The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  His compliment was a rose covered in thorns.

  “No Istraan woman will come willingly with me, Hagan. You know that.”

  “Then don’t tell her who you are. These are details I trust Corinth’s deadliest assassin is capable of figuring out for himself.”

  Jeric’s eyes narrowed. “Why not have one of your lapdogs go after her?”

  “Oddly enough, Wolf, you’re the only dog I trust with this. Don’t worry for Corinth. Anaton has agreed to send more guards to the roads and passes while you’re away, and if you’re quick, you might even beat first snowfall.”

  Jeric stared at his brother. Hagan never took no for an answer, but Jeric would not do this. Not that he didn’t want his father healed—he did—but they were on the brink of war with Brevera, and the risk of this preposterous mission far outweighed the possible gain. No, not gain. Dream. That’s what it was. A flicker and a hope that, for some reason, Hagan was set upon, and risking Jeric’s life to retrieve.

  “No,” Jeric said. “Find someone else. The journey alone would take the better part of a month, and considering Father’s state—“

  “Please, Jeric. You don’t actually expect me to believe that Father’s health is your real concern.” Hagan’s tone cut like cold steel, but his gaze cut even sharper.

  Jeric stilled. Looking into his older brother’s face, he knew that Hagan knew. Somehow, while he’d been a hundred miles away, indulging in drunkenness and debauchery, he’d discovered Jeric’s plans.

  Godsdamn those rats of his.

  “I’m not an idiot,” Hagan said. “I know you’ve convinced Hersir to let you join the Strykers. I know you intended to take your vow tonight, and I have every right to have him tried for treason.”

  Jeric leaned forward. “Don’t you dare. This is my doing, Hagan. Not his. Mine.”

  Hagan gripped the edge of his desk and leaned toward Jeric in a not-so-subtle display of domination. “And I say no. I need you here, in my court.”

  “You talk like you’re already Corinth’s king,” Jeric said through clenched teeth.

  “I will be soon, and my opinion will not change on the matter.”

  Jeric squeezed his hands into fists.

  Godsdamn birth order, too.

  “But…” Hagan continued. “If you go to Skanden for me and bring back the healer, Hersir may keep his station, and his life. I might even permit you to continue on this”—he batted a demeaning hand—“sanctimonious path of yours.”

  This was exactly why Jeric had sought to join the Strykers in the first place—to have some semblance of self. To have something separate from Hagan that didn’t require him being subject to Hagan’s every foolish whim. Becoming a Stryker, he’d still be a servant of Corinth, but he’d serve the gods directly. As soon as he took the oath, Hagan couldn’t touch him. The laws of the gods wouldn’t allow it. Not even for a king.

  And he was so close.

  Jeric uncurled his fists and draped them over his knees, giving himself a moment to calm down—think. He’d already given away too much, and the key to dealing with Hagan was to never let him know your weaknesses, because Hagan would invariably use them against you. Jeric had discovered that the hard way, as a boy. He was being sorely reminded of it now.

  But he would not let Hersir suffer for this.

  Jeric grabbed his empty glass and tilted it toward Hagan, who promptly refilled it. Jeric swallowed it in one gulp, slammed the glass on the table, and wiped his mouth. Gods, he hated the stuff, but the burning in his chest helped mute the burning in his blood.

  “If I’m going to do this,” Jeric said at last, “I need more information. Her name, age, what she looks like…”

  “Her name is Sable, and she’s nearing twenty, I believe. She shouldn’t be too difficult to find. She’s Istraan. I believe the rest is your specialty, Wolf.”

  Jeric grunted.

  “It’s not like I’m telling you to search all of Istraa,” Hagan said. “You only have to search one little town.”

  “One little town in the five hells,” Jeric growled. He couldn’t believe this. Hagan had trapped him into doing his dirty work. Again. Only this time, he was sending him all the way to The Wilds. He couldn’t help but feel that Hagan was trying to push him out of the picture. Permanently.

  “This mission is futile,” Jeric said.

  “That’s why I’m sending you.”

  It could’ve been a compliment or an insult.

