Reaper of Dreams (The Gods' Dream Trilogy)

by Debra Holland

  On either side of them, half of the young fighters of the combined clans stretched in a long line. Out of sight on the other side of the hilly roll, other warriors waited.

  They’d carefully chosen the site of their ambush. The smooth plain of Drayleth held few hills, but here a long roll of land made for perfect camouflage.

  The plan was to give the army a solid enemy to attack, then while their attention was engaged with half of the Che-da-wah, the other half would attack from behind, hopefully taking Ontarem’s soldiers by surprise. They wanted to whittle down the superior numbers of Ontarem’s forces as much as possible in the first assault.

  Because of their connection with Arvintor, the Che-da-wah knew they’d engage Ontarem’s soldiers’ this morning. Once the army left the boundaries of Penutar, Arvintor’s awareness had followed them. The God kept the clans informed of the troops’ movements better than any scout. Having a God on your side definitely made fighting easier.

  Of course, Ontarem would be doing the same for his soldiers. But the Evil God had no power base in Drayleth. Once His soldiers arrived, however, He would be able to meddle in their plans, but until then, the Che-da-wah probably had some freedom from His spying.

  Ruenar floated around them, dotting the air with color. Everyone else ignored the tiny bubbles, but the sight reminded Roe-al of Jasmine. The ruenar was such a common sight, that he’d taken their beauty for granted.

  Would the enemy soldiers also appreciate the colors of Drayleth? Or were their hearts as gray as their city? Were they, too, absorbing the beauty around them, or were they only thinking of fighting…killing?

  Perhaps they were men like him, who wished only to live in freedom, but were forced by their Evil God to fight. If that were the case, killing them was wrong. But the Che-da-wah had no choice. If they and the people of Penutar were to ever be free, they needed to fight. Strange to think that if Ontarem’s soldiers lost their battles, they would ultimately be winners.

  Jora turned and tossed him a brave grin. The breeze tugged a strand of hair loose from her braid and set the tendril dancing across her cheekbone. Impatiently, she tucked the errant strand behind her ear.

  Pride in his pespayzae filled his heart. Even in the path of death she displayed her courage.

  Roe-al returned Jora’s smile, holding her gaze. I love you. He sent the feeling spiraling through his othersense to her, delighting in this newfound way to communicate. I am honored to fight side-by-side with you.

  He knew she wouldn’t pick up the words, but his emotions would reverberate in her heart. Besides, words weren’t needed. They’d exchanged words in the quiet moments of dawn when they’d held each other after a frantic loving, the embrace all the more poignant because of the possibility one or both of them might not survive this day. Nor the days to come.

  Jora placed a hand over her chest, a signal that she’d received his communication.

  The enemy approaches. Arvintor’s warning cut between them.

  Conversations stilled. A ripple effect flew down the line, and the fighters straightened in their saddlepads and clutched their spears.

  The clink of gear and the thud of heavy feet filtered over the hill toward them.

  Roe-al tensed.

  The enemy appeared…a man on horseback followed by rows of foot soldiers.

  Sudden nervousness sprang into Roe-al’s stomach. Tension spread down his limbs.

  Racer twitched his ears.

  Roe-al leaned over and patted the horse’s neck.

  As planned, the line of Che-da-wah waited, allowing the enemy to come to them.

  The column of soldiers stretched across the plain.

  So many. The tension in Roe-al’s stomach roiled until he wondered if he’d disgrace himself by losing his last meal.

  The man on the lead horse pointed a sword in their direction. He lifted a silvery trumpet to his lips and blew a signal to charge.

  The sound reverberated through the air, setting every hair on Roe-al’s body straight up.

  The enemy soldiers yelled, a swelling of deep sound that washed over the plain.

  Some of the Che-da-wah hooted in response.

  Roe-al picked out his target and braced himself for the first onslaught.

  They came at a run, the ground shaking with their steps.

  The clans met them with a flurry of thrown spears. The points thudded home. With cries of pain, or in deathly silence, Ontarem’s men dropped. Blood splattered the teal grass.

