Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (20 page)

Luckily, the king’s bodyguard Karl Dogon had been an orphan from the Bend. It was on his advice that the shoddy rebellion had moved there.

They emerged from the darkness and onto a cracked road lined with sewage. Those following behind Laurel gagged, but she and Harmony did not. They both had learned to cope with the incessant reek of the place.

From there they hurried down the street, the pitter-patter of feet echoing dully off sodden, crumbling walls. Shutters were slammed as they passed, candles blown out. It was almost completely dark now. None would grant them entry should Veldaren’s rulers fall upon them.

Around the next bend they ran, and Laurel’s heart leapt. A single door to a particularly ramshackle structure was propped open, and three men paced in front of it, each holding tight to his sword. The men swiveled at the sound of approaching footsteps, and upon sight of the women, they silently urged speed, waving their arms toward the opened door.

Laurel released Harmony’s hand and took her place by the side of the door, ushering her charges inside. She stared over their crouched heads at the man across from her, with his warm hazel eyes and mop of curly black hair. He started to say something, but she put a finger to her lips, silencing him. Another roar broke through the young night, followed by yet another tormented scream. The man took that as his cue, dashing to the back of the line and literally shoving the frightened travelers into the door.

When all were inside, the door shut and barred, Harmony led the throng down a hall whose walls were leaning perilously inward. Into the basement they went, where torches were already lined up for their use. Harmony opened a hatchway in the floor and urged the others to descend into the blackness below. A few hesitated, but all it took was a more violent roar from outside to get them moving.

Only after all the rest were out sight did Laurel follow them into the pit, descending the twenty crude wooden stairs and sneezing at the musty odor of the tunnel. She stood at the bottom of the well and watched the three men shut the hatch, then helped them stack heavy stones in front of the stairwell. Only when they finished did she breathe a sigh of relief.

“Laurel, you worried me,” said the man with hazel eyes.

“I worried me too, Pulo,” she said with a tired smile.

“You look horrid,” said Roddalin, one of the other men.

“She always does when she comes back,” said Jonn, the third.

“Enough.” She feigned offense, then looked up at Pulo. “Did you make the count on the way in?”

He nodded. “Nineteen. Twelve men and seven women.”

“Nineteen,” Laurel repeated. “We lost three.”

“Most likely the last of the screams we heard.”

She frowned. “I hope not.”

“They made feasts for the lions,” said Jonn, “but their sacrifice probably saved your hide.”

“That doesn’t make it any better.”

Pulo draped an arm around her shoulder, gave her a squeeze. “I know.”

“I should clean up,” she said, allowing a small, sad smile. “I’ll speak with the new recruits come morning. Let Harmony handle it until then.”

“Very well. I understand.”

Laurel left them, walking down a separate stone passageway. The place was murky and filled with swirling shadows, with a torch burning every thirty feet to light the way. No more were allowed, for the caverns had very little ventilation, and already thirteen people had died from smoke inhalation. At least it was warm down here, which was a welcome respite from the biting chill aboveground. Down here, her knees didn’t constantly knock from shivering.

The cavern walls were marked with painted arrows pointing the way to each populated section. The caverns were vast and confusing otherwise, descending deeper into the earth in spots through narrow tunnels. The first time she had visited here, after her rescue from the clutches of the mumbling priest Joben Tustlewhite and the castle dungeons, she had thought it too complex to ever remember. But now the arrows were for the refugees, not her.

The passageway she took was lined with jagged rock, and at a small triangular gash in the earthen wall she ducked down, entering the small fissure that passed for her quarters. Inside were her bedroll, a stinking chamber pot, and little else. What meager clothing she had—most passed on to her by those she had brought here—was resting on natural shelves protruding from the cave walls. Atop a higher shelf was a clay bowl filled with water, a washcloth, and a silver mirror King Eldrich had given her.
All the more to remember who you truly are,
the deposed king had told her at the time, though she had a feeling that he’d given it to her simply so she could make sure she looked her best when in front of him.

