of us rush the executioner all at once, some are bound to get away…
The prelate moves to the center of the room, and as he does, a chair is placed next to the empty throne on the dais. It’s not nearly as big as the empty stone seat, but it’s wrought with gold and looks expensive and throne-like just the same. The prelate sits down with a flourish, smoothing his robes. Avalla immediately sits at his feet on the stairs, looking starry-eyed.
He gestures at the throngs stuffed into the temple. “Eat! Eat in honor of Aron of the Cleaver.” He waves at a servant and someone brings him a plate.
There’s a rush toward the table of food, and then the room gets noisy and boisterous. Wine is passed around and the soldiers start to get hammered. I glance down the row of women and no one’s offering us anything. They all continue to stand like statues, the guards in front of us as impassive as the others.
All right, I guess it’s feast time for everyone except the “lucky” cleaver brides. That’s fine. Every hour that they spend getting drunk and stupid on wine is another hour I get to form a plan to get out of here.
As time passes and people grow drunk with wine, the room gets rowdier. Another round of food is brought out, and I watch Avalla offering morsels to the prelate. She’s doing her best not to look giddily happy and glances over at me from time to time, nervous.
More wine is brought out, and I fidget. The broken tile’s cutting into my hand. “How long does this party go on?”
“Until dawn,” the woman next to me says. “We wait for the hour of blood.”
Dawn? So we’re just going to sit here and watch everyone feast all night and wait to die? Man, these guys are dicks.
The drums stop their ominous beats and have been replaced by reedy flutes, and now drunken idiots dance and carouse in the center of the floor. Man, this really is like an office Christmas party. My nerves get more and more shot as the minutes tick past, and I start to worry that I’m not going to be able to get away. That I won’t find a way out of this place.
That I really was brought to this strange world just to die.
I shoot to my feet. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Bathroom?” One of the guards frowns at me.
“Is that not what it’s called? Lavatory? Potty?” When he continues to stare at me blankly, I sigh. “I have to pee.”
“The garderobe?”
“Sure?” I can’t believe this hasn’t come up in conversation yet and here I’ve been in medieval hell for a whole week almost. It doesn’t matter, though. I keep my hand clenched around my bit of sharp tile. Maybe I won’t need to use it after all. “I can escort myself. Just let me know the way.”
The guards exchange looks.
“Sit back down,” a different one says, scowling at me. “You don’t need to go anywhere.”
“My bladder is saying otherwise. You want me to pee all over the place? I’ll do it,” I threaten. “Won’t that be a bit of a party ruiner?” I give them a defiant look.
The second guard sighs. “Fine. I’ll take her.”
The girl next to me stands up. “Wait. I have to go, as well.”
“And me,” says another.
“And me,” adds a third. Two others raise their hands.
I bite back my frustration. My escape plan isn’t exactly going to work if everyone has the same damn idea. They’re ruining it for me.
“Sit down, all of you,” the guard snarls. “You’ll sit quietly and wait until the Hour of Blood, and if you do not, we’ll cut your throat and toss your body into the river without so much as a blessing. Understand?”
Everyone sits. Even me. Jeez.
I watch the revelers with an increasing sense of disgust. As time passes, they go beyond drunk. Someone starts fondling a nearby woman and then suddenly there’s a girl thrown down on a table with her skirts hiked up. I try not to stare, but from the noises she’s making, she’s having a really good time. I look over at Avalla, and she’s migrated to the prelate’s knee, her hand between his thighs as she whispers in his ear and pushes her breasts into his face.
Okay, maybe this is a bit more than your average Christmas party.
Maybe it’s more like…New Year’s? A really horny, horny New Year’s, I amend as a naked man chases a naked woman through the crowd. If there’s some sort of attention that’s supposed to be paid to the whole reason for the holiday, these people have forgotten it long ago. No one pays attention to the throne on the dais, and I notice that the prelate sets his wine goblet on the arm of it, as if it’s his own special armchair. Maybe it is. Fuck if I know. There’s so much about this world that I just don’t understand.
Namely why you’d have to kill thirty perfectly good blondes to celebrate a god no one gives a shit about.
Thunder crackles overhead.
The people in the room pause, and then laughter breaks out. “The Lord of Storms sends a greeting,” calls one of the priests. I can’t help but notice he’s grabbing one of the local women, his wine spilled down the front of his robes. He’s clumsy, turning and slapping people with the long end of his sword.
I really hope he’s not the executioner.
