Blades of the Demigod King Read online

  Jamal creeped just ahead, slipping through a grove of lush almond trees. He was dressed in all black, with a coil of rope slung over his shoulder and a grappling hook hanging from his belt. Sygne wore a black tunic that she had borrowed from their new friend Mdobaa. She had covered her red hair in a dark kerchief. Mdobaa had helped her create a black paste out of soot and lard. Sygne had smeared that black coating across the pale skin of her face and her legs, and now she was neatly camouflaged among the shadows of the garden. Although she did regret the fact that she smelled like a char-grilled lamb.

  They passed through one last lineup of almond trees, and then the dark was far less monolithic. The night was splintered by a dozen lights and stirred by shadows of men clattering by in heavy armor. Sygne and Jamal were kneeling at the edge of a wide meadow, and a dozen campfires were scattered across the field like orange wildflowers. A group of men gathered around one fire suddenly erupted in braying laughter. As if in response, another man hawked loudly and spat.

  Sygne knew then that it wasn’t a problem that she smelled like a roast. The smell of greasy meat permeated the air, making the meadow feel far less open than it should have. And just beneath that smell of cookeries was the reek of poorly trenched and well-used latrines. The smells intermingling together was almost enough to make her gag.

  “Ah,” Jamal said. “The smell of a siege camp.”

  On the far end of the meadow stood the target of said siege: a singular structure called the Tower of Rotutta. Among the crude odors and the rowdy noise, the tower stood elegant and proud like the scolding finger of a pedantic tutor.

  Sygne and Jamal went slinking along the edge of the meadow. Every so often Jamal would raise his hand to stop her as he spotted a sentry hunched furtively among the trees. How was it that Jamal was able to see so well in the dark? To Sygne, the crazed backlighting of the campfires almost made it harder to see. She did not feel at all confident in her stealth abilities, so she was happy to follow her friend’s lead.

  “What are we doing?” she mumbled to herself. She was asking the right person; it had been her idea to go on this rescue mission.

  Their pace was methodical, and Sygne’s spine and knees were aching by the time they reached the ring of barricades that surrounded the tower’s lawn. These were heavy constructions of rough-hewn timber, shaped like long sawhorses on wheels. Sygne knew that the fortifications were built to be mobile and modular, so that they could be separated and rolled to any combat zone where they were needed. One side of the barricade was festooned with spikes. At the moment, all of those spiked sides were facing the Tower of Rotutta.

  They brushed past the girders of the barricade, squeezing between the crossbeams that were furry with splinters and cobwebs. Sygne was slightly surprised that the passage had been so easy, but she reminded herself that the blockade was meant to stop a large contingent moving at full speed. She imagined trying to crawl through or climb over the blockade while soldiers were slinging rocks and javelins. That would be a whole other story.

  Jamal commented in a hushed voice, “All this for one mystery cult.”

  “Mdobaa believes they’re quite sinister.”

  Sygne had to twist her body awkwardly to get past the last beam of bristling wood. She scraped her leg, and a streak of white skin showed through the black paint on her thigh. Jamal stared for a moment.

  She cocked her eyebrow at him and asked wryly, “What are you looking at?”

  “Nothing. I was distracted,” Jamal said. Sygne could hear frustration inching into his voice. “Let’s proceed into danger, shall we?”

  Sygne touched his arm before he moved forward. “I’m sorry. I know this is a side-trip, and that it could prove dangerous.”

  Jamal sighed. “No… That woman’s daughter is in trouble—if not from her fellow cultists, then definitely from these restless soldiers. At the end of the day, I would have agreed to help.”

  Sygne smiled. “‘Bring glory. Bring good.’”

  “Yes,” Jamal said. “That. But I was surprised that you agreed so quickly to this side mission. We are on an extremely important quest…”

  “I know… Let’s see what we can find out here. Then we’ll go to the Mentors. But I have to admit”—Sygne inclined her head in the direction of the soldiers who were now at their backs—“I didn’t expect to see Albatherra turn so militant against religious extremists. It’s giving me second thoughts. Maybe we can’t count on Albatherra to do the right thing, once we tell them about the Threefold Key.”

