Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 19

Not much farther now,” said Nole, one of the soldiers leading Rachida Gemcroft and her band of six hundred sellswords through the frozen white north. Nole and his six mates were thin to the point of malnourishment, their flesh pale and covered with ugly purple splotches and raised veins. Despite being young-Nole in particular looked to be barely out of his teens-they moved with the awkward gait of much older men. Each time their feet touched the ground, breaking through the thin sheen of ice and into the powdery snow beneath, it looked as if they might fall over.

Rachida shivered against the cold as she sat atop her horse, pulling her cloak tight around her. For fifteen days she and her legion had marched through cliffs and valleys, circling the bases of mountains, the last half of the journey spent trudging through snow, ice, and freezing rain while hungry wolves haunted their nights. At last they had arrived on the outskirts of Drake. Only instead of the people of Paradise, they’d happened upon this small band of Karak’s soldiers. The soldiers’ eyes had widened with what looked like relief when they’d emerged from the frozen wilderness, greeting her and her men as saviors. Rachida had introduced herself as Commander Mori, breathing a sigh of relief that her hired army still bore the standard of the lion on their chests.

Quester sidled up to her, pulling at his blond beard and appearing amused. “So what do we do now, milady?” he asked. “Draw swords?”

“Not yet,” Rachida whispered back. “Our enemy thinks us their ally still. Best we see the state of our opponent before we act.”

“Yes, milady,” Quester said with a grin before falling back into line with the others.

The snowy path they traveled veered into the forest, revealing the soldiers’ camp. There were numerous tents scattered about, and though a great many cookfires burned, the scent of food was noticeably lacking. It was the middle of the day, yet there was a gloom in the air. The tree branches above were weighed down by a thick coat of ice, glimmering in the murk like crystalline, skeletal fingers.

Men emerged from their tents as they rode through the center of the camp. There were so many of them. Countless eyes, deep-set and bloodshot, gazed hungrily in Rachida’s direction. She felt a chill and shivered once more, pulling her cloak even tighter around herself. Many of the men were hunched over as if their spines weren’t strong enough to hold up their bodies any longer. Others simply stood with their mouths hanging open, revealing rotting teeth and blackened gums. Still others sucked on handfuls of snow like sweet combs of honey.

It was one of the more frightening sights she’d ever seen.

At the head of the camp, set against a backdrop of trees with thick, imposing trunks, was a large pavilion. “Dismount here,” said Nole as they approached it. The young soldier then disappeared into the pavilion. Rachida patted her horse and swung out of the saddle, then looked back the way they had come. The sellswords formed a line through the trees, the rear of the procession concealed by fog. Her men eyed the soldiers warily, fingers dancing on the hilts of the swords on their belts. They dismounted and gathered around the wagons they’d brought with them, those containing what was left of the provisions harvested in Conch. Karak’s soldiers ogled the wagons, wantonness showing in their eyes.

Quester appeared beside her. His air was serious, much different from the flippancy he usually displayed.

“Get the captains,” she whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

“All of them?”

“Yes. And be prepared for the worst.”

The Crimson Sword nodded.

The captains of the other five sellsword companies gathered, nary a word spoken between them. A moment later Nole stepped out of the pavilion.

“Captain Blackwolfe will see you now,” he said, gesturing to the tent flap. Rachida took a deep breath, then stepped into the pavilion, Quester and the other captains on her heels.

The men awaiting them inside looked like death warmed over. Their flesh was pale, eyes rimmed with purple, hair snarled into oily tendrils. The plate and mail armor they wore was rusting at the joints, and the roaring lion sigil on their chests appeared somber, not threatening. They looked like men who’d been lost in the wilderness for an age.

Despite their downtrodden appearance, the one in the center, a tall, lanky sort with a matted beard and intense eyes, smiled. “You came,” he said. “You actually came.”

“We did,” Rachida said, though she had no clue what he was talking about.

The man stood boldly upright, as if he’d just remembered protocol, and bowed to her.

“Captain Talon Blackwolfe at your service,” he said. “It is an honor to receive you, Commander Mori.”

