The Warriors of the Gods

by Jacob Peppers

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Well? You goin’ to play your hand or what, fella?”

  Rion blinked, turning and staring at the man who’d spoken. He’d told him his name, he knew, but he couldn’t remember it now, just as he couldn’t remember the identities of the other four seated at the table around him. They were all watching him, looking for some answer, growing more annoyed by the second, but he barely noticed.

  He was too busy feeling…panicked. That was bad enough, and as far as Rion was concerned, he had spent far too much of the last weeks feeling that same way. This time, though, it was different. The fear he felt wasn’t for himself, or at least he didn’t think so. Instead, it was for something or someone else. Ridiculous, he thought. You’ve nothing to worry about.

  After all, Alesh and all the others were safely ensconced at The Drunken Bard, sleeping (which meant they were a damned sight cleverer than Rion). Hank had seemed a good enough sort, if a bit maudlin, and Rion felt confident the old man was no lover of the Dark who might betray them. Besides, Larin had trusted the retired soldier as well, and the grumpy old Chosen didn’t strike Rion as the type that trusted easily. No, they were safe. Who then? he thought. His parents? That, too, was a silly thought. His parents were safe, as were Odrick and Fermin. Rion had made sure of that before leaving Valeria.

  So who then?

  A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he snapped his gaze down to it while his own hand went for one of the blades secreted in his tunic. He’d nearly drawn it when he followed the length of the arm to see one of the other players staring at him, a confused expression on his face. “—alright there, fella?”

  “I’m fine,” Rion snapped, knocking the man’s hand away. But the truth was, he wasn’t fine, not at all. His heart was hammering in his chest, and he was breathing hard, as if he had just finished a race. His skin crawled, as if dozens of spiders were walking all over him, but none of that was the worst of it. The worst of it was the coin—the token he’d received from Javen and which he now always kept on him—had gone as cold as ice in his trouser pocket. Suddenly, he didn’t want to be here playing cards. He wanted—no, needed—to be moving.

  He abruptly stood, only passingly aware of the chair he knocked over in his haste. “I have to go.”

  “Already?” one of the men said. “Well, stay a while yet, fella. I’d like a chance to get my money back.” He grinned pleasantly enough, but there was a hardness in his eyes, one that said he wouldn’t appreciate Rion leaving without giving him that chance, wouldn’t appreciate it at all.

  But in case the man’s expression didn’t make Rion’s situation clear enough, one of the others from the table—a thick chested man with arms the size of most men’s thighs—growled, “You ain’t leavin’ yet. Why don’t you stay, play a few more hands?”

  It was phrased as a question, but it wasn’t one, not really, and they all knew it. Rion thought the right thing—the smart thing—would be to stay for a few more games, maybe a half hour or so. He’d rein in his luck, do some folding, and make sure the men won enough of their money back to dull any inclination toward violence they might have had. He’d done such before, many times, and it would be the wisest course. He thought that, given the blessing of the God of Luck, it was even odds he could take all the men at once, if it came to that, and without too much difficulty. But gambling had taught Rion a few lessons, and not the least of which was that any living man—if he intended to keep living, at least—needed to learn the importance of not taking any more chances than he had to, and he should always be focused on minimizing his own risk. Whether that risk was losing more of his coin or, in this case,getting jumped in some dark alley.

  God-blessed or not, it only took one knife in the back, one bad roll of the dice, to ruin a man’s day. But as dangerous as those men might have been, even the thought of sitting down again, of playing on as if nothing had occurred, made his stomach churn dangerously. “Sorry,” he said, “but I’ve really got to go.”

