Divine Blood

by Beck Michaels

  Ragan waved him away, looking mildly offended. “How many times do I have to tell you? Put your coin away. I owe your father a great debt for saving my daughter from the fever. I pay him back by tending to his son now.”

  Zev smiled. “Thank you.”

  “Aye, come back for them tonight.”

  Zev returned to the market, but when he reached the herbalist stall, Dyna was gone.

  “Madam,” he called to the old woman. “Where has my cousin gone? You spoke to her. Red-haired lass.”

  The hunched herbalist balked and leaned her head back to look up at him. Her white brows rose high on her forehead. “I—I am not sure, sir. Pardon.”

  Zev quickly made his way through the crowd, sniffing the air. He caught Dyna’s scent and followed it to a small bridge set over a waterway that stank something terrible. He couldn’t breathe without gagging. By the potency of her scent on the balustrade, she had lingered here for a short moment. Possibly too lost to find her way back to him.

  Endless smells and sounds assaulted Zev’s senses, making his head spin. It would be impossible to locate her exact trail without shifting, but his wolf hadn’t surfaced yet. He groaned in frustration and hurried through the town square, going off instinct now. Evening was approaching. He prayed he found her before trouble found her first.

  Zev inhaled a deep breath, trying to remain calm. By some luck, he caught her scent again. He pursued it, shoving through a passing crowd. He came behind two men walking briskly onward. One in a black leather coat, and his companion in a black hooded cloak. Dyna’s scent lingered on them. They must have encountered her.

  As he neared, the one in the hood spun around. He whipped out a dagger and brought it under Zev’s chin.

  “Whoa.” He held up his hands in surrender. He’d rather not be stabbed a second time.

  The stranger’s hood slipped off with the wind, revealing his cropped, dark brown hair and hard face flanked by pointed ears. The elf’s brows set low over his amber eyes, which were fixed with disinterest. The confrontation was merely a lazy warning. But Zev had no doubts about how quick his throat could be slit. Elves were a nimble sort, and lethal. The crossguard of the knife gilded in red metal gleamed in the sunlight. On the back of the elf’s hand was a perfectly round scar as though he’d been branded by hot iron.

  The man in the coat half turned, scowling in annoyance. He wore his chestnut hair slicked back from his face. He was dressed in all black from his boots to his trousers, matching his coat. A series of brass buttons adorned the open lapels, giving a glimpse of the many knives sheathed on the crossed bandolier on his chest. The man noticed Zev looking and adjusted his coat to hide them.

  “You’re too old to be a pickpocket,” he said, speaking with the brogue Azure accent of the north. His sea-green glare was as sharp as the knife held at Zev’s throat. “How unfortunate that you’ve chosen the wrong man to thieve from.”

  Chapter 21

  Von

  God of Urn, Von didn’t have time for this. The bedraggled young man standing before him, looked as though he’d rolled out of a cave, and smelled as though he lived in one too. By the torn clothing, anyone would have guessed him a beggar, but he wasn’t starving. He was robust with a wildness about him and unsightly scars. It immediately made Von wary.

  “Pardon me, sir, that wasn’t my intention,” the young man said. The edges of his canines flashed into view when he spoke. So, not human, then. “My name is Zev, and I’m searching for my cousin. I believe she came this way. She has red hair, about yea high.” He motioned to his lower chest to show her height.

  Von studied him a bit longer before deciding his worry seemed genuine enough and gave Elon a signal to stand down. “Aye, I met the lass,” he said. “She stumbled into me before she meandered on yonder.” He motioned in a general direction toward the market.

  “Thank you!” Zev said profusely then ran off and slipped into the crowd.

  How did he know they had contact with her?

  “Wolf,” Elon said as he tucked his dagger away.

  “Aye?” Von arched a brow at his impassive companion.

  Elon rarely spoke, and when he did, it was only for good reason. The elf lifted his hood over his head again, giving Von a glimpse of the scar on the back of his hand where his Red Highland tattoo used to be.

  “How do you figure?” Von asked.

