Andry did not reply, his face bowed. He was careful and quiet, but the immortal could still hear his tears. He looked as he had at the temple—overcome, dull-eyed, broken by the massacre. And still dutifully trudging forward, without even a flicker of hope to light the way.
They hurried through a market. Whitewashed wattle-and-daub shops and timber-framed homes leered over them, their windows like empty eyes. Dom heard no patrols as Sarn led the way, her shift glaring white in the alleys. It was like following a ghost.
How fast does word travel in a city like this? he wondered, thinking of the gates. At every turn, their journey seemed to face its ending, only to carry on a bit further. Perhaps Ecthaid has answered my prayers after all, and he protects our road.
Or we’ve just been lucky.
The luck held. Godherda Gate arched before them, the iron-bound oak shut but not barred, with only a pair of city watchmen on duty to guard the way. As Andry had said, it was small, barely a door in the outer walls of Ascal. Easy to defend, but easy to forget.
Sarn sped up, as did Corayne, pulling Dom along on shambling feet. Andry grabbed his arm once more, taking some of his weight, until he could nearly run. Again his vision swam, black spots growing and shrinking before his eyes.
“Just keep your legs moving, my lord,” Andry said, sounding both close and far away.
Bells began to ring somewhere, reverberating in the air and in Dom’s skull. He squeezed his eyes shut as they echoed, shrieking. For a moment, he was back at the temple, staring at the white tower and the impossible toll of an ancient bell.
The watchmen shouted something, their voices punctuated by the clank of their armor and the sing of steel drawn loose.
The bells are a command. Their queen calls. Our time is up.
“Bar the gates—they’re closing the port—” the first watchman ordered. His words ended in a wet squelch.
Dom opened his eyes to see Sarn cut through the second watchman. Her sword dripped rubies and the gate yawned behind her, a crack between the doors widening with each moment.
It was Corayne who pushed him through, kicking the wood open.
All he could do was move, his energy finally spent, the wound winning the hard battle against his body. Don’t drop, he told himself, repeating the squire’s words. The bells kept screaming, accompanied by a dozen horns all over the city, from every gate and watchtower. He tried to think, tried to remember this part of the realm. What roads lay ahead, what the land beyond Ascal was. But Dom could barely open his eyes, let alone puzzle out a plan.
You’ll die trying. Corayne’s last plea to Andry hung in his head, ringing like the bells.
That seems to be our only fate, Dom thought, feeling their circumstances rise up like a storm cloud. No allies, no direction. Nothing but the sword and the teenage girl who could barely wield it. To die trying.
He smelled as much as felt the horse as they shoved him on it, laying his great bulk across the saddle like a sack of grain. Dom felt the urge to apologize to it. Normally I am very good at this, he thought dimly. The ground moved beneath him, glimpsed through slitted eyes.
The others, he wondered, trying to move his head, but a stern hand kept him steady.
He clung to life as long as he could, until there was only the sound of hoofbeats. The bells and horns faded, and the darkness swallowed him up.
Light danced over his eyelids in rhythm: shadow and sun, shadow and sun. It moved in time with a creak of old wood, the flap of canvas. Or was it wings? Baleir has wings. The god of courage is with me, I am in his grasp, and he will take me home to Glorian, where only the dead can journey now.
Indeed, someone was holding him, the press of fingers firm against his rib cage and chest. And he could hear heartbeats. Do gods have beating hearts?
Pain lanced along his ribs and he hissed, drawing a breath through already-clenched teeth. His eyelids fluttered. The light was blinding, but golden and warm. Something broke the sun, passing in front of it in steady motion. He squinted, trying to make sense of his surroundings. Certainly the realm of the gods is beyond my comprehension.
There was a wall, a roof over him, wood beneath, a creaking wheel outside a window, and the gurgle of a stream below it. Mice skittered somewhere, and cobwebs ruled the corners.
He groaned as a familiar sensation returned, hot and sharp.
“I did not know one could still feel pain after death,” he forced out.
The heartbeats flared and he felt another jab. It lessened this time, more sting than stab.
“Just keep still, Dom. She’s almost finished.”
The voice was weary—annoyed, even. It was not the voice of a god.