  He reached for his stack of coins—significantly higher than those of the others seated at the table—but the big man’s hand clamped around his wrist, digging into it like a blacksmith’s tongs. “Look, fella,” the man said, his tone surprisingly reasonable given his hard expression, “this ain’t the way to do things, you want to make friends, is it? Now, relax. Whatever it is, it’ll keep, won’t it? We’re all nice enough lads,” he went on, gesturing at the others around the table, “and we know a man ought not to gamble with more than he can afford to lose.” He paused, glancing at one of their number, a skinny, disheveled man who was obviously drunk, slumped in his chair and staring forlornly at his own tiny stack of coins. “Leastways, most of us do,” he growled. “But what I mean to say is, well…” He tightened his grip on Rion’s arm, his fingers digging in, and Rion winced as his bones ground together. “You might hurt our feelin’s, you leave so soon. You wouldn’t want that. Would you?”

  Rion fought the urge to draw his blade or, at the least, to give the man a solid punch in the eye with his good hand. He’d dealt with the man’s kind before—though, it had to be said, this one was more polite than most—but he’d never had much patience for the flagrant use of intimidation and bullying to get one’s way. He had made his disapproval known on many such occasions, in many such taverns, before, and, so far at least, he was still walking around breathing air. Of course, he had also talked his way out of trouble more times than he could count on those nights when gambling with coins was enough to scratch the itch, and he felt no not-quite hidden urge to gamble with his life too.

  This was one of those times, or at least, it was like them, for he had no interest in gambling at all now, had no thought for the cards and what they might be. There was only the feeling, so powerful it was as if some giant invisible hand was squeezing him, increasing the pressure bit by bit, second by second, waiting for him to finally listen. And however tight the big man might hold his wrist, however strong he might be, he could not hope to squeeze as tight as whatever other force now gripped him. “Let me go,” Rion said. “Look, I’ll return, and I’ll give you a chance at winning your money back, all of you. But right now, there’s somewhere I have to be.”

  “Oh?” the man asked. “And where’s that?”

  “I…I don’t know,” Rion said lamely.

  “Look here, guy,” the big man said, “I think I’ve been pretty damned nice about this, but it seems you don’t want to make friends. He started to rise. “I—”

  He’d levered his bulk halfway out of his chair when Rion knotted his other hand into a fist and hit him once, hard, between the legs. The man let out a strangled whimper and would have toppled, but Rion grabbed him by the shoulders—the man’s grip on his wrist having fallen away—and eased him down into his chair.

  The stranger seemed to curl around himself, his head resting on the table, but Rion paid it little mind. He would be up, soon enough, and he thought he’d best be gone before he was. The others at the table, luckily, were too stunned to react, staring at the big man—their impromptu leader—with shocked, bewildered expressions, as if they couldn’t quite figure out what had happened. Rion glanced at his pile of coins and realized, belatedly, he could have just offered to let them split the money between them. True, he and the others were running low on coins and would need as many as they could get—Rion wasn’t sure a man could buy his way out from underneath an executioner’s axe, but he thought that, the way things were going, it was best to be prepared—but he could always get more.

  Too late now, he thought. Either the men would come after him, or they would not, and he’d already done more than hurt the man’s wallet—he’d hurt his pride. Such men—whose clothes and manner marked them as street toughs whose best days had since passed them by—had little else, and he wouldn’t take kindly to it. With a shrug, Rion reached over the table, scooping up the coins and stuffing them in his pockets while the others at the table looked on with dazed expressions, as if they’d jus
t woken and had no idea where they were or how they’d come to be there.

  And that was good—that was just fine. They’d figure it out soon enough, and they wouldn’t remain so for long, of that Rion was sure. He could only hope he put enough distance between himself and the men that they would decide it wasn’t worth it to keep hunting for him. With that in mind, he turned and hurried toward the door, pushing his way past a small crowd of men and women who had gathered to watch what they had expected to be a fight. Some—including the barkeeper—shouted for him to stop, but Rion ignored them, wasn’t sure he could have obeyed even had he wanted to. The power of the feeling that had overcome him had grown in those seconds it had taken him to deal with the man and scoop up his coins, and it was almost as if the invisible hand had decided to take matters into its own…well, hand, and was pulling him toward where it wanted him to go and never mind what he thought of it.

