The Hollow God (Swords and Saints Book 3)

by JA Hutson

  Deliah is the first one to spot the ruin, and she lets out a whoop so loud it startles me. “Buildings,” she says. “Towers and walls.”

  “You have good eyes,” I mutter, but now that she’s said that I can make out buildings etched against the unnatural sky. We would have seen it much earlier, but the wind has gradually been rising, pushing dust into the air.

  “Not too much farther,” I say, twisting around to smile at Valyra and Bell. That smile quickly fades, though, when I see what’s rising in the distance behind us.

  “Storm!” I cry. A great shadow is swelling, towering high into the sky. These winds must have been a harbinger of what was building.

  “We need to hurry!” I yell, rushing back to where Valyra and Bell have turned to gape, open-mouthed, at the looming storm. “Take shelter in the city!”

  I pull on the weaver’s arm, and she starts to run awkwardly, her long robes flapping. Bell is no more graceful, and after a few dozen strides she slows, her chest heaving. Valyra is also struggling, and I’m having to half-carry her along.

  “Deliah!” I bellow over the rising winds. The lamias has kept pace, not getting too far ahead, even though I know she could easily outdistance us. She looks barely winded, despite jogging in full armor and carrying a heavy pack. “Help Bell! I’ll stay with Valyra!”

  Deliah nods and goes to the scientist’s daughter. She swings the pack Bell has been carrying on to her own shoulder, then ducks her head under the scientist’s daughter’s arm so that she can take some of her weight.

  We flee across the wastes as the storm closes. The winds continue to rise, until the howling is so loud that I can’t hear my own voice. Stinging grit flails at us. Valyra has her head down to protect herself, so I have to keep mine up to guide both of us. It’s like a hundred needles prickling my face, and I shield my eyes with my hand as best I can for fear of being blinded.

  Soon the city vanishes, swallowed by a veil of swirling red. If we somehow get turned around, or otherwise alter our path so that we are no longer running towards the city gates Deliah glimpsed, we have no hope of surviving this storm. The lamias and Bell are barely visible, just shadows stumbling along ahead of us.

  Well, it could be worse. The last time this happened the Shriven were steps behind me.

  A dark shape looms out of the storm, towering above us. We’re plunged into darkness as we pass within, as if we’d entered a tunnel, and then we stumble into muted light. There are more shapes around us now, and Deliah pushes through the dust towards one of the smaller ones and slips inside. I join her a moment later, dragging Valyra, and collapse into a mostly enclosed space mercifully free of the grit. I cough, spitting out a wad of dust, and roll onto my back. There’s a ceiling of white stone above me, riven by cracks and partially collapsed, but its keeping out the worst of the storm.

  “By the Pen,” Bell croaks wearily, sliding to the floor as she leans against the wall. She’s a shadow, lost in the gloaming brought down by the storm obscuring the sky. She hacks a cough, and it sounds like some of the sediment has settled in her lungs.

  Deliah tosses down both of the bags she’s carrying. “I think we’ve earned ourselves a little rest.”

  The storm’s fury continues to build, winds flailing against our sanctuary. Trying to talk with Deliah or Bell about what we should do after the storm abates would be futile, but also there seems little appetite for conversation. Each of my companions finds a spot shielded from the dust slithering inside and curls up to sleep. I tell myself I will keep watch for the rest of them, and settle myself cross-legged in the middle of the room, my bared sword across my knees, watching the maelstrom rage outside.

  I wake when I feel a touch on my arm.

  Blinking away the grit in my eyes, I glance around – Bell and Valyra are still dead to the world, and from the layer of red dust that has accumulated on them they must have been sleeping for quite some time. There’s also a film coating my green-glass blade, and I wipe it clean. Deliah is crouched beside me, one hand on my arm and the other holding up a finger against her lips. What? I mouth, and her eyes flick to the building’s entrance.

  It’s lighter outside now, more of the sky’s surreal radiance filtering through the storm as it weakens. The winds are still stirring up dust, but far less than when we first stumbled inside this shelter. I can actually see the indistinct outlines of other buildings across a plaza of sorts, and also what looks to be an obelisk.

