Blood Of Gods

CHAPTER 20

The storm was on them. A freezing rain blew sideways, the wind howling directly into their faces as they peered over the rise. To Moira, this was ideal. The wind blowing toward them meant they were upwind from their targets, so they needn’t worry about making too much noise. Any stray step or clank of steel would be covered up by the pounding rain and incessant wind.

“What are we facing down there?” asked Tabar. He had to raise his voice a bit to be heard over the clamor.

“There is a clipper, four barges, and many rafts,” Moira answered. “Seventeen soldiers are working around the rafts. Looks like they’re preparing to load them. And another twelve in red cloaks wandering about. Who are they?”

“Acolytes,” said Gull.

“Acolytes,” Rodin agreed.

Moira stretched, propping herself up on her elbows to get a better view. She and her Movers were spying on the docks built by Karak’s Army for transporting their goods across the river, then to be carried by horse and wagon to the standing army half a world away. The docks were forty miles from Omnmount, and Elias Gandrem had said that the acolytes left Omnmount with the last of the autumn harvest weeks ago. Moira had been disheartened by the news at the time, fearing the sixteen tons of food taken from Omnmount would be long gone. But luck was with her, and when she arrived, she found the three storehouses packed full with dried fruits, salted meats, and crate after crate of pickled vegetables, eggs, and mushrooms. She still had the chance to deny her god his much-needed supplies.

One of the soldiers turned toward their position at the top of the ridge over the river’s edge, and she ducked down out of sight behind a mound of dirt. For the briefest of moments she’d seen his face; the man looked tired, moved sluggishly, and Moira realized that these soldiers had likely traveled all the way from Paradise to bring the food back to their god’s army, because Catherine had killed the few hundred soldiers who’d remained in Neldar. Danco sidled up to her, his long, dark hair sticking to his face.

“Why haven’t they sent it all west already?” he asked.

“They haven’t been able to.” She grinned. “For once, fortune smiles on us.”

“So what is the plan?” asked Willer.

Moira smirked at him. “We go down there, kill them all, and to the victors belong the spoils.”

“That’s a lot of spoils for just six men,” said Gull. “What would we do with it all?”

Moira turned about, gazing into the forest behind them, sensing eyes on her. “Don’t worry about that. Let’s do what we came here to do; I’ll figure the rest out later.”

“Now that is a plan I can support,” said Rodin cheerily.

A few minutes later, Moira was running along the edge of the ridge, keeping herself out of sight. The strategy was simple: She and the Movers would fan out, sneaking around while hidden by the many storehouses and boathouses, taking out as many sentries and acolytes as they could. Should anyone encounter trouble, they were to sprint for the open space closest to the river, screaming to alert the others. Then the rest would come running, and together they would fend off their attackers.

Moira knew it wouldn’t come to that.

She reached a pair of wooden structures and ducked between them, using the slickness of the sodden earth to her advantage. She was able to move quickly, sliding from one post to the next while barely lifting her feet off the ground. She slithered on her belly once she reached the end of the structures, approaching the hill that led down to the docks. Freezing, muddy water splashed into her mouth, sending a sharp pain through her teeth, which were still sore from her recent sickness. A moment later she heard what sounded like a faraway grunt and an even fainter splash. Those down below would think it nothing, but Moira knew the Movers had claimed their first life of the evening.

There were two forms lingering by the bottom of the hill: a soldier and an acolyte. The soldier stood tall and rigid while the young acolyte squirmed, constantly squeezing rainwater from his soaked red cloak. The soldier was saying something, but she couldn’t hear what. Moira remained on her belly, keeping close to the unkempt grasses as she inched along. When the soldier suddenly turned, she froze, thinking herself foolish for assuming it’d be so easy. He seemed to stare right at her, his face bathed in darkness as the rain beat against him, but a moment later he turned back around, his shoulders visibly slumping.

