Blood Of Gods (Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  Pox Jon grumbled and made a fist. “Are you hoping to freeze us to death, or have you forgotten about the damn snow everywhere?”

  Turock laughed. “Do you think I asked just because I want to see you in your skivvies? You’re coming into our home, and we’re going to make sure you do it without any hidden blades, scrolls, trinkets, or ancient rings capable of blowing us all to the fucking sky. So if you want inside . . . smallclothes. Now.”

  “Pleasant fellow,” Rachida muttered, tossing aside the pole. She hopped off her horse, her cloak billowing, and began unlacing. She glared at her cohorts, who still appeared both offended and ready to challenge the strange man’s authority. “Do as he says.”

  Grumbling, the three of them obeyed.

  Swords and armor piled in front of the white wall, the four of them stood in nothing but the parchment-thin smallclothes they had worn since departing the Isles of Gold. The wind chose that moment to pick up, making Rachida shiver, but she refused to cross her arms over her chest for warmth. All eyes were on her, and as she’d learned in Conch, men of the west were the same as those from Neldar when it came to a beautiful woman standing before them. If she had to use her feminine assets, there were worse sacrifices she could make. Sure enough, someone up above whistled, and another man cleared his throat uncomfortably.

  “Well, I suppose a bargain is a bargain,” Turock said. “Back away from the wall a few more feet, would you? I’d hate for one of you to lose a hand or something.”

  They did, taking ten paces backward, bare feet crunching in the snow. The men peering over the wall disappeared, and Rachida heard chanting from the other side. A speck of light appeared before her, just in front of the wall. It was small at first but then grew until it became a swirling blue disc at least seven feet tall. Rachida gasped at the sight, her eyes bulging, a reaction echoed by the others. Five burly men then stepped out of the light, attempting to keep their eyes averted from her near nakedness and failing miserably. They tied the horses to a nearby tree, gathered up Rachida and her cohorts’ armor and weapons, and then disappeared back into the blue void. Rachida simply stood there, confused.

  “Come now,” she heard the red-haired man shout from somewhere within the swirl of light. “I can’t hold this thing open all day. Step through already!”

  Quester glanced in her direction, shrugged, and jumped into the light, disappearing just as the others did. His laughter as he vanished seemed to echo all around her. Swallowing her fear, she followed him, wincing when the light hit her skin. For a moment she feared that she would be seared alive . . . until she landed on her two feet on a street bereft of snow, completely unharmed. Quester grabbed her arm, and she stood up to see they were surrounded by the men from atop the wall. The red-haired leader stood with two others in the forefront, their hands glowing, their fingers making strange gestures. A thud sounded, and Pox Jon and Decker emerged from the portal behind her. Both looked as bewildered as she felt.

  Finally, the lead spellcaster dropped his hands to his sides and took a deep breath. The swirling blue portal behind them blinked out of existence with a barely audible pop. A young man with a beard nowhere near as impressive as the others’ came forward with boots and heavy cloaks for each of them, and when Rachida slipped hers overhead, she swore she heard all in attendance moan. Turock, whose heavy robe was the same garish orange color as his hat, stepped toward them. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rachida cut him off.

  “That was a fine spectacle you put on.”

  “The portal?” The man laughed. “Nothing, really. Simply rearranging some elements and cutting a hole through space and time. Easy as baking a baneberry pie. So! You had things to discuss?”

  “Not here.” She patted his shoulder and breezed past him. Those gathered behind parted for her, looking baffled and whispering among themselves. When she had passed them, she stopped and took in her surroundings. She could see the barricade was an earthen wall seemingly raised from the ground itself, just as Talon had said, circling the entirety of the village. The ice and snow that covered the outside of the wall were absent on the inside, revealing the drab brown of rocks and packed dirt. The village itself was large and bustling. Men, women, and children filled the streets, bundled up against the cold and acting as if there was nothing strange going on. She took them all in, noticed that none seemed to be starving. In fact, quite a few of them looked downright robust.

