The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  Yips sounded behind them, and three more shades peeled from the shadows, bounding after them with impossible speed.

  Godsdamn you, Hagan.

  Jeric was about to order Gerald to hand him the bow and run on ahead with Braddok when one of the shades stopped, right in the middle of the road. It tilted its nose to the air as if catching a scent, then crouched low in a snarl.

  It wasn’t snarling at them.

  Jeric’s gaze darted to the trees. Beneath him, Saskia snorted, pulling against the reins. The other two shades stopped behind the first, and, like fearful pups, they whimpered as they bounded off into the shadows.

  “What in the—” Gerald started.

  “Quiet.” Jeric cut him off.

  The forest fell unnaturally still, their thundering tread too loud in the eerie silence.

  “Can you see anything?” Braddok asked, sidling closer to Jeric.

  Saskia whinnied, and her nostrils flared. A split second later, Jeric caught whiff of a new scent. Something spoiled, something rotten.

  “Do you smell that?” Jeric asked.

  Braddok looked wildly around.

  And then, like a sign from the gods, Jeric spotted lights ahead. “Skanden,” he said like a prayer.

  The three of them pushed harder. The tree line broke, and they galloped across a small clearing toward Skanden’s main gate. Jeric glanced back, half expecting the shadows to chase after them. To his relief, they did not, and the stench vanished.

  “Remind me to thank your brother when we get home,” Braddok growled.

  If I don’t kill him first, Jeric thought.

  Four silhouettes moved atop the palisade wall, looking on as they approached. Jeric pulled Saskia to a halt before the gate, and his men stopped, flanking him.

  The silhouettes didn’t move.

  “Open the gate!” Jeric said.

  The wind howled. Two of the silhouettes bent together, obviously discussing how to handle Jeric’s command. Jeric exchanged a wary glance with Braddok and steadied Saskia, who shifted uneasily beneath him. One of the guards bent over and crossed his arms atop the wall to better appraise Jeric and his men.

  “You’re cuttin’ it close.” The guard’s eyes narrowed with scrutiny. “Provincial.”

  “It’s Jos.” Jeric gave a sharp tilt of his head. “Braddok. Gerald.” Jeric nodded to each in turn. “We’ve come from Southbridge,” he said, careful to enunciate his Rs, to hide his true nationality. This was the story they’d decided upon and had executed ever since passing over The Crossing. People in these parts didn’t like Corinthians, since Corinthian jurisdiction was largely to blame for their exile here, and the fewer conclusions drawn about Jeric and his pack, the better. “We’ve business with one of your merchants here. Now, if you’d be so kind as to open the gate.” Jeric flashed his teeth. “Your woods are a godsdamn nightmare.”

  One of the silhouettes chuckled.

  The guard eyed Jeric and his pack, slowly chewing on whatever plant was in his mouth. He wasn’t in a hurry, and he was taking every opportunity to let Jeric and his men know who was in charge. Finally, the guard signaled another. Wood ground against wood, and the gate slowly hinged inward.

  “You cause any trouble, I’ll throw you to the shades,” the guard called down to them.

  Jeric held his wolfish smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He nudged Saskia forward, and his men followed quickly behind.

  Within the hour, Jeric, Braddok, and Gerald sat around a booth at The Honest Thief, sharing a platter of cured fish, soured cabbage, and warm bread. The food was better than Jeric had expected from a town buried so deeply in the world, and the sweet mead tempted even his refined palate. An old troubadour plucked a lute in the far corner, playing pieces Jeric had never heard.

  They’d arrived just in time for Belfast—The Wilds’ annual harvest, so they’d been told. Jeric and his men were lucky to get a table, let alone a room. But luck, Jeric knew, could always be insured if one simply had enough coin. Which they did.

  Even now, more guests wandered in, but every table was accounted for, leaving them with no other choice but to stand at the bar where Ivar worked, pouring mead and chatting with the locals. He seemed a friendly enough old man—the sort who’d seen a lot of terrible things over the course of his life and now found happiness in simply being alive.