“It is an honor to be received,” Rachida answered. Behind her, the sellsword captains fidgeted.

“Please know we appreciate your arrival,” the man told her. “It wasn’t expected. To say we’re relieved would be an understatement.”

The others in the pavilion hastily nodded their agreement.

A cold wind blew, billowing the sides of the tent around them. Talon Blackwolfe shivered and looked at the soldiers standing on either side of him, as if seeking guidance from them. It was such a strange thing. To Rachida, these men appeared much too green to be officers, and Talon was in no way captain material. He was too young, too gruff; a foot soldier, not a leader.

“Captain,” she said, “what has been going on here?”

Blackwolfe gave her a queer look, glancing at his eight officers. “Were you not told already?”

“Would you prefer to waste my time with assumptions, or would you answer the question I asked?”

The man sighed, his shoulders slumping. “There were five thousand of us here, making life miserable for those spellcasting bastards in Drake. Casualties were low, supplies good. But then our first commander, Wallace Ball, was taken from his pavilion in the middle of the night. We looked, found some footprints leading to the river, but that was the last trace of him we’ve seen since. Not long after, Captain Joseph Marten took command and ordered us on the offensive.

“We were just meant to harass, you know. Those were Karak’s orders-just harass, not assault. So long as the people of Drake stayed up here instead of going south to help Ashhur, we were doing our job. But our new captain wanted blood, though truth be told I think he was just spooked and thought he’d vanish like Wallace did. So we crossed the river, like good little soldiers.”

Rachida had heard stories of the spellcasters of Drake, but had yet to witness their power. A part of her ached to have been here during the assault.

“How did you fare?” she asked.

To that, Talon laughed.

“We died, Commander Mori. That’s how we fared. Arrows, lightning, fire, shards of ice. . if it exists, and can kill you, they threw it at us. But we took the tower, just like Joseph said we would. Course, the only reason we took it was because the people fled back to their homes. After that they created a. . barricade of stone around the township, and we’ve kept it besieged ever since.”

There was defeat in his voice, and Rachida felt a morsel of pity for him.

“We brought our supplies with us from the Tinderlands camp when we crossed the Gihon,” he continued. “But it wasn’t enough for how long we’ve been here. There were less than a thousand citizens in that damned township, and after they sealed off their homes, they should have starved. But if they have, they’re hiding it damn well. Us, though? Captain Marten died in our last attempt on the township, as well as his left hand, Remmy, which meant a duty I wasn’t prepared for fell to my sword. Winter has driven the deer and elk into the mountains. We’ve lost more than half our original numbers, be it from sickness, arrow, or spellcaster magics, and Omar over there even caught a couple of the men roasting one of their dead brethren over a fire out of desperation.” One of the younger soldiers, obviously Omar, nodded grimly. Talon said, “We dealt with those men accordingly, but the seed had already been planted. No one expects to find victory here, yet if we abandon the siege and travel south, we will die by Karak’s hands for our cowardice.”

Rachida knew she should be pleased with how poorly things had fared for Karak’s men, but hearing the exhaustion and frustration in Talon’s voice as he told his tale kept such easy emotions away. Lion on their chest or not, they still suffered and endured terrible hardships, and for what? Fear of Karak’s retribution? When first entering the tent, she’d thought to kill them all, but now. .

“You say we weren’t expected,” said Rachida. “Why is that?”

Talon appeared unsure how to respond. “Well, shortly after Captain Marten died, I sent word to our god of our troubles, pleading for reinforcements and supplies. We received word back from Karak’s prophet three weeks ago.”

“What did this prophet say?”

The disgust on the man’s face was plain as the snow on the ground outside.

“That we are on our own now. That we disobeyed orders, and our current predicament is of our own making. The letter said we would receive no reinforcements, no supplies, though our mission hasn’t changed. We are to keep the spellcasters here in Drake, and abandoning that duty will be considered treason against our god.”

Rachida could plainly see the anger in the man’s eyes, anger that was echoed by the other eight advisors in the pavilion. That was good.

