The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  She bolted past the last house, wiped her greasy hands on her pants, then scrambled up storage barrels and jumped to the handholds in the palisade, compliments of a resident woodpecker. She pulled herself up, hoisted one leg over the tip of the wall, then the other, careful not to kick over the stone wards secured with nails and thin strips of leather, and jumped down on the other side, landing in a low crouch. There, she stopped to listen.

  On the other side of the wall, wood crashed and exploded. Sable pinched her lips together and studied the trees, wary. She’d wandered the forest’s edge often enough to pick herbs, but always during the day. She knew it well, but night brought a very different forest. Now, the dark pines loomed like giant sentinels, hiding the evil festering within.

  A grunt sounded above her, and she glanced up as one of Velik’s boots poked over the top of the wall. With a curse, Sable shoved herself to her feet and bolted into the forest.

  “Come back here, you filthy little maggot!” Velik yelled.

  By the wards, he made it sound so tempting…

  Low branches slapped her legs and hands, stinging her face. With each stride, her unease intensified. She shouldn’t be there. She should turn around before the forest took her as it’d taken so many others. As a healer, she knew firsthand what this forest could do to a man’s body, and his mind. She stole a glance back, but Velik followed stubbornly on.

  Sable cursed again. She couldn’t let him catch her, but she also couldn’t run much deeper into the woods. With quick decision, she skidded around a boulder, bolted for the low branches of a huge pine she’d gathered sap from just this morning, and started climbing. Hand over hand, scrambling up the fat tree trunk, careful not to make too much noise as she tucked herself away in its branches.

  Velik’s hulking silhouette lumbered around the boulder, and Sable held her breath. Velik stopped at the base of her tree and looked around.

  One second.

  Two.

  Her lungs burst, but she didn’t dare breathe. She needed him to go, because they both needed to get the burning wards out of there.

  At last, Sable heard him growl in frustration. She peered through the branches to see him retreating toward the village. She loosed a relieved breath but hid in the boughs until she was certain Velik had gone before climbing down. Her boots had just grazed the hard earth when she heard whispers.

  They slipped in on a breeze, the hush of many, muffled and obscured, but faded as quickly as they’d come.

  Sable froze, still gripping the lowest branch. Her gaze swept the shadows, but the forest lay quiet. The trees wouldn’t help. They never did. They prided themselves in keeping secrets, but she couldn’t fault them for that. They’d also kept her own. She was starting for the village when an unnatural stillness fell over everything.

  Sable stopped in her tracks, eyes pinned on the roiling darkness, and the back of her neck tingled.

  Something was here.

  The air grew teeth, pierced her bones, and the rotten stench of decay soiled the air—so pungent, Sable stifled a gag.

  “I…ma…ri…”

  The name drifted from the past, haunting and inhuman, and a chill ran through Sable from head to toe.

  She bolted.

  Her boots crunched over dead leaves and fallen twigs, but she ran on, trusting her memory to guide her back to the village.

  “Imari…” the shadows repeated, closer this time. The wind raked icy claws down her back. “You… cannot hide…”

  Pure terror pushed her faster than she’d ever run before, and finally she reached the wall. She scrambled up the small divots in the wood, and her hands slipped twice, trembling. She cursed and gripped again, climbing higher and higher, hoisting her legs over the wall and between the stone wards before dropping down on the other side. She staggered to her feet and glanced back.

  The wall blocked most of her view of the forest beyond, though she could still make out the forest’s spired silhouettes against a starlit sky. The warded stones cresting the wall slept. She waited a breath, then took a few steps back, trying to see farther beyond the wall. Just to be sure.

  Nothing.

  Sable exhaled and wiped sweaty palms on her pants. Whatever it was, at least it wasn’t foolish enough to test Skanden’s centuries-old enchantments. She’d started turning back to the village when a spark of light caught her eye.

  It’d come from one of the warded stones.

