His boy lay dead.
The monster that killed him stood before Bron and held his son’s heart in his hand, the blood of his child spilling down that taloned mass. Those very claws pierced Liam’s tiny heart in three places. He could never look away and forget that moment.
Not as long as he lived.
“Your gods demanded the death of my son?” The words were whispered. Bron’s eyes narrowed.
“They’re your gods as well, Bron McNar. You swore your allegiance to them. For decades they offered you shelter.”
Bron moved forward and looked down at Liam’s wretched little form. Already growing cold, even as those eyes of his stared blankly at the doorway, waiting, no doubt, for his father to save him.
“Your wife and daughter are still alive.” The voice uttered a soft warning and Bron nodded. “Do not be foolish. You have already offended the gods by aligning yourself with Theragyn. That sin might be forgiven, but not if you do anything else to defy them.”
Bron moved forward and rammed the head of his axe deep into that mouth, pushing with all of his weight, all of his strength, intent on forcing the whole of his weapon down that offensive throat.
He did not speak. He did not offer last words of defiance. He merely acted, and screamed his rage out into the universe.
The axe pulled free and it rose and fell again and again as Bron McNar roared his sorrows out for all to hear.
The third of the He-Kisshi did not wait to have a discussion.
The king of Stennis Brae had broken with the gods and tried to kill two of the Undying. He was not forgiven for his transgressions.
As Bron pulled the axe back he felt it torn from his grasp and hurled across the room. At his feet the bloodied remains of the He-Kisshi bled across the furs covering the floor of his son’s chambers. On the bed his footprint marked where he had, unthinking, stepped on Liam’s remains as he charged for the thing he’d slaughtered.
He had exactly enough time to realize what he had done before the claws of the third Undying sank into the muscles of his shoulders and pulled meat away from bone.
The mouth of the creature opened so wide that he could see little else beyond teeth and the deep, cavernous opening into the hellish thing’s throat.
Those teeth bit down and ended Bron’s world before his rage could fully become sorrow.
Perhaps that was a kindness in the eyes of the gods.
Chapter Ten
Those Who Fall
Brogan McTyre
Brogan paced the deck of the ship as if begging the gods to notice him. He trod across the layer of ice that sealed the wood away from the waves, ignoring treacherous spots and patches of snow alike. The cold seemed to have no effect on him, despite the gusts of steam he let out with every breath.
Day and night were the same now. The clouds covered this part of the world, and the gods seemed content with that decision. There were no stars. There was no moon. There was only the endless night.
The ship supposedly rode to the north on the violent sea, but Brogan could not be sure. All he knew was that the waves surged along, and the ship had not yet been crushed by their force. Anna Harkness was certain, and for that reason alone he did not cut the throats of the remaining crew. Had she said that they led the ship anywhere else, he would have ended their miserable lives. No part of him forgave the mutiny. He was not completely certain he was capable of forgiveness any longer.
“You should stop pacing.” Anna shook her head. “You’re making the rest of us nervous.”
“I need to do something.”
“Try sleeping. You’ve barely closed your eyes since, well, since the caves.”
He shook his head. “I can’t sleep. I’m not tired. I can’t stop thinking about what I have to do.”
Anna sighed. She apparently was feeling the cold far worse than he, as there were several layers of furs and shawls covering her form. “You need to find a way to rest. I hear not resting the mind can cause madness.”
Brogan laughed and shook his head. “You doubt I’m already mad? I aim to murder gods!”
“They’ll likely have different ideas, Brogan.” She shook her head again. “Can we even be certain we head in the right direction? This Gateway you speak of, is it something that can move? Is it a door that can be closed?”
He scowled as he looked at the woman. “You see? This is why I pace. Because, when I stop, people ask me questions like that! How am I to know? The gods have not seen fit to share their plans with me, nor have any of the Galeans I’ve met had an answer for that sort of question.”
“That’s more the sort of question for Scryers…” Anna’s voice trailed off quickly and her eyes grew wide and round.
Brogan stared at her for a moment and forgot to pace.
“Right you are,” he said. And then he was heading for the stairs below decks, down where Laram’s Mearhan still rocked and whimpered in slumber, her mind nearly overwhelmed by the anger of the gods.
“Brogan! No!” He ignored her words.
Laram was asleep, and Mearhan beside him, when Brogan entered the cabin where they slept.
“Wake up, Mearhan, I’d have words with you.”
Laram opened an eye and looked toward Brogan. “She’s had a rough spell, Brogan.”
“Aye, I know, and yet I need to speak with her and now.”
“She can’t help you.”
“She can, Laram.” He stared into his friend’s eyes and saw the anger there. It was a just anger and surely he would have reacted the same way had anyone come along and made demands of Nora.
“She’s got the gods screaming in her head, Brogan. She can barely even hear herself speak. The gods are angry. One of theirs is dead.”
“Yes. I know.” He spoke carefully. “That is why I need to speak with her. I want the gods to hear me.”
Laram’s face worked. His flesh grew red and his lips peeled back and settled then peeled back again as he glared.