  Something else is out there as well.

  My hand tightens around the hilt of my sword. Shapes are moving across the plaza – hulking shadows with long, tapering limbs that hang to the ground. They are moving slowly, leaning forward so that their malformed heads and elongated jaws are nearly brushing the dust. As if they are following a scent.

  I know what these things are. I’ve fought them before . . . they very nearly killed me. I can still feel my insides sliding through my fingers from the time one of these creature’s bone-hook hands sliced my belly open. Scythes, Valyra’s people had called them.

  “Shriven,” I whisper.

  Deliah nods, her face betraying no fear. Very slowly she reaches over her shoulder and grasps the haft of her glaive. She cocks her head, and I realize this was meant as a question. I glance outside again. There are five Scythes that I can see, but who knows how many others are nearby?

  I shake my head, and her hand leaves her weapon’s handle. She seems neither relieved nor disappointed. Perhaps she does feel fear – I certainly do. She can see the concern in my face, though she winks at me before returning her attention to the demons moving across the plaza.

  As we watch, one drifts closer to where we’re hiding. More details resolve as it approaches, its snout snuffling in the shifting dust which covers everything. Ropes of drool hang down from a jaw bristling with jutting fangs, and short, curving thorns cover its gnarled black flesh. I hope it’s my imagination, but it suddenly seems to grow more excited, its pace quickening.

  The Shriven is definitely coming our way. Deliah and I share another glance, and the question is again in her eyes. I sigh and shrug, and now she does smile, her hand returning to her glaive.

  We rise together and charge the Scythe, the only sound the whisper of our boots churning the dust. Still, the creature hears this, as it suddenly rears back with its scimitar arms upraised. Surprise is not an expression that I thought would translate well to such a monstrous visage, but that’s what I can see in the demon’s face as we close the distance. Its mouth opens and its slitted yellow eyes flare wider.

  I slash at the demon’s midsection, and then dive forward to avoid a clumsy swipe from its hooks. I land on my shoulder, the dust as soft as sand, and roll back to my feet just in time to see Deliah – who had been a few steps behind me – shove the spiked end of her glaive into the Scythe’s throat. The metal point explodes out the back of the demon’s neck, and as she rips her weapon out it collapses in a heap.

  “Not so tough,” she shouts over the wind, her long indigo hair dancing across her face. Across the plaza the four other Scythes have raised their heads from the dust and turned in our direction. For a moment they simply stare at us, as if in disbelief at what just happened, and then they charge. Their long curving hooks furrow the dust, pulling them along, and the distance between us vanishes unsettlingly fast.

  I reach down into that oasis of calm, my feet sliding into a fighting stance. The sound of the wind and the shriek of the monsters fades. The world around me slows, crystallizing into this one perfect moment.

  I explode into motion. My green-glass blade leaps to meet a flashing scimitar and shears through the bone. The demon reels away in shock and I follow, hacking at the other hook as it tries to defend itself. This time the thick limb requires two blows before it falls severed. While it’s still tumbling to the dust, I jump forward to separate the monster’s head from its shoulders. It slides to its knees and I kick it in its chitinous chest plate, sending it toppling backwards, right into the path of the
other horror. That one screeches as it scrambles over its fallen kin, its scimitars carving the air. I backpedal to avoid those flensing limbs, the tip of one of the hooks glancing off my ring-mail hauberk.

  This Scythe is more cautious than its brethren, darting forward to slash with its scimitars and then retreating quickly so that I can’t get inside its guard. I keep backing up, watching for an opening between the arcing blows. Soon I’m going to be pushed once more into the building we’d sheltered inside, and I’m not very excited about trying to avoid those great bone scimitars in an enclosed space. Gritting my teeth, I prepare to lunge forward and take my chances.

