Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (7 page)

Peytr closed his eyes, took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and then took three steps forward. For a moment Rachida thought to join his side, but she hunkered down and held her swords at the ready instead.

When the twelve captains were fifty feet away from where Peytr
stood, they halted their troops. One of them stepped to the forefront
and lifted his great helm, revealing the face of a hard,
middle
-aged man with cold, ice-blue eyes that looked very much like Moira’s. The captain gave a signal and the soldiers fanned out in a single line, their armor clattering. Rachida found her view blocked by dented armor and scornful faces. The captain who had stepped forward then drew his sword.

“To what do I owe the honor?” asked Peytr with a mock bow. Amazingly, his tone sounded playful, without a hint of fear.

The captain acted as if he had never spoken. “Citizens of Haven!” he shouted, his voice carrying across the rocks. “You have been found guilty of blasphemy of the highest order. Because of your deceit, the mighty Karak, God of Order, the Divinity of the East, has sentenced you to die. But let none say Karak is without mercy! You have two options before you: Perish or submit. Those who bow, and give themselves back entirely to Karak, will be given the chance to serve the Divinity in his holy war against his bastard brother. The choice is yours.”

Rachida’s heart dropped when the man spoke. She remembered a time not so long ago when it had been her beloved brother
Vulfram
making similar proclamations. The memory brought worry
crushing
down on her soul. Though she had not spoken with a member of her family since she’d fled Neldar when Moira was banished by her father, they had never left her heart. Despite it all, she loved each of them dearly and hoped they had come through these trying times unscathed.

“I fear you have the wrong locale,” Peytr said, drawing Rachida’s attention. “This is Provincia, not Haven. I think you took a wrong turn somewhere or read the charts incorrectly. Best you be on
your way.”

Behind Rachida, the people shifted nervously.

“Do not play coy with us!” the captain screamed. “It is well within our rights to storm these shores and put each of you to the sword.” He looked beyond Peytr, to the tired, frightened masses. “Again I will say, perish or submit. Choose wisely.”

Peytr shook his head. “What if we choose the third option?” he asked.

As the captain tensed, Peytr placed his thumb and pinky finger in the corners of his mouth and whistled. A soft rumbling sounded next, and the other captains turned, hunkering down as if they expected an unseen phalanx to fall upon them. From beneath the crags to Rachida’s right came Bryce, tugging along a wooden barrow covered with a thick blanket. It seemed all movement ceased as he guided his cargo across the rocky shoreline. Confounded, Rachida glanced at her husband’s back, wishing she could see what kind of expression he wore.

All eyes were on Bryce as he gave the massive throng of soldiers a wide berth until he reached his lover’s side. Peytr then stole a quick glance at Rachida before whipping the blanket off the barrow, revealing a shimmering mound of small yellow stones. A few dropped off the side of the barrow, tinkling on the ground.
Gold. A huge mound of gold.
Rachida’s breath was stolen away.

“What is this?” shouted the blue-eyed captain.

“This is
negotiation,
” Peytr shouted back at him. “What you see here is a token of what we have extracted from the caverns
beneath
this island. An untold fortune in gold . . . ”

The soldiers behind the captains began to murmur.

“Karak’s faithful cannot be bought!” screamed a second captain, this one much younger than the first.

Rachida took a step forward, not able to take her disbelieving eyes off the heaping mound of gold. Lethal rage swelled in her bosom. A fortune before her, a fortune her husband had insisted they did not have when he gave Moira away as collateral . . .

“I’m not speaking to the faithful,” Peytr said, grinning.

Rachida brought her gaze up to the captains. The one who had first spoken raised his sword above his head, and he looked ready to burst into laughter.

“You cannot bribe us, you damn fool. You’ll die, the whole lot of you, before we take everything we desire. Men, charge!”

