Children of Fallen Gods (The War of Lost Hearts Book 2)

by Carissa Broadbent

  We made our move early in the morning. A thick fog had rolled in. Some of it was natural, common in this part of Ara. But our Valtain Wielders helped thicken it, too, lowering visibility until the city and the soldiers that guarded it were little more than misty silhouettes. The air was so thick it hurt to breathe, and everything was uncomfortably damp. The dawn was silent. The city had not yet awoken.

  Then I gave my command, and the silence shattered.

  Screams punctured the air. Soon they were joined with shouts, and the clash of metal upon metal, and the telltale blue-white flashes of Lightning Dust. This was the sound of a slaughter. It was the sound of a district falling.

  It wasn’t coming from the main gates. No, the sounds came from the southern gates of the city.

  The Antedale soldiers sprung to panicked action. Most bolted back into the city, no doubt headed for the southern gates, where the screams and sounds would be loudest.

  They left less than half of their comrades behind, staring out into the fog as they clutched their weapons. They would not be able to see us at first. But the sight, I’m sure, was something to behold once they could — hundreds of us emerging from the soupy grey.

  We outnumbered them many times over.

  My men could capture or force surrender from these guards, rather than kill them. Little fight remained in them. We practically strode through the doors whistling with our hands shoved into our pockets, marching into the city like a solemn parade.

  I gave strict instruction to avoid lethal force if at all possible. Unless someone’s blade is at your throat, I told them, yours should be far away from theirs.

  Some of my men were clearly frustrated by this directive. Resolve was tested, and it began to unravel as we made our way to Gridot’s keep on the east end. His personal guards were more vicious and skilled. By then, the soldiers that we had distracted had realized their mistake, and had begun rushing back into the city.

  This was when the fighting grew thick: as we wound through the narrow streets that led to the elevated keep. There was no choice but to fight through the men that stood in our way. Gridot’s estate was perched on the top of a rocky overlook that loomed over the rest of Antedale, with two winding sets of stairs that led up to its golden, arched entrance. Those spiraling stairs were known as the Twin Serpents, a striking but horrifically impractical Antedale landmark.

  They were horrible to fight through. We had no choice but to slice through whoever stood in our way. The stairs were so narrow that only a maximum of three men could stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the best of circumstances. Fewer, of course, with swinging weapons.

  Despite my best efforts, my staff grew slick with blood, which covered my fingers, my hands, my face.

  If I’d been willing to kill recklessly, I could have set my weapon alight with fire and flung opponents over the edges of the stairs. Easier still, with the help of the Valtain wielding winds in our favor.

  But I wasn’t willing to make those sacrifices. I fought twice as hard — three times as hard — with my staff split in two and flames carefully controlled, my strikes aiming for legs and limbs instead of throats and hearts. Still, I began to slip into a version of myself that I’d hoped to never see again. Soon, I was not given a choice. Our opponents were vicious. Death became unavoidable. The battle around me blended with the past.

  By the time we fought our way to the top of the stairs, I must have looked like a demon. I was drenched in crimson, my hands and blades ignited with flames. My soldiers were just as terrifying, the Valtains’ white hair smeared with red, all of our uniforms drenched. When I pushed open the doors of the keep, I left bloody handprints on the beautiful chestnut engravings.

  The inside was eerily quiet.

  Guards stood at attention, their spears held firm and unmoving. Maids clasped their hands in front of them and bowed their heads, watching us with wary eyes.

  The entryway was beautiful. It opened to a massive room of stone and silver, with a high, arched ceiling inset with stained glass that refracted the cloudy sky. Two majestic staircases swept around either side of the room, mimicking the shape of the Twin Serpents outside. In the sudden silence, my footfalls were deafening against the polished tile.

  I stepped forward slowly, lifting a hand in a silent command to the soldiers who followed me — hold.

  “King Zeryth Aldris commands the surrender of Lord Gridot for treason,” I said. “We come only for him.”