“I came to your aid, Brogan. I’d do it again, but she never asked for this.”
Before Brogan could answer Mearhan looked up at Laram and said, “Let him ask. Might be we can end all of this before it’s too late.”
The girl’s skin was deathly white and her hair stood out like a blood-soaked mat. She’d been sweating and her eyes were as shiny as ice.
“Mearhan, can the gods hear me if I speak to you?”
“Brogan, you fool, the gods have been looking for you, if you reveal yourself they’ll hear you, but they might not listen.” She tried to smile as she spoke, to make light of the subject, but she failed. Her lips were chapped and her hands shook.
Brogan crouched until he was closer to the height of the prone girl. He spoke as gently as he could. “Then let them hear this. I am coming for them. I’ve killed one of theirs already and I’ll kill the rest if given the chance. If they stop this, I might show mercy.”
The girl fell back, a laugh burbling past her clenched teeth. Her features shook as the muscles beneath her pale flesh trembled. Her body shuddered and twitched for a few seconds and then was completely still, save for the shallow rise and fall of her chest.
She lay motionless for over a minute, long enough that Brogan began to fear for her safety.
Mearhan did not stir, but her body rose up into the air, her head falling at an angle, her eyes rolling back to show nothing but the whites. Laram pushed himself away from her and gasped. And Brogan stood his ground, though he felt the hairs on his neck and arms rise.
Her head did not move, but Mearhan’s lips twitched into a sadistic smile. Her eyebrows knotted toward the bridge of her nose and her soft, smooth, innocent face became a mask of anger and madness. The voice did not completely match the way the girl’s lips moved, and there was an echo, as if the words came from far across a long cavern. “It jests. It makes light of our anger and our pain.”
Brogan’s head thudded with each pulse of his heart. “I’ve kille
d one of you. You killed all of mine. What makes you think your pain is more important?”
“We are gods.” The words were hissed past those smiling lips. “You are nothing.”
“I am Brogan McTyre.” He spoke as he approached the girl, thinking only of the voice that mocked him. Laram stepped closer to him, thinking, no doubt, only of the woman he loved.
“You are nothing. You are a nuisance best dealt with sooner. The He-Kisshi come for you.”
“Shit!” Laram screamed the word and stalked toward the stairs. “Gather your weapons, lads! The Undying are on their way to deal with us!” His words bounced off the walls below decks and were heard by all, and answered by nearly as many.
Brogan paid no heed. He focused on Mearhan and shook his head. “Call them. I’ll see them as dead as the other one. I’ll kill them all myself if I must.” He felt his own mouth pulling into a smile as frozen as the girl’s. “I’ll find the ways to make your little messengers bleed and die. I’ll make sure they suffer, too. And each of them I kill will be practice for when I reach you.”
“Arrogance.” That was the only word uttered as Mearhan’s hair began to crisp near her pale scalp. The stench of burning hair was what made Brogan back away. The woman still floated in the air, her face still held that stiff, maddening grin. Her hair was blackening near the roots, and smoke rose fine and thin.
And then her red hair was burning. Flames danced and swirled around Mearhan’s scalp. There was a wineskin on the ground not far from where the lovers had been sleeping. Brogan grabbed it quickly and tried to douse the flames, pouring the contents over the poor girl’s head, but even as he did so her porcelain skin began to blacken and blister.
She did not cry out. The flesh hissed like meat in a hot pot, but the girl didn’t seem to care.
She said, “You will die soon. The He-Kisshi come for you. You have wounded them and they will have your blood. But your soul belongs to us.”
Her lips moved, and she seemed intent on saying something more for a moment, until her mouth caught fire. That was all there was to it. The blaze roared past her shriveling lips and the body of Mearhan Slattery fell to the ground. She landed on her knees and then fell forward, her entire head burning like a fresh torch as the flames rose and a thick, black smoke billowed from the crest of the Scryer’s head.
Brogan stared on, horrified. He had never expected the girl to be injured because of his conversation. Part of him wanted to move, to try again to save her, but his muscles did not respond and his body was as still as a stone sculpture. Laram would be so very hurt…
He might have stood there until the body was gone and the entire ship was burning but calmer minds overruled that notion. Anna’s hand on his shoulder did nothing. Laram’s hand shoved him aside as the poor bastard sought to reach his love and quench the flames that cooked her down to her bones.
Laram screamed, his voice a wounded roar of inarticulate grief and rage.
Faceless moved past him and caught the burning body of Mearhan Slattery, lifting the flaming form and carrying the shriveling husk amid a cloud of black smoke that filled the galleyway, heat harsh enough to dry the eyes of anyone that close.
Laram fell to his knees and screamed again, his eyes wide and his face as stunned as if he’d been struck by thunder.
Brogan followed the odd creature and coughed at the dark soot that tried to work its way into his lungs. His eyes watered and his throat burned but he could not look away, would not allow himself that escape. This was his fault and he’d see it through as best he could.
Did Mearhan still move? He could not say, but it seemed she might be alive yet as the body curled in on itself and flames belched out from where her eyes had been, and smoke rose from her ruined mouth and throat.