The thought makes my stomach knot up and I feel like I’m going to be sick. I keep waiting for an opportunity to show itself but there isn’t one. The guards standing near us are the only ones sober, and a runaway blonde slave girl would be too obvious in this crowd. I can’t blend. I can’t escape.
If there’s a plan for me, a little hint right about now would be nice.
Thunder booms again, and th
e wind rises.
The torches flicker, almost going out. The heavy scent of ozone fills the sultry air, and I can hear rain starting outside. One of the terrified women next to me starts to cry. I pat her back awkwardly. “It’s okay. I’ve got a plan.”
Fake it until you make it and all that. I don’t have a plan, but it feels better to pretend that I do.
The air feels heavier with the oncoming storm. The thunder booms again, and this time it’s so loud that the entire building seems to shake. Wind whips through the temple, providing the first breeze I’ve felt in hours.
The torches die.
I jump to my feet as people cry out, startled. This is my chance. Time to escape.
“Someone re-light the torches,” the prelate calls out in a lazy voice. People laugh, and I hear the sound of someone getting laid, all grunts and groaning and female giggles. Ew.
On tiptoe, I start to move through the crowd. Everyone’s distracted. Time to make my escape. People are pressed against each other so tightly that it’s impossible to push forward. I try to shove my way past a pair of men, but they just knock me backwards.
One of the torches is lit, and then the room floods with dim light.
Someone gasps. “He’s here!”
There’s a little scream, and then people start dropping to their knees all around me. I look around—and see that the big, empty throne at the front of the room is no longer empty.
A man sits there.
“Sit” seems like such a benign word for what’s going on, though. His presence is so overwhelming that it feels like a stronger adjective should be used. Looms, maybe. Lords. Yeah. The stranger’s lording over all of us, equal parts arrogance and contempt emanating from him. He doesn’t move a muscle, his arms calmly stretched on the throne as if he’s been here the entire time. And as he gazes around the room, he’s impossible to like. Fear, yes. Like, no. It’s in every pore of his being that he hates what he sees in front of him.
I just wish he wasn’t so darn beautiful to look at.
Fact is, he’s gorgeous in the most intimidating sort of way. His shoulders are broad and muscular, his skin pale. There seem to be acres and acres of pale skin, and it takes me a moment to realize that he’s totally naked. He wears it well, of course, his entire form so intimidating that it almost makes me feel like everyone else is just overdressed.
His hair is dark black and falls down his back and shoulders. It’s unadorned, drawn back from his face at the crown. Instead of making him look feminine, it just highlights how blatantly masculine his features are. His jaw is sharp, his nose perfectly straight, and his eyes are narrow and bladelike…and mismatched in color.
The stranger also looks vaguely familiar to me, which is weird considering I’m a stranger in this land and I don’t know anyone even remotely close to being as perfect as this guy…and then I realize there’s a pale scar crossing over the left side of his face.
Oh my god. Like the statue.
No wonder everyone’s dropping to their feet. I suddenly realize just what it means that he’s dropped in mid-ceremony on Anticipation day. He’s sitting in that throne because it was waiting for him.
This is Aron of the Cleaver.
I laugh. Aloud. “Ha!”
Christmas has come early, bitches.
6
A god just arrived.
I find this far more exciting than everyone else does. I don’t care that he’s a god of battle or whatever. If he’s a god, he can send me home.
I might have laughed out loud.
Aron’s gaze turns to me and it’s like ice.
I realize I’m the only one not on my knees bowing, and the moment our eyes make contact, I feel a shiver go through my body. There’s power there, and even though I don’t worship these gods, I drop to my knees because it feels like I have to.
The god—if that’s what he is—continues to swing his gaze around the room, utterly silent. After a moment, he notices the prelate sitting in his chair next to his throne, and you can just tell that he does not approve.
The prelate turns sheet white and stumbles over Avalla in his haste to drop to his own knees. “Lord of Storms,” the prelate says, and his trembling voice carries across the too-still room. “It is you. The Anticipation has been fulfilled at last.”
I watch Aron of the Cleaver to see if he’s going to say anything. He continues to study the room, his mismatched gaze burning with hostility. I shiver, wondering if he’s a benevolent god. Something in me says no. There’s an element in the way that he holds himself that suggests he’s not a very nice god at all.
His gaze moves to the goblet on the end of one of the arms of his chair. It’s the same golden, jewel-crusted goblet that the prelate put there earlier, too busy enjoying himself to pay attention. Very carefully, very slowly, Aron of the Cleaver flicks the goblet away and it clatters to the floor, spilling wine down the marble steps of his dais.
