David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

“Who are you really?” Talon asked, his voice shaking.

“Just who I said I am. Rachida Mori, a child of Karak’s First Families.”

“You speak of treason.”

“I do.”

Talon’s indecision seemed to grow.

“Karak swore he would punish us for the betrayal.”

Rachida forced a smile.

“Did he? Do you think he’ll hunt down each and every one of you? Scour the lands, and for what? Petty revenge? Our beloved creator cares not for such things, and he cares not for us , his children. His war against Ashhur is all he loves. You have a choice, Captain Blackwolfe. Remain here in the cold and die, or take your life in your own hands.”

“It’s madness,” Talon said, though his eyes began to show a spark of hope. “How would we even do such a thing? How would the men be fully supplied? Are your wagons fully stocked?”

“They aren’t.”

“Then how?” he asked, frowning.

To that, Rachida smiled. “The spellcasters, Captain. You said they aren’t starving, so I say we find out why that is the case.”

Talon shook his head. “It won’t work. I told you, they’ll kill you the moment you try to attack.”

“Who said anything about attacking? I mean to walk up to their gates and ask.”

“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?”