The gods thirst.

  The memory of that sibilant voice made his balls shrink.

  Fersin wasn’t stupid, he’d known something was different when Cadoc climbed down from that frozen mountain.

  “Get some volunteers,” said Cadoc, his voice thick. “We’ll send him off with what little honour we can muster.”

  “Yes, Captain,” said Fersin, and the man turned on his heel and departed the hold.

  Cadoc watched him go, briefly wondering at the life awaiting them all when they returned home. How would they adjust to peace? Was it enough to plough fields and raise children? Perhaps those with wives and families would fare the best — at least that was his hope. Not that he had either. Such a life had been his brother’s lot, not his own.

  Cadoc felt a momentary flash of anger. A year of his life was gone, wasted in bloody pursuit of fame and fortune, and the chance to step beyond the shadow of his grandfather’s legend. He glanced down at Rhisiart. Had the men he’d lost been part of the price he owed?

  The price demanded by a hungry god.

  Cadoc shuddered, his skin prickling with a cold sweat. The bwgal’s voice rustled through his memory like the wind through a field of dry grass.

  One hundred souls.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lair

  THE WIND TORE at Cadoc. It was cold enough to freeze the cheeks of his arse together. His fingers bled, and he couldn’t feel his toes as he kicked his boots into the rock as he inched his way up the cliff. He tried not to look down, for the ledge on which he had walked was now invisible to the eye. Far below, the valley was a thin smudge of green between the sheer granite walls of the mountains.

  He wondered at his own wisdom. He was supposed to be marching south to Kas Mendoc at the head of a company of men to enlist with Duke Kasparu. Fate had intervened, placing upon his path the lone survivor of an expedition his brother, Laclan, the Lord of Skeinhold, had sent into the mountains looking for silver. Cadoc should have left the man to his fate, but the surveyor’s terrible tale intrigued him. He claimed the party had fallen victim to bwgals lairing in the mountains. More likely they’d gone mad with greed and killed each other, but the tale stirred a memory of Cadoc’s childhood. His grandfather, Glyntaf, had always said bwgals lived in those mountains and the old man had known their true nature better than most, after all, he’d fought against them…and with them. So, Cadoc had left his men encamped below and ventured into the mountains.

  Stupid, he thought as he forced his chin up, squinting against the wind and the failing light. The ledge was still several feet above his head and only Cadoc’s tenacity kept him rooted to the rock. Despite the freezing cold, he was sweating and not all of it due to exertion. The climb was taking longer than he had planned. Nightfall drew near and his chances of survival, if he didn’t find shelter from the wind, fell with the sun. His fingers scrapped painfully on rock, and he swore aloud, cursing fate. The wind tore his words from his lips, and his teeth began chattering. Had it not been for his argument with his brother, he wouldn’t have left Skeinhold three days early, and by then the prospector would have died. Anger settled in his gut as he relived the moment in his mind’s eye. Laclan had taken exception to his plans to join the Venyk’s Crusade, his words bitter and striking Cadoc deep. The Venyk were their enemy, and Cadoc was stripping the flower of manhood from the valley, leaving Skeinhold vulnerable. His retort of the wealth he would bring home had sounded empty even in his own ears, even in the heat of the argument. Laclan knew better than any man alive, Cadoc’s hunger to live up to the legend of their grandfather, Glyndaf. Of course, Laclan’s choice of words was more colourful than that, so Cadoc told his brother to fuck himself with one of the agricultural implements he cherished so much and stormed out. Let the coward think it was ego and greed. Cadoc knew otherwise — this was his destiny, fate had ordained his path, and Cadoc wasn’t about to turn his back Glyndaf’s legacy, and if he made a name for himself and some booty, all the better.

  At last, Cadoc heaved his bulk over the ledge. His heart beat painfully against his ribs as he panted. The freezing air burnt his throat and lungs. He crawled a few feet into the cave’s interior and collapsed, rolling on his back. There he lay, prone for several minutes, content to catch his breath as he pondered fate’s whims and his own folly. The wind whistled past the cave’s entrance. While the interior wasn’t warm by any stretch, it sheltered him from the howling wind. Exposure had sapped his strength more than he realised. He yawned suddenly and felt his eyelids close. Sleep would come quickly; he was more than half-way there and the hour was late, but Cadoc feared he would not wake again.

