The Gods of Men

by Barbara Kloss

  And maybe, just maybe, she’d contact Ricón.

  She was sitting up and taking a sip of water when Jos opened the cabin door, followed by a gust of cold and salty air. Seeing her awake, he stopped in the threshold. His hair was dark from rain, and his eyes were a startling shade of blue. The fresh air seemed to be doing him some good. He wasn’t green anymore.

  “Good, you’re awake,” he said, snatching a cloak from a hook on the wall. “We’re near The Cliffs.”

  “Maker’s Mercy, already?” she said, more to herself. The Cliffs were at least six hours from The Wilds by boat, and she’d slept away the entire journey. She corked the water skin, threw back her blankets, and slid her feet out of the cot. Her boots, she noticed, had been set neatly on the floor beside her.

  “Can you walk?” Jos asked, approaching steadily, cloak in hand.

  “I think so…” Slowly, gingerly, she leaned over to slip on her boots, but the stitches pulled.

  Jos noticed. “Let me do that.”

  He handed her the cloak and knelt before her, bringing the scent of rain with him. He grabbed one boot and opened the laces, slipped it onto her foot and tied it, then repeated the process with her other boot. Sable watched him while he worked, admiring the precision of his movements and the strength in his hands, and when he finished, he looked up. Their gazes met, and her heart drummed a little faster. He blinked and looked away, standing as he opened her cloak. She slid into it, and then he took a step back as if to put distance between them.

  Sable gripped the edge of the nightstand and, very carefully, pulled herself to her feet. There she waited, finding her balance, then met Jos’s inquiring gaze and nodded once. He strode to the door and held it open, but his eyes tracked her every step, ready to catch her should she fall.

  She didn’t.

  She slipped past him, ducked beneath the lintel, and stepped out onto the deck. Cold, salty air ripped through her cloak, cutting her to the bone, and rain drizzled all around. The sky overhead was dark with clouds, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

  Like the storm from her dream. And she was heading toward it.

  A few nearby crew members glanced up from where they sat, hunched over oars. One whispered to another. A third smiled broadly at Sable, but when they spotted Jos right behind her, they all abruptly turned their attention back to rowing.

  “I see you’ve been busy making friends,” Sable said wryly, glancing back at Jos.

  He eyed her sideways, though his eyes warmed with amusement as he nodded toward the helm.

  She spotted Braddok leaning against the rail, speaking with a middle-aged man with silvery hair, drawing smoke from an impressively long pipe. Sable vaguely recognized him as the gentleman from the docks, Survak.

  He wasn’t a small man by any means, but Braddok dwarfed him. He dwarfed everyone. Braddok glanced over at her, then Jos, and she got the impression that he didn’t care for her, or trust her with his friend. Not that she could blame him. He’d lost one friend because of her, and he’d almost lost another.

  She spotted the horses on deck, harnessed to a rope-and-leather contraption. Straw had been laid out beneath them, though Ventus’s stolik kept clawing at it and pushing it aside. He looked particularly irritated.

  “Ah, there she is,” Survak said as she approached, pulling the pipe from his mouth and angling himself to face her and Jos.

  Sable stopped before him, steadying herself upon the railing. “We owe you our lives—”

  “Tallyn’s the one who conned me into this,” he said, but in good humor. “And from what your friends tell me, it seems you three are very fortunate to be here. Especially you.” He shoved the pipe back in his mouth, and his gaze drifted to Jos.

  Something passed between the men, and Jos snagged her gaze before looking to the horizon, where a dark wall stretched.

  The Black Cliffs of Voiar.

  Notorious for their currents and jagged faces and hidden rocks, most captains avoided them. Too many had sidled close, puncturing their hulls along the sharp rocks nestled just beneath the water’s swirling surface.

  “I thought sailors generally avoided The Cliffs,” Sable said, pushing hair out of her eyes.

  Beside her, Jos gave Survak a look that suggested he’d voiced this very same concern while Sable had been sleeping.

  “Which is precisely why I use it,” Survak answered. “What one man fears, another man exploits.”

