chapter nineteen
New Life, New War
Ava cried out again. The High Priestess marched over to a soldier next to the woman and pulled his longsword out of the scabbard.
“Are you just gonna let her suffer like this?”
Ava held her breath and pushed with a shriek. Ayla knelt before her, sword in hand. The woman met her wintery eyes. Ayla asked her without words.
Mercy?
Ava nodded, her palms flat on the floor, every starved muscle tensed. Her face dripped sweat, her cheeks flushed. Ayla spoke the words of the prayer for the thousandth time that day. This time, she asked the Goddess to carry Ava to rest.
Ava pushed again, cheeks puffed, face pink. Ayla put the sword to Ava’s heart and placed her palm over the counterweight. The woman lifted her head, shaking with effort. Ayla drew the sword back an inch for leverage to drive it into her heart.
The soldier she took the sword from yelled in surprise. He pushed Ayla to the side. Ayla, furious, recovered from the ground ready to cut the fool’s throat. She’d had enough for one day.
In his arms, he held a baby boy - a human boy. The child didn't move, his skin and lips blue. Ava must have lied about the child's father.
No. Ayla knew the truth. The woman agreed to mercy not a second before. She had no idea. Ayla dropped the sword, it clinked and then fell through a murder hole. Ayla dropped to her knees. Men screamed, running towards them. .
“Fall back!”
“They’re inside the city!”
The High Priestess took the baby in her arms, umbilical cord still attached. Ava’s eyes rolled and her head bobbed, but she remained conscious. A man screamed just outside the door. Ayla put her ear to the baby’s chest, the clash of battle now only a few feet outside the door.
No heartbeat.
Ava craned her neck back and rested her head on the wall, brow covered in sweat, skin tight over her cheekbones. Ava swallowed, her knees still bent, palms on the floor.
“He’s dead?”
Ayla didn't answer, she just stared at the baby - her mind, faith, and heart tangled in knots. They’d won the war, but lost the battle. Ayla had broken the curse. One day, unable to sire progeny, the minotaurs would die out – but not today.
Ayla handed the baby to his mother, who closed her eyes as she took him. Ava would not get the privilege of dying in battle. She would die here, with her stillborn son in her arms.
Ava’s chest heaved as she fought back sobs. A thin cry escaped her lips as she held him close. The Priestess’ heart broke for her as Ava gave up and wept with soul twisting misery.
Ayla’s Mother never promised her victory, but her people had earned one. Ayla had done what the Goddess asked of her and never once faltered. Ayla balled her fists and stood. She lifted her chin.
She would meet her Goddess in minutes, the pretense of prayer seemed preposterous. The Prayer of Humility felt wrong. Ayla had earned herself a place of honor in the Abyss.
“Mother. This is not a temple, but I need you now.”
Ayla caught a whiff of scented oils over the smell of blood and pitch from the torches in the room above the gatehouse. The last soldier had left, to help defend the last section of walls just outside the door. Men screamed and Fergus’ voice yelled to the other children. “Prayers of courage!”
“Mother?”
The Goddess’ proximity teased her senses. She was there, in the murder room, beyond the veil of the immortal realms. Ayla took a deep breath. Another scent - a second presence - lingered in the room like pollen in spring. Whispers scratched the air around her and the flames of the torches fluttered. Ayla thought the sounds were in her mind until Ava looked up from her boy. The screams and clash of steel outside could not dull the sound.
“Priestess?” Ava said.
Ayla met her eyes. “The Goddess of the Abyss is here, with another.”
Ava’s gaze dropped back to the departed infant against her emaciated chest. “Please, Priestess …” Tears fell on the baby’s blue cheeks as her voice failed her. She cleared her throat, managing a whisper. “Ask them to take me instead?”
Ayla’s nails bit deeper into her palms, eyes aching with restrained tears. Her first instinct had been to pray for courage for Ava, but she lacked none. The Priestess couldn't meet the woman’s eyes.
“No, Ava. I won't let him die a second time.”
“Please,” Ava said and worked her way onto her knees, umbilical cord still attached, holding the dead infant.
Blood dripped from Ayla’s fingers buried in her flesh. The injustice of it all burned in her chest. Her temper broke.
“MOTHER!”
Her own voice rang in her ears in the bare stone room.
“I have sacrificed all that I am! Burned at the stake! Starved my people! Their children drank blood and died in your name! And for what?” Ayla shook as the fury and frustration kept in check with faith obliterated her self-control.
“SO MY ENEMIES CAN DIE OF OLD AGE!”
Ayla filled her lungs. The musk of pollen was undeniable.
Goddess of Healing! Can you hear - ?” Ayla’s voice cracked and she lowered it. “I know you’re here. Who else smells like spring as children die? You guard the lives of this world from the Gods? Where were you when the God of Sun and Toil put us in chains?”
Ava joined Ayla in pleading with the Gods from her knees in front of the hole in the floor. Ayla put her hand on Ava’s head. Ava closed her eyes and cupped her hands in prayer.