  Jamal inhaled deeply. “You’re right. Let’s deal with this first, then we’ll reexamine our options.”

  They crawled on their bellies across the lawn. Sygne was extremely relieved when they could huddle in the low shadows of a stand of tea olives that circled the tower.

  The sweetly fragrant shrubs had curtained off the tower’s courtyard, which was filled with people in simple brown vestments.

  These were the members of the mystery cult of Urr-Ogshoth—people who had supposedly tricked Sisprii into joining them in squatting in the abandoned tower. Apparently, the military forces in Albatherra hadn’t taken kindly to the Urrists’ choice of residency—or to the fact that they were recruiting citizens into their shadowy fold. Sygne had expected a more ominous group; these people seemed peacefully cheery. Almost as if they didn’t know they were under siege?

  The Urrists moved in intertwining paths, crowding together and stopping frequently to greet each other. Sygne heard two of the closest Urrists exchange sublime and rapturous platitudes.

  “I forgive you,” the first man in brown said.

  The second man repeated, “I forgive you.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  “I accept you.” This they spoke almost simultaneously.

  “The Urr forgives you.”

  “The Urr loves you.”

  “The Urr accepts you.”

  This last part was chanted together. The men spoke quickly, happily—like eager children. Their faces lit up when they bumped into the next two cultists and began chanting anew.

  “I forgive you.”

  “Forgive you.”

  “I love you.”

  “Love you.”

  “I don’t know,” Jamal whispered. “This place doesn’t seem that dangerous to me.”

  Sygne drew in a soft breath to answer. For a moment it was her last. A strong arm wrapped around her neck and closed off her windpipe.

  A stranger purred in her ear, “Oh, there are dangers here. Depending on who you are.”

  Sygne struggled, but the arm was as unyielding as stone. Through the corner of her eye, she could see Jamal had also been crunched into a headlock by the same man. The stranger must have been very strong indeed because even Jamal couldn’t seem to loosen the man’s sleeper hold.

  “Wait. Wait,” she gasped.

  The man chuckled. “Are you sure you want me to wait? A few more seconds and you’re going to drop into a peaceful slumber.”

  The stranger’s voice sounded vaguely familiar. Through the corner of her eye she could see that he was wearing a hood. She felt his muscles ease just a bit from her throat. She said, “We are not here to hurt anyone. We are looking for a woman. Her mother misses her.”

  As she said this, the man continued to ease his pressure from her throat. Then he released her entirely. “Sygne? Is that you?”

  He had clamped both arms around Jamal, who was beginning to struggle in full force. Branches rustled and shook around them.

  Sygne scrambled away—one hand on her throat, the other rustling through the thatch beneath the tea olives.

  “Sygne,” the stranger hissed, “tell your friend to stop struggling. Before he alerts the—”

  Sygne cracked the man across the back of his head with a rock. He winced and slumped, and Jamal shrugged him off. He whirled and slammed the stranger to the ground.

  “Ugh.” The hooded man
struggled to stay conscious. “Sygne.” He wore a black headscarf wrapped around his face so that just his eyes showed. Sygne ripped the cloth away. Then she gasped at the face she saw dimly lit in the cultists’ torchlight.

  “Get off him,” she moaned. She gently slapped the man’s cheek to urge him back to full consciousness.

  “Who is it?” Jamal asked. He was clearly very confused.

  Groggily, the man said, “Call me Pawn… Just… Pawn.”

  “‘Pawn?’ what kind of made-up name is that?” Jamal hissed. He turned to Sygne. “You know this man?”

  “Yes… He…”

  Pawn cut her off. “I was her student. We are friends.”

  ***

  “Friend?” Jamal rubbed his neck, which was still throbbing. “That was some friendly greeting.”

