Dark Communion (Godswar Chronicles Book 1) Read online

  Just before morning, Ayla crested a long hill and caught her first glimpse of the twin sixty-foot towers of Hornstall’s outer wall. She climbed to the top of one of the many hills for a better look. The road passed between fenced pastures and over the half-empty moat that encircled the outer walls of the keep. A courtyard separated the outer wall from a shorter inner wall that huddled the homes and buildings in the center of the city.

  Ayla stayed low as she crossed the field of tall grasses between the low rolling hills, out of view of the gate. Her tunic clung to her sweaty back. A rooster crowed, warning of the impending sunrise, quickening her step. The farmer would wake soon. A modest ranch home, hidden behind the barn, came into view as she drew closer. A lantern was lit in one of the windows toward the back. The rooster crowed again. Ayla drew close enough to smell the heavy scents of manure and old hay wafting from inside the barn. Another window in the house lit up next to the first. The barn door slid open in one slow and deliberate motion.

  Ayla ducked behind an empty rain barrel under the soffit. The ground here was littered with dry chicken droppings. She huddled against the barn wall and hugged her knees. The door slid back into place and she peeked between the curve of the barrel and the wall. A man, clad in a black cloak with a hood hiding his features, skulked around the corner in front of her.

  Ayla looked for a place to run, but there was nowhere to go. The moment she moved, he would see her. The door of a nearby home creaked open, startling the cloaked man. He ducked around the barrel, almost colliding with Ayla. The cloaked man jumped back as a halo of torchlight passed over the door of the barn and settled on him.

  “Hey, you!”

  Ayla stared at the hooded figure a moment, speechless, and he stared back. He had messy black bangs, and scruff on his cheeks. The farmer charged towards them and the cloaked man bolted with something in his hands. Ayla jumped up and followed him.

  The farmer yelled, “Guards! Thief!”

  The cloaked man didn’t look back. She chased him as he ran past a chicken coop behind the barn. He held tight to whatever he carried in his arms, cloak billowing out behind him. Ayla checked the main gate as she ran. It stood empty and closed, same as before but another circle of lantern light appeared along the battlements. The light flitted to and fro and bounced in rhythm with the steps, but still managed to find her in the stony field. The man picked up speed, increasing the distance between them, leaving her in the spotlight alone. Ayla held the medallion in one hand as she sprinted, heart pumping a furious rhythm. The light ruined her limited night vision beyond a few feet and fear and exhaustion weighed down her burning legs.

  The portcullis ratcheted open and Ayla checked over her shoulder. The farmer was breaking off his chase. He stopped, and put his hands on his knees, panting. Ayla’s foot caught a stone and she went down face first into the dusty field with a cry. Hooves clopped on the drawbridge then thundered into the grass behind her. The cloaked man in front of her stopped. He turned and tossed a small cask to the ground then lifted his arm. With a twitch of his wrist, the cuff of his black shirt flew apart and the arms of a short bow sprung open. He notched an arrow and fired over her head.

  Ayla rolled onto her back as the gate guard bellowed and stumbled. His spear clattered to the ground as he grabbed at a short arrow protruding from his throat. The cloaked man fired again. The second arrow pierced the guard's hand and pinned it to his neck. The minotaur dropped to his knees in the spotlight of the guard above. Another alert call sounded from the battlements.

  “Guard down! Guard down!”

  The man in the hood clicked a release and pulled the bowstring, forcing the bow arms flat against the top and bottom of his forearm with a click. He reached down and offered the other hand to Ayla. She took it and he yanked her to her feet. He held her hand as he broke into a run again, half dragging her. They approached the edge of the moat. More lanterns appeared above and shone down on them.

  “You there! Stop!”

  The man slid down the muddy embankment. Ayla fell and rolled down to the putrid water. He grabbed her by the back of the tunic and hauled her to her feet. An arrow hissed over her head and stuck in the mud, another one zinging into the ground at the man’s feet.

