The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  Chez snorted. Gerald rolled his eyes.

  The Scab prisoner glared at them from where she sat at the campfire, bound and gagged.

  Stanis noticed. “You got a problem, Scab?”

  The Scab turned her head back to the fire.

  Stanis set down his bowl, strode to the prisoner, and kicked her in the side. The force sent her onto her back, and she grunted into her gag. He was moving to kick her again when Braddok said, “Enough.”

  Stanis glanced back.

  Braddok shook his head. “You know how the inquisitors like them healthy.”

  Stanis glared down at the woman, restrained by the truth of Braddok’s words. “Rutting Scab.” He spat on her face instead. She winced, his spittle slid down her cheek, and he stalked back to his bowl.

  Braddok glanced over at Jeric, who sat a few yards away studying the goods they’d uncovered. Braddok filled another bowl and approached Jeric.

  “You should eat something,” Braddok said, setting the bowl on the ground beside Jeric, who surveyed the items they’d acquired. A few crude blades made of black metal, two hundred crowns, a map of Corinth, and a small vial of gods knew what.

  “Baraga Mountains my arse.” Braddok grunted. “What’s in the vial?”

  “It’s not ale,” Jeric replied wryly.

  Braddok sniggered, picked up the vial, uncorked, and took a whiff. “Gods above…” He coughed. “My scat smells better.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Jeric mused.

  Braddok pressed down the cork and returned the vial to Jeric’s small collection before picking up one of the blades. “Huh. This isn’t skal…”

  “No,” Jeric said and glanced up at Braddok. “It’s not.”

  Braddok tested it between his teeth. Studied it again. “Looks like a piece of night sky.” Braddok eyed Jeric. “You have an idea.”

  Jeric frowned at the map and tapped his thumb against the scrawled waves of the Yellow Sea. “I think it’s nightglass. I’ve never seen it, but the material was named because it looks like a shard of night sky.” And this particular metal did, as though the gods had carved out a piece of the universe and given it to man as a weapon, stars and all.

  Braddok frowned back at the blade. “I’ve never heard of it. Where’s it from?”

  “The Wilds.”

  Braddok looked sharply at Jeric. “What in the five hells would Wilds’ fugitives be doing down here?”

  It was a good question. People didn’t often venture down from The Wilds. The reasons that generally took them to The Wilds in the first place usually prevented a safe return to the provinces.

  “I don’t know,” Jeric replied distractedly, “but I’ll wager they’re not particularly concerned with a shipment of skal ore headed for Rodinshold.”

  Jarl Rodin governed Corinth’s southwestern edge, where it touched Brevera. According to a messenger, his last two shipments of skal arms and weaponry had been intercepted by Scab raiders. He had no proof, only conjecture, but nevertheless, he demanded more resources to replace that which had been lost. However, skal arms weren’t so easily replaced. Peace was a brittle thing in these uncertain times, and all of Corinth’s jarls demanded more reinforcements. Skyhold’s skalsmiths worked day and night filling orders, in addition to stocking the king’s own, and Rodin was not the sort of man who liked to be kept waiting. He also had a very inflated view of his own importance.

  “You think Rodin is making it up?” Braddok asked.

  “Doubtful.”

  “Could be his way of getting more than his ration.” Braddok shrugged.

  “He’s not that smart.”

  Braddok waggled his brow in agreement. “Then who’s stealing it?”

  “Scabs, probably.”

  Braddok frowned. “Wolf, you’re not making much sense.”

  “Neither does this map,” Jeric said, studying a marking near The Fingers. It denoted the city of Dunsten, but it’d been called by a different name, in the Scárib tongue. Jeric had studied Scárib for the sole purpose of knowing his enemy, and he thought he knew it well enough. He’d studied the Istraan dialect, which differed somewhat, but not so much that he couldn’t piece together Scab variations. But this word, standing isolated and out of context, held no meaning for him, and it seemed important. “Do you know this word?”

  Braddok crouched beside him, leathers creaking and groaning as he did so. “No rutting clue.”

  “Look here. Reichen is also wrong.” Jeric pointed to a marking designating the city of Reichen, which had been replaced by another Scab word. “And here.” He pointed to a location along the Fallow River, which had also been replaced with a Scárib phrase.

