Blood Of Gods (Book 3) (36 page)

Ashhur inclined his head and closed his hands into fists. “I cannot, my love.”

Celestia’s voice came again.
Allow your brother to return to his home. Do not pursue.

“We must,” said Ashhur, lifting his gaze to the heavens. “I have no choice.”

There is always a choice. My world weeps, and I weep with it. Seek peace, not more death.

When Ashhur spoke next, it was with rage that matched his fury at the sight of his brother storming through the walls of Mordeina.

“You come to
me
with a plea for peace? I, who never wished for this war? I, who beseeched my brother until the final moment to turn back? I have done nothing but defend the lives of my creations! If you wish for this to end, my love, go to
him
! Demand Karak leave this land and never return. Do it, and see how he answers!”

When the god’s mouth snapped shut, the eerie silence stretched on and on. Ahaesarus was afraid, too afraid to voice his fear, and could only stand by his god and wait for the goddess to reply.

Is that your wish? Walk with care, my love. I spared you once, but not again. My world will not crumble as yours did. You, and the people you have created, are on your own.

“We have always been on our own,” said Ashhur. “You left us to starve and die, and for what reason? Balance? Come to me! Come look me in the eye and tell me I am no different from my brother. Tell me we need one another, and the world must have us for your precious balance. My heart yearns to hear just how many lies your lips can spill before your own world turns against you.”

Ahaesarus was stunned by the god’s anger. He’d always thought these two so close, so dear to one another, integral in forging Dezrel into the land it now was. But this . . . this was frightening. When next Ahaesarus heard the goddess speak, there was a fire in her voice.

I offered you solace. I offered you a chance for redemption, to atone for your mistakes. You spoke of a new world, and tempted me with
the spectacle
of creation. I have witnessed many wondrous things, but
the terrors have started to overwhelm the glory. These lands you
squabble
over are mine, not yours, yet they run with blood.

“Lands given to us,” challenged Ashhur. “And it is
our
blood that spills.”

And more still will be shed. My eyes are upon you. Do not forget it.

The ground shook, and with a sudden rush of air Ahaesarus realized they were once more within the normal grip of time. People looked about; shrieks filled the air, and to Ahaesarus it sounded eerily similar to five days before, when Karak overtook Mordeina’s walls. An enormously loud series of
cracks
came next, followed by what sounded like a massive landslide. Ahaesarus rushed forward, trying to calm the panicked horde of people, but he lost his footing when the land beneath him shifted. It felt like the whole world was crumbling. He imagined giant fissures opening up and swallowing Ashhur and all he’d created.

“The tree!” someone shouted, and soon a veritable chorus joined in. Fingers pointed toward the wall. “The tree is falling, the tree!”

Ahaesarus winced as he stood, his bad leg throbbing, and looked toward Celestia’s tree. The giant branches swayed and broke loose, sending people screaming for cover. Its trunk developed a sickly gray color and caved in on itself. Great puffs of ash rose each time another portion fell. The sound of the chunks plummeting to the ground was like the heavens ripping open.

The tree continued to collapse, until it finally caught fi
re an
d
broke apart. The branches bounced against the wall as they
descended, leaving deep gouges in the stone and exploding into
billowing
clouds of ash. The fire in its center gave forth one final bright flash and then darkened. In a matter of moments, all that
remained of the colossal tree was a lingering haze of dust and smoke.

Although most backed away, Ahaesarus approached the gap in the wall that the tree had blocked. He could see the undead out there, clear as day, unmoving as they stared east.

“Damn,” he heard Patrick say. “Well, at least it’ll be easier to march all these people out now.”

Glancing over, Ahaesarus saw that Patrick wasn’t smiling. He then turned to his god, who shook his head while he stared at the gap. He looked tired and annoyed, and the golden glow of his eyes was faded.

“What do we do now?” the Master Warden asked.

“I must fix the breach,” the god replied. “I will not leave those who remain behind unprotected.”

“Are you strong enough?” Patrick asked.

“I have to be.”

“Yes, but what then?” asked Ahaesarus. “After the wall is fixed? Karak has enough of a head start as it is.”

“This changes nothing,” said Ashhur. The god gazed through the fissure, staring at the red glow that lit the horizon. “We must simply ride faster.”