Not that she minded.
Let Eldrich have his wants.
In truth, she liked to look beautiful, and always had. But the face that now stared back at her was horrific. Her cheeks were padded with clay and painted with deep rouge to make it look like burst veins
crisscrossed
her face, then topped with ash and sprinkles of mud. Bits of twig stuck out from the crow’s nest atop her head. She smiled, and it looked as if she had only four teeth remaining in her mouth.
Sighing
, she stepped back from the mirror, stripped out of her hag’s garb, and cast it aside with disgust.

Naked, she approached the mirror once again, thankful for the young woman’s body she saw, even though she was thinner than ever. After dipping the washcloth into the sweet-smelling water, she began to wash the filthy disguise from her face. The pink of her skin shone through with each stroke, gradually revealing the pretty visage of a naïve young girl who had grown up in
Omnmount
dreaming of love and marriage and oodles of children. She squeezed the grime from the cloth onto the floor, dipped it back into the bowl, and scrubbed her teeth, removing bit by bit the tar that created her toothless illusion. Unfortunately, the tar was staining, and she couldn’t remove it fully, but it was good enough for now. To get the vile taste out of her mouth, she bit and sucked on a lemon wedge.

By the time she was finished combing the snarls, soot, and debris from her hair, using her fingers, she looked nearly herself again; twenty-three and pretty, with womanly curves and a dimpled smile. She debated heading lower into the caverns, to bathe in the place where a natural spring bubbled up into small rocky pools, but shook her head and snatched a simple blouse and breeches from her pile of borrowed clothes. She was tired and needed sleep. The pools would be there when she woke.

The clothes were damp but comfortable, quite unlike the scratchy rags the Specter wore. Laurel squeezed her arms around herself and sat down on her bedroll. It was thin and the cave floor uneven, but she had long grown accustomed to such discomfort. She reclined, laid her head on a rolled-up blanket, and pulled her woolen quilt up over her body. Warmth infused her, and she tried to ignore the aggressive reek of her chamber pot—she’d left in a hurry that morning, forgetting to empty it—and get some sleep. Maybe this time she wouldn’t dream of the many she’d lost along the way.

Those nightmares never came, for ten minutes into her slumber she was awoken by a rough shake. Her eyes snapped open, and in the dim candlelight she saw Harmony hovering over her. The large woman who usually accompanied her had cleaned herself as well, and she looked noble with her rigid jaw, piercing blue eyes, and short silver hair. There was a time, back when Quester gave his two personal servants to Laurel and before Harmony cast aside her Sister’s wrappings, when Laurel had dubbed her “Giant.” She no longer used that name, for it was a title for a woman enslaved, which Harmony Steelmason was no longer. Laurel then thought of Lyana Mori, Harmony’s fellow former Sister and granddaughter of the dearly departed Soleh, former Minister of Justice. Lyana was supposed to have been off on her own mission, and Laurel hoped she had returned safely.

“What is it?” Laurel asked, shoving herself backward to sit up against the rough cave wall.

“Your presence is requested,” said the large woman. Her voice was deep yet feminine.

“Eldrich?”

Harmony nodded.

“Did he give you a reason?”

“No. He greeted the newcomers and then asked to see you at once.”

“That cannot be good.”

Harmony shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”

They exited the cave dwelling, Laurel finding it a bit comical to watch Harmony squeeze her bulky frame through the narrow opening. They crossed through tunnel after tunnel, passing the purple painted arrows marking the walls, until they came to the largest of the caverns, which served as King Eldrich’s secretive seat of power. The grotto was the hub of the entire underground dwelling, with thirty-three spines breaking off in every direction. The ceiling was forty feet high, and there were even tunnel entrances lining a rock ledge up above. When Laurel had first seen this place, a part of her wondered whether it was built by the gods long ago with just this purpose in mind. She cringed at the thought. If that was the case, it wouldn’t be long until the Judges found them.

The king was there, sitting in his humble chair in front of a rickety table, surrounded by several of his Palace Guards, Pulo,
Roddalin
, and Jonn. Karl Dogon, the king’s bodyguard, lingered at the rear, his square face awash with shadows from the table’s six candles. All eyes turned to Laurel and Harmony when they entered. Laurel didn’t like the looks on their faces, especially the king’s. Although Eldrich had grown even sicklier looking during his extended stay in the caverns, he always seemed to brighten when Laurel entered.
He is quite fond of you,
Pulo had told her, a hint of jealousy in his voice. But now, the thwarted king gazed at her with vacant eyes and downturned lips.