  Pale blue light pulsed from the ward directly before her. Sable stilled. With each passing second, its overlapping circular etchings burned brighter and brighter, slowly waking. A second stone sparked to life, its etched lines and angles burning bright, just like the first.

  Skanden’s warded stones ran the perimeter of the wall, spaced at regular intervals. They all looked the same: oval in shape, smooth and pressed into a disc, with wards etched upon both faces. Ward enchantment was a lost art, but villages like Skanden, nestled deep within the heart of The Wilds, relied upon that old art to protect themselves from the dangerous remnants of the Shah that still existed in these parts. Most dangerous creatures stayed away from the villages, but every so often, something wandered close enough to wake a ward. But never, in all of Sable’s ten years living in this place, had she seen one glow so brightly, let alone two at once.

  A third pulsed to life.

  Sable was searching the darkness beyond, trying to find the source, when a shadow stretched forward in a tendril of smoke. It leaked from the night like ink, and reached for one of the stones. Sable prayed to no one in particular that those wards would hold.

  The strange smoke stretched closer and closer, dancing around each ward, teasing and testing. The wards burned bright and insistent as the darkness poked and prodded and touched.

  Sable knew she should run—that she should get far away from whatever this was—but she had to know if the wards would hold. If the wards didn’t hold, no amount of running would save her from this. That, she felt deep in her bones. It’d said her name. Her true name. How it’d known, she had no idea, but if it’d found her here, it would find her anywhere.

  The smoke slid forward like a serpent and enveloped one of the glowing stones. The stone hissed and flickered like a candle struggling in the wind, and the ward light vanished.

  A heavy weight settled deep in Sable’s gut.

  Maker’s mercy.

  The smoke slid to the next stone, and the next, putting each out in turn. A finger snuffing out flames.

  Sable took slow steps back, watching in horror as the smoke slid past the dark wards and leaked over the wall. Closer and closer, its serpentine finger stretching across the ground, reaching for her.

  One of the stones sparked. A sphere of blinding blue light exploded out of it, blasting through Sable, and she shut her eyes against the brightness. A keening wail shattered the quiet, followed by a sizzling hiss, and then…

  Silence.

  Sable opened her eyes. The world muted to night once more, though one stone pulsed brightly atop the wall. A beacon, a warning. No signs remained of the otherworldly darkness, and the shadows were left to themselves again.

  2

  Sable sagged back against the crate and heaved cold air.

  Bless the early settlers who’d constructed those wards in the first place.

  After casting one last, untrusting glance at the forest beyond the wall, Sable tugged on her cowl, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and went on her way. She slipped through the sleepy town like a spirit, keeping to the shadows, for the shadows inside Skanden’s walls had long been a comfort. In them, she hid from the scornful glances, the judgment. In them, she existed outside of society—a thing living on the fringes, and as long as she didn’t wander outside of them, the people (mostly) left her alone. But she found no comfort in the shadows this night.

  The terrifying voice from the forest haunted her thoughts, persistent as a stain. Her skin crawled with memory, and more than once, she caught herself glancing over her sh
oulder to be sure.

  What was it? The question swirled in her mind. Never, in all her years here, had she encountered anything like it, and she’d encountered her share of frights. How had it found her, and why? And…

  How had it known her name?

  Her thoughts followed her all the way to the rear wall of the small apartments where the Smets lived. All of the buildings in Skanden boasted thick scars of time and season, like the people who lived here, but this building carried more scars than most. It was an original, built when Skanden was first erected, and like a stubborn old man, it clung defiantly to this world, ignoring its own slow deterioration.

  Sable jumped and grabbed hold of the wooden supports jutting out from the framework, using them to pull herself up and scale the rear wall, deftly navigating her way toward the open window. She gripped the windowsill and pulled herself up enough to peek inside. The narrow corridor lay quiet, and a lantern burned at the far end, casting gauzy light upon the crumbling brick and plaster walls. She hoisted herself through the window, landed softly inside, then made her way to the Smets’ door and rapped three soft times.

