Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  At the head of the camp, set against a backdrop of trees with thick, imposing trunks, was a large pavilion. “Dismount here,” said Nole as they approached it. The young soldier then disappeared into the pavilion. Rachida patted her horse and swung out of the saddle, then looked back the way they had come. The sellswords formed a line through the trees, the rear of the procession concealed by fog. Her men eyed the soldiers warily, fingers dancing on the hilts of the swords on their belts. They dismounted and gathered around the wagons they’d brought with them, those containing what was left of the provisions harvested in Conch. Karak’s soldiers ogled the wagons, wantonness showing in their eyes.

  Quester appeared beside her. His air was serious, much different from the flippancy he usually displayed.

  “Get the captains,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

  “All of them?”

  “Yes. And be prepared for the worst.”

  The Crimson Sword nodded.

  The captains of the other five sellsword companies gathered, nary a word spoken between them. A moment later Nole stepped out of the pavilion.

  “Captain Blackwolfe will see you now,” he said, gesturing to the tent flap. Rachida took a deep breath, then stepped into the pavilion, Quester and the other captains on her heels.

  The men awaiting them inside looked like death warmed over. Their flesh was pale, eyes rimmed with purple, hair snarled into oily tendrils. The plate and mail armor they wore was rusting at the joints, and the roaring lion sigil on their chests appeared somber, not threatening. They looked like men who’d been lost in the wilderness for an age.

  Despite their downtrodden appearance, the one in the center, a tall, lanky sort with a matted beard and intense eyes, smiled. “You came,” he said. “You actually came.”

  “We did,” Rachida said, though she had no clue what he was talking about.

  The man stood boldly upright, as if he’d just remembered protocol, and bowed to her.

  “Captain Talon Blackwolfe at your service,” he said. “It is an honor to receive you, Commander Mori.”

  “It is an honor to be received,” Rachida answered. Behind her, the sellsword captains fidgeted.

  “Please know we appreciate your arrival,” the man told her. “It wasn’t expected. To say we’re relieved would be an understatement.”

  The others in the pavilion hastily nodded their agreement.

  A cold wind blew, billowing the sides of the tent around them. Talon Blackwolfe shivered and looked at the soldiers standing on either side of him, as if seeking guidance from them. It was such a strange thing. To Rachida, these men appeared much too green to be officers, and Talon was in no way captain material. He was too young, too gruff; a foot soldier, not a leader.

  “Captain,” she said, “what has been going on here?”

  Blackwolfe gave her a queer look, glancing at his eight officers. “Were you not told already?”

  “Would you prefer to waste my time with assumptions, or would you answer the question I asked?”

  The man sighed, his shoulders slumping. “There were five thousand of us here, making life miserable for those spellcasting bastards in Drake. Casualties were low, supplies good. But then our first commander, Wallace Ball, was taken from his pavilion in the middle of the night. We looked, found some footprints leading to the river, but that was the last trace of him we’ve seen since. Not long after, Captain Joseph Marten took command and ordered us on the offensive.

  “We were just meant to harass, you know. Those were Karak’s orders—just harass, not assault. So long as the people of Drake stayed up here instead of going south to help Ashhur, we were doing our job. But our new captain wanted blood, though truth be told I think he was just spooked and thought he’d vanish like Wallace did. So we crossed the river, like good little soldiers.”

  Rachida had heard stories of the spellcasters of Drake, but had yet to witness their power. A part of her ached to have been here during the assault.

  “How did you fare?” she asked.

  To that, Talon laughed.

  “We died, Commander Mori. That’s how we fared. Arrows, lightning, fire, shards of ice . . . if it exists, and can kill you, they threw it at us. But we took the tower, just like Joseph said we would. Course, the only reason we took it was because the people fled back to their homes. After that they created a . . . barricade of stone around the township, and we’ve kept it besieged ever since.”

  There was defeat in his voice, and Rachida felt a morsel of pity for him.

