Gathering Of The God-Touched (Book 4) (4 page)

“Thank you,” he replied. “I’ll come to the box immediately.”

The man turned to leave, but Garrick placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and the man looked at him with unconcealed fear. This soldier was a simple man, doing his job. But he was afraid this might be the last day he saw his home and his family, and he was afraid of Garrick in ways he could not express.

“Go well today, sir,” Garrick said.

The man’s smile of relief was all Garrick needed to see.

“Thank you, Lord Garrick.”

“Just call me Garrick. We both know I am no lord.”

“Indeed, sir. That I will.”

Garrick grinned as the man left. News of this encounter would be passed around the ranks in rapid fashion. It was something Darien would have done.

“We’ll make a leader of you yet,” Sunathri said with her most mischievous smile.

Garrick grumbled, but he liked the idea that she had noticed.

“Why would Lord Ellesadil want to speak with me?”

“Are you being dense on purpose?”

“No.”

Sunathri smirked. “The lord wishes to see you because he knows you are the key to victory. And he wants to see you now because he wants the members of his army to see him with you. He will use your promise to enhance his own image. You need to learn to take advantage of that.”

He glanced at Will—who was grooming Garrick’s horse with a sense of detachment.

“Can you watch him?”

“Of course.”

Garrick weaved his way through the Dorfort guard as they bent to sharpen their swords and daggers, as they tested bows and prepared their travel kits, and attended to their animals. Families huddled by their husbands, fathers, wives, and daughters.

Which ones would not make it back?

Which of these families would lose loved ones because of his decision to face down the orders?

The thought struck him like cold water to his face.

He tried to ignore comments as he went, but the people of Dorfort were hard to ignore. He sensed both curiosity and fear. They didn’t understand him. They didn’t trust him. They thought this war of Darien’s was a simple skirmish between mages that would soon blow over. A few even felt this was all Garrick’s doing, that he had enspelled Darien to bring him to his sway. These people thought everyone would be safe so long as the politicians stayed out of it. Yet, these same people were preparing to fight, regardless.

That was all because of Ellesadil, of course.

The lord had a calmness about him, a sense of control that gave people reason to follow. Despite fears and doubts, they trusted Ellesadil. They believed in him. If the lord said it was important that they place their lives at risk, then it was important.

Garrick arrived at Ellesadil’s platform.

The lord stood under the observation canopy, before a large chair. He wore a blue tunic edged with silver thread. A riding cape, its fabric dyed goldenrod yellow, hung from the back of his seat. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes said he was older than the rest of his appearance suggested. Those eyes were brown and his gaze steady. His curly dark hair had a few strands of gray running through it.

Lady Ellesadil remained seated in the shade, resplendent in her green dress with golden trim. Rings gleamed from her fingers, and a jeweled necklace clung to the hollow of her throat.

The fineness of the royal couple’s wardrobe seemed out of place in the middle of the glade.

The lord came to stand before Garrick.

“Go with fortune,” he said.

“Thank you, Lord.”

“I have met often with my new captain,” Ellesadil motioned across the field to Darien, “yet, you and I have not had the opportunity to speak. I wanted to provide you my blessings and also make certain you understood the arrangements.”

“I understand the arrangement. Darien leads your army.”

“Do you truly understand?” Ellesadil replied. “Do you feel how the people of my realm are uncertain whether a magewar is something our warriors should die for?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I do feel that. And I understand how unpopular your decision will be if this plan does not succeed. But I also know you understand the true dangers the orders pose, and that you would never have participated if that wasn’t so.”

Ellesadil’s gaze was sharp. “Still, I wouldn’t be throwing my lot with
your
order if I did not retain full control of the effort.”

“It’s not my order.”

“Not yet.”

Suddenly, Garrick understood the real purpose of this discussion.

“You've chosen well, Lord Ellesadil. Darien and I have traveled together for some time. He is a fine man. And Sunathri is the right choice to lead the Freeborn. To put this as boldly as I can, I have no aspirations toward displacing either of them, even if you asked me to.”

Ellesadil smiled warmly.

“Then you are a wiser man than I am,” Ellesadil said with a smile that felt forced.

Garrick laughed, but felt awkward at the same time. “Thank you, I think.” He glanced over the field that was filled with soldiers. “It appears we are nearing the point where we are ready to leave,” he said.

“Go with my blessing, then,” Ellesadil said, extending his hand.

Garrick took it.

Chapter 8

Will was still grooming his horse when Garrick returned. The boy’s face was dark with forced concentration. It was an expression that hurt Garrick. This was going to be a hard conversation. Will had, after all, saved his life when Elman had attacked in the woods outside Arianna’s home. He would not be happy.

A battlefield was no place for a boy, though.

Garrick knew what he needed to do.

Darien drew close on his mount, his father riding alongside him. In addition to the black garb of the Freeborn, Darien wore a silver helm with a crest of red feathers that ran from front to back. His shoulder plates and thigh buckles carried the seal of the city and his shield was painted with two golden slashes that marked him as field commander.

“Are you ready to start?” Darien asked.

“Nearly,” Garrick replied. “Commander J’ravi, I need your help.”

“How can I serve?” Darien’s father responded.

