chapter twelve
Guardians of Light
Her wrists in chains, Ayla followed the long hall she had come to know well in the past three days. Only one of every three torches burned on the wall, to conserve supply. The minotaur guards escorted her, one in front and one in the back, as Dylan strode next to her. He held his chin high, face a grimace of determination.
She pressed her fingers to her lips, treasuring her last memory of Deetra, whom she would never see again. Ayla knew from the beginning that she carried Goreskin’s calf. The Freemen needed a leader for the temple that could endure. Deetra endured.
They reached the front entrance to the Arena and the mainstay of the human defences. The wind tossed her hair under the cloudy night sky. Every head bowed as she passed through the blockade of stones, weapon racks, and pikes. The only sound came from the roaring braziers on either side of the high, arched arena entry. A horse drawn wagon with wood slat walls and roof stood ready to receive her.
Dylan drew his longsword from the scabbard at his hip. His steel breastplate and grey hair shone orange in the light. He directed her to the open door of the wagon with the tip of his sword.
“Your chariot awaits,” he sneered.
Ayla propped her shackled wrists on the floor of the wagon and climbed up, Dylan following her in. She sat with her back against the slat wall and he sat opposite her, sword still drawn. He laid the weapon across his lap.
The door closed, leaving only the shafts of light between the boards. One lay over Dylan’s right eye and the corner of his mouth. He pulled a medallion out of his breastplate and laid it out over the steel. It bore the image of the sun. His lips curled into a sardonic smile.
Other than curiosity at where he found the trinket, Ayla couldn’t care less. She had chosen to surrender. Let him think he found protection from the Goddess. It could only help Deetra and Butch in the end. The medallion served as a symbol, not a shield. A God’s power didn't flow from a disk at the end of a chain.
Dylan lifted it to the bar of light shining through the wall, reflecting the light in Ayla’s face. She reclined her head against the slats and closed her eyes.
Dylan scoffed. “You didn't even know what I was, did you?”
Ayla didn’t look at him as she answered, trying her best to sound bored. “I knew you were a coward and a traitor. What else is there?”
“I am a Guardian of the Light.”
Ayla's dream crept up from the recesses of her memory.
“The light has many guardians, and seeks to burn away the darkness forever.”
When the Freemen lair was discovered, Ayla had assumed that the minotaurs presence in the temple had angered the Goddess. She’d been wrong. It was him, a Guardian of the Light.
The wagon driver cracked his whip and Ayla flinched involuntarily.
Dylan gave her a satisfied sneer. “Don't like the whip, slave?”
The thought made the skin on her back crawl. Ayla looked away from him, pushing away the memory of Goreskin’s whip the morning after her dream. Instead, she focused on the sound of his guts hitting the floor, like wet rags. A satisfied smile tugged at the corners of her mouth at the thought.
The wagon lurched forward into a turn, making them both lean. The lights of the arena passed between the cracks, throwing bars of light as they circled the monument to Tor in the center of the courtyard. Dylan rested his elbows on his knees and held his sword, pommel in one hand and blade resting on the other. He looked at it as if he’d never seen it before.
“My great-great uncle slayed the last Harbinger of the Dark Queen with this sword. After living in this hell-hole for thirty years, I did not believe there would be another evil Harbinger … at least not in my lifetime. When the sword fell from my hand in that place, that’s when I realized the truth, but it was too late.”
Shafts of light moved along the sword as a streetlamp passed outside.
“You’ve served Tor for thirty years and still have the gall to call me evil?”
“I do not serve Tor.”
Ayla pointed at his breastplate. “That mark on your chest says otherwise.”
“That is a pass from Tor to walk among the half-beasts, and allows me to guard Hornstall from the return of the Dark Queen. A Guardian of the Light serves only his God.”
“You served mine in the crypt. Begged her for mercy on your knees.”
Dylan gritted his teeth, and gripped the blade of his sword until his fingers dripped blood.
“No. I called upon my God, but his light could not reach me in that evil place.”
“Don't blame your God for your own lack of faith.”
