The Warriors of the Gods

by Jacob Peppers

  He was preparing to flee when the person at the head of those rushing through the street—about a dozen in all now—ran past him, not so much as glancing in his direction. Frowning, Odrick watched the man go and, for a moment, his curiosity got the better of his fear. He grabbed the shoulder of one of the runners as he hurried past, stopping him. “What’s happened?” he asked, feeling—and not knowing why—that he wouldn’t like the man’s answer.

  “It’s the guard,” the man said, half-breathless, his eyes wide with excitement. “They got the fugitives, the Night lovers.”

  Odrick meant to ask the man more, but he jerked away from his grasp, apparently eager to see whatever spectacle he raced toward. Odrick watched him go, a sinking feeling in his stomach. The “Night-lovers” to which the man had referred could only be Rion and his companions. Gods be good.

  Odrick hesitated, thinking it through, taking a moment as his father had taught him. But in the end, he decided he would not be the one to bring the Tirinians food only to tell them their son had been captured and was heading to what would no doubt be a painful execution. He said a quick prayer under his breath, then hurried after the runners.

  ***

  Tesharna read over the letter again, not quite able to believe its contents. It was from Ilrika, and it bore Chosen Leandrian’s seal, but it was not from Leandrian himself. Instead, it was from the castle chamberlain, one of the few members of the castle staff—if the contents of the letter could be believed—who had not fallen victim to whatever bloody massacre had occurred there. As to what had taken place, the chamberlain had few facts, only the account of one frightened scullery maid who claimed to have seen beasts rushing through the castle, slaughtering indiscriminately, and who had only survived by slamming the door to the servants’ quarters and hiding in the pantry. Apparently, the woman had undergone a terrible strain and was even now being seen to by physicians hoping to fix a mind seemingly broken.

  The letter went on and on, far lengthier than was necessary as the chamberlain insisted on describing, in great detail, the poor woman’s mental anguish at whatever terrible stress she had undergone. Tesharna herself cared nothing for the woman, nor for the chamberlain’s obvious—and melodramatic—sympathy. Only two things mattered to her. First, someone or something had attacked Leandrian’s castle. According to the woman it had been two vicious beasts, larger than dogs, but if she was in such a terrible way as the chamberlain intimated then Tesharna couldn’t trust her recounting.

  Second—and this was far more disturbing than the mental state of any castle servant—was that Kale Leandrian, Chosen of Ilrika and Tesharna’s ally in doing Shira’s bidding, was gone. Missing. The chamberlain claimed they had scoured the city for him, expanding the search to the outlying villages, but as of the letter’s composition, they’d found no trace of him. Tesharna—who prided herself on her ability to think ahead, her strategic mind which, along with her beauty, had been so celebrated during the Night War—did not like this, not at all. After all, Kale was no fool—pompous and willful, true—but not a fool. He would have known to protect himself. So what had happened to him and, more importantly, could it happen to Tesharna too?

  Perhaps it was the work of those allied with the Light, the fugitives for whom her men searched even now, but that couldn’t be the case. After all, she had another letter—one she’d received only a day ago—from Bishop Orren, claiming he had not dared wait any longer with such important prisoners and had set off to bring them to her here, in Valeria. Foolish that. Had the man but waited for the Broken to arrive in Peralest—as Tesharna had ordered—there would have been no question of the prisoners escaping, and she promised herself she would make him suffer for his impudence. But one thing at a time.

  True, Kale’s disappearance could have been caused by someone else working for the Light, for Amedan and his ilk, but she did not believe so. If even the smallest bit of the serving maid’s story were true, and the massacre was half as bad as the chamberlain claimed, then she doubted it. Amedan’s servants prided themselves on their unwillingness to resort to violence except in the greatest extremity—it was one of their greatest vanities, their greatest weaknesses, so far as Tesharna was concerned—and so the killings seemed to indicate that they were not behind it.