“Take me. Take every last man on the walls. But please …” Ava’s composure broke and she cried in weak sobs.
Ayla bowed her head, embarrassed by her outburst in the face of a woman with such strength of character. Ayla lifted her hands to her chin.
“Mother, Goddess of the Night, your daughter is in need and begs, humbly, for your forgiveness for my words and lack of faith. You made me no promises. I swore my soul to you, not you to me. Queen of the Gods, my Mother, The Goddess of Healing has violated her own law. She has chosen not to protect the souls of this world from the immortals. How many of our children have to die? How much more suffering is enough for the God of Toil? I ask only for you to give this boy, the first of his kind and his mother, peace.”
The cornflower light of healing permeated her closed eyelids and Ayla opened her eyes. The lambent light traveled down the umbilical cord to the baby. It shrivelled and fell away, leaving a perfect little button in the center of the boy’s tummy. His cheeks turned pink.
Ava’s cheeks and lips turned blue and she stopped breathing.
Ayla rescued him from his dying mother’s arms, as Ava slumped to the floor. The boy took a breath, choked and then cried. He shook, little fists balled, legs drawn up.
His squalling rose until it rattled the mortar loose from the walls, her Mother’s voice crossing the Abyss to his lungs. Ayla thought her ear drums would burst as each successive wail sent shockwaves through the world around her.
It carried back in the door from outside, echoing off the city walls and the hills beyond. The torches snuffed out, leaving the murder holes in the floor shining torchlight up into the room like tiny gates to the Hells.
A thump in the doorway made Ayla jump. A minotaur lay over the threshold, dead with its eyes open.
Deetra knelt down in the soaking rain and hugged James. “You did good, James. I'm proud of you,” she said and squeezed him.
James beamed at her, the bravest man on the battlefield. “Proud of you?”
She was reminded of Brayden and a lump rose in her throat. She swallowed it down and nodded at James with a reassuring smile. She would see Brayden soon enough, along with Ayla and everyone else. They had killed Tor, but this day was never meant to be won. The Lady Knight knew that now, even if regular old Deetra couldn't accept it.
The men pressed tight against them in the rain, silhouettes of horns against the black sky only feet away on all sides. Deetra squeezed her eyes shut and cover
ed James’ ears. Their foreheads together, James prayed aloud, as she recited it only in her heart.
Men fell to the ground all around with sickening thuds. She prayed for the worst; a blade to the back of the neck, mace to the skull - a horrifying but quick death.
It didn't come. The Lady Knight picked up James as she stood, confused.
A circle of dead minotaurs surrounded them. They fell straight down in heaps. The men turned to her for answers. The wonder in Deetra’s eyes must have matched their own, because they didn't ask questions. They lifted their weapons and hollered out battle cries.
Ayla stood on top of the gatehouse. Minotaurs lay strewn in piles in front of the wall and over the battlements. Fergus stood at her side along with nine of her original sixteen Child-Priests. Tears coursed down all of their cheeks, hidden by the rain, as the men hooted and yelled in celebration.
Seven of her boys had died. Ayla dropped to knees, guilt gnawing at her insides. Tiny hands laid on her head, shoulders, and back. Fergus knelt down next to her as they all recited the prayer. He put his arm over her shoulders and pulled her close.
“They wanted to. We all did,” he said.
Somehow, it made the guilt dig deeper into her heart. The baby, the first human boy born of a minotaur union with a human woman, cried below in the murder room. Ayla covered her face and wept. She couldn't pray for thanks, or for the Goddess to accept the little ones to their unending rest.
Deetra’s voice came from the stairs. “Send a detachment, ten men to the docks to find General Butcher!”
Ayla cried some more, afraid she might never stop. Her boys, the Child-Priests of Hornstall, ended their prayer together with the same wish.
“… and begs, humbly, for courage for The High Priestess.”
Ayla blinked away her tears and lowered her hands. The boys all wore solemn expressions, worried for her. They understood that she did not fear, but they knew something else she’d forgotten. Sometimes, courage meant the ability to say goodbye. Her Priests bared her no ill will for the deaths of their friends. They only wanted her to be strong and say goodbye to the fallen now that it was done.
They parted on one side as Lady Deetra ran to her with James in her arms. Ayla stood, sorrow making her knees weak. The soldiers had vacated the area, leaving the top of the gatehouse with only the Child Priests, their Lady Knight, and High Priestess.
Deetra handed James to Fergus and held Ayla by the upper arms, her brown eyes edged with tears. She swallowed them back, as she always did. Her voice came out a hoarse whisper.
“What happened?”
The baby cried from below and Ayla smiled. “Ava’s child came. A boy. A human boy.”
Deetra scrunched up her nose and looked out over the body strewn courtyard. “I meant the army.”
Ayla shook her head, fresh tears threatening to spill onto her cheeks once more. “He was born still. I prayed for peace for him and Ava, but he woke, crying, and Ava died. I think …” Ayla burst into tears.
