Reliquary of the Faithless: Bastards of the Gods Dark Fantasy (Enthraller Book 3)

by T. A. Miles

  Deitir cast his own perturbed expression down at the map that had been lain across the table since the first crucial assault on Indhovan had occurred. It served little purpose now, Cayri imagined. The time for planning had passed and now only actions would determine whether or not the city survived.

  “I don’t like how quickly the lead ships sailed in,” Deitir finally said, lifting his gaze to Fersmyn. “It was reckless.”

  “Almost suicidal,” Firard put in from his position beside the now closed office doors.

  “You think that they were aware of the fire trap,” Deitir said, more as a statement of concurrence than a question seeking confirmation.

  The two looked at one another across the room, seeming to silently come to terms with what appeared a fact.

  Cayri’s disappointment over the fire trap’s potential compromising was lessened by the prior conversation she and Vlas had had. She was prepared for it to have far less impact than they had originally been relying on. Fortunately, their entire defense was not reliant on its success.

  “But the men on the ships…” Ilayna said, approaching the table and her son.

  Cayri looked over at the lady. “Perhaps no longer men.”

  What she had suggested with that comment set a momentary silence upon the room’s occupants.

  “So, the notion of physical death would not have daunted them,” Deitir surmised.

  “No,” Cayri confirmed.

  “All three of their lead ships were downed,” Alledar reminded, seeming out of breath in his discomfort, perhaps physically as well as mentally and emotionally. The war had formally arrived. There was no promise that it would not manifest in the very room they all stood.

  “That leaves six in the harbor,” Fersmyn said, “barraging us with a much more proficient example of the fire tactics.”

  “They’ve had longer to prepare,” Deitir reminded him, a note of impatience toward Fersmyn’s pessimism was detectable. “Months, or years, perhaps.”

  Fersmyn continued with an air of concession to Deitir’s determination. He was also unprepared to surrender so quickly, but he clearly found it both frustrating and disheartening that such a significant portion of their strategy had been so swiftly undermined. “The outermost parts of the city have been evacuated. The loss of citizens should be small, but our defenses on the water are not holding against the assault.”

  “Our military is insufficient, I agree, but we’ll find a way. We must.” Deitir braced his hands against the edge of the table, drawing in a breath before issuing his next command. “Let’s prepare the ground troops for defense against the enemy coming ashore.”

  “Right.,” Constable Rahl responded. “We have fewer men, but it will be more risk for them to penetrate the city. They’ll have arrows coming down at them out of windows.”

  “Yes,” Alledar said somewhat sardonically, “and probably the means to avert some of that risk by decimating whatever stands too high before they even come ashore.”

  “They don’t have that kind of range,” Rahl insisted. He then glanced about at the others, as if for some support or confirmation that what he had said was true.

  “We’re, all of us, hoping not, I’m sure,” Alledar said, his nervousness in the face of stress—another invasion so close on the heels of the wave—manifesting an air of antagonism.

  One which Fersmyn was the first to protest. “Your tone is less than moralizing. Perhaps you’d like to negotiate our surrender.”

  “That’s enough,” Deitir interrupted, before an argument could truly begin. “We’ll not be quarreling amongst ourselves as well.” He looked from one officer to the other, then said to all of them. “There’s work to be done. See to it.”

  “Governor,” Rahl said on his way out.

  Deitir straightened from the table and approached Cayri, speaking low enough to keep the conversation between them while others set about their duties. “What do you make of the three advance ships?”

  “I’m not a tactical expert,” Cayri replied. “But I believe that the first ship, at least, was a sacrifice, deliberately driven into the fire trap.”

  Deitir nodded, acknowledging the sense of such a theory. “So, they did not care that they lost it. But what of the two with it?”

  “Perhaps they did not anticipate just how much material had been laid out on the skiffs.” Cayri could only guess at this stage, as accurately or as poorly as any of them.

  “They followed too closely and were unable to compensate,” Deitir surmised. “It stands to reason that we did do some damage to them, then.”

  “Some,” Cayri conceded. “Likely not enough.”

  Deitir’s brow drew together, but didn’t commit to the frown they had started. “You aren’t abandoning hope now, are you?”

  She looked at him, reading ‘hope’ to have been substituted for him. “No,” she said, on both counts. “I’m not.”

  Glancing past him, Cayri noticed Ilayna observing without hearing. She recalled enough of her own mother to not doubt maternal intuition, and took no offense at the knowing and somewhat concerned expression on Ilayna’s features. Under less urgent circumstances, she would have taken the time to assure Ilayna that Deitir’s and Indhovan’s best interests were her priority, and that she had no designs on encouraging his admiration out of context. She was a priest who had helped his family and would remain that well after this battle had passed. The circumstances fed Deitir’s sentimentality. She felt confident that that was the extent of it, and once the urgency of the hour had passed, the focus of his sentiment would drift.