  “Maybe they made a mistake,” Braddok suggested. “Didn’t know the names, so they made up their own.”

  Jeric stopped tapping his finger, and his gaze narrowed on their prisoner. “Maybe.” He wanted to ask her, but that wasn’t his role in this sport. He did the tracking and hunting, then tossed his catch to the inquisitors for dissection.

  Still…

  “So?” Braddok asked in a voice too quiet for the others to hear. “Once we return, you still planning to meet with Hersir?”

  Jeric jerked his dagger from the ground, where he’d stabbed the map’s edge to hold it in place against the wind. Hersir was head of Corinth’s Strykers—a group often referred to by the people as the gods’ private assassins. Strykers were sanctioned by the gods, their purpose strictly to defend Corinth’s crown and borders. It also happened to be Jeric’s one and only chance at severing the chain that bound him to his older brother’s whims. Not even Corinth’s king could defy the gods’ laws where Strykers were concerned.

  “Hersir,” Jeric answered quietly, rolling up the map. “The ordination is set to happen three evenings from now.”

  “What if your brother returns before we do?” Braddok asked.

  “He won’t…” Jeric’s voice trailed, and he tilted his ear to the trees. His gaze shot to the shadows, narrowing, and he jumped to his feet, leaving the map on the ground.

  Braddok started to stand, but at a gesture from Jeric, he held back. Jeric ran his tongue over his teeth, crept through their contraband, and slipped deeper into the trees, silent as a ghost. He soon spotted what had caught his attention.

  A man crouched in the trees, slowly approaching their camp.

  Jeric was on him in two strides, holding a dagger to his throat. The man let out an undignified squeak.

  “Hands out,” Jeric growled.

  The young man’s arms spread wide. “I didn’t mean—”

  Jeric shoved him forward.

  “I swear, I’m—”

  Jeric shoved him again, harder this time, and the man toppled into their camp. Chez and Stanis’s laughter died as the man fell to the ground before them. They jumped to their feet, weapons drawn, and Chez pinned the intruder down, while Gerald shoved his face in the dirt with his boot.

  “Please!” the intruder said frantically, arms splayed in surrender. “I’m a messenger from Skyhold!”

  Jeric studied the man. Curly, straw-colored hair. Average height and build. Pinched, annoying voice.

  “I don’t know you,” Jeric cut back.

  “My name’s Farvyn.”

  Gerald pushed his boot harder against Farvyn’s face.

  “Please! I’m new! I swear to the gods… I mean no harm,” he added to Jeric’s amusement. “I’ve a message for the prince!”

  Jeric stilled. He and Braddok exchanged a glance.

  “Who told you to look for him here?” Jeric demanded.

  “The Head Inquisitor!” Farvyn continued with desperation, happy to pin suspicion on anyone other than himself. “He said to search these parts, so I did, and then I saw your fire. I swear to the gods. It’s extremely urgent that I find the prince… please…”

  Jeric frowned, then tipped his chin at Gerald. Gerald lifted his boot, and Braddok grabbed Farvyn by the collar, jerking him to a stand. Farvyn, thus permitted sight, g
aped at Braddok’s hulking mass and, for the first time, looked at Jeric. His eyes widened with realization, and he dropped to his knee. “Prince Jeric… I didn’t realize. Please forgive—”

  “Silence,” Jeric snapped.

  Farvyn shut his mouth.

  Jeric stared hard at Farvyn, who shifted feebly upon his knee. “You give far too much information without verifying your audience. What if we’d been part of a Breveran scouting party?”

  Farvyn’s expression faltered, humbled and embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. It won’t happen again.”

  “No, it won’t.” Jeric’s eyes narrowed on the messenger, letting him feel the weight of his disapproval. “Well? Out with it.”

  Farvyn cleared his throat, shifted again. “His Highness, Prince Hagan, has returned, and he requires your presence at Skyhold immediately.”

  Jeric met Braddok’s knowing gaze. His brother rarely sent for him while he was on a hunt. But even more pressing was the fact that Hagan had returned.

  Jeric ground his teeth together. Godsdamnit.

