Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (25 page)

“Okay,” said young Bartholomew. “Remember, Abby is expecting you.”

“My wife can wait,” Turock grunted as he grasped the door handle. “Have her come to me if she’s impatient.”

The door opened into a large study, the whole outer wall of which was one huge window. The space was filled with gemstones, each type stacked in its own pile. There had to be millions of them. Rachida whistled at the sight, and Turock leaned against the wall and folded his arms over his chest.

“What is going on here?” she asked him finally. “Where did these come from?”

“Your husband, Peytr, supplied us with half of it. He’s frequented the islands off the coast of Conch for two decades now. My wife loves the ocean, and we visited Conch often, backward little village that it is. He often talked of your splendor, though it was in a bored sort of way, so I figured he was exaggerating.”

Two decades?
He’d been hiding his true wealth from her for twenty years! Add that to Peytr’s attempt to have her killed, and it was yet another nail in his casket. “He does that. Exaggerate.”

Turock grinned. “Not in this case.”

She sighed. “So Peytr gave you half. The rest?”

“The rest we mined ourselves from the very mountains surrounding us.”

“And the food? How large your stores must be!”

“Ha! We have no stores. All we have,” he gestured to the piles
of gemstones, “are these, in more abundance than you could
ever know.
”

She looked at him, confused.

“Here, I’ll show you,” Turock said. He bent over and picked up a stone from one of the piles. He held the tiny, glittering green pebble between his thumb and forefinger. “So, Rachida, what is your favorite food?”

She gawked at him and squinted.

“Humor me.”

After thinking for a moment, she said, “Roast quail.”

Turock flipped the gem into his palm, made circles over it with his other hand, and whispered a few incomprehensible words. The miniscule gem glowed brightly, and then its form shifted. Before she could blink, a single steaming leg of quail rested on the spellcaster’s palm. He reached out, offering it to her. She hesitated.

“Go ahead, eat it,” he said. “It won’t kill you.”

She took the small leg from him and bit down. Juices filled her mouth, dripped over her chin. Even though the taste was somewhat dull, she almost moaned.

“I don’t understand,” she said after she’d swallowed.

The man’s smile grew broader. “Magic requires give and take, and different minerals hold different properties. For example, the stone I just held was topaz, which is used in the conjuring of foodstuffs. It was one of the earliest tricks my teacher showed me, and the first that I taught to my own students. We’ve been mining the mountains for nearly as long as your husband has been mining the Isles of Gold, Miss Gemcroft. We have enough topaz within these walls to feed all of us for years.”

“Oh” was all Rachida could muster.

“Now,” Turock said, serious once more, “you obviously didn’t come here to talk about food. What brings you to Drake?”

She swallowed, still tasting the quail on her tongue. “I need
you, Turock Escheton. The gods are at war, and my sellswords wish to join it. However, we came here not to fight
with
Karak, but
a
gainst
him
.”

“And why would you do something like that?” asked Turock, looking curious.

“Because Karak does not have our best interests in mind. He has turned his back on his own principles and has lost the love of his children as a result.”

“That’s all well and good, but why seek
me
out?”

“Because Karak fears you and your students. Why else would he send a quarter of his army up the Gihon to do nothing but keep you busy?”

“That may be true,” he said, shifting from foot to foot. “But the same faction you just spoke of still lurks beyond the empty grazing fields, as they have been for months. As I told the Master Warden before he left with half my students,
I will not discard all I’ve built.
This is my home, my life’s work. I won’t see it destroyed because Ashhur and Karak can’t get along; the rest of Paradise be damned.”

The statement was absurdly selfish, but Rachida did her best not to react. “You won’t have to abandon it, Turock. Those soldiers out there are destitute and miserable. They’ve been abandoned by their god. If you were to open your arms to them, if you were to give them the means to travel back to their homes, this siege would end. You would be left alone.”

“Is that so?” he asked with a chuckle.

“It is. I can broker a meeting between you and their leaders. You say you have enough gems to feed yourselves for years? Prove it. Prove your generosity. There is no love for Karak out there in the cold, Turock. Of that you have my word.”

The spellcaster picked up another gemstone from the heap and bounced it in his palm. He seemed to be thinking long and hard, his lips puckered. Finally, he snatched the hat off his head and twisted it in his hands.

