Daivem shook her head. “Why so much fear of your kind?”
“We work with sorcery. That makes most people fear us, whether or not what we do is dark.”
She nodded her head and frowned. “Ignorance is never a pretty thing.”
“No, but sometimes it’s useful. Three men who were considering attacking us changed their minds when you said where I was from.” He spoke softly and remained amused.
“So why do you come to the mainland now?”
“One of my disciples called for me. She had a man come to her who wishes to stop all of this.” He gestured to the gathering storms in the distance. Both of them understood that the clouds signified something other than a natural force at work. “She plans to help him and seeks my advice on how to best manage this feat.”
Daivem nodded her head and the thick braids of hair running down her back moved and rattled.
“I am curious,” Roskell said. “Both the people of the Louron and the Mentath braid their hair and almost never cut it. Why is that?”
“It’s just ‘the Louron’, as it is with the Mentath. The names, I mean. For my people I think it’s just a fashion thing. I have never cut my hair, but if I leave it free it’s a cloud around my head, so at a young age I started weighing it down.” In truth her hair was more a series of gathered dreadlocks weighted down by stones and baubles than it was a proper series of braids. They were uneven and would never come free. If she decided to loosen her hair she’d have to cut it away. “The Mentath? I believe their hair has to do with their honor. Once they are old enough to fight, they start growing their hair. As they get older the hair stays as a sign of their status. If they get it cut, they do so because they’re being punished. My brother once told me that their enemies would cut their hair when they were defeated in combat.” She paused. “My brother has also been known to lie if he found the lies amusing, so that should not be considered the absolute truth.”
“A man who lies when he finds it funny?”
“Only to me when we were younger. He was the one who told me about this place, back before I ever thought I’d come to visit.”
“So he’s been here?”
“Yes, many times.”
“But you have not?”
“This is my first time.” Daivem eyed two men who were looking her way. She continued to smile, but Roskell was aware that she marked them. She was not a foolish person. Few he had ever met from Louron would qualify as foolish. They seemed, at all times, to study everything.
“So what brings you here now?”
Daivem looked around the area. Her hand waved toward the north. “The spirits call and I listen. It is what we do.”
Roskell nodded his head slowly. “The gods are angry.”
“Have they ever been cheerful?” Roskell gave her an odd look. He was trying to find a way to respond, when she clarified. “These gods, I mean. Have they ever been forgiving or kind?”
“Well, no.”
“Then nothing has changed. They merely act from their typical anger.”
“They are destroying the world.”
Daivem nodded and looked at another group of men. This lot were drunk and staggering together in an attempt at a crude song. They could not seem to remember the words between them and she expected they would soon fight over that fact.
She was not wrong. A fat man looked to his friend and punched him in the face for saying the wrong words. His friend took that poorly and pulled a dagger from his belt.
“The world is still here. They have not destroyed it just yet.”
“That is why I am here to help stop them.”
“And how will you do that, Roskell of Galea?”
He looked at his left hand and the rings on each finger. The one on his middle finger held a dark red gem that flashed with each hint of light. “I have a ways to go. I have to reach the Broken Swords Mountains. I have to meet a man there. He is planning on fighting the gods.”
Daivem nodded. “I wish him well. That seldom goes as planned. In my experience.”
“You have experience with angry gods?”
Daivem tilted her head. “You might be surprised.”
“Then you would have advice?”
“None that would make sense.” Roskell was distracted by the violent fight between drunken friends. One of the men fell back with a vast bleeding wound on his face and the others argued as to what to do now that he’d been injured.
When he looked back, Daivem was gone.
“Pity. I was enjoying the company.”
Beron
The Marked Men showed up just before the sun set. There were forty of them lined up nice and neat as you please, each on a warhorse, each fully armored and carrying enough weapons to intimidate a dozen mercenaries. They sported shields with the sigil of Mentath, three swords crossed under a skull wearing a crown, and swords and everything else one might need to ride into combat. They also moved in nearly perfect formation as they approached.
Beron hated to admit it, but he was suitably impressed. If he were being completely honest, he was even a little intimidated, and that was not an easy thing.
Argus looked at the people coming their way and spat. “Pretty lot, aren’t they?”
“Well. Their tattoos are nicer than yours.” Even as Beron spoke he felt an unease come to him. It had nothing to do with the strangers from Mentath. The sword at his side physically twitched. It moved of its own volition against his hip and he put his hand on the pommel, uncertain of what had just happened.
And again he found himself elsewhere. He knew he had not truly been moved, but it felt like he had. The air was warm and moist, the scent of flowers overwhelming, and once more the thin visage of Ariah looked at him. Ariah’s left arm was buried now under a writhing vine that held a hundred red blooms. His right hand rested on a sword that was a perfect mirror of the fine blade he’d gifted Beron with.
“Why do you speak with the Marked Men, Beron?” Ariah’s voice was still dark and pleasant, but there was an edge now, one that promised pain.
