Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 15

I should have sliced Catherine’s throat when I had the chance, the deceitful bitch.

These thoughts ran through Moira Elren’s mind as she urged her horse onward into dusk’s waning light. She ripped into a stick of salted beef, swallowing it quickly and then spitting out the salty residue before lifting a skin of hard liquor to her mouth and swigging it down. Her mouth was in horrible shape, her teeth aching and gums bleeding, the unfortunate result of the sickness she’d suffered soon after leaving Port Lancaster.

It had been horrible; her stomach had begun to cramp, her insides revolting against her. She’d spent nearly three weeks holed up in a small hamlet just outside Gronswik, choking down concoctions to heal the illness. It felt like the longest three weeks she’d ever experienced, and the only way she’d made it through was by focusing on her hatred of Catherine and her burning desire to see Rachida again. Failure was not acceptable, and with sheer stubborn will she fought through.

“Should we keep riding or camp for the night?” asked a deep male voice. Moira looked to Rodin, one of the sellswords trotting his horse beside her. His expression was stern yet hopeful while he ran a hand over his shaved pate.

She glanced at the vast fields stretching out to either side of her, half overgrown with weeds. “No. Omnmount is an hour’s ride from here at most. We keep on the road. We’ve had far too many delays as it is.”

“Very well, milady,” Rodin said, and he pulled back on the reins, retreating to where his cohorts rode behind her.

Moira considered the five of them, and a small part of her started hating Catherine Brennan a tad bit less. The woman couldn’t have been all bad; she had allowed her to have her pick of the sellswords under the employ of the house, after all, and the five she’d chosen had been her lifeblood since leaving the city, both literally and figuratively.

The five called themselves “Movers,” and Moira knew them each by a single name: Rodin, Gull, Tabar, Willer, and Danco. They were a mostly stoic, headstrong bunch, lifelong friends from some tiny village in the Northern Plains. The Movers believed in the virtue of skill over all else, or so Gull, their quiet leader, was fond of saying. Gull was a man of nearly indistinguishable features-his hair sandy and straight, his nose slightly crooked, his round chin a bit too small for his face-which made him not the most handsome of men. However, his gray-green eyes were intense, and he was the best among them with a sword. He was also prone to lengthy, self-righteous tirades while they sat around the nightly cookfire, tirades his fellow Movers would then debate for hours before finally agreeing with their leader, if they ever really disagreed in the first place. They weren’t the brightest bunch, but they held tight to Karak’s tenets while damning the god himself, which Moira appreciated. Also, their worship of those of ability was vital to her cause. She had bested each of them in duels over her extended stay in Port Lancaster, and ever since they had treated her with near reverence. It was the reason she’d chosen them in the first place. She would rather surround herself with talented, faux-intellectual dullards who worshipped her than with a man like Bren Torrant, who would betray her for a sack of silver.

She heard one of them pick up the pace behind her, and she swiveled in her saddle, expecting to see Rodin there once more. Instead, it was Willer, the youngest and smallest of the bunch, who had droopy eyes and a head of unkempt chestnut hair. Willer was attached to Tabar like a growth and rarely left the taller man’s side unless he had something to prove.

“Lady Moira,” Willer said softly. “How long will this meeting with the merchant take?”

Moira shrugged. “Who knows? It’s up to Cornwall Lawrence. If he wishes to discuss the contents of Lady Catherine’s letter, it might be awhile. If not, it will take only moments, and we can strike out for the docks.” She let out a sigh. “And please, don’t call me ‘Lady’ again.”

“Many apologies. . Moira.” Willer’s eyes grew wide and eager. “The moon is full tonight. If this meeting doesn’t take long, what do you say to sparring beneath the moonlight and then kissing each other’s wounds until we feel them no more?”

Again, Moira sighed. That was another annoyance about the Movers; to them, the carnal pleasures were just as much a game of one-upmanship as swordplay, which meant that Rodin wasn’t the only one nipping at her heels. She counted herself lucky that each of them was too noble to have abandoned her while she was on her sickbed.

