Dark Communion

  chapter sixteen

  With Children

  Ayla sat alone in the temple six days later, on one of the pews recovered from the crypt below. The rain had burst the dam and the canals had returned to normal levels. She had interned Blabbermouth in the crypt and held a public ceremony for all the fallen in the battle.

  Ayla left the doors open to cool the temple from the hot afternoon sun that poured through the windows. A glassblower volunteered his time and in two days replaced the stained glass with the same picture as before, Ayla at the stake.

  A knock at the front door interrupted her afternoon prayer. The Priestess kept her head bowed and concluded communing with her Goddess before she looked up. Butch came down the center aisle. She had gotten to know his heavy walk.

  The first scout arrived in the morning with word of Tor’s army. In seven days, he told her, an army of seven hundred minotaurs would arrive. The exhaustive report listed supply wagons, horses, and catapults. Ayla told him to keep the numbers to himself and to leave again tomorrow evening to track the army’s movements.

  She stood up and turned to Butch with a smile. Her voice carried through the rafters above. “Any word?”

  Ayla expected word from the Hillside scout three days ago. After six days, when the rider still had not returned, she assumed the garrison caught him. Her plan now depended on information from the Moonvale scout.

  Butch stopped in the colored light of the window. He cupped his hands beneath his chin, paying homage to the altar as she had taught him. The temple held a gathering the night they took Hornstall, right after sunset. By the end, people crowded in the streets to hear the words of the Priestess who had survived the flames. The second night she moved the gathering to the arena to have enough room. The temple, while sacred, had become impractically small.

  Butch lowered his hands with a toothy orcish grin. “Still no word of Hillside, but the Moonvale scout returned an hour ago.”

  Ayla stepped into the light of the window and stood in front of him. “And?”

  “And …” The orc trailed off, trying to build anticipation, but his face could not hide the good news. “The storm decimated Moonvale. Convincing the slaves to revolt was easy. They lost a lot of men, but the rest are on their way.”

  Ayla cupped her hands and said a quick word of thanks to the Goddess of Night for the aid of the Goddess of Storms. The Tempest not only aided in the battle for Hornstall and slowed Tor’s army, but her wrath visited the plantations. Even if they had not revolted, if the storm destroyed the plantations the refugees would all come to Hornstall.

  She walked towards the doors. “How many and how long before they arrive?”

  Butch followed and answered. “All of them - 160 or more. Three days, at the most. I set up the messenger with the other one in the arena barracks.”

  Ayla stepped out into the light of day. Everywhere people worked to finish repairs from the battle and the storm. On the building next to the temple, another storage room, a man tested part of the angled roof with his weight. Sweat rolled down his brow.

  Ayla’s blessed tunic and armor, despite all its tiny blackened scales and leather backing, weighed next to nothing. Still, sweat rolled down her cheeks in the God of Toil’s light. She pitied the man on the hot roof in his heavy leather apron with loops for his tools.

  He saw Ayla and waved with a smile. Ayla waved back. Despite the hardships, heat, and impending armies, most everyone Ayla encountered wore a smile. Freedom renewed the purpose in their lives, and for many, faith brought hope that their freedom would last.

  Of course naysayers existed, but Ayla ignored them. People would always find a reason to complain and life went on for them as it always did. She envied them.

  Butch didn't wave. “Why did you tell the scout with Tor’s army report not to share his information with me?”

  Ayla had waited for this question since yesterday. “Because the number doesn't matter.”

  Butch folded his arms and his mean orcish brow furrowed. “You have a plan?”

  Ayla rested a hand on his arm. “We are going to the War Room now to make one with Lady Deetra.”

  Butch dodged a pair of children, a girl chasing a boy as they raced across the street barefoot. The orc shook his head, frustrated. “Then don't you think I should know what we’re up against?”

  Ayla held out an arm to stop him as more children cut across their path. A little girl, no older than four with short brown hair, stopped in front of them. She curtsied in her ragged dress. Amused, Ayla responded with a clumsy imitation, using her armor.

  “Yes child?”

  “How do you be a Princess?”

  Ayla laughed as she squatted down in front of her with a happy bounce. She swept the child’s hair back over her ear. “You mean a Priestess?”

  The little girl put a finger in her mouth and nodded as she twisted her hips back and forth, swinging her other arm. “Uh-huh.”

