The Godswar Saga (Omnibus)

by Jennifer Vale

  “Well, then I suppose we should thank the gods for small favors,” Horsch said. “We can tie up all of our loose ends at once. Does the High Sovereign have any special plans to capture him?”

  Mirrel’s eyes narrowed fractionally. “She will soon. In the meantime, she wishes you to continue organizing Ashenfel’s defenses.”

  Horsch tossed a meaningful glance at Tenel. The High Sovereign had only rarely delivered specific instructions over the past few months, but she had made it patently clear from the outset that Galvia would not be receiving any additional reinforcements. For the first few weeks, Tenel had been confused and even a little bit annoyed at the seemingly arbitrary limitation, but then he’d come to realize they had a unique opportunity. Instead of seeing Galvia as a resource to defend, he had started seeing it as a trap to bait—a trap that Moore and his Solarian allies wouldn’t be able to resist. The fact they’d wrangled a rogue Asgardian clan into the mix was the proverbial cream in the tartlet.

  “What’s the status of Kai’Hathi Fleet?” Tenel asked. “Are they in position?”

  “Almost,” Mirrel said. “Admiral Graeber does not believe they have been detected.”

  Horsch pursed his lips. “Unless Moore’s son and that Elf Witch spotted them. I still think it’s a possibility we can’t ignore. We know they were in Bal’Aqui just a few weeks ago, and the only way they could have reached Tibel is through the Strait of—”

  “Whether they saw our fleet or not, there’s nothing we can do about it now,” Tenel pointed out. “We will continue as planned. You are dismissed, Lieutenant.”

  Mirrel nodded crisply, then shuffled out of the room. If she was annoyed about being dismissed, she didn’t show it. She never did.

  Once she was gone, Horsch raided the liquor cabinet and poured each of them a tall glass of vodka—one of the better local brews, judging from the color of the bottle. He had sent his underlings out on a “vital supply run” a few days ago, and apparently they had returned with more than fresh cheese and pastries.

  “Between Moore and Iouna, I’m not sure our enemies could be more predictable,” Horsch commented as he handed Tenel a glass. “Still, I bet they would have run circles around High Command. They’ve never faced you in battle before, and it shows.”

  Tenel grunted. “If you want another promotion, you should be flattering one of the Imperators.”

  Horsch smiled. “I’m serious. By the end of the week, this war will effectively be over. Solaria will be spent, and High King Zharrs will be scrambling to distance himself from his dead clansmen. I wonder if Moore even realizes he’s playing right into our hands.”

  “I expect he still has one or two tricks left up his sleeve, and we can’t afford to underestimate his son.”

  “I’m sure the High Sovereign has something special in mind for him.”

  Tenel nodded and sipped at his drink. Moore’s son had stymied their efforts in Lyebel and Garos. Given the chance, he could very well interfere with their plans in Ashenfel as well. Any Ascendant was dangerous, naturally, and with the help of his father and the Elf Witch there was almost no limit to the destruction he could cause…

  For Tenel, it was much more personal. The very mention of the name “Moore” had always boiled his blood, but ever since the Imperators had spotted the faeyn in Tibel, all Tenel had been able to think about was Geriskhad and his dead son. That massacre was the reason he had joined the Imperial Army; it was the reason he was here overseeing the destruction of Solaria right now. Seventeen years ago, a single act of barbarism had changed his life forever. And now, at long last, he finally had the chance to set things right. Killing Moore’s own son would be appropriate revenge. Killing his pet elf would be a satisfying bonus. But killing all three of them within the walls of their own home city…

  That would be poetic justice.

  “Do you think the Solarians will start making attack runs tomorrow?” Horsch asked into the long silence. “We’re well within range.”

  “No,” Tenel said, dragging his thoughts back to the present. “They believe Sovereign Verrator is still in the city, and they won’t want to scare him off. I imagine they’ll attempt to surround the walls before they engage.”

  “At which point they’ll be spread so thin a dozen Izarian conscripts could carve a hole in their lines.”