Dylan’s eyes narrowed and his voice raised with each word, until he screamed at her. “I have drunk His immortal blood from the Chalice of Kings. I have slain the unrighteous with but the word of His name. My faith would never have faltered if it were not for that place!”
The wagon slowed down. Hooves walked around the wagon, a torch shining through the slats.
A minotaur voice at the back of the wagon called to Dylan. “Prisoner secure?”
Dylan cleared his throat and sat up straight. “All’s well.”
The driver’s whip cracked. Again, Ayla jumped. The horses resumed their normal pace.
Ayla smiled at him. “You said it yourself. You did not believe another Harbinger would come. Your faith faltered long before you stumbled into the crypt. The Guardians of Light have failed, because of you.”
Dylan’s eyes flared. He pointed the sword at her chest. It shook with his need to kill her. “Look around you Priestess. I have not failed.”
The wagon lurched over a pothole and the sword bit Ayla above the breast. The Priestess recoiled from him and lifted her knees. She held them guarding her chest and leaned against the wall.
“You begged on your knees out of fear. Fear of me and my Goddess. That was your failure, and that is why the God of Toil has turned his back on you.”
Another streetlamp passed outside, throwing ribs of light over Dylan’s breastplate. The horse pulling the wagon picked up to a trot.
“He is not the God of Toil.” Dylan leaned forward. “He is the God of Goodness and Light.” The tip of his sword angled down, pointing between her legs. “And virtue.”
Protecting her chest from the sword, she’d forgotten her modesty. Ayla tucked her heels under her bottom.
“It was your God’s curse that stole my virtue,” she said, curling her lip in revulsion.
“Hardly. Your Goddess is responsible for your enslavement and was the first to breed the half-beasts.”
Ayla’s brow pinched. “You lie. The Goddess herself told me the truth. The Sun God cursed Tor and when the curse could not be lifted, he slew Her priests and put our people in chains.”
Dylan scoffed. “That is a half-truth. Would you like to hear the rest, Priestess? Or are you afraid to know that your Goddess has lied to you?”
“My Mother wouldn’t lie to me. You can’t make me doubt her.”
“Tor said the same thing. In time though, he learned the truth and converted.”
“Tor worships the God who cursed him?”
Dylan shook his head. “Not anymore. The Dark Queen came to him in his dreams, tempting him until he fled the Temple of the Sun. When he returned home, Her priests sacrificed women to him until he’d sired Her an army. When Tor discovered he’d been used, the Goddess sent knights to slay him. Tor defeated them and led his sons against every temple in the north. But after all he’d done, Tor could never return to the light. So he sent a messenger to the Guardians, asking us to come and keep the Dark Queen from rising again.”
Ayla believed most of his story, but her Mother would never have sacrificed women to Tor. That was a lie, but Ayla had no means with which to refute him, so said nothing.
“Unlike Tor,” Dylan said, “I can still atone.” He pointed the sword at her again. “Once you are dead, The God of Light will forgive me for what happened in the crypt. The Sun God i
s merciful.”
“You’re a coward and so is your God.”
The look in Dylan’s eyes screamed murder. Ayla invited it, daring him with her eyes.
The back door of the wagon opened to a view of the main road, facing away from the castle. Max’s face leaned in and swept his chin-length, blonde hair away from his scruffy face.
Ayla’s jaw dropped. Her mind tried to reject the face, but it was him.
“Max?”
He ignored her as she stared at him. Dylan dropped down out of the back next to him on the road. They clasped hands and bowed their heads in unison.
Dylan spoke first. “What are you doing here?”
Max closed the door and latched it. “The whore and the orc ordered an enemy head-count.”
“And?”
“And I need to know if you want them to think the garrison came back.”
Ayla had indeed ordered it. She slid over to the back and put her face to the cracks in the door.
Dylan sheathed his sword and stretched his back in the dim light of the road. “She can hear you in there.”
She remembered the shared look between Max and Dylan in the crypt, after the Goddess healed him. Dylan only left once Max said to.
Max cocked a thumb at the wagon. “Who’s she going to tell?”
Dylan grabbed Max by the shoulder and walked away with him. “They sent you alone?”