  They waded down into the water. It was thick and stunk like a latrine at high sun. He pulled her along, into the chest deep filth. A circular, barred storm drain jutted out from the wall, half under the moat. She could no longer touch the bottom, and doggie paddled towards it. The man reached it first and lifted the grate. He pushed her head under the stinking water and Ayla found the opening. She ducked in and came up retching on the other side, then sat up, waist-deep in the drain. She spat and gagged. The smell of waste, mold and rot suffocated her.

  An arrow struck the man in the top of his shoulder from above. He screamed and the drain grate fell from his grip with a clang that echoed back into the long, dark sewer. Ayla wiped her eyes and looked back through the entrance. The man’s hood had come down revealing a shock of mussed black hair.

  He tried to lift the grate with his good arm, but could not manage it so Ayla threw her shoulder against it. Another arrow scratched his head and blood immediately began to trickle down his temple. Ayla blindly reached out with her feet in the water, and found purchase against the wall, giving her leverage. Together, they got the grate open and he ducked inside, letting it clang shut.

  Something splashed into the water outside. Ayla looked. A minotaur waded his way across the moat. The cloaked man got to his knees and crawled up onto a narrow walk that lined each side of the knee-deep drainage ditch. Half a dozen rats skittered down the path, retreating back into the darkness. Ayla climbed out after him in the dark. The minotaur reached the entrance and lifted the grate. He inspected the narrow tunnel, his size barring entry. The black-haired man turned and the bow snapped open again. The minotaur’s eyes went wide, and he jumped back away from the grate. It closed with a deafening clang that made Ayla’s ears ring.

  It was a bluff, Ayla realized. The man’s other arm could not pull the draw on his modified bow.

  The guard beat a hasty retreat through the muck, yelling to his fellow guardsmen. “They’re in the sewers! Gate section six!”

  Ayla crawled up behind him in the three-foot tunnel until her shoulder rubbed against the damp wall in the dark. She whispered ahead to him.

  “Thank you.”

  “Should have left you,” he said, and stopped to rest, out of breath. He swallowed.

  “What’s your name?”

  The man crawled on without answering. He coughed and had to rest every few steps. A rat squeaked and skittered over Ayla’s hands. She shivered and jerked her hand away from it.

  “Who are you?”

  The man stopped and banged on the wall twice in the pitch blackness. He waited, then banged one more time. The sound of grinding stone filled the passageway and a crack of light appeared in the wall like a crescent moon, illuminating the low arched ceiling and cobblestone walls.

  “Alex, I’m a Freeman.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Freemen

  Rats scampered away as Alex squatted down in front of the secret hatch in the wall. Warm lamplight illuminated his soaked tunic and the fletches of the arrow pointing up behind his collar.

  Dark hair clung to his brow and the back of his neck as he kept his back straight and his chin up as if trying to balance plates on his head. His whole body trembled. How the shot didn't just kill him, she would never know.

  A man inside sucked air through his teeth, the sound carrying out into the canal. “Alex, man. That looks really bad."

  A bald Freeman reached out to help him and Alex grabbed his hand, leaning on the man as he hobbled through the hatch. Ayla poked her head through, keeping them in sight. The Freeman escorted Alex farther back into the lamp-lit underground room.

  She ducked down to follow them in, but a man with chin-length blonde hair stepped in front of the hatch, hand on a dagger in his sash. He r
ested one palm on the low ceiling. His fair eyebrows lowered as he leaned over her, hair dangling in his eyes. The sharp reek of moonshine wafted toward her as he spoke.

  “Who’re you? Where’d you get that tunic?”

  She could ask him the same question. He wore a tunic identical to Ayla's, black with navy trim. She reached her hand down the front of her wet collar. His hand dropped to the dagger, a warning on his rugged face. Ayla paused. She held his gaze as she lifted the hoop medallion by the chain for his inspection.

  “I’m Ayla, Daughter of The Goddess of the Night.”

  Ayla tried not to smile. She had a title.

  His eyes meandered away from her face, down to her chest, then back up to her face. He blinked slowly at her and she could practically see the gears turning in his head.

  “What?”

  Alex’s strained voice cut in from the other side of the room. “Let her in, Max.”