A great howl erupted from the soldiers, the captains striding forward with menacing steps, ready to attack, and the rest followed. Rachida sensed her people cowering behind her, bawling apologies and turning to flee as the approaching horde made their way across the uneven rocks. Only Peytr and Bryce remained unmoved. Her fury at seeing the gold abated, giving way to bone-chilling fear. She hunkered down, holding one of the Twins out before her while lifting the other above her head, prepared to take out as many men as she could before her lifeblood leaked out onto the damp earth.
I’m sorry, Moira,
she thought as she watched rage-filled eyes glowering from beneath helms.
I’m sorry, Patrick. Please, whatever gods still care, keep my son safe.

Those prayers were unnecessary.

Rachida’s body went slack, watching in confusion as soldier attacked soldier from behind. Sharpened swords and spears sliced throats, impaled through backs, and severed limbs. In a matter of moments, the charge had abated, the captains whirling around to see their forces locked in battle with one another. The sound of colliding steel and pained screeches was deafening. Peytr and Bryce fell back from their position as the fighting drew close to them; Rachida’s husband snatched her forearm and lugged her along as well.

The shoreline was chaos, all flailing limbs, spurting blood, and flashing steel. Someone fell against the barrow filled with gold, knocking it over and scattering yellow stones across the ground. With everyone wearing the same sigils, it was difficult to tell who was attacker and who was prey. Blood flew into the air, carried along by the sea spray from the crashing waves in a pink mist. The captains hesitated, seemingly as confounded as Rachida, before entering the fray themselves. They fought diligently, but their efforts were futile. One captain after another fell victim to their men’s blades. The blue-eyed captain who had taken the lead received a sword through the neck; the younger one who had spoken second was impaled in the groin and fell down screaming, left to be trampled by innumerable booted feet. His great helm rolled away, and a soldier stomped mercilessly on his head, crushing the young captain’s skull.

As the numbers thinned, she finally saw an order to the chaos. The men who’d taken up the rear were in a tightly knit formation, advancing as one in an admirable display of discipline that ran counter to the army’s initial sloppy arrival. One soldier in particular caught Rachida’s eye; a man with long blond hair sprouting from beneath his half helm, whose chin was marked with an outrageous forked beard. His helm was knocked off his head by a wayward sword, revealing a youthful face that was quite beautiful for a man. He guided his circle of attackers, shuffling them left and right, shouting directions, cutting down those who would attempt to break their formation. He moved fluidly and seemingly without effort, even though the damp boiled leathers, mail, and plate covering his body was assuredly heavy. Rachida was transfixed with him, especially when she realized that through it all, the young man never once stopped grinning.

When it was over, the only sound Rachida could hear was her own breathing, the crash of waves against the cliffs, and the moans of the dying. The traitors finally broke ranks, moving among those lying on the wet rocks and spearing them through the eye to silence their dying wails. Soon even the moans ceased, and Provincia’s shore was flowing red, covered with at least a hundred corpses.

The young soldier with the horned beard approached them, sheathing his bloodied sword. That knowing grin was still on his face. The others followed his lead. Rachida felt her body go tense once more, her fingers tightening around the Twins’ handles. She heard soft sobs and shuffling feet behind her, the refugees from Haven moving as if in a dream toward the carnage.

Peytr stepped in front of her, smiling. The young soldier threw up a hand, and the rest of the turncoats ceased their forward march. He then dropped down on one knee in front of Peytr, his head bowed.

“Master Gemcroft,” he said, “we are at your service.”

Peytr laughed. “Quester, there is no need for that. I am not your god.”

The young man lifted his head. Between his fingers he rolled a small nugget of gold, which he’d scooped up at some point during the fray.

“Not yet,” he said, “but when the true gods are gone from this land, it will be those who possess the gold that deserve our reverence.” He chuckled. “By all appearances, that man would be you.”

“Could be,” Peytr said with a shrug. “But until the gods are truly gone, we are all equal in our slavery. Now stand up, Quester. You’re embarrassing me.”

The handsome man rose to his feet, his armor clanking, his eyes turning to Rachida. He licked his lips.

“And is this your lovely wife?” he said. “The legends of her beauty do her no justice.”

Rachida’s grip on the Twins tightened. Quester glanced down at them and took a step back, his hands held up in surrender.

“No offense meant, milady,” Quester said, still grinning.