  “Believe the Goddess knows best for you, and trust in her. Can you do that?”

  The little girl beamed. “Sure!”

  Ayla looked back up, squinting in the sun. Butch stood with his arms folded but Ayla thought she detected a hint of a smile. She returned her attention to the little one. “Do you come to gatherings at the arena?”

  The little girl shook her head.

  Ayla put a hand on her shoulder. “Tell your Mommy that Priestess Ayla would like you both to come. Can you do that?”

  The little girl nodded, fingers still in her mouth.

  Ayla patted her on the back. “Good. Now, go and play.”

  She watched as the girl ran off to join to others who stood by the ice house on the side of the main road. They spoke to her in excited whispers. Ayla stood back up and returned her attention to Butch.

  The orc folded his arms. “Spill it, how many did the scout say?”

  Ayla sighed. He wouldn't give up until she told him. “Seven hundred.”

  The orc’s amber eyes opened wide. “Seven hundred?”

  Ayla walked on, leaving him behind as he stood gape-mouthed in the road. She turned north, up the main road toward the arena. She left the new temple doors open as a welcome to all who wished to worship. The orc skipped a couple of steps to catch up. Ayla shook her head at him as she walked.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have told you.”

  Butch sighed. “And now, I wish I hadn’t asked.”

  The sound of a hammer banged out a rhythm from the former slave quarter. Ayla had renamed it the Freeman Quarter. A man passed them on his way to the smith across from the temple with buckets of water. He nodded at Butch and the Priestess and gave her a small wave while he held the pole with the other.

  Ayla waved to him as she spoke to the orc. “Have faith.”

  “How is faith going to kill seven hundred minotaurs?”

  “I don't know yet. Trust is part of faith.”

  “I don't understand.”

  The monument of Tor lay broken on its side in the turnaround in front of the arena. Ayla liked it that way, a symbol of their victory to come. She decided she might just have it left there, as a symbol of their victory.

  “There’s nothing to understand. Faith isn't a riddle. Just believe and trust in the Goddess, like I told that little girl. I have spoken to hundreds in the arena and they all doubt, all question. Children are the only ones -”

  An idea struck her, an inspiration from the Goddess herself.

  The orc grumbled. “The only ones, what?”

  “I’ll explain when we get to the War Room. I have a plan.”

  The orc shook his head as he sat in the oversized Arena Master’s chair, under the domed ceiling of the War Room.

  “I don't like it.”

  Ayla leaned against the railing above the Map Floor, facing Butch’s desk. “What part don't you like? Using children?”

  Deetra came up the couple of stairs and leaned her rear on the rail next to her. Her armor rested on a stand beside Bu
tch’s desk. The sunlight that poured through the open door reflected off the ruby plates, casting red kaleidoscopic light on the domed ceiling.

  Butch waved off the concern of using children with a cavalier flick of his wrist. “You’ll never get that far.” He leaned forward, elbows on the minotaur-sized desk. “Tor isn't going to come into the city to discuss terms of surrender. If he even lets us surrender, it’ll be unconditional.”

  Deetra turned around and put her hands on the rail, studying the model. “We need to either do enough damage to his army to earn the right to have terms, or find some other kind of leverage to get him inside the gates.”

  “Alone,” Ayla added, turning around to face the Map Floor. “Or at least with very few others.”

  She gestured to the model below, now stretched out to the edges of the circular depression in the War Room. Butch had approved a commission for additions to the Map Floor. He and Deetra had decided on wood, for the sake of time. Each piece was carved to the same scale as the arena.

  It didn't include all of Hornstall but they’d gotten most of it. The south walls; including the sixty-foot gate towers, the Freeman Quarter, storehouses, temple, and docks all sat in their proper places. They used hundreds of smooth pebbles to represent the river.

  Deetra pointed at the temple. “That’s our leverage. You said that Tor sought out and destroyed every temple of the Goddess.”

  Ayla nodded. If Tor believed them, the temple might lure him into the gates. However, the Hornstall temple would have to be one Tor himself missed, an original. If it was built since, it would not have any real value to him.

  Deetra turned and faced Butch. “The Freemen have existed for three hundred years, in the same crypt, right?”

  Butch folded his arms and shrugged with a sideways head tilt. “On and off. We don't know much. We know that the secret entrance to the crypt has been found by different groups over time. There are names, thousands of them, scratched into the ceiling of the sleeping quarters.”