  My voice echoed. The maids and guards regarded me in silence.

  “If he surrenders to us,” I said, “we will leave all of you and your city in peace.”

  Do it, I pleaded, silently. Just end this.

  No response.

  I heard footsteps. From beneath the shadow of the twin staircases came a man. He was dressed in fine clothes, tall and straight-backed with a neat beard.

  “Maxantarius Farlione.” His voice was surprisingly strong for a man his age, at odds with his slight figure and white beard. Nothing in his face or his stance betrayed anything other than steady composure — nothing except for his eyes, which cut into me with utter rage.

  “I heard the rumors, but I admit that I was skeptical. Maxantarius Farlione coming out of retirement to fight for the crown of a street rat swaddled in silk.” He clicked his tongue. “What a disappointment.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first to think so.” I cast a pointed glance behind me, where the room was slowly filling with my blood-drenched soldiers. “I believe that we have you cornered.”

  “That, I think, is undeniable.”

  “I don’t intend to kill you. In fact, we’re all a bit anxious to get out of here. We’ll happily leave, so long as you leave with us.”

  Gridot let out a small scoff. “You know, I knew your father quite well. He was an honorable man.”

  I inclined my chin. “He was.”

  The old man strode forward with long, smooth steps. I tensed.

  “It’s perhaps a blessing,” he said, “that he isn’t here to see this.”

  “I have no desire to kill your men or destroy your city, Gridot. And I have no desire to kill you.”

  He was now just a few feet away from me. His eyes crinkled with silent laughter. “And what do you think that Aldris will do with me, when you shackle me and drag me back to the capital?”

  Dread rose with my quickening heartbeat. I noticed that one of Gridot’s hands was tucked into the pocket of his jacket. I recognized the rising fire in his otherwise-composed eyes.

  “He is a reasonable man.” The lie was acidic on my tongue. Gridot let out a bitter laugh, his lips curling.

  “I’d rather die by the hand of a war hero than on my knees in front of a no-name false king,” he spat.

  And my heart sank.

  It happened so quickly — everything that I had been dreading. Gridot’s hand flew from his pocket, wielding a dagger with an artful, well-trained grip. He lunged for me. Fast enough to make a true and admirable swing for my throat — fast enough to open a river of blood across my shoulder when I dodged.

  But he was an old man, and he knew that. His skill alone ensured that his strike was only as good as it needed to be to force a proper counter. I had no choice in my response — a blade buried in his side. He fell to the ground in a heap.

  I called the healers to him, but he faded in seconds. He smiled at me as he died, a mouthful of crimson blooming over his teeth.

  We stayed in the city only for a few days, just long enough to sort through the logistics as we waited for Zeryth to send additional forces for ongoing occupation of the city. When I returned to camp that evening, Moth looked as if he were staring at a ghost. I probably resembled one.

  I was exhausted. A headache pounded between my temples, and a deeper ache settled far beneath that. I met Moth’s wide-eyed, horrified stare with my own.

  “And this is what winning looks like,” I told him. “Still wish you were out there?”

  Moth declined to answer, instead handing me a
rag and the inventory lists I’d asked for, then ducking away before we could speak again.

  Zeryth, of course, was very pleased with the results (though, his letter noted, “I should be, considering how long it took you.”). But I wasn’t sure I was. I threw our resources into healing the wounded. I had both Arith and Essanie’s teams do a thorough record of any dead that they were unable to save.

  “I double checked,” Essanie said, sounding a little bewildered, when she handed me the final tally.

  Fifty-four. Just fifty-four bodies, including that of Gridot himself. Some dead from falls off of the Twin Serpent stairs, two even slain by friendly accidental strikes. One fell off of the wall as he rushed to get back to the fighting, having realized the initial illusion.

  It was a good death toll. An incredible death toll, even, for a battle that involved so many.

  “Amazing,” Essanie said, shaking her head, but I felt numb and heavy as I tucked the parchment away.