“We have an arrangement. I am to give the prisoners I capture over to them. Just the same, I did not call on them. I had plans to play with my freshly captured sacrifices first.”
“They will lie to you. It’s what they do.” Dark eyes regarded him. “When you need me, call on me. My children are with you. They will act when you require it.”
“They have offered me great rewards. If they have no cash, they do not take anything from me. Not this day or any other.”
The demon shrugged and the vines drove roots into his flesh. “Unless you see the gold, they are lying. Remember that.”
Without another word Ariah was gone and the cold sank into Beron again. He looked toward Argus and saw the riders had come considerably closer.
“Are you listening to a word I’ve said?” Argus was staring at him.
“I was thinking.”
“Well, think a little less. We’re about to have an argument with a large group of armored men.”
And they were armored. There was leather and chain and plates of armor to cover all the vitals. They wore helmets that had shaped metal horns coming down on each side, the better to deflect a blow, and faceplates that had been lowered, leaving their opponents with nothing to see but the slot where their eyes should have been.
Beron waited to speak until the first of them had come to a halt before him.
She raised the faceplate of her armor and looked at him. “You’ve found some of them, Beron?”
“I have.” He nodded his head and remained as neutral as he could.
“Are they alive?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t bother with them dead. They’re useless.”
He still did not know her name, but he remembered their previous conversation. She looked far more intimidating sitting atop her charger than she did walking by his side. The others beside her, dressed in similar fashion, helped with that. One person alone seldom managed to look as properly t
hreatening. Also, she was the shortest of the lot and astride her charger she did not look small.
“How many have you found?”
“At least five. I recognized them from when they sold me the new slaves.”
She nodded her head and looked around the area. Most fighters were like that; they needed to assess everything constantly. “We can take them to King Parrish now, if you’d like.”
“Do you have the gold to pay for them?”
That earned him a smile. “Gold is hard to carry over long miles.” The bag she held out was almost the size of his head. “Gems. Not the full payment, but enough to slake your thirst, I should think.”
She threw the pouch and he caught it with ease. It weighed enough to make his arm tremble. It only took a moment to inspect the stones. Even in the semidarkness he could see the quality.
“Argus. Show our guests to their reward.”
Argus stared hard at him for a moment and then nodded. He gestured and started walking. Two of the horsemen broke rank and followed.
Beron looked at the woman and asked, “What is your name?”
“Morne of the Iron Seas.”
The Iron Seas was the fourth house in Mentath. They were far to the west and home to some of the most brutal warriors in the kingdom. The land was supposed to be harsh and the seas there were not kind. According to what he’d heard, the Iron Seas had been seized from another race of beings long ago. The land was inhospitable, but highly prized. Most of the decent gems in the Five Kingdoms had been plucked from mines in the area. It explained why he was paid in gemstones.
“Well, Morne, it is a pleasure doing business with you.”
“Our business is not yet concluded.” She frowned as she said it.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have my prisoners yet.” She looked in the direction her fellow Marked Men had gone.
“You will. They are only moments away.”
She smiled. “Are they?”
That was when Beron heard the screams.
Harper Ruttket
Harper looked at the gathered shapes in the near dark and nodded. “Now’s a good time, I suspect.”
He’d only held off because Desmond insisted. As the man was a terror when it came to his blades, it seemed best not to aggravate him too much.
He could see Mosely and Laram, Bos, Neely and Kano. The rest were surely there, but he could not spot them. The five he could see had been brutalized. They were bruised and bloodied but it looked like they were intact, at least.
“Let’s be about it. The poor bastards are in bad shape.” Jon spoke softly, but his face was set like stone. Jon, who had the best smile when he was happy but had stopped smiling after the raid in the north. Harper figured that as a sad turn of events.
Still, he nodded and the lot of them crept closer.
The edge of the camp was not well guarded. There were enough people there that keeping a watch should have been simple, but no. The slavers weren’t worried about anyone attacking them. They were arrogant and lazy, near as Harper could figure. What sort of fool doesn’t set a guard?
Desmond crouched low, his hands on the hilts of his axes. Despite his size Sallos moved silently, his eyes searching even as his feet settled effortlessly in the light snow. That was to their advantage, really. Snow seemed to suck away noise.
Harper got there first. He looked at Laram and the tight bindings on the man’s wrists. His hands were turning purple from lack of blood.
“Not a fucking word,” he whispered. And then his carving knife was working on the bonds and he was thanking the very gods that meant to have him for dinner for the fact the slavers hadn’t used chains.
Laram snorted and huffed but said nothing. He rolled forward and shook his hands, slowly moving his fingers to bring them back to life. The rope that tied his hands had also been wrapped around his ankles after they forced him into a cross-legged position. It was obvious that Laram had tried to break the bonds but every move had only tightened the ropes. There was no chance of escape without help. Slavers were good at that sort of thing. The ground where he’d been sitting was dry, but the poor bastard was covered in a layer of snow that fell away as he moved.