She felt the eyes of the rest of the soldiers on her, nearly two hundred of them. She was used to it by now; ever since she’d been old enough to remember, she had been the object of constant attention from all men around her. Her mother Soleh had long said she was the most beautiful girl in all of Neldar, and none had ever stepped forward to refute that claim, not even Aprodia, the stunning priestess who had gone up in flames with the rest of the Temple of the Flesh. Though the attention they gave her was not without its uses, it still made her feel uncomfortable, even dirty, when strange eyes undressed her.

She swiped one of the Twins before her, then sheathed both swords before jutting her chin at the brash young soldier. “Who are you and why are you here?”

Quester’s grin faded ever so slightly, and he cast a doubtful look at Peytr.
This one isn’t used to his advances being thwarted.

“I am Quester Billings, milady,” he said. “The Crimson Sword of Riverrun, sworn shield of House Connington.” He bowed to her. “Pleased to be at your service.”

Rachida turned to her husband. “You have some explaining to do,
darling
.”

“I do.” Peytr cleared his throat. “The men you see before you are sellswords formerly in the employ of the merchant families throughout Neldar. Karak’s acolytes conscripted them weeks ago, with the intention that they would march west as reinforcements to assist in the war against Ashhur.” His face scrunched up as he considered Quester again. “Though I don’t see Bren Torrant here or any of Matthew’s other swords. Are they still on the ships?”

Quester shook his head. “They never arrived. In fact, the acolytes never returned either, nor did the regiment Karak kept in Neldar. Our brave dead captains waited for them for a week, then decided enough was enough. We set sail without them.”

“Strange,” said Peytr. “Without them, how many are you?”

“Six hundred,” Quester answered. He glanced at the raging sea and the three galleys floating in the distance. “Those of us before you, plus an additional four hundred on the ships.”

“I thought you said you were supposed to march west,” Rachida said, resting her hands on the Twins’ hilts. “Why are you here?”

“Ah, a stroke of genius.” The smile returned to Quester’s lips. “The conscription was predicted by my masters as well as your husband. After we were gathered up, I informed the magister in
Omnmount
that I knew precisely where the Haven deserters had fled. I also told our brave captains that we could perform double the good service to our beloved Divinity—destroy the blasphemers and attack Paradise from the other side, hemming in Ashhur and his children. It took a little persuading, but in the end, here we sailed.”

“Why wait until now to turn on them, if you outnumbered them so?” Rachida asked. “It shouldn’t have taken any persuading at all.”

Quester winked at her.

“Turn on our captains before making sure your husband here could make good on his extravagant promises? My dear, do you think us fools?”

Rachida leapt forward, snatching the gold nugget from Quester’s hand. The sellsword stumbled backward, surprised at her aggression, and almost lost his footing. She held the gold in front of Peytr’s face, ignoring the oaf with the forked beard.

“And how long have
you
had this?” she snarled.

“The mines have been in operation for three years.”

Rachida reared back and hurled the gold against the ground, the soft metal bouncing when it struck the rocks. She grabbed Peytr by the collar of his heavy jerkin and pulled him close. Spit lathered his cheeks when she shouted.

“All along you’ve had this . . . this fortune! You pled poverty to Matthew—you said we had nothing but Moira to give. You told
me
that it would take decades to mine the gold from these islands. You
gave Moira away for nothing
!”

“I had no choice,” Peytr insisted.

She shoved him, sending her husband stumbling. Bryce caught him before he fell.

“No choice?” she said. “
No choice!
I should gut you for what you’ve done.”

Peytr calmly smoothed the wrinkles in his jerkin.

“I understand your anger, darling. I do entirely. But Moira had her part to play in this game, the same as myself and you and the
Conningtons
and the Crimson Sword here. The gold I withheld goes to these soldiers, to pay for their services.” He put his hands on his hips and stared at her with equal parts compassion and disappointment. “You have railed against Karak’s duplicity for years. You have decried the way he treats his creations, and preached disobedience to our people. Do you think this defiance comes without a price? In gaining our freedom, sacrifices must be made . . . by myself, by you, by everyone.”