“No, with Blabbermouth, but …”
Ayla strained her ears, but they moved too far away to eavesdrop. She shook her head as she sat back down, the sting of betrayal in her heart second only to the worry for her friends. Ayla had no love for Max, but Alex had and so did Blabbermouth and Butch. Deetra didn’t know him, but they would sleep under the same roof tonight in the arena quarters.
Ayla had slept in the same room as the traitor the night she first arrived at Hornstall. That night, Max had taken second guard shift. In the morning, Alex could not figure how the minotaurs found the crypt so fast. Max had gone to tell Dylan about the Priestess - that his time had come.
The Freemen had never really been free at all. Ayla hoped Deetra’s instincts would serve her better than Ayla and Alex’s had served them. She bowed her head and prayed for a sign for Deetra.
She lowered her hands with a sigh. A rat sat looking at her, between her feet. Ayla lifted her chains to scare him off. His head cocked to the side and his beady eyes caught a shard of light. They sparkled a wintry white-blue, like her Mother’s. It twitched its nose at her. Amused, Ayla did it back. He scampered off to the side of the wagon. He squeezed between the slats and disappeared into the night.
Deetra ran her hand along the steel railing that encircled a recessed portion of the floor housing a scale replica of the arena. She studied it from above, circling. Rested and fed, she was ready to plot Ayla’s rescue, but Butch made no mention of it until she did.
He leaned with his hands on the railing opposite her, one foot out behind him. His amber eyes watched in her peripheral as she descended the two stairs to the map floor. The design of the room made it so that the morning sun from the open door shone on the model below her.
Butch spoke from over her shoulder. “The Priestess said no rescue attempts.”
The model held Deetra’s attention as she replied, “Ayla wouldn’t have traded her life if she knew something could be done about her calf.”
The closer she got to the replica, the more it took her breath away. She squatted down and inspected the waist-high miniature arena, envisioning the battles in the hall, and Ayla giving orders from the arena floor while healing the wounded.
Deetra looked up and met Butch’s disapproving glare. No matter what he said to the contrary, the orc blamed her for Ayla’s decision and Alex’s death. In that, they had something in common.
Uncomfortable with his silent accusation, she shifted her gaze to the faded mural on the domed ceiling above. It depicted the arena floor and gladiators combating a giant spider with a man’s torso and head.
Butch’s voice echoed off the dome. “I told her the arena surgeon could help her, it was early enough. She said no.”
Deetra stood up to make another objection, but Butch’s eyes had followed hers to the ceiling and still lingered on the mural. Deetra waited, but he turned away from the railing without looking at her.
The taxidermied heads of animals on the walls stared at her with their glass eyes. Furious, she balled her fists and marched for the stairs to the main floor of the war room.
“Why?”
Butch sat down at the Arena Master’s desk. Weapons and tapestries adorned the walls behind him, all old, but well-tended. He settled into the oversized chair – the Master of the Arena’s chair – and folded his arms.
“The surgeon told her that aborting her calf carried risks. A lot of women die from fever. Once she heard that, she refused. She said that if she was going to die, it would be trying to save her people, not herself.”
It sounded nothing like the old Ayla, but Deetra believed him. Deetra liked the new Ayla; she had hope in spades and shared it with every person she touched. Deetra put her coarse hands on the smooth wood of the desk and leaned toward him, letting the medallion catch the light of the lamp on the desk.
“The Priestess also left me in charge.”
Butch nodded. “And you are. But battle plans are the General’s job, not the temple’s, Priestess.”
The word hit her like a smack in the face. He said it as if she needed to know her place.
“She left me in charge of the temple?”
Butch’s unfolded his arms, his heavy orcish jaw conveying strained patience. He threw his hands in the air and sighed as they landed on the desk.
“I needed to tell you that?”
Deetra never once imagined herself a Priestess. Alex gave her one of the tunics and called her a Freeman. That's how Deetra thought of herself. She held the hoop medallion up by the chain and stared at the serpent eating its tail.