“I’ve told you before, Willer, my pearl is reserved for one woman only.”

He nodded, dejected. “That’s right. The maid. Penetta.”

Moira’s hand shot out seemingly on its own. She snatched the young sellsword by the collar and yanked “him” toward “her” so violently that he almost fell from his saddle.

“Wrong. And that name will not pass your lips again,” she whispered.

He looked confused, but still he said, “All right.”

She released him, and he repositioned himself in the saddle, brushing off his boiled leather jerkin as if he could brush away his embarrassment.

“Willer, go back to your mates. I wish to ride alone for a while.”

“Yes, Moira,” he replied, and did as he was told.

After that they all rode in silence, hooves clomping on packed dirt and the chirping of insects the only sounds. Dusk passed into night, and no one appeared on the road, which was not surprising. It was rare enough to find a carriage or rider about during daylight hours, and the women in the towns they visited said they stayed locked in their homes with their children after dark, for fear of bandits. That was a fear Moira saw as unfounded because not a single man crossed their path during the journey, brigand or otherwise. It was as if the whole male population of Neldar had up and left. . which, in a way, she supposed they had.

Before very long the road veered to the southwest, and the fields around them gave way to clusters of huts and cabins. All were silent and still; no candles burned in the windows, no telltale puffs of smoke exited the chimneys. These were Omnmount’s border settlements, where the transient men and women who toiled in the Lawrence fields put their feet up after a long day’s work. Yet they seemed abandoned. She paused for a moment, looking this way and that, searching for signs of life. In some of the windows, she could see human outlines bathed in shadow and the occasional flicker of light off someone’s eyes.

“There is no one here,” said Gull. “All have fled.”

“Stay quiet.” Moira put a finger to her lips. “The people are hiding. There must be a reason for that.”

“What? Is the great Moira afraid?” laughed Danco, the most roguish of the Movers and a man who thought himself suave. “Moira Elren, a craven? I have seen it all now!”

“I said, be quiet,” she shot at him, resting her hand atop one of the swords hanging from her hip. She continued on in an angry whisper: “It isn’t cowardice to be cautious. That is how you stay alive, you dolt.”

Danco inclined his head, smiling a proud smile. The sick bastard seemed to like being put in his place by her. To Moira, it was bewildering.

They rode onward, passing by more barren fields and a few more clusters of hovels on their way to the central district of Omnmount’s township. Hovering at the top of the rise, Moira could see the settlement’s single stone building, a tall and rounded structure that looked like a castle rampart and served as a marketplace and place of worship. The tents, burrows, and low holdfasts that surrounded the unnamed building were dwarfed by it, making them look like servants bowing to their godly master.

“Cornwall Lawrence lives in that monstrosity?” asked Rodin from beside her. “I thought you said he was a humble man.”

“That’s just a building, built for and used by the people,” she said. “The Lawrence estate is actually on the other side of the hub, and it is indeed a humble place of residence.” She turned to Rodin, frowning. “You’ve never been to Omnmount before?”

“No.” He shrugged. “None of us have.”

Not the most worldly bunch. “How in the world could you make it from-”

Something caught her eye, stilling her tongue. She squinted while staring at the sprawling township below, trying to force her eyes to adjust to the mixture of darkness and the moon’s bright azure light. Something was amiss down there, something swaying in the slight breeze, but she could not put her finger on what. She wished she had the eyes of an elf.

“What is it?” asked Willer sheepishly, garnering himself a whack upside the head by Tabar.

“Keep quiet,” she told them. “All of you, hold your breath for a moment.”

They did as instructed, and Moira did the same. She closed her eyes, focusing on the sounds of the land. She heard the soft breath of the wind, distant trees swooshing together, one of the horses snorting, insects chirping, bat wings flapping, and, underneath all of that, a faint yet continuous creak.

She turned to the Movers. “We’re going down there. Use caution, and only speak if necessary. Understood?”

On cue, each of them nodded.

“Good. Let’s go.”