  The soldiers wavered, only to be driven forward again by angry splats of the horn. The first of the enemy reached the Che-da-wah’s line, brandishing his sword.

  The man’s opponent, a South Clan woman, raised her spear, driving the point into his shoulder, but not before his blade sliced deep into her side, spilling her from her horse.

  The first casualty of the Che-da-wah.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Attle, the page on duty at the gate, barreled toward Jasmine, who’d stepped out of the straw bale infirmary to take a few minutes to stretch her legs. Awakened from his nap, Shareef scampered behind her.

  Attle tugged on her robe. “The gateguard, Landers, commands you, milady.”

  A clench of fear seized Jasmine’s stomach. She and Landers would talk whenever she walked through the gates, but he had never before summoned her.

  She hurried to the gate. When she stepped through, she saw Landers pacing back and forth, digging the butt of his spear into the ground as if it were a walking stick.

  Hearing her footsteps, he glanced up. Relief crossed his face, but the worried look didn’t leave his eyes. He almost leaped to speak to her. “Lady Jasmine, my daughter Tashta is ill. Will you heal her?”

  “I’ll do what I can. But first tell me her symptoms.”

  “She has a fever. She refuses to eat for the last two days. She’s never been a strong child. Several days ago, our neighbor’s baby and elderly father died of a similar fever.”

  “Do you have berst?”

  “Yes, Lady Jasmine.”

  “Good. Then I’ll come with you now.” She turned. As she suspected, Attle waited just inside the gate. She crooked her finger, and he ran to her.

  “I’m going with Landers to his home to help his sick daughter. Notify any seeking me that I’ll return later.” And make sure you keep Shareef secure so he doesn’t come after me. She didn’t say the words aloud. One of Attle’s jobs was to take care of her pet, and she hoped he understood her.

  “Yes, Lady Jasmine.” He winked, letting her know he’d grasped her unspoken message, then bounced off.

  She turned quickly, hoping Landers hadn’t noticed the boy’s gesture. But the man was staring out over the city, obviously lost in his concerns.

  “I’m ready, Landers.”

  He tilted his head in the direction he wanted to go, then set a brisk pace. As they moved through the almost empty streets, Jasmine took deep breaths, centering herself in preparation for the healing. She slanted a sideways glance at Landers.

  He strode along in silence, obviously worried about his daughter. This was her opportunity to question him more, maybe find out some information. But he was a man in authority, and she had to nerve herself up to speak with him. “Is there any news of the army? I’ve been so busy in the slave camp, I haven’t had a chance to hear anything.”

  “There have been some skirmishes. The nomads ride as one with their horses.” A hint of admiration leaked into his voice. “I’ve heard they are a magnificent sight…if you aren’t about to fight with them. They engage our warriors and flee, leaving behind a trail of death. Ontarem—” his voice dropped to a whisper “—doesn’t heal any of the warriors who fall.”

  “That’s unusual?”

  He gave a curt nod.

  “He must be conserving His energy for the attack on Arvintor,” Jasmine murmured. “Is there a field hospital set up? Healers?”

  “No. We’ve never needed such a thing. We either died from the spears of the Che-da-wah, or if
we were wounded, Ontarem healed us to fight again.”

  Jasmine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from volunteering to set up a field hospital. Those soldiers from Penutar were the enemy. At least they were supposed to be the enemy. But Ontarem was the real enemy. The soldiers were just His toys. But dangerous, nevertheless.

  She tried to shake off her pity for the wounded. Her duties were here, in the slave camps. She had to keep the people of Seagem healthy until Indaran found a way for them to escape. But still, to know of men needing her medical services…whom she couldn’t help…. “Then the men must be feeling very uncertain.”

  He swiveled his head, making sure no one was near. “Morale is very bad. Word has spread of Arvintor. The soldiers don’t like the idea of fighting the Che-da-wah and their God.”

  “I don’t blame them.”

  “For the first time,” he faltered, “many doubt. There’s only a whisper here, a word there.”

  Should she push further? Dare she take the risk? If Landers reported her…. “Why don’t they rebel?”

