Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (19 page)

A beefy man turned away from trading blows with Willer, his gaze falling upon her. She ducked beneath another slash from her side and saw the large man charge. He raised his sword above his head, ready to come down on her with full force.

He was five feet away from Moira when she tried to evade the blow, but she was pinned on both sides by fighting men. Instead, she gathered herself and leapt straight up, using the back of the man to her left as a springboard to vault her higher. She did a split in midair, the beefy man’s downward lunge missing her crotch by a sliver, and then she kicked off the shoulder of the soldier fighting on the other side of her and leapt over his head. It was a strategy Corton had taught her early on in training; to use her lightness and agility to outmaneuver an attacker rather than meeting them head on, which brings certain defeat.

As she fell, she angled her sword downward. The tip pierced
the bac
k of the beefy man’s neck, and he arched his spine. Moira fell
against the sword’s handle, driving it deeper into his flesh. He took the brunt of her weight and fell to the floor in a spasm. Moira rolled off his shaking corpse, leaving the sword embedded in it, just before another blade smacked against the floor.

Blood filled the air along with the screams of the dying. Moira spun around the next man to attack her, colliding with Rodin, who was engaged in his own skirmish. Instead of faltering, Rodin looped his arm around her and spun her low so that she slid between his opened legs. On the other side she picked up a discarded blade and then spun back around Rodin, parrying a killing blow before it took off his face. She then kicked the attacker in the groin and hacked at the back of his neck when he doubled over. The flesh split, spilling blood all over her leather boots.

“Thanks,” Rodin said with a grin, and then pressed his opponent into the corner.

Moira was a whirl of motion, flipping this way and that, thankful that her new sword, a short one, was only slightly heavier than her own twin blades. She cut through ankles, stabbed into stomachs, and left everyone who confronted her bloodied. The men they fought were certainly skilled, but she and her Movers were still their betters . . . and they had the advantage of actually having their armor on their backs instead of heaped on tables. Of all the blows she suffered, only one—a slash to the forearm—drew blood.

After jamming her sword through the eye of yet another man, she spun around to see that only three of the conquerors of
Omnmount
remained standing. One of them was Lommy, who retreated on shaking legs while a bored-looking Gull pressed in on him. Gull lifted his eyes, caught sight of Moira, and then took off Lommy’s sword hand with a downward hew. Blackbard dropped to his knees, his mouth an “O” of shock, staring at the empty void where his hand used to be. The other two men dropped their weapons in surrender.

The floor of the dining hall was a mess of blood and hacked-off limbs as Moira strolled across it, approaching the kneeling Lommy. Gull backed away, inclining his head in respect. She knelt before the would-be lord, who still held tight to his spouting stump, and forcibly grabbed his chin.

“Please . . . ,” he whimpered.

“You deserve worse,” she said before slitting his throat from ear to ear. A waterfall of red cascaded over his padded tunic. He gargled out a few words before his eyes rolled and he collapsed. Moira watched him until his body stilled.

“What of these two?” she heard Tabar ask.

“Kill them,” she said without turning around.

Protests and pleas for life followed, silenced by the sound of steel ripping through flesh.

When it was over, she rose to her feet and looked around. Lommy’s thirteen brethren were strewn about the hall, and a near lake of blood rippled on the floor. She felt more alive than ever, her body experiencing no pain, not even her mouth, which had still been sore from the sickness. She took in each of her five sellswords, who were in the process of jamming their swords into the skulls of those on the floor just in case any still breathed. Although they had suffered cuts, and Danco had a nasty gash on his left cheek, they were relatively unharmed.
I made the right choice,
she thought.

Moaning reached her ears, and Moira turned around. The fool was propped up against the dais, his knees drawn to his chest, his eyes filled with horror as he took in the carnage. She dropped her sword and approached, kneeling down beside him. He looked over at her, tears running down his cheeks. He wiped them away, taking clumps of white paint off in the process. Doing so revealed how
terribly
wrong her initial guess had been; he was likely not any older than fifteen.

“You have a name?” she asked him.

“E-E-Elias. Elias Gandrem.”

Moira scrunched her face, knowing that name . . . and then it came to her. “Gandrem? Any relation to Faysia Gandrem from Hailen?”

The youth nodded, his tears still falling. “Faysia is my mother.”

She considered him. Faysia was born Faysia Gemcroft, Peytr’s sister. Just hearing the name made her think of Rachida, and she felt a longing in her gut. Moira put her bloody hands to Elias’s cheeks, rubbing them, trying to calm him.

