Then she raised her hand higher above her head, her entire body, trembling with rage at her lover’s betrayal, and Rolf suddenly rose into the sky as if snatched up by some giant, invisible hand.
“T-Tesharna, wait,” he said, his words coming out in grated gasps as he felt the pressure of that invisible hand squeezing him. “I—”
“It’s Chosen Tesharna,” she screeched, clenching her hand into a fist. Rolf had time enough to stare at her with wide eyes, time enough to open his mouth as if to speak. And then no time at all.
His dangling body crumpled, his handsome face and well-toned muscles collapsing in on themselves. There was a wet, squishing, crunching sound and suddenly she could see nothing of Rolf at all past the crimson mist filling the air. She heard the body drop, but her fury was far from spent, and she turned back to the man Alesh and those others with him who were staring at the remains of the guardsman with stunned expressions.
Tesharna grinned widely. Finally, they understood, understood that they did not face a mortal woman at all, but a god. Then she noticed something odd. They weren’t looking at Rolf as she had first thought but at her, and she was overcome with the thought that those looks weren’t just terrified—maybe weren’t terrified at all, at least not that of Alesh, who stood at the front of the group. Instead, his expression seemed to be filled with something else. Was that, was that pity on the man’s face?
“What?” Tesharna demanded. “What is it? Do you not understand you are all doomed?” They said nothing, and Tesharna was about to ask what they were doing when something caught her eye on the floor in front of her. She glanced down and at first couldn’t understand what she saw. Then she did. There was a pile—no, pile wasn’t the right word, at all, there was a clump—of faded, lifeless gray hair lying at her feet. Several large, thick clumps, in fact, and within those clumps there were pieces of scalp. Old, desiccated flesh. Her flesh.
“No,” she hissed, “no, no, no.” She brought her hand up to her head. Her questing fingers did not find hair, instead only touching painful, weeping sores where once her hair had sprung its roots. Trembling not just with anger now, but disgust and self-loathing, she brought her hands to her face. Dry, wrinkled skin beneath her hands, parchment thin. She screamed again, or tried to, but what came out was a rasping croak. “You,” she hissed at Alesh, “you did this to me.”
“No, Tesharna, once of the Six,” the man said, still watching her with those hateful, pitying eyes. “What has been done to you, you have done to yourself, and there is no other to blame.”
“Lies,” she answered. “And it does not matter. You will die, as your parents died.” Shaking with rage, she held out her hands, gathering her power, calling on Shira’s blessings more deeply than she ever had before. It was not too late. She would kill this man and his companions, and Shira would keep her promise, would make her beautiful once again. Tesharna, once one of the Six chosen by Amedan to stand against the shadows, called on the Darkness. And the Darkness answered.
***
Odrick could hardly believe what he was seeing. He had forced his gaze away from the puddle of the guardsman’s remains, and his eyes fell on the woman, the creature, standing in front of the throne. Where, only moments before, there had stood an attractive older woman now there was a hunched, twisted hag whose desiccated countenance was terrible to behold. Odrick wanted to look away, but could not, too stunned by that terrible change that had been wrought in Valeria’s ruler. He was so distracted he barely registered the sounds of alarmed shouts and booted feet coming from outside the audience chamber, but finally he did manage to turn, and what he saw made his skin go cold.
Dozens of armed and armored men—their uniforms marking them as members of Tesharna’s guard—were rushing toward the audience chamber, their swords drawn. More and more were pouring into the anteroom every second. Dozens of them, maybe even a hundred. Gods, a hundred at least.
So, with an army of men intent on his and his friends blood rushing toward the doorway in which he stood, Odrick did what anybody would do—he closed the door. The doors were massive, but designed to open and close easily, yet it took several panicked moments to get them closed, and by the time the second was swinging shut, the closest of the guards was only feet away.
The last glimpse Odrick caught was of a sword raised for attack. Then the door closed, and he reached up and, with a grunt, levered the massive wooden beam serving as the door’s latch—presumably built in case the castle should be besieged—into place. No sooner had he done this than there was a great boom from the other side as the closest guards tried to burst inside. It was only then that the beam rattled, and Odrick realized he hadn’t managed to get it completely fastened against the latch, and that it sat at an awkward angle, threatening to come loose entirely. Fool, he scolded himself. Still, where he might not have had brains, he had strength, and he used that strength now, putting his hands against the doors, one on each, and supporting them with all his might.
There was another boom as the door was struck once more, and Odrick could easily imagine a dozen men on the other side of it trying to shoulder their way through. He grunted, rocked back from the force of the blow, but held his ground. He might not have been the wisest of men—the gods knew that much was true—and certainly he wasn’t the cleverest. But Odrick had spent years in the forge, since he’d been little more than a child, and while he had been shaping weapons and tools for the city’s people, he, too, had been being shaped. It was as if all those years, a lifetime spent in his father’s shop amid the heat and the smell of burning metal, had all been for this moment. So despite the odds against him, despite the fact that, sooner or later, the men would, must break inside, he stood. And out of the thousand things he had helped his father forge until those things which he had later forged himself, one stood out in his mind. A shield.