  Perhaps even stranger, however, were the buildings lining the cobbled road. They were grand structures possessing a sort of unnatural architecture she had never seen before. Outhouses, shops, domiciles, gathering places; it didn’t matter what they were, they were all constructed of interlocking granite blocks and topped with a thick layer of snow that only added to their impressiveness. Even in Veldaren and Port Lancaster, the most advanced cities in all of Neldar, there were no structures as striking as these. And lining the road were numerous poles, each topped with an odd reflective square that seemed to glow on its own.

  “Is there a place where we can speak that isn’t so cold?” Rachida asked as Turock hurried to join her side.

  “Of course there is,” he said. “Just because we made you strip doesn’t mean we’re bad hosts here in Drake. Follow me.”

  The odd man walked ahead of her, his hat flopping on his head, his robe fluttering. Rachida and her men followed, Turock’s men taking up the rear. They formed a sizeable caravan marching down the road, and finally the people of Drake seemed to notice them.

  Turock led them to a two-story building fronted with something that Rachida had rarely seen—four giant panes of frosted glass, at least eight feet long and five feet high. She marveled at the windows as Turock led her through the wide double doors and into the building. Glass was rare, a luxury for the wealthy in the kingdom her god had created, difficult to make and even harder to maintain. To have glass in Paradise, which by all accounts was a simple land where advancement wasn’t necessary, went against her expectations. Then again, all of Drake exceeded her expectations.

  The inside of the building was crammed with people. At least two hundred men and women filled the vast area, sitting at tables, drinking cups of wine, stuffing their faces with food. The scents of spices and roasted meats assaulted Rachida’s nostrils, made her mouth begin to water. Turock noticed and chuckled.

  “Impressive?” he asked.

  Rachida glanced behind her as her men and Turock’s filed into the building. The look on Pox Jon’s face told her he was just as astounded. Even Quester looked overcome.

  “It is,” she said, whistling. “Where did you come across such a bounty?”

  “Follow me, my beautiful Rachida, and I’ll show you.” He looked to his right and gestured to an ornate door cut into the wall. As he led her toward it, he called out over his shoulder, “Bartholomew, please get our other guests situated. Food for all, and have Margot prepare a bath if they want.”

  “Okay,” said young Bartholomew. “Remember, Abby is expecting you.”

  “My wife can wait,” Turock grunted as he grasped the door handle. “Have her come to me if she’s impatient.”

  The door opened into a large study, the whole outer wall of which was one huge window. The space was filled with gemstones, each type stacked in its own pile. There had to be millions of them. Rachida whistled at the sight, and Turock leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest.

  “What is going on here?” she asked him finally. “Where did these come from?”

  “Your husband, Peytr, supplied us with half of it. He’s frequented the islands off the coast of Conch for two decades now. My wife loves the ocean, and we visited Conch often, backward little village that it is. He often talked of your splendor, though it was in a bored sort of way, so I figured he was exaggerating.”

  Two decades? He’d been hiding his true wealth from her for twenty years! Add that to Peytr’s attempt to have her killed, and it was yet another nail in his casket. “He does that. Exaggerate.”

/>   Turock grinned. “Not in this case.”

  She sighed. “So Peytr gave you half. The rest?”

  “The rest we mined ourselves from the very mountains surrounding us.”

  “And the food? How large your stores must be!”

  “Ha! We have no stores. All we have,” he gestured to the piles of gemstones, “are these, in more abundance than you could ever know.”

  She looked at him, confused.

  “Here, I’ll show you,” Turock said. He bent over and picked up a stone from one of the piles. He held the tiny, glittering green pebble between his thumb and forefinger. “So, Rachida, what is your favorite food?”

  She gawked at him and squinted.

  “Humor me.”

  After thinking for a moment, she said, “Roast quail.”