“Here now, you’re safe,” she said. “So you sent a bird to Veldaren, even though you were told not to?”

The boy nodded.

“Very brave of you.” She rustled his hair. “Very brave indeed.”

“Th-Th-Thank you,” Elias said.

She helped the boy to his feet and handed him off to Gull, who brought him over to where Danco, Tabar, and Willer were cleaning their wounds. The boy seemed to relax as he went, even laughing uncomfortably when Danco made a crude joke.

“Courageous youngster,” Rodin said, sidling up beside her. “But what do we do with him?”

She shrugged. “I have no clue. He is Peytr’s nephew, probably sent here by his father to help care for Cornwall’s affairs while he was ill. He most likely knows quite a bit about the family business.”

“And what about us? Cornwall isn’t exactly here to read Lady Catherine’s letter.”

“Right now we find the rookery, see if there are any birds left, and then send word to the Queen Bitch.” She smirked. “And after that, we head to the docks and finish what we came here to do. As deeply as I miss Rachida, I think I’ve missed swinging a sword just as much.”

Rodin grinned.

“Missing a good fight as much as you miss time with a woman?” He laughed cheerfully. “I think all us here know what you mean. Come then. Let’s go set some fires.”

C
HAPTER

16

D
uring the day she had no name, just a corpse walking among the other corpses that populated the city, toiling with them in the fields to the west, supping with them and sharing a cup of dirty water while the sun was still high in the sky. Come late afternoon she became a ghost, slithering through the alleyways of Veldaren’s poorest district, unseen even by those who laid their eyes on her, nothing but a filthy rail of a woman with soot in her disheveled hair, grime on her face, and a reeking burlap sack hanging from her shoulders.

But come dusk, life flooded her veins. Come dusk, she was no longer Laurel Lawrence. When she sought out others who lurked in the shadows, binding the weary, the angry, and the frightened into a slowly growing army, she bore a new name, one the tired people gave her out of a mixture of fear and pride. They called her “Specter.”

Laurel dashed from one building of drab gray stone to another while destitute mothers and daughters hawked spoiled wares from their carts along the side of the road. She slowed, walking with a pronounced limp, when she spied a Sister of the Cloth, one of many women found guilty of crimes and whose freedom was stripped from them. The wrapped woman glanced her way and squinted, seemingly unconcerned with such a haggard old thing on this cold day. These new daytime guardians of the city always seemed to regard her the same way now—as if she were unworthy of so much as a glance.

The large woman beside her, another nameless female in a veritable sea of them, looked her way and nodded. With the Sister out of sight, she and Laurel picked up their pace, heading west along the Merchants’ Road.

“I see her,” the large woman, Harmony Steelmason, said. It was still odd to hear her voice after she’d gone so long without speaking a single word.

“Where?”

“Over there.” She tilted her head slightly. “The one sitting beside the fish market.”

“How can you tell?”

“The note said to follow the scent of fish.”

“That could mean anything.”

“Yes, but look at the way she is sitting and tapping her feet. This one is anxious, not dejected.”

Laurel squinted against the glare of the setting sun, and sure enough she saw the way the girl on the other side of the road shook her legs as if they’d fallen asleep, and her instincts insisted it wasn’t from the cold.

“We do this now?” Harmony asked.

“We do.”

Together they crossed the road and approached the fish seller’s window. Harmony stepped up to the hag behind the counter while Laurel sat down beside the fidgeting girl.

“Tristessa?” she asked, keeping her voice low and slurred.

“Yes?” asked the girl.

Laurel slid closer, keeping her back to the hag at the window.

“Where are they?”

Tristessa hesitated and bit her lip. Harmony continued quibbling with the hag at the window about how much a hunk of catfish was truly worth.

“We have an hour of sunlight left at most,” Laurel said in an irritated whisper. “You either show us now, or we leave. We can’t be caught outside after dark. You know this.”

Again Tristessa bit her lip, and for a moment it seemed she would recant on her promise, but then she rose slowly to her feet and walked down the alley between the fish market and the cobbler to the left. Laurel counted to ten, then followed, doing her best to appear indifferent.

The nervous girl stopped at a door to the rear of the cobbler’s. She looked around, the expression on her face one of abject
terror
, before finally rapping three times on the door. The small portal in the door slid aside, and after a few mumbled words, the door opened with a
creak
. Tristessa slipped inside, and Laurel followed.

The rear area of the stone building was cramped with people. More than half were men, both young and old, starving and gaunt, their faces covered with scars and their arms with sores. The others were women who looked just as frightened as Tristessa had. The men were bandits, forced into hiding by the new lords of Veldaren; the women were former Sisters who had shed their wrappings. Both lived in constant fear of death.