  The Scythe’s head jerks back as something sprouts in its cheek. It screams, shaking its head to dislodge the crossbow quarrel that has suddenly appeared. I seize the opportunity and rush forward, dodging a clumsy swipe, and then bury my sword in the monster’s chest, searching for its heart. A jet of black blood strikes me, spattering my face with warm, bitter-tasting droplets. I wrench the blade back and forth and the Scythe convulses. Its legs give way and it falls backwards, my sword sliding free.

  I whirl around to find Bell standing in the doorway, her crossbow braced on her shoulder. I offer her a quick salute with my blade and turn to help Deliah, but the lamias is already striding across the plaza towards me leaving two crumpled demons in her wake. She’s also covered in ichor, tarry streaks marring her red skin and carapace armor.

  “That was a Shriven?” Bell asks as I push past her into our sanctuary.

  “Yes,” I reply, poking my finger into the hole the demon made in my tunic to see if the ring mail beneath is still intact. The links are a bit battered, but have held. I’ll definitely have a bruise underneath, though, from my sternum’s dull ache.

  Deliah has joined us, and she looks exultant. “Here are enemies I revel in fighting. Let us go hunt more of these things, Talin.”

  “If you want another fight, you just might have it,” Bell says uneasily. She’s staring at something outside the building, and as I turn I expect to see more of the Scythes loping into the plaza.

  But that’s not it.

  Surprise goes through me when I see that two dozen men and women have appeared. They stand in a semi-circle facing the entrance to our shelter. Some are bare-chested, while others wear mismatched scraps of ancient armor, and all have smeared their skin with gray ash. Their weapons are similarly eclectic – swords and poleaxes and spears and even a pair of what look to be antique hewbows. They watch us silently with piercing blue eyes, the color all the more startling for staring out from ash-coated faces.

  I make a show of sheathing my sword and step out into the plaza. “Greetings,” I say to the one I think must be the leader, a tall, long-limbed man with matted hair teased into spikes. He’s standing a step closer to us than the others and wearing a shirt of many linked coins. His hands rest on the pommel of a two-handed greatsword, the blunted point in the dust. “It gladdens my heart to see you,” I continue. “We had feared the city was dead.” I find that I’ve instinctually reverted to the language of this world.

  The man cocks his head to one side, his expression unreadable. I sense my companions moving out of the shadows of the building to stand beside me. There’s some muttering when they catch sight of Deliah, and the man I’ve taken for the leader even raises his sword into a guard position.

  “No,” I say stridently. “We are friends. Look,” I say, indicating the dead Shriven strewn about the plaza, “we killed the demons.”

  The man’s lips curl, and he spits. “Yes, you killed the Shriven. Which we never do, for it draws unwanted attention.”

  “Ah,” I say softly. “We are sorry, then. We were protecting ourselves.”

  The man narrows eyes the color of arctic seas. “You will come with us,” he commands. “Lay down your weapons.”

  Deliah doesn’t speak their language, but she must have guessed what was said as she snorts and cuts the air with her glaive. In response, the ash-smeared warriors take threatening steps forward brandishing their own weapons.

  Damn. “We will go with you,” I say quickly, unbuckling my sheathed sword and laying it at my feet. “Deliah!” I cry, and the lamias mutters something in a language I don’t know. The glance she gives me could dissolve iron, but still she lets go of her glaive, letting it fall to the ground with a thump.

  The leader nods curtly and a pair of blue-eyed warriors step forward to collect our fallen weapons. Others move behind us to complete the encirclement. “Bind their hands,” he barks, and I grit my teeth in anger. This was not the welcome I was expecting.

  “You had better be right about this,” Deliah murmurs as a youth wraps thick twine around her wrists. I hold out my arms as they do the same to me.

  “We are not your enemies,” I tell their leader. “I promise you.”

  “That will be for the Sword of Salvation to decide,” he replies, and then turns away from me. Bell and I share a glance, and then someone shoves me in the back to get me moving. There’s a grunt and a thump and one of the ash-covered warriors sprawls in the dust. Weapons rise again, pointing at Deliah. The lamias regards them with cold disdain. The man she threw to the ground scrambles back to his feet, his face flushed with anger.