C
HAPTER

31

A
n army of people waited outside Port Lancaster’s walls, milling about as if they had nothing better to do. Behind was a line of wagons that stretched for nearly a half mile, with smaller groups of people congregating around each wagon.
The vast
majority were women. Catherine Brennan shook her head as she stared down at them from atop the wall tower that loomed over the city’s main portcullis. The door to the elegant carriage at the front of the procession opened, and out stepped a white-haired woman and two bald men dressed in draping crimson frocks, their powdered noggins dull in the twilight gloom. Catherine groaned. The brothers had written her requesting a meeting to discuss a thin stretch of land that resided between Riverrun and Thettletown, which Matthew had laid claim to for years. The two families had often battled over that parcel of land, where there was a convenient fjord in the Queln River and an impressive number of massive trees. Catherine now knew for certain, with the amount of people in the Connington’s party, that the meeting was a ruse. She’d expected as much.

One of the brothers—it was difficult to tell which one—lifted his head to her and waved. Catherine let out a disgusted grunt and waved back.

“You want me to get rid of them, boss?” asked Bren Torrant.

“No,” Catherine said. “Allow those three in.”

“Just the brothers and the woman?”

“For now.”

“What about the rest?”

“They can wait outside. Now let’s go down there and welcome our guests.”

After descending the wall tower, Bren spoke through the bars to the Conningtons before organizing those under his command, lining up his sellswords on either side of the entrance. Their eyes were locked on the gate as it slowly lifted. “Swords and spears resting on shoulders,” Bren told his charges, pacing up and down the line. “Let them be wary.”

Catherine smiled as Bren took his place by her side. She fluffed out the long, frilly skirt she wore, trying to further hide the swell of the baby growing inside her.
Some things they mustn’t know about,
she thought.

When the gate was all the way up, Romeo and Cleo
Connington
strolled inside, portly as ever, joined by the white-haired woman. It was the woman on whom Catherine focused. She was quite tall and had a stately manner, and despite her age, she walked upright as if a rod had been shoved up her ass. Catherine recognized her immediately; even if she had not met her a few times before, the resemblance to her sons, with her circular and hefty nose, low
cheekbones
, and squinting eyes, was obvious.

Catherine furrowed her brow. Lady Meredith Connington almost never left Riverrun: She was the village steward during her sons’ frequent periods traipsing throughout Neldar on business ventures. Her presence validated Catherine’s fears.

The Conningtons wanted Port Lancaster.

“Ah, my dear Catherine,” said Cleo Connington in his high-pitched voice. “So good to see you.” The fat man approached her with his hands clenched over his heart and his head tilted to the side. He then bowed before her and took her hand in his, kissing the back of it. His fingers felt soft as a baby’s bottom; his lips, like a pair of worms after a rainstorm.

Cleo stepped aside, and Romeo, the elder and gruffer of the two brothers, took his place.

“It is kind of you to allow us entrance into your city,” he said, though his frown and tone belied the sincerity of his words. Regardless, he echoed his brother’s actions, bowing, grabbing her hand, and kissing it. Thankfully, Romeo’s hands felt rough, like a man’s should be. His lips, however, were just as moist and disgusting.

Lady Connington didn’t approach her; instead, she curtseyed from a distance. Catherine nodded to her before turning back to the brothers.

“Your letter said nothing of bringing such a large entourage.”

“My, my, Catherine, how blunt you’ve become,” said Cleo with a snigger.

“One must be blunt when a rival arrives at your doorstep and expects you to feed a thousand new mouths.”

“One thousand two hundred and thirty-eight to be exact,” Romeo said. “And who said anything about
you
feeding them?”

Catherine chuckled. “I’m the regent of this city in the absence of my husband, and if I allow them to enter, they will be guests within my walls. Who else would it fall on to feed them if not me, you halfwit?” She almost said more, but doing so would betray her suspicions. So she kept quiet.

Romeo scowled and sucked on his upper lip.