  Turock flipped the gem into his palm, made circles over it with his other hand, and whispered a few incomprehensible words. The miniscule gem glowed brightly, and then its form shifted. Before she could blink, a single steaming leg of quail rested on the spellcaster’s palm. He reached out, offering it to her. She hesitated.

  “Go ahead, eat it,” he said. “It won’t kill you.”

  She took the small leg from him and bit down. Juices filled her mouth, dripped over her chin. Even though the taste was somewhat dull, she almost moaned.

  “I don’t understand,” she said after she’d swallowed.

  The man’s smile grew broader. “Magic requires give and take, and different minerals hold different properties. For example, the stone I just held was topaz, which is used in the conjuring of foodstuffs. It was one of the earliest tricks my teacher showed me, and the first that I taught to my own students. We’ve been mining the mountains for nearly as long as your husband has been mining the Isles of Gold, Miss Gemcroft. We have enough topaz within these walls to feed all of us for years.”

  “Oh” was all Rachida could muster.

  “Now,” Turock said, serious once more, “you obviously didn’t come here to talk about food. What brings you to Drake?”

  She swallowed, still tasting the quail on her tongue. “I need you, Turock Escheton. The gods are at war, and my sellswords wish to join it. However, we came here not to fight with Karak, but against him.”

  “And why would you do something like that?” asked Turock, looking curious.

  “Because Karak does not have our best interests in mind. He has turned his back on his own principles and has lost the love of his children as a result.”

  “That’s all well and good, but why seek me out?”

  “Because Karak fears you and your students. Why else would he send a quarter of his army up the Gihon to do nothing but keep you busy?”

  “That may be true,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “But the same faction you just spoke of still lurks beyond the empty grazing fields, as they have been for months. As I told the Master Warden before he left with half my students, I will not discard all I’ve built. This is my home, my life’s work. I won’t see it destroyed because Ashhur and Karak can’t get along; the rest of Paradise be damned.”

  The statement was absurdly selfish, but Rachida did her best not to react. “You won’t have to abandon it, Turock. Those soldiers out there are destitute and miserable. They’ve been abandoned by their god. If you were to open your arms to them, if you were to give them the means to travel back to their homes, this siege would end. You would be left alone.”

  “Is that so?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “It is. I can broker a meeting between you and their leaders. You say you have enough gems to feed yourselves for years? Prove it. Prove your generosity. There is no love for Karak out there in the cold, Turock. Of that you have my word.”

  The spellcaster picked up another gemstone from the heap and bounced it in his palm. He seemed to be thinking long and hard, his lips puckered. Finally, he snatched the hat off his head and twisted it in his hands.

  “Absolutely not,” he said.

  Rachida stepped back, her neck flushing. “No?”

  “No. Why should I? Those people have tormented me and mine for two years. They’re freezing? They’re dying? Good. Let them. I’ll use their corpses for kindling later.”

  A knock came at the door, and Rachida jumped. Turock let out a deep breath.

  “Come in, Abby,” he said, sounding irritated.

  The door opened, and a short woman with curly hair colored a deep crimson breezed into the study. There was something eerily familiar about her. She was an attractive woman, in a cutesy sort of way, with dainty features and eyes the color of seaglass. She had an air of poise about her that made the simple blue dress she wore, rimmed with fur on the hem and neckline, look like a queen’s gown.

  “Turock, why must you make me come find you?” the woman asked. “Who are those men in the dining hall? You know I hate surprises, especially on a day when I had a special—”

  The woman’s voice stilled as her eyes found Rachida. She tilted her head to the side and frowned. “What is this?” she asked, almost growling. “Who is she?”

  “That’s Rachida Gemcroft, darling,” said Turock.

  “The merchant’s wife?” the woman said, eyes wide.

  “The same,” answered Turock. “And Rachida, this is my wife, Abigail, daughter of House DuTaureau.” The man smiled, but Rachida could see a hint of contempt behind his eyes. “It seems you two have something in common, being daughters of First Families and all.”

