Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (18 page)

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.