For one heartbeat Artor stood behind the useless Plough and stared into the eyes of the Huntress.
Her smile broadened and she reached for yet another arrow.
As one, the hounds lifted their blood-stained muzzles from the ruined carcasses of the bulls and stared at Artot, bunching their hindquarters and curling their lips in silent snarls.
“Hunt!” cried their mistress, and they leapt.
But Artor was already gone, fleeing into the darkness.
The hounds streamed after Him, baying their excitement, His sweat-terror scent strong in their nostrils, their mistress laughing behind.
They coursed and they clamoured and they screamed.
And they cornered Him, eventually, when even His strength had given out and when His terror and horror made Him miss His step.
Sicarius caught Him first, and his teeth sliced through the vital tendons at the back of the god’s right ankle and He crashed to the ground. Another sank her teeth into His left
hamstring, and Artor writhed helplessly. As He writhed, yet a third hound dropped to the ground and tore open the sweet flesh of His left armpit and Artor screamed.
“Good dogs,” the Huntress said and, reining her stallion to a halt, slid to the ground and strolled over to the crippled god.
“Artor,” she said, kneeling beside Him and placing one hand on His shoulder. “Did you smile when Hagen dug his knife into my back? Did you laugh when Niah twisted and charred on the hearth bricks? Did you feed off the pain of all those you hounded and burned and murdered in your own righteous name?”
She reached behind her, her arm stilling, then slowly . . . slowly…she revealed what she had lifted from the quiver at her back.
Hagen’s bone-handled knife.
Artor shrieked and the Alaunt, pacing about Him, lifted back their heads and howled.
Azhure ran her finger experimentally along the blade of the knife.
“For all those who have died in your name, Artor,” she said without emotion, then she carefully inserted the blade under the sixth rib on the left side of His chest, slid it in perhaps a finger’s breadth to make sure she had the angle correct, then jerked it up and twisted it about, slicing open His heart.
When she withdrew the knife hot blood steamed after it.
She rose to her feet. “Feed,” she commanded, and within a heartbeat writhing hounds covered the god’s body.
“Feed.”
The Grave The Goodwife went back in to see to Faraday, terrified that the Plough god had slain her, but all she found was Faraday sitting exhausted on the ground, and no trace of the raven-haired woman who had come to her aid.
“M’Lady,” she gasped, seizing Faraday’s arm and hauling her to her feet. “Are you well?”
Faraday coughed and a violent tremor shook her, but she managed a smile for the Goodwife. “Well enough.”
“Where’s . . . ?” the Goodwife began, her eyes concerned, but before she could finish the strange woman was there herself.
Faraday grasped the woman’s hand. “Is he…?”
“Gone,” Azhure said. She leaned forward and hugged Faraday and laughed suddenly. “We did it, Faraday! Now you may complete your planting in peace.”
Faraday smiled and hugged her back as tightly as she could. “I thank you, Azhure. You saved my life.”
Azhure sobered and leaned back. “And that is hardly thanks for all you have done for me, Faraday. Goodwife,” she turned to the woman at Faraday’s side, “Goodwife, take Faraday outside and seat her in the tray of that ridiculous cart. Then get everyone out of the village. There is still work to be done here.”
“No doubt more murder,” Barsarbe said flatly behind them, and Faraday twisted out of Azhure’s arms.
“If I had listened to you, Bane,” she said, her voice hard, “then we all would be lying dead here this moment, and Artor would have triumphed.”
Barsarbe ignored Faraday and stared at Azhure, unable to believe that the woman had walked back into her life. She knew they all owed their lives to Azhure (yet again), but that knowledge only increased her bitterness – how much more bloodshed would the woman bring? Without another word she turned on her heel and stalked out.
Whatever ill-feeling Barsarbe left behind her dissipated the instant that Shra, still shaky from the blow she had received to her head, ran across the floor of the Worship Hall and flung herself into Azhure’s arms.