  “Enough!” the leader calls back to us. “More Shriven may be coming. Move quickly, Azures.”

  Azures. That explains the eyes. I shoot a questioning look at Valyra to see if she knows anything about this tribe, but she only shrugs slightly.

  We fall into step with the warriors as they enter the wind-scoured city. I quickly realize how lucky we were to stumble across a building intact enough to shield us from the storm, as most of the ruins are little more than shattered walls and broken pillars. I don’t understand where this tribe could have come from until we stop at a black iron trapdoor set in the ground that has been thrown wide, revealing a set of stone stairs descending into darkness. The leader of the Azures vanishes below, and a moment later a flame is kindled. Despite the flickering light, I hesitate at the top of the steps, earning me another hard shove in the back. I nearly lose my balance, and harsh laughter rises up from the tribespeople. I bite back my anger and start on the stairs.

  At the bottom is a chamber that might once have been used to store wine. Shards of broken amphorae are scattered about, along with the skeletal remains of staved-in barrels. It’s not a large space, and I doubt it could even hold all the warriors once they join us below. The leader is waiting for us beside a statue of a girl with feathered wings; it’s as large as he is, but it must be hollow or carved of something other than stone because a pair of the warriors that preceded us down are shifting it to one side. Behind it is revealed the entrance to a tunnel. The leader does not hesitate, striding into the black.

  My bound hands flash out and catch the wrist of the man who was about to push me again. “Enough,” I snarl, twisting hard enough that he yelps in pain.

  Leaving the whimpering warrior behind me, I follow the torchlight into the tunnel. The walls are earthen, and rough-hewn, as if this passage was not carved by the same builders that excavated the storage space behind us. Something slithers over my boot in a rush of skittering legs. Whatever the thing was, it vanishes into the wall. When the thudding of my heart subsides, I quicken my pace to ask the leader of these Azures where we are going, but before I can reach him the tunnel we’re following spills into someplace much older.

  It’s another corridor, but larger, the walls and arching ceiling made of stone. The smell of dirt and loam has vanished, replaced with a mustiness that reminds me of the poelthari’s barrow. But here, in these tunnels, the niches set in the walls are filled with bones rather than books. Torchlight plays upon jumbled piles of femurs and skulls and ribs, all heaped haphazardly in long trenches cut into the walls. We’ve entered some sort of catacomb, and from the sheer number of skeletons this must have been where the dead of the city above were interred.

  “Trapped under the earth forever,” Deliah mutters, appearing
beside me. “What a terrible fate for these spirits.”

  “They are dead,” Bell says quietly, also coming up to walk with us. “They don’t care, lamias.”

  Deliah chuckles softly. “Then why are you whispering, scientist’s daughter?”

  “Quiet,” one of the ash-smeared warriors snarls. This one also carries a torch and has bones threaded in his filthy hair – some kind of priest or shaman, I’d wager. “Our ancestors are unhappy that you are here, strangers.”

  Bell glances at me questioningly, and I relay to her what he’d said. She snorts in derision once she understands the warrior’s words, but she doesn’t say anything else as we proceed through the catacombs. The silence is nearly absolute, the only sound the dry pop of bones that have spilled out onto the floor crackling beneath our boots. We pass by the entrances to more passages, and although our light does not illuminate much, I can see more bones overflowing from niches cut into those walls. This is clearly a sprawling subterranean realm, and I’m reminded of Zim’s vast undercity. That thought makes me squint harder at the shadows beyond our light, wondering what lurks in the darkness.

  The battle excitement has fully ebbed from my limbs and been replaced by a creeping exhaustion by the time an entrance looms ahead of us. The stone here has been decorated with long bones linked together, tibias and femurs forming a grisly archway, and a trio of skulls perch at the apex, grinning down at us.

  The ash-smeared warriors file through the arch, not sparing a glance at the guardians above. Beyond are more twisting passages choked by the dead, the crumbling stonework and deteriorating condition of the remains suggesting that we are pushing back through the ages.