  Ayla nodded. She had seen the scratches, but hadn’t noticed they had any form - like names. She could not read anyhow. She would look again, though, and bring Deetra with her next time she went down there. Alex must have scratched his name in too, and Ayla wanted to add hers and Deetra’s.

  Deetra ran a hand down Ayla’s forearm, comforting her, as if she could read her thoughts. Ayla covered it with her own as Deetra spoke.

  “The tunics are blessed by the Goddess. So are the benches. They barely got wet after days underwater. Which means those things are original, like the tunics.”

  Ayla had known the Freemen hideout once served as the temple crypt. She never gave thought to how it ended up serving that purpose in the first place. The freemen lived as rogues, pilfering what they needed to survive.

  “The priests were the first Freemen. They must have hidden the temple. It looks like all the other storage rooms along the wall. No one would ever have thought twice.”

  The Priestess knew Butch loved the Freemen and their stories. Orcs, he told her, kept an oral history. Long tales were the passion of every orc child.

  “Then why leave the altar in the storage room?” he asked.

  Ayla thought she knew. Each time she knelt before the altar, she could smell the aroma of scented oils, if only in her mind. The ancient stone had a power of its own.

  “To protect it. To help keep the priests, and later the Freemen, hidden. That altar is ancient. That proves it’s one of the original temples from Tor’s time.”

  Deetra squeezed her arm. “He’s gonna be upset when he finds out he missed one.”

  Butch smiled his orc-toothed grin. “We’ll use the location of the temple as leverage to gain conditions of surrender. Tor will want to verify that it's the real thing. I think we have ourselves a plan.”

  Ayla stood atop the sixty-foot west tower of the outer keep wall. The view was clear for miles. She took her hair out of the braid and let the wind run through it. The river wound its path through the hills to her right. To her left, endless hills rolled on into the horizon. Deetra stood next to her clad in her red full plate armor. The Priestess had requested the watchmen send for her the moment they spotted the survivors from Moonvale.

  The refugees and revolutionaries trudged down the road, two hills to the south, straight ahead, just over the bridge. They brought wagons filled with supplies and horses. The storm had filled the gully below it, creating a tributary to the river.

  The gate below opened and four riders galloped over the drawbridge, followed by two horse drawn wagons. Ayla had ordered her people to gather up all the injured, sick, and every child, so she could tend to them.

  Deetra lifted her visor. “By tomorrow, we will be watching Tor’s army arrive.”

  Ayla didn't answer. Tomorrow, the war began in earnest. Butch believed that Tor’s army would try to wait them out, starve them. He said that Tor would have the supply reports from Hornstall, and know how long they could hold out. Ayla could ill afford a long, protracted siege. The arena surgeon could help her but the window for that help grew shorter with each passing day.

  The wagons reached the bridge and tiny people scurried over to them like ants. The riders stayed while the wagons turned around to make haste back to the keep. Ayla gathered her hair and tied it into a ponytail with a strip of black leather.

  “I have to meet them in the gatehouse. You coming?”

  Deetra closed her eyes and took a deep breath of fresh air. “Would you mind if I stayed up here another minute?”

  Ayla kissed her on the cheek. “Of course not. See you downstairs.”

  Deetra nodded and Ayla made her way down the stairs next to the battlements. Six flights later, Ayla nodded to a guard who unlocked the door to the courtyard. Butch waited for her inside the gatehouse with a group of fifteen of his strongest soldiers.

  He waved her over and Ayla jogged to him, scale mail jingling. Both portcullises stood open like gaping steel jaws wide enough to chew six wagons side by side. Torches burned along the walls. The orc stood with arms folded in the center of his line of men. Ayla stepped between two and came out in front of them.

  Butch spoke, eyes scanning beyond the drawbridge. “Most of them will stay in the Freemen Quarter. Fighters will stay in the arena.”

  Ayla nodded and they waited in silence until the first wagon arrived. As it rolled over the drawbridge a woman caught Ayla’s eye. She had a round belly. The Priestess stepped in front of the wagon.

  The wagon driver pulled back on the reins, stopping the horse just before the first gate. Ayla pointed to the woman, then beckoned her with a curled finger.

  “You. Come here.”