  He half-suspected his feet were dangling inches above the wooden floor as he was pulled forward, impelled by a force he could not explain. But recent events had taught him a man was better off not knowing some things, and he did not look down. Instead, he reached the door and desperately threw it open. At this sign of progress, the squeezing pressure abated the smallest amount, and Rion stared out into the dark street, gasping for air like a drowning man who, by chance more than design, has surfaced above the crushing currents and knows he might be pushed under again at any moment.

  He half-stumbled, half-ran into the street, not consciously deciding which direction he would go and not needing to. The feeling knew where it wanted him, and that was enough to keep him moving, pushing him along as if some powerful wind pressed at his back. Javen’s coin had grown even colder in his pocket, so cold he thought there was a good chance when he took off his trousers he would see his leg had frosted over. But even that cold, that pain, was a distant thing next to the urge, the need to move forward.

  What few people were in the streets at this late hour watched him suspiciously as he sprinted like the Keeper himself was after him, but Rion didn’t so much as give them a second glance. Alright, alright, damn it, he thought, I’m going there, okay, so just relax? And he was, just as fast as he could, the breath rasping in his lungs as he turned down one alley, barreling through it and out into another street only to careen forward. He was going there, wherever there was, and he doubted just then if the gods themselves could have stopped him.

  He was so caught up in hurrying, so driven by the maelstrom of need, he didn’t realize he was retracing the steps he’d taken earlier when he’d risen from his bed, unable to sleep, until he was standing in the mouth of an alley, staring at the sign of The Drunken Bard, creaking as it rocked in heavy wind. He didn’t know what possible reason he’d had to race back here so quickly, but Rion was past questioning it then, so instead he only took a step toward it, meaning to reach the inn as quickly as possible and rid himself of this heart-hammering feeling.

  Or, at least, he meant to take a step. Instead, his foot froze, hanging in the air as if he had turned into some statue. Frowning, Rion tried to put it down, to finish the movement, but no matter how hard he strained his foot refused to obey. At least, that was, until he tried to set it back down beside the other, and then it complied quickly enough. Damned feet, Rion thought. Damned gods and their damned coins. Still, the force that had gripped him was gone, finally, and there was that. Rion was still thinking on it, on what it had meant, when he noticed several carriages in front of the Drunken Bard.

  Not all that unusual to see carriages in the finer parts of cities such as where the Bard was located. After all, Rion was a nobleman, and he knew most nobles loved nothing more than flaunting their wealth at any opportunity. It was a common enough sight to see the sons and daughters of Valeria’s most prominent noblemen and merchant class make such spectacles whenever they ventured into the city, hoping to attract as many admiring—or envious, on that they weren’t very particular—glances as they could. Yet something about the whole thing seemed strange to him.

  For one, the carriages were painted black, without the markings or designs so common on noblemen’s carriages, there to proclaim—as loudly as possible—who traveled within so those watching could know who they were. Not much good making a man envious, if he doesn’t know who to be envious of. For another, a quick glance around the street showed him no one shared it with him, at least, none he could see in the flickering lights of the lanterns hung at regular intervals on the sides of the nearby buildings.

  Not much good saddling your horses—or having your groomsmen do it—and taking out your carriage to flaunt your wealth, if there was no one to watch your flaunting. Oh, noblemen ventured out in the night as well as the day but, in his experience, the men and women who did so generally preferred to keep their identities, if not hidden, at least not advertised. After all, the day was the time for balls and putting on airs. Night was a time for the rich and powerful to don cloaks and fancy themselves brigands and outlaws as they sought to sate their more perverse or, at least—and of more importance—socially unacceptable desires.