  Jos’s eyes narrowed on the sea, and Sable thought he’d probably received this same response.

  “There’s a grotto hidden behind a waterfall in The Cliffs,” Survak explained. “I use it sometimes. Stykken doesn’t know about it.”

  Brom Stykken ruled The Fingers. Sable had met him once, when he’d sailed to a port near Trier to conduct business with her papa. Brackish man. Rough as the sea, skin like worn leather, and eyes like a shark.

  “How do you know what Stykken does or doesn’t know?” Braddok asked, folding his thick arms over his chest.

  “I know he doesn’t know about this. If he did, it’d be guarded. These shores are his most coveted mistress, and he’ll be damned before he shares them.”

  Within the hour, the galley anchored and the crew lowered a dinghy into a patch of relatively calm water. Just ahead, nestled into a small cove amidst the cliffs, Sable spotted a thin sheet of water plunging over a crack in the wall.

  Jos and a few of Survak’s men untied the agitated horses from their harnesses.

  “They won’t fit in the dinghy,” Sable said.

  “No, they won’t,” Survak said. “They’ll have to swim.”

  Which meant someone would have to swim with them. Sable looked to the small cove amidst the cliffs. Though the current wasn’t as turbulent there, the water still swirled in palettes of blues and whites.

  “Sorry, lass, but I can’t draw The Lady any closer to those cliffs.”

  In the end, it was decided that Jos would swim with the horses. Sable couldn’t, because of her wound, and the horses seemed to prefer Jos. Also, Jos and Braddok both agreed that Jos was the better swimmer, though Braddok didn’t look too happy about the decision.

  Sable climbed into the dinghy with Braddok’s help, and once they began floating away, Sable called out, “Survak!”

  She meant to ask after Tallyn, to make sure that Survak would check on him.

  Survak peered over the railing, and her words caught. Seeing him now, she had the strangest sensation they’d met before. It was another time, when a man much younger than he transported a girl much younger than she from farther down this shore to the opposite.

  A grin touched Survak’s lips, he winked, and then he vanished behind The Lady’s rail.

  Survak watched the dinghy float away, and said a quick and silent prayer to the Maker. He hadn’t a clue what the Maker was doing, pairing her with the Wolf, but he wouldn’t interfere. There was something at work that neither he nor Tallyn understood, but the Maker never asked for understanding. Only faithfulness.

  And he would be faithful. As Tallyn had been faithful.

  Still, he would pray for her safety.

  27

  Hagan stormed into the council room, and all heads glanced up. Hersir was there, seated near one end of the table, Astrid beside him. Hagan hadn’t spoken with the Lead Stryker since Jeric’s departure, when Hagan had made it abundantly clear what would happen should Hersir proceed with Jeric’s induction. Hersir had heeded Hagan’s warning, and he’d kept a safe distance ever since. Until, on Hagan’s orders, Commander Anaton had demanded the employment of Hersir’s Strykers to investigate the legion, which had brought Hersir out of his private command center and into the public far more often than he preferred.

  On Hersir’s other side sat Godfrey, master of coin and questionable things. Godfrey came from a line of men who consistently held the position as one of Skyhold’s wealthiest patrons. Godfrey’s fortune permitted him an active roll in Skyhold’s transactions, both locally and internationally, t
hough Godfrey’s primary interests lay in Corinthian arms.

  Next to Godfrey sat Commander Anaton, angled at the door, positioning himself to be the first line of defense, should anyone be foolish enough to attack. On Anaton’s other side sat Hagan’s most powerful jarl, and arguably the most disruptive: Jarl Stovich.

  He was furious about what’d happened in Reichen and Dunsten—both towns under his jurisdiction. He’d been the loudest voice against King Tommad’s rulings, and now he was the loudest voice against Hagan’s. Taming him usually required a few swift lashes of humility that only the Wolf could deliver. It helped that Stovich’s daughter thought herself in love with Jeric, who—clever Wolf that he was—rarely discouraged her.

  But the Wolf wasn’t here.