Deetra hugged her close. “She gave her life for him?”
Ayla nodded in the warmth of Deetra’s neck, the sobs unable to quench the torment of her guilt.
“How many?” She asked, through her tears.
Lady Deetra squeezed her tight. “We lost fifteen.”
A horse galloped along the road inside the city, drawing closer, the sound of its hooves accented by the bouncing wheels of a wagon. A man shouted from below.
“Priestess! It’s the General!”
Ayla let go of Deetra. She, Deetra, and her Priests ran to the inside wall of the gatehouse and looked down. Butch lay on the back of the wagon, his shoulder torn half out of the socket, unconscious and bleeding.
The High Priestess wove her way through the children and ran down the stairs. She slipped and skidded down a few before catching her balance with her rear at the bottom. Deetra helped her up and they ran together for the wagon. Soldiers came down the other stairs and along the road from the docks.
Deetra reached over the side of the wagon, the orc’s body illuminated in the light of the torches inside the gatehouse. Soldiers crowded around them as Deetra laid her hands on him. Ayla climbed up the back of the wagon.
Healing light spread over the orc’s shoulder and back, but his eyes remained closed. He started to snore and the soldiers laughed. Ayla smiled too. They’d all been kept up at night by Butch’s snoring.
The laughter woke him and he sat up with a loud snort. “Get back to your -”
Ayla tackled him back down with a hug. She squeezed her big, ugly, green teddy bear. The children cheered from above and the men joined them.
Deetra climbed up onto the wagon as Ayla showered the orc’s bony face with kisses. He put a hand on Ayla’s face, defending himself.
“What’s going on?”
Deetra grinned. “We won.”
Butch’s heavy orcish brow lowered. “Damn it to the Hells! I missed the whole thing?”
Ayla followed Butch down the stairs to the crypt, leaving the remaining children in the temple pews, silent and teary-eyed. The orc carried Bridget in his arms, the last to be interred in the crypt below. He descended into the soft, cool darkness.
The citizens of Hornstall had come to pay their respects to the hundreds of fallen. Ayla, Deetra, and Butch waited to have a private ceremony for the Child Priests and Priestesses. Butch had told the people that for the first time in history, children gave a future to their parents. With eyes unblinded by bitterness, they gave their lives for freedom, in the name of the Dark Queen.
Ayla bowed her head. She had already said all the prayers she could for the children, but Bridget was the last. After her, Butch would seal the crypt and Ayla would place a curse upon the door against all trespassers. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the infinite peace of death in their Mother’s name. The cool darkness of the crypt made it easier.
Her Mother’s voice, the Dark Queen, whispered in the crypt.
“They arereunited with families at my side, but they do not rest.”
Butch stared at the child in his arms. Deetra noticed Ayla’s expression and took her hand. Ayla called out into the black crypt, her voice cracking. She’d shed enough tears, but the violation she felt choked her.
“I don't understand.”
The voice hummed in the walls and the floor at Ayla’s feet.
“You prayed for peace for Ava and her child, not victory, or for your life. The children and I implored the Healing Goddess with your prayer. She turned a blind eye and allowed me to take the souls of my vile half-beast grandsons.”
Butch growled. “What do the squabbles among gods have to do with our kids?”
Ayla waited until he put Bridget's body in its resting place, then punched him in the arm. A long period of silence passed and Ayla wondered if Butch’s insolence had ended the conversation. Ayla opened her mouth to apologize for Butch’s tongue and the Goddess’ voice returned.
“Just as you fought a war in my name, now, I fight one in yours. It is Godswar over the Goddess of Healing and Peace’s actions. The children asked to stand at my side.”
Deetra and Butch folded their arms at the same time. They stood together, like odd, proud parents. Deetra shook her head. “Brave, even in death.”
Ayla stepped deeper into the crypt. “Please, Mother, can I see you?”
The Goddess stepped out of the darkness, her wintery eyes appearing first. She wrapped her arms around Ayla, enveloping her in a black cloak of shadows. Ayla sighed, bathing in her Mother’s scent and cool comfort. The horrors of the war faded. The children lived on.
The Goddess kissed her on top of the head and put a hand on Ayla’s belly.
“Your son will be strong. Raise him in my name. We will need him.”
She guided Ayla back to Butch and Deetra.
“Thank you,” The Goddess said, and bowed before them, then stood tall as the shadows enveloped her. Her visage darkened until only her voice remained, ec
hoing, shaking the very air.
“The Dark Queen rises again.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CJ Perry is sarcastic liberal nerd that played too much Dungeons & Dragons in his youth and never learned respect for authority, couth, or how to line dance. He is a NY transplant in the swing state of NC trying to vote it blue. He enjoys; writing, fantasy, writing fantasy, commas, and long, redundant lists.
Exorcism of Light, book 2 of the Godswar Chronicles coming soon! For more info find me at:
www.CJPerry.net
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