Next to Laram, Bos and Kano moaned softly. Kano’s left eye was swollen shut and looked to be bleeding. Harper gritted his teeth and suppressed a desire to growl. The blade moved, and Kano’s hands were freed.
Bos was next. His skin was torn and scraped. He whimpered when the blood got to his fingers. They’d been left that way for too long, hands behind backs and tied to their feet. When the ropes slipped they were freed easily, but not a one of them was ready for a fight.
That could not be said of Mosely. Desmond’s axe had cut his ropes and the big man was already standing, his round face set and furious. Not as solid as his cousin, Brogan, but he was a sight to see when his ire was up.
While Jon cut the ropes on Neely, Harper moved closer to Mosely. “None of that. I know you’re angry, but we find the others, we leave here. There’s too many for us to consider fighting.”
Mosely’s voice was hoarse. “There are no others.”
“Come again, lad?”
Mosely looked at him. There were red welts around his neck. Not finger marks, but rope burns. Someone had caught him around his throat and half strangled him. “They only need the ones who stole the pale women. The others are gone. I don’t know if they’ve been locked away or if they are dead, but they’re no longer with us.”
“We can still get them then.” That was Bump speaking.
“No, Bump. I don’t think we can. I think they’d slow us down.”
“How do you mean?”
It was Neely that answered with his high, nearly girlish voice. “First thing they did was drive nails through their heels. None of them’re going to be walking anywhere.”
Harper had heard of slavers doing that to runaways before. It didn’t cripple them forever but it made the notion of escape nearly impossible.
Mosely spoke again. “That was the first thing they did. The rest we only heard. We didn’t see.”
Harper nodded and looked to Jon. “Get them away. Take the horses.” Mearhan Slattery held the horses still. That much had gone well at least. “I’ll catch up.”
“What are you planning to do?”
“I’m going to find our lads and see what’s what.” Without another word he moved, sliding low and moving deeper into the camp. Mosely hadn’t said where the others were, but he’d looked at the closest tent as he spoke. He would see soon enough.
It took only a moment to find the entrance to the tent. Longer to get inside, because he was alone and had no notion of what was in that little oasis, so he took his time looking around before entering.
There was a fire within. It was small but held the cold and snow at bay well enough. A hole had been cut to let the smoke rise and escape, but the air was still hazy from the residue. Easily half the tent was filled with supplies. Move men and you need wood, rope, dry goods, and fresh water. All of that and more was in the tent. Beside that, however, there was a man wearing clothing that was wet with blood. Mostly the clothes were brown, but from wrist to elbow the fabric was darkened with the red stuff that had leaked out of Harper’s comrades. Most of them were dead. That was a blessing. They had not died easily.
The man was still working on the last of Harper’s companions. It was hard to say for sure, but he thought maybe he was looking at Paddy.
Oh, how Harper wished he had time to return the tortures committed, but he did not. He stepped up behind his target, intimate, like a lover, and slit his throat in one hard stroke. The bastard gagged and reached to stop the blood from flowing. He never quite made it. When Harper cut a neck he made sure to do it right.
He did the same for Paddy, who was still alive despite the parts that had been cut away. Paddy might have thanked him as he died; it was hard to say as the poor sod had no tongue left.
In a perfect world he’d have
stopped and sliced them all, but he had no time for that. The others were already on their way and he had to catch up. Finding weapons for the survivors was easy. They’d all been stowed in the tent. He took a cloak that had been cast aside when the cutting began and used it to hide his tracks best he could before he made new ones leading away from the others. It was a long, slow trek through the camp, around the edges and to the north before he wiped the footprints away again and headed south. It wouldn’t confuse them for long, but he could hope it would be long enough.
Not but twenty minutes away by foot, still just within earshot, he heard the sounds of discovery. He didn’t know if they saw the prisoners were gone or if they found the dead torturer. The result was the same in any event; screams and then people sounding the alarm.
Harper moved on, away from the death of five companions.
He did not scream. He did not curse. Instead he made a vow to kill as many as he could that decided to follow them.
Beron
Beron looked at the tent and the trail leading away from it. The metal-faced things Ariah had given him were still not around, but he had three of the demon’s “children” with him and he intended to make good use.
“Find them. Bring them to me.”
The dark thing nodded and then moved, rising silently into the air, while Beron and the Marked Men watched.
“What is that thing?” Morne stared into the sky as it rose and then seemed to simply drift lazily to the south and east.
“A gift from my new god.”
Morne smiled and looked down at the markings on her hands. “So we’re not the only ones.”
“What do you mean?”
She showed him the markings on her flesh where they ran from the back of her hand and, as he had seen previously when she was not in armor, up her arm. “When you find your gods no longer serve your needs, it is time to find a new god.”
Beron laughed and nodded. “Perhaps that is why they are so angry. New gods are coming along to take their places, yes?”
Fallen Gods Page 13