  The brothers stared each other down.

  Jeric relented. Not by choice. His birth order demanded it.

  He was about to ask something else when a light knock sounded on the door.

  Hagan stood. “Come in,” he said, as if he’d expected the interruption.

  Though Jeric still had a flood of protestations, he’d just been dismissed. Two guards entered, holding a slave girl between them. The girl looked to be in her late adolescence, and her coppery skin, angular dark eyes, and black hair declared her a Scab. Her eyes fixed on the floor as if everyone around her might vanish if she simply didn’t see them standing there.

  Hagan often had women brought to his chambers. If there was one thing Hagan liked as much as power, it was women. That, too, he’d inherited from their father, but worse. Jeric had never understood Hagan’s need. Plenty of women wanted to sleep with the future king, paunchy though he was, so it wasn’t as if he lacked the attention. But for some reason, he still had this need to take from the unwilling, to dominate, and he preferred the Scab slave girls. Perhaps it made him feel powerful, instilling fear in the daughters of a land that had almost ruled them all. But these girls weren’t a threat. Any Scab girl living in this castle had been captured and enslaved, or born in the mines and deemed too pretty to stay there.

  Hagan was already distracted, his gaze devouring the girl as he waved for his guards to leave. They did.

  “Don’t you get enough attention from you courtiers?” Jeric remarked dryly.

  “I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself before I change my mind about our little bargain.” Hagan leveled his gaze on Jeric.

  Jeric stood and strode for the door.

  “And Jeric…?”

  Jeric glanced back. Hagan grabbed the Scab girl’s hand and pulled her toward a small door off to the side. Jeric knew a small bed lay inside.

  “Gather your pack,” Hagan said, opening the door. “Be discreet. You’re leaving tonight.”

  Hagan pulled the Scab girl through and closed the door before Jeric could argue. Jeric cursed and strode out of the room, wondering why he—the Wolf of Corinth—was once again walking away from Hagan with his rutting tail between his legs.

  6

  Jeric watched his father sleep, though this man no longer looked like his father. The body was too thin, too frail, the skin ashen. The sight unnerved him. Not that he was about to lose his father, but that his father—someone he’d thought invincible—could be reduced to this. A behemoth of a man, whose girth parted crowds, whose voice shook mountains. The giant of Corinth—of all the Five Provinces and beyond—they had called him. King Tommad Coristus Marcel Angevin the third had been a god in the flesh, and surely it would take a god to bring him down. Not a disease. It was too… ordinary.

  His father’s chest rattled with a cough. It was a vicious sound that bubbled up from sick lungs, and when it stopped, pink-tinged saliva trickled out of the corners of his mouth. Jeric grabbed the cloth from the king’s chest and dabbed at his lips.

  Jeric wasn’t a stranger to death. He’d lost many men on various assignments over the years, and he’d always taken their losses in stride, as he’d been trained. Still, this was his father, and Jeric expected to be grieved, but all he felt was disappointment—that this god was a mere mortal after all.

  It was nothing at all like the pain he’d felt losing his mother.

  Jeric sensed another presence and glanced back. Astrid, his younger sister, stepped into the doorway. Between the three siblings, Jeric shared the most p
hysical similarities with his sister. They’d both inherited their mother’s lean build, fair complexion, and sharp facial structure; however, Astrid’s chin tapered femininely in contrast to Jeric’s square and very Angevin jaw.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” Astrid said quietly, stepping into the room. She stopped behind him and gazed at the man they both endured. At least in this, they shared common ground. “Hagan said you’d returned.”

  He wondered if Hagan had also mentioned Jeric’s new assignment. He almost asked, but he held back.

  “I looked for you earlier,” Jeric said, which was partially true. He’d kept an eye out for his sister, but he hadn’t specifically searched for her.

  “I’ve been at the temple.”

  Astrid had always been the most devout of them. He didn’t doubt that, had she not been born a woman, she would’ve joined the priesthood long ago.

  “I understand you returned with three prisoners,” Astrid said.

  Jeric stood. “Yes, and we’re still no closer to finding the person behind the raids.”

