A horse came at him. Whether the rider was male or female did not matter. All he saw was the enormous shape of the animal, someone atop it, and an arm swinging. The arm was too long by far and he assumed a weapon was making the extra length. The staff moved without conscious thought. Mosara had always insisted that any fool who chose to be a gardener should know how to defend himself, because even in a place like Edinrun, someone walking alone risked being attacked.
The hard wood shivered in his hands and the rider was past, nearly unhorsed by the blow. Niall staggered back to keep his balance and narrowly missed the next horse trampling him.
He heard Stanna screaming, not in fear, but in rage. He could see her up ahead as she grabbed a man off his horse and threw him to the ground like he weighed no more than a cloak.
Tully made no noise, but he saw her moving, darting past the horse that almost crushed him. Her arms were too fast to truly see, but the charging horse let out a shriek and reared up, and the next animal in the charge was suddenly bleeding from the neck. The rider let out a scream that was louder than the horse’s and flailed his arms as he was thrown at Niall.
Sidestep and swing. The rounded end of his staff shattered the bones in the man’s face as he fell. He did not get back up.
Niall tried to look everywhere at once, and to remember to breathe. His heart hammered, his arms shook.
Somewhere behind him someone screamed. He didn’t have time to look. The next rider was coming. Ultimately all he could do was slip to the side as the rider steered and the horse charged. It was simple enough math: if one of the damned things ran him down he’d be broken if not killed. He’d rather not, really.
Stepping aside he saw Tully throw a blade that stuck in the side of the rider’s skull. He went down and the horse charged past.
As it did so, the rider flopped to the ground.
Next in line were two horsemen riding a dozen feet apart. They covered the road entirely, and between the two of them they held a length of chain that rattled and hissed with each stride of the horses.
Tully saw it at the same time he did and dove for the dirt off the path. She cleared it with ease.
Repetition. That was what Mosara had always emphasized. Even as he moved his staff into a guard position, Niall knew he’d done the wrong thing. He should have jumped. The move was purely automatic.
The horses and their riders and that heavy chain between them? They didn’t seem to care why he stayed in the same place.
The chain drove his staff backward and he felt it slip from his grip before the hard wood smashed into his chest and struck a glancing blow off his skull. After that the chain hit him in the stomach and lifted him from the ground. He barely felt that part. He was already sliding into darkness.
Beron
Beron looked across the plains and smiled tightly. They were close. He could nearly taste the blood of his enemies.
His smile faltered. No, no blood. They were to be taken alive. He might well have their tendons cut to stop them from escaping, but Brogan McTyre, Harper Ruttket and the rest of their ilk were worth the most if they were alive.
“Well, a little fun then,” he said aloud. “I have branding irons.”
“What’s that?” Levarre looked his way and scowled. The man was not as happy as he had been, though he had plenty of reasons to smile.
“Be calm, Levarre. I was only considering the methods I’ll use to torture McTyre and his friends.”
The other slaver nodded.
“We are doing a good thing. The gods want the bastards, and we want the bastards, and we’ll have three times our investment returned to us, even as we save the world.” The air was preposterously cold and rain had fallen for days on end, still Beron was cheerful. “We have the upper hand.”
“They are not ours yet, and if we fail, what of Ariah? What if he is disappointed?”
“Then we take care of the matter as we need to. But our new god is pleased with us. We gave him over a hundred beautiful women to satisfy his needs and we offered him three of the Undying as sacrifices.”
Rather than please his associate, the words made Levarre flinch. Beron scowled.
“You felt all that I felt, Levarre. Ariah gave you weapons of power to show you that his word is his bond. He has made you a priest in his name. Celebrate that notion. We are no longer merely slavers looking to reclaim what was stolen from us. We are the messengers of a new god who will help us save the world.”
“What of the other gods? What will they do when they find we have turned our backs to them?”
Beron spit, his broad features moving into a snarl of barely contained rage. “I owe the gods nothing. They punish us for what was not our doing. I will offer them only contempt, and if I must I will offer them the tip of my blade.”
“You’ve gone mad, Beron.”
“No. I have found an opportunity. The very same one you accepted. If you do not see yourself as part of the new regime, give me your weapons and I will offer them to another who is wiser and braver.”
The words were a calculated risk. Levarre was a large man and he was a very capable fighter. He was also proud to a fault and just as greedy as Beron. There was the chance that he would attack. There was also the chance that he would see reason. Beron’s hand rested on the hilt of his new sword; the black blade seemed nearly to vibrate at his touch.
“Do not belittle me twice, Beron.”
“Then do not give me reason.” Beron moved closer and placed a hand on the other man’s thick shoulder. The muscles under his skin were as hard as stone. “The gods are ending the world. They destroyed our city and sent their Undying after us. We fought back and we got aid from a different source with similar goals.” He paused to let his words register. “We are surviving, my friend. We are surviving and we are trying to right what the gods have set wrong.” He shrugged. “If we can gain more than we risk, that is merely an added incentive.”