Down the gentle slope they went, and the closer they drew to the township, the louder the creaking sound became. Moira kept attentive, with one hand on the reins and one on the sword on her left hip, ready for something to leap out at them from the numerous shadows. Her stomach rumbled, tightening up on her. It was then she noticed there were new additions to the multiple low constructions around the hub: numerous tall wooden poles, like those that would be erected and then strung with decorations and lanterns during the spring festival in Felwood. The creaking noise was continuous.

They soon passed between the closest pair of fifteen-foot-high poles, and all eyes looked up to see a body swaying from each one. Moira lifted her hand, signaling a halt. Her horse fidgeted nervously beneath her. She craned her neck, staring at the dangling forms. They both had feminine shapes, their bodies limp, their necks viciously snapped. One was large, the other much smaller.

“Are they real?” asked Danco. “Up north we hung effigies to ward off crows during the onset of winter, and it is almost winter now.”

“They’re real,” Moira whispered. She didn’t reprimand the man for speaking. A gust of wind blew, and the corpses swayed. Creak, creak, creak. Without another word she cracked the reins, and her horse trotted onward. Her sellswords followed closely behind.

The town was filled with poles, and each had a resident. Women, both young and old; children; old men-none had been spared. She counted twenty-seven poles by the time her troupe reached the great stone building at the center of it all. A sinking feeling filled her.

“This is horrible.”

Willer spun in a circle, his horse baying. “Why would so many people deserve execution? Was it Karak?”

“No,” said Tabar as he tugged on a dangling leg, that of an old man with a long gray beard. “These bodies are relatively fresh. Three days dead, at most.”

Gull sidled up to her. “Lawrence’s work? I haven’t met the man.”

She shook her head. “Cornwall is rich, but he is fair. He would never stoop to such levels.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

She scrunched her face, thinking. “Twenty years ago, at least. After the birth of his youngest.”

“Then it could be him. Twenty years can change a man.”

A loud shriek pierced the night. Moira spun her horse toward the sound but saw nothing except the long wooden structure to her right, one of the temporary barracks. There are ghosts haunting this place.

Someone let loose with a shrill whistle, and from within the barracks emerged a myriad of dark shapes. They ran to beat the devil, circling around her and her five companions before crouching into the grass. Moira’s jaw dropped as she realized who they were. Children, dozens of them, and in the moonlight she saw that nearly every one held a small, loaded crossbow. Moira drew her sword, as did the Movers.

“Who goes there?” shouted one of them.

“Should we attack?” asked Danco, his head swiveling.

“Keep calm,” she said. “They’re just children. Do not startle them.” Raising her voice, she addressed the one who had asked for their names. “We are travelers from Port Lancaster, down by the sea. We seek court with Cornwall Lawrence, the master of this land.”

A flurry of whispers, and then one of them, a boy no older than nine, stood tall.

“You’re not from Karak, are you?” he asked.

“No, we aren’t,” she said. “We are friends.”

“Friends?”

“Friends, and we mean you no harm.”

“How do we know that?”

Moira glanced at her companions, then sheathed her sword. The other men did likewise.

“There. See?” she said. “No harm intended. All we wish is to have audience with Cornwall, and we will be on our way.”

More whispering, and then came the whoosh of a tinderstick being struck. The children lit lantern after lantern, until at least six of them stood bathed in faint yellow light.

Moira smiled at the boy in charge.

“We’ve put away our weapons. Would your friends please do the same?”

“All right,” the child said, flapping his arms, and the small crossbows lowered. Moira breathed a sigh of relief. Haven had been filled with children, and she had spent a fair amount of time with them. They weren’t the most coordinated creatures in the land, especially when they were this young. Even though the crossbows were undersized and likely not very powerful, she counted her group lucky they hadn’t caught an unintentional arrow in the face.

“Now please,” she said. “May we go to find Cornwall Lawrence?”

The boy shook his head, an act mimicked by every other child.

“You can’t,” he said. “Lommy said bring everyone we don’t shoot to him.”

“Lommy?”

The boy nodded. “Lommy. The Hangman.”

Another forced smile.

“Then please, lead the way.”