  A man tried to help her down but she shooed his hand away and climbed down on her own. She had long sun-bleached blonde hair and wore a dirty tan dress over the swell of her belly. The man, also a field hand, looked haggard, with black circles under his eyes.

  She stopped in front of Ayla and took a knee. The man stood behind her. Butch stared him down until the man also took a knee.

  Ayla lifted the woman’s chin with her finger. “What is your name?”

  “Ava.”

  “How far along are you?”

  They both knew what she really asked; are you carrying a calf? The woman met Ayla’s eyes and did not look away.

  “Three months.”

  Ayla’s heart ached with pity. Judging by the size of her womb, if she had carried a human child, she would only have two months to go. Horses clopped up the drawbridge until the other wagon stopped behind the first. The people in the back leaned over the side to see why they were stopped.

  Ayla knelt down on the cobblestones in front of the pregnant woman. Her voice echoed off the stone walls of the gatehouse. “Who is this man with you?”

  The woman bowed her head. “My brother, Gaelan, milady.”

  Butch’s chest rumbled. “It’s Priestess.”

  The woman looked up, then back down and hurried to correct hers
elf. “He’s my brother, Priestess.”

  Ayla shook her head at Butch with a stern look and he dipped his head in silent apology. She lifted the woman’s chin again. Her voice kept the compassion it had before but now carried an edge.

  “You are too far along for any surgeon to help you.”

  “I know, Priestess. That’s not why I came.” The pregnant woman’s green eyes held Ayla’s gaze and did not waiver. She set her jaw. “I want to fight.”

  Ayla turned to the men lined up in the gatehouse, their breastplates gleaming in the sun. Ayla cleared her throat and one hand went to her stomach.

  “This woman goes to the arena. She gets a weapon and any armor that might fit.” She turned back to the woman’s brother. “What about you?”

  The man nodded. “I have a weapon on the wagon.”

  Deetra came around the corner from the stairs, visor down. “What’s going on?”

  Ayla stepped between the men and passed her Lady Knight, the lump in her throat audible. “Nothing. Just taking volunteers.”

  Deetra followed her. “Are you alright?”

  Ayla walked faster, as if she could escape the truth if she just got far enough away from Ava. She hurried down the road, sensing eyes on her. Ayla made it to the second gatehouse and didn't slow down as the guard saluted her. She ducked around the corner then put her back to the wall and looked up, her breath coming in short gasps and puffs.

  Deetra caught up to her removed the helm. “What in the Hells happened back there?”

  Ayla tried to turn away but Deetra stopped her with an arm blocking her path against the wall. Tears stung her eyes.

  “That woman,” Ayla said and swallowed the lump in her throat. “She’s me, in ten weeks.”

  Deetra looked around the corner at the other gate house, then returned her attention to Ayla.

  “Can we talk about a surgeon now?”

  Ayla shook her head, still looking up at the sky. Her voice came out a strained whisper. “I can't risk it. I have to finish this first.”

  Deetra wrapped her armored arms around Ayla. “Let’s get you to the temple.”

  Ayla stood behind the altar, using it as a short podium. The four-year-old girl that inspired this gathering, Abigail, stood beside her. Abigail’s father worked as a blacksmith across the street from the temple. He’d waved to Ayla when Abigail ran into her.

  Forty-two children sat in the rows of pews, twenty-six girls and sixteen boys. In terms of seating, the temple had reached capacity. They talked in groups, separated by hair color and homeland. Her little marigolds, with their sun-bleached, brown tipped hair, sat to Ayla’s right. They represented the field hands’ children from Moonvale. The girls outnumbered the only boy, three to one. Ayla knew at least one of the girls was conceived in a breeding cabin. Her mother had volunteered to fight, one of the few - other than Ava.

  “I'm going to be honest with you. Can I do that?”

  Heads nodded at different intervals and they all looked around at each other for confirmation. Some nodded with hesitation, like they weren’t sure what she’d said. Others clearly just did it because their peers did.

  Ayla grinned. Some might see it as ignorance, or as evidence of a lack of understanding. The Priestess saw their faith in one another - naked and innocent faith. They trusted each other, operating solely on instinct.

  “I’m Priestess Ayla. You’re here because we need your help - all of us. Me, General Butch, Lady Deetra, your moms and dads - everyone.”