Laurel gazed at each of them, and she was pleased.

An interior door opened, and another woman entered the cramped space. This one carried herself with a dignified air, her nose upturned in disgust at the rancid scents coming off the room’s occupants. Her eyes found Laurel, and she shoved her way through the throng, a frown on her face.

“Do I know you?” the woman asked.

“I am a servant of the crown,” she said, keeping her voice low and cold, the voice of the Specter. “And I am sure you have heard the stories. Why else would you have left me a note in the
fountain?”

In truth, Laurel Lawrence knew the woman quite well. Her name was Ursula, and she was the wife of the cobbler who oper
ated this establishment. They both had shared laughs while waiting
for shoes to be repaired, back before Ursula’s husband had been conscripted into Karak’s Army, before Laurel took on her own new guise. It amazed her that the woman did not recognize her, but then again, why would anyone expect to find a noblewoman such as she cloaked and garbed like a vagabond of the night?

“That was my daughter’s doing,” Ursula said. “If I had my way, your stink wouldn’t be adding to the rest that’s already infected
my house.”

Tristessa stepped forward, clearing her throat. “Mother, don’t be rude.”

“I’ll act any way I wish!” Ursula said, turning on her daughter. “It was not
my
decision to house these miscreants. I’m putting my neck on the chopping block, all for a daughter with more compassion than sense. You are lucky I didn’t cast the lot of you out on the street weeks ago!”

Angry murmurs followed, and the pack grew restless. Laurel glanced about and could sense the anger the men and women had toward their caretaker. A fight would follow if the tension were not dealt with, and though the cobbler’s walls were stone and this room had no windows, she dared not risk even the slightest commotion being overheard outside.

“We will be leaving soon,” Laurel said to all of them. “You will find shelter with us, and food and wine and a safe place to rest your heads. But you must be patient.”

“I’ve been patient enough,” Ursula said, hands on hips. “I want them gone
now
.”

Laurel pointed an accusatory finger at her. “Don’t presume to tell me how this must go,” she said. “If we leave now, we will be spotted
and risk capture. And if any are captured, they will be
tortured
, and guess whose name will be on their lips,
Ursula
?”

“But—”

“But nothing. Leave this room. When the sun is almost set, and the Sisters begin their return to their housing,
that
is when we make our move. No sooner, no later. I appreciate all you’ve done, but the lives of these people are in the hands of the Specter now, not yours.”

The woman stared up at her, her head cocked to the side. A question was on her lips, her eyes wide with anger, but she swallowed it down and exited the room. When she was gone, Tristessa approached her, tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Thank you so much, miss,” she said. “I know my mother seems bad, but she’s just worried about us, that’s all.”

Laurel placed her hand on Tristessa’s head, felt her silky
brown hair.

“I know,” she lied. “Go to her. Comfort her, and do not worry for the people here. They’re under my protection now.”

“Thank you,” the girl blubbered.

“However, Tristessa, did you have the . . . other items we need?”

“I do,” the girl said. She spun around, disappearing through the door her mother had taken, and returned with a pile of moldy fabric heaped in her arms. She dropped the heap in front of Laurel.

“Will that do?”

“It will. Go now, girl, and comfort your mother.”

“Yes, milady,” Tristessa said with a bow, and she scurried back out of the room.

The bundle the girl had brought was a stack of old cloaks, and Laurel passed them out to the men among them. She counted her new wards: twenty-two of them, thirteen men and nine former Sisters. “Put these on,” said Laurel. “It won’t be long now.” The twenty-two frightened people waiting in the cramped back room of the cobbler’s waited some more. Laurel remained by the door until a knock came, two light raps followed by fingertips dancing over wood. She motioned for everyone to step back, grasped the door handle, pressed down, and pulled. When Harmony sauntered in, Laurel slid the door shut, latching it soundlessly. The large woman lifted the stinking chunk of fish she held to her mouth and tore off a hunk. Her thick jaw worked up and down like a cow chewing
its cud.

“That”—Laurel pointed at the foul morsel—“is disgusting.”

“I’m hungry,” Harmony said in return. “A sprinkle of pepper and a pinch of salt can make anything edible.”

“If you say so.”

From then on the Specter kept vigil by the small portal in the door, watching the sky shift from blue to yellow to pale pink. She heard the rumble of wheels and the grate of shuffling feet.

“It’s time,” she told the room’s occupants.

“What do we do?” asked a frightened voice.