  “We brought our supplies with us from the Tinderlands camp when we crossed the Gihon,” he continued. “But it wasn’t enough for how long we’ve been here. There were less than a thousand citizens in that damned township, and after they sealed off their homes, they should have starved. But if they have, they’re hiding it damn well. Us, though? Captain Marten died in our last attempt on the township, as well as his left hand, Remmy, which meant a duty I wasn’t prepared for fell to my sword. Winter has driven the deer and elk into the mountains. We’ve lost more than half our original numbers, be it from sickness, arrow, or spellcaster magics, and Omar over there even caught a couple of the men roasting one of their dead brethren over a fire out of desperation.” One of the younger soldiers, obviously Omar, nodded grimly. Talon said, “We dealt with those men accordingly, but the seed had already been planted. No one expects to find victory here, yet if we abandon the siege and travel south, we will die by Karak’s hands for our cowardice.”

  Rachida knew she should be pleased with how poorly things had fared for Karak’s men, but hearing the exhaustion and frustration in Talon’s voice as he told his tale kept such easy emotions away. Lion on their chest or not, they still suffered and endured terrible hardships, and for what? Fear of Karak’s retribution? When first entering the tent, she’d thought to kill them all, but now . . .

  “You say we weren’t expected,” said Rachida. “Why is that?”

  Talon appeared unsure how to respond. “Well, shortly after Captain Marten died, I sent word to our god of our troubles, pleading for reinforcements and supplies. We received word back from Karak’s prophet three weeks ago.”

  “What did this prophet say?”

  The disgust on the man’s face was plain as the snow on the ground outside.

  “That we are on our own now. That we disobeyed orders, and our current predicament is of our own making. The letter said we would receive no reinforcements, no supplies, though our mission hasn’t changed. We are to keep the spellcasters here in Drake, and abandoning that duty will be considered treason against our god.”

  Rachida could plainly see the anger in the man’s eyes, anger that was echoed by the other eight advisors in the pavilion. That was good.

  “So you have two options,” she said. “Remain here and perish, or flee and perish.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I can see now why you’re so relieved we are here.” She glanced over at Quester and the other sellsword captains. “Captain,” she said to Talon, “I wish to speak with you . . . alone.”

  The man raised an eyebrow. “Very well.”

  Talon gestured for his young advisors to exit the pavilion, which they did without question. The sellsword captains, however, hesitated.

  Quester leaned into her. “What are you up to, Rachida?”

  “Trust me,” she told him. “Now get out.”

  When they were finally alone, Rachida unlaced her cloak and removed it, exposing the Twins on her hips. She felt Talon’s eyes on her as she made her way across the pavilion, tossing the cloak on the captain’s desk. The man was visibly wary. She could use that.

  “Tell me, Captain Blackwolfe,” she said, “what do you wish to come of your predicament?”

  “I wish to fulfill the will of my god,” he told her, though his fidgeting and tone said otherwise.

  “Do not lie to me, Captain,” she said, removing her belt and placing her swords on top of her cloak. She then moved back to t
he center of the space. “Tell me how you truly feel about this, how your men feel. We are here now to help you. You will receive no punishment for the truth.”

  Talon leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples. “You wish to know the truth?”

  Rachida nodded.

  “The men want . . . they want this conflict over,” Talon said, nearly whispering the words. “Though a few of us have discovered the thrill of conflict, were born for it even, most of the men are cut from softer cloth. They had lives once . . . farmers, merchants, pages, blacksmiths, potters, bakers, miners. They lived and died and loved and lost as free men. Yet they are free no longer. We are all starving and near death. We’ve suffered in a wasteland for so long, and for what? To be told by our god that we are to be abandoned, that our lives are worth nothing because we followed our leader’s instructions? How is that fair?”

  “It isn’t,” said Rachida.

  Talon seemed taken aback by the statement. “Thank you, Commander. So now you know of the men’s wishes. What would you have us do?”

  “I said earlier that you had two options, both ending in death. What if I offered you a third?”

  “I would kiss you on the mouth, if that option did not also end in death.”

  Despite his obvious exhaustion, he smiled, and Rachida decided she liked him.