  A raven cawed.

  Cadoc’s eyes flew open, his heart skipping a beat as the sound reverberated around him. Feathers shuffled, the bird disturbing sticks and stones as it moved somewhere unseen above his head. He sat up, bunching up his knees before slowly getting to his feet.

  Have I slept?

  Outside, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and it was almost pitch-black. Cadoc’s chest tightened, feeling suffocated by the cave’s gloom, and the realisation he had slept into the night. Knowing the bird was looking down at him made his skin crawl. He figured it must have built a nest on an unseen outcropping of stone. He reached for the ceiling, trying to judge its height, but his hands felt nothing but air.

  As the moments passed, Cadoc’s cold stab of fear gave way to curiosity. The cave was featureless but larger than he first thought. He edged towards the wall to his left, hand outstretched, not quite trusting his eyes in the dark. It felt rough. Cold but dry. He oriented himself towards the rear, shivering as it seemed to disappear into total blackness, like the maw of a beast. He forced a laugh, shrugging off his fears with false bravado. If he were to meet his own death, it would be with his head and sword held high, not whimpering like a coward and pissing his pants.

  Then a disembodied laugh sounded from the depths.

  Cadoc’s breath caught in his throat. He pressed his lips together, his teeth grinding as the muscles of his jaw went rigid.

  An echo, he thought, nothing more.

  Cadoc stared into the darkness, momentarily torn by indecision. By rights, he should stay at the mouth of the cave and wait out the night. But he had come this far. Should he succumb to fear now, he would have to live with the shame — but he would live. Cadoc couldn’t make the same guarantee if he ventured into the heart of the mountain.

  He decided to push on and set off into the darkness, edging his way along the wall. His feet scuffed along the uneven floor. The cave sloped gradually downwards, and the walls closed in until a few more steps took him into a narrow passage. He reached up and checked the height of the ceiling. It was lower than the cave, but he was relieved to find enough clearance to walk without hitting his head.

  Cadoc took a deep breath and began moving down the passageway. After a few minutes, his nose wrinkled at the faint smell of oil. An instant later, his boot brushed against something hard, kicking it over. Cadoc jumped with the resulting clatter, the sound echoing down the passageway. He crouched and groped along the floor until he found the object. It was a small lantern, smooth and cold, a conical metal cylinder about four inches wide and six inches tall. The design was familiar to him, whereas the outside was tin, the inside was lined with polished brass. One of the surveyor's, he thought, taking small comfort he was on the right trail, as he sat down and began to probe the lantern with his fingers. He managed to open it and felt inside. The wick was supple and moist with oil, poking up from a bed of tallow deep enough to last for several hours — assuming he could light it.

  Cadoc set the lantern down and retrieved a flint striker from a pouch on his belt. With his free hand, he unsheathed his dagger and balanced the point against the rock floor of the cave. His fingers were numb, almost too stiff to hold the small piece of flint, but he managed to rub the stone along the blade, producing a bright shower of sparks. Encouraged, Cadoc angled the edge toward the wick and sent a second shower of sparks into the lantern.

  The wick didn’t ignite on the first strike, nor the second or third. Cadoc swore in frustration, to have the promise of light taken from him was worse than not finding the lantern in the first place.

  He tried again, repeating his attempts for several minutes. When nothing seemed to work, he swore again and paused, taking several moments to blow warm air into his hands, suspecting his fingers were too numb for dexterous work. He sat back and rethought his approach, a small part of his mind registering his wits were addled by cold and fatigue.

  I need a flame, not a spark.

  Cadoc regretted his decision to march light — in truth, not expecting to trek so high into the mountains. The surveyor’s description had been vague at best — and Cadoc only half believed the tale. He had brought just the clothes on his back, a pouch on his belt along with his dagger and sword. He rummaged in the pouch and found the oiled linen he used to polish his blade. He cut a long strip, then proceeded to scrape it against the edge of his dagger until it frayed into lint. Cadoc placed the fluff inside the lantern and showered it with sparks. On the second strike, a tiny spark took hold, smouldering in the oily cloth. Cadoc leaned closer, blowing as gently as his chattering teeth allowed. A minute flame flickered to life, then flared suddenly as the wick ignited.

