Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (26 page)

“So what are you all going to do?” she asked. “Return to Port Lancaster? Find your way in a new town, with new masters? I hear there are many about in need of quality swords.”

Rodin and Danco laughed at that, and Tabar chortled, but Gull simply stared at her with that deadly serious expression of his.

“We will do neither,” Gull said. “Our place is with you, Moira. You have proven yourself to be greater than any of us.” He withdrew his bloody longsword and crossed it over his chest. “Until you are bested, our loyalty lies with you.”

“With you,” said Tabar.

“With you,” said Danco.

“With you . . . always,” said Rodin.

It was an answer Moira had somewhat expected, but she was grateful for it nonetheless.

“Here’s to making a new life for ourselves up north,” she said. “But first, if you truly are dedicated to me, you need to find me a trained bird somewhere. We can kill all the bastards we want to later, but right now I need to send the last letter to Catherine before she makes my life completely fucking miserable.”

C
HAPTER

21

H
ope and faith were two things Bardiya Gorgoros had always possessed in abundance, but even those were beginning to fade. He was exhausted, disenchanted, and in a state of constant, spine-rending pain, a creature made to stoop day and night while chained to three wagons, alone though surrounded by people, the shadow of the Black Spire falling over him as the sun crawled across the late afternoon sky.

They are toying with you, nothing more,
he thought, yet he found it difficult to believe that was true. And songs of joy no longer sprung from his lips. He couldn’t save his people, no matter what he sang to them.
I have failed.

His brothers and sisters in faith milled about in front of him, serving watered-down wine and salt pork to soldier and elf alike. He looked on as Tulani Hempsman and a large group of Kerrian women, their gazes empty, slaved away over large steel pots, stirring and shifting a horsemeat stew. Behind them, just in front of the Black Spire, the men of his group worked under the watchful eyes of the elves, constructing a dais from disassembled wagons.
Tonight there will be a feast,
Clovis Crestwell had told him.
The largest feast Dezrel has seen in a thousand years.

Of all his emotions, and there were many, confusion reigned supreme. They had camped in front of the Spire for nine long days, and each morning his people suffered a different form of torture. Some days it was constant insults and beatings, whereas on others the captured were wined and dined and treated as equals, even respected. One afternoon twenty married women were gathered up and taken by soldiers in the sand while their husbands, bound and gagged, were forced to watch. The very next day those same twenty fraught women were given fine elven silks to wear while they and their husbands were waited on hand and foot by the same soldiers who had abused them the previous day. After the sun set, none knew what would happen when it climbed the opposite horizon come morning. Some begged for death; other begged to be made servants, if only to know what would come from day to day.

And for all this, it seemed Bardiya was the catalyst. On the bad days Clovis would stand before him in the morning, proclaiming him evil, disparaging Ashhur’s teachings, telling the people that what was about to befall him was his fault. On the good days he was proclaimed a king among kings, men placing a crown of woven wicker about his head. He became an object, a giant human tool and nothing more, useful only when needed. When the soldiers were kind, he was ignored; when they were not, his people lined up before him to receive his healing touch . . . a touch that seemed to be failing. With every man, woman, and child he mended, he found himself growing weaker, so much so that just yesterday he had failed to restore Jacco Bendoros’s broken leg. He now watched Jacco limp across the assembly, his leg in a splint. A soldier, the one with the small scar on his cheek, helped him along.

“Do you not see what this is?” shouted a voice, and Bardiya turned, the harness around his neck creaking. The voice belonged to the elven prisoner they called Ceredon, a hundred feet away, strapped to a plank above one of the supply carts, with his arms splayed wide. The elf had been kept up there day and night, yet unlike Bardiya, it seemed nothing his captors did could stifle his rebellious spirit. He continuously railed against everyone, screaming accusations and insults until his throat ran dry and he could scream no more. But then the meals would come, another elf climbing atop the cart to feed him hard biscuits and water, and he would be right back at it again. Strangely, he was ignored.

“You are all cravens!” Ceredon proclaimed, and then he laughed aloud. “Can you not see? This is your last meal! The beast will devour you, and then the scavengers on the dunes will pick through your remains!”