  Truthfully, the sentimental developments Cayri was most concerned with were those which Vlas had demonstrated. Her fellow priest had been affected by at least two souls in this city, if not three. It was not beyond Vlas’ capabilities, but it was not common for him. She hoped that there would be time for him to overcome his trauma regarding the death of Vaelyx Treir. She also hoped that the sudden friendship between Irslan and Vlas would not be further traumatizing for either of them, since each of them seemed to be defying or denying a loss. As to Imris…it was peculiar of Vlas to be lured to romantic notions by a shared traumatic experience, but regardless of that, there was no denying the actuality of his attraction to the constable.

  The thoughts were pushed aside in favor of considerations that were much direr. There were nine ships in the harbor, at least three of them casting explosive projectiles at the city and their own makeshift battleships. Those following likely carried troops and supplies, perhaps more than enough to sustain Morenne to the battle’s end in their favor. Indhovan was not without supplies, and not without numbers, but many of its numbers were the untrained population. As it occurred to her, she said, “The civilian population may have to assist in defending its home.”

  “Yes,” Deitir agreed. “Fersmyn has already suggested the distribution of weapons at the designated shelters throughout the city. I intend to implement that plan. In fact, it’s already underway.”

  Cayri nodded approval, looking out toward the harbor. “I should go down to the water.”

  Deitir’s presence seemed to leap a little in panic at the idea. “What do you mean? Why?”

  “We don’t know what the sacrificed ship was actually carrying,” Cayri explained. “If it was meant to stage demons, even if only one of the Vadryn, that danger will have to be extinguished as quickly as possible. I’m the only one present who is qualified to do so.”

  Deitir frowned openly now. “I realize that, but no one can go near to that assault. Not even a priest could survive being struck by such a force, surely.”

  “No,” Cayri replied, unaccustomed to resistance of this nature at the announcement of going to perform a task. She was no longer young enough to be so overly protected and had not been for quite some time. Her duty as a priest was quite simply to tailor her actions to suit the requirements of the hour. She was no hunter, true, and certainly not a tactical specialist, but she remained an agent of the Vassenleigh Orde
r and was therefore used to a certain amount of autonomy. Even being female among men who struggled to understand the roles or abilities of priests, she was seldom questioned the way in which Deitir just had. She had witnessed this mode from him, yes, but directed at his family, not her.

  Her gaze travelled briefly toward Ilayna, who had once again donned an expression of concern. Cayri said to Deitir, “I would, of course, strive not to be struck.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Deitir volunteered, too quickly, and for the first time since taking over for his father, he seemed too young.

  “You know that you cannot,” Cayri told him.

  She was relieved when he reneged immediately. “Yes,” he said. His expression indicated that he may have even felt foolish for his reaction. “I’ll send others to accompany…”

  “No,” Cayri resisted, her brow furrowing helplessly. “They would be more at risk than I, and more a threat to me should any of the Vadryn be present.”

  It was clear that Deitir was looking for a way to prevent her going up until that moment. Now he seemed confused by the nature of their true enemy. “But they would have been on a ship. Can such creatures survive in water?”

  “In their natural state, it is a risk for them to be too near a moving body of water,” she explained. “The energy can overpower them…weaken them. But if it was embodied upon the ship, it would have empowered itself with the blood of that body, possibly several if they were arranged to be present.”

  It was a morbid thought that crossed Cayri’s mind just then; that Morenne might have planted a demon among an unsuspecting crew, as fodder for strengthening a beast.

  “Enough to be unaffected by the power of the sea?” Deitir asked.

  And Cayri nodded. “Perhaps enough to make it to shore or to one of our ships. The possibility has to be investigated. I shall do it.”

  Unhappily, Deitir finally surrendered. “All right, but take care, Cayri.”

  He touched her arm lightly and she looked down at his hand briefly before stepping around him and toward the doors. As she departed, she noticed Alledar leaning from the edge of his chair at the end of the main table, where he typically took up a post of worry. He was sweating, as he tended to do when nervous. In the process of mopping his face with an embroidered pocket cloth, he glanced in her direction, then noted the placement of both Fersmyn and of Deitir.

  Normally, Cayri might have overlooked that, perhaps secure in her own presence, if not overly convinced of Alledar’s harmlessness—he seemed a man opposed to confrontation most of the time—but it occurred to her acutely in that very moment that she was leaving Deitir’s side for the first time since the planning for the invasion began. She was leaving an opening for opportunity.

  Rather than halt in her tracks and draw attention to the fact that she had seen anything—what admittedly, might have been nothing—she passed a gaze to Ilayna along her route to the doors. As she suspected, without any word or fore-planning, Ilayna comprehended covert action and when it was necessary. She made no gesture or comment in Cayri’s direction, but she did make brief eye contact, both with Cayri and with Firard Mortannis, who unobtrusively abandoned his post at the doors in the moments just prior to Cayri’s exit. He began to walk with her immediately once they were both in the hall, as if they had arranged it in advance.

  “Did you see something?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Cayri replied. “Alledar.”

  Firard needed no explanation. “I’ll watch him, he said, and then took a separate course from her own as casually as he had joined her.

  Cayri made her way down the grand stairs of the house, past members of the domestic staff and political office in various states of urgent motion, and to the main doors. There were two men stationed immediately flanking the doors. They let Cayri past and shut them firmly behind her. She was greeted in the manor’s interior yard by several soldiers, forming a small unit on their own, clearly in preparation to defend the house and its members should the situation come to that. She hoped it would not.