  A floorboard creaked inside the house, the door cracked open, and Kat Smet’s heart-shaped face appeared. At the sight of Sable, her eyes lit up, and she glanced furtively down the hall, checking to make sure no one spied them before ushering Sable inside.

  The Smets didn’t have much, not even when it came to warmth. The rising heat from the lower levels did nothing to chase away the cold in their small apartment. Neither did the landlord. A pane was still missing from their one window, and a few buckets sat upon the floor, positioned to collect rainwater from a leaking rooftop. Soon, the rain would turn into snow.

  Sable followed Kat to the corner where little Jedd lay on his cot, sleeping beneath a pile of old blankets. Jedd had turned ten last week. They hadn’t been able to celebrate because he’d come down with this terrible cough and fever that refused to let him go, and now it ate away at his mind.

  Jedd moaned and tossed his head from side to side, his forehead wet and deathly pale. It made Sable’s chest hurt, seeing him reduced to this.

  Mikael looked up as she crossed the room. His hair was disheveled, and strain pulled at the corners of his eyes. He looked like a man about to lose his only son. Because that’s exactly what he was.

  Sometimes Sable wished someone loved her that fiercely.

  “You’ve been watching his fever?” she asked, kneeling beside Jedd.

  “Aye,” Mikael said, wringing his hands. “And Kat’s been rubbing the leander oil on his chest every day, like you said.”

  Sable pressed her palm to Jedd’s forehead. By the wards, he was still hot as embers.

  She pushed the hair from his forehead and began to sing. She didn’t sing words, just notes, as they poured form her soul, unbidden. Mikael and Kat watched, curious and then hopeful as Jedd’s breathing calmed, and the rise and fall of his chest matched the rhythm of Sable’s lilting melody. As the last few notes left her lips, Jedd’s body relaxed into a deep slumber.

  There. He was peaceful, at least.

  Sable pulled her hand away and adjusted Jedd’s covers, and when she turned back to Kat and Mikael, Kat’s eyes welled with tears.

  “Here’s bread, marrow, and root vegetables,” Sable said, pulling the pouch from her belt and handing it to Mikael. The bread and vegetables were from her own pantry, but she preferred letting Mikael believe they all were.

  Mikael untied the strings, opened the pouch, and inhaled deeply. Sable didn’t doubt it’d been days since they’d eaten a decent meal. She knew her gifts were hard for Mikael to accept, but any bit of pride he’d once held had vanished when his son fell ill.

  Mikael had been a farmer in Brevera—one of the Five Provinces’ southern provinces—before losing everything in a fire, and soon after, he fell into crippling debt. He, his wife, and son had migrated north, all the way to Skanden, hoping to find a way to start over, but The Wilds’ landscape was ruthless, and its citizens—mostly criminals and outcasts from the Five Provinces—were arguably more so. After one full year, Mikael still hadn’t found enough work to provide for his family, and being that food was a scarcity in this climate, people didn’t often share. Sable gave everything she could to those who needed it, but it was never enough.

  “I brought this, too,” Sable said, pulling out a cloth satchel from inside her cloak.

  Mikael took it with a question in his eyes.

  “Derriweed.”

  His expression fell open. “Sable, we can’t… you know I would’ve given my old farm for this, but I could never—“

  “Take it,” she insisted, putting her hand over his. “He needs it, and I won’t risk his life over a few crowns. I can get more derriweed.”

  Emotion welled in Mikael’s eyes. “I… I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “I just hope it helps him,” Sable said, glancing back at Jedd with concern. “There’s enough derriweed for four days. Crush the leaves and mix a pinch with hot water three times a day. Now repeat what I said.”

  “Crush the leaves,” Kat replied in a voice trembling with hope. “Mix a pinch with hot water. Three times a day.”

  Sable nodded. “Make sure he drinks all of it.”

