David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

Quite , Rachida thought, but remained silent.

“It’s not a normal life she wants,” Turock said, face darkening. “She wants us to go to war.”

Abigail’s mouth drew into a thin line.

“My family is in Mordeina,” she said. “Byron, Jarak, Pendet-our children -are there. You swore to me the only reason we did not aid them was because of the siege. We had to protect our people, you said. But if the siege breaks. . ”

Her voice trailed off, the silence full of questions and threats. Turock dropped his arms to his sides, head drooping.

“If the siege breaks, to Mordeina we go,” he said.

“I thought so,” said Abigail before looking back at Rachida. “I’m sorry if he was being difficult. Men can be stubborn and stupid. You’re a wife. I’m sure you understand.”

Rachida grinned but did not reply.

The next day, after the first solid night’s sleep since she’d left Port Lancaster a lifetime ago, Rachida brokered peace between Drake and the soldiers of Karak. For a full day they held a massive feast outside the township’s earthen walls as the weary soldiers ate and drank and even cried. Harsh times make for strange bedfellows, thought Rachida. Her words to Turock were proven true the day after, when the majority of the two thousand men departed across the roaring Gihon, filled to the brim with supplies the Drake spellcasters conjured for them. They had the look of hope on their faces, even though they were a long way from home, and she was certain many wouldn’t survive such a harrowing journey in the dead of winter.

Talon also stayed true to his word, as the captain and two hundred others vowed themselves to Rachida’s cause. Three days after that, when all the supply wagons were packed once more, this time including a hefty pile of topaz for the spellcasters to use to create food, they began the march south. Her six hundred soldiers had swelled to nearly eight hundred with the defectors added, and a glum Turock joined her along with twenty-two of his remaining spellcasters. He had pledged a promise to Abigail that he would return with their children. His wife, the rest of the townspeople, and most of the civilians, stayed behind in Drake, protected by their earthen walls and with enough men of magic to feed and protect them.

“To Mordeina?” Quester asked, trotting alongside her on his horse.

“To Mordeina,” she answered.

“I’ll be honest with you. I’m more than a little eager. Haven’t had a good scuffle in weeks. My sword arm is itching.”

The sun overhead was bright, and the air was warm for the first time in quite a while. For a moment she was reminded of Haven and the home she and Moira had built, but that thought led to another about Peytr and his deception.

“Mine too,” she said, and kept on riding.

The storm was on them. A freezing rain blew sideways, the wind howling directly into their faces as they peered over the rise. To Moira, this was ideal. The wind blowing toward them meant they were upwind from their targets, so they needn’t worry about making too much noise. Any stray step or clank of steel would be covered up by the pounding rain and incessant wind.

“What are we facing down there?” asked Tabar. He had to raise his voice a bit to be heard over the clamor.

“There is a clipper, four barges, and many rafts,” Moira answered. “Seventeen soldiers are working around the rafts. Looks like they’re preparing to load them. And another twelve in red cloaks wandering about. Who are they?”

“Acolytes,” said Gull.

“Acolytes,” Rodin agreed.

Moira stretched, propping herself up on her elbows to get a better view. She and her Movers were spying on the docks built by Karak’s Army for transporting their goods across the river, then to be carried by horse and wagon to the standing army half a world away. The docks were forty miles from Omnmount, and Elias Gandrem had said that the acolytes left Omnmount with the last of the autumn harvest weeks ago. Moira had been disheartened by the news at the time, fearing the sixteen tons of food taken from Omnmount would be long gone. But luck was with her, and when she arrived, she found the three storehouses packed full with dried fruits, salted meats, and crate after crate of pickled vegetables, eggs, and mushrooms. She still had the chance to deny her god his much-needed supplies.

One of the soldiers turned toward their position at the top of the ridge over the river’s edge, and she ducked down out of sight behind a mound of dirt. For the briefest of moments she’d seen his face; the man looked tired, moved sluggishly, and Moira realized that these soldiers had likely traveled all the way from Paradise to bring the food back to their god’s army, because Catherine had killed the few hundred soldiers who’d remained in Neldar. Danco sidled up to her, his long, dark hair sticking to his face.

“Why haven’t they sent it all west already?” he asked.

“They haven’t been able to.” She grinned. “For once, fortune smiles on us.”

“So what is the plan?” asked Willer.

Moira smirked at him. “We go down there, kill them all, and to the victors belong the spoils.”

“That’s a lot of spoils for just six men,” said Gull. “What would we do with it all?”

Moira turned about, gazing into the forest behind them, sensing eyes on her. “Don’t worry about that. Let’s do what we came here to do; I’ll figure the rest out later.”

“Now that is a plan I can support,” said Rodin cheerily.

A few minutes later, Moira was running along the edge of the ridge, keeping herself out of sight. The strategy was simple: She and the Movers would fan out, sneaking around while hidden by the many storehouses and boathouses, taking out as many sentries and acolytes as they could. Should anyone encounter trouble, they were to sprint for the open space closest to the river, screaming to alert the others. Then the rest would come running, and together they would fend off their attackers.

Moira knew it wouldn’t come to that.

She reached a pair of wooden structures and ducked between them, using the slickness of the sodden earth to her advantage. She was able to move quickly, sliding from one post to the next while barely lifting her feet off the ground. She slithered on her belly once she reached the end of the structures, approaching the hill that led down to the docks. Freezing, muddy water splashed into her mouth, sending a sharp pain through her teeth, which were still sore from her recent sickness. A moment later she heard what sounded like a faraway grunt and an even fainter splash. Those down below would think it nothing, but Moira knew the Movers had claimed their first life of the evening.

There were two forms lingering by the bottom of the hill: a soldier and an acolyte. The soldier stood tall and rigid while the young acolyte squirmed, constantly squeezing rainwater from his soaked red cloak. The soldier was saying something, but she couldn’t hear what. Moira remained on her belly, keeping close to the unkempt grasses as she inched along. When the soldier suddenly turned, she froze, thinking herself foolish for assuming it’d be so easy. He seemed to stare right at her, his face bathed in darkness as the rain beat against him, but a moment later he turned back around, his shoulders visibly slumping.

She was mere inches from them when she gradually rose to a crouch. The rain picked up, growing louder and masking the sound of her drawing her swords. When the acolyte looked in the other direction, she jabbed upward with her left hand, the tip of her sword dipping beneath the soldier’s helm and piercing the base of his skull. Moira shoved hard, driving the blade into his brain, before quickly yanking her sword free. The soldier teetered forward and then fell. Finally the acolyte seemed to notice something was wrong. He took an inquisitive step forward, standing over the fallen man. “Pate?” he asked, sounding confused. Moira slipped behind him and crossed both swords in front of his neck, pulling backward. The blades sliced open his jugular, and the young man collapsed on the muck-covered ground, clawing at his throat as he gargled the last of his breath away.