The soothsayer, p.23
The Soothsayer, page 23
Absalom picked up his lockpick and went inside. He surveyed the living area and grabbed the line from Rustag. “I’ll leave you to opening the other doors on this street,” Absalom said. “But before you do, give me the rope there and the oil and powder. I’m going to make a fuse.”
“Will that bit of string burn like you want it to?” Rustag fingered the line in his hand. “Seems like it might smolder.”
“Normally I’d say you’re right, but if we coat it in the oil and powder itself, it should burn much more quickly. Grab those tables and chairs and anything else that you see. When this barrel goes off, we need as much debris flying out as possible.”
Within a minute, Rustag had piled furniture up against the windows facing the street. Absalom finished coating the line and, with a quick thrust of his dagger, punctured the barrel and placed the end of the fuse into it.
Rustag nodded and hurried out the door to the next house, grabbing more barrels from the cart. Within several minutes they had set charges up and down the street throughout the homes that lined the road. Absalom covertly placed and tied together the long fuses leading from each house to one single knotted line in the middle of the cobblestone street. As they worked, they softly called out to see if survivors hid in the empty homes. No answers came.
The shadows of the Amorite troops reflected on the path ahead as their torch fires came closer.
Absalom and Rustag crouched next to the knotted fuse in the middle of the street.
“It’s not the subtlest ignition point, but it’ll have to do,” Absalom whispered. “All we have to do is light it and run.”
“It will be good to see their bodies flying in burning masses,” Rustag replied.
Absalom glanced at the giant man kneeling next to him. “You’re demented. Do you know that?”
Rustag nodded and smiled.
The black armored warriors flooded into view; many carried torches, setting the buildings ablaze as they approached the choke point trap. Absalom watched nervously as smoke billowed from the windows and fiery tendrils coursed up nearby rooftops. One meandering spark could easily set off the fuses, but a slight breeze kept the embers from traveling near them.
Thank the Maker for small miracles, he thought as he spied a runt of a warrior pounding on a cruel-looking war drum made of bone. Others in the front of the horde ran forward on all fours like wolves chasing prey.
“They’re barely men.” Rustag grimaced. “They need to be put down.” He pulled out a piece of flint and a stone, ready to start the spark.
“Wait! Just a little closer . . .” Absalom hissed. “We can only do this once.”
The horde marched forward, their torchlight eating away the shadows in the street. Absalom knew he and Rustag would be spotted within a minute or less.
As the mass drew closer, one scout tripped on the fuse and paused. The Amorite slowly pulled the rope up from the street and saw its line arc up to other houses on either side. The warrior crept into the doorway of a home to investigate.
Absalom’s face went white. The trap would be discovered.
“Light it!” Absalom hissed to Rustag. “And pray to the Maker that we can outrun the charge!” He turned and raced at the Amorite, blade drawn, as Rustag lit the fuse.
Absalom could hear the spark chasing his heels.
chapter 47
Signs of Betrayal
BALAAM LOCKED HIS KNEES TO counter the ship’s sway, but stumbled on the deck as a large breaker hit the vessel’s side. The journey to the Amorite ship had been uneventful. The barge had met Mariselle’s advisor and the rest of her servants on the coast only a mile from where they parted ways. With a good deal of grunting and cursing, her counselor had managed to climb aboard, nearly falling into the wash in the process. Now, the vessel’s captain cursed in his Median dialect as he navigated to Gilead’s harbor.
“Sit yer arse down, fool!” the captain yelled at the advisor. “Likely as not, we’ll take cannon fire off the port and starboard, and I’m not getting paid to deliver corpses.”
The advisor quickly sat on a coil of rope.