“So you have two options,” she said. “Remain here and perish, or flee and perish.”

“Exactly.”

“I can see now why you’re so relieved we are here.” She glanced over at Quester and the other sellsword captains. “Captain,” she said to Talon, “I wish to speak with you. . alone.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Very well.”

Talon gestured for his young advisors to exit the pavilion, which they did without question. The sellsword captains, however, hesitated.

Quester leaned into her. “What are you up to, Rachida?”

“Trust me,” she told him. “Now get out.”

When they were finally alone, Rachida unlaced her cloak and removed it, exposing the Twins on her hips. She felt Talon’s eyes on her as she made her way across the pavilion, tossing the cloak on the captain’s desk. The man was visibly wary. She could use that.

“Tell me, Captain Blackwolfe,” she said, “what do you wish to come of your predicament?”

“I wish to fulfill the will of my god,” he told her, though his fidgeting and tone said otherwise.

“Do not lie to me, Captain,” she said, removing her belt and placing her swords on top of her cloak. She then moved back to the center of the space. “Tell me how you truly feel about this, how your men feel. We are here now to help you. You will receive no punishment for the truth.”

Talon leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples. “You wish to know the truth?”

Rachida nodded.

“The men want. . they want this conflict over,” Talon said, nearly whispering the words. “Though a few of us have discovered the thrill of conflict, were born for it even, most of the men are cut from softer cloth. They had lives once. . farmers, merchants, pages, blacksmiths, potters, bakers, miners. They lived and died and loved and lost as free men. Yet they are free no longer. We are all starving and near death. We’ve suffered in a wasteland for so long, and for what? To be told by our god that we are to be abandoned, that our lives are worth nothing because we followed our leader’s instructions? How is that fair?”

“It isn’t,” said Rachida.

Talon seemed taken aback by the statement. “Thank you, Commander. So now you know of the men’s wishes. What would you have us do?”

“I said earlier that you had two options, both ending in death. What if I offered you a third?”

“I would kiss you on the mouth, if that option did not also end in death.”

Despite his obvious exhaustion, he smiled, and Rachida decided she liked him.

“I offer you an opportunity to live your lives as free men once more,” she said. “The chance for this siege to end and for you all to walk away, fully supplied for the task ahead. Your men could cross into the Tinderlands and return home, or flee to some remote corner of Paradise. Those who have developed a taste for conflict can join me and my men and wage war against the very god that abandoned you.”

At that, Talon started. In a single sharp motion he took a step back and grasped the handle of his sword, though he hesitated to pull it. His eyes flicked toward the table on which Rachida’s blades rested, then back to her. Rachida made no move to claim them.

“Who are you really?” Talon asked, his voice shaking.

“Just who I said I am. Rachida Mori, a child of Karak’s First Families.”

“You speak of treason.”

“I do.”

Talon’s indecision seemed to grow.

“Karak swore he would punish us for the betrayal.”

Rachida forced a smile.

“Did he? Do you think he’ll hunt down each and every one of you? Scour the lands, and for what? Petty revenge? Our beloved creator cares not for such things, and he cares not for us, his children. His war against Ashhur is all he loves. You have a choice, Captain Blackwolfe. Remain here in the cold and die, or take your life in your own hands.”

“It’s madness,” Talon said, though his eyes began to show a spark of hope. “How would we even do such a thing? How would the men be fully supplied? Are your wagons fully stocked?”

“They aren’t.”

“Then how?” he asked, frowning.

To that, Rachida smiled. “The spellcasters, Captain. You said they aren’t starving, so I say we find out why that is the case.”

Talon shook his head. “It won’t work. I told you, they’ll kill you the moment you try to attack.”

“Who said anything about attacking? I mean to walk up to their gates and ask.”

“You’re going to talk to them?”

“If you want this siege ended, if you want your freedom, that is the only way.”

“And you’re confident it will work? You think they’ll listen?”

Rachida shrugged. “Look at me, Captain. Do I look like a woman men turn away from?”