“Absolutely not,” he said.

Rachida stepped back, her neck flushing. “No?”

“No. Why should I? Those people have tormented me and mine for
two years
. They’re freezing? They’re dying? Good. Let them. I’ll use their corpses for kindling later.”

A knock came at the door, and Rachida jumped. Turock let out a deep breath.

“Come in, Abby,” he said, sounding irritated.

The door opened, and a short woman with curly hair colored a deep crimson breezed into the study. There was something eerily familiar about her. She was an attractive woman, in a cutesy sort of way, with dainty features and eyes the color of seaglass. She had an air of poise about her that made the simple blue dress she wore, rimmed with fur on the hem and neckline, look like a queen’s gown.

“Turock, why must you make me come find you?” the woman asked. “Who are those men in the dining hall? You know I hate surprises, especially on a day when I had a special—”

The woman’s voice stilled as her eyes found Rachida. She tilted her head to the side and frowned. “What is this?” she asked, almost growling. “Who is
she
?”

“That’s Rachida Gemcroft, darling,” said Turock.

“The merchant’s wife?” the woman said, eyes wide.

“The same,” answered Turock. “And Rachida, this is my wife, Abigail, daughter of House DuTaureau.” The man smiled, but Rachida could see a hint of contempt behind his eyes. “It seems you two have something in common, being daughters of First Families and all.”

That explained why she looked familiar. Rachida had spent many months with the woman’s brother and sister when Patrick brought Nessa to Haven. For a moment, she pined over the son DuTaureau had given her.

Abigail turned her narrowed eyes to her husband. “What are you doing in your study, all alone?”

At that, Turock laughed. “The lovely lady wishes for me to offer food and supplies to the soldiers who’ve been plaguing us.”

“Is that so?”

Rachida inclined her head. “It is, Lady Escheton,” she said.

“For what purpose?”

“To end the siege.”

“Is that possible?”

“It is.”

Abigail again turned to her husband. “And you said yes, correct?”

“Um . . . no,” the odd man replied. “I told her to piss off.”

The crimson-haired sprite shook her head. She then shrugged her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and walked confidently up to Rachida, placing both hands on her shoulders and looking her right in the eye.

“He’ll do as you ask,” Abigail said.

“I will
not
.” He very nearly whined.

His wife turned to him. “You will, and you’ll do it soon. You’d turn aside an opportunity for a normal life all to hoard a few gems and satisfy petty revenge? How selfish are you?”

Quite
, Rachida thought, but remained silent.

“It’s not a normal life she wants,” Turock said, face darkening. “She wants us to go to war.”

Abigail’s mouth drew into a thin line.

“My family is in Mordeina,” she said. “Byron, Jarak, Pendet—our
children
—are there. You swore to me the only reason we did not aid them was because of the siege. We had to protect our people, you said. But if the siege breaks . . . ”

Her voice trailed off, the silence full of questions and threats. Turock dropped his arms to his sides, head drooping.

“If the siege breaks, to Mordeina we go,” he said.

“I thought so,” said Abigail before looking back at Rachida. “I’m sorry if he was being difficult. Men can be stubborn and stupid. You’re a wife. I’m sure you understand.”

Rachida grinned but did not reply.

The next day, after the first solid night’s sleep since she’d left Port Lancaster a lifetime ago, Rachida brokered peace between Drake and the soldiers of Karak. For a full day they held a massive feast outside the township’s earthen walls as the weary soldiers ate and drank and even cried.
Harsh times make for strange bedfellows,
thought Rachida. Her words to Turock were proven true the day after, when the majority of the two thousand men departed across the roaring Gihon, filled to the brim with supplies the Drake spellcasters conjured for them. They had the look of hope on their faces, even though they were a long way from home, and she was certain many wouldn’t survive such a harrowing journey in the dead of winter.

Talon also stayed true to his word, as the captain and two hundred others vowed themselves to Rachida’s cause. Three days after that, when all the supply wagons were packed once more, this time including a hefty pile of topaz for the spellcasters to use to create food, they began the march south. Her six hundred soldiers had swelled to nearly eight hundred with the defectors added, and a glum Turock joined her along with twenty-two of his remaining spellcasters. He had pledged a promise to Abigail that he would return with their children. His wife, the rest of the townspeople, and most of the civilians, stayed behind in Drake, protected by their earthen walls and with enough men of magic to feed and protect them.