The boy who’d spoken introduced himself as Slug, before waving for Moira and her men to follow him. They crossed through the rest of the township, where even more barracks were situated, tramped across a field that had been flattened and filled with divots, and then climbed the next rise. It was the Lawrence homestead they were headed for, and Moira felt a flutter of hope in her gut.

That flutter died when seven more poles greeted them outside the family’s modest home. A bonfire raged outside, and Moira looked up in horror at the face of Loretta Lawrence, Cornwall’s wife of nearly fifty years. She had been hanged along with three of her daughters and what must have been the house servants. The crossbow-carrying children stopped on the periphery of the courtyard while Slug led Moira and the Movers to the front entrance, passing right beneath the dangling bodies. The boy whistled the whole time, and Moira realized that he hadn’t so much as glanced up at them. What has this world come to that a child could become used to such a sight?

As they neared the front stoop, Moira heard the unmistakable sounds of music and laughter coming from inside the dwelling. She gritted her teeth and paused, allowing a bit of distance between herself and the boy that led them. She then put out her arm, slowing Gull and Rodin when they reached her side.

“No move is to be made until I command it,” she whispered.

They nodded their approval and passed the message to the others.

Potted plants lined the main foyer of the Lawrence home, a multitude of wilting flowers and browning ferns. The din of laughter rose in volume as they passed first the common area, then a stone kitchen whose hearth still had glowing coals inside it. On their right was a stairwell, and beyond it the hallway narrowed, leading them to the family’s dining hall. It’d been so long since she’d been here that Moira had forgotten how misleading the estate was on first glance; it was far larger than it looked from the outside.

“Boy,” Moira began.

“Slug,” their guide said.

“Slug,” she repeated, “where is it we’re going?”

“To join the party,” he said, as if it were simple.

His small body pushed open the heavy doors to the dining hall, and immediately raucous laughter assaulted them. Moira stepped through after the boy, followed by the Movers. Within the spacious hall the air was hot and muggy, and it stank of sweat and alcohol. Numerous rounded tables had been pushed against the walls, creating a wide-open space in the middle of the room. There were fifteen people in the hall, men all. Fourteen of them wore padded leather, their steel, mail, and plate stacked up on the tables shoved against the walls. There were helms, both great and half alike, resting atop the armor, along with mauls and axes. Moira, transfixed by the sight of the heaped steel, caught sight of a roaring lion sigil poking out from within the pile.

None of the men in the hall looked their way, so intent were they on whatever game they were playing. One of the fourteen sat on the edge of the dais on which Cornwall’s seat still resided, and the others had planted themselves in chairs spaced around the room, their swords propped against their seats, forming a haphazard circle and pounding back their cups while simultaneously harassing the fifteenth man. That man was a fool in a lady’s bed sheet, his face painted an array of colors. He staggered around inside the circle of torment, accepting a slap from one of them and jab of a stick from another. He moved like an old man, though the paint was so thick on his face that Moira couldn’t tell for sure. She could plainly see his eyes were wide with fear. One of the men held a lute, and he played it badly, the song seeming perfectly appropriate to the game they played in Moira’s mind. One of the men leapt from his seat, thrusting his hips behind the poor fool, knocking him over. Another reached out and thwacked the fool on the backside with the flat of his sword, sending the man crawling forward. The laughter that followed was as cruel as it was drunken.

Slug seemed hesitant, but he eventually threw back his small shoulders and stepped up to the circle. The lute player noticed him first, gave the boy a confused look, and then his gaze wandered to where Moira stood. His eyes widened, and his fingers struck a final note with a harsh twang.

Behind her, the Movers tensed.

With the music ended, the laugher died away as well. All heads turned. The fool collapsed in the middle of the circle, panting and crawling away now that no one paid him any attention. Slug cleared his throat and in his high-pitched voice said, “Mister Lommy, someone here to see you.”

One of the men, a thickly built sort with wavy black hair and beady eyes, stood up from his chair.

“L–Lord Commander?” he asked, breaking the sudden silence. He fell to his knees in front of his seat, spilling his cup all over the floor. Four of the others followed his lead.

Moira cocked her head at them, confused.