“Where am I?” His voice is lethal with dislike.
I’m shocked. This is the voice I heard back in the apartment. It’s the gorgeous, smooth, deep voice that haunted me and drove me crazy. Except…
I didn’t think the owner would be quite as intimidating as this guy. I’m just as terrified as everyone else. Was this what I was brought for? To watch this? To get killed with everyone else in this room once the war god arrived? I’m still confused, even if a piece or two slid into place.
The prelate practically quivers before the god. “This is Aventine, my lord. City dedicated to you.”
“I know where Aventine is.” His tone is scathing.
The prelate presses his forehead to the marble floors, and I can practically hear the man sweating. “We are honored to serve your Aspect. Just ask and—”
“It does not look as if you are honored to serve,” Aron says caustically. “It looks like you are here for wine and wenching.”
Well, he’s got that one pegged. Wine and wenching seems to be the order of the day. Massive burn.
“No, no, my lord,” the prelate says, sitting up on his knees. “You misunderstand—”
“Do I?”
The two words practically send frost through the room. I shiver as everything goes silent once more. Everyone’s clearly terrified, including me.
For a moment, I feel bad for the prelate. It’s clear that no one’s ever expected one of the gods to actually show up. In a way, I can kind of understand. I’m not sure how Santa’d take it if he slid down my chimney and found me eating all the cookies laid out for him.
But then again, Santa’s not real.
This Aron of the Cleaver clearly is, and he doesn’t seem to be a benign sort of god. Much as I love seeing the prelate squirm, I wish I was anywhere but here.
“How can I serve?” the prelate asks, his voice turning obsequious. “Command it and it shall be done.”
“How do you think you should serve?” Aron of the Cleaver’s face is expressionless, but I still get a sense of distaste from him.
Trembling, the prelate picks up the goblet on the floor and offers it up to the god—
—Only to have it knocked from his hands again. “Do I look as if I wish your scraps?” Again, Aron doesn’t raise his voice, but there’s still an absolute sense of danger that follows those quiet words. This is not a man to be fucked with, that much is clear.
“Of course not, my lord.” The prelate slowly gets to his feet and casts a frantic look around the room. “Servants! The finest wine for our honored Aspect! Cheese! Fruit! Meat! Fine robes! At once!”
The room bustles into activity. People scurry to do the prelate’s bidding and others remain exactly as they were, on their knees. There’s a palpable feeling of terror in the room and the girl next to me is trembling with fear.
And she wasn’t trembling at the thought of her own death at dawn, so that kind of scares me.
Maybe these people should have worshipped a fluffier, kinder god. Someone with more hearts and cuddles than say, a god of war or storms.
“What else can we do for you, my lord?” The prelate bows again, pressing his forehead to the floor. “Aventine is honored to serve.”
I half-expect the god to give another venomous response. Instead, he raises a hand thoughtfully and stares at his palm. “This body is weak. Why?”
The prelate stammers for a moment, and when a serving girl moves timidly forward with a length of crimson material, he snatches it from her and then offers it to the god.
“I did not ask for this,” Aron says, and he sounds pissy.
“Of course n-not, my Lord of Storms. I was simply anticipating your needs.” The prelate bows his head and offers the clothing, and when it’s not taken from his hands, he waits a moment longer and then slinks back, handing the robe to a quaking Avalla.
I guess a god doesn’t like to be told to put pants on. It’s kind of funny, in a surreal sort of way. Of course, knowing that makes me want to peek at his junk. The way he’s seated, I can’t see anything, but how often does a girl get to see god-dick? If he really is a god. I figure I can’t be blamed for being curious, but I don’t get up from my spot on the floor to peer.
Even I’m not that dumb.
“As for why you are weak, my Lord of Storms, m-might I offer a suggestion?” The prelate sounds more and more obsequious with every minute that passes. When the god flicks a hand indicating he should continue, the prelate goes on. “The sacred scrolls speak of this. As you know”—his voice begins to tremble again—“in the last Anticipation, the gods that were cast to the mortal world were forced to take an anchor.”
Aron of the Cleaver nods slowly. “Anchor. I remember.” He pauses and flexes his hand again, as if unused to it…or unused to wearing skin. After a moment, he looks up. “Who is to be my anchor? You?” His lip curls.
The prelate clearly misses Aron’s distaste. “If it pleases my lord—”
“It does not.”
It goes silent in the room once more. There’s a faint smell of urine.
“Shall I choose someone, then?” Aron spits the words as if he is insulted that he has to even ask. “I grow impatient waiting for you to assign me my servant.”