  Of course, it was possible—all too possible—that some other servant of the Dark was behind Kale’s disappearance. If Tesharna’s time serving the Goddess of the Wilds had taught her anything, it was that allies made in service to the Dark could vanish as quickly as shadows before a bright flame if they saw any advantage in doing so.

  She simply didn’t have enough information. The chamberlain had been so focused on the damned maid that he had told her very little. What sort of wounds had the dead taken? How many were there? How many had been armed guardsmen and how many unarmed castle servants? Had Kale’s door been broken in or not? Had his quarters been searched through? These things and more she needed to know. If she were to see the aftermath herself, she would have a far better idea of what was going on, but though it was only little over a week’s journey to Ilrika, it was far too long a trip to make just now with that fool Orren on his way with the fugitives. So whatever knowledge might be gained by surveying the scene would be gone completely before she was able to make the journey—the fool of a chamberlain and what remained of his staff would have cleaned it all up, erasing any proof as to who was behind Kale’s disappearance.

  A host of problems, all demanding her attention. Yet, Tesharna couldn’t seem to focus on any of them. What crowded in her mind, instead, was Rolf. It had been nearly a week since she’d last seen him and every time she sent a summons he replied that he was busy at some task he simply could not leave. Oh, he would show up eventually, knocking on her quarters late at night—the guards stationed there had long since learned to admit him—and Tesharna would always consider refusing him entry to teach him a lesson, just as she considered, when angry at yet another refusal, having him whipped for disobeying his Chosen. In the end, though, she did not punish him, and she always opened the door.

  So many threads, so many problems, and nowhere near enough time or resources to—

  There was a knock on her door, and Tesharna snarled in frustration. “What?”

  “Forgive me, Brightness,” came Arabella’s familiar voice, “but Captain Nordin of the city guard has sent a runner to tell you that the fugitives have arrived in the city and are being escorted to the castle.”

  Tesharna felt a thrill of excitement at that, not at the fugitives themselves, but at the mention of the messenger. “Is it Rolf?”

  A hesitation, and when the woman spoke she did so in a slow, almost pitying voice that made Tesharna want to claw her eyes out.

  “Forgive me, Mistress, but no. I did not recognize the one who bore the message.”

  Fury, hot and wild, coursed through Tesharna then. Did the captain dare to attempt to come between her and Rolf? But no. Captain Nordin was no fool, and he knew well enough to stay out of Tesharna’s business. So what then? Did that mean that Rolf had refused to bear the message?

  Tesharna’s hands knotted into fists, and she was unconscious of the letter she crumpled as they did. How dare he? Rolf should count himself the luckiest man in all Valeria, perhaps even in all the world. Not only did he have the opportunity to be with Chosen Tesharna, the greatest of Amedan’s Chosen, the one whose strategic genius had led them to victory in the Night War. But more importantly, he had the chance to be with a woman whose beauty was celebrated all over the world, a woman whose grace nearly every poet in the country of Entarna had tried to capture in words. Sure, there had been fewer poems lately, that was a truth she could not hide from herself, just as the procession—once steady to the point of annoyance—of painters and sculptors wishing to do her likeness had withered and dried up completely in recent years.

  I am still beautiful, she told herself, still the greatest beauty in this country or any other. And I will be so forever. An idea struck h
er then, and she smiled. “Very well,” she said finally, not caring about the venom in her voice. “Tell the captain to escort the prisoners to my audience chamber and tell him to send some guards, including Guardsman Rolf. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” the woman answered, “It will be done.”