The one sitting on the dais, swinging his legs, laughed.

“Stand up, you dolts. The Lord Commander’s got tits, hips, and an ugly face. This one’s got none of the three.” The man’s gaze turned to Slug. “I thought I told you to put an arrow in anyone who wandered here.”

“Sorry,” said Slug, shame turning his cheeks pink. “They said they wanted to see Master Lawrence, and they swore they was friends.”

The one on the dais sighed and rolled his eyes. “Get out. You disgust me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Slug, and he turned around so quickly, he almost ran into Moira on his way. The boy struggled with opening the door again, but eventually it slid open a crack, and he slipped out of the hall.

“Children,” the man on the dais said to his cohorts, his eyes flicking to Moira once more. He was a wiry man, though his shoulders were thick, and his long hair was greasy. His beard had grown in splotchy, barely covering the pox scars on his cheeks, and he had a hooked nose. There was something familiar about him, but Moira couldn’t figure out why. “It seems this conflict has been making orphans left and right,” he said. “Found that bunch in a shantytown just south of here, all on their own. Gave them a few coins for their service. They help well enough, but alas, they’re still just children.” He turned to his cohorts and said, “As for her, she’s certainly not the Lord Commander, but definitely a Crestwell. The banished one, I think. Which would make sense, seeing as she has the body of a boy.”

“She has a name!” Rodin shouted from behind her.

“I’m sure she does,” said the man on the dais.

“Moira,” she said, holding an arm out so none of her Movers would make a rash move. “And it is Moira Elren. I haven’t gone by Crestwell for a long while.”

“Don’t see why not,” another of them said. “Why confuse folks like that? Just keep the damn name you were given when you were born.”

Moira ignored the comment, squinting at the one on the dais. “You would be Lommy?” she asked. “The one they call ‘Hangman’?”

The man grinned. “The same.”

“So are you responsible for those who were hanged?”

“How else you think I got the name? By what’s in my trousers?”

The other men laughed.

Taking a deep breath, Moira took a step toward them.

“What happened here?” she asked. “Where is Cornwall Lawrence?”

“The merchant is dead,” Lommy said. “The Wasting took him.”

“And those of his family?” she asked. “I saw their bodies. No Wasting took them.”

The man’s grin widened. “Casualties,” he said. “Sometimes when there’s a transfer of power, people die. The people of this township seemed. . hesitant to accept my authority.”

Moira narrowed her eyes at him, heard the Movers shuffling behind her. “Transferred to whom? Who are you to claim anything of the Lawrence household?”

Lommy hopped off the dais, strutting up to the fool who was still sliding himself along the floor, and gave him a swift kick in the ribs. The fool let out a yelp and rolled over, hugging his side. Lommy then proceeded to the center of the circle of his men, patting them each on the shoulder in turn.

“I’m the new master of Omnmount,” he said. “Lommy Blackbard, first cousin of Trenton of Brent.”

That’s why he’s familiar. He definitely had the Blackbard look to him, all oily and haggard. Their family line was not blessed when it came to appearance, and had built their wealth by owning nearly every brothel in Neldar. The only way one of them could ever get a woman. She thought of Loretta Lawrence and her daughters, swaying from poles by broken necks, not to mention the rest of those throughout the township, and her heart began to race. Anger is my friend. It took all her effort not to lunge out at the bastard right then and there, but that was something she couldn’t afford. She needed to find out more. .

“What about the armor?” she asked. “That is soldier’s armor. And how could you confuse me for the Lord Commander?”

“You intruded on my home,” Lommy said with a glare. “It should be me questioning you, bitch.”

“Don’t you dare speak with Moira Elren in such a way!” shouted Willer.

She silenced him with a look, as appreciative of his defense as she was.

“Humor me,” she told Lommy once Willer had calmed.

“Keep your dogs on a leash,” the man replied. “As for the armor, isn’t it obvious? We were soldiers, taken from our homes in Brent months ago and brought to the delta to serve under your sister.”

My sister? Then Avila was Lord Commander now? She wondered at that, at what was happening within Karak’s Army. . and amazingly enough, she felt concern for her brutal sister.