  Astrid glanced sideways at him. “I thought you’d determined it was Kormand.”

  Jeric watched the king’s chest rise and fall. “He is the most obvious choice.”

  Which was exactly why Jeric wasn’t so certain, and he grew less certain with each Scab tribe he and his pack encountered. He knew Kormand—Brevera’s king. He knew how Kormand worked, and these little attacks were far too neat and tidy—too methodical. Kormand was like a bear. He reacted. If he meant to fight Corinth, he wouldn’t chip away at Corinth’s armor piece by piece. He’d stand at full height, show his teeth, and roar.

  Astrid studied him. “You don’t think it’s him.”

  Jeric didn’t answer.

  “Who, then?” Astrid challenged.

  “I don’t know,” Jeric said at last. “But it’s in Hagan’s hands for the time being.”

  Surprise flickered across her face. “Another assignment?”

  Hagan hadn’t told her.

  Jeric pressed his lips together. “I should get going.”

  “When are you leaving?” Astrid asked. She knew better than to ask where, though the word dangled at the end of her tongue.

  “Tonight.”

  She frowned. “But you just returned.”

  Jeric flashed a bitter smile and glanced back at their father. “Pray for me, next time you’re at the temple. The gods seem to favor your voice.”

  A strange look crossed Astrid’s face.

  Jeric snatched his cloak from the chair and left Astrid standing over their father, the king.

  Jeric found Braddok tossing one back at the Holey Barrel.

  “Hand it over, sweet cheeks.” Braddok taunted a dwarf of a man. To be fair, most men looked dwarvish compared to Braddok.

  The dwarf—Björn, one of the regulars—grumbled and slapped a silver crown in Braddok’s outstretched palm. Braddok’s smile gloated all over the place. It looked like Björn’s fist was about to gloat all over the place. Jeric empathized. Most people wanted to punch Braddok at one point or another, but Braddok’s sheer size usually deterred them.

  A few noticed the prince and bowed out of his way. The hostess, however, smiled.

  Braddok spotted Jeric, and his grin spread. Jeric jerked his chin toward their usual booth, tucked away in a shadowed corner.

  “Sorry, ladies…” Braddok said to the surrounding men, sliding the crown into his pocket. “The Wolf calls.” Braddok picked up Björn’s glass and downed it. Björn looked murderous, especially when Braddok winked at him.

  Jeric had known Braddok since they were in swaddling clothes. Braddok’s father had been Corinth’s military commander before Anaton had assumed the role. He’d died in battle during the Scab uprising when Braddok was only four, and being that Braddok’s mother had died in childbirth, Jeric’s late mother had taken him in. Once Braddok had come of age, he’d joined the king’s guard. He’d always taken his duties seriously, but he never forgot to take his free time seriously, too. Which was why he’d never followed his late father’s footsteps as commander, and also why he and Jeric still got along so well.

  Braddok slid into the bench opposite Jeric, and the whole thing creaked and shifted from his weight. The hostess followed them with a tray and handed a drink to Braddok. She started handing one to Jeric, but he waved a dismissive hand.

  Braddok eyed Jeric suspiciously as the hostess sauntered off.

  “I’m guessing I’ll be needing the whole pitcher after you finish telling me whatever it is you have to say.” Braddok took a slow sip.

  Jeric folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “We’re leaving tonight.”

  “We just got back yesterday!”

  Jeric raised a brow. “And here you are bullying a dwarf. Clearly, I’m not keeping you busy enough.”

  Braddok smirked. “All right. Where are we going?” He took a long draught.

  Jeric glanced askance, making sure no one hovered near as he whispered, “Skanden.”

  Braddok spit out his drink, some of which landed on Jeric’s chin. Jeric wiped it clean with the back of his hand.

  Braddok leaned forward. “Why in the five hells? This have to do with those Scabs we killed?”

  “A healer.”

  Braddok held Jeric’s gaze a long moment as if waiting for the real answer. When he realized that Jeric had, in fact, given him the real answer, he leaned back in the bench. The booth moved as he shifted, and his breath whistled through his big teeth. “Hagan?”

