The Bloodstained God (Book 2)

The Bloodstained God

By

Tim Stead

Being the second book of The Sparrow and the Wolf

© Tim Stead 2014

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any written, electronic, recording, or photocopying form without written permission of the author.

Cain Arbak moved slowly up the divine stair. He took his time. He had to weave and ease his way through the crowds. It seemed as though every man woman and child from the low city was camped out here. There were hundreds of them. Thousands. Some gathered in family groups, noisy with children. They rested mostly towards the dark side, the mountain side, away from the edge, eating food that they had brought with them. Others clustered around the pillars, which for this one day were festooned with bright ribbons, and danced in their summery rags, their rainbow banners of hope.

It was Eltaraya, the festival of communion, one week before year’s end. This was the day, according to tradition, when the gods listened, and here on the divine stair, where every god had their own pillar, custom had it that prayers were borne to them on the winter wind. The temples, too, were full, bursting with incense and chanting, ringing with the chink of coin and the squeals of sacrifice, heavy with the smell of blood, but the stair was the favoured place.

The divine stair was itself a remarkable thing. It was etched into the side of the stub of a mountain on which the city of the gods was built. It was a groove fifty feet wide and ten feet high, the edge supported by pillars, the floor carved into long shallow steps that had worn again to an almost even slope with the passage of ten million feet over countless years. It began in the east, traced a line across the entire south face, and opened up before the gates to the high city in the west.

Cain looked at the ribbons as he walked. Yellow was for thanks, blue for a boon desired. Those were the traditional colours, but Bas Erinor was not always bound by tradition, and its people sought favour with green and red, orange and purple. The more expensive the dye the more favour they hoped for.

Some of the people crowding the stair recognised him. A year ago this would not have been the case, but now he was officially a hero, a city councillor, a wealthy man, a colonel in the Avilian army, and most surprising of all, a lord. Now men that he did not know knew him. It was an uncomfortable state of affairs.

“General!”

He turned and saw a face he knew. It was one of the men he had led in defence the Green Road; one of
his
men. A sergeant. The man was dressed in simple cottons, black and red, a thick coat, heavy boots, and a black scarf around his neck against the chill. There was a family, too: A wife, two girls, and a boy. A handsome family. They hung back behind their soldier husband and father, and Cain could see the uncertainty in the sergeant’s smile. Was he too bold to accost his commander in this manner?

The name came. Cain was always thankful when he remembered a name. So many of them escaped him.

“Barain,” he said. He took the sergeant’s hand – somewhat awkwardly given that he had no right hand himself. The soldier looked momentarily panicked that he had offered his general the wrong hand, but Cain smiled at him. He remembered what it was like being a sergeant. He remembered being ordinary, before he’d lost that hand at Bel Erinor. “Your family?” he asked.

“Yes, General.”

Cain knew what was expected. He bowed slightly to the wife when he took her hand, tousled the hair of the boy, patted the girls and told them they were pretty, smiling all the time. The funny thing was that he meant it. He knew his men. They would fight for him; even die for him if he asked it. In turn he trusted them, liked them, tried to preserve their lives. It was a bargain that he regarded as a sacred duty. Perhaps that was why they seemed to love him so.

He left Sergeant Barain smiling like a fool and carried on up the stair. There were two ribbons in his own pocket, one yellow and one blue. He liked the tradition, and though he had never tied ribbons on the pillars before, this year he felt he had cause.

Cain was not officially a general. Briefly he had been acclaimed such by the men at the wall. There had been three nations there, small forces united against the common threat of Seth Yarra, and they had chosen him to lead them. He had not wanted the burden, but Sheyani, his wife to be, had swayed her countryman, a Durander colonel called Coyan, and Cain had been given command. The generalship had been a spontaneous moment, after they had taken it back from the Telans, before they faced the Seth Yarra assault. He had done his best, and in the end they had held the wall.

He knew that he should have died at Bel Erinor, months before. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time doing the wrong thing, and he had ended up toe to toe with Wolf Narak, swords drawn. It was not a situation that many men had survived. But Narak had wanted to question him, and after taking his hand off had bound him and talked to him. Cain had still expected to die, but something had happened that he still did not understand. The Wolf God had freed him, let him live, made him a rich man, and all his good fortune had flowed from that moment.

Narak’s pillar was close to the top of the divine stair. It was one of the more recent carvings, and the lines in the stone, the wolf face, the crossed, curved swords, had a freshness that the older pillars lacked. Today, though, it was difficult to make out the detail. The stone was nearly obliterated by ribbons, the space around it a press of bodies. He supposed its popularity reflected that Narak walked among them, led their armies, killed their enemies. How could you not worship a god who took your part so actively?

He waited patiently in the throng, edging forwards as others took their turn, tied their ribbons, and spoke their words. Some were loud, shouting their thanks to the wind, making their desires public. They asked for death among their enemies, for an end to war, for peace, for courage, for wisdom; there was no end to the things they desired. Others were quiet, whispering by the pillar as though it had ears to hear, eyes closed and fingers smoothing the stone. Mostly it was the men who shouted.

One man recognised him, called to the others to make way, to stand to one side so that the Hero of the Green Road, the Wolf of Fal Verdan could take their place, but he hushed the man, and said that he would wait like any other. He would take his turn. Yet his name had been spoken, and most knew it. He saw many curious eyes turn to him, and shoulders no longer rubbed against him. He found himself in a small clearing of respect, his path towards the pillar eased.