  Their faces grew more solemn with every word. A few of the older children nodded their confirmation. They understood things the others didn't, like armies and slavery. Some had attended a gathering before and heard Ayla’s pleas to the people for help and volunteers. Now, it was their turn.

  “But there is someone more important who needs our help. Does anybody know who?”

  Four hands went up, three boys and one girl. Ayla went with her bias and chose the girl. Ayla had seen her before, at the gatherings. Her family lived in Hornstall. Her father was a soldier but Ayla couldn't remember his face. The girl, about seven years old, had dark-brown hair and freckles on her nose.

  She lowered her hand. “The Goddess?”

  Ayla rewarded her with a big smile she reserved for good children. “I’ve seen you at gatherings. I'm glad you were listening.”

  The boys took offense. A blonde field-hand boy, about ten, waved his hand - frantic for Ayla to notice him. “I go too!”

  Another boy, younger than the first leaned towards the Moonvale boy. “I went to the first one. Right after they burned her.”

  Ayla blinked, shocked. She understood that some knew, but to hear it so plain from his mouth gave her pause. She decided she didn't like his tone with the Moonvale boy. Ayla wouldn't have this become a competition.

  “No one is better than anyone else, here. Watch your tone.”

  Every child oohed until Ayla silenced them with a look. She would not have them punishing one another for their mistakes either. As Priests and Priestesses, mistakes would happen and they needed to accept that.

  She considered where to begin and decided to treat them with the same respect the Goddess had shown her. The tale of their lives had a beginning and it started with Tor, three hundred years ago. Ayla had told the tale before at the gatherings.

  “To the rest of you who don't know who the Goddess is and haven't attended a gathering yet, I will explain. Do you like stories?”

  They shouted their approval and Ayla laughed. No other gathering had ever shown this much enthusiasm for the tale of Tor. She’d chosen her acolytes well.

  She explained that Tor was the first minotaur and the Goddess’ misbehaving son who, because of his disobedience, had been cursed by the Sun God and could not be saved, even by his mother.

  The children listened with rapt attention to every word. Most of them had no idea where the half-beasts came from or why they lived in slavery. Ayla had never known either, but she knew that they required human women to sow their seed. The Priestess told them that as well.

  Some became angry, especially the boys. They balled their fists and scrunched up their faces, ready for a fight. Others, mostly girls, covered their mouths in horror. The rest just listened, absorbing the tale.

  Tor, the invincible immortal boogieman, terrified them one and all. The idea of anyone needing their help puffed up their chests with prideful bravado. Ayla told them that only they could help slay him, with the Goddess at their side, through prayer.

  The Priestess taught them the words and told them of the power in begging the Goddess for strength, or healing. She cut herself and healed it with the prayer. The children were awed until their faith filled the temple with the Goddess power. None of them could heal, yet. They had not felt the touch of the immortal realms. She would pray for the Goddess to come to them in their dreams, just as she had for Ayla.

  Deetra arrived late in the night, looking for her. The Priestess sent the children home in groups with soldiers. Deetra hugged her, heavy bags under the knight’s eyes.

  “I'm headed to sleep. Are you done here?”

  Ayla hugged her back and they shared a long, soft kiss. “No, not yet.”

  Deetra yawned. “Tor’s army isn’t gonna wait for us to sleep in.”

  Ayla knelt before the altar. “One more prayer. Just wait for me, okay?”

  Deetra sat in the pew, waiting.

  Ayla sat in a pew with Deetra’s head in her lap and the helm resting on the other side of her. The knight fell asleep in her armor, waiting. Ayla didn't sleep at all. One more prayer had turned into the whole night praying in the darkness. She gave thanks for the children and prayed for Butch to be wrong.

  When they discussed the plan, Butch said he believed Tor would starve them out, rather than risk damaging the strongest fortification in the south. If that happened, by the time Ayla’s plan went into motion, no surgeon could help her. She needed him to attack.

  The first rays of t
he morning sun shone in the alley between the small temple and the building next to it, bringing soft light to the bare temple walls. Ayla had cleaned the floors herself and the wood gleamed in the morning light.

  Soon, the messenger would arrive to tell her Tor and his men approached the keep. He had already ordered all the men to take their positions on the wall. Ayla would wake Lady Deetra soon and they would join the others together. In spite of General Butch’s objections, The Priestess and Lady Deetra would take position outside the walls, on the drawbridge.