  Stovich’s dark eyes followed as Hagan took a seat beside Astrid. The chair immediately on his right—Jeric’s chair—remained empty. Yet for Hagan, Jeric’s absence filled the seat more than his presence ever did.

  “Where’s Rasmin?” Astrid asked.

  “The Head Inquisitor had business that took him away.” Hagan looked at Commander Anaton. “Report.”

  The commander sat up straight. “Thirty Scabs have taken Fallows Pass.”

  “Are they part of the legion?” Hagan asked, hoping that this news would bring them closer to uncovering the legion’s whereabouts.

  “I don’t know,” the commander replied. “They could be just another insurgent faction. I won’t know for certain until I can detain one for questioning. I’ve sent reinforcements, but I need more men.”

  Hagan frowned. They’d already squeezed Corinth dry, and he didn’t dare send more of his own guards in light of recent events. Hagan looked to the jarl. “Stovich.”

  Jarl Stovich leaned back slowly; his chair creaked. “I don’t have men to spare, Your Grace.” His tone was full of implication.

  “What about the border?”

  “Then Stovichshold would be undefended against Davros.”

  “Davros isn’t our enemy right now.”

  Stovich’s eyes narrowed. “Who is our enemy now? Have we even determined that yet?”

  “If this group is working with the legion,” Commander Anaton said tightly, “this could be the opportunity we’ve been waiting for. It would be foolish not to sieze it.”

  Astrid folded her hands on the table, and her gaze slid from the commander to Stovich.

  Jarl Stovich sat forward. “I’ve already lost too many people to your father’s negligence, and you’ve done nothing to replenish my losses. I will not sacrifice more.”

  “Careful, Stovich,” Astrid said quietly, but potently. “Despite your personal opinions, Hagan is your king now.”

  Stovich bristled but relented with a frown.

  “How many can you spare?” Commander Anaton asked, matter-of-fact.

  Stovich simmered, drumming stumpy fingers upon the table. “Twenty-five. No more.”

  “Is that enough, Commander?” Hagan asked.

  Stovich grunted.

  “Maybe. At very least, it will slow them down until we acquire more men,” the commander said.

  “I’ll find you more men,” Godfrey said. Godfrey knew a lot of people. The man spun better webs than a spider.

  Commander Anaton nodded sharply.

  “Have my brother’s men turned up anything of consequence?” Hagan asked the commander, drawing Astrid’s direct scrutiny. The others looked surprised, as well.

  “Stanis sent word once they reached Reichen,” Commander Anaton replied, “but I haven’t heard from him since.”

  “You sent the Wolf’s men to Reichen?” Stovich asked, eyes narrowed.

  Hagan eyed him sideways. “I did.”

  Stovich glowered. “You did that knowing full well that I was on my way here—”

  “I will do whatever’s necessary to protect Corinth,” Hagan said tightly. “Especially when those I’ve entrusted with guardianship over my people fail.”

  Stovich’s expression darkened.

  “Have Stanis report to me directly when he returns,” Hagan said to the commander.

  Commander Anaton nodded. “There is another issue that requires your attention, Your Grace.”

  Hagan waited, feeling a twinge of unease.

  The commander continued, “Jarl Rodin reported that Yllis mine has gone dark. According to his letter, his guards left to relieve the night watch and arrived to an empty mine. The Scabs were gone, and the night watch was found dead, just like the people in Reichen and Dunsten.” Just like the inquisitor in the square, he had not said, but everyone heard it anyway.

  Uncertain glances flitted across the table.

  Gods, where was his godsdamned brother?

  Hagan looked sharply at Hersir. “Have you learned anything about the necromancer, as I asked?”

  “What necromancer?” Astrid interrupted, just as sharply.

  Hagan looked at his sister. “The Head Inquisitor and I believe a necromancer—someone with power over the dead—has somehow escaped his notice, and he’s working with the legion.”

  Murmurs erupted, and doubtful glances bounced across the table.

  “You can’t be serious, brother,” Astrid said wryly.

  Hagan’s eyes flashed, and Astrid’s gaze fell to the table. He then looked to the others, his expression severe, daring them to challenge his words. “We believe a necromancer is to blame for the particular way the bodies were found.”