“Not there, ya fool!” the captain barked again, and Mariselle’s man jumped up again. Balaam watched in horror as blazing fireballs, catapulted from the decks of the Amorite ships in view, blasted the docks and high walls of the city. In the dim firelight, he could see figures on each vessel working with expert speed as they prepared the next barrage of heavy stones, covering them in pitch and setting them ablaze before sending them flying. As the barge weaved between the anchored ships, Balaam counted their number—at least twenty—but it was not until they had reached the back of the blockade that he saw the actual threat. A massive vessel, easily the size of three of the others combined, with four masts and three rows of cannons protruding from the ship’s side gun ports came into view. Upon the masthead was a horrific face that Balaam could only glance at before turning away. A crane line dropped from the colossal galleon, and a platform was lowered to the barge. Balaam was pushed onto it along with several barrels and the advisor, who clung to the ropes for dear life.
The crew of the black galleon wore the same frightful masks as the soldiers attacking Gilead. Balaam wondered if it had some other purpose besides putting fear into their enemy’s hearts. Perhaps the men were scarred, or the faceplates kept them from feeling shame as they ravaged their victims. As he peered around at the deckhands, his attention was instantly drawn to midship. Between the masts was an altar of bone, easily five feet high and adorned with gaudy finery and fabrics. A green iridescent haze floated above it, and Balaam sensed something very evil was watching him, the deckhands, everything, through the haze.
He watched as the crew moved barrels from below the ship’s deck to the lift. The barge that had ferried Balaam had quickly moved away, and small landing boats had come up alongside the ship in its wake, waiting for the powder kegs to be lowered to them. The ship’s captain opened one of the barrels and studied it. Black powder ran through his fingers. He sealed it and moved it into position to be lifted out. Within a minute, the Amorites had lowered the barrels into the first skiff, and another small boat pulled up.
“They’re supplying the whole fleet,” Balaam muttered as Mariselle’s advisor moved past him.
“Well, I have the report. Where is Master Dagon?” the advisor questioned one of the deckhands. The sailor nodded behind the counselor, and the little man turned, abruptly pulling back. A gaunt figure with reptilian eyes loomed over him.
“Ah. Lord D-Dagon,” the advisor bowed.
“Is this all she sent?” Dagon asked as he peered at Balaam and the other cargo. Balaam looked down, for no reason but to give the illusion that he was as absentminded as any beast.
“Yes, well, for now, but you’ll be happy to know she’s storming the city from the east and—” the advisor started.
“Where’s the boy?” Dagon interrupted.
“The boy?”
Dagon’s eyes widened.
“Oh yes, of course, well, Her Highness fed him to the beast in Korah’s Maw. Your, uh, messengers didn’t seem to think that was sure enough, despite Her Majesty’s assurances.”
Dagon clutched the advisor by his arms and pulled him to within an inch of his face. “Her assurances are worthless,” he whispered. “I wanted him alive and brought to me. You have no idea what she’s let loose. Your services are no longer needed.”
Dagon grabbed the advisor by his throat. The man’s eyes went wide as he gagged for breath. Dagon opened his mouth wide, and black bile gushed, forcing its way down the man’s throat. The counselor shook violently as the putrid essence streamed from his ears and eyes. Finally, Dagon released him. He collapsed like a wet rag onto the deck, lifeless and pale.
Wiping the sludge from his lips, Dagon turned to the altar and began muttering strange words over it. Balaam watched as the green haze grew and then, as if the air itself was being warped by heat, shimmered as a dark fog appeared. The ship’s mast appeared to twist as the haze floated up next to it. Even the deckhands momentarily stopped their duties and took a step back. A hollow crack echoed across the sky, and Mariselle fell from the haze onto the ship’s deck in a flash of light. She lay at Dagon’s feet for a moment before looking up.
“I should have you killed,” Dagon said, “but you’ll serve a purpose yet.”
Mariselle cringed at his words as she lay at his feet.
“This was meant to be a brief engagement.” Dagon walked past her to the altar. “Now I find my warriors are whittled away by half-measures of a ragtag army.”
Mariselle slowly stood with uneasy steps. She cradled her hand, which had been wounded recently judging from the bloodstained cloth it was wrapped in, as she moved next to the sorcerer. “Sire, I can tell you they’re not nearly as well-armed or cunning as you might believe. Their gates are garrisoned by harmless civilians and . . .”
“You let their greatest asset escape.”