  “Right,” I said. “Amazing.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Aefe

  It was dusk when we arrived at the House of Reeds. It was located in the marshy, rocky areas bordering the southern isles, known for its sprawling wetlands and the blanket of soupy mist that hung over all of it. I’d visited the House of Reeds only once before, when I was a very small child, and all I could remember was that mist. The Sidnee did not overly rely on eyesight. The Pales, after all, were often dark and shadowy. But the mists here were something else entirely, a sort of mystery that sank into your lungs, and I remember clinging to my mother’s skirts in fear of the beasts I imagined within it.

  That was decades ago, and now I was the kind of skilled warrior that little girl hadn’t even dared to dream she’d become. And yet, I felt that same terror.

  It was very, very quiet.

  The House of Reeds’ territory was surrounded by a grey stone wall, topped with intricate copper metalwork and overgrown with grey-green vines. The roads leading to the entrance were covered with just enough water to creep through the soles of my boots. Tall reeds lined the path and enveloped the wall, flattening the distance into one huge expanse of yellow and green. To the south, glassy still water disappeared into the fog.

  From all of this, the gates loomed — two sets of spired, vine-covered iron. The sight of them made the hairs on the back of my neck rise.

  Siobhan spoke quietly as we approached. “It is too similar. Too similar to what we saw at the House of Stone, when we went there after the attack. The silence.”

  I cast a glance over my shoulder at Caduan, who was staring off into the distance.

  “We were too late,” he said, softly.

  “We do not know that,” Ashraia said. His booming voice was jarring in a place like this, even though he tried to be quiet. “The House of Reeds is known for this. They could be hiding, after hearing the news of the Stoneheld.”

  Ishqa, who had been leading the group, turned around. The look on his face was grim.

  “You and Ashraia should fly over,” I said. “See whether there is movement within the walls.”

  “Yes,” Ishqa agreed. He and Ashraia exchanged a glance, and then they transformed. It felt rude to stare, but I couldn’t help it. It took only moments for them to shift. A rolling puff of smoke surrounded them, and when it cleared, where Ishqa and Ashraia stood were now two birds. Ishqa, a beautiful golden owl, champagne gold feathers glistening, and a white face with those same piercing yellow eyes. And Ashraia, a large, black-and-brown eagle, with the same scar and the same disgruntled glint in its eye.

  Ishqa turned to me, and even through this wordless, inhuman stare, I understood exactly what he was telling us: Wait. And we shall see.

  And then they were off, launching into the air with one powerful pump of outstretched wings. Despite everything, my breath still caught at the sheer beauty of them. It was the sort of elegance my own rough, cursed magic could never capture.

  The two of them disappeared into the milky-white sky, and the rest of us remained in agonizing wait. Caduan wandered closer to the walls and placed his palm against the stone. He bowed his head and pressed his forehead to the salty rock.

  “What?” I said.

  “Sometimes, the land will speak to us if we listen,” Caduan murmured. “But now, I hear nothing.”

  When Ishqa and Ashraia returned, they unfurled gracefully into Fey form — so smooth they barely rippled the water on the path as their feet landed.

  I had no time to be impressed. The looks on their faces made my heart stop.

  “It is empty,” Ishqa said, quietly.

  “Not a damned soul, other than the herons.” Ashraia’s jaw was tight. “We should have come faster.”

  My fingernails bit into my palms. He was right. We should have acted sooner.

  “Humans?” I ground out.

  “I cannot say.” Ishqa shook his head. “It would stand to reason, but…” He turned back to the gates. “We need to go inside and see for ourselves, up close.”

  “There may be survivors,” Siobhan said.

  Caduan approached the entrance. “There are no survivors. But there may be answers.”

  I wrapped my hands around the rusted metal. “Help me open this,” I said.

  We split into two groups. Ishqa and I paired with each other, while Siobhan, Ashraia, and Caduan veered off toward the shoreline.