“To Mordeina?” Quester asked, trotting alongside her on his horse.

“To Mordeina,” she answered.

“I’ll be honest with you. I’m more than a little eager. Haven’t had a good scuffle in weeks. My sword arm is itching.”

The sun overhead was bright, and the air was warm for the first time in quite a while. For a moment she was reminded of Haven and the home she and Moira had built, but that thought led to another about Peytr and his deception.

“Mine too,” she said, and kept on riding.

C
HAPTER

20

T
he storm was on them. A freezing rain blew sideways, the wind howling directly into their faces as they peered over the rise. To Moira, this was ideal. The wind blowing toward them meant they were upwind from their targets, so they needn’t worry about making too much noise. Any stray step or clank of steel would be covered up by the pounding rain and incessant wind.

“What are we facing down there?” asked Tabar. He had to raise his voice a bit to be heard over the clamor.

“There is a clipper, four barges, and many rafts,” Moira answered. “Seventeen soldiers are working around the rafts. Looks like they’re
preparing to load them. And another twelve in red cloaks
wandering
about. Who are they?”

“Acolytes,” said Gull.

“Acolytes,” Rodin agreed.

Moira stretched, propping herself up on her elbows to get a better view. She and her Movers were spying on the docks built by Karak’s Army for transporting their goods across the river, then to be carried by horse and wagon to the standing army half a world away. The docks were forty miles from Omnmount, and Elias
Gandrem
had said that the acolytes left Omnmount with the last of the autumn harvest weeks ago. Moira had been disheartened by the news at the time, fearing the sixteen tons of food taken from Omnmount would be long gone. But luck was with her, and when she arrived, she found the three storehouses packed full with dried fruits, salted meats, and crate after crate of pickled vegetables, eggs, and mushrooms. She still had the chance to deny her god his much-needed supplies.

One of the soldiers turned toward their position at the top of the ridge over the river’s edge, and she ducked down out of sight behind a mound of dirt. For the briefest of moments she’d seen his face; the man looked tired, moved sluggishly, and Moira realized that these soldiers had likely traveled all the way from Paradise to bring the food back to their god’s army, because Catherine had killed the few hundred soldiers who’d remained in Neldar. Danco sidled up to her, his long, dark hair sticking to his face.

“Why haven’t they sent it all west already?” he asked.

“They haven’t been able to.” She grinned. “For once, fortune smiles on us.”

“So what is the plan?” asked Willer.

Moira smirked at him. “We go down there, kill them all, and to the victors belong the spoils.”

“That’s a lot of spoils for just six men,” said Gull. “What would we do with it all?”

Moira turned about, gazing into the forest behind them, sensing eyes on her. “Don’t worry about that. Let’s do what we came here to do; I’ll figure the rest out later.”

“Now
that
is a plan I can support,” said Rodin cheerily.

A few minutes later, Moira was running along the edge of the ridge, keeping herself out of sight. The strategy was simple: She and the Movers would fan out, sneaking around while hidden by the many storehouses and boathouses, taking out as many sentries and acolytes as they could. Should anyone encounter trouble, they were to sprint for the open space closest to the river, screaming to alert the others. Then the rest would come running, and together they would fend off their attackers.

Moira knew it wouldn’t come to that.

She reached a pair of wooden structures and ducked between them, using the slickness of the sodden earth to her advantage. She was able to move quickly, sliding from one post to the next while barely lifting her feet off the ground. She slithered on her belly once she reached the end of the structures, approaching the hill that led down to the docks. Freezing, muddy water splashed into her mouth, sending a sharp pain through her teeth, which were still sore from her recent sickness. A moment later she heard what sounded like a faraway grunt and an even fainter splash. Those down below would think it nothing, but Moira knew the Movers had claimed their first life of the evening.

There were two forms lingering by the bottom of the hill: a soldier and an acolyte. The soldier stood tall and rigid while the young acolyte squirmed, constantly squeezing rainwater from his soaked red cloak. The soldier was saying something, but she couldn’t hear what. Moira remained on her belly, keeping close to the unkempt grasses as she inched along. When the soldier suddenly turned, she froze, thinking herself foolish for assuming it’d be so easy. He seemed to stare right at her, his face bathed in darkness as the rain beat against him, but a moment later he turned back around, his shoulders visibly slumping.