  Making a path through the soldiers readying their defensive plans, she focused on the task at hand, which was to investigate the situation at the waterfront. Nearing the main gates, she caught a distinct glimmer of red in the corner of her vision. She drew to a pause and looked, as if that smear of red were a living being hovering beside her, and perhaps it was. A note of hopefulness chased through her senses and she moved more quickly to the gates, where a figure in white just happened to be approaching from a knot of armored men, a couple of who were pointing the figure in the direction of the gates.

  Cayri smiled immediately, even before Korsten’s face was in view, framed by his extremely red hair. “Korsten!” she greeted, to ensure they saw one another. To the man at the gate, she said, “Open the gates, please.”

  While the soldier was complying, Korsten caught sight of her and his path angled deliberately in her direction. The gate opened enough for her to pass through and she went, meeting her fellow priest in the street, where she hugged him openly. He returned the gesture, emanating some relief, but she also felt protection from him, as if he had detected her stress—even more than she had noticed it in herself—and responded in kind.

  She took advantage of the moment as much as she dared, feeling that she could silently vent in his shelter, which was renewing, as much as seeing him safe was a relief. “I’m glad you’re here,” she said to him as they drew away from one another.

  Korsten stayed close, perhaps so that they might hear one another over the rush and clamor of a city in the midst of its first and most important military defense. “I did not expect to be so soon, but I’ll refrain from offering too much explanation just at the moment. It’s good to see that you’re well. What of Vlas?”

  Cayri nodded. “He’s well,” she answered, leaving out Vlas’ apparent struggle with emotional matters that she believed he would sort, given time. They weren’t crippling, even if they were somewhat troubling to her. The thought brought her to the last of their party who had been assigned to Indhovan. “Merran…”

  “Yes, I heard,” Korsten interrupted, softening the abruptness of his interjection with a small smile that also accentuated the emotion in his eyes, a state similar to her concern for Vlas. It was important to each of them, but they understood their priorities. And in further illustrating that, Korsten asked, “Is anyone else coming from Vassenleigh?”

  “I cannot say,” Cayri replied. “The Superiors are aware of the state of things here, though not of this yet.” She indicated ‘this’ with a look toward the harbor.

  Korsten’s gaze followed hers. “There’s more to this than soldiers and ships armed with…”

  Cayri provided the term he was searching for. “They’re referred to as fire tactics. We had laid a trap for them using a store that was confiscated from the Islands, but they came with much more than we could have anticipated, and a more effective way to implement them.”

  “At least we expected the Vadryn,” Korsten said, in a mild grasp at levity that served its purpose. Cayri felt renewed again, glad to be in his presence; the presence of a hunter, whose talents they could sorely use.

  “I was just leaving to look for the potential of possessed soldiers that might have come ashore,” she said.

  Korsten nodded in agreement with the plan. “I’m certain it’s more than a potential.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, and they drew back from one another and headed in the direction of the harbor.

  Nine

  MERRAN HAD SUBMITTED himself to darkness. It was harmless, but in its stillness, it was also numbing. It left him to drift, though he instinctively resisted. He attempted to explore and for time that could not be measured, he wandered in a featureless blackness. He persisted.

  A sharpness prodded his mind, sourcing from his hand. He raised it automatically, looking upon both it and his arm wrapped in a coiling arm of the crone’s. Her laugh cracked across the darkness and she pulled. The pain was exquisite.
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  He cried out and was released. The suddenness of it threw him off balance and he dropped to whatever surface was beneath him. He felt the crone’s eyes on him. He felt her bent smile.

  And then she lashed out at him. He recoiled, further into dream, deeper into darkness that wrapped him absolutely before disgorging him into a sudden bright space. A space long behind him. Sunlight panned across wide, golden fields and mottled groves of trees fading with the season, with autumn. An autumn that was centuries removed from the one Merran had last been conscious to, before volunteering to be set into a spell sleep.

  I never paid much attention to magic then, Merran reminded himself, searching the peaceful terrain as if a visitor to it, one who knew what he would find. I wasn’t concerned with monsters either, for that matter. They didn’t have much bearing on a normal life, and that was what I had; a normal, quiet life.

  “How normal?” cracked an ancient voice in reply to his thoughts. The tone was mocking and belonging to the crone, though she could not have survived. “How quiet? Tell me, defiler.”

  Merran had no intention of carrying on a conversation with this figment of recent trauma. Despite that determination, his mind continued to describe what he was witnessing; memories, evidently.

  My family and I lived in the small town of Imerenne, a few miles outside of it, actually. We were farmers. No one bothered us and we didn’t bother anyone ourselves. I was the eldest of four children, barely fourteen, but the man of the house behind my father. Schalek came next at eleven, trailed closely by nine-year-old Ervanien with our mother’s blond hair, and little Brea, our only sister, was just six. I saved the dreams of heroics for my younger brothers and the tales about magic for whimsical Brea.

  As his siblings were recounted, he located them visually. They and he were walking along a path among barley fields. The day resurfaced fresh in his memory, as if it had never been buried.