Child of a Dead God
Table of Contents
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
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Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,
Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632,
New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, January 2008
Copyright © Barb and J. C. Hendee, 2008
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Hendee, Barb.
Child of a dead god: a novel of the noble dead / Barb & J.C. Hendee.
p. cm.
Hendee, Barb.
Child of a dead god: a novel of the noble dead / Barb & J.C. Hendee.
p. cm.
eISBN : 1-4295-5765-6
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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For J.P. Our sibling by choice
Chane stood in the hidden mountain gorge amid the Crown Range. Light snow drifted down around him as Welstiel’s mad shout rose into the night sky.
"No more! I am finished with you! Go back to where you hide. Find another toy . . . to cheat!”
Chane lifted his eyes to the dark expanse. The winter storm’s cloud cover left the sky black but for one small space that exposed the stars.
Welstiel stared upward, his eyes filled with hate. His disheveled dark hair almost hid the white patches at his temples. Finally he lowered his head, and Chane followed his manic gaze to a switchback path leading up along the gorge wall.
One lone building stood halfway up, cut straight into the ancient stone. A small flicker of light traveled up the path’s last leg, and then a figure stepped out of the structure’s narrow door. Dressed in a pale blue tabard over a dark robe and full cowl, it lifted a torch high to greet two similarly attired figures ascending the path. All three went inside.
“Lock them all in,” Welstiel whispered. “Feed if you must, but leave them alive . . . for now.”
For too many days, Chane had fed only from Welstiel’s life-conjuring cup. At the promise of fresh blood, he dropped his baggage and trotted toward the switchback path.
As he rounded the last turn, dim light spilled from the crack beneath the weathered front door. He slowed and crept quietly up to listen.
More than three voices sounded within. At first he couldn’t follow the words, then realized they spoke Stravinan—of which he knew enough to understand simple conversations. Only the smell of life beyond the door mattered, and he gripped the cold door latch, senses widening. In one fluid move he squeezed it and shoved the door in. It clattered against the inside wall.
Three men and one woman in dark robes and blue tabards stood before a narrow hearth within a small room. All stared dumbly at him. One more elderly woman sat upon a long bench to the left, frozen halfway through pulling off her soiled boots. They took in the sight of him, tall and long limbed, with red-brown hair beneath a hooded wool cloak, and a longsword’s sheath tip peeking from beneath its soiled hem. He was clearly no mountain dweller.
Chane rushed them before he even distinguished their faces and lashed out with both fists.
A woman and a man went down before anyone could flee, and he found himself toe-to-toe with a cowled old man. Tufts of cropped gray-white hair stuck out above a deeply lined face. Then the last of the standing four darted for a stairwell.
Chane had not seen these steps from the entrance. He lunged after the slight figure, grabbing the robe between the shoulders as the man cried out.
“Help! Bandits are upon us!”
Chane braced a foot on the second step and jerked back hard.
The frail young man shot across the entry room. His head and shoulders struck the far wall among cloaks and coats hanging from wooden pegs. He slid down and tumbled off the bench, flopping motionless upon the stone floor. The elderly woman who had been sitting there was gone.
Chane twisted around the stairwell’s partition wall.
Welstiel stood inside the open front door, holding the woman by her throat. His eyes roamed the entry room. Clipped choking sounds rose from the woman’s gaping mouth as she fought for air. She pulled at Welstiel’s grip, but he didn’t notice. She grew weaker with each incomplete gasp, until her hands dropped limply to her sides.
As she sagged in Welstiel’s grip, he released her. She fell, and her head smacked sharply against the stone floor. Chane turned back to the elderly man.
The old priest, monk, whatever he was, watched him with horrified fascination and lifted shaking fingers to his mouth. Chane realized what the old man was truly looking at, and stretched open his jaws, displaying sharpened teeth and elongated fangs.
The old man stiffened, eyes round in his wrinkled face as the scent of fear thickened in the room. It smelled so good that Chane almost felt it on his skin.
“Lock them up,” Welstiel said quietly.
Chane whipped around. “I . . . you . . . said I could feed!” he rasped.
“Too late, too slow,” Welstiel whispered. “You wasted your chance.”
Chane took a quick step toward Welstiel. Pounding footfalls echoed down the stairs from above.
A crowd of people in dusky robes and blue tabards gathered at the top of the steps. One young man backpedaled at the sight of Chane, and then tripped and fell against two others behind him. A clattering of wood filled the entry room as Welstiel slammed the front door shut.
“Finish this!” he snapped, and kicked the crumpled old woman.
The impact lifted her from the floor. She landed across the room atop the bodies of her unconscious companions, and the old man backed away.
Chane looked up the stairwell. He could not count how many were huddled there. When he lunged upward, the tangled mob fled amid panicked cries. Chane crested the stairs before the last one bolted beyond his reach.
Old wooden doors lined the upper passage, each opening into a small stone chamber. He drove the shrieking robed figures before him, and though they struggled to escape, not one struck at him. These mortal cattle would not even fight him for their lives, and Chane grew more spiteful and brutal with each one. He wrenched and flung them into the small cells, their fear-scent making him nearly manic to be finished.
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