  “Sensed it, Commander. Shifter magic.”

  “Hmm.”

  The lass they had bumped into didn’t appear to be of any relation to a werewolf. She had an endearing smile that reminded him of Yavi. The thought of returning to her had Von picking up his pace again.

  “The young lady had strayed that way,” Elon said, motioning in the opposite direction Von had sent Zev.

  “Oh.” He hadn’t paid attention to her after she begged her pardon and scurried off. His mind had been on his purpose in this town. “If he’s a werewolf, he’ll find her on his own soon enough.”

  They crossed the town’s length to a narrow street that smelled of stale urine and sickly-sweet ale gone rancid. The cobblestone was slick though it hadn’t rained in days. Von curled his nose and avoided walking through any unidentifiable puddles. The timber buildings compacted close together, making the shaded street feel isolated. Muffled voices and music leaked through dark-stained windows and doors left cracked open.

  Each entrance had carved wooden signs hanging from corroded chains with the names of their pubs. Von checked each one, looking for the sign that read Big Valley. He found it with the last pub that sat parallel to the main road leading out of town. Within the alley between the pub and another were two lads sitting on barrels waiting for him.

  Geon jumped to his feet with a wide grin. “Commander Von, Captain Elon. You made it.”

  The lad, with his tousled copper hair the same color as his jovial eyes, stood proud in his all-black uniform. It was inconspicuous enough. Simple trousers and a leather coat. It had no livery or emblem as intended. At fifteen-summers-old, he was the youngest Raider Von had recruited.

  “Why wouldn’t he? You sent for him,” Dalton said in his smug Magos accent.

  The young mage was only a year older than Geon but carried himself with an arrogance not fit for a slave. He flicked his brown hair out of his dark eyes and stood, resting his staff across his shoulders. On one end of the staff was a jagged, orange crystal, encased in an intricate weaving of carved wood. Brass bangles at his ankles—a clear representation of slavery—glinted beneath his umber robes as he moved.

  Von crossed his arms. “The only one who summons me is the master. The Raider you sent back to the camp said you’ve found a Sacred Scroll. That is the only reason I’ve come.” Otherwise, he wouldn’t have risked showing himself in public. There were too many Rangers in these parts, and any of them would gladly turn him into the Azure Guard. “Where is it?”

  Geon gave him a sheepish smile. “Ah, well, we don’t have it yet. We met a merchant who told us he had one for sale. He’s waiting inside.”

  “He’s here?”

  “Aye, in the taproom.”

  “He’s a portly clod in posh garb,” Dalton added. “You can’t miss him.”

  “Did you see the Scroll?”

  Geon winced. “No, Commander.”

  Von ground his teeth. “Then how did he know to approach you?”

  The lad chuckled awkwardly, scratching at his cheek. “Well, funny thing, that …”

  Dalton snickered and poked Geon’s head with the end of his staff. “This little twat was bragging about being a Raider. Tossing back ale and jarring about in the pub, acting a bloody fool.”

  Geon flushed, knocking the staff away. “Bollocks, I was not!”

  “I was there, you pillock.”

  “Piss off!”

  Von grabbed Geon’s coat and growled in his face, “I should toss you back onto the streets where I found you, lad, if only to save your life. Master would have you killed if he learns of this. No one must know he�
��s in Azure. Being his Raider isn’t for pride. It’s to serve him and him only, understand?”

  Geon went pale. “Aye, Commander. It won’t happen again.”

  Von released him and glared at Dalton’s smirking face next. “And where were you when this was happening? Sitting back and enjoying this folly?” The guilty mage avoided his hard gaze. “Brainless hellions the lot of you. Always gallivanting about getting into trouble. I should drag you coofs back to camp by your ears and have you whipped!”

  The lads winced and dropped their heads.

  Von took a deep breath to ease his irritation. This was most likely a trap, but the chance that he may find another Scroll was too much to ignore.

  “Elon and I will meet the merchant. If this is an ambush, you know what to do.”

  “Aye, Commander,” they replied.