“The princess is a child, my lord,” Mariselle continued. “She’s no threat.”
“The boy!” Dagon screamed. “Since the horn’s call, I’ve sensed him hovering, like a fly in my ear. There is something to him, something I can’t put my finger on.”
“The boy?” Mariselle shook her head. “The boy is dead.”
“And the horn? The old man’s scroll? Do you have them?”
Mariselle swallowed. “My lord, the scroll was lost some time ago, and the horn . . . Well, it’s only a shell. A poorly made trifle. I could have a grander one made for you . . .”
“You have no idea what it is.” Dagon’s eyes flared. “Nor the wrath unleashed on both our heads if we fail to obtain it.” He moved past her to the ship’s railings and pulled a long silver chain from around his neck; a black bone whistle was attached to the bottom. He pursed it to his lips and played a single note.
Balaam’s eyes widened as he caught sight of a faint green glow emanating briefly from the saddlebags across his back and heard a muffled sound echo back.
Dagon spun around and scanned the deck. “No, could it be?” He moved past Balaam and ripped open one of the crates on the deck. “I heard it!”
Balaam backed away and peered around. Soon there would be no hiding it and nowhere to run. The whistle glistened in the moonlight as it dangled around the sorcerer’s neck. Dagon turned to face the donkey. A questioning glance spread across his face.
“Could it be?” He grasped the whistle once more.
“I told you I found nothing in the castle!” Mariselle motioned to Dagon. “I suspect Samuel kept them in his shack.”
Dagon dropped the whistle to his neck again and glanced back at her, scowling.
“When we march into the castle and slaughter the last of the resistance, I’ll have a dispatch find them,” Mariselle continued. “It should be easy enough. The civilians are harmless, at best.”
Balaam saw his chance. He leaned forward and wrenched the whistle and its line from Dagon’s throat. Quickly he bit down on the piece and felt it shatter in his mouth before he tried to swallow it. The shards caught in his gullet, and he threw them up instantly.
Dagon spun around. “Damnable beast!” He kicked the mule aside and stared at the broken instrument in the bile.
Disgusted, he turned back to Mariselle. “Pray you’re right, woman. The Dark Lord requires them, and he gives far less grace than I do.” Dagon moved past her to the bone table. Mariselle glanced back at her advisor’s lifeless body and breathed to steady herself.
“See now.” Dagon motioned toward the haze still hovering above the altar. Mariselle turned to study it. The green miasma formed a smoky circle in midair. Figures came into view through the mist as if seen through a cloudy glass. Balaam moved from his corner of the deck unnoticed. He slowly made his way behind the sorcerer and saw in the green vapor the silhouettes of Absalom and Rustag as they positioned powder kegs among houses within the city.
“Your harmless civilians are about to spring a death on my warriors,” Dagon breathed as he watched the figures intently through the haze. “They will fail, of course.”
“How?” Mariselle asked.
Dagon turned to face her and smiled. “Because you will keep my men alive.” He pulled a curved bone-handled blade from his belt.
Mariselle backed away. “I’m your chosen, your w-wolf.”
“Every dog has its day,” Dagon replied, “and now yours draws to an end.”
chapter 48
The Final Gift
COLIN MADE HIS WAY UNDER the dark dead limbs of the ancient forest. His meager torchlight barely lit the path around him. The rain had stopped, but the cold was chilling. As he followed the trail, he felt it begin to slope downward. His feet left small pools in the wet ground, and the snapping of branches echoed as he shuffled forward. His breath steamed in the frigid air. He was thankful for the torch fire, holding it close to feel its warmth. After a good hour, the path widened again until Colin came to a clearing. A small hill rose in the middle of the clearing, and atop it was a lone gnarled tree, blackened and lifeless. A cruel split ran from the top branches to its lower trunk.
Colin’s eyes widened as he stared at it. It was as if time had stopped since that ancient day of bloodshed and seared the scar of that act permanently into the land. Colin shivered. The foul smell of rot wafted from the soil. How could something so ugly offer hope?