  “I offer you an opportunity to live your lives as free men once more,” she said. “The chance for this siege to end and for you all to walk away, fully supplied for the task ahead. Your men could cross into the Tinderlands and return home, or flee to some remote corner of Paradise. Those who have developed a taste for conflict can join me and my men and wage war against the very god that abandoned you.”

  At that, Talon started. In a single sharp motion he took a step back and grasped the handle of his sword, though he hesitated to pull it. His eyes flicked toward the table on which Rachida’s blades rested, then back to her. Rachida made no move to claim them.

  “Who are you really?” Talon asked, his voice shaking.

  “Just who I said I am. Rachida Mori, a child of Karak’s First Families.”

  “You speak of treason.”

  “I do.”

  Talon’s indecision seemed to grow.

  “Karak swore he would punish us for the betrayal.”

  Rachida forced a smile.

  “Did he? Do you think he’ll hunt down each and every one of you? Scour the lands, and for what? Petty revenge? Our beloved creator cares not for such things, and he cares not for us, his children. His war against Ashhur is all he loves. You have a choice, Captain Blackwolfe. Remain here in the cold and die, or take your life in your own hands.”

  “It’s madness,” Talon said, though his eyes began to show a spark of hope. “How would we even do such a thing? How would the men be fully supplied? Are your wagons fully stocked?”

  “They aren’t.”

  “Then how?” he asked, frowning.

  To that, Rachida smiled. “The spellcasters, Captain. You said they aren’t starving, so I say we find out why that is the case.”

  Talon shook his head. “It won’t work. I told you, they’ll kill you the moment you try to attack.”

  “Who said anything about attacking? I mean to walk up to their gates and ask.”

  “You’re going to talk to them?”

  “If you want this siege ended, if you want your freedom, that is the only way.”

  “And you’re confident it will work? You think they’ll listen?”

  Rachida shrugged. “Look at me, Captain. Do I look like a woman men turn away from?”

  Timidly, the young captain smiled. “I suppose not.”

  “It is settled, then. Tomorrow the deed will be done.”

  “And what will you need from me?” Talon asked.

  Rachida grinned. “All I need from you is for you to keep your men in line. And dedicate yourself to me when this is all over with.”

  Talon shook his head as if he couldn’t believe the conversation was actually taking place. “That I can do, Commander Mori. That I can do.”

  “You best. And please, Talon, do not call me Commander. Rachida is fine.”

  The captain was true to his word. When the sun rose the next morning, she found the soldiers gathered just outside camp, nervously fidgeting yet appearing expectant. Talon stood tall by a ring of stunted trees, gazing out at the white world that stretched out before them while stroking his mangy beard. Rachida approached him.

  “What bothers you?” she asked.

  Talon grimaced. “I mean no offense, nor doubt on your part, but those spellcasters can’t be trusted.”

  “Your doubt does offend me, Captain. This Escheton will hear me out, and after he listens to what I have to say, he will open his doors and let me in.”

  “What will you tell him?”

  She winked. “You have your secrets, Captain, and I have mine.”

  The man chuckled nervously and kicked at the snow, lifting a small cloud of it. “That’s fair, I suppose,” he said. His tone then dropped. “As long as you’re true to your word. Should you turn against us, or return a failure, I can’t be held responsible for my men’s actions. Men are at their cruelest when they’ve had hope kindled, only to have it snuffed right back out.”

  Rachida stepped in closer, grabbing him by the shoulder.

  “If you want to see cruelty,” she said, “make such a threat again. I assure you, it won’t be my blood painting the snow red.”

  An hour later, Rachida, Quester, Pox Jon, and Jon’s second in command, a polite young sellsword named Decker, made their way across the snowy field outside camp, heading for the Drake Township. The mountains squeezed in on them from either side. The land they rode on was wide and flat but strangely bereft of wildlife. It was odd, especially when Rachida remembered the stories her parents used to tell her about the massive grayhorns that lurked in the upper northwest corner of Paradise. On her journey she’d seen squirrels, deer, a giant brown bear that assaulted one of their food wagons one night, and the ever-present wolves, but no grayhorns.

