David Dalglish - Blood Of Gods

Three down, at least.

Moira remained in her crouch, turning this way and that, searching for her next target. With the rain falling as hard as it was, she could see only vague outlines. In front of a storehouse she thought she saw three men hustling along. As she rose to her feet, she heard a screech in the distance, followed by steel meeting steel. Heart racing, knowing someone had been discovered, she leapt into action.

Of the three, she took two out quickly and easily, piercing one through the back and into heart, and the other with a wicked tear across his throat. In her haste she missed the killing blow on the third, her light sword whacking harmlessly off his gorget instead of piercing his throat. The surviving soldier wheeled around, and she caught his terrified expression in a flash of lightning. The man hacked wildly with his sword, but Moira was a blur. She parried his chop with one sword while ducking down and lashing out with her second. The blade carved a chunk out of the soldier’s knee, where his boot met his chainmail, and he began stumbling. His sword fell from his hand as he begged for his life.

She was about to kill him when something collided with her from behind, sending her crashing into the pleading soldier. They both tumbled to the sopping earth in a wild tangle of arms and legs, and she lost hold of one of her swords as she fell.

Muddy water was in her eyes, blinding her, but she felt a tingling sensation in her gut and rolled to the side, away from the gasping soldier. The flat end of a pole whacked against the soldier’s face, snapping his nose with a crack that could be heard even over the wind and driving rain. The soldier shrieked. Moira ducked into a summersault, avoiding yet another attempt to strike her.

When she got out of her roll she frantically wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. There were three short, young men in red robes pressing in on her, each holding a long rod out before them. Their movements were tentative and uncoordinated, and what she could see of their faces showed them to be just boys, the oldest thirteen, perhaps fourteen at best. It doesn’t matter. They’re acolytes of Karak, and acolytes become priests. Still, it was difficult to look at the frightened youths’ eyes and not feel sorry for them. She backed away, holding her remaining sword out in front of her, hoping they would turn and flee, so she wouldn’t have to kill them.

In the end, Gull did the deed for her. The stoic man appeared from out of the rain, his longsword swiping in measured arcs, cutting down each of the acolytes before he had a chance to turn. The deed done, Gull drove his blade into a fallen soldier’s throat and then whipped it out before him, flicking the blood from the steel before sheathing it on his back.

“It’s over,” he said. He bowed to her and turned away. Moira sheathed one sword, retrieved the other, and joined the rest of her Movers at the storehouse.

All seventeen soldiers were dead, as were ten of the twelve acolytes, the other two having scampered off into the night.

“Should we give chase?” Rodin asked.

“Leave them,” Moira said, kneeling beside Willer, the only man injured of their group. “The wolves or coyotes will find them before they cross the miles to the nearest village.”

“What if they return?” asked Danco.

“Won’t matter,” Moira said, still staring at Willer. “They’re two boys. Not a threat.”

“I. . I’m sorry,” Willer blubbered. He lay in Tabar’s arms, hands clutching his gut, which bore a deep, bloody stab wound. “I thought I had him. . ”

Moira met Tabar’s eyes, and she mouthed her question. In answer, the seemingly unsympathetic man slowly shook his head.

“Hush now,” said Tabar calmly. Willer obeyed, sniveling in silence as rain pelted his body. Tabar placed his palm over Willer’s eyes, slid his dagger from his belt, and drove the blade into the young man’s heart. Blood poured over Tabar’s fist as Willer’s body offered a few last spasms and then fell still. The deed done, Tabar slid the young Mover off his lap and stood up. The other Movers gathered around their fallen companion, heads bowed in respect.

“He died fighting,” said Gull. “A worthy death for an unworthy man, for on this day, he was not good enough.”

“Here, here,” the rest of them answered, and then they went back about their business.

It was a shockingly chilling goodbye, Moira thought.

They hauled Willer’s corpse, along with those of the dead sentries and acolytes, onto the clipper. After dumping a barrel of lamp oil onto the deck of the clipper and the four barges, Gull set them aflame. When the lines tying them to the dock were cut, the five flaming ships moved slowly south with the Rigon’s current, like sluggish, indifferent hell beasts. Moira and her Movers proceeded to shatter the rafts with axes from the boathouse before setting fire to the boathouse itself, the barracks and the docks along with it.

Before long the rain stopped, and with the fires raging it was as bright and hot as a summer day in the delta. Only the stable and the four shacks housing the food stores remained untouched. Moira gazed at them, then the stables, and finally at the six rickety wagons sitting idle at the top of the rise. She thought of what Rachida, always the altruistic one in their relationship, would have done. She would help as many as she could.

“What do we do now?” asked Rodin, throwing his arm around her. “You’ve completed the task Lady Catherine set you to.” Moira thought to wiggle out of his grasp but decided against it. Her emotions were still on edge after the deaths of Willer and the young acolytes. She would take comfort from whoever offered it, even if that someone was a cold-hearted bastard like all her Movers were. She rested her head on his shoulder, pretending he was Rachida. The mirage almost worked.

“There are nine horses in the stables,” she said wearily. “They’re old, but they’ll do to pull those wagons up there. I’ll load them up with food and then strike out north. I’m sure there are many folks starving right now. I can feed them on my way to Veldaren.”

“What’s in Veldaren?”

She shrugged. “The king of Neldar, and hopefully Cornwall Lawrence’s last surviving heir.”

Rodin gazed down at her, giving her a knowing half smile.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, playfully punching him. “I promised Elias I would bring Laurel safely back to Omnmount to take her rightful seat. I’m not one to turn my back on promises.”

She thought of her promise to Rachida, and her bed play with Penetta, one of Catherine Brennan’s maids, and guilt snapped her mouth shut.

Thankfully, Rodin changed the subject as they climbed back up the rise together. “What of the rest of the food? It will go to rot eventually, if it doesn’t attract predators first. Seems like such a waste.”

“Oh, it won’t be wasted.”

“No?”

“Absolutely not.”

“And why would that be?”

She smiled up at him, and once they reached the top of the hill, where the muddy access road stretched off to the northeast, she shoved away from the man and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Hey, all of you!” she shouted. “I know you’re out there. Come show yourselves.”

Rodin passed her a queer look, but she simply nodded to him and tapped her foot. For a long while there was nothing but the rustling of the leafless trees in the wind, but then a few shadowy forms emerged. There were only a couple at first, but more and more exited the forest on either side of the road. They were old men, women both young and old, and children; at least two hundred staggering beings, all wandering up to them with wary yet hopeful eyes. The children led the procession, a familiar disheveled boy at the front.