  “See that it is,” Tesharna answered, rising and moving to her wardrobe to find the proper thing to wear. Something that at once showed her beauty and her power. It would do good for Rolf to be reminded of both, to be reminded of how lucky he was that she chose to spend her idle moments with him. And she would remind him—when he saw what she did to these fugitives who had eluded her men for so long, he would never think to question her again. She was beautiful, yes, like the glinting of the morning sun off a crystal lake, as one poet had described her long ago, but she was power too, just as a storm could be both. And like that storm, she would destroy all that she chose to, and spare who she chose. Like Rolf…perhaps.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Move your fuckin’ feet, criminal.” Alesh stumbled as the guard gave him a rough shove from behind, only just managing to keep his feet without the use of his hands—bound as they were with rope—to catch his balance. He glanced over at Katherine beside him. The sight of her tied and being led beside him knotted his insides with fear and anger, and he wished again that she had not come. He had tried to convince her to go with Marta and Sonya, the odd little girl using her recently discovered abilities to hide them both, but she had refused. She had scolded him for his efforts to dissuade her from coming, telling him it was her fight too, and she was no child to be hidden away. He had been able to offer no argument to that, for she had been right, and he knew it.

  In the back of the procession, Rion and Darl marched. The bishop walked beside Rion as he had been instructed. Rion had promised him that, should he try to give them away, he would die before they did and apparently the man had believed him, for he showed no signs of trying to inform the guards of their ruse. Alesh was glad of that, though he wished the old man would stop looking so damned glum, thought it all too likely the guards would grow suspicious. But so far, at least, the twenty or so guardsmen who had joined their escort seemed content to sneer and shove them along, their swords held at the ready.

  Their armed escort continued to grow as more and more guards joined the procession the closer they drew to the castle, and Alesh began to think he had made a terrible mistake. It had all seemed reasonable enough, when he’d first thought of it, even when he had discussed it with the others. Crazy, sure, risky, but no less risky, he’d thought, than spending the rest of their lives running. So far, they had managed to evade or escape the many seeking their deaths, but they couldn’t expect such luck to last forever, particularly if what Rion had said about Javen being wounded was true.

  Better to act than spend all their time reacting to their enemies’ plans. It was the argument he’d made to the others, to himself, and at the time it had seemed to make sense. Now though, looking at his friends, bound and being marched to what was meant to be their executions, bared blades at their backs, he felt doubt. Perhaps it hadn’t been a clever idea, after all. Perhaps it had only been his anger guiding him, wanting to hurt those who had hurt him and his friends. It was possible he had risked his life—all their lives—for vengeance on Tesharna, the woman who, if Orren had spoken truly, was responsible for his parents’ death.

  Crowds had gathered on either side of the street, whispering excitedly to each other and throwing curses and rotten fruit with a frenzied excitement. He and the others were covered in the foul stuff, as were the guards themselves. They turned a corner, and he could make out the castle towers in the distance, the crowds here thicker—and even more lively—than those they’d passed. Perhaps he had made a mistake, perhaps he would get them all killed, but it was too late now to change anything. What was done was done, and there was no going back.

  He told himself to concentrate on what lay before him, on the problems he could solve. After all, to have any chance of surviving the next few hours, he and the others would need all their gifts, all their skill and, even with all that, he thought they would need luck. A glance at Rion—the Chosen of the God of Chance and Luck—gave him no comfort. The man’s thumb, where he’d cut it, though how Alesh didn’t know as he wouldn’t say, had bled through the cloth strip with which they’d bandaged it, and the knot on his forehead from one of his many recent falls had grown even more pronounced over the last few hours.

  As if feeling Alesh’s gaze on him, Rion glanced in his direction and his shoulders shifted in what might have been a shrug. “Eyes ahead,” one of the guards behind him barked, and Alesh grunted as a booted foot struck him in the back, nearly sending him sprawling.

  He managed to right himself, barely, and kept walking, saying nothing. After all, words would not help, not in what was coming. And as he marched with his friends to the castle, he did not have to feign the look of defeat creasing his features.

  ***

  Odrick watched, stunned, as the procession made its way down Valeria’s main street in the direction of the castle. His heart went out to the small group, a man and woman at the front, and the Ferinan behind, being escorted by the guards. He wanted to yell to Rion that his parents were safe, would remain so, anything to ease the hopelessness he saw in the man’s features. But even if he did such a stupid thing—for surely the guards would have some pointed questions for him if he had—Rion wouldn’t have been able to hear him.