Faceless reached the icy deck and walked at the same pace to the edge of the ship. Once there it hurled its burden over the railing toward the sea.
Mearhan did not fall, but instead rose into the air and shook her flaming head. The skull that had been her face blackened and burned and the fires around her crackled and snapped in the wind, casting smoke shadows toward the south.
Despite the crash of waves and the air’s howling fury, Brogan heard the words she uttered clearly enough. “You have chosen to fight gods, Brogan McTyre. We have chosen to notice you. Your death will solve nothing, but we shall revel in every eternity of your suffering.”
Before he could say anything in response, the bones fell apart and splashed into the angry waves.
Lightning cut the clouds into shreds and thunder cracked loud enough to mute even Laram’s screams.
Brogan stared where the bones had sunk and beside him Faceless looked down as well, its flesh blackened by smoke but seemingly unharmed.
A moment later Jahda was next to them, staring into the waves. The man spoke to himself and made gestures at the water.
“What are you doing?”
“I am offering her spirit peace.”
“You can do that?”
The man stared at him for a moment. His dark eyes were wider than usual, but aside from that he seemed unaffected by the bizarre death of Mearhan Slattery. Brogan expected he would not be as fortunate.
Jahda said, “Only for the dead, Brogan McTyre. You will have to find peace on your own.”
“There is no peace for me.” Brogan looked down at the sea again and then headed for the deck. Laram would want words with him and, short of a blade he’d let the man have his say. “I think that peace is for the dead and I am not there yet.”
Jahda spoke, but whatever words the Louron offered as comfort were lost to the winds.
Tully
The weather was getting worse, not better. That was to be expected, what with the world ending, but Tully could have done without the surging sea throwing their ship around constantly. Every time she thought she’d managed to find a comfortable spot the waves came along and threw the whole of the ship up and then down. What was not tied in place tended to find a new location and that included people.
Temmi sat nearby and hugged her knees in close to her chest as she rocked back and forth. As bad as Tully felt, her friend felt worse. She had crawled up the steps a few times to void her stomach over the side of the ship. Each time she came back down cold, wet, and paler than she’d been before, which was quite an accomplishment.
The both of them had their problems, but Stanna seemed no part of them. Currently the woman was lying on her back, snoring softly, the Bitch at her side and held as gently as a baby in her embrace.
Somewhere on the ship a small army of people had plans to kill her. They’d make it as painful as they could. That she had done nothing wrong was unimportant. She stood accused of stealing from the Blood Mother, and that was crime enough.
Temmi groaned and headed for the doorway to their cabin, crawling on hands and knees. Tully felt bad for her, but couldn’t actually muster any sympathy. Temmi was inconvenienced, whereas she herself was soon to be dead. The world was ending, but she’d not be around for that part. Theryn would see to that.
Unless she managed to handle Theryn first. The Blood Mother was a killer. She had earned her title. One way or another, if Tully did nothing, her adoptive mother would see her dead and no one the wiser for it.
The ship groaned and rolled and Tully shook her head. It was time to clear her mind and possibly thin the numbers that currently stood against her.
Tully did not brag to her friends or show her skills. There was no need. If they thought her merely a girl from a town known for holding too many people, then so be it.
When she slipped from the room, no one noticed. With careful steps and alert senses she moved into the ship and the darkness that was prevalent below decks. Some people held lanterns, occasionally someone came past with a candle, but mostly it was dark in the underbelly and she preferred that. Tully was at home in the darkness. She always had been.
The process of finding her targets would be
a long one. It was a challenge to move through the darkness and stay wrapped in its embrace.
Still, she was very good at hiding herself from the light.
Her blades found her hands and pulled her fingers in close.
She would be patient. It was time to hunt and no longer be hunted.
Outside of the ship the winds howled and the seas bucked and tried their best to throw anyone foolish enough to rest into a different spot.
Tully did not rest. She willed herself into darkness and then she waited.
Beron
Death was not kind to Beron of Saramond.
He’d known for a long time that Stanna was a possible threat, but he had not been prepared for how fast she was, and even knowing her size he was not prepared for her strength. She’d killed him and in short order at that.
The sword cut his head from his neck and he died. That was the end of it. There had never been much doubt that he would die violently.
Only death ended nothing.
There was darkness for a time and Beron welcomed the silence, but when the light and sound returned he was not where he had been. He was, instead, prostrate before a vast throne of thorns, and looking down on him from that throne was Ariah, the god to whom he’d promised his fealty.
“I am not dead?” He tried to move his body but could not. His face looked up at the lean, striking figure and despite his efforts he could not so much as make an arm twitch.
“No.” Ariah looked down at him and slowly shrugged his shoulders. “You are very dead. I simply choose not to let you die just yet.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Beron, I gave you power and you promised to win a war for me, but that has not yet happened. I offered you servants and still you did not succeed. I wanted Brogan McTyre and the men who ran with him delivered so that the world could be saved and you have failed me time and again.”
If he could have lowered his head, he would have. He felt shame. It was not an emotion he was used to experiencing.
Gates of the Dead Page 10