  Deetra opened her eyes and yawned with a stretch. One unarmored hand went to the back of Ayla’s neck and Ayla leaned down. She planted a kiss on Deetra’s nose.

  “Good Morning,” Ayla said as she stroked Deetra’s cheek. “Sleep well?”

  Deetra yawned again and nodded. Ayla sat up and scrunched her nose. Deetra covered her mouth.

  “Sorry,” she said, then sat up and rested her elbows on her knees. She wiped her face with her hands. “You sleep?”

  Ayla shook her head as she stood up and stretched. “Not a wink.”

  A shadow passed over the temple as someone came to the open doors. Deetra picked up her gauntlets as she rose from her seat.

  Ayla spoke without turning around. “Has the army been spotted?”

  A young, nervous voice answered. “Yes, Priestess. They approach the south gate.”

  Ayla nodded, her gaze on the worn and ancient altar. Despite not having slept, she felt awake, but the idea of Tor’s army at their gates seemed like a dream. She’d only left Hillside two weeks ago. It felt like a lifetime.

  Her voice sounded distant in her own ears. “Lady Deetra and I will be there shortly.”

  Deetra added a question before the boy could leave. “How many are on the walls?”

  “All of us, Lady Knight - 472 at last count.”

  Deetra picked up her helm and donned it. “Notify the guards assigned to the acolytes. They can bring the children to the courtyard now. Dismissed.”

  The boy ran off and Ayla stepped forward to the altar. The Priestess had only inspired 472 out of the two thousand living in Hornstall. Eight to nine hundred showed up every sunset at the arena to hear her speak, far less than half of Hornstall. Only half of those, after hearing the Priestess for six days, possessed faith enough to fight. She supposed some people had their spirits broken and simply could not believe. It made her sad to think that included most of Hornstall.

  Deetra had almost become one of them. The most downtrodden of people hid behind strength, guarding their shattered spirits. The Goddess had made Deetra’s spirit whole and now she had strength inside and out.

  Ayla beckoned Deetra to come and kneel with her before the ancient altar. Deetra kept the visor up and joined her at the front.

  Ayla had a gift commissioned the day after they took Hornstall, after she and Lady Deetra took their vows. She pulled a pair of matching steel rings from the leather thong around her neck. Holding them in her palm, she showed them to Deetra.

  Deetra put a hand over her armored chest. “Where did you get them?”

  “I had them made for us. They could have been gold or silver, but I chose steel.”

  Deetra took one from Ayla’s palm, then lifted the Priestess’ left hand and slipped it onto the ring finger. The knight pulled off her gauntlet and Ayla did the same. She met Deetra’s eyes.

  “Gold and silver are soft – weak.”

  Deetra nodded. “I love it.” She kissed the ring and then Ayla on the cheek. “Let’s go, dear.”

  Ayla smiled. “Yes, darling.”

  Deetra pulled on her gauntlet over the ring and stood, holding out a hand. Ayla took it. They left the temple together and headed for the main gate. The sun rose over the men on the west wall, painting the scattered clouds the color of blood.

  The first gatehouse contained only four guards, every other available man and woman with a weapon relegated to the main wall. As Ayla walked next to Lady Deetra down the road to the second gate, many of the soldiers on the wall turned to watch.

  Deetra let go of Ayla’s hand and lifted her voice to them. “The battle is out there! Keep your eyes on the enemy!”

  Most of them turned back around but some, like Ava, identifiable by her long sun-bleached hair and heavy belly, watched on. The pregnant woman had a shield on one arm and carried a spear in the other.

  Ayla nodded at her, unsure if the woman could see. Ava nodded back and turned to face the enemy once more.

  The first and second portcullis opened to permit them exit. Butch stepped out to greet them. The orc General waved them over and Ayla picked up her pace. He pulled her to the side of the gatehouse.

  “They’re making camp, but they’re also in attack formation. I think it’s surrender or starve.”

  Ayla nodded. “Let’s see how bad he wants the temple.”

  Ayla and Lady Deetra’s bootsteps on the wooden drawbridge echoed up from the moat below. The men shielded their eyes from the early morning sun as they watched from the walls and towers.