  The man’s headscarf had fallen away. He ran a hand through his long hair, which seemed mangy in the dim light. He looked more like a bandit than a former student at the vaunted Academy at Albatherra. Jamal could tell by the look of astonishment on Sygne’s face that she wasn’t telling the whole story about this man who called himself Pawn. Jamal had a hundred questions. For one thing, Pawn looked to be a few years older than Sygne—so what kind of teacher-student relationship had they shared?

  Pawn reached out to touch Sygne’s soot-blackened cheek. “What is on your face?”

  Sygne pushed his hand away. “What are you doing here?”

  “Who is he?” Pawn countered with a question of his own.

  “This is Jamal,” Sygne said. “My traveling companion.”

  “Jamal. Traveling companion.” Pawn’s smile turned rakish. He had sharp teeth along the sides of his grin, like a wolf’s. He offered Jamal his hand, and they squeezed each other’s forearms. His grip was intense, as if he was trying to snap Jamal’s bones. Jamal locked stares with Pawn and squeezed back.

  Sygne cleared her throat. Since they were all trying to not be discovered by the nearby cultists, Sygne’s noise came out sounding tiny and anxious—barely noticeable enough to grab Jamal and Pawn’s attention. She asked Pawn again, “What are you doing here?”

  He said, “I’m here… as an outrider.”

  “An outrider?” Jamal repeated. He noted Pawn’s dusty cloak.

  “A scout. A spy. I’m doing the business of the Demigod King.” Pawn nodded to the people milling about the courtyard. “Those are the worshipers of Urr-Ogshoth. The ‘Un-God’ they call it.” Pawn had extremely bushy eyebrows, that nearly joined together in the space above his nose. Those brows pressed downward over his dark eyes as he said this next part: “The Demigod King has decreed a war against ignorance and intolerance.” His brows hopped to their original position as he darted a glance to Sygne. “Have you heard of it?”

  “I have,” Sygne said. “It is a noble cause, but the term ‘war’…that seems troublesome.”

  “Well, let me finish explaining it. The Demigod King has decreed that every child in Albatherra—boy and girl—shall receive an education, at least until they have reached the age of twelve. Albatherra is a very diverse city-state—with a plethora of immigrants from many cultures, with many different types of faiths. In accordance with His Majesty’s decree, all must account for themselves in a census that he has started, and present their children for attendance in Albatherra’s new junior academies. Some groups,” Pawn nudged his head toward the tower, “have resisted.”

  Sygne asked, “And that’s what happened to the men who were impaled outside the city limits?”

  “No,” the outrider said. “Those men were posthumously impaled. They fought back against the city-guard, who slaughtered them in self-defense.”

  “‘Slaughtered in self-defense?’” Jamal repeated.

  “I admit,” Pawn said, “that the census and educational decrees have stirred up paranoia and outrage in all the worst sorts of men. But if these people react negatively to the education of a child, then I must say that I don’t want them here. And… the Demigod King doesn’t want them here. The men we executed—they were particularly heinous. They weren’t just fighting to keep their children out of the academies; they had attacked a group of girls walking to school, specifically because they were girls going to school.”

  Sygne’s face squirmed uneasily, as if she were considering each side of a very distasteful argument. “Be that as it may, now His Majesty has practically declared war on this one small cult—for not following a law that was not democratically approved?”

  “‘Democratically?’” Pawn had to stifle a laugh that presumedly would have been very loud and manly. “Still the same delightful Sygne. I wouldn’t expect you to be defending a religion. First of all, that is not the Urrists’ house of worship. That is a beautiful observation tower that King Rotutta built forty years ago. The Urrists are squatting in it. Second of all, the founders of that cult are far from innocent. Have you not heard the rumors?”

  “What rumors?” she asked. “That they lure in young, impressionable people and convince them to devote their lives to a bunch of nonsense? Isn’t that every organized religion?”

  The outrider flashed his sharp teeth. “Now that’s the Sygne I remember! Such a zealous anti-theist.”