Timidly, the young captain smiled. “I suppose not.”

“It is settled, then. Tomorrow the deed will be done.”

“And what will you need from me?” Talon asked.

Rachida grinned. “All I need from you is for you to keep your men in line. And dedicate yourself to me when this is all over with.”

Talon shook his head as if he couldn’t believe the conversation was actually taking place. “That I can do, Commander Mori. That I can do.”

“You best. And please, Talon, do not call me Commander. Rachida is fine.”

The captain was true to his word. When the sun rose the next morning, she found the soldiers gathered just outside camp, nervously fidgeting yet appearing expectant. Talon stood tall by a ring of stunted trees, gazing out at the white world that stretched out before them while stroking his mangy beard. Rachida approached him.

“What bothers you?” she asked.

Talon grimaced. “I mean no offense, nor doubt on your part, but those spellcasters can’t be trusted.”

“Your doubt does offend me, Captain. This Escheton will hear me out, and after he listens to what I have to say, he will open his doors and let me in.”

“What will you tell him?”

She winked. “You have your secrets, Captain, and I have mine.”

The man chuckled nervously and kicked at the snow, lifting a small cloud of it. “That’s fair, I suppose,” he said. His tone then dropped. “As long as you’re true to your word. Should you turn against us, or return a failure, I can’t be held responsible for my men’s actions. Men are at their cruelest when they’ve had hope kindled, only to have it snuffed right back out.”

Rachida stepped in closer, grabbing him by the shoulder.

“If you want to see cruelty,” she said, “make such a threat again. I assure you, it won’t be my blood painting the snow red.”

An hour later, Rachida, Quester, Pox Jon, and Jon’s second in command, a polite young sellsword named Decker, made their way across the snowy field outside camp, heading for the Drake Township. The mountains squeezed in on them from either side. The land they rode on was wide and flat but strangely bereft of wildlife. It was odd, especially when Rachida remembered the stories her parents used to tell her about the massive grayhorns that lurked in the upper northwest corner of Paradise. On her journey she’d seen squirrels, deer, a giant brown bear that assaulted one of their food wagons one night, and the ever-present wolves, but no grayhorns.

Finally, after an hour of trotting through the snow, they spotted a white mass rising up before them, like a wall made of pure ice that blocked out the horizon. The mountains to their left leveled out, revealing the wide and roaring Gihon River, its surface marked with rushing whitecaps. Pox Jon whistled while keeping a gloved hand over his face to keep warm.

“Is that Drake?” asked Decker.

“I would assume so,” said Rachida.

“I thought Blackwolfe was exaggerating about the barricade,” Quester said.

“Looks like he wasn’t,” said Pox Jon.

“Enough,” said Rachida, her attention on the top of the white wall. She swore she could see movement up there, and movement meant defenders. The last thing she needed was an arrow or fireball to come flying at them while they were bantering like oblivious teens. “Eyes forward. Stay ready, just in case. And Jon, prepare the flag.”

They paused a few hundred yards away from the structure and waited while Pox Jon unfastened the long pole from his saddle and Decker tied a dirty white bed sheet to the top of it. Rachida took it from Jon and set her horse to trotting once more, holding the pole up high so that the bed sheet snapped and fluttered in the wind. Quester kept his own horse close to hers, free hand firmly planted on the hilt of his sword. Rachida laughed inwardly at his futile effort; the Crimson Sword’s blade would prove useless when faced with a twenty-foot-high wall.

When they reached the base of the fortification, all signs of movement ceased. They sat there for what felt like forever, staring at the white wall while their four horses whinnied and paced impatiently. Rachida’s arms began to grow numb from the effort of holding the seven-foot pole, and a groan accidentally leaked from her throat.

“Let me take that from you,” said Quester.

“Forget it,” she snapped. “I do not need your help.”

The handsome sellsword rolled his eyes. “Fine then. Be the martyr.”

He hopped down off his steed and approached the snowy wall, stroking his blond beard as he did so. Rachida watched him, hoping he didn’t try anything stupid. A low crunching sound could be heard when Quester broke the outer layer of ice with his fingers, and then his hand disappeared into the powdery stuff underneath.