  The front line of Tor’s army formed up just out of bow range on a low hill that sloped up from the end of the drawbridge. The front line at the bottom of the hill consisted of at least fifty minotaurs standing side by side, arm’s length apart. Their kite shields, as tall as Ayla, bore an emblem Ayla could not quite make out at this distance. Rank after rank filed in behind them.

  Banners and flags moved about the hillside as the half-beasts took positions. Three catapults stood on either flank in firing position, manned by two minotaurs each. Half-beasts moved back and forth between covered wagons and carts, Ayla counted thirteen. One tent raised up as she watched, expertly erected all at once.

  Ayla stopped halfway across and Lady Deetra advanced a few more steps and faced the south east, toward the hill. The sun glared in Ayla’s eyes. Tor chose the eastern hill in the morning, using the sun for tactical advantage.

  Ayla made a visor with her hand as a detachment of six minotaurs, in full plate armor like knights, came around the flank. Two of them bore flags on their backs. Tor walked between them.

  Ayla knew the son of the Goddess the moment she laid eyes on him. He towered above the other seven and eight-foot-tall half-beasts. His horns, the length and thickness of Butch’s arms, curved up to the sky. He wore no armor, and carried no weapon - because he didn't need them. His body was invulnerable and his strength unequaled in all the mortal world - a god in his own right. He wore only a black kilt and steel gauntlets and carried a sack in one hand.

  His men stopped at the edge of the drawbridge and he strode forward alone. His steps strained the wood beneath him and the bridge trembled each time his hock came down. Deetra kept her glaive at her side and stood motionless, unreadable beneath the armor.

  Tor’s presence settled over her like a pall. Ayla’s guts turned to water. She reached for the holy symbol around her neck out of habit, but Deetra wore it now.

  He stopped on the bridge, fifteen feet away. His shadow loomed over them like a giant. Ayla’s eyes went to the bag.

  “I have something of yours, Priestess.”

  Ayla didn't respond, nervous her voice would betray her fear.

  Deetra held out a gauntleted hand. She spoke like a knight, confident and powerful. “I’ll take that.”

  He tossed it underhand and it landed at Deetra’s feet. Her helm stayed focused on Tor as she bent to pick it up. She opened the drawstring and pulled out a human head, fingers wrapped in a mess of black hair. The knight held it out to the side so Ayla could see.

  It was the scout she and Butch sent to Hillside, missing since she sent him back out the second time - six days ago. His mouth and eyes remained open in death, a permanent scream etched into his face. Ayla chose him because he had no children, no job. Shaking her head, she committed his face to memory, since no one else would.

  “Throw it in the moat.”

  Deetra tossed it and it splashed into the water. Ayla met Tor’s
eyes, her ire at the murder of a lonely man giving her strength. She laced every word with biting sarcasm.

  “Truly you are powerful as they say, to kill a half-starved vagabond.”

  Tor’s expression remained impassive as stone. “I didn't kill him. That head was delivered to me by messenger from the garrison that wiped out Hillside.”

  Deetra laughed - her mirth real, but spiteful. “I'm afraid your cows lied to you. Hornstall Garrison didn’t even arrive before Hillside burned.”

  Tor fixed his intense gaze on her. “A true knight knows when to hold their tongue.” He shook his head, horns catching the sun. “Would you like to know Brayden’s fate? He spoke of you, Deetra.”

  Lady Deetra took a step back. Ayla could read the surprise and hurt in that single step.

  Deetra twisted her grip on the haft of the glaive. “I’m sure he’s dead.”

  A rumble built in Tor’s chest that built to a laugh that bounced off the keep walls and rolled over the hills behind him. He shook his head. “Yes, I’m sorry I don’t have his head for you.” He returned his gaze to Ayla.

  Deetra shifted her weapon to her throwing arm. Her new glaive had a metal haft, able to withstand an attack from a minotaur mace. “So, it’s surrender or starve?”

  Tor looked up at the guard tower, ignoring her as he waited. For what, Ayla didn't know. The knot of anxiety in her chest tightened. Ayla sensed Deetra’s anger at his disrespect, evident in her every movement.

  An attack on Tor in this moment amounted to suicide, nothing more. She hoped Deetra remembered that in her silent rage. Only one of Tor’s bloodline could hope to slay him.

  Ayla cupped her hands beneath her chin. She prayed for Deetra’s patience, wisdom for the right words, and for the strength to say them.