  Mikael placed a hand on Sable’s arm. One of his fingertips was bubbled and bruised from frostbite. That’d happened right before she’d stolen a pair of leather gloves for him to wear. Those, too, had come from Velik.

  “I will,” he said. “Maker bless you, child.”

  Sable didn’t believe in the Maker, or any gods, for that matter. If they existed, they certainly weren’t in the habit of blessing her. She didn’t know how Mikael still believed in them either, not after everything he and his family had been through.

  “I’ll come by to check on him in a few days,” she said. She cast one last glance at Jedd and quietly escorted herself out, back through the window and down the wall.

  Sable took her time walking back to the little hut she shared with Tolya at the opposite end of the village. She kept an eye out for Velik, just in case. Velik had yet to discover she’d been the one stealing from him, but it would look suspicious if he spotted her out at this hour.

  A thin web of mist wove through the dark and empty streets. The town slept, though the windows of The Honest Thief still pulsed and flickered with warm light. Ivar owned the only tavern within thirty miles in all directions, so it usually lay awake well into the morning. The front door creaked open and Benioff, the smithy, stumbled out of it, tripping over his feet on his way down the steps. Ake and Polich followed after, hoisted a drunken Benioff between them, and sang a bawdy song as they carried him off. They’d forgotten to close the door, and lute music escaped, echoing across the street.

  Sable pressed her lips together and glanced down the dark path leading home. She should go. She’d already been out late enough. Still, the notes persisted, floating around her, eerie and beautiful and seductive. It was always so, with music. Like a tether she couldn’t break.

  Sable had just forced her feet to move in the opposite direction when the musician slipped into a new piece—one from Istraa.

  Unable to help herself, Sable stopped and closed her eyes. It was like listening to a memory. Notes rattled at uneven intervals, climbing and falling through a lurid sky, the golden sands ablaze, and the world smelled of heat and fire. The music swelled against a percussive beat, and suddenly, she saw her brother Ricón, laughing and dancing inside the palace hall. She saw her brother Kai, too, and her papa and Sura Anja, wrapped elegantly in fabric the purple of a desert sunrise. Sable called out to them, though she had no voice. Like a breeze, she floated in the keyhole arches above, weaving around columns until her family’s forms faded, and Ricón’s laughter echoed into nothingness.

  “Little late for a walk, don’t you think?”

  Sable snapped her eyes open as a silhouette peeled itself from the shadows. Velik. She ground her teeth, furious with herself. She’
d known better.

  Velik stopped a few feet before her. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, along with something else Sable didn’t care to examine too closely. Instinct told her to run, but she stood strong and unyielding. Only guilty people ran.

  “I could say the same,” she said dryly.

  He took a threatening step closer. “I’m looking for a thief.”

  “You’re in luck. Skanden’s full of them.”

  His eyes hardened, and he took another step. “And one of them is stealing from me. Just now, in fact.” He stood so close, Sable had to crane her head to gaze up at his boxy face. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that now, would you, Scablicker?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “If I notice any suspicious behavior, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

  “Like a Scablicker wench walking the streets—alone—in the middle of the night?”

  Before Sable could respond, he wrapped an arm around her waist and yanked her forward, pulling her body against his.

  “Velik!” She shoved against him, but he was too strong, too solid. “Let go!”

  His one arm held firm while his other searched. “Where is it?” he snarled.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  His free hand felt beneath her cloak, grabbing her waist, her backside. And… her backside.

  “Stop it!” she growled, squirming and reaching for the knife she kept in the shaft of her boot. Her fingertips had just grazed the hilt when a new voice called, “Velik…?”

  It was Brinn, the tavern maid and Ivar’s granddaughter. Brinn still wore her apron, and her blonde hair was fastened in a tight coil at the nape of her neck, though a few wisps curled about her temples.

  Velik shoved Sable off. Sable stumbled forward and barely caught her footing.