The Godling Chronicles The Shadow of God

chapter 5





Millet paced the floor in the main hall while Dina was seated in a chair by the fire reading calmly. Her honey-blond hair was pushed back, revealing her delicate features. Her lips were twisted into a tiny smile, as she fingered through the pages of a Baltrian comedy. He stopped to look at the two bound, unconscious men in the corner. Their hoods had been thrown back from their black cloaks. The tall one was dark-haired and tan, with long features and narrow-set eyes. The short plump one, had the look of a true aristocrat. Soft pale skin and well-oiled black hair. Millet wondered why they would send someone like this to kill him. Clearly they didn't think the task would be difficult. Barty was kneeling next to them, a short sword in hand; his son on the other side holding a thick herding club.

“Do you know them?” asked Millet.

Barty nodded. “The fat one is called Devon. The other fellow goes by Sherone. Both are from Baltria, I think. At least that’s what they sound like when they talk, and Devon does most of that. He's a bit of a braggart.” He cupped Devon's chin in his hand. “Goes 'round telling tales of his adventures. Not that anyone believes a word of it, but he's free with his gold, so no one seems to mind.”

“Do you recognize them?” Dina asked Millet, without looking up from her book.

“No,” he replied. “But it has been many years since I associated with the nobles of Baltria. These two don't look to be old enough for me to have known them, when Lee and I lived there.”

“What do you intend to do with them?” asked Barty.

Millet's eyes shot to Dina, who gave him a knowing look.

“I cannot ask you or your son to participate in what is about to happen,” said Millet.

Barty rose to his feet. His face flushed. “I see.” He turned to his son. “Go to the Stedding farm.”

Randson glared at his father defiantly, and squared his shoulders.

Barty heaved a sigh. “Not this time, boy.” He placed his hand on Randson's arm.

“I will not leave you,” said Randson. His voice was deep and powerful.

Dina looked up with raised eyebrows, realizing this was the first time she had heard Randson speak.

Barty looked at Millet then back to his son. “If Lord Millet is going to do what I think he's going to do, then I will not have you a part of this.”

“And if you think I am blind to what these people are up to, then you think me stupid,” said Randson. “They have practically enslaved Sharpstone. People are afraid to speak against the faithful out of fear they'll lose all they own. They curse the Gods openly, and mock those who refuse to do the same.” His knuckles turned white wrapped around the club. “And now they come here to do murder. If Lord Millet decides they should die, then it's no less than they deserve. You taught me right from wrong, father. And we are in the right.”

Barty nodded slowly, pride glimmering in his eyes.

“Actually, I need him to do something for me,” said Millet. “And he would need to leave soon.”

“If you think to send me away?” began Randson.

“I do indeed,” said Millet, cutting him off. “I need you to protect Dina.”

“Protect me from what?” asked Dina.

“I intend to start fighting Angrääl here,” explained Millet. “If am to do that, I'll need more than just the four of us.” He turned to Barty. “I assume that there are still people in town that want to stand up to the faithful?”

“A few,” said Barty. “But they're afraid of losing what they have. Practically the whole town is in debt to them. It's all legal, too. Signed by the mayor, then sent to Helenia. If anyone gets out of line, they threaten to go to the king.”

“Smart,” Millet muttered, rubbing his chin. “In the morning, go to those who you think you can still trust. Tell them that all their debts will be paid tomorrow. Then have them join me here.” He looked decisively at Dina. “I need you to go to Helenia, to hire men at arms. By the morning the faithful will likely send for more people. And unless I miss my guess, the next group that arrives in Sharpstone won't be nobles and merchants. We'll need muscle and steel to rid us of this lot.”

“I can do better than sell-swords and thugs,” said Dina. “If I am to go to Helenia, then I can bring back Knights of Amon Dähl.”

Millet's eyes widened. “Really? How many?”

“I can send word for them to come from the temples,” said Dina. “How many I don't know, but if only but a few are able, Angrääl would have to send an army to match them. And I wager they can be here faster than the faithful will be able to reinforce.”

“Then it will be up to us to keep them busy until these fellows get here,” said Barty. “You can count on me, and a few others at the Stedding farm, too.”

Just then, Devon stirred, groaning.

Millet looked at Barty grimly “For now I need you and Randson to go out back and get a wagon ready. Don't come back inside until I call for you.”

Barty hesitated, then nodded sharply. “Of course.”

After Barty and Randson had left, Millet knelt down in front of Devon, who had only just opened his eyes. In his right hand he held a small dagger. Dina stood just behind him, expressionless.

Devon turned his head and saw that Sherone was still unconscious. “What do you want with me?”

“First, I want you to see something,” said Millet. “Then I'll let you decide what I want with you.”

Before Devon could respond, Millet reach out and slit Sherone's throat. Blood spewed forth then poured down the man's cloak. Sherone's eyes opened for a moment as he gasped for breath, then slowly closed.

“Gods protect me!” cried Devon. Tears streamed down his plump cheeks as he struggled against his bonds.

Millet laughed mockingly. “Gods? The faithful invoking the Gods?” He wiped the bloody dagger on Sherone's cloak. “What would your master say if he heard that, I wonder?”

