David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

Ceredon took a deep breath, squeezed Lady Audrianna, and set his feet in motion once more. He hurried to the edge of the cliff, where at least two thousand elves and soldiers lurked, looking around as if they didn’t know what to do next. Those on horses galloped back and forth across the center of the clearing as if their options might change each time they swiveled around.

“Aully, Kindren!” he shouted as he swerved around the horsemen.

“Here!” Aully’s voice hollered back. The sprite emerged from the throng, dragging Kindren behind her. Kindren held the leads of the horse they’d ridden, struggling to make the beast match his strides. Ceredon rushed up to them and released Lady Audrianna.

“Let the horse go, Kindren. Then all of you get back,” he said. “And don’t fall.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, instead hastening along the mass of panicked elves and humans. He spotted the familiar, beautiful woman he’d seen earlier, still sitting astride her horse, her wavy dark hair like onyx threads. She appeared supernaturally calm, her shoulders thrown back while she squinted toward the forest, tracing the demon’s movements behind the trees.

“You!” Ceredon shouted when he drew near.

The woman glanced down at him and stared. On one side of her was a young soldier with a forked blond beard, and the odd, redheaded man in the bright green robe was on the other.

Ceredon stopped running and bent over, hands on his knees, as he panted. “Do you lead the soldiers?” he asked in the human tongue.

“I do,” she replied.

“We haven’t much time. Gather your men. Horsemen on the flanks, foot soldiers in the middle. Anyone else of use, have them line up in front of the cliff. We’ll assault the demon with all we have.”

The woman nodded. No argument, no questions. A human with a solid head on her shoulders. Ceredon opened his mouth to say more, but he was silenced by the shattering of trees on the far edge of the forest. The demon emerged howling.

Whatever meager plans they had made would have to do.

The Darakken had come to feast.

Laurel hid beneath a mound of stinking hay that was heaped in the back of a wooden cart. Lyana was beside her, dressed in civilian rags this time, dagger held firmly in her hand. They waited for the soft sound of marching feet to pass them by before pushing aside a few moldy strands of hay to peek out into the city beyond. They could see nothing.

“All clear,” whispered a man’s voice. “It’s safe to come out now.”

With a sigh, Laurel pushed herself out of the heap and dropped to the cobbled road. Lyana did the same. They stood there for a few moments, brushing hay fibers from their clothes while keeping a vigilant eye on the empty streets. The sky was growing dark, and there was no sign of anyone else approaching. That meant the two women were either the last to arrive or the only ones who would.

The owner of the cart, an old farmer named Jinkin Heelswool, tipped his cap to them from atop the wagon. “Where you be day after next? Here?”

“I don’t know,” said Laurel.

“Okay,” the old man said, nodding. “If needs be, you know how to contact me.”

“We will. Thank you again, Jinkin.”

“It’s my pleasure, milady. You take care of yourselves now.”

“We’ll try,” said Lyana. “You too.”

Jinkin ushered the two wretched mares that pulled his cart onward. Laurel watched him go as she and Lyana crept toward the shadows cast by the building to her left. She hoped he made it back to his meager fields without incident. Jinkin had been a boon for them; his family had a longstanding relationship with House Vaelor, Jinkin’s own son serving as master chef at the Castle of the Lion before the war had come and yanked all men of fighting age away. When the Forgotten King’s Renegades, as those who fought loyally with Laurel had come to call themselves, had been forced to flee the caverns beneath the Black Bend, the king himself had called upon the old man, asking his assistance in moving around unnoticed. Jinkin had been the only planter who kept proper stores when winter hit, and when he presented that bounty to Veldaren’s new ruling class-namely the zealot priest Joben Tustlewhite-he was given uninhibited access to the city. His wagons came to deliver foodstuffs to the castle and beyond daily, guided by him and his eight daughters. Now, however, they carried with them other cargo as well-the rebellion itself. When Laurel had asked him why he would agree to so dangerous a task, his answer was inspiring. “What future is there for us if we ain’t free?” he’d said. “In the world as it is now, we’re nothin’ but slaves. I think we deserve better. By the abyss, Karak promised us better.”

She couldn’t have agreed more.

“Come, Lyana,” she said. “Let’s see if the others made it.”

Laurel hurried down an alley until she reached the rear entrance of a massive storehouse. It was one of three similar buildings that sat side by side on Merchants’ Road. The storehouses had become home to the destitute, those who had lived in the streets and feared the lions’ claws, in the time since Tustlewhite and the Judges took power. At least that’s what Laurel had heard.

The storehouse door entered into a space forty feet long, sixty feet wide, and twenty feet high. Nearly every inch of space was occupied by people, jammed together shoulder to shoulder. Most turned to her and Lyana as they gently closed and barred the door. It was quite dark, as the building had no windows, and there were very few candles lit. Despite that and the anxious look in their eyes, Laurel smiled at them. Though there were many she didn’t recognize, she did notice quite a few familiar faces, some that she herself had saved from the streets.

People nodded to them as Laurel and Lyana snaked their way through the human maze, but none spoke. Silence was tenet now. The Judges were leaving the castle earlier and earlier, and on this day their first roars had come more than two hours before sunset. That being the case, and with the rebellion switching locations every two days, they were forced to move about during daylight hours. If not for the old man’s aid, they would’ve been snuffed out long ago.

The storehouse had a loft area ten feet up the wall, and she could see people lingering about up there as well. She started to walk toward the hanging ladder, only to notice that the massive gathering of people kept clear of a section of floor to her right. She went there instead, Lyana stalking silently behind her. Those gathered in the circle backed up even more. One of them, a former bandit Lyana had brought to the caverns, stepped forward. He bent over, grabbed a metal ring embedded in the floor, and pulled. A solid set of boards lifted, exposing a portal into the darkness below. Laurel silently thanked the man, then knelt down and found the ladder.

She descended into darkness, and when she reached the bottom, there were three men there to greet her, the one in the middle holding a candle. They were former members of the Palace Guard, still wearing their purple sashes with pride. They helped her off the ladder’s final rung, which hung two feet off the ground. “Jericho, Luddard, Crillson,” she said with a nod. The men smiled. Minister Mori had once told her that it meant a great deal to the guards for those they protected to call them by their true names, simply because so few did. It was a lesson Laurel had found true.

The three guards then stood back as Lyana effortlessly dropped from the ladder. Their smiles melted away when they nodded to the girl. Their expressions grew hard, understanding. To the guards, Lyana wasn’t a ward to be protected; rather, she was a warrior, even if she was the granddaughter of the woman they loved best. Though Laurel was revered by them, Lyana was treated like a sister, perhaps even an equal.