  The gathered crowd had been stricken mute at first as the fugitives were led through the gates and into the city, but they had gotten into the spirit of things now, shouting and throwing tomatoes and apples—and Odrick saw more than a few stones—at the prisoners. There were even merchants moving through the crowd selling sweet cakes and meat on a stick as if it were some Fairday celebration. It sickened him, just as the excited, almost festive air of the crowd sickened him, but Odrick could see no way of changing any of it. If he tried to break them free of the guards escorting them, he had no doubt he would be cut down in moments, and what good would that do anyone?

  What hope did a blacksmith have against men who had trained for years in swordplay? None, that was what, and he knew it. He wished his father were here, for though he was known for his blacksmithing, the man always seemed to know what to do in any situation. He wasn’t though, was back at his shop with the Tirinians and their manservant, hiding in the cellar and waiting for Odrick to return with food.

  Thinking of his father, the blacksmith, famed through all Valeria for his work, an idea occurred to Odrick. He felt a wave of excitement, but he took his time, thinking it through, looking for holes. There were many, but he thought that was alright, was the best he could hope for, and as Rion and the others with him disappeared down the street, swallowed by the mass of people, Odrick was not there to see it. He was instead pushing his way through the crowd as fast as he could.

  ***

  Tesharna was seated on the throne of her audience chamber when Rolf and the other guards Captain Nordin had sent—six in all—entered through the tall double doors. She said nothing, did not even so much as glance in Rolf’s direction, instead only motioning with her hand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw what she hoped was unease in Rolf’s expression before he followed the other guards to take up position on either side of the room.

  If you are uneasy now, dear Rolf, you will be positively befuddled soon enough, she thought, so pleased that she nearly forgot the clump of hair that had fallen from her head as she’d brushed her hair before coming.

  As they waited in silence for the others to arrive with the prisoners, Tesharna made sure not to look at Rolf. The man had become far too puffed up with his own importance of late, and it would do him well to learn it. But if Rolf felt any of her casual disregard, he didn’t show it, instead focusing on the door as the other guardsmen did. That sent a flare of anger through Tesharna, but she told herself it was no surprise.
After all, despite the fact that they were in her audience chamber, surrounded by the thick stone walls of her castle, they could track the progress of the procession by the rumble of shouts—voices raised to a fever pitch—coming from the city.

  Tesharna was pleased by the sound. She knew she had neglected her duties as Chosen of late, and rumors were spreading through the city, rumors regarding the men she had sent to ferret out any information about the conspiracy against her, of which she suspected the Tirinians had only been a part. But like children, the people of her city would forgive much in the face of such a spectacle, and their worries of the days and weeks before this would be forgotten in the excitement. Fools, all of them, but even fools could threaten the wise, if there were enough of them.

  They had waited for nearly an hour in that stony silence by the time the doors finally swung open. Tesharna leaned forward in anticipation, unaware of the way her hands grasped the arms of her throne in white-knuckled claws. Here was the moment. She would fulfill the pact she had made with Shira, destroying her enemies, and the goddess would reward her—as she had promised—with eternal youth, eternal beauty. Rolf would not neglect her, not then, not once she had been given back the grace and perfection that time, the great thief, had stolen from her.

  At first, she could see only guards, what looked like a small army of them, but then they parted and before her stood the man and his companions whom she had been seeking for so long. Alesh had changed since she first met him what felt like a lifetime ago, when he’d arrived in Valeria claiming Kale and the Redeemers had rebelled against Olliman and nearly ruining her own cover in the process. Where before he had seemed naïve, scared, now he seemed hard. Time and his trials had cut away all the soft parts of him, leaving only sharp, hard edges, and the eyes studying her were piercing, intelligent, and to her surprise, unafraid.