Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  Patrick scampered back to his feet and nocked another arrow while the spellcasters ducked down to gather their strength. When he peered through the merlons, he saw that the tower leaned to one side, part of its base engulfed with flames. Two burning men tumbled off the side, crashing into a few of those who were foolishly attempting to put out the spreading fires. Patrick focused on them and released another arrow.

  It took the spellcasters a half-minute before they were ready again, and now without fear of arrows they climbed atop the merlons and hurled their magical attacks, the dancing flames making them look like the odd beasts that were carved into the outer walls of Peytr Gemcroft’s estate in Haven. Thinking of Haven brought, for the briefest of moments, a memory of Rachida, the merchant’s wife, and the child he had supposedly placed in her belly. That line of thinking quickly vanished when one of his arrows finally found its mark, punching through the cheek of a burning man and dropping him to the dead and withered ground.

  The burning tower collided with the wall. Patrick backed away, tossing aside his bow. Without Winterbone, he was defenseless. Soldiers scurried onto the top platform, looking frightened and angry at once. Those with pikes and swords shoved Patrick aside, rushing to the edge of the parapet just as the soldiers began vaulting over the wall. Spear tips crunched into armor, blades clanged off steel plating and chainmail. Grunts and shouts filled the air, as well as the crackle of flames. Still the soldiers rushed up to the top of the tower, attempting to leap onto the outer wall walk.

  Patrick’s heart raced as the throng of defenders pushed him back toward the chasm between the walls. Swiveling his head, he saw Preston and the other young Turncloaks battling the soldiers. A few of them collapsed back onto the tower as others sailed over the side of the wall and fell sixty feet to their deaths. Five of them had succeeded in avoiding death, and now they clashed with those on the wall walk, mere feet from where Patrick was standing. Patrick glanced quickly to his right and saw one of Mordeina’s defenders standing there, a sword held limp in his hands while his eyes bulged with fright. The man was shaking. Without another thought, Patrick snatched the sword from the man and shoved him aside.

  The blade was short and a third the weight of Winterbone, the steel not nearly as durable, but it would have to do. Finally armed, he shoved his way into the conflict. The Turncloaks and Wardens had the five who’d gotten onto the wall walk surrounded, so Patrick joined those trying to keep the soldiers on the flaming tower at bay. He jostled and thrust his way to the front of the line, the sword singing in his fists. He stepped between two merlons just as a soldier attempted to squeeze his way through, bringing the blade down on his head. The soldier’s helm dented when the sword struck it with a twang, and the man stumbled backward, teetering off to the side, his foot missing the edge of the tower, sending him plummeting to his death. With a grunt, Patrick drove the sword forward, trying to impale the next man in line. That one fell aside, and the one behind him came down hard with a maul, striking the merlon to Patrick’s left, sending chunks of stone into his face. Patrick reeled backward, grabbing hold of the merlon to keep from falling into the crush of bodies behind him. In that moment he peered up, and his heart nearly leapt into his throat.

  Karak was approaching, the deity ambling across the dead valley, followed by a massive phalanx of soldiers.

  “Shit.”

  It seemed the spellcasters from Drake saw as well, and they unleashed a fresh barrage of flame against the siege tower. The light was blinding, and amid its roar Patrick heard a loud creak, followed by a series of heavy cracks. Those atop the tower, those trying to force their way onto the wall walk, teetered along with the tall wooden construction. They dropped their weapons and held their arms out to their sides to keep their balance, but it was no use. The siege tower crumbled in an inferno of red and yellow light, swallowing those standing atop it and crushing those still lingering beneath. The remaining soldiers on the ground dropped their shields and fled the trailing barrage of arrows and magic, staggering across a dead valley that was now illuminated by the crackling flames engulfing the destroyed tower. Karak stopped his march halfway across the valley, the glow of his eyes dimming as the god squinted.