“I renounce the faithful,” said Devon, through his sobs. “Please, spare me.”

Millet stood and turned his back to Devon. “Did you come here to spare me?”

“My father is rich,” cried Devon. “If you let me live, he’ll pay you whatever you want.”

“And who is your father?” asked Millet.

“Lord Devon Drevaldon II, of Baltria.”

“I know your father,” said Millet. “At least I know of him through Lee Starfinder. It doesn't surprise me that he has fallen in with Angrääl. But you should know that I am lord of this manor now. And as a Baltrian noble, you know well what it means to attack a lord in his own home.”

Devon began to shake uncontrollably. ”I swear I didn't know. I only came to...to...”

Millet spun around and held up his hand, silencing him. “You came to prove to the rest that you're good for more than just your father’s gold.” He knelt down. “Now you can prove your worth to me. Would you like that?”

“Yes!” Devon blurted out. “I swear to it!”

“I've asked no oath from you,” said Millet. “Nor would I believe any that you could give. So I will swear an oath to you.” He leaned in. “You tell me everything you know, and flee Sharpstone this very night, without a word to the rest of the faithful, and I swear that you will not die this night. Should I find out that you have lied, that you have spoken to your friends, or should the sun find you still in this town in the morning, regardless of what happens to me you will die. Do not think you can find safety in Baltria. Or that your father can protect you. And should I die, your death will come more swiftly than you can imagine.” He stood and turned to Dina. “Please explain to Lord Devon Drevaldon II, who you are, so that he knows what I say is true.”

Dina flashed a shocked glance at Millet, then nodded. “I am a member of the Order of Amon Dähl. Does that name hold any meaning for you?”

“I have heard of it,” said Devon. “The faithful speak of it often.”

“Then you should know that we have people in cities in every kingdom,” Her face was stone. “If you do not do as Lord Millet says, then I will send word to every member of my order, that your death is of the greatest importance. There will be nowhere to hide. Do you understand?”

Devon nodded slowly.

“Then tell me everything you know about the plans of the faithful,” said Millet. “And if anyone in town has joined your cause. And I don't mean people who owe you money. I mean those who are really with you.”

For the next hour Devon told them what he knew. But as it turned out, it wasn't much they didn't already know. Angrääl didn't seem to hold the faithful in high regard; relegating them to petty espionage and assassinations. They received most of their orders from agents traveling up and down the Goodbranch River, and sent reports of their progress the same way. Their orders were to take control of Sharpstone, and find any information on Lee Starfinder and Gewey Stedding. The king had been resisting their effort to place an ambassador in his court, but had been more than willing to accept their gold. Devon said that if the king didn't relent soon, it was likely he would be killed. When exactly this would happen, he didn't know. But he knew they had people in place in Helenia.

Once Millet was satisfied, he called for Barty and Randson. They paused at the sight of the bloody corpse of Sherone. Randson smiled and nodded, approvingly.

“I see you let the fat one live,” said Barty.

Millet looked down at Devon. “Load his friend's body in the wagon.” He reach in his pocket, and handed Barty a small bag of gold. “Take this, and Lord Devon, away from Sharpstone. Make certain he has a shovel to dig a grave, and give him the gold when he's done. It should be enough to take him wherever he wants to go.”

“And where is that?” asked Barty.

Millet leaned down and cut Devon's bonds. “That's up to him. But I daresay, he should reconsider a return to Baltria.” A sinister grin crept on his face. “Though his father may welcome him, I doubt the rest of the faithful will be as...understanding of his failure.” He shrugged. “The choice is his. I care not.”

Barty and Randson lifted the body and carried it away. Devon followed close behind. When they had gone, Millet sat in a chair near the fireplace and bowed his head in thought.

Dina sat across from him and leaned forward. “Are you all right?” she asked.

Millet looked up and smiled weakly. “I will be.” He looked over at where Sherone's blood still stained the floor. “During my travels with Lee, I've been forced to kill. But never like this. I've never murdered a helpless man.”

Dina reached out and placed her hand on Millet's knee. “You did what had to be done.”

Millet nodded. “I know. But I didn't want this.” He looked around the room; the walls were decorated with a lifetime of adventures. “Any of it. I was never meant to be a lord.”

“I don't know,” said Dina. “It seems to me that you are a very good lord. To do things against your own character in order to protect those you love is a very noble thing. It's what a lord should be.”

Millet rose to his feet and looked at Dina. His face was filled with contempt. Not for her, but for himself. “And I may never forgive myself for it.” Then he whispered, “Or Lee, either.” He took out the blade that had ended the life of Sherone and stared at it. “Once I poisoned a man who was conspiring to kill a sword-master Lee was studying under in Dantory. I watched him writhe and twist on the floor, until the life left his body. This was a thousand times worse.”

“Do you regret your actions?” asked Dina.

“My heart does. But my mind tells me that it was foolish to even let Devon live.” He put the knife away. “I'm an old man, Dina. I've traveled far, and seen many things. But until now, I've always had the luxury of viewing from the outside.” He knelt in front of the blood stain on the floor. “Now, I'm in the midst of it. Now, it is me who needs to hear the voice of reason. I was that voice for Lee Starfinder. Who will be that voice for me?”