  Ishqa headed the front and I followed, my Sidnee hearing straining to pick up every ripple of water or rustle of the reeds. I watched Ishqa’s shoulders, golden skin damp in the humidity, muscles tensed. His sword, normally sheathed down his spine, was in his hands. I noticed that two symmetrical scars ran down his shoulder blades, perfectly straight and perfectly parallel.

  The House of Reeds built out rather than up, their structures balanced on stilts to lift them out of the brackish tidewater. We were up to our ankles, and then our shins in water. Only then did the paths turn into stone stairs, then raised pathways lined with moss-covered railings. We came first to tiny homes built of wood and moss. Ahead, closer to the main city, the larger, more ornate homes rose through the fog.

  It was very, very still.

  “Did you see bodies?” I asked, quietly.

  “No. We did not.”

  “Then perhaps they fled.”

  “Perhaps.” His voice said what his words didn’t. This place reeked of death.

  The little homes were empty. Some were in great disarray, plates smashed on the floor, blankets torn off of beds, bookshelves overturned. Others looked untouched. None held any signs of the Fey who had once lived there.

  Ahead, the central capital of the House of Reeds loomed. These buildings were constructed of iron and stone rather than wood. At the center of it all stood the Reeds’ temple, the only building that rose up towards the sky, a moss-draped spire of metal surrounded by taller bamboo shoots topped with crimson flowers. The stalks were so tall that the petals hovered high up in the mist, fluttering in the breeze, like blurry, bloody butterflies.

  When we reached the door, I touched the stone, then brushed my fingertips to my lips. The taste made my entire body recoil.

  “What?” Ishqa said, reading my face. “What do you sense?”

  “I don’t know. On the surface it’s right, but something deeper… it’s…”

  “What?”

  “Just… wrong.” I unsheathed both of my blades. “Be ready.”

  Ishqa inclined his chin, and tightened his grip around his sword as he pushed the temple gates open.

  I had never been within the temples of the House of Reeds before. They were built like mazes, narrow hallways lined with of exquisitely etched stonework and decorated with tapestries that now swung lazily in the wind. Swamp water ran along the edges of the halls, and the floor sometimes broke like stone lily pads. I could imagine that under normal circumstances, lit with the ceremonial lanterns that dangled in the open-air arches above our heads, all of this intricacy was beautiful and haunting. Now, it just felt da
ngerous — so many corners to hide behind, and so many twists to lose track of.

  We were deep into the temple when we heard the voice.

  It was a woman’s voice, broken up with a terrified sob. At first, too far away for us to understand her words.

  Ishqa and I both froze, then shot each other wary stares. His entire demeanor changed, as if shifting into a version of himself built only for a single task.

  “Survivors,” I breathed, but Ishqa was already off, and we hurried down the hall, around a corner, and then another, until—

  “Don’t take them…!”

  This time, I understood the words. They were barely legible with terror and the Reedsborns’ brogue, and… something else, something that was barely a voice. It ran together like water and was as thin as the wind.

  Then we rounded another corner, and saw her.

  The figure was at the end of one of the hallways, her back facing us. I could tell it was a female by the long flow of braided hair, the sweep of fine chiffon skirts, the delicate curve of her body. She was kneeling, hunched over — hunched over at an angle that, the closer I got, seemed more and more gut-wrenchingly wrong, the twist of her spine too severe, the wrench in her shoulders unnatural.

  “Don’t take them…! Don’t take them…!”

  “My Lady—” Ishqa called out.

  “Don’t take them…!”

  I didn’t even see her move. One moment, she was there, kneeling on the ground. The next, she was lunging towards us.

  I had to stifle a gasp of sheer horror.

  She didn’t have a face.

  At first, I thought it was some trick of the mind, as if she was moving so quickly her features had simply smeared in movement. But no — it was like there was something intangible just missing where her face should have been, flesh instead turning to strange blurry mist. My eyes couldn’t focus on her.

  Not that I had time to stand there and try.

  “Stop!” Ishqa commanded. “We come to—”