  Stovich sat forward. “Did you conclude this before or after one of the inquisitors tried to kill you?”

  Hagan ignored him, though his blood ran hot. “Hersir…?”

  All eyes turned to Hersir, and Hersir shook his head a fraction. “No. And if I may…” He paused, his expression hardened. “Your inquisitors are better suited for inquisition. My Strykers are designed to strike. They’d be better utilized elsewhere, like reinforcing the Fallows and getting to the bottom of our legion problem.” He nodded to the commander.

  It was little wonder his brother admired Hersir. They shared a similarity of disposition. A calm that was also severe, as if the world were an irritation—an incompetence—and they alone knew how to get anything properly done. Being that they, as individuals, managed to accomplish what usually required the might of an army, Hagan usually let the arrogance go.

  Not today.

  “They are perfectly utilized here,” Hagan said.

  “I’m not suggesting we send all of them,” Hersir persisted. “I’ll keep some here to watch for the necromancer, and the rest can aid the commander in locating the legion.”

  “I agree,” Astrid said, before Hagan could argue. “We have powerful resources here that would do well on our border, rather than waste them sniffing old Shah tales. One Stryker can do the work of fifty.” Here, she looked sharply at Jarl Stovich, who shifted irritably in his chair.

  “We have a godsdamned Scab necromancer in this city,” Hagan argued.

  “We have hundreds of Scabs in this city,” Astrid said, her tone acerbic.

  Hagan slammed a fist on the table, and she jumped. “Skyhold takes priority. I’ll not spare any more—”

  “Your Grace,” said a new voice.

  Hagan glanced up, fuming.

  Galast, one of his personal guards and overseer of skalsmithing, stood in the threshold. In Hagan’s fury, he hadn’t even heard the door open.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a matter that requires your immediate attention.”

  A beat. “Well?” Hagan snapped.

  Galast’s gaze flickered uneasily to Godfrey. “Perhaps we can speak in private—”

  “Out with it, godsdamnit!”

  Galast stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “The armory, sire. Everything… every weapon and shield and piece of armor we’ve stored… all of it’s gone.”

  It’d been four days since Sable had stepped foot on Provincial soil, though she hadn’t spent much of that time actually stepping on it. The stolik did all the walking, much to her chag
rin. The wound in her side remained tender enough to keep her properly saddled. Sometimes Jos rode with her, but mostly he walked beside the horse, guiding it through The Fingers’ challenging terrain.

  The Fingers was named for its shape, how its narrow and rocky ridges stretched into the sea like the fingers of an opened hand. Their villages, it was said, had been built into the sides of the rock, clinging to cliffs like barnacles, stubbornly weathering storms the Eastern Sea lashed upon its coasts. Sable had never been to the villages herself, but she’d met people from there. They were hard, gruff of speech and manner, as if the salty air had fermented them into something strong and unsavory. The Fingers remained the Five Provinces’ first defense against the distant lands beyond the Eastern Sea, but those lands hadn’t beached their shores in generations. The people of The Fingers mostly kept to themselves now, and they expected the rest of the Provinces to keep to itself too.

  Sable would’ve liked to visit the infamous villages, but that would have to wait. The Fingers were too close to The Wilds, and Jos had already spent enough time away from his dying father.

  They moved steadily south along The Fingers’ western border—the palm, it was called, from which the fingers stretched. It wasn’t smooth like an opened palm, but resembled a cupped palm, all bumps and ridges and deep, long creases. It didn’t provide much in the way of food, either. They’d already finished what little Survak had spared them. The rest was up to their wily devices. Jos caught a few rodents with his bare hands, using those unparalleled senses and stealth that often left Sable silently awed. For herself, she constructed a small sling out of rope Survak had given them, surprising both Jos and Braddok when she successfully slung a rock and killed a rabbit.

  Braddok had snorted, impressed, then looked annoyed that Sable had impressed him.

  “Where did you learn to do that?” Jos asked, looking at her with surprise.