“It’s solid rock below,” he said, removing his hand and shaking the snow from it before putting his glove back on. He glanced up at the wall and shook his head. “Looks to me like whoever’s inside doesn’t care we’re out here. What do you say we ride around it, see if there’s a way in?”

“There’s no way in unless we make one,” said a voice from above.

Rachida started, lifting her head to see at least thirty bearded faces staring over the wall at them. The one who had spoken, the one in the center, had a bright orange hat of some kind atop a head covered with wavy red hair. His lips played into a roguish smile as he took in each of the visitors in turn. “You’d think you Karak puppies would learn,” the man said. “A flag? Surrender? Is that your new ploy?” The man’s eyes lifted, scanning the trees on either side of the long clearing. “Where are the others? Preparing for a mad dash the moment we open a door?”

Rachida guided her horse forward. “This is no ploy. And we are not from Karak.”

“Your men are wearing his armor,” another of the men said.

“True,” said Rachida with a nod. “That is the ploy. To get behind enemy lines, one must look and act the part. However, the one we seek resides behind your walls. Turock Escheton is his name. Are you he?”

The odd redhead frowned. “Depends. Who is asking?”

“Rachida Gemcroft, daughter of House Mori.” Rachida bowed in her saddle. The pole she held wavered in her grip. “I am joined by sellswords from the east, an army of six hundred. It seems that you and I have things to speak about.”

Those peering over the wall disappeared for a moment. They heard bickering through the thick wall of ice, coupled with long pauses of silence.

A few minutes later, the redhead in the funny hat reappeared at the top of the wall. “Seems our magic can’t find anyone lurking about,” he said. “So to answer your question: Yes, I’m Turock. Now disrobe down to your smallclothes, and I mean all of you, not just Rachida. Pile your armor and weapons in front of the wall. Come on now, mush, mush.”

Pox Jon grumbled and made a fist. “Are you hoping to freeze us to death, or have you forgotten about the damn snow everywhere?”

Turock laughed. “Do you think I asked just because I want to see you in your skivvies? You’re coming into our home, and we’re going to make sure you do it without any hidden blades, scrolls, trinkets, or ancient rings capable of blowing us all to the fucking sky. So if you want inside. . smallclothes. Now.”

“Pleasant fellow,” Rachida muttered, tossing aside the pole. She hopped off her horse, her cloak billowing, and began unlacing. She glared at her cohorts, who still appeared both offended and ready to challenge the strange man’s authority. “Do as he says.”

Grumbling, the three of them obeyed.

Swords and armor piled in front of the white wall, the four of them stood in nothing but the parchment-thin smallclothes they had worn since departing the Isles of Gold. The wind chose that moment to pick up, making Rachida shiver, but she refused to cross her arms over her chest for warmth. All eyes were on her, and as she’d learned in Conch, men of the west were the same as those from Neldar when it came to a beautiful woman standing before them. If she had to use her feminine assets, there were worse sacrifices she could make. Sure enough, someone up above whistled, and another man cleared his throat uncomfortably.

“Well, I suppose a bargain is a bargain,” Turock said. “Back away from the wall a few more feet, would you? I’d hate for one of you to lose a hand or something.”

They did, taking ten paces backward, bare feet crunching in the snow. The men peering over the wall disappeared, and Rachida heard chanting from the other side. A speck of light appeared before her, just in front of the wall. It was small at first but then grew until it became a swirling blue disc at least seven feet tall. Rachida gasped at the sight, her eyes bulging, a reaction echoed by the others. Five burly men then stepped out of the light, attempting to keep their eyes averted from her near nakedness and failing miserably. They tied the horses to a nearby tree, gathered up Rachida and her cohorts’ armor and weapons, and then disappeared back into the blue void. Rachida simply stood there, confused.

“Come now,” she heard the red-haired man shout from somewhere within the swirl of light. “I can’t hold this thing open all day. Step through already!”