She was mere inches from them when she gradually rose to a crouch. The rain picked up, growing louder and masking the sound of her drawing her swords. When the acolyte looked in the other direction, she jabbed upward with her left hand, the tip of her sword dipping beneath the soldier’s helm and piercing the base of his skull. Moira shoved hard, driving the blade into his brain, before quickly yanking her sword free. The soldier teetered forward and then fell. Finally the acolyte seemed to notice something was wrong. He took an inquisitive step forward, standing over the fallen man. “Pate?” he asked, sounding confused. Moira slipped behind him and crossed both swords in front of his neck, pulling backward. The blades sliced open his jugular, and the young man collapsed on the muck-covered ground, clawing at his throat as he gargled the last of his breath away.

Three down, at least.

Moira remained in her crouch, turning this way and that, searching for her next target. With the rain falling as hard as it was, she could see only vague outlines. In front of a storehouse she thought she saw three men hustling along. As she rose to her feet, she heard a screech in the distance, followed by steel meeting steel. Heart racing, knowing someone had been discovered, she leapt into action.

Of the three, she took two out quickly and easily, piercing one through the back and into heart, and the other with a wicked tear across his throat. In her haste she missed the killing blow on the third, her light sword whacking harmlessly off his gorget instead of piercing his throat. The surviving soldier wheeled around, and she caught his terrified expression in a flash of lightning. The man hacked wildly with his sword, but Moira was a blur. She parried his chop with one sword while ducking down and lashing out with her second. The blade carved a chunk out of the soldier’s knee, where his boot met his chainmail, and he began stumbling. His sword fell from his hand as he begged for his life.

She was about to kill him when something collided with her from behind, sending her crashing into the pleading soldier. They both tumbled to the sopping earth in a wild tangle of arms and legs, and she lost hold of one of her swords as she fell.

Muddy water was in her eyes, blinding her, but she felt a tingling sensation in her gut and rolled to the side, away from the gasping soldier. The flat end of a pole whacked against the soldier’s face, snapping his nose with a crack that could be heard even over the wind and driving rain. The soldier shrieked. Moira ducked into a summersault, avoiding yet another attempt to strike her.

When she got out of her roll she frantically wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. There were three short, young men in red robes pressing in on her, each holding a long rod out before them. Their movements were tentative and uncoordinated, and what she could see of their faces showed them to be just boys, the oldest thirteen, perhaps fourteen at best. It doesn’t matter. They’re acolytes of Karak, and acolytes become priests. Still, it was difficult to look at the frightened youths’ eyes and not feel sorry for them. She backed away, holding her remaining sword out in front of her, hoping they would turn and flee, so she wouldn’t have to kill them.

In the end, Gull did the deed for her. The stoic man appeared from out of the rain, his longsword swiping in measured arcs, cutting down each of the acolytes before he had a chance to turn. The deed done, Gull drove his blade into a fallen soldier’s throat and then whipped it out before him, flicking the blood from the steel before sheathing it on his back.

“It’s over,” he said. He bowed to her and turned away. Moira sheathed one sword, retrieved the other, and joined the rest of her Movers at the storehouse.

All seventeen soldiers were dead, as were ten of the twelve acolytes, the other two having scampered off into the night.

“Should we give chase?” Rodin asked.

“Leave them,” Moira said, kneeling beside Willer, the only man injured of their group. “The wolves or coyotes will find them before they cross the miles to the nearest village.”

“What if they return?” asked Danco.

“Won’t matter,” Moira said, still staring at Willer. “They’re two boys. Not a threat.”

“I. . I’m sorry,” Willer blubbered. He lay in Tabar’s arms, hands clutching his gut, which bore a deep, bloody stab wound. “I thought I had him. . ”

Moira met Tabar’s eyes, and she mouthed her question. In answer, the seemingly unsympathetic man slowly shook his head.

“Hush now,” said Tabar calmly. Willer obeyed, sniveling in silence as rain pelted his body. Tabar placed his palm over Willer’s eyes, slid his dagger from his belt, and drove the blade into the young man’s heart. Blood poured over Tabar’s fist as Willer’s body offered a few last spasms and then fell still. The deed done, Tabar slid the young Mover off his lap and stood up. The other Movers gathered around their fallen companion, heads bowed in respect.