Azhure cried with delight and hugged the child to her. “How you have grown, Shra!”
Shra touched her fingers to Azhure’s forehead. “And how you have grown, Azhure.”
Azhure smiled and set the girl to her feet. “Later, Shra. Now take Faraday’s hand and help the Goodwife get her out of this village.”
“Faraday will have to plant through here,” the Goodwife said, her tone suddenly heavy with power and authority.
Azhure looked at her sharply, recognising both voice and power. “She cannot plant while this village still stands, Mother. Let me wipe what remains of Artor from this place.”
The Goodwife nodded, then pulled gently at Faraday’s arm. “Come, child. You shall rest a little before the final planting.”
But Faraday hesitated. “Axis?” she asked Azhure nervously.
Azhure stilled at the expression in Faraday’s eyes. “Axis is well,” she said gently. “He is well.”
Faraday bowed her head and let the Goodwife guide her from the building.
Azhure stood at the door to the cellar, memories flooding through her. Here she had stood at the BattleAxe’s shoulder as
he had entered the cell that held Raum and Shra; little had she known then how she would come to love him.
Here she had hesitated before climbing down the steps to strike Belial and free Raum and Shra so all three could run to the Avarinheim and Azhure could start the journey that would take her so far.
And now, here she stood again, and there was only one thing she needed to know from the villagers below.
She flung back the door and ran lightly down the steps.
The Alaunt had herded and snarled and snapped until the entire village was trapped behind the iron bars at the rear of the cellar. They were packed in so tightly that several obviously had difficulty breathing.
Azhure spared them no sympathy. They still gazed at her with maddened eyes, their faces grey and fanatical. There was no hope for any of them.
Slowly she paced the length of the iron bars, staring into faces that she had grown up with, that had conspired with Hagen to make her suffer.
One man, Wainwald, reached through the bars and grabbed at her breast. Azhure recoiled, remembering that Wainwald had been the most persistent of the young men who had leered and lusted after her.
“Harlot,” he grunted, “with a costume that demands rape to satisfy it. Come here!”
Another man snatched at her and Azhure retreated a step or two. Never had they been this bad, this feral. She walked further down the bars until she found Goodwife Garland. She was in her early sixties, and she undoubtedly knew where…where …
“Where is my mother’s body?” Azhure said, stepping close enough so that she could sink her ringers into the material of the Goodwife’s bodice. “Where did Hagen bury her?”
Goodwife Garland’s lip curled, but the next instant her face twisted in horror as Azhure’s power invaded her mind with persistent icy fingers.
Where? Where? Where? Where?
The Goodwife whimpered and her face spasmed with the pain.
Where? Where? Where? Where?
“He buried the slut under the floor of the chicken shed.” The Goodwife managed a contemptuous smile. “Imagine that. Your mother lies under twenty-five years of chicken shit, Azhure. What better resting place could she have found?”
Azhure let her go and stepped back, her face blank. Goodwife Garland had told the truth, Azhure could feel that, and that was all she cared about. The truth. The insults did not matter.
Not now.
Azhure nodded, letting her eyes travel over the assembled village. Women sneered and men panted, hands itching for her. Even boys of four or five reached out, their eyes hot.
“I wish you all good fortune in the AfterLife,” she said, “for you are surely going to need it.”
Then she turned and walked out of the cellar.
She had sent the hounds and the horse to wait with Faraday and the Avar, but now Azhure wandered through the village, loosing any livestock she found, opening doors and gates so that all could have the chance for escape. Stars knew, she thought, they deserve escape from this dark dungeon.
She reached the chicken coop last. It was a fair distance from Hagen’s house behind the Worship Hall and he must have struggled to drag her mother’s body this far; but then, perhaps he had help, and he wouldn’t have wanted to be discomforted by the stench of her mother’s decay, would he?
She stood outside for a long time, looking at it, and it was only when the wind felt cold against her face that she realised she was crying.