Three riders came toward them from the foot of the mountains, clearly defined in the light cast from the rising sun. They were the messengers sent to gather intelligence. They rode hard and fast, and circled the two men once as their horses calmed.
Lommen spoke first. He was always the first to speak, and seldom one to have much information. On the bright side, he was stupid and best used as a human shield. “It’s them. Brogan McTyre and his associates. Not all of them, but a good number.”
The second rider, Ellsworth, added, “They are twenty-three in number. Twice that many are supposed to meet them but haven’t arrived yet.” He shook his head and spat. “They’re recruiting an army. If we’re to stop them we should do it soon.” Ellsworth was worth the money he was paid. He was also thorough.
The third rider waited for the other two to finish. Unlike them, Harron was a mercenary. He was also a useful double agent, having just spoken to half a dozen of the men with McTyre. Had he been given the chance he would have gladly killed McTyre. Not because he disliked the man, but because his loyalty was strictly to coin. Like Beron, the man was from Kaer-ru. Mostly the people of the islands who came to the mainland were of a mercenary mindset.
Harron sat astride his charger and drew out his sword, a heavy cleaver of a weapon. He rested it across his thighs. “The rest of their riders are coming from Torema. The numbers are a guess. They called all of the riders with them when you bought the slaves. Those men are gathering as many mercenaries as they can.” His voice was low, and deep, and carried all the inflection of the wind. He didn’t care what was happening. He cared about coin. He was, in short, exactly the sort of mercenary that Beron liked best. Beron had more money than most. He could afford to pay more.
Harron pointed with his chin. “We can head off the newcomers. Or we can attack the group there. Either way, I’d do it soon, if I was in charge.”
Beron looked to Levarre. His companion looked back and sighed. “We get McTyre now, we don’t have to worry about the rest of them.”
“Just what I was thinking. Har
ron, get your men. Let’s finish this. Levarre, gather the rest. We’ll discuss tactics on the way.”
The one thing he knew was already taken care of was the horses. Their hooves had been covered in cloth. It would fall apart sooner or later but for the moment the coarse fabric muffled the sounds of the approach.
Within five minutes everyone was ready. Those who had not gathered their supplies already would go hungry later, or would buy supplies. He was not paying his people to be lazy. He knew a few of the mercenaries were caught off guard, but only those who had not worked with the slavers before.
Beron and his closest companions, including the leaders of the mercenaries, rode together.
“They’re up in the mountains?” Beron asked.
Harron nodded. “There are easy enough paths to follow, but they have an advantage right now. They have the height and a good number of archers. If we attack quickly we might get them unawares, but I won’t hold out a hope of it.”
“And this is the best time to attack?” Levarre didn’t sound convinced.
“They are still waking. The sun is up over here. It is in their eyes if they look this way.”
Levarre was not a fool. He was also not a coward. He was simply nervous. Angering gods could do that to a faithful man. But he would follow Beron’s lead. Beron did not tolerate people who would not obey. They tended to die, and badly.
True to that point, the heavyset man nodded his head and then checked his weapons. He bore a long dagger and a short sword with markings identical to the ones on the hilt of Beron’s weapon; gifts of their new god, Ariah. Beron didn’t know if there was anything mystical about the weapons, but he knew they were sharp and that the tip of his spear had cut into a member of the Undying with ease.
There were stories about the Undying. He had met the vile creatures himself. They were the stuff of nightmares. They were the Undying. And yet they had captured three of the vile things and delivered them to their new god, along with many, many slaves.
He closed his eyes and for a moment remembered the madness that was Ariah’s form. A god? Perhaps. Whatever the thing was, they had made a bargain.
Would Ariah be able to kill the Undying? He had no idea, but at least the damned things were no longer going to chase him and his followers. The rest might, but not those three.
“Stop your dreaming, Beron.” Levarre’s voice cut through his thoughts. “It is time.”
And so it was.
Chapter Two
Traveling to New Places
Interlude: B’Rath
B’Rath watched the sun strike the crystal shards along the Broken Blades and cast prisms of light down across the land. The sky where he traveled was cloud covered, but the rains did not bother him. He was on a mission of the gods and that seemed to offer some small protection.
When he took his family from Saramond he had one plan in mind – to get away from the city before the gods and their servants destroyed everything. Somewhere along the way the He-Kisshi – terrifying things – had taken notice of their small caravan and tried to steal the wagons and supplies for the pale women they’d freed from the slavers.
B’Rath was a shrewd bargainer. He convinced them to let him keep what he had in exchange for taking care of the sick and wounded among the pale women.
In exchange, the servants of the gods seemed capable of keeping away the worst of the weather. The area was still flooding. The waters were low enough that the wagons were not affected, but the people walking were in a current that covered them to their ankles.
The only good news about that was that the pale women seemed to thrive in the rain and water.
They were an odd lot. They were called the Grakhul, and they seemed to suffer many tragedies as they roamed. First, from what the women had told him, they were captured and sold as slaves. Before even that, the savages that took them killed all of their men.