She was mere inches from them when she gradually rose to a crouch. The rain picked up, growing louder and masking the sound of her drawing her swords. When the acolyte looked in the other direction, she jabbed upward with her left hand, the tip of her sword dipping beneath the soldier’s helm and piercing the base of his skull. Moira shoved hard, driving the blade into his brain, before quickly yanking her sword free. The soldier teetered forward and then fell. Finally the acolyte seemed to notice something was wrong. He took an inquisitive step forward, standing over the fallen man. “Pate?” he asked, sounding confused. Moira slipped behind him and crossed both swords in front of his neck, pulling backward. The blades sliced open his jugular, and the young man collapsed on the muck-covered ground, clawing at his throat as he gargled the last of his breath away.

Three down, at least.

Moira remained in her crouch, turning this way and that, searching for her next target. With the rain falling as hard as it was, she could see only vague outlines. In front of a storehouse she thought she saw three men hustling along. As she rose to her feet, she heard a screech in the distance, followed by steel meeting steel. Heart racing, knowing someone had been discovered, she leapt into action.

Of the three, she took two out quickly and easily, piercing one through the back and into heart, and the other with a wicked tear across his throat. In her haste she missed the killing blow on the third, her light sword whacking harmlessly off his gorget instead of piercing his throat. The surviving soldier wheeled around, and she caught his terrified expression in a flash of lightning. The man hacked wildly with his sword, but Moira was a blur. She parried his chop with one sword while ducking down and lashing out with her second. The blade carved a chunk out of the soldier’s knee, where his boot met his chainmail, and he began stumbling. His sword fell from his hand as he begged for his life.

She was about to kill him when something collided with her from behind, sending her crashing into the pleading soldier. They both tumbled to the sopping earth in a wild tangle of arms and legs, and she lost hold of one of her swords as she fell.

Muddy water was in her eyes, blinding her, but she felt a tingling sensation in her gut and rolled to the side, away from the gasping soldier. The flat end of a pole whacked against the soldier’s face, snapping his nose with a
crack
that could be heard even over the wind and driving rain. The soldier shrieked. Moira ducked into a summersault, avoiding yet another attempt to strike her.

When she got out of her roll she frantically wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. There were three short, young men in red robes pressing in on her, each holding a long rod out before them. Their movements were tentative and uncoordinated, and what she could see of their faces showed them to be just boys, the oldest thirteen, perhaps fourteen at best.
It doesn’t matter. They’re acolytes of Karak, and acolytes become priests.
Still, it was difficult to look at the frightened youths’ eyes and not feel sorry for them. She backed away, holding her remaining sword out in front of her, hoping they would turn and flee, so she wouldn’t have to kill them.

In the end, Gull did the deed for her. The stoic man appeared from out of the rain, his longsword swiping in measured arcs, cutting down each of the acolytes before he had a chance to turn. The deed done, Gull drove his blade into a fallen soldier’s throat and then whipped it out before him, flicking the blood from the steel before sheathing it on his back.

“It’s over,” he said. He bowed to her and turned away. Moira sheathed one sword, retrieved the other, and joined the rest of her Movers at the storehouse.

All seventeen soldiers were dead, as were ten of the twelve acolytes, the other two having scampered off into the night.

“Should we give chase?” Rodin asked.

“Leave them,” Moira said, kneeling beside Willer, the only man injured of their group. “The wolves or coyotes will find them before they cross the miles to the nearest village.”

“What if they return?” asked Danco.

“Won’t matter,” Moira said, still staring at Willer. “They’re two boys. Not a threat.”

“I . . . I’m sorry,” Willer blubbered. He lay in Tabar’s arms, hands clutching his gut, which bore a deep, bloody stab wound. “I thought I had him . . . ”

Moira met Tabar’s eyes, and she mouthed her question. In answer, the seemingly unsympathetic man slowly shook his head.

“Hush now,” said Tabar calmly. Willer obeyed, sniveling in silence as rain pelted his body. Tabar placed his palm over Willer’s eyes, slid his dagger from his belt, and drove the blade into the young man’s heart. Blood poured over Tabar’s fist as Willer’s body offered a few last spasms and then fell still. The deed done, Tabar slid the young Mover off his lap and stood up. The other Movers gathered around their fallen companion, heads bowed in respect.