  That explained why she looked familiar. Rachida had spent many months with the woman’s brother and sister when Patrick brought Nessa to Haven. For a moment, she pined over the son DuTaureau had given her.

  Abigail turned her narrowed eyes to her husband. “What are you doing in your study, all alone?”

  At that, Turock laughed. “The lovely lady wishes for me to offer food and supplies to the soldiers who’ve been plaguing us.”

  “Is that so?”

  Rachida inclined her head. “It is, Lady Escheton,” she said.

  “For what purpose?”

  “To end the siege.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “It is.”

  Abigail again turned to her husband. “And you said yes, correct?”

  “Um . . . no,” the odd man replied. “I told her to piss off.”

  The crimson-haired sprite shook her head. She then shrugged her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and walked confidently up to Rachida, placing both hands on her shoulders and looking her right in the eye.

  “He’ll do as you ask,” Abigail said.

  “I will not.” He very nearly whined.

  His wife turned to him. “You will, and you’ll do it soon. You’d turn aside an opportunity for a normal life all to hoard a few gems and satisfy petty revenge? How selfish are you?”

  Quite, Rachida thought, but remained silent.

  “It’s not a normal life she wants,” Turock said, face darkening. “She wants us to go to war.”

  Abigail’s mouth drew into a thin line.

  “My family is in Mordeina,” she said. “Byron, Jarak, Pendet—our children—are there. You swore to me the only reason we did not aid them was because of the siege. We had to protect our people, you said. But if the siege breaks . . . ”

  Her voice trailed off, the silence full of questions and threats. Turock dropped his arms to his sides, head drooping.

  “If the siege breaks, to Mordeina we go,” he said.

  “I thought so,” said Abigail before looking back at Rachida. “I’m sorry if he was being difficult. Men can be stubborn and stupid. You’re a wife. I’m sure you understand.”

  Rachida grinned but did not reply.

  The next day, after the first solid night’s sleep since she’d left Port Lancaster a lifetime ago, Rachida brokered peace between Drake and the soldiers of Karak. For a full day they held a massive feast outside the township’s earthen walls as the weary soldiers ate and drank and even cried. Harsh times make for strange bedfellows, tho
ught Rachida. Her words to Turock were proven true the day after, when the majority of the two thousand men departed across the roaring Gihon, filled to the brim with supplies the Drake spellcasters conjured for them. They had the look of hope on their faces, even though they were a long way from home, and she was certain many wouldn’t survive such a harrowing journey in the dead of winter.

  Talon also stayed true to his word, as the captain and two hundred others vowed themselves to Rachida’s cause. Three days after that, when all the supply wagons were packed once more, this time including a hefty pile of topaz for the spellcasters to use to create food, they began the march south. Her six hundred soldiers had swelled to nearly eight hundred with the defectors added, and a glum Turock joined her along with twenty-two of his remaining spellcasters. He had pledged a promise to Abigail that he would return with their children. His wife, the rest of the townspeople, and most of the civilians, stayed behind in Drake, protected by their earthen walls and with enough men of magic to feed and protect them.

  “To Mordeina?” Quester asked, trotting alongside her on his horse.

  “To Mordeina,” she answered.

  “I’ll be honest with you. I’m more than a little eager. Haven’t had a good scuffle in weeks. My sword arm is itching.”

  The sun overhead was bright, and the air was warm for the first time in quite a while. For a moment she was reminded of Haven and the home she and Moira had built, but that thought led to another about Peytr and his deception.

  “Mine too,” she said, and kept on riding.

  CHAPTER

  20

  The storm was on them. A freezing rain blew sideways, the wind howling directly into their faces as they peered over the rise. To Moira, this was ideal. The wind blowing toward them meant they were upwind from their targets, so they needn’t worry about making too much noise. Any stray step or clank of steel would be covered up by the pounding rain and incessant wind.