Butch took a deep breath. He gestured behind Deetra to the model as he rose from his chair. She turned around. The grand arched door to the hall stood ajar, letting in a light breeze. Butch moved around his minotaur-sized desk and leaned against it next to her. His green hand beside hers made her feel small.
He shrugged. “I brought you in here to brief you, not argue.”
Deetra looked up and to the side at him. “I'm sorry. I just can't believe -” Deetra stopped herself, Butch’s expression suggested the time for acceptance had come.
He pointed at the model. “The main entrances are blocked. Until last night, we smuggled in supplies through the canals.”
“What happened last night?”
“The Cows flooded them. Twenty men drowned.”
He pointed to the outer edges of the model, showing the grounds surrounding the fort.
“They dammed the river, flooding the docks and half the slave quarter.”
Deetra stepped away from the desk and rested her hands on the rail over the map floor. “Did you and Ayla get a headcount of our men?”
Butch answered from behind her. “Blabbermouth’s last count was 466 armed, 212 spectators and 127 dead, including 38 cows. Him and Max should be back this afternoon with the garrison count.”
On cue, Max stepped into the doorway, soaking wet, blonde hair slicked back.
“Two hundred and ninety-two.” he said, and slapped the door, leaving a wet hand print on the wood. Meeting Deetra’s eyes wiped the smile from his face. He looked over her shoulder.
“Where’s the Priestess?”
Max had left before news of Deetra had arrived. Guilt gnawed at her and compelled her to answer in Butch’s stead. “She traded herself for me. It happened last night.”
Max pushed off the doorframe and into the room. “I didn't ask you,” he said, then accused the Orc with his eyes.
“Butch? You wanna tell me what's goin on?”
Deetra turned and Butch headed back for the desk. “It was Ayla’s choice,”
he said, and sat in the Arena Master’s chair. “Deetra is the new Priestess.”
Deetra liked the word less each time he said it. She never had a vision, nor met the Goddess as Ayla had, nor could she heal the wounded. Deetra was as much a Priestess as Max. She addressed the Orc first, then the puddle at Max’s feet.
“Don't call me that. And why are you wet?”
Max ignored her and walked faster toward Butch’s desk. “Where’s Alex?” The Orc would not meet his eye. “Look at me, you overgrown toad.”
Deetra watched intently for Butch’s reaction, worried he might kill Max on the spot for the insult. He glowered at Max, arms folded, jaw tense.
“Dead.”
A lump rose in Deetra’s throat. Max stopped next to her, a step away from the railing. He shot her a dirty look from the corner of his eye, then his head cocked to the side when Butch’s eyes dropped.
“How?”
Deetra swallowed the lump in her throat enough to talk, and confessed. “Stabbed in the back by a traitor.”
Max eyed her but spoke to Butch. “So we lose a priestess and one of our best fighters, and get left with this worthless bitch. Some trade.”
Butch shook him by the tunic. “Shut your mouth, Max.”
Deetra balled her fists. “Butch.”
The orc held Max at the end of one arm and looked from over his shoulder. As Priestess, Deetra could not order a rescue. She understood that now.
“I'm taking the canals to the Goddess’ Temple. The Priestess,” Deetra emphasized the word to show she learned her place and so he would know his. ‘Requires men as temple guards.”
Butch blinked. “You’re conscripting men?”
Deetra took her turn to blink, unsure what the word meant. “Yes?”
Max knocked Butch's hand off his shoulder and limped back toward the wall. He bumped a shield and a hand went behind him to silence it. His eyes accused Butch.
"You're really gonna let her lead more men to their deaths?"
Butch folded his arms. "She's not leading anything." The orc fixed his orange gaze on Deetra, an unspoken message that his next words were his last on the issue.
"We’re going alone. You and me.”
Deetra gave him a short nod. “When can we leave?”
“Tomorrow. First light.”
Max chimed in. “I'm going with you.”
Deetra glowered at him. “I don't think so.”
“I've been a Freeman for six years.” He rested a hand on the door to catch his breath. “You don't tell me where I go and don't go.”
Deetra flashed an angry look at Butch.
The orc shrugged. “It’s the only Freeman law.”