  Cadoc sat back as the light spread from the lantern in a comforting glow, his lips curled in a relieved smile. Shadows flickered across the rough stone walls. He closed the cover, picked up the lantern by its leather handle and stood up.

  His way lit and confidence renewed, Cadoc set off down the passage. After a dozen paces, the tunnel dropped sharply into a steep stairwell. The walls and floor became smooth, the rock cut by hand. Cadoc’s pulse quickened as he realised the surveyor — and his grandfather — had spoken the truth.

  Cadoc edged his feet down slowly, feeling his way along each step before committing his weight. Whoever carved the steps had made them much too short for Cadoc’s large feet, his toes dangling precariously over the edges. They were slippery and wet from water dripping from the ceiling and patches of fungus that grew in clumps. As he crushed them underfoot, the air filled with foul-smelling clouds that made his head swim. He pressed the sleeve of his free arm over his nose and continued his descent.

  The chill faded as he went deeper, and he began to sweat. He mentally counted the steps until he tired of the exercise, but in doing so, he lost track of time. How long had he descended — an hour? Two? A yawn reminded him the hour was late.

  Where does this end?

  Cadoc began to wonder if the way would take him into the heart of the mountain. The stories of his childhood said the bwgals had long-since shunned the light. Had they dug the way themselves, perhaps in search of riches, or had they merely appropriated something older still?

  After a time, Cadoc paused and lifted the lantern high, studying the shapeless grey mass of carved stone. Shadows danced through miniature stalactites. He couldn’t tell if the passage was a natural fissure or if the way had been carved from solid rock.

  A sudden movement high above caught his eye. It was more substantial than the flicker of light and shadow. Something scraped against stone — the claws of a bat perhaps. Cadoc strained his eyes, trying to pierce the darkness beyond the reach of the lantern’s glow.

  A pair of baleful eyes gleamed in the flickering light. They were narrow and beady — a bird’s rather than the eyes of a bat. The damned raven had followed him, somehow.

  “Piss off,” he snarled and waved a hand in the air, trying to startle it. He stepped down, absently, his heel slipping on a clump of fungus.

  “Whoa!”

  Cadoc flailed his hands against the sides of the passage. The lantern smashed against the rocky floor and went dark, the fingers of his other hand clawing at the smooth hard surface. He swore, but his anger soon turned to fear as he tumbled down the steps, the wind knocked from his lungs. He slid on his back until his feet caught on something hard and unyielding, launching him forward, head over heels. A white-hot pain erupted in the back of his head and blackness consumed him.

  * * *

  CADOC’S EYES FLUTTERED open to find he was enveloped in utter darkness. The blow to his head had left a dull, throbbing ache, and his ears rang. He reached behind the base of his skull, feeling for blood. The skin was tender and swollen but unbroken. He swallowed with a dry throat, and one-by-one his senses began to return. His nose twitched with the faint smell of lavender. He was lying on something soft — hides, he surmised. Piled in layers. Had his men come for him? Why then was it so dark?

  Something moved with the ruffling of fabric. A long, rasping breath followed. It was close. Cadoc’s chest went tight, his breath catching in his throat. His fingers inched towards the scabbard at his belt; they brushed against the hard pommel of his dagger then closed around the hilt.

  “Stay your hand, man of Skeinhold.”

  Cadoc shuddered, his breath caught in his throat. The sibilant, feminine voice cut through the darkness, its source uncomfortably close. His fingers tightened on the hilt.

  “If I wanted you dead, you would not have awoken.”

  Cadoc stiffened, accepting the truth of the statement as his predicament sank in. Trusting he wasn’t about to be murdered — and more than a little curious — he obeyed, releasing the dagger and returning his hand to his belly. He swallowed, trying to wet his throat. “Who are you? Show yourself.”

