Brian Anderson - Shadow of the Gods

Millet looked at the gardener and his son. Their jaws were tight and their eyes blazed with determination. He sighed. “Very well. But you must do exactly as I say.”

“The faithful may not even come here,” offered Dina.

“They'll come,” said Millet.

“But how can you be sure?” asked Dina.

“If these are the same lot we ran into in Baltria, then they're likely nobles or maybe merchants,” said Millet. “I know how they think. They'll want to dispose of us quickly and quietly, before we can get ready for them or flee. By now they will know who I am, and without Lee here as protection, they will not fear me. They'll either try and take me prisoner, and torture me for information, or just simply kill me.” He shrugged. “Whatever they do, it will not be in the open. They'll come at night.”

After the meal Trevor and Lydia cleaned the dishes, then made their way into town. Millet went over his plan with Dina, then helped Barty and Randson secure the front door and windows, as well as the stables. Dina busied herself with other preparations. Before long, the sun was sinking low in the sky and the chill air made the crackling fire a welcome sight.

“All is ready,” said Barty, as he, Dina and Randson entered.

Millet was sitting in a leather chair by the fire, staring intently at the dancing flames. He glanced up and smiled. “Good.” He stood up from his chair and looked at each of them for a moment. “If you want to go to the Stedding farm, now is the time.” No one replied. “Then I suppose it's time for bed.”

The lanterns burned brightly in the front of Starfinder manor that night, as they did every night. The sound of restless horses in the nearby stables carried on the chill night air, masking the rustle of the approaching footfalls of two cloaked figures. One was tall and thin, the other shorter and portly. They made their way around the edge of the yard, then to the back of the house.

“Are you certain he's inside?” whispered the short man.

The other brought his finger to the side of his nose and scanned the area. He pointed to the second window from the corner of the house. The short man nodded, then slowly pushed it open. The soft sound of the well-crafted window sliding upward caused both men to wince. They paused and waited to see if they had been heard, but to their relief, no one inside stirred.

The tall man peered inside. Blackness stared back at him. After a minute his eyes began to adjust and he could see that the window led to a small pantry. Shelves filled with cans and jars lined the walls; herbs and dried meats hung from small hooks on the ceiling. He looked back to his companion and nodded sharply. Carefully, he pulled himself inside and gently placed his moccasin-covered feet on the floor. The slight squeak of wood against wood was like a thunderclap, but he ignored it and went on.

He crept to the door at the far end and cracked it open. He could see no one. He glanced behind him to make sure his companion was following, but to his dismay, he was still alone. The tall man hissed, but there was no response.

“Devon,” he whispered, angrily. “Get in here.” But Devon was silent. His lip curled with anger. He drew his knife and crept to the window. Devon was nowhere to be seen. Coward, he thought. I'll have his hide for this. Devon had been far from his first choice to go with him on this mission. He was fat, clumsy, and not very bright. But his father was rich, and had largely funded the efforts of the faithful in Sharpstone. However, rich or not, the faithful would not tolerate a coward.

He tip-toed back to the door. Going on alone was a risk, even if Starfinder wasn't in the house, but there was no backing out now. He knew what would happen to him if he failed. He pushed the door open wider and ever so slowly stepped silently into the kitchen. The room was still warm from an earlier meal, and the air bore the scent of roast meat and bread. Beads of sweat quickly formed on his brow.

At the far end of the room was a door that he assumed led to the dining hall. From there he needed to make his way to the other end of the house to the sleeping chambers. One of Starfinder's less-than-loyal servants had given them a good description of the layout, and he had been over it several times. Still, there was always the chance that it was inaccurate. He shifted his knife into his left hand, dried his palm on his trousers, and took a slow, deep breath.

He heard movement behind him coming from the pantry. The coward regained his nerve. He was almost at the kitchen door when it burst open. A dark figure stood in the doorway, the glint of steel shining through the darkness. He instinctively raised his knife. Then there was a thud and sharp pain to the back of his head. He fell to his knees, his knife falling from his grasp.

“I surrender!” he cried.

The figure in the doorway stepped forward, his face still obscure by darkness. “Again.”

Another blow came from behind; this one sent him into unconsciousness.

Millet paced the floor in the main hall while Dina was seated in a chair by the fire reading calmly. Her honey-blond hair was pushed back, revealing her delicate features. Her lips were twisted into a tiny smile, as she fingered through the pages of a Baltrian comedy. He stopped to look at the two bound, unconscious men in the corner. Their hoods had been thrown back from their black cloaks. The tall one was dark-haired and tan, with long features and narrow-set eyes. The short plump one, had the look of a true aristocrat. Soft pale skin and well-oiled black hair. Millet wondered why they would send someone like this to kill him. Clearly they didn't think the task would be difficult. Barty was kneeling next to them, a short sword in hand; his son on the other side holding a thick herding club.

“Do you know them?” asked Millet.

Barty nodded. “The fat one is called Devon. The other fellow goes by Sherone. Both are from Baltria, I think. At least that’s what they sound like when they talk, and Devon does most of that. He's a bit of a braggart.” He cupped Devon's chin in his hand. “Goes 'round telling tales of his adventures. Not that anyone believes a word of it, but he's free with his gold, so no one seems to mind.”

“Do you recognize them?” Dina asked Millet, without looking up from her book.

“No,” he replied. “But it has been many years since I associated with the nobles of Baltria. These two don't look to be old enough for me to have known them, when Lee and I lived there.”

“What do you intend to do with them?” asked Barty.

Millet's eyes shot to Dina, who gave him a knowing look.

“I cannot ask you or your son to participate in what is about to happen,” said Millet.

Barty rose to his feet. His face flushed. “I see.” He turned to his son. “Go to the Stedding farm.”

Randson glared at his father defiantly, and squared his shoulders.

Barty heaved a sigh. “Not this time, boy.” He placed his hand on Randson's arm.

“I will not leave you,” said Randson. His voice was deep and powerful.

Dina looked up with raised eyebrows, realizing this was the first time she had heard Randson speak.

Barty looked at Millet then back to his son. “If Lord Millet is going to do what I think he's going to do, then I will not have you a part of this.”

“And if you think I am blind to what these people are up to, then you think me stupid,” said Randson. “They have practically enslaved Sharpstone. People are afraid to speak against the faithful out of fear they'll lose all they own. They curse the Gods openly, and mock those who refuse to do the same.” His knuckles turned white wrapped around the club. “And now they come here to do murder. If Lord Millet decides they should die, then it's no less than they deserve. You taught me right from wrong, father. And we are in the right.”