Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  “You won’t kill him,” she said. “You need him.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You need the Quellan elves. Do you think Lord and Lady Thyne would ever agree to an eventual alliance if their only son is butchered?”

  Carskel smiled. “You’re wiser than you let on, Aullienna. Though you are right. The prince here is too valuable to kill.”

  “Then let me go,” Kindren said. It was the first time he’d truly spoken since Ethir brought him in, and his voice was shaky. Aully wanted to scream at him to keep his mouth shut.

  “It has a voice!” shouted Carskel. “But it will do you no good. While my sweet sister is right that it would be disastrous if you died, she still lacks . . . imagination. After all, the Lord and Lady will accept you back, whether you’re whole or not.”

  Carskel shot up from his chair, his hand flashing through the open space between them, and snatched Kindren by the collar. Aully bit down on her lip so hard that she pierced the flesh as her betrothed was yanked forward. She went to reach for him, but Ethir slapped her hard across the face and sent her reeling. She thudded on the ground, rubbing her swelling cheek, and screaming filled her ears. She looked up to see Ethir holding Kindren’s head against the marble desktop while Carskel clamped down on her betrothed’s right arm. In his free hand, Carskel held a dagger whose blade gleamed in the low candlelight.

  Shaking, Aully got to her feet.

  “You leave him be!” she screamed, her fingers balling into fists. “Don’t hurt him!”

  Carskel looked at her, still smiling. “Do you promise to do as I asked? Will you sing my praises? Will you not betray me this time?”

  The part of her that was still young, that still believed in miracles and happy endings, pleaded with her to say yes. But when she glanced at Kindren’s face, saw the mixture of pain, fear, and defiance in his eyes, she hesitated. She then looked on as he mouthed, “I love you,” and the choice was all but made for her.

  “No,” she said.

  Her brother appeared genuinely surprised.

  “Very well then,” he said. The dagger came down in a flash of silver, striking the desktop with a clang. Kindren’s eyes bulged in his head and his blood-curdling shriek filled the study. Carskel then lifted the dagger and brought it down again, and Kindren’s cries elevated tenfold.

  When they were done, Kindren slid off the desk and fell to the floor, right hand clutched to his chest, three fingers missing. Blood spurted from the stumps, spraying his face, painting his youthful features with red streaks.

  Aully began to feel faint. She fell to her knees. But she didn’t scream.

  Ethir grabbed the bowl of water that had been sitting on the desk and knelt before Kindren. He forced the young elf’s hand into the bowl, washing it, and then proceeded to wrap the washcloths around it. Aully sat on her knees, paralyzed. Her love would never hold a sword, would never pull back a bowstring. And for what?

  “For honor. For dignity. For the love of what is right,” a strange voice in her head answered.

  “Do you see now?” asked Carskel, and Aully turned her gaze to him. He was sitting again behind the desk, cleaning blood off his dagger. “I seem to have a thing for fingers. First your uncle, now your betrothed.” He looked at her, his eyes deadly serious. “Now tell me, sweet sister, have you changed your mind?”

  She sat frozen for a moment, staring at Kindren’s ghostly white face and blank eyes, before shaking her head.

  “I won’t,” she whispered.

  “I have a certain lady in my possession that might think otherwise, sweet sister.”

  Aully looked at him, wishing she could shoot spears of fire from her eyes and kill him on the spot.

  “I know to change your thinking so greatly will take time. I give you a month. A month alone in the cellar with these as keepsakes.” He picked up Kindren’s fingers and held them out to her. “I want you to spend that time thinking over all I could give you, both as an ally and a husband. And when you come to me with your answer, it best be the right one. For the next time you see me, it will not be the young prince who feels my blade, but our mother. And trust me when I say that there is no one waiting for her return, no one that does not think she is already a breath away from death. Should you deny me, or betray me again, it will not be her fingers I leave with you in your cell. It will be her head.”

  CHAPTER

  15

  I should have sliced Catherine’s throat when I had the chance, the deceitful bitch.