  Von nodded to Dalton, “Are you carrying?”

  “Always.” The mage reached into his robes and pulled out a canvas bundle. He unrolled it and laid it out on a barrel. Several rows of small glass vials were strapped inside. Each contained a different colored elixir or shimmering powder. He picked a vial with iridescent pearls inside and held it out. “Father says these are potent. Each will last you for an hour.”

  Von snatched the vial. “I’m aware of how truth spells work.”

  For mages, spells were as easy as waving their hand, but humans relied on potions when in need of magic. He popped the cork and tossed a pearl into his mouth. It quickly dissolved on his tongue, tasting bitter, as was any truth hard to swallow. A tingle spread throughout the inside of his mouth to his lips and down his throat.

  For an hour, it would give him the power of extracting information from anyone he spoke to, compelling them to tell him the truth whenever he asked a question. Those weak of mind would be completely unaware of it.

  “Both of you wait outside the pub where I can see you. Keep to yourselves. Don’t speak to anyone else,” Von commanded, eyeing them sternly.

  The lads nodded and moved to stand by the pub’s front windows layered in grime. Von and Elon went inside. The taproom was packed with people, the lively music blending in the chorus of voices. A haze of smoke hung in the air, smelling of sweat and cooking meat. Most of the patrons congregated at the bar. They jeered at the women serving them food and drink as the barkeep collected their coin.

  A barmaid with her fleshy bosom pushed up on display, gave them a wide smile. She balanced a tray of tankards, their frothy contents spilling over the rims. “Take a seat anywhere you fancy. I’ll come to service you in a bit,” she said with a wink then moved on to serve the drinks.

  There were no empty tables available. While searching for the merchant among the faces, Von spotted someone in a dark corner of the room watching them. The lone stranger sat still under the shadow of a tattered cloak the color of the woods. The hood hid most of his face, except for his mouth and loose locks of long blond hair.

  Elon noticed him too, and his eyes narrowed. “Green elf.”

  The stranger wore no livery to prove he was of the Greenwood Kingdom, but Von took his word for it.

  Whether it meant trouble, Elon didn’t say. Which meant he hadn’t decided yet. The captain was a red elf, once in service of the Red Highland Kingdom before he was exiled. Elon appeared young, but Von guessed he was well over a century old, so there was no telling how long ago that was.

  More often than not, the meeting between a red elf and green elf ended in bloodshed. The fragile peace between the two kingdoms within the Vale of the Elves hung on a thin line of twine, waiting to be snipped.

  But the green elf looked away and continued sipping his drink, apparently uninterested in confrontation.

  Von resumed searching for the merchant and met the inquiring gaze of a man in a brocade vest with the buttons straining over his belly. He sat alone in the opposite corner at the back of the room.

  “Mind the door,” Von told Elon then weaved his way through the crowd to the table. He pulled out a chair and sat across from him.

  “Oh, good. I feared no one would come,” the man said. He smiled uneasily as he wiped the sweat from his greasy head. His red scalp shone under the lanterns hanging from the exposed rafters.

  “I take it you’re the merchant?” Von asked. The question activated the truth spell, and the man shivered as the magic worked through him.

  “Yes.” There was no shift in his expression. A good sign he wasn’t privy to the spell. “My name is—”

  “No names.” Von leaned forward, keeping his voice low. “Do you have it?”

  “Yes.” The merchant reached behind his chair. Von tensed, arming himself with a knife beneath the table. The man brought out a cylindrical case about two feet long made of dark leather. A cap sealed it and attached to both ends was a loose strap made for carrying. He set the case on top of the table, keeping a meaty hand on it. “I have it here.”

  “Why did you approach the lads?”

  “They mentioned their master’s name. I heard among the traders that he is buying every Sacred Scroll he can find, and I happen to have one for sale.”

  Von worked his jaw. He was leaving behind too many witnesses for a word of that to have gotten out. He eyed the man, scrutinizing his face for any signs of deception. “Is this a trap?”

  “No,” the merchant answered without hesitation.