  “Yes. Not that I intend to have our men leave the walls.”

  Horsch grunted. “You really don’t believe Moore will be willing to destroy his city in order to save it?”

  “No,” Tenel said. “The Alliance dragons might attack the walls, but they won’t be willing to raze the streets. They will try to take back the city inch by inch, even if it means losing thousands of soldiers in the process.”

  “The Asgardians might not be so happy about that.”

  “They’ve savages—the scent of blood is their strongest aphrodisiac. And besides, the Solarians control the dragons. Do you really think they’ll be willing to incinerate thousands of Galvians just to capture a worthless city a thousand miles from Celenest?”

  “If they are desperate enough,” Horsch said. “But you’re probably right. I suppose in the end it doesn’t really matter. We don’t have enough Imperators to maintain a barrier, and we don’t have enough manticore to defend the city on our own. We’ll just have to hope our enemy has scruples after all.”

  The old haunting images of Geriskhad seared into Tenel’s mind, and he finished the rest of his drink in a single gulp. He never thought he would use the word “scruples” to describe anything associated with Ethan Moore, but this was different. The Ashenfel natives were his people. Surely he wouldn’t be so brazen as to slaughter them just to have his revenge.

  “We’ll see,” Tenel whispered, as much to himself as to Horsch. “Go ahead and pour me another glass. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

  ***

  “Our aerial scouts still haven’t spotted any signs of enemy troop movement,” the Solarian priest reported. “As far as we can tell, the Crell have completely locked down the city. They’re not allowing anyone in or out.”

  “Which means that either Sovereign Verrator is overconfident, or he’s already fled the city,” Captain Farkas reasoned. She swiveled her impressively dour gaze upon Ethan. “My bet is on the latter.”

  Ethan repressed a sigh and shook his head. “My spies assure me that the Sovereign is still in the palace and in full command of his soldiers.”

  “He had better be,” Jorgir said. He folded his arms and joined Farkas in glaring at Ethan. “For your sake, little Galvian.”

  “He’s still there, trust me,” Ethan replied. He made sure to stare back at his demonic servant long enough to deliver an unspoken message. Staying in character was all well and good, but there was no need to oversell the act at this point. Clan-Lord Halfren had already swallowed the bait, and drawing any additional scrutiny to Ethan was dangerous.

  The others exchanged a series of distrustful grunts before leaning back and whispering with their adjutants. So far, the march from Lyebel had gone just about as well as Ethan could have hoped, given the circumstances. The Asgardians gravitated between boisterous and downright obnoxious, while the Solarians were simply nervous. Part of that was because they were so greatly outnumbered—there were less than two hundred Alliance soldiers here in addition to nineteen priests—but the rest was because they understood the importance of this mission. The fall of Amberwood had shaken what little remained of the Legion’s morale, and without the leadership of Captain Farkas, Ethan had no doubt it would have crumbled already.

  Unlike her priests, most of whom looked like they were freshly plucked from the pews of the Temple of Sol, Farkas actually had real combat experience. She was legitimately enthused about taking the battle to the Crell, and if not for her slim frame, brown hair, and rudimentary aptitude with dining utensils, Ethan might have assumed she was a native Asgardian.

  “What if they’ve constructed a portal?” Clan Lord Halfren
asked. “He could have escaped without anyone being the wiser.”

  “If the Crell had a portal, they would have already reinforced the city with a few thousand more troops from Drakendaar,” Ethan said. “Portals are expensive to build and taxing to maintain, and their position here hasn’t seriously been threatened since the last war. As long as we keep an eye on the roads, Verrator will have nowhere to run.”

  Jorgir turned and eyed Farkas. “We’ll begin spreading out the soldiers tomorrow…unless our Solarian friends object, of course,” he said, his voice laced with just the right amount of misogynist scorn. “If your warriors wish to stay back with the main force, I will understand.”

  “I’ve already divided our forces into smaller units to accompany your men,” Farkas told him. “And assuming your soldiers want to survive, I’ll assign priests to each of the groups as well.”