“Now, now, Brother,” Cleo sang out, prancing between them. He was light on his feet for a fat man. “There is no need to be unpleasant. You are speaking with a widow.” He then turned to Catherine, bowing once more. “You have our condolences, milady Brennan. Matthew was a splendid man, and shrewd. You must tell us how he perished. And also you must please forgive us for our presumption. Rest assured, you will not need to feed those we brought with us. There is enough grain and vegetables and salted meats in our wagons to feed three times that many for a month.”

“I don’t need your pity, Cleo. And I assume this bounty of food you’ve brought is also a bribe to let your people through our gate?”

Cleo clapped his hands together. “Such splendid frankness! Do you see this, Brother? Whatever happened to the demure Catherine we’ve always known?”

“She became the leader of a city, with real problems to worry over,” Catherine replied. Though Meredith Connington had yet to speak, she glanced at her anyway. The left corner of the older woman’s lip twitched for a moment, then fell still. Catherine knew that was the closest thing to a smile she could hope to get from the woman.

“Ah, yes,” said Romeo with a nod. “The housewife is now the grand ruler of Port Lancaster. How lovely.”

“I think it splendid!” squealed Cleo.

Bren fidgeted beside her, and all it took was a quick glimpse to see that the sellsword was wringing his fist around the hilt of his sheathed sword. Catherine knew he wanted to hack the fat brothers to bits. She couldn’t blame him.

“Enough of this foolishness,” said Lady Connington. Her voice was cold, her words like tiny shards of ice. “You have business to attend to, and I have many people to get situated.”

Romeo glowered while Cleo grinned. Neither acknowledged that their mother had spoken. The older woman frowned, the lines in her face deepening. A long pause followed, until finally Romeo said, “We came here to meet, so we should meet. There is much we have to discuss.”

“Yes, yes, that we should do,” said Cleo.

“Will you accept the people of Riverrun into your city?” asked Romeo. The question clearly pained him when it left his lips, and he seemed to realize this, adding, “You certainly have the room to spare,” in his offhand, insulting way.

“We do, and we will,” Catherine told him. She turned to her sellsword captain. “Bren, have your men escort the train to Rat Harbor. And make sure the contents of the carriages are counted and marked. I wish to know the extent our new bounty by the morrow.”

“Okay, boss,” said Bren.

“Rat Harbor?” said Romeo, aghast. “You’re settling our people in the slum?”

“It’s the best I can offer right now,” Catherine purred. “You said you would only be here for a short while to discuss your rights to Matthew’s land holdings. Rat Harbor has been abandoned; it is the easiest place to set up temporary residences for your lot.”

Romeo opened his mouth, but it was Cleo who spoke. “
It is
understood
, milady. Truly it is.” Cleo gently touched both
Catherine’s
arm and his brother’s shoulder. Romeo glared at her while he
straightened
out the wrinkled top of his frock. He then spun around and faced his mother.

“Mother, don’t just stand there like a simpleton! Go back to the commoners. Our wives and children require counseling.”

The white-haired lady pivoted on her heel and gracefully loped away. Catherine gestured for a group of ten sellswords to follow her, which they did. She then stared rays of hatred into the back of Romeo Connington’s head.

This one hates women so much that even his own mother
doesn’t rate.

With preparations underway to accept their people into
the city, the brothers Connington considered Catherine once
again. “My sweet Lady Brennan,” said Cleo, “shall we conduct
our business here, or will you escort us to more . . . comfortable
accommodations
?”

Offering her best charming smile, Catherine extended her hand to the carriage that awaited them a few hundred feet down the road, a pair of sellswords lingering outside it. “We will speak at the estate. Now please, do your host the honor of waiting for me in the cart. I will join you shortly.”

The brothers bobbed their heads and began to waddle toward the waiting carriage. She could hear Cleo’s excitable tone in his remark about some benign nonsense as they walked, though Romeo remained deathly quiet.
This will certainly be interesting.

Bren sidled up beside her. “Boss, you sure about this?”

“I’m not one prone to fits of doubt,” she said. “Were the girls given their tools?”

“They were.”

“Excellent. And whom did you assign to protect me? I cannot see from here.”

“Tod and Rumey. The quiet and sinister ones.”

“Good.” She tugged on Bren’s sleeve. “Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?”

“If you say so, boss.”

“Oh, and Bren? One more thing.”

“What, boss?”