“He died fighting,” said Gull. “A worthy death for an unworthy man, for on this day, he was not good enough.”

“Here, here,” the rest of them answered, and then they went back about their business.

It was a shockingly chilling goodbye, Moira thought.

They hauled Willer’s corpse, along with those of the dead sentries and acolytes, onto the clipper. After dumping a barrel of lamp oil onto the deck of the clipper and the four barges, Gull set them aflame. When the lines tying them to the dock were cut, the five flaming ships moved slowly south with the Rigon’s current, like sluggish, indifferent hell beasts. Moira and her Movers proceeded to shatter the rafts with axes from the boathouse before setting fire to the boathouse itself, the barracks and the docks along with it.

Before long the rain stopped, and with the fires raging it was as bright and hot as a summer day in the delta. Only the stable and the four shacks housing the food stores remained untouched. Moira gazed at them, then the stables, and finally at the six rickety wagons sitting idle at the top of the rise. She thought of what Rachida, always the altruistic one in their relationship, would have done.
She would help as many as she could.

“What do we do now?” asked Rodin, throwing his arm around her. “You’ve completed the task Lady Catherine set you to.” Moira thought to wiggle out of his grasp but decided against it. Her emotions were still on edge after the deaths of Willer and the young acolytes. She would take comfort from whoever offered it, even if that someone was a cold-hearted bastard like all her Movers were. She rested her head on his shoulder, pretending he was Rachida. The mirage almost worked.

“There are nine horses in the stables,” she said wearily. “They’re old, but they’ll do to pull those wagons up there. I’ll load them up with food and then strike out north. I’m sure there are many folks starving right now. I can feed them on my way to Veldaren.”

“What’s in Veldaren?”

She shrugged. “The king of Neldar, and hopefully Cornwall Lawrence’s last surviving heir.”

Rodin gazed down at her, giving her a knowing half smile.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, playfully punching him. “I promised Elias I would bring Laurel safely back to Omnmount to take her rightful seat. I’m not one to turn my back on promises.”

She thought of her promise to Rachida, and her bed play with Penetta, one of Catherine Brennan’s maids, and guilt snapped her mouth shut.

Thankfully, Rodin changed the subject as they climbed back up the rise together. “What of the rest of the food? It will go to rot eventually, if it doesn’t attract predators first. Seems like such a waste.”

“Oh, it won’t be wasted.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And why would that be?”

She smiled up at him, and once they reached the top of the hill, where the muddy access road stretched off to the northeast, she shoved away from the man and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey, all of you!” she shouted. “I know you’re out there. Come show yourselves.”

Rodin passed her a queer look, but she simply nodded to him and tapped her foot. For a long while there was nothing but the rustling of the leafless trees in the wind, but then a few shadowy forms emerged. There were only a couple at first, but more and more exited the forest on either side of the road. They were old men, women both young and old, and children; at least two hundred staggering beings, all wandering up to them with wary yet hopeful eyes. The children led the procession, a familiar disheveled boy at the front.

The rest of the Movers had joined them at the top of the hill
by then
.

“What is this?” asked Danco. His hand fell reflexively to his sword.

“Don’t,” Moira said. “They mean no harm.”

“Who are they?” asked Tabar.

“The children from Omnmount, along with those who were hidden in the cottages when we arrived.”

“What are they doing here now?” asked Gull.

She looked up at the stoic man and shook her head. “Surviving.” She took a step then toward the approaching mass of humanity. They stopped in their tracks, staring at her. Moira nodded at the boy Slug, who grinned in return.

“There is food in the storehouses,” she told them, raising her voice to all. “I will be taking some of what is in that one,”—she pointed toward the third rickety building—“but the food in the other two is yours to do with as you please.”

A hundred disbelieving smiles stared back at her.

“Can we get it now?” asked Slug.

“You can,” she replied. “All of you can.”

The wary, the bedraggled, and the starving tottered past her and her Movers. Moira watched them with a smile on her face, each thankful gesture warming her heart. When they had finally reached the first of the shacks, she finally let out a breath and confronted her Movers.