  Tor spoke with a voice like low, building thunder. “Your goddess could not help the hundreds of priests before you, young one. You have been touched by an immortal, but I am an immortal.”

  Ayla finished her prayer and lowered her hands. “My knight asked you a question, cow. Is your only offer surrender now or starve to death?”

  If Tor heard her, he made no sign. The enormous minotaur demigod pointed to the guard towers.

  “Any moment your lookouts will inform you that the garrison is on the river. They will attack and burn your storehouses.”

  The docks extended over the river on the west side of Hornstall. The smaller towers on the west walls had lookouts but every armed man in Hornstall stood almost a mile away, thirty feet in the air. If the garrison attacked from that side, the guards would not notice them until it was too late.

  Ayla forced herself not to look west, or up to the guard tower above. She knew better than to let him see she believed him. Butch, only fifty feet away in the gatehouse, could hear Tor as well as she did. If he thought men should move to the docks, he would order it.

  Tor lowered his heavy gaze and levelled it on the Priestess.

  “My terms are these: You,” he lifted his hand to Lady Deetra, “and the Knight of the Order of Kissfish surrender now. I will grant your men a swift death and spare the life of anyone unarmed.”

  The clang of metal rang out from above. Someone on the wall dropped their sword. Tor put his hands behind his back, leaned forward a bit and lowered his voice. “That’s one man with good sense. I'm sure there are more.”

  Deetra tensed and Ayla held her breath but the Lady Knight kept her composure. After this negotiation concluded, Ayla vowed to find the sword’s owner and have Butch cut open his belly and render the coward gutless in front of the other men.

  Ayla put on her best Priestess smile.

  “If its terms we’re discussing, please, do come in,” she said, turning to the side and offering him to precede her in the gate. “I have a lovely altar for you to lie down on while I tell you mine.”

  Tor scoffed, but Ayla knew the remark landed. His face showed indifference, but the fur on his neck and shoulders bristled.

  A guard called out an alert from the top of the west tower. “Cows along the river! It’s the garrison!”

  Commotion stirred above with hushed, worried voices and shifting armor. Butch shouted orders from the west tower.

  “West defenders to the docks! East, spread out!”

  A frenzy of movement erupted on the stairs within the towers. The Priestess kept her eyes on Tor. He waited with her for the noise to die down, then spoke first. “So you have built yourself some tawdry little temple. I will burn -”

  “No,” Ayla said, shaking her head. She closed her eyes and remembered last night out loud - a night spent in pleading prayer. “The temple has bare walls. No worthless tapestries, or torches to spoil the sunset. At night, if you close the doors, the temple is black as the Abyss and silent as the crypt below.”

  Ayla took a deep breath remembering the hope the Goddess blessed her with as she knelt, begging for the lives of her people. “The altar smells like our Mother’s breath when you lay your head on it. The stone is worn smooth from thousands of hands. It’s old - older than you.”

  Tor’s voice invaded her reverie, like Goreskin on the steps of the temple in her dream. “Enough.”

  She opened her eyes.

  Tor’s fur bristled, his gauntleted hands balled into fists. “Once Hornstall is mine, I will burn your false temple to the ground.”

  Ayla gave him a half smile. “It isn't false. It’s been hidden for three hundred years. And if I have to, I will sacrifice every believer on that altar until the streets run red. I’ll make sure you never find it without burning all of Hornstall to the ground.”

  “What makes you think I won't?”

  Deetra folded her arms. “A ruler ready to destroy his own city doesn't offer ‘surrender or starve’. He offers nothing, because nothing will remain.”

  Tor shook his head, his horns throwing shadows over the drawbridge. The wind carried the distant din of battle on the docks to her ears. More men died with every moment she wasted.

  “We have terms of our own. In exchange for hearing them, and your word as the Son of the Goddess to honor them, I will give you the location of the temple.”

  Tor looked up at the walls, then to the west, away from the sun. His ear twitched, angling for the sounds from the docks. He pointed at the battlements but stared at the Priestess.

  “When they’re mad with hunger and their children's bellies are swollen, your own men will open the gates and offer you to me.” He raised his voice to her soldiers. “If you surrender, and bring her to me, I will give you a meal before you die!”

  Deetra screamed and threw the glaive. It hit him in the sternum, bounced off, and clattered to the wood drawbridge. He turned away as if he didn’t notice, and sauntered off to rejoin his army.