“Remember that you’re in a city that loves me. Remember what the women of Port Lancaster are capable of when confronted with those who would turn against those they love.”

Bren nodded and walked off to help the rest of his sellswords escort a hundred carriages and over a thousand people through the gates. Catherine made her way to the covered wagon. It didn’t escape her that Port Lancaster had barely sixty horses within its walls, and now that number would be more than tripled. In no time at all, the streets would reek with horse dung.

The carriage was covered and ample, yet with five people inside, including the portly brothers, seating was still cramped. Cleo and Romeo sat on one bench while Catherine took her place between the two blank-faced sellswords opposite them. She struck the carriage ceiling with an open palm and heard the female driver say “Hyah!” The carriage began lumbering forward to the sound of clomping hooves, clinking chains, and crunching gravel.

Catherine stared at the brothers, and they at her. No one said a word for a long while. They were like gamblers playing a game of switchback, waiting for the first player to give away his hand. Catherine remained stoic and unmoved. She would not be the one to flinch.

Romeo blinked, his eyes darting to the two sellswords sitting on either side of Catherine. He raised a plump hand and pointed at both of them. “Why do you still have your mercenaries?”

Catherine shrugged. “I keep them paid and fed.”

Tod and Rumey nodded but kept quiet.

“I think what my dear brother is trying to ask,” said Cleo, “is
how
they are still with you. I don’t know if Matthew ever showed you the note we sent him, but all our hired swords and Sisters were conscripted by the acolytes and Karak’s soldiers.”

Of course she knew about the note. She’d been the one to intercept it before Matthew could read it.

“I know. I read it. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Then you know we even lost the captain of our guard, our Crimson Sword. Yet Bren is still here, and a hundred hired men.”

“Eighty-one to be exact,” she said, adopting Romeo’s offensive tone from earlier.

Romeo grunted. “So, how are they still here? I assumed the acolytes would demand all you had to give.”

“They tried. We killed them before they could take any.”

The brothers Connington took a long moment to overcome their dumbfounded shock.

“You what?” asked Cleo.

“We killed them, my dear visitors. All of them. Acolytes and soldiers. Every man who stepped foot into our city demanding we give them our resources for nothing.”

“But how . . . ?” began Romeo.

“Matthew’s sellswords are resourceful,” said Catherine with a wink. On either side of her, Tod and Rumey grinned.

Cleo lurched forward and clamped his hand on Romeo’s knee, making the older brother yelp.

“Brilliant! I never thought Matthew capable of such treachery! Perhaps we were wrong about him. Why did we not think of doing so, Brother? We had twice the mercenaries our dear Matthew had, not to mention over a hundred Sisters trained with sword and dagger. Think of the possibilities!”

Romeo shot him a look, and Cleo retracted his hand, nodding knowingly. Catherine made note of that quiet exchange, though she did not now what to make of it. Then Cleo’s face brightened, and he leaned forward once more.

“But Matthew’s treachery was certainly not without cost,” he said, almost singing the words. “We’d heard your husband died, but how was always a bit of a mystery. Am I correct to assume now that it happened during the battle?”

She put on her best sorrowful face and nodded.

“And what of Moira?” he asked. “It’s surprising she is not
guarding
you.”

“Moira left. I sent her away.”

The fat man clapped his hands and kicked his feet. “Oh, how wonderfully incongruous! Dear brother, this trip gets better and better!”

In response, Romeo chuckled without mirth.

The carriage stopped ten minutes later, and the driver opened the door. Catherine stretched her legs, which were cramped from keeping them pulled up tight to her bench to avoid rubbing Cleo Connington’s knees, and then exited the carriage. Her two sellsword protectors and the brothers Connington followed her up the steps to her estate.

She led them through the foyer, down the hall, and up the staircase, heading for the solarium on the estate’s fourth floor. She heard soft murmurs when she passed the third story, and imagined her children sitting with their nursemaid Brita while the old woman taught them their lessons. She pictured little Ryan, staring out intently from beneath the tangled curls atop his head, absorbing Brita’s every word in silence. He was much like his father—his
true
father—in that way. Always listening, always learning, silent until he needn’t be any longer.
I will be with you soon, my son. After my work here is done.