“I need you to take care of the boy until I return.”

“No!” Will cried, wrapping his arms around Garrick’s waist. “I’m coming with you.”

Garrick bent to look Will in the eye. “It’s too dangerous, Will.”

“I want to come.”

“You’re too young for this.”

“No, I’m not! I look out for you! If it weren’t for me, you would already be dead by now.”

Garrick pursed his lips.

“A battlefield is different. You’re a smart boy. You know this is true.”

Tears came to Will’s eyes, but the boy fought them back. “You’ll come back, won’t you?”

Garrick nodded.

“Promise?”

Will’s gaze was intense. He was no more than twelve, but he knew things about life that a boy his age shouldn’t know. He knew adults lied sometimes, but he also knew Garrick had kept his promises before.

“I’ll never lie to you, Will. That means I’ll only promise what I can. And because I don’t know what will happen at God’s Tower, I’ll only promise to return if I’m able.” And he would, too. He liked Will. The boy made him feel good. Will seemed somehow important, and Garrick wanted to make Will’s life better than his had been.

Will embraced him with a hug. “Be careful,” he whispered.

The commander gave a wide smile.

“I think we can manage to keep young Will occupied. I’ve missed having a boy around.”

“Thank you,” Garrick said.

He mounted his horse and straightened himself. Sunathri was already prepared. Her horse blew an anxious snort.

“Trumpeter,” Darien said. “Blow the march!”

The trumpeter raised his instrument then and blew a clear signal to the men. Voices rose in a throaty cheer. Chains rattled, leather creaked, and the march to God’s Tower began.

Chapter 9

Traveling with an army was different from traveling alone.

Rather than being concerned with predators or thieves, the days were filled with problems of simple logistics and gargantuan tempers. There were rumors about the Lectodinian army, and more tales of the Koradictine. Each day brought some perceived contact with one of their spies or scouts, generally in the form of a days-old camp with its cold fire-pit. Nothing of substance.

The triviality of it wore Garrick down. These things were meaningless when compared to the truth of what was to come. He found himself whiling time by mindlessly setting gates and running pinches of life force through them. He drew patterns in his horse’s coat and dripped magic into those patterns, changing the fur’s color, texture, and length before returning it to its natural state. It was a waste of energy, but he couldn’t help it.

As an experiment, he pushed life force up through his arm and into his hand.

His index finger grew a new knuckle, and he was so astonished he nearly fell off his horse.

“Are you okay, Lord?” a man asked.

“Yes,” he said as he hid his hand. “I’m fine.”

It took him the better part of the afternoon to fix his error.

The plan was this:

He would use his hunger.

He would starve himself, and he would enter God’s Tower prepared to use Braxidane’s curse to his favor.

The idea weighed hard on him. It felt … wrong. Using his hunger as a weapon made him feel like he was a blade himself, like he was nothing more than a piece of steel to be smelted and fired and honed and made to carry an edge that would bite indiscriminately. It made him feel cold. It made him feel hollow, and it made him feel ugly.

But that was the plan, empty his vessel as far as he could, and use himself to literally eat the souls of the Lectodinian and Koradictine mages.

Would that work against other god-touched mages?

He didn’t know.

But his only alternative was to arrive at God’s Tower bloated and ready to cast stronger magic than he had ever before attempted—and he could not accept the idea of sacrificing an entire village to reap the life force he would need to support that plan. Even if he could manage the burden of that idea, Garrick wasn’t sure he could actually defeat the orders’ god-touched mages in a battle of pure sorcery, anyway.

But what did it say about him that he was willing to set himself up to trigger his own rampage?

He didn’t want to think about it.

But he couldn’t help it. He
had
to think about it.

He had to manage himself carefully if this whole thing was going to work. He had to stay strong enough to make it to the tower without bowing to his hunger’s desire to feed, and still arrive there weak enough to steal the other god-touched mages’ energy. It was a difficult equation to balance.

He went to his bedroll each night more drained than he had been the night before. Each morning he found it more difficult to rise, and each day he felt his hunger growing stronger as the sun moved across the sky. He fought it constantly, keeping its tendrils from drifting out among the men and women of the Torean army. He breathed it down, feeling its aroma and its pull growing stronger with time.

As his reservoir faded, he stopped his mindless practicing and merely sat quietly in his saddle. In the evenings, he squatted in meditation, trying to conserve as much of himself as he could. The ranks watched him intently as they traveled, whispering more and more about the sense of isolation he was emoting. They understood all too well his part of their effort, and they were growing worried.

Not that he blamed them.

A few days later, the Torean army drew near enough that they could see God’s Tower in the distance, its peak gleaming white. Their arrival served to make Garrick even more irritable.

The morning before they were to make their final camp, Sunathri came to Garrick’s tent. He stirred but did not rise. He could see God’s Tower in the distance through the open flap, its peak blazing white in the early sun.

He rose to sit as Sunathri came to the edge of his cot and put her hand above his knee. The heat of her fingers stirred his hunger through the thin fabric of the sheet. She tasted of confidence and passion. He felt her heartbeat, and wanted to be closer to it, but he had learned more about fighting this desire of his and he was able to dispel it far enough to concentrate on her.