  A handful of men sat at a nearby table, playing Ruin—a popular card game in The Fingers—and casting bets. A fire blazed in the large hearth, giving too much warmth to a stuffy hall, and the general murmur made everything seem normal.

  Almost.

  A table in the far corner snagged Jeric’s attention. Five men sat around it, speaking only to each other, regarding the crowd with minimal interest. They wore leathers and wools finer than anyone else’s in the room, and the crowd ignored them in the way people ignore things that make them uncomfortable.

  “More mead?” asked the hostess, interrupting Jeric’s thoughts.

  The hostess wasn’t much younger than him. She had an attractive face and pleasing curves, which she evinced with a dress too small for her shapely frame, and a light blush stained her cheeks as she regarded him.

  “Who are they?” Jeric asked quietly, jerking a chin toward the table in the corner.

  Her gaze flickered there and back, and she refilled Braddok’s empty glass. “Where you from…?” She left her question open for him to fill in the details.

  “Jos.” He inclined his head. “We’re from Southbridge.”

  “Brinn,” she said with a smile. “Your friends?”

  Braddok set down his mug and cleared his throat with a smile. “Braddok. But you can call me whatever you like.” He winked.

  She chuckled with good humor, which, Jeric mused, was an important skill living in such an isolated town.

  “Gerald.” Gerald tipped his head at the hostess, his expression one of self-pity.

  She grinned. “You three’ve come all the way from Southbridge?” She took their silence for confirmation, then looked at Jeric. “We don’t get many visitors from so far south. How long have you been on the road?”

  Jeric regarded her a moment before answering, “A long time.”

  Brinn’s gaze faltered, and her blush deepened. “Those are Ventus’s guard.” Seeing that the name meant nothing to him, she leaned closer to Jeric and continued in a low voice, “Ventus and his Silent run these parts. Those are his guards.”

  Jeric frowned. “This… Ventus and his Silent. They’re here?”

  Brinn’s gaze shifted to the guards, uncomfortable. “Yes, but I’d rather not talk about it here. Lots of ears, you know. If you like, I can meet you after closing… answer any questions you might have.” Her gaze found Jeric’s, and he didn’t think answering questions was all she had in mind.

  In the corner of his eye, Braddok leaned back in his chair and folded his arms with a warning look.

  Across the room, a grizzly-looking man watched them, his expression dark.

  “No need,” Jeric said.

  Disappointment flickered in her eyes, but she hid it quickly. “Of course. Just let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.”

  She started to leave.

  “There is one more thing…” Jeric added.

  She turned back.

  “Is there a healer in town?”

  The question took her off guard. She tucked a curl behind her ear and absently pressed down her apron. Nervous habits.

  “Brad, here, has been suffering from a nasty case of the runs for the past few days,” Jeric continued, gesturing toward Braddok, ignoring the withering look Braddok gave him in return. Gerald laughed and coughed into his mug to cover it up. “I think he caught something from a stream.”

  Brinn looked pityingly at Braddok. “Oh, you poor thing. Some of those streams can clear you right out.”

  Braddok looked only at Jeric as he gave a slow nod.

  “We have a healer…” Brinn hesitated. “She lives on the other side
of town. Make a left past the courtyard, head down a small path, and Tolya’s house is the one at the end with the herb garden. You can’t miss it.”

  “Tolya,” Jeric repeated, two distinct syllables.

  “She’s ancient,” Brinn continued, misreading him, “but she can heal anything. Best go first thing in the morning. There’s a lot of people here for the harvest, and she’ll be busy once they all sober up.”

  Jeric nodded curtly and turned away. She lingered for an awkward moment, smiled at the other two, then scurried off to tend other tables. It was only then that the man across the room turned his gaze away.

  Braddok chucked a hunk of bread at Jeric. It hit Jeric’s shoulder and bounced to the floor. Jeric looked up, met Braddok’s annoyed gaze, and flashed his teeth, all innocence.

  Braddok snorted. “You’re such a bastard.”

  Jeric picked up his mug and toasted the air.

  “Well…?” Gerald asked.

  Jeric took a slow sip. Gerald wanted to know the plan, now that they’d learned the town’s healer was not named Sable.