  “Just make sure they don’t piss themselves at the first sign of a Crell counterattack,” Jorgir said, reaching out and grabbing a nearby priestess by her robe. “Can you even lift a sword, girl?”

  Farkas nearly lunged forward, but Ethan placed a restraining hand on the captain’s arm. “She commands the Aether,” he said. “She doesn’t need a sword.”

  Jorgir snorted contemptuously, but he eventually released the girl’s robe. Ethan definitely needed to have a conversation with the demon once he had a chance. He was enjoying his new body far too much.

  “My soldiers are professionals, Warmaster,” Farkas said. “Most of them fought demons at Serogar. The Crell are nothing by comparison.”

  “We shall see,” Jorgir said, his eyes glinting at the irony.

  “If you’re all quite finished posturing, we should retire for the evening and get some sleep,” Ethan said. “I don’t expect the Crell to sit on their hands and wait for us to start flinging boulders at their walls.”

  “Our dragons will be ready,” Farkas said. “And so will my men. Let’s just hope our neighbors haven’t forgotten how to swing their axes.”

  “It will be a glorious day,” the Clan Lord said wistfully. He stared out at the distant city, arms crossed, and Ethan could almost see the hero fantasies playing out in the young man’s mind. “The High King and his lapdogs will be exposed as the cowards they are, and all of Torsia will once again fear the might of the Asgardian hammer.”

  Farkas cocked an eyebrow and glanced over to Ethan, but he just shook his head. If the young fool wanted to delude himself with visions of grandeur, so be it. As long as his men fought well enough to liberate Ashenfel, nothing else mattered. It wasn’t like the boy was going to survive the battle anyway…

  Ten minutes later, the parties had separated back to their respective tents, and Ethan decided to take a final stroll across the camp. It had been so long since he had marched with a real army that he’d almost forgotten what it was like. The fraternal banter, the tense laughter, the sight and smell of countless campfires…

  He had never actually been a rank-and-file soldier, of course, not even as a young man. His family name alone had vaulted him into the Hands of Whitestone, and from there he had risen through the ranks as much because of his political savvy as his skill at channeling. But he had still fought alongside the Galvian army in numerous skirmishes against bandits and barbarians in the north, and in his formative years he had appreciated the camaraderie.

  Then he had fought in the actual war with the Crell, and now the sights and sounds of a camp released a tide of nightmarish memories. From the massacre at Geriskhad to the butchery at Kiersale to his near death at Isen, the prospect of war had lost its luster long ago. These Asgardian soldiers, bred and raised on tales of glory and conquest, would learn that lesson for themselves soon enough. Those who survived would be haunted by the ghosts of dead comrades for the rest of their lives, and those who died would not be elevated to a life of drink and glory in the hereafter. Their corpses would feed the crows and the worms, and their names would be forgotten just like the thousands of fools who had come before them.

  But at least Galvia would finally be free.

  “General Moore,” a female voice said from behind him, shattering his reverie. “Warmaster Jorgir wishes to speak with you inside your tent.”

  Ethan glanced back over his shoulder. Standing behind him was one of the Asgardian scouts, a “Pale Huntress” judging from the green war paint splashed on her face.

  “Did he say why?”

  “Not to me, sir,” the woman replied. “I can only assume he wished to discuss strategy with you.”

  Ethan grunted. In other words, Jorgir had caught his wary glances and had decided to confer with his master. That was good—the only downside of allowing his demons to capture human hosts was that most of them lost the ability to communicate telepathically. But at least in the privacy of his tent they could have a final discussion about their plans during the coming battle.

  “Very well,” Ethan said. “I’ll speak to him now.”

  He wove his way towards the eastern side of the camp, the Asgardian scout following closely in his footsteps. A few minutes later he reached his personal tent…and realized that the Solarian guards Farkas had assigned to him were no longer waiting outside. As far as he could tell, they weren’t anywhere nearby at all.