  A dull red glow bloomed to life. Cadoc blinked, expecting it to grow brighter, but his caution was misplaced. The light emanated from a crystal orb about the size of a melon. It remained dim, barely illuminating the chamber, which was small and sparsely furnished. A figure regarded him intently. It was humanoid in size and shape, though shorter than most and slight of build. The face was androgynous with a long chin, high cheekbones and large saucer-like eyes that shone violet in the red glow. The figure stared at Cadoc through strands of long, messy silvery hair. It sat crossed-legged on a woven mat, its shapeless tunic offering no hint at gender.

  A bwgal, he thought, and not nearly as ferocious to look upon as the more outlandish stories suggested. He rose slowly to a sitting position, wincing at the sudden shooting pain in his head.

  The bwgal pulled its lips back in a tight grimace. “You are fortunate, human. Your fall would have killed a lesser man.”

  Cadoc inhaled deeply, trying to suppress the sudden feeling of rising nausea. He reached for the back of his head and massaged the swollen lump. “How far did I fall?”

  “Far enough,” said the bwgal. “In a way, your fall saved your life. Had you walked uninvited into our realm, my kin would have killed you without consulting me.”

  Cadoc stiffened and forced himself to relax. He tried to appear indifferent, but the creature’s nonchalance unnerved him. The bwgal had spoken plainly with neither threat nor boast in its claim. It had no fear of him, a fact made plain by the weapons that remained untouched at his belt. “My thanks then, err…and you are, what? Their ruler?”

  The bwgal grimaced again. “A priestess.”

  “You have a name?” he asked, not quite sure if the revelation this creature was female was any comfort.

  “None that you could pronounce. What of you, human? What are you called by your kin?”

  “Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line.”

  The bwgal tilted her head to one side and paused, seemingly in thought. The grimace came again, more expansive this time, revealing more of her teeth, but Cadoc couldn't tell if the creature was smiling or glaring.

  At length, the Bwgal said, “I knew Glyndaf...it is good his line endures — as does his legend, no?”

  Cadoc scowled, irritated and unnerved by the creature’s perception. “My grandfather said you once had a common cause.”

  The bwgal bared her pointed teeth. “We did, many years ago. At least, by the measure of your kind, human.”

  Cadoc nodded. “Bards still sing of his victory over Gwylim Kasparu at Black River.”

  The bwgal gave a hissing laugh. “Do your bards laud our part, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line?”

  Cadoc squirmed, unable to look directly into the piercing violet eyes. “I’ll not lie to you, priestess. Few praise your kind, and fewer still remember you fought with us.”

  The smile lingered on the bwgal’s face. “But you do.”

  Cadoc’s dry tongue rasped over lips cracked from the cold. “I remember my grandsire’s stories well.”

  “And what is it you remember, Cadoc of Glyndaf’s line?”

  “He spoke of power, priestess. Power to protect a man from mortal harm. Power to make him fight like a dragon.”

  The bwgal was silent a moment, her violet eyes unblinking as they bore into Cadoc. “Perhaps he exaggerated — tall tales to amuse a child bounced on his knee. A man’s mortality is as certain as it fragile.”

  Cadoc shook his head, his jaw set firm. “No, I do not believe that.”

  The bwgal’s smile returned. “Those were desperate times. The price was worth the risk.”

  Cadoc thrust a hand in his tunic, rummaging around until he found the small, concealed leather pouch. He presented it to the bwgal, weighing it in his hand, letting its contents jingle audibly. He tossed the bag to her feet, the creature’s eyes following its arc until it landed with a thud. Gold and precious stones spilled out, gleaming in the dull light.

  The bwgal lifted her violet eyes and laughed. "What use have I for gold?”

  “Then name your price,” said Cadoc without pause.

  The bwgal inhaled and let out a long sigh, her expression becoming blank. “You are determined to do this, human?”

  Cadoc nodded. “I want this. I am going to war in distant lands. I would return to enjoy my fruits.”

  The bwgal nodded, teeth flashing, and she drew back her lips. “The price, human, is blood.”

  Cadoc opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat. He swallowed and grunted. ”Blood?”

 

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