  Jeric glanced to the men in the corner, drumming his fingers, his frustration leaking out of him in firm taps. “We pay Tolya a visit tomorrow. And then we rutting go home.”

  9

  Sable held the spoon to Tolya’s cracked lips, but the woman didn’t stir. Sable dropped the spoon in the bowl, set it upon the nightstand, and stood. It was time to make morning rounds, and she wanted it done before Skanden’s seasonal guests woke from their mead-induced slumber. It wouldn’t be long before they began stumbling through her door, desperate for anything to ease the pain of last night’s indiscretion.

  She laid a hand gently against Tolya’s forehead. “I’ll be back.”

  She didn’t get a reply, but she hadn’t expected one.

  “Hello?” called a deep male voice from the entryway.

  Sable froze. She hadn’t heard anyone enter. It wasn’t a voice she recognized, either, but Belfast was in two days. Many travelers had arrived already. Still, she hadn’t expected anyone to be awake at this hour.

  Sable ducked out of Tolya’s room, and there, before the curtain, she stopped short.

  A man, tall and broad-shouldered, stood near the kitchen table, surveying her precious collection of drying herbs. His black leather boots were dirtied, but not boasting the holes and patches the locals flaunted, and though he wore a plain black cloak, the wool looked expensive, tailored perfectly to accommodate his lean height and muscular build. His hair was a soft brown, threaded with brass undoubtedly polished by hours spent in the sun, and he’d pulled it back in a tidy knot, showcasing a muscular neck and strong jawline. He was angled away from her, so she couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t think she’d ever seen him before.

  He ducked closer to the herbs, curious and completely unaware of Sable’s presence as he reached for the drying buds of nightshade.

  “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” Sable said from the shadows.

  He stilled, fingertips hovering midair. His face turned, and a pair of sharp, intelligent blue eyes landed on her.

  No, she’d never seen him before. She would’ve remembered. A person didn’t forget a face like his. Beautiful in its severity, imperial in its strength, with eyes so clear, so piercing, they cut through every defense in one swift glance.

  Sable steeled herself. She’d have to be careful around this one.

  Outside, the windchimes stirred.

  “That’s nightshade.” She gestured toward the buds he’d been about to touch. “And unless you intend to spend the harvest unconscious on my floor, I suggest you keep your hands to yourself.”

  The blue in his eyes shifted like monsoon clouds. Dark and powerful. His gaze flickered to the nightshade, and then he lowered his hand.

  “You’re here early,” she said.

  He turned to face her. Looking at him fully, he was a lot to take in.

  “Have I come at a bad time?” he asked. He had a voice like a cello, deep and warm and resonant, but she couldn’t place his accent.

  “No.” Sable stepped out of the shadows and into the room as if to claim it back from him. “Where are you from?”

  A beat. “Southbridge. The Lower Quarters.”

  Ah, that was it. His accent was harsher than she would’ve expected, but then she hadn’t been to Southbridge since she was a child. The wealthiest lived in the Lower Quarters, and looking at him, she wasn’t surprised. Southbridge itself was a merchant’s dream, located on the Breveran and Corinthian border, situated along the Fallow River, which also grazed Istraa, though Istraans generally avoided it for fear of King Tommad.

  Now, everyone feared his son, the Wolf.

  Sable eyed him. “You’re a long way from home, Provincial.”

  The blue in his eyes darkened. “I know.” His head tilted a fraction. “The hostess at the inn said I’d find Tolya here.”

  “Yes, but Tolya’s not seeing anyone today. It’s just me.”

  His eyes sharpened. “Brinn didn’t mention you.”

  “She wouldn’t.” Sable chuckled lowly. She made her way to the table but stopped opposite him, keeping the table as a barrier between them.

  He took a small step along the table’s edge to look at her around the hanging herbs. “And you are…?”

  “Extremely busy.” She slipped the appropriate flowers into the cloth satchels she’d prepared. “I don’t really have time to stand here and chat, so unless there’s something you need…”

  He placed a hand on the satchel she’d been arranging, stopping her.