She approached his seat while Harmony hung back.

“Your Grace,” she said, curtseying. “You wished to see me?”

“Laurel, sit down,” the king told her wearily.

Laurel complied, not liking how the other three men wouldn’t look in her direction. Jonn in particular was troublesome in the way he gnawed on his fingernails. She settled into the chair and looked over at Eldrich’s pale, deep-set eyes.

“Please, your Grace, what is this about?”

Eldrich sighed. He looked even more faded and despondent than he had that long-ago day when Laurel had told him about the Connington’s demands for their assistance in bettering the realm in Karak’s absence.

“Karl returned from meeting with his liaison within the castle,” Eldrich said. “He learned some . . . disturbing news.”

Dogon stepped out from the shadows, and Laurel was aghast at his face, which was covered with cuts and bruises. “Just tell her,” he said harshly. “Don’t torture the poor girl.”

Eldrich didn’t reprimand the bodyguard for his harsh tone. Instead, his pale eyes met Laurel’s. “Laurel, my dear,” he said. “I’m sorry. Your father is dead.”

Laurel heard the words, hung her head, and sighed. Cornwall Lawrence had been suffering from the Wasting for years, left to rot in his bed while the disease ate him from the inside out.

“It’s a blessing,” she said softly. “He is no longer in pain.” Even though she spoke the truth, sadness spread within her nonetheless as she thought of how she would never have the chance to tell the great Master of Omnmount how much she loved him, how much he meant to her, how much his guidance had helped shape the woman she had become.

“That isn’t all,” Karl Dogon said flatly.

Laurel lifted her eyes.

King Eldrich seemed hesitant. His lips, partially stuck together by dried saliva, finally parted, and he said, “There was a message sent by Elias Gandrem, your father’s protégé in your absence. The Blackbards . . . they stormed into Omnmount in your father’s last days. They demanded your mother hand over the region to them. When she refused, they killed her . . . they killed all . . . all of . . . ”

The bodyguard took a hunkering step forward, slamming his fist down on the table and staring intensely at Laurel.

“They butchered your whole family, girl.” He looked fierce with fury. “All your sisters, your aunts and elderly uncles, gone. A whole line wiped out. All but you.”

Laurel shot back in her seat, her eyes bulging, too shocked for words. “It can’t be true,” she said. Her voice didn’t sound like
her ow
n.

“We have no reason to doubt the message,” said the king after passing Dogon a glare. “Elias is a good boy of gallant blood. He wouldn’t lie about such things, even if tortured.”

“How do you know for certain?” she asked. “Someone could have forged the letter!”

Finally, Pulo turned to her. “But why, Laurel? What purpose would it serve?” He reached across the table, his fingers seeking hers, but she pulled away from him.

“Leave me alone!” she screamed.

“Laurel . . . ”

She couldn’t describe what she was feeling. All the struggle, the misery, the fear—everything paled now. She shoved away from the table as hard as she could, knocking her chair over in the process. Voices called out to her, but she couldn’t hear them. The deafening clamor in her head dominated all else.

Into an adjacent tunnel she fled, the shouting growing quiet behind her. She ran blindly, not paying attention to the directional arrows, simply moving wherever her feet chose to carry her. Her mother and father dead, her older sisters . . . it was too much to bear. Their names rolled through her mind:
Lorna, Isla, Rose,
Jasmine
, Hyacinth
. They’d all had families, and those families were gone now as well, the men forced by their god to fight a war, the children butchered along with their mothers by some damned power-mad merchant. None of her cousins, nieces, or nephews would grow old and have children of their own; none would play again in the shimmering lake behind her parents’ home, and her sisters would never again lie in their husbands’ arms and whisper sweet nothings. And she was the last. Orphaned. Alone . . . alone . . . alone. Laurel lashed out and punched the wall as she fled, bloodying her knuckles.