Best to be done and gone, he thought. He reached the pillar and took out his ribbons. He tied the yellow one high, making a good tight knot, and as he tied it he thought of the past, his tavern, bought with Narak’s gold. He thought of Sheyani, her music and her dark, beautiful eyes. He thought of his modest but pretty estates at Waterhill, his friends, his luck.

Thank you.

He tied the blue ribbon lower. He thought of the future, the war that would resume when the snow melted and the White Road opened in the spring. He thought of the vast Seth Yarra armies that he would, at some moment, have to face. He thought of injury, death, loss and waste.

Do not take it from me. Do not abandon me. For a moment he was prescient with the sense of loss.

He stood a moment longer, staring out over the low city, the mad jumble of the poorer neighbourhoods, the nets of winter trees, stripped of leaves, cast above the houses of the rich and the better commercial streets. Even though he did not believe in the gods; certainly not Ashmaren, Pecanis and the rest; even though he thought of Narak as a man, even though he had seen him fight, and Narak fought like a god – no one could stand against him. Even so, in the absence of belief, he allowed himself to pray.

He stayed only a moment, then eased back through the crowd, and carried on up the stair to the city of the gods. He passed through the great gates, and the guards saluted him. It was ominous that workmen swarmed over the gates, chipping at the rusted hinges, hammering at the wood. It was preparation for a siege. Those gates had not closed for a thousand years, a dozen great wars, and yet now they were to be fixed, closed, strengthened.

At the gates to the Duke’s fortress he was saluted again. The men here were more formal, more determinedly polite. It reminded him that some of the older heads in the Avilian aristocracy were not fond of him. They thought he had too much honour for what he had done at Fal Verdan, the Green Road. They thought he was an upstart, and that he was planning to marry a foreigner only confirmed it. They were nationalistic to the core. Only things Avilian were any good. They would rather be at war with Berash than allied to them, and the same, to a lesser extent, went for Afael. Durandar, his wife’s nation, was beyond even comprehension.

In truth he believed those men thought that way because Berash was so similar to Avilian. It was smaller, but its soldiers were disciplined and fierce, equal to, or perhaps better than, some would whisper, Avilian’s own. Their customs were similar, their gods were the same. But it did not do to say such things in high councils.

Cain had no illusions. He had fought close to twenty years as a mercenary on both sides of the Dragon’s Back, and he had matched swords with every kind of soldier he knew of. The Berashi were better. The Telans were fiercer, but ill disciplined. The Afaeli were amateurs. As for the Duranders – well, it was rarely a straightforward fight against mages and magic. Any of them could kill you.

He walked through the courtyards and cloisters of the fortress. It was less a fortress than a palace these days. The perfect green lawns were empty, the fountains unwatched and their music unheard, the flowers all gone with the coming of winter, an ambush of colour waiting for spring. In one walled court he saw young men practicing with sword and dagger, bated weapons ringing and scraping, shouts, claimed hits, curses. It was poor preparation for war. Avilian was too fond by far of its fencing tradition, its gentleman’s ways. The Berashi were more practical.

He passed from the outer to the inner, the flagged floors and high halls gave way to wooden floors, walls hung with tapestries. There were people here, mostly servants dressed in soft greys and muted browns, neat men who walked along the sides of the wide passageways, keeping their eyes on the floor. Cain willed each one he passed to raise his eyes that he might nod his head and smile at him, but they were too well trained. If he spoke he knew that they would stop and beg to serve him in whatever way he wished, but he did not wish – not for that.

It was why he stayed at the inn, the Seventh Friend. It was his place. His rules. Nobody looked at the ground in the Seventh Friend. Nobody bowed to him, or almost nobody, but they did what they were told all the same because he paid them well.

He came at last to the Duke’s chambers. He was early. Guards on the outer door saluted him, right fist to left shoulder.

“My lord,” one of them said. “You are the first to arrive, but the chamber is ready. Will you go in or will you wait in the antechamber?”

The antechamber had soft seats, wine, tapestries.

“I will go in,” he said.

The guard opened the door and walked with him past the spurned luxuries. A second door opened and a quite different room was revealed. Here there was a table, maps laid out upon it with the corners held down by silver weights, bare stone walls. Seven high backed chairs stood to attention around it. There was a jug of water and silver cups. A tall window dominated the south wall, and sunlight flooded through it, making the room bright and summer-like. He watched the guard leave and close the door, then went to the window and looked out. It was a good view of the castle lawns, the low city and the sea beyond, the coast stretching away to the east in the direction of Golt. He tried to pick out the inn, but decided that he could not see it from here.

“You’re keen.”

He turned, but he knew the voice. It was a voice that he had learned not to fear.

“Deus,” he said. “I had business on the way. It took less time than I expected.”

Wolf Narak smiled. He was not a big man; about six foot, probably less. His body was lithe, his movements graceful and economic. He was dressed for peace, cotton and silk, but the ever present swords strapped to his back peered over his shoulders, and their threat was lost on no one, least of all on Cain who had lost his hand to one of them. But Cain did not fear him. He served the Wolf now. He was trusted.

“I am glad to see you alone,” Narak said. “I have a task for you that is suited to your special talents.”

“A task?” Cain was suddenly worried. Narak’s tasks could be almost anything.

“It is not an easy thing, but there is less danger than you faced on the wall.”