  Max stepped out of the way, one hand still on his dagger. Ayla pointedly ignored him, stepped into the room and looked around. The ceiling, walls, and corners were all rounded and uneven like someone dug the room out by hand, and it contained six long wooden tables, three on the left and three to the right, with Alex laying on the second. The bald Freeman stood over him between the table and one of the polished benches. A dozen or more oil lamps and sconces burned low, some on wide shelves recessed into the walls. They provided ample light and burned away some of the smell and damp. At least one of them contained sage, to further combat the stench. It was, after all, still a sewer. At the other end of the short aisle, a closed wooden door hid another room.

  Ayla walked the few steps down the aisle and stood in front of Alex’s table. The injured Freeman’s face dripped sweat. He looked at his bald friend through the corner of his eye. The bald one pointed at the wood door, then pantomimed sipping a drink with his eyes crossed.

  Alex brought two shaking fingers up to his wounded temple, then closed his eyes. “Go get it.”

  The bald Freeman turned and tipped an imaginary hat at Ayla. She turned to Max for a translation.

  Max stood behind her in the aisle between the long tables, arms folded. “He said, excuse me.”

  Ayla moved and the bald Freeman sidestepped out from between the pew and table. He hurried to the back of the wide room and pushed open the warped plank door to another lamp lit room beyond.

  Ayla stepped between the bench and Alex on his wounded side. A mix of sewer water and blood flowed down the cracks of the table to the floor. The arrow had pierced straight down, just inside the collar of his navy tunic. His dark brown eyes stared at a single point above. The arrow scratch over his temple bled through the dirty hair that was stuck to it.

  “It’s deep,” she said.

  Alex laid his good arm over his eyes. He swallowed and let out a slow breath. She could tell that every movement hurt.

  “I’m aware."

  The lamp above his head shone on the medallion dangling over his chest. She took Alex’s good hand in hers.

  “Did you hear what I told Max?”

  “No.”

  “My name is Ayla, I am the daughter of The Goddess of the Night.”

  He eyed her from underneath his arm but said nothing.

  Ayla cleared her throat. “Thank you for saving me, Alex.”

  Footsteps came up the aisle. Max stood over her shoulder, watching. Max had a strong, scruffy jawline, and brown eyes like Alex’s, only lighter. He kept a palm on the ceiling as he leaned in to look at Alex’s wound.

  “You look like shit,” he said.

  The bald Freeman came back and stood at the foot of the table. He held a cask like the one Alex dropped in the field. He tucked it under one arm and tipped his imaginary hat in Ayla’s direction.

  Ayla turned to Max. "Can't he talk?"

  "Not without a tongue, and he wants you to move."

  He sighed and tipped his imaginary hat again.

  Alex spoke with his arm still over his face. “His name’s Blabbermouth.”

  Ayla didn't think the name was very nice, or all that clever for a man with no tongue. She hesitated to use the name, but couldn't think of anything politer.

  “Give me a minute Blabbermouth, please?”

  He held up one finger, then folded his arms over the cask and waited in the aisle.

  Ayla gave him a warm smile. “Thank you.”

  Blabbermouth tapped his foot on the floor.

  Ayla made a cup under her chin. This time, she knew what to ask for.

  “Mother, bringer of rest and succor, your daughter is in need, and begs humbly, for her to heal this man’s wound.”

  Ayla opened her eyes. The wound remained the same. Alex uncovered his eyes too and checked. His muscles went rigid from the pain of moving his head. He spat and slapped one foot down on the table.

  Impatient fingers snapped behind her. Ayla didn’t look up. Her new Mother told Ayla she could heal in her name, but they ran out of time before she could explain.

  “I'm sorry. It’s my first time. I know she can heal you. She healed me. I was dying and she -” Ayla blinked and shifted her attention to Blabbermouth. “Get me some water.”

  Max dropped his hand from the cobblestone ceiling and hiked a thumb over his shoulder. “You’re done. It’s his turn.”

  Blabbermouth held up one finger, then cut a line in the air with his hand. Your one minute’s over, it said.

  “Fine.” Ayla stood. She pushed between Max and Blabbermouth, forcing each of them to lean on a table to make way. “Where’s your water?”

