taken up with another, perhaps greater, god: Father Enlil.
And the black, roiling clouds above, the voices which spoke thunder over the
fighter’s head, were telling a man who didn’t like gods much better than magic
and who was first officer to a demigod who meddled with both, that Vashanka
might not be too pleased with the fickle men who once had slaughtered in His
name and now did so in Another’s.
Things were so damned complicated whenever Tempus was .involved.
Grabbing a tuft of mane, Crit swung up on his warhorse and reined it around so
hard it half-reared and then, finding itself headed toward the mercenaries’
guild and its own stall, safety and comfort in the storm, fairly bolted through
the treacherous, slushy streets of Ranke.
Despite the darkened ways and chancy footing, Crit let the young horse run,
trusting pedestrians, should there be any, to scatter, and armed patrols to
recognize him for who and what he was. The horse had a right to comfort, where
it could find some. Crit couldn’t think of a thing that would do the same for
him, now that the gods had dropped one shoe and all he could do was wait until
Tempus dropped the other.
The storm didn’t exactly break, but on the fourth day it mellowed.
By then, Theron and Tempus had summoned Brachis, High Priest of the Variously
Named Wargods of Imperial Ranke, and concocted a likely story for the populace.
Executions, held in abeyance for the first three days of the storm, were
resumed. “More purges, obviously. Your Majesty,” Brachis had suggested, unctuous