“You follow us,” said Harmony. “Walk with your head down, like you are so overwhelmed by life that you have no muscles in your neck any longer.”

One of the men stepped forward, frowning. “That’s it?
That
is what we needed you for?”

Laurel prodded the man in the shoulder.

“What part of ‘We’re leading you to a safe place’ don’t you understand? If you would rather face the Judges’ claws on your own, you are free to. The door is not locked. Go and find your own shelter.”

She stepped aside, gesturing for him to take the door handle. The man’s face flushed red, and he took a step back, murmuring an apology.

“What do we do if the Judges do find us?” one of the others asked.

“You run,” Laurel said. A grim smile spread across her face. “And don’t you dare pray. Doing that only tells them where you are. Now you men, keep those cloaks tight around you. Let no one see your face.”

The twenty-four souls left the cobbler’s and turned east, easily mixing with the throng of sullen, departing women. Laurel and Harmony remained in the lead, limping and shuffling their feet. Sunlight shone behind them, casting long shadows that reached like eager fingers. They kept close to the buildings. There were Sisters up ahead, the wrapped women returning to wherever it was they called home for the evening. Laurel glanced behind her, saw the frightened faces of those under her charge, and hoped everyone else was too enraptured by their own misery to notice.

In truth, Laurel was not overly worried. She had made this journey more than fifty times already, and rarely were they threatened with discovery. The new lords of Veldaren were too confident in their hold on the city and in the threat of the Judges’ claws to quell any resistance. They were wrong. The only reason Laurel felt uneasy this night was due to how many they transported. Her previous highest had been thirteen, yet now twenty-two followed.

Once the traveling band reached the great fountain of Karak in the center of the city, they turned onto the North Road. The street was crowded, more so than usual, which slowed their progress. Sisters of the Cloth walked toward them, heading for
Merchants
’ Road, dull eyes staring lifelessly from gaps in their wrappings. The sky overhead turned an ominous shade of crimson, the clouds transforming into billowing fire.
This is taking too long,
thought Laurel.

A distant roar shook the air around her.

“No, it’s too early!” someone shouted from behind her. She recognized the voice as one from her troupe.

“Oh gods,” muttered Harmony.

The crowd was thrown into a frenzy, countless panicked women dashing this way and that, trying to get to the safety of their homes before the Judges emerged from their cages in the belly of the Castle of the Lion. Even a few Sisters of the Cloth seemed hurried. The throng became a stampede, threatening to trample or separate the twenty-four.

“Take hands and into the alleys!” shouted Laurel, and she reached behind her without looking. A meaty hand grabbed hers, and she yanked Harmony into a nearby gap between buildings. She didn’t glance behind her to see if her charges had followed orders; if some of them panicked and forgot to grasp the hand of the one in front of or behind them, it could not be helped. They would be on their own, and should they survive the night, they could try again another day.

She pulled them through narrow passages, around bends, and over heaps of festering garbage and human waste. The second roar filled the air, sounding farther away than the first, and Laurel slowed their progress. She could hear those behind her crying and huffing for breath, could almost feel the terrified energy that pulsed all around her. Someone whispered Karak’s name, and she stopped short. Harmony almost collided with her backside.

Laurel spun around, anger making her neck grow hot.

“I said no praying,” she growled.

Numerous eyes gazed at her. One by one, each of them nodded.

They kept going, the sky growing ever darker above them. Although taking the alleys offered more refuge than keeping to the main throughway, it was also a much longer route. The alleys also had their own dangers; one never knew if some frightened soul might spy them from above and call out to the Judges.

Yet no one caught sight of them, and a few far-off screams told of the Judges dispensing their brutal justice elsewhere. The structures surrounding them began to inch closer together, their walls old wood rather than stone. The scent of feces and rot, prevalent in all of Veldaren, was potent.

They had reached the Black Bend.

The Bend was situated in the northeast corner of the city, a woebegone slum where the poorest citizens resided. The old, the infirm, the orphaned, and the outcast were who lived in this place. Originally, it had been built by the first generation of humans to house the builders who had assisted Karak in shaping his crown city. This section of the city had been forgotten, its land useless for building on due to the natural caves lingering beneath the earth making further construction too risky. Every building was perilously close to caving in on itself, and the mold seeping into the old wood caused horrific illnesses, oftentimes leading to death. Still, the populace here was proud. The downtrodden stuck together, a kinship in torment that embraced the Specter, and she them in return. Only they remembered the tunnels that ran beneath the Bend. It seemed as if everyone had forgotten about the poorer sections of this city save the poor themselves.