Quester glanced in her direction, shrugged, and jumped into the light, disappearing just as the others did. His laughter as he vanished seemed to echo all around her. Swallowing her fear, she followed him, wincing when the light hit her skin. For a moment she feared that she would be seared alive. . until she landed on her two feet on a street bereft of snow, completely unharmed. Quester grabbed her arm, and she stood up to see they were surrounded by the men from atop the wall. The red-haired leader stood with two others in the forefront, their hands glowing, their fingers making strange gestures. A thud sounded, and Pox Jon and Decker emerged from the portal behind her. Both looked as bewildered as she felt.

Finally, the lead spellcaster dropped his hands to his sides and took a deep breath. The swirling blue portal behind them blinked out of existence with a barely audible pop. A young man with a beard nowhere near as impressive as the others’ came forward with boots and heavy cloaks for each of them, and when Rachida slipped hers overhead, she swore she heard all in attendance moan. Turock, whose heavy robe was the same garish orange color as his hat, stepped toward them. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rachida cut him off.

“That was a fine spectacle you put on.”

“The portal?” The man laughed. “Nothing, really. Simply rearranging some elements and cutting a hole through space and time. Easy as baking a baneberry pie. So! You had things to discuss?”

“Not here.” She patted his shoulder and breezed past him. Those gathered behind parted for her, looking baffled and whispering among themselves. When she had passed them, she stopped and took in her surroundings. She could see the barricade was an earthen wall seemingly raised from the ground itself, just as Talon had said, circling the entirety of the village. The ice and snow that covered the outside of the wall were absent on the inside, revealing the drab brown of rocks and packed dirt. The village itself was large and bustling. Men, women, and children filled the streets, bundled up against the cold and acting as if there was nothing strange going on. She took them all in, noticed that none seemed to be starving. In fact, quite a few of them looked downright robust.

Perhaps even stranger, however, were the buildings lining the cobbled road. They were grand structures possessing a sort of unnatural architecture she had never seen before. Outhouses, shops, domiciles, gathering places; it didn’t matter what they were, they were all constructed of interlocking granite blocks and topped with a thick layer of snow that only added to their impressiveness. Even in Veldaren and Port Lancaster, the most advanced cities in all of Neldar, there were no structures as striking as these. And lining the road were numerous poles, each topped with an odd reflective square that seemed to glow on its own.

“Is there a place where we can speak that isn’t so cold?” Rachida asked as Turock hurried to join her side.

“Of course there is,” he said. “Just because we made you strip doesn’t mean we’re bad hosts here in Drake. Follow me.”

The odd man walked ahead of her, his hat flopping on his head, his robe fluttering. Rachida and her men followed, Turock’s men taking up the rear. They formed a sizeable caravan marching down the road, and finally the people of Drake seemed to notice them.

Turock led them to a two-story building fronted with something that Rachida had rarely seen-four giant panes of frosted glass, at least eight feet long and five feet high. She marveled at the windows as Turock led her through the wide double doors and into the building. Glass was rare, a luxury for the wealthy in the kingdom her god had created, difficult to make and even harder to maintain. To have glass in Paradise, which by all accounts was a simple land where advancement wasn’t necessary, went against her expectations. Then again, all of Drake exceeded her expectations.

The inside of the building was crammed with people. At least two hundred men and women filled the vast area, sitting at tables, drinking cups of wine, stuffing their faces with food. The scents of spices and roasted meats assaulted Rachida’s nostrils, made her mouth begin to water. Turock noticed and chuckled.

“Impressive?” he asked.

Rachida glanced behind her as her men and Turock’s filed into the building. The look on Pox Jon’s face told her he was just as astounded. Even Quester looked overcome.

“It is,” she said, whistling. “Where did you come across such a bounty?”

“Follow me, my beautiful Rachida, and I’ll show you.” He looked to his right and gestured to an ornate door cut into the wall. As he led her toward it, he called out over his shoulder, “Bartholomew, please get our other guests situated. Food for all, and have Margot prepare a bath if they want.”

“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 against 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.