Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (24 page)

“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.”