“He died fighting,” said Gull. “A worthy death for an unworthy man, for on this day, he was not good enough.”

“Here, here,” the rest of them answered, and then they went back about their business.

It was a shockingly chilling goodbye, Moira thought.

They hauled Willer’s corpse, along with those of the dead sentries and acolytes, onto the clipper. After dumping a barrel of lamp oil onto the deck of the clipper and the four barges, Gull set them aflame. When the lines tying them to the dock were cut, the five flaming ships moved slowly south with the Rigon’s current, like sluggish, indifferent hell beasts. Moira and her Movers proceeded to shatter the rafts with axes from the boathouse before setting fire to the boathouse itself, the barracks and the docks along with it.

Before long the rain stopped, and with the fires raging it was as bright and hot as a summer day in the delta. Only the stable and the four shacks housing the food stores remained untouched. Moira gazed at them, then the stables, and finally at the six rickety wagons sitting idle at the top of the rise. She thought of what Rachida, always the altruistic one in their relationship, would have done. She would help as many as she could.

“What do we do now?” asked Rodin, throwing his arm around her. “You’ve completed the task Lady Catherine set you to.” Moira thought to wiggle out of his grasp but decided against it. Her emotions were still on edge after the deaths of Willer and the young acolytes. She would take comfort from whoever offered it, even if that someone was a cold-hearted bastard like all her Movers were. She rested her head on his shoulder, pretending he was Rachida. The mirage almost worked.

“There are nine horses in the stables,” she said wearily. “They’re old, but they’ll do to pull those wagons up there. I’ll load them up with food and then strike out north. I’m sure there are many folks starving right now. I can feed them on my way to Veldaren.”

“What’s in Veldaren?”

She shrugged. “The king of Neldar, and hopefully Cornwall Lawrence’s last surviving heir.”

Rodin gazed down at her, giving her a knowing half smile.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, playfully punching him. “I promised Elias I would bring Laurel safely back to Omnmount to take her rightful seat. I’m not one to turn my back on promises.”

She thought of her promise to Rachida, and her bed play with Penetta, one of Catherine Brennan’s maids, and guilt snapped her mouth shut.

Thankfully, Rodin changed the subject as they climbed back up the rise together. “What of the rest of the food? It will go to rot eventually, if it doesn’t attract predators first. Seems like such a waste.”

“Oh, it won’t be wasted.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And why would that be?”

She smiled up at him, and once they reached the top of the hill, where the muddy access road stretched off to the northeast, she shoved away from the man and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey, all of you!” she shouted. “I know you’re out there. Come show yourselves.”

Rodin passed her a queer look, but she simply nodded to him and tapped her foot. For a long while there was nothing but the rustling of the leafless trees in the wind, but then a few shadowy forms emerged. There were only a couple at first, but more and more exited the forest on either side of the road. They were old men, women both young and old, and children; at least two hundred staggering beings, all wandering up to them with wary yet hopeful eyes. The children led the procession, a familiar disheveled boy at the front.

The rest of the Movers had joined them at the top of the hill by then.

“What is this?” asked Danco. His hand fell reflexively to his sword.

“Don’t,” Moira said. “They mean no harm.”

“Who are they?” asked Tabar.

“The children from Omnmount, along with those who were hidden in the cottages when we arrived.”

“What are they doing here now?” asked Gull.

She looked up at the stoic man and shook her head. “Surviving.” She took a step then toward the approaching mass of humanity. They stopped in their tracks, staring at her. Moira nodded at the boy Slug, who grinned in return.

“There is food in the storehouses,” she told them, raising her voice to all. “I will be taking some of what is in that one,”-she pointed toward the third rickety building-“but the food in the other two is yours to do with as you please.”

A hundred disbelieving smiles stared back at her.

“Can we get it now?” asked Slug.

“You can,” she replied. “All of you can.”

The wary, the bedraggled, and the starving tottered past her and her Movers. Moira watched them with a smile on her face, each thankful gesture warming her heart. When they had finally reached the first of the shacks, she finally let out a breath and confronted her Movers.

“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.”