  Cheers erupted from Mordeina’s defenders, each and every man standing up tall and beating his chest in victory. Patrick was caught up in the moment, embracing anyone who came within reach of him, and in the thrill no one seemed put off by his deformities. Even the normally stoic Judarius had a hint of a smile on his face as he worked his way down the line, congratulating his charges. Preston clapped Patrick on the back, and Tristan wrapped him up in a mighty hug. Though it did seem strange to feel so much elation over the deaths of nearly one hundred men, Patrick thought it beat the alternative. We could all be dead instead.

  His delight waned when he spotted Ahaesarus standing on top of a merlon, not taking part in the celebration. The Master Warden’s expression was dour, the roaring flames giving his flesh a frightening, almost demonic tint. Patrick shrugged off one of the spellcasters who was trying to embrace him. Wedging his foot into the nook between merlons, he pulled himself up until he stood next to the Warden. Night was fully upon the land now, and everything beyond the dying flames coming from the destroyed tower was a deep blackness against a slightly less black foreground. Karak had turned about and was leading his phalanx back to the camp.

  “Why so glum?” he asked, hoping Ahaesarus would shudder and begin smiling. “We won.”

  Ahaesarus gestured toward the campfires of their enemy.

  “We killed barely a hundred men and lost twenty of our own,” he said. “Including a caster from Drake and a fellow Warden, Castiel. Tell me, Patrick . . . which of our armies is better trained, and which can better withstand such losses of skilled men?”

  Patrick frowned, looked back across the tens of thousands of skilled soldiers arrayed against them.

  “Well,” he mumbled. “When you put it that way . . . ”

  CHAPTER

  4

  The girl entered the solarium of the Brennan estate with a baby nestled in her arms, the door closing softly behind her. While the girl waited to be noticed, Catherine Brennan sat behind her desk, dropped her quill into the inkwell, and stroked its hawk feather as she blew across the words she’d written on the wrinkly parchment. Only after it was dry did she look up.

  The girl was young, seventeen at most, and the spacious solarium made her look dainty standing there. Her hair was dark and quite curly, contrasting with her crystalline blue eyes, which seemed inhumanly bright, sparkling in the sunlight streaming through the windows. She’d given birth recently; of that Catherine had no doubt. The mother’s breasts looked swollen, and she retained some of her baby weight, her midsection pushing against a burlap shift that was too small for her. Despite that, Catherine could see the girl was quite attractive. In fact, she looked much like Catherine herself, with round, ruddy cheeks and thick lips. It was no surprise that her dear departed Matthew had bedded the girl.

  “Sit down,” Catherine said.

  The girl did as she was told, moving sheepishly toward the desk and plunking herself into the chair opposite Catherine. The girl shifted uncomfortably in her seat, refusing to look Catherine in the eyes.

  “Luna Glover, is it?” Catherine asked.

  The girl nodded.

  “Do you know why I sent for you, Luna?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “Come now. You might be a whore, but you aren’t stupid. I repeat: Do you know why I sent for you?”

  Luna finally brought up her gaze and spoke so softly it sounded like a slight breeze leaving her lips.

  “I do, Miss Brennan,” she said.

  “And why is that?”

  “Because I . . . because I was . . . with your husband.”

  Catherine tilted her head and pointed an accusatory finger at the girl. “You were not with my husband. You fucked my husband. For coin.”

  “It is just an expression,” Luna mumb
led. “I meant no offense.”

  At that response, Catherine smiled. “Of course not. Please, Luna, I need you to understand something. We are both women in a man’s world, and there needs to be trust between us—that is, if you want us to remain friends. You want us to be friends, don’t you?”

  Luna hesitantly nodded.

  “Good.” Catherine sat back in her chair, pinned up her hair, and adjusted her bodice. “Now answer me this, Luna. How did you meet my poor Matthew?”

  The girl’s face scrunched with uncertainty before she replied. “He paid for me in a brothel in Tarrytown. Said he was stopping in on his way to Veldaren, for business.”

  “Tarrytown is near Felwood, is it not? A long ways away. How did you end up in Port Lancaster?”

  Luna bit her lower lip as the baby squirmed in her arms.

  “Luna, you can tell me,” Catherine said. “Remember, there must be truth between us women.”

  For a moment Catherine thought she’d still remain silent, but then the words came forth in a great rush, like water pushing through a broken dam.