Bardiya turned even further at those words, gazing toward the near rise where once he had saved Kindren Thyne, the Dezren prince, from certain death. He could see nothing but shifting white sand along the ridge, though he swore that every so often he could see a glimpse of something moving up there. He thought of the distant pursuers he had noticed on the horizon as they marched, and then of Patrick DuTaureau, the longtime friend he had turned away when he’d come to plead with Bardiya for help. At night, when Bardiya lay awake, he swore he could hear the jangling of metal and shifting sand in the distance, drawing ever closer, and though he passed it off as a trick of the frigid desert winds, a part of him still hoped it was Patrick, come to help, come to save him from himself.

No! There is no one man who can save me. There is Ashhur and there is love, or there is nothing.

If only he could truly believe that. His back began to ache
once more
.

“Open your eyes!” the bound elf screamed to deaf ears. “The goddess will judge you, and she will judge harshly!”

“Do not listen to him,” said a gravelly, inhuman voice. Bardiya swiveled his head slowly, every muscle screaming in agony, until he saw a hooded Clovis Crestwell squatting beside him. The first child of Karak was wearing a white shawl instead of his armor. The loose fabric hung off him, and Bardiya could see just how sickly he truly was. More skeleton than man, Clovis’s every bone was noticeable beneath his parchment-thin flesh. When he moved, his joints seemed to creak, like a wet twig being twisted. His eyes were sunken deep, and his lips had retracted, exposing his blackened gums and oversized teeth. He was death incarnate.

Bardiya turned away and closed his eyes.

“Come now, giant,” said the horrific man. “Look at me. Look at how weak I am.”

“No.”

Bony fingers dug into his cheeks, forcing his head to turn. Bardiya was too exhausted to offer any resistance.

“You will,” Clovis said. “You will look, and you will see.”

“I see nothing,” he said, his anger welling inside him. “I see a godless thing that will soon die, only to suffer for eternity in its own special pit in the darkness.”

Clovis offered him a horrendous grin. “I thought you preached love and forgiveness? What happened to that? What happened to the
singing
? And giant, if I am to die, how will it happen? Will you destroy me?”

Bardiya almost lunged at him, but instead let out a deep sigh. “Your depravity will destroy you. The gods will not allow it. Why else would you be fading away before my eyes?”

“You assume much, giant. I am not the only one fading away.” There was a bag at the man’s feet, and Clovis reached inside it, removing a flattened piece of reflective glass. He then held the glass in front of Bardiya, chuckling. The red glow of his eyes intensified.

The face in the mirror was indeed that of Bardiya Gorgoros, but it was sunken now, the skin stretched, much like Clovis’s. Numerous deep crevasses sprouted from the corners of his eyes. His cheeks drooped, forming jowls, and atop his head was a thick thatch of white curls.

Bardiya sat back, aghast at his own reflection. He was so in shock he knew not what to say; though he had never stopped
growing
, by appearance he had remained unchanged for more than seventy years. He slumped down, letting the harness carry him to his side. Realization came over him: The pains now running through his body were not his constant growing pains, but the ache of time, of life, of
age
.

Clovis laughed at him as he stuffed the mirror back into his bag. “Your god has abandoned you, giant, but I have not.” The man leaned in close, and Bardiya could smell decay on his breath. “I once promised that you would bring
true
beauty back to this world. It is time you fulfilled your duties. The feast begins now.”

With that, the man stood. His emaciated form hobbled away, heading for the now-finished dais in front of the Black Spire.

“Do not listen to him!” shouted Ceredon. “The beast lies!”

Bardiya was too busy wallowing in his despair to listen.
Ashhur, why have you discarded me? Have I not lived as you desired?

A horn blew, echoing across the desert and drawing the attention of all to the dais. The people of Ang were herded to the front of the assembly while soldiers approached Bardiya and forced him with prods and whips to stand. He leaned against the roof of the wagon to his left, heavy chains clinking about his wrists and feet.

Clovis climbed the dais and stood in the center. The Black Spire loomed behind him like a portal to the underworld. All in attendance, prisoner, soldier, and elf alike, began muttering among one another. Clovis rubbed his hands together, and his eyes burned a deeper red than ever before, eliciting shocked gasps from his audience.