  These thoughts ran through Moira Elren’s mind as she urged her horse onward into dusk’s waning light. She ripped into a stick of salted beef, swallowing it quickly and then spitting out the salty residue before lifting a skin of hard liquor to her mouth and swigging it down. Her mouth was in horrible shape, her teeth aching and gums bleeding, the unfortunate result of the sickness she’d suffered soon after leaving Port Lancaster.

  It had been horrible; her stomach had begun to cramp, her insides revolting against her. She’d spent nearly three weeks holed up in a small hamlet just outside Gronswik, choking down concoctions to heal the illness. It felt like the longest three weeks she’d ever experienced, and the only way she’d made it through was by focusing on her hatred of Catherine and her burning desire to see Rachida again. Failure was not acceptable, and with sheer stubborn will she fought through.

  “Should we keep riding or camp for the night?” asked a deep male voice. Moira looked to Rodin, one of the sellswords trotting his horse beside her. His expression was stern yet hopeful while he ran a hand over his shaved pate.

  She glanced at the vast fields stretching out to either side of her, half overgrown with weeds. “No. Omnmount is an hour’s ride from here at most. We keep on the road. We’ve had far too many delays as it is.”

  “Very well, milady,” Rodin said, and he pulled back on the reins, retreating to where his cohorts rode behind her.

  Moira considered the five of them, and a small part of her started hating Catherine Brennan a tad bit less. The woman couldn’t have been all bad; she had allowed her to have her pick of the sellswords under the employ of the house, after all, and the five she’d chosen had been her lifeblood since leaving the city, both literally and figuratively.

  The five called themselves “Movers,” and Moira knew them each by a single name: Rodin, Gull, Tabar, Willer, and Danco. They were a mostly stoic, headstrong bunch, lifelong friends from some tiny village in the Northern Plains. The Movers believed in the virtue of skill over all else, or so Gull, their quiet leader, was fond of saying. Gull was a man of nearly indistinguishable features—his hair sandy and straight, his nose slightly crooked, his round chin a bit too small for his face—which made him not the most handsome of men. However, his gray-green eyes were intense, and he was the best among them with a sword. He was also prone to lengthy, self-righteous tirades while they sat around the nightly cookfire, tirades his fellow Movers would then debate for hours before finally agreeing with their leader, if they ever really disagreed in the first place. They weren’t the brightest bunch, but they held tight to Karak’s tenets while damning the god himself, which Moira appreciated. Also, their worship of those of ability was vital to her cause. She had bested each of them in duels over her extended stay in Port Lancaster, and ever since they had treated her with near reverence. It was the reason she’d chosen them in the first place. She would rather surround herself with talented, faux-intellectual dullards who worshipped her than with a man like Bren Torrant, who would betray her for a sack of silver.

  She heard one of them pick up the pace behind her, and she swiveled in her saddle, expecting to see Rodin there once more. Instead, it was Willer, the youngest and smallest of the bunch, who had droopy eyes and a head of unkempt chestnut hair. Willer was attached to Tabar like a growth and rarely left the taller man’s side unless he had something to prove.

  “Lady Moira,” Willer said softly. “How long will this meeting with the merchant take?”

  Moira
shrugged. “Who knows? It’s up to Cornwall Lawrence. If he wishes to discuss the contents of Lady Catherine’s letter, it might be awhile. If not, it will take only moments, and we can strike out for the docks.” She let out a sigh. “And please, don’t call me ‘Lady’ again.”

  “Many apologies . . . Moira.” Willer’s eyes grew wide and eager. “The moon is full tonight. If this meeting doesn’t take long, what do you say to sparring beneath the moonlight and then kissing each other’s wounds until we feel them no more?”

  Again, Moira sighed. That was another annoyance about the Movers; to them, the carnal pleasures were just as much a game of one-upmanship as swordplay, which meant that Rodin wasn’t the only one nipping at her heels. She counted herself lucky that each of them was too noble to have abandoned her while she was on her sickbed.