The clearing was silent—no bird calls, no owl cries. Even the wind was mute. As Colin moved up the hill to the tree, the ground became harder and as lifeless as the woods around him. No blade of grass grew here, and the puddles were filled with brackish water the color of blood.
Samuel must’ve been wrong. People came for healing here? It’s practically a cesspool.
Colin reached out to the blackened husk of one of the tree’s roots. A chill ran up his fingers as if he had pressed on a meat locker door. He brought his torch closer, and there, in the deepest part of the tree’s split core, he saw a tiny bit of amber resin. His eyes searched around the limbs for any other indications of the balm, but the tree was barren.
This must be it. Whatever other magic this thing had is gone. Maybe . . .
A stabbing pain ripped through Colin’s shoulder.
He felt the bite and jerked around to see a hooded Hissith towering over him, his blood dripping from its fangs. Colin fell back as the demon slashed at him with its claws. He threw his torch at the beast, singeing its side. The Hissith howled and slithered back into the shadows. Colin glanced at his wound and saw the bite was already infected. Venom bubbled from the puncture and, like acid, was eating away at his shirt. Colin’s arm felt numb. He reached for the still-burning torch, but fiery needles shot through his arm and into the base of his skull. His hand fell lifelessly to his side. He grabbed the light with his other hand and waved it frantically around in case the beast tried to attack again.
Hissssss.
The sound was behind him now.
Colin strained his neck to see two sets of serpentine eyes watching him from the gloom just outside the torch’s light.
They inched closer.
Two voices broke through to Colin’s mind, coherent but wholly inhuman.
He will sssleep soon. Already he weakensss.
Yes, sssleep, little morsel. Drop the nasty flame and dream.
Hisssss. Perhapsss we take a bite? Before we deliver him?
Yesss, a little bite. He is fresh and sssweet.
“You take a bite and I’ll burn your ass to the ground!” Colin screamed at them.
The Hissith paused.
He hears usss? How can he hear usss?
“I hear you very well!” Colin yelled and lurched forward with the torch. The creatures retreated a few feet.
What can he do? Only a boy. Alone. Sssleep, little morsel.
The serpents’ voices enticed him, and his eyelids weigh down. All he wanted was to do as they said. His breathing became labored, and resting sounded divine. Surrounded by darkness and death, how could he hope to stop their attacks? Already his torchlight was burning low. Colin’s gaze blurred as he watched the embers dying. He searched for words, some magical phrase that might turn them away, but his mind was empty. Samuel may have marked him as the next soothsayer, but without the Logos, he was nothing. The desire for sleep built like a flood bursting through the dam of his conscious mind.
Colin clenched the torch again and shook his head clear.
No. I didn’t come this far for . . .
Fog filled his brain again. The serpents’ voices seemed almost melodic as they spoke to him.
Releassse and rest.
Give in and die.
The cruel words sounded so sweet. Colin leaned back against the tree. He couldn’t hold back the flood anymore.
“Maker, I can’t do it,” Colin whispered.
One of the Hissith rushed forward and coiled atop Colin’s feet, pinning him against the tree. Behind it, the other drew closer, ready to strike. Colin felt the bark rub against his skin. Its woody splinters pressed up against his bite wound. The demon’s crushing tail pulsed on Colin’s legs, cutting off the blood flow, and its yellow eyes filled his gaze. Colin’s vision darkened as the monster pushed back its hood to reveal its whole countenance. Too exhausted to resist, Colin felt consciousness fleeing from his mind as the bark scratched deeper into his flesh.
Something sticky pushed into his shoulder. Colin turned slightly and saw some of the tree’s sap had dropped into his wound.
Warmth surged across his body.
The hairs on his neck stood on end as if a trumpet had called them to attention, and his vision cleared.
The serpent faltered, its trance broken. A name appeared in Colin’s mind.
“Your name,” Colin gasped, “was Simiel.”
The Hissith drew back as if it had been slapped.
A new vision filled Colin’s mind, and he spoke again.
“You were made a cupbearer to the Maker, and the others called you out. You had to choose in that great battle before the first morning. You were unsure. You wished to be more.”