  It almost hurt Jeric to say, “Yes.”

  Braddok sighed heavily. “And you told him no rutting way?”

  “He knew about the vow.”

  Braddok looked on at Jeric, then dragged a hand over his face. “Gods, he’s even worse than your father. No offense.”

  Jeric waved it off with a flick of his hand.

  “This timing is scat,” Braddok said.

  Jeric didn’t disagree.

  “All right, Wolf.” Braddok scratched the ruddy stubble on his chin. “You want the whole pack?”

  Jeric looked steadily at Braddok. “You. Gerald.”

  When Jeric didn’t say more, Braddok raised both brows in a silent that’s it?

  “Or I go alone.”

  “Like hells you will.” Braddok snorted and folded his arms. “I’d just feel better with more of us. It’s The godsdamned Wilds we’re talking about.”

  “I know, but we can’t be spotted. Discretion is top priority.”

  Braddok eyed Jeric, and a crease formed between his brow. “So? Who is he?”

  “She,” Jeric corrected.

  Braddok arched a brow. “You sure this is about your father?”

  Jeric flashed his canines.

  Braddok grunted and gulped down the contents of his mug. “How’d he hear about this one?”

  Jeric leaned back in the bench, one arm stretched along the table. “One of his rats.” His gaze trailed the room. “Her name’s Sable. She’s Istraan. Apparently, she studied under Gamla Khan.”

  “Huh. So it’s not just another female conquest.”

  “Maybe.” Jeric doubted this mission was strictly about their father, but he didn’t believe it was about Hagan’s libido either.

  “This is gonna be challenging with a prisoner,” Braddok said.

  “That’s why we need to convince her to come willingly.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that,” Braddok scoffed. “Pretty as you are, no Scablicker’s gonna follow a Wolf anywhere.”

  “Who said she’ll know who I am?”

  Braddok stared at Jeric. “You plannin’ to sweet talk a Scablicker, Wolf? A hundred crowns says you’ll last two minutes.”

  “Oh, come on, Brad.” Jeric smiled, all teeth. “Have a little faith.”

  “In the beginning, there was light. And where the light did not touch, darkness existed. But the darkness grew restless, wanting also what the light commanded.”

  Excerpt from Il Tonté,
As recorded in the First Verses by Juvia, Liagé First High Sceptor.

  7

  Sable was plucking the last of the lavender from the garden when Ventus and his Silent rode into town. Townsfolk stepped out of their homes and gathered along the street. Children stopped running, chastised by eager and fearful parents, all of them drawn toward the pulsing trot like sandflies to blood.

  Behind her, the windchimes sang a single, fearful note. Sable gathered her shears and lavender, and hurried to her porch to watch.

  Clip-clop.

  Clip-clop.

  Through a break in the buildings, Sable spotted the guards first, adorned in leathers and thick furs, with nightglass swords at their waists. They rode enormous black stoliks—a rare breed of horses native to these parts, prized for their ability to traverse the heavy snow. Sable counted seven guards in total, which surprised her. Usually, Ventus brought two, not that he required them for protection. His guards served as little more than glorified slaves upon whom he bestowed menial tasks. His real guard was the Silent.

  The guards passed, and a Silent came into view, draped in heavy black robes and wearing two wicked nightglass swords crossed upon its back. Its chin was just visible beneath a drawn cowl, though every inch of pale skin was covered in swirling patterns of ink. Some said they were old sorcery markings, but others claimed they were a crude tally of kills. Sable didn’t know which was true, but they’d killed enough for the latter to be possible. Ten times over.

  Ventus had never brought more than one Silent with him. Today, there were two.

  And then she spotted Ventus, The Wilds’ High Priest.

  Fog clung to his robes like spirits, and the world fell unnaturally quiet. Ventus was like a creature from another world, fated to an existence here, his punishment a human form. All of nature recoiled in his presence, cowering before the thing that should not be but was, impossibly. And rolling behind him, bobbing and creaking as his stolik powered it forward, was Ventus’s infamous wagon of nightglass.