“This is a glorious day!” Clovis declared, his lips peeling back further. His voice was harsh, as if flames were ejecting from his gullet along with his words. He looked down at the three hundred people of Ang who huddled before him. “Tonight, we celebrate the end of our time together. Tonight, all sins are forgotten with a purging feast. When that feast is done, you will be freed.” The soldiers grumbled; the elves, both Quellan and Dezren, passed suspicious glances back and forth.

“It’s a trick!” Bardiya heard one of his people shout.

“No, no trick,” Clovis said, his grin growing ever wider. “I am a . . . man of my word. When the feast is over, consider yourselves free souls in Karak’s eyes.” He folded one arm over his withered chest and propped the other atop it, fingering his chin as he scanned the crowd. “In fact, I feel a demonstration of trust is necessary. Your singing has brightened many of my evenings since we have been together, and it has saddened me that all but the giant has stopped. I wish to hear a song once more.”

More grumbling followed, but no one stepped forward.

“Come now, can we not have some beauty during these dark times? I wish to hear a song, an innocent song, a
pure
song, the one about mothers and lions and mountains. You know the one.”

A woman suddenly began singing, only to be hushed by a wave of Clovis’s hand.

“No,” he said. “I wish for
innocent
voices. Are there any children
among you who will sing for me? Will you come join me, allow your
voices to fill me with warmth? Should you do so, you will be freed . . . ”

The man gestured to a group of soldiers off to the right, and three of them shuffled through the sand in front of the prisoners, looking each child up and down. Finally one child stepped forward, then two, then more, until there were seven. The soldiers climbed the dais steps, urging the young ones to follow them. Bardiya noticed one of the soldiers was the one he had healed. Clovis knelt down, kissing each of the children’s hands before directing them to form a line on the front of the platform.

Bardiya’s heart was overwhelmed as he stared at those seven angelic faces. He knew them all, of course: Keisha, Sasha, Minora, Robbet, Yassar, Boren, and Stev. They were all eight years old or younger, and their eyes were filled with worry as they gazed down at the audience of nearly one thousand. Keisha Hempsman raised her head, her eyes finding Bardiya, and she nodded to him.
This is for you,
her look seemed to say.

“Now sing,” Clovis demanded.

Keisha and Sasha were the first to open their mouths, but soon the other five followed. The sound of their seven voices melded into sweetness and honey.

“On a crisp and chilly morn

the mother came to me,

whispering the secrets

of the wind and the trees.

She spoke of times past

And times yet to be,

Everything in balance

Everything forever free.”

Bardiya closed his eyes, allowed the singing to wash over him. His energy seemed to return, the pain in his body subsiding. He even began to sway, humming along with their song.

“On a warm and vibrant day

a lion came to me,

whispering the rules

of how not to be.

He said go forth with joy,

he said you now are free

so long as you remember

in whom you believe.”

He remembered the first time his mother had sung this song to him, when he was still a very young child suffering night terrors beneath the blankets in their hut. He thought of his father, the mighty Bessus, and how he had chastised his wife for filling young Bardiya’s head with foolishness. His heart ached, especially when the next verse began. His father had been right all along. It was beyond foolishness; it was a complete lie.

“On a dark and lonely eve

the mountain said to me,

you’re all my precious children,

stretching from river to sea.

I made you full of joy.

I made you to be free.

So love each other, live with grace,

and no harm shall come to thee.”

“Enough,” Clovis said, his voice loud and shrill. Bardiya opened his eyes and saw the man standing behind the row of smiling children, his eyes bulging with excitement to the point of popping from his skull. Clovis whispered something to the soldier beside him, whose face paled, whose hands shook.

“No,” Bardiya said, dread overcoming him.

Clovis shoved the soldier and grabbed the sword hanging from his belt with quickness that someone in his state should not have possessed. He ripped the blade free with a glare, and the two other soldiers, including the one Bardiya had healed, needed no more invitation. They too drew their blades and approached the children from behind. The crowd in front of the dais pitched forward in a frenzy, and those standing guard struggled against their mass.

“NO!”
Bardiya cried.

Clovis lifted his eyes, and it was like they were on fire, they glowed so brightly. He stared right at Bardiya.