  “The big man came, the one who brought me here today . . . he paid Madam Pritchard a bag of gold and put me on a wagon. He said Master Brennan wished to have me near. Of course, to a woman like me, it’s obvious what a man means when he says something like that.”

  “Interesting.” The big man was Bren Torrant, Matthew’s old bodyguard and the one Catherine had paid to turn on her husband; he was the high merchant of Port Lancaster and the self-appointed lord of freight in all of Neldar. Of all the girls she’d questioned, this one was the first to admit Bren had a part in her coming to Matthew’s bed. “And did Matthew greet you in your cottage by the wall, or did you come here?”

  “Both, Miss Catherine. Sometimes he would come to me, but other times a man would take me on a boat to a tunnel and lead me to a big room with lots of beds.”

  “When was the last time you visited this tunnel?”

  “A long time ago, Miss Catherine. Maybe two years?”

  “I see. And when was the last time he took you?”

  Luna didn’t answer.

  “Tell me, Luna. Tell me now.”

  The girl glanced nervously at her child, then back at Catherine. “Three months ago, just after our . . . just after my baby was born,” she said softly.

  “At the cottage he placed you in?”

  “Yes.”

  Catherine stewed. Even as things were going to shit around them, even after the attempt on his life that she had secretly paid for, Matthew had still risked sneaking out on his own for a midnight tryst. There were times when Catherine regretted having him killed, but now was not one of them.

  “And how old is the child?” she asked.

  “Five months, Miss Catherine.”

  “Does it have a name?”

  Luna nodded, and tears began to dribble down her cheeks. “Mattia, Miss Catherine.”

  Mattia. What a pathetic name. “A girl, I take it?”

  “Yes,” she said, unwrapping the cooing baby and lifting her up so Catherine could see the lack of male bits.

  “Put it away,” Catherine said, waving her off, and Luna hastily wrapped the child back up. Satisfied, Catherine rose from her chair and walked around the desk, breezed past the girl and her baby, and cracked open the door to the hall. Bren was standing there at the top of the stairwell, leaning against the wall, with his hand resting atop the hilt of his sword. It looked like he was sleeping.

  “Bren,” she said sharply, and his eyes popped open.

  “Yeah?”

  “Come in here. Now.”

  He kicked himself off the wall and followed her back into the solarium. Catherine walked up to Luna and held out her arms.

  “Give the child to me, Luna,” she said.

  Luna hesitated, momentarily pressing the child tighter against her chest before offering her to the lady of the house.

  “Thank you,” Catherine said, gently rocking the child for a short moment. An ugly thing, but then again most babies so young were ugly. She looked at Bren and nodded. The big man let out a sigh as he drew his sword.

  “Sorry, lady,” he said, the only warning he gave Luna before his sword cleaved open the woman’s throat. Her body dropped, not even a scream in protest, as blood poured across the fine floor. Catherine watched it flow as Bren sheathed his blade, then handed the baby over to him.

  “Bring her to Ursula, and tell her to find a suitable wet nurse.” She kicked Luna’s corpse. “Then get back up here and get rid of this . . . thing. Have Penetta and Lori mop up the blood afterward. I don’t want so much as a stain to show.”

  “Will do,” Bren said. “Oh, thought I’d let you know, your special guest has arrived. He’s waiting for you at the pier. Odd fellow.”

  Her heart fluttered. “Thank you. Now go.”

  Bren hurried out of the solarium, trying in his gruff voice to soothe the weeping infant and failing miserably. Thank the gods you have actual talent with a sword; otherwise, you’d be useless. Catherine snatched up the letter she’d been writing when Luna entered, rolled up the parchment, tucked it into her bodice beside the one already stowed there, and swept out of the room.

  As she descended the staircase, she breathed deeply, trying to find a balance between her excitement and her guilt. Luna was the ninth, and last, of Matthew’s mistresses in Port Lancaster, the sixth to have had a child by him. Luckily, the Brennan family curse—the scarcity of male offspring—had stricken Matthew as well. Catherine was thankful for that, for while she could eliminate his whores in the name of preventing future embarrassment, the prospect of murdering children did not sit well with her. The girls would be well cared for, but if he’d had a male child, under Neldar law that child could potentially challenge for the family fortune somewhere down the line. For Catherine, this was an unacceptable risk after all she’d suffered for.