  Blabbermouth ignored her and uncorked the cask as he knelt in front of Alex. Max pointed at the wood door.

  “In there.”

  He put his palm on the ceiling again and watched Blabbermouth go to work. Ayla made her way down the center aisle and crinkled her nose. The lamps burned away the smell of sewer from the room, but not her hair and clothes. The constant stench turned her empty stomach. She swept away the strands of hair sticking to the bridge of her nose. She wanted nothing more than to take off the tunic.

  The squat door swung inward, and Ayla descended the few stairs to another rectangular, well-lit room. More oil sconces, two for each wall, flickered as the air pressure changed. The ceiling here in the sleeping quarters was tall enough to accommodate a line of bunk beds. They sat with their heads butted up against the far wall, tunics laying over some of the footboards. Clothes and boots littered the floor. It smelled like someone had stored onions and dirty underwear in a hotbox.

  She considered donning one of the discarded tunics but decided to wait and ask first. Next to her by the front door, a barrel with a spigot on the bottom stood atop a rickety chair, dripping water onto the floor.

  Alex screamed in the other room and Ayla jumped. On the other side of the barrel sat a rusted bowl. He screamed again, weaker this time, as she filled it with brown tinted water from the spigot. She picked it up and sloshed water onto the floor as she hustled back to the dining room. Max had his hands over his face as Blabbermouth grabbed the arrow and pulled. Alex hollered - a miserable choking sound.

  Ayla made her way down the aisle, noticing as she did, the same symbol as on her medallion carved in relief on the back of each bench. She sidestepped between the bench and table, opposite Blabbermouth’s work. He shooed her away with a short, tense flick of his hand. Ayla turned and rested the bowl on the back of the long bench.

  Max took a step toward her and she gave him a warning look. He stopped, watching as she cupped her hands and bowed her head to pray over the water.

  “Mother, bringer of rest and succor, your daughter is in need, and begs humbly, for Her to heal this Freeman.”

  Ayla opened her eyes. The water within sparkled a clear, cornflower blue and effervesced for a moment before settling. The aroma of scented oils wafted from it. She lifted it with both hands.

  Max backed up, his light brown eyes wide. Ayla couldn't read his expression, but she couldn’t care less. She turned back to
Alex with the bowl, water shining with pale blue light.

  Blabbermouth did a double take, his confusion causing him to let go of the arrow and stand up straight. Blood flowed from the wound onto the floor. The projectile had come out a few inches, but now Alex’s face had lost all color. The pungent smell of the moonshine Blabbermouth used to clean the area overpowered all others.

  Ayla’s eyes watered from the fumes, but she was grateful for the relief from the stench of her own tunic. She poured the water over his shoulder in a steady stream, as the Goddess had done for her. The arrow blackened, withered, and curled as if the water was fire. The lines of pain in Alex’s face smoothed and he let out a long sigh. When the last drops of water passed over his shoulder, the bleeding stopped and the remains of the arrow turned to ash. He lifted his arm off the pew, sat up, and stared at Ayla in disbelief as he rotated his mended shoulder.

  Max spoke up from behind her. “Bullshit.”

  Blabbermouth stared at Alex’s shoulder. He took the bowl from Ayla and sprinkled the last few drops into his palm. He lifted it to his nose, then tasted it. His eyes opened wide as he handed it back to Ayla.

  She smiled at him. “It’s the smell of the Goddess’ breath.”

  Alex rotated his arm as he got to his feet in his soaked, now partially cleaned tunic. He put his hand on her shoulder. “I don't know how to thank you,” he said.

  “Do you have any food?”

  Alex grinned at her. “We’re a bit low, but I have some bread.”

  “That sounds great,” Ayla said, and Alex caught Blabbermouth’s attention.

  “Grab my bread for the Priestess.”

  Blabbermouth rolled his eyes but got up to fetch it. Ayla held up a hand, signaling him to wait.

  “I’ll get it. I need more water anyway. Where’s the bread?”

  Blabbermouth pointed to his feet, patted his chest, and then turned an invisible key in the air.