  4

  The city of Reichen was one of Corinth’s most treasured, situated under Jarl Stovich’s jurisdiction. It provided most of Corinth’s grain, for it possessed what most of Corinth did not: sweeping fields of fertile soil. This month, instead of grain, Commander Anaton had received a note from Jarl Stovich, requesting his presence immediately.

  And so the commander had gone. Jarl Stovich wasn’t one for dramatics.

  Commander Anaton met Jarl Stovich at Bieler’s Watch—a guard post just outside of Reichen—and the two rode together to the village. Stovich’s and the commander’s personal guard followed close behind.

  “It’s better you see it in person,” Stovich had said, when Anaton had asked.

  Anaton hadn’t missed the distress in Stovich’s eyes.

  They crested a rise, and before Stovich said a word, Anaton knew something was wrong.

  Reichen sat at the center of a valley usually bustling with life, from noise of harvest, Scab workers in the fields, and the calls of cattle and sheep. Today, it was silent. The fields stretched uninhabited, plows abandoned in the grasses, and the buildings beyond sat dark.

  Anaton looked at Stovich. “What happened here?”

  Stovich stared ahead, his expression grim. “Come. I’ll show you.”

  The men cut through empty fields, and a bitter wind nipped at them, warning them away. Finally, Stovich stopped, and the men dismounted. Reichen was a ghost town, its streets empty, its chimneys cold. A sign creaked on rusted hinges, setting Anaton on edge.

  Stovich jerked his head for Anaton to follow, and their heavy boots plunked up the wooden steps of the dining hall. Stovich pushed through the doors and into a dark chamber. Rodents scurried. Plates of half-eaten food and mugs of ale littered the tables, swarming with flies. As if everyone had simply vanished mid-meal.

  Anaton wiped his forefinger along the table, pulling away dust. Maggots wormed in a lump of old potatoes. “You found it like this?”

  “Yes,” Stovich replied. “When Leon didn’t report, I sent a few men.” His eyes trailed the room. The walls groaned against the wind. “This way.”

  Anaton peeled his gaze from the hall and followed Stovich through a back door. There he stopped.

  Ahead stood the temple of Sela, the goddess of field and harvest, and upon the steps was a pile of bodies.

  “Lina’s mercy…” Anaton said.

  He smelled it then, the rot, the decay. He was no stranger to death. He’d seen it countless times; he was Corinth’s military commander.

  He had never seen this.

  An entire town of men and women and children—dead. He approached slowly and noticed the strange ashy color of their skin and the web of black veins staining it. Like ceramic, fractured. Horror distorted their faces, twisting their features, and their eyes had been ripped from their sockets, leaving crusted black pits behind.

  By the gods.

  One of Anaton’s guards gagged.

  “They’re all Corinthian,” Anaton noted quietly.

  “Yes,” Stovich replied.

  Anaton stopped a few paces away, surveying the carnage, hardly able to bear the stench. “Where are the slaves?”

  Stovich shook his head. “We don’t know. We couldn’t find tracks of an exodus. It’s like they just… vanished.”

  Anaton studied a little gray hand, still pudgy with childhood, and his stomach turned over. “Burn the bodies.”

  Stovich eyed him. “Do you know who could’ve done this?”

  Anaton’s gaze swept the abandoned town and the empty fields, and a dark cloud of trepidation settled over him. “I have no idea.”

  Sable sprinted through the forest, but no matter where she turned, she couldn’t find the village wall. The trees kept rearranging themselves, drawing her toward their heart.

  Toward death.

  Darkness swirled and thickened, blotting out the world, and an ice-cold grip squeezed her arm.

  Sable bolted upright, heart pounding, and her eyes opened to a dark room. Her room. Fumbling, she lit the candle upon her nightstand, then pushed up her sleeve. Three red lines stretched around her forearm, fading even as she studied them. She trailed her thumb over the marks. It’d been like this every night for a week—since her encounter in the forest.