No great thinker, perhaps, but here, in this moment, his largeness did not seem awkward or clumsy, but necessary. And as he growled and hissed with effort, his thick muscles straining, Odrick was no meek blacksmith’s son, no clumsy giant embarrassed by his size. He was a shield.
“Odrick, what in the name of the gods are you doing here?”
He risked a glance to the side at Rion. “Shielding,” he hissed through clenched teeth.
“Right,” Rion said, “but how did you get here?”
“My father,” Odrick managed in panting gasps, “I deliver items to the castle…sometimes for—” He cut off as another great impact struck the doors from the other side. “Horseshoes,” he went on, “swords, stuff like that mostly and…Rion, could…could you put that beam in place?”
***
Alesh watched Tesharna’s hunched form, felt her calling on the Darkness. Shadows began to gather at her feet, great writhing pools which shifted and moved as if alive, and the very room itself seemed to grow darker. He knew he should feel afraid, but he did not. Instead, what came over him was a sort of peace. Here, then, was the person responsible for his parents’ death. And whatever happened in the next few minutes, he would face her as best as he could.
The Chosen growled, and the flesh began to slough off her in bloody clumps as she called on even more power, and Alesh felt as if the air itself was becoming slick, greasy and somehow repugnant. Then, finally, it was done, and the thing that raised its head to regard him was no longer human. A twisted, misshapen creature, eyes bottomless pits of darkness, and had he not seen it for himself, Alesh would never have believed it had once been a woman.
“Now,” the creature hissed, “you will die.”
Alesh dropped the sword he still held—it would do him no good here, for shadows could not be cut or stabbed. Then he held his own hands out to the sides. Not in anger, not this time, for what gifts he possessed did not respond to such entreaties. Instead, he felt only peace. All along the walls of the audience chamber, the lanterns which had been hung intermittently suddenly blazed brighter, then brighter still, as the flames answered his call. Then, the
glass housings shattered all at once in a deafening cacophony of sound, and the small flames were small flames no longer but great blazes.
Alesh gritted his teeth as an invisible force rushed around him, buffeting him as if he stood in the center of some great storm. Then the flames leapt toward him all at once, blazing streaks of light, and he felt the heat of them, not as pain but as strength, and the weariness in his muscles vanished, carrying any self-doubt along with it. For the sun did not doubt its course as it rose in the morning, and a wildfire did not question what direction it might go. “You are wrong, Tesharna,” he said, his voice echoing in the chamber. “I will not die here, for light does not flee from shadow but shadow from light.”
He took a step toward her. The creature growled, lashing out with one withered hand, and darkness streaked toward him, moving in a blur and forming into a sharp point as it came on. Alesh raised his own hand instinctively and a shield of whirling fire formed in front of him. The shadow struck it and there was a sound like the crack of a whip before whatever shape the darkness had made dissolved into nothingness, and the smell of ozone filled the air like after some great storm.
Alesh took another step. The thing standing on the raised dais howled, a sound of inarticulate rage, and darkness rose above her—a dozen great, writhing tendrils of it. She stabbed her hand at him and all the tendrils shot forward. But before they reached him, a sword of flame appeared in Alesh’s hand, and he swung it in front of him. The fiery steel cut through the ebony tendrils with ease, and they fell onto the ground and disappeared.
Alesh stepped past them, and his thoughts were not on all that he had lost, not then, not on all that had been taken from him. Instead, he thought of a half-remembered voice, singing to him. His mother’s voice. He thought, too, of a face, one he knew was his father’s even without knowing how he knew. He thought of Abigail, the head cook in Olliman’s castle who had befriended him and been like his mother when his own was gone. He thought of large, smiling Chorin, always so kind, and, of course he thought of Olliman himself, a man with wisdom beyond any he had ever known.
Then he stepped up to the withered thing that had once been Tesharna. She reached out with claws, trying to rake at his flesh, but he knocked her weak arms aside easily. Then, feeling nothing but remorse, he rammed the burning blade into her heart. The creature gasped, the dark pools which were its eyes studying him with something like disbelief, as if she had never imagined it coming to this. “Now, you go to the Dark in truth, Tesharna,” he heard himself say, “and it is a darkness of your own making.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Katherine watched, helpless, as the creature attacked with a spear of darkness, thinking Alesh would surely be skewered. But then the flames dancing around him in great whorls changed into a shield, driving the attack back, and she felt a heavy weight of relief. I have to help him.
She started forward, had already taken a step, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Darl gave a single shake of his head. “This battle is his, and his alone, Katherine. Yet, we are needed.” He motioned to the door where Odrick, the man she’d met when she and Rion had come to Valeria what felt like a lifetime ago asking for the crime boss’s help, stood at the door, his hands planted against it. Rion was beside him, his shoulder pressed against the wood, yet for all their efforts, she couldn’t miss the way the door was buckling, the thick wood threatening to give way.