  The hairs on the back of his neck prickled in warning. His demon might have wanted to have a conversation out of earshot of Halfren, but he wasn’t stupid enough to dismiss Ethan’s guards outright. They would just tell Farkas what had happened, and if she learned that he was having a private conversation with the Asgardian field commander, she would rightfully become concerned. No, something else must have been going on here, and he needed to figure out—

  And then a hand clamped onto his shoulder, and he felt the unmistakable pressure of a blade pressing against the small of his back.

  “Don’t,” the Asgardian scout warned, her voice as cold as the frozen soil beneath his boots. “Just go inside.”

  Ethan’s cheek twitched. So it was betrayal, then…but whose? Jorgir obviously hadn’t arranged this; his demonic host guaranteed his loyalty. Clan Lord Halfren was just as unlikely a culprit; the boy seemed so addled by false promises of glory that he couldn’t see straight.

  “Last chance,” the scout warned, her breath heavy on his neck. “Personally, I’ll be just as happy if you refuse. I wouldn’t mind getting this over with and killing you right now.

  “There’s no need for threats,” Ethan said as he slowly crept forward towards the tent flap. He did still have one last trick up his sleeve—no one in this camp knew he was a channeler, not even the other Solarian priests. Krystia had gone to great lengths to conceal their association, and if necessary he could probably brute force his way through any confrontation.

  But just like his initial meeting with Halfren, visibly demonstrating his power would immediately end his chances of being a part of this assault, and he wasn’t willing to take that chance, not unless he had absolutely no other options. Sucking in a deep breath, Ethan brushed open the tent flap and stepped inside—

  And then his heart froze inside his chest.

  “Hello, father,” Jason Moore said. “It’s been a long time.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “The sins of the father echo in the soul of the son.”

  —Asgardian proverb

  For several long, agonizing heartbeats, nothing happened. His father’s body became as rigid as a statue, and his eyes gaped open like he had just seen a ghost. Jason wasn’t sure he had ever seen the great Ethan Moore truly surprised. The man had always been one step ahead of everyone and completely in control of every situation.

  But not this time.

  “Come in and have a seat,” Jason said, gesturing to the wooden stump in the corner of the tent. “It’s not every day you get to have a conversation with a dead man. The whole gang is eager to meet you.”

  Sarina shoved Ethan the rest of the way inside and closed the flap behind her, but his father barely seemed to notice. His ey
es remained locked on Jason for at least half a minute before finally flicking over to Selvhara. The druid had barely moved; she seemed nearly as transfixed as her former lover. The two of them held a silent conversation with just their eyes and faces, but eventually Ethan managed to steel himself and shake out of stasis.

  “I feared the Crell might have finally gotten their hands on you,” he rasped. “I’m glad to see that you’re alive, son.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” Jason replied, ignoring the odd lump forming in his throat. He had hated his father’s memory for so long that seeing the man in person again was oddly deflating. Jason had expected to be overcome with rage and vitriol, but instead he felt like he had just been punched in the gut.

  “You must think me a monster,” Ethan whispered. “I’m sure you’ve heard stories about me that you can scarcely believe.”

  “No. The problem is that I believe them just fine.”

  Ethan’s lip quivered. It was a fractional movement, so small that anyone else probably would have missed it. “I don’t know what you’ve been told, but—”

  “You faked your death in Tibel,” Jason cut in, “and then you lied to the surviving Hands in order to convince them to support you again. You lied to me, you lied to Sel…you’ve lied to everyone and everything you’ve ever cared about.”

  Ethan’s expression remained flat, but Jason could feel the tension of the others around him rising. They hadn’t known how their friend would react; Jason himself hadn’t known how he would react. Half his brain was screaming at him to purge this man from the face of Obsidian, but the other half kept reminding him that they needed answers first—answers that literally no one else in Torsia could provide.

  And strangely enough, his telepathy didn’t seem to be working; it was like he was staring straight at a wall. Perhaps his father’s long experience as a Bound had taught him how to block out the mental probes of others. That, or Jason was already so flustered that he wasn’t able to concentrate properly.