He looked into the back of the wagon he was driving. Four of the women were there, all of different ages. Though it was hard to tell them apart for all of that, he could see that two of the women were older, but their faces betrayed little to show it, and their bodies were lean and hard from being forced to walk for several weeks as near as he could figure.
All looked younger than his thirty-four years. A few wrinkles on otherwise smooth faces. Bodies that were not quite as vibrant as they had likely been in their youth.
One of them, a younger woman named Eliam, looked his way. “All is well, B’Rath?”
Her voice was soft and sweet and carried an accent he could not place. He knew most of the accents from the Five Kingdoms. Before he ran away he’d managed the largest stables in Saramond. That meant dealing with travelers from every land. Still, these women were unknown; their language was as alien to him as their He-Kisshi protectors.
“I am trying to understand where I am supposed to take you, Eliam.”
She nodded, and lowered her head. He thought the gesture was both an apology and a gesture of thanks. Whenever they spoke of where he had to take them, the women made the same response. Eliam, one of the few he could actually speak with, had said before that they understood his sacrifice in going with them instead of with his own family; there had come that point, however, where the choice was to abandon the women or accompany them. Rather than risk the ire of the He-Kisshi, both against him and against his entire family, he had chosen to continue on, tending to the sick and injured as they traveled.
They gods were already angry. Why make the situation worse?
“There is a place where the mountains are cut. Where the waters reach from one side to the other. We must go there.”
“Harlea’s Pass. I know it.” He nodded. He had never been there, but the name came because the smaller of the two moons, Harlea, lit the entire passage every night as she rose. At least that was the story. He had never seen it happen, but had heard from many travelers about it.
B’Rath squinted at the mountains and the light shining down. “You see how the waters are moving here? I think that means we’re getting close to the pass. Do you think we should continue on? Or should we stop and eat?”
Eliam smiled. “If you are hungry we should eat.”
“Not me. We have many mouths to feed and most of your people are walking.”
“They will leave us soon, those that can. They will move on to the pass and swim the rivers to get to where we need to be.”
“Swim the rivers? Won’t they drown?”
“We are not like you, B’Rath. We swim as well as the fish.”
He had no idea what she was speaking of, but he had to admit that most of them seemed strong enough to risk the currents if they had to.
“I prefer a good wagon, myself.”
“I love the waters.” Eliam sighed as she spoke, a sound that made him think of young lovers separated by fate.
“Will you not swim with the rest of your people?”
“I am to remain with you as long as you tend to our wounded. I am to speak for you so that the rest can understand.”
“You are stuck translating my words.” He nodded. “I’m sorry you can’t swim, but I rather like the company.” That was the truth of the matter; he missed his family and he suspected that his idiot brother, Uto, had already buried their mother. She was not well when they parted, and though she put on a brave face, he knew the wasting illness was killing her. His children, his wife, they were with Uto and probably safer. He prayed they were safer.
This, what he did? He did because the gods asked. He was faithful, even when the gods terrified him, and just now they were scaring him constantly. The pale women did not scare him. They were at least human. The He-Kisshi were the servants of the gods but they were terrifying. He had seen Saramond, his home, destroyed by savage storms, torn asunder by wind and rain and endless volleys of lightning. Though he had not encountered them, yet, he knew that there were armies of people out in the storm-soaked areas looking to find the people responsible for what was happening. He also kne
w too many who would hang a man first, and consider his innocence or guilt later.
So, yes, he liked the company. He liked any companions at all that seemed calm, and good, and human.
The rains came harder. Not stinging and cold as they had been, but constant. At least there was no hail. His father had always told him that a blessing was easy enough to find if one only looked. The rain was not a flood. The water that fell was not frozen. The women with him were grateful for his aid and not hungry for his blood. There were enough of them that they were safe, at least. Only a truly mad person would look at a gathering the size of the one with him and consider attacking.
From all sides the noises came, high-pitched keening sounds that rose into the skies and very nearly seemed to summon more rain.
“It is time for them to go.” Eliam’s voice was a soft, lonely whisper.
She moved from the canopy where the wounded rested, and slid closer to him, looking out at the rain and the white shapes of her fellow Grakhul.
“They sing,” she said. “They call to the gods and ask for speed and favor.”
The closest of the women to him nearly doubled over, looking toward the water at her feet as it rushed past. Her fair hair fell, covering her face, but he could see the changes elsewhere on her body. The skin on her arms seemed to wrinkle for a moment, and then it coalesced into a fine sheen of scales. Her arms and legs grew longer, her fingers and toes elongated. A moment later she looked up toward the skies again and her mouth opened wide, calling out in a screech that seemed impossibly high and loud. Her eyes were wrong, wide and bulbous, larger than they should have been. Her teeth and jaw line were different as well, warped out of proportion. Her nose seemed almost the same, but because of the spreading of her lower face, the shape was wrong.
Fallen Gods Page 2