  Frustrated, she threw back her blankets and slipped out of bed. If her mind was determined to keep her awake, she might as well make the most of it. She snatched her candle and padded to the kitchen, ducking beneath lines of hanging herbs to sit at the table. She reached overhead and grabbed a bundle of dried euctis, careful not to disturb the flower heads, and, by candlelight, she crushed the heads over a colander, picking out the old petals and chaff from the tiny black seeds. The process relaxed her in a strange sort of way, the monotony of it. Her practiced hands moved quickly and carefully, and it wasn’t long before she’d moved through the entire bundle.

  Sable picked up the next and hesitated, admiring the clover-shaped leaves that stained her fingers with sweetness. Euctis always reminded her of her uki, Gamla Khan, who’d served as Trier’s alma—healer—since before she’d been born.

  Sable held the little dried leaves to her nose and inhaled deeply. Euctis was Gamla’s favorite, and he’d grown pots and pots of it at his bedside. He’d claimed it grew better there, where beetles and grasshoppers couldn’t feast upon it. Sable had managed to keep hers alive in The Wilds’ harsh climate, but it never thrived. Not like it had in the confines of Gamla’s chambers.

  “You can plant seeds in other lands, give them plenty of water and sunshine, and hide them from pests, but if the gods designed them for sun and heat, they will not thrive in any other,” he had said. So often, when he spoke, she’d wondered at which point he’d stopped talking about plants and started referring to people. They’d been interchangeable to him. And now, as she sat there, thinking on her own displacement, she wondered if he’d seen the future.

  Sable pressed the dried stem between her fingers. She wished she hadn’t taken him for granted.

  She wished a lot of things.

  Tolya’s coughing rattled through the thin curtain separating her room from the kitchen.

  Sable stopped humming and glanced up from her work. Tolya’s cough had become a savage thing these past few days. After a particularly long fit, Sable set down the euctis, tiptoed to Tolya’s room, and listened from behind the curtain.

  “I know you’re there, girl,” Tolya called out. “Go back to bed.” And then she started coughing again.

  Sable returned to the kitchen, snatched some freshly dried lavender from the line above, grabbed a pinch of poppy seeds from the shelves, and made an herbal tea, which she carried to Tolya.

  “You never listen,” Tolya rasped.

  “That’s not true. I listen very well, when you’re rational.” Sable set the tea and candle upon Tolya’s nightstand.

  Tolya glared at the ceiling while grumbling things Sable couldn�
��t decipher but easily guessed.

  “Drink it,” Sable said firmly. “You have to get over this. Belfast is in two weeks, and we still have deliveries to make.”

  Tolya grunted and, begrudgingly, propped herself against her pillow and took the mug with unsteady hands. “You could go on without me.”

  Sable didn’t respond.

  Tolya peered at Sable over the mug. “You’ll have to eventually, girl.” Cough. “I won’t be around forever.”

  “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t expedite that fact.”

  Tolya took a sip of the tea and closed her eyes as though her lids were too heavy to hold open. Sable’s concern intensified.

  “Go on, girl,” the woman said, though the gusto was gone.

  Sable pinched her lips together, grabbed the candle, and left. She waited outside Tolya’s room a moment, and once she was satisfied the poppy had done its job, she returned to her room and went to bed.

  Tolya didn’t get out of bed the next morning.

  “Tolya,” Sable said, bleary-eyed, setting bread beside the old woman’s bed.

  Tolya didn’t stir. Her skin looked papery white, and her eyes sat too deep inside bruised sockets.

  “Tolya,” Sable repeated, louder this time, and she gently shook the old woman’s shoulder.

  Tolya moaned, and her eyes roamed behind closed lids.

  Sable pressed the back of her hand to Tolya’s forehead and frowned. Her skin blazed. Tea wouldn’t be enough. Tolya needed something strong, and she’d need something even stronger to wash it down.

  “I’ll do the morning rounds and stop by Ivar’s on my way back,” Sable said.

  Tolya moaned a reply.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Sable returned to the kitchen, where she gathered the usual tinctures and wrapped them carefully in cloth, which she further identified with small flowers. She snatched her fur-lined cloak from the bench, grabbed the bundled cloths and a few coins from the drawer, and stepped out into the brisk morning.

  The air smelled cold, spiced with the peppery scent of burning wood, and her breath rose from her lips in a thick cloud. It was the bud before the bloom, the prologue of season, and Sable wondered if, perhaps, winter would come early this year.