  She stilled and glanced up.

  His expression was inscrutable, but a powerful current swelled within the blue. Satisfied he had her full attention, he released the satchel. “My father is dying,” he said quietly. “We’ve done everything we can and… I’m desperate.”

  Sable studied him, then leaned back against the table, arms folded. That explained his sobriety, at least. He hadn’t come for Belfast. “Describe his symptoms.”

  A crease formed between his brow, and he glanced about the room as if to pluck words from the shelves. “We can’t wake him. He cries out at times. Most of it’s unintelligible, but… sleep seems to torment him.” His words tugged on that last point, as if he were uncertain how much to share, or maybe he still hadn’t decided what to believe for himself.

  “Torment how?” Sable asked.

  “Nightmares.” It was a guess. “It’s like he’s trapped inside of his mind.”

  Sable tapped her fingers, thinking. His description of his father’s illness mirrored Tolya’s. “Will he eat?”

  “A little. We’ve managed to feed him broth.”

  “And you’ve ruled out poison?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long has he been like this?”

  He pressed his lips together. “Three months, two weeks, and… four days.”

  Sable stopped tapping her fingers. This was much worse than Tolya.

  He smiled, all lips. “As I said, I’m desperate. Desperate enough to come here.”

  Sable had lived amongst thieves long enough to know a liar from an honest man, and while she didn’t doubt his father’s condition, she didn’t believe he was being completely honest with her. And it was by those hidden details she hesitated, wondering at them, heightened by the twinge of unease she felt in his presence. It was the same sort of unease she experienced those rare times she’d been caught in the woods at dusk.

  “What makes you think I can help?” she asked, watching him.

  “Why do any Provincials come here for healing?” His question was rhetorical, his tone patronizing.

  It was true: people from the Five Provinces sometimes journeyed here in search of resources found only in The Wilds, but they rarely traveled this deep. Before she could reply, he reached into the folds of his cloak and produced a fist-sized pouch, which he tossed upon the table. It landed between them with a jangle.

  “Five hundred crowns.”
/>
  Her gaze shot up.

  His eyes challenged.

  “Word of caution,” she said. “That’s a lot of coin to be carrying around thieves.”

  He took another step, placing himself directly before her. He smelled of the forest after a thunderstorm, spiced with threads of woodsmoke.

  “And you’ll receive another five hundred crowns once we reach Southbridge,” he said.

  Maker’s Mercy. One thousand crowns!

  How had he acquired such a sum? She might’ve assumed this was a lie too, but looking at him, she knew he was good for it. It would take her ten years to earn a sum like that. She could pay Tolya back for the derriweed and buy a new life with what remained—a life far away from the bitter cold and Velik and Ventus and his Silent. But she couldn’t leave Tolya. If she left Skanden now, there’d be no returning until spring, and Tolya needed her. And there was also the fact that he’d be taking her to the mouth of the Wolf’s den.

  “I… can’t,” she said, oddly unsure of the words as they tumbled out of her mouth.

  His eyes narrowed. “Can’t.”

  The word dropped with distaste and inexperience, demanding a reason.

  She glanced away from him and gathered the herb satchels into a neat pile. “I won’t abandon the people of Skanden.”

  I won’t abandon Tolya.

  “I’m not asking you to abandon them,” he said in a voice now frayed with irritation. “I need your services for a short time, and then you can return to this.” He batted a dismissive hand at the room, as if he couldn’t possibly fathom what could propel anyone to want to live here.

  His superiority irked her.

  Sable glared at him. “I am sorry about your father,” she said sharply, “but I will not sacrifice every person in this village for the life of one man. I don’t care who he is.”

  His teeth flashed. “Then it’s fortunate there are two of you.”

  His persistence became her certainty.

  “My answer is no,” she said firmly. “I’ll send you with herbs, but I’m not leaving.”

  Her words were met with a dark and brittle silence, and his eyes stormed. Finally, he slid the coin pouch off the counter, tucked it away into the folds of his cloak, and backed away, taking the scent of forest and woodsmoke with him. The storm quieted, but the clouds brooded.