“Come on,” she said to Darl, “hurry.” They ran to the door, adding their weight to Rion and Odrick’s, but on the next strike, Katherine heard the unmistakable sound of wood splintering. She shared a glance with the others, saw the knowledge of what was coming in their eyes. She didn’t know how many men were on the other side of the door, but she felt sure it would be too many.
“When it comes down—” Darl cut off as another impact rocked the door. “All of you back away, and I’ll buy what time I can. Perhaps, if Alesh wins in his battle—”
A melody began to play in Katherine’s mind then, and with it, understanding. “No,” she said quietly. “There is another way.”
“Does it involve us all not dying?” Rion hissed. “Because if so, I’m more than willing to listen.”
Katherine removed her hands from the door and stepped back. “Open the door.”
“Are you out of your damned mind?” Rion said. “I’m not sure what you’re thinking, Katherine, but those men on the other side aren’t trying to sell us something—they mean to kill us.”
“Yes,” she said. “They mean to kill us because they do not know the truth, because they have been lied to.”
“And what?” he demanded. “You’re going to tell them the truth? Somehow, I don’t think they’re going to listen.”
“Not tell them,” she said. “Show them. And they will listen to me. Now, open the door.”
The three men studied her, hesitating. Then, Darl gave a single nod, stepping away, and Katherine felt a great wave of gratitude and love for the dusky-skinned man who had sacrificed so much and always without a complaint.
The big man, Odrick, glanced at Rion and gave his massive shoulders a shrug before stepping away himself. Alone, Rion sighed and finally moved to stand with the others. “Fine. I hope you know what you’re doing, Katherine.”
Me too, she had time to think. Then there was another impact from the other side of the door and without them there to hold it, the double doors burst open to reveal well over a hundred armed men. Katherine wanted to scream, but she did not. She wanted to flee, but she did not do that either. Instead, she did what she had been made to do—she sang.
***
Alesh stood over Tesharna’s crumpled form, gazing down at it. Then he heard the voice. Katherine’s, unmistakably hers, but full of a power and very different from the song she had sung back at the inn.
He turned, suddenly more exhausted than he had been in a long time as the power he had called to him fell away, the flames surrounding him winking out with it. He raised his head to look at the audience chamber door and saw Rion, Darl, and a thickly-muscled man he didn’t recognize staring at Katherine. On the other side of the open door stood at least a hundred men, their swords bared as if they were about to rush forward and cut Alesh’s friends down. But they did not rush forward, did not so much as move.
They only stood, transfixed, as Katherine’s voice filled the air. Unlike the song she had sung at the Drunken Bard, this one was not full of crimson thoughts and dark promise. Instead, it felt…clear somehow, and what it carried on its melody was not pain—or, at least, not only that—but simple truth. Yes, there was pain in that truth, pain reflecting all he and the others had lost during their time together, but there was also hope for what was to come, a hope Alesh felt rising in his chest, buoying him up.
She sang in words Alesh did not know, but the words themselves didn’t matter. It was the song, the story, the story of their trials, their losses, including the Ferinans who had been killed, the story of Tesharna’s treachery. Each of them heard it, each of them felt it, and when the last note struck the air then faded until it was gone, Alesh, like all those others present, felt changed.
None of the guards moved, and Alesh stepped forward to stand by his friends, choosing to be with them, whatever came. The guards still remained frozen, on their faces bewilderment that slowly changed to understanding. More than a few wiped away tears with self-conscious gestures.
“Thank you, miss,” one finally said. “For the song.”
Others nodded their heads in agreement, apparently not trusting themselves to speak.
“Will you let us go?” she asked softly. The question might have sounded ridiculous in another time, in another place, but with the memory of the song still hanging in the air, it sounded, to Alesh, at least, like the most reasonable thing in the world.
The man who’d spoken shook his head. “No, mistress. We will not let you go. We will go with you. For the Son of the Morning has come, and now we know of it.” Then, as if the man’s wo
rds had been a cue, the guards knelt as one, bowing their heads to Alesh as if he were some king.
He felt his face heat with embarrassment, and he glanced at Katherine. “What…what did you do?”
“I only showed them the truth.”
“Well,” Rion said, his own voice tense and exhausted at the same time. “I’m glad that’s over.”
Alesh looked at the nobleman, then at the others, his gaze finally settling on Katherine. “No, not over. It’s just beginning. There are other shadows out there, waiting. But we will not make them wait long.” And as he strode out the doors, Katherine at his side, his friends and the guards rising to walk with him, Alesh felt that same sense of peace he had when he’d called on Amedan’s blessings. The world was full of shadows. They lurked everywhere, waiting, watching. But he thought maybe that was okay. After all, there was no darkness strong enough the light could not force it to retreat. A single flame could do as much, but what of a dozen? What of a hundred? Enough to make the Darkness retreat, yes, but maybe more than that. Maybe even enough to kill it.
Come say hi!
Well, dear reader, we have come to the end of The Warriors of the Gods. I hope you enjoyed visiting with Alesh and his companions again. The fourth book of The Nightfall Wars will be released soon. While you wait, you can get started on a new series by checking out A Sellsword’s Compassion, Book One of The Seven Virtues.
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The Warriors of the Gods Page 37