  Von nodded and leaned back in his chair. “Where did you find the Scroll?”

  “In Yamshal. Some decrepit old village in the outskirts of the Mirage Desert. It had belonged to a destitute woman.”

  “Had?”

  “I took it.”

  “You stole it.” Not that Von was one to judge the morality of people. “Why?”

  The merchant shrugged. “I have fallen into deep arrears with gambling and spending too much of my time in houses of ill-repute. I need to right myself with the banks, or they’ll seize what remains of my assets.”

  “And what of the woman?”

  “She was on her deathbed. The Scroll would be of no use to her.”

  “Did she have a family?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what became of them?”

  “I didn’t stay to find out.”

  Von smirked, his lip curling in disgust. “You’re the dark end of an arse, aren’t you?”

  The merchant grinned as though it was a compliment. “I care nothing for integrity. I only care about maintaining my wealth.”

  It was said with such callous arrogance, the truth spell might not have been needed at all.

  “The value of Sacred Scrolls is akin to gold,” the merchant went on to say, “and I know Tarn has quite a bit of that.”

  Von stabbed the table with his knife, snarling at him. “Hold your tongue.”

  The man cowed, shrinking into a lump. “Y—yes, your pardon.”

  A glance at those around them assured Von no one had heard his master’s name spoken aloud. The racket in the room had been enough to drown out the merchant.

  “Give it here.” He snatched the case. “If I find that you have attempted to swindle me with a forged Scroll, you’ll no longer be alive to worry about old debts.”

  “It’s real, I swear. I had it appraised myself.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  The spell guaranteed he spoke the truth, but who’s to say the appraiser didn’t lie? The merchant could only give truths that he knew.

  Making sure no one was watching, Von tugged on leather gloves he produced from his coat and removed the lid off the case. He overturned it on the table, and a rolled-up parchment slid out with trickles of sand. Gently, he unfurled the parchment, careful not to disturb the brittle edges. It was smooth, worn with time. Faded script of the ancient language spoken during the First Age filled the delicate weathered page. Von recognized it easily as he had seen Yavi spend hours translating similar documents.

  It was real. Master would be pleased.

  Yavi once told him the Sacred Scrolls held several mysteri
es of the foundations of the world, like the keys to The Seven Gates and the quintessence of life.

  How many still existed was unknown. Only that the Scrolls were once kept in temples dedicated to the God of Urn all over the country before they were destroyed centuries ago. Von went on excursions across the world to find any that remained.

  Two things his master desired above all else: to find the Sacred Scroll with the secret of the Unending, and the foretold Maiden that would lead him to where the Unending was kept.

  Mount Ida.

  Fortune telling, prophecies, or any divination of the sort was all nonsense to Von. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—put any value on the prophetic words they received from the famous Seer of Faery Hill. But his master believed in them, so they spent years searching for the Maiden. Von had better luck finding Sacred Scrolls. Though, none had the Unending.

  This one probably wouldn’t either.

  He returned the Scroll to its case. “I’ll take it.”

  “Marvelous.”

  “Who else knows about this?”

  The merchant leaned back in his chair, propping his linked hands over his belly. “I have a broker in Corron. He was to buy it if our deal fell through.”

  Von made a mental note to look into this broker, not willing to risk others knowing of Tarn’s whereabouts. “And how much are you expecting out of our deal?”

  A slow, devious grin split the man’s round cheeks. “Well, the bounty on your master’s head is worth ten-thousand gold pieces. I think that sounds like a fair price, eh?”

  The threat went unsaid but the notion was clear.

  Von smiled a tight smile. “See my companion over there?” He shifted in his chair sideways and nodded toward Elon who watched them under his shadowed hood. Von signaled him over. “He will see that you receive your dues.”

  “Brilliant.” The merchant bumbled to his feet as Elon approached.

  “He is to be well paid,” Von told him.

  The elf nodded once. Von knew he had heard their hushed conversation in the bustling room. Elves had acute hearing, which is what made him such a good spy.