  “I’m not an anti-theist,” Sygne quietly protested.

  Pawn continued, “The Urr Cult has been accused of far worse than overzealous proselytizing. I’ve come here on a stealth mission—to see for myself what they are up to—before the army storms this place and sends their Un-God back to its unearthly domain.”

  “And we’re here to rescue a friend’s daughter—before the army storms in here and sends her to an earthly grave.”

  Pawn nodded. “Sounds like a good cause! We should team up.”

  3 – The Deep Tower

  Pawn and Jamal jockeyed for the lead, moving as assertively as they dared while still attempting to remain stealthy. Sygne followed behind them. They stopped at the back of the tower’s circular courtyard, which was blanketed in thick shadows. A single guard, wearing one of the cultists’ shapeless brown robes, roamed the lawn.

  Now that she was less worried about being spotted, Sygne took a moment to observe the structure at close range. From their quick perambulation around its base, she estimated that it was thirty yards in diameter. Very large for something that was built forty years ago. And the tower was seventy feet tall, so that it easily dominated this entire section of the Garden Reach. There were trees on the far northern side of the parkland that were even taller, but those cyclopean oaks were more than two miles from here.

  A small, unadorned door was pressed into the tower’s back wall.

  “That door’s probably locked,” Jamal said. “That’s why I brought the grappling hook.” He unclasped the grappling hook from his belt and began to knot it onto the rope he was carrying.

  “Nice,” Pawn said. “A grappling hook. May I try?”

  Jamal stared at Pawn’s outstretched hand. He glanced to Sygne, and she nodded. After a brief pause he handed the rope and hook to her mysterious friend.

  Pawn began to swing the rope around, and she assumed at any moment he would make a break for the sheer wall. There was no way that he thought he could swing the hook to the top of the tower from here, was there? Then she saw that Pawn was not aiming for the top of the tower at all. He was squinting hard at the guard who was walking away.

  “What are you—”

  Pawn dashed out from cover and flung the line at the unsuspecting guard. The cable and metal hook encircled the cultist’s shoulders and wrapped around his throat. The guard grunted, but Pawn pulled the rope hard to cut short the sound. The guard fell backwards clutching at his neck, unable to cry for help. Pawn landed on him like a panther—and locked the cultist in a now familiar chokehold.

  Sygne and Jamal dashed forward to be closer to the two men. Sygne held her hands out to her sides; she wasn’t sure what she should do—who she should help.

  “Do you have a key to
that door?” Pawn asked the guard. “Tell me now or I will kill you.”

  The poor guard attempted to nod. His hand fumbled for a large pouch on the side of his vestment. Pawn savagely tightened his grip on the cultist’s neck. The guard seemed to go limp almost instantly. Sygne made a tiny, strangled ‘eep’ sound. Pawn held up one hand to silence her. With his other hand he fished through the cultist’s pocket. He flashed the key at them, and then a smile. His teeth gleamed brighter than the metal.

  “He’s not dead,” Pawn informed her. “He’s unconscious.”

  Jamal had already snapped into action. He grabbed the cultist’s ankles and helped Pawn carry him to a hiding place among the trees. Jamal muttered, “That’s not what you use a grappling hook for.”

  “Of course it is,” Pawn said. “You use it to grapple.”

  Jamal dragged the unconscious guard into the shadows under the tea olives. He began to pull the brown robe off of the man’s slumped form.

  “I’ll wear this,” Jamal said, “and open the door. That way, if there’s anyone waiting inside, there’s at least a chance they’ll believe that I belong there. If the way is clear then I’ll wave to you two to follow me.”

  Pawn grinned. “We’ll wait here.”

  Jamal casually strolled away in his stolen robe.

  Sygne turned to Pawn. “What are you really doing here?”

  The Albatherran made a show of being taken aback. “I didn’t lie, Sygne. At least not to you. I’m here to see what these cultists are up to.”

  “Is that dangerous?” she said. “To be here alone? You are king now. What if…”