“You left?” she asked, turning her thoughts away from family.

He nodded. “Deserted. Many have. Turned around during a dust storm after we crossed into Paradise.”

“And what of him?” Moira asked, gesturing to the fool, who was still curled up on the ground. “Did he desert with you as well?”

Lommy glanced down. “Him? One of Cornwall’s protégés. He was useful, until he decided to send word to Veldaren.” He leaned over the fool. “A lot of good that’ll do you!” he shouted, making the man further curl into a ball. “The crown’s dead and no one’s left to hear your pleas.” He looked back up at Moira. “He’ll soon join the others in hanging. We wanted to have our fun with him first.”

He was testing her reaction, and there was an obvious threat to it as well. If she protested, or desired to stop them, she would just as easily hang like the others. Well, as far as Lommy thought, anyway. .

“Then let me do as I came to do, so you men may get back to your. . fun,” she said. “I was to deliver a message to Cornwall Lawrence.”

“Give it here,” the man said, taking a step toward her and reaching out his hand. His ugly face brightened. “If Brennan wishes to make a deal with the master of this house, that would be me.”

“Sorry,” Moira said. “The letter was for the head of House Lawrence alone.” She eyed Lommy and the rest of them carefully, trying to be nonchalant about it. Lommy still had his sword sheathed on his belt and two others held theirs, while the remaining men lingered by their chairs, smiling and seemingly oblivious to the danger they were in. Good.

“I am the rightful master here!” Lommy shouted. His right hand fell to his sword. “If Matthew wishes to speak, he will speak with me!”

Moira turned around, faced her five sellswords. Rodin and Willer looked ready to explode, while Danco grinned mischievously and Tabar twiddled the frayed edge of his tunic. Gull stood up straight, expressionless. Moira flicked her eyes to the side and nodded to him.

“You are not the master here,” Gull told Lommy in that stoic, emotionless way of his. In the past Moira had rolled her eyes at his manner of speech, but now she found it perfectly chilling. “The gods granted us gifts and gave us honor, and you have spoiled both. You turned your back on your responsibilities and murdered women and children to sate your petty desires. Your mothers would weep if they could see you now, and your fathers would wish they’d spilled their seed across their palms instead.”

Angry curses sounded from behind Moira. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” she heard Lommy shout.

She spun around, fire in her eyes, eagerness in her smile. “Your executioners.”

Gull’s speech had done its job, for as they seethed with rage, they’d remained standing instead of making for their tables and armor. Moira drew her twin swords as behind her the Movers readied their own weapons. Lommy’s eyes widened, and she saw the hint of fear. They were outnumbered, and she knew a man like Lommy would not think her dangerous, but they would soon discover what true skill meant in the face of cowards and wretches.

Tabar and Rodin acted first, their swords raised, crossing the twenty feet between them and the former soldiers in a heartbeat. Men fumbled for their weapons, a couple clanking on the ground. The two who’d held their swords leapt in front of Lommy, meeting the dash head-on. Steel clashed with steel.

Moira followed closely behind, both her blades drawn. Men were screaming now, cursing and grunting. She whirled around Rodin and plunged the sword in her right hand into the belly of a pale-faced man. The tip pierced his leather armor with ease, sinking in to the hilt. The man gaped in surprise, a hot stream of stinking breath gushing from his mouth as he reeled away from her. She lost hold of the handle as he did so.

Moira sensed someone behind her and ducked, a sword flashing just over her shoulder. The clang of steel followed, and the screaming and curses continued. When she turned back around again, holding her remaining sword with both hands and lashing out, she saw her Movers hacking and slashing their way through the enemy. One of Lommy’s men shrieked as Rodin drove a blade into his gut. Another of them scampered away from Danco, tears running down his cheeks, his right arm hanging by a thread. It was chaos all around, clashing swords and animalistic grunts, while Lommy’s voice shouted directions to his men. Moira used that to her advantage, slipping her sword around the neck of a man battling with Gull and slitting his throat.

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 back 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.”