  Thinking of the children made her contemplate her own, and she stepped off the stairwell onto the estate’s third floor. She heard laughter and walked briskly down the hall, stopping when she reached an opened door. She peeked around the doorframe, saw her four girls sitting on the floor and laughing as their nursemaid Brita read stories from an old tome. She turned away, her heart thrumming in her chest as she slipped from the bedroom and crept farther down the hall. At the next doorway she dipped inside to find little Ryan Brennan, two years old and angelic in his nakedness, sleeping soundly in his crib. Though she did not want to wake him, she couldn’t help but reach down and place a hand on his small back, feeling his little lungs expanding with each breath. Ryan’s flesh was warm and a shade darker than Matthew’s or Catherine’s. His hair was slightly different as well, his curls tighter than hers and her husband’s had ever been. She smiled. Matthew wasn’t the only one who’d kept secrets.

  Ryan stirred, and Catherine backed away before he woke. She stole a quick glance out the window. It was approaching the high point of the day, the sun climbing into the sky. She did not have much time.

  She beat a quick retreat, hurrying down the stairwell to the estate’s next floor. For a moment she hesitated, thinking of heading to the pier to greet her guest as quickly as she could, but in the end she stepped off the stairwell. Best to get this regrettable business over with first.

  This time when she reached a door, it was closed to her, and she paused to let down her hair and flatten the wrinkles in her finely crafted cobalt dress. After taking another deep breath, she rapped on the door.

  “Who is it?” a brusque yet feminine voice asked.

  “Catherine.”

  “Come in.”

  The invitation had no warmth to it, which filled Catherine with dread, but she shoved open the door nonetheless. Standing in front of her bed inside the large chamber was Moira Elren, the exiled daughter of Clovis Crestwell, Karak’s first child. Moira had been in the Brennan house for over a year, given to Matthew as collateral by Peytr and Rachida Gemcroft for the Brennan estate’s assistance when the
merchant fled Haven for the Isles of Gold. Though Moira was certainly aging and almost a score older than Catherine’s thirty-six years, she still appeared to be younger, the gift of the blood of the First Family that ran strong in her veins. She had washed the dark dyes out of her hair after helping the women of Port Lancaster slaughter the last of Karak’s soldiers who remained in Neldar; her short-chopped locks were now their original silver, making her sapphire eyes seem all the paler. The woman also looked to be a waif, with the typical dainty facial features of the Crestwell line and a slender form made to appear even frailer with the tight black leathers she wore, but that appearance was deceiving. Moira more than made up for her lack of strength with incredible quickness and guile, and Catherine had never seen anyone more deadly with a sword. Even Bren, though he weighed more than two of her, feared the small woman. Tread lightly here, she thought, and though her heart pounded, she put on her most confident face.

  Moira sat down on the featherbed in the middle of the spacious bedroom. “What do you want?” she asked. Catherine looked around, saw the room still bare save the bedding and a heavy bag resting on the floor. Moira had moved into this room a week ago, yet there was virtually no sign she lived here.

  “What is that?” Catherine asked, jutting her chin at the heavy bag.

  “My things, not that it’s any of your business,” Moira replied sharply.

  “I assure you, it is my business, Moira. You are my hostage, my compensation. Your duty is to me.”

  Moira threw her head back and laughed. “My duty was to your husband, not you. That deal was broken the moment you had his bodyguard impale him with a sword.” She scowled then and turned away. It was a look Catherine had gotten quite used to.

  It had been three days after Matthew’s death that Catherine finally told her hostage what truly happened in Rat Harbor. She disclosed all of it—even paying the bandits whose attempt on her husband’s life had failed because of Moira’s presence. Moira’s reaction had been . . . unfavorable, and nothing Catherine said about Matthew’s failings as a spouse and merchant improved things.