Dina stood beside him. “Let me be that voice.” She gently lifted him to his feet. “Though I doubt I am as wise as you.”

“Before I was made Lord of the Nal'Thain family, that was possibly true.” He turned to her and shook his head. “Now I am as Lee once was. The responsibility rests with me, and that responsibility can drive away the person you are, in favor of the person you need to be.” He took a long, deep breath. “And I know this is only the beginning. More blood is to come.”

“True,” said Dina. “But for now we need to wash this blood away.” She headed toward the kitchen. “Get some rest,” she called back. “I will attend to this and leave for Helenia in the morning.”

Millet didn't protest. He went to his chambers and dressed for bed. As he lay in the dark, he could still see the knife sliding across Sherone's throat. He could see his victim's eyes open in terror, then close forever. The vision filled him with anger and sorrow. Millet Gristall was no more. That man died the moment Sherone gasped his final breath. Lord Millet Nal'Thain had been left in his stead. And that man was at war. And with a troubled mind, he drifted off to sleep.

The next morning there was a loud banging at the manor’s front door. Millet donned a robe and went to answer it, but could hear that Dina had gotten there first. Angry voices echoed through the house from outside. When he finally arrived at the door, Dina was in the center of the doorway, her hands firmly planted on her hips.

“Who is it?” asked Millet.

“Mayor Freidly,” came a voice from just outside. “I'm here with members of the faithful. We need to speak with you.”

“Show them in, Dina,” said Millet. “I need to dress, then I will join you.” He turned and headed back to the bedroom. His heart pounded in his chest. He wondered if Barty and Randson had returned. He dressed in a casual pair of white cotton trousers and shirt and slipped on a fine pair of soft leather shoes. He knew he didn't exactly look like the richest man in Sharpstone, but it would have to do.

When he arrived in the main hall, Mayor Freidly was standing at the far end of the room. His bald head, short, round features and wide-set blue eyes, were just as Millet remembered. However, he was wearing a red silk waistcoat, and fine linen pants and shirt, which was unusual for the mayor, being a man of modest means. Three black-cloaked men stood beside him. Their hoods were pushed back, revealing their dark hair, pale skin, and angry expressions. Millet thought they had the look of Baltrian nobles.

“Mayor Freidly,” said Millet, bowing his head ever so slightly. “It's good to see you again. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

The mayor looked flushed and nervous. “It's good to see you too, Millet. Though I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“I don't understand,” said Millet, feigning ignorance. “What is the trouble?”

“You know what the trouble is!” roared the faithful farthest from the mayor.

The mayor held up his hand. “Please, Master Troungo. Let me handle this.” He turned back to Millet. “These men claim that two of their brethren disappeared last night.”

“I'm sorry to hear it,” said Millet. “Still, I fail to see why you have come to me. I only just arrived back in Sharpstone, and have had little time to get to know the newcomers.” He looked at each of the faithful in turn. “Though, I must admit, their reputation has preceded them. Why would you think to find them here?”

“They claim that two of their order came here last night to welcome you home, and never returned.”

“I'm afraid I can't help you,” said Millet. “I swear by the Gods, no one other than myself, Dina and those that live here passed through the door last night.”

“Enough of this,” said the faithful nearest the mayor. “You know they came here. And you know where they are.”

Millet smiled. “And to whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The man glared daggers, but didn't answer.

The mayor cleared his throat. “This is Toliver Hall, and the men with him are Henris Longshadow, and Alex Troungo.”

“Baltrian nobles, from the sound of them,” remarked Millet. “You are very far from home, and dressed...oddly...for a noble.”

“We are the faithful of the Reborn King,” said Toliver. “And I'll ask you again. Where are our people?”

“Yes, I know all about the faithful,” said Millet. His tone hardened. “And I already know what you've been up to here in Sharpstone. And as I said, no one called on me last night.” He shrugged. “Perhaps they longed for home, and returned to Baltria rather than come here. It would seem a sensible course. I hear that there are plenty of the faithful in Baltria. At least for now.”

Toliver's hand began to slip beneath his robe.

“Gentlemen,” said the mayor, stepping in front of Toliver. “Clearly, your companions are not here. We should leave.”

The front door opened. Barty and Randson entered. The moment they saw the three faithful, they moved to Millet's side.

“Mayor Freidly, I'm sure you know Barty and his son Randson,” said Millet. “They were here last night, and can certainly attest to the fact that no one came to welcome me home.”

“Nope,” said Barty. His eyes drilling holes through the black-cloaked men. “We saw no one.”

Millet grinned at Barty. “Is all in order?”

“Indeed it is,” Barty replied.

“Then if there is nothing further,” said Millet, stepping aside to let the men pass. “I have much to attend to.”

The mayor herded the faithful to the door, bowing as he passed.

“This isn't over,” said Toliver. He then turned on his heels and stormed out.

The door slammed shut.

“No, it isn't,” muttered Millet.