  So why, then, were there two carriages parked in front of the inn? What’s more, the horses had not been unhitched and pulled into the small stable attached to the Bard, making it obvious enough that whoever had visited the inn did not intend to stay long. Rion was still wondering on this when he saw a group of men step from the Bard’s front door and into the night. They wore the robes of priests, but if these men were priests, they weren’t any kind Rion would be likely to confide in or ask for advice. They wore grim, foreboding expressions, and they glanced back and forth around the street before the two in front began to slink toward the carriage. Before that moment, Rion wouldn’t have even believed priests capable of “slinking,” but there was really no other word for it. No, not the type of men to ask for advice. Maybe the type to ask for mercy, if you got on their bad side, but that was about as far as Rion could imagine it going. Though, judging by the look of them, he didn’t suspect these men had much mercy to spare.

  One of the men turned and said something to another. The man he’d addressed moved forward, and in doing so stepped within the circle of light given off by a nearby street lantern. Not much, still mostly in shadow, but it was enough for Rion to see the crimson spatters on the front of the priest’s robe and face. It appeared somebody already had gotten on their bad side, after all, and Rion’s breath caught in his throat.

  Bloody priests. The Drunken Bard. It didn’t take a genius to put the pieces together, even if he didn’t like the way they fit, and Rion’s fears were confirmed a moment later when he saw Alesh and Katherine being led out into the street. Well, “led” wasn’t exactly the word for it—“carried” would have been better. Both were clearly unconscious, never mind the way the priests carrying them had their arms draped over their shoulders as if they were only friends who’d drunk too much for their own good and were now being helped to their carriage.

  Suddenly, Rion was bathed in a cold sweat. There were nearly a dozen robed figures in all, far too many for him to attempt to rescue Alesh and Katherine. And just how had the men found them, anyway? Had one of the guards at the gate recognized one of them? No, that didn’t make sense. If that were the case, Rion and the others would already be sitting in a dungeon somewhere, probably being tortured while they waited on the headsman to take a couple of practice swings at the block, warm up his muscles.

  But if not that, then what? Larin. The name popped into his head seemingly on its own. But the Chosen had saved them, had blown up his whole damned castle to do it. What sort of sense did it make that the man would now betray them? No, it couldn’t have been Larin. Or, at least, Rion hoped to the gods it wasn’t. The old giant had seemed dangerous enough when he was friendly—the last thing Rion wanted was to see what he looked like when he wasn’t.

  But if it wasn’t Larin, who else could it have been? The old innkeeper, Hank, had seemed trustworthy enough, and it didn’t make sense that
he would—

  Rion’s thoughts cut off as he saw others being led from the inn toward the waiting carriages. Darl, Sonya, and the girl, Marta. Oh, gods help me, he thought. Alesh and Katherine had already been loaded into one carriage, and Rion watched, helpless, as the Ferinan—also unconscious—was loaded into the second along with the two terrified, pale-faced girls.

  Several of the priests followed the prisoners into the carriages, and Rion’s mind raced. There was no way to take on so many men, not at once, of that much he was sure. Which meant he would have to wait until they got where they were going, that was all. Once there, hopefully the men would lower their guards, and he might be able to rescue the others. Or, more likely, die with them. The thought was a sobering one, and he watched, his mouth unaccountably dry, as the remaining priests started to disperse, moving in random directions down the street. One of which happened to be directly toward the alley in which Rion stood.

  Rion knew he needed to run, but he hesitated, hoping to see at least which direction the carriages went, so he might find them again. A moment later, he was rewarded as they started moving, but his feeling of relief faded as he saw they were heading in different directions. But why would they do that? he thought wildly. It didn’t make any sense. Was it only another attempt to keep from being discovered, to not draw attention to themselves? Or were they truly taking the others to separate places? Either option was bad, maybe really bad, for he couldn’t think of any good reasons why they might separate them. Of course, he couldn’t spare any worry for that just now, for the priest was drawing closer to his hiding place and soon, darkness or not, the man would have to be blind not to see him.