  “I’ve told you before, Willer, my pearl is reserved for one woman only.”

  He nodded, dejected. “That’s right. The maid. Penetta.”

  Moira’s hand shot out seemingly on its own. She snatched the young sellsword by the collar and yanked “him” toward “her” so violently that he almost fell from his saddle.

  “Wrong. And that name will not pass your lips again,” she whispered.

  He looked confused, but still he said, “All right.”

  She released him, and he repositioned himself in the saddle, brushing off his boiled leather jerkin as if he could brush away his embarrassment.

  “Willer, go back to your mates. I wish to ride alone for a while.”

  “Yes, Moira,” he replied, and did as he was told.

  After that they all rode in silence, hooves clomping on packed dirt and the chirping of insects the only sounds. Dusk passed into night, and no one appeared on the road, which was not surprising. It was rare enough to find a carriage or rider about during daylight hours, and the women in the towns they visited said they stayed locked in their homes with their children after dark, for fear of bandits. That was a fear Moira saw as unfounded because not a single man crossed their path during the journey, brigand or otherwise. It was as if the whole male population of Neldar had up and left . . . which, in a way, she supposed they had.

  Before very long the road veered to the southwest, and the fields around them gave way to clusters of huts and cabins. All were silent and still; no candles burned in the windows, no telltale puffs of smoke exited the chimneys. These were Omnmount’s border settlements, where the transient men and women who toiled in the Lawrence fields put their feet up after a long day’s work. Yet they seemed abandoned. She paused for a moment, looking this way and that, searching for signs of life. In some of the windows, she could see human outlines bathed in shadow and the occasional flicker of light off someone’s eyes.

  “There is no one here,” said Gull. “All have fled.”

  “Stay quiet.” Moira put a finger to her lips. “The people are hiding. There must be a reason for that.”

  “What? Is the great Moira afraid?” laughed Danco, the most roguish of the Movers and a man who thought himself suave. “Moira Elren, a craven? I have seen it all now!”

  “I said, be quiet,” she shot at him, resting her hand atop one of the swords hanging from her hip. She continued on in an angry whisper: “It isn’t cowardice to be cautious. That is how you stay alive, you dolt.”

  Danco inclined his head, smiling a proud smile. The sick bastard seemed to like being put in his place by her. To Moira, it was bewildering.

  They rode onward, passing by more barren fields and a few more clusters of hovels on their way to the central district of Omnmount’s township. Hovering at the top of the rise, Moira could see the settlement’s single stone building, a tall and rounded structure that looked like a castle rampart and served as a marketplace and place of worship. The tents, burrows, and low holdfasts that surrounded the unnamed building were dwarfed by it, making them look like servants bowing to their godly master.

  “Cornwall Lawrence lives in that monstrosity?” asked Rodin from beside her. “I thought you said he was a humble man.”

  “That’s just a building, built for and used by the people,” she said. “The Lawrence estate is actually on the other side of the hub, and it is indeed a humble place of residence.” She turned to Rodin, frowning. “You’ve never been to Omnmount before?”

  “No.” He shrugged. “None of us have.”

  Not the most worldly bunch. “How in the world could you make it from—”

  Something caught her eye, stilling her tongue. She squinted while staring at the sprawling township below, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the mixture of darkness and the moon’s bright azure light. Something was amiss down there, something swaying in the slight breeze, but she could not put her finger on what. She wished she had the eyes of an elf.

  “What is it?” asked Willer sheepishly, garnering himself a whack upside the head by Tabar.

  “Keep quiet,” she told them. “All of you, hold your breath for a moment.”

  They did as instructed, and Moira did the same. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sounds of the land. She heard the soft breath of the wind, distant trees swooshing together, one of the horses snorting, insects chirping, bat wings flapping, and, underneath all of that, a faint yet continuous creak.

  She turned to the Movers. “We’re going down there. Use caution, and only speak if necessary. Understood?”