  Finally, after an hour of trotting through the snow, they spotted a white mass rising up before them, like a wall made of pure ice that blocked out the horizon. The mountains to their left leveled out, revealing the wide and roaring Gihon River, its surface marked with rushing whitecaps. Pox Jon whistled while keeping a gloved hand over his face to keep warm.

  “Is that Drake?” asked Decker.

  “I would assume so,” said Rachida.

  “I thought Blackwolfe was exaggerating about the barricade,” Quester said.

  “Looks like he wasn’t,” said Pox Jon.

  “Enough,” said Rachida, her attention on the top of the white wall. She swore she could see movement up there, and movement meant defenders. The last thing she needed was an arrow or fireball to come flying at them while they were bantering like oblivious teens. “Eyes forward. Stay ready, just in case. And Jon, prepare the flag.”

  They paused a few hundred yards away from the structure and waited while Pox Jon unfastened the long pole from his saddle and Decker tied a dirty white bed sheet to the top of it. Rachida took it from Jon and set her horse to trotting once more, holding the pole up high so that the bed sheet snapped and fluttered in the wind. Quester kept his own horse close to hers, free hand firmly planted on the hilt of his sword. Rachida laughed inwardly at his futile effort; the Crimson Sword’s blade would prove useless when faced with a twenty-foot-high wall.

  When they reached the base of the fortification, all signs of movement ceased. They sat there for what felt like forever, staring at the white wall while their four horses whinnied and paced impatiently. Rachida’s arms began to grow numb from the effort of holding the seven-foot pole, and a groan accidentally leaked from her throat.

  “Let me take that from you,” said Quester.

  “Forget it,” she snapped. “I do not need your help.”

  The handsome sellsword rolled his eyes. “Fine then. Be
the martyr.”

  He hopped down off his steed and approached the snowy wall, stroking his blond beard as he did so. Rachida watched him, hoping he didn’t try anything stupid. A low crunching sound could be heard when Quester broke the outer layer of ice with his fingers, and then his hand disappeared into the powdery stuff underneath.

  “It’s solid rock below,” he said, removing his hand and shaking the snow from it before putting his glove back on. He glanced up at the wall and shook his head. “Looks to me like whoever’s inside doesn’t care we’re out here. What do you say we ride around it, see if there’s a way in?”

  “There’s no way in unless we make one,” said a voice from above.

  Rachida started, lifting her head to see at least thirty bearded faces staring over the wall at them. The one who had spoken, the one in the center, had a bright orange hat of some kind atop a head covered with wavy red hair. His lips played into a roguish smile as he took in each of the visitors in turn. “You’d think you Karak puppies would learn,” the man said. “A flag? Surrender? Is that your new ploy?” The man’s eyes lifted, scanning the trees on either side of the long clearing. “Where are the others? Preparing for a mad dash the moment we open a door?”

  Rachida guided her horse forward. “This is no ploy. And we are not from Karak.”

  “Your men are wearing his armor,” another of the men said.

  “True,” said Rachida with a nod. “That is the ploy. To get behind enemy lines, one must look and act the part. However, the one we seek resides behind your walls. Turock Escheton is his name. Are you he?”

  The odd redhead frowned. “Depends. Who is asking?”

  “Rachida Gemcroft, daughter of House Mori.” Rachida bowed in her saddle. The pole she held wavered in her grip. “I am joined by sellswords from the east, an army of six hundred. It seems that you and I have things to speak about.”

  Those peering over the wall disappeared for a moment. They heard bickering through the thick wall of ice, coupled with long pauses of silence.

  A few minutes later, the redhead in the funny hat reappeared at the top of the wall. “Seems our magic can’t find anyone lurking about,” he said. “So to answer your question: Yes, I’m Turock. Now disrobe down to your smallclothes, and I mean all of you, not just Rachida. Pile your armor and weapons in front of the wall. Come on now, mush, mush.”