  Shock flashed over his face, and he slid his gaze away. “You blaspheme, Lady.”

  Fear roiled in her stomach, but she made herself look innocent. “I’m a healer, Landers. Therefore everything about the soldiers’ state of mind concerns me. When they return to the city, I will have my hands full with ministering to both their bodies and their minds.”

  He seemed to believe her, for the tenseness in his face smoothed out. “You’re right. Your bluntness shocked me.”

  “I apologize.”

  Landers shook his head as if shaking off the apology. “I will be just as blunt in return. When we first pick up the sword for our God, we are told the story of a soldier, a strowah who commanded two halhores. They rebelled against Ontarem, seeking to gain the rule of the city. They killed a few priests and a priestess before being captured.

  “He was punished?”

  “What our God did to him is a tale with which I will not sully your ears. But I had nightmares for a week after I first heard it.”

  They stopped before a small stone house, identical to the others on the street. Before Landers reached the unpainted wooden door, weathered by time to a soft gray, it flew open. A tiny woman stood framed in the entrance.

  “Freeish, I have brought the healer, Lady Jasmine. Lady Jasmine, this is my mate.”

  Freeish couldn’t have been more of a contrast to her big, scarred husband. She fluttered a dainty hand, welcoming them inside.

  Jasmine snuck a discreet glance around, hoping to learn more of these people. The room obviously was used for cooking as well as the main family gathering area.

  Landers and Freeish exchanged a quiet word. Through her othersense, Jasmine could see the love flow between the couple, and her heart softened further toward them.

  Freeish beckoned her to another room. When Jasmine stepped through the open doorway, she could see this was the family’s sleeping area. A big bed dominated the room, with a smaller pallet on the floor in the corner.

  A child, who looked to be about six, slept near the edge of the big bed, a gray woolen blanket pulled up to her chin.

  Jasmine stepped over to her and placed a hand on the little girl’s forehead, feeling the warmth of the flushed skin burn into her palm. She slid her fingers beneath the base of Tashta’s neck, feeling the pulse. Sluggish. Not for the first time, she wished for a thermometer.

  Closing her eyes, Jasmine centered herself into her othersense. Instantly she read the energy waves of a strong othersense. The child had a powerful gift, and her illness looked just the same as baby Merrel’s. A fever, all right. One she could easily cure. Now that Jasmine knew what to search for, the tie to Ontarem was unmistakable—the God drained the girl of her energy, her gift.

  Jasmine opened her eyes and stripped the covers back.

  Tashta whimpered but didn’t wake.

  Jasmine placed her hand on the child’s narrow chest, over the heart. She sent the red energy down her arm and into Tashta’s weakened body. She heard a gasp from Freeish and knew the woman’s othersense must be strong enough for her to see the healing energy.

  In a few minutes, Jasmine had banished the fever. Already a healthy color seeped into Tashta’s sunken cheeks.

  Jasmine took her hand from the girl’s chest and glanced toward the parents.

  They stood with their arms wrapped around each other, identical expressions of concern on their faces.

  “Her fever is gone.”

  Joy replaced concern, and they hugged each other.

  Landers released his wife and stepped forward. He took Jasmine’s hand and bowed, raising her palm to his forehead. “Lady Jasmine, I thank you.”

  Jasmine swallowed. How can I tell them? How can I not? “There are complications.”

  Landers straightened, his eyes widening in alarm. He squeezed her palm.

  Gently, Jasmine slipped her hand from his. “Tashta possesses strong othersense.” She nodded at Freeish. “Obviously, she gets her gift from you. Have you been feeling more tired these last few weeks?”

  “Yes. Tired, sometimes nauseated. I’ve wondered—” she glanced over at Landers “—if I was pregnant.”

  “And you said nothing?”

  “I wanted to be sure. But two days ago, my flow started.”

  His expression fell.

  Jasmine placed her hand on his arm. “It is best she is not,” she said gently. “As you know, Ontarem is draining more energy from His people to fight His war. Those who are already weak, or those who possess greater othersense, will be the most affected.”