  On cue, each of them nodded.

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Down the gentle slope they went, and the closer they drew to the township, the louder the creaking sound became. Moira kept attentive, with one hand on the reins and one on the sword on her left hip, ready for something to leap out at them from the numerous shadows. Her stomach rumbled, tightening up on her. It was then she noticed there were new additions to the multiple low constructions around the hub: numerous tall wooden poles, like those that would be erected and then strung with decorations and lanterns during the spring festival in Felwood. The creaking noise was continuous.

  They soon passed between the closest pair of fifteen-foot-high poles, and all eyes looked up to see a body swaying from each one. Moira lifted her hand, signaling a halt. Her horse fidgeted nervously beneath her. She craned her neck, staring at the dangling forms. They both had feminine shapes, their bodies limp, their necks viciously snapped. One was large, the other much smaller.

  “Are they real?” asked Danco. “Up north we hung effigies to ward off crows during the onset of winter, and it is almost winter now.”

  “They’re real,” Moira whispered. She didn’t reprimand the man for speaking. A gust of wind blew, and the corpses swayed. Creak, creak, creak. Without another word she cracked the reins, and her horse trotted onward. Her sellswords followed closely behind.

  The town was filled with poles, and each had a resident. Women, both young and old; children; old men—none had been spared. She counted twenty-seven poles by the time her troupe reached the great stone building at the center of it all. A sinking feeling filled her.

  “This is horrible.”

  Willer spun in a circle, his horse baying. “Why would so many people deserve execution? Was it Karak?”

  “No,” said Tabar as he tugged on a dangling leg, that of an old man with a long gray beard. “These bodies are relatively fresh. Three days dead, at most.”

  Gull sidled up to her. “Lawrence’s work? I haven’t met the man.”

  She shook her head. “Cornwall is rich, but he is fair. He would never stoop to such levels.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  She scrunched her face, thinking. “Twenty years ago, at least. After the birth of his youngest.”

  “Then it could be him. Twenty years can change a man.”

  A loud shriek pierced the night. Moira spun her horse toward the sound but saw nothing except the long wooden structure to her right, one of the temporary barracks. There are ghosts haunting this place.

  Someone let loose with a shrill whistle, and from with
in the barracks emerged a myriad of dark shapes. They ran to beat the devil, circling around her and her five companions before crouching into the grass. Moira’s jaw dropped as she realized who they were. Children, dozens of them, and in the moonlight she saw that nearly every one held a small, loaded crossbow. Moira drew her sword, as did the Movers.

  “Who goes there?” shouted one of them.

  “Should we attack?” asked Danco, his head swiveling.

  “Keep calm,” she said. “They’re just children. Do not startle them.” Raising her voice, she addressed the one who had asked for their names. “We are travelers from Port Lancaster, down by the sea. We seek court with Cornwall Lawrence, the master of this land.”

  A flurry of whispers, and then one of them, a boy no older than nine, stood tall.

  “You’re not from Karak, are you?” he asked.

  “No, we aren’t,” she said. “We are friends.”

  “Friends?”

  “Friends, and we mean you no harm.”

  “How do we know that?”

  Moira glanced at her companions, then sheathed her sword. The other men did likewise.

  “There. See?” she said. “No harm intended. All we wish is to have audience with Cornwall, and we will be on our way.”

  More whispering, and then came the whoosh of a tinderstick being struck. The children lit lantern after lantern, until at least six of them stood bathed in faint yellow light.

  Moira smiled at the boy in charge.

  “We’ve put away our weapons. Would your friends please do the same?”

  “All right,” the child said, flapping his arms, and the small crossbows lowered. Moira breathed a sigh of relief. Haven had been filled with children, and she had spent a fair amount of time with them. They weren’t the most coordinated creatures in the land, especially when they were this young. Even though the crossbows were undersized and likely not very powerful, she counted her group lucky they hadn’t caught an unintentional arrow in the face.