  Understanding crossed Freeish’s face. Her mouth firmed, and she fisted her hands. “That’s why I was so tired. That’s why my Tashta became ill.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is wrong that Ontarem does this!”

  “Freeish,” Landers reprimanded her.

  Freeish rounded on her husband. “To take from us, yes. I can bear being tired for our God. But to take from children, from the weak. To make them ill. To kill them. This is wrong, Landers. Wrong. And you know it!”

  He gazed at his wife, anguish in his dark eyes.

  “Are you willing to sacrifice our daughter to Him?”

  “We are taught such is the ultimate service,” he whispered. “An honor.”

  “Are you willing to sacrifice our daughter to Him?” Freeish repeated, pleading in her voice.

  He bowed his head. “No.”

  Jasmine allowed the silence to drag out, before judging the time had come for her to intervene. “Come here, Freeish. Trade places with Landers.”

  Freeish scooted around her mate so she was close to Jasmine.

  “I think you can give your daughter some of your energy. But doing so will mean you will deplete yourself more.”

  “Gladly will I do this.”

  “I don’t know how long you can drain yourself before you, too, become ill. Days. A few weeks at most.”

  Landers grabbed his wife’s hand, a bleak look on his harsh face.

  Jasmine couldn’t bear the despair in his eyes. “Perhaps by then, the fighting with the nomads will be over and your God will no longer need to drain you.”

  Landers shook his head. “The situation with the Che-da-wah and their God will not be resolved in a few weeks.”

  “It must be,” Jasmine said firmly. “And you must do something to make that happen. And without killing more Che-da-wah, or else they will not be able to give Arvintor power. For if Arvintor doesn’t prevail, you will lose both your daughter and your wife.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Deep within the camp, the afternoon sun beat down on the hard-packed dirt area that they’d ironically named “Weapons Salon One.” Three other secret training places were scattered in other parts of the slave compound, each in full use.

  Standing in front of his class, Indaran wiped the sweat from his brow with a swipe of his sleeve, trying to dredge up the remnants of his patience. Teaching beginners was harder than he�
��d realized. One more time he swung his sword, demonstrating a simple lunge and parry for the twenty men and women facing him in a semi-circle.

  Some held the swords they’d stolen from the slain guards in the temple. The others wielded driftwood sticks the children had scrounged as firewood from the pockets of pools amid the rocks at the base of the cliffs.

  Indaran had appointed several of his crew members as teachers, and they’d been conducting similar classes in the other secluded areas of the camp. He was determined that every citizen of Seagem, including the children, receive some rudimentary weapons training with both sword and spear. When the time came to rebel, he knew everyone would need to fight.

  Even then the odds are against us.

  He planned to have an initial group of armed, experienced warriors overcome the first soldiers sent to apprehend them. They’d grab the weapons from the wounded or dead soldiers, handing them off to the next most capable of Seagem’s fighters. As an enemy fell, someone would grab his weapon and use it in battle. A poor plan. Our only plan.

  Without weapons, his unarmed people would be easy targets. Even armed they’d be vulnerable, but at least they’d have more of a chance.

  First, they had to wait for a ship. If a ship ever arrives. Then they’d have to defeat the crew and take over the ship. Another daunting, if not impossible, task. But he refused to dwell on the odds against them. Indaran’s greatest fear was that Ontarem would soon discover them, instigating a premature rebellion. Without a means of escape, his people would be forced to fight to the death. One-by-one over the past days, they had conveyed to him their determination. They would not become Ontarem’s pawns. They would rather die.

  Yesterday, they’d had their first practice run. The whole camp had mobilized as if Ontarem’s army were about to attack. The event had been a disaster, with one squad running into another, people falling down in confusion, or fouling the swordplay. But they’d learned some lessons, and hopefully, today’s rehearsal would be a bit smoother. But first he had to finish this class.

  This was the third training session Indaran had taught that day. Fatigue weighed his limbs and roughened his voice. He’d only been working out for a few days, but he’d pushed himself and his people to the limit of their stamina and abilities. He knew he should